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Enjolras strides determinedly towards the parked taxi on the curb, his head pointed down against the rain as he uselessly wishes he had thought to bring a coat or scarf or really anything to protect him from the wind and rain. He wrenches open the cab door, tosses in the few items (including the broken umbrella) he had been carrying, sits unceremoniously on the seat, and groans, “Please tell me you’re on-duty.”
“Um.”
Enjolras turns, slowly, to his left. He’s had his fair share of taxi adventures, from getting kicked out of one for calling the cab driver an ignorant bigot to almost dying when Courfeyrac got exciting news while sitting next to him and screamed so loudly and suddenly in his glee that the cab driver almost swerved into another car. However, being soaking wet, irritated, late, and in his full Legolas costume and then proceeding to enter a cab that was already occupied and throw his umbrella, plastic bow, and book bag at the other passenger might just top them all. “Oh.”
“Hey, um,” The guy, who looks around Enjolras’ age, though maybe a little older, holds out the ridiculous prop bow Courfeyrac found at a yard sale. “I think you dropped this. On my face."
“I am so sorry, I didn’t think the cab was occupied, I-“ Enjolras stammers, reaching for the bow and his book bag. “I’ll get another one, again, really, I’m so sorry-“
“Where are you headed?” The other man interrupts, pulling the bow slightly further away, out of Enjolras’ reach. “If it’s a vaguely eastish direction, we could share.”
“You-“ Enjolras pauses, looking at the man across from him, then the driver, who’s staring in front of him like he couldn’t possibly care less about what they decide to do. “Really?”
He shrugs, and nods towards the outside of the cab. “It’s essentially flooding out there, like, biblical storm status, and if we’re going the same way anyway, I don’t see any reason we can’t just share.” He grins at Enjolras then, slightly crooked, and continues, “Besides, how often do I get to say I shared a cab with someone who actually makes Legolas look prettier?”
Enjolras flushes as he closes the cab door and slides the seat belt across his chest (he’s polite but he’s not going to pass up a perfectly good cab when it’s beginning to hail outside), before attempting to explain with, “My friend wanted to dress as Aragorn, and he’s… incredibly persuasive.”
“Ahh.” He nods his understanding, before turning away to give the cab driver his address, and Enjolras parrots off the cross streets of Courfeyrac and Marius’ apartment. His accidental taxi companion settles back in his seat, then turns back to Enjolras with an appraising look. “So, are you going to or coming from Halloween shenanigans?"
Pausing to consider that he’s somehow met another human being who unironically says ‘shenanigans’ (the first three being Courfeyrac, Marius and Cosette), Enjolras sighs. “Going to. My best friend is incredibly proud of his Halloween parties, though I sort of forgot I promised to help set up."
“Ooh, that’s rough.”
“At this point he probably expects it.” Enjolras admits. “What about you?”
His companion gestures to his costume, which consists of a puffy white shirt with one of the deepest Vs he’s ever seen (and after five years of friendship with Courfeyrac, that’s saying something), and a pair of pants that are not the tightest he’s ever encountered (again, five years of Courfeyrac) but still look tight enough to be uncomfortable, tucked into some black combat boots. “I did face painting at an elementary school’s Halloween carnival. My, uh, my friend’s little brother is in fifth grade and he blackmailed me into helping.”
Raising an eyebrow, Enjolras says carefully, “…a fifth grader blackmailed you?”
“It only sounds weird because you’ve never met him, trust me.” He brings his hand to rub under his eyes, before yawning out, “I’m Grantaire, by the way.”
“Enjolras.”
Grantaire stares at him, before nodding slowly, “Okay, that’s- you gotta nickname or something?”
“Not really, no.”
“Oh. Cool.”
Enjolras is about to repeat the name, because he’s honestly more than used to having to sound it out for people, just as the driver grunts out from the front of the cab, “The tunnel’s closed, and everyone in the city is trying to get home. It’s gonna be bumper to bumper for a while, hope you don’t have anywhere to be."
Enjolras stares ahead, then glances at the time on his phone, chewing on his lip nervously. Courfeyrac’s going to kill him.
---
After sending out an apology text to Courfeyrac, Enjolras shifts awkwardly in his seat, considering his situation. He can't try to walk the rest of the way to Courfeyrac and Marius' apartment because he might actually drown, and getting another taxi would be pointless and potentially impossible, which leaves him in the cramped backseat dressed like an elf with a man dressed as a vampire for the foreseeable future. There's really no escaping it. So, mostly out of necessity but with a hint or genuine curiosity, he begins to talk to his companion.
Grantaire is… intriguing. For one thing, he tends to talk out of one side of his face more than the other, throwing his expressions off-balance and giving him an air of smug satisfaction with every word. His voice is rough, and worn out, yet somehow soothing, like the scratchy drag of a bow across cello strings.
Every detail he provides about himself comes with a self-deprecating comment, and Enjolras can tell he’d rather talk about his friends (Eponine, the whirlwind, Gavroche, her con-artist little brother, Joly and Bossuet the dynamic and inseparable duo) but he manages to scrounge together a few details. Grantaire is a film major (‘that’s what pretentious assholes with no direction do, right? become film majors?’) with either a plant or a pet named Qui-Gon Gin (‘that’s G-I-N, like the drink. It’s a pun, you see’) and parents he’s not overly fond of.
He’s intelligent, and well read, but not in the way Combeferre is well read. Combeferre has a sort of quiet intensity when he talks about books that makes you feel like you’ve never truly read a book, not like he has, whereas Grantaire tosses around authors and titles with careless simplicity, as if he picked the bones of novels and took from them only what was needed and disregarded the rest. They don’t have anywhere near the same taste in music, he realizes, as Grantaire lists his favorite artists and half of them sound like he’s making up random combinations of words on the spot to see if Enjolras will notice.
He laughs, loud and open, when Enjolras tells the story of how he met Courfeyrac in highschool and the two of them ended up with a month of detention and a lifelong friendship, and Enjolras is not completely surprised to find out that he and Grantaire share similar narrowly-avoided-arrest stories. The conversation is pretty basic, mostly small talk and pleasantries, until Enjolras mentions a protest he and a few of his friends attended the week before, and begins to talk about his political activism. Enjolras knows how he gets when he talks about The Cause; as Courfeyrac put it once, ‘you look like you’re going to set the world on fire with your mind and then have sex on the ashes. It’s kind of weird’, and that passion only intensifies when someone tries to argue with him. And he isn’t really sure, but he considers the possibility that Grantaire is only arguing with him to provoke that exact response.
To put it simply, Grantaire is the most frustrating human being Enjolras has ever discussed politics with. It’s not that they disagree on the basic arguments: the government is fucked beyond belief, it’s ridiculous and pathetic that sexism and racism still exist, and colleges are corrupt institutions. It’s the little things that they disagree on, such as the benefits of student activism, the importance of impacting change in the media, and whether or not a law degree will give someone anything other than a sense of entitlement. And it isn’t as if Enjolras doesn’t like a challenge, it’s just that Grantaire presents arguments he’s never heard before, debate strategies he’s never faced. He points out flaws in Enjolras’ plans that never existed before, pulls historical context out of thin air, and when Enjolras is close to winning an argument, he’ll make a childish, mocking noise, and switch topics completely.
Not only that, but has this unnatural ability to get under Enjolras’ skin, to twist his words around so Enjolras barely understands what exactly he’s arguing, just that he needs to prove Grantaire wrong. A prime example of this is when they try to switch topics back to the initial subject of Halloween, and ten minutes later Enjolras finds himself vehemently arguing for capitalism (he has to take a few seconds to control his breathing after that one). He tries to find common ground after that, something they can agree on, and fails miserably.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Not at all.” Grantaire shrugs, and Enjolras doesn’t miss how his eyes have been so much brighter, fuller, more vibrant, throughout their debate (read: occasional full-blown argument) than they were when Enjolras first sat down. “Human beings as a whole are miserable, selfish, and corrupt. You can’t change human nature, you can only suppress it.”
Enjolras scoffs. “So good people don’t exist?”
Shrugging, Grantaire purses his lips in thought. “Idealistic people do. Self-righteous, idealist do-gooders definitely exist, if only to make the rest of us who don’t pretend to be saints look bad.”
“What about your friends?” Enjolras asks, raising his eyebrows challengingly. “You can’t honestly tell me you think they’re all miserable, selfish, and corrupt.”
Grantaire rolls his eyes, grinning in his way Enjolras has come to think of as uniquely Grantaire: a mixture of smug, teasing, and self-deprecating. “No one’s honest. Not for a day in their lives.” His eyes flick down at his own words, and it hits Enjolras that this is something he genuinely, truly believes. “All people ever do is lie. To get what they want, to protect other people, to make life a little easier, a bit more bearable.” The last word is almost whispered, and not for the first time Enjolras wonders what Grantaire’s been through, what happened to him.
Enjolras isn’t oblivious; he knows they’re getting dangerously close to territory he doesn't think he or Grantaire can handle, so he tries to steer them back to petty bickering. “My hair is blond. Would you look at that? I was just honest. What a trailblazer I am, what a marvel of the modern psychological revolu-” He cuts off abruptly, because their driver is shouting at him.
Well, not shouting so much as barking ‘HEY’ in the middle of Enjolras’ psuedo-tirade, and the two of them turn to the front, having forgotten he was there. Through the rear-view mirror he glares at them, before continuing in a gruff voice, “This is you.”
Enjolras frowns, confused by his words. “Excuse me?"
“Your address.” He nearly growls, tapping his finger agitatedly against the meter.
Enjolras looks out the window, sees the door to Courfeyrac’s apartment building not more than fifteen feet away, and can’t remember the last time he’s been less enthusiastic to see the familiar place. It’s not that he’s not looking forward to spending time with his friends, or slightly worried that if he neglects the party for any longer Courfeyrac might actually stop speaking to him, it’s just… well.
He turns back to Grantaire, who’s watching him with an undecipherable look on his face that quickly shifts to a strained grin. “Well, this was… fun. I guess.”
“Yeah.” Enjolras replies awkwardly, pulling the book bag into his arms and reaching for the bow. Truthfully, he isn’t quite ready to say goodbye to Grantaire. The other man is infuriating, but interesting, and he’d kind of like to see what Combeferre thinks of him. Before he realizes he’s made a decision he’s looking Grantaire dead in the eye and asking, “What are your plans for tonight?"
Grantaire blinks at him. “Uh, takeout and Beetlejuice. Why?”
Enjolras shrugs, teeth dragging up his bottom lip before he shrugs, trying not to show how nervous he is. “You want to come to a party?”
---
After Enjolras enters the apartment, less than a minute passes before he’s attacked. One second, he’s showing Grantaire where to put his coat, the next he’s got a large Courfeyrac-shaped object clinging to his neck and muttering about what a horrible friend he is.
It’s a testament to Grantaire’s character that he looks amused more than anything else as Courfeyrac calls Enjolras a ‘literal soggy turnip I don’t know how you made there be a storm and traffic jam so you didn’t have to help set up but don’t think you’re getting away with it’. Finally, after about a minute of Courfeyrac half-clinging to, half-strangling Enjolras, he pries his best friend’s hands off him and clears his throat significantly. “Courf, this is Grantaire.”
Courfeyrac frowns at him, confused, then turns to look where Enjolras is gesturing, and Grantaire gives an awkward half-wave. “Oh. Hello.” He pauses, looking back to Enjolras with a look that clearly says you-owe-me-a-very-good-story-and-explanation, then smiles brightly at Grantaire. “I’m Courfeyrac, welcome to my humble abode, super awesome to meet you, snacks are in the room off to the side of the dancing area, any drugs are to be done in the bathroom or on the balcony, and if you’re planning on staying the night we only have space in the living room floor and on the futon in the snack room, can I borrow this one for a minute?” He says all of this in a single breath, smile never leaving his face even as he grabs Enjolras by the hand and tugs him into Marius’ bedroom, leaving a confused but entertained Grantaire standing in the hallway.
As soon as the door clicks behind them, Courfeyrac lets out a shaky breath, leaning his head back against the door in pseudo-exhaustion. He rolls his head down to look at Enjolras. “You brought a person.”
“Correct.” Enjolras answers calmly, stepping back to sit on Marius’ bed.
Courfeyrac hums, pulling slightly at his bright blue sleeves. “Why?”
Honestly, Enjolras isn’t entirely sure. The excuses he’s been going through in his mind, he’d be stuck in bumper to bumper traffic, he wants to know if Grantaire can hold his own in an argument with Combeferre, sitting alone in an apartment and watching Beetlejuice sounds like no fun, they all sound a bit… lacking. “I don’t know,” Enjolras answers truthfully. “He’s interesting."
“Alright, I’ll take it.” Courfeyrac smiles at his friend, then schools his face into an exaggerated frown. “You were supposed to help set up.”
“I know, I know, I’m really sorry.” Enjolras says, and means it.
“Eh.” Courfeyrac waves his hand dismissively, then pushes his body off the door and flops down on the bed next to Enjolras with a muffled thump. “Luckily I called Combeferre and Marius called Cosette and they were the very models of productivity.” He sits up and smiles a sort of dazed grin. “You should see what Combeferre did with the fake cobwebs in the kitchen. It’s creepy and amazing.”
Enjolras nods, slowly, waiting for Courfeyrac to continue. When he doesn’t, Enjolras asks, “So?"
“So, what?"
“You didn’t drag me into Marius’ room to talk about Grantaire, or Combeferre’s cobwebs.”
Courfeyrac grins eagerly at him. “Now that would make an excellent book title. But, um.” He trails his fingers through his hair nervously, letting uncertainty seep into his features as he mutters, “How do I look?"
Anyone who doesn’t know Courfeyrac like Enjolras does might laugh the question off and insist he looks great, because Courfeyrac always looks great. But they’ve known each other since high school, since braces and acne and never having a date to Homecoming. So, even though Courfeyrac does look really good in his blue Starfleet uniform with his usually unruly curls tamed and pushed away from his face, Enjolras takes a couple seconds to look at him before confirming, “Very nice. What did Combeferre think?”
It’s the wrong thing to say, and Courfeyrac starts flailing immediately, stammering, “Why? What- what do you mean?”
Mentally cursing himself for his phrasing (Courfeyrac and Combeferre have a habit of performing complete mental shutdowns whenever anyone even vaguely implies they might like each other as more than friends), Enjolras says calmly, trying to sound uninterested, “Well, you’re dressed as his favorite character from the show that defined his childhood. I thought he might have something to say about it.” Also you might consider admitting that you chose the costume for that exact reason, he doesn’t say, just thinks it really loudly in Courfeyrac’s general direction.
“Oh.” Courfeyrac laughs awkwardly, fidgeting with his hair. “He didn’t really say anything, actually. Just kind of… looked at it for a second and then asked what I wanted help with. His costume’s pretty cool, though."
Enjolras mentally translates that to ‘Combeferre stared at me for a solid two minutes while I stared right back, and then when Combeferre’s brain finally rebooted and was once again capable of coherent thought, he asked for a distraction and also I think he makes a really attractive Aragorn and I don’t know how to handle this so I’m considering hiding in this room for the rest of my life I think that should work out well for me.’
---
Enjolras doesn’t have to physically drag Courfeyrac out of Marius’ room, but it’s a near thing. As they make their way to find Grantaire (well, Enjolras looks for the person he brought to a party he wasn’t invited to and then abandoned, and Courfeyrac just follows behind him and pretends he’s not scanning the apartment for Combeferre) they pass Marius, using his Chekov costume as an excuse to talk half in English, half in Russian, as Cosette (who, on a dare, dressed as a fawn spirit and looks perfect as always) stands by his side eating candy corn and occasionally attempting to translate for her boyfriend. When they finally find Grantaire and Combeferre, he really isn’t expecting them to be together. And yet there they are, sitting companionably on the couch, deep in discussion.
“Enjolras!” Combeferre exclaims in greeting. He’s in full costume, and as his best friend Enjolras feels obligated to say it looks really good on him, even if the hair he’s been experimenting with growing out should hang loose rather than in a messy bun on top of his head. “You didn’t tell me you knew Grantaire.”
Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “You know Grantaire?”
“Well, not by name.” Grantaire says, a lazy grin spreading across his face as he lifts the bottle in his hands in a mock toast to Combeferre. “We have sociology together. Combeferre’s the one who corrects the professor.”
Combeferre snorts back a laugh. “And Grantaire’s the one who antagonizes her."
Courfeyrac makes a little garbled noise from behind Enjolras, before pushing past him and shoving his hand at Combeferre, who’s accustomed enough to Courfeyrac to take it without question, but raises his eyebrows inquisitively at his friend. Courfeyrac pulls on his hand and states confidently, “Dance with me.”
“Um,” Combeferre sends Enjolras a helpless look. “I can’t dance.”
“I know. I’ll teach you.” Courfeyrac pulls him again, and Combeferre slowly gets to his feet. Courfeyrac yanks him into the living room, where a makeshift dance floor has been set up, only stopping for a second to send a withering glare in Grantaire’s direction.
Enjolras glances down at Grantaire, who looks amused more than anything, and explains, “Right, I should have mentioned, Courfeyrac gets a little… territorial where Combeferre’s concerned.”
“Oh, are they…”
“God, I wish.” Enjolras sighs, tucking a strand of braided hair behind his ear. “They’ve been interested in each other since the dawn of time, but they refuse to do anything about it.”
Grantaire shakes his head slowly, with a small grin, then slowly pushes off the couch to stand in front of Enjolras. “So Combeferre’s single, then?”
Enjolras blinks at him, feeling something rise up inside of him; his stomach plummets at the same moment he feels an uncomfortable tightening in his gut. “Technically, yes. But that doesn’t mean he’s available."
Grantaire’s eyes roam over Enjolras’ face inquisitively, and obviously find what they were looking for because his crooked grin is back in full force. “Now who’s territorial?” He chuckles, stepping closer to Enjolras, his motions smooth, a lot looser than they had been in the cab. “Besides, he’s not my type.”
“What- what is your type, then?” Enjolras’ mouth asks before his brain can register what he’s saying.
Grantaire looks at him through narrowed eyes. “I kinda thought that’d be obvious.”
Enjolras thinks back to their conversation in the cab, and can’t think of any indication Grantaire might have given him to his sexual or romantic preferences. After a beat he replies, “Not to me."
Snorting, Grantaire rolls his eyes. “You’re a smart boy, you’ll figure it out eventually.”
Frowning at Grantaire’s change in demeanor, then at the bottle in his hands, Enjolras can’t help but ask, “I’ve been gone for like five minutes, how much have you had to drink?”
“What are you, my mom?” Grantaire answers, with the tone of a bratty fourteen year-old boy, before inclining his head towards the direction in which Courfeyrac and Combeferre had disappeared. “So, are you gonna introduce me to the rest of your friends, or am I gonna have to do it myself?"
Enjolras doesn’t respond, so Grantaire sets off wordlessly, leaving Enjolras with yet another corner-less, single color piece of the Grantaire puzzle.
---
Grantaire, it turns out, is possibly the most charismatic person ever to walk the face of the earth when he’s speaking to anyone other than Enjolras. He wins Bahorel’s heart by joining him for an impromptu rendition of the Arthur theme song from memory, immediately followed by an arm wrestling match that Grantaire loses spectacularly. The elementary school he had volunteered at earlier that night turns out to be Feuilly’s old school, and the two of them chat about its alarming state of disrepair as they toss gummi worms into each other’s mouths. Jehan is usually a tricky person to get to know, since most people find them off-putting; Grantaire simply compliments their dreadlocks and mentions his interest in a writer named Azevedo, and within five minutes they’re comparing funny graveyard stories. Cosette and Marius like him immediately, because Cosette is the friendliest person on the face of the earth and Marius operates on a system of agreeing with essentially every opinion Cosette has.
He even manages to charm Courfeyrac by being the only other person at the party who knows the entire “Thriller” dance, (they try to teach it to Cosette and Feuilly, and it turns out to be the one thing in the world Feuilly can’t do perfectly), and Enjolras watches, dumbstruck, as Grantaire whispers something in Courfeyrac’s ear before the two of them begin dancing far from innocently, one of Courfeyrac’s arms slung carelessly around Grantaire’s neck. From across the room, it looks a little like Combeferre is trying to light his new sociology buddy on fire with his mind. Considering it his duty as a friend, having of course no personal interest in whether or not Courfeyrac and Grantaire choose to slow-grind on each other in the middle of a living room, Enjolras is at Grantaire’s side in a heartbeat, pulling him off to the side of the room, but not before he sees the way Courfeyrac winks at Grantaire as Enjolras drags him away.
“Okay, I’m not sure if you know what you’re doing here,” Enjolras hisses, leaning into Grantaire’s space, “But you need to stop screwing with my best friends.”
Grantaire’s eyes shine with smug amusement. “First of all, I literally met you a couple hours ago, you really aren’t in a position to be telling me what to do.” Enjolras opens his mouth to argue, and Grantaire holds up a silencing finger. “Second of all, maybe I wasn’t trying to screw with Combeferre. Maybe I was trying to make you jealous. Were you?” He says quickly, staring at Enjolras’ face with searching eyes. “Jealous?”
Talking to Grantaire is like holding a discussion with a yo-yo, Enjolras decides. He’s either confusing or irritating, and switches from one to the other in a matter of seconds. And Enjolras is half-sure some of the things he says are attempts at flirtation, but then he follows them up with questioning everything Enjolras believes in. It's weird.
Also, talk about presumptuous. “Like you said, I’ve known you for a couple hours, really not in a position to be jealous.”
“That wasn’t a no.”
Enjolras shrugs, saying with a smug grin, “Definitely wasn’t a yes, either.”
---
Two hours later Grantaire has drunk more alcohol than Enjolras consumes in a semester, Bahorel has almost broken one of the barstools in the kitchen, Courfeyrac has suggested they all play strip Cards Against Humanity four times, and Enjolras is ready to admit he might have a thing for Grantaire.
The first signs were small; inviting Grantaire to the party, not hitting him in the face with something when he suggested Enjolras would make a stunning and effective Jehovah’s Witness, subconsciously staying in Grantaire’s orbit no matter where the other man went.
The second sign was when Grantaire started casually discussing the criminal justice system with Bahorel, who has had his fair share of arrests, and Enjolras felt jealous. Jealous. As if he had some sort of monopoly on Grantaire’s expression of his political opinions.
The third sign is marginally mortifying, so Enjolras tries to pretend it never happened.
The fourth sign comes in the form of a phone call.
Enjolras is examining Combeferre’s work with cobwebs in the kitchen (it is actually pretty impressive) when Grantaire moves into the hallway behind him to answer his phone.
“Hey.” He says leaning his back against the hallway wall. “No, course, I always have time. What’s up?” There’s a long pause, before Grantaire makes a low noise of comprehension. “Sure, put him on.”
“Hey Gav.” Grantaire says quietly, his words sounding as coherent and well-enunciated as they did before he started drinking. “What’s up, kiddo?”
From what Enjolras can make out, the boy who can only be Gavroche goes into a detailed account of his trick or treating adventures, complete with a detailed itinerary of his candy haul. The conversation lasts over five minutes, and Grantaire never once sounds bored or uninterested. He’s not humoring the kid, or putting up with him, he’s just genuinely interested in what he has to say.
Yeah.
Enjolras might be the tiniest bit screwed.
---
At a bit past one, everything starts winding down. Most of the people who just came to party have cleared out, (Courfeyrac has called eleven cabs and Feuilly and Bahorel had to actually carry a sad drunk guy down into one),and the last of the stragglers begin to feel like they’re intruding when Feuilly puts in The Corpse Bride and Enjolras and all of his friends form a cuddle pile on the floor in front of the TV, so they start to collect their things as well. One brave soul, a girl named Musichetta who either likes The Corpse Bride enough to endure being a ninth wheel or just genuinely doesn’t realize she’s probably overstaying her welcome, sits beside them on an armchair with a bowl of chips and occasionally makes witty comments about the movie.
Since Grantaire has stayed this long and Courfeyrac invited him to spend the night if he wanted, Enjolras is more than a little surprised when, halfway through the movie, Grantaire lifts his head from Jehan’s stomach and announces that he’s heading home. So surprised, in fact, that he almost leaps to his feet, telling Grantaire that he’ll walk him out. From where his head is rested in Combeferre’s lap, Courfeyrac beams at him and holds two thumbs up. Everyone bemoans the loss of Grantaire, even Musichetta, who begs him to stay with such casual comfortableness that leaves Enjolras feeling like maybe he’s missed something. He promises to sit next to Combeferre in their next sociology class, agrees to visit Bahorel at the bar where he works sometime, and exchanges numbers with Cosette.
Honestly, it should bother Enjolras a lot more than it does that Grantaire has bonded with his friends so much faster than Enjolras did. He shrugs it off, and goes to grab a coat as Musichetta slides off her armchair to take Enjolras’ place on the floor, and Feuilly and Bahorel immediately pull her into the pile. Not for the first time, Enjolras wonders who the hell this ‘Musichetta’ woman even is. He borrows Courfeyrac’s spare key to let himself back into the building, slings one of Marius’ jackets over his shoulders, and follows Grantaire out of the apartment.
“You didn’t have to walk me out, you know.” Grantaire murmurs, as soon as the door closes behind them. “I’m more than capable of going down a few flights of stairs.”
“Never said you weren’t, I just-“ Enjolras pauses, registering suddenly that this is the first time they’ve been alone in hours. “Well, I hope this wasn’t a complete waste of your time.” He finishes lamely, and Grantaire chuckles at him.
“Nah, it was great, really.” He says, doing a funny little hop down the stairs. “I think I love all of your friends. Might keep ‘em.”
Enjolras snorts out a laugh. “It’s more likely they’ll keep you. They can be incredibly persistent in people adoption, especially Feuilly.”
“Eh,” Grantaire sighs, tugging at the collar of his vampire shirt as they step onto the ground floor. “I think you’re all a bit out of my league, really.” He looks up at Enjolras finally, a strange, unreadable expression on his face. “Some more than others."
“I-“ A number of things happen in in a matter of seconds. Their eyes meet. Grantaire inhales sharply. A car horn blares somewhere in the distance. Enjolras asks Grantaire out. An elderly woman steps out of the elevator wearing orange crocks and a witch hat.
Grantaire opens and closes his mouth once, twice, before stammering, “Wait, what?”
“Um, I just thought we could get coffee or something.” Enjolras feels the blood rise to his cheeks as he forces himself to continue, “Or lunch, maybe? Or brunch, Courfeyrac swears it’s the latest casual date trend-“
“You don’t want to date me.” Grantaire interrupts, still looking a little shell-shocked.
Enjolras raises an eyebrow; that was not the reaction he was expecting. “Um, no, I’m pretty sure I do?”
Shaking his head, Grantaire takes a step away from him. “I’m not something you can fix, man. You can’t make me believe, or adopt me for your great Cause or whatever, trust me. People have tried.” He raises two fingers to his temple and gives Enjolras a mock salute. “It’s been a hoot and a half, have a nice life.”
And then he’s walking away. He’s walking away, and Enjolras panics. His mind races, thinking of something, anything to say or do short of running after him like a rom-com cliche, and, just as Grantaire’s hand closes around the door handle, he blurts out, “Your nose is crooked.”
It, astonishingly, works. Grantaire freezes midstep, and turns to look at Enjolras curiously. “Excuse me?”
“Your nose.” Enjolras repeats, feeling more confident. “It looks like it’s been broken, maybe more than once. And it’s too large for your face.”
“Gee, thanks.” Grantaire drones, rolling his eyes even as he shifts his weight from side to side uncomfortably.
“You’re antagonistic, and irritating, and sometimes scarily nihilistic.”
Grantaire nods, slowly. “Sorry, were you not asking me out a minute ago? Because this is really not how most people go about that.”
“Just-“ Enjolras huffs, irrationally frustrated that Grantaire wasn’t able to wordlessly understand what he’s trying to do. “This is me not lying to you, okay? Not everyone has to lie all the time, contrary to popular belief.” Grantaire’s lips turn up in the briefest hint of a smile at that, which Enjolras takes as a sign that he can continue. “You equal parts irritate and confuse me, and I’m not really sure if you like me or not. But I think I might like you, because you’re clever, you’re different, and.. you challenge me, in a way that no one else really ever has. And I just got a glimpse of that, which isn't enough; I’d like to see more of you. I’m not going to say this can’t potentially end in disaster, I’m just saying that I’ll only try to change your mind if you promise to try to change mine, and maybe we should give this a shot."
Raising an eyebrow at Enjolras, Grantaire says skeptically, "You sure you're not just trying to convert me to the Holy Order of the Revolution?"
"I've got enough people who agree with me." Enjolras says simply. "I could do with someone who doesn't."
Grantaire groans in exasperation, shaking his head slowly. With an exaggerated sigh, he takes a step towards Enjolras. “You’re worryingly idealistic.”
Enjolras nods, trying to bite back a smile. “Okay.”
“You’re going to go down in flames.” Grantaire says seriously, taking another step towards him.
“Debatable, but I’ll take it.”
Grantaire takes a final step, and reluctantly smiles back at Enjolras. “You’re frustratingly gorgeous.”
Enjolras schools his face into a mock frown, teasing, “I’d say that’s more of an opinion, wouldn’t you?“
“Yes, by all means, let’s argue about your prettiness.” Grantaire mutters, rolling his eyes. “Or, to save time, you could just kiss me.”
So he does.
(Argue, that is.
He speaks for almost two minutes on the societal standard of beauty and how it’s inherently racist and fallacious, until Grantaire clasps a hand over his mouth in frustration. With an exasperated groan, he asks if he can kiss Enjolras, if only to shut him up. Enjolras roll his eyes, but grants him permission.)