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“So let me get this straight,” Courfeyrac says, enunciating every word very slowly, “you think you’re homophobic because you saw Grantaire kissing a guy and it made you want to punch him?”
“It made me want to punch the other guy,” Enjolras corrects, feeling vaguely wounded. He could never want to hurt Grantaire. That, at least, is something he can be certain of. “I figured–well, he’s my friend, it makes sense that I wouldn’t want to hurt him regardless of everything else, even if I apparently don’t agree with his choice of partners. It’s the other guy that I have a problem with. And what Grantaire was doing with him. God, my parents would be so proud.”
“Yes,” Courfeyrac says, and and his voice sounds strangled, “yes, you would have a problem with Grantaire kissing some guy, wouldn’t you?”
That hurts. Not like Courfeyrac doesn’t have a point, not with how Enjolras reacted to seeing Grantaire’s lips pressed to another guy, Grantaire’s hands moving to his hair, Grantaire pulling him closer and closer and–Courfeyrac clears his throat, the noise startling Enjolras back to the present.
His hands have curled into fists without him noticing or allowing it; he uncurls them now, slowly.
“Right,” Courfeyrac says, throwing his hands up. “Right, that is–this is—right. You know, this is a little beyond even my considerable expertise, so if you don’t mind I’m going to just–Right.” He gets up, unable to look at Enjolras, his shoulders shaking with something Enjolras can only identify as quiet rage, and crosses to room to slam his fist hard against the door to Combeferre’s room.
“What?” Combeferre asks, the moment he opens the door, and glares sleepily at both of them.
“Combeferre,” Courfeyrac says. It sounds as if it’s taking him all his self-control to keep his voice even. “Enjolras didn’t like it when he saw Grantaire kiss another guy so now obviously he’s arrived at the conclusion that he has a problem with homossexuality.”
“Obviously,” Combeferre echoes.
“Yes,” Courfeyrac agrees.
“Right,” Combeferre says, and shuts the door right in his face.
“Well, that was just rude,” Courfeyrac comments.
The door to Combeferre’s room slides open again. He pokes his head out, fixes an impressive glare on Courfeyrac. “You deal with it,” he practically hisses.
“He’s your friend, too.”
“Yes,” Combeferre agrees. “And if he ever wants to learn all about moths’ mating rituals, I’ll be there to teach him. This, however, is completely your area of expertise, So, you deal with it. Have a nice night, Courfeyrac.”
WIth that, he slams his door shut again. There is a weird sound coming from inside that under any other circumstances Enjolras would identify as helpless laughter.
“Right, okay, I can do this,” Courfeyrac is telling himself. “I can totally do this. I’m a strong, independent love khaleesi, I don’t need Combeferre to hold my hand as I have this conversation. So–right. You should have a seat. I should have a drink. Drinks are good, drinks are fine, I like drinks.”
“I am sitting down,” Enjolras remarks miserably. “And nevermind. I know it’s not–I know, okay? I know it’s horrible. I would never, ever believe I could feel like this but. It’s what it is. I still want to go strangle him with my bare hands.”
“You still want to go strangle the guy kissing Grantaire with your bare hands?” Courfeyrac asks pointedly, as if this is supposed to make any sense to Enjolras.
“Don’t worry,” Enjolras says, hiding his face in his hands for a calming moment. “I won’t. I can control that much, at least. I’m not going to–it’s going to be okay. I should probably resign from–”
“Oh, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says, and there is pity in his voice. “You really think that’s what’s really going on here, don’t you?”
Enjolras had been prepared for anger, for disappointment, for Courfeyrac to kick him out of the apartment. He has no idea what to do with Courfeyrac’s pity. He doesn’t deserve Courfeyrac’s pity. He doesn’t get to have Courfeyrac’s pity anymore.
“I should go,” he says, standing up swiftly.
“Enjolras, for the love of God, let me just explain something to you–”
Enjolras bolts out of the room, not giving Courfeyrac time to explain anything at all.
—
Of course, with his luck being what it is, he runs right into Grantaire the moment he sets foot outside the apartment building.
“Hello there, Apollo,” Grantaire greets cheerfully. “Up roaming the streets in the middle of the night for justice and liberty?”
At least the guy that’d been mauling all over him at the cafe isn’t anywhere close by. That’s something. It helps keep Enjolras’ anger under control, though it’s a near thing when he notices the hickeys on Grantaire’s neck.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, and his voice comes out a lot more accusatory than he’d intended, though it probably shouldn’t be as surprising as it is. “And at this time?”
“Walk of shame,” Grantaire replies immediately, wiggling his eyebrows. “Well, I’m not really sure it counts as a walk of shame when I have no shame to speak of. Can I call it a got laid parade? Because that sounds more accurate.”
“So you’re dating now?” Enjolras asks, and there it is, the anger coming back–his eyes narrow, his voice is cold and sharp, his hands are curled into fists again.
Grantaire, thankfully, is oblivious. “Why, because we fucked?” he laughs. “We are to be wed next week, it’s the only way to protect my honor.”
Enjolras’ lips are a thin line.
“No, we are not dating,” Grantaire continues, waving a hand. “I don’t have to date everyone I fuck. Arnauld was fun but he wasn’t–what I wanted. And I wouldn’t be what he wanted when he realized what I did want. You know, the thing. Where I’m sort of pathetically in love with–. That thing. Of which we don’t talk about.”
Enjolras has no idea what they’re even talking about at this point. “What thing do we not talk about?” he asks, confusion evident on his face.
“Um.” Grantaire bites at his lip–at the lip fucking Antoine was fucking attached to just two hours ago and God, if Enjolras ever gets his hands on him–and watches Enjolras thoughtfully. “So maybe you are as oblivious as Courfeyrac says you are,” he says after a long pause. “Nevermind, it’s not important. It’s been fun to run into you, Apollo, but I should really get going. Don’t you have a class in like three hours?”
“I’m an awful person,” Enjolras blurts out, unable to stop the flow of words now that he’s started. “I am. I didn’t think I’d be, not about this–especially not about this–but. I am. I hated seeing you with him, I hated seeing that, and I never thought this–two men together–would be the sort of thing that’d bother me at all but it does, and I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Just looking at your neck makes me want to throttle him.”
Grantaire rubs a hand self-consciously over his own neck. Enjolras’s breaths come out much calmer when he doesn’t have to look at the marks someone left all over Grantaire’s neck.
“Do you really think…” Grantaire starts, shakes his head, stares at Enjolras looking completely lost. “You think–Enjolras, Courfeyrac spent the last meeting sitting on your lap.”
“There were no more seats,” Enjolras points out. “And my legs were cold.”
“You cried when Joly and Bossuet got together.”
“I did not,” Enjolras says, vaguely scandalized.
“Damn, I was sure you had,” Grantaire says with a wicked grin. It looks like he’s realized what’s going on, though Enjolras is still completely lost. “But have the frankly disgusting public displays of affection between those two ever bothered you?”
“Of course not,” Enjolras says. “They’re my friends, I want them to be happy.”
“Don’t you want me to be happy too?” Grantaire raises an eyebrow.
“Of course I do,” Enjolras replies instantly. “That’s not–of course that’s not. What I mean is–it didn’t bother me with them but it bothers me with you because–because–well, there’s–”
“Think it over, Apollo.” Grantaire smirks, arrogant and annoying and every bit as aggravating as the man himself. “You’re an intelligent person, you’re bound to get it soon enough.”
For a moment, Enjolras has no idea what’s going on.
And then he does.
Oh.
He surges forward immediately, his lips crashing against Grantaire’s in a vicious kiss, his hands fisting in the inky curls, even as Grantaire’s hands slide down his back and into his back pockets, pulling him closer and closer and closer.
“I still want to strangle Armand,” Enjolras confesses against Grantaire’s mouth when he pulls back.
“Arnauld ,” Grantaire corrects. “And you would.”
“Guess you’re going to have to keep me distracted.”
“Oh, I will.”
Enjolras is very much okay with that.
—
Enjolras: So. Um. Plot Twist?
Enjolras: Turns out I’m fine with Grantaire kissing guys if it’s me he’s kissing.
Courfeyrac: OH MY GOD THIS IS BRAND NEW INFORMATION
Enjolras: I can hear your sarcasm over the phone
Courfeyrac: go the fuck to sleep enjolras