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“Would you kiss Enjolras for $100?”
Snorting, Grantaire lets himself fall back onto the mat. “I would pay $100 to kiss Enjolras. Consensually. Because that would mean that, for a mere $100, we could be in a worldline where poverty doesn’t exist, Anish Kapoor didn’t get his hands on Pinkest Pink, and Andrew Davies never created the abomination that is the BBC War & Peace miniseries that we all know and try to forget.”
Courfeyrac’s response is an incredibly unimpressed look. “I really think you overestimate how much he dislikes you.”
“I’m noticing that you didn’t say ‘underestimate how much he likes you.’ Subtle but valuable difference.” Returning to his sit-ups, Grantaire pretends he doesn’t see Courfeyrac rolling his eyes on the couch.
“You know what I mean.”
“Do I though?”
“We’re not getting into your weird metaphysical reasoning today,” Courfeyrac dismisses, flopping back onto his couch. “I refuse to engage.”
“But if—”
“Nope, refuse. You underestimate yourself, underestimate Enjolras’s mortality, and vastly overestimate his sex appeal to the average person.”
A lie on every count, Grantaire can guarantee.
One, Grantaire knows himself. He knows he could be in a relationship if he wanted to. He knows he could have casual sex if he wanted to. But he’s not some pheromone-drenched comic book character: he can have these things with select, specific audiences—not the unintentional object of his affections.
The extremely regrettable unintentional object of his affections.
Two, is it even possible to underestimate Enjolras’s mortality? Like, obviously he’s basically a god come to earth.
Clearly.
But also, Grantaire has personally witnessed this ‘god’ 1) get a lost-and-found box dedicated to his shit at the Musain because he never fucking remembers to take it home with him after meetings—the overexcitable dweeb—2) not realize that Bahorel was wearing an entire outfit made up exclusively of grossly undersized Enjolras-clothing scavenged from said dedicated box, and 3) compliment Bahorel on aforementioned outfit—the overexcitable dweeb.
Undoubtedly: definitely too pure for this earth, definitely human, definitely perfect in every way.
Three, absolutely impossible. Grantaire has watched people of all genders trip over their words in Enjolras’s presence. He has seen single and coupled and throupled people alike mentally review their relationship status upon encountering the Golden God. He has been the friend in the back who strangers ask, ‘Is he single?’ No, Grantaire is certain that Enjolras’s sex appeal is a virtually universal thing, crossing the boundaries of orientation and romantic entanglements.
Sure, Courfeyrac may have known Enjolras since they were in the single-digits, but what does he know? He’s adjusted, apparently. Grantaire? Grantaire is every-man. He knows The People, and he knows the true distance between himself and Enjolras.
“Y’know, I could set something up for you.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“No really, it’d be super-easy.”
“I really don’t think—”
“Grantaire.” Sitting up on the sofa, Courfeyrac fixes him with a grave look. “Let me do this. I can and will set up this fucking date.”
Collapsing back onto the mat, Grantaire gives a snort. “For the low price of $100?”
“For the low price of free, you pissant.”
“Yeah? And what happens when it doesn’t work out and I was right all along?”
Courfeyrac grunts, falling back down over the sofa. Something indiscernible is muttered into the fabric before the man responds loudly enough for Grantaire to hear, “Then you were right all along, and I’m an idiot who knows nothing.”
“Yeah, but.” Several joints crack loudly as Grantaire thoughtfully reaches over himself to stretch his shoulders. “This is quite a long limb we’re talking about my having to step out on. The longest limb, perhaps.”
“If you’re working toward a point, I pray that you get on with it.”
“$100. If it goes wrong.” Turning onto his side, Grantaire cheekily rests his face in his palm. “And if by some miracle you’re right, I’ll pay you $100.”
“You really don’t have to.”
“I’ll pay you $150.”
“Please don’t.”
“I will give you all of the money I have to my name, because I am so certain that you are wrong.”
“And I’m begging you please not to.” Green eyes peek over the edge of the couch at Grantaire. “But is this a thing? If I set it up, you’ll do it?”
Grantaire actually lets himself consider it. Courfeyrac can be rather persuasive, and Enjolras is one of his best friends, so it’s not entirely outside the realm of possibility that a one-on-one date could be arranged. Theoretically. But the success of a ‘date’ beyond that theoretical point? Unlikely. Doubtful. Virtually impossible.
Ch’yeah.
“Sure, okay.”
Courfeyrac’s expression brightens before hardening. “I’m holding you to that.”
“Fine, do it, I don’t care.”
“I will,” he repeats. The man goes limp again, torso half-plastered across the leg-rest of his couch. “But seriously, I don’t want your money. If you sabotage yourself in an effort to avoid paying me, I might actually kill you. I don’t need money, and I especially don’t want your money.”
“What’s wrong with my money?”
Courfeyrac gives him an eviscerating once-over before answering. “You work for it? We have friends who get money thrown at them every month, myself included, for existing. I have literally tried to give you money—”
“I don’t need your fucking rich-boy pity-pennies.”
“—and you won’t take it,” Courfeyrac concludes with an exasperated sigh. “Do not give me money: I do not want it, and I certainly do not need it.”
“Whatever.”
A pillow, no doubt flung with malicious intent, meets its target—that is to say, Grantaire’s face. He’s already completed his regiment for today, so most of him feels like rubber bands, but those rubber bands have enough stretch left to return the assault.
A minute later, Courfeyrac has unceremoniously thumped onto the floor, and the battle has devolved into Courfeyrac flapping the pillow against Grantaire’s face and Grantaire shouting insults against the ruling upperclass. It’s hard to call a winner (it’s not, Courfeyrac has clearly won), but the fight only truly concludes when Courfeyrac and Grantaire are spooning on the floor, both nearly asleep in Grantaire’s gross perspiration and Courfeyrac’s gross classist privilege.
—-
Courfeyrac had told Grantaire to show up at La Vie en Rose, except Courfeyrac had also clearly forgotten who he was talking to, because even with Courfeyrac sponsoring the venture La Vie en Rose is very noticeably a minimum of one digit outside of Grantaire’s working-class budget. Possibly two, math is somehow even more difficult when Enjolras is standing in front of him looking like this: blond curls have been pulled back neatly and tied with a calculated ribbon, and the suit...well, Enjolras has clearly seen a tailor at least once in his life.
Grantaire, on the other hand, knows for a fact that he has seen a tailor exactly twice: Bahorel had taken him out specifically for this occasion to get a properly-fitted suit. He will admit, it certainly does have that particular ‘slightly closer-fitted than anything he’s worn in his entire life’ quality to it, but that also comes with the delightful element of ‘every part of him is on constant display, and he always needs to stand this very particular way, and also there are rules for jacket-buttoning etiquette??’
Still, even in his total and complete panic, Grantaire can take Enjolras’s judgmental silence as an opportunity to appreciate the man’s somehow-more-stupifying-than-normal appearance, safe in the knowledge that whatever he is being judged for is, for once, not his distinct lack of brain-to-mouth filter.
Swallowing tightly, Grantaire grimaces what he hopes is a rough approximation of a smile. “So. In?”
Enjolras’s eyes lower as the corners of his mouth tip ever downward. “In, yes.”
As he approaches the maitre’d, Grantaire attempts a façade at ‘cultured’ that he certainly doesn’t feel. “Hello, party of two for Courfeyrac?”
They scan the list. “de Courfeyrac?”
“Yes,” Enjolras interrupts, as if Grantaire couldn’t possibly figure that out for himself.
“That’d be it,” responds Grantaire through a gritted smile. Hopefully the person hasn’t noticed the absolute contempt radiating from Enjolras; Grantaire knows, of course, but if it’s readily noticeable at a glance the rest of the patrons are already doomed.
Their eyes alight in response. “Ah, of course, right this way.”
The maitre’d leads the pair back next to a lobster tank and a window which, as far as Grantaire is concerned, could very well be the worst possible place to put them, including immediately outside the men’s restrooms. Within the men’s restrooms might beget a better response.
Yet here vegan Enjolras and easily-distracted amateur-astrologist Grantaire sit in their uncomfortably-fitted suits, menus out and orders entirely unformed.
Perhaps it’s his own lack of foresight at fault here, but in the week since Courfeyrac informed him of his ‘date’ at La Vie en Rose, Grantaire has not learned any measurable amount of French. His eyes go wide at the menu, clearly from an age where old money distinguished itself from new through breeding and instruction in pointlessly impractical skills. He stares at it blankly, trying to press down the panic rising in his chest as Enjolras huffily pushes his own menu to the table.
“Already figured out what you want?” Grantaire asks in a flailing attempt to mask his anxiety.
“The vegan options aren’t exactly staggering.”
“And the lobster held no appeal to you?”
Enjolras scowls, and Grantaire wishes he could disappear. Instead, he turns to look out the window; it’s not as if staring at the fancy French script any longer is going to make him understand it. There aren’t even prices, for fuck’s sake.
It’s a clear night, and the restaurant itself is out in rich-people country, so there’s none of the light pollution that normally obstructs the stars. He picks out the north star quickly enough, orienting himself around Ursa Major and immediately identifying Leo Minor sandwiched between it and Leo. There’s so many stars visible that it’s nearly difficult to pick out the ones that make up Hydra, but he’s fairly certain he has the correct pinpricks selected by the time he hears a sigh across the table.
“So.” The blonde clears his throat uncomfortably. “How has your day been?”
Is this worthy a proper answer?
No.
In the face of Grantaire’s deadpan, Enjolras appears to revise his strategy for...what, civil conversation? “I suppose I really should apologize.” In case this ‘date’ hasn’t been awkward enough. “I’ve been...unpleasant. This really isn’t really how I would have gone about tonight, were I to have had the choice.”
Grantaire gives a dry laugh. Of course this isn’t how Enjolras wanted to spend the night, he’s with Grantaire. “Yeah, I’m sure it isn’t. Look, we don’t have to drag this out, we can just eat and leave.”
A tight smile crosses Enjolras’s features. “Right. Of course.” His eyes fall to the menu on the table in front of Grantaire. “Do you know what you want, then?”
“Not a clue.”
Confusion and annoyance shadow the blond’s countenance. “Why not? You’ve been staring out the window for the past three and a half minutes.”
“Well, not everyone goes to hoity-toity rich-boy schools where we’re required to learn French. Some of us dicked around in the back row of public school Spanish and passed with flying C’s because it’s really Goddamned similar to Portuguese.” Grantaire hopes he doesn’t sound too argumentative, but damn, if Enjolras is really going to put him on the spot like this then maybe he fucking deserves it.
He glances up to see Enjolras’s face alight with...understanding?
“Oh my God, I’m an idiot,” he hears the man whisper. He speaks again more loudly. “Of course. Here.”
Of all of the reactions Grantaire had expected, Enjolras pulling his chair up beside his own was not among them.
“Are you allowed to do that?”
“Do what?” Enjolras’s confused expression dissipates at Grantaire’s vague gesturing to...well, to Enjolras. “Move my chair?” He flashes a devious grin that makes Grantaire’s heart thump a little harder in his chest. “For what Courfeyrac is paying for us to eat here, we could eat standing on our heads, and the waitstaff would ask if we’d like a monogrammed pillow. Yes, I can move my chair beside yours.”
Nodding, Grantaire tries not to get too caught up in the places where Enjolras’s limbs brush against his nor the fact that the man is wearing some cologne that smells absolutely incredible. He gulps before speaking. “So. Any recommendations?”
The menu reopens, and Grantaire’s heart begins to race as he feels the other man reach to drape an arm across the back of his chair. “Well, obviously I’d prefer if you ate something more sustainable, but—”
“Okay.”
Enjolras turns to look at him, and Grantaire is struck for a moment by exactly how blue the man’s eyes are. “What?”
“Okay,” he repeats. “I’m assuming by ‘sustainable’ you mean ‘vegan,’ yeah? What do they have?”
The man inspects him a moment longer before responding. “It’s a rather disappointing array,” he admits, flipping several pages further into the menu. “Two-thirds of the options are salads—”
“You can say ‘two,’ counting is not beyond my abilities.”
“—and the third is pasta marinara.”
“What are you getting?”
“Waldorf salad.”
“Leaf-eater,” Grantaire grins. “I’ll get the pasta, then.”
Enjolras looks up at him again, a wry smile twisting the side of his mouth. Grantaire holds the look, openly admiring the view until Enjolras seems to realize himself.
“Right, sounds good.” Standing, he moves his chair back around to his side of the table. “And when the waitstaff comes, I assume—”
“I’d appreciate you doing the ordering, yeah.” Grantaire already misses the feeling of Enjolras next to him, and suddenly the table feels far too large for only two people. No excuse for Enjolras to return comes to him, though, nor for Grantaire to go over there.
“I.” Enjolras’s throat clears. “I hadn’t realized you had a suit.”
Grantaire looks down at the ensemble. “This? It’s new, so no worries, my wardrobe was right there with you. I mean, I did have a suit, but it’s the same one I’ve had since my great grandpa’s funeral in 2011, so Bahorel made me burn it. It had a nice send-off, though. Better than it deserved, all said.”
The blond nods slowly. “It looks good.”
Flush burns his cheeks, and Grantaire knows it’s already a lost cause, so instead he focuses on trying not to grin like an entire idiot. “Thanks. I like it.”
“It brings out your eyes.”
“In all of their dirt-colored glory?”
“They’re warm,” Enjolras argues. “They feel comfortable. Safe. Like...a hug?” He shakes his head. “Jehan has the words.”
A dubious look conveys Grantaire’s doubt. “You’re the speechmaker.”
“That’s different, that’s rationalizing and statistics and reminding people of what they deserve. This is…” He shrugs. “Different.”
“Well,” Grantaire says, raising his eyebrows meaningfully and grinning in anticipation, “I appreciate your efforts to describe my huggy eyes. You look rather charming yourself.”
He’s fairly certain that that’s flush creeping up Enjolras’s neck, and Grantaire is suddenly addicted to the thrill of causing such a reaction. The man’s eyes avert, and Grantaire suspects that he may be tamping down a smile.
“Gentlemen?” Grantaire and Enjolras both jolt, neither apparently having seen the woman approach their table. “Are you ready to order?”
Nodding, Grantaire looks across the table at Enjolras. He allows himself to bask in the foreign sounds escaping the other man’s mouth as he orders (even if he will continue to make fun of French at every opportunity for the rest of his days), enraptured by the movement of Enjolras’s lips as he goes through the tedious process of verifying that neither of their dishes contain anything that doesn’t comply with his strict brand of veganism. It isn’t until Enjolras sends him a worried look that Grantaire checks back into the conversation.
“Hm?”
The waitress smiles down at him. “The owner sends his regards to the de Courfeyrac party and would like you to enjoy a 2001 Rieussec on the house.”
“Oh, well we’re not—”
There’s a pop behind her, and Grantaire finally realizes that a tray with an ice bucket has already been wheeled out.
“We actually don’t drink wine,” Enjolras sheepishly informs her.
“It’s compliments of the owner,” she insists. Grantaire detects a thrum of panic behind her eyes and knows why: he is very familiar with cheap wine, and 2001 Rieussec does not fall under that header.
“Medical condition, I really can’t.” Grantaire smiles apologetically, sitting up in his seat. “But maybe the staff can enjoy it on our behalf?”
He watches her smile falter for a second before growing slightly warmer. “The staff sends its thanks,” she responds with a shallow bow. She indicates for the cart to be rolled away before disappearing along with it.
“I guess Courf’s a pretty frequent patron in these parts,” Grantaire comments, adjusting his jacket. The jacket is unbuttoned when seated, right? He peeks across the table to check what Enjolras is doing. Unbuttoned it is—if they’re wrong, at least they’re wrong together.
“Him and his family, I presume. Probably makes more sense for them: more menu options.”
And they speak French, Grantaire doesn’t add. “So everything went fine with ordering?”
Enjolras rolls his eyes, and for once in his life Grantaire is fairly certain that it’s not directed toward him. “Well enough.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that the waitress couldn’t understand why I didn’t want ranch for my salad and needed to know if the vinegarette had honey in it.”
“Realistically speaking, is the domestication and supposed suffering of bees really the hill—”
“Shhh,” Enjolras interrupts, holding a finger up seriously.
Grantaire is shocked into silence for a beat. “Did you just shh me?”
“We are having a nice night, and I’ll not have you ruin it over your ornery tendency to pick fights you don’t even have a stake in.”
“Are you implying that I don’t care about the bees?”
Enjolras’s eyebrows raise. “Are you implying that you do?”
“Would you believe me if I told you I have honeycomb tattooed on my ass in support of my pollinating compatriots?”
A thrill races through Grantaire as Enjolras’s attention slides carefully over his body. “No.”
“Your loss.”
The man’s eyes flicker back to Grantaire’s face. “Do you?”
Leaning back in his chair, Grantaire crosses his arms and gives Enjolras a smirking shrug. “Maybe I do, maybe I don’t.”
Enjolras’s eyes narrow until he sits up, reaching into his suit jacket.
“What’re you doing?” Grantaires asks warily.
“Texting Jehan. Ey’d know.”
“Would ey, though?”
“Yes.” Enjolras says this so confidently that even if Grantaire weren’t absolutely bluffing he might second-guess himself.
“Ey might,” he concedes as Enjolras tucks his phone back into his jacket. “But this is Jehan, ey never answer eir texts.”
“No,” Enjolras allows, “but ey do read them, and we happen to have lunch plans tomorrow.”
The thought of Enjolras still having Grantaire on his mind tomorrow brings him a pathetic amount of happiness.
“Not sure if I should be flattered or offended that you genuinely aren’t sure if I’d have my ass tattooed.”
“Are we really going to stigmatize tattoo placements? The decision for where someone gets a tattoo is as personal as what they get. It’s not for me to judge.”
Grantaire shrugs. “Well, you can do that. And while you eat a flower I’m going to judge the hell out of taint tatts.”
This startles a laugh rather than a reprimand from Enjolras, and Grantaire isn’t sure he has ever felt so proud of himself.
Time somehow passes peaceably and generally without issue until their food makes its unobtrusive entrance. Once their waitress confirms that they have no errors or additional requests, she takes her leave, abandoning them to their dishes.
They’re beautifully-plated, no doubt, but even the most stunning of food arrangements can’t make a salad and basic spaghetti look like any more than they are. Their conversation stops in favor of eating, but within a few minutes Grantaire finds himself meeting Enjolras’s eyes.
“This is…”
“Bland,” Grantaire finishes. It’s palatable, to be sure, but it’s clear that the chef is reliant on flavors from animal products, and the pair could certainly be eating much better within the dietary requisites for their budget. He lowers his voice conspiratorially low, cocking an eyebrow and leaning in. “What are your feelings on blowing this popsicle stand and getting some real food?”
Enjolras’s eyebrows both raise, a small smile forming. He glances around the room before whispering back. “Can we do that?”
Sitting back upright, Grantaire gestures grandly. “For what the Courfeyracs are paying for us to eat here? Why, I do believe we could eat standing on our heads, and the waitstaff would ask us if we’d like monogrammed pillows.” Enjolras’s eyes drag reluctantly back to their food. “We’re looking at diminishing returns here, Enj: we already ordered it, it’s a sunk cost. And anyway, it’s vegan, it’s halfway to compost anyway.”
Enjolras doesn’t seem convinced by his logic, but he also doesn’t look particularly interested in finishing his salad. “Where would we go?”
Grantaire’s shoulders raise in a shrug. “Wherever we want, I guess. If you’re interested, we’re not too far from a place I know.”
“‘Not too far’?”
“Ten minutes, tops.”
“Courf dropped me off.”
“Fortunately for both of us, I took my own ass here. We’ll just take my bike.” Grantaire tries not to think too long about Enjolras pressed up against him as they wind through the narrow streets of the town.
“Do you have a second helmet?”
Grantaire’s lips purse. “Would that be a dealbreaker?”
Chewing his lower lip for a moment (definitely not a memory Grantaire is holding onto for later), Enjolras meets Grantaire’s eyes once more. “Let’s go.”
Once the tab is verified as settled, they stroll around to where Grantaire has parked his bike. He’s only just rebuttoned his jacket and is pondering the technical etiquette for riding motorcycles when the sky recaptures his attention.
Enjolras saying his name—probably not for the first time, by the sound of it—is the only indication he receives before realizing that he’s probably been standing next to his bike and gawking at the stars like an idiot for a not-insignificant period of time.
“Sorry.” He quickly shakes his head before rolling his neck, alleviating the ache that had begun to grow. Grantaire looks over at the blond, who seems also to have taken note of the sky.
“It is gorgeous,” Enjolras observes. “It’s not usually so clear.”
“Yeah, well, light pollution does that.” Picking up the helmet, Grantaire offers it to Enjolras.
Thankfully, Enjolras accepts it without argument, eyes still overhead. “We should come back here later.”
“Yeah? That’d be cool.” Giving the sky one last look before straddling his bike, Grantaire kicks out the stand to get the motorcycle properly upright. “You ready?” Enjolras scrambles onto the bike behind him, and Grantaire inhales sharply when Enjolras’s arms wrap around his waist. “Awesome. Let’s rock and roll.”
The bike roars to life beneath them, and Grantaire feels Enjolras pull tighter against him. He carefully walks them backward out of the spot before spurring it into motion and tucking his feet back on the footpegs.
The road out is long and windy, quite possibly for the aesthetic, though the restaurant’s position atop a minor mountain also seems a likely contributing factor. Were Grantaire alone he’d race down it without a moment’s hesitation, but with Enjolras sitting passenger he’s much more cautious.
It’s probably been way more than ten minutes by the time they reach the intersection, but Enjolras hasn’t said or done anything to indicate that this is a problem.
“Hey, how important is it that we stick to that ‘ten minute’ distance?”
“Not,” Enjolras answers immediately. “This is all I have planned for this evening, and I have nothing going on tomorrow until the afternoon.”
Grantaire pointedly ignores the other implications such a sentiment might bear. “Okay, cool, just checking.”
They make their turn, and that’s when Grantaire sees the smoke. He swears, picking up speed. It’s too close, and he needs to know.
The street is already sectioned off when they arrive, and Grantaire barely remembers to knock his kickstand in place before scrambling off the bike and to a nearby officer. It looks as if the fire happened next-door to his uncle’s shop, but…
“Meu bonitinho!1” he hears a voice cry from behind the tape.
“Tio!” Grantaire responds, ducking under the tape and past concerned officers to crush his uncle in a hug. He presses a concerned kiss against the man’s balding head.
“It’s okay, it’s okay, he’s family,” his uncle assures the officer that crowds them.
They pull apart. “What happened?”
“Ehh, some estúpido caralho2 started a grease fire next-door. The shop’s fine, the kids are fine—they’re out with Larissa and your mamãe—but insurance is gonna need time to assess damages.”
Grantaire fixes his uncle with a look. “But I thought you said—”
“Yes, yes, the shop’s fine, but there’s still smoke damage and maybe some things we haven’t caught yet. We’re gonna have to close down for a bit.”
“Will that be okay?”
Holding his hands out, his uncle grins. “Someone’s insurance covers lost profits. Don’t know whose, but we should be fine.” The man’s attention turns past Grantaire. “Hello there.”
Grantaire quickly turns to see his long-forgotten date, helmet resting casually against his hip and hair looking unfairly unlike he’s been wearing it. “Gods, sorry. Enjolras, my uncle. Tio, my…Enjolras.”
If Enjolras is fazed by this introduction, he doesn’t show it, stepping closer to extend a hand to Grantaire’s uncle. His uncle foregoes the hand, pulling the blond into a tight hug and slapping him on the back twice, hard. “Always good to meet a friend of R’s.”
Grantaire stifles horror and amusement as Enjolras is released from the hug, the latter unsuccessfully hiding his efforts to return his breathing to normal. “And you, Sir.”
“So what’s got you two all dressed up?”
“Oh, well…” Grantaire looks to Enjolras, unsure how to describe their ongoing charade.
“A friend arranged for us to spend an evening together.”
His uncle turns to give Grantaire a knowing glance.
“We were actually coming out here to grab a bite to eat,” Grantaire confesses.
The man laughs. “Parece-me que estás com azar, meu bonitinho.3 But I think the street market Larissa took the kids to last night is still open, why don’t you go down to that?”
He knows the one. Raising an eyebrow, Grantaire turns to Enjolras. “What do you think?”
The blond shrugs. “May as well.”
Turning back to his uncle, Grantaire pulls the man into a tight hug. “I hope everything works out.”
“Ah, it will, it will, don’t you worry about it. Have fun tonight, eh?” His uncle pushes back, looking up at him before giving his arm a playful punch. “Boa sorte com o cara, falou? Falou??” 4
Grantaire rolls his eyes, grinning. “Falou Tio. I’ll call you tomorrow to check in, yeah?”
“And your mamãe!” the man scolds. “She’s been worrying again.”
“And my mamãe,” Grantaire promises, pulling Enjolras away.
When they are nearly at Grantaire’s bike, Enjolras finally speaks. “Is everything okay? What happened?”
Grantaire shrugs as he mounts the vehicle. “Neighbor had a fire. My uncle and his family’re fine, and insurance’ll take care of everything else.” Gold ringlets catch the overbright streetlights as Enjolras gives a sharp nod. He looks as if he’s about to get back on the bike behind Grantaire, and the latter stops him. “I’m just moving it out of the middle of the road in case the streets reopen before we’re back. The market’s easy walking distance if it’s the one I think he’s talking about...unless you mind?”
An easy shake of Enjolras’s head comes as response. “Walking is fine.”
Starting his bike, Grantaire glides it to one of the designated spaces along the side of the road, double-checking parking regulations before stepping away. Once Enjolras hands Grantaire the helmet to tuck back into the storage compartment, they’re off toward the market.
They walk in silence, and Grantaire takes the opportunity to reflect on the night thus far. He’d assumed that Enjolras would keep up the irritated attitude all dinner, or at the very least duck out at the first feasibly polite opportunity, but here he is, accompanying Grantaire to a local night market.
But then, he reminds himself, Enjolras hadn’t exactly been free about calling their excursion a ‘date.’ He’d acted extremely uncomfortable on arrival to La Vie en Rose as well, not to mention the overall animosity that the man usually exudes toward Grantaire. It seems extremely plausible that, at some point in the night (or prior) Enjolras had decided to either politely pass the night or enjoy the dinner and get home.
That must be it then, Grantaire decides: Enjolras probably just wants to eat a full meal and get back in peace, especially in the face of the relative disaster the night has been until now. He makes up his mind that he’ll do what he can to assure that that can happen as the street breaks into lights and colors.
In their suits in the middle of a street market Enjolras and he must be quite the sight, but if his companion notices he doesn’t show it. Instead, he appears to be in utter awe of the chaos surrounding them, lips parted as he turns and takes in the scene. Grantaire, for his part, has eyes only for the blond standing in dazed wonder in the middle of the street. He allows several more seconds to pass before deciding that Enjolras has put himself in danger of pickpocketing for long enough, grabbing the man’s hand and pulling him toward the closer end of the market. Their fingers intertwine easily as Grantaire weaves through the horde, and when he looks back at Enjolras to make sure he’s still—what, there?—he can’t help the crooked smile that befalls his face on seeing the ever-composed champion of social justice flustered by the crowd.
They reach the end of the market, and Grantaire gives Enjolras a moment to compose himself.
“You’ve been here before, then?”
“Oh yeah, never miss it. This is basically honorary ASEAN territory, and they have some of the best street food.” He pauses to think. “Not sure how much of it’s vegan, but I guess we’ll have to give it a shot?”
The answer, regrettably, is not much, but they find a stand run by a very generous Myanmar woman and her two children, and once it’s verified that there is food that Enjolras can eat they are enthusiastically ushered to a collection of fold-up tables and stackable plastic chairs. Grantaire takes off his suit jacket, draping it over the back of his seat. Enjolras hesitates at the table, and for a second Grantaire worries he might have become too relaxed in the excitement of a place so within his element. A meal and a peaceful trip home, Grantaire reminds himself A moment later, though, Enjolras is seated across from him with his jacket also hanging behind him. Grantaire smiles to see it.
“What are we ordering?”
“Naan, obviously,” Grantaire begins, counting off on his fingers. “Then I was thinking tea leaf salad, ginger salad, samosas, and maybe some sweet nut dumplings for dessert?”
Enjolras gives him a blank look. “They’re all vegan?”
“I’ll double-check when I order, but that’s what the lady said.”
When one of her children stops by to take the order, everything is verified to be as Grantaire understood it, and they are left with a pitcher of what Grantaire quickly discovers to be steaming hot tea.
“Want any?” he asks once his tongue has recovered enough for manners.
“Shit,” the man swears suddenly.
Replacing the teapot on the table, Grantaire furrows his brows. “Everything all right?”
Enjolras looks up to Grantaire with sincere worry in his eyes. “I can’t eat spicy food.”
There’s a beat of silence before Grantaire laughs hard enough that he worries he’s popped a button on his fancy fitted shirt before he begins to slow. Enjolras is giving him a peevish look, but Grantaire can’t bring himself to be bothered. “I’m fairly certain that your dietary restrictions will not be an issue,” he assures, wiping tears from his eyes. Reaching for his teacup and preparing to make the same mistake for the second time, he’s interrupted by the other man’s clipped question.
“And why is that?”
“My dude,” Grantaire begins, looking around, “you are the only non-brown person sitting here: she knows you can’t eat spicy food. Promise.”
Enjolras casts a quick glance over the sitting area before sighing. “I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.” He pours his own cup of tea, apparently having enough patience not to immediately make the same mistake Grantaire did.
In a record amount of time their food is served, empty plates placed in front of each man to fill as they wish. Upon verifying the truth of Grantaire’s earlier claims, the blond digs in, and Grantaire can only watch on in amusement between bites.
“Better than tofu salads?”
“Much better,” Enjolras affirms once the samosa in his hand has disappeared. He looks up at Grantaire suddenly, concern written in his features. “Is this all right? I know it wasn’t your first choice.”
“I mean, it’s no feijoada,” he smirks, “but it certainly has its charm.” The statement is punctuated with a bite of pepper and a mouthful of dumpling, savoring the combination of flavors and the blond’s wince as he deposits the pepper stem on edge of his plate.
Once they collect their jackets and pay (or rather, Enjolras pays, with vehement insistence), Grantaire tries to remember which street they took to get from his bike. When he expresses this concern to Enjolras, a strange look falls over the man’s face.
“I’m no good with street names or directions,” Enjolras admits. His expression is pensieve before hardening with resolve. “We should continue through the market until something stands out.”
Grantaire eyes the man suspiciously. It’s not the most efficient way to leave, that’s for certain, but going down the wrong street could at best lead them into the marked-off zone in front of his uncle’s and at worst get them jumped—the strange looks people have been giving them and their unique dress code have not been lost on him. Besides, if Enjolras wants to take his time getting home, who is Grantaire to stand in the way of the will of his glorious leader?
They make it to the other end of the market with no complaint from Enjolras, less some money but richer four handmade fans, two children’s masks, a coconut ice cream each, a bag of food, and tea.
“It really is wasteful how much disposable plastic they use,” Enjolras chides as they pass a stand selling socks and misprinted t-shirts.
“It’s not as if we have alternatives readily available right now,” Grantaire points out. “And besides, some of those containers were banana leaves and staples: you can’t be too mad about that.”
Enjolras grumbles his assent as they slow to a stop.
“Well, uh. I guess we passed it then?” In truth, he has a very good idea which street to turn down, but Enjolras was a little too serious about his intentions on a boba tea for Grantaire to find it in himself to tell the man.
“Hmm? Oh, I suppose we did.” Enjolras looks down at the bag in his hand. “Would you like to go back to La Vie en Rose?”
“What? Why?” Grantaire immediately regrets his tone of voice. “I mean, I’m sure they do a great dessert—or not, whatever—but...did you leave something there?”
“You’d, ah. The stars…” The bags twist awkwardly in Enjolras’s hands. “It might be nice to eat this there.”
“What, just set up a picnic blanket on the lawn and loiter with our own street food?” The thought makes Grantaire grin, and Enjolras visibly relaxes.
“Yeah, I think that could be fun. And then Courf would know where to find me when he needs to pick me up.”
Right. Because this is not a date. It’s just an arrangement between friends. Grantaire fights to keep the smile on his face—this can still be fun. It’s still nice, even without romantic overtures, and it’s way better than Grantaire had been anticipating.
He looks down at their attire. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I don’t keep a blanket in my bike at all times, so unless you want grass stains on your nice tailored suit...”
Enjolras opens his mouth before shutting it. “We could get a blanket? I don’t think I saw any here, but perhaps…”
Enjolras has no clue where they are, that much is obvious, and Grantaire’d rather not go out to buy a blanket just for this purpose. “Here, I don’t live too far off—ten minutes by bike, tops,” five minutes when he’s alone, “and it’s toward the restaurant. We’ll pick up a blanket there, get a second helmet so you can stop freezing up everytime a car gets within ten meters of us,” Enjolras’s eyes turn down as a flush rises to his cheeks, “and we can still tell Courf we had a great time at his ridiculous French place.”
At the last point Enjolras’s head jerks back up. “You wouldn’t rather give him hell over it?”
Grantaire snorts, looking over Enjolras’s head and tucking a hand into his trouser pocket. “I have more than enough to give Courf hell over on a daily basis. Unless you’d rather this be a team effort?”
Corners of his mouth turning upward, Enjolras shrugs. “I don’t see why not.”
A chuckle bubbles in his chest, manifesting in the form of a lopsided grin. “All right then, let’s get moving.”
Grantaire’s initial hunch had been correct, and they find his bike with no issue. Unfortunately, when they pull up to the front of Grantaire’s apartment, he makes an entirely more problematic discovery.
His phone rings uselessly before going to voicemail again. “Goddammit, Éponine.”
“She still isn’t picking up?”
“Nah,” Grantaire huffs, kicking at the ground.
The blond gives him an apprehensive look. “Will you be able to get in tonight, then?”
“Oh yeah,” Grantaire quickly assures. “She’s probably sleeping for an overnight shift, so she’ll see my texts when she wakes up and leave the door unlocked for me. It’s just inconvenient right now.” He sighs, eyeing the apartment’s storage locker. “Well, we have my second helmet, but that doesn’t solve our blanket situation.”
Enjolras’s lips purse, eyebrows rising. “...there might be a solution to that, actually. We’re near the old library, right? And the war cemetery?”
Of all of the landmarks— “Yeah, we’re two or three blocks over, why?”
“Can you take us there?”
Questioning Enjolras has never been outside of Grantaire’s realm of capability, but turning down a direct request is.
Several minutes later, they’re depositing their helmets onto the bike seat following Enjolras’s insistence to pull the bike around the side of the library rather than out front as Grantaire had initially parked them.
“Okay Enj, what are we doing here?”
Enjolras’s eyes cast across the street. “My grandparents live here.”
“I thought they lived in France?”
“My mamé and papi, but my father’s parents live here.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you mention them.” Grantaire can surmise from the house that they come from old money, but as far as Grantaire knows Enjolras has made his peace with his parents; he doesn’t see why this should be any different.
“They, uh. Didn’t really take kindly to my coming out.”
“Ah.” He recalls Enjolras mentioning in passing once that his parents hadn’t been the most accepting right off and that a visit to France had set both of them right, but he’d never considered the people Enjolras hadn’t mentioned. “So when was the last time you spoke with them?”
“Years ago. My father tried to make my case to them once he came around, and they weren’t interested in listening.” He shrugs. “They haven’t been invited to family gatherings since.”
Grantaire lets the words sink in. “Good riddance.”
Silence echoes between them as the blond nods.
“So...I’m gonna take a wild guess and say this isn’t just a social visit?”
Turning back to him, a wicked smile spreads across Enjolras’s face.
“It should be around here somewhere,” Enjolras whispers, shoes in-hand. The light from the streetlamps outside throw shadows across his face, illuminating him brilliantly.
Apparently Baby Enjolras had a quilt made especially for him during his mother’s pregnancy, a quilt that had been repossessed on his falling out of their good graces. On another night with another friend, Grantaire might have at least attempted to argue against the plan, but Enjolras and petty revenge are powerful incentives for committing a crime, and not even Grantaire can summon a counterpoint.
“What does it look like?” he whispers back, wishing he’d brought his phone for an additional light source. Leaving their phones at the bike had been smart in theory, but it now only served as an inconvenience.
“Quilt-like? Um. White, pink, and floral patchwork. There’s a crest in the center.”
Now seems like a bad time to make fun of the fact that the Enjolras household has a family crest, and Grantaire only barely lets the opportunity to mock it pass him by. “Won’t they miss it? Or at least report it as stolen?”
“By their own family? And risk bringing further attention to the family disgrace? Not a chance. And my parents won’t say anything, my father’s been trying to get it back for years. Aha!”
Grantaire turns back to where Enjolras holds a large piece of material aloft. It certainly matches the description Enjolras had given, and in the dim light he can make out an ornate coat of arms splashed across the center.
“Great, let’s get out of here.”
They move much more slowly toward the door than Grantaire would prefer, but old money means old mansions, and even with the sounds of the house settling around them they must step lightly to prevent creaks from drawing alarm.
On reaching the back door Grantaire finally feels like he can take a deep breath again. They both sit on the porch, retying their shoes and finally letting the giddiness of their success settle in.
“We did it,” Enjolras giggles in quiet disbelief.
“We did it,” Grantaire agrees. “C’mon, we have snacks to eat and stars to watch.” It’s getting late—nearly ten, last he checked—and he doesn’t want to spend any more time at the scene of their technical break-in than they have to.
A light turns on over them, and his heart leaps into his throat. He looks over to Enjolras, who mirrors him, blue eyes wide and expression frozen. Taking a quick inventory of their surroundings, Grantaire’s attention falls on a swimming pool not far away. He moves without thinking, grabbing Enjolras’s hand and pulling him forward to the covered sanctuary.
“The quilt!” Enjolras hisses.
“We’ll figure it out later!”
He pushes back the cover, grateful to see that the Enjolras household has had their pool serviced in anticipation of the coming summer season and is generally moss- and algae-free. Grantaire slips in without hesitation, noting with relief that Enjolras joins him. The cover is only barely back in place when he hears voices.
“What is it, Esther?”
“There were voices!”
“There is nobody,” the man insists.
“I know what I heard!”
“Then take a look around. Where are they?”
Silence rings before the woman’s voice comes again, this time much louder than before, and much more firmly. “I know what I heard, Howard.”
“All right then, we’ll check again in the morning, but...come in. It’s late, and it’s getting chilly.”
Under the cover, every sound seems amplified one thousand-fold, and he hears when both his and Enjolras’s breathing goes from shallow to halted. They stay that way until they hear the closing of a door. Grantaire cautiously budges the cover back until he’s verified that the lights are out and that they can safely exit. This time, they waste no time talking, ducking between the bushes and hurrying back to the library.
For all of Howard’s faults, he does have one thing right: the night is rapidly cooling, and their chlorine-drenched suits only serve to magnify the effect. On the bike, Grantaire feels Enjolras shivering behind him, no thanks to the sopping bundle of fabric between them. It occurs to him that the colors from the embroidery thread might be bleeding, and he urges his bike on just a little faster.
They stop in front of a laundromat, the sole 24/7 location that he knows of in the town. It’s a stretch, but it’s their only shot without returning to Enjolras’s house, and Grantaire isn’t ready for the night to end just yet.
They enter the overlit space, and Grantaire’s eyes fall on exactly who he hopes to see.
“Maria!” he calls, arms wide and dripping. The woman freezes, eyes darting back and forth before a firm frown forms. “Meu irmã, meu amor, meu querida.” He leans brazenly onto the counter. “Meu coração.”5
“No. Get out.”
“Mas Maria—” 6
“Don’t ‘mas Maria’ me, you know you’re banned here.”
“That was a misunderstanding.”
“Which time?”
“Most of them.” Grantaire sees Maria’s serious expression crack for a second, and he knows he can do this. “I need a favor.”
Ferocity flashes in her eyes once more. “No.”
“Just one little favor.”
“Uh-uh.”
“When have I ever asked anything of you?”
“All the time!”
“And then I humor your favors, it works out! Please?”
Her eyes scan over his appearance, narrowing as mouth tightens before her expression falls into confoundment. “Did you decide to take a midnight dip?”
“Something like that. We need a change of clothes.”
“Supermarket’s 15 minutes west,” Maria answers automatically, cocking a brow.
“And we need a dryer.”
Her face turns reluctant. “You know I can’t do that.”
“Please? Please? For me?”
“You know how Tony is—”
“Tony’s a jackass, and I told you as much when you opened this place with him.”
It’s not the right thing to say (even if it’s true), and Maria’s expression hardens. “He’s a good man.”
“He’s like dad. He’s an asshole and a loser.”
“Oh yeah? Well—” Her eyes turn beside him, and Grantaire suddenly remembers that this isn’t about him.
“Maria, this is Enjolras.”
Stepping forward, Enjolras holds a hand out in soggy greeting. Maria accepts it anyway, smiling cautiously before shooting a pointed look at Grantaire.
“We both went for a surprise-swim and could really use some warm, dry clothing. Please.”
Her eyes fall to Enjolras, and she reluctantly bites her lip. “R, Tony’s due back any minute now, he just ran out for supplies.”
“We’ll be fast. So fast. Super-fast. Please.”
Her eyes flit back and forth between the two, and Enjolras must look cute enough soaked to warrant leniency enough for the both of them. “Fine. Back room, there should be some stuff in the dryer waiting to be folded.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Grantaire cheers, pulling her over the counter to press a kiss to her cheek. “You’re the best, really.”
She’s smiling now, but he sees her eyes dart nervously toward the door. “Go on now, hurry.”
Maria’s being far more gracious than he deserves, so he hurries around the counter instead of sliding over for the first time in his life, and he hears her laughing behind him. He and Enjolras must be quite the sight.
“Sorry about your floors!” Enjolras calls behind them.
There’s a smile in Maria’s voice when she answers. “They need mopping anyhow, get!”
Grantaire is already opening the dryer which, despite what Maria had said, is still running. He pulls the clothing unceremoniously into the basket in front of it and holds out a hand for Enjolras’s quilt. He shoves it in, slamming the door shut and letting the dryer begin its work.
The clothing is hot in his hands, and Grantaire wastes no time shucking his jacket and waistcoast. “Ah hell.”
“What?” Enjolras has stripped his off as well, and he’s right beside Grantaire digging in the basket for something that fits.
“Bahorel bet me I’d fuck up my suit the first time I wore it, and it’s money and pride I’d rather not part with.” He holds up a faded tee that seems to be around the right size, diving back in for pants and trousers.
“Do they do dry-cleaning here?”
“Yeah, but Maria’d have to put it under a false name, and I hate putting her in that position. Plus, I don’t have that much cash on me right now, and we can’t have my name in the card system.”
“So put it under my name, mine needs cleaning too. In any case, it’s my fault that it happened at all.”
Grantaire pauses in his search to look at the man beside him. “That—I—”
“You only have the suit for this outing to humor me anyway,” Enjolras adds, smiling tightly. “It’s the least I can do.” Before Grantaire can say anything, Enjolras grunts. “Are there any underclothes to speak of in here?”
“I don’t think so,” Grantaire concedes. “I haven’t found any either. I just figured I’d go without—no way I’m soaking a perfectly good pair of bottoms through for the sake of propriety.”
Enjolras’s hands pause beside his before continuing. “Fair enough.”
Grantaire settles on a pair of orange floral pajama bottoms and curses the lack of bathroom in the space. “I’m just gonna—” he jerks his head toward a corner of the room.
“Ah, right, of course. And I’ll—” Enjolras points to the other side of the narrow space.
Usually Grantaire doesn’t feel uncomfortable changing in front of the Amis—he’s seen Jehan naked more times than he can count, and he, Bossuet, Courfeyrac, and Bahorel are definitely not strangers to the concept of ‘naked bonding time,’ but this is Enjolras, so everything is different.
“I can see his truck, you’ve got three minutes before he finishes unloading everything,” Maria calls back.
No time for being bashful now. Grantaire undoes his shirt buttons as quickly as he can without ripping them off, letting the still-dripping shirt fall to the floor and pulling off his undershirt with similar ceremony. The trousers are next, pulled down in sync with his boxers, and he steps out of his shoes in the same motion. This leaves him in nothing but his socks and pride as his shakes out the pajama pants.
“Hah, I knew it!” Enjolras declares in a loud, triumphant whisper. “You don’t have a tattoo on your arse!”
Grantaire shoots a quick look of disbelief over his shoulder at the blond. “Wh—and you do.” A scuffling sound out front freezes both of them a second before they double down on their pace. “Don’t think this conversation is over,” his whispers furtively as he steps into the fleece bottoms. “This is being tabled for later.”
“Fine.”
Grantaire barely remembers to grab the quilt from the dryer on his way out, along with his pile of wet clothes. Shoes are a matter for another day, he decides, abandoning them in favor of the too-small flip-flops that sit outside the door as he hears Maria loudly stalling her husband.
The quilt is still far from dry, but it’s well on its way from being fully waterlogged when they return to Grantaire’s bike. Enjolras tells him to wait there as he re-enters through the front to handle the matter of their suits and return the quilt to a coin-operated dryer for an extended spin.
Several minutes later, Enjolras returns, hunched over against the chill of the night air. “Maria says you owe her babysitting forever.”
“Joke’s on her, I’d watch Matteo for free.”
“She also says to move your bike. I guess Tony saw it?” Enjolras rubs his hands against his arms while Grantaire digs into the storage of his bike. “He seems charming.”
“Tony? Oh yeah, that’s him. Here,” he says, tossing a jacket to Enjolras. “It’s leather, so it’s not vegan or anything, but I already own it, so you may as well wear it.”
Enjolras appears to debate the merits of Grantaire’s case for a full five seconds before hurriedly sliding it on. It takes everything in Grantaire not to absolutely melt at the sight of the slight man wearing his oversized coat.
“Thanks.” The jacket gets tugged closer. “Are we moving your bike then?”
“Fuck no. He’s not running any more errands, he won’t see it, and I’m not letting him push me around via satellite. Besides, if Maria’s trying to tell him it’s not mine, it looks more suspicious for it to suddenly disappear.” He grabs his phone from where he’d stowed it before their venture into the world of crime. “How long will the quilt take?”
“Uh, twenty minutes?”
“Perfect, I need to see a man about a horse.”
Enjolras’s expression turns suspicious. “What kind of horse?”
Grantaire sighs. “I know of one other place on this street open past 10, and if they sell sweatshirts I’d like one. Don’t offer me my own jacket, you’re scrawny and will freeze long before I do.”
Enjolras’s mouth shuts, hands moving from the zipper of the coat. “Your sister also says she wants her clothes back when we’re done.”
“Yeah, well, we’ll see how that goes.”
The shop does have sweatshirts but only one in his size, a bright blue garish thing with two rows of giant block words. There are some more muted ones in Enjolras’s size, but Grantaire needs to pay for something tonight besides years off of his life, and he can’t help the smile that creeps to his face every time he sees Enjolras huddled in his jacket and a pair of thrice-cuffed tie dye pajama bottoms that still manage to drag on the ground.
The walk back is significantly warmer, especially since Enjolras seems to have taken it upon himself to conserve body heat between them by walking much closer than necessary on the wide sidewalk.
“So,” Grantaire begins, clearing his throat. “Ass tatt. Explain.”
He looks down, cherishing the grin split wide across the shorter man’s face. “Well, I was in my rebellious phase—”
“I’m pretty sure you’re still in your rebellious phase.”
The comment is met with a glare, Enjolras’s mouth still twisted in a smile. “My more rebellious phase,” he corrects, “and Courf, Ferre, and I decided that we needed to come together under our own house of sorts. We made our own code and credo and all of that, but also we designed a crest.”
“A crest,” Grantaire repeats.
“It was supposed to be ironic. Since crests are usually used by powerful, elite families, and we were—we are—trying to get rid of that disparity.”
Not bothering to hide his smile, Grantaire nods along. “I see.”
“But Courf was on the swim team, and he was really worried about his mom finding out, and we all wanted it in the same general place, so...arse tatt.”
Grantaire searches his memory. “Wait, but I’ve seen Courf’s bare ass multiple times, and I’ve never seen a crest.”
“He was extremely paranoid.”
It takes a moment for Enjolras’s meaning to properly settle in, and when it does Grantaire has to stop walking so he can properly laugh. “Gods, this is way better than eating a flower,” he gasps. When he’s finally able to stand upright again, Enjolras wears an imperious smile, his smugness nearly palpable through the rest of their walk.
On their return, Grantaire stays out of view of the laundromat’s front window, fiddling nervously with the strings of his pajama bottoms. The night is going well. It’s going really well. Were it anyone else, Grantaire would think it was a wildly successful date, but this is Enjolras, his kind-of friend. After tonight, they might even be full-fledged friends.
Or maybe they’ll go back to barely talking to one another. That could happen too.
Those thoughts flee his mind entirely when Enjolras exits the laundromat, grinning cheesily and revelling once more over his reclaimed quilt.
“We all set for loitering, then?”
“I believe we are,” Enjolras responds, “unless you’re interested in another swim?”
Grantaire waggles his eyebrows lasciviously. “Only if we’re skinny dipping.”
“Hmm. Forward-thinking, but perhaps best saved for another day.”
“That’s not a ‘no.’”
“It’s not a ‘yes.’”
“Still not a ‘no.’”
Enjolras smiles and shakes his head as he pulls on his helmet, wrapping his arms back around Grantaire as the engine revs.
Now that they both have helmets on and Enjolras seems more comfortable riding with him, Grantaire pushes his bike a little faster up to the road to La Vie en Rose. Still not his normal speeds, but certainly not the relative crawl they’ve been at most of the rest of the night.
This time when they arrive, Grantaire is much more aware of security. The valet parking let him through the same as before, though they eye his attire with no small amount of derision. He circles around the parking lot twice before coming to the conclusion that there is only one guard on duty, and hopefully they’re not paying too much mind to the expanse behind the restaurant. Nevertheless, Grantaire parks his bike as close to the lawn as he can before dismounting. Enjolras seems content to cling to his war prize, so Grantaire grabs the bag of food they’d picked up earlier in the night and closes his bike’s storage.
They tramp onto the green carefully, checking around the corners of the building for anyone who might be on watch, but the field ahead of them is all flat once they clear the building with nothing to use for cover.
“Well, what do you think? What plot shall we claim for our own?”
There’s an area behind what Grantaire assumes is the kitchen that seems like a relative blind spot, but when he looks over to Enjolras he sees that the blond has set his sights in quite the opposite direction. The man glances back to Grantaire with a raised eyebrow. “Thoughts?”
He shrugs. “In for a penny, in for a pound.”
They begin their trek to the middle of the field, and for the first time in the night Grantaire allows himself to soak in the peacefulness of the moment. The moon is bright, only beginning its wane, and Grantaire helps Enjolras straighten out his beloved quilt in its gentle beams. They stand over it, and Grantaire finally has a chance to properly admire their ill-gained (but much-deserved) spoils. Enjolras’s family crest really is an ugly thing against the beautiful patchwork surrounding it, a garish combination of yellow, black, and gold with a proud rooster aloft the shield and a standing lion poised at either side of it. He can see why Enjolras jumped at the chance to ensign himself to a new one.
He waits for Enjolras to sit first, unwilling to desecrate the glory of the moment by ending it prematurely. When the man at last kneels at one end, Grantaire follows his lead, emptying the plastic bag of its contents one by one and carefully creating an aesthetic assortment.
He expects Enjolras to spread himself across the space to the left of the food and leave Grantaire to sit to the right, together but separate, but apparently Enjolras has decided that this arrangement doesn’t suit him. Instead, he relocates all of the food currently placed at the top-center of the blanket to the bottom before situating himself in such a way that the only space left for Grantaire to sit is next to him.
(It occurs to Grantaire that he doesn’t have to sit next to Enjolras—a simple rearrangement of food and utter disregard for the tenuous friendship they’ve built up through the course of the night would see to that—but he has far too little self-preservation for something so intelligent.)
Against his better judgment, he settles down beside Enjolras, kicking off what he quickly discovers to be Barbie Princess-themed flip-flops and relishing in the spread before them.
“Do you know much about them? The constellations?”
Grantaire turns to face the man, breath catching when he realizes how close they are. “Uh, yeah, some. Just what they taught us in school and a little outside research.”
“Do you know any of the stories?”
Grantaire reaches for a rice patty before leaning back to scan the sky. “Wanna hear a story about your namesake?”
The question is met with a quizzical look. “Enjolras?”
“Apollo.” He braces for a hit that never comes. Instead, Enjolras nudges him with his shoulder.
“All right then, proceed.”
“I have to warn you, it’s not very flattering. It would seem that you have a nasty bias against ravens and crows everywhere.”
Rolling his eyes, Enjolras snorts. “I think I can take it.”
Grantaire gives a skeptical shrug but continues. “All right, see those five stars over there? They kind of make a box with a tail?”
Beside him, Enjolras squints. “Maybe?”
“There’s that really, really bright star up and a little to the left of it?”
“Okay, yes.”
“So that box is Corvus, which means ‘crow’ in Latin. Now, next to it, to the right, there’s six stars that kind of form a U-shape?”
“All right?”
“Those and the two under it are Crater, a chalice.”
“Corvus and Crater,” Enjolras recites.
“I’m not going to bother with Hydra because it’s literally the biggest constellation and just a really long zigzag of stars under them. Trust that it’s there, yeah?”
Enjolras snorts again, chewing something that Grantaire doesn’t bother checking the identity of.
“There’s a couple of stories, but Corvus’s basically goes like this: Corvus was Apollo’s sacred bird and tasked with running all of his errands. According to legend, at this time, crows and ravens were all white—keep this in mind, it’s an important point later.
“So Apollo was madly, deeply in love with this woman, Coronis, who was pregnant, so he asked Corvus to keep an eye on her, keep her safe, all of that. Apollo wasn’t really keeping up with the relationship, though, so she fell out of love with him and in love with some other guy. When Apollo found out, he became so angry he scorched Corvus, turning all crows’ and ravens’ feathers after that black—quoth the raven—forevermore.”
“That’s not how the quote goes.”
“Shhhhh, my dear Apollo—”
“Did you just shh me?” Enjolras’s expression is equal parts indignance and amusement, and at Grantaire’s responding smug grin he continues. “I knew I’d regret teaching you that.”
“My story, my rules. Anyway, after that he also sent his sister to kill Coronis because he was vengeful and bitter like that.” Enjolras’s arm is close enough to his that he can feel the way the man tenses up at the words, and Grantaire hurriedly pushes on. “But that’s just one story to explain why some birds are black. Crater and Hydra are both involved in the next one, and it’s much more comprehensive.”
Beside him he can feel Enjolras relax, leaning a tangled mass of gold against his shoulder. It seems like it occurs in slow-motion, and Grantaire is fairly certain his heart has migrated to his ears when the blond speaks again. “Let’s hear it, then.”
“Right,” he says, trying to steady his breath. “Apollo was about to do a ritual, but he needed some special water, I guess—”
“You guess? R, this is the entirety of my astronomical education and a decent portion of my mythological, you’d better be certain.” Enjolras nuzzles in a little closer, and it’s unlikely that Grantaire will die, but Grantaire Might Die.
“How do you still smell like cologne?” he asks suddenly.
“What?” Enjolras abruptly pulls back, and Grantaire isn’t sure if it’s salvation or damnation.
“You still smell like the Goddamned cologne you were wearing earlier. How? Smell like a bottle of chlorine like the rest of us mortals.”
“Is it...bad? Courf told me I should wear it.” If Grantaire didn’t know better, he’d say Enjolras sounds nervous.
“Of course he did,” he grumbles. “No, it’s...good. Really good, actually.”
Enjolras looks pleased at this, and Grantaire is at a complete loss for what to do with that. The man leans back into him, and Grantaire finds his arm moving behind the blond to accommodate.
“Crater?” reminds Enjolras.
“Oh, yeah.” Grantaire can do this, he can. “Um, so Apollo sent Corvus off with a chalice to get some water, only Corvus got distracted eating figs for like. Days. He knew he’d fucked up, so he took the body of the hydra back to Apollo with the filled chalice as an excuse for why he was so late.” He takes a deep breath. “Apollo didn’t buy it, though, and blasted them all into constellations with his sun energy or whatever. But in this version, the blast also made all future crows-slash-ravens parched for all of time because of the whole water-thing. According to the ancient Greeks and Romans, this is why they make scratchy sounds compared to other birds.”
Enjolras is silent, and Grantaire chances a quick glance down at the man’s face. The expression he finds is pinched, and Grantaire watches the man’s lower lip disappear under teeth. “You okay?”
Enjolras’s eyes turn up to Grantaire, and wow, he should have been prepared for that but clearly wasn’t. This whole scene feels far too intimate, and he has no idea what to do but lie in the bed he’s made for himself.
“Is that really what you think of me?” Enjolras’s voice is just above a whisper, and Grantaire’s stomach plummets.
“No. No! Gods, no,” he quickly assures. “No, the Apollo of myth and legend is a dick, much like almost all of the other Gods. No, my reasons for your nickname are regrettably shallow.”
Enjolras pulls away from his shoulder again, an action Grantaire mistakes as a reprieve until he realizes that Enjolras’s face is somehow closer to his than before. “Are they now?”
Grantaire gulps, and based on the way the man’s eyes flicker down for a moment Enjolras doesn’t miss it. “Um. Yeah. Just. Sun god...stuff.”
“Grantaire,” Enjolras murmurs, and he really needs to not say his name like that ever again, or maybe exclusively like that for the rest of Grantaire’s life, he can’t quite tell right while his head is spinning the way it is right now. Enjolras’s breath is warm on his skin, and he’s not actually sure when the last time he inhaled was. “I know you only did this because Courf asked, but I’m...I’m really glad that we did. That you did.”
Every cell in his body screams in protest as Grantaire jerks back. “Wait, what do you mean?”
Enjolras ducks his head so Grantaire can’t see his face, a frustrating and absolutely useless development. “I mean, Courf’s been threatening to arrange a date for me with you for...months, I suppose. And now you’re here.” Enjolras’s shoulders shrug with the admission, and Grantaire reaches to tip the man’s face up.
The blond’s eyes are so fucking blue, and he’s fairly certain it’s not allowed. He’s read it somewhere. There’s no practical purpose to it. The intimacy of the position catches up to him, and he withdraws his hand, pushing down chagrin. “You mean...no, no, Courf did this because he was sick of me moping in his apartment and being the useless queer I am. This was...you thought he did this for you?”
Enjolras pulls back slightly, finally, and Grantaire’s subconscious mourns the distance. “Well...yeah.”
“So you…” Grantaire trails off. “You’re not appalled by me?”
Enjolras’s face shifts at that. “What? No. What ever gave you that impression?”
His eyebrows raise. “I dunno, everything? We barely talk, when we do talk it might be generously referred to as ‘civil’—”
“I—” Enjolras begins, stopping himself and coloring. His eyes cast down between them when he completes the thought. “I rather enjoy our discussions, actually.”
“Oh. Well, um.” The admission catches Grantaire off-guard. “Me too. I just figured…I mean, I don’t think most people consider it to be exactly polite.”
Enjolras snorts. “Well, we’re hardly ‘most people.’” His attention returns to Grantaire. “So. Does that mean—that is, do you…?”
Swallowing feels like an impossible feat, and he suddenly can’t feel the rest of his body, but he’s unable to turn from Enjolras to check that it’s still there. His breath is shallow, he can feel his pulse in his brain, and he’s coming up short on the entire English language.
Enjolras wanted this. Enjolras wants this.
The blond is still waiting, expression steadfast and expectant, and Grantaire feels himself leaning in because the part of his brain that normally would be screaming at him not to seems to have taken a vacation to fucking Cabo. Against all odds, he sees Enjolras leaning in as well, eyelids fluttering shut and fingertips brushing against Grantaire’s, warm against his skin.
“I…” Grantaire murmurs, breath hitching in his throat. “I have to take a leak.”
Enjolras’s eyes flick open and he pulls back, voice only hardly above a whisper as he fixes Grantaire with a puzzled expression. “What?”
Grantaire clears his throat as he straightens his back. “Take a leak. Go for a piss. Answer nature’s call. Tap a kidney. Relieve myself.” Enjolras still looks bewildered as Grantaire stands. “Um. I’ll be right back.”
Sliding the flip-flops back on, he heads toward the woodland that surrounds the clearing without a backward glance.
When he’s sure Enjolras can’t see him anymore, he slips his hand into the pocket of his sweatshirt and retrieves his phone, ignoring a worrying slew of texts in favor of pulling up his contacts. He scrolls through until his eyes alight on the name he’s been searching for, pressing to call.
“Grantaire!” Courfeyrac answers by way of greeting. “How’s the date?”
“Objectively? Terrible. Your French place tried to force wine on us and had almost nothing Enj could eat, the place we tried to go to instead was being inspected for fire damage, I got locked out of my apartment, our clothes got drenched when we almost got caught breaking and entering to steal from Enjolras’s shitty grandparents, we had to borrow my sister’s pajamas from under her shithead husband’s nose, and I look like a mixed drink from a bachelorette party hosted at a gay bar.”
“On the bright side, sounds like you’re up a penis-shaped straw.”
Grantaire is slightly less than amused. “Courf.”
“Yeah, yeah, it hasn’t gone to plan, I get it.” There’s a crash on the other end of the line, and Grantaire hears someone swear loudly. “So why are you calling?”
He rubs a hand over his face. “Despite your plans sucking metaphorical donkey dick, subjectively things have been going not-terribly?”
“Ooh, are you onto the sex-part of the night?” Courf asks excitedly. “Enj likes having his hair pulled and unconventional uses of silk ties.”
“What? No—wait, why—nevermind.” Taking a deep breath, he gathers himself. “I can’t do it.”
“Well sure you can. Even if it turns out you’re both bottoms, you still have plenty of op—”
He absolutely cannot dwell on the implications involved there. “No, I mean I can’t do this. I can’t kiss Enjolras. This is all some big cosmic mistake. Enj just thinks he likes me because I got him food and drove him around and helped him get his weird quilt thing—”
“You got the quilt back??”
“—and tomorrow he’s going to wake up and realize that he doesn’t actually give a shit about constellations or my uncle’s shop and he’ll hate me Courf, he’ll actually truly finally hate me if I take advantage of him now.” He pauses to take a breath. “And I don’t have $100! I can’t afford to pay you for this, and Enj would be so mad if he ever found out—Gods, he’d, he’d, he’d never forgive me; it’d be, what, nonconsensual monetization of his personal life? And—”
“R.” Courfeyrac’s voice rings over the line like a slap to the face. “You are funny. You are kind. You are cool and wicked-smart and sexy as hell, and Enj is a sober adult who can make his own decisions. And you are worthy of being made out with.” His voice is firm and solid, and Grantaire feels his pulse slowing with his breath. “And I swear to God, if you try to use money as an excuse again I will sneak into your home in the dead of night and steal every drinking receptacle you own. You’ll be sipping your morning coffee out of bowls for weeks.”
By now, Grantaire is almost calm enough to laugh at the threat. “You wouldn’t dare,” he counters. “Ép would have your head for a centerpiece.”
“Not like I was using it for much anyway. I’ll leave haircare instructions in my will.”
That brings a grin to Grantaire’s face, and his thoughts are finally starting to fall back into order. “So. He likes me?”
“It’s almost like what I’ve been saying for the past several months hasn’t been utter and inane bullshit.”
Grantaire lets out a long, slow stream of air. “Well, I do believe I may have fucked up.”
“Oh, I think you’d have to make a pretty significant misstep for that to happen.” There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “Out of curiosity, though, what exactly did you do?”
Making a face, Grantaire jams a hand in his hair and pulls. “I might have interrupted a would-be kiss by saying I had to pee?”
He hears a loud thud through the receiver followed by a groan. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite so capable of self-sabotage as you, my dear capital R.”
“Yeah yeah, I know. How do I even come back from that?”
There’s a beat of silence before Courfeyrac speaks. “Where are you now?”
“Uh. La Vie en Rose. Your restaurant.”
“You—I thought—” He can practically hear Courfeyrac shaking his head. “Whatever, beside the point: you told Enjolras you’re peeing, and now you’re calling me from the bathroom?”
“Oh, no, I’m in the woods out back.”
Judgement has a sound, and it’s the quiet on the other end of the line now. “Fine, okay. So go back to whatever the fuck illicit activities brought you two to the motherfucking woods, pretend you had a nice pee, and just. Wrap your arm around him or something.”
“Or something?” Grantaire repeats, incredulous.
“Look, you’re the one who interrupted your kiss to panic over money that you don’t even owe me. You opened this can of worms, now lie in it.”
“That’s not—”
“Do I sound like a man with anything to lose?” Courfeyrac absolutely does not. There’s a grunt before the man speaks again. “R, you’ve done this before. Stop thinking of Enjolras as this fucking god and start thinking of him as the overexcitable poli sci dweeb he is. He’s just another guy.”
He’s not, though, Grantaire wants to tell him. He’s Enjolras, beautiful and passionate and determined and intelligent and fierce and kind and incapable of eating spicy food and in possession of the dumbest tattoo and equally gorgeous in a suit and pajamas and—
“R? You still there? I need a status check Friend, how are we doing?”
“Um. Fine? Fine. I think...yeah.” He takes a deep breath. “Yeah. I’m good.”
“Good,” the other man says. “Go get ‘em, Tiger.”
“Oh wait, Courf, before you go.”
“Yeah?”
Grantaire fights to keep his tone serious. “Do you have any particular feelings on taint tatts?”
“Fucki—I did that prick a favor!” The man’s outrage spurs Grantaire to laughter. “Oh, sure, enjoy it while you can. We’ll see who’s laughing when Enjolras is getting phonecalls at 3 in the morning.”
“Won’t bother me,” Grantaire shrugs.
“I get the impression that you really underestimate how much you both wanted this date.”
Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay. Bye Courf.”
“Take good care of him,” the other man responds, the lilt of his voice implying all of the things Courfeyrac doesn’t explicitly say. The call ends, and Grantaire practices his square breathing on the walk back to the Enjolras.
The blond sits exactly where Grantaire had left him, fiddling with the styrofoam lid of one of the containers. He looks up as Grantaire steps off the flip-flops, lips already parting to speak when Grantaire settles down beside him.
“I apologize if my advances were unwanted, I—”
This time, Grantaire doesn’t hesitate, placing a firm hand on the back of Enjolras’s neck and pulling him into a kiss. The man feels stiff under his lips, and Grantaire worries that he’s misread everything until Enjolras’s mouth grows soft and pliant, a hand resting on Grantaire’s hip. Emboldened, Grantaire lets his grip go slack, weaving his fingers up into the golden curls as he deepens the kiss. A gentle tug confirms the veracity of Courfeyrac’s earlier comments as Enjolras whimpers into his mouth and the kiss becomes more urgent.
Enjolras pulls away suddenly, turning to look behind them. Confused and more than a little dazed, Grantaire matches the motion.
“Caralho,” his hisses, scrambling to his feet at the sight of the rapidly-approaching security guard. He begins gathering the containers, trying to hastily toss them into the bag and failing horribly at the task.
“Leave them!” Enjolras sweeps the quilt out from under their abandoned feast, leaving bamboo leaves and overturned boba tea cups in their wake.
The two men are nearly on their way when Grantaire spots them. “Shoes!” The grass is soft enough, but the gravel surrounding the parking lot will be unforgiving, and he suspects this is one thing his sister actually expects back.
Enjolras steps into the nearly-forgotten articles before taking off toward the opposite end of the building from where Grantaire parked. The guard changes course, chasing after the blond and clearing the way for Grantaire to race to his bike uninhibited.
In his haste he nearly trips twice, jamming his helmet on his head with one hand and the key into the ignition with the other once he’s at the bike; he reaches behind him to tuck the second helmet into his lap before revving the bike to life. Pulling around to the other side as quickly as he can, he easily spots the harried blond with the guard still trailing closely behind. Grantaire skids to a stop, holding out the helmet for Enjolras and taking off again as soon as he feels arms wrap around his waist. This time he has no qualms about riding out at top-speed, revelling in the press of Enjolras against him and the exhilarated laughter in his ear.
The intersection is empty when they pull up, waiting for the light to turn green. For the first time tonight, there’s no plan they’re working toward. It’s late, Grantaire knows, past midnight at least.
“Where to from here?” The question is accompanied by a squeeze around his waist.
It’s a quandary Grantaire has been pondering as they’ve manoeuvred the winding twists of the road. “Well, if you feel up to it, there’s a supermarket due west around twenty minutes that won’t mind us dicking around all hours of the night. There’s also a collection of diners open 24/7 if we head down toward college town, they’re probably basically deserted by this point in the month. Or maybe—”
“I think your place is closer.”
Grantaire’s brain stutters to a halt. Does Enjolras have any idea what it sounds like he’s insinuating?
The blond’s grip tightens. “You could show me your blanket, since you’ve seen mine.”
Unlikely. Doubtful. Virtually impossible.
“That sounds—”
Ch’yeah.
“—good. Sure, let’s do that.”
When the ringing of Enjolras’s phone at 3:40AM does inevitably wake them, Grantaire decides that he is officially and indisputably absolved of any $100-sized obligations he might ever have felt misguidedly indebted.