Archive of Our Own

I.

Eight a.m. lectures are all good and well, Enjolras thinks to himself as he walks out of the lecture hall, but he would really like it if eight am could fall on a reasonable hour. Around noon, perhaps. 

He tries and fails to roll the stiffness out of his shoulders. Being hunched over his laptop for two hours has made his entire upper body ache, and his ears are still buzzing with the drone of his professor’s voice. It had been hard not to follow the example of the students on either side of him, who had fallen victim to sleep somewhere along the first twenty minutes, but he’d mostly managed. If there was half a page of his notes that mostly consisted of nonsensical keyboard smashing, then that was between him and google docs.

The weather is beautiful for the end of February. The air is still chilly, but for the first time since winter knocked on the door, there’s enough sunlight to provide some actual warmth.

He gratefully leans into the embrace of this promise of spring, closing his eyes and feeling for a moment how he imagines a sunflower might. He leans towards the source of warmth and imagines it’ll make him grow. He’s not usually someone to let himself be seduced into using metaphors, but he’s feeling particularly serene this morning. If this means he has to grudgingly agree with Joly’s statement that it would do Enjolras some good to sleep eight hours more often than his usual six, then so be it. As much as he hates to cut short his evenings for something as seemingly futile as sleep, he hates it even more when exhaustion turns his brain sluggish, hindering his ability to give something his full attention. Mens sana , he’s doing a pretty good job at, but he would be the first to admit that his corpore sano could use some work. He stretches his arms over his head, and lets out a pleased sigh when his back cracks.

Today will be a beautiful day, and that calls for coffee.

His favourite little café isn’t far from his lecture hall, so he makes his way there without hurry.

He strolls through the university halls, comfortable in the rhythm of the late morning. As he gets out of reach of the tall buildings, he hears shards of conversations; students complaining about classes, parents worrying about their children securely at their side. He passes a couple of teenaged kids, either skipping or enjoying their free periods in the spring sun. Enjolras lets it wash over them, the colourful inhabitants of the neighbourhood a familiar hum around him.

Leaning against the window of the café is a man Enjolras can’t recall having seen before. He has a beanie tucked down over his hair, and his eyes are closed, head leaning back into the sun in an unconscious mirror image of Enjolras. Enjolras lets his eyes skim over the man. He’s wearing a stained sweatshirt, torn jeans, and some Converse that have definitely seen better days. His bag is open next to him, and Enjolras can see a folded plastic bag and a handful of coins scattered in it. He reaches in his own pocket to look for some change to give the man. If he’s having a good morning, he might as well share it. Before he can find some coins, however, his eyes fall on a pack of cigarettes in the man’s bag. Enjolras has always strongly been against smoking - at least ever since he’d done a speech about it in collège - not only because of the health hazard it is, but also because of the strain it puts on the environment. And in this situation, because of the cost, especially for those who would really benefit from using their money on something else.

It’s never quite as busy at this time as day as it is during the early morning, when students and businesspeople alike gather around for the cheap morning brew and, when they hadn’t had time for breakfast, one of the freshly baked pain au chocolat. As it is now, a few students are scattered around the tiny tables, tapping away at their laptops or going over flashcards together for their next class. The air is buzzing with low conversation, something Enjolras always finds incredibly soothing. He takes a breath of the brewed coffee scent, already feeling invigorated. Courfeyrac likes to mock him for loving the smell of black coffee, but not having the stomach to consume the liquid black gold without a double shot of steamed milk and a whole lot of sugar. Certainly not after Enjolras’ terrible mistake in second year. He had wanted to emulate Combeferre, and had poured half a can of Monster in his coffee in an attempt to pull an all nighter before his exam in Introduction to Law. Instead of going to take the exam, he’d spent half the night and most of the morning hanging over the toilet bowl, Combeferre handing him a cup of chamomile tea with an apologetic expression when he’d finally emerged again. His stomach still protests at the memory, and he turns his attention back to the blackboard, looking over the day’s specials.

One of his favourite things about this café - aside from it being Fairtrade, but really, that’s a prerequisite for any of the cafés he frequents - is that they have student offers at half the price, for which Enjolras, and more specifically Enjolras’ wallet, are very grateful.

Enjolras greets the barista, and orders himself the soy caramel latte. After a moment’s hesitance, in which he mentally balances the amount of money he could still spend this week, he asks for a second one. He smiles his thanks when she hands him back his change and drops the copper cents in the tip jar. Both cups in his hands, he carefully pushes open the door with his hips and shimmies outside. As expected, the man is still there, only now his eyes are open, and he's lit a cigarette. He merely glances up at Enjolras, but gives him a friendly nod when Enjolras does the same. Enjolras, after making sure he's in nobody's way, crouches down in front of the man, and holds out his extra coffee. “Here.”

The man slowly blinks at him, then at the coffee, and then back at him, the question clear in his eyes. Enjolras nods encouragingly, and smiles. “I hope you're not allergic to soy?”

The man still looks confused when he accepts the cup, but his lips quirk up slightly on one side. He’s younger than Enjolras had initially thought; the scruff on his face giving him some extra years at first glance. He can’t be much older than Enjolras himself, and Enjolras feels anger pool in his belly at the circumstances that brought him to this point. He makes a mental note to bring up social housing for the next semester’s focus points.

“Not that I am aware of,” he says, and lifts the lid to smell the coffee, green eyes never leaving Enjolras, though there is no suspicion there. “Uh, thanks?”

“You're welcome.” Enjolras straightens up again, knees cracking ominously. Corpore sano , he tells himself. Maybe he can go for a jog later. “Also, you should really use your money on things other than cigarettes.”

The man’s eyes fall back on the forgotten cigarette, hanging from his fingers. “I'll.. keep it in mind?” His tone raises at the end, as if he's unsure whether Enjolras really feels concerned about his health. Enjolras really does, so he gives him another smile, and nods briskly. “Good. Have a nice day.”

He turns on his heels and sips his coffee, pleased to find it exactly as he likes it. There’s a spring in his step as he makes his way home, and into the welcoming arms of the weekend.

II.

Enjolras’ next caffeine ends up being early in the next week. The morning class he’d originally been so excited about joining, had turned out be as boring as it was early. Enjolras regrets - not for the first time - that he is so stubborn about seeing things through to the end, and didn’t just drop the course when he still had the chance. The same man is there again, looking even more rough than he did the last time. There are dark bags under his eyes, and there is a cigarette between his lips, though he doesn’t seem to be aware of the fact that it isn’t lit, his fingers tapping out a rhythm on his leg. When his eye catches Enjolras’ however, he smiles, and Enjolras notices the corners of his eyes crinkle up when he does. Enjolras smiles back without thinking.

“Good morning,” he says, halting in front of the café and looking down at the man. “Can I get you coffee again?”

“I don’t know, can you?” the man replies, his voice a sarcastic drawl, and he barks out a laugh that follows Enjolras inside the café. He rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips.

There’s a longer line this time, which could be because it’s only Tuesday, and everyone is still adjusting to the harsh reality of the working week. Judging by the sleepy looks all around him, it at least seems like a probable possibility. It takes Enjolras around fifteen minutes before he can place his order: he goes for two chocolate soy lattes, the day’s special. He considers for a moment to ask for an extra espresso shot in his own. Perhaps it could give him the energy to finish up the two papers he’d been procrastinating on. It’s only the mental image of Joly’s disapproving look when he’d see Enjolras’ hands shake that stops him from doing so. When he leaves the café with his two coffees, the man looks up at him. There’s a smile tugging at his lips, and he looks instantly less worn out.

“I didn’t think you’d really,” the man says, and there’s an undertone of amusement in his voice. He reaches up for his coffee without any objection when Enjolras offers it, and their fingers brush when he takes it from him, “but it is truly appreciated.”

“You’re more than welcome.” Enjolras says, as warmly as he can. It’s worth it when the man gives him another smile, and takes a sip of his coffee.

The man smacks his lips, lets out a pleased hum, and Enjolras’ eyes drop to the stranger’s mouth. His lips are pale and chapped, probably from the cold wind bristling through Paris today. Enjolras wants to offer him chapstick, but he’s not sure how necessary chapstick feels to one who lives on the street. Struggling with the thought that he wouldn’t even need to buy another one if he gave the one in his bag away, he decides to keep his mouth shut.

“Two coffees, yet no name.”

The stranger looks up through his lashes at Enjolras, who feels his face heat up to be found staring. Shit. He struggles for words - and honestly, that’s a first, isn’t it.

“Enjolras,” he blurts out in a gush of breath, and for some reason he can’t even begin to explain, he does something that must most closely resemble a curtsy. He has no idea where it comes from, and so he straightens up so quickly he almost trips over his own feet. The man blinks, and then laughs. Even in his embarrassment, Enjolras feels a pang of pride for making him laugh.

“Enjolras,” he repeats. “How fitting for the angel who comes down bestowing caffeinated goodness upon my mortal self.”

Now it’s Enjolras’ time to laugh, his face still warm. “And you?”

“Call me R,” the man grins, and continues, in an almost convincing English accent, “For I would wish to be the air that gets to touch you so liberally.”

“.. uhm, pleasure.”

“It’s all mine,” R replies, easily. He pats the empty spot next to him.  “Will you join me for a bit? It’s so awkward to talk while you’re standing there looking down at me.”

Enjolras does.

III. 

Somehow having coffee with R becomes a part of his routine. They meet up every week after Enjolras’ class, Enjolras smiles and asks if he wants coffee, which R always says yes to. Then they sit together, sipping their drinks and chatting about all kinds of things.

One week they had a very heated discussion about cheese, and on a very warm Tuesday in March, they spent forty minutes speculating if Harry Potter would have been better off in Slytherin, instead of Gryffindor.

April comes with the discussion about the meaning of April Fool’s Day, which ends with R folding Enjolras an origami fish from one of the napkins from the coffee shop. Enjolras tucks it in his wallet, and later that day adds it to the board in his bedroom, on top of the latest poster from their fundraiser bake sale. He would not admit to it, but when he goes back to the coffee shop that Tuesday after classes, it’s not 100% because he needs the caffeine. That day they also share a brownie, and even though Enjolras is slowly starting to overstep his monthly budget, he can’t really bring himself to care too much.

It feels so natural that it completely slips Enjolras’ mind to tell his friends.That is, until Combeferre drops a casual remark about him being away for so long after his Tuesday class, and Enjolras ends up laying out the entire story in a matter of minutes. He focuses on how some of his newest arguments were perfected on that street corner thanks to him, inspiration he found through their discussions, how R makes him look at things from an angle he hadn’t considered before. He skips the parts about R’s cynical smile at some of their causes.

He also carefully doesn’t mention the way R lets their hands touch for a second too long when he takes his coffee from Enjolras.

Even so, Courfeyrac laughs for ten minutes, almost chokes on his Pad Thai and has to be smacked between the shoulder blades to catch his breath.

“Only you, Jolo,” he wheezes, when he’s recovered enough to talk, “could end up dating someone this way.”

“We’re not dating,” Enjolras protests,. His face heats as he furrows his brows to glare at Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac lets out another pitiful cough, but Enjolras can’t be bothered to care about his health right now. “We’re just talking .”

Courfeyrac smiles, but with the red-rimmed eyes and blotchy face, it looks rather terrifying and feels ominous when he says, “Over coffee you buy him, every week.”

“What does he do?” Combeferre interrupts, before Enjolras can open his mouth to give a snappy reply about how he doesn’t expect anything by buying R this coffee. He doesn’t want any repayment for his Act of Kindness.

Enjolras, takes another bite of his curry and considers the question. “I don’t know. It feels kind of rude to ask?”

Combeferre raises an eyebrow at him, which Enjolras knows all too well means that he just said something weird. He can’t help feeling slightly defensive when he says, “What?”

“Don’t you think it’s more rude that you don’t ask him and instead talk about yourself and your interests all the time?”

This makes Courfeyrac lose it again, and Enjolras pulls the hood of his sweater over his eyes, hiding away from these two idiots he calls his best friends.

It turns out that what R does, is art.

“All day every day,” he says cheerfully, over a malteser soy latte. It’s just a bit too much on the sweet side, even for Enjolras, no matter how Courfeyrac insists that Enjolras’ diet consists of 90% sugar.

“I like sketching people on the streets, you know?” He scratches his neck, and smiles softly, shrugs. “I.. Yeah.”

Enjolras nods thoughtfully, and it might not be appropriate, but he can’t help the curiosity in his voice when he asks. “Can I see?”

R turns his smile to Enjolras, and it’s so genuine and warm that Enjolras has to hide his own with his coffee cup. “Maybe someday.”

“Someday,” Enjolras agrees, and they clink their cups together in a mock toast that has them sharing a laugh.

IV.

One week, their conversation is about vegetarianism.

“All I’m saying is that you can’t force people to stop eating meat.” R says. His fingers are tapping against his mug, most of the coffee left undrunk. Enjolras’ coffee has suffered the same faith, since he’d been too immersed in their conversation to take the time to drink it. He isn’t really bothered.

“As you like to repeat over and over, people have the freedom to choose what they eat. Vive la liberté, and all that,” he adds cheekily, and finally lifts his mug to take a sip.

They’ve moved from the steps in front of the coffee shop to a little bench situated nearby. The weather is clear, and there’s a gentle breeze that carries the smell of baked goods and coffee through the street. It’s the perfect weather for being outside, not so hot that the fumes of the cars are too heavy on their lungs, but hot enough for just a light jacket. The perfect weather for dates and long walks in the park, and apparently also the perfect weather for discussing vegetarianism.

“I’m not talking about forcing them,” Enjolras says, with a roll of his eyes, “Just that people should be more aware of what they’re eating. If your food is actively harming an entire species, surely that’s not right.”

“Vegans could say the same about you, though.” R says, a teasing lilt to his voice. He’s sitting with his legs pulled up so his feet can rest on the edge of the bench. He has his arms wrapped around them as he leans his chin on his knees. “You’re also harming animals.”

Enjolras laughs, “I’m still French, it’s hard to let go of the cheese.”

“Well, for me, it’s hard to let go of the meat.” R shrugs, and sips his coffee again, “What did you say this one was?”

“Oreo flavour.” Enjolras replies, after a moment’s thought. He wasn’t really registering what he was drinking, too absorbed in their conversation.

R gives the cup a dubious look. “It doesn’t taste like Oreos.”

“You can’t expect them to throw entire cookies in there.”

“Excuse you, Enjolras, I can expect whatever I want. I like my Oreos the way they are.”

Enjolras says, “Did you know Oreos are vegan?”

R adopts a horrified expression. “Shit, I can’t eat them anymore now.”

Enjolras bumps their shoulders together in a mock scolding gesture. “Be serious.”

R just grins at him and lifts his coffee in a toast.

V.

When Enjolras arrives the next week, R isn’t sitting on the step as he usually is. He’s leaning against the wall, bag slung over his shoulder. He’s wearing the same jeans as always, but his sweater is different, a soft grey jumper that fits snugly over his frame. His face is shaven, and without the beanie tugged over his head, his hair is a tumble of curls in every direction. His eyes light up when he sees Enjolras, and Enjolras can’t help but feel warm inside when he notices.

“Hey,” he says, “you look nice.”

R ducks his head with a shy grin. “A friend of mine got me this. Figured it’d be rude not to wear it, right?”

Enjolras makes an agreeing sound, happy that R has someone who helps him out like this, gives him something new to wear.

R’s clothing is not the only thing that’s different this time. Instead of staying outside, R follows Enjolras inside the coffee shop, his shoulder bumping into Enjolras’. It feels nice, comfortable to stand there, going over the specials together. Enjolras glances over at R when he laughs at one of the names of the coffee, his face relaxed and open. Enjolras smiles a pleased smile, and then wonders when this - whatever it was that they are doing - became so important to him. Eventually they settle on a latte with M&M’s. Enjolras places his order, and the girl behind the counter gives him a brisk nod. She’s someone else than Enjolras usually sees on Tuesdays, and there’s the nagging sensation in the back of his head that something is very different today..

“So, I was thinking -” R says, interrupting Enjolras’ line of thought, “that we could maybe go for a walk today? If you feel up to it.”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow at him, and R shrugs. “I like sitting down with you, but it feels like a shame to let the weather go to waste.”

So they do. Their usual hour-long chat melts into a two, almost three hours long walk, and Enjolras could have easily walked around for the entire day. They start along the Seine, electing to avoid Bercy’s park in favour of le Jardin des Plantes. R seems to know something about every place they pass, and occasionally someone will call out to him, or wave. R returns their greetings with a cheerful smile, and Enjolras is struck by this, this relationship R has with the city, in a way that’s foreign to Enjolras. They leisurely walk through the park and once they’ve made their way out, change course before Notre-Dame, to walk the other bank. Sure, Enjolras loves Paris as much as he hates it sometimes, but he doesn’t have a touch with it in the way R seems to have. Without once looking at a phone or a map, R guides him to la Coulée Verte with a brief nod to la Bastille, and back toward the lower end of the 12th arrondissement, closing by again to Enjolras’ university. It makes sense, Enjolras finds himself thinking after they’ve said their goodbyes at Bercy’s métro station. If you have no place to stay, the entire city must become home, every little nook a potential place to stay.

VI.

The next week their conversation topic is education. R tells him about how he tried one year of economy in university, because his father had insisted R keep up the family business.

“Stopped going to classes about three months in,” R says, his eyes fixed on his cup of coffee, “Was too scared to admit to my parents that I couldn’t do it, so I played it off as if I was too busy to talk to them. So of course, when they found out they were furious. Well, not my mum,” he adds, as an afterthought, “but my dad cut me off. At first I tried visiting, but eventually, I just gave up. Sometimes it’s just not worth it, you know?”

Enjolras is careful with his next words, afraid to offend. “Wouldn’t they help you out.. If you asked them?”

R snorts, shakes his head. “I don’t want to ask them. I’m doing just fine on my own.” It’s an obvious dismissal, so Enjolras swallows the questions he wants to ask. Why don’t his parents come see him? Why don’t they help him? Enjolras doesn’t have a wonderful relationship with his parents, not in the way Combeferre does, but he’s pretty sure that if he would end up homeless, they would help him out in an instant.

Grantaire has kept talking, oblivious to Enjolras’ inner turmoil. “Anyway, that was a failure. Education was obviously not for me.”

“But you’re so smart,” Enjolras finds himself saying, and then snaps his mouth shut with an audible click, not wanting to offend.

R laughs at that. “It’s not because I’m not at university that I’m not learning. I’m much happier now. Sure, it’s a bit harder, but...” He trails off, runs a hand through his hair. “I have my friends here, I’m keeping busy, it’s an inconvenience sometimes but it’s never - some people have it a lot worse, you know?”

Enjolras wants to reply how he deserves so much more, how there has to be something better for him, but then Grantaire is talking again. “So tell me about you. Politics, was it? Aren’t you choking on all the bullshit you hear on the news every day?”

And truly, this is the best way to distract Enjolras. He starts with his classes of the week, and then they jump from topic from topic, until Enjolras has to excuse himself, having promised to meet up with Feuilly to go over some of their ABC notes together.

VII.

The week after that, something big happens. R doesn’t openly invite him to see his sketchbook, per say, but when Enjolras comes outside with the soy latte du jour, R hasn’t pocketed it, and his eyes are flashing between it and the group of teenagers messing around at the bus stop. So Enjolras sits himself down, and gets his first glimpse of R’s art.

It’s beautiful . Enjolras isn’t sure what he expected, but it wasn’t the smooth lines, not the way the teenagers seem to come to life again on paper. It’s so much more than a quick sketch. it’s a moment captured, and Enjolras is blown away.

When the teenagers’ bus arrives, R finishes up his work, and tucks the pencil behind his ear. He glances at Enjolras, and his expression is something vulnerable, a careful assessment of Enjolras’ reaction.

“It’s brilliant,” Enjolras tells him. This seems to be the right thing to say, because R smiles at him, the wide, open smile that is one of Enjolras’ favourites. It doesn’t fade when he takes the cup of coffee, nor when the sky breaks open, rain urging them to get up and run to the nearest storefront to hide. More people have gotten the same idea, so they are pressed close together, shoulders and sides touching, the sketchbook between them. R shakes his head, droplets flying everywhere. Someone complains, but Enjolras doesn’t even hear them.

“Your art-” Enjolras says, eventually, “it’s... I mean, it’s really good.”

R laughs again, hides his face against Enjolras’ shoulder. “Nah. It’s just, - it’s something to do.”

Enjolras can feel R’s every movement against his jacket, and the wet curls are falling on his shoulder, tickling his neck. His mouth is suddenly very dry, and he’s feeling a bit feverish. If Enjolras gets a cold from walking in the rain without a proper coat on, Joly will have a field day or a heart attack. Possible both. At the same time.

R looks up then, his face as flushed as Enjolras’ feels, and maybe they should both go see a doctor. Can you get a cold from two minutes of rain?

“I think it’s clearing up,” R says, but he’s not moving away, his eyes not leaving Enjolras’. “April showers.”

“Yeah,” Enjolras replies. He can’t come up with anything else to say, so eventually he just does what feels natural. Somehow, what feels natural, is to lift his hand and clasp R on the shoulder. As soon as he does it, he feels ridiculous, and R must agree because he blinks for a moment, and then starts laughing. Enjolras joins a moment later.

He’s not sure how to explain it but the warmth in his chest is a comforting presence that keeps him grounded and calm for days after his meetings with R. Combeferre gives him a pleased look when they’re lounging together, telling him he looks good, and he must have spoken with Courfeyrac, because his friends tightens his mouth in amusement, but doesn’t make anymore jokes. Enjolras settles in the couch with a cup of tea, his headphones plugged in as he listens to that week’s episode of the podcast he’s recently been enjoying. Combeferre lifts his arm for Enjolras to slide under, and they spend a while like that. At least, until Courfeyrac comes to pull them up for a jog. There’s some playful banter, in which Courfeyrac dives on Enjolras’ back and Combeferre makes an attempt to swat them away with his book. Eventually they’re warmed up enough from that that they hardly need to stretch out their muscles before running. Later that night, when Enjolras is climbing into bed after a shower, he’s feeling mellow and warm all over. When his damp hair falls in his face, he’s reminded of Grantaire’s dark curls, the wide smile he’d given Enjolras. He falls asleep with the scent of lemon and rain clinging to his thoughts.

VIII.

They continue with their easy routine week after week, until classes end with the usual anticlimactic, “good luck, I’ll see you on the exam”. Then follow those awkward couple days where every student finds themselves scrambling to get notes from lectures they’ve slept through, asking around for last minute revision tips and advice on how to pull an all-nighter without feeling like an extra from the Walking Dead the day after.

For Enjolras, this mostly means falling back on the plan he and Coco²  had developed the previous summer. They wake early, eat breakfast together, make one big pot of coffee and then settle in their living area, working through notes and books until it’s time for lunch and fifteen minutes of “Aggressive Dancing” (according to Courfeyrac), alternatively called “jumping up and down until we’re all out of breath” (cf. Enjolras) or “blood-flow-stimulating movements” (almost Dr. Combeferre).

The afternoon is filled with flashcards, mock questions and lots of swearing, accompanied by some internet playlists to keep them focused. Occasionally, this is where they make a second pot of coffee, mostly for Combeferre and Enjolras’ sake. In the evenings, they meet up with their friends for dinner and a lot of complaining. Especially in their early days of revision, they all try not to work too late into the night, but when exams draw nearer, they catch themselves anxiously reaching for their notes and going through them instead of preparing for bed.

This means once the exams are coming to a close, the three of them are all but ready to sleep for three weeks straight. One by one they fall out of exam session stress into post-exam haze. None of them even realize that they’re all done with the year until a whole afternoon comes and leaves with no coffee, no dancing, no frantic highlighting and, really, not much more than naps in the sunlight.

When the evening rolls they collectively decide to put all of the semester’s papers away, clearing up their space from any reminder of student-related responsibilities. It’s only when the last of the highlighters have been thrown back in their designated basket that they feel the freedom of summer tingling in the air. That moment is topped by Marius’ cheerful phone call, demanding they move their arses out of the door to the Corinthe for “the biggest party they’d ever been to. These empty chairs need you, and the sun is still bright in the sky”. Enjolras hangs up before Marius passes him Jehan who’s made up a sonnet for the occasion.

But as they arrive, quickly, everyone has to admit that the mood is less “celebratory party” and more “support group for sleep-deprived people”. Jehan immediately attaches himself to Courfeyrac, the two of them keeping each other upright as they close their eyes and take in the sunshine. Even Bahorel, who didn’t take any of her exams this semester because she’s switching majors in September, looks worse for wear. “I stress for all of you,” she says, when they ask her why, “I don’t care about my studies, but, fuck, I want so badly for all of you to pass.” She pats Enjolras on the head, and Enjolras leans on her shoulder, mumbling his thanks.

There is not a lot of conversation happening at first but when Feuilly brings them all a round of drinks, an array of diabolos for the non-drinkers and pastis cocktails for everyone else, and waves away the offers to pay him back, insisting they earned it, they all start feeling a little bit more alive. With his grenadine and lemonade drink, basking in the sun on the café’s terrace, Enjolras finally lets summer in. Plans for the three month long holidays are discussed: who is staying in Paris, who is going home and when exactly are they doing the long-talked-about weekend to a beach. Musichetta arrives later bearing the news that Joly and Bossuet are on their way and bringing a friend. Bahorel still has her arm around Enjolras, and it’s warm and comfortable as they’re talking about Bahorel’s plans for next year, about how she’d like to teach sport to elementary students and her parents’ disbelief at her choices.

“They’re both lawyers, so it’s to be expected,” she says, and even though Enjolras can’t see her face, he knows she’s rolling her eyes. “But I tried for three years and it’s really not my thing. I think they got to the point where they’re aware they’re just wasting their money on paying for me to retake the same exams over and over again.”

“It’s your life,” Enjolras agrees, and sits up straight to give his friend a decisive nod. “I think you’d be a wonderful sports teacher. If you can even motivate me to work out every now and then, you can definitely motivate kids who are in way better shape than I am.”

Bahorel beams at him. “Thanks, dude.”

Enjolras bumps their shoulders together, wiggles his eyebrows at his friend. “Thank you , we could always use a teacher to help our cause from the inside of the educational system.”

Bahorel laughs, and then cheers when her eyes roam the street. “Bossuet! My man!”

Enjolras looks up as well, and sees Bossuet appear, tugging a smiling Joly along by the hand. “Hey! Sorry we’re late, we picked up Grantaire first.” He motions to his friend, and Enjolras’ eyes widen when he sees who they brought along. R is standing behind them, grinning and ducking his head when Bossuet slings his arm around his shoulders. “Everyone, this is Grantaire. Grantaire, everyone.”

“R,” Grantaire corrects, grin widening as he steps forward and removes his sunglasses. It’s definitely R’s green eyes that pass over the room. “Hello.”

Introductions and kisses are exchanged, and when Grantaire reaches Enjolras, he laughs, and offers his cheek. “We’ve met.”  It’s the first time there’s more than a quick nod between them and when Enjolras kisses Grantaire’s cheek, he catches a whiff of cologne.

“You have?” Joly asks, surprised.

When R - Grantaire - pulls back, Enjolras can feel the prickle of his stubble on his face and has to fight the urge to touch his cheek.

Grantaire turns to Joly. “Yeah, I told you? The guy I’ve been having coffee with every week.”

Bossuet elicits a sudden gasp of understanding. His mouth is opened to form a comically round shape, but then his face splits into a wide smile. A smile that usually means nothing but mischief. “Ohhh, this makes so much sense. Enjolras is your Angel of Death and the Caffeine scene.”

Enjolras blinks for a second as Grantaire’s face reddens, but before either of them can say anything, Courfeyrac speaks up. “Wait,” he says, squinting at Grantaire. “You’re scruffy homeless guy?”

There’s a beat of silence, which Enjolras feels lasts at least a century. All of his friends have paused their conversations, their eyes turned to Enjolras and Grantaire. Combeferre hides his face in his hands and sighs, mumbling something about ‘lack of manners’. Enjolras doesn’t hear what follows after that, because Grantaire is staring at him now, his eyebrows furrowed.

“Homeless guy?”

“I promise that’s not what I called you when I told them,” Enjolras says quickly, but it does nothing to ease the frown on Grantaire’s face. If anything, it only deepens, lines pulling between his eyes as his mouth turns down.

“You thought I was begging for money.” His voice is flat, emotionless, but his eyes are fixed on Enjolras with the same intensity as every time they’ve sat down together.

“I -” Enjolras worries his bottom lip, suddenly very aware that all their friends are watching their exchange in respectful if absolutely completely, utterly unnecessary silence. It feels like a summary execution. “You weren’t?”

Grantaire stares at him, face pale and suddenly looking drawn. He looks as if he’s going through the same thought process as Enjolras, but then in reverse. Coming to the same, very unflattering conclusion.

“So that’s why you gave me the coffee. Because you thought I -” He breaks off mid-sentence, barks out a laugh that is completely devoid of humour. He looks so familiar, but this bitterness, these sharp edges are something new. “Jesus. Of course this would happen to me.”

Enjolras wants to apologise, because obviously that’s what he’s supposed to do in this situation. What comes out of his mouth instead is, “Why else would I be giving you coffee?”

From the corner of his eyes he can see Combeferre pinching the bridge of his nose but Enjolras determinedly does not look in his direction. He’ll have enough time to listen to Combeferre’s rationalism later but now he’s too off-balance, and confused, and Grantaire is still looking at him.

Grantaire stares at him for a moment longer but deflates when Enjolras’ face does not seem to give him the answers he is looking for. He shrugs, one shoulder lifting up to his ears. “I don’t know, dude.”

“Did someone say they were hungry?” Comes Bahorel’s voice from somewhere behind them, interrupting the awkward moment between them. When they turn toward her, she grins, holding a large plateau of cheese. “The biggest size was cheaper if we share.”

“Honestly, I would argue with your logic,” Joly says, grabbing one and downing it in one go, “But I had a three hour essay exam today, so I could really use this.”

In that moment, Enjolras isn’t sure if he loves or hates his friends for it, but they’ve broken the moment, and everyone moves towards Bahorel.

They’re arguing amicably over who has to finish the Bleu but Enjolras’ eyes follow where Grantaire sits. He merges into the group of friends as if he’d been part of it all along, Jehan cooing over him pretty much the second they lay eyes on him. Sitting here in the café with them, wearing jeans and a tight-fitting shirt, Grantaire looks no different from any of them, and Enjolras hates himself for being such an idiot, and disappointed for falling prey to stereotypes and thinking anyone sitting on a street corner and looking scruffy was just waiting for him to come and save them.

It’s not something new, this little saviour-complex. For as long as Enjolras can remember, he’s been wanting to help out everyone he thought needed it. Whether it was the kid in his class struggling to read, or the old lady who lived on the corner whom Enjolras was certain just needed more social interaction. Both cases had turned out to definitely not require his help, and the first one had even ended up in Enjolras being taken into the principal’s office, told to “stop meddling with things that do not concern you”. He’d shoved it off with the idea that as long as people needed help, Enjolras would be there to offer it. Thinking about it now, however, he feels he should maybe have taken that advice a little more serious. The food is hard to swallow and the two trips to the bathroom to wash his hands have done nothing to soothe the anxiety running through his veins.

In the end, it’s Feuilly who manages to distract him, pulling his attention in with a story about one of his customers who just wouldn’t leave even though it was past closing time. Complaining about lack of respect for people working in customer service makes him feel a little better, as do the fruity cocktails Jehan encourages everyone to order next.

When they make their way outside late that night, Joly and Bossuet hang around Enjolras’ shoulders as they sing some song he vaguely remembers from middle school. They laugh when they forget the lyrics, and instead end up semi-slow dancing together, until Musichetta says they really should be getting home.

“And you’re staying with us, Lolo.”

It definitely feels like summer now, with the sun down but the air still warm enough to roam in t-shirts. Paris is starting to fill in with tourists and soon the city will be empty of parisians. These three months are Enjolras’ favourite and he makes a noise of disagreement, spins on his heels to face her, tell her he wants to walk to Montmartre and see the city from up-high. But he only manages to knock himself into Bossuet, who gently pulls Enjolras against his chest as he tries to explain. “I’m going home with Courferr-Courfeyrac and, ..”

Musichetta laughs. “They went home like an hour ago, chéri.”

“They did?”

“Courfeyrac came to ask you if you wanted to come along but you were too busy discussing the benefits of brown sugar so he let you be.”

Now that’s something Enjolras does remember, so he nods. “White sugar is really bad for the environment.”

“Can we agree most white things are bad for the environment?” Joly pipes up, which has Enjolras in stitches, the rest of them joining him after a moment of surprise. Enjolras can’t remember the last time he laughed this hard. Probably because the last time, he was also slightly intoxicated. Just as he is now.

“‘Slightly intoxicated’ he says,” Bossuet mocks, “more like ‘drunk off his pretty blonde arse’.”

Enjolras shushes Bossuet, but misses his lips when he wants to put his finger against it, and ends up almost poking his friend’s eye out. “Oops.”

“Point stands,” Bossuet moves them around so he has his arm around Enjolras’ shoulders.

“Anyway, we’re going home, we’ll drink a glass of water and then we’re going to bed.”

“I’m so tired,” Enjolras realises then, and leans a bit into Bossuet, who pulls him closer and presses a kiss on top of his head.

“We know, sunshine. It’s okay.”

Enjolras allows his his friends lead the way to their home. He’s sure he’d know where he is and which night bus to take to his own place if he’d care to pay attention, but he’s very comfortable with his eyes half closed, and so he follows.

When they’ve walked for ten minutes however, his brain seems to wake up again. “Where did Grantaire go?”

Only Joly turns his head to look at him and gives him a smile. “He said he was staying out a bit longer.”

“Oh.” Enjolras frowns, chews his lip, and all the worries he’s had throughout the evening come rushing back. “I made such a fool out of myself earlier.”

Bossuet lets go of his shoulders, and Enjolras is about to complain about the loss of warmth, but then his hair is being ruffled, and he has to duck to escape the onslaught. Bossuet laughs. “So that’s what you’ve been worrying about all evening.”

“I wasn’t worrying .”

“You were distracted and doing the angry frown.”

Enjolras pulls down his eyebrows and sends his friend a stern look. “What does that even mean?”

“The face you’re making right now,” Bossuet says, and copies the expression. It looks slightly terrifying on Bossuet’s face, and Enjolras is sure that’s not how he looks at all. At least he hopes so.

“I’m literally just looking at you,” Enjolras complains.

Bossuet pats him on the shoulder, “Exactly.”

Enjolras huffs loudly in reply, and Bossuet starts laughing once more.

Being in the open air helps Enjolras out of his fuzzy state of intoxication but at the same time, it has the regrettable result that being drunk stops being fun. It’s exactly why he doesn’t like drinking as much as he had tonight. By the time they arrive to Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta’s place, he’s positively nauseous, slightly dizzy, and wants nothing more than to flop down on the couch and fall asleep.

When he says that out loud, it’s Musichetta who clucks her tongue as she stands at the sink and pours them all glasses of water. “If you go to bed right now, you’re going to feel like hell in the morning.”

“I’m going to feel like hell anyway,” Enjolras sighs, and runs his hands over his face.

“But drinking some water right now will make all the difference in what circle you will wake up in,” says Joly wisely, and gulps down his own water.

Enjolras gives his friend an unimpressed look. “You’re not even drunk.”

“The upside and downside to having high tolerance. Come on, Jo, grab your cup.”

Enjolras knows Joly means business when he uses that particular nickname for him, but still he looks down at the brightly coloured cup in disdain. “Why is it plastic? I’m, like, an adult.”

“It’s our Drunk-Cup.”

Enjolras is, in fact, too drunk for this, and trying to focus on what Joly is saying makes him almost drop the cup. He’s never been this aware of exactly how much his hands move when he speaks. “What does that even mean?”

Luckily Joly comes to his aid, wrapping his fingers around the cup and urging him to drink the contents. He doesn’t even look less composed than he did when he arrived, just flushed and smiling non-stop. Enjolras hates him. Except he loves him. So much.

“It’s Bossuet’s, we got him plastic everything because he kept breaking our glasses.”

Enjolras nods gravely, “Just like I broke Grantaire’s spirit.”

Bossuet snorts in his cup, spilling his water over himself as he starts laughing, and tries to hide it to protect - Enjolras assumes - Enjolras’ dignity. He’s not sure, though. Is there even any left to be protected?

Musichetta sinks down in front of him and strokes his cheek. “You didn’t, baby. We’re also not talking about this when you’re drunk.”

Enjolras frowns again, “But ‘Chetta..”

“Tomorrow, over croissants and coffee.”

“But...”

She pats his cheek. “Drink your water, Enjolras.”

“Fine.”

IX.

Enjolras wakes up to sunlight filtering through the curtains and mercilessly beating down on his face, reminding him of his mistake of the previous night, and also reminding him to never, ever, drink again, ever. He’s wrapped in the knit blanket that Joly had given him last night and he takes a couple minutes to untangle himself from the multicoloured death trap without triggering the inevitable nausea that accompanies mornings-after. His mouth is dry, his head is throbbing, and his eyes feels like someone used hot glue on his lids and let it dry overnight. Somehow he manages to free himself from the tangles and to sit up straight, letting his eyes drift closed as he tries to preserve some sleepy heat underneath the blanket.

Eventually his thirst wins out. He very carefully places his feet on the ground. The cool floorboards send a shiver through his body, at once grounding and unpleasant. Enjolras shuffles to the kitchen, unwilling to take off the blanket. Once there, he grabs himself a glass - an actual grown up glass - and fills it with water. He sips it, unsure his stomach will be receptive, and when he manages, pours himself another. Halfway through, the coffee machine catches his eye and when he checks it he’s pleased to see that someone - presumably Musichetta - had had the foresight to already prepare the grinds. This allows Enjolras to simply push the bottom and let his aches be soothed by the scent that starts filling up the kitchen.

With the gurgling of the coffee maker on the background, Enjolras finishes his second glass and feels more human already. Dehydration: avoided. He leans against the counter, closing his eyes for a moment to let the water spread through his body and check in to how it’s making him feel.

As he predicted, it’s hell. But it’s manageable and he feels an enormous gratitude for his friends and how well they take care of him when he needs them to. Admittedly, it’s not very often, because Enjolras knows he can be stubborn about accepting help in his personal life, but still, it makes him feel better in his hungover aches.

It’s not long before there’s a noise from inside the bedroom door, and indeed, Bossuet appears in the doorway and gives him a bleary look. His hair manages to look like a mess, and it’s almost impressive, considering it’s cropped almost to his skull.

“Morning,” Enjolras says, with a small wave.

“Hmmrhhm,” Bossuet replies, and rubs his eyes. He closes the door behind him without making a sound. “You don’t look too bad.”

Enjolras shrugs. “Must have been the water.”

“Maybe I should have drank some more as well.” Bossuet stretches as he takes the couple steps towards the open kitchen and sinks down in a chair. He rubs a hand over his hair and yawns loudly, making his next words almost impossible to understand. “Did you sleep alright?”

Enjolras nods, careful not to upset his aching head. “It was so hot, though.”

“Yeah, this flat is an oven during the summer.” Bossuet smiles, the soft smile he only ever gets when he talks about his lovers, “Try sleeping with two people wrapped around you.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes, but returns his smile. “As if you don’t like it.”

“I love it,” Bossuet grins without missing a beat. “Though, you know, we usually sleep naked in the summer because it’s hot, right? And this one time…” He trails off into a story about how the landlord had come knocking on their door one early morning, and Bossuet had gone to open the door, forgetting he wasn’t actually wearing anything. Enjolras laughs so hard he almost knocks over his mug, and then winces at his headache.

Ten minutes later, Musichetta and Joly join them at the table, the scent of coffee finally luring them out. They settle down with their cups, sleepily sipping their coffee and exchanging good morning kisses in between. Enjolras focuses on adding milk and sugar to his own cup, giving them a little bit of privacy before sitting down again.

They lazily discuss what to eat, whether they can still call it “breakfast” so close to noon, and if they care enough to go to the bakery to pick up something. In the end, their French pickiness about food wins out on their laziness, and they settle for baguettes and fried eggs, with two crêpes shared between them. After an intense game of rock-paper-scissors, it’s Bossuet who has to leave the house in order to get food. Musichetta offers to come along, but Bossuet kisses her at the door and murmurs something in her ear that Enjolras can’t catch, but which makes her smile and nod.

The breakfast, paired with the freshly brewed coffee, makes everyone look (and feel) more alive long after noon has rolled around. Enjolras gratefully accepts the paracetamol that Joly offers for his headache, and gulps it down with the last of his coffee. The taste is awful, but it saves him the extra effort of pouring himself a new glass of water.

Conversation is mostly a murmur about the events of last night, as there has been the collective decision not to check on world affairs on hangover mornings, because that usually only leads to increased headaches and nausea. Musichetta is laughing with Bossuet’s story of something Marius had said about her bachelor’s paper, and Joly is still inhaling his coffee, so Enjolras has time to let his mind wander. Inevitably, as he goes through the night before, his thoughts fall on Grantaire. He groans, louder than intended, getting his friends’ attention. He lifts his cup of coffee to hide behind but it’s empty, and as embarrassed as he feels, he won’t debase himself to pretending to drink from an empty mug. He puts it down again.

Luckily, because his friends are either psychic or just very empathic towards him, they engage him in conversation before he can sink too far into the bottomless pit that is self-chastening.

“So, Bossuet got this pack of new pretty playing cards we haven’t had the chance to use yet,” Joly says, with one leg pulled up against his chest and the other stretched out on a chair in front of him, “and I’ve been refusing to play with just the three of us because it gets boring really quickly.”

It’s not the best of distraction strategies, Enjolras thinks, because he knows they play card games with just them regularly, but he’s tired and still hungover, so he gratefully accepts the offer.

Bossuet goes to get the game while Musichetta dances to the kitchen to make them some of her special herbal tea and pick up Joly’s little medicine box for him so he doesn’t have to tire his knee -. “It’s fine,” Joly waves away Enjolras’ concern, when he asks if it’s alright, “I just exhausted myself last night. Gotta take it easy today and order these two around.”

When Bossuet comes back he crouches to press a kiss on the painful knee, which makes Joly laugh and motion to get a proper kiss instead. When Musichetta comes back, bearing a tray full of mugs and cookies, she coos at them, and Enjolras takes the tray from her so she has her arms free to wrap around her boyfriends. Enjolras sneakily snaps some pics with his phone, and sends them to their group chat, where they’re immediately treated to an excessive amount of heart emoji from Marius and Cosette. Between the two couples, Enjolras isn’t sure who is more nauseatingly sweet. The amount of love he’s surrounded with makes him smile and feel a certain kind of sadness at the same time. He pockets his phone, and instead focuses on pouring the tea in the cups.

With caring for Joly’s knee and adding the preferred amount sugar and milk to their tea, it takes them a couple more minutes to get started on the card game. They spend the next half hour throwing easy banter at each other, discussing which movies they might want to go see in the following weeks, and whether or not they could get everyone together for a proper sleepover before the holidays really start. Musichetta complains about a boy at her part time job who keeps miscalculating their profit for the day, which always leads to her being scolded by her boss, and they all make sympathetic sounds and offers to come scare him away from the coffee shop. Then the conversation dwells down, and as Enjolras hands out the new cards for the round, he speaks up.

“So, about last night,”

His friends hum to let him know they’re listening, but they don’t look up from their cards, for which Enjolras is massively grateful. “So I, uhm, you probably know, but, that guy, Grantaire, we’ve been.. Hanging out? I guess? But like,” he shrugs and shuffles the remainder of the game’s cards before putting them down and picking up his own hand instead. “We’ve been having coffee and, yeah.”

He pauses for a moment as his friends add their cards, unsure how to continue.

“You thought he was homeless,” Joly quips in, easily throwing down a pair of cards on the pile in the middle, “which, no matter how I love Grantaire, I can’t help but think is kind of funny,”

He gives Enjolras a smile when he gets the incredulous look, “Okay, look, it makes you feel like a bit of a tool, I get it, but there’s really no harm done, is there? Just apologize and it’ll be good.”

“I thought he was homeless,” Enjolras repeats, shaking his head to say he can’t put down any cards on his turn, “He must hate me.”

“Oh, baby, of course he doesn’t,” Musichetta says, as Bossuet just laughs and shakes his head:

“Knowing Grantaire he’s just blaming himself for misleading you.”

“Probably,” Joly agrees, and then cheers when he lands the winning blow, pumps his hands in the air like he’s a gladiator who just won the competition that would grant him his freedom. “Ayy, good job, me.”

“Anyway, you have to talk to him.” Bossuet says mildly, electing to ignore his boyfriend as Joly shuffles the cards again. “And don’t beat yourself up over it, like, you fucked up, and that happens, you know? Everyone does. You’re not that special.” He reaches out to ruffle Enjolras’ hair, and then leans forward to bump their heads together softly, “Think of it as a good learning opportunity, and do better next time, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras allows, and smiles.

X.

It’s a long time before Enjolras sees Grantaire again. He tries going back the coffee shop on their usual day, but he doesn’t really expect to see Grantaire, and he doesn’t. He tells himself that there’s no reason to be upset if he didn’t expect it in the first place, but still his Enjolras’ stomach feels hollow when he sees the empty step.

Joly tells him Grantaire usually paints during the night of Monday to Tuesday. After the studio time, he’d go to the coffee shop and wait for Eponine - the familiar barista - to finish her shift so they could walk home together. It makes a lot of the puzzle pieces fall into their rightful place for Enjolras, and even though he’s mortified by his own ignorance, he’s happy Grantaire seems to have a support network as strong as Enjolras’. He asks and hopes they will pass on his apologies until he gets the chance to tell him in person. So far he hasn’t seen Grantaire again.

Summer passes by quickly. A trip home to see his family is followed by a trip to the beach, where Courfeyrac and Combeferre join him for a couple days until they all go back to Paris together. Enjolras catches up on his leisurely reading, tries out two different yoga classes and dislikes both of them, watches at least one movie every two days, and meets up with friends as often as he can. They talk about plans for next year, family, books they’ve read, complain about the state of the world and thoroughly enjoy every last day of summer with picnics on the Canal Saint-Martin and late café evenings turned into parties. Enjolras is having fun, sleeping more and eating well. By all means, he should be happy. And he is, most of the time. But sometimes, when there’s an empty moment without the chattering of his friends, he finds his thoughts wandering to Grantaire, and feels terrible again.

It’s not just that he misses their discussions - though he does, it was nice to have someone as skilled an debater as Grantaire. Mostly he misses the easy smiles, the warmth of their shoulders pressing together. He doesn’t know how he could have been so oblivious, couldn’t have noticed how his Good Samaritan Decision turned into something else entirely.

It’s a pleasantly warm September Thursday and Enjolras has just popped out to get a baguette for his lunch. When he leaves the bakery, two baguettes in a tote bag slung over his shoulder, and the sun beats down on him with a determination he will miss when winter rolls around again, he decides to take a little detour on his way home. He doesn’t have anything else to do, and no one knows how long this weather will last. Knowing the impact of global warming, it might be a snowstorm next week. He slips from one spot of sunlight into the next, letting them decide where he’s going. He doesn’t do this often enough, he thinks, as and waiting for a car to stop so he can cross the road. He vaguely waves at the car that does stop, looks around to see where he’ll go next.

He stops dead in his tracks in the middle of the street because there, on the other side of the road, in the little café on the corner, is Grantaire. He’s sitting at one of the tables outside, legs stretched out in the sunlight, a book in his hand, looking pensive. Enjolras is awakened from his stupor when the car honks at him, and he startles, almost runs towards the other side. Grantaire doesn’t seem to notice him until Enjolras pulls back a chair and falls down into it, dropping the baguette on the table.

Grantaire looks up then, from the baguette at Enjolras, and frowns.

“First coffee, now bread,” he says. His voice is flat and Enjolras hates it. “You’re really stepping up your game for the homeless population in Paris.” There are so many things he Enjolras wants to say, but as eloquent as he usually is, they jumble together in his head, so eventually he just settles for the safest option. “I’m sorry.”

Grantaire shrugs. “It’s fine, dude.” He closes the book, keeps a finger in between it to mark his page, and leans it against his lips, thoughtful eyes fixed on Enjolras. There’s some stains on his hands, Enjolras notices, some on the cuff of his left sleeve. Greys of pencil and colourful splatters telling the story of Grantaire’s latest works, none of which Enjolras knows. His heart aches, and he knows that it’s now or never, that he needs to tell Grantaire everything, takes this chance to explain himself. Fix this.

“It’s really not,” Enjolras blurts out. He’s been feeling guilty for weeks, so finally letting this out is a relief, a breath of air that’s a stark contrast with the ambient pollution, the cars, the conversations around them, the white-noise of his own brain. “I made assumptions based on prejudices, I’ve put you in such an fucking uncomfortable position. I am horrified at my own actions and, I mean, I really enjoyed talking to you. I’d look forward to it all week, and then I’d feel so silly, I never even knew if you’d be there, but, I mean, it made me so upset that I fucked up this badly, just because I was so ignorant .”

Enjolras is not sure why but suddenly Grantaire is laughing. He tries to hide his expression behind his book but Enjolras can see his shoulders shaking and eventually, Grantaire notices it’s futile, and he drops the book on the table, effectively losing his mark.

“Self-deprecation really doesn’t look good on you,” he tells Enjolras, dryly, but his eyes are twinkling and fuck, he looks so good. Enjolras drinks in the sight of him, his messy hair, .

“I’m really, really sorry,” Enjolras says again, for good measure.

Grantaire just laughs and shakes his head. He runs a hand through his hair, leans back in his chair, and just looks at Enjolras. His expression is a mixture of disbelief and amusement but he’s not saying anything. Enjolras opens his mouth to say something else but Grantaire finally speaks before he has the chance.

“Can I get you a coffee?” It takes Enjolras a moment to realise that it’s his own exact words, uttered countless times of the course of several weeks being thrown back at him. He feels his face heat.

“Shut up.”

Grantaire laughs again but he sits up and motions a waiter over. “I’m serious though. By now I owe you, what, 20 coffees?”

“You don’t need to…”

“I want to,” Grantaire says simply, and when the waiter arrives, he orders them both an espresso. When the waiter nods and takes off, he turns back to Enjolras. “So if you want to, as well…”

“I do,” Enjolras says, immediately, eagerly. He can hardly believe he got this lucky.

Grantaire smiles at his, a smile that shows his teeth. “Just so we’re clear, we’re actually talking about meeting up in a romantic fashion right now, yeah?”

Enjolras doesn’t reply, but he reaches over, grabs Grantaire’s hand intertwines their fingers. His hands are warm and rough. Enjolras wants to run his fingertips all over them, cover them in kisses. He probably wants to cover the entirety of Grantaire in kisses, if he’s completely honest. Kiss him again and again, hold his hand, bring him home to his friends, sleep in his bed, feel Grantaire against him when he wakes up. Have him be part of his life. He thinks Grantaire must feel the same, because his grip on Enjolras’ hands tightens, his fingers curling around Enjolras’ own.

They’re still holding hands when the waiter comes back, and only let go when the coffee is put down on the table and Grantaire needs to take out his wallet to pay. Enjolras is still as hungry as he was when he left the house, so he breaks of a piece of his baguette, and offers it to Grantaire. When he accepts, their hands touch again, and they both smile.

Grantaire remarks something about a new vegan restaurant opening in the following weeks, and it’s silly, but Enjolras remembers their conversation, and reads the remark as the offering it is. They chatter about everything and nothing, both of them nibbling on the baguette, and drinking their coffee. Or in Grantaire’s case, drinking. Enjolras has added both of the packs of sugar that came with the coffee, but still, it tastes awful. He’s already drunk the glass of water that accompanied his coffee, and Grantaire seems to read his mind, because he pushes over his own glass as well.

“It’s shit, I know.” Grantaire says, and finishes his own little cup with a flourish, “But that’s part of the charm. And at least it’s Fairtrade. Do you know how hard it is to find cafés that do Fairtrade? You’ve rubbed off on me.”

Enjolras feels the bubble of warmth spreading, and he’s sure his expression must show it, because Grantaire looks pleased. They both look away at the same time.

“Alright,” Grantaire says after a while, “I actually need to confess something too.”

Enjolras blinks slowly, too busy being consumed by fuzzy feelings that are still very strange to him. “What?”

Grantaire’s grin is sudden, bright, and happy. “I really dislike soy milk.”

Enjolras throws his head back, and laughs.