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“’Aire! I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Is everything okay?”
“Oh hey ‘Pollo,” slurred Grantaire drunkenly, swivelling around in his bar stool to face Enjolras as Musichetta tactfully disappeared into the back room, “E’rything’s fine. Just had stuff to do is all.”
“It’s been almost a week. You’ve been ignoring my texts and phone calls. You haven’t shown up to the last two meetings. Every time I’ve knocked on your door Éponine has told me you’re out somewhere. I was worried,” Enjolras was not going to lose his cool over this. He was concerned for Grantaire’s safety and general well being, and he would calmly and rationally discuss his concerns with Grantaire. He would not drag him out of the bar, ravage him in the alleyway, then beg the artist to explain their last fight to him, because even after days of Courfeyrac-and-Combeferre-aided agonising he still didn’t understand it.
“Sorry, I just… lost track of time,” mumbled Grantaire, turning his attention back to the half-empty glass of whiskey in front of him.
“I was worried,” reiterated Enjolras in a firm voice, entirely out of his depth.
“About me?” Grantaire seemed genuinely surprised, “You don’t need to worry about me Enj, I can look after myself.”
Like hell.
“I was worried about you ignoring me. Are we- Are you angry with me?”
“Shit no!” Grantaire’s attention snapped back to Enjolras, the bleariness in his eyes cut through with shining desperation, “No I’m not angry with you! I’m… I’ve been angry with myself, mostly. I’m sorry. The way I ended our last… it was stupid. Immature. I figured you probably wouldn’t want to see me again.”
Enjolras gaped; how could Grantaire think he didn’t want to ever see him again just because of one argument? A volley of text messages between himself and Jehan had suggested to Enjolras that perhaps Grantaire had reacted badly to his proposition out of surprise or fear, but he had been under the impression that issuing the appropriate apology would counteract any damage done; he had certainly not countenanced the idea that their fledgling relationship might be over.
“’Aire,” he said gently, because Grantaire could get flighty when he was drunk and feeling emotional, “Of course I still want to see you, it was one little fight. In fact it was mostly my fault, I see that now, I shouldn’t have kept pushing after you said no, and I’m sorry.”
“It’s my fault!” responded Grantaire angrily, and oh okay, Enjolras should have seen this coming because it was half past drunk o’clock and getting very close to the hour of self-loathing, “You asked a simple question – ill considered, badly timed, but simple – and instead of just saying ‘no’ I freaked out and ran away!”
“It scared you,” soothed Enjolras, “I’m sorry. I should have considered your feelings and not asked so abruptly. I’m not angry with you and I really just want to spend time with you again. Do you think we could get out of here?”
Grantaire looked down at his drink, seeming to consider before slamming the remainder of the liquid back in one go and sliding off the stool, “Yeah, let’s go.”
Grantaire was unstable on the walk back to his flat, his feet veering drunkenly as Enjolras put an arm around his shoulders in an attempt to steer him in the right direction. Enjolras desperately wanted to continue their conversation, drill down to the root of the issue and resolve it - it was more or less his natural reaction to any problem, whether it was an argument with a friend or injustice in the government – but Grantaire was obviously too far gone for any serious discussion, and Enjolras contented himself for the moment with the relief of having found Grantaire, and the warmth of the artist’s body pressed against his side.
When they reached the flat Enjolras dug the keys out of Grantaire’s back pocket as the artist grinned lopsidedly at him, “Why, Enj! I didn’t know you felt that way! At least wait until we’re inside to start groping me.”
“There will be no groping tonight,” said Enjolras firmly, opening the door and pushing Grantaire inside, “You’re drunk.”
“And you’re beautiful,” sniggered Grantaire as he was shoved roughly in the direction of the stairs, “And so forceful! What’s a boy to do?”
“My boy is going to be delivered safely into the hands of his flatmate, who will put him to bed, and if he’s lucky she might leave a glass of water and some painkillers out for you in the morning.”
“Isn’t that whole taking-care-of thing usually done by said boy’s boyfriend?”
Enjolras held back the retort that first sprang to mind – if you’d agreed to living together I could take of you every night – and said mildly, “Not in this case, no.”
Enjolras knew the door to Éponine and Grantaire’s flat was never locked, so he simply nudged it open and bundled Grantaire through, surprised to see the place so dark. Usually Éponine would come home from the club about this time and turn on every light in the place.
“Éponine?” Enjolras called quietly, not wanting to wake her if she was sleeping.
“She’s not here,” slurred Grantaire beside him, “She’s away for the weekend with ‘Chetta. Gone camping.”
Oh.
Enjolras sighed, “Well it looks like I’ll be taking care of you after all. Go get into bed.”
“Yes sir,” said Grantaire quickly, throwing a filthy smirk over his shoulder as Enjolras headed into the kitchen to pour two glasses of water.
When he got into the bedroom Grantaire had – thankfully – done as he was told; his clothes were scattered haphazardly across the floor and he was sprawled out across the mattress. The only creative interpretation of Enjolras’ order seemed to be his flagrant nudity and unabashed grin as Enjolras couldn’t help but look him up and down.
“You gonna come and… take care of me?” the drunk suggested cheekily.
Enjolras steeled himself against the dull animal lust stirring in his gut, “No. You’re drunk and I’m here in a nursing capacity only.”
“A naughty nurse?” pushed Grantaire, arching an eyebrow in a look of mock seduction.
“No,” repeated Enjolras firmly, quickly beginning to lose patience with the situation, “I’m putting your water down here, there’s some painkillers too, and I’m leaving; you seem lucid enough to be left on your own for the night.”
Grantaire’s smirk turned into a pout, “You’re really leaving? But we have the flat to ourselves all night! You know what you promised when we’re properly alone.”
“Grantaire I’m not going to have sex with you for the first time while you’re intoxicated. We’ve not even had a proper discussion about what happened that night in the park yet! If you’d maybe responded to my texts and calls over the last few days and let me know that Éponine would be away we could have arranged something, but now- ”
“Oh, so it’s my fault is it?” snapped Grantaire, “I didn’t want to piss you off any more after we fought and now I get punished for it?”
“That’s not what I was saying at all,” snapped Enjolras back, his patience wearing thin and his tiredness easily throwing him into his established pattern of argument with Grantaire, “I’m saying I want the first time to be memorable, for both of us, and I’m not so sure you’ll be remembering anything in the morning. Not to mention the host of consent issues we’d be stirring up. Look at you, you could barely walk without my help and now you think fucking is a great idea? No, no way, not like this.”
Grantaire made a noise of annoyance in his throat, “Enjolras, I am clearly consenting. This is not an academic point that needs arguing – guy A helps guy B home after a night out, does A have the right to fuck B if he’s drunk? – this is not a hypothetical question! Yes, I am pissed. But not so much that my boyfriend bending me over and having his wicked way with me could be considered rape!”
Enjolras could feel himself losing his cool; arguing with Grantaire was the quickest way he knew for his usually calm exterior to crack, especially when Grantaire was drunk, and especially when the argument was about something so personal, rather than a political point.
“If you want me to fuck you so much why didn’t you just agree to move in with me in the first place?”
Uh oh. His voice was raised, not quite shouting but certainly amplified, using the same thunderous tone he used at rallies to grab attention and stir anger. It wasn’t the sort of tone he used towards his friends, not even in argument.
A flicker of hurt crossed Grantaire’s face, but then his expression went stony and in a perfect juxtaposition to Enjolras’ impassioned roar of a moment before he said quietly and calmly, “This is why I’m not moving in with you. This argument? This is going to happen every night. Different words, different thoughts, but it’ll always be the same. You wouldn’t be able to live with me. Now please, if you’re still planning on going, just go.”
And Enjolras, wordless, furious with himself for losing his cool, for yelling, for bringing up an already sore point, and for disappointing Grantaire (who after all probably would have been satisfied with just a kiss), did the only thing he could do and walked out the door.