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There are two boys.
To an outsider, they do not look like boys. They look like two, put together grown men, jovial yet civil, assured of what they are and what they are going to do. They look sure; they look like they know exactly where they want to go.
However, they are boys, stupid, idiotic boys with impassive faces as masks and their bright coats as costumes. They act as if in a masquerade, and they walk with their head held high and their faces hidden in bright colors and expressions, but inside they are simply just boys.
There are two boys, and there is a moment.
---
They are standing inside Enjolras' flat, faced off, shoulders squared and eyes searching. Neither of them make a sound, and it is so quiet that one can hear the dust particles floating and settling in the air.
(This flat was their home once, two years ago.)
It is Grantaire who speaks first, turning away from Enjolras' eyes to take in his surroundings.
"I see not much has changed," he says, running his hand over the nearest thing, a lamp on the side table.
Enjolras clears his throat awkwardly. "Yeah," he answers, shifting his weight to one foot.
He sees Grantaire smile slightly.
It's absurd, he thinks, that he spent the entire afternoon laughing and catching up with this man over food and coffee, but right now he can't think of anything to say. It's terrifying, the effect Grantaire has on him, the way the carefully constructed words and sentences fly out of his head and turn into dust.
(He has thoughts, of course he does. He he has ideas and meanings and events and feelings he wants to share, but he doesn't know how to say them, to let his tongue form the sentences and his lips shape the words. It's like trying to speak in a language that he himself doesn't understand.
His thoughts are stars, burning brightly in his mind, and he wants to desperately say them, to connect them, to turn them into constellations.)
His thoughts are interrupted when Grantaire laughs out loud, his hand clutching a small stuffed dog that was sitting on the bookshelf.
"I remember this!" He exclaims, and Enjolras has to smile at the memory of them playing stupid arcade games and Grantaire winning that small stuffed dog from that infernal crane grabbing game. Grantaire christened him as 'Robespierre', which made Enjolras roll his eyes.
Grantaire sets it back down on the bookshelf, before running his hand down on the spines of the books.
"Can we talk?" Enjolras asks. He says it quietly, but in the silent flat, it's deafening.
"We've been talking the whole afternoon, Apollo," Grantaire replies calmly, but his shoulders stiffen slightly.
"I meant about what happened before."
They both know what 'before' means, can practically see the events in their mind's eye.
Grantaire makes his way from the bookshelf onto the couch and sits. Enjolras sits beside him, a respectable distance away. Enjolras doesn't look at him, instead sifting in his mind for something, anything to say.
"I..." Enjolras says and it's a start, but then he turns to look at Grantaire and Grantaire is looking back at him, eyes so wide and filled with hope that any progress he's had is subsequently lost.
So his mouth forms the words "we need to talk".
"You're repeating your words again, Apollo." Grantaire says and Enjolras winces, because he doesn't know what to do, he doesn't know what to say, and when he's at a loss all he does is repeat words, parrot them until they don't make sense anymore.
(He didn't do that until Grantaire happened.)
He feels as if he's three years old again, curled up in a ball, frustrated with himself because his tongue isn't agile enough for the lightning quick thoughts in his head. There's so much he wants to say, but his mouth is slow and he trips over his words and stutters.
"I miss you," he blurts out, before he can stop himself and refine the words. "I've missed you since that moment you left and I still miss you until now even if you're here right now because you're not--we're not--when Eponine came to get your stuff I just-- I couldn't--because you make me better, you challenge me, you argue with me and tease me and smile at me and you drag me around on impromptu dates and you made me play stupid arcade games for Christ's sake you bring variety in my life, you keep me from repeating everything that I ever do over and over and with you every day was different and my words made sense and everything I did made sense and oh god I've missed you for two whole years I--"
He cuts himself off, breathing heavily. His hands are clenched on his lap, and he can't look at Grantaire, he just can't, and--
he feels Grantaire place a tentative hand on one of his fists.
"You missed me?" Grantaire asks, and his voice is so filled with hope and happiness and joy that Enjolras momentarily forgets to breathe.
"I...yes," Enjolras says. "Actually, 'miss' doesn't cover it. I don't think there's a word that actually covers it. When you left, I was so broken I didn't know what to do. I wanted you back, Grantaire."
"Why didn't you look for me, then?" Grantaire asks.
"I..I thought you were unhappy. I thought I was holding you back, and I couldn't bear the thought of making you unhappy, so I left you alone. Besides," he adds, smiling a little bit. "You're the most stubborn bastard I've ever had the pleasure of knowing."
"Oh, fuck you," Grantaire says, but his voice is filled with laughter. "I missed you too, you asshole."
Enjolras looks at him then, his heart hammering in his chest. "Then why didn't you come back?"
Grantaire sighs, thinks for a moment, before he speaks. "I thought...you didn't want me anymore. I thought I was holding you back, and you were just trying to be nice about it. God knows that I don't deserve you, I mean you're you and I'm a drunken fuck up and..."
Enjolras knows this, has heard this speech a million times over and over and has practically memorized it. He knows about Grantaire's self-worth issues and depression, knows that he doesn't think himself deserving of anything good that ever happens in his life. Enjolras knows that Grantaire doesn't think he's good enough, that he's actually a person instead of half a person. It's evident in the way he looks at Enjolras when he thinks the latter isn't paying attention; he looks as if seeing a God, filled with wonder, amazement, disbelief and doubt.
He knows this, and wants to gather up all the broken pieces of Grantaire and whisper to them that they are precious, so very precious and that they mean something to the world. He wants to shout it out the top of mountains, wants to kiss every patch of scarred skin and tell him that he's beautiful; he wants to do everything just to make Grantaire believe.
But that has always been the hard part, even when they were college students, back when they argued about ideals and philosophies. He has never been able to make the cynic believe.
"We're idiots," he says, and Grantaire is so startled he laughs. Enjolras catches sight of a scar on his wrist, almost invisible, and he feels his chest hurt again.
What happened, he wonders, as he traces the scar with his eyes, trying to figure out what caused it.
"Yes we are, I can see why our friends got frustrated with us." Grantaire answers and Enjolras smiles, looks down at his hands.
(So much time has passed, he realizes. Two years, and so many things could have changed.
Still, he wants to relearn the crevices of Grantaire's body, catalogue new scars and marks on him. He wants to find out if the same spots make him moan, wants to taste every piece of skin just to see if it is how he remembers it. He wants to know if his head still fits in the crook of Grantaire's neck, wants to trace constellations on his back, wants to know if he can still splay his hands on Grantaire's ribs and feel the beating of Grantaire's heart on his palm, where, if Enjolras just closes his eyes and imagines, he believes it fits perfectly.
He wants to cover Grantaire's skin with his own and shield him from the scars, wounds and bruises that life throws at him.)
"What do we do now?" Grantaire asks quietly, after moments of silence.
"I don't know," Enjolras answers truthfully. "But I know that I still want everything about you in my life."
"Did you get that off a movie?" Grantaire asks and Enjolras glares and hits him lightly.
"Ow, Apollo," Grantaire fake-sobs. "Look at us, we're already fighting."
Enjolras rolls his eyes. "Look who's quoting from a movie now."
"Hey, I happen to think Allie and Noah are perfect representations of us."
"You're an idiot," Enjolras says fondly. Before he can stop himself, he reaches for Grantaire's hand.
"So are you," Grantaire answers, and intertwines his fingers with Enjolras'.
Enjolras doesn't answer, instead enjoying the warmth of Grantaire's hand in his again. He uses his thumb to rub circles on Grantaire's hand, and they sit quietly.
(Because it is only Grantaire who can turn serious conversations lighter. He's frustrating, different, wild, unexpecting, witty, and Enjolras has missed that, missed this light banter between them.)
"What do you want to do?" Enjolras asks, after a few minutes has passed.
"Well, since we were idiots when we were in college, and we're still idiots now...." Grantaire shifts so his body is facing Enjolras, and motions for Enjolras to do the same. He doesn't let go of Enjolras' hand, and he's smirking, but his eyes are unsure.
"Go out with me again."
Enjolras smirks. "I don't know, I mean you're going to have to woo me again."
"If I get you a new Robespierre, will you go out with me?"
"Get me a stuffed cat named Rousseau and maybe I'll consider it."
And Grantaire laughs, a real, honest laugh, and it fills up the flat, bouncing off walls and driving away the cold, dark and quiet. His laugh settles itself in dark corners, crevices and closets, chases away the shadows, and curls between Enjolras' ribs and wraps around his heart.
(When Enjolras leans forward to capture that laugh, to taste it in his mouth, it's different. It doesn't taste like it did before. In fact, it tastes so much sweeter.
And he knows, he just knows that this time around, they'll be okay.)
---
("Hey!" Eponine says, sliding beside Grantaire, who's standing by the counter waiting for his coffee. "You're looking well."
"Yeah," Grantaire says nonchalantly, his eyes never leaving Enjolras, who's deep in a conversation with Cosette.
Eponine follows his gaze. "Fixed things with him already, did you?"
Grantaire frowns. "I wouldn't say fixed, but...it's getting there."
Enjolras laughs at something Cosette says, and the light hits it just so that his eyes turn into that rare blue again. Grantaire finds himself unable to breathe, his hands itching to draw him like this.
"In love again, huh?" Eponine teases, and Grantaire shoves her on the shoulder. Eponine laughs and shoves him back, and they tease each other for a while, Grantaire's eyes never leaving Enjolras.
"But seriously," Eponine asks, a few seconds later. "How do you feel?"
Grantaire watches as the light hits Enjolras, making him glow; watches as he furrows his forehead and gestures with his hands. Watches as his red hoodie clings to his biceps and torso, watches as his curls bounce slightly with every shake of his head.
"I feel..." Grantaire turns to look at Eponine, who's smiling at him. He smiles at her, and turns his attention back to the golden god a few feet away.
"I feel like every piece of me that I've ever lost came back to me."
And Enjolras turns around, his eyes scanning the cafe before landing on Grantaire. He smiles brilliantly, his face lighting up like a little child's on Christmas day. The sight of that makes Grantaire chuckle a bit, and he smiles back, and then Enjolras is weaving his way through a few tables to get to Grantaire.
Eponine taps him a goodbye on his arm before disappearing from his side. Grantaire turns to look at her, but suddenly Enjolras is in front of him, a coffee in hand, and Grantaire doesn't want to look away anymore.
"Hey," Enjolras says breathlessly, cheeks flushed.
"Hi," Grantaire answers, and Enjolras leans forward and presses a kiss on the corner of his mouth.
It'll be okay now, Grantaire's sure of it. Enjolras will still work himself to death and Grantaire will still complain, and they'll fight, and it's going to be loud and messy and angry, but it's going to be them, and they'll make it work somehow.
Because maybe those two years were what they needed. Just a little bit of time, to erode the jagged edges of themselves until they can get close without hurting.
And, loathe for him to become an optimist, but he can feel it in the way his heart hammers against his ribs.
They're going to be okay.)