Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

~

Here is the lie that TV ads and Christmas movies try to sell to you: that the Christmas season is a time for chilling in front of an open fire with your perfect nuclear family, sipping hot chocolate in the warm glow of your eight-foot Christmas tree and basking in your adoring love for one another.

And here is the reality, Grantaire thinks wearily as he looks upon the battlefield of the mall in front of him. The decorations are beautiful and Christmas music is jingling away in the background, but the festive effect is rather dampened by the hundreds of harassed shoppers shoving past each other, almost every single one looking like they'd knock unconscious any person who slowed them down for even a minute. He is not looking forward to entering the fray.

A small hand tugs on his and he looks down.

“R,” whines Julien, who is a sandy-haired four year-old and the youngest of Grantaire's charges for the day. “I want to see Santa.”

“We're going to see him,” Grantaire assures him before doing one last check that he still has all four children that he's supposed to. Julien, check. Adeline, check. Felicia and Mathieu, double check.

“Okay, everyone hold hands,” Grantaire says, arranging the children so that he has two on either side of him and grasping the hands of the two closest to him. There had been some minor squalling and bickering on the tube journey but they were quieter now that their goal was so near, their eyes wide and bright with anticipation.

Grantaire braces himself before leading them into the heaving crowd. Most people give way easily for his gaggle of small children, but others jostle them and some even throw Grantaire irritated looks, which he ignores. Pricks. If your shopping is so important that you have to trample a bunch of little kids to get it, then maybe you're missing the point of Christmas just a little.

Near the centre of the mall the pathway widens to become an open circular area; in Grantaire's experience this space is usually occupied by things like cars that people can try to win or pop-up stalls, but for now it holds one thing only, and that one thing is Santa Claus's Grotto. He hears at least two of his kids audibly gasp as it comes into sight.

He'll admit, he thinks with a grudging smile, they've done a pretty cool job of it this year. Its outer perimeter is surrounded by a low wooden fence, inside which there is a mini wonderland of sorts, covered in fake snow and crowded with a few stuffed reindeer, piles of brightly wrapped boxes, an inflatable snowman and a beautiful tree heavily laden with lights and tinsel and candy canes. The grotto itself is more or less a glorified gazebo, but its exterior is decorated to look like a log cabin with a red-tiled roof and icicles hanging from the eaves, and it too is strung with fairy lights and a large wreath, which is real, judging by the smell of pine that hits Grantaire as they approach. The kids look immediately enchanted by it. Unfortunately, there is also a large sign on the door flap of the grotto-zebo, and it says 'Santa is currently busy getting ready for Christmas! Please come back later!'

Oh shit, Grantaire has just enough time to think before the door flips open and a girl steps out in a thoroughly adorable elf costume. She catches sight of him and he's just about to plead with her to let his kids see Santa for like five seconds or he's going to have four tantrums on his hands, when her face breaks into a wide smile.

“Hi there, are these the kids from the community centre?” she asks. “We're expecting you, of course, Miss Simplice called ahead. We closed so that they can have a session all to themselves.”

“Oh,” Grantaire says with a laugh of pure relief. “Oh, thank God.”

“Are you one of Santa's helpers?” Adeline pipes up.

“I am!” the girl replies, smiling wider and jiggling her head so that the bell on the end of her hat tinkles merrily. “And there's one other helper here today too – I'll just go get him and then we can get started, okay?”

She disappears back into the grotto. Grantaire is just thinking that she looks awfully familiar and is wondering where he might know her from when she reemerges, bringing the answer with her, and Grantaire's heart just about stops.

“Hello, everyone,” Enjolras says, positively beaming at the children. “I hope you've all been good this year?”

The kids chorus in the affirmative, while Grantaire just stares. Stares at Enjolras, he of the severe demeanour and disdain of the frivolous and, typically, of the impeccable and fairly conservative clothing, currently wearing a bright green belted tunic, a matching belled hat and close-fitting red pants. Are they leggings? They might be leggings. His blond hair is in a short, neat braid curling over his left shoulder, the hat has pointed ears attached to it to complete the elvish transformation, and perhaps most unbelievably of all, he appears to have a dash of glitter on each cheek. And he's smiling completely unselfconsciously and talking to two of the kids while the girl – who Grantaire now realises is his sister, Cosette – takes the other two, and he looks completely ridiculous and completely adorable, and Grantaire is ninety per cent sure he's having a stroke or something because this cannot be real.

It is real, though, and that much becomes abundantly clear when Enjolras looks up from the kids, catches his eye and recognises him. Grantaire offers him the closest semblance of a smile he can manage at present. Enjolras's smile is still firmly in place, but it's definitely for the children and not for him – a look of something that might be horror flashes briefly across his eyes, but it's there for a second and just as quickly gone, and he turns back to the children.

“Come and see our Christmas tree,” he tells them, leading them to it over the layer of fake snow.

“You come too, R,” Julien insists, hanging on stubbornly to Grantaire's hand. He's a little unsure of strangers, even beautiful elvish ones.

“I'm coming, don't worry,” Grantaire says.

The kids each receive a candy cane from the tree, and then they press the two elves relentlessly with questions about life at the North Pole. Do the reindeer really fly? How do they do that? Who's the friendliest reindeer? Do you know how to make every sort of toy? How do all the toys fit in Santa's sleigh? How does he get into houses with no chimney? It goes on and on, but Enjolras and Cosette answer every question, and so convincingly that Grantaire wants to give them an Oscar. They've clearly practiced this and put a lot of thought into it, and it's sweet. Grantaire knows that Felicia, the oldest of the kids, had been starting to have her doubts about Santa's authenticity, but he sees her doubt being swept away as Cosette describes, with utter conviction and an impressive level of detail, the personality of each reindeer and his or her favourite snack.

“Would you all like to come and meet Santa now?” she asks once everyone's curiosity has been satisfied and there is a chorus of cheers from the kids before they stampede for the gazebo, Cosette hurrying behind them. Even Julien goes without a backward glance because, naturally, Santa doesn't count as a stranger. This, of course, leaves Grantaire alone with Enjolras.

“Alright,” Enjolras says after a moment of silence. “Get it out of your system.”

Grantaire, without consciously planning to do so, bursts out laughing. It's laughter born more of surprise and disbelief than any real mockery, though, and perhaps Enjolras can tell because he favours him with a rare, dry smile.

“You're an elf,” Grantaire manages, redundantly, once his laughter dies down. “Oh my God, Enjolras. You're a mall elf.”

“I am,” Enjolras agrees. “Well done for noticing.”

“If you don't mind me saying, you look more 'Lord of the Rings' than 'Santa's Little Helper',” Grantaire says with a grin. In a moment of unbelievable daring, undoubtedly brought on by his sheer astonishment, he reaches up and gives Enjolras's hat a little tug. “Or maybe Link from Legend of Zelda.”

“You can make fun all you like, Grantaire,” Enjolras says with a roll of his eyes. “It's not going to bother me.”

“I'm not making fun of you,” Grantaire protests, putting up his hands. “Anyone who'll dress up for the amusement of children is a hero and exempt from mockery. I'm just...surprised? No, surprised doesn't cover it. Flabbergasted. Gobsmacked. Utterly thrown for a loop. I never thought you'd...I mean, no offence, you're just so...”

“Serious?” Enjolras suggests, a little half-smile quirking his mouth.

“Well, you did get awfully annoyed at Courfeyrac for showing up at the Musain dressed up as Cupid on Valentine's Day.”

“That was at a meeting,” Enjolras says. He huffs out a small laugh. “I suppose you only ever see me at meetings.”

“You mean there's a secret fun Enjolras I don't know about?” Grantaire asks, clutching at his chest in mock horror. It's really a moot question, though; here, outside the environment of an ABC meeting, even disregarding the elf costume, Enjolras seems immediately different. He's smiled at Grantaire twice so far in this conversation, which is probably as much as the total number of times he's ever smiled at him before. Grantaire wonders if he should have gone to all those social nights he avoided because he thought they'd be awkward, or that Enjolras wouldn't want him there, or because he was intentionally limiting his interactions with Enjolras to the weekly meetings to prevent himself from being eaten alive by his big dumb crush. He wonders if he would have seen a softer side of Enjolras at those gatherings, if he might have learned in advance that dressing up as a Christmas elf was the sort of thing he willingly did.

“So what are you doing here?” Enjolras asks him, disrupting his reverie. “I thought you'd gone home for the holidays like everyone else.”

“Home is here for me,” Grantaire answers. “And I, uh, volunteer with Miss Simplice's children's group at the community centre. I run a little art class for them, that sort of thing. But she's short on people to bring them to see Santa, and the kids know me, so y'know, I thought I'd help out. Sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?” Enjolras asks, looking at him strangely. “That's really nice. I didn't know you were involved with them.”

Clearly there's a lot we don't know about each other, Grantaire thinks but does not say, his eyes catching on the sparkles on Enjolras's cheekbones.

“I knew you were just being irritating when you said charities were pointless,” Enjolras says, folding his arms and looking a little smug. Grantaire snorts.

“That's my stance on charities who think they can have a bake sale and change the world overnight,” he says. “It's like, achievable goals, please. And making a bunch of little kids smile a few times a week seems achievable. And definitely not pointless.”

Enjolras is looking at him as if seeing him for the very first time, and Grantaire feels a hot flush spread over his face. Which is just unfair. Enjolras is the one in the elf costume, there's no way Grantaire should be the one feeling embarrassed right now.

“Will you be coming to the kids' Christmas party, then?” Enjolras asks. “It's what we're raising money for here. We want to make it extra special this year.”

“Oh,” Grantaire says, noticing the donations buckets dotted around for the first time. He starts rooting in his pockets for change.

“You don't need to give us anything, you're here with the kids we're raising money for,” Enjolras says, looking amused. Grantaire just shrugs and throws a handful of coins into a bucket.

“Yeah, I'll be there,” he says. “I go pretty much every year, but I've never seen you there before.”

“We only got involved with Miss Simplice and her work this year,” Enjolras says with a nod. “She does such good things.”

“Yeah, she does,” Grantaire agrees with a fond smile before pausing. “Who's 'we', exactly? You never mentioned this at any ABC meetings.”

“Oh, no. This is more of a family affair,” Enjolras says. “I'm sure you noticed my fellow elf is my sister.”

“How do you find the time?” Grantaire chuckles, shaking his head.

“I never bother scheduling ABC events over Christmas. I know everyone just wants to go home as soon as university ends. I have time.”

“It never occurs to you to take a break?”

“No,” Enjolras says with a faint and entirely more familiar frown. “Why, is that a bad thing?”

“No, it's great,” Grantaire says and he's sure his smile looks horribly love-struck and dreamy but he's saved from too much mortification by the kids exploding out of the grotto and swarming around his legs, clamouring for his attention.

“R, we met Santa-”

“He gave us cookies!”

“We got presents, look, look, look!”

“His beard is real! He let me check!”

He does his best to respond to all of them, admiring Adeline's new colouring book and Mathieu's light-up yo-yo and wiping cookie crumbs from Julien's face.

“Alright gang, be sure to thank the nice elves before we leave,” he says finally, unable to stop himself shooting a grin in Enjolras's direction. The children oblige, and Enjolras and Cosette give them a little bow and curtsey.

“Doesn't R get to see Santa?” Julien says suddenly, looking slightly upset, which Grantaire finds a little touching.

“I saw him another day, don't you worry,” he says reassuringly.

“Can R get a candy cane too, then?” Felicia asks.

“Of course he can,” Enjolras says, plucking one from the tree and handing it to him with another smile. “Merry Christmas.”

Grantaire feels what he is sure is another incredibly dopey smile take hold of his face before he herds his group of children out towards home.

~

Grantaire goes home that night and tries, with the help of a bottle of wine and a lot of introspection, to come to terms with what he has seen that day. He finds himself on his laptop at one in the morning, scrolling through the photos on the Amis de l'ABC page and scrutinising every picture in which Enjolras appears, as though they might hold some clue that he missed at the time. He goes through dozens of shots of Enjolras staring stonily into the middle distance at a protest, or wearing a small, dignified smile in group shots, or standing at a podium delivering a speech with impassioned zeal, and he comes to the conclusion that no, he isn't delusional, and the Enjolras that he knows from ABC meetings really does give the impression of being a straight-laced, brutally serious, carved stone statue.

He hesitates a moment, fingers hovering over the laptop trackpad, and then does something he's never done before.

Going onto Enjolras's own facebook feels just a step too creepy, so he goes to Courfeyrac's instead, and starts looking through the photos on there. Before, he's only ever looked at ones that he's been tagged in, having felt no great desire to see all the stuff he was missing out on every time he declined to join everyone for a group activity. He sees now that he's missed out on rather a lot; cinema trips, laser tag, ten pin bowling, fireworks displays – and apparently, many, many nights of dancing and drinking. He sees multiple photos of Enjolras caught up in fits of unrestrained laughter, the likes of which he's never seen anything close to from him, and one of him dancing badly with shameless abandon with Courfeyrac at some club or other- there's even one of him singing karaoke, for God's sake. And there are a few videos too – with a feeling of trepidation, Grantaire clicks on one. The bowling alley wobbles into focus; Courfeyrac is filming and narrating as Enjolras selects a bowling ball and steps up to their lane.

“And here goes Enjolras, going for a strike. He assures me he's going to do it this time. A hush falls over the crowd. Enjolras takes a deep breath. He's spent years preparing for this very moment.”

And then Enjolras throws the ball with absolutely no finesse, and it immediately rolls into the gutter and doesn't hit a single pin. Grantaire nearly jumps out of his skin when Enjolras throws his hands in the air and cheers loudly, as if failing miserably had been his intention all along. A moment later Bahorel barrels into view and picks him up and proceeds to parade him around, chanting 'worst! Shot! Ever!' while Enjolras positively shrieks with laughter.

Grantaire decides the next video will have to be the last, or his brain might just implode on itself.

This one appears to be in someone's apartment in the aftermath of some serious partying, judging by the number of empty bottles and glasses strewn around. Enjolras is curled up in the corner of a sofa, and there's some jostling of the camera as Courfeyrac goes to sit next to him.

“Hi, Enjolras,” he says.

“Hi,” Enjolras sniffs. Grantaire realises that he's crying a little, but strangely, Courfeyrac sounds like he's trying very hard not to laugh.

“Did you drink a little more than you should have tonight, Enjolras?”

“I'm fine.”

“Why are you crying, then?”

“I just...”

“What?”

Enjolras makes a small, frustrated gesture with his hands before hiding his face in them and mumbling something.

“What was that?” Courfeyrac says, sounding very close to cracking.

“I just love my friends so much,” Enjolras sobs finally, and Courfeyrac loses it completely.

“Aw, baby,” he manages to say in between splutters of laughter, and he reaches out to pet Enjolras's hair comfortingly. The video ends when Enjolras goes in for a hug and apparently knocks the phone out of Courfeyrac's hand.

Grantaire closes his laptop, gulps down the last of his wine and goes to bed, where he spends several hours lying staring at the ceiling and silently cursing Enjolras for daring to secretly be a many-faceted actual human being all along. Grantaire had been more or less surviving his stupid, pining crush before being hit with that bombshell; he isn't sure how he's supposed to continue surviving it now.

~

It's a few days later when Miss Simplice calls him to ask if there's any chance he could do another Santa run; she had another volunteer, but they've come down with flu suddenly, and the children will be so disappointed-

Yes, yes, of course, he tells her. He has the day off work anyway, and it's not like he has a whole lot of Christmas shopping to do, what with most of his friends having left the city until January. As he shrugs into his coat, he tries to figure out if he's looking forward to a second encounter with elf-Enjolras, and finds that he really can't decide.

There are only three kids waiting with Miss Simplice when he arrives at the centre this time. He can see the rest of her day's charges through the nearby open door, a few of them watching today's lucky three jealously. The lack of volunteers means they're having to take the kids to see Santa in small groups; the few paid employees are run off their feet as it is, and it would be beyond unmanageable, not to mention illegal, for just Grantaire and Miss Simplice to try and take them all at the same time.

“I can take a fourth, if you want,” Grantaire tells her. “I managed fine with four last time.”

“You did, but one of the other volunteers didn't,” Miss Simplice says with a touch of weariness. “I'm limiting it to strictly three per trip from now on.”

Miss Simplice is a small woman with white hair but of indeterminate age; she has seemed old for as long as Grantaire has known her, but never seems to tire or grow any weaker as the years pass. He suspects she might simply be immortal.

“Thank you for doing this at such short notice, Grantaire,” she says.

“No problem,” he tells her. “And I promise I'll bring them back in one piece. Come on, guys.”

He's got Lucas, Chloe and Sacha today. He knows the three of them pretty well, and knows that Sacha is particularly shy, and so doesn't push when he remains stolidly quiet while the other two chatter away.

Getting them through the mall is just as much fun as last time, but they manage it, and when they reach the grotto, Enjolras and Cosette are waiting for them.

“We meet again, Legolas,” Grantaire says once Cosette has led the children off to meet Santa. “Sorry, I feel like I should definitely be able to come up with a pun combining 'Legolas' and 'Enjolras' but it's just not coming to me right now.”

“What a shame,” Enjolras remarks. He looks just as absurdly adorable and adorably absurd as he did the last time Grantaire saw him, except that he appears to also have glitter on his eyelids today. Grantaire tries not to stare too much. Enjolras sighs and flops down to sit on a nearby hay bale, upon which one of the toy reindeer is grazing.

“I'm exhausted. It's been so busy these last few days,” he says with a groan. “My face hurts from smiling so much.”

“Poor thing,” Grantaire laughs, sitting down next to him. “Hang in there. We can't have a frowning elf at Christmas time.”

“Trust me, I know,” Enjolras says.

“It's too bad the others aren't here. I'm sure they'd be happy to take a turn and give you a break. Jehan and Joly, especially,” Grantaire says. “God, can you imagine?”

“Speaking of the others, I have to admit,” Enjolras says, “I was surprised when the group chat didn't immediately blow up with you yelling in glee about this, after last time.”

“Well, I thought perhaps elf-Enjolras was a Christmas secret,” Grantaire says, grinning. “And anyway, if you denied it, there's no way they would believe me.”

“I don't think the others consider me to have as severe a reputation as you do,” Enjolras says, amused. Grantaire thinks of all the photos he saw the other night and realises that he's right. “And it's not a secret. Combeferre and Courfeyrac know already. You can tell the others if you want, I don't care.”

“In that case, I guess you won't mind taking a selfie with me,” Grantaire says, whipping out his phone and holding it at arm's length as he leans in as close to Enjolras as he dares. It's not very close; he's unsure of Enjolras's boundaries for such things, and really, he's only joking, expecting Enjolras to spring away squawking to avoid the camera. He therefore takes a small heart attack when Enjolras closes the remaining distance between them, squashing up against him for prime selfie composition. Grantaire had been gearing up to make some terrible pun revolving around the fact that 'selfie' contains the word 'elf' but with Enjolras so warm and close to him it's really a miracle that he even manages to take the picture.

He checks the photo. Enjolras is smiling completely unabashedly, and he's smiling too, but at Enjolras, not at the camera, which is just embarrassing. A strange, warm feeling forms in his stomach as he realises that this is the first and only picture ever taken of just him and Enjolras. He feels like he should print it out and preserve it in a vault, or something.

“You need to stop being so photogenic,” Grantaire declares. “It totally detracts from the fact that you're dressed as an elf.”

“Are you saying that dressing as an elf makes me look worse than usual?” Enjolras says with a look of mock-hurt. “You don't think it suits me?”

He gives a little jerk of his head, as Cosette had done before, to make the bell on his hat ring. Grantaire blinks, then tilts his head back and laughs helplessly for quite some time.

“Oh my God,” he says finally, wiping at his eyes.

“What?” Enjolras says, looking close to laughter himself.

“You're...fuck you, you're funny,” Grantaire says, laughing some more. “You're a goofball and I never knew. I can't believe I never knew.”

“Maybe you should see more of me,” Enjolras says, rolling his eyes. “Who knows what you'll learn next?”

“Yeah, that's...yeah,” Grantaire says, fumbling in his valiant attempt to not say Oh my God yes I'd love to see more of you, you have no idea.

“We could hang out some time, maybe,” Enjolras says after a short pause. “I would've said so earlier, if I'd known you were staying in Paris. It's so lonely without the others here.”

“It is,” Grantaire agrees. His days since Christmas vacation started have been exceedingly dull without Joly and Bossuet's jokes, and Jehan's gentle talk, and Bahorel's...yelling. He's busy musing over how much he misses them when he realises that Enjolras is waiting for him to answer.

“Oh! Yeah, we could...I mean, if you wanted to, that'd be great,” he says. Stunningly articulate, if he does say so himself. “Yeah, whenever you're free, hit me up, sure.”

“Cool,” Enjolras says with a smile, and he might have said more but that's when Sacha comes barreling out of the gazebo and climbs straight into Grantaire's lap, bawling and crying.

“Woah, hey buddy, what's wrong?” Grantaire asks him, but gets no response besides Sacha jamming his face into his chest and continuing to cry, undoubtedly leaving some lovely tear and snot stains on his coat. Cosette appears a moment later, looking distressed.

“I'm sorry, I don't know what happened,” she says. “It was his turn to talk to Santa but when he was called over, he just...”

“It's fine, it's fine,” Grantaire assures her. He fishes a tissue out of his pocket and does his best to clean up Sacha's red, tear-streaked face. He'd assumed that Sacha, like Julien before him, wouldn't consider Santa Claus to be a scary stranger, but apparently he'd been wrong and he really could kick himself. “Hey Sacha, it's okay. I'll come with you to talk to Santa, how about that, huh? Don't want you to miss out.”

Sacha is still sniffling but he nods, and Grantaire picks him up and carries him back into the grotto. Chloe and Lucas are sitting on the floor, comparing the presents they'd just received, and they look happy enough. The inside of the grotto is cosy and warmly lit, and in a very large chair in the centre sits the man himself.

Grantaire is immediately amazed as he approaches by how convincing the guy looks – he's used to mall Santas being skinny guys in oversized velour suits with fake beards hanging off their chins, but this guy looks like the real deal. His short white beard is clearly his own, his suit is a beautiful deep red and fits well to his stocky frame, and his eyes are kindly and seem to twinkle in the glow of the fairy lights.

Sacha refuses to detach himself from Grantaire's neck, which means that he has to sort of awkwardly kneel down next to Santa's chair, but his presence is enough of a comfort that Sacha doesn't start crying again when the man starts talking to him so he supposes it's worth the uncomfortable position. The old man is appropriately jolly and kind and manages to coax a few words and even a smile out of Sacha before giving him a small gift, which turns out to be a stuffed toy. A dog, Grantaire thinks, though he can't be exactly sure since Sacha is clutching it to his chest and showing no signs of letting go. He smiles.

“Thank you,” he says to the very convincing Santa before giving Sacha a nudge. “Are you going to thank Santa too?”

Sacha mumbles something, and Grantaire supposes that's the best they're going to get. The old man looks delighted.

“You're very welcome,” he says. “It was very nice to meet you.”

“Alright, come on guys,” Grantaire calls to Chloe and Lucas. “Time to go.”

He manages to round them up, get them back into the coats and jackets they'd discarded, and get them out of the grotto. He finds Cosette standing just outside, still looking a little fretful.

“Is everything alright?” she asks.

“Yeah, it's all good,” he says. He wonders if being beautiful and so goddamn good is just something that runs in Enjolras's whole family. “Everyone's happy, and now we can go so that Santa can see some other children.”

His entourage makes some unhappy noises at that and Cosette laughs.

“Wait, before you go.” Enjolras is over by the Christmas tree; he plucks another candy cane from it, comes over and tucks it neatly into the breast pocket of Grantaire's coat. He smiles brightly, and Grantaire gets the strangest sense that this one isn't just for the sake of the kids. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” Grantaire manages to reply more or less like a normal person, but he knows, just knows, that his face has gone pink, and he decides it's definitely time to leave, and he does, doing his best not to look too hurried about it.

~

There's another first that night: Enjolras sends Grantaire a message. As in, a message just for him. The only contact they've ever had outside meetings before has been in the group chat, usually when Enjolras is giving orders and trying frantically to organise one ABC-related event or other. They've never socialised. Grantaire tries to ignore his embarrassingly loud heartbeat as he opens the message.

Hi, it reads. Could you send me the photo you took of us today? Thanks!

Grantaire can only stare at his phone for a long moment, just floating dazedly in the knowledge that Enjolras wants a copy of their one and only photo, for reasons he can't fathom but frankly doesn't care too much about. He sends him the picture.

Approximately five minutes later, he is scrolling absently through facebook and sees that Enjolras has made it his new profile picture. Which means that everyone in Enjolras's social media sphere can see a) Enjolras in his elf hat with glitter on his cheeks and eyelids, and b) Grantaire looking at Enjolras in an elf hat with the most horribly fond and doting expression ever committed to a photograph.

He drinks some more wine, and goes to bed.

Chapter Text

~

The madness only continues the next day; Grantaire wakes to another message from Enjolras, this one reading:

I've managed to find a stand-in elf for tomorrow. Do you want to do some Christmas shopping if you're free?

Grantaire looks down at his phone, unmoving, for a long time. He wants to call someone, Joly or Bossuet or Bahorel, and demand to know if this is some kind of bizarre Christmas miracle or if Enjolras has always been secretly sociable and nice and, if so, why did no one ever warn him?

He eventually manages to drag himself out of this mental spiral enough to send Enjolras a reply, saying that he is absolutely free tomorrow and yeah, sure, Christmas shopping sounds great. He makes sure it sounds very casual, and not at all like his heart feels like it's going to burst out of his chest, or like he's both terrified and completely giddy to have received such an invitation from someone he had long ago resigned himself to admiring from afar.

(He then spends several hours texting and calling round every single one of his coworkers, calling in every favour he's owed in a desperate attempt to get one of them to cover the nine-hour shift he's supposed to be doing tomorrow.)

~

When the time- when the moment comes for him to meet with Enjolras the next day, Grantaire realises abruptly and entirely too late that he has no clue what he's going to say to him. Like, in general, but most specifically in greeting. He has no precedent to go on. His usual awkward finger guns that he falls back on at meetings just isn't going to cut it here. They're meeting up as friends. He has no clue how to be friends with Enjolras. It's kind of tragic.

As a result, when Enjolras catches sight of him and half-jogs over with a little smile on his face, the first thing Grantaire can think to do is reach out and tug on one of his ears.

“Ow?” Enjolras says, clearly mystified.

“Just checking,” Grantaire says, grinning with as much easy confidence as he can muster. “See, I was starting to wonder if maybe you'd really been a real elf all along, and those lovely pointy ears are the real ones and these are just fakes you wear to bamboozle us all.”

“Oh, shut up,” Enjolras says, rolling his eyes and tugging on Grantaire's sleeve to get him to start walking. “You're only jealous because you wouldn't pull off that elf costume half as well as I do.”

“Not many would,” Grantaire agrees. “Speaking of, who's filling in for you today? Do you have more siblings I don't know about?”

“Oh.” Enjolras's expression shifts, like he's holding in a laugh with concentrated effort. “Yes, that. So, it turns out that you and I aren't the only members of Les Amis who live in Paris all year round.”

Grantaire blinks, casting his mind over their circle of friends. He knows for a fact that they've all gone home to other towns and cities around the country.

“Think someone new,” Enjolras says. “And...awkward.”

“Oh! Marius,” Grantaire says almost immediately. There is truly no newer or more awkward member of their little club. “Wait, Marius? How on earth did you rope him into dressing up like an elf? He seems mortified enough to be seen in ordinary clothes half the time.”

“He didn't take very much convincing, actually,” Enjolras says, and he's laughing a little now, clearly unable to hold it back any longer. “He was passing through the mall, caught a glimpse of my sister in her dinky little elf dress and immediately walked smack into a pillar. I get the impression that he does such things quite frequently so I wasn't overly concerned, but Cosette just had to make a fuss of him.” He shakes his head, looking slightly amazed. “I swear, I don't think I've ever seen a crush develop in real time in front of my eyes before. It was alarming. So the long and short of it is, Marius is completely lovestruck with my sister.”

“Ah.” Grantaire nods. “So naturally, he'd grab any opportunity to spend time with her.”

“Exactly. When I mentioned needing some time to go shopping, he practically snatched the hat right off my head,” Enjolras laughs. “Honestly, Cosette gave him a couple of candy canes to make him feel better about walking into the pillar and he looked at them like they were made of solid gold. I bet you he hasn't eaten them. He'll probably keep them forever, as a token or something.”

Grantaire laughs nervously, thinking of the two uneaten candy canes lying on his bedside table.

“So you're okay with it?” he asks. “Marius mooning after your sister, I mean.”

“It's not my business really, is it? And he seems harmless and well-meaning enough. And Cosette is a good judge of character.” Enjolras shrugs. “Anyway, today will be a good test of his mettle. If his big crush survives the day, I'll wager he's serious about it.”

“What do you mean?” Grantaire asks.

“Didn't I mention?” Enjolras says with another huff of laughter. “Santa Claus is my and Cosette's dad. And, rather unfortunately, he does consider it his business who shows interest in his children.”

“I see,” Grantaire says, trying and failing to suppress another bout of nervous laughter. He finds himself wondering what kind of impression he unknowingly made on Enjolras's father the other day. “He's a tough man to impress?”

“He's very protective,” Enjolras says diplomatically. He shoots Grantaire a smile. “Don't worry, though. He likes you.”

Grantaire blinks, flummoxed. Before his brain can even fit together the instructions required for him to ask Enjolras exactly what he means by that, Enjolras has spotted something in a shop window and is running off to investigate, and Grantaire is left to trail helplessly behind.

~

Enjolras is, as it turns out, as much of a force of nature when it comes to preparing for Christmas as he is when he's preparing for a protest. The only difference is that, when organising Les Amis-related events, Enjolras is stone-faced, ruthlessly efficient and usually fuelled by caffeine and pure rage; today, though clearly spurred on by a similar level of zeal, he's hardly stopped smiling once and seems to take a genuine delight in absolutely everything going on around him. His usual efficiency is still accounted for: both his hands are soon full of bags containing all the gifts he set out to buy, but he still finds the time to admire every decorated shop window, every set of glittering lights strung up in the streets, every bauble-laden tree. He continuously points them out with almost child-like excitement, and Grantaire is hopelessly charmed and so completely fucked. Enjolras insists on visiting the nearby Christmas market, and when he sees the particularly enormous, particularly sparkly tree erected in the centre of it, he gives a soft little 'oh' and just stares up at it with eyes so wide they seem to reflect every single one of the tree's myriad tiny lights.

Somehow, Grantaire can tell that he wants to linger a little while and really take it in but doesn't want to say so outright. Grantaire supposes some people might find it strange, that Enjolras can find such pleasure in just looking at something, but there are some things Grantaire could stare at for days and not become bored, so he really isn't one to judge.

“Wait here a second,” he says, and he slips away to a nearby stall and returns a few minutes later with two steaming cups of mulled wine. He holds one out to Enjolras, who looks surprised for a moment and then smiles gratefully and accepts it. This draws Grantaire's attention to the fact that, while he was gone, Enjolras must have decided he was feeling cold and has donned a pair of fucking mittens. When he blows carefully on his drink and takes a first tentative sip, he looks so cute that Grantaire literally just wants to die so that it'll be the last thing he'll ever see.

“I know you generally disapprove of my preoccupation with wine,” Grantaire says, if only so that he won't voice his previous thought out loud. “But this is a Christmas tradition, after all.”

“It's a good tradition,” Enjolras says. “The spices make such a difference. Normal red wine tastes terrible to me.”

Grantaire gasps in mock-offence and Enjolras laughs a little before sobering.

“It's not that I disapprove of drinking in general,” he says. “You can drink as much wine as you like. It's just, I get frustrated when I'm trying to talk about something seriously at a meeting and you or one of the others...” He trails off and shakes his head ruefully. “Well, you know how very serious I am about meetings.”

“I know. It's fine. I was just kidding,” Grantaire assures him.

Enjolras nods. They finish their drinks in surprisingly comfortable silence, Enjolras pink-cheeked and mittened and clearly content to just soak in the atmosphere, and Grantaire perfectly content to just sneak occasional glances at him doing so.

“Oh!” Enjolras says suddenly, the fire of determination suddenly back in his eyes. “I still have a thing to get for Cosette.”

And with that, he's off again.

A few hours later, Grantaire is absolutely exhausted. It's a good kind of exhausted, though; he feels like he's spent the day on a wild, colourful rollercoaster that has sped him from one end of the city to the other and back again. Enjolras, naturally, seems totally unwearied but he has taken pity on Grantaire and so they are now seated in a crowded little coffee shop, their feet surrounded by Enjolras's impressive stack of purchased gifts. Grantaire didn't have much to buy, just a few things for his mum and sister, and he feels positively Scrooge-like by comparison.

He stirs his coffee idly, more interested in watching Enjolras attempt to tackle his hot chocolate without getting cream on his nose.

“Do you like sweet things?” he finds himself asking suddenly.

“Hm?” Enjolras blinks at him. He's given up and is now just eating the cream off the top with a spoon.

“I just wondered,” Grantaire says. “I always see you gulping down black coffee or water at Les Amis meetings, so I wasn't sure if...”

“Did you think maybe I was one of those people who thinks sugar rots the brain and soul?” Enjolras says. He looks amused.

“No,” Grantaire snorts. “More like, you always seem so...sustenance-focused. I don't think I've ever seen you eat or drink anything for enjoyment before.”

“You'd never seen me dressed as an elf before recently, either,” Enjolras reminds him. “Life is full of surprises.”

“True.” Grantaire feels a smile tugging at his mouth.

“I do like sweet things,” Enjolras says. “Chocolate is a big weakness. Especially white chocolate, which horrifies Combeferre. He's a chocolate snob, you know. If it's less than seventy per cent cocoa, he won't even look at it.”

“I can't believe there's actually something you and Combeferre disagree on,” Grantaire says, grinning. “There's so much I don't know.”

“There's a lot I don't know about you, too,” Enjolras says. He hesitates a moment. “I think I'd like it if we could get to know each other better. I can't help but feel like I've not made the best impression on you.”

“What? No, that's ridiculous,” Grantaire says. He wishes he could make clear just exactly how ridiculous it is, wishes the world was simple enough for him to just say 'I fell hard and fast for you long before I knew you could be like this, and now I'm just plain doomed.'

“You seemed to think I was some kind of scary robot who never has fun,” Enjolras says.

“Yeah, but in a good way. The Enjolbot 3000, programmed to save the world from itself.”

“I know I get intense about Les Amis. What we do is really important to me.” Enjolras shrugs and gives a lopsided smile. “But I'm also just me, you know?”

“I know. Don't worry. I get it now,” Grantaire tells him.

“I want to get to know you better, too. I feel like everything I know about you, I learned from one of the others.” Enjolras shakes his head. “I always hoped you'd come along to one of the group nights out or something. I'm better at actual human interaction at social events than I am at meetings.”

Grantaire thinks of the videos he watched on Courfeyrac's facebook and keeps his mouth determinedly shut, lest he say something incriminating.

“Why haven't you ever joined us when we hang out as a group?” Enjolras asks, just a little bit too casually. “If you don't mind me asking.”

Grantaire takes a sip of his coffee to buy him a few moments to think of an answer that isn't I thought you'd hate it if I came, I thought I'd ruin everyone's fun, I'm a deeply insecure human being and I do apologise.

“I guess I still just feel a little bit like an outsider,” he says finally. “You know, since I came along after the core group had already been established. It feels kind of presumptuous, just assuming that I'm part of that now and that I'm automatically invited to these things.”

“Well, of course you are. On both counts.” Enjolras's brow furrows in a distressed expression that makes Grantaire feel guilty and flattered in equal measure. “You're one of us. You're very important to everyone. We all want you to be there when we have fun together.”

“I'm not exactly the most active member of Les Amis, though, am I? I thought maybe fun times were a reward for those who actually, y'know, contribute,” Grantaire says, half-joking, even though it is undeniably true that all he does at Les Amis meetings is sit silently at the back, hanging onto Enjolras's every word and trying his utmost to soak up some of his conviction and optimism by osmosis.

“That doesn't matter. The work Les Amis do means a lot to me, but not as much as the members themselves do. We're friends first, and a society second,” Enjolras says firmly. “I know you don't or can't believe in a lot of what we're trying to do, and that bothers me, I won't deny it. But you come along to every meeting and you listen, because you have friends there and you want to be there for them, and I admire that.” He raises one fist in a resolute gesture. “And I think we could be friends too. If you want. I'm determined to get to know you better, at least. But it would be even better if we could become excellent friends and surprise everyone else when they arrive back here after Christmas. Don't you think?”

Grantaire laughs. He can't help it. He stares at Enjolras's earnest face, and he laughs.

“You're nothing like I imagined,” he says.

“I think that's probably a good thing,” Enjolras says wryly.

“And I am sorry that I'm such a pessimist and nay-sayer,” Grantaire says. He looks away out the nearby window when he continues. “If it makes it any better, when I hear you talking at meetings and at protests, I almost feel like I could believe in it all. You make me want to believe.”

He isn't sure how he expected Enjolras to react to such an awkward confession, but he definitely didn't expect the tiny snort that follows. He looks back at Enjolras sharply and sees him visibly fighting back a smile. He feels a hot sting of embarrassment.

“No, sorry, that was a really nice thing to say,” Enjolras says, putting his hands up apologetically. “It's just. Y'know.”

“What?” Grantaire asks, mystified.

“You want to believe,” Enjolras says. Grantaire just stares at him, still lost, until Enjolras starts softly humming the X-Files theme song, at which point the penny drops and they both fall about laughing.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I don't know why that was all I could think of,” Enjolras says, wiping at his eyes.

'Because apparently you're also a nerd!' Grantaire wants to scream at him.

“You know, I don't think it'll be very difficult for us to become friends before everyone comes back after New Year,” he says instead.

~

The next day, on his lunch break at work, Grantaire does something he never thought he'd have reason or the guts to do: he sends Enjolras a message. As in, he doesn't message him back; he sends a message first. It feels terrifying and unnatural, somehow. But Enjolras isn't actually terrifying as he'd previously supposed, he reminds himself. And Enjolras had said he wants them to be friends. This is what friends do. It's fine. Totally.

Any word on how Pontmercy fared as stand-in elf yesterday? he types. He manages to take two bites of his sandwich before his phone dings with a reply.

A quote from Cosette: 'OH HE WAS JUST WONDERFUL! THE CHILDREN LOVED HIM AND I LOVE HIM AND I'VE ALREADY DECIDED TO MARRY HIOJHFKJN JKDGH JH ghfjkjjjjjjjjjjj

Grantaire raises a perplexed eyebrow, but a moment later his phone buzzes again.

Sorry Cosette saw what I was typing and attacked me. She says to tell you that she has not in fact decided to marry Marius yet but she does think he did an excellent job.

Maybe I'm just an asshole, Grantaire types in reply, but I find that hard to believe.

Yeah I did too so I asked dad's opinion, he just shook his head and said 'there's something not right with that boy' which honestly sounds more accurate.

Grantaire snorts.

Poor Marius, he writes. He tries.

He certainly does. And good news, he says he'd be, quote, HAPPY to do it again. Which I think is a lie. I feel like the kids probably bullied him. But clearly he's willing to do anything in pursuit of love.

You should ask him to do it again but not tell him until it's too late that he's standing in for Cosette this time, Grantaire types, grinning. Imagine his face.

As great and terrible as that sounds, I think I'd rather exploit his crush to get another day off.

You can't possibly have more presents to buy, Grantaire replies, thinking with disbelief of the veritable mountain of shopping bags Enjolras had accrued during their day out.

Actually, there's a Christmas tradition that Cosette and I do every year and I'm determined to keep it going. Since she's busy being an elf/courting, maybe you'd like to help?

That sounds kind of ominous, Grantaire types, and he's only half-joking. What's the tradition? Do you dress up as ghosts and go around scaring rich misers into sharing their wealth?

You're so funny, R.

You're not denying it.

Nothing so exciting, I'm afraid. How are you at baking?

Baking. Grantaire falters. A week ago, he would have found it near impossible to imagine Enjolras doing something so ordinary and domestic. Now his mind is quick to provide him with an image of Enjolras in a frilled apron, bouncing around a kitchen with the same level of enthusiasm he demonstrated during their shopping trip. This is unfortunate, because it forces him to confront the fact that he'd still find Enjolras attractive in a frilled apron.

I made weed brownies with Jehan once, he types back once he's collected himself.

And were they good? Enjolras replies.

Grantaire laughs as quietly as he can, aware of a few of his coworkers nearby.

Can't remember, was too stoned, he types.

The next message he receives from Enjolras is an address. He squints at it, puzzled, until another message follows.

You seem highly qualified so if you feel up for a new baking challenge come here on Friday.

Grantaire stares at his phone in awe. That's not just any address, that's Enjolras's address. That's where Enjolras lives. And now he knows it, forever. And he's been invited over.

Play it cool, he tells himself. Play it so cool, you lovestruck disaster.

My baking skills are in high demand but I'm sure I can fit you in, he replies. I'll bring the weed.

Do NOT, Enjolras types back, and Grantaire laughs again. When he next looks up from his phone, he finds his coworkers watching him with amused, knowing smiles.

They tease him mercilessly for the rest of the day, but he endures.

~

Come Friday, Grantaire has to get directions on his phone to find his way to Enjolras's home. It's in a part of the city he isn't familiar with, which at first strikes him as strange, because he knows almost every corner of Paris. But as he steps off the bus at what Google maps assures him is the right stop, he starts to sort of understand. It looks like a purely residential area – no bars or tucked-away restaurants for him to have investigated before – and, more than that, it looks- well. Upmarket. Not obnoxiously so; the houses aren't gated mansions or anything like that. But they are generously sized and very clean and every single one seems to have a meticulously tended front lawn. There's no graffiti, no litter, no boarded-up windows. It's like no place Grantaire has ever lived, that's for sure. He feels like the inhabitants of these well-kept houses must be peeping out at him from behind their curtains, wondering what a scruffy interloper like him is doing in their neighbourhood. He ducks his head and starts walking.

Despite his slight discomfiture, he can't help but laugh when he reaches Enjolras's house. Almost all the houses on the street have some form of Christmas decorations up, in a tasteful sort of way; Enjolras and his family, on the other hand, have thrown good taste to the wind. Fairy lights have been wound around every single piece of foliage in the front garden, which is looking rather crowded thanks to the large inflatable Christmas tree, large inflatable snowman and procession of large inflatable reindeer. Glittering fake icicles dangle beneath the ground-floor windows, a slightly uncanny mannequin Santa Claus is climbing a ladder towards the roof, and the whole display is topped off by the enormous pine wreath hanging on the front door. Grantaire shakes his head as he passes through it all on his way up the garden path. He's still taking it in when Enjolras opens the door.

“Hello! You're just in time to help make the gingerbread,” he says. As per Grantaire's daydream, he is in fact wearing an apron, though rather than being frilled it is a Christmas apron with a dancing Santa on it, which might actually be worse. His hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail and his cheeks are flushed, probably from the heat of the kitchen. He looks unfairly adorable.

“Excellent. I've eaten a lot of gingerbread in my time, so I could be considered an expert,” Grantaire says, dragging his attention away from the inflatable reindeer which, he notices, sport real harnesses laden with tiny bells. Enjolras cranes his neck as if trying to see what he was looking at.

“I was just admiring your decorations,” Grantaire tells him. Enjolras has the decency to look just a little sheepish.

“They're terrible and too much, I know,” he says as he ushers Grantaire inside. “But we like them.”

“I could be making assumptions, but I'm starting to get the impression that you like, really like Christmas,” Grantaire says, peeling off his coat, gloves and hat. He can immediately see that the inside of the house has not been spared, either; tinsel runs in swooping arcs along the walls, intermingled with brightly coloured paper chains; sprigs of holly garnish every doorway and picture frame, and there are so many strings of lights that the house's actual lights must be feeling quite surplus to requirements.

“Oh, I do,” Enjolras says with a wide smile as he takes Grantaire's outer garments from him and hangs them up in a cupboard. “I love it. Cosette and I both do.”

“That surprises me a little,” Grantaire admits while Enjolras leads him down the hallway. “I sort of thought you'd hate it being so commercial and whatnot.”

“There are lots of things I don't like. I don't like big companies trying to cash in on it, or people feeling like they have to put themselves into debt over it. I don't even like the religious aspect of it, to be honest,” Enjolras says. “But the holiday itself is older than the Christian interpretation, right? So I think that it's whatever you want to make it. And I like the idea that it's a time for giving and sharing and spreading happiness. That's what I love most about it.”

“Season of goodwill to all mankind,” Grantaire says with a faint smile.

“Exactly,” Enjolras says happily. He pushes open the kitchen door. Grantaire gives a startled laugh.

“And season of industrial-scale baking, apparently,” he says. “Holy shit, Enjolras.”

“I told you, it's a time for sharing,” Enjolras says. “So there has to be enough to go around.”

The kitchen is large and more than adequately equipped with counter space, but it is still struggling to contain the fruits of Enjolras's baking exploits. There are cookies shaped like stars and Christmas trees and holly leaves, all dusted with powdery sugar, and cupcakes topped with bright red icing, and lots and lots of chocolate-coated things, the specifics of which Grantaire can't guess, but the myriad delicious smells coming from them make it very tempting to investigate further. But first, gingerbread, apparently. Enjolras throws him an apron. It has a snowman on it.

Grantaire comes to realise quite quickly that Enjolras really has the whole baking part handled, and that he, despite his glowing resume, is kind of just hindering the whole process. He consigns himself to washing up all the bowls and trays that Enjolras has already dirtied – and there are many.

“You don't need to do that,” Enjolras tells him. “It's nice just to have company.”

“I don't mind,” Grantaire says, continuing to wash. “Besides, my company isn't the best. I can at least make myself useful.”

Enjolras gives him a puzzled look.

“I could do all of this by myself just fine. I asked you over specifically for your company,” he says, in that frank way that only he can manage. “You're kind of hard on yourself, sometimes.”

“Well, y'know. Gotta keep that ego in check,” Grantaire says, firing off a weak pair of soapy finger guns at him. “So what are you going to do with all this stuff?”

Enjolras shoots him a look that says he knows Grantaire is just trying to change the subject, but he allows it nonetheless.

“We always give some to our friends and neighbours,” he says. “And that soup kitchen- you know, the one Les Amis volunteer at when we can? We drop a lot of stuff off there, too.” He pauses and laughs a little. “Cosette and I will probably make some more for Miss Simplice's Christmas party, as well. I feel like it's just not the same if all the treats are shop-bought.”

“I'm sure the kids will love that,” Grantaire says.

“I hope so. You said you'll be at the party, right?”

“Oh yeah, I'll be there. It's pretty much my own personal Christmas tradition. You bake, I get brutally murdered at musical chairs by a squadron of kids full of sugar and soda.” Grantaire laughs, remembering the chaos of Christmas parties gone by. “They get so violent when they're hyper. They will grab any object and try to sword-fight me with it. Or all just pile on top of me for no reason. They're lucky I like them.”

“They seem to really like you too,” Enjolras says, smiling. “It's sweet.”

“I let them make a mess with paint a couple of evenings a week. That endears me to them, I guess.”

“Oh, that's right, you teach them art, don't you?”

“I don't know if I teach them anything,” Grantaire snorts. “But I give them a few hours where they can cut loose, at least.”

“That's really great of you, you know.”

“It's nothing.” Grantaire can feel his face heating up, as well as a stupid, bubbly feeling in his chest at having garnered a smidgeon of Enjolras's approval. God, he's so embarrassing. He keeps his eyes fixed on the tray he's scrubbing.

“It's great,” Enjolras insists. “I bet it means the world to them. They're all going through such a hard time, whether they're in the foster system or their families are in the homeless unit or-”

“I know,” Grantaire says, maybe a little more sharply than he intended. “Yeah, I know what they're all going through.”

“And you do the art class every week? All year round?”

“More or less, yeah.”

“Why haven't you ever brought it up at a meeting?”

“I-” Grantaire hesitates. He doesn't know how to explain it, really, beyond that it feels more personal to him than any of Les Amis' other good causes, and he's never been sure how he feels about inviting the others into it. “I don't know. Was always too busy drinking, probably.”

“You could tell us more about it when we start back in the new year. If you'd like, I mean,” Enjolras says. He's wrist-deep in a mixing bowl full of what Grantaire assumes will become gingerbread, but he turns his attention away from it briefly to smile at him almost shyly. “I'd like to get more involved with Miss Simplice's charity, and I'm sure some of the others would too.”

“The others would most likely collapse in shock if I got up to say something actually relevant at a meeting,” Grantaire says, shaking his head. “You should tell them about it.”

“You've been involved for a lot longer and know a lot more about it than I do,” Enjolras reasons. “You should lead the way. But I won't make you if you don't want to.”

Grantaire glances around this big, well-equipped kitchen in Enjolras's big, lovely house and thinks of the kind of Christmases that must be celebrated here, and have been for all of Enjolras and Cosette's lives, maybe. And he thinks of the Christmases of his own childhood, and the kinds of places he spent them in.

“You're right,” he says at length. “I suppose I do know a lot more about it than you.”

Enjolras uses a cookie cutter to shape the gingerbread dough into a battalion of gingerbread men and puts them in the oven just as Grantaire finishes cleaning up.

“We'll need to wait until they've baked and cooled before we can decorate them,” Enjolras says. “We could watch a movie while we wait. Unless you have other stuff to do?”

“Nah, my schedule's clear.”

“Do you want something to drink? Tea, coffee? Hot chocolate? I'm going to have hot chocolate.”

“I'll have one too, then,” Grantaire says, amused. “I won't even tell Combeferre if it isn't made with proper chocolate.”

“He actually did make me try hot chocolate made with dark chocolate once. He insisted it was the best thing ever.” Enjolras laughs. “He was so indignant when I didn't like it. I told him it was like having a mouthful of sadness and he ranted about my unrefined palette for about half an hour.”

“Well, expect no such criticisms from me,” Grantaire says. “I'm about as unrefined as it gets.”

“We can be unrefined and rot our teeth together,” Enjolras says with a decisive nod.

Shortly afterwards, laden with generous-sized mugs of hot chocolate and a few cookies for 'taste-testing', Enjolras leads the way to the living room, and as he opens the door Grantaire feels like he's stepped into one of those Christmas commercials that he'd always assumed were just a fiction. Heavy, deep red curtains are pulled closed across the window and the room is filled with a rosy glow from a few shaded lamps and, of course, the lights on the Christmas tree, which is enormous and lavishly decorated. It's also a real tree, Grantaire realises as he steps inside and gets a sudden whiff of fresh pine. There are family photos on the walls and on the mantelpiece, along with an array of Christmas cards and ornamental snowmen. The fireplace is an imitation electric one, but when Enjolras switches it on it looks pretty damn convincing. They sit on the plush, squashy sofa in front of the warming fire, with a thick fluffy rug at their feet and their mugs cradled in their hands.

It's lovely. And it makes something unpleasant and bitter twist inside Grantaire, just a little. He supposes he always knew that the fiction was real, for some people. He's just never gotten this close to it before.

“What should we watch?” Enjolras asks as he flicks the TV on. “What's your favourite Christmas movie?”

“I don't have a favourite Christmas movie,” Grantaire says. He snorts when Enjolras gives an exaggerated gasp. “They're all pretty bad.”

“Sounds like something the Grinch would say,” Enjolras remarks before pausing. “Wait. You've spent all this time being surprised that I like Christmas. Is this where you blow my mind in return by telling me you don't like Christmas?”

“I...” Grantaire picks his words carefully. “I think it's more for kids than adults.”

“Did you like it when you were a kid?” Enjolras asks.

“I liked the idea of it,” Grantaire says with a shrug. “But it was...never really a thing for my family.”

Enjolras tilts his head over to one side in a silent question. But Grantaire doesn't think he can sit here in this picture-perfect Christmas family room and explain that he stopped believing in Santa earlier than most because his single mother literally hadn't been able to afford to keep up the pretence. So he doesn't.

“Die Hard is considered a Christmas movie, right?” he says instead. “I like that one okay.”

“Die Hard is absolutely not a Christmas movie,” Enjolras grumbles even as he starts searching it up. “But I will allow it. Only because Cosette will kill me if I watch The Muppets Christmas Carol without her.”

“Oh my God, the Muppets version? Really?”

“It's wholesome.”

The movie starts. Grantaire doesn't think either of them are particularly interested in it, but the silence is quite companionable – until Enjolras breaks it.

“Christmas wasn't really a thing for Cosette and I when we were children, either,” he says suddenly. Grantaire looks at him in surprise.

“No?” he says when Enjolras doesn't immediately continue. Enjolras sighs.

“We're adopted,” he says with the flat air and averted gaze of someone who is used to receiving an explosive reaction to those words. “The others all know, maybe one of them mentioned it to you. It's not a secret or a big deal.”

“No, no one ever mentioned it,” Grantaire says, keeping his tone and expression carefully measured even as this new information throws him for a loop. Glancing around, he notices for the first time that none of the photos of Enjolras and Cosette in the room show them as very small children. He doesn't see any in which they look younger than about ten.

“Our mother left us with a foster family she thought she could trust before she passed away,” Enjolras continues. “She was wrong. They were terrible people. In prison now, I believe. I'll spare you the details but I'm sure you can imagine that we didn't exactly experience much of that childhood Christmas magic people talk about.”

“Enjolras...” Grantaire starts, stricken, but Enjolras holds up a hand to stop him.

“You don't need to feel sorry for me. I don't want you to,” he says. “We're both fine now. I wanted to tell you so that you could understand a little of why Cosette and I go a little over the top at this time of year.” He laughs quietly. “We're making up for lost time, in a way.”

“You don't need to explain yourself to me,” Grantaire says, shaking his head. “You have nothing to justify.”

“It's not that, exactly,” Enjolras says. “See, I think Christmas is about making your own traditions, and celebrating with the family you've found along the way. It's about finding and spreading happiness.” He pauses a moment, frowns as he tries to articulate his point. “What I'm saying is, even if this was a bad time of year for you when you were younger, you don't have to hold onto that. You can make it what you want it to be now.” He smiles. “And you can definitely be a part of our celebrations, if they aren't too madcap for you.”

“Oh my God, Enjolras,” Grantaire says. He feels a little overwhelmed, and his eyes are stinging. Maybe Enjolras can tell, because he stands up.

“I'm going to take the gingerbread out of the oven,” he says, heading to the kitchen and giving Grantaire a much-needed moment to collect himself.

Grantaire takes a deep breath, gives himself a minor scolding for forgetting that he is far from the only one in the world who had a less than perfect childhood, and tries to chill out slightly.

“They came out really well,” Enjolras announces cheerfully as he returns to the room. “A few of them puffed up a bit in the oven, but none of them look burned or deformed, so I'm calling it a win.”

“That's great,” Grantaire says. He grabs the remote and pauses the movie, because he really doesn't need Alan Rickman being nefarious in the background for the conversation that's coming.

“Uh oh,” is Enjolras's only comment in the sudden quiet.

“I know you don't want me to feel sorry for you, and I get that, I get how exhausting that is,” Grantaire says. “But I'm still sorry that happened to you and Cosette. It's garbage. You guys deserved so much better.”

“Yeah, we know,” Enjolras says.

“And while we're talking garbage, you want to hear about my childhood Christmas experience?”

“You don't need to tell me anything,” Enjolras says seriously. “Not if you don't want to.”

“No, it's okay. Before, I wasn't sure what you'd think, but...” Grantaire shrugs. “I think it'll be okay.”

“Alright,” Enjolras says, sitting back down on the sofa next to him and looking at him so solemnly and attentively that Grantaire almost loses his nerve.

“Maybe you guessed already, anyway,” he says with a weak laugh. “You must have been wondering how I got involved with Miss Simplice and her kids, given how uninvolved I am with pretty much everything else.”

Enjolras just gives a non-committal shrug, leaving nothing but silence for Grantaire to fill.

“I was one of her kids,” he says. “When I was five, my dad walked out. Left us with nothing. My mum did her best, she tried so hard, but we lost our house. And mum, my sister and me ended up in a homeless unit. Miss Simplice was just starting out with her charity back then. She did her thing, stepped in and offered to take care of my sister and me while our mum went to work. We went to her very first Christmas party that year.” He laughs ruefully. “It wasn't really much of a party. Like I said, she was just starting out. She had no support, no money. But she tried to give us something nice, and I've always been grateful. We stayed in touch with her even after mum got herself back on her feet. And when I got old enough, I started helping out. I love that old lady. She never stops helping families like mine, so I'll keep helping her.”

“Oh, R,” Enjolras says, and quite without hesitation, he leans over and envelopes Grantaire in a tight hug, and oh.

Grantaire has heard legends about Enjolras's hugs, but never dreamed he'd be on the receiving end of one to discover if the stories were true. But they are. It really is as warm and secure and comforting as their friends said. He feels like he could curl up and live in this hug forever. And it feels like Enjolras might let him; Grantaire is slow to return the embrace because he assumed it would be a brief one, but when moments pass and Enjolras doesn't let go, he gives over and lets himself hold on tight.

“Hey, Enjolras,” Grantaire whispers in his ear finally.

“Yeah?”

“Are we friends yet?”

He feels Enjolras's shoulders shake as he laughs. Then they finally pull apart. Grantaire knows it's really about time, but he still can't help but mourn. He hopes he can find other ways to encourage Enjolras to hug him besides sharing childhood sob stories.

“I'd like to think so,” Enjolras says. “Why, what do you think?”

Grantaire blinks, having forgotten that he got a say in the matter, then huffs out a little laugh.

“Yeah,” he says. “I think we're pretty much there.”

Chapter Text

~

“What the hell are you looking so happy about?” one of Grantaire's coworkers asks sourly as they prepare to start their shift.

Grantaire, suddenly aware of the dopey, dreamy smile he's wearing, decides quite quickly that he can't tell the truth, which is that he'd been thinking about the messages he and Enjolras exchanged that morning, and the night before, and- well, pretty much since Grantaire had finally left his house on Friday night, really. And thinking about that only makes his smile dopier because the rest of Friday had been great; after talking the whole way through Die Hard, they had set about decorating the gingerbread men, and while Grantaire is no baker, he is an artist, and Enjolras's absolute delight when he'd decorated nine of the cookies to look like each member of Les Amis had pretty much been the highlight of his year. Then Enjolras's father and Cosette had arrived home – Enjolras's father had shaken Grantaire's hand and introduced himself as Valjean, and then had announced that he was going to put Enjolras's elf costume in the washing machine because a child had vomited on Marius. Grantaire and Enjolras has laughed until their stomachs ached – Cosette had given them a poisonous look but Grantaire couldn't find it in him to be too sorry.

“Why, because it's nearly Christmas! It's the merriest time of year!” he tells his sulky-looking coworker rather than trying to recount any of this. He takes her by the hands and spins her around the stockroom in a dance, but is quick to retreat when she twists out of his hold and aims a kick at him.

“For people who get time off work to enjoy it, maybe,” she grumbles, throwing her handbag in her locker and slamming it shut. “We work retail, Grantaire. You know Christmas means nothing but added misery for us.”

“There, there,” another coworker says with a laugh, patting her on the shoulder as he passes by. “Cheer up. It'll all be over soon, and we can get back to our normal levels of misery.”

This statement, intended to be comforting, feels to Grantaire more like a dash of ice water to the face. All at once he feels his smile drop away and heavy misgiving take up residence in the pit of his stomach. Because it's true, he realises: although the last little while with Enjolras has felt like living in a perfect, unending daydream, the fact of the matter is that very soon Christmas will pass and the holidays will be over, and everything will go back to normal. Everything.

He ponders exactly what that means for the entirety of his festively hellish shift.

~

A few days later, Grantaire wraps up warm and heads out the community centre; he has one more Santa Claus trip to chaperone. He’s exhausted from back-to-back impossibly long, impossibly stressful days at work, and his recent realisation that this festive bubble he’s been in with Enjolras will burst soon has him feeling sort of rattled, but he knows he can't let the kids see any of that. He plasters on his best smile as he throws open the double doors into a hall where some of the children are playing. Miss Simplice isn't there, but two of her assistants are supervising, and they look relieved to see him.

“Oh, R, could you keep an eye for a minute?” One of them asks. She looks a little harassed and has one toddler in her arms and another two at her feet. “Some of the little ones need diaper changes, and it'll be done much quicker if the two of us go.”

“Sure, I think I can handle it,” Grantaire says in amusement as the children who know him best come running up to greet him. He ends up with two kids hanging off each of his arms, laughing and screaming in delight as he makes an exaggerated show of struggling forward under their weight.

“You guys are getting so big,” he says. “That's not allowed, you know.”

Some of the other kids are chasing each other around the room, which is nothing unusual, but then one of them – Sacha, Grantaire realises – makes a beeline straight for him and tries to hide behind his legs from his pursuers, who turn out to be three slightly older boys, the leader of whom Grantaire recognises as Maxime.

“Hi, R,” he says cheerfully. He's a little out of breath and clutching something green in his fist.

“Hey guys,” Grantaire says. He puts a hand on one of Sacha's skinny shoulders. “Are you playing tag? I think Sacha might need a break.”

“We're playing a way better game than that,” one of the other boys says with obvious glee.

“Yeah, yesterday at school my teacher told us about this stuff,” Maxime says, holding up the green thing in his hand, and Grantaire sees that it is a sprig of artificial mistletoe. “She said that if two people stand under it, they need to kiss.”

This earns a chorus of disgusted noises from the other children, and a sudden wailing sob from Sacha.

“I don't want to kiss Chloe!” he says, his face buried in the fabric of Grantaire's jeans.

“I don't want to kiss you either,” comes Chloe's huffy voice from nearby.

“I don't want to do any kissing, R,” Sacha whimpers, looking up at Grantaire with imploring, teary eyes.

“But you have to,” Maxime says, grinning. “I held the mistletoe over you so you have to do it. And then she'll be your girlfriend.”

Sacha starts crying in earnest, and Chloe stomps away to a corner of the hall and stands determinedly facing the wall with her arms folded.

“Okay, time out,” Grantaire declares, holding up his hands to silence the children's mixed jeering, arguing and laughing. “Time out. Everybody come over here. Yeah, you too, Chloe. Gather round and listen up.”

He plucks the mistletoe from Maxime's hand, ignoring his cry of protest.

“So this stuff is called mistletoe,” Grantaire says. “People hang it up around Christmas time. And there's a sort of game people play where, if two people stand under the mistletoe, they're supposed to kiss. But-” He pauses amidst the sudden cacophony of gasps and exclamations of disbelief that Maxime had actually been telling the truth. When it dies down he continues, “But it's just a game. It's for fun. No one ever has to kiss anyone if they don't want to. Ever. You can't force them. That's very important.”

This change of stakes inspires some murmuring amongst his audience.

“And anyway, the mistletoe game is about showing people that you care about them. If you want to play the game but you think kissing is kind of gross, you can show them in your own way. You can give them a hug, or a high five. Or show them your sweet dance moves.” The kids all giggle. Three of them immediately start flossing. “But remember, it's always okay to say 'I don't want to play'. It's always up to you. Okay?”

“O-kay,” the kids chorus back to him. He gives the mistletoe back to Maxime, who looks much less interested in it now that he knows he can't use it to terrorise the others.

“Play nice with it,” Grantaire tells him. “Or I'll chew it up and eat it.”

Maxime blinks and then sputters with laughter.

“It's plastic,” he exclaims.

“I'm no coward,” Grantaire says solemnly.

“You're funny, R,” Maxime says before he and his friends return to playing. Grantaire crouches down to Sacha and rummages in his pocket for a tissue.

“There,” he says as he cleans up Sacha's tear-streaked face. “All better. You okay now?”

Sacha doesn't reply, but flings his arms around Grantaire's neck in a brief, tight hug before running off.

“Remind me again why you don't come and work here full-time?”

Grantaire turns and finds Miss Simplice behind him, smiling wryly. He grins in return.

“Why do you want to pay me for what I'm happy to do for free?” he counters.

“You're very good with children, Grantaire,” Miss Simplice says. “You really should seriously consider your future, and whether it could be here.”

“I'm never serious about anything, unfortunately,” Grantaire says cheerfully. “So, who's coming with me on this final trip to the North Pole?”

“One day I will manage to corner you into having a grown-up conversation,” Miss Simplice sighs. “But not today, I see. Alex, Charlotte and Gabrielle are your charges today. I have them ready for you."

Grantaire collects the three children, swaddled in coats and hats and scarves and desperately impatient to be underway. He doesn't keep them waiting; they head off, hands joined, and he gets them there in record time despite part of him almost wanting to dawdle. The grotto is as resplendent and inviting as ever; the children squeal with delight when they see it. Enjolras and Cosette are waiting for them, in all their elven glory, and they give their usual hearty welcome. Grantaire doesn’t know how they manage to maintain the same level of enthusiasm every time. He’s sure the strain would have killed him by now.

Charlotte is the boldest of today’s trio and she barrels straight in, but the other two hesitate, holding onto Grantaire’s hands and looking a trifle uncertain about the smiling strangers beckoning to them.

“Don’t worry, these elves are friends of mine,” Grantaire tells them, shooting Enjolras and Cosette a quick smile. “They’re really nice, I promise.”

“You know Santa’s elves?” Gabrielle gapes.

“Of course I do,” Grantaire says, mock-offended. “I’m very important, you know.”

“It’s true,” Enjolras says. “He even invited us to your Christmas party. Do you think it would be alright if we came?”

The children nod, still looking flabbergasted that Grantaire has such impressive connections.

“And I told them how good you guys have been this year and they’ve been really excited to meet you,” Grantaire says, nudging them forward slightly. “Why don’t you say hi?”

“Hi,” the two of them chorus obediently.

Charlotte has started happily playing a game with some of the stuffed reindeer and Cosette has gone to join her and they seem to be getting along like a house on fire, leaving Enjolras to win over the other two. Grantaire doesn’t doubt that he’s up to the task, and watches from the sidelines as Enjolras kneels down to be eye-level with the kids.

“Santa has most of the Christmas magic, but we elves have a little bit, too,” he says. “Would you like to see some magic?”

Alex and Gabrielle nod. They keep casting glances over their shoulders at Grantaire though, as if to make sure he’s still there, so he comes over to kneel beside them too, to prevent any distraction from the magic. He’d be lying if he said he isn’t curious, too. He isn’t disappointed; he only just manages to hold back a peal of delighted laughter when Enjolras produces a gold chocolate coin from his pocket and, with a few waves of his hands and a flourish, makes it disappear. The children giggle, and Alex grabs Enjolras’s hands and turns them over a few times, looking for the vanished coin.

“It’s a shame to make chocolate disappear, though, isn’t it?” Enjolras says. “Should I bring it back?”

“Yeah!” they cheer.

“Okay, here goes.” Enjolras does his hand waves again and- nothing happens.

“Oh, whoops. Let me try again,” he says. The hands wave, and once again no coin materialises. The children look puzzled, and Grantaire is just starting to wonder if he should be worried when Enjolras looks at him and snaps his fingers like a thought just occurred to him.

“Oh, I think I know where it went,” he says, and he reaches over and produces the coin from behind Grantaire’s ear. “R had it.”

Grantaire cannot wait for the children to be out of earshot so he can tease Enjolras to death for his cheesy moves, but he doesn’t dare say a word right now because he can see that the kids are officially under his spell now, forgetting to be shy and clamouring for Enjolras to do it again, and hide the coin behind their ear this time. Enjolras repeats the trick until they’re quite satisfied, then bestows a coin upon each of them just before Cosette leads them all off to meet Santa.

“The old coin-behind-the-ear trick, huh?” Grantaire says with a grin as soon as they’re gone. Since they’re already on the floor he just sits down there properly in a lazy sprawl, and Enjolras follows suit.

“It’s a new trick to them,” Enjolras says, smiling back at him, and his faintly red cheeks are the only sign that he’s maybe a tiny bit embarrassed. “That’s why kids make for the best audience.”

“I knew your talents were many, but I didn’t know sleight of hand was among them.”

“Oh, it’s not.” Enjolras laughs. “That’s all I’ve got, and I’ve been practicing that one trick non-stop. If they’d asked for any more, I’d have been in trouble.”

“Did you learn it just to impress the kids here?” Grantaire asks.

“Well, it’s not like it would impress anyone else.”

“I was very impressed.”

“Shut up.” Enjolras nudges him with his foot.

“Do it again.”

“If you want a chocolate coin so badly, just ask for one,” Enjolras says, taking one out of his pocket and throwing it at him. Grantaire catches it.

“It’s just not the same when it’s not magical,” he says even as he unwraps it and crams it in his mouth.

“I have to save my magic for the children," Enjolras says, which Grantaire thinks should be added to his ever-growing book of 'things I can't believe I heard Enjolras say out loud'.

Grantaire finishes his chocolate and Enjolras pushes himself to his feet with a weary sound.

"Elves can't be seen lying down on the job," he says, smiling and waving to some passing children.

"It must be a tough life," Grantaire says with a lazy smile, not moving from his spot on the floor.

“Not as tough as working retail at Christmas, I bet,” Enjolras says with a sympathetic grimace. “How are you holding up?”

“Oh.” Grantaire blinks, a little surprised. His job isn’t a secret or anything, but it’s not something they’ve ever particularly talked about. “Yeah, it’s been pretty gross, but y’know, this isn’t my first rodeo. I’m fine.”

Enjolras looks him over critically for a moment, as if searching for evidence of a lie.

“I’m glad,” he says finally. “You’ve been quiet the last few days, so I was a little worried. But you seem okay.”

Grantaire tries to keep his expression neutral even as his insides squirm with guilt. He and Enjolras had got to a point where they’d been sending messages back and forth almost constantly, but- well. He’d got so caught up in the idea that all their friends are going to come back in the new year, and it would be time for meetings and protests and seriousness again, and Enjolras would surely drop him like a hot coal for both reasons, that he had figured he might as well start retreating quietly now - as if that were going to lessen the sting of it. The faint but unmistakable look of hurt on Enjolras’s face now, though, really isn’t making him feel good about that decision. Enjolras must notice him noticing, because he laughs suddenly.

“Sorry, that sounded kind of…” He trails off, which isn’t like Enjolras. “It’s not a problem if you feel like being quiet, of course. I was just worried they weren’t letting you go home, or something.”

“It feels like that, sometimes,” Grantaire says with a weak laugh. “The shifts are longer than usual just now, and people are just plain deranged. I guess I’ve just been tired.”

That's not a lie, at least. He's so tired that he can think of little else besides the nap he's going to take as soon as he gets home today.

“It’s so good of you to use your time off to bring the kids here,” Enjolras says.

“You’re the one in the costume making them smile,” Grantaire points out. “I’m just the chaperone.”

He lets out an undignified yelp when Enjolras gives a beleaguered sigh and, without warning, starts repeatedly driving his belled boot into Grantaire’s side in a fashion that does not hurt but looks very heartfelt.

"It's good. It's good! You're good!" Enjolras states between kicks. "Don't argue with me about it!"

"Oh my God." Grantaire rolls away laughing. "Have mercy. What will the children think?"

"They'll think you must have been very naughty this year to have driven an elf to this." Enjolras aims another kick at him and Grantaire stumbles to his feet, where his superior height might offer him some protection.

"God, you look so cute but you're so violent," he says, dusting himself off.

"You incite me to violence," Enjolras declares, dealing him a light punch on the arm, which is a welcome distraction from Grantaire's brain going into a panicked spiral over the fact that he just called Enjolras cute to his face.

"I'm told I have that effect on people," Grantaire says with a nod. His mind is still fixating on the cute thing. Enjolras really is unfairly cute. It shouldn't be allowed. He should have to choose whether he wants to be cute or handsome or scary-beautiful. No one should be allowed to have all three.

“I wish you-” Enjolras starts to say, but then Cosette emerges from the grotto and comes to join them, and for reasons Grantaire cannot even begin to fathom the sight of his sister makes Enjolras’s jaw snap shut and his eyes narrow slightly. Grantaire expects the kids to follow her out, but she seems to be by herself for the moment.

“Santa is telling the children a story,” she explains. “They shouldn’t be too much longer.”

“I’m in no rush,” Grantaire snorts. “They can have as much Santa time as poor Santa can spare.”

“Don’t worry about papa. He’s enjoying himself,” Cosette laughs.

“You’re all really into this, huh?” Grantaire says, looking between the two of them with a grin. He’s always bemused by how similar and yet how distinct they are; it’s unmistakable that they’re identical twins, and they’re both the absurd kind of beautiful that Grantaire used to think only existed on TV, but Cosette has none of Enjolras’s fiery intensity, and Enjolras, although Grantaire’s image of him has softened, definitely doesn’t have any of the patient, mellow aura that Cosette exudes.

“Oh, are you joining us tonight, Grantaire?” Cosette asks suddenly with a sweet smile. Out of the corner of his eye, Grantaire is sure he sees Enjolras twitch.

“Joining you?” he repeats, mystified. Cosette gives an exasperated little sigh.

“Enjolras, you didn’t invite him yet?” she says, levelling her brother with a look not dissimilar to the disapproving sort Grantaire is accustomed to receiving from Enjolras during Les Amis meetings. Enjolras shoots her a look right back, but the precise meaning behind his is harder to interpret.

“Enjolras and I are going to help with food preparation at our local soup kitchen tonight,” Cosette says, turning back to Grantaire. “Marius is joining us, which leaves Enjolras third-wheeling a bit. He said he was going to invite you along to keep him company.”

“Yes, but…” Enjolras is red-faced and looks like he’s rather wishing he was an only child. He looks up at Grantaire sheepishly. “You’ve been working hard and you said you’d been feeling tired so I thought the last thing you’d want to do tonight was voluntary work.”

Grantaire is immediately caught in a game of tug of war between the part of him that thinks it’s sweet that Enjolras worries and wants him to get some rest, and the part that is immediately convinced that this is an excuse and Enjolras just doesn’t want to ask him along. It leaves him quite unable to decide what to say, so he doesn't say anything.

"Oh, you poor thing," Cosette says - her brow pinches a moment but just as quickly smooths again as a thought seems to occur to her. "We're going ice skating afterwards, though! If you felt up to it, you could join us for that, at least."

"You don't have to," Enjolras adds quickly. "I could just as easily miss the skating and avoid the whole problem of being a third wheel to Cosette and Marius and their adoring gazes.”

“But you love ice skating,” Cosette persists. She doesn’t even bother denying the adoring gazes.

Grantaire kind of feels like he wants to sink through the floor and disappear, and is saved from having to come up with a more practical solution to his paralysing awkwardness by the children bursting out of the grotto, eager to show him their presents and tell him about Santa. They’re a more than welcome distraction, and he diverts all his attention to them. He has the vague impression of the twins possibly still arguing quietly back and forth, but tries not to hear what’s being said and focuses instead on Charlotte explaining to him that she and Alex had swapped presents because he’d wanted her doll and she’d been much more interested in his plastic sword, which she’s now wearing proudly at her waist in its accompanying sheath. It’s so long, and she’s so small, that it drags on the ground behind her when she walks, but she seems unbothered.

“Will Santa be mad we swapped?” This seems to be her most pressing concern.

“Course not. If you’re happy, Santa’s happy,” Grantaire assures them. “He must have just got them mixed up by mistake. It happens sometimes. My elf friends told me.”

They both look relieved. Grantaire privately hopes that their parents won’t mind. He’s met Charlotte’s mum and thinks she’ll be okay, but Alex is clutching the doll to his chest like he’s already expecting someone to snatch it away from him.

"Well!" Grantaire says far too loudly, clapping his hands and flashing what he hopes is a convincing smile at the twins, who look like they might be arguing telepathically now. "I'd better get these guys back to Miss Simplice. Hope Santa doesn't work you two too hard."

He thinks he hears Enjolras say his name, but he pretends not to notice and starts herding the kids away, because if his only option is to literally run away from this weird and uncomfortable situation, he's going to do it.

"I think the boy elf wants to talk to you, R," Charlotte remarks, craning her neck to look back at the grotto.

"Who wants to get hot chocolate before we go back?" Grantaire says desperately.

The kids cheer loudly and ask no more awkward questions.

They get hot chocolate and it is slurped down greedily and messily. Grantaire, with the aid of several napkins, does his best to clean up the evidence before delivering the children safely back to Miss Simplice. He takes her aside and quietly asks her to keep an eye on the situation with Alex and his doll when his parents come to collect him, and then he goes back to his apartment, collapses on the couch and falls into a dead sleep. It's a great relief.

He's very peeved when he wakes up a few hours later, because being conscious means having to once again be aware of his big stupid crush on Enjolras and the fact that he feels further than ever from having any idea how Enjolras feels about him. What the hell had been going on earlier? He groans and very nearly buries his face back in the cushions to return to blissful oblivion, but like an idiot, he checks his phone first.

No messages from Enjolras, like his stupid, annoying heart had secretly hoped. There is, however, a facebook friend request, and his heart does a funny, panicked little stutter when he sees it's Cosette. That seems like it might not be a coincidence. It's very tempting to ignore it, maybe nap a few more hours, but his heart is so stupid , and he accepts. Barely a few minutes after he does so, his phone buzzes with a message.

hi Grantaire!! You're a difficult man to track down on social media, wow. Sorry I had to resort to facebook, Cosette types. Her profile picture is a selfie of her and Marius, and though Marius's face is tomato-red and sort of stunned-looking, the two of them look very happy and very cosy. Grantaire can't believe how unfairly easy it is for some people. Marius, most of all. He only just met Cosette, and he's the most awkward human being on the planet, and yet they already look the picture of a perfect couple. Grantaire hasn't been keeping track of how long he's been pining after Enjolras, but he knows it's long enough to be embarrassing. He supposes, glumly, that relationships do tend to evolve faster, like in Marius and Cosette's case, when the feelings are actually mutual.

is there a reason I required tracking down?? He sends back.

oh yes, it's very important, Cosette types. We didn't manage to finish making any plans with you for tonight.

Grantaire groans again. He'd been afraid of that.

it's really okay if you're too tired or don't feel like it, Cosette goes on. but if you were up to it, it'd be great if you could join us for ice skating :) we're going here, for about 8pm.

She sends him a link, which takes him to a page for a temporary outdoor ice rink that he's seen advertised around the city.

He has no idea how to reply. Why are you asking me, is what he wants to say. Why you and not Enjolras? Why would you ask me if he doesn't want you to? What is this torture, Cosette? 

Cosette is typing again. She stops and starts again many times before the next message comes through.

Enjolras really wants you to come, it reads. He's being awkward about it, but I promise you he does.

Grantaire definitely doesn't know how to reply to that.

hope to see you there!!! Cosette types, and then appears to go offline.

Grantaire puts his phone down and just- leaves the room. He does a few laps of his apartment, hands fisted in his own hair. What the fuck, what the fuck?

He snatches up his phone again. He hadn't even looked at the time. He has no idea how long he slept - maybe it's already too late, and the hideous decision of what to do next will be taken out of his hands.

It's 6:30. He definitely still has time. Shit!

He desperately wants to call Joly or Bossuet or maybe both so he can wail to them and get their advice, but really, he already knows what they would say.

Don't stress yourself out, R, Joly would say, and if he were here in person he'd probably be rubbing circles on Grantaire's back as he said it, like he always does when Grantaire is freaking out. If you don't want to go, just don't go. They'll understand.

But, Bossuet would chime in, I think you kind of do want to go.

Oh yeah, that goes without saying, Joly would agree. Of course you want to go. You're just worried that Enjolras doesn't want you to go.

Which, okay, I get it, you two have historically had a weird dynamic or whatever, Bossuet would go on, because it never takes long for Joly and Bossuet's trains of thought to converge onto one track. But you've been having fun the last little while, right? And he's been the one initiating. He wouldn't do that if he didn't want to be around you.

Grantaire grimaces and shakes his head as his imaginary friends bombard him with logic.

Why? He wants to ask them. Why would he want to spend time with me?

Because maybe he likes you, same as we like you, Joly would tell him. His smile would be kind, gentle. I know you find it impossible to believe that people like you. But lots of people do.

And Grantaire wouldn't really believe him, he never really believes him, but he'd still be grateful to hear it.

If you feel brave, you should try going along, Bossuet would encourage him. I think you'll be able to tell if he's happy to see you or not. And then you'll know for sure, won't you?

Grantaire isn't sure if he feels brave, exactly. But he thinks his theoretical-Bossuet could be onto something there. If he shows up, and Enjolras seems annoyed, then at least- he'll know. He'll know where they stand, and he’ll be able to extinguish the last pathetic embers of hope in his stupid, stupid heart.

That’s the spirit, Joly would say, and his smile would become a little bit sad and Grantaire would feel bad about it.

He clamps both his hands over his mouth and gives a quick, muffled yell just to vent a tiny bit of feeling, then hurries to the bathroom to shower before he can change his mind. 

Once he's freshened up, dressed in slightly nicer clothes and has attempted and failed to tame his hair, he rides the metro towards the ice rink and determinedly thinks about nothing. This is normal. This is fine! This is fine.

The closer he gets, the more he regrets his decision. This is maybe not fine. He hadn't even messaged Enjolras or Cosette to confirm his attendance, because that had felt too much like committing himself to the act and he hadn't been sure he wouldn't change his mind at the last minute. But now he's here and no one is expecting him and oh God, what had he been thinking.

It's busy, of course. Everywhere is busy at Christmas, and especially a place like this. Fighting his way through the crowds and getting elbowed and jostled does nothing to soothe his nerves. He thinks that, at least, the busyness might prevent him from finding Enjolras for a while and therefore buy him some time to try and chill the fuck out, but as usual life has other ideas and it takes him no time at all to spot Enjolras's golden hair not too far away. He's on a bench near the edge of the rink, lacing himself into a pair of skates, and he appears to be alone. 

Grantaire does what he always does when he feels nervous and unsure: he over-compensates. 

He approaches Enjolras and, instead of catching his attention and saying hi like a normal person, comes up behind him, reaches round and puts his hands over Enjolras's eyes.

"Guess who?" He sing-songs in his most annoying voice. He feels Enjolras stiffen before he whips around.

"Get off of-" he starts to snap, and he's wearing a startled and thoroughly irate glare, but then- Then. He blinks, and there's a strange, still moment while his brain catches up with his eyes, and then the irritation melts away and is replaced by a smile so bright and lovely and delighted that Grantaire feels like the air is being punched from his lungs just from looking at it.

"Grantaire!" Enjolras says, still beaming. He stumbles to his feet in his skates and turns around and, oh holy shit, he’s giving Grantaire a hug, and Grantaire is going to have to tell him to warn him before he does that from now on because God, his heart just can’t take this.

“I thought you weren’t coming!” Enjolras exclaims once he pulls back. He’s still gripping Grantaire’s shoulders, still looking so happy. His brow furrows in a puzzled expression, but even that doesn’t chase the smile from his face. “Wait, how are you here? I didn’t get a chance to tell you where to come.”

“Oh, uh.” Grantaire is still busy processing the fact that Enjolras’s reaction to unexpectedly seeing him was total and undeniably genuine happiness. It takes him a moment to find words. “Cosette messaged me the details.”

Enjolras’s smile falters, just a little.

“She didn’t make you feel obligated, did she?” he asks. “I kept telling her you probably just wanted to get some rest, but she doesn’t always listen to me.”

“No, no, she just told me the time and place,” Grantaire assures him. “I wanted to come.”

“Oh.” Enjolras’s smile returns full-force. “Good. Great. That’s great.”

Grantaire tries to smile back at him and determinedly doesn't say anything because he knows if he opens his mouth now something terrible will tumble out, something like you look happy to see me and that might just be the greatest thing ever. For a long moment they're just looking at each other, and it should be fucking awkward but somehow isn't, and Grantaire wishes he could commit every detail of Enjolras's face right now to memory, wishes he could paint it and keep it forever.

"Grantaire, you came!" Their strange, charged, smiling moment is broken when Cosette bounces over with Marius in tow, both of them carrying a pair of hire skates. She gives Grantaire a quick hug too, which is nice but a little less groundbreaking than when Enjolras did it. "I'm so glad! Enjolras has looked so glum tonight but I'm sure you'll cheer him up."

Enjolras opens his mouth to retort but is interrupted by Marius, who is looking between him and Grantaire with a cheerful but perplexed smile.

"Oh, this is nice," Marius says. "I didn't know you two liked each other."

There's a beat of silence. Enjolras looks like he's mining the furthest depths of his patience. Marius's face floods crimson.

"I just mean, I didn't know you were friends, or spent time together outside of meetings," he scrambles to correct himself. "Of course I didn't think you didn't like each other, I just, I never see you together so I wasn't sure if-"

"Grantaire, let's go get you some skates," Enjolras says a bit too loudly, taking Grantaire's arm and steering him away. Grantaire looks over his shoulder to see Marius smacking himself on the forehead and Cosette patting him sympathetically on the back.

"I can't tell you how glad I am that you're here," Enjolras says as they join a queue for skate hire. "Marius really just opens his mouth and lets anything fall out, and I didn't know just how difficult that is to be around until he started saying things like 'Cosette, your eyes are so beautiful I wish you'd never blink' out of nowhere."

Grantaire gives a small laugh that quickly builds into a much bigger and stomach-hurting laugh the more he thinks about that. His mirth seems to gradually erode Enjolras's ire until he's laughing a little too.

"I guess it's kind of funny," he concedes. "Even though I don't think Marius intended it to be."

"It's almost sweet, that he can just say shit like that without being embarrassed," Grantaire says.

"Everyone around him is embarrassed," Enjolras says. "But yeah, Cosette says that's what she likes about him. That he's so painfully earnest and doesn't try to play it cool."

"Little does she know, this probably is Marius trying to play it cool," Grantaire snorts.

"I'm so grateful that you get it," Enjolras says with a solemn nod.

Grantaire swaps his shoes for skates and they hobble towards the rink.

"I'm not very good at this, you know," Grantaire says as he takes a first tentative step onto the ice. "Just warning you."

"It's not a contest," Enjolras says, already skating circles around him. "Besides, I bet you're not as bad as Pontmercy."

Grantaire follows his line of vision and sees Marius flailing like Bambi across the ice and, okay, the bar is pretty low. Then Enjolras grimaces and makes a low sound of brotherly disgust when Cosette, giggling, takes both of Marius's hands to steady him, and they glide along together looking far more at each other than at where they are going.

"They've only been on like three dates and they're already insufferable," Enjolras complains. "I'm worried I'm going to end up with Marius as my brother-in-law. Can you imagine?"

"He isn't so bad," Grantaire laughs. "As we've previously discussed, at least he means well."

"I know but...God." Enjolras shakes his head. Grantaire gets the impression that he's been put through quite a lot already this evening.

"It's a bit early to be worrying about them getting married, anyway," he says, though he privately admits that, even based on the little he's seen of the happy couple, he wouldn't be surprised if they were to elope in the new year. "Besides, they're only holding hands." His left foot slides out from under him; he corrects just in time to avoid falling. "You might end up having to hold my hand, at this rate."

“Oh, um.” Enjolras gives a slightly strangled laugh. “Are you okay? I can, uh. Help, if you need?”

“I’m fine, I was just kidding,” Grantaire assures him.

They do a few laps of the rink and Grantaire gradually finds his feet and gets comfortable, at which point he realises that, actually, this is kind of nice. He’s never done anything like this before, since he’s usually such an unenthusiastic Grinch-type vis-à-vis Christmas and all things festive, but between this and the marathon shopping trip and the fucking baking, he’s starting to think he might have been missing out. It’s cold out, and their breath puffs out in clouds, but he feels comfortably warm since he’s moving around, and it’s a good, crisp, clear-skied kind of cold, with no threat of rain and as many stars in the sky as you ever see over the glare of the city lights. He looks around and everyone looks so happy. The whole scene looks like it could be a picture on a Christmas card. It feels weird to be a part of it, instead of hanging back and watching from a distance. He supposes that’s the difference someone like Enjolras makes; someone who will drag you into something and make you feel like you belong, and damn your protestations. He steals a look at Enjolras. He looks happy, too - though Grantaire is painfully aware that he is definitely slowing himself down to keep pace with him.

“You don’t have to wait for me, if you want to go on ahead,” Grantaire tells him. “I’m getting the hang of it but it might take me a while to work up to going fast.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes at him and makes a small exasperated sound that has no business being as cute as it is.

“I didn’t come here to skate around at top speed by myself, you know,” he says.

“You came here to skate with your sister but Marius stole her from you,” Grantaire points out with a grin.

“I happen to think you’re an excellent substitute,” Enjolras informs him. He reaches over and- he doesn’t take Grantaire’s hand, but he grabs onto his sleeve and holds on, anchoring them together. This alone is enough for Grantaire to feel a hot flush creeping up the back of his neck.

“I really like spending time with you,” Enjolras says, suddenly quiet and earnest and a little bit embarrassed. His eyes are averted but his hand holds tight to Grantaire’s sleeve, and Grantaire imagines, futilely, that he could be brave enough to lace their fingers together, imagines how it might feel to have Enjolras’s palm pressed warmly against his own. “I hope I’ve made that clear.”

“But what about-” Grantaire starts to say before he catches himself, snaps his jaw shut. 

“What?” Enjolras asks, looking at him curiously.

“Nothing,” Grantaire says, shaking his head and trying to smile. “Never mind.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, and it’s soft and undemanding but still, somehow, irresistible.

“I just wondered what happens when the others come back,” Grantaire mutters. He looks down at his skates, pretending to be focused on keeping his balance.

“What do you mean?” Enjolras asks. “Aren’t you looking forward to them coming back?”

“Of course I am. I just...” Grantaire gives an awkward laugh. “Like you said, I’m an excellent substitute.”

There’s a pause, a weighted silence, and then the hand on Grantaire’s sleeve is no longer just holding on; it’s tugging him, insistently, towards the barrier at the edge of the rink, and he is helpless to do anything but follow. When they reach the barrier, Grantaire can only assume this change of location is for the sake of stability - to allow Enjolras to look into Grantaire’s face with a wounded expression without having to worry about either of them skating into someone or falling over.

“Do you really think that?” Enjolras asks him, and God he looks like Grantaire just kicked his puppy and that’s not fair.

“I…” Grantaire is sure that he’d had a reply in mind before he opened his mouth, but if he did it’s gone now, and he just stands, stupid and silent, in the knowledge that he’s managed to upset Enjolras and spoil what should have been a very nice evening. Maybe he should have stayed home after all.

“Do you really think that about me?” Enjolras persists. “You think I’m the sort of person who would use you because I’m bored and then drop you as soon as my friends are back in town?”

“No!” The answer comes quickly and easily this time - because no, that’s not right, not exactly, this has never really been about Enjolras. “No, I- it’s not that I think badly of you, it’s…”

But before he can think of a way to explain, there’s a shout from nearby, and their attention is diverted. The rink is busy and pretty loud, but this particular shout stands out on account of not being a happy shout, and also because the voice is a familiar one. People around them have stopped to stare at something, and the crowd is too dense for them to see exactly what it is, but Enjolras has recognised Cosette’s voice and is weaving his way through the gawking onlookers, and Grantaire, of course, follows.

Grantaire finds himself quite unsurprised when he sees that the cause of the commotion is that Marius has fallen in spectacular fashion, and is lying spread-eagled on his back on the ice with a dazed sort of look on his face. Cosette is kneeling down next to him, seemingly unheeding of the freezing water seeping through the knees of her tights. Grantaire comes dangerously close to laughing, but then sees the genuinely worried look on Cosette's face and feels a first twinge of misgiving. Enjolras, it seems, hasn’t noticed.

“You scared me there, Cosette,” he says, shaking his head. “Come on, let’s help him up.”

“Um. Enjolras?" Cosette says. She’s staring at something.

“Yes please, I could use a hand up,” Marius says with a giddy laugh. He looks up at Cosette. "I'm sorry, you must think I'm such an oaf."

"Not at all," Cosette says in protest.

"Maybe a little," Enjolras says. He holds a hand out to him, and Marius moves to take it, and as he does so he raises his upper body just slightly, and that's when Grantaire sees the bloom of red on the ice, right under Marius’s head. It’s quite large. And, he observes, still growing.

"Oh," Enjolras says, and by his expression Grantaire can tell he's noticed it too.

“What is it?” Marius asks, still smiling and oblivious, his hand half-reaching for Enjolras who is not reaching back anymore.

“Nothing,” Enjolras says a little too quickly.

“But maybe just stay down,” Cosette says with a valiant attempt at a reassuring smile. She unwinds her scarf and folds it up under Marius’s head.

"What?" Marius twists his neck, sees the blood and goes nearly as white as the ice. "Oh, dear."

“I’ll go find a first aider,” Grantaire says, because he figures someone maybe should. He finds out that he can skate a lot faster than he’d previously supposed.

It’s mercifully easy for him to find and alert an employee in a high-vis vest, and Marius is quickly stretchered off to the first-aid tent, looking quite mortified, as well he might, since it seems every skater on the rink has stopped to watch. Cosette is allowed to accompany him inside, but Enjolras and Grantaire are asked to wait outside to avoid crowding. They find a nearby bench and sit on it, still in their skates.

“Marius really is something else, huh?” Grantaire says with a weak laugh. “We should’ve known better than to let him on the ice without at least a layer of bubble-wrap.”

“I hope he’s okay,” Enjolras says, because while Marius might exasperate Enjolras half to death sometimes, Grantaire knows that he doesn’t really dislike him. He looks worried - and, Grantaire imagines, is probably feeling horribly guilty about his earlier complaining.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine. A cut on your head always looks way worse than it is,” Grantaire says. “One of the kids fell and cracked his head on the corner of a table at my art class once. I’d never seen so much blood; I thought he must have been dying. But nah, a few stitches and he was fine.”

Enjolras nods but doesn’t reply, or even look at him, and Grantaire is freshly reminded that they’d been in the midst of a sort-of argument. He falls awkwardly silent. He’s so used to Joly and Bossuet, who are too accustomed to his bad self-esteem and self-deprecation to ever take it as a reflection on them. He’d forgotten that Enjolras doesn’t have their insight; that this is probably Enjolras’s first ever up-close experience of his terrible, self-sabotaging brain.

“I’m going to get my shoes back,” Enjolras says abruptly, getting to his feet.

“Oh. Right, yeah.” Grantaire goes with him and, after waiting in another queue, this time in uncomfortable silence, they hand in their skates and reclaim their shoes.

“Sorry your evening got ruined,” Grantaire says while Enjolras ties his laces. “You didn’t get to skate very much.”

Enjolras just shrugs. They return to their bench. The cold is less enjoyable now that they’re just sitting.

“Maybe you should go home,” Enjolras says at length. “You must be tired.”

Grantaire tries not to take it as a dismissal, tries to rally himself against the jeering voice in his head.

“Nah,” he says. He nudges Enjolras’s knee with his own. Enjolras shoots him a quick look but otherwise doesn’t respond. Grantaire sighs.

“Hey,” he says, weird and stiff and stilted because sincerity is hard. “I really like spending time with you too, you know.”

Enjolras gives a snort that sounds suspiciously watery.

“Even though you think I’m an asshole?” he says.

“I don’t think that about you.”

“You seemed surprised that I could even be a normal person, at first,” Enjolras blurts out. Grantaire has seen Enjolras angry plenty of times, but not upset, not like this, and it makes his heart hurt. “And now you think I’m only pretending to be your friend? That’s so stupid. I always wanted to be your friend.”

“You...what?” Grantaire blinks.

“I know I get intense at meetings, I know I can be too harsh sometimes, but…” Enjolras shakes his head. “I always wanted to talk to you. But I didn’t know how. The others all like you so much and they were always telling such fun stories about you, and I wanted...But you always seemed to be avoiding me, I could never…” He sighs and it sounds so sad. “I don’t know what I did to make you think so badly of me.”

“I think you’re amazing,” Grantaire says without hesitation, because sincerity is a lot less difficult when you’ve suddenly got incentive, and there is no greater incentive to Grantaire than stopping Enjolras from being sad. “Enjolras, I think you’re-”

Cosette appears next to them, startling them both. She doesn't look any less worried, which doesn't bode well.

"Where's Marius?" Enjolras asks, craning his neck as if he might be able to see right through the canvas of the first aid tent if he tries hard enough.

"He's still lying down,” Cosette says. She’s hugging herself and wobbling slightly in the skates she’s still wearing. “They’re saying he should go to the hospital to possibly get stitches and to check for concussion.”

“How did he hit his head so hard?” Enjolras says with quiet incredulity.

“We should call his family then, right?” Grantaire says. That had been his first thought when the six year-old in his care had hit his head, and Marius and that six year-old really aren’t that different.

“Yes, we, um, tried that,” Cosette says.

“And, what?” Enjolras asks, looking puzzled by her reticence.

“Marius lives with his grandfather,” Cosette says. She fiddles with the end of her braided hair. She looks like she’s bracing herself for something. “And his grandfather is hosting a dinner party tonight, and he said he won’t be leaving his guests over Marius tripping and falling on his face. His words, not mine.”

“What?” Enjolras explodes, jumping to his feet, and Grantaire suddenly understands what Cosette was bracing for. “He...Did you tell him what the first aider said?”

“Of course I did, Enjolras,” Cosette says. “Marius didn’t want to call at all, and now I can see why. He told me his grandfather was furious with him for skipping the dinner party to come out with us. He probably thinks this serves Marius right, and he definitely isn’t going to help.”

Enjolras stares at her a moment, brow pinched and lips thin, and Grantaire thinks he might launch into a tirade and then march up to Marius’s grandfather’s house himself to give the man a piece of his mind, but in the end he just shakes his head and takes a deep breath.

“Well, he’s got us, at least,” he says. He takes his phone out and nods to his sister. “You go get him ready to go, I’ll call a taxi.”

“We don’t all need to go, I can just go with him,” Cosette protests. “You and Grantaire should…”

“What? Go and have fun while the two of you are stuck in a hospital waiting room?” Enjolras says, looking unimpressed.

“It makes more sense than all of us being stuck in a hospital waiting room.”

“Cosette.” Enjolras rolls his eyes and gives her a light push. “Just go see to Marius. And get your shoes.”

“Oh! Yes.” Cosette seems to remember about the skates, and waddles away to get rid of them. 

“You should definitely go home now,” Enjolras says to Grantaire. “God knows how long we’ll be waiting at the hospital. No sense in us all having a bad night.”

Grantaire cannot, under any circumstances, go home now. He cannot let himself do that until he manages to, in some way, satisfactorily patch up the apparently long-running misunderstanding that he doesn’t think Enjolras is just about the greatest thing ever put on the Earth.

“That’s what Cosette said to you, and you didn’t listen,” he points out.

“That’s different,” Enjolras mutters.

“It wouldn’t feel right,” Grantaire says. “Just going home.”

And it really wouldn’t - there’s nothing right-feeling at all about going your merry way when your friend’s head is bleeding all over the place, and if there’s another additional reason that it wouldn’t feel right, he doesn’t think he’s under any obligation to explain himself.

Enjolras sighs.

“Alright, then,” he says, and he walks off a little way to call the taxi. It arrives surprisingly quickly; Grantaire wonders exactly how much Enjolras emphasised Marius’s injury on the phone. The man of the hour himself emerges from the first aid tent aided by Cosette and with a comically thick winding of gauze wrapped around his head. He looks dismally embarrassed, but being Marius he’s trying to laugh about it, though his smile looks distinctly grimace-like.

“I’m telling you all, I can get myself to the hospital just fine,” he’s saying. “I’ve caused you all enough trouble tonight.”

“Shut up, Marius,” Enjolras says quite fiercely, grabbing his arm and steering him in the direction of the taxi. “It’s no trouble. You’re our friend.”

“We’re friends?” Marius squeaks as Enjolras opens the car door for him. "That's wonderful."

“Oh my God,” Enjolras mutters, probably louder than he realises as he bundles Marius inside. “Does anyone think I’m their friend? Should I check with Combeferre and Courfeyrac next?”

Grantaire hears, of course, and winces. Cosette hears too, and looks between the two of them strangely.

Marius ends up sandwiched protectively between the twins in the back seat while Grantaire rides shotgun. He twists himself uncomfortably around in his seat to join Cosette in making inane chatter to keep Marius’s mind off of his predicament. Enjolras has a hand on Marius’s shoulder and is stonily quiet - Grantaire can tell, somehow, just from the look on his face, that he is thinking about ways he could punch Marius’s grandfather in the face and get away with it. Grantaire fights to repress a fond smile. Despite him earlier bemoaning the possibility of winding up with Marius as a brother-in-law, Enjolras has most definitely, and without hesitation, decided that he and Cosette are Marius’s family now and that his grandfather can choke for all he cares.

God, he can’t bear that Enjolras thinks he doesn’t like him, when he likes him so fucking much.

At the hospital they're directed to the minor injuries waiting room. It’s just about as unpleasantly busy as they’d expected. They manage to get seats for Marius and Cosette, but Enjolras and Grantaire sit on the floor at their feet, since neither of them has any injuries, minor or otherwise, and they don’t want to take away seats from people who do.

“How bad does it hurt, Marius?” Grantaire asks. “Did they give you any painkillers or anything back there?”

“No, but it’s fine,” Marius says with another very unconvincing grimace-smile. Cosette takes his hand and squeezes.

Grantaire glances around. The waiting room isn’t terribly big, and it’s filled to bursting with people in varying levels of pain, including one pitifully whimpering child and a wailing baby. It’s uncomfortably warm, and loud, and the glaring fluorescent lights really finish the room off with whatever the polar opposite of ambience is. Grantaire thinks that if they’re going to get through this, they’re going to need a distraction. And, quite fortunately, his two main talents seem to be making himself miserable, and making other people laugh.

“Don’t feel too bad, Marius,” he says, reaching up and patting his knee. “This has nothing on some of the dumb injuries I’ve inflicted on myself. I think the winner has to be when I was six and me and a bunch of other kids were playing tag at school? I got so intensely into it that I ran directly into a wall. Like, the corner of a wall, the only sharp part of any wall. I knocked out three of my front baby teeth."

"No you didn’t," Marius says, but his smile resembles an actual smile a little more closely.

"Scout's honour, it happened," Grantaire says. "I made my sister help me find my teeth in the dirt afterwards, so I could at least take the tooth fairy to the bank."

"At least it was just your baby teeth," Cosette says.

"Yeah, it was the week before picture day, though. My mum cried when she saw my photo," Grantaire laughs.

"I'm sure you weren't the only six year-old missing a few teeth," Cosette says, looking a little affronted on his behalf.

"Yeah, but I was definitely the only one in my class with a big scab running almost the entire length of my face," Grantaire says, tracing his finger down where that line - first a long cut and then a stubborn bruise - had lingered for so many weeks that his six year-old self had started to panic that it might never go away.

"At least you only did stuff like that when you were six, though," Marius says, looking glum.

"Incorrect, dear Pontmercy," Grantaire says. "Ask Joly or Bossuet and they will tell you some of the spectacularly stupid things I have done as an inebriated adult. I can't tell you myself because I can't remember. But I’ve woken up with some stupendous bruises and the crushing weight of Joly’s disappointment upon my soul."

Marius laughs, and Grantaire feels a kind of rush of triumph, which only doubles when Enjolras snorts quietly, too.

“Alright, come on, you two,” Grantaire says, gesturing to Enjolras and Cosette. “Marius and I are laying ourselves bare here. Your most embarrassing injuries: go.”

They look flummoxed for a moment, and Grantaire worries they aren't going to play along and starts preparing to launch into the story of how he once fell in a pond while only a little bit drunk and got chased by an irate swan, but then Cosette seems to catch onto his game and starts regaling them with a tale of practicing cartwheels directly into a patch of nettles, and then Enjolras joins in too. Grantaire isn't terribly surprised to learn that, apparently, a great deal of Enjolras's childhood injuries were a direct result of his inability to keep his mouth shut in the face of injustice, even when faced down by a bully four years his senior and twice his size.

"Well, he was the one crying after he pushed me down the stairs and I broke my collarbone," Enjolras says with far too much satisfaction for someone who'd come out of that situation with a broken collarbone. "He knew he was in so much trouble."

"I think you might have been crying too, Enjolras," Cosette says. “If memory serves.”

"Maybe, but I also won the argument."

"What was the argument over, again?"

"I can't remember. But I told him that I didn't care if he pushed me down the stairs because I'd still be right. And I was right. And he cried and got suspended."

"A victory," Grantaire manages to wheeze between fits of laughter.

The conversation flows easily from there - they go from childhood injuries to favourite childhood movies, and from there to current favourite movies and a lively debate about which is the best Pixar movie, which leads neatly into a mass bemoaning of Disney buying up every media property in sight. Enjolras passes half an hour, easily, just ranting about that. An hour and a half into their wait, they pool their change and ransack the vending machine and have a picnic of chocolate bars and packets of crisps. They talk about nothing and no one looks miserable, not even Marius, not even when they’re reduced to playing a truly pathetic game of I Spy to pass the time.

Finally, finally, Marius’s name is called, and he and Cosette follow a doctor into an examination room. Enjolras and Grantaire are once again left to wait. Grantaire checks his phone; it’s almost midnight. He’s not surprised. His butt has gone numb from sitting on the hard floor for so long. He looks cautiously over at Enjolras, and finds Enjolras looking back at him.

“Hey,” Grantaire says, which is fucking stupid because they’ve been sitting here talking for like three hours, but that had been largely for Marius’s benefit and they both know it and he is under no illusion that things are okay between them yet.

“Hey,” Enjolras says right back. He looks tired, and still kind of sad.

“You want to sit on these chairs like real people?” Grantaire asks, gesturing to the seats Marius and Cosette had just vacated. Enjolras ponders a moment.

“I think I want to get some air,” he says finally, getting to his feet. Judging by his slow, stiff movements and expression of high discomfort, Grantaire is willing to bet his butt has gone numb too. Grantaire is suddenly freshly aware of how stifling the room is, how loud and bright and strange-smelling.

“That sounds good,” he says, forcing himself to stand and shaking the pins and needles from his legs. Maybe Enjolras wanted to go alone, away from Grantaire, but he doesn’t complain when Grantaire follows him, and they navigate a few long hospital corridors before stepping outside together. The night air is a chilly shock, and they huddle in their jackets, but it’s still a relief after so long in the poorly ventilated waiting room. Enjolras takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, and Grantaire watches him and aches with the urge to wrap his arms around him and hold him close and keep him warm.

“Enjolras, about earlier…” he starts awkwardly, instead. Enjolras sighs.

“Forget it,” he says, shaking his head. The breeze catches a few of his curls and makes them dance. Grantaire wonders if his hair is as soft as it looks.

“No, please, listen,” Grantaire says. “I- please. I need to say it, it’s important.”

Enjolras chews on his lip and looks away.

“Okay,” he says, and he’s still not looking and that won’t do; if Grantaire is going to do this, he’s going to do it right, with the added agony of eye contact. He reaches out, touches his hand to Enjolras’s arm. It gets his attention, and Grantaire makes himself hold his gaze.

“I think you’re amazing,” he says again, because he didn’t get to finish saying it last time. “I think you’re just about the most amazing person I’ve ever met. And- well, the thing is, I kind of don’t think that I’m amazing. At all. I never thought someone like you would want to be friends with someone like me. I never thought there was even a chance you could like me at all.”

“But I do like you.” Enjolras looks even sadder now, and concerned to boot. “Grantaire, that’s-”

“No, no, it’s fine, this isn’t a pity party,” Grantaire says, holding up one hand to stop him. “I just- I fucked up, yeah? It’s what I do, I get so caught up in what I’m sure other people must think of me that I forget that those people - that you - actually get a say in it.” It’s his turn to sigh. “I know you’re not the kind of person who would use someone, or pretend to be their friend. If I’d stopped and thought clearly for even one second I would have realised that was stupid. But it was never about you. It was about me, dunking on myself as per usual, and I’m sorry I indirectly dunked on you while I was doing it.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, looking stricken. Grantaire tries to smile at him.

“You’re amazing,” he says one more time, because why not? “You’re too good for me in every possible way. I’ve always thought that. Just for the record.”

“That’s such bullshit, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, and with his trademark complete lack of hesitation he steps forward and wraps his arms around Grantaire’s shoulders and squeezes tight, and God Grantaire loves his hugs but he’s pissed that he’s now received two because he told a sob story.

“It’s not bullshit,” Grantaire laughs. “You are amazing.”

“So are you.” Enjolras sounds like he might be talking through clenched teeth. His cold nose is pressing into Grantaire’s neck and it honestly still feels surreal just to have him this close. “You said it yourself that I get a say in what I think of you, and I think you’re great, so shut up.”

“Sorry,” Grantaire says.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras says.

“What are you sorry for?”

“I’m sorry you think so badly of yourself.” Enjolras still sounds sad, and the whole point of this was to stop him feeling sad and Grantaire isn’t entirely sure where he went wrong. “That’s not fair, Grantaire, you’re so-”

“It’s okay, it’s fine,” Grantaire tries to reassure him. “I’m...working on it.”

Enjolras releases him and steps back, but not very far; he’s still very close, and looking right at Grantaire with an intensity he usually reserves for social justice issues.

“We’re friends,” he says, and he sounds almost stern and it makes Grantaire laugh, which only makes Enjolras double down on the sternness. “We’re friends, and soon all our other friends will be back, and when they are we’ll all go do something fun together and you will come this time and it’ll be great and you are great.”

“You sound like you’re trying to win a debate,” Grantaire says, amused and hopelessly fond.

“Am I winning?” Enjolras asks.

“Of course.” Grantaire had never dared dream that he and Enjolras would be friends one day, that Enjolras would be standing in front of him fiercely announcing the fact, and it’s wonderful, it really is, and he hates himself just a little for having the audacity to notice how very inviting Enjolras’s determinedly set mouth is, to imagine pressing his own lips against it and feeling the stern line of it soften beneath them. He can’t believe how greedy he is. He makes himself look away.

Enjolras’s phone buzzes in his pocket. 

“It’s Cosette asking where we are,” he says after a quick look at the screen. “They’re done.”

“We waited for hours and they’re done within fifteen minutes,” Grantaire groans. “Typical.”

“It’s a good sign, at least,” Enjolras laughs as he types out a reply. “Marius must be alright. Okay, I told them to meet us here. I’ll get us another taxi.”

“Hey, um,” Grantaire says. “You got anything to do tomorrow morning?”

“No, why?” 

“I mean, I know it’s late, but…” In truth, Grantaire can’t bear the thought of them going their separate ways just yet, not right after they’d just patched up the mess he made. “Ice skating didn’t turn out so well, but we could do something else?” He pauses and panics as he tries to actually think of a suggestion. “My apartment is kind of shitty but, uh, it has a TV. We could have a drink, watch a Christmas movie?”

“You hate Christmas movies,” Enjolras reminds him, but he’s smiling and he isn’t saying no.

“That’s why I’ll be having a drink,” Grantaire says, smiling helplessly back at him. “A strong one.”

“That sounds nice.” Enjolras looks troubled suddenly. “But, you don’t have work in the morning, do you?”

“Nah, I have a late shift tomorrow, sorting out the carnage of the stock room after closing time,” Grantaire assures him. “I know it sounds bad but honestly I’m just excited that it doesn’t involve dealing with customers.”

"...Okay then," Enjolras nods. He looks oddly shy. "If you're sure it's okay."

They get two taxis; one to take Marius and Cosette back to Enjolras and Cosette's house, where they insist Marius will spend the night, and one for Enjolras and Grantaire. Grantaire tries to tamp down his rising anxiety as they get closer to his apartment. Enjolras will not care that you don't live on a Nice Street, he tells himself firmly. Enjolras won't care that the stairwell smells kind of weird, or that your whole apartment is probably smaller than his bedroom at home. Enjolras won't think less of you because this is the best you can manage right now.

He can't quite convince himself to believe this inner monologue, but Enjolras climbs the stairs up to his pokey apartment without comment, and when Grantaire lets them inside and turns on the light, the laugh Enjolras lets out is delighted rather than derisive.

"Oh my God, it's so you," he says, looking around.

Shabby and unimpressive? Grantaire only just manages to avoid saying it out loud, reminding himself that self-deprecation has only led to trouble for him lately.

"Is it?" He says instead, glancing around the combined living room and kitchen that he is so accustomed to that he barely notices its details anymore. It's true that it looks a lot more homey and respectable than it used to - during a bad depressive slump, Joly, Bossuet and Jehan had made it their mission to bully him into improving his environment. He had complained and dragged his feet and ceaselessly reminded them that putting pictures on the walls had never cured anyone's depression, but they had persevered, and now he does have pictures on the walls - art prints and photographs - and mismatched second-hand bookshelves full of tattered fantasy novels and art books, and a brightly coloured, thoroughly psychedelic patchwork quilt made by Jehan draped proudly across the sofa, and enough lamps of various shapes and sizes to banish the shadows from every corner. And true enough, it had not cured him, but it certainly hadn't hurt. Looking at it now, trying to see it through Enjolras's eyes, he is reminded that, despite its distinct lack of grandeur, he does like it as it is now, and feels a swell of gratitude for his endlessly patient friends who had pushed him to get his shit together.

"It feels exactly like you," Enjolras says decisively. "It's so nice."

"I think that's an exaggeration," Grantaire laughs, taking Enjolras's coat from him. "But Joly and Bossuet and Jehan helped me make it the best it can be."

"I thought I saw Jehan's handiwork," Enjolras says, indicating to the quilt, which does embody Jehan's particular aesthetic, right on the line between ethereally beautiful and downright hideous. "And is that one of Feuilly's fans on the wall?"

"Of course."

"I have one, too. Mine is red, with birds on it," Enjolras says, admiring Feuilly's intricate brush work. Grantaire's fan is deep blue-green, painted to depict a stormy sea, with a tiny ship bravely battling its way through.

"Red is your colour," Grantaire says with a nod.

"I have a colour?" Enjolras sounds amused by the notion.

"Yeah." Grantaire tries to play it very cool and hopes it isn't weird that he'd apparently assigned a colour to Enjolras all on his own. "At first I thought it was because it's, y'know, all bold and fiery. But maybe it's just because it's a Christmas colour and you're like, the spirit of Christmas in human form."

"Oh shut up," Enjolras says. It sounds so fond that Grantaire doesn't think for a moment that he means it. "I like Christmas a normal amount. But I'll be sure to wear red more from now on, if it really is my trademark."

"Yeah, you look good in it," Grantaire says, quite by accident. He has just enough time to see a look of surprise cross Enjolras's face before he flees as best he can to the kitchenette. God, he wishes his apartment was bigger. How is he supposed to hide when he says something embarrassing?

"What can I get you to drink?" He asks a little too loudly. "I have wine but only of the un-mulled variety, which I seem to remember you don't like. Our friends have kindly left a variety of beverages in my fridge; we've got some of Bahorel's shitty beer, some cans of cider in many flavours courtesy of Jehan and Joly?"

"I'll take a cider. Any flavour is fine."

"Elderflower? Rhubarb?"

"Oh, maybe not quite any flavour."

"Pear?"

"Sounds good."

“You going to turn on the TV and decide which festive masterpiece you’re going to treat us to tonight?” Grantaire asks as he decants their drinks into glasses in an attempt to look like the sort of civilised person who always does such a thing.

“We don’t have to watch a Christmas movie, you know,” Enjolras says.

“Of course we do.” Grantaire hands Enjolras his drink and then flops gratefully onto the sofa. “You’re teaching me an appreciation for the season, remember?”

There is no shortage of Christmas movies on the TV, and Enjolras eventually settles on Miracle on 34th Street. They've missed the first twenty minutes or so but Grantaire thinks he'll be able to get the gist. It turns out to be a non-issue though, since they manage to sit in silence through barely one scene before they resume talking. They talk about what an absolute delight Marius’s grandfather seems to be, and what a shame it is for Marius, but console themselves that, at the very least, Cosette will be fussing over him very lovingly right now. Then they talk about something else, or they must, but Grantaire would struggle to say exactly what, and then...then-

Grantaire doesn’t know what happens, has no memory of it, but the tiredness of his long shifts and the eventful day must catch up to him, because the next thing he knows, he’s blinking awake, and there’s an entirely different Christmas movie playing on the TV. And- he blinks a few times more, bleary and befuddled from the accidental nap. He’s kind of cold, except on his left side, where a warm weight is pressing. He turns his head and comes almost nose to nose with Enjolras, who is fast asleep and slumped against him, his head resting against Grantaire’s shoulder. Their height difference is such that it looks quite comfortable, not putting too much strain on Enjolras’s neck.

We’re a perfect fit, Grantaire’s sleep-addled brain thinks, and then he has to restrain a laugh. What a stupid thought.

He sits quietly in the near-dark for a few minutes, watching the flickering light from the TV play across Enjolras’s sleeping face. It makes Grantaire’s chest ache. He can’t think of anything he wouldn’t give for this to be more than what it is - for this to be a world where he could smile and wrap an arm around Enjolras’s shoulders and press his lips to the crown of his head, where Enjolras would come awake and smile back at him, content to be there in his arms.

But this is the real world, so he nudges Enjolras awake carefully.

“Hey,” he murmurs. Enjolras frowns unhappily before opening his eyes with great reluctance. It seems to take him a moment to register where he is.

“Ah,” he says, when it does indeed register. He sits up and shuffles away a little, still clumsy with sleep. Grantaire misses his warmth and closeness immediately. “Sorry, Grantaire.”

“S’alright.” Grantaire isn’t sure why they’re both whispering. “You want to sleep here? You can have the bed.”

“I’m not taking your bed,” Enjolras grumbles.

“You’re a guest,” Grantaire points out with a helplessly fond smile.

“You have work tomorrow.” Enjolras’s tone becomes firmer as he becomes more awake. “It’s okay, I’ll get a taxi.”

“You’re really welcome to stay,” Grantaire tells him. Enjolras smiles at him, and Grantaire can’t help but think that there’s something a little sad in that smile, though it might be the ever-shifting TV lights and his own tiredness playing tricks on him.

“It’s probably best if I go home,” Enjolras says. “But thank you. For tonight.”

“I’m sorry it was kind of crappy, in the end,” Grantaire says with a weak laugh.

Enjolras just shakes his head and calls for a taxi. He gives Grantaire one last hug before he goes, and it’s enough to buoy him through his whole shift the next day.

Their routine of constant messaging resumes, and Grantaire’s coworkers resume their merciless teasing, and Grantaire doesn’t even care. Part of him is desperate to call Joly or Bossuet, or both in quick succession, to thank them for their imagined but doubtlessly true-to-life advice and just to tell them - he wants to tell someone that Christmas miracles are real and that Enjolras doesn’t hate him and, holy shit, they’re friends now. But he refrains. As Enjolras had pointed out at the beginning of their new acquaintance, it would be such a fun surprise to spring on the others when they finally got back to Paris.

~

The day of the children’s Christmas party sort of creeps up on Grantaire. Work has only been getting more hellish the closer they get to Christmas, so by the twenty-third of December he’s feeling a bit like a wrung-out dishrag. He rallies himself, though. He goes home from work and drinks a large mug of dangerously strong coffee and, during his shower, briefly turns the water icy cold, to ensure he is suitably invigorated. The kids have been looking forward to this party practically since Halloween, and he refuses to dampen the mood by looking like a zombie.

He arrives as early as he reasonably can, but Miss Simplice had known he was working today and so had known not to expect him there to help with the set-up, so when he walks in everything is primed and ready, and though the party hasn’t officially started yet, there are already plenty of kids finding loud and boisterous ways to entertain themselves before the actual activities begin. The hall looks great; the walls are heavily laden with tinsel and all manner of paper decorations, many of which Grantaire had helped to make, the tree is weighed down with so many lights and decorations that no one would notice that it’s a bit old and sparse on fake pine needles, and some brave soul has climbed up and hung a disco ball from the ceiling, and the kids seem to be having fun chasing the revolving lights across the floor.

It only takes a few moments for Grantaire’s eyes to find Enjolras in the midst of the glittering decorations and hordes of stampeding children. He looks very serene, a point of calm moving easily through the noisy chaos. And of course, he also looks perfectly lovely. He’s wearing a deep red button-down shirt and a pair of dark and distractingly tight-fitting jeans and his golden hair is tied back, though a few curls still hang loose around his face. When he turns his head, Grantaire sees that his hair is in a very artistic-looking French braid woven through with strands of red tinsel, and it makes him smile a little. Then, as he approaches Enjolras, his smile widens into a grin when he sees that he is also wearing his pointed elf ears.

“I knew those were your real ears,” Grantaire says as he reaches him. “Either that or you are far too attached to the elf persona.”

Enjolras turns at the sound of his voice and gives him a soft, sweet smile of welcome, which sends a rush of warmth all the way to Grantaire’s toes.

“Well, I didn’t want to shatter the illusion for the kids,” Enjolras says. “So I thought I’d have one more day as a Christmas elf. But I also thought that even elves can polish up a little for parties.”

He gestures to his clothes, which Grantaire takes as a perfect excuse to let his gaze sweep down and back up his body.

“I can’t believe you willingly gave up the tights,” he says, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “They were so becoming.”

“They weren’t tights,” Enjolras says, smacking him lightly on the arm. Then his smile becomes a little impish. “But thank you. I did feel they showed off some of my finer points. Should I get a pair for wearing to meetings?”

With anyone else, Grantaire would have suspected they were flirting, but he doesn’t trust himself to be sure of anything when it comes to Enjolras and so he just gives a slightly strangled laugh and tries to move things along.

“Where are my manners? Let me get you a drink,” he says. He goes the short distance to the refreshments table and comes back with two Capri-Sun pouches. “Would you prefer tropical or orange? I’ll give you first choice in the spirit of the season.”

“What a gentleman,” Enjolras remarks with a laugh, selecting the tropical pouch. He stabs it with the straw and then raises it in Grantaire’s direction. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” Grantaire repeats as they delicately and with utmost seriousness bump their drinks pouches together as normal people might with wine glasses. They both manage to keep a straight face until they finish taking a sip of their drinks, and then Enjolras cracks and dissolves into laughter, Grantaire not far behind.

“An excellent vintage,” Grantaire remarks.

“Agreed,” Enjolras says. “And just wait until the buffet is served. It’ll compliment the chicken nuggets perfectly.”

“I can't wait.”

Just then, a swarm of children rush over and crowd about their legs. They look extremely furtive and a few of them are giggling. Grantaire is immediately on his guard.

“R!” one of them says. It's Lucas. He's standing practically right under Grantaire's nose and, Grantaire notices, he has his hands behind his back, which doesn't bode well. “I have to tell you something.”

“What is it?” Grantaire asks him.

“ No, it's a secret. You have to come down. So I can whisper it,” Lucas informs him.

“Yeah, it's a really good secret,” chirps one of the others.

“You have to hear it too!” another says to Enjolras, and lots of tiny hands are suddenly tugging on both their sleeves. Grantaire resigns himself to getting silly string sprayed in his face, or something even more delightful, and crouches down, and Enjolras follows suit.

“So what's this great secret, Lucas?” he asks.

Lucas leans forward, as if to whisper something to him, but then his face breaks into a devious grin and he whips something out from behind his back. Grantaire is mildly surprised when nothing hits him in the face or spatters on his shirt; Lucas seems to just be holding something above his head. He looks up and sees a sprig of artificial mistletoe.

“Got you, got you, got you!” Lucas crows in triumph. The others join in, chanting along. “Now you have to kiss. ”

Grantaire sighs, smiling despite himself.

“Come on, guys, we've been over this,” he says. “Mistletoe is just for fun, no one ever has to kiss someone if they don't want-”

He's cut off when Enjolras leans over and gives him a soft, lingering kiss on the cheek.

Grantaire whips around to stare at him and Enjolras blushes and fidgets, but he smiles too; a sweet, hopeful little smile. The kids are shrieking and running away, some laughing hysterically with delight, others making exaggerated gagging noises, but Grantaire hardly notices. He's speechless, only able to stare and wonder if what just happened means what he so desperately wants it to mean.

Just then, the other adults start rounding the children up for a party game. The spell breaks.

“We'd better go help,” Enjolras says, straightening up and hurrying off to assist Cosette with the stack of chairs she's carrying.

The rest of the party is the worst sort of torture. Grantaire doesn't know how he's supposed to in any way focus on refereeing party games when Enjolras is right there and all Grantaire wants is to grab him by the shoulders and ask excuse me but what the hell was that, exactly? He'd suspect that he hallucinated it, except he's pretty sure that if he was going to craft a hallucination in which Enjolras kissed him, he wouldn't include a crowd of jeering children. 

Enjolras isn't helping either, by carrying on as if everything is normal and nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Maybe Enjolras habitually kisses his friends like that? Maybe he had just been trying to get a reaction out of the kids? Maybe he'd suffered a moment of temporary insanity? All these possibilities seem more likely than the simplest explanation.

Grantaire spends the whole of the party going through the motions with a veneer of enthusiasm that impresses even himself. He smiles and talks with the kids, dances with them, does his best to prevent the more rambunctious ones from trampling the quieter ones. But every moment, he's hyper-aware of where Enjolras is in the room, and catches himself stealing glances at him, searching vainly for some kind of sign or clue as to where this leaves them. Enjolras never looks back at him. He just carries on, handsome and perfect as ever, and seemingly oblivious to Grantaire's torment.

They herd the kids into seats when it's time for food, and Grantaire finds himself standing next to Enjolras at a long table, serving out scoops of ice cream into an endless procession of bowls that the other volunteers take to their impatiently waiting diners. Enjolras is very quiet. Grantaire thinks he might just be focused on the task at hand, until they both reach for the same tub of ice cream and their fingers brush, and Grantaire sees Enjolras jump like he'd been given an electric shock.

"Sorry," Enjolras says, quite ridiculously, and he grabs a different tub and gets back to work with vigor, his cheeks stained red. Grantaire stares at him a moment, wondering, or almost daring to wonder, before the ice cream demand becomes too great for him to remain distracted any longer.

It feels like endless hours pass before the party starts to wrap up. It feels like days. Grantaire knows it's only been a few hours, all in, but he feels like he's aged by the time the first parents start arriving to collect their thoroughly worn-out but also over-stimulated and hyper children. There's brief chaos - even more chaotic than the party itself - as the outnumbered adults race to reunite each child with their correct coat and make sure they all have a party bag and that no one is leaving the building unaccompanied - and then suddenly the worst of it is over, and the hall rings in quiet that feels alien after the relentless noise. Grantaire is hit by a strange mixture of relief and intense dread. For the millionth time that evening, his eyes are drawn to Enjolras. This time, Enjolras looks back at him from across the room - is already looking at him, in fact, by the time Grantaire's gaze finds him.

"Well, it's not going to tidy itself," one of the other volunteers says with a sigh.

Grantaire blinks and, for the first time, properly surveys the carnage left in the party's wake. There's a lot of spilled ice cream. And, regrettably, it really isn't going to tidy itself.

He gathers up paper plates and cups and crams them into trash bags. He sweeps up debris and mops up ice cream and folds up tables. He does it all with a single-minded focus, thinking that the sooner he gets it all done, the sooner he and Enjolras can have a conversation. He’s so intent on scrubbing the sticky remains of some half-chewed gummy sweets from one of the tables that he nearly jumps when Cosette taps him on the shoulder.

“I can get that, if you want,” she says cheerfully. “Would you mind taking those last few chairs away? Miss Simplice showed me where they go, it’s a big cupboard through the-”

“Don’t worry, I know where it is,” Grantaire assures her. He grabs the small stack of plastic chairs and lets his feet carry him mindlessly down the corridors to where they live. It’s a cupboard that is almost a room, and he has to get chairs from it every week for his art class. When he reaches it, the door is already open and there are clattering noises coming from inside - someone stacking the rest of the chairs, undoubtedly. Grantaire, to his credit, only gives a tiny jolt when he looks inside and sees that it is in fact Enjolras. He clears his throat to announce his presence; Enjolras turns around and gives quite a big jolt.

“Grantaire,” he says, sounding far too surprised for someone who very much knew he was in the building. Grantaire distantly notes that, at some point since the children had left, he has removed his elf ears.

“Last few,” Grantaire says, holding up his chairs demonstrably, as if to prove he has a legitimate reason for being here.

“Ah. Thanks.” Enjolras comes and takes them from him before retreating into the cupboard and adding them to one of the stacks. It looks like he’s done, really - everything looks neat and good to go. And yet he keeps fiddling and shifting things, and Grantaire hovers in the doorway, unsure what to say, unsure whether to stay or leave. The silence is agony.

"I think I owe you an apology," Enjolras says suddenly, and it's so far off from anything Grantaire had been expecting him to say that it throws him out of the moment; makes him forget to be terrified.

"For what?" He asks with a puzzled smile and a tilt of his head. Enjolras gives up on pretending that the chairs need further tidying and just fidgets.

"I might have undermined your lesson about consent, just a bit," he says. "You were telling the children that no one ever needs to kiss someone they don't want to. But the other side of that is, if you do want to kiss someone, you should really also check that that person wants to be kissed, because they get a say in it too."

"Are you worried that you set a bad example for them?" Grantaire asks.

"I'm worried I might have overstepped," Enjolras replies, not looking at him.

Grantaire doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry or just lie down on the floor. The sight of Enjolras standing there, eyes averted, looking more afraid and uncertain than Grantaire has ever seen him before is jarring enough, but knowing that the reason for it is that Enjolras is worried that he, Grantaire, might be displeased to have received a very chaste mistletoe kiss from him makes him feel like he’s stepped out of their usual reality and into a totally different one. But it also reminds him of what he’s been learning these last few weeks; that Enjolras isn’t like the daunting and untouchable idea of him that Grantaire had built in his head - that, while he is certainly wonderful and beautiful and a thousand other things that Grantaire admires, he’s also just a person. And he’s a person who had decided, all on his own, to act on the mistletoe being dangled over their heads earlier that evening, and if Grantaire can shove his own horrible self-esteem aside for a moment, there can really only be one reason for that. He may have been refusing to even consider that reason the entire evening, but now- well, now he’s very confused and so nervous that he can feel his heartbeat in his whole body, but he’s also, in a strange way, emboldened. He steps further into the tiny, dark room, approaches Enjolras where he’s tugging wretchedly at the cuffs of his sleeves. Enjolras looks up at him as he nears, and the look in his eyes is one of a man expecting a blow.

“I’m s-” he starts to say, but Grantaire is already talking and he absolutely cannot stop because he’ll lose his nerve.

“We don’t have any mistletoe here, but if you’re really worried about your mistletoe conduct, we could have a do-over right now,” he says. “If you wanted. See if we could get it right this time.”

“Huh?” Enjolras stares up at him.

“Or- or do you want me to try? I’ll show you how I’d do it, and you can tell me what you think,” Grantaire says.

“I can’t tell if you’re making fun of me right now,” Enjolras says warily.

“I’m not,” Grantaire says, and in a moment of unbelievable daring he reaches out and takes Enjolras’s hand. Even in the poor light he sees Enjolras’s cheeks flush pink, and his own face feels far too hot to possibly be any sort of dignified colour either. "I'm really not."

“...Alright, then,” Enjolras says, softly. “Go on. Show me how it’s done.”

“Okay. Alright.” Faced with the crucial moment, Grantaire can feel his courage draining. He clears his throat, rallies. “Enjolras.”

“Grantaire.”

“Enjolras, it’s come to my attention that I’d very much like to kiss you, and I wondered if you might be amenable to such a thing?”

The tension breaks; Enjolras chokes on a laugh, and Grantaire laughs too, and suddenly this isn’t scary. Suddenly he knows this is going to be okay. It’s going to be good, in fact. They’re going to be good.

“That sounds very nice,” Enjolras says once he’s collected himself, a wide smile bright on his face. “When were you thinking?”

“Maybe now, if it was suitable,” Grantaire says, and he leans a little closer and feels his heart leap when Enjolras follows suit.

“Mm,” Enjolras says, which isn’t really an answer, but the way his eyes have zeroed in on Grantaire’s lips is kind of its own answer. They move in even closer - and then Grantaire diverts at the last second and kisses him on the cheek instead.

“R,” Enjolras complains, and Grantaire grins against his skin at how indignant he sounds, because God, that means he must really, actually want this.

“You didn’t specify where I could kiss you,” Grantaire points out. Enjolras pushes him back just enough to glower at him, though the expression is somewhat tempered by the high colour in his cheeks and the glossy look of want in his eyes.

“Kiss me properly, R,” he says, and this time Grantaire is in no mood to tease or deny him - he does as he’s told and - oh my God, ohmygod - he presses their lips together, and is rewarded with an approving sound and Enjolras’s arms sliding around his neck. His own hands go to Enjolras’s waist and pull him in. He wants no space left between them. The kiss is soft and sweet and a total mess. Their teeth clack and they laugh and try again. They don’t know how to kiss each other yet, but Grantaire feels like he could explode with flabbergasted joy just at the notion that they’re going to learn. They make impressive progress in those first few minutes; one kiss becomes two, and three, and then no one is keeping count, and each one feels perfect and yet better than the last.

“Enjolras, are you really still stacking those chairs?”

Cosette’s approaching voice hits them both like a lightning bolt. They jump apart - but not quite fast enough.

“Oh, hello Grantaire,” Cosette says brightly from the doorway while the two of them, still far too close together for any explanation besides the obvious, stare at her like deer caught in the headlights. “Aw, did you two finally stop dancing around each other? That’s great.”

“Cosette,” Enjolras hisses, his face going even redder.

“I just came to tell you that we’re just about done and it’s time to go home,” she says with a sweet smile. She looks at her brother pointedly. “Though it seems you might not be coming home with me and papa?”

“Oh, like you’re not flouncing off somewhere with Pontmercy,” Enjolras retorts, but she’s already gone, her laughter tinkling behind her.

"How does she think she can laugh at anyone?" Enjolras mutters. "Her boyfriend's concussed himself twice since she met him, and that was only a few weeks ago."

Grantaire just laughs. He steps back into Enjolras's space, loops his arms loosely around his waist again. Enjolras looks up at him, expression chagrined, and Grantaire can only grin back at him. 

“God, I can’t believe you like me. You like-like me. That’s insane," he says. Part of him is still considering the possibility that he might be dreaming. But it can't be, he tries to assure himself. Enjolras is so warm and convincingly solid under his hands, and his lips had been so soft and clumsy and eager in a way that Grantaire is sure he could never have dreamed up.

Enjolras gives him a look that is somehow incredulous, frustrated and incredibly fond all at once.

“I don’t think it’s one-sided, unless kissing someone means something else where you come from,” he says.

“Yes, but- I mean, come on, me liking you was never in question,” Grantaire says.

“It was in question to me,” Enjolras argues. His voice goes a little high-pitched. "I didn't know. I wasn't sure if you liked guys at all, never mind me. Before this, you seemed to think I was some kind of monster.”

“I keep telling you that’s not true,” Grantaire laughs. He kisses Enjolras again, once on the mouth and once on the cheek, just because he can. “I always liked you. I liked you so much. I just mistakenly thought you were something scary that was best admired from a distance.”

Enjolras’s expression softens even as he rolls his eyes.

“Well, I’m glad you realised otherwise,” he says. “I don’t want to have you at a distance.”

“God, this cannot be real,” Grantaire says even as Enjolras pulls him down into a deep and very real kiss.

“There are so many beautiful festive-looking places everywhere right now, and you two decided to have your first kiss in a cupboard ?” Cosette is back, poking her head around the edge of the doorframe. “Also, we’re going to leave without you.”

“Oh my God, go away,” Enjolras yells, making for the door - Cosette runs away, still laughing, and Enjolras chases after her shouting threats about telling Marius all her embarrassing secrets, and Grantaire follows behind. Cosette ultimately proves more flight of foot, or perhaps Enjolras just decides to enact vengeance another time, because when Grantaire catches up to him he is alone, and a little winded.

"She does have a point," Grantaire says as they head for the exit at a more sedate pace. "I really couldn't have picked a less romantic place for a first kiss." He laughs ruefully. "I might have planned it better if I'd ever thought there was a chance in hell that it would happen."

"It was romantic enough for me," Enjolras says generously, reaching out and taking his hand as they walk. "Besides, it's mostly my fault. I'm the one who decided to make my move at a children's Christmas party."

Grantaire doesn't reply because he's too preoccupied with the fact that they are holding hands. Is that just a thing they do now? It makes him feel giddy all over again, because it's one thing for Enjolras to kiss him in a dark storage cupboard, and quite another for him to blithely walk around with Grantaire's hand clasped in his, like he doesn't care if the whole world sees and knows that they've gone from being friends to something else.

“So, um.” Enjolras looks up at him, and his smile is full of excitement but still a little shy, too. “What should we…? I mean, do you want to do something now? Go somewhere?”

Grantaire ponders a moment, threads his fingers through Enjolras’s just to see how it feels. It feels perfect, he thinks.

“We could watch another movie,” he says, and he’s thinking about Enjolras’s warm, sleepy weight against his side, his head on his shoulder - he’s thinking that this time they wouldn’t need to wait for one or both of them to doze off to get that close again, they could just do that, and the idea sounds quite heavenly. “At my place? If you want?”

Maybe Enjolras is having similar thoughts, because his smile widens and his cheeks go pink.

“Yeah,” he says, and he gives Grantaire’s hand a squeeze just before they reach the cloakroom and are forced to briefly separate to put their coats on. Outside, they find Enjolras’s dad waiting by his car, along with Cosette and Marius, who must have come to meet her. They all catch sight of their clasped hands in roughly the same moment. Valjean doesn’t look surprised or, thank God, disapproving, but gets that misty sort of look in his eyes that parents always get when they’re feeling particularly proud and parental and Grantaire is very grateful that he just nods towards the two of them and doesn’t say anything. Cosette looks a little bit smug and a big bit relieved. Marius is openly gaping, and looks set to say something truly embarrassing, so Enjolras cuts in quickly.

“We’re going to watch a movie at Grantaire’s apartment,” he says. Valjean nods.

“Do you need a lift?” he asks.

“Nah, we’ll walk,” Enjolras says, tugging on Grantaire’s hand to get him to start moving. “I’ll see you later.”

“Call me if you need anything,” Valjean says mildly, getting into the car.

“Bye,” Grantaire calls over his shoulder with a wave as he is led away. Cosette waves back cheerfully, and then he and Enjolras turn the corner and are, delightfully, alone.

"Your dad and Cosette don't seem terribly surprised by this- development," Grantaire remarks. He doesn't mean much by it, but Enjolras winces. "What?"

"I, um." Enjolras looks somewhat pained. "Apparently I'm not very...subtle."

"Subtle?"

"Cosette figured out I liked you almost before I did," Enjolras says in a mortified rush.

A laugh jumps out of Grantaire before he can stop it.

"Aw, were you mooning over me?" He asks, grinning. Enjolras doesn't let go of his hand, but does use his free hand to smack him on the shoulder, which Grantaire thinks is their whole relationship in a nutshell. "Wait, is that what the whole ice skating thing was about? When you two were being incredibly weird? She was trying to set us up?"

"Yes, see, you really shouldn't laugh because it would seem you aren't subtle at all either. Cosette was adamant you liked me back. And she would not get off my back about asking you out, God."

"Well, she was right," Grantaire reminds him. "If you'd done what she told you to, we could've been on like two dates already by now. Shame on you."

"Oh shut up, you never asked me out either," Enjolras laughs, bumping him with his shoulder.

"Yeah, and I probably never would have," Grantaire admits. Instead of shoulder-checking Enjolras right back, he just looks over at him as they walk to remind himself, for about the hundredth time in the last ten minutes, that this is actually happening. “I’m lucky you’re so much braver than me.”

“I didn’t feel brave,” Enjolras says with a snort. “I felt like I was going to throw up.”

“But here we are,” Grantaire points out. “All thanks to you. And your meddling sister.”

“I’d thank her but she’d never let me live it down.”

“I might have to thank her,” Grantaire says. “I might have to buy her flowers.”

“Hey, thank me if you’re so happy, I did all the hard work,” Enjolras protests, looking up at him with something dangerously close to a pout.

“Would you like flowers?” Grantaire asks, smiling helplessly.

“Maybe.”

They get to Grantaire’s apartment. Grantaire closes the door, takes Enjolras’s jacket from him, and turns to ask him what he wants to drink but Enjolras is already kissing him, like he’d just been waiting until they were in private again, and Grantaire is more than happy to reciprocate, to pull him in close with one hand splayed against the centre of his back, to slide his other hand into his golden hair. It really is as soft as he’d imagined.

“Mmm.” Enjolras looks dizzily pleased when they finally part. “You’re good at that.”

“So are you,” Grantaire says, giving one last irresistible nip to Enjolras’s swollen lower lip.

“I know I’m not,” Enjolras snorts. “I haven’t had much practice.”

“We’ll fix that,” Grantaire says, and they lose some more time like that, wrapped up in each other and learning how they fit together. It’s a good way to warm up after coming in from the cold, in Grantaire’s opinion.

“What movie are you treating us to tonight?” Grantaire asks, finally, the words whispered against Enjolras’s mouth.

“You’re the host,” Enjolras replies. “You should choose.”

“You’re the terrible Christmas movie expert.” Grantaire makes himself release him, only by reminding himself that they can continue kissing after they make it to the couch, and it’ll be more comfortable. “Go pick one. I’ll get us drinks.”

“I’m alright, thanks. I don’t feel like alcohol.”

“I never said alcoholic drinks,” Grantaire says, already on his way to the kitchen.

He’d bought a tub of hot chocolate powder, precisely in case Enjolras came over again, and he brews it up and digs out his two largest mugs and fills them to the brim. When he comes over and hands one to Enjolras, he makes a delighted sound and kisses him on the cheek in thanks, and Grantaire feels himself blushing to the roots of his hair like a true idiot.

Enjolras has found The Muppets Christmas Carol on the TV; Kermit the Frog is currently singing on the screen.

“I thought you and Cosette had to watch this one together,” Grantaire says, settling onto the couch.

“We did,” Grantaire’s insides do a funny, pleasant little flip when Enjolras immediately shuffles close and burrows against his side, making himself comfortable. It seems that, now that the preliminary hurdle has been crossed, Enjolras doesn’t see any sense in being cagey about showing affection, and Grantaire doesn’t think he could be happier if he tried. “But you can never watch it too many times.”

Ultimately, it turns out not to matter what’s on the TV; the revelation of feelings requited is too exciting to set aside, and the new possibilities it opens up to them are too tempting not to explore. Within minutes their gazes drift away from the screen and towards each other. The movie becomes little more than background noise; Grantaire’s senses are consumed by the feel of Enjolras’s clever, fast-learning mouth against his, the taste of chocolate on his tongue, the soft little sounds he makes when Grantaire does something he particularly likes.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras says, breathlessly, after an indeterminate amount of time.

“Hm?” Grantaire noses his way down to his neck and, very generously, plants kisses there to let Enjolras use his mouth for talking.

“Remember when I said it would be great for us to become friends and surprise the others when they come back?”

“Uh huh?”

“What do you think they’ll make of this?” Enjolras asks with a laugh that Grantaire feels reverberate through his whole chest. Grantaire laughs too, picturing their astonished faces as he slowly works his way back up Enjolras’s throat.

“I can’t wait to find out,” he says, capturing his lips once again.

~