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It starts with a couple of rushed hi-hellos in a packed classroom. Joly introduces him to Grantaire like he’s in a medication commercial reading off the side effects in one breath.
“R, hey, this is Combeferre, my classmate, I told you about him, do you remember Combeferre? I just gotta talk to him for a bit but anyway this is his best friend, En–”
Grantaire has never heard of anyone else with such a name in his life and he barely registers it. He means to ask Joly to repeat the guy’s name but he gets lost in a conversation with Combeferre about their notes in class, which leaves the guy and Grantaire to brave small talk. A dreadful thought. He’s not good at a lot of things, and small talk might be at the top of the list.
Turns out he needn’t have worried. The guy seems to be incapable of making small talk, and instead goes right into the deep philosophical discussions that internet posers claim to love, only that he’s the real deal.
“Okay, Ecclesiastes,” he says at some point, because the guy – named Ecclesiastes at the moment, it’s the first E word that came to his mind since they’re covering ecclesiastical art in one of his classes – is turning red and starting to hyperventilate. Apparently it's the wrong thing to say because his eyes widen and he stops talking, then he continues ranting with renewed indignation.
“Believing in God is abandoning reason, haven’t we already established that? It can’t be proven that He exists, it’s an illusion, an avoidance of the absurd–”
“He already knew that ten minutes ago. He’s just trying to piss you off now,” Combeferre says, holding Ecclesiastes by the arm. Grantaire grins. He decides that he likes Combeferre. “I’m afraid you’ll have to continue this invigorating discussion some other time.”
Ecclesiastes pulls away from Combeferre’s grip. “Invigorating my ass.” He stomps his way to the door with Combeferre trailing behind him.
“Soon he will,” Grantaire hears Combeferre say, which makes zero sense.
“Shut up, ‘Ferre,” the guy snaps.
Joly laughs beside him. “You’ve just met the president of Les Amis de l’ABC.”
Grantaire whips his head in Joly's direction. “That’s him? The guy you’re raving about in your favorite student org? How does he survive meetings if he gets so riled up like that?”
“That’s the most riled up I’ve seen him. Maybe except for that one time someone heckled him in a meeting and called him hot,” Joly says as he shoves his notebooks in his bag. “He’s usually pretty calm and collected.”
“Pretty, sure. Calm and collected, definitely not,” Grantaire says, following Joly out of the room.
Joly laughs harder. “Don’t let him hear you say that. He’ll be ten times worse.”
***
He’s ten times worse when Grantaire sees him again. Probably even more than ten.
He continues their last argument unprompted at the sight of Grantaire, and Grantaire really isn’t in the mood to argue about philosophical suicide, not when he’s been plagued by thoughts of the actual thing. He’s supposed to bring it up in therapy but he’s missed another session because he overspent his allowance on gin and tonic.
“I’m not in the mood, Electrophoresis,” he informs Electrophoresis. It’s a word he saw from a clinical chemistry lesson in Joly’s binder that morning before he headed for his class.
Electrophoresis narrows his eyes. “It’s a laboratory technique that utilizes an electrical current to separate and identify molecules,” he defines.
Grantaire realizes that the guy thought Grantaire was testing the extent of his knowledge, which he wasn’t, but he decides to go with it anyway. They end up arguing about the diagnostic use of protein electrophoresis in detecting multiple myeloma. The guy insists that it’s necessary to detect abnormal antibodies, Grantaire points out that it’s only done in specialized labs and that routine lab tests would be more reliable.
“They’re not diagnostic.”
“You diagnose by correlating tests, prick.”
“That’s why you have to order an electrophoresis test!”
“Not always!”
Grantaire further realizes that it isn’t just Joly who subjects his roommates to lectures about his own degree. Apparently everyone studying health sciences does it.
Electrophoresis ends the argument with a dismissive hair flip – in reality it’s more of a sharp turn but his hair falls dramatically behind him and it’s too majestic to be ignored – and stomps his way out of the room.
“In his defense, his name starts with E-N,” Combeferre says, appearing beside Grantaire before he follows after the guy. Grantaire blinks at him before he bursts into laughter, drawing judging looks from other students.
“I think I get why Combeferre is the top of your class now,” Grantaire tells Joly later that day.
“Yeah, well, you don’t have to rub it on my face,” Joly grumbles. He sighs. “But yeah. He’s really smart.”
“His friend though, not so much,” Grantaire says. Joly flashes him an incredulous look, then Grantaire tells him about what happened, at which Joly loses his shit.
“Electrophoresis? How do you even know about multiple myeloma? What the fuck is going on?” Joly asks in between cackles.
Now it’s Grantaire’s turn to grumble. “You drilled that protein lecture into me before your long quiz, man. And I forgot his name and I can’t ask him now.”
“I’m never telling you his name, oh my God,” Joly wheezes. “And Combeferre is right. Try enterobacterium next time. Or endospore.”
“I was thinking of encephalitis.”
Joly loses his shit again.
***
Grantaire goes to a Les Amis meeting upon Joly’s arm-twisting. It wouldn’t have worked if Bossuet didn’t start physically twisting his arm, and that’s how he finds himself at Musain’s backroom with Joly and Bossuet at his either side, clutching both of his arms to themselves to prevent him from fleeing.
It doesn’t last five minutes before Grantaire gets into an argument with the guy. “Okay, listen, Enterobacterium," he starts, and Joly snorts so loudly he chokes, and Combeferre goes into a coughing fit as he tries to stifle his laughter. Enterobacterium’s face contorts into various bemused expressions as he listens to Grantaire shoot down their plans.
“Asking for permission from professors will defeat the purpose of the walkout!”
“These students have never even seen a protest in this university. What makes you think they’ll just walk out of their damn classrooms?”
The next thing Grantaire knows, they’re no longer arguing about the student walkout, but are arguing about the use of broad-spectrum antibiotics to treat sepsis, which came about because Grantaire called the guy Enterobacterium.
He only realizes it when one of them who’s called Bahorel yells, “What the fuck is peptidoglycan?” to which Combeferre replies, “It’s a part of a bacterial cell wall. Gram-positive bacteria have thicker peptidoglycan layers. Those in Gram-negative bacteria are thinner.”
Then the guy called Marius, this one Grantaire is familiar with, asks, “Does this have something to do with the walkout?”
It doesn’t. Combeferre tries to steer the meeting back to the topic with the help of the guy on the other side of Enterobacterium whose name also starts with C – Grantaire names him Campylobacter in his head – and they succeed. Grantaire stays silent for the rest of the meeting. He might lose his mind if Enterobacterium rants about antimicrobial resistance one more time.
“Is this some kind of convoluted plan to get Grantaire to help you study for your exams?” Bossuet asks Joly after the meeting as they walk back to their apartment.
Joly turns to him, eyes sparkling. “No,” he says. “But now that you’ve mentioned that, then yes.”
Grantaire huffs but doesn’t refute Joly. As annoying as the guy is, Grantaire does enjoy arguing with him. He’s knowledgeable about a lot of things, and it's amazing to witness him pour his heart out into every argument, like he has to die on every hill he sees. The dying thing might not even be a hyperbole for him. He’s that intense.
***
Grantaire discovers that the guy can get even more intense when he argues. Grantaire had forgotten that the topics they often argue about aren’t the guy’s expertise, nor his, so he’s pleasantly surprised when he manages to pester the guy into unleashing a beast as he writes an essay for one of his classes. It happens at a table outside a coffee shop one day.
“Do you hear yourself? Do you seriously stand by that?” the guy says in a single breath, looking extremely baffled.
Grantaire thinks that if he searched the word incredulous on merriam-webster.com, the guy’s face would show up. “Yes, Entrepreneur, seriously,” he says, nodding as solemnly as he could.
The look on the guy’s face is priceless. He swallows and closes his eyes, as if simply seeing Grantaire next to him is causing him physical pain. It amuses Grantaire to no end. “Do you care to elaborate on that?” he asks when he looks at Grantaire again, too focused on his disdain that he doesn’t even comment on Grantaire’s nickname for him.
“I can’t say I care but sure, I’ll elaborate on it,” Grantaire says with a grin. The guy scowls at him. “When the means of production are privately owned, it enables everyone to engage with the market according to their own interests. Isn’t that the very idea of egalitarianism, where everyone has equal opportunities?”
“In theory, yes.”
“So you agree. Then there’s nothing to argue about.”
“That’s not the reality that we’re living in and you know it,” the guy snaps, and Grantaire feels himself grin wider. “Capitalism exploits human labor and monopolizes resources, all while wealth continues to be accumulated by the capital owner. Equality can never exist in a society that’s constructed to only benefit the rich.”
“Benefit people like you, you mean,” Grantaire says, cocking an eyebrow.
“That’s…” The guy pauses and purses his lips. “Yes. People like me. But we’re not arguing about that. We’re arguing about how you think that capitalism is egalitarian by definition. It’s contrary–”
“You just said that it is, in theory!” Grantaire interrupts.
“In theory!” the guy repeats. “But I’m not writing about theoretical conditions! I’m writing about real life consequences of having a capitalist society!”
“That isn’t the assignment that your professor gave you,” Grantaire argues. “It’s clearly asking, is capitalism egalitarian? And the answer is yes.”
“Cite one capitalist country where there is equal distribution of wealth, opportunities, and rights. Just one,” the guy snarls, standing up as he points a finger on Grantaire’s face. They get concerned looks from people walking past them.
“The question was never about a capitalist society,” Grantaire says, shrugging.
The guy huffs. “Fine.” He sits down and starts typing on his laptop with way too much aggression.
Grantaire watches him and reads along as he changes his thesis statement. “Capitalism, an economic system wherein the means of production are privately owned, can never be egalitarian in nature. It may, in theory, reflect some aspect of equal opportunity, but in the end will always lean itself towards profit, which it solely exists for, at the expense of society and the world. Hmm.”
The guy stops typing and turns to him, eyes sharp. “What?”
“Better, I think,” Grantaire says, leaning back on his chair. He brings his arms behind his head and stretches with a groan. “What better way to argue your point than to contradict yourself first?”
He hears the guy huff before he starts typing again. “Only you would say that,” he mutters. Grantaire grins to himself as he closes his eyes.
***
Grantaire is starting to believe that Joly doesn’t know the guy very well. His assessment of the guy being calm and collected gets disproven by said guy every time Grantaire meets him, and today doesn’t help his case.
“‘S’nice to see you, Egalitarianism,” he says when he bumps into the guy, both of them on their way to the student lounge.
“Don’t,” Egalitarianism hisses. “Not today.”
Grantaire holds his hands up. “Someone pissed in your coffee?”
“He might as well have, yes.” The guy looks murderous.
But Grantaire has a death wish, so it’s all good. He sits next to the guy when anyone else would have fled, except for Combeferre probably. “Who’s this he you’re referring to?”
The guy brings his laptop out and puts it down heavily on the table. He wrenches the lid open and Grantaire worries about its hinges. He explains, “Lamarque, one of my professors. He’s making me redo my essay because he thinks it’s AI-generated.”
“You? AI-generated?”
“Yes,” the guy snarls. He pulls a file folder from his bag and opens it, revealing multiple pages of paper fastened inside, and shoves it to Grantaire. He squints his eyes at the handwritten note on the margin of the first page that says, in pink ink, Rephrase. Sounds like AI.
Grantaire’s eyes widen and his mouth falls open. “That’s fucking insane.”
“I know.” The guy opens a Word document on his laptop and sighs as he types.
Grantaire watches him, feeling pity and offense on his behalf. “Why does he think it’s AI?”
The guy huffs. His rage is palpable. “He thinks it’s AI because I used the word substantive.”
Grantaire finds himself slack-jawed once again. “Substantive?”
“Yes.”
“That’s like, a very normal word to find in an essay,” Grantaire balks. “Normal enough to use in casual conversation. What?”
The guy shakes his head and shrugs, saying what can you do. “I have to submit another essay or else I’m getting a zero for it.”
“Jesus Christ.” Grantaire brings his hand to his forehead, still in disbelief. “Lamarque, you said? Isn’t that your favorite professor?”
The guy stops typing and his shoulders visibly sag. “Yes.”
Grantaire whistles. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry, dude.” He pats the guy on his shoulder and he starts typing again.
“It’s not even the worst thing,” the guy says. “I got the word from an article on Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy and I was worried he’d think that I plagiarized that article. But no!” He stops and looks up, closing his eyes as he breathes heavily. Grantaire is convinced he would start crying any second. “I wish he’d just accuse me of plagiarism. I’d accept that straight away.”
“That’s unfair, man. A new essay or a zero,” Grantaire says, shaking his head. He may like to rile up the guy, but now he genuinely feels bad for him.
The guy balls his hands into fists. “I know. I’m so…” He shakes his head. “I’m afraid that if I submit another essay, he’s just going to think I used AI on it as well.”
“Then don’t,” Grantaire says. “Prove that you didn’t use ChatGPT or whatever with that essay. Print your search history.”
The guy turns to him, his deep blue eyes shining bright with determination. Grantaire looks away before he drowns in them and gives the guy another pat on the shoulder.
Grantaire hangs out with the guy as he compiles the articles he cited together with his search history. They part ways some time after he finishes his work so that he could talk to his professor. Grantaire goes back to the apartment to start working on one of his assignments, a study in Impressionism – which normally would bore him to death because he’s not big on anything that’s not abstract, but for some reason it doesn’t, and he in fact finds himself playing with the light source in his painting, liking the way it falls on the subject – then he helps Joly study for his clinical bacteriology exam, then he goes out for dinner and bumps into the guy again.
“Hi, Enterococcus. How’s the essay thing with Leptospira?” he greets.
Enterococcus narrows his eyes and frowns, clearly at his wits’ end with Grantaire’s bullshit. He thinks the guy would start snapping at him but instead the guy says, coldly, “Thanks for asking. He laughed at me and gave me a zero.”
Grantaire gapes. “What? What the fuck happened? Are you okay?”
Enterococcus blinks at him, then huffs an incredulous laugh. “I am fine, actually. I didn’t know you were concerned about my health.”
“I’m capable of not being a dick,” Grantaire grumbles. “Sorry I asked. I just thought that getting a zero for something can be quite depressing.”
The guy cracks a small smile. “Thanks for asking,” he says quietly. He clears his throat. “I thought about throwing potato salad on my professor’s face, but Combeferre would be very disappointed in me if I did it, so I didn’t.”
“You care about Combeferre’s opinion of you a lot, huh,” Grantaire remarks.
The guy shrugs. “He looks out for me. He means well.”
Grantaire offers the guy some fries, and he reaches out to get some. “What happened?” he asks again.
The guy sighs as he chews. “I told him that I didn’t use AI to generate the essay, then I showed him the stuff I compiled earlier. He laughed. Said I didn’t have to do all of that. I told him I wasn’t going to write another essay just because he thought I didn’t write the first one. He said that he also gave the same comment to other students in the class and they all made new essays except for me, so it would be unfair if I didn’t submit a new one. I told him I’ll take the zero mark.”
“Fuck, dude,” is all Grantaire can say.
The guy shrugs. “I keep saying that we should never tolerate injustice whenever we come across it, right? This is a form of injustice. And this is the consequence of resistance.”
“You’re so metal.”
The guy frowns. “You’re the one who said it’s unfair,” he says, grabbing more of Grantaire’s fries. “You talked me into it.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d actually commit to it like that,” Grantaire says, pushing the box of fries towards the guy.
“I’m nothing but committed.”
“Damn,” Grantaire says, staring at the guy with wide eyes.
The guy laughs. “Tell me about your classes. All we talk about are our friends’ classes and mine and it makes me feel like a jerk.”
Grantaire laughs with him as he tells him about his assignment, about Impressionism and Monet, about how he usually isn’t interested in painting realism and light, and how his art seems to have changed lately. The guy asks him questions and hums at the right places, and Grantaire feels oddly at peace.
***
Grantaire keeps bumping into the guy and the guy keeps arguing with him. Joly has another upcoming microbiology exam, and so does Combeferre, he assumes, so all the names Grantaire gives him are that of microorganisms.
“Hey, Entamoeba,” Grantaire says to the guy when they meet at a line in a coffee shop on campus. He quizzes Entamoeba on how to differentiate Entamoeba species while they wait for their orders, and he scowls at Grantaire.
“E. histolytica is morphologically indistinguishable from three other species,” Entamoeba says. “And anything aside from histolytica isn’t clinically significant.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” Grantaire says, delighted. “You differentiate them by the number of nuclei and the presence of red blood cells.” Joly told him that specific bit of information about a hundred times within the space of an hour. Joly should be proud of him for remembering.
“The latter you can only observe in E. histolytica, which is why it’s the only clinically significant species,” Entamoeba says dryly, grabbing his coffee with way too much sass and leaves the line, not even sparing a glance at Grantaire. He grins.
The next time he sees the guy he’s chatting with his classmate Eponine, who has heard of Les Amis and also happens to know the guy but not by name. Unfortunately for her, Grantaire doesn’t know his name either. “Why, yes, this is my friend, Endospore,” he says.
Endospore doesn’t bat an eyelid. He says to Eponine in the flattest voice possible, “Hello. It’s nice to meet you.”
Eponine blinks at both of them, clearly weirded out. “Okay. Nice,” she says, and turns to leave.
They see each other again some time and it’s when Joly and Combeferre are studying for a clinical chemistry quiz, so Grantaire calls him Endocrine. “A shock runs down my spine every time I see you. I’m not sure if it's a good or a bad thing.”
Endocrine narrows his eyes at Grantaire. His face becomes all wrinkly when he does it, like a cat who’s just smelled something awful. It’s not exactly cute but Grantaire can see the appeal. “The endocrine system doesn’t rely on electrical signals. It relies on hormones released into the bloodstream to target organs.”
“Shit.” Grantaire barks a laugh. “What’s that again? Nervous system?”
“Yeah, the signal travels from the brain to the spinal cord then the nerves, then vice versa,” Endocrine says, nodding to himself, likely trying to recall Combeferre’s notes.
“I really just wanted to use that line on you,” Grantaire admits, and Endocrine laughs. A smile breaks across his face and – okay, he didn’t have to be that beautiful. Since when was he that beautiful? Grantaire might have stopped breathing for a moment.
“Our friends need to stop discussing their own lectures to us,” Endocrine says, shaking his head. “I could probably pursue a double degree at this point.”
Grantaire laughs along weakly, still reeling from the guy’s enchanting smile. Wait, Grantaire could call him enchantress – but he might kill Grantaire with his bare hands, and that should be avoided – though he wouldn’t be opposed to having the guy’s hands on him –
“Earth to you,” Endocrine says, his lips pulled to a tight smile.
“Huh? Sorry,” Grantaire says, blinking himself back to the conversation.
“You really are out of it today, huh.”
“Uh, no. Yeah. What degree are you pursuing?”
It isn’t the smoothest segué he’s ever done, but they’ll have to make do with it. Endocrine rolls his eyes but lets Grantaire know that he’s studying political science and is planning to go to law school, then he asks Grantaire about his fine arts degree. They find out that they had shared a philosophy class last year, but Grantaire says that they might have had different professors.
“Dude, there’s no way I’d just forget someone like you,” he says.
Endocrine huffs. “Because I’m overly combative and I would’ve made your classes a memorable hell?”
Grantaire opens his mouth and closes it again. He was planning to say something about his pretty face, but again, he might get a knife in the gut for that. So he says, “A scintillating kind of hell, yeah.”
“Scintillating,” Endocrine snorts. “Sure.”
Today, flattery proves to get one somewhere, because Grantaire ends up having lunch with the guy and arguing about the most attainable way to overthrow the existing capitalist economy. Endocrine insists that only a revolution could bring about social change, and Grantaire points out that the inevitable violence that would come out of it would only be counterproductive to said social change.
“You don’t strike me to be a pacifist,” Endocrine comments midbite into his sandwich.
“I’m not. I’m just more of a gradualist,” Grantaire says, shrugging. “I don’t have too much faith in the will of the people.”
Endocrine chokes. “Wow.” He sounds so offended. “And you have faith in existing institutions that are clearly corrupt?”
“Dude, how many successful revolutions are there in history?” Grantaire asks, then the guy starts listing them, then Grantaire says, “That depends on how you define successful,” then the guy chokes again and gets more riled up and it makes Grantaire laugh.
“It’s impossible to overthrow the ruling class solely by peaceful means. Force has to be applied.”
“Thousands die in uprisings and revolutions. The ruling class sees to it.”
“Death is often necessary. People die in the radiance of the future and their graves are illuminated by the dawn.”
That line goes hard as fuck, Grantaire thinks, and he’s so right about the guy and his thoughts about dying. Jesus.
They eventually settle into silence as they finish their respective sandwiches. A truce.
“You know, this is more fun than arguing about medical stuff,” the guy says as he folds his sandwich wrapper.
“True,” Grantaire mumbles, his mouth full. He finishes chewing before he continues. The guy seems to be uptight enough to be put off by things like that, and Grantaire can’t put him off any further. He’ll deem Grantaire unbearable by then. “Next time, we should talk about whether democracy still means anything these days.”
The guy laughs. Grantaire grins, elated that he’s made the guy laugh repeatedly today. Not that he’s counting. But he’ll count that snort the guy did when –
“I didn’t know that art students have a lot of philo classes,” the guy says.
“We don’t,” Grantaire says. “I just took them for my free electives.”
“Why?”
“So I could argue with pretty boys like you.” Grantaire realizes what he just said after he blurted it out. He looks up at the guy with wide eyes, whose reaction is similar to his, then he says, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that. Please don’t kill me. I’d love to keep arguing with you and I can’t do that dead.”
The guy throws his head back and laughs. “What?”
Grantaire shrugs. “Joly said you got mad that time someone called you hot in one of your meetings.”
The guy snorts, his shoulders shaking with the laughter he’s trying to smother. “Actually, she called me a hot dumb blond and it was the dumb part that made me mad. I was talking about the legislative process when she said I got it all wrong. I’m a political science major.”
“She isn't wrong,” Grantaire mutters, and the guy shoots him a hard stare. “Though I’d rather say deluded instead of dumb–”
“Ah, fuck you,” the guy says immediately, though there’s a wide grin on his face.
Hearing someone who looks like him swear should be laughable at best and cringeworthy at worst, but it’s neither. Suddenly there’s butterflies in Grantaire’s stomach, dissipating into laughter that bubbles out of him, and for some reason the world feels brighter than usual.
***
Grantaire must have committed a heinous crime or offended a god in his past life because that would explain all the misfortunes that constantly happen to him: one, he stops running into the guy; two, he starts feeling sick all the time. He’s not sure if the two are related.
He goes to his classes in a stupor, he walks around the campus disconcerted. One day he starts feeling like he’s going blind and he tells Joly about it, which sends him into a panic. He sticks a flashlight into Grantaire’s eyes and sighs in relief as he lets Grantaire know that his eyes and brain are still functional. Bossuet thinks it might be psychological, so Joly suggests expressing what he’s feeling through his art. His pieces end up being covered in white and gold and light and the sun, to everyone’s confusion and his.
“Have you run out of black paint?” Eponine asks.
“Did you forget how to mix dark colors?” Feuilly joins in.
“I just got really into Tangled,” Grantaire lies. “You know, I see the light.” It’s sort of true.
They don't believe him.
He gets worse when he goes to a Les Amis meeting with Joly and Bossuet and finds Combeferre presiding in the guy’s place. The final nail in his coffin is driven when Combeferre announces that meetings will now be held every two weeks instead of weekly, and he realizes that the change has something to do with the guy vanishing.
A month passes and he accepts that the guy is gone. He goes back to his old habits again, drinking his weight, which he promised his therapist he already quit, but he hasn’t seen the doctor in months so who’s gonna stop him?
One time he and Joly bump into Combeferre, and he feels tightness grow in his chest as he’s reminded of the first time he met the guy. He ignores it and puts it down to heartburn from wine. The tightness persists, however, when he hears a familiar voice from Combeferre’s phone.
“I don’t even know what’s so great about New York.”
“Empire State Building, Statue of Liberty, Brooklyn Bridge, Central Park,” Combeferre enumerates. “The Met, Times Square, Broadway.”
Grantaire approaches him to take a look at his phone screen. He stops in his tracks and lets out a gasp when he sees that he’s Facetiming the guy. There’s lag and he’s badly pixelated, but Grantaire is sure it’s him. He’ll know that golden mane anywhere.
“Is there a difference between any other theater and Broadway?” the guy asks.
Combeferre scoffs. “Don’t say that out loud or Courfeyrac will hear you.”
They talk some more about the merits of New York-style pizza (the guy doesn’t like his pizza too thin nor too thick), about matinee and evening tickets in Broadway (matinees are cheaper but the theater will be full of old people), about possible strong contenders for a competition Grantaire doesn’t know about (George Washington University is popular this year), and finally about Les Amis, then Combeferre recaps the latest meeting to him.
“What’s he doing in New York?” Grantaire asks when the call ends, doesn’t beat around the bush.
Combeferre gets to the point right away as well, which is great, and says, “He and Courfeyrac were chosen by the university debate club as representatives for a debate competition there.”
Speech eludes Grantaire and he stares at Combeferre for a while. Courfeyrac, he thinks, is Campylobacter, the other guy whose name also starts with C and stands next to the guy during Les Amis meetings with Combeferre.
He moves on to more important realizations. So the guy hasn’t left the university after all. They were probably busy preparing for the competition, hence the vanishing, and he’ll probably be back in the campus afterwards, and he’ll probably preside the meetings again, and he’ll –
“I’m not going to come up with his new nicknames for you,” Combeferre says, and shows Grantaire his phone. “You can do it yourself.” There’s a phone number on the screen which Grantaire assumes to be the guy’s and oh, Combeferre is very smart indeed.
He thanks Combeferre and goes to lunch with Joly and Bossuet, which gives him enough time to think of what to text the guy, and he settles with hey entamoeba whats it like in new york city because he’s been feeling a little emo lately.
The guy doesn’t reply until hours later, presumably after the competition, and no, Grantaire isn’t feeling upset, why would you think that?
Hot dumb blond
Today, 7:09 PM
Is that a reference to something?
Grantaire sends a recording of him singing the line. His phone starts vibrating as it informs him that the guy is calling him, and he drops his phone.
“Hello?” he says after picking it up and answering the call.
He’s greeted by the guy giggling from the other end, managing to sound endearing even in a choppy call. “You’re stupid.”
Grantaire grins despite the insult. “I am.” The guy could call him all sorts of awful things and he’d smile through them all.
“No, not really,” the guy says. Grantaire can see him smiling that small private smile he allows himself sometimes, when he’s amused by something but he’s keeping it secret. “Sing the whole thing?”
Grantaire would never deny him anything, so he does. He grabs his guitar and plays along because he feels self-conscious singing a capella. He feels something burn in his stomach when he sings oh it’s what you do to me in the chorus and he puts it down to the burrito they had for lunch. Bossuet did say it tasted funny.
The guy claps when he finishes. He makes a sound that’s supposed to sound like the buzzer in The Voice, then he says, “I want you for my team,” laughing. “Seriously though. You’re good.”
“Uh, thanks,” Grantaire mumbles in a way that says oh God please don't compliment me.
The guy seems to get it and changes tack. “You know, I’ve never been serenaded before.”
Grantaire’s mouth has a habit of opening before his brain finishes a thought. “A face like that should get serenaded more often,” is out of his mouth before he realizes it.
“Serenade me then,” the guy says just as quickly.
Grantaire doesn’t know what to say to that, so he asks instead, “So how is New York?” as he does a full body shiver.
The guy huffs. “Too crowded and too cold. Did you know that they get crazy storms over here?”
“Don’t get sick now or Joly will fuss over you.”
“He should fuss over himself. He’s the one who’s always sick.”
“He does make a fuss over himself. He’s just immunocompromised.”
The guy bursts into laughter and Grantaire finds himself grinning. “You know, the funniest thing happened earlier.” Grantaire hums questioningly. “One of the topics that were given to us was separation of church and state. The leader of the opposition quoted Ecclesiastes to me, and it took all of my willpower not to start laughing. If I broke earlier, it would’ve been your fault.”
“What? Why would it be my fault?”
“You called me Ecclesiastes the first time we met when we were arguing about absurdism.”
“Oh God,” Grantaire says, pun intended, and they fall into a fit of giggles. “I didn’t catch your name when Joly introduced you. It was the first E word that I thought of. And it was existentialism we were arguing about, not absurdism.”
They spend the night differentiating the two, then they start arguing whether Camus is absurdist or existentialist, then they move on to discuss Kierkegaard and Nietzsche after twelve. Once they get to Sartre, Enjolras swears, “Fuck, it’s past four. Sorry I kept you up. You probably have class later today.”
He sounds genuinely regretful that Grantaire is compelled to lie. “I don’t, it’s fine.” He does. It’s at seven in the morning.
“Regardless, you should go to sleep,” Enjolras advises, which is basically an order. He ends the call after they bid each other good night and Grantaire leaves his phone on top of his chest, clutching it tightly. The hot phone screen burns his bare skin but he ignores it as he falls asleep.
He does go to class later in the morning despite feeling like he’s been run over by a train. Feuilly pats his head in sympathy as he chugs his third Red Bull in class and starts to vibrate on his seat, trying his best to hold his paintbrush in place.
Still, it’s nothing compared to the way he vibrates on his seat when the guy presides over a Les Amis meeting again after he and Courfeyrac win the debate competition. Members shower them with endless congratulations and the guy called Jehan wraps flower garlands he made himself around their necks.
Grantaire doesn’t stop smiling during the meeting even when there’s nothing to smile about, feeling especially giddy every time the guy shares a look with him. He must have twirled his hair and kicked his feet at some point. He’s absolutely gone.
It’s a good day. Everyone’s happy and so is he, and he knows he isn’t faking it this time out of peer pressure, but there’s a part of him that feels somewhat disappointed. He kind of wishes that the guy had done something crazy, like, swept in and pulled Grantaire into his arms and kissed him senseless in the middle of the room.
Or something. Fuck. Grantaire should stop watching romcoms on Netflix.
So apparently he’s now completely in love with the guy. And he still doesn’t know his name.
But since Grantaire isn’t in a romcom, that kind of thing doesn’t happen. The guy gets so busy with catching up on his classes and Les Amis that Grantaire doesn’t get to see or talk to him outside the meetings and it breaks his heart, if only a little.
***
The guy calls Grantaire one day and asks, “Are you busy?”
If it was any other day, Grantaire would’ve immediately dropped whatever he’s doing, but Joly had promised him fifty bucks if Grantaire makes him a study guide for the entirety of his medical microbiology lectures so he couldn’t just up and leave. Joly’s down with the cold again and badly needs help, and even Grantaire can be moved by pity. And money.
“Yeah, I am, sorry. Why?”
“Oh,” the guy says. “I was wondering if we could grab lunch together.”
Grantaire’s stomach flips at the thought. He weighs his choices. A lunch with the guy. Fifty bucks. How much would the lunch cost? Although the guy’s company is priceless…
“Yeah, nah, sorry, man. I’m on a deadline. Next time,” he says and doesn’t bother to mask his own disappointment.
“Alright then. I’ll see you.”
The call ends and he sighs dramatically. He puts on Lana Del Rey as he constructs a summary table of biochemical test results for clinically significant bacteria, singing along to Born to Die as he laments the situation. Why is he doing this? He’s a fine arts student, for fuck’s sake. Has he actually sunk this low for money? Is this what it entails to be a good friend?
Soon a knock on the door breaks him out of his reverie. He gets up with a sigh and opens it. Then he shrieks.
The guy is standing by the doorstep, carrying a paper bag. “What the hell are you doing here?” Grantaire yells at him.
The guy blinks. “I told you I’ll see you.”
“I thought you’ll see me some other time!” Grantaire cries out.
In the background, Lana is singing honey, I'm on fire, I feel it everywhere, nothing scares me anymore. Grantaire is a sitcom character.
“Sorry, I thought I was clear enough,” the guy says, grinning, clearly not sorry. “I brought us sandwiches though.”
I got that summertime, summertime sadness, Lana sings. Grantaire lets the guy in and runs back to the couch to turn the volume down on his laptop.
“I didn’t take you to be a Lana Del Rey fan,” the guy comments as he sits next to Grantaire.
“I’m a basic white girl,” Grantaire says sincerely.
The guy laughs as he unwraps his sandwich. “What are you working on?” he asks.
Grantaire groans mentally. If it was any other day, he could’ve been working on an assignment or a commission and he could’ve been showing it off to the guy, but no, he has to say, “I’m making a study guide for Joly.”
“For which subject?”
“Microbio.”
The guy tuts. “Good luck with that. Combeferre has been working on his for months. He just finished it last night.”
Grantaire groans audibly. “He’s paying me fifty dollars for this.”
The guy pats him on the shoulder. “Good luck with that,” he repeats.
They eat their sandwiches as Lana yearns some more in the background. Grantaire doesn’t play anything else when the album finishes, so the guy fills the silence with anecdotes from the competition instead.
“It was so frustrating,” he says as he rants about a contestant. “I mean, it was helpful for me and Courf of course, but it was still frustrating to listen to him make the same point as the prime minister did in the constructive.”
“Parroting,” Grantaire says, trying to be present in the conversation.
“Yes, exactly.” The guy nods. “They came fifth, I think.”
“Still pretty high.”
“Could’ve had a podium finish if the government member didn’t keep repeating his point.”
“Hmm.”
“Courf and I noticed that the prime minister was starting to get pissed off,” the guy recalls. He puts his head on Grantaire’s shoulder, who almost flinches.
Grantaire concentrates on keeping his breathing even and not jumping out of his skin and typing the correct things in the summary tables, so much that he forgets to respond to the guy, who lets out a petulant sigh. “Sorry,” he says.
The guy sighs again. “You’re not listening to me.”
“I always listen to you,” Grantaire says. Suddenly the guy slams the laptop shut and Grantaire barely has time to get his hands out of the way – he grabs it from Grantaire and moves it to the coffee table. He’s about to protest until the guy swings a leg over him and straddles his lap. Grantaire sits frozen under him.
“I don’t like it when your attention is somewhere else,” the guy all but growls against Grantaire’s neck as the guy holds onto his shoulders tightly to steady himself. Grantaire’s brain freezes over at the thought of the guy leaving red moons on his skin.
“Same here,” Grantaire mumbles. He gapes at the guy as he draws his thighs closer until they dig on Grantaire’s sides. They’re so close that Grantaire could feel heat coming off him. A furnace. He lets out a shaky breath.
The guy starts removing himself from Grantaire’s lap. He panics and quickly places his hands on the guy’s waist to keep him in place. The guy stills as he stares into Grantaire’s eyes. “Am I reading this wrongly or – ”
Grantaire draws a sharp breath. “No, no. Yes? I mean – ”
The guy moves his hand to cup Grantaire’s jaw and tilt his face up for a kiss, and he feels tension leave his shoulders, himself melting under the guy’s touch. He prods Grantaire’s mouth open with his tongue and a shock runs down his arms to his fingertips – at last he’s capable of movement, and he lets his hands roam up and down the guy’s back. He arches to the touch, and Grantaire studies the ripple of muscle under his hands all while the guy kisses him like it’s another point of his that he has to prove.
Grantaire finds it impossible to stop touching the guy after that, and he fits his palm over the mound of his ass, holds him firmly by the hips and arches his own back, pressing their groins together. The guy purrs and revels with all of it, letting out an appreciative moan as he pulls away to breathe. Grantaire tries to catch the guy’s mouth with his again, but gets distracted when the guy starts rutting against him.
Then he remembers the study guide he’s supposed to make.
“Shit.” He doesn’t manage to say anything else. Speech is incredibly difficult when there’s a hot guy who’s grinding on you. He tries again. “I want you more than anything but–” The guy moans again and spreads his thighs further, hips unceasing. Unfortunately it doesn’t help Grantaire formulate a coherent thought. “But Joly might have a psychotic breakdown if I don’t finish the study guide,” he finally says.
The guy is quick to reply, “Just give him Combeferre’s,” as he sucks a bruise on Grantaire’s neck. “I’ll send it to you.”
“Wouldn’t he kill me and Joly?” Grantaire gasps.
“He won’t. He owes me,” the guy growls again, and Grantaire feels his dick throb painfully. The guy laps on Grantaire’s skin and kisses up his jaw, bites his earlobe as he says, “I want to argue with you while I’m riding you so I can watch that stupid smirk get wiped off your face.”
The fact that Grantaire doesn’t come right there and then is a miracle. “Bedroom,” he blurts out, and the guy gets off him, then they scramble across the apartment to get to Grantaire’s bedroom. He worries that it’s Joly who’ll kill them both if they end up having sex on the couch, but he’s unable to string a sentence that long at the moment.
They fall into the bed in tangled limbs, and Grantaire has to peel himself off the guy to rummage through his nightstand, only for him to turn around and drop everything to the floor. He holds on to the nightstand to keep his knees from buckling under him. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathes, in disbelief at the sight before him.
“Sorry I couldn’t wait,” the guy says, punctuating it with a ragged moan as he arches his back off the bed. Grantaire watches him finger himself open, hypnotized by the way the guy’s slender finger disappears inside him, buried to his knuckle, then pulls it out again, only to repeat the same motion. His other hand grasps the sheets tightly as his thighs shake – another moan escapes him and his face crumples in ecstasy.
“Never apologize for that,” Grantaire says in a low voice, wrapping his hand around the base of his cock tightly. He catches his breath and picks up the lube and condom off the floor, walking over to the foot of the bed. He climbs onto it and kneels in front of the guy, running his hands up his legs. He trembles even more, and Grantaire holds his wrist to stop him. The guy props himself up with an elbow and watches Grantaire. He squeezes a dollop of lube on the guy’s fingers and the guy lies back down as Grantaire guides his fingers back inside him. “I can come just watching you like this,” he says.
“Well, we don't want that, do we,” the guy stammers as he works two fingers in himself and thrusts, seeking friction.
Grantaire clambers on top of him, slotting himself between the guy’s legs, spreading them wide. He bends down to kiss the guy, who tilts his face up, both of them hungry as if it’s been a lifetime since they last kissed. Grantaire wraps his hand around the guy’s cock, coaxing another moan out of him, and starts stroking him slowly. He watches the rise and fall of his chest grow more erratic, then he lets go of the guy’s cock and pulls his hand away. Grantaire slides his own fingers inside the guy, curling it deeply, and the guy whimpers.
“Ready?” he asks, pressing a kiss at the corner of his lips. The guy nods frantically and Grantaire gets off of him to roll the condom on his cock. He sits on his knees as he helps the guy on top of him, then he lines himself on Grantaire’s cock and slowly sinks.
Heat. Unbearable, unbearable heat and impossible tightness descends upon Grantaire, and it takes everything of him not to start fucking into the guy. Instead he grips the guy by his hips, hard enough to leave bruises, holding on for dear life as he takes all of Grantaire inside him.The guy buries his hands in Grantaire’s hair, yanking on his curls for leverage as he lifts himself up and slams back down on Grantaire’s cock.
A whine is ripped out of the guy’s throat and he throws his head back, baring his exquisite neck. Grantaire is drawn to it and kisses him all over, bites the skin his mouth lands on, drags his tongue over it to feel the ridges left by his teeth.
The guy finally rises, dragging it out excruciatingly slowly, then moves back down at the same pace. It drives Grantaire insane and want burns in him, but he finds himself incapable of anything, of movement, of thought, of will. The guy has rendered him completely powerless. He lets the guy move on top of him and he takes it as much as he could, but it’s never enough, and his voice breaks as he begs, “Please, baby, please.”
He winces at the pet name slipping out of him, fearing that the guy might find it distasteful. He doesn’t, to Grantaire’s surprise, and it even works in his favor as the guy speeds up the snap of his hips, starts riding him relentlessly, and his vision whites out.
A realization comes to Grantaire. “Apollo,” he sighs, burying his head to the crook of the guy’s neck and wrapping his arms around him, bringing them closer as the guy continues to ride him. Him being a god would be the only explanation for the way he is. “I’ve spent all my life in darkness and now I know it was for a reason,” Grantaire says.
The guy brings his hand to the side of Grantaire’s face, guiding him to look up. He does, and the guy frowns at him, seeming to search his face for something. He huffs a disbelieving laugh. “You’re completely serious.”
Grantaire gazes at him. “You really have no idea what you look like, do you.”
“I do, somewhat,” the guy says into Grantaire’s mouth, and he feels the guy’s lips stretching into a smile against Grantaire’s own. “But that’s not all I am.”
“You’re so much more,” Grantaire says, nodding as he tugs the guy down for a kiss. It’s the single cheesiest thing he’s ever told anyone in bed, and it ruins his reputation of being a cynical disinterested guy a little bit, but it’s worth the bashful laughter that the guy makes.
He ducks his head, shy, and Grantaire catches his lips. “I thought I was an ignoramus who knows nothing but theoretical ideology,” he says as they trade open-mouthed kisses.
“You are.”
“So far up my own idealism that I’d be leading people to their deaths.”
“You are,” Grantaire repeats. “Apollo lets his arrow fly and brings the plague to where it lands,” he says in a posh, old-timey voice, and the guy rolls his eyes. Grantaire smirks. “Your pretty face is what gets people listening to you harp on about your casual terrorism.”
The guy slows his movement, starts rolling his hips instead of bouncing on Grantaire’s lap, and glares at him. “And here I am thinking that it’s because I’m persuasive and sincere, and have a backbone and a moral compass.”
Grantaire breathes heavily under the guy’s scrutiny. He thinks whether he’s crossed the line – whether there’s still a line for them to cross, since they’ve seemed to build their relationship on nothing but arguments – and thinks what the guy might do. He drops the smirk, then the guy starts looking smug. Suddenly he remembers what the guy said earlier: I want to argue with you while I’m riding you so I can watch that stupid smirk get wiped off your face. He smirks again. “That,” he says, “And pretty privilege.”
The guy stops moving entirely, keeping Grantaire inside him with a scowl. “That’s a made up term.”
“The term may be made up, as all terms are, but it’s a real phenomenon,” Grantaire argues, shrugging. “You can get anything you want if society deems you pretty enough.” He places his hands back on the guy’s hip and lifts him up about an inch as he straightens his back, then he thrusts into him, catching him off guard, and he lets out a hiss as he grabs onto Grantaire’s shoulders. Grantaire reels the conversation in. “But like you said, that’s not all you are. Top of the class, a regular in academic competitions, student leader, activist–
“T – thought you’d call me a terrorist,” the guy exhales as Grantaire fucks him from beneath.
Grantaire laughs. “Sometimes I can’t even believe that I get to talk to you. People like me usually don’t end up in the same places as people like you.”
“What do you mean?” The guy’s eyes snap open and he stares at Grantaire, genuinely curious.
“I’m an art student,” Grantaire deadpans. The guy glares at him again as he brings his thighs together and it digs painfully into Grantaire. He disapproves of the answer, so Grantaire elaborates, “I go to my classes drunk, if I ever go at all. I fail my exams, I don’t submit my projects on time, I think of ending it all when I hate myself enough.” He starts moving his hips in languid circles, no longer thrusting inside the guy in a frenzy. “Even if I tried to get my shit together, I still wouldn’t be able to hold a candle to you,” he mutters.
“And yet,” the guy says as he starts riding Grantaire again. “You’re the only one who can match me,” the guy pants against Grantaire’s lips, and kisses him again.
Grantaire isn’t sure what brings him to his climax – the guy’s words, his tongue in Grantaire’s mouth, his tight ass around Grantaire’s cock, or perhaps all of it – whatever it is it makes his hips stutter and he comes with a shout, his vision turning white again.
He regains consciousness after a while, finds himself plastered on the guy’s chest as he jerks himself off quickly. Grantaire lets himself fall to the bed, pulling the guy with him, and rolls them over. He carefully pulls himself out, not without a disappointed groan from the guy, then he moves down the bed to take the guy’s cock into his mouth. He lets out a shout of his own, and Grantaire unwraps his fingers around his cock so he can take all of him to the hilt.
“Fuck,” the guy exclaims as his hands rake through Grantaire’s hair. He continues sucking the guy off, bobs his head up and down as much as he can while the guy pulls on his hair tightly, until he can't, so he slips his hands under the guy’s thighs and lifts him into his mouth. He looks up at the guy and they lock eyes with each other.
He grabs fistfuls of Grantaire’s hair and yanks, thrusts into his mouth and starts fucking him in earnest. His eyes water as he feels his throat closing up. He closes his eyes and tries to relax, does his best to breathe through his nose and not die while being facefucked. Although, he thinks as the guy cries out when his cock hits the very back of Grantaire’s throat and he chokes, this isn’t really a bad way to go.
The guy’s movements soon falter, and at another thrust into Grantaire’s throat, his hands go lax in Grantaire’s hair as he spends himself inside, and Grantaire tries to swallow all of it. He discovers that he can’t, and he pulls away from the guy’s cock and collapses on the bed. He rests his head on the guy’s thigh as he coughs and catches his breath.
“Are you okay?" the guy croaks, patting his hair. Grantaire presses a kiss on his thigh and he sighs, relieved. They lay like that in silence for a while. Grantaire gets up when he gets the feeling back in his legs, goes to discard the condom and clean both of them with a towel. He crawls back into bed and collapses into the guy’s open arms, nuzzling the guy’s neck as they fit themselves as close as possible like puzzle pieces. “I mean it, you know,” the guy says as he cards through Grantaire’s hair. “You’re sharp as a tack, you really know how to drive your point –”
Grantaire groans into his chest.”Stop, stop,” he says, clutching the guy’s arm. “Don’t wanna hear all of that shit.”
The guy stays silent, just keeps on scratching Grantaire’s scalp. He sighs, content, feeling like he’ll fall asleep any time soon.
“If you won’t bring me down the metaphorical pedestal you've put me on,” the guy says all of a sudden. Grantaire’s breath hitches – the guy sounds as if he’s about to declaim something important, something that could involve three words, and it terrifies him. The guy continues, “You might as well join me up here.”
It’s more terrifying than what Grantaire expects. The guy cradles Grantaire’s face and raises his head, then presses their lips together. Grantaire lets him and he moans when the guy bites his lip – oh God, he thinks, the guy is trying to make Grantaire agree with him. He licks into Grantaire’s mouth and fuck, alright, he’s convinced. He’ll agree with anything the guy says if he kisses Grantaire like that when they argue.
The guy huffs when Grantaire tells him so but says, “No.”
Grantaire’s face falls. “No?”
“No, because I actually like arguing with you,” the guy says, laughing. “You look like a kicked puppy.”
“I’m your puppy,” Grantaire says immediately without thinking about it.
The guy, however, thinks about it. “I…don’t like the implications of that,” he says. “I don’t want to reduce you to something less–”
“Jesus Christ, man, maybe I’m just into puppy play, okay.”
The guy blinks at him, his brows furrowed as he slowly asks, “Are you into puppy play?”
Grantaire snorts and breaks into laughter, both of them ending up giggling helplessly. “I was just saying whatever.”
“Isn't that all you do?” the guy asks with a raised eyebrow.
“Fuck you,” Grantaire says, and bites the guy on the shoulder, making him laugh.
They decide that time is better spent making out, which they do, but they also keep getting into arguments in between, and they’ve since accepted that it will always be inevitable for them. The afternoon sunlight makes its way into the bedroom at some point, and Grantaire marvels at the way it bathes the guy and literally paints him gold. Grantaire feels the strong urge to bring a canvas out and paint him, but he’s reminded of the time. He checks his phone and sighs, burying his face on the pillow close to the guy so that their heads are touching. “Joly and Bossuet are gonna be here in a minute.” He tells the guy so because he doesn’t know how to proceed with this thing, doesn’t know how the guy would want to proceed.
The guy doesn’t reply and continues rubbing circles on his back. He asks, “Do you want to have dinner later?” Not the time to be existential about this just yet, then.
Grantaire pushes himself up to his elbows to look at the guy. He narrows his eyes. “Do I have to wear a suit for it?”
“If you want to,” the guy says, snorting. “Though as far as I know, Corinthe doesn’t have a dress code.”
“Oh thank God,” Grantaire exhales and flops back down the bed. “I thought you’d take me to a Michelin restaurant that has only baby-appropriate servings.”
“I only end up in such establishments when I get physically dragged into them,” the guy says darkly and gets out of the bed to get dressed. Grantaire watches him from under the covers, sighing at the way his muscles flex every time he moves. He can’t believe he just got in bed with the guy.
The guy turns around, looking at Grantaire, as if he sensed that he’s being watched. “Why are you looking at me like I’m about to leave you for war?” Grantaire snorts. Knowing the guy’s hobbies, it’s not that far from reality. The guy walks towards the bed as he buttons his shirt. “Dinner,” he reminds Grantaire, and kisses him on the lips. The guy casts him one last smile then leaves.
Grantaire waits until he hears the front door close before he gets out of his room. He might’ve ended up making out with the guy again if he hadn’t. He goes to the kitchen and makes coffee, taking his time as he tries to distract himself from pining for the guy too much. It hasn’t even been an hour since the guy left. He sighs the whole time he makes it, and it’s where Joly and Bossuet catch him when they arrive, nursing a mug of coffee.
Bossuet does a double take, then he blinks at Grantaire. “You look well-fucked,” he says plainly.
Grantaire nods. “Thanks.” He raises his mug to Bossuet and takes a sip.
Joly turns to him sharply. He sniffs. “Did you fidish the study guide?” Grantaire shakes his head, watching Joly’s eyes grow wide as saucers. “Toborrow’s our final, R–”
Grantaire holds up a hand to him as he puts the mug down to pick up his phone. He opens his email and forwards Combeferre’s study guide the guy had sent him. “Check your email,” he says.
Joly pulls his phone out, worry etched in his face, which eventually gives way to surprise and disbelief as he scrolls. “Where did you get this?”
Bossuet goes to stand next to Joly to look at his phone. “Aren’t those Combeferre’s initials?” he asks. He looks up at Grantaire, frowning, then he looks at Joly’s phone again. He regards Grantaire one more time as he asks, “Did you fuck Combeferre?” with a horrified look on his face. Joly raises his head and gasps, sharing the same look as Bossuet. They really are the same person.
“No,” Grantaire says, taking another sip of his coffee.
For some reason, they immediately believe him. Is the idea of Grantaire fucking Combeferre that appalling? Bossuet’s frown grows deeper as he digs some more. “If it’s not Combeferre–”
“Oh my God,” Joly breathes.
Bossuet turns to him. “Who?” Joly whips his head and they stare at each other for a few seconds, then Bossuet whoops. “Holy shit, R.” It should scare Grantaire that his friends can communicate via telepathy, but he can’t bring himself to care because he’s too busy feeling smug. Bossuet shakes his head as he huffs. “Seriously, though, I always thought he was ace. Wow. That’s so unexpected.”
“I still dod’t know how you got access to Cobbeferre’s file,” Joly says, eyeing Grantaire dubiously.
Grantaire shrugs. “The guy said Combeferre owes him, then he emailed me the file.”
“Maybe he dows Cobbeferre’s password,” Joly shrugs. “Wait,” he says, pointing an accusing finger at Grantaire. “The guy? Do you dow his ‘ame?”
The question catches Grantaire off guard and he stammers, “Yeah." He doesn’t convince them at all.
Bossuet cracks up. “Trust R to fuck a guy without knowing his name.”
“Fuck you,” Grantaire says quickly. He finishes the rest of his coffee and washes the mug in the sink. “I’m not having dinner here. I have a date.”
“So dow you’re datig a guy and you dod’t dow his ‘ame?” Joly asks.
“Fuck you,” Grantaire repeats. Joly and Bossuet start laughing behind him and he sighs. “You better use that fucking study guide.”
“Thank you, darlig,” Joly says, making loud kissing noises. Grantaire flips him off and flicks water at him.
Later, Grantaire arrives at Corinthe in a sour mood after Joly and Bossuet teased him as he got dressed (“You should wear the tightest pair of jeans you have and show off your ass.”, “Put some guyliner on to complete the look.”) and broke into the chorus of Fall For You as he tried to tie his unruly hair. He really shouldn’t have told them about singing Hey There Delilah to the guy.
“Someone pissed in your coffee?” the guy asks him as he slides into the booth Grantaire chose, echoing his own words to him.
Grantaire huffs. “My friends are assholes.”
The guy laughs and leans in to kiss him. Chaste as it is, it’s still pretty difficult to stay mad after that.
They talk about nothing and everything as they wait for their orders, managing to get into two arguments before they start digging into their pastas.
“It doesn’t matter which party wins the presidency or the majority. It’s still the same coin,” Grantaire says as he stuffs his mouth with carbonara. “Fuck, that’s good.”
“You’re right, it doesn’t. Not when both major parties are funded by corporations and billionaires,” the guy sighs, absentmindedly twirling the pasta with his fork. “And it’s the candidate as well. Someone who lacks political will will always be easily swayed…”
Grantaire listens to him continue his rant, then when he finishes, Grantaire asks, “Can you say that again?”
The guy stops chewing. “The only way to topple an oligarchy is by doing away with capitalism?”
“No, the other one.”
“You’re right?”
Grantaire sighs happily as he leans back on his seat. “Oh, music to my ears.”
“Finish your pasta.” The guy shakes his head, but he’s wearing a small amused smile. Their conversation soon moves on to Les Amis. Grantaire is in the middle of recounting how Bossuet unenrolled himself in a class so Marius won’t be marked absent when the guy points at the corner of his lips. “You have something on your face,” he says.
“Aren’t you gonna wipe it off?” Grantaire says, mostly as a joke, but the guy does reach over the table to wipe the sauce off his lips. He laughs and pecks at the guy’s thumb.
The guy grins and licks the sauce off his finger and asks what happened to Bossuet afterwards, but Grantaire couldn’t focus anymore so he stumbles through the story as the guy laughs at him.
***
Grantaire ruins everything, like he usually does. If he’s ever to write a memoir, that’s what he would use as a title.
He bumps into the guy again, this time at the library. The receptionist asks him to enter his student number on the computer for some new data recording system they’re implementing, then he gets asked if he came with a companion.
“Yes, there’s two of us,” he says, acutely aware of the guy standing beside him as he types in his student number. His full name pops up on the computer, and Grantaire reads it. “Eh – uh…” Is it Spanish? It might be. He pronounces it that way.
The receptionist sends them on their way afterwards. As they’re looking for a vacant table, the guy whose name is Enjolras says, sounding stunned, “You don’t know my name.”
Umm. “What? No. Yes? Of course I do.” Grantaire sets his jaw and tries to make his face look as neutral as possible.
Enjolras stops walking and turns to him, says his name out loud.
“You’re French?” Wow. Grantaire fucked that up so badly he wishes the ground would just swallow him whole.
“French-Canadian from my father’s side,” Enjolras says and takes his phone out of his pocket. Grantaire takes a step closer to him against his better judgement to look at his phone screen. He watches Enjolras send money to Courfeyrac. He looks at Grantaire then frowns. “Did you think Enjolras was an American surname?”
“You could’ve been from Maine! Or Louisiana!” Grantaire squawks.
Enjolras exhales, then stares at Grantaire, devoid of emotion, as he says, “Sure. I do love pinchin’ tails and suckin’ heads,” in the shittiest Southern US accent Grantaire has ever heard.
A high pitched whine escapes him and he purses his lips before they end up being thrown out of the library. He holds onto Enjolras’ arm as he shakes in silent laughter and tears form in his eyes. “Never do that again,” he manages to say as he buries his head on Enjolras’ shoulder.
Enjolras lets out an amused huff. “We had a bet going on whether you actually knew my name or not. Combeferre was going to join in but he’s just bought lab reagents for class so he couldn’t bet anything.”
Grantaire groans. “Right. Joly’s been stealing my food and Bossuet’s for days.” Well, they’re practically sharing everything at this point, but he and Bossuet could tell that Joly’s more broke than usual. Typically he would only share their food if it’s relatively healthy – these days he doesn’t choose anymore.
“The life of a premed student,” Enjolras sighs. He moves his arm from where it’s tucked under Grantaire and wraps it around his shoulders. “Are you alright?” he asks with a smile.
Grantaire looks up at him and everything goes into slow motion.
Enjolras once told him that people die in the radiance of the future. He finally understands it as he looks up at Enjolras, his eyes, his hair, his face all so radiant that Grantaire could mistake him for the sun. He knows he’s right about the Apollo thing. “Yeah,” Grantaire says breathlessly.
Enjolras laughs and drags him to the first vacant table he spots. Maybe Grantaire hasn’t ruined everything, after all.
***
Maybe life itself has a way of ruining everything.
It goes like this: Grantaire gets into Enjolras’ apartment with a greeting. “Hey, Endonuclease.”
“Hello,” Enjolras says, doesn’t get up from the couch like he usually does, even when he’s in a mood, and just keeps on typing on his laptop.
Grantaire swallows the lump in his throat as he walks towards the couch, presses a kiss on top of Enjolras’ head, and sits down next to him, unmoving. Doesn’t even look at Grantaire. He hates the feeling of suspense, so he speaks. He means to ask “Is there something wrong?” but what he blurts out is “Are you breaking up with me?” even though he’s not even sure if they’re dating in the first place.
Enjolras sighs, the first indication that he’s physically present in the room. “I was thinking you might break up with me, although I hope that wouldn’t be the case.” The feeling of doom settles in the pit of Grantaire's stomach. Enjolras has a way of making Grantaire’s fears even worse for some reason. He waits for the rejection in silence, not trusting himself to speak. Enjolras turns to him and asks, “What does R mean?”
Grantaire whips his head sharply to him. “What?”
Enjolras purses his lips and takes a deep breath. He puts away his laptop as he tucks himself to Grantaire’s side. Grantaire raises his arm and wraps it around him. “This isn’t just a pastime to me–”
“Okay?”
“You’re the most important thing to me,” Enjolras says, impassioned. “Well, maybe second to my causes–”
“Yeah, okay, I’ll take that.”
Enjolras laughs, then he looks up at Grantaire. He finds it to be an odd angle – it’s usually him who looks up at Enjolras. A reversal. He bites his lip as he says, “I don’t know your name. I know you go by R but I don’t know what it means.”
Grantaire frowns at him and a whole minute goes by as Enjolras peers at him with a sheepish look on his face. Then he bursts into laughter. “Wait–”
Enjolras pouts. He’s never done that before. “Don’t laugh at me.”
Grantaire cracks up some more as warmth spreads in his chest, feeling ridiculous and relieved at the same time. “Enjolras–” he tries, but can’t help the laughter that comes out of him. “You’re lucky you’re cute, ‘cause otherwise I would’ve been mad at you for scaring me like that.”
Enjolras scowls. “I’m not cute,” he says, then frowns. “What do you mean I scared you?”
“You were talking about breaking up and shit!” Grantaire shouts, gesturing wildly. He feels crazy. God knows what he would’ve done if Enjolras actually broke up with him.
“Let me explain.” Enjolras sighs. “Combeferre and Courfeyrac cornered me last night because they wanted to know what’s going on between us, so I told them. They were supportive until they found out that I didn’t know your name, which is kind of funny since you didn’t know my name either, but they pointed out that we’ve already been seeing each other for months and it’s not funny anymore, I’m just being a dick. And I promise you I’m not.”
Grantaire smiles a little, feeling touched by the concern of Enjolras’ friends. “I’m not mad though,” he tells Enjolras, who sighs in relief. “I think that’s fucking hilarious.”
“See? They don’t get it,” Enjolras says, resting his head on Grantaire’s chest. “But I had my reasons.”
“What reasons?”
“Did you ever wonder why I always started arguments with you?”
“Yeah, then I realized that was just your personality.”
Enjolras snorts. “Well, yes, but I was also doing it on purpose.”
“You like arguing with me, I know.” Grantaire knows he sounds a little too smug, but he deserves it.
“Yeah,” Enjolras says, staring at Grantaire dreamily. Grantaire has to fight the urge to kiss him then. “But also because I was hoping you’d tell me your name. Combeferre won’t tell me and I couldn’t just ask you. You didn’t ask me either, did you?”
Grantaire starts laughing again. “Oh my God, we’re idiots.”
Enjolras nods. “We are.” He peers up at Grantaire again, looking absolutely adorable when he asks, “So, what’s your name?”
“I’ll spell it for you,” Grantaire says, leaning in to kiss him as he traces his name on Enjolras’ back.
“Oh,” Enjolras says, his eyes twinkling as they part for air. “It’s a pun.”
“C’est un calembour.” Grantaire nods. “Blague de famille.”
Enjolras stares at him with his mouth open. “You’re French?”
“Second-generation immigrant,” Grantaire confirms. “Immigrants, we get the job done.” He raises his hand and Enjolras high-fives him.
“Courf wanted to see Hamilton so badly but the tickets were already sold out,” Enjolras says sadly.
“Did you try Ham4Ham?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe you can snag a ticket for the national tour.”
Enjolras hums. “Grantaire,” he says again.
“Hmm?”
“I love your name. ‘Aire. Grantaire.”
Enjolras sounds dangerously close to saying something else, something with three words that Grantaire had thought Enjolras would tell him after they first fucked, and now he feels like he’s really close to hearing it this time and he doesn’t feel ready for that yet, so he closes the gap between their lips and kisses him some more.
Maybe he just has to live with the feeling of this thing with Enjolras ending in inevitable ruin. It hasn’t come yet, though, and that’s fine.
***
Enjolras scowls at Grantaire when he meets him outside the administrative building with other students from his college trailing behind him.
He’s still troubled about their fight in the last Les Amis meeting days ago. One of the agendas was figuring out things that could affect student turnout in the planned walkout. Bahorel raised the concerns about police presence shared by students. Jehan suggested marshals, but Courfeyrac said that the other student orgs had already agreed to form their own lanes. Marius pointed out that not all students are part of organizations, then Jehan suggested that Les Amis serve as the marshals themselves. They put it to vote and the majority agreed, then they started talking about negotiation and deescalation techniques, during which Grantaire had piped up, “You’re all just gonna end up getting arrested.”
Enjolras turned to him. “That’s why we're discussing deescalation–”
“Cops are going to arrest you, anyway,” Grantaire said, waving a dismissive hand at him.
“So what do you say? Let the police grab and arrest everyone in the student body?”
“I’m saying they’ll do that anyway, and that you’ll be the first to be arrested.”
“We’re a legitimate student organization. We have lesser chances of getting arrested than nonmember students joining the protest.”
“You have more chances of being arrested because they have reason to arrest you. They can easily tag you as a terrorist.”
Enjolras slammed a fist on the table and shouted, “There you go again with the terrorist jokes. You have no idea how dangerous that actually is, do you? Or are you not capable of taking anything seriously for once?”
"I’m completely serious this time, actually,” Grantaire said, crossing his arms on his chest.
They had argued some more, and the last straw for Enjolras was Grantaire saying that the police are just doing their job.
“Oh, fuck you. Their job is to disperse the rally and beat up protesters!” Enjolras yelled at him.
“That’s not what the university thinks.”
“No. I’m asking you what you think. Or are you capable of that at all?”
Combeferre had stepped in at that point, tugging Enjolras by the arm forcefully as other members tried to calm both of them down. He watched Grantaire push himself away from Joly and Bossuet, stumbling out of their booth and leaving the backroom.
Grantaire, at present, sighs exasperatedly. “I know you think that I don’t believe in anything, Enjolras, but sometimes I do stand up for my convictions, as rare as they are. Don’t turn me away.”
Enjolras keeps glaring at him, unimpressed. “Since when do you stand for defunding the police? Because I seem to remember that you were so keen on justifying police brutality in organized protests.”
“Oh, this isn’t mine,” Grantaire says, looking at the placard tucked in his arm. He walks away from Enjolras to give the placard to Eponine. He has another placard underneath, one that says DISCLOSE DIVEST in beautiful green print on top of a background painted in different shades of red with so much depth and texture. Enjolras can easily see it in an exhibit. “I wasn’t justifying it,” Grantaire continues when he comes back to Enjolras. “I was merely explaining that the heightened security protocol is a response to the earlier protests, but it doesn’t mean I agree with it.”
“That’s beautiful,” Enjolras says, reaching for the placard, and Grantaire gives it to him. “How long did this take you?”
Grantaire shrugs. “Threw paint at it for a couple of hours until I was satisfied.”
Enjolras puts the placard down beside them and pulls Grantaire to a hug, who immediately wraps his arms around Enjolras. He sighs, relieved that Grantaire still manages to put up with him. That he hasn’t ruined their relationship. Yet, the voice in his head traitorously says, but he ignores it. “I’m sorry for coming on so aggressively. I’m sorry for being a dick in general,” he mumbles to his hair. “I’m so stressed. Not an excuse, I know.”
“I’m fine. I was being a dick too. It’ll be fine,” Grantaire assures him, his hands skimming Enjolras’ back up and down. It calms him. “You’ll be great.”
“Thank you,” Enjolras says earnestly, burying his head on Grantaire’s neck. He turns his head to press a chaste kiss on Enjolras’ lips.
“The turnout is really good,” Grantaire informs him, pulling away so they can watch the horde of students grow larger.
“Yeah,” Enjolras says breathlessly. “I have to go now, we have to set it up–”
“Go, Insurgé,” Grantaire says, placing a hand on his chest and pushing him.
“Doesn’t start with an E.”
“Sounds close enough.”
Enjolras laughs and takes Grantaire back into his arms. “Here’s a word for you. I love–”
Grantaire’s eyes widen and he gasps, pushing away Enjolras harder. “No, no. Go away. Go do your job. Stop. Don’t say that now.”
Enjolras tries to shout at Grantaire as he walks away but Grantaire shakes his head and gives him two middle fingers. He laughs again and breaks into a sprint and crashes into Combeferre.
Combeferre flashes him a grin. “I told you he’ll be invigorating.”
“You didn’t tell me shit,” Enjolras says. They start running after each other, laughing, while Enjolras’ heart beats loudly in his ears.