Chapter Text
“Marius,” Enjolras says, relieved, as the barista hands him a cup of coffee and Marius answers the phone, all at the same time. “Where were you? I called you three times.”
“I was late in,” Marius says, as though that’s fine and understandable, not exactly the same disaster that Enjolras is currently experiencing. “There’s some kind of disruption on the metro.”
“I know,” Enjolras groans. “They’ve closed my station completely. I’m on my way to the next one, but I’m going to be horribly late. If the representatives from Patron-Minette arrive before me, take care of them will you?”
He shoulders open the door to the cafe, almost hitting an older lady in the face. He’s so distracted that it doesn’t occur to him to say sorry until she’s already walked inside the shop and by then, it’s too late.
“Really?” Marius asks, dubiously. “You know they hate me. What should I say if - ”
Up ahead, crowds spill across the pavement and into the street, swarming around the entrance to the station that Enjolras is heading to. He swears, which cuts Marius off abruptly. “Look,” Enjolras says. “You’ll be fine. I trust you. I’ll see you as soon as I can.”
He ends the call and drops his phone into his satchel, before squaring his shoulders and ploughing into the throng.
The first few rows of people aren’t really committed to queuing yet, so they let him pass fairly easily. After that, though, they grow more dedicated and Enjolras finds himself coming up against a brick-like wall of extended elbows, furious texting, and angry glares.
He glares back, but before he can decide whether to launch a secondary assault on a weaker looking column of commuters, he hears a soft, cut-off sound that stops him in his tracks.
It’s the start of his name, just, “Enj-” and then it’s gone.
He turns around, wondering who can possibly have recognised him. A client, presumably, although they would have started by calling him Monsieur.
There’s no one looking in his direction, no one smiling or trying to make eye contact. Enjolras starts to think that maybe he misheard, or maybe the person was saying some other word, but then he catches sight of the side of someone’s head, someone who is very clearly and very deliberately not looking at him.
“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, the name springing to his lips through years of memory and spilling off his traitorous tongue, before he can call it back.
Grantaire’s shoulders tighten but he turns toward Enjolras. It’s definitely him. He has the same wild dark curls, the same scruffy beard, possibly even the same red knitted hat. There are no splashes of paint on his face, which Enjolras finds himself expecting to see, and his eyes are clear, when they always used to be clouded.
Grantaire’s lips twitch toward a smile that doesn’t reach his cheeks, let alone his eyes. He looks down at the ground then back up at Enjolras then away again.
“Hi,” he says.
Something switches in Enjolras’s brain at the word. Before this was a dream, but now Grantaire is speaking to him, which means that he’s real, he’s really here.
Enjolras takes a step back automatically, only to find himself knocking into people who don’t give way for him. Grantaire actually glances back over his own shoulder, as though he’s planning his own escape, but he’s just as hemmed in as Enjolras is.
Enjolras swallows. “Hello,” he says. “How, uh, how are you?” He can’t remember the last time he stumbled over what to say. Although he also can’t remember the last time he had to make smalltalk with someone he knows.
“I - ” Grantaire blinks once then shakes his head. “That’s what you want to talk about?”
“No,” Enjolras says immediately. What he means is I don’t want to talk about anything with you, but now he’s discovered he can’t beat a dignified retreat, he certainly doesn’t intend to run away. “Yes. Are you well?”
“I am,” Grantaire says. His voice curls as though he’s laughing at a private joke. “You seem… alive?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Enjolras asks. When Grantaire doesn’t answer, just shrugs, Enjolras finds himself pressing, “Why wouldn’t I be alive?”
Grantaire looks at him directly for the first time. There’s no warmth in his expression, no amusement or affection, nothing Enjolras is used to seeing there. “Why would you be? It’s been four years, dude.”
It’s been three years and eight months. Enjolras doesn’t say that. “I have to go to work,” he says. It’s not even a good deflection, simply a straight-up plea to be allowed to escape.
“Don’t we all?” Grantaire says. He looks at the crowds, which aren’t moving, the locked gates in front of the metro entrance, which aren’t opening, and then back at Enjolras. Enjolras doesn’t move; he’s not sure he blinks. “Where do you work?”
“La Défense,” Enjolras says, then wishes he’d kept that to himself, when Grantaire’s lips twist in undisguised judgement.
Grantaire rubs the back of his neck, a gesture that takes Enjolras back through time to moments at the Corinth when arguments became exhausting, but neither of them was ready to back down.
“Okay, well I… don’t,” Grantaire says. “But I’m more or less heading that way. Want to share an uber?”
Enjolras can’t think of anything he’d like less. This is bad enough, trapped in their own little bubble on the pavement. Being actually trapped together within a car sounds so much worse.
“Yes, why not,” he says.
Grantaire smiles at him again, that same humourless grin. “Why not,” he repeats. “What a question.”
***
Enjolras arrives at the office, just as Marius is showing out a man wearing a very ostentatious and probably very expensive suit.
Marius catches Enjolras’s eye and shakes his head slightly, so Enjolras hangs back out of sight, waiting for them to say their goodbyes, before entering the building.
“Good meeting?” he asks following Marius to the lifts.
“Barely any meeting,” Marius says. He presses the button for their floor. As soon as the lift doors close, his shoulders droop. It makes his suit sag down over his hands as though he’s wearing an older brother’s hand-me-downs.
Enjolras doesn’t want to ask if he’s all right; he doesn’t want to do anything that invites intimacies. Instead, he makes an interrogatory sound and hopes that it will be enough.
“That was Monsieur Claquesous, Patron-Minette’s COO. I don’t think he liked me at all.” Marius sounds sad about it, as though being disliked by a senior executive of somewhere like Patron-Minette is a bad thing. But then, Enjolras has to remind himself, since Patron-Minette are their clients, it actually is.
“I’m sure he did,” Enjolras says bracingly. He would pat Marius on the shoulder, but the last time he did that, Marius took that as an invitation for a manly hug. “Where did you leave things with him?”
Marius sighs again then seems to decide to shake himself out of it. Enjolras much prefers Marius when he remembers he’s a lawyer, not a rather forlorn puppy. “He left us with some files and he’s going to send some more over on Monday. Apparently the protesters are getting more organised.”
The lift reaches their floor and they step out together. “Against the development or against the incinerator?” Enjolras asks. Patron-Minette is a property firm, which has bought up a huge swathe of green belt land, where they’re planning to build luxury apartments, while turning the brown best land down-wind and out of sight into a giant waste incinerator.
It’s Enjolras’s job to make sure the disgruntled voices that are starting to be heard don’t get any louder.
Enjolras tries not to think about his job too often.
“The incinerator, mostly,” Marius starts, then his whole face breaks into a red-faced smile. “Hi, Cosette.”
Cosette looks up from her desk and smiles back. She manages to confine her blush to her cheeks, while Marius has gone blotchy all the way down his neck. Enjolras thanks heaven for (very small) mercies.
“Hello you,” she says. “Hello Enjolras. How could you leave Marius to face those horrible people alone?”
Something about Cosette’s bright, genuine reactions to everything always terrifies Enjolras, always makes him worry that he’ll accidentally break her heart.
“It was hardly my fault; the metro’s fucked, uh, broken,” he protests.
Cosette beams at him. She seems to find it hilarious that no one ever wants to swear in front of her.
“I heard,” she says, and squeezes his arm, so apparently he’s forgiven. “Actually, I thought you’d be later than this. I moved your ten a.m. meeting for you.”
Enjolras can’t remember who his ten a.m. meeting is with, but he doesn’t have meetings that he looks forward to, so he definitely doesn’t object. “Thank you.”
“How did you get here so quickly?” Marius asks. Enjolras doesn’t understand why they both have to be so interested in his life. It’s taking workplace cordiality too far.
“I shared an uber with someone,” he says. He means it to be a brush-off, an end to the conversation, but instead, Marius looks surprised and Cosette looks interested.
“Did you make a friend in the crowd?” she asks. Something about the way she says make a friend makes Enjolras feel four-years-old.
“No, it was someone I already knew,” he says.
He doesn’t want to talk about this. He doesn’t want to think about forty excruciating minutes in a carwith Grantaire, about Grantaire losing his amused, impatient edge as soon as they were alone, and nervously playing with his shoe laces with single-minded determination, refusing to look Enjolras in the eye.
“Oh,” Cosette says, still smiling. “How nice.”
Enjolras doesn’t miss the tiny glance she and Marius share, as though neither of them expected to hear that he had any social interactions outside of work. He ignores it.
“Better get to work,” he says, turning away abruptly from Cosette’s desk. “Marius, the files are in my office?”
“Yes,” Marius says. His voice is far enough behind Enjolras that he’s obviously not following Enjolras down the corridor. Good, let him hang around making cow eyes at Cosette. Enjolras needs some time to himself, anyway.
Someone has opened his office door, turned the lights on and cracked the window to let a little fresh air in. They’ve even turned on his computer. If any of the partners had come by, it would have looked as though Enjolras had just stepped away from his desk, rather than that he hadn’t arrived yet.
“Thank you, Marius,” Enjolras says, and sits down in his chair.
The Patron-Minette files are beside his computer, just like Marius said they would be. Enjolras looks at them, looks at the door he forgot to close, and drops his face into his hands.
He’s shaking, has been since he first saw Grantaire this morning, but this is the first time he’s let himself acknowledge it.
“Fuck,” he says, very quietly to his palms. “Get it together, Enjolras.”
He allows himself one more heartfelt fuck, then he sits up and makes himself get to work.
***
He keeps his head down and works hard all day, until it falls dark outside his office window and Cosette knocks at the door.
“Hi,” she says. “Good day?”
“Productive,” Enjolras says, letting himself smile back at her. “You?”
“Oh, great,” she says. He’s fairly certain that she hates her job here, but she never says and he’s never asked. “Marius and I are going out for drinks; would you like to come?”
“No, thank you,” Enjolras says, immediately. “But thank you for the offer.”
“Aww, come on,” she wheedles. “It will be fun. If Marius has more than two drinks, he starts giggling. It’s adorable.”
Enjolras can’t think of anything worse than a drunk and giggling Marius. “Really, no,” he says. Then, because he does value the fact that she tries to include him, adds, “I wouldn’t want to be a third wheel.”
Cosette blushes, but her laugh is more amused than embarrassed. “You wouldn’t be.” Then she widens her eyes and delivers what she obviously thinks will be her winning point. “Grace from Finance is coming too. You two would get along so well.”
Unfortunately for Cosette, her closing argument is the one thing guaranteed to ensure Enjolras will never say yes.
“I really do have a lot of work to do,” he says, and looks away from her, down at the file notes spread all around his desk.
“Okay,” Cosette sighs. Enjolras is sure she can’t really be disappointed, but she sounds it, and his stomach swirls guiltily. “Have a good weekend.”
“You too,” Enjolras says, and flips over to a fresh sheet in his notebook.
***
Enjolras works until security arrive to throw him out of the building. He packs up his files, tucks them into his messenger bag, and takes them home to work on over the weekend.
He sleeps in on Saturday morning, more through force of will than any cooperation from his body, then goes for a long run, buys lunch from a bakery, then heads home to do some more work.
He knows Cosette would disapprove, but he’s found through trial and error over the years that he doesn’t do well if left alone with his thoughts for the two days of every weekend.
At five fifty-five that evening, Enjolras’s spine beings to tense. At six p.m. exactly, his phone rings.
It’s been ringing at six p.m. every Saturday for the past three years and seven months, and as on all previous occasions, Enjolras stares at the screen and wishes he were brave enough to pick up.
The phone rings eight times, as it always does. Then it goes to voicemail. Enjolras waits to see if there will be a message. There won’t be. There never is.
One minute later, he picks up his phone and types out a text.
Sorry I missed you.
He’s written those words in that order so many times that his phone’s predictive text offers him the option to select the words, before he’s typed them, but the least he can do is write out the whole message letter by letter, so he does.
It doesn’t take long to get a reply:
Don’t worry. I’ll try again next week. Combeferre.
Enjolras closes his eyes. He wonders if Combeferre’s phone predicts those words for him, too. If Combeferre can write that message with a couple of clicks and no thought.
By five past six, he’s back to working on his files, and he can almost forget that he was ever interrupted.
***
On Monday, Marius arrives in Enjolras’s office at nine a.m. looking out of breath and waving a piece of shiny green paper.
“Look at this,” he says, dropping it down onto Enjolras’s desk.
“What is it?” Enjolras asks. He’s halfway through a sentence he’s been pondering for the last half an hour, trying to hit the right note of forceful without sounding condescending. It’s difficult with some of his clients. A lot of them are very, very stupid.
“Enjolras,” Marius says, in a firm tone he rarely uses.
Enjolras looks up and finds that Marius has more of the green pieces of paper in his other hand.
“These were just delivered to reception,” he says. “Someone must have discovered we’re representing Patron-Minette. Apparently they’re all over the construction site, too. Monsieur Thenardier phoned and he’s… well.” Marius rubs his ear as though the force of Thenardier’s anger rattled something loose in there.
“What did he say?” Enjolras asks, picking up what turns out to be a flier.
“Nothing I’m prepared to repeat,” Marius says, and sinks down into the visitor’s chair by the side of Enjolras’s desk.
Enjolras turns the flier over in his hands. Protect Our Home it says at the top, which Enjolras personally feels is a little vague. Underneath, is a bullet point list of the effects that Patron-Minette’s development will have on the surrounding wildlife.
All around the edges are tiny, cartoon drawings that Enjolras initially thinks are purely for decoration. Then he looks closer and finds that the tiny, pencil-drawn hedgehog is wearing a gasmask, the squirrel is crying over a tree devoid of nuts, and a family of newts appear to be sleeping rough.
“This is quite good,” he says, before remembering that he’s not alone.
“If you like it, there are about three thousand more downstairs,” Marius tells him.
Enjolras’s head snaps up. “Three thousand?” he asks.
Marius nods. “Delivered by forklift truck. Cosette’s gone out to check where else they’ve been delivered to, but we’re guessing local homes and businesses.” He picks one up and turns it over. “Is it true?”
Enjolras frowns at him. “You know it is,” he says. Marius is intelligent and an idealist, he must know what they’re helping Patron-Minette to achieve.
“Yeah,” Marius says quietly. He smooths out the leaflet, probably more for something to do with his hands than anything else. Then he frowns and leans forward. “Oh wow, look, they’ve signed it.”
“Who?” Enjolras asks, leaning in too. “The protest group?”
“Yes, look. It’s tiny but it’s there.” Marius sets his fingernail into the paper, underscoring a string of letters, printed so small that Enjolras has to squint to read them.
When he finally deciphers it, it’s all he can do not to groan out loud. Only years and years of not showing any emotion lets him keep himself in check.
(c) Les Amis de l’ABC.
“I wonder what that stands for,” Marius says, rubbing his nail back and forth beneath the letters until there’s a permanent dent in the paper.
Nothing, Enjolras thinks. Sound it out, Marius. It’s a pun not an initialism. He doesn’t say that. He can’t believe they’re still using the name. He can’t believe they still exist.
“Against Basic Construction?” he suggests wryly, relieved when Marius laughs. “No, I’m not sure. I think I’ll look into it though, see what I can find out.”
“You will?” Marius asks. “Don’t you want Cosette to?”
“No,” Enjolras says quickly. It is strange for Enjolras to investigate something like this himself, rather than asking Cosette to do it, since Enjolras is a lawyer and Cosette is their in-house investigator, but Enjolras has to do this. “I’m happy to do it. Cosette is busy following other leads. This isn’t the only protest, you know.” He hopes that will be enough to satisfy Marius.
“Okay,” Marius says, shrugging. “When you find them, tell them this is an awful waste of paper for people who supposedly worry about the planet.”
Enjolras smiles, entertained by Marius’s priorities. “I will,” he promises.
***
Enjolras doesn’t sleep that night. He doesn’t even try, knowing exactly which nightmares his brain supply, if he does.
Instead, he sits up and tries to come up with a plan, which will keep the ABC away from Patron-Minette, and vice versa, without any of them noticing his interference.
This is the sort of thing he thinks he used to be very good at. Now he can’t sort a viable plan from the swirling confusion of his thoughts.
It would be easy, if he could just call Combeferre, but he can’t call Combeferre. Even thinking about it makes breath catch until his vision tunnels into blackness.
The one feasible idea he keeps coming back to is Grantaire. Enjolras doubts that Grantaire is still involved in the cause, not after so many years, not when he barely cared in the first place. But he’s almost certainly still friends with Joly, and Joly is much more likely to still be in the ABC or to know someone who is.
If Enjolras can find Grantaire again, maybe he can convince him to pass a message to the ABC without mentioning Enjolras.
Possibly.
Enjolras is a little hazy on the details of this plan, because he can’t remember what Grantaire likes, but he’s sure he could offer him some kind of incentive.
He finally drifts into an exhausted doze, teeth clenched together so hard from stress that he half-expects one of them to be snapped by morning.
***
In the morning, Enjolras takes a cold shower to try to wake himself up, dresses neatly in a newly dry cleaned suit, then texts Marius to tell him he has a client meeting and will be out of the office all morning.
Then he walks down the road to the metro station.
During their endless, awkward journey last week, Enjolras learnt exactly nothing about what Grantaire’s doing these days, except that he asked the uber driver to drop him off first, before she took Enjolras into La Défense.
So Enjolras knows where Grantaire was last Friday, which seems a reasonable enough place to start today.
The tiny, glass-front shop that Enjolras pushes his way into turns out to be a tattoo parlour. It’s very modern-looking, very clean, with neatly framed photographs of tattoo art mounted on the walls.
The man behind the counter looks surprised to see Enjolras, but whether that’s because they don’t usually get visitors early in the morning or those visitors aren’t usually men in suits, Enjolras can’t be sure.
“Good morning,” he says, stepping up to the counter. “I’m looking for a friend of mine. He was in here on Friday.”
The man is taller than Enjolras and much broader. The dark skin of his upper arms and neck is liberally covered with tattoos, but his forearms are oddly bare. His eyes sweep over Enjolras. “Then he’s probably not still here today,” he says. It isn’t unfriendly, in fact it’s almost certainly teasing, but Enjolras is tired and he isn’t feeling up to much conversation.
“I was wondering if you could give me his address,” Enjolras says. “I wouldn’t usually ask but - ”
“No,” the man says, before Enjolras can finish. “I can’t do that, dude. That’d be illegal. Ever heard of GDPR?” He smiles, wide and pleasant. He appears to be missing a back tooth.
Enjolras glances past him at the framed art on the wall, hoping inspiration will come to him. He’s good at convincing people to do what he wants. He shouldn’t have come here when he was so tired.
Then he frowns. The art reminds him of something else. It’s a woodland scene out of a Grimm fairytale, Disney creatures turned into vampires and monsters and werewolves. The squirrel in the far right, holding a wooden stake like Buffy’s, looks incredibly familiar.
“The artist who drew that?” he asks. If it’s not the same artist who drew the ABC flier, he’ll eat his hat. Well, he’ll buy a hat and then he’ll eat it. God, he’s tired.
“You like it?” the man asks, nodding like he approves of Enjolras’s taste. “Cool, huh?”
Enjolras nods. It is cool. In an incredibly horrifying way. He really likes it. “Yes. It’s… Does that artist work here?”
“Fridays and Saturdays,” he says. “Rest of the week he’s in his own shop down the road. Want me to call him over?”
“No, thank you,” Enjolras says quickly. “Could you give me directions to his shop?”
“Sure.” For some reason, this man seems to find Enjolras hilarious. Enjolras wishes he knew why, so he could stop doing whatever it is that’s so entertaining. “Here.” He hands over a card with a small, printed map on it. “Tell him Bahorel sent you.”
“I will, thank you,” Enjolras says, taking the card and curling it into his hand. “Have a good day.”
“Oh, you too,” Bahorel says, still sounding far too amused.
Enjolras lets himself out of the shop, then looks down to the check the card. The logo printed on it is for a shop called R’s. Enjolras wishes he could feel surprised.
The shop is down the road, just as Bahorel said. Enjolras gets there quicker than he’s comfortable with, before he’s worked out exactly what he’s going to say. He detours into a coffee shop opposite, and takes a seat in the window, trying to think up a plan.
Enjolras pours sugar into a black coffee and stirs it slowly. His fingers are shaking slightly, which he’s aware is ridiculous, the tiny metal spoon tapping against the side of his china cup.
He stares across the street toward the shop, sorting his way through various introductory sentences. Grantaire, I’m aware you’re angry with me... Grantaire, it was a pleasure to see you the other day... Grantaire, I was wondering if you’d be willing to assist me in helping an evil construction company...
He’s thinking so hard that he almost misses the moment that Grantaire arrives. He’s walking quickly down the street, earphones jammed in his ears and another knitted hat on his head, black this time, matching his leather jacket.
As Enjolras watches, Grantaire unlocks the door and steps inside. He leaves the door open, and opens the blinds, and suddenly Enjolras can see all the way inside the shop.
It looks similar to Bahorel’s, clean and modern, but there are comfortable-looking sofas spread around, where Bahorel has gleaming metal chairs.
“You’re being ridiculous,” Enjolras tells himself, earning a startled glance from the woman beside him. Grantaire isn’t frightening. Grantaire runs a tattoo parlour with sofas.
Enjolras downs the remains of his coffee and stands up. He heads across the road and is just about to knock on the open door to warn Grantaire of his presence, when he realises Grantaire isn’t alone.
There’s a person sitting on one of Grantaire’s tattoo chairs, swinging their legs and laughing. They have long, red hair with paper flowers plaited into it, and they’re wearing a short, blue, denim dress over a pair of dark leggings and combat boots.
It takes Enjolras far longer than it should to recognise Jehan Prouvaire. The last time Enjolras saw them, their hair was clipped short and dyed white blond and there was blood pouring down their chin from a split lip.
It takes two blinks for Enjolras to clear that memory from his sight. He hangs back, unable to make himself talk to Grantaire with Jehan there too. Jehan was the one who first brought Grantaire to their meetings, and they were always fiercely protective of him.
“Pink or yellow?” Grantaire is asking from inside the shop.
“Pink,” Jehan says, “No, wait, yellow.” They hold out their arm, when Grantaire comes toward them.
Enjolras assumes they’re here for a tattoo. Instead, Grantaire pulls a chair up to the table, and lays out a set of watercolour paints. He picks up Jehan’s hand and turns it over, then starts to paint on the skin inside their wrist.
Jehan laughs and squirms as though it tickles, but then they hold still, and relax. The two of them chat easily, too quietly for Enjolras to hear.
He’s just about to leave them to it - he knows where Grantaire can be found now; he can come back later - when there’s a clatter of feet, and a man comes through a door at the back of the shop.
“I overslept!” he declares. “Jean Prouvaire, you’re supposed to be my alarm clock.”
The pavement shifts under Enjolras’s feet, his ears buzz and his loses the ability to focus his eyes.
Momentarily, he wonders if he’s just seeing what he wants to see. Over the past three years and eight months, he’s lost count of the number of tall men with tanned skin and riotous black curls, who he’s had to take a second glance at.
But no, this time it really is Courfeyrac.
Enjolras wants to leave. He wants to run as far as he can before Courfeyrac sees him, but at the same time, he can’t stop staring.
Courfeyrac is wearing a narrow, blue suit and a red shirt with an open collar and no tie. In his left hand is a derby walking cane, with a trilby hat hooked over the handle.
He looks bright and healthy, he looks alive, which is the opposite of the way he looked, when Enjolras last saw him.
Enjolras’s eyes sting. He bites the inside of his cheek, breathing unsteadily. As he watches, Courfeyrac leans over the top of Grantaire’s head and catches Jehan’s mouth in a slow, soft kiss.
That’s new.
Except that Grantaire isn’t reacting in the slightest, so clearly it’s not new, at all. Enjolras has missed so much.
He turns away and presses his back to the wall beside the shop window. His breath is coming in uneven gasps, and when he lifts a hand to his mouth, he finds that it’s shaking harder than he can control.
Blindly, Enjolras walks away from the shop. He gets himself onto a metro and sinks down into one of the few empty seats.
He takes deep breaths and drops his head into his hands. Courfeyrac is okay. Enjolras has been so scared for so many years, but he’s okay.
***
“There’s going to be a protest!” Monsieur Thenardier screeches, storming into Enjolras’s office and slapping a piece of paper down on his desk.
Enjolras hasn’t been sleeping and his nerves are frayed, so he’ll forgive himself for the fact that he jumps and bangs his knee on the underneath of his desk.
“Excuse me?” he asks, trying to sound polite, while his heart pounds in his ears.
Thenardier braces his hands on the desk and leans forward. His nose and his teeth are crooked, his eyebrows wild and his eyes unhinged. Enjolras would prefer that his breath was a lot further away from Enjolras’s face.
“A protest,” Thenardier repeats, sounding the words out slowly as though Enjolras is hard of hearing. “Those bastards, those hippie bastards are planning a protest on my land.”
He spits when he talks. Enjolras tries to be subtle as he wipes his cheek.
“May I see that?” he asks. He reaches for the paper in Thenardier’s hand, but Thenardier is quicker and slaps it onto Enjolras’s palm.
Then Thenardier spins on his heel and stalks out of the room. “Read it!” he yells, from the corridor. “I’ll be in the bar.”
There is no bar, but Enjolras doesn’t point that out. He’s more than certain that Thenardier has already located the partners’ lounge and their extensive whiskey collection.
Enjolras smoothes out the paper and swears. It’s a notice of intention to gather peacefully, and it’s signed by the ABC.
“Fuck,” Enjolras says. Then for good meassure, again: “Fuck.”
He stands up and walks out of the room, looking for Thenardier. On the way, he bumps into Cosette.
“Enjolras,” she says, grabbing his arm. She looks upset, eyes wide and mouth set. “You need to go and talk to them, the things they’re… I think it might get ugly.”
“What might?” Enjolras asks. “The protest? No, I’m sure this sort of group wouldn’t want any kind of - ”
“Not them,” Cosette interrupts. “Us.”
It takes Enjolras a moment to connect the concept of ‘us’ with the people he works for. In his head, he and Cosette and Marius are separate from them, although he knows that's only a distinction he maintains to help himself to sleep at night. When he can.
“Thanks,” he says, which he knows makes no sense in context or out of it. He squeezes Cosette’s arm and hurries to the partners’ lounge.
He finds Thenardier holding court from one of the leather armchairs. He’s waving around a bottle of very expensive whiskey, while he clutches a full tumbler greedily in his other hand.
“I can assure you that this won’t be allowed to stand,” the senior partner, Valois, says with all the arrogance and pomp that makes him Enjolras’s least favourite in a long line of detestable people. “We have friends in the police force, we can certainly - ”
“No,” Thenardier says, cutting him off. “No.” His narrow eyes gleam and Enjolras instantly understands why Cosette was so unsettled. He’s definitely planning something. “No, let’s let them have their day in the sun. We’ll make sure they never have another.”
“Sir,” Enjolras says, stepping forward. He feels a little dizzy, his chest oddly tight, but he pushes that aside. It’s unimportant.
Valois looks up at him. For a second, he looks at Enjolras the way Enjolras’s great aunt used to look at cats who used her flowerbeds as a toilet. Then he nods. “Ah, Enjolras, capital, call Inspector Javert for me, would you, and make sure - ”
Thenardier saves Enjolras from having to point out that Javert might take his money, but he hates him - and, in fact, hates all of them - by snorting phlemily.
“That sanctimonious, good for nothing, limp-wristed waste of a uniform,” Thenardier mutters. Enjolras’s chest gets tighter. “No, no, we’ll handle this, don’t you worry.”
“What are you going to do?” Enjolras asks, ignoring the way Valois tries to shush him.
Thenardier laughs at him. He’s lacking some teeth at the sides. “Shut them up the Patron-Minette way,” he says with a vicious grin.
***
Enjolras can’t get ahold of Combeferre. It’s five thirty in the morning on the day of the protest and he’s finally decided that he has to warn the ABC that Thenardier is plotting, but Combeferre isn’t answering his phone.
The rally is due to start at sunrise and assuming Combeferre is still involved with the ABC - which he must be, if even Grantaire is - he should be there by now. Which means he should be answering his phone.
Maybe he’s just ignoring Enjolras. That would honestly serve Enjolras right after all these years of ignoring him.
Enjolras gives it five more minutes and three more aborted phone calls, then jumps up from his bed, where he’d only been pretending to sleep, and gets dressed.
There’s a moment where he hesitates in front of his wardrobe. He used to own a bright red hoodie that he wore to every protest in order to attract the attention of both the crowd and the police. He threw it away years ago and he hardly ever goes anywhere but work, anymore, but he can hardly wear a suit to this.
In the end, he finds a very old Che Guevara t-shirt that someone, he thinks Bossuet, gave him as a joke and pulls his washed-soft university hoodie over it. It feels strange to be preparing for a protest again. It makes his stomach ache with sudden fear.
He leans back against the wall and reminds himself, over and over, that he won’t be taking part in this one. He didn’t organise it and he won’t be leading it. No one’s going to get hurt because of him. With any luck, he’ll be able to stop anyone getting hurt, at all.
Five minutes later, he’s out of the door and crossing the street to the metro. It’s more or less empty at this time of day, only a few red-eyed business people, and a group of young people dressed similarly to Enjolras, who might be heading to the same place he is.
They catch his eyes, looking him over. In another life, Enjolras would cross the carriage to sit with them, try to get them to join the protest, even if that hadn’t been their original destination.
This time, he looks away, looks down at the ground between his feet, and tries not to think about anything at all.
***
The construction area is a riot of people, flags and placards. A lectern has been set up near a row of parked bulldozers, but no one has started speaking yet.
Everywhere Enjolras looks, he can see people - mostly young but some much older - with smiles on their faces, excited to try to make a difference. He wants to tell them all to go home, to go back to their families, but all he can do is watch. He feels oddly detached as though he’s seeing this all in a dream.
Keeping to the edges of the growing crowd, he makes his way around the construction area. The last time he was here, he was wearing a hard hat and trying to persuade Monsieur Thenardier that it was illegal to fire his workers for joining a union.
This time, he pulls his hood up to obscure his face and squelches through a half-inch of muddy sand.
He hears the Amis, before he sees them. He’d recognise Courfeyrac’s loud laugh anywhere, and underneath it is the familiar hum of words that can only be Combeferre.
Enjolras pulls to a halt, hunches his shoulders and looks around from under his hood. They’re ten metres away from him, shielded from the drizzle that’s falling by the broad side of an idle JCB.
Combeferre is hardly visible, blocked from sight by the others. He’s right in the middle of the group, handing out clipboards and saying something that makes them all laugh. Courfeyrac, leaning against the wheel of the JCB, looks much the same as he did the other day, albeit dressed more casually. Jehan is tucked under an umbrella between Joly and Bossuet, and it’s great to see them all, of course it is, but Enjolras feels rooted to the spot.
How can he speak to them, having left them the way he did? Will they even want to speak to him? Will they even listen?
He starts to turn away. He isn’t giving up, but perhaps he can give himself a moment to regroup. Before he can move anywhere, his foot gets stuck in the mud, he trips, and collides with someone coming the other way.
“Woah, careful,” laughs the man who catches him. “Don’t wanna faceplant in this goo, dude.”
The voice is familiar and when Enjolras looks up, he finds himself face-to-face with Bahorel, the tattoo artist he met the other day. The one who directed him to Grantaire’s shop.
“Apologies,” Enjolras says, stepping back more carefully this time. “Um. Are you with the ABC?”
Bahorel’s dark eyebrows rise. There’s a carefully shaved line bisecting one. “Oh, hey, it’s you from the other day. Ask a lot of questions, don’t you?”
“Sometimes,” says Enjolras, who used to question everything, but has fallen out of the habit recently. “But are you with them?”
“Sure,” Bahorel says, folding his arms. “Want an introduction?”
“No,” Enjolras says, far too quickly. “No. That’s fine. But I need you to pass on a message. Can you do that?”
“They’re literally just there.” Barohel points over his shoulder. “Come on.”
Panic plants Enjolras’s feet more firmly than any amount of mud would. “You need to tell them that there’s going to be violence,” he says, and something about his tone must get through, because Bahorel’s bemused expression falters.
Still, Bahorel only shrugs. “We can handle violence.” He says it as though he might enjoy it.
“Not this kind,” Enjolras manages tightly, while his mind tries to replay memories of blood and chaos, screams and the crack of gunfire. He reaches out, puts his hand on Bahorel’s arm. “Please. Please. There’s a plan to insight violence, to make this protest look militant. You need to call it off, before anyone gets hurt or your overall goal is undermined.”
“Who are you, exactly?” Bahorel asks slowly. “Why should we trust you?”
Enjolras swallows. “Tell them, tell any of them, please. I’m sure they’ll listen or - ” He can tell he’s losing this argument, that he’s going to have to give his name.
Before he can take the plunge, someone smacks Bahorel on the arm, says, “Crap, am I late, the fucking bus wasn’t… Enjolras?”
“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, more relieved than he can say. “I’ve given Bahorel a message; can you please make sure that everyone listens. Please.”
“I, uh, sure, but wait,” Grantaire says, looking half-asleep and very confused.
“I’m sorry, I can’t,” Enjolras says. He can hear noises behind him. If the others are setting up, it’s almost too late. “Please make them listen.”
“Sure,” Grantaire says again, and that’s all Enjolras can wait to hear, before he flees.
***
Enjolras calls in sick for the first time he can ever remember.
He sits on his barely-hospitable sofa, mechanically eating dry cereal, eyes glued to the local news cycle. The longer times goes on without any mention of the protest, the more hopeful Enjolras becomes.
A regular, small-scale protest wouldn’t make it onto the news, but a violent uprising would; Thenardier would make sure of that.
His phone rings just after lunch and for once, he answers it willingly.
“Oh. Hey,” says the person other end, sounding almost startled. “Enjolras?”
“Grantaire?” Enjolras asks. He hadn’t recognised the number, and he isn’t sure he’s ever spoken to Grantaire on the phone before. “Did it work? Did they listen?” Is everyone okay? is what he truly wants to ask, but he’s too afraid of the answer.
“It worked, they listened,” Grantaire says. “You were right, some goons tried to make trouble, but we all stayed super calm and when that didn’t put them off, we ended things early.”
Relief washes over Enjolras so quickly that it makes his ears buzz.
“Thank you,” he says sincerely.
“Eh, no, thank you,” Grantaire says. “You kind of saved the day. How did you know to do that, by the way?”
Enjolras closes his eyes. “Just luck,” he lies. “Anyway, thank you for letting me know, I really have to go now.”
“Oooh no,” Grantaire laughs. “No way. I have like, eight people all sitting here, staring at me, wanting me to ask you a whole list of questions about your life. If you hang up on me now, I’ll call you straight back and make you answer them.”
“I…” Enjolras tries, then trails off when the words stick in his throat.
Grantaire laughs again. Was he always this easily amused? “Meet me for a drink, this evening.”
“What? Why? No,” Enjolras says automatically.
“Aw, now you’re hurting my feelings,” Grantaire says.
“I’m sorry, I am, but no,” Enjolras says and pulls the phone from his ear, ending the call as fast as he can. His heart is pounding. It’s still pounding moments later, when he gets a text from the same number Grantaire called on.
It’s an address and a time: 8 pm.
He’s picked a bar in La Défense, because he must think Enjolras is at work today.
I’m sorry, I can’t, Enjolras replies.
Grantaire’s response is immediate: See you then ;)
Enjolras groans but despite himself, he is a little amused. No.
xoxo, is Grantaire’s only reaction. Enjolras suspects he’s not being taken seriously.
***
Enjolras goes, of course he does. If his former friends have a list of questions about his life, he has one just as a long about theirs. Maybe seeing Grantaire will be cathartic. Maybe he’ll finally be able to move on.
Humiliatingly, Enjolras spends far too long dithering over what to wear, then eventually settles on a suit. It will maintain the illusion that he went to work today, if nothing else.
He meets Grantaire at a small bar near the metro station. It’s raining again today, and Grantaire’s black beanie is soaked through, the curls underneath flattened.
“Ugh, hi,” Grantaire says, ringing out his hat onto the dark stone floor. “Sorry, I’m late; have you been waiting long?”
It takes Enjolras a moment to respond. He wasn’t expecting smalltalk, but what he was expecting, he can’t say. “No. No. Hardly any time.”
“Cool.” Grantaire swings up onto the bar seat opposite Enjolras. Enjolras has managed to secure them a very small table in the corner, small enough that their knees touch, while Grantaire gets settled.
“My round first,” Enjolras says, sliding down onto his feet. “What can I get you?”
Grantaire watches him through slightly narrowed eyes, as though Enjolras is a book he’d like to read, if only it would come into focus. All he ends up saying is, “Zero Riesling or a Pierre Chavin Zero.”
Enjolras echoes the words back to him, since they mean nothing to him, and Grantaire nods. Trust him to order wines Enjolras has never even heard of.
There’s a queue at the bar but Enjolras doesn’t mind the wait. It gives him time to come up with innocuous questions that he can ask Grantaire, if they truly are going to be doing smalltalk.
When he returns to the table, he’s feeling much more settled.
“They didn’t have a Zero Riesling, so I got you a regular one instead. Is that okay?”
Enjolras sets the glass down in front of Grantaire, who stares at it for a solid ten seconds, eyes very wide, before standing up abruptly.
“Back in one sec,” he says, before picking up the glass and taking it back to the bar. Enjolras watches him speak to the barman, his shoulders noticeably tense.
When he returns to Enjolras, he’s clutching a pint glass of cola in a somewhat white-knuckled way.
“Sorry,” he says, sinking back onto his stool and giving Enjolras a rueful smile. “Sorry. I totally forgot you wouldn’t know.”
“Know what?” Enjolras asks. “Did you have to pay for that? Let me pay you back, it was my round and I didn’t get what you asked for.”
Grantaire shakes his head. “They swapped it for me; they were very nice.” He takes a sip of his cola, sighs, and puts down the glass. “Zero Riesling is non-alcoholic, so replacing that with actual wine doesn’t really work, you see.”
“Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise.” Enjolras feels like a fool. “I thought it referred to the sugar content, like a Coke or a Sprite Zero.”
“Totally understandable.” Grantaire waves a hand to quiet him. “Like I said, I forgot you didn’t know that I’m sober now.”
“Oh,” Enjolras says. That hadn’t been on his list of potential conversations. “Um. How long?”
“Four years soon,” Grantaire says, with a small, self-deprecating shrug.
“That’s amazing,” Enjolras says, then frowns. “We were still in touch four years ago.”
“Mmhmm, but I was keeping it quiet. I was pretty sure I was going to fail and I couldn’t have had you all judging me or feeling sorry for me or whatever.”
“We wouldn’t have,” Enjolras say automatically. “At least, the others wouldn’t have. Surely?” That gets him another confused look. He’s already tired of being treated like a puzzle.
“You’re different.”
“Sorry?” Enjolras asks. “Or thank you?”
Grantaire hums. “Yeah. I don’t think I like it.”
“Look,” Enjolras says, and clears his throat. “I’m assuming you invited me here to talk about the protest, so can we just do that, so we can both get on our way?”
“Um, no, I’m here because your friends are worried sick about you and I’m the only one you seem prepared to talk to.” Grantaire makes an exaggerated face at that. “For some reason.”
Enjolras doesn’t have a response to that. Even he doesn’t know why speaking to Grantaire feels possible, but speaking to any of the others makes his chest constrict with a panic he can’t ignore.
“Look.” Grantaire leans across the table, touches the backs of Enjolras’s clenched hands for just a second. “Let’s start again. How are you?”
“I’m… fine,” Enjolras says, hearing how stiff he sounds. “How are you?”
“Ça va? Ça va bien, merci. Et tu?” Grantaire says in English, like a child just learning the language.
Enjolras glares at him. “I was being polite. Forget it, I don’t care how you are.”
For some reason, that makes Grantaire smile at him. “Ah, there you are. Maybe you haven’t changed all that much, after all. And, in answer to your question, I’m also fine. Got my own tattoo studio, which you know because Bahorel told you like a week ago. Got to say, I was disappointed you didn’t stop by. I’d give you the friends and family discount.”
Enjolras refuses to blush, refuses. Sadly, his skin is so pale it’s almost translucent and his blood rarely listens to him.
“I wasn’t looking for a tattoo,” he says.
“No?” Grantaire asks. “So you were looking for me?”
“No,” Enjolras mutters, even though he knows he sounds ridiculous.
Grantaire touches his hands again. He’s slower to let go this time, waiting until Enjolras stops staring at the table and looks up at him, instead.
“You knew where the car dropped me off the other day and you came looking for me, because you wanted to warn us that the protest was rigged, right?”
Enjolras nods. It’s a lie, but he can’t explain that that decision came later, that the ABC leaflets that came to work sent him there, without explaining how he knows about them.
“And then,” Grantaire continues, “you couldn’t find me for some reason? So you waited until the day of the protest and came looking for us. Even though Combeferre calls you every week, so you could have just called him?”
“I did call him,” Enjolras says. “He didn’t answer.” He isn’t sure how he feels about Grantaire knowing about his and Combeferre’s odd way of not-quite staying in touch.
Grantaire nods. “You called him the morning of the protest, when he was too busy to check his phone, but there were days in between. Hell, Bahorel gave you my card, you could have called me.”
Enjolras plays with the label on his beer. He doesn’t want it, only bought alcohol because he thought that was what Grantaire was having. “I… don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I want you to tell me what the fuck is going on,” Grantaire says.
The words might be harsh, but his tone is surprisingly gentle. It makes it both easier and harder for Enjolras to shake his head, say, “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“Honestly,” Grantaire says, still in that soothing voice. “Whatever you’ve got yourself into, it won’t be half as bad as some of the shit I’ve done. Oh, is that why I’m the one you’re speaking to?”
“No, of course not,” says Enjolras, even though maybe it is. He suspects it’s more because he and Grantaire were never the closest of friends, so he probably let Grantaire down the least out of everyone.
Grantaire waits a beat then taps his fingers on the table. “Okay, well, we’re talking in circles here. How about this, I talk shit for a while, and if you fancy having a real conversation, you feel free to interrupt?”
“All right,” Enjolras says, uncertainly. It might be a trap, or it might be a very generous reprieve. He’s willing to take the chance.
“Okay.” Grantaire leans back on his stool, hands folded across his stomach, as though he’s thinking. “I told you about my shop, so… Combeferre is a proper doctor now, all the way qualified.”
Enjolras looks up sharply. He wasn’t expecting Grantaire to talk to him about the others, but he’s not sure why not. “That’s good.”
“It’s amazing,” Grantaire corrects. “Joly graduated too, but he’s decided he wants to specialise in psychotherapy, so he’s gone back to study more.”
“I thought he wanted to be a surgeon?” Enjolras asks, drawn into the conversation despite himself.
“He did. I mean, technically he is, but he saw this amazing psychotherapist for his OCD, so now he wants to help people, like she helped him.” Grantaire pauses for a minute, like he’s thinking about what story to tell next. “Oh! He and Bossuet are still together, obviously, but now they’ve got this awesome girlfriend too. Her name’s Musichetta; she’s terrifying and hotter than the sun.”
Enjolras watches him, torn between a desperate need to hear everything he has to say, and the feeling that he’s prying. He lost the right to know these intimate details years ago. “What else?” he asks, because he’ll always be weak for hearing that his friends are happy.
“Courf,” Grantaire starts, then pauses when Enjolras flinches. “Courf,” he says again, slower this time, “works for a ridiculously do-gooding law firm, run by this old dude who was in prison for like, twenty years. He met an intern there called Feuilly who we’ve adopted into our innermost ranks.”
Enjolras is distracted for a second by the realisation that Grantaire says we and our now, when talking about the ABC. He never used to do that. “Oh, yes?”
“Oh yes,” Grantaire says, dragging it out. “It’s a good job you weren’t around for the recruitment speech; he’s exactly your type, you’d have had an aneurysm.”
“Grantaire!” Enjolras scolds, automatically looking around to check that no one he works with is here and could have heard that.
“What?” Grantaire grins. “It’s true. Anyway, Courf recruited Feuilly, I dragged Bahorel in, and Joly and Bossuet brought us Musichetta, so our ranks have swollen.”
“Clearly,” Enjolras says. He scratches more firmly at his label. “And, and Courfeyrac is… is well?”
“He and Jehan are engaged,” Grantaire says simply.
Enjolras drops his bottle. It rolls around on the table but he manages to grab it just before it spills. “Sorry. Sorry. They’re engaged?”
The kiss he witnessed was a surprise, but it’s even more of a shock to realise that Courfeyrac has fallen that deeply in love, that he’s contemplating marriage, and Enjolras wasn’t there for any of it.
“Jehan is more than good enough for him,” Grantaire says, apparently misreading Enjolras’s expression.
“Of course they are; Jehan is good enough for anyone,” Enjolras says quickly. It’s true and, if he remembers right, it’ll make Grantaire smile to hear it. It does.
“All right, now you give me something,” Grantaire says.
“I already gave you a glass of wine you can’t drink,” Enjolras says, pretending to misunderstand.
Grantaire shoots him a level, unimpressed look. “Tell me something about you that I can take back to your friends, who are all frantic for information and only didn’t come with me tonight, because I wouldn’t tell them where we were meeting.”
“Th-thank you,” Enjolras stammers, taken by surprise. “They wanted to come?”
“Every single fucking one of them,” Grantaire says. “But I read between the lines and cunningly deduced that you would have run away screaming.”
Enjolras doesn’t know what he would have done. Frozen and stopped breathing seems the most likely. “Thank you,” he repeats.
Grantaire kicks him lightly under the table. “So, come on. Employment and relationship statuses as the very least, please.”
“Employed,” Enjolras says, “and, uh, and single.”
“Employed as?” Grantaire asks, kicking him again. “Honestly, E, this is like pulling teeth.”
No one has called him E in years. He used to reflexively say that he hated it, but that turns out to no longer be true. “I’m a lawyer too,” he says. “But a corporate one. I’m guessing Courfeyrac isn’t… that?”
“Very much not,” Grantaire says. He doesn’t sound judgemental but he must be, how could he not be? “So, you did graduate? Lamarque wouldn’t tell Courf whether or not you’d transferred or just quit.”
“I asked her not to,” Enjolras admits. “But yes, I transferred to Toulouse 1.”
“You left Paris?” Grantaire asks, either genuinely shocked or doing a good job at pretending. “I thought you were wedded to its streets. I thought your blood ran in the Seine.”
“It’s sunnier in Toulouse,” Enjolras says, the same non-answer he’s been giving for years.
“And you are a little hot house flower,” Grantaire agrees, nodding sagely.
Enjolras narrows his eyes. “Don’t mock me.”
“Don’t lie to me, then,” Grantaire says, pleasantly.
Enjolras doesn’t have anything to say to that; it’s not as if he can defend himself. Instead, he puts his bottle down and stands up. “I should go,” he says. “It was… informative to see you.”
“I wish I could say the same,” Grantaire says then sighs, drains his cola, and stands too. “Let me walk you to the metro, at least.”
“I… okay,” Enjolras says, since that seems safe enough. Except, he’d forgotten that when they met last week, they were both catching the metro from the same station, so it stands to reason that they’d both be going back to the same station.
Grantaire clearly had not forgotten that, because he doesn’t look even slightly surprised - or repentant - when he hops onto the same line as Enjolras, and hops off alongside him.
“Now I guess you’ll have to let me walk you home,” he says. It’s raining again, but he doesn’t seem bothered. This is how a person ends up with a soaked beanie rather than an umbrella in the first place, Enjolras assumes.
“Then you’ll know where I live,” Enjolras says. “I can see what you’re doing, you know.”
“What am I doing?” Grantaire asks. “Do you really think I’m going to tell everyone where you’re apartment is, when you don’t want me to? If you really thought that, you wouldn’t still be standing here with me.”
That’s a fair point. Grantaire hasn’t done more than gently push him all evening. It’s possible he can be trusted.
“Look,” Grantaire says, toeing the ground. “I won’t if you really don’t want me to, but it feels weird just to part in the street like this. I’d offer to let you walk me home, but I live with Jehan and Courf, so you probably don’t want that.”
“I live this way,” Enjolras says quickly and turns on his heel.
Grantaire falls into step beside him. A moment later, he pushes his arm through Enjolras’s, slowing him down a little. “A stroll, Enjolras, a promenade; we’re not marching to war.”
“What on earth is the point of dawdling?” Enjolras asks, but he does as he’s bid, and they walk at a frustratingly slow snailspace, while the rain drips down his neck and off the end of his nose.
“Happy?” he asks, when they finally reach his apartment building.
“Ecstatic,” Grantaire says, which is when Enjolras realises that he’s held the door open for Grantaire, that he just expected him to come up to Enjolras’s apartment.
“Uh,” Enjolras says and wonders if it would be too rude to shove him back out into the night.
Grantaire is laughing very quietly, under his breath. “I’ve changed my mind,” he says, “perhaps I do like this new version of you a little, afterall.”
“Would you like to come up for a moment?” Enjolras asks. “I could at least lend you an umbrella.”
“But this is the only way my hat ever gets washed,” Grantaire says with such confused sincerity that Enjolras actually believes him for a second.
Then he rolls his eyes. “Oh, just come up, R.”
Grantaire takes a second to follow him and Enjolras can’t imagine what on earth he’s done to surprise him, when nothing else seems to have fazed him at all. It’s only for a moment though, then he catches up with Enjolras and makes a comment on every single thing they pass, from the colour of his neighbour’s doormat, to the light-up buttons in the lift.
“Did you always talk this much?” Enjolras asks, exasperated.
“Nope,” Grantaire says easily. “I used to be severely depressed and very drunk.”
“And now?” Enjolras asks.
“Now I’m moderately depressed and very medicated,” Grantaire says, catching the lift doors when they try to close. “This your floor?”
“Yes,” Enjolras says, belatedly stepping out. His door is immediately opposite the lift shaft, so he leans against it and debates what he wants to say next. In the end, he goes for it. “I hope it’s not out of line to say that I’m… impressed?”
“Impressed?” Grantaire asks slowly. “With what?”
“With you,” Enjolras says, watching as that makes Grantaire’s eyes go wide. “You have your own business, you’re sober…”
Grantaire looks down. “You can’t be impressed with me, Enjolras. That’s like the sun being impressed with a ten watt lamp but, but thanks. Anyway, I didn’t really have any choice, a whole load of shit was happening and I needed to be useful. You know, the shit you haven’t asked me about?”
“I can’t ask you about that,” Enjolras says, before Grantaire can finish.
“I know,” Grantaire says, not showing any surprise. “I know. I get it.”
Enjolras doesn’t know what to say, too busy feeling relieved that despite everything Enjolras remembers of him, Grantaire isn’t pushing.
Grantaire swings his arms. “So I’d better go, make my report to your worried disciples.”
“What will you tell them?” Enjolras asks, almost certain he doesn’t want to hear the answer.
“What do you want me to tell them?” Grantaire asks, looking up at him through his thick, dark eyelashes.
“Something… I don’t know.” Enjolras shakes his head. “Something that’ll stop them worrying, I suppose.”
“Hm, yeah,” Grantaire hums. “The only thing that will do that will be seeing you.”
Enjolras’s throat constricts. Please don’t let Grantaire change his mind, please don’t let him push, after all. “I can’t.”
“I know.” Grantaire reaches out and touches his hands. It’s the same touch as in the bar, but it feels different here, in Enjolras’s doorway. Grantaire’s hands are cold, but they’re soothing, and Enjolras finds himself gripping them back.
After a minute, Grantaire clears his throat. “About that umbrella?”
“Yes!” Enjolras says, far too loudly to be appropriate. He unlocks his door and leans in to grab an umbrella from the coat stand. It would be easier, if he turned on the lights, but if he did that, Grantaire would be able to see into Enjolras’s flat. If he did that, who knows what terrible things he’d deduce.
“Of course it’s red,” Grantaire laughs, taking the umbrella when it’s pushed into his hands. “Of course it is.”
“It’s my favourite colour,” Enjolras says, then stops, frowning. He’s almost certain they’ve had this exact same conversation before.
Grantaire smiles, like he was thinking the same thing.
Being around Grantaire has never felt like being with the rest of the ABC, and it still doesn’t. Their relationship always was - and apparently still is - based on bickering and teasing each other. It was fun then and it’s easy now, so much easier than Enjolras ever imagined a reunion like this could be.
“I’ve missed you,” he says, honestly.
Grantaire’s eyes go wide. “Aw, E,” he says, but it’s not as mocking as Enjolras would have expected. He reaches up and cups Enjolras’s cheek with one hand, his thumb strong against the corner of Enjolras’s eye.
He gives a little quirking smile.
Enjolras shivers, not all sure what’s happening, and lets his eyes fall closed. He can’t remember the last time anyone really touched him.
They stay frozen like that for a long moment then Grantaire drops his hand and steps back. Enjolras blinks his eyes open, startled by how bright it still is in the hallway.
“I, uh, I only meant to say hi,” Grantaire says.
“Right, right of course. Of course. I’m… sorry?” Enjolras asks, not at all sure what he’s apologising for.
Grantaire’s eyes scan his face as if he’s once again trying to read him. “But if you wanted. Do you want?”
Did he? Enjolras didn't know what he wanted except that there was a moment when Grantaire was touching his skin, when he'd craved it, craved more than just one touch.
“I want,” he says and leaves it to Grantaire to decide what that means.
Grantaire kisses him. It’s hard and fast like a challenge and then he steps back, eyebrows raised as if to say, Well?
They’ve kissed before; Enjolras probably kissed all his friends at one point or another, but this is different. Enjolras hasn’t been kissed for four years. Enjolras reaches for him, takes two handfuls of his wet hoodie and reels him in.
Grantaire laughs into this kiss then groans into the next. There’s a clatter as Enjolras’s umbrella hits the ground, but he doesn’t care. Grantaire’s mouth is warm. Grantaire is a living, breathing human being who knows everything Enjolras has done and still wants to kiss him.
“Inside, fuck, let me inside,” Grantaire says and pushes him backwards into the flat. They trip over the coat stand, Enjolras’s recycling, the bag of reusable bags he keeps on the back of the door handle.
None of it stops Grantaire, who seems to have a definite trajectory in mind, despite never having been here before. Enjolras lets him lead, too busy kissing and pulling at Grantaire’s hoodie to care where they end up.
They wind up in the kitchen, the lights still off. Enjolras falls backwards when he's pushed, the kitchen chair coming up to meet him and Grantaire climbs into his lap immediately after.
Enjolras scrambles at Grantaire's clothes again, finally getting his hands under Grantaire's damp layers. His skin is shockingly hot to the touch, and Enjolras can't help making fists, Grantaire's skin giving under the bite of Enjolras fingernails.
Grantaire moans loudly. “Is that what you like? Or is that what you like done to you?”
It's the second one. It’s definitely the second one. Enjolras doesn’t know how to answer and doesn't get a chance because Grantaire pushes him again and this time the chair falls.
The back hits the sofa, saving them from hitting the floor, and their kisses turn frantic as they scramble up from the chair and onto the cushions. Grantaire’s hoodie ends up on the floor, Enjolras’s jacket and shirt and tie following.
“What do you want?” Grantaire asks, fingers working the buttons of Enjolras’s trousers open.
“This. More. More,” Enjolras demands. It’s been a handful of minutes, maybe not even that long. If they stop, Enjolras might come to his senses. He doesn’t want that; he wants to be touched.
Impatient, Enjolras tears open his own flies then stares at Grantaire until he does the same. Grantaire isn’t wearing underwear, Enjolras is, but it’s Grantaire who groans like the sight of Enjolras’s plain black briefs is the hottest porn.
He slides off the sofa and down onto his knees, pulling Enjolras’s trousers and underwear down just far enough then sucks him into his mouth.
Enjolras gasps, icy-hot fire in his belly. He puts his hands on Grantaire's shoulders, but Grantaire grabs them and puts them in his hair, so Enjolras slides his fingers through curls and holds on.
It’s been so long that it’s possible anything would feel like the best Enjolras has ever had, but through the haze behind his eyes, he’s pretty sure that Grantaire is excellent at this. He sucks and nips and teases, his fingers on Enjolras’s thighs, his balls, the skin behind it.
Enjolras makes a noise at that, head thrown back, and kicks his clothes the rest of the way up, canting his hips in a way he knows leaves no room for doubt.
Grantaire pulls off with a slurping sound. “Is that what you want?” he pants. “Where's your lube?”
Enjolras doesn't have any. He has condoms but only because that's a sensible precaution. They might be out of date.
“It doesn't matter,” he groans. “Please.”
Grantaire bites the inside of Enjolras’s thigh, laughing when Enjolras nearly kicks him. “Not without lube,” he says, then strokes Enjolras’s other thigh soothingly. “Next time.”
Enjolras doesn’t know what sort of expression he makes, but Grantaire’s resolve softens a little.
“It’s okay, it’s still going to be good,” he promises.
He sucks hard on his own finger then pushes it gently against Enjolras entrance. Enjolras tries to relax but he's painting too hard, too keyed up.
Grantaire pushes and the tip pops in and Enjolras gasps. It burns and he wants it and he hates that he won’t get more because he doesn't have lube and Grantaire is a good person.
Grantaire sucks harder, a relentless pull, while his other hand cups Enjolras balls. It's an endless cycle of pain and pressure and gentleness and it's Enjolras undoing. He comes with an indrawn breath that rattles through his chest and leaves him gasping.
“Aw, I was hoping you’d scream,” Grantaire says, before climbing on top of him. He takes Enjolras’s lax fingers and wraps them around his own erection. He’s hard and hot, slick to more than half way down without even being touched.
Holding a cock in his hand again is almost as good for Enjolras as having his own held was.
“There, shit, come on, squeeze,” Grantaire says, but he’s mostly doing the work himself, pumping through Enjolras’s pathetic attempts at a fist. “Enjolras, you’re not even trying.”
Enjolras rears up, kisses him hard, and squeezes him harder still.
Grantaire makes a ridiculous yelping noise that is still somehow incredibly erotic and comes all over Enjolras’s fingers.
They fall together, both of them panting into each other’s mouths. There’s sweat rolling down Grantaire’s face, his curls stuck to one cheek.
Enjolras noses them away, goes to kiss him. His fingertips tingle. There's a smile on his face. A laugh lodged in his belly. He feels as though light is touching all his shadowed places for the first time in years.
Grantaire pulls away before their lips can touch, sits back with a groan and a rueful wince. “I’m too old for kneeling on wooden floors. Get some carpet, yeah?”
“There’s carpet in the bedroom,” Enjolras says, from beneath the arm he’s dropped over his face. He doesn’t mean it as an invitation, he’s too tired to know what he’s saying. It’s just a fact so he relays it.
“Ah, better not,” Grantaire says, standing up and starting to sort out his clothes. “It causes mass panic when I meet boys at bars then don’t come home.”
He never even got all the way undressed, Enjolras realises, watching him pull his hoodie back on. Enjolras feels suddenly very naked, but before he can reach for his own clothes, Grantaire pulls the throw down from the top of the sofa and lays it over Enjolras.
“Can’t have you catching your death,” he says. “You’re too pretty for that.” He leans down and kisses Enjolras’s cheek. “Do this again sometime?”
It’s almost certainly a brush off, maybe even a goodbye, but Enjolras is pathetic. “Yeah,” he says. “Let me know when you’re free.”
Grantaire grins at him. “Maybe I’ll hold you to that.” He starts to walk away then stops, turning back. “Don’t forget to let us know next time you mysteriously get insider information that’ll help the cause.”
“I won’t,” Enjolras says. He rolls onto his side, watching as Grantaire lets himself out. “Don’t forget the umbrella,” he calls, but Grantaire is already gone.
Shivering, Enjolras curls up on his side, tugging the throw up to his chin. He expects to lie awake dissecting every second of their conversation and everything that happened after. Instead, he’s asleep in seconds.