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It occurs to Enjolras, when he opens his eyes to find Courfeyrac’s entirely too-cheerful face smiling down at him and hears the sounds of suitcase wheels on wood, that perhaps he should have rethought the decision to go drinking the night before.
But then, the suitcase wheels slow to a halt, Courfeyrac pats him on the cheek much harder than necessary, tells him, “You’re going to miss your flight, get the fuck up,” and he decides that there was not nearly enough alcohol the night before.
“I hate you,” he groans, not sure if he’s addressing Courfeyrac (who heads over towards the kitchen laughing) or his headache (which is terribly persistent). He turns a bit so that his face is buried into the couch cushions, notes that he is in fact developing something of a permanent crick in his neck, and adds, “Also this couch. This couch is awful.”
“You’re just saying that because you’ve been forced to sleep on it alone,” Courfeyrac replies, which is both too much information and adding insult to injury. Or rather, adding uncomfortable, introspective thoughts about the last time Enjolras slept with anyone, let alone on a couch, to his already maudlin, post-night out musings.
Seeing as the last time Enjolras went to Courfeyrac with anything vaguely relationship-related his friend had proceeded to invite him over to watch more Disney princess movies than Enjolras knew even existed, he decides to focus on the tmi part of that sentence. “You bastard. Please tell me you at least washed the cushions.”
Courfeyrac probably knows it’s a diversionary tactic, but he seems content to leave it be. “Your concern would be much more convincing if you didn’t have your face buried in it,” he says dryly.
“Hate you,” repeats Enjolras. He turns his head to glare at his friend.
“Love you too,” says Courfeyrac, sweetly sarcastic. “So much that I even made you coffee.”
Enjolras considers that.
“And anyway, you should be thanking me,” Courfeyrac goes on to say brightly.
Enjolras throws a pillow at him.
“Oi!” His friend ducks, affronted, and turns to point a finger at him. “Need I remind you that I was the one who made sure you got properly home last night?”
From his place on the couch, Enjolras sighs, and turns back into the cushions. “I am currently living in your house, Courfeyrac,” he says, dully, into the fabric. “You had to take me home.”
“True.” Courfeyrac pours the coffee into a cup with far more noise than is needed and Enjolras’ skull gives a throb. “But see, even then, I really didn’t have to carry you up the steps—despite the misleading svelteness of your figure, you are surprisingly heavy.”
Enjolras decides that it’s far too early for this kind of arguing, and turns his head so that it’s better muffled into the pillows to scream.
“Stop that,” says Courfeyrac, tapping a spoon against the rim of the cup like he’s calling a cat with bell. “I just changed those pillow cases.”
“You changed the pillow cases because you threw up on them, Courfeyrac,” points out Combeferre dryly, standing in the doorway of the bedroom holding the handle of a suitcase.
Enjolras just sighs, secretly glad that the pillows he’s been living on for the last few weeks are in fact clean, and settles back in to watch.
Courfeyrac looks horrified. “I told you that in confidence, Combeferre,” he says, still clutching Enjolras’ coffee cup. “I can’t believe you’d betray my trust like that!” He looks close to dragging into up against his breast bone in some sort of dramatic gesture, and Enjolras very quickly gets up to grab it before he can spill scalding hot liquid everywhere.
Which is a bad move, because he ends up hunched over against Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s kitchen island nursing his headache and regretting the night before. There hadn’t even been that much drinking, because every single one of his friends as well as Enjolras himself knew that the reason he’d dragged them all out for a late night was because he’d be on a plane the next day. There is absolutely no reason for Enjolras’ head to feel this terrible; probably, it’s some sort of terrible placebo effect and the reason it feels like the blood is pounding in his ears is because his body is foreseeing spending the next few hours trying not to vomit up the contents of his stomach; Enjolras really hates flying.
“I was there when you threw up on the pillows, Courfeyrac,” says Combeferre, making his way over to Courfeyrac, suitcase dragging behind him. He sounds a lovely mix between amused and put-upon, and Enjolras reminds himself just exactly why he took the job.
“You two are very lucky that you’re my oldest friends,” he tells them, studiously ignoring the telltale cuddling going on to his right. “Because otherwise I’d have to sue you for the number of cavities you’re giving me.”
Courfeyrac breaks away from Combeferre with a wet sounding pop that Enjolras decides is probably going to haunt him for the rest of his days and most of the flight. “You’re just jealous,” he says.
Enjolras sighs. “Completely,” he says, taking a sip of the coffee. It doesn’t help with the uncomfortable knot of nerves in the pit of his stomach, but it’ll wake him up enough to handle the two hour wait in the airport, and that’s all he really wants. That and not to be flying halfway across the world. He’s pretty sure it’s Europe again, which small blessings. At least the weather should be nicer.
Combeferre and Courfeyrac are watching him with knowing looks, and he scowls. “What?”
“For someone who hates flying, you sure do it an awful lot,” says Courfeyrac with a surprising amount of tact for so early in the morning.
“Fuck off,” Enjolras tells him. It really is early; when he moves back towards the living room and the clothes Courfeyrac set out for him last night, Enjolras’ phone tells him that it’s not even seven yet. “You’re just jealous that I get to be flown to exotic locations every few weeks.”
“You’re just jealous that I get to be fucked in exotic positions every night,” Courfeyrac starts to say, and Enjolras makes a horrible choking noise and lunges for the bathroom with the clothes. The door slams behind him and he doesn’t even have time to flip the light switch on before he can hear Courfeyrac crowing with laughter and Combeferre rolling the suitcase towards the door.
“I hate you both,” he calls out to them.
“Aw, you love us,” says Courfeyrac. “Now hurry up—you’ll miss your flight and be stuck with the two of use for the entirety of this lovely holiday.”
“Right,” says Enjolras. Because it’s Valentine’s Day. Which, you know, makes everything even worse.
Courfeyrac and Combeferre don’t even bother to stop kissing when he gets out of the bathroom, and both of them laugh when he flips them off.
“You’re terrible friends,” he tells them, again as if they missed it the first time.
“Oh, Enjolras, I’ll miss you too,” says Courfeyrac, stepping away from Combeferre so that he can wrestle Enjolras into an unwanted hug. “Come, let us drive you to the airport.”
“I still hate you,” Enjolras tells him, somewhat grudgingly, but mostly so that Courfeyrac carries his suitcase.
From the infinitesimal twitch to his lips, Enjolras figures that Combeferre sees right through him, but he doesn’t say anything about it, so Enjolras decides he forgives him.
Of course, all bets are off when the two of them send him on his way with an unbelievably large snow white rabbit, and a box of heart shaped candies.
“In case you get lonely,” Courfeyrac tells him as they’re waving him through security. “It’s name is Patrice.”
Enjolras stares down at the rabbit, with its slightly terrifying smile and terrible professions of love, and then back up at Courfeyrac, who smiles equally terrifyingly.
“I hate my life,” he amends finally before managing something of a smile at the people in line around him.
Enjolras supposes that the only good thing that comes out of being forced to fly everywhere for work, is that he doesn’t have to wait very long before they call his ticket number. It’s a bit annoying that he has to fly economy, but honestly, no number of alcoholic drinks or legroom is going to stop him from spending the entire flight trying not to empty the contents of his stomach. It's still better than waiting for everyone to picks seats, though, and he’s one of the first people on the plane aside from the big names.
The point being, when he passes by the flight attendants with hopefully a pleasant smile on his face and makes his way towards the center of the plane, he’s a little surprised to find a guy already taking up one of the window seats. They’re just far enough in front of the wings that there shouldn’t be too much turbulence, and Enjolras can already hear the sounds of the other passengers filing in behind him, so he sighs, and goes up on his toes to put his carry-on into the overhead compartments.
The shirt Courfeyrac gave him is one of his older ones, and when he lifts his hands, he can feel the way it exposes a strip of his hipbones to the rest of the plane. The guy at the window seat doesn’t comment, but when Enjolras sinks into the aisle seat, and risks a glance over, he’s smiling.
“Sorry,” Enjolras says awkwardly, and then pointedly looks forward at the magazines stuffed into the back of the seat in front of him.
The guy doesn’t respond, seemingly preoccupied with his own phone, which gives Enjolras the perfect opportunity to take in the fact that he’s somehow managed to combine both distinguished businessman—if the first pick of seats didn’t give him away, the shiny designer watch and well fitted suit certainly did—and bohemian artist.
He—he’s wearing a beanie. And a suit. And holding an iPhone. And currently meeting Enjolras’ eyes and smirking at him.
“I have horrible bedhead,” says the guy unprompted, and this time Enjolras definitely does blush.
“Oh,” he says.
“You were staring,” clarifies the guy. He’s grinning a little now, but Enjolras can’t tell if that’s because of the conversation or because of the pink tinge to Enjolras’ cheeks.
Either way, it’s more than a little embarrassing, so Enjolras just smiles and goes back to ignoring him.
“You should probably move over,” the guy says again, because Enjolras has absolutely no luck.
“Why?” he snaps, possibly a bit sharper than warranted.
To his credit, the guy just looks even more amused. “The flight is pretty packed,” he explains. “And be it that we’ve already had the awkward conversation about my wardrobe choices . . .” He lets his sentence trail off with another one of those amused smirks, and startles a laugh out of Enjolras.
“Well, when you put it that way,” he says, and gets up to switch into the middle seat. The move puts their legs pressed up nearly together, and Enjolras is all of a sudden hyper-aware of the obscene amount of heat the guy is giving off. He’s also hyper-aware that he just used the word ‘obscene’ to describe heat, which probably says enough about the state of Enjolras’ social life, if Courfeyrac and Combeferre's near constant reminders hadn’t.
To be fair, the guy looks to be wearing at least two layers—he has the buttons of his dress shirt undone just enough that Enjolras can see both the peak of an undershirt and a also the edge of a tattoo. A glance down at where he's rolled up the sleeves of his shirt reveals even more ink. Enjolras finds himself hyper-aware of his own body's temperature, and wonders if he’s developing a new kink.
He also realizes that he has been staring at the guy for far longer than is probably courteous and also ogling him; it is probably safe to say that his dignity decided to stay with Combeferre and Courfeyrac. At least the guy isn’t privy to the thoughts in his head. He still has that.
“You don’t happen to be able to read minds?” says Enjolras, because apparently, he doesn’t even have that.
The guy blinks. “Okay,” he says. “I was not expecting that.”
Enjolras manages an awkward self-deprecating laugh in response, but no actual words. He wonders if he should just get up and find another seat.
“The answer is no,” says the guy. He sounds amused, at least. “By the way.”
Enjolras smiles, somehow. “Right,” he says. “I mean good. I mean not good—it’d be kind of ridiculous if you could—that entire question was just—I really hate flying.” He also really hates that his body’s reaction to a lack of sleep and Dramamine is apparently to not be able to stop talking. He figures it’s only fair; his mouth already tastes awful, why not put his foot in it.
“I’m Grantaire,” says the guy, still smiling, and Enjolras seriously considers taking his temperature, because he seems entirely unconcerned with the level of crazy currently coming out of Enjolras’ mouth.
“Um,” Enjolras says when it becomes clear that the guy isn’t going to go running for the hills. Or not hills, since boarding appears to have stopped, but the point still stands. The guy—Grantaire, points out the snarky part of Enjolras’ brain, helpfully—is still smiling at him.
“Are you going to tell me your name?” Grantaire says. “Or shall I keep referring to you as the sun god—my friends ready think I’m half crazy, I’m pretty sure they’d have me institutionalized if I came home from a plane ride claiming to have spent it sitting next to Apollo himself.”
“Apollo,” repeats Enjolras, blankly.
“Apollo,” agrees Grantaire. “We’re lucky that I’m the one in the window seat. I have a feeling you’d end up blinding half the plane if the sun caught that hair of yours.”
Enjolras finds himself subconsciously reaching up to touch his hair. Grantaire smirks at him, and he scowls. “You think you’re so smooth,” he says.
Grantaire just raises both if his hands. “Just trying to give you a compliment,” he says through a smile, but then his phone vibrates, and he pauses to look at it.
Enjolras takes the moment to realize they’ve somehow managed to miss the entire safety spiel, and then takes a few moments freaking out about having missed the safety spiel. Which is stupid, since the safety spiel has not changed since the last time Enjolras took a plane ride. Enjolras could probably give the safety spiel at this point, to be honest.
The flight attendants interrupt his thoughts by coming down the aisle and telling them to turn off their phones; Enjolras’ is already off, and has been since Courfeyrac grew fed up with his one word responses and started texting him the lyrics to My Heart Will Go On by Céline Dion. But he turns to look at Grantaire, who winks at him and puts his own phone on hold.
On hold.
Enjolras is all of a sudden reminded of that time he drove Marius to their local Apple Store because he hadn’t realized there was an off button and had been leaving his phone on hold all night; distinctly, he remembers Courfeyrac cackling at the two of them from the other side of the godforsaken Genius Bar.
But mostly, Enjolras is filled with horrific visions of falling to his doom due to technical problems with the plane.
“What?” says Grantaire, looking up. He obviously has no such concerns. “You were staring again.”
“You didn’t turn your phone off,” Enjolras says, slowly; it’s possible he sounds more than a little condescending.
Grantaire blinks back at him, unfazed. “It’s in airplane mode,” he says finally.
Enjolras stares at him.
“I am relatively certain that my iPhone 5 is not going to take down the plane, Apollo,” says Grantaire.
“They told us to turn them off,” repeats Enjolras.
“Yes,” says Grantaire. “But see, if they told you to jump out of the plane would you?” He narrows his eyes. “This isn’t some sort of kink thing, is it? Because while I could work with this—keep an open mind, your kinks are my kinks, feel free to be you, etc.—my pilot costume is at the dry cleaners.”
“What?” says Enjolras, trying (and failing) to regain control of the conversation. “No! I mean, to answer your initial question yes. But not for those reasons—if they tell us to jump out of the plane I’d listen because we might be dying—god you’re awful, are you like this all the time?”
Grantaire looks absolutely enchanted. “Why?” he says. “Would you like to find out?”
Enjolras scowls at him. “Stop that,” he snaps. “You’re changing the subject.”
“Yes,” agrees Grantaire. “But only because I care; we can return to your pilot fantasy if you like, though.”
He says that last bit just as one if the flight attendants comes by to make sure phones are off and trays are in the upright position, etc. The man ends up looking more than a little shell shocked, but not put off.
Grantaire just looks smug.
“If he gives me his number I will kill you,” Enjolras tells him, when the man is out of earshot.
“Seems a bit drastic,” says Grantaire. “You won’t even tell me your name, and you’re already asking me my opinion on attractive flight attendants.”
Enjolras opens his mouth, and then closes it. “If I tell you my name will you turn your phone off?” he says.
Another one of the flight attendants passes by and stops to say, “All electronic devices should be off at this moment,” or something; Enjolras isn’t entirely listening—more like he’s nodding along with her and giving Grantaire his smuggest look.
The other man makes a show of holding down the hold button and powering off the phone. “Happy?” he says.
“Ecstatic,” says Enjolras.
The pilot announces that the plane has been cleared for takeoff, so he pulls out a packet of gum and sticks a piece in his mouth, heart thumping loudly in his seat, and tries not to think about the next few minutes.
He’s about failed on that front and resigned himself to a hellish few seconds spent trying to keep the coffee down, when Grantaire says, completely seriously, “That’s an odd name.”
Enjolras turns to stare at him. “What?”
“Ecstatic,” the other man clarifies. “Your parents must have been cruel.”
Enjolras blinks. “I,” he says, at a loss. “What?”
“You said you’d tell me your name if I turned off my phone,” says Grantaire. “I turned off my phone. You said you were Ecstatic.”
Enjolras seriously considers gaping at him. “You are ridiculous,” he says finally.
“No,” says Grantaire. “I’m Grantaire.” He grins again. “You’re Ecstatic, though,”
Enjolras stares at him, mouth open to respond, when he realizes that they're no longer on the ground and he’s somehow missed the leveling out. He blinks. “You did that on purpose,” he says finally.
Grantaire doesn’t look away. “You’re welcome,” he says. “Ecstatic.”
“Enjolras,” corrects Enjolras, hiding a grin in his hand. “And thanks.”
Grantaire just smiles back at him and waits until the pilot tells them can turn their electronics, before powering on his phone.
“Wait hang on,” says Enjolras only twenty minutes later when he’s finished the crossword. “Where are we going?”
There’s a beat.
“What?” says Grantaire, finally.
“I mean.” Enjolras is well aware that he’s blushing. “I know where we’re going—I don’t just get onto random planes—I don’t think you can actually do that—”
He breaks off because Grantaire is holding up a hand. “Breathe.”
Enjolras obeys, embarrassingly enough. He’s blaming it on the flight-nerves, because that’s safer than admitting that the combination of sarcasm, too-probing blue eyes, and pleasantly surprising decency is distracting him.
“Paris, incidentally,” Grantaire tells him when he seems content that Enjolras has taken enough air.
“Ah,” says Enjolras. “Right, okay.”
Grantaire appears to be focusing incredibly hard on looking ahead and not at Enjolras, who is thankful, and decides that what he should really do is pull out the in flight magazine tucked into the seat in front of Grantaire and start on his crossword. As if it is, for some reason, going to be different from the one he just finished demolishing.
“Um,” Grantaire says finally. “Why were you asking?”
Enjolras doesn’t look up from where he’s penning in sepulchral for the second time. “I fly a lot,” he says. “And possibly I got incredibly drunk last night and my two best friends drove me to the airport and put me on a plane.” He says the last bit in something of a rush.
Grantaire is silent, but when Enjolras looks at him he’s grinning again. “But you had to have noticed,” he says, a little gleefully. “There were signs—and they called us for boarding by destination—you have a ticket that tells you—”
“Incredibly drunk,” repeats Enjolras, which is a complete and bald-faced lie. But again, the safer and less likely to end with him throwing himself out of the plane option. “I’m not usually this distracted, promise.” Grantaire almost looks concerned, though, so he’s quick to add, “I’m lying about the alcohol. It doesn’t mix well with Dramamine.”
By some stroke of luck, he manages to avoid adding, “and actually, you and me and this plane really don’t mix with Dramamine, so if you don’t mind, please stop looking at me and smiling.”
“I figured,” says Grantaire.
Enjolras is grateful, for a second, before the implications of that sentence settle in. “Wait,” he says. “You figured that I usually ask people if they can read minds before giving them my name? You know, without the aid of cocktail of psychotropic drugs?”
Grantaire continues to grin at him. “No,” he says simply. “But you’re very pretty when you’re angry.”
Enjolras doesn’t know if what he wants to do is slap him, or kiss him. “You’re not the first person to tell me that,” he settles for.
Grantaire appears to digest that. “I figured,” he says again.
He appears to be willing enough to let Enjolras go back to his crossword, so Enjolras moves to do just that.
And then Grantaire says, “Why Paris?”
Enjolras shoots him a sideways glance. “Work stuff,” he says. “Journalism.”
“Ah.”
“You?”
The answer to twenty-three down is still one of the Three Stooges (Moe) and seven across is still bungee jumping.
“Work stuff,” says Grantaire, smirking. He doesn’t add anything, and Enjolras isn’t really all that sure why he’s even surprised.
Courfeyrac starts texting him pretty much the moment Enjolras caves and turns his own phone back on. He has the entire finished lyrics and a few dramatically placed exclamation points after the last, and my heart will go on and on.
Was that last one really necessary? Enjolras texts him.
enjolras! Courfeyrac seems, as always, disproportionately happy to hear from him. ur alive!
I think you’d have heard if the plane crashed, Enjolras tells him dryly. Or as dry as you can be via texts. Anyway, you need to stop thinking I’ve died every time I stop texting you back.
There’s a short wait before Courfeyrac answers, and when he does, Enjolras has to resist letting his head thud forward onto the seatback in front of him.
well you didnt text me back, Courfeyrac has written.
The fact that I even know that that’s a reference is entirely too telling of our friendship, Enjolras tells him.
my little baby is all grown up, Courfeyrac replies. quick take a gratuitous selfie of yourself and send it to me so that i can commemorate this day.
Enjolras lets his head thud forward, and answers Grantaire’s unspoken question without looking away from the ugly upholstery. “My friends are awful people,” he says.
“Mmm,” says Grantaire. “That the same friend who gave you the giant stuffed rabbit?”
Enjolras winces. “You saw that?” he says
“Enjolras,” says Grantaire for what Enjolras realizes is the first time. “The entire airport saw that, let alone everyone on this plane.”
Enjolras is still stuck somewhere around the way his name sounds on Grantaire’s tongue, but he follows Grantaire’s line of sight to the people across the aisle.
The women seated there nod back at them. “We noticed.”
Grantaire looks pleased; Enjolras settles for sighing.
“You made that girl’s day when you gave it to her,” Grantaire goes on to say. “Not her father’s, though. I’m pretty sure he was convinced you were about three seconds from getting down on one knee and proposing.”
Enjolras sputters at him. “She was three!” he cries, guessing. “And also a ‘she!’”
Grantaire opens his mouth to respond, and then blinks at him instead. “Did you—” he starts to say. “Did you just do what I think you just did?”
Enjolras buries his face back into the back of the seat. “No,” he says. “No, absolutely not. I did not go through the awkward teenage coming to terms with my sexuality via spin the bottle just to blurt it out to a complete stranger on an airplane.” He takes a deep breath. “Unprompted.”
Grantaire is worryingly silent for a moment, but eventually finds his voice. “Aw, Enjolras,” he says. “You wound me. I’m not a complete stranger—I know that your parents named you Ecstatic and also that you have a thing for pilots and also attractive flight attendants. And would not be opposed to getting their numbers.”
Enjolras turns his head to look at him when he says that, and finds that he is winking and an over exaggerated and highly inappropriate manner. When he turns his head the other way, he finds that the same flight attendant from before is standing in the aisle, still not looking put off. He turns head back around. “I hate you.”
Grantaire smiles back at him. “See,” he says. “What kind of complete strangers tell each other that they hate each other?”
“I will push you out of this plane,” Enjolras says.
Grantaire just grins at him. “I’ll pull you with me,” he says. “Friend.”
Enjolras flips him off, smiles back a little, and turns to ask the flight attendant for a pillow. His phone hasn’t stopped buzzing since he stopped responding to Courfeyrac, but he figures a few hours of shut eye never hurt anyone.
He wakes up and finds that instead of a few hours of shut eye, he’s somehow managed to sleep for the entire rest of the flight, and that somehow Grantaire has managed to ease out of his seat and leave without waking him. He only wakes when the flight attendant from before taps him on the shoulder.
“Thanks,” he says, voice rough from sleep, and the man just clasps him on the shoulder again and continues moving down the rows.
When Enjolras looks down, he finds that he has a new collection of ten digits on the inside of his right wrist, and he sighs, vowing to wash it off as soon as he gets to the hotel.
“So let me get this straight,” says Courfeyrac when Enjolras has hijacked the hotel phone to avoid the international bill. “You spent your entire seven hour flight to Paris flirting with a mysterious and rich man in a beanie, and you didn’t even bother to get his number?”
Enjolras scowls. “I got a number,” he says, but can’t finish explaining that it doesn’t matter seeing as it’s not Grantaire’s number, because Courfeyrac sounds like he’s doing a celebratory dance.
“Combeferre!” he hears him shout. “Combeferre—Jehan—Éponine—everyone—come quick!”
“Éponine and Jehan aren’t even here, Courfeyrac,” comes Combeferre’s voice.
“Enjolras asked a guy for his number!” continues Courfeyrac. “Our baby is growing up!”
“Yeah, see, you said that earlier and I turned my phone off,” interjects Enjolras, before Combeferre can say something equally inane like, “congratulations,” or, “I remember it like yesterday when you were learning to walk”; he did that last time, and the ensuing photograph and facebook evidence of the expression on Enjolras’ face is something he’s still not forgiven Combeferre for.
“You did,” says Courfeyrac pleasantly. “But you called me as soon as you got to the hotel, so I forgive you.”
Enjolras waits a moment. “Right,” he says. “Well, I’m not afraid to do it again.” He pauses. “Hang up on you, I mean.”
No one speaks.
“You know, Courfeyrac,” says Combeferre in a suspiciously sane sounding voice, after a bit. “It was only yesterday that he was learning to walk.”
“Fuck you,” Enjolras tells them, and sets the phone down. It’s much more satisfying to be able to do that than it is to press end call, and he grins a little. before his eyes catch on the sharpie on his wrist.
The flight attendant was attractive enough, and certainly seemed fine with Enjolras’ supposed kinks, and Enjolras’ skin does feel stretched a little bit too tight. Certainly it couldn’t hurt to give the man a call. But then, he gets about two digits dialed before he remembers Grantaire’s eyes, crinkled at the corners and nothing about them innocent, and the rounded way he’d drawled out “Apollo” and tried to convince Enjolras his name was “Ecstatic.” Which does nothing to help with the itch to his skin, but leaves him with no desire to finish dialing.
“Fuck me, more like,” he mutters, and goes to do his damn job.
There is something incredibly déjà vu about showing up at the airport five days later, more than a little jet-lagged and cursing whoever decided that he’d only be staying for a week. He doesn’t have Combeferre or Courfeyrac to carry his luggage and give him coffee, but he also doesn’t have a giant white, stuffed rabbit in his hands, either, so he’s counting it as a win.
He’s also spent far more time in the shower getting acquainted with both his right hand and the exact shade of Grantaire’s eyes than he’s comfortable telling anyone, let alone thinking to himself.
So there’s that.
But see, he isn’t planning on telling anyone about the showers and the eyes, until he finds himself standing in the aisle staring at those same eyes wishing for a shower.
“You are kidding me,” is what he ends up saying.
“Hello, Apollo,” is what Grantaire says. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Enjolras doesn’t kill him, but only because not even the bureaucratic mess of extradition is worth facing Courfeyrac’s disappointed face. (Courfeyrac had emailed him, earlier that week, to say that he was very glad that Enjolras was finally “embracing his teachings and playing the field,” which Enjolras took to mean both, “Please tell me this means you’ll no longer be living on my couch,” and, “I’m happy for you.”)
He actually waits until they’ve achieved lift off, for the fasten-your-seatbelt-sign to blip off, and for the pilot to tell them the fasten-your-seatbelt-sign is off, before he unbuckles himself and leans down to whisper in Grantaire’s ear. “Bathroom. Now.”
A few minutes later, Grantaire is sliding into the tiny compartment after him, sans suit jacket and beanie. “You called?” he says, and that’s all Enjolras lets him say, before he’s kissing him. It’s a bruising, biting, mostly angry kiss but Grantaire makes a wounded noise and lets Enjolras reach around to lock the door without protest, mouth opening willingly and hands springing up to grip at whatever part of Enjolras he can reach.
“You bastard,” says Enjolras, pulling back before Grantaire can do any more than get a hand in his hair. “I hate you.”
Grantaire looks like he’s having trouble finding his voice. “You, um,” he says. “You sure about that?” Despite the disheveled look to his hair (and he really does have terrible bedhead actually) and the red-bitten look to his lips, he still manages to sound properly snarky.
Enjolras is not impressed with his ability to remain properly snarky despite furious kissing. Not at all. In fact, he only kisses him because he doesn’t feel like bantering back with him. It has absolutely nothing to do with the way his skin is thrumming or his heartbeat is all over the place.
“Still hate me?” says Grantaire a bit later when Enjolras pulls back to pant against his neck. They’ve ended up pressed completely together, and Enjolras can feel the hard press of Grantaire’s cock from where one of his legs is nudging between Grantaire’s.
He’s no better, hips rocking even as he turns his head to mutter, “So very much—you have no idea,” in Grantaire’s ear.
Grantaire reaches down to cup him through his pants. “I think—” he begins to say. “I think I do.”
Enjolras just moans, and presses forward into his hand. “Bastard,” he gets out.
“You’re the one who didn’t call,” says Grantaire, and that’s enough to make Enjolras get his hips under enough control to be able to furrow his brow at him.
“What?”
“I left you my number,” continues Grantaire. He reaches out and takes hold of Enjolras’ right hand. “But I can see you washed that off.”
Enjolras follows his line of sight to the clean skin on the inside of his wrist and blinks. “What?”
“My number?” says Grantaire. He shifts against the door a bit. “Ten digits? Black sharpie? This—skin?” He breaks the last sentence to press and entirely unnecessary kiss to the wrist in question. “Any of this ringing a bell?”
“I thought it was that flight attendant's number,” says Enjolras, still staring down at his wrist. “Not yours.”
Grantaire barks out a laugh. “Why, Enjolras,” he says. “Someone’s rather sure of themselves.”
Enjolras narrows his eyes and shifts his hips forward purposefully. “And?” he says.
“And,” repeats Grantaire. His eyes have gone a bit glassy, and he starts to rub circles into the skin of Enjolras’ wrist. “Rightly so.”
“Wise choice,” says Enjolras, and goes to kiss him again.
“Oh, by the way,” Grantaire tells him when Enjolras manages to pull his mouth away from his lips and is worrying at his neck instead. “I looked you up.”
Enjolras doesn’t pull back to look at him, but his silence says it all.
“On Google,” clarifies Grantaire. “It wasn’t hard—there aren’t many Enjolras’ in the journalism business.” He lets out a shaking breath when Enjolras sets his teeth in just a touch harder than before. “You’re good, I should mention.”
That wasn’t really what Enjolras was expecting. He pulls away from Grantaire’s neck to regard him curiously. “Oh?”
“Yep.” Grantaire drags his hands up from where they’d been cupping Enjolras’ hips to twine them behind his neck. He smiles up at him. “A bit more idealistic than your usual journalist types, but good.”
Enjolras narrows his eyes. “I’m not idealistic,” he says. “I’m realistic.”
“Yeah, okay,” agrees Grantaire, still smiling, and entirely not serious; Enjolras makes a note to pursue this argument when they’re not well on their way to joining the mile high club. “I don’t want to argue. The point was, I looked you up on google,” Grantaire finishes. He leans in so that their breath mingles.
“Okay?” Enjolras isn’t really sure why Grantaire is telling him this if they’re not going to be arguing.
“Did you look me up?”
Enjolras blinks. “What?” he says. “By Googling what, ‘Guy who wears a beanie and a three piece suit and is also named Grantaire’?” He makes appropriate air quotes. “There would be no results.”
Grantaire doesn’t laugh, like he expects him to. Instead, he just stares at him, a little bit breathless, and starts sliding his hands down to Enjolras’ ass.
“Um,” says Enjolras, confused at the change of direction, but not opposed to it. “Okay?”
“Hush, you,” says Grantaire. He sticks a hand down the back of Enjolras’ pocket, and pulls his phone free, fingers tapping across the keys. He sticks his tongue out when he does so, which is probably for show and should not make Enjolras’ stomach flutter like it does. “Here.” Grantaire thrusts the phone about an inch from Enjolras’ nose.
“Um,” says Enjolras, again. It appears to be a Google image search, and he has to step away from Grantaire to properly see it.
“You really should get a passcode for your phone,” continues Grantaire, entirely unconcerned. “People could do terrible things to it, you know.”
“You’re—” says Enjolras. “You—”
Grantaire puts his hand around Enjolras’ phone—the phone that tells him that Grantaire’s net-worth is large enough to make his head spin, and shows him grinning across the cover of Forbes Magazine—and looks at him, suddenly serious. “This isn’t going to be a thing, is it?”
Enjolras stares back at him and says, hoarsely, but with complete seriousness. “Is you being the tenth richest man in Europe going to be a thing?”
Grantaire stares back at him. “Yeah?” he says.
Enjolras swallows hard, and shakes his head. “No,” he manages. “No—you’re still going to call me Apollo and Ecstatic, right?”
Grantaire is starting to smile. “Always,” he says.
“Right,” says Enjolras. “Right, okay.” He locks the phone and sticks it back in his pocket. “Then no, it’s not going to be a thing.”
Grantaire’s smile is blinding. “Awesome,” he says. “Now kiss me.”
Enjolras rolls his eyes, shakes his head, says, “Just because you’re famous doesn’t mean you get to order me around,” but does so anyway.
Epilogue
“So let me get this straight,” says Courfeyrac when they find him waiting at the curb. “When you said you spent your entire seven hour flight to Paris flirting with a mysterious and rich man in a beanie, what you actually meant was that you spent your entire seven hour flight to Paris flirting with the tenth richest man in Europe!?”
Enjolras just looks back at him, and sighs. “Yes,” he says. “Is that a problem?”
Grantaire steps forward a bit and rests his chin on Enjolras’ shoulder.
Courfeyrac looks between them, and his jaw snaps shut. “No,” he says finally, sounding strangled. “Not at all.”
Enjolras risks a small smile, and bumps Courfeyrac’s shoulder on his way towards the trunk with his suitcase. “Good,” he says. “Thanks.”
Courfeyrac smiles back at him. “It’s the least I can do,” he says. “Just don’t make out in the backseat, okay? I know you’ve been planning payback for months, now, but think of the children.”
Enjolras waits a moment. “Courfeyrac,” he says finally. “Is there something you and Combeferre want to tell me?”
Courfeyrac just flushes to the roots of his hair, and gets into the car. “Shut up,” he says, not meeting Enjolras’ eyes in the rearview mirror. “It was a figure of speech.”
“Uh huh,” says Enjolras, at the same time Grantaire leans in to drag him into the center seat.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Children is a big step—you don’t just drop that into casual conversation unless you’ve been thinking about it.”
Courfeyrac is worryingly silent. “Fuck you,” he says finally—pleasantly—over his shoulder to Grantaire, who smirks back at him. Courfeyrac turns to Enjolras. “Marry him,” he tells him seriously. “In fact, you’re not busy, right?” This is directed to Grantaire, who blinks.
“Um, no?”
“Good,” says Courfeyrac. “Call everyone—we’re going to the nearest church.”
Enjolras just laughs at him, shaking his head and tightening his grip on Grantaire’s fingers. “Drive, Courfeyrac,” he says. “Take us home.”