Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Grantaire is not shy.

Never has been, as far as he knows. According to his earliest report cards, even back in primary school, the one thing he used to be reprimanded for was being “too much of a social butterfly”, which, when applied to a seven-year-old, can really only mean that he was the weird kid that tried to kiss everyone and laughed too loudly and at nothing in particular during class.

Despite this, and despite the fact that he spent most of his teenage years being loosely acquainted with so many people that he wasn't really close to anyone, Grantaire's second day of his first semester at university is halfway through, and he has talked to no one in class, unless the “bless you” he muttered to a girl next that sneezed during Theoretical Analysis counts, which would be overly generous. Anyway, on the whole, after having lived here for a month and having been in class for two days, Grantaire is pretty convinced that the whole idea of higher education and everything it entails must be sort of a sick social experiment that only aims to explore the effects of pulling hundreds of not-quite-twenty-somethings-yet out of the familiarity and comfort of their homes and dropping them in various remote locations across the country with nothing but only just enough money to live on, the amazing chance to share a communal bathroom with twenty people, and zero acquaintances – not to mention friends. Maybe, though, that last part is just Grantaire.

He can't put his finger on why he hasn't had the desire to participate in any inofficial pre-semester pub crawls, or to go to one of the parties thrown by his department and faculty. One possibility, he thinks, is that over the past year, he's sort of lost the energy to really embrace half-assed relationships that he ends up getting nothing out of. Which might probably sound anything from haughty to self-important to just plain rude to most people, but he's had a reputation of being fun but a bit of a dick for probably the largest portion of his life by now anyway, and there's really no better way to put it. Grantaire can enjoy superficial relationships that mostly involve drinking and going out together just fine, but somehow, he doesn't feel like actively seeking them out anymore. By now, he figures that acquaintances have to be worth it, have to be really promising in order for him to want to pursue them, because strangely, he lacks the energy for anything else. Considering that he's only twenty, that strikes him as pretty depressing, as if some sort of social burnout that belongs into a midlife crisis hit him early. But there's nothing to do but live with it.

Because really, Grantaire doesn't mind being alone and undisturbed in class, or, say, having lunch on his own, even if it means walking a mile to the McDonald's near campus and getting chicken nuggets to eat while jogging back because lunch break is only an hour and walking so far takes more time than anticipated. He doesn't mind, it just feels unusual. The thing about university is that everything doesn't just fall into place the way it did at school – if you're alone, no one notices, and no one cares. It's easy to be overlooked. After these two days of class, Grantaire still has to figure out whether that's a good or a bad thing.

His 2 pm class for the day, Introduction to Ancient History, takes place in one of the larger lecture halls, larger than the ones he's been in so far. It hasn't surprised him before that the only rooms he's taught in are basically prison cells with slightly better lighting, because famously, the art department isn't known for its academic relevance, or extensive funding.

What does surprise him is that the classics and history department seems to do better. The lecture hall, once he finds it, is modern and spacious, with large windows (none of his arts rooms have those; they're mostly underground) and light parquet floors (all of his other rooms have weird, sticky plastic floors that painfully remind him of that one time back at school when he tripped in the gym and scraped his entire calf open on those completely smooth rubber tiles of hell that educators, for some reason, consider safest for kids to run around on).

It is also completely packed.

After his rushed trip to McDonald's, he had to make a run for it, and is still inelegantly licking leftover chicken nugget-grease off his fingertips when he stumbles inside, dumbstruck for a moment by the sheer mass of people who appear to be interested in various groups of Greeks and non-Greeks inflicting pain on each other 2000+ years ago. At first glance, there doesn't seem to be a single unoccupied seat in the entire hall, so he just stands at the bottom of all the rows and stares up, scanning them for a vacant spot. Relief floods him when he finds one, even though it's at the front and he had actually planned to avoid sitting in close enough proximity to a professor for them to establish eye contact. If everyone at this uni is that enthusiastic about ancient war stories, though, he'll have to take what's there; in this case, a lone, unoccupied seat right at the edge of the second row.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees someone entering the room behind him, and instinctively, he makes for the seat as quickly as he can before anyone can challenge him for it. After a half-sprint, he drops into the chair and exhales not without relief before realising that he might have just taken another step towards behaving like a dick without intending to.

“Hey, you weren't saving this one, were you?” he says, pointing vaguely to his seat and turning towards his left-hand neighbour. The neighbour looks at him, and Grantaire's breath hitches in his throat.

Oh, no.
Holy shit.

Well, that explains why this seat was the only one not taken until now, at least – everyone considering sitting down here would have had to walk past, if solely out of fear that they might be smothered by the sheer glow radiating from the guy occupying the seat next to the vacant one. Either that, or they would just plain have been intimidated by that whole... thing Grantaire's neighbour has got going on, this thing with the fine, long lashes, with the shiny golden angel curls, the full, curved lips, the strong cheekbones, the chiselled jaw... that thing. That thing that could make Canova's Cupid cry. The thing that would make Narcissus himself want to punch this guy in the face. The thing that makes Grantaire fear he just sat down next to a devious creature that's meant to lure naïve, unsuspecting young students into a heinous trap with its beauty. Exactly that thing.

There's a strange sense of evaluation in his neighbour's eyes as he examines him. Grantaire wonders if he's given away how awestruck he is, if he's making googly eyes or has blushed or if he – oh, shit, he hasn't closed his mouth. Naturally, there he is, gaping at the first person he's even talked to in any class, unable to keep his fucking jaw in place. He presses his lips together firmly, which probably doesn't make anything better, and finally, the stranger shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “No, don't worry.”

Now, this already couldn't be getting any worse. Grantaire would probably need about twenty minutes of very focused contemplation in order to come up with the right thing to say in this exact situation, and he has like, two seconds before it gets weird. But then, he's already screwed this up by making the first thing he'll ever say to this actual, live marble statue of the most gorgeously imagined Apollo ever conceived a lame phrase that was only very vaguely him trying not to be an asshole. Amazing.

“Oh, okay,” Grantaire replies, a split second too late for it not to be strange. He clears his throat. “Good.” Pause. “I mean, I wouldn't want to, you know.”
Oh, for the love of everything, why are you still talking, he tells himself, and also, what the hell is this about him getting all flustered? It's his least likely reaction to an attractive person, normally, but then, this level of attractive probably deserves a new scale of reactions. And a whole new definition of attractive to go with it.

“Well, it's fine,” Cupid says easily and settles back into his seat, fingers twisting a pen as he skim-reads some notes. Grantaire hurries to take his eyes off him, and, embarrassingly, can feel his heart racing as he takes out his notebook and sketch pad. He probably won't be able to sketch anything at all for the next couple hours – shit, his fingers are still shaky – but in a way, he feels like he has to. He's felt this before, too. Some things need to be captured just then, in that particular moment, because letting the chance pass feels like having water leak through the cracks of his fingers while standing in the middle of a desert, as if he's wasting something too precious to be lost.

He's itching to just get out a pencil and start, but his neighbour's sitting right there next to him, not nearly distracted enough not to notice if Grantaire was being terribly creepy. In lieu of any better way to keep his fingers busy, Grantaire checks his phone – as if anyone could possibly have texted him, surprise, no one has – and realises only now that their professor is late. Seven minutes already. He shifts in his seat, unable to shake the feeling that he might go up in flames unless he starts sketching, and just as he's about to reach for the single pencil he's stolen from IKEA and tucked into his coat pocket to stay there for whenever it's needed, someone finally makes their way to the lectern at the front.

Their professor is a tiny woman with sleek blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. She's wearing a sharp suit, one that really doesn't look like it belongs to an academic historian whose art is an unprofitable one, but after all, this isn't the first time he's been surprised today. Her voice over the microphone sounds stern and clear.

“Welcome, everyone; I apologise for being late, it won't happen again if I can help it. I wasn't planning on wasting your time today, so we'll skip the cute introductions and get right to it.”

She fiddles around with the tablet she's put on the desk, and the slides of a presentation vaguely appear on the white wall behind her. She doesn't wait for the image to go into focus before she skips the first, what, five slides...?

The one she stops at, as he can see once the blur has cleared a little, is the obligatory one about how to get what credit, basic requirements, and a lot of things Grantaire doesn't have the nerve to focus on right now. Distraction isn't talk about grades and future homework and assignments, it's stories about hundreds of allegedly very smart and developed people starting a war over an apple a long time ago. Or not, that's probably not technically history. The point is: This is unexciting, and the way Apollo-made-flesh is jotting almost every single word down with vigorous commitment right next to him is really, really captivating. The movements of his hands don't look deliberate as he writes, but his handwriting is neat and clear, tall letters with zero embellishments stretching across the paper in perfectly straight rows. His handwriting could be a standard font; it looks suspiciously much like Arial already.

A second speculation concerning Apollo's superhuman origin that involves humanoid robots crosses Grantaire's mind for a second, but he decides not to dwell on it. He also decides to give in to the urge to draw – this might be university and a every academic environment and everything, but in the end, he's really come here to draw, so he might as well do it. Besides, no one else seems to be taking this as seriously as his overeager neighbour. Behind him, two people have been chatting without catching a breath ever since he sat down, and he's pretty sure one girl sitting in front of him in the first row is more or less secretly playing Skyrim on her laptop. Sketching in class can hardly be considered a crime – he can still listen while he's drawing, right?

His fingers find the pencil in the pocket of his coat. He's never been too fussy about art supplies, not that he could ever have afforded to be, but he finds that even though it might not be exactly comfortable, an IKEA pencil does just as good a job as any 20 Euro one at accomplishing what he considers the central task of a pencil: getting lines on paper.

Grantaire starts with his neighbour's right hand, which is for one thing closer to him, and also not occupied, because the live marble statue appears to be left-handed. Or ambidextrous; who knows what else he's capable of besides looking as if he descended from the heavens and writing like Microsoft Word personified.

Drawing hands, the proclaimed enemy of many, isn't as much on Grantaire's bad side as it could be. Difficult as it may be to get the dimensions right while capturing the details that make each hand unique, he actually finds it soothing to take a little more time to get it right. Hands are tricky, but they're also their own reward; they make you want to work for a good result. Maybe just for him, though, he's always had a thing for hands.

The lines are a little thicker than Grantaire would like – he makes a mental note to remember to sharpen that pencil – and at first, he's worried that his still slightly trembling fingers are ruining the process, but the right hand as it takes shape on the paper isn't necessarily an artistic train wreck. Certainly not doing the original justice, but he hasn't been aiming for that anyway. He tries to draw the hand as if it's as sure and able as the left one, tries to capture the dynamic of the track that his neighbour traces in the air every time he turns a page in his notebook. The pages of it fill quickly; he's through three of them when Grantaire starts shading his sketch.

The entire time, he's had to slightly tilt his sketchbook out of the guy's view, which makes things more difficult, but the last thing he needs right now is being spotted staring at a stranger's hands and immediately labelled as the weird guy who draws people's body parts without their knowledge. It works out well enough – after almost half an hour, he has finished a sketch of the right hand that is as intricate as it could possibly be. He captured the three freckles on the back of it, the strange difference in fingernail length that labels the index finger as the most practical one, having the shortest nail, and he likes to think he also managed to convey the surety that the hand shows whenever it moves.

He glances over at his neighbour's desk one more time, and his look falls onto the paper next to the hand. He's spent the last thirty minutes staring at the fingers, not the paper, and he realises only now that he's not read a word his neighbour was writing. He had registered the writing, but not properly, only that it was there, not what it said. Now, he realises that it doesn't say anything about Ancient History.
It doesn't say anything about history at all.
Instead, it's just line after line of words that Grantaire is pretty sure are neologisms, because he has never heard a single one of them before in his life. Mildly disconcerted, he looks to the front. The presentation slides show the same, just a bunch of terms he's never come across – things like IS-LM Model, and fiscal policy, and Keynesianism.

It doesn't take long for Grantaire to catch up now. He looks around and sees all the people who might be sort of distracted, but hold themselves with a strange air of purpose and importance, and he sees their throughout the rows identical MacBooks. He sees their straight backs and their sharp eyes and he finally realises how the lecture hall could be so large and clean, and why so many people are attending. He's in the wrong class.

However he did it; maybe he read J instead of L on his schedule and went straight into the wrong lecture hall, or he just took a single wrong turn and went completely wrong from there, he can't tell now. But this is definitely not the right class. The ridiculous amount of diagrams and formulae that appear on the slides indicates that this is probably, what, Advanced Econ? And it has just taken him more than thirty minutes to realise that, because he was so caught up in sketching Apollo's hands – oh.
Right, Apollo.

Grantaire steals another glance at his neighbour. As the typical assumption goes, anyone who willingly takes an econ class couldn't have their sympathies further away from the art department. Chances are he's seen monsieur don't mind me, just being celestial over here for the first and last time today. But then... this may not be the right class, and he may also be missing out on some quality talk about rising empires in the actual Ancient History lecture, but he doesn't feel as if he's just wasted the past half hour. Or, to put it bluntly, he definitely doesn't belong here, but with one more look at his neighbour, he realises that he really doesn't care.

The rest of the lecture passes way too quickly, and in a blur. Grantaire, not even bothering to try and understand anything (it's not like the Hicks-Hansen model is ever going to come back to haunt him), resorts to scribbling a bunch of birds in his sketchbook; from time to time, though, he looks over at Apollo next to him, hoping to maybe soak up some of his grace while basking in it.

If the soaking up works, the effects don't last long enough. Before he knows it, people are packing up their 900€ laptops and brand spiral notebooks (who needs those?), and he has to scoot so the rest of the row can leave. As Apollo squeezes past him with a single glance in his direction, he almost says something, but before he can, the moment is gone and he feels as if he's missed it in more than one way.

Grantaire is greeted by his landlady's cat when he gets home. On the pavement before the house, she's waiting, eyeing Grantaire with both suspicion and expectation.

“Hey there, Curie,” Grantaire murmurs and holds out a hand. Curie, whatever possessed Magnon to call her that, is beautiful, ginger, extremely furry, and characteristically behaves like a dog. Hoping for a leftover chicken nugget or at least a petting, she nudges Grantaire's fingers with her nose and jumps up to knead his shin with her front paws.

“Sorry, little one, I didn't really have the time to pick up treats for you,” he says, sincerely apologetic, and taps the top of her head. “The time or the money. Not that I'd be able to afford treats for myself, for that matter. Or... more basic things, come to think of it. Like vegetables. Or bottled water.”

He sighs as he unlocks the front door and Curie rushes in before him, almost knocking him off his feet.

“Magnon?” he tries, with a rap on the door to her flat. Silence. She's not home.
Curie follows him up the stairs.

“You can come up with me, if you like, but the best I could give you is like, sandwich cheese and tap water.”
Curie doesn't seem to mind and slips through the door to his side of the attic as he cracks it open.

Most people would probably pity him for his living situation, but Grantaire counts himself pretty lucky. The single attic room with a kitchenette and the tiny en-suite is better than anything he could have hoped for, mostly because it's considerably cheaper than any other available student apartment, even cheaper than some of the dorms. There's another miniature apartment separated from his with what can't really be called a hallway – it's more like a narrow gap that allows him and his neighbour to get from the stairs to their respective doors, which are exactly opposite from each other. That closeness would inevitably be uncomfortable, Grantaire assumes, if his neighbour was anyone but the person that it is, namely a really lucky match. They met while moving in on the same day a month before the semester started, and against all odds, he liked her immediately.

Éponine, like him, is exactly the kind of person you'd expect to choose to live in someone's attic rather than to share a nicer flat with other students, and in addition to that, she's also the kind of person who proposes to babysit the landlady's son in exchange for a little discount on the rent (a bargain which she succeeded with, as far as Grantaire knows). Most evenings of their four weeks here so far they've spent together in some way, with one knocking on the other's door with a bottle of wine or a DVD or some take-out, and magically and without choosing to, they hit it off in the way that makes you feel as if you've known a person for considerably longer than you've actually known them for. Majoring in Psychology, Éponine's on the other side of campus most of the time, so during the day, they never see one another, but still, there's something comforting about knowing she's there. It's an unusual experience for him to click with someone so well, especially since they've only known one another for about a month. Grantaire tries not to think about that too much, secretly afraid he might jinx it.

Curie curls up on the chair by his desk and thus forbids him to get any work done. Shame. He drags his laptop to the bed and wastes a bit of time online, he calls his grandma, a task long overdue ( yeah, the classes are interesting, yeah, I'm making friends, yeah, of course I'm eating right, who do you think I am ), and after about one and a half hours, when he's just decided to try and concoct some sort of supper from rice, sandwich cheese, bread, and canned tomatoes, which is all he has, there's a knock on the door.

“Come in,” he calls, not bothering to get up – he only locks the door at night, it can only be Éponine or Magnon, and both might as well walk in any time of day. The door opens and Éponine lets herself in, Curie jumping from the chair and speeding outside at the same time.

“Look at that,” Éponine says, her eyes following the cat. “You've made a friend.”

“Sure I have,” Grantaire grins. “That's me, man of the people, everyone's champion. My presence is never not desired.”

“See, we make fun of that, but you really have spent all afternoon alone in here, haven't you?”
She walks over to his bed where he's been listing everything in his fridge on supercook.com, and sits down on the edge of his mattress.

“Not entirely true,” he holds up a single finger. “You'll be surprised and possibly proud to hear that I spent a large portion of this afternoon with literally hundreds of people.” He clears his throat. “Because I walked into the wrong lecture hall and noticed only about twenty minutes in, and at that point, it would have been weird to walk out.”

Éponine breaks out laughing. “God, R,” she shakes her head. “What class did you miss for that stunt?”

“Ancient History.”

“Huh. So what are you going to do now?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well – are you just walking into Ancient History next week? Most first sessions are mandatory, if you miss them, you're kinda... you know. Out.”

“Come on,” he groans. “Did you have to tell me that? Why not leave me in, like, one more week of blissful ignorance?”

Éponine shrugs. “I thought you knew. Sorry. Just e-mail the professor or something, maybe they'll go easy on you.”

“I'm sure they will,” Grantaire mutters and closes his laptop. Supercook has let him down; even the internet fights shy of the task to even out his failure at setting up a decent pantry. “Hey, that means at least I'm qualified to take Advanced Econ now. Fucking amazing.”

He can see that Éponine is trying really hard not to laugh, and nudges her with his elbow. “Go on. Let it out.”

She laughs again. “Sorry. I mean, you, completely lost in an econ class, I can totally picture it. How did you not notice that?”

He opens his mouth to reply, but the honest answer is probably a little too weird to bring into this conversation, at least at this stage in their relationship.
“I mean, I noticed something was off, but I was sort of out of it when the professor started talking? And I thought, hey, it's probably normal to understand nothing. I mean, I'm just starting out, right? Then throughout, it was just like... Well. Let's say it dawned on me.”

“Uh-huh,” nods Éponine, probably sensing the half-lie, but bless her, not asking any further. “I still think you'd be better off if you spent less time shut away in here. You're pleasant enough company, I'm sure you wouldn't have trouble finding people to hang out with if you gave it a shot.”

“Hey, you don't get to lecture me on that,” he frowns. “How many friends are you making, being with me all the time?”

“Just because I live in an attic doesn't mean I'm not sociable,” she replies easily. “I've made friends, I'm out almost every night.

“You're with me almost every night.”

“Before I go out. Seriously, I don't have trouble meeting people. I mean, it's hardly ever the same people twice, but at least I'm not on my own all the time.”

He narrows his eyes at her. Until now, he hasn't really been conscious of it, but now that he thinks about it, she does seem surprisingly street-smart. On their first night here, he remembers, she briefly invited him to what sounded like a rave, and when he asked how she even knew about that when she'd literally moved in that same day, she just shrugged. “I know lots of things.”
And she does know lots of things. She knows where to find healthier food than plain bread and canned beans apparently for free, she knows how to get weed (another thing she offered him in their first week of living here), and she really knows how to transform a tiny, cold attic room into a cozy, Hobbit-hole-like refuge. That last thing he's been meaning to ask her about; practical as his room is, it could use a more comfortable touch.

“I don't mind being alone,” he says, trying not to sound overly defensive.

“Doesn't mean you wouldn't be better off with some company,” she says. “You don't even strike me as the introverted type.”

She's not wrong about that, and it should probably worry him that she gets him so well after so little time, and it's even worse that she's making him think about this. Next to his sudden desire for deeper friendships and sudden annoyance at superficial relationships, he's also considered that moving away might have been more intimidating than he'd thought and that maybe it put a dent in his confidence. It's certainly not impossible, even though he was more than eager to get away from home when he moved out, and doesn't regret being here now and not having to look back. Really, though, he doesn't feel like figuring out why he's so reluctant to be more sociable, so either Éponine has to do it for him, or they drop the topic.

“Well,” he says, “maybe, one of these days I'll come to a thing with you. To, I don't know, a weird rave. Cult meeting. Wild orgy. Indie gig. ...Poetry slam? Seriously, where do you go at night?”

She shrugs. “Like I said, never the same place twice. Any time you feel like coming along, I'm sure we can go find you a nice poetry slam, if that's your thing.”

“Right now, my thing is finding something to eat,” Grantaire says and rolls off the bed, almost knocking Éponine down as well. “Care to help?”

“Let's see what you've got,” she says in a mock-challenging tone and gets on her feet.

Together, they examine his fridge, and after a period of very uncomfortable silence in which Éponine doesn't seem to be able to find the right words for what she's seeing, she says, “I guess we could improvise bruschetta with this.”

So they do. The bread slices end up soggy because canned tomatoes don't make for the best bruschetta base, and they also taste bland because Grantaire doesn't have spices other than salt and pepper, but they both agree that there's some charm in eating soggy tomato bread off a couch table while watching cartoons. Life at university as it's supposed to be.

When Éponine leaves, it's about ten, and Grantaire decides to spend the rest of the night with some wine and a book. Not in the classy sense – he doesn't have wine glasses and drinks from the bottle, and his book is from a series of trashy fantasy novels he bought on a whim at a flea market, but it helps keep his mind off things. By the time he falls asleep, he's almost forgotten about the frustration of killing his chances at attending the course he was most looking forward to, and about the obscure and speculative reasons for becoming a social recluse all of a sudden, and about all of the pros and cons of possibly coming out to Éponine. By the time he falls asleep, he's almost forgotten about Apollo, too, but he has a feeling that that part is going to require a whole lot of more wine.

His class on the next morning starts at nine, and he manages to get out of bed at 8:30. He skips the shower, no time, also skips breakfast, no time for that either, and only just catches the bus to campus.

This morning isn't one of the good ones.

Maybe yesterday was just too much at once, or maybe he should have gone easier on the wine, but he feels as if all the progress he thought he'd made in the past few weeks is gone. Maybe he hadn't been doing amazingly in the social sense, or any other sense really, but at least he'd achieved a sort of calm, established a routine, over the past month, and now, things feel different. He really can't put his finger on why exactly, and he doesn't want to venture in the territory of thinking that it might have to do with his completely unreasonable and inappropriate crush on a blond, unattainable guy who's willingly taking an econ class, so he's glad to have a class to distract him, and it's one which he hopes could be his new favourite, now that Ancient History isn't a candidate anymore. Art History might get more dry the more the class progresses, but they'll most likely go through things chronologically, and as far as art is concerned, Grantaire is inclined to think of things as “the earlier, the better”.

It's another basement class, of course. If he's got the curriculum right, all art students have to take the class at some point, and it's also open for people in their Études Universelles, so Grantaire was expecting to find a lecture hall at least, but when he finds the room – it's the right one this time, he checked three times to make sure – it's just a little larger than the ones his minor classes take place in. There are some narrow windows right below the ceiling, resembling embrasures in a castle keep more than anything, and the dim light resulting from this doesn't help with making Grantaire feel less tired.

He scans the room. About half of the seats are taken, most people sit in pairs, some of them on their own, and one person in the back catches his eye. There, on his own and endorsed in what looks like a paperback adventure novel, sits a guy in a forest green dress shirt that's embellished with a tiny, delicate floral pattern and paired with a bouffant yellow scarf. Long, flimsy hair falls in a very loose French braid down his back, and from where he's standing, Grantaire can only just spot the wild mess of green and red ends dyed in. Grantaire looks at him and at how nonchalantly he sits there, focused only on his reading – he hasn't even bothered to look up – and somehow, Grantaire is quite sure he has just spotted the only person who is actually less likely to be sat next to than him. Which leaves only one logical thing to do, really.

“Is this seat taken?” Grantaire taps the back of the chair next to the guy. He looks up, and within a second, a wide smile lights up his face. It comes out of nowhere; Grantaire is actually startled for a moment.

“No, sure, sit,” flower guy says, still beaming, and edges his chair to the side a little so it's easier for Grantaire to sit down.

“Thanks,” he murmurs and sits down. He hasn't even reached into his bag when flower guy turns to him again.

“So what's your name? I'm Jehan. Not to be impolite, I mean. Jehan Prouvaire.”

Something about his voice, maybe the softness in it or the fact that his smile is actually audible through his words, overwhelms Grantaire with an unreasonable fondness of this complete stranger for a second. He has a fleeting suspicion this feeling will come back, too.

“Grantaire,” he says and manages a smile. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Jehan grins and extends his hand. Grantaire takes it, noticing briefly how thin and long Jehan's fingers are; he has the hands of a world-class pianist. Grantaire's own feel crude and thoroughly ungraceful compared to them.

“What were you reading?” Grantaire asks, eager to avoid any silence. “Not to bother you, I don't mind if you go on.”

“Oh, no, it's okay,” Jehan says, still smiling, and flips his book over so Grantaire can see the cover. Le Meneur de loups, by Alexandre Dumas. Grantaire's never heard the title before.

“It's quite entertaining so far, really. People talking to wolves, making deals with the devil, that kind of thing.”

“Sounds like a party,” Grantaire says, and it comes out more sarcastic than he intends. Jehan isn't put off by it.

“It definitely is. I've not read that far yet, but apparently there's body-swaps and dubious love affairs later on. I don't know, the blurb sounded really promising.”

Grantaire can't help but smile. The odds of meeting someone like this guy were pretty low, and once more, he secretly counts himself lucky. This might just be the most interesting person on campus.

“So, are you one of the artists?” Jehan asks, and his interest sounds sincere. “I'm here on Études Universelles, so I don't know anyone, but I can tell that it's almost all art majors. They have this air around them, I think.” He tilts his head, eyeing Grantaire. “You have it, too.”

“Yeah, I'm one of them,” Grantaire replies, secretly amused that Jehan implies that just because you're in a major, you'll also have friends there. He's probably about to be disappointed. “Not that that would mean I've made a bunch of artist friends. It's not a bad uni for the arts, so it's pretty easy not to learn a single person's name, with, like, roughly five hundred people wandering these hallowed halls...”

“...Below the ground,” Jehan adds. “You must get claustrophobic down here, surely? It's gloomy, like the catacombs. I do Literary Studies, we're in the entire upper half of the main building.”

“Where spirits are soaring, huh?”

“Absolutely! As they should be. It seems so unfair to trap the art majors in the basement, I mean, them of all people. Your creativity deserves more room than this. And more light.”

“From your lips to Zeus' ears, Jehan,” Grantaire grins. “But we adapt. I mean, I think I will. It's not like you expect red carpet and caviar when you enrol in the department.”

“Oh, I can imagine,” Jehan says, and sounds a little hesitant when he continues. “I did think about taking art in a double major, and that's one of the reasons why I decided against it.”

“Ah, leave it to our tiny budget to scare off the good kids,” Grantaire grins. “I can see why you wouldn't want to do this to yourself, you know, permanently.”
He gestures vaguely at the entire room, ill-lit and glum as it is.

“Actually, I also thought most of the practical work would be far above my skill level,” Jehan admits, cheeks a little pink. He does seem like someone who'd blush quickly. “I'm not an artist, I doodle. It's so unlike what you all can probably produce.”

“See, there's something you don't really have to worry about at all,” Grantaire says. “I mean, I'm officially an art student now, and I suck. As long as you love it, I say do it, you know? Who cares. Most critics in art are elitist dicks anyway.”

Jehan narrows his eyes. “You don't suck, why would you say that?”

That takes Grantaire by surprise. The comment just sort of slipped out, he hardly noticed he'd said it, and definitely hadn't expected the guy to pick up on it at all, especially since – well, how would he know? He's never seen his work, Grantaire could be right for all he knows.

Trying not to show how taken aback he is, he shrugs. “I try to be realistic. It's not a big deal, you know, not being as talented as the rest of the people you study with. As I said, as long as you love it...”

The look in Jehan's eyes is strange. Grantaire can't take it.

“So what do you doodle, Jehan?” he asks, and Jehan jumps at that, reaching for his pencil case and producing a pen. He looks down at his spiral notebook not without regret; Grantaire can only imagine that ruled paper is probably holy to a kid like him.

“Here,” he rolls his left sleeve up to his elbow and puts his forearm on the table between them. “Go nuts.”

“Really?”

“Sure. Come on. Nothing like ballpoint-pen doodles on human skin to embody natural decay and the fleeting beauties of life.”

Jehan looks at him for a long enough time for it to be a little weird, and then leans over Grantaire's arm and gets to work.

He draws some swirls at first, seemingly random ones that, the longer he works on them, turn into long vines stretching along Grantaire's forearm. He puts some leaves, even flowers on them, and that's when it starts becoming creepy, in the best sense. Between the blossoms of the flowers, he scatters in what looks like bones, and right below Grantaire's wrist at the apex of all vines, he's starting to sketch a detailed skull when their professor comes in. Jehan gives Grantaire a testing look, unsure of whether he's supposed to continue, and Grantaire just holds still. It's not like he had originally planned to take a lot of notes – this seems like a worth while enough way to spend the lecture. Jehan, smiling now, proceeds.

Afterwards, when the lecture is over and Grantaire's entire arm is decorated with an intricate piece of baroque-ish artwork, Jehan asks him if he'd like to come to a screening of some magic realism flick later that week. Grantaire, feeling that it's practically impossible to say no to someone like Jehan, agrees, and they exchange numbers. It's a good feeling, and he thinks it's not even necessarily because making a single new friend will be enough to have something to annoy Éponine with.

About a week later, he makes an attempt at being responsible and tries to somehow save his placement in the class the first session of which he missed out on because he was busy being captivated by a God amongst men.

His Ancient History professor does not go easy on him. Grantaire makes a point out of telling Éponine about that later, but when he steps out of the office, he just feels as if someone has just thoroughly put his self-worth through a meat grinder. Which, let's be real here, is basically just mincing minced beef over again and therefore a complete waste of time, but a certain Professor Javert doesn't seem to care about that. What he does care about is adherence to rules, and those say that attendance in the first session is mandatory, and that's what anyone who cared to read the entry requirements might have known. He apparently doesn't have any spots on the course to comp (Grantaire frowns at that part and is about to interject that he very much does, indeed, have lots of placements to comp because there's no limit to the amount of students allowed in his class and once you've paid tuition, you're pretty much free to attend whatever classes you choose, but he just so manages to bite back the comment), and he considers the inquiry itself an expression of downright impertinence. Grantaire wants to say so much about Javert's rant that all he says is “Yeah, okay”, and he leaves the office before the professor can release another tirade on why exactly that, too, is an inappropriate and impious way of addressing him.

He's made the mistake of seeing Javert during lunch break, maybe that was one of the things that factored in. It's also the lunch break right before the slot where the Ancient History class could have been, and on his way back to the campus bus station, he comes across the building that he mistakenly wandered into a week ago.

He stops for no reason in particular. He also walks in, for no reason at all. In fact, the whole time that he's walking, he's wondering what the fuck he's doing and why he'd throw his time away like this. Unfortunately, that doesn't stop him. It also occurs to him as he approaches the lecture hall, why not try and put an econ class into his Études Universelles? It's not like Ancient History is within his reach now. At least, in this class, he technically attended the first session. It's just any other class. Maybe the knowledge about modern economy with a side of political and social factors will come in useful some day. Maybe he'll discover a hidden talent for it.

He knows most of those thoughts are bullshit as soon as he thinks them, but still, there he is, standing at the bottom of the lecture hall like he did last week yet again. He really, truly hadn't meant to end up here. But he has.

His eyes wander through the rows, noticing that Cupid's nowhere to be seen. Well, he figures, what the hell. That's not what he's here for anyway, right, he's here because his classes are one-sided and do nothing to broaden his horizon (not that that's normally an ambition he has, but again, what the hell, why not), and because he doesn't have anything to do for the rest of the afternoon.

He walks up to the second row because it feels more familiar than the rest of the benches, and sits down one seat in, where Orestes' own long-lost and far more attractive twin sat last week. His phone informs him that he's got another ten minutes until the lecture starts, so he decides to read until then. During the past week, he's met up with Jehan twice, once for the screening (seriously disturbing and nightmare-inducing movie, but nice enough company), and once for lunch. At said lunch, Jehan lent him Le Meneur de loups, with the warm recommendation of “if you're interested in absurdity and magic portrayed in a way that also accidentally parallels the basis of the most relevant works from the Matière de Bretagne”, which Grantaire gladly accepted. The story so far doesn't have anything substantial to offer, but Jehan was right, it's entertaining. Grantaire even loses himself in it a little and is only pulled out of that world again when someone sits down next to him, and he doesn't know what exactly it says about him that he doesn't even have to look up to know that Apollo has come back to sit in the exact same row as last week – right next to him.

There is something about his presence that makes Grantaire wonder why he didn't already notice him when he walked through the door – it isn't like he has some sort of captivating aura that magically enfolds Grantaire or anything, but maybe Grantaire remembers the scent emanating from him, that one really individual odour every person just has on themselves and that you can notice sometimes when you come close enough to them, or maybe he's registered from the corner of his eye the steady and sure way the guy holds himself, something between a cavalry soldier on horseback and an austere model posing for Botticelli. He can't pin it down, but the fact remains – he doesn't have to see him to know who he is. Which, considering that he's only met him once before, is really borderline creepy.

He'd imagined it would feel nicer to see the stranger again, but right now, it just seems wrong and oddly uncomfortable. Part of Grantaire likes to think he really has come here for some insight on economic processes and that this is a coincidence he hadn't in any way anticipated, but as good as he normally is at bullshitting himself, this is too absurd for even him to believe.

He makes himself stare forward and at the pages, and as the minutes pass, he turns a page from time to time, but he isn't reading. Right now, he can't, really. He isn't exactly nervous this time, he doesn't feel as sweaty and shivery as he did last week, but there's this overwhelming urge to just turn his head and look at the guy, to get a better look at his face so that he might try to sketch it from memory later, or to find out the actual colour of his eyes (he'd vaguely registered blue last week, but Grantaire is a firm believer that nobody's eyes are only blue or brown or whatever, there is always something more to it), or to try and maybe deduce something about the person he is by just looking at him properly.

It takes him a second to realise what kind of bullshit he's thinking right now, how far gone he actually is, because holy shit, he's in deep. Too deep. Like, abnormally deep. As far as crushes go, Grantaire hasn't ever been one to fall head over heels; in fact, that has never once happened to him. He enjoys adoring people for a bit, sometimes from afar, sometimes one time make-out sessions are involved, but normally, the feeling itself is fleeting and superficial. This, for the first time that he can recall, feels more profound than anything he's comfortable with. And there isn't even a reason for it. They've exchanged, what, ten words? He knows nothing about the guy, but he can't help an unusual and far too strong desire to find out everything, and this is awful, and he's being pathetic, and this whole thing is unbelievably stupid. That thought makes it a little easier to keep his eyes front.

Nevertheless, he's never been as grateful to see anyone as he is when he spots Professor Magloire at the front. She seems to either own a single suit or about ten identical ones, because she looks exactly like she did last week, hairstyle and all, and (no doubt inspired by Jehan's recommended reading) an “alien in disguise learning the ways of the human race”-idea about her briefly crosses Grantaire's mind, just as it did with the guy next to him last week.

For the first approximately ten minutes, he listens intently, trying to soak up every word and fill his head with nonsensical ideas to maybe leave no room for his still growing desire to stare at Apollo at his right, but the truth is that when you're in a class where you don't understand a word that's being said and you don't find that process frustrating, it's just the most boring shit in the world. It provides less distraction than watching paint dry, or, even less enticing, cheese ripen. Which is why, eventually, Grantaire tosses all of the previously feigned good intentions to become an economy buff overboard and instead decides to channel his energies in other ways.

On one of the blank pages of his notebook (these sketches aren't really sketchbook-worthy, not to imply that the stuff in his sketchbook is actually worth a lot), he scribbles up a vague sketch of their professor in a nice piece of space armour, complete with large metallic wings and a long sword surrounded by a mist of small flames. He imagines them to be blue, but aside from his coveted IKEA pencil, he generally only brings one pen to classes that don't require actual art supplies, so he can't colour. Briefly, he contemplates asking Cupid for some kind of colouring device, but that thought evaporates as quickly as it forms. He leaves Professor Magloire, space warrior edition, uncoloured and roughly outlined, a true testimony to both his mind's mostly random and unprompted associations and to a complete lack of knowledge about how space works. Thinking about it, this could also probably be a pretty decent inspiration for a mediocre sci-fi-novel with, for once, a decent proportion of female characters. Maybe he can pitch this to Jehan later.

He decides to give Magloire a space mascot next, a cyber-fox maybe, or something more out of the box like a red panda, and he only just settles on going with a badger when he realises he's being stared at. By his neighbour, in fact.

His neighbour, the sun impersonate, is staring at him. If Grantaire has managed to keep it in check this far, this is where his heart decides it's time to step up its game. It starts beating rapidly and almost painfully, and as he meets the guy's eyes, he's pretty sure his cardiovascular system checks out for, like, three seconds.

“You could give up the seat for someone,” Apollo says, and it takes Grantaire a bit to register that he's actually being spoken to.

He doesn't reply. Him, speechless. Who'd have thought?

“If you're not going to take notes anyway. There's literally people sitting on the floor and the steps, trying to pay attention; seems hardly fair to them.”

Grantaire furrows his brow, and then, with a single breath, he somehow, miraculously or desperately, who can tell at this point, manages to pull himself together.

“I don't see you giving up your seat,” he says, “even though clearly, you don't seem to be too busy taking notes yourself when you've got time to stare at what could be mine.”

Apollo vaguely points at his own notebook, and it comes to no surprise to Grantaire that it's filled with that eerie font-like handwriting of his – probably a verbatim record of everything their professor has uttered so far, complete with coughs and all.
“My point stands,” he says and somehow manages to sound matter-of-factly instead of haughty. “It's a packed course; if you don't intend to pass, it's only fair to make room for the people who want to get some work done.”

Grantaire can feel the corners of his mouth twitch, but he really doesn't want to smile right now. This guy wants to go there; well, he'll happily oblige.
“And what makes you so sure of my intentions, monsieur? A guy can't draw some badass and, if I may add, pretty empowering artwork of their teacher and be secretly listening to them at the same time now? Correct me if I'm wrong here, but last I checked, doodles and focus weren't mutually exclusive.”

His neighbour glances at the sketch.
“I don't see the empowerment,” he says without gracing the rest of Grantaire's (exceptionally weak, he has to admit, but he can hardly be expected to be at the top of his game right now) retort with any consideration.

“That's pretty bold considering you know nothing about this lady's life,” Grantaire says, tapping the sketch with the back of his pen and feigning indignation. “Maybe she's a single beacon of hope to her people, an unbeaten warrior with unmatched abilities in every conceivable craft. Maybe she dislikes it fiercely when people make assumptions based on appearances.” He cocks his head. “Best not to be so quick to judge, my friend.”

Apollo scoffs and seems to decide right then that the discussion isn't worth the time he loses on it. When Grantaire looks to the front again, he notices that their professor is regarding both of them with a deathly glare while unwaveringly sticking to explaining her slides. Grantaire clears his throat. He has no idea if he's just done something very right or very wrong, and he has a feeling that he won't find out any time soon, but his spirits have inexplicably lifted.

In what could probably be very easily labelled an act of passive aggression, he continues to sketch his astronaut badger, complete with a little spacesuit and stuff, pretending to pay no attention to his neighbour who definitely, totally isn't pushing down his pen a little more firmly and sometimes slipping in his neat writing now.

Grantaire has added a little background to his space scene by the time the lecture ends, a few distant planets and a mass of stars blinking vaguely in the ballpoint-pen black of makeshift space, and when he packs up his notebook, he catches his neighbour looking at him again.

“People have had to fight for this, you know,” he says when Grantaire finds his eyes. “Access to education, affordable tuition. You'd probably be honouring their efforts more if you dropped the class.”

He doesn't sound vicious, or even intentionally mean, but something in his tone or maybe the utter sincerity with which the words come out renders Grantaire speechless once more. Before he can try and find his words again, the guy has turned away and walked off.

Grantaire stays in his seat for almost a minute, blocking everyone who's sitting to his left from getting out of the row. What the fuck just happened?

It takes a decent while for him to snap out of it and actually move. He can't really tell what his next move is, or if he's ever even going to get close to Monsieur people have died for your right to sit here you'd better bloody well appreciate it again after what just happened. He's pretty sure, though, about one thing, which is that after literally being asked to quit, he's going to fight tooth and nail to pass this class, and if it's the last thing he does.

Chapter Text

Two weeks later, a comprehensive list of the new things Grantaire has learned ever since his second session of a class he never meant to attend runs:

1. He'd make a terrible father.

2. Worrying about Éponines opinion on his orientation was an incredible waste of time. Girl does not care.

3. Jehan writes poetry like a drunk god in love.

4. Grantaire would likely swallow a whole toad if it meant defying a random conceited guy who looks like the sun.

5. The guy who looks like the sun is called Enjolras.

The first thing, he found out when Éponine asked him to keep her company while babysitting at Magnon's last Saturday night. As it turned out, she didn't actually want company, but someone to fill in for her, and she disappeared after half an hour downstairs to do God knows what in town, leaving Grantaire and little ten year old Gavroche to their own devices. Before leaving, she made a huge deal out of telling Grantaire over and over to make sure all of the kid's homework for the next day would be done in time, a request which, naturally, Grantaire didn't even try to fulfil. He and Gavroche spent the evening eating all the potato chips Magnon's apartment held at the time and watching anime reruns on the only channel their TV reception allowed, and when Éponine got back (luckily before Magnon did), she made Grantaire forge six pages worth of homework for Gavroche who was, by then, asleep on the couch. All in all, while Grantaire still argued six pages were insane for a fifth grader anyway and the kid could probably use a break, it became pretty clear to him that he wasn't exactly suited for the position of parental guardian.

Number two revealed itself to him by accident one night when he'd gotten particularly drunk and failed to realise that instead of going along with it, Éponine was mostly watching, probably because she had plans later that night. The whole thing led to him confessing all sorts of stuff about the guy in econ who for some reason thinks it's cool to wear a lot of red and can pull it off even though it's like, the most ridiculous colour and completely out of style, and how Grantaire will fucking turn the world upside down to either prove him wrong or convince him of his value which is completely ridiculous because they don't even know each other's names and Grantaire doesn't get what's going on with this and he's thoroughly annoyed and god dammit, it shouldn't be bothering him so much. Éponine listened with a completely straight face and didn't comment much, and eventually, Grantaire realised that he'd just inadvertently revealed a lot more of himself than that he was crushing on someone, and said, drunk and half-indifferent, “Oh, if that wasn't clear before, I'm like, super into guys.”

Éponine nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“And everything else, really,” he mumbled. “Anything. Just – throw anything at me. Just fuck me up, you know? Anything.”

“Hmm.”

“Hm.”

And that was that.

The third thing wasn't much of a surprise. Although the way it came to light was at least slightly unconventional: Jehan, without a prompt or warning, texted him one night at 2 am, asking for a favour. Grantaire, still awake and a little surprised that Jehan seemed to know this, replied with, anything, because it was Jehan, and how bad could it be, right? Jehan sent him a few images of photographed journal pages, accompanied with, Do you think you could read over these for me? I don't need extensive feedback, just vaguely tell me what you think, and if it's terrible, please warn me. :). Grantaire found the journal pages to be full of poetry, and terror filled him right then, because he doesn't have a mind for about 90% of acclaimed poets and often wondered in the past if his mind just sort of lacks the finesse for it, if he's too blunt and coarse to appreciate poetry at all. And he knew for sure that he couldn't give qualified feedback on it, if solely because he knows next to nothing about technicalities; Jehan had definitely come to the wrong person with this request. Having already promised, Grantaire didn't really have a choice, and read through all the pages Jehan had sent him. He wasn't sure what to do with himself afterwards, and one part of his stance had not changed; he couldn't write any in-depth critique of this, he couldn't even offer a decent typed-out reply. As soon as he'd finished reading, he had started sketching, because Jehan's words were rich and warm and unexpected and, above all else, inspiring. Grantaire sent Jehan every sketch he produced inspired by the poems, without comment because for some reason he figured Jehan would understand, and he was right.

For the fourth part, Grantaire blames himself for not being more aware of it earlier. Whenever he did something in his life that seemed at least sort of productive before, it was for the wrong reasons, so it doesn't come as much of a surprise that the only class he actually takes notes in and revises for is the one he took by mistake. After the second session, he went home and, fully aware he was being pigheaded and unreasonable about this, started making all the necessary arrangements to stay in the class. He found out that he accidentally wandered into Introduction to Political Economy, which was humiliating in several ways, starting with the fact that he had been dead sure it was an advanced class because that is how abysmal his knowledge of economy (and apparently politics?) seems to be. He also found out that an introductory class in economy is just about 70% math, which is honestly just one more hint from the universe for him to forget about the whole thing and move the fuck on, but as far as hints from the universe are concerned, Grantaire is nothing if not rebellious. Especially when unfairly beautiful boys with curly hair are involved, as it seems, because the memory of their conversation is the thing Grantaire found himself thinking back to more than once within the past two weeks whenever it occurred to him that maybe, just maybe he might be wasting his time with a class he doesn't care for and has to put more work into than the rest of his courses combined. The thought of being told to leave helps him keep at it, and he tells himself that it's because the memory is so infuriating, and that it has absolutely nothing to do with looking for an excuse to spend time in the one place where he knows he might catch a glimpse of golden hair and bright blue eyes. Good reasons or not, he sticks with it, and so far, it's going terribly, but not terribly enough for him to so much as consider giving in.

Number five came as a reveal he did not expect. At all. In fact, he was pretty content not knowing the name of his mysterious, beautiful and stuck-up neighbour, especially after he went from mysterious, beautiful and stuck-up neighbour to mysterious, beautiful and stuck-up guy who always seems to take great care to sit as far away from Grantaire as possible. After the second week, when he'd received the semi-polite verbal slap from the guy, he didn't sit anywhere near Grantaire again. Grantaire figured that was probably fair enough and thought to himself that he was in this for principle now, and that it was completely sufficient to show up on the day of the final exam and make sure to walk through the guy's field of vision – he doesn't need to sit next to him, he doesn't need his name. He settles for being content with trying to shove the guy's own self-righteousness back in his face the only way he knows how, in this case, passing the class. He's aware it's absurd, sort of, but in a way, it's also nice to have a goal, something to work towards. God knows he isn't exactly ambitious in any other regard.

Naturally, as soon as Grantaire settles for being content with something, some sort of cruel twist of fate will do its best to take that away from him, and he's pretty sure that's the reason why one Tuesday, the fourth time he's gone to econ, he found himself walking straight into the gorgeous blond menace on his way out. He had no idea how it happened – he was walking, heading for the exit, and from one moment to the next, the guy was just there, standing directly in his way, as if on purpose. Grantaire noticed it early enough to avoid a collision, which was probably more than he could ask for already, but he froze in his tracks and stared straight at him instead, and that was really no better. They stood there for several seconds, if Grantaire got that right, it could have been far more or far less, just staring at one another. Grantaire remembers registering that one of the guy's golden (golden, what the hell) coat buttons looked dangerously loose; looking everywhere in an attempt not to get stuck with gawking at his face. He really doesn't know how long it took; time seemed to have slowed down around them. Finally, the other guy stirred and cleared his throat, as if to say something, but before he could, a clear, cheerful voice pierced through the strange veil of awkwardness between them.

“Enjolras!”

Grantaire's former neighbour's eyes flicked up and he looked around, and within a second, he was being whisked off and to the exit by someone Grantaire didn't know and could hardly see because he was barely more than a flash of black hair and neon clothes. Grantaire could still hear the faint “There you are, man, since when do you sit so far in the back” before the two of them got lost in the flood of people making for the doors, and Grantaire was left behind, feeling anything on the spectrum between pissed-off and utterly dazzled.

So, Enjolras. He didn't want a name, but now, he knows one. More than that, he shared the most awkward 10 seconds (five minutes? Three hours? Who the fuck knows) of his life with Enjolras, also known as hot neighbour and God of the Sun, and it's left him with just about a thousand more questions that he can't afford to waste time or energy on.

So screw this, right? There's nothing to gain at all from mulling the thing over and over in his head, he should just be able to stop caring about minor shit like that and move on with things. He's been doing better, after all, in some way. He's been more at ease with everything, and he's returned to some things he'd been robbed of once he'd been torn out of the familiarity his former home had provided. It hadn't provided much else, but he'd had a basic assurance there, he'd been used to things as they were, and that in itself had given him the freedom to do most things he wanted to. Within the past weeks, he likes to think, he's gained that surety back, even if Éponine is still (rightfully) nagging him about never going out. At least he can hang out with her and Gavroche while she's babysitting, he's managed to actually make use of the studio spaces in the art department (something that horrified him for no reason in his first week; he'd been scared out of his mind at the thought of a bunch of people around while he worked), he's discovered that the gym on campus is actually good for something and now, he can work out when he feels like it, and finally, when Jehan had pleaded for him to come along to a Renaissance fair, he'd agreed and they'd spend an entire Saturday drinking mead and watching swords being forged before their eyes. Overall, he's doing okay. Not exactly in the fun-loving, sociable way he probably might have in the past, but he can't tell anymore if not being the things he used to be is only bad, or some sort of progress. Generally, he just knows that things could be worse, and he's pretty determined not to let that bit of progress go.

Not that it's always in his control, really. He does find himself trying to spot a flash of a red hoodie that can't really belong to anyone else or a distinctive tuft of blond, curly hair in class, and when he does, he feels a pull in his chest every time, it's a sting he can't really help, it just happens. Like a reflex, it's instinctive. It makes him feel like a moth, self-destructive and pathetic.

Éponine must be getting tired of hearing about it, because since he hasn't drunkenly told Jehan and wants to minimise the damage she's his only outlet, but if she's really annoyed, she doesn't let it show. His best guess is that she might be able to relate, but he doesn't press the matter – for what it's worth, Éponine seems pretty happy with the whole riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma thing, and he's not there to try and take that away from her.

One afternoon early in October, as Grantaire is reading on his bed because Jehan is occupying his desk, typing away at what may be an adventure novel or the Art History essay they actually have to hand in tomorrow and that Grantaire hasn't gotten started on or some wild socio-political manifesto or for all Grantaire knows a complete modern re-write of the Roman d'Énéas, Éponine lets herself in without knocking. She's stopped bothering with knocking a while ago, instead simply marching in frequently and always without prior notice during the day. Grantaire doesn't mind. Their respective apartments are only a square meter of not-hallway apart from one another anyway.

She marches in, and, waving at Jehan as she passes him, walks over to Grantaire's bed and lets herself fall down next to him.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

He blinks. It's an usual question for her. Éponine, characteristically, spits on small talk.

“Practising backflips,” he replies, his sarcasm half-hearted. Jehan chuckles behind the screen of his laptop, and Éponine snaps Grantaire's ear with her index finger. He winces.

“This is your weird capitalism shit again, right?” she says, gesturing at the econ textbook he managed to grab in the library today despite it being in high demand. “I don't know why I thought you'd actually be reasonable enough to give that up.”

“This capitalism shit happens to hold my honour in the palm of its hand like a fragile young baby bird, Éponine,” he sighs. “Show the things that are ruining my life some respect, please.” Innocently, he starts whistling What I Did For Love.

“You know, you should appreciate this more,” she says coolly. “I'm giving you a window to talk about your own lame stuff here before I drop the absolute bomb I've in store, which happens to be the only reason I'm here, but you might as well believe I care about your stories right now, so.”

“Kinda shot that horse in the face just then,” Grantaire frowns. “What's the bomb? No pregnancies, I hope? Is it good news?”

“Depends,” Éponine says with a sly smile. “You're looking at someone who can proudly say she has joined the hard-working, bourgeoisie-defying labourers that make up the workforce of this country.”

“You got a job?” he asks. That's actually not just good news, it's great. Éponine never talks about it, but considering that the whole babysitting arrangement was her idea just to get a little off the rent and the fact that she keeps stealing his flannels instead of ever buying her own, he can't imagine she's wallowing in money.

She nods. “It came in through some guy I know, I just accepted over the phone.”

“Well – what is it?”

“Just something for a couple nights a week,” she says vaguely.

“Come on, that could mean anything. Is it, like, more the dish-washing or more the drug-cartel-running kind of couple nights a week?” he urges. Sometimes he just wants to know things about Éponine, and he can never tell if she actively doesn't want him to know stuff, or if she somehow thinks he doesn't care. It's always impossible to be sure with her.

“Coffee shop shows,” she says. “There's this café type thing, and they needed someone new to play for a bit in the evenings, so I'll be there four nights a week.”

“Getting paid for making music, wow,” he grins. “You're already living the dream of every misunderstood fifteen year old in the land.”

And she deserves it, too, he thinks. He didn't notice for a while, because Éponine always sings distractedly, while she's cooking or folding her laundry or whatever, so it was only after a few weeks that he realised that she's really, really good. She has a guitar and a cheap keyboard in her room, and sometimes he can hear her composing through the thin walls of their rooms, and if he's in the mood, he'll come over and they'll harmonise and uselessly play together for a bit. He's nowhere near her level of technical skill, but it's fun anyway.

“Congratulations,” Jehan pipes up from behind his screen, and Éponine cracks an appreciative smile.

“Thanks. Yeah, I figured it pays well enough, and it's just sitting around and singing, right, so it's not even hard work, it's just sort of doing what I'd be doing at home anyway, only I get paid.”

“I'm so very proud of you,” Grantaire says with an exaggerated solemnity in his voice. “Only a matter of time now until you're discovered by some run-down producer in his sixties, he'll finally see a point to his life again because he's heard your voice, you get a record deal within two days, first single flops, second one makes it to the top, and before we know it, you'll be rich enough to pay the attic rent for both of us.”

“If that ever happens, I'm kicking you out and claiming your bathroom,” she grins.

That's been sort of a thing between them: their rooms are largely symmetrical, both came fully furnished, but their bathrooms differ in that Grantaire has a bathtub with a shower curtain, and Éponine has a single shower. Ever since the first day, she's been holding this against him, even though Grantaire eventually offered that she just go in and have a bath any time she felt like it. If she was bewildered by that offer, she didn't let it show.

It's not really a stretch for them, though. They already share some, to a stranger's eyes probably pretty weird, intimacies. There's the flannel-stealing thing for one, which normally involves her walking into his room in sweatpants and a bra, going through his closet and leaving again all without saying a single word, and Grantaire can get back at her by sometimes stealing milk and some cereal from her room without ever replacing it, leaving behind a note briefly explaining that he's run out of food (again). He figures it makes both their lives easier, and never feels off to the two of them.

“What about you to? How's your job hunt going?” she asks, taking a bag of peanuts from Grantaire's bedside table and starting to toss them up to catch them in her mouth. Grantaire sighs.

“Why don't you ask Croesus over there?” He nods towards Jehan. “He's in pretty high demand at the moment.”

“I'm really not,” Jehan blushes; Grantaire can see that from across the room.

“But you've got something?” Éponine asks, and Jehan turns to face both of them.

“I do,” he smiles. “It's not a big deal, but it pays okay, and it's on campus, so that's lucky.”

Grantaire snorts. “That's the worst understatement. He's a research assistant in the library for the French Department, but not like, the kind who makes coffee, he's going to come on academic conferences and stuff with his mentor.”

“You make it sound far more glamorous than it is,” Jehan protests.

“No, that's awesome,” Éponine says earnestly. “Did they just – approach you about this? Who's the prof you're working for?”

“Professor Desrosiers,” he says, “I mean, I call her Fantine. She's a prof for French linguistics and literature, and I was spending so much time in the French section that we started talking. That's how she offered me the job. She's sort of all over the place, but really nice, kind, even. After all, she did hire me.”

Éponine throws a peanut at him.

“I'm pretty sure that wasn't an act of charity, Jehan,” she says flatly. “Well done, you. Is that what you're working on?” She points at his laptop.

“Oh, no,” he shakes his head. “It's for the student journal, you know the one...?”

“The ABC thing,” Éponine nods. “I've heard of it; you're one of the editors?”

“Something like that,” Jehan says.

God, Grantaire thinks, someone reach down into this kid's mind and pull out all the misplaced humility. Replace it with bunches of compliments and kittens and self-esteem.

“Mostly I just proof-read stuff and correct the formatting. Everyone else there is really great, though, and it'll look good on a résumé later.”

“Isn't that paper like, notorious for being controversial?” Éponine wants to know, genuinely interested now. “I think you guys even meet at the coffee shop I'll be playing at; the Musain?”

“That's it,” Jehan says, positively delighted. “And you're playing at night, so we'll be there when you are! Oh, it'll be amazing to have you there, things get pretty glum sometimes. Might be owed to the controversy-business, I mean, if you consider an open commitment to social equality controversial.”

Grantaire knows about Jehan's student journal thing, but it surprises him that Éponine does, too. Until just now, he didn't even know its name.

“So, Ép, when's your debut?” he asks. “You want us to come? We could be your claqueurs; just subtly bully everyone in there into clapping. Not that you'll need it.”

She narrows her eyes at him, contemplating that option for a moment. “You know, maybe it'd be good for you to be there,” she says then. “No claque, though. Just because you might like the place. It's artsy and stuff, a little out of the box. And most of the people working there wouldn't ask twice if you asked them for a shot of whisky in your latte at 10 in the morning, so.”

“You know me,” Grantaire opens his arms in an exaggerated, generous gesture. “Up for anything.”

“Sure,” Éponine scoffs. “Well, my first night there's this Friday, so... unless there's hanging out alone-plans you can't cancel.” Grantaire snorts. Éponine turns to Jehan. “Your meetings are Fridays too, right? Eight-ish?”

“Yeah,” Jehan nods. “I'll be sure to come around to the front, they can definitely spare me for that. Usually, they're in the back room, though, you know, when you go up the stairs and then...”

Éponine gives a knowing hum, and Grantaire feels unusually left out. Why do these two know so much more than him? He prides himself in understanding Jehan when no one else does, normally, but right now, Éponine is the one who speaks his language.

“Since when have you become such an expert on the ABC?” he asks her softly, and he can't help the slightly mocking tone. “Interested in stirring some revolutionary blood? Writing a couple rousing appeals to the masses?”

“What if I was?” she replies with a smile. “Seriously, I just know someone who's on the editorial staff as well.”

“Who is it?” Jehan asks, and Éponine doesn't seem to mind that he heard.

“I don't actually know her name,” she says. “She told me, but it was long and weird, I don't know, I didn't hear it right. She's a psych major too, we talked once or twice in an intro class.”

“What does she look like? Hair colour, anything?”

“She has this –”

They're interrupted by the sound of Éponine's phone chiming, and with a look at her screen, she sighs and gets up.

“So much for my celebratory night in with you,” she murmurs, and, answering the phone and continuing to speak in a language that seems to have considerably more consonants per word than the average French phrase, walks out of the room.

Grantaire stares at the door for a moment, and he doesn't want to say it out loud, but he's a little too dumbfounded to be mindful. “That was weird.”

“Actually, I think that was Czech,” Jehan suggests helpfully.

“Not that,” Grantaire murmurs, but he keeps the rest of his thoughts to himself.

The Musain is in the old town, just hidden enough not to be either too overt or too suspicious to anyone passing by. On Friday, Grantaire and Éponine arrive at half past eight, Jehan has promised to sneak out of the back room as soon as he can, and Éponine goes talk to the two people behind the counter while Grantaire takes a seat not too far from Éponine's makeshift stage, taking in the mood.

One of the first things he notices, and he shouldn't be so surprised by this, is that the café is extremely ill-lit. In order to sketch in here, he would have to bring a flashlight. The light in itself is beautiful, though; warm and orange and filtered through smoke that hangs in the air, thicker just below the ceiling.

The smoke part is probably the most illegal thing going on in here; their smoking area (that by law shouldn't even exist anymore) is badly isolated and pretty much useless, but annoying as it might be for non-smokers in here, Grantaire actually sort of appreciates the flair the smoke gives the café, hanging in the air like dust. It fits the mood of this place – the Musain is a little out of this world, it seems as if somewhere along the line, time forgot that it was there and stopped moving on in this particular spot.

And Éponine is right, Grantaire does like it, he can appreciate the hum of conversations from what must be regular customers around the counter, and the faded artwork and polaroid pictures on the walls, and the utterly mismatched pieces of furniture that seem arbitrarily chosen, some benches from hand-carved wood that might as well be a century old, some chairs probably from the eighties covered in thick, worn leather, some delicate tables that are white and lacquered and practically romantic. It all adds up to a warm, familiar mood with a slightly grim edge to it.

Grantaire orders Irish Coffee (it's a cold night and there's no need to go straight to the hard stuff, he thinks) and waits, and just as Éponine is taking her seat on the barstool in front of the microphone that's been set up at the front, Jehan shows up out of nowhere.

“Look who's got a moment to spare from saving the world,” Grantaire grins.

Jehan smiles that soft smile of his, sliding onto the bench next to him. “You know I wouldn't miss this,” he says sincerely, and of course, he's right. Grantaire does know that; Jehan would probably wrestle a bear in order to stand by someone dear to him, all despite his apparent lack of muscle mass and fighting expertise.

“Good evening, everyone, I'm honoured to make your acquaintance,” Éponine says at the front, and there's no tremble in her voice.

Someone else might not have noticed the quick tap of her right foot betraying that she's a little jittery, but Grantaire sees it. She's already doing great, though, sitting there with a smile and with her dark hair falling in waves down her shoulders, some stray curls grazing her collarbone that's only just revealed by the loose shirt she's wearing. He takes the sight in as well as he can in the dim light, hoping to be able to recreate it in a sketch later. Jehan is tugging on the hem of Grantaire's shirt, impatient and fidgety, which Grantaire finds so amusing that he doesn't even find it in himself to be nervous for Éponine anymore.

Not that he has to, of course. Once she starts singing, her voice warm and dark with just the right amount of roughness in it, the chatter in the café dies down a little, it becomes quieter. No one wants to miss too much, she's managed to make everyone in ear-shot want to avoid talking over her, which is, in a place like this, quite the achievement.

Some people clap after the first song, and on from then, any apprehension that might have been there before is lost, on Éponine as well as her friends.

Jehan asks if Grantaire would like to come and say hi to the others – “you'll like them, well most of them, I'm sure, they're beautiful people, I promise” – and Grantaire kindly declines. It wouldn't be completely fair to Éponine; after all, he's here for her. That aside, he still doesn't feel like the idea of socialising in such a large group, for reasons that he can't explain. Or he could, probably, by now, because in spite of himself, he's given the entire matter some thought by now and realised to his own horror that he's adapted the most pathetic all-or-nothing mentality there is. He can't be sure what triggered it, but he does know that the reason he's shying away from going out is that he feels the need for an entirely different kind of relationship, the kind that one night of drinking together doesn't provide in most cases, the kind that lasts and goes deeper than what Grantaire is used to from school. He got a taste of that with Jehan and Éponine, and he doesn't want to go back to anything else suddenly, which might be catastrophic or a good thing or both. Either way – he doesn't feel like confronting it.

Also, with complete disregard to the fact that socialising in itself isn't his cup of tea right now, meeting a bunch of idealists in an everlasting strife against the oppressive forces of this world has a good chance of being downright exhausting to him. He knows Jehan is one of them, but he's never seen much of a point in activism or really any sort of socio-political commitment and arguing with anyone who holds actual convictions on this kind of thing is bound to end in violence. As far as politics are concerned, Grantaire finds that whatever direction you may look, either the motives behind political affiliation are rotten, or the motives might under some circumstances be considered noble, but the cause is a lost one. He wouldn't go as far as calling every attempt to change things a waste of time, but... ah, he probably would. Not to Jehan's face, most likely, but to anyone else's, which is why it's probably not the best idea to barge into a meeting of the most committed people at the entire university.

For the entirety of the time that Éponine is on stage, Grantaire loses himself in her music, listening, sometimes humming along, and eventually falling into a waking slumber of contemplation. It's not a healthy thing, exactly, but his drunk self has a tendency to be taken in by melancholy when the mood strikes, and God, does it strike today.

He drinks, which doesn't make things better, and begins seeing things through the veil of his own private pathetic fallacy. It probably has to do with him having what comes closest to a night out for the first time in a long while, but it suddenly seems so miserable to him, the way he's sitting there drinking and listening to sad music and pitying himself and not even being able to say hi to a group of people that his friend obviously loves. In the light of the candle in front of him and the outdated chandelier hanging from the ceiling, everything looks terribly depressing, the half emptied glasses on his table and the black and white pictures on the wall, everything just seems to be perfectly laid out to accompany him into misery. He'd be angry at himself for feeling this way on a night so important for Éponine, but he's not able to; it's not in his constitution that night.

Éponine ends her musical accompaniment of the evening at about eleven. She bows to the low applause of the people that are left in the café, and walks straight over to Grantaire's table.

“So?” she says, something like pride in her eyes. Tired and dead drunk, he grasps her hand and looks her straight in the eye.

“Éponine, apple of my eye, if you were a siren, not a sailor in the world would stand a chance.”

She snorts and pats Grantaire's hand sympathetically. “I'll take that as the best compliment you're capable of producing right now.”

She tells him she wants to stay to celebrate her first day, but Grantaire is so dazed from two hours of nothing but alcohol, introspection and soft, haunting music that he decides that it's best to call it a night.

“If you say so,” Éponine shrugs and empties the last glass of wine Grantaire has standing in front of him. He feels stupid about that now. He can't even afford drinking this much at a café.

“Those ABC people must be wrapping things up, too, let's go see Jehan, you should at least say goodbye to him.”

At that point, Grantaire doesn't really care anymore. He's had odd thoughts in his mind for the past two hours, thoughts of student souls lusting for revolutions and craving change that never comes, thoughts of the world that he feels like a weight around his ankles now, thoughts that are absurd and gloomy and that he just knows Jehan would describe as either talk of graves and worms and epitaphs or shoes and ships and sealing wax. It's made him feel weary, and apathetic, and so he doesn't resist when Éponine takes his wrist and leads him up the stairs.

Upstairs, it's even darker than below, because there aren't any more seats or tables right at the top of the stairs, only a narrow hallway illuminated by the light coming from the back room in unsteady beats, shadows obstructing its way for moments at a time. There's voices coming from the room, and for a second Grantaire feels as if he might be hearing things when one voice in particular stands out to him, and it's not too absurd, is it, with him being so drowsy and half intoxicated; why wouldn't he start hallucinating? But Éponine drags him around the corner, the light of the back room stinging in his eyes for a moment, and then there's really not doubt that voice is actually, genuinely there.

About ten people are gathered in the room, and it's way too small for all of them, a few are standing up, leaning against the walls, most are seated around a large table on benches and singular chairs, nudging shoulders and some of them whispering. Only a second ago, Grantaire thought there was light streaming from the room, but right now, considering that he's an artist, he's exceptionally bad at telling where the actual source of it may be, because his eyes are locked on one point only the second Éponine and him reach the door.

Enjolras is standing at the table, one hand with his palm flat on the tabletop and the other always in some kind of gesture; Grantaire thinks briefly that of course, obviously he'd be someone who talks with his hands – he's all fierce and utterly confident, the way he stands there, Grantaire would call him steadfast because he looks as if an earthquake couldn't knock him over, but that would neglect the swift dynamic in his movements, the way his fingers dance when he points to the newspaper laid out before the rest of them – is that what he's talking about, the newspaper, Grantaire can't even assign meaning to the words, he's too full of the voice – and there is so much in that voice, fire and some pride and appeal and God, Grantaire wasn't prepared for this, he's supposed to catch a single glimpse of this guy in the most dull class in the world, he's supposed to see him sitting around twisting his pen in his fingers, and he understands now that that's just about as much as he can take, anything else is just too much. He's not supposed to see him like this because just then, he knows he's completely fucked, he's gone, he's driven off the cliff and is bound for free fall for the rest of the ride.

Éponine notices something's off. She elbows him, and he doesn't look at her at first; some odd instinct tells him that averting his gaze might cause him physical pain right now. She grabs his arm and yanks him away from the doorway.

“R,” she says firmly, and the tone is so unusually strict, almost motherly, that he snaps out of it.

“Ép,” he mutters, shaking his head. He closes his eyes and groans. “I can't do this right now – listen, I'll text Jehan later, I just, uh. I gotta get home.”

“Right,” she says, furrowing her brow. “You're not going to walk in front of a truck, are you? You don't seem okay enough to get home on your own.”

He gives a mirthless laugh. “I think I'll make it.”

She's still critical. “You'll text me when you get there?”

He leans forward and kisses her forehead, way vulnerable to any tiny display of affection at the moment.

“Sure,” he says and winks, a rather pathetic attempt at feigning light-heartedness after just having lost it in front of Éponine, then turns, and makes his way back down the dark hallway.

He doesn't remember much of his way home. It's a pretty long walk, but he makes it eventually and feels as if hardly any time has passed at all.

In his room, he falls onto the bed and curses himself. Why did he have to be such an idiot? He could easily have connected the dots, hello, kid that tells him to honour the spilled blood of revolutionaries literally the second time they meet, and the student journal notorious for its advocacy on social criticism, now there's something that doesn't take a genius to figure out.

He felt something else, something strange back there, too. It's not fun to constantly have the desire to sketch someone, to see someone so beautiful you wish you'd never have to let them out of your sight, but he'd simply blamed that on him going way overboard with the aesthetic appreciation so far, because hey, that's an artist thing, right?

Seeing Enjolras at the Musain was different than that. Hearing him speak in that way was different.

He can just so stomach an Enjolras being beautiful, but at least sort of stoic and incredibly haughty in class. He can't begin to fathom an Enjolras holding a rousing speech, distractedly touching the shoulder of whoever was sitting next to him, of Enjolras speaking of a useless newspaper article as if a sound answer to all questions of the universe could be found in it. Nothing in the world could have prepared Grantaire for that, and now he's at a loss for ways to deal with it, because, well, what the hell is going on with him?

The desire to punch himself in the face is suppressed by him remembering that he earlier promised to text both Éponine and Jehan, which he, after this, absolutely owes them.

home safe, he texts Éponine. don't get too wild out there.

With Jehan, he has to think a little longer. He really should have told him goodbye, and he really shouldn't have rushed off like that, and he really, really doesn't want to lie to Jehan, ever, just in the same way that he doesn't want to kick a puppy or step on a kitten's tail, ever in his life. And it's not like Jehan is going to judge, Grantaire had just somehow hoped not telling people about this would somehow keep it in the reigns. Obviously, that's not happening anyway. He gives in. sorry i rushed off, he writes. was going to say bye, then ambushed by divine sight of intimidating blond guy in red. panicked.

It doesn't take Jehan long to text back, whereas Éponine either coolly decides not to reply or is too involved in whatever way she might be celebrating to check her phone.

Oh, Enjolras? It's okay I get it!! he texts, and then, a few seconds later, He can be sort of intense, you're okay though right?

That's not exactly an easy question to answer. He's not okay. He doesn't feel okay. It hasn't really been a good evening, what with the constant hot and cold of enthusiasm for his friend, lots of alcohol, a sudden outburst of weltschmerz related to the latter, and finally Apollo's shining presence. He feels at odds with himself, he's angry for some reason, and this doesn't seem like it's going to be better tomorrow, this feels like the beginning of a terrible thing that can only end in a train wreck, if it does end.

And it's one thing to be honest with Jehan about why he rushed out of the café without so much as waving at him for a goodbye; it's another thing to lie to him so Grantaire doesn't annoy him with his bullshit. Right?

He looks down at his phone. Well, it's settled. He's going to kick this puppy right in the face.

sure i'm good, no worries, he writes. have an eye on éponine?

Jehan, bless his heart because Grantaire is about to doze off anyway, again doesn't take long to text back. Yup, promise! Don't think she really needs a chaperone OR guardian, though. :)

Grantaire sighs. He knows she doesn't. If there's anyone who really can be trusted to take care of themselves, it's Éponine, but she looks after him, so it's sort of a given to try and do the same, even if it's not needed. You never know.

Having spent the weekend drowning himself in work on projects and bad TV – the two major ways of distracting oneself from figuring things out – Grantaire vaguely contemplates (and then discards the possibility of) not going to econ on Tuesday. It's not that he actually wants to avoid Enjolras, but... oh, who's he kidding, that's exactly what it is, he doesn't want to see him, he doesn't want to be around him and so completely separated from him at the same time. It's awful, he wants everything all of a sudden, and it's been a given from day one that he can have nothing, not even a scrap. They've talked, what, twice? And the guy already loathes him. Which really doesn't come as much of a surprise, but it's terrible and brutal in its own way.

Until now, whenever he was attracted to someone, there was always this sense of “well we're both just fuck-ups in a world that probably won't get any friendlier any time soon so let's make the most of it while we can”, an unspoken carpe diem between them, because what better opportunity were they going to get, and why not fall in love safely like this, just for a day or maybe a night?

Grantaire doesn't have to know anything about Enjolras as a person to know that this is a whole different level. Grantaire doesn't need strategy, or finesse, or anything of the like this time, because there was never any prospect to begin with. Which maybe, under some circumstances, could be considered a good thing, but that idea seems cynical even to him, that it could do some good to burn in the fires of crush-purgatory for a while to be cleansed of God knows what.

Those are some of the thoughts he definitely did not want to have over the weekend, and now that he's sitting in the lecture hall – he even avoided sitting in his usual spot – they all catch up with him. He keeps his eyes front, and when Professor Magloire arrives and the lecture starts, he almost aggressively takes notes, jotting down whatever he can without many of the words actually making their way to his brain. At least, like this, he'll have a decent write-up of the class for once, which is probably the ironically useful part of this whole ordeal.

Once they're dismissed after one and a half torturous hours, he jumps up from his seat and makes for the door like a soldier running for cover, and he's almost made it when he freezes in terror as he feels a hand on his shoulder.

“Grantaire?”

It's an easy voice to recognize. His heart skips a beat, momentary excitement quickly giving way to crippling anxiety. He has no idea how the guy knows his name, or what's about to happen, but it can't be good. What in the world has he done to deserve this?

He turns around and sees Enjolras, dressed in a dark grey sweater for once and with his coat slung over his arm, as if he's hurried to catch Grantaire. Has he? Could he have?

Grantaire is caught off guard. He couldn't stand being in the same room as the guy last Friday, and now their faces are about ten inches apart. Amazing. Between snarky comment and flirty address, he makes no call at all, and stares at Enjolras wordlessly. There's always this fraction of a moment where he has to collect himself; it's pathetic.

Enjolras clears his throat. He doesn't look much more comfortable with the situation than Grantaire. “I'm sorry to jump you like this, I just – uh. I'm Enjolras, first of all.”

Grantaire holds in the “I know, you're the guy who wanted to kick me out of the course” that's on the tip of his tongue, and stares at the hand Enjolras offers him. What is it about today? Did he do something to invoke divine wrath? Is it because he wasn't honest to Jehan and spent the weekend alone and apathetic? Is it because he accidentally stumbled over a sleeping Curie and woke her this morning? Although there's always the possibility that luck is just perpetually not-on-his-side. Nothing new, there.

“Grantaire,” he says, taking Enjolras' hand, biting his tongue for a brief moment, trying to ignore how soft his skin is. And the cold months are already there. Enjolras either uses an amazing lotion or he's one of those people who just magically have smooth skin all the time – dammit, he can't fucking keep on track. “But you already knew that, so. Born with the gift of clairvoyance or cursed by a wrathful deity?”

Enjolras narrows his eyes. Not the humorous type, then. “Jehan referred me to you. Jehan Prouvaire?”

God dammit, Jehan.

“Sure, Prouvaire, that one. Out of the, like, twenty Jehans I know, you could have been referencing just about anyone.”

Enjolras takes a deep breath. “He just said I might approach you about something. Do you have twenty minutes?”

“Are we going to talk about my right to take up space again? Because I don't know about you, I just feel as if you really drove the point home last time, so...”

The words just come out, he can't help them, but he drifts off as he sees the nonplussed look on Enjolras' face.

“Wait,” he says. “You didn't even realise, did you? You basically told me to fuck off, and then you forgot about it, is that it?” Grantaire can't help his laugh now. “Man. That... that explains so many things.”

Still, Enjolras just looks puzzled, and Grantaire can watch his expression change as it slowly dawns on him. “Ah”, he says, simply. “That.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire says. “That.”

“I'm sorry if I came across as rude”, Enjolras says, and Grantaire is pretty sure he can see him grit his teeth once the words are out. “I didn't mean to offend you.”

How did you mean it, then? Grantaire feels one of his hands clench against his will. How did you mean it? What intention behind that could possibly not be rude?

“Forgive the, uh, slight pinch of criticism here, but that doesn't seem like much of a speciality of yours, then,” Grantaire says. “You know, not offending.”

Enjolras looks as if he's been punched in the face. Something inside of Grantaire stings as Enjolras avoids his eyes, his looks instead darting across the floor.

“Right,” Enjolras says after a few seconds. “You're right. That wasn't an appropriate thing to say to someone I know nothing about.” He looks up again. “I apologise. And that's probably pointless to say now, but I actually meant to apologise last week already, I just – well, you saw what happened.”

So that's what that weird 10-second staring contest was? Wow. Grantaire's not sure if he's more astounded by the fact that Enjolras apparently genuinely wanted to apologise, or the fact that he's so incredibly bad at it.

But his eyes are on Grantaire's now and holy shit, Grantaire is lying to himself if he thinks he really needs a better apology than this, this trainwreck of an “I'm sorry” that is more choked out than sincerely given, because Enjolras obviously has to swallow his pride to so much as get it out, and that's exactly the kind of thing that happens when people don't mean their apology. Grantaire wants to care about that more than he does, but he can't. Hell, he'd probably let this guy walk all over him, no explanation needed. Talk about fucking unhealthy.

His lip twitches.

“No worries,” he says easily. “I mean, technically there's no harm done, since, passionate as you might be about the cause, you didn't actually manage to get me kicked out.”

“I didn't want you to get kicked out,” Enjolras says, defensive. “I thought you didn't care about the class and that you were going to drop it anyway, and sometimes I get worked up over that kind of thing, which probably doesn't mean that what I said was okay. So,” he sucks in a breath and lets it out in a huff, “I'm sorry.”

Grantaire has to remind himself to breathe. God, they have to drop this. “What can I do for you, then?”

It comes out sounding a little more bitter than he means for it to, but Enjolras doesn't seem to notice, because apparently he's relieved. “Do you mind if we go grab a coffee or something for that part? There's quite a bit to be said on my side, so...”

Yes, I do mind, because what the fuck, I don't know what's happening and this whole thing is terrifying, Grantaire thinks, dumbstruck. He tries to make sense of it – this can only be about the ABC if Jehan recommended talking to him. And Grantaire's made it pretty clear that he doesn't want anything to do with whatever quixotic quest of changing the world they have in mind, so this is bound to end in a disaster anyway, that is, unless Enjolras turns the whole thing around and unexpectedly suggests they elope together. In that case, Grantaire would probably be game.

“Sure,” Grantaire says in spite of himself and ignoring the voice that tells him to just make a run for it and not to look back, “at your service. I've no more lectures to get to.”

“All right.” Enjolras might fail to hear the coolness in his voice on purpose, but still, he sounds and looks and just overall seems so uncomfortable, as if he isn't the one who's forcing them into this situation. It's freaking Grantaire out to no end. “Copains?”

Grantaire blinks, startled for a split second in which it's entirely possible that his heart stops. Enjolras raises his eyebrows, expectant. Then the penny drops, and Grantaire nods.

Copains, short for Copains Comme Cochons, is a cosy hybrid of coffee shop and bistro on campus, exactly the kind where a journalism major would go to sit on their own with their laptop and draft a novel about a middle-aged professor who smokes too much and just got out of the one relationship that left them a broken man. Grantaire avoids the place, mostly, but he's been there once and he knows it's about a five minutes walk from their lecture hall.

This particular walk quickly turns into a serious contestant for the most uncomfortable five minutes Grantaire has ever gone through in his life. Enjolras tries small talk, but Grantaire isn't really out for that between trying to keep his cool and struggling very hard not to demand an immediate explanation for why he's being held hostage like this, so the attempts soon cease and they walk quietly and side by side.

While they're walking, Grantaire gets out his phone and has already typed a what the hell do u have to say for yourself judas- message to Jehan when he notices that Jehan already texted him, about two hours ago, before their class started.

Intimidating blond guy about to ambush again!! So sorry, couldn't stop him, he really wanted to talk to you in person!!

And then, two minutes later, one more Sorry!!! had arrived and Grantaire sighs as he sees it. Enjolras notices the sound, and Grantaire quickly pockets his phone before Enjolras can catch a glimpse of the screen.

At Copains, Enjolras orders something with a lot of caffeine and soy milk, and Grantaire abstains. This is one of the places he can't afford; Fairtrade and Rainforest Alliance are probably honourable enough labels in themselves, but mostly they just lead to him never buying coffee at coffee shops. Especially after his massively well thought-out decision to spend fifty euros on alcohol at the Musain last Friday, he figures he should really use the three bucks that could be wasted on coffee on something more essential. Bread, for instance.

They take a small booth by the window, and Grantaire tries not to stare too much. It's not easy, because Enjolras is just interesting to look at, and Grantaire has had so little opportunity to observe him this closely so far. For instance, he's never realised that Enjolras does everything intensely. He stirs his coffee with slightly more force than he has to, and some of it spills over. He almost knocks the menu off the table when he reaches for his bag. Elegant as he may look, Grantaire realises that this fiery passion he seems to have for whatever his cause may be lends itself in slightly clumsy, because unwittingly forceful, gestures. It's hard not to find that at least a little endearing.

“So Jehan must have told you about the ABC,” Enjolras presumes, one hand around his coffee cup. He briefly protested Grantaire not ordering anything earlier, but relented after Grantaire refused to have his coffee paid for. That's the last thing Grantaire needs right now, Enjolras making this feel like a date without having any idea how cruel that is.

“Yeah, quite a bit,” Grantaire says. “One thing I always meant to ask him about that is just, like, why the name?”

Enjolras seems surprised at the question. Thinking about it, he probably wasn't expecting Grantaire to show any interest in this conversation at all.

“I mean, is it short for something or...”

“Sort of, yes,” Enjolras says. He's smiling a little and it softens his features considerably, Grantaire has to bite the inside of his cheek for a second. “It's a long story.”

“Isn't that the reason we're here?” Grantaire waves his hand at their surroundings. Enjolras, his surprise still visible, nods hesitantly.

“I suppose. It's a... historical thing, sort of.” He looks Grantaire in the eye, a little steadier now as he starts to explain. “You know how pamphlets and newspapers played a crucial role in the revolution? There was an entire flood of newspapers founded in the years following 1789.”

Grantaire stares. He's just broken something loose, as it seems.

“Some of those newspapers were newsletters of republican organisations, some of them student unions, and among the most relevant publications was this one called La Bouche de Fer.”

“Wow, that's not melodramatic.”

Enjolras squints, but he isn't deterred. Grantaire is pretty sure there's no holding him back now, anyway. “It was published for several years in the aftermath of the revolution being initiated, and it had considerable influence. The organisation behind La Bouche de Fer was in part made up of students from this university, and as a union, they called themselves Les Amis de l'ABC.”

He draws out the last three syllables so that it's impossible for Grantaire to miss the double meaning. Revolutionary organisation, lame pun. Maybe he should read up on that part of history, it does seem a little more entertaining in this light.

“Abaissé,” Grantaire nods. “Got it.”

Enjolras' fingers are drumming along the side of his coffee cup. “Much later, when this university had already been named after Lamarque, a new student paper was founded, and of course, they couldn't go on to call it by its original name without causing a controversy. It was the 1950s.” He blows a stray curl of hair away from where it's fallen to tickle the bridge of his nose. Grantaire mourns its loss. “They were looking for a backhanded way of paying tribute to the ideas behind the revolutionary journal as well as their achievements, and ABC was an innocent enough term that would still allude to the original publication, so they settled on that as a compromise. ”

“Clever,” Grantaire says. He's not sure if it comes across as sarcastic. He's not even sure he means for it to. Right now, he doesn't really want to rain on Enjolras' parade, because the little history excursion was actually kind of adorable, a word he hadn't previously thought he'd ever apply to the guy.

Enjolras shrugs. “It's stuck. And by now, it's become relevant for the content again. We are trying to bring along change, so.”

Grantaire clears his throat. “If, you know, revolution is what you're here for, honestly, I'm not sure Jehan really gave you the right impression—”

“Don't worry, he told me you weren't exactly an activist,” Enjolras says. “You don't need to be. We don't want to recruit you.”

Grantaire furrows his brow. “But...?”

Enjolras lets go of his coffee cup and folds his hands on the table. “Do you do graphic design? At all?”

Grantaire fears the worst. This isn't going in a very desirable direction, and he's dismissed the whole “maybe he just wants to elope”-thing a few minutes ago anyway, about halfway through the revolution-geekout. “I, uh, I don't know? I mean, I'm not better or worse in it than I am at the rest, I guess, it's not my favourite thing to do, exactly, but can be fun.”

Enjolras eyes are on him, scrutinizing. “The thing is, the person who was largely in charge of our designs is currently doing their Ph.D., and for the most part we were sure they'd stay on, but after some of the latest events...” He sighs. “Well, they didn't. We need a replacement really quickly, and the art department in particular seems disinterested in helping us out.”

Believe me, I've tried, his tone seems to imply. That's Grantaire. The eternal back-up guy. The perpetual last resort. Somehow, this is both utterly unsurprising and something he didn't anticipate at all.

“Yeah, they're not big fans of the ABC,” Grantaire says with a slightly gleeful smile he can't help. That's actually something he's picked up on in the department; the student journal is the enemy. Apparently the editorial staff is made up of a bunch of stuck up overachievers from the more well-funded departments – come to think of it, Enjolras sort of fits the bill. “Probably has to do with the perpetual darkness in the hearts of artists. Or, you know, the fact that they're painting in a basement while the Poli Sci kids literally walk on red carpet.”

Enjolras looks strained again. “That's the pre-selected carpet pattern every department gets, and the colour scheme alternates between six options total. In our building, it just happens to be red.”

Of course he would jump to get defensive about carpet. That just fits right in. Although, seriously, who knows stuff like that? (Huge nerds, that's who. Not that Enjolras wasn't heavily reeling towards that category anyway, having been more nerdy in these past five minutes than he's let on in the past four weeks.) “Just saying,” Grantaire shrugs. “That's why they're not exactly keen on you folks. Tendency for elitism, et cetera.”

At that, Enjolras takes a deep breath, as if he has to calm himself down. “Well, we're dependent on their help, so... maybe that power imbalance can even things out.” He looks Grantaire in the eye. “We really, really desperately need a graphic designer.”

“So you're coming to me?” Grantaire almost laughs. “Because our cultural attitudes match so well? You've seen what I draw.”

“And it was good,” Enjolras says, slightly tilting his head then, “...technically. Listen, you're an artist, it shows that you're talented, and Jehan thinks so highly of you. That's all we need, really.”

Grantaire frowns. “You can't have given this a lot of thought,” he says, and Enjolras shakes his head.

“No, I really haven't, Jehan only just suggested it during lunch. But since I'm more familiar with your work than with the art of anyone else we could ask, and I thought I was going to see you in class anyway, and since we're in such a jam...”

That is a lot of since-s, Grantaire notes.

“It wouldn't be some kind of all-consuming job that would mess with your schedule or anything,” he continues. “Just organizing the layout, possibly the typesetting, designing logos; things like that. So if you're not happy with the content, you're free to ignore it, you don't need to have anything to do with it if you're so opposed to it. It's the technicalities we need someone for.”

“Listen, not to discredit Jehan's effort, and his, like, seriously misplaced faith in me, but I can't imagine I'm what you're looking for here,” Grantaire says. He's settled on this the second Enjolras put his hand to his shoulder earlier, when he didn't even know what he was going to ask. It's no question that signing up to a weekly meeting with Enjolras as he'd seen him at the Musain would be nothing short of masochistic. And, yes, he might not always be kind to himself, but it's not that bad yet. Probably.

“Why not?” Enjolras asks simply. He'd be that type of person, wouldn't he, to cut straight to the heart, no diversions needed. Fucking exhausting.

“First of all, I lack the equipment,” Grantaire shrugs. “I don't know what sort of magic you expect to be worked, but I don't have legal versions of Illustrator or Photoshop, one of which you'll probably be using, and since your paper sells commercially, you'd need someone to do the job with proper non-pirated software—”

“We can provide you with that,” Enjolras says. “There's a laptop you can use, take home, whatever you need, and we have a budget for any supplies you can think of. It wouldn't be a problem.”

Right. For a split second, he questions if he really wants to get out of this, but he hushes the thought. This isn't the time for nonsense.

“Anyway,” Grantaire says, “in the long run, I don't think you'd be happy with a non-believer designing your pages. You're all about a cause, right? How happy would you really be with me working in your group without sharing in a single one of the beliefs that you guys take as common ground? Especially since, let's face it, I wouldn't be able to shut up about it if I was ever present in any of your, uh. Discussions?”

Enjolras is quiet for a moment, taking a sip of coffee. “I wasn't going to ask that, actually,” he says then, “but since we seem to be bound to touch upon it, why are you so opposed to activism?”

Grantaire laughs. This is the most ironic situation he's ever been in – questioning his own sanity because of a crush and being questioned in his very few beliefs in the same day, all owed to the same person. Good times. “You don't really want to get into this right now, do you?”

“Of course I do, I asked you,” Enjolras says, puzzled by so much as the assumption that he might have posed a rhetorical question. “And this isn't me demanding a justification, I'm just curious. You're friends with Jehan, I doubt he'd pick a particularly conservative, right-wing person to be close with.”

“Right-wing?” That almost makes him laugh again. Enjolras is so serious about these things, as if the fate of the world was decided at this table and in this conversation. “God, no, that's not it. Is there just sort of left and right in your mind? Everyone who isn't with you is with the enemy?”

“Not in my mind,” Enjolras says earnestly. “But in the minds of many. It's not a far-fetched assumption to think you might be one of them.”

“Well, I'm sorry to disappoint, but the problem here isn't that I think women aren't people or that immigration is a source of evil or whatever. Hell, I'm not even white, what would I want to to achieve with the FN or some shit, start a campaign to kick myself out of the country?” The words come surprisingly easy now. Arguing with the guy – that seems to work. Not having an inch of common ground; now there's a good place to start. “Yeah, that's not it. I just think you're treading water in the most brutal way there is, and breaking your own legs and knocking other people in the face with your elbows and never noticing, and in the end it was just a painful mess for everyone that didn't lead anywhere.”

Enjolras narrows his eyes. “There is so much evidence to suggest otherwise,” he says. “If activism in general lead nowhere, we couldn't be having this conversation. Depending on what state of development we want to go back to, I might have been burned at the stake as a fifteen year old for being queer; as an artist, you would probably be completely unable to produce anything besides commission works for the clergy, either of us would have been unable to receive an education, if only for the lack of nobility... And those things have been overcome, for the sole reason that people strove forward.”

Oddly enough, it doesn't surprise Grantaire that Enjolras is upfront about his identity. He mentions it so nonchalantly, but he makes it sound almost provoking – there's a silent, yeah, I said queer, come the fuck at me in it. Grantaire can't imagine anyone being an asshole about it to Enjolras' face; they wouldn't dare.

“Well, yeah, maybe we, and I mean, just the two of us, we can count ourselves lucky now,” Grantaire says, leaning in a little. “But what's been overcome, when you look at the world? There are people getting arrested, murdered, anything, for being queer. For literally nothing at all. I mean, not to curb your enthusiasm too much, but that's very much still happening. Just as well as classism isn't eradicated, like, at all. And there have been revolutions all across the globe in the past few years, but what did they do, besides cause bloodbaths and trade one dictator for the next?”

“They have shown what the people want,” Enjolras says, determined. “They've given them a voice that can't be ignored. You honestly consider the deaths of those people meaningless?”

“Well – they've changed nothing,” Grantaire scoffs. “Of course they're meaningless, and they're petty, and cause unnecessary pain.”

“And you'd rather they had remained passive and suffered in silence, then? You think it's the more honourable thing to do to accept injustice because it's too much of an effort to show resistance?”

“Honour?” Grantaire laughs. “Are you serious? Honour, come on, that's not remotely what this is about, it's about utilitarianism. The whole 'fighting is noble'-idea is bullshit, always has been. It completely forgets about the actual, real-life bloodshed that's happening; you can't measure all the genuine loss that occurs against how honourable a death is. At least, you know, not in this century.”

“I don't think you should be measuring the suffering of a people by systematic oppression against the pain of personal loss; horror doesn't quantify in that way,” Enjolras says, brows knit tightly together. “Utilitarianism is either completely inapplicable, or could be used to support my ideas as well as yours, given that it's basically arbitrary.” He stops himself, suddenly. “We shouldn't be getting into this,” he says, and Grantaire smirks.

“Sure. It's not like you asked about it.”

“No, I mean, we can't be getting into this now. We could keep going, I suppose, but I do have a lecture at five and you haven't given an answer yet.”

“Yeah, well, I sort of thought I'd made it clear,” Grantaire says, part of him tearing itself to shreds as he keeps up the resistance. He doesn't want to say no, necessarily. He just feels like he has to. Although, at this point, he can't tell anymore if self-preservation would be to accept or to decline. “I decline with thanks, and honestly, you'll be glad I did.”

“Jehan doesn't seem to think so.”

“That's Jehan for you,” Grantaire smiles. “The devil himself could come knocking at that kid's door and he'd just invite him in for tea.”

“He's not naïve, Grantaire,” Enjolras says critically. “I don't think he recommends anyone lightly. You could give him some more credit.”

Oh, if only he knew. Grantaire runs a hand through this hair.

“Are you going to let me go?” he asks, tired of coming up with half-assed arguments. He doesn't really mean them, and he wouldn't mean it if he said the entire opposite.

Enjolras' look never wavers, but he looks less fierce, more sober now, but no less earnest. “I just want to make sure you've considered this properly. You know, the ABC is one of the most renowned student papers in the country.”

Grantaire huffs out a laugh. “You can't honestly think that knowing how important you are is going to make a difference to me.”

“No, I mean we receive funding,” he says. “You would get paid.”

Ah.

Now, there's a game changer if Grantaire's ever heard one. An actual, paid job would solve so many of his problems, starting with him being able to buy real food (anything besides ramen would be fine, really, anything but more ramen), possibly being in the position to get better art supplies so that he doesn't constantly have to pluck the stray hairs of paintbrushes from his canvas, he might even be able to buy one or the other Christmas present, and the anxiety about his rent might finally ease up a little...

“God, Enjolras,” Grantaire shakes his head. “Out of all things, you didn't lead with that? What the hell kind of a debater are you?”

“I thought you knew,” Enjolras says sincerely. “So that does make a difference to you?”

“Are you kidding, how couldn't it make a difference? Jehan doesn't get paid, why would I just assume—”

“Well, most of us don't get paid, because it's almost all volunteers who believe in the cause and mission statement. Theoretically, we could be paying most people on the editing staff, but since they volunteer, that money can be used in other ways. We'd never want to ask the same of you, with you not sharing our convictions, so you could have a salary something above minimum wage.”

Grantaire hums. So God really does hate him.

“I know that isn't a fantastic offer in the monetary sense,” Enjolras says, clearly very oblivious to how wrong he is. Minimum wage would make an enormous difference to Grantaire, with things as they are now. It's more than what he receives from his father.

“Should you decide to start the job and you don't want to stay on, you can drop everything again as soon as we find someone else. But in all honesty, I think if you gave it a try, you might end up enjoying the work. It is a great group of people, and despite what you may think, we do have good causes.”

Grantaire doesn't even care much about that last part. He couldn't in a million years convince himself that a stupid crush could be a valid reason to turn down an art job that pays, so all thoughts of both self-preservation and self-indulgence are thrown overboard in a wink.

“I mean, you've got me,” he shrugs. “There's really no limit to the number of fog-headed idealists I'll draw for if it means a month's salary.”

Enjolras nods, jaw clenching only slightly at the snide comment.

“Good,” he says, and he doesn't smile, but sounds sincere, which Grantaire can't quite fathom. “I imagine Jehan's going to be happy to hear about it.”

Ah, Jehan. Grantaire realises he should be grateful to him, and he is, because the kid has just supplied him with a job which, no doubt, Enjolras would never have offered without Jehan's suggestion. But he's cautious not to be too enthusiastic about it. Working closely with Enjolras for the rest of the semester is probably going to have the same effect on his emotional wellbeing as staring straight into the sun without blinking for a couple hours would have on the average pair of eyes, so as far as the work itself goes, there's not much to look forward to.

Enjolras promises to talk to him about a contract and some more information once he's scraped it all together, and they exchange numbers. As Grantaire watches him walk off once they've said goodbye in front of Copains, he already feels haunted by the question of whether he's just made a terrible choice. He wonders if he ever really had one, too.

Chapter Text

“You said yes, didn't you?” Grantaire has to hold the phone an inch away from his ear at the unbridled enthusiasm flying at him through the speaker. “I can tell from your voice – oh, this is amazing. You've just made my day, I was feeling so gloomy earlier. We talked about Chénier too much in class this morning, I almost cried at – three points, I think, and now he's been on my mind all day. He was so ahead of his time, too good for all of them to fathom, and they showed him no mercy, can you believe it? It's a complete tragedy.”

Grantaire pulls a face. “What does my voice sound like?”

“Hm, it sort of has a nervous edge. Some traces of regret.”

Great. “Meanwhile, you sound like you've won the lottery.”

“Well, I have!” The sunshine in Jehan's voice is painful. “I'm so glad, R, really. I didn't think you'd accept, I mean, I wasn't sure, but the offer couldn't hurt, since you were looking for a job—”

“I was,” Grantaire sighs. He's on the bus, the rattling of the engine not succeeding at all in drowning out Jehan. “Actually, I called to say thanks for suggesting me.”

“Oh, no need for that! I really am sorry it set Enjolras on you, though, he's even more intimidating up close, isn't he?”

So the effect isn't singular. Grantaire is not surprised. He remembers Jehan's exact phrasing, too, he really wanted to talk to you in person. That part is even weirder now, because Enjolras had seemed keen on a lot of things just then – his coffee, hiring a graphic designer, overthrowing the government – but not their conversation. That, in itself, actually seemed to have been the worst part of his afternoon. “Yeah, uh, how did that go down, anyway?”

“What exactly?”

“Well – how did he even know I was, you know, me? Did you just bring me up, like, hey, I know an art student, about this tall, never shaves properly, messy-haired ball of social unpleasantry, and Enjolras went, okay, I've definitely met him—”

Jehan laughs. “Not exactly the words I used, but that was actually kind it. I told them I knew a really talented artist, shh, yes you are—”

“I didn't say anything.”

“Sorry. Figured best to shut it down in advance. So, that's what I said, and one guy was like, call him right now, and I said you were probably on your way to econ right now, and that's when Enjolras asked what you looked like, because he was in the class, too, and I still can't believe you two have met and I didn't know, I take offence at that, by the way...”

Grantaire makes an impatient noise to hurry the story along. He regrets asking about it now, because he mustn't dwell on the thought of Enjolras hearing “really talented artist in econ” and thinking of him, and overall, he's just making this whole thing a lot harder on himself by hearing more. “We didn't meet,” he adds. “My presence offended him, so he offended me in return. We didn't even exchange names.”

“Still,” Jehan insists. “You recognised him at the Musain, and you didn't tell me. I pick up on things like that, you know.”

Grantaire sighs. “I'm sorry.”

“What do you mean, your presence offended him?”

“Slightly longer story.”

“Okay, well, anyway, I told him what you looked like—”

The fact that Grantaire manages not to pronounce the terribly embarrassing question of what exact wording was used is a source of inexplicable momentary pride.

“– and he said he was pretty sure he knew you as well and that he'd been meaning to talk to you anyway, so he was just going to ask you after class.”

“I see,” Grantaire murmurs. This whole apology thing must have really weighed on Enjolras' mind, then, which is... sort of sweet, in a way? Although sweet is all kinds of wrong as a word to describe him, so. It was humane. It proved the assumption that the guy was made of stone wrong, although Grantaire hadn't clung on to that fact anymore after seeing him at the Musain anyway. Maybe, though, the apology alone, awful as it was, should make Grantaire less dead-set on passing, but it doesn't change a thing. Although there's the horrifying possibility that while he was in it to prove Enjolras wrong before, it might be for a slightly different reason now. He doesn't want to think about it.

“You have no idea how excited I am for you to meet everybody,” Jehan says. “And yes, you've said you're not too keen on them and you may think that now but I just know you're going to love them, trust me. You'll get on like a house on fire, you'll see.”

“Uh, I wasn't actually – well.” This probably isn't the best moment to tell Jehan about the plan Grantaire had forged out on his walk to the bus station. He accepted the job, fine, but he isn't sure yet if his instinct for self-preservation was really lacking enough to actually go and listen to Enjolras talk about things he was passionate about twice a week, so he just figured he might as well do his job without ever going to their meetings. That's possible, right? He isn't concerned with the content anyway, he can technically fix the layout without ever talking to any of them.

“Grantaire,” Jehan says, and Grantaire flinches at the tone. He's heard it before and he doesn't want to be the reason for Jehan to sound this heartbroken, ever. It's even worse when he was in such a good mood two seconds earlier. “Please don't tell me you don't mean to come to the meetings.”

“Sorry?” Grantaire says helplessly, and Jehan gives off a pained noise.

“No! You have to come, please! I'll never forgive you if you don't, and you'd like it, I know you would – please, R, you can't mean that. Not because of your weird opinions on politics, that's just – that's not right.”

“That's not the reason,” Grantaire pleads. “Just – Jehan, I promise, if it was just you and a bunch of random people talking about world peace, I'd be game, okay? It's not because of that.”

“Why, then?”

“Jehan—”

Jehan, on the other end, sounds as if he's recently been widowed. “I'm sorry,” he says. “I shouldn't push this, you're entitled to your privacy. I've probably done enough damage today.”

“No, you didn't, please don't say that,” Grantaire says, at his wit's end, he's never going to fix this. “Jehan, you've given me a job, okay, I'll finally be able to cut the pathetic rest of family ties because of you. I'll get to buy Curie those weird bacon strips she likes. Hell, I'll be able to make sandwiches to bring to class, buy pretentious politically correct coffee, get Gavroche a Christmas present, all because of you.” He takes a deep breath. “I just can't come to the meetings. Maybe – maybe some day, okay? Maybe I'll try later. Just for now, it doesn't seem like a good idea to me.”

“No, Grantaire, I meant what I said,” Jehan says quietly. “You didn't want to be at the Musain with the others last week, that should have told me enough, and instead I went on and pulled you in like this. Your reasons are your own, I shouldn't have been intrusive. I'm sorry.”

“Don't be,” Grantaire says firmly. “Don't. I'm sorry I'm so fucked up over this but I'm grateful, okay? You've helped me out. You have.”

Jehan laughs a little. “You don't have to say that.”

“No, I mean it. Jehan, I wouldn't have gotten off my ass and actually looked for a job on my own, we both know that. I can actually make money now, you don't understand what a big deal that is.” Because Jehan really can't, he couldn't possibly understand, Grantaire thinks. With a proper job, a merit-based scholarship and rich parents, that just isn't a thing he has to worry about.

“You're right,” Jehan says, in a quiet voice. “I'm sorry.”

“I'm thanking you,” Grantaire says emphatically. “And I mean it. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Jehan?”

“No, it's okay.”

“So you're not going to sit in your dark room by yourself and be sad if I hang up now?”

“What? No. I've been marathoning Spartacus. R, that show is so bad.”

Grantaire smiles. If he's R again, he's in the clear. “Not watching for the plot, then?”

“No,” Jehan says without shame. “Gratuitous male nudity.”

“I see.”

“It's a purely aesthetic interest.”

“Sure.”

“Thinking about it, I'll actually get back to that now,” Jehan says. The smile is back in his voice, even if it's small. “You'll be all right?”

“Aren't I always,” Grantaire says.

“R?” 

“Hm?”

“We're really lucky to have you,” Jehan says, as if that's a perfectly natural thing to say to a person. “With you at the meetings or not, I'm so glad you agreed, if only because I know we'll be better with your help.”

Grantaire blanks at that, and after a few seconds of silence, Jehan laughs at the other end.

“I'll leave you to your attempts at comprehending this outrageous display of kindness. See you in Art History tomorrow?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure.”

“Good.”

He hangs up, and Grantaire realises that he's missed his stop.

He can't catch a break, even though he's not sure why he was hoping to. Enjolras texts him the next day, just as Grantaire has settled on the couch with cereal and a book, which is just about the most luxurious thing he's had to look forward to this week. Managed to scrape all the paperwork together. Would you rather go through it now or at the meeting on Friday? E. Grantaire stares at the screen for about a minute and then tosses his phone to the other end of the couch before remembering that he can't actually procrastinate replying for two weeks the way he normally does with unpleasant messages. Ruefully, he takes back the phone. now's good, he texts back, and Enjolras must have incredibly fast fingers because it takes him about two seconds to reply. Grantaire tries very hard not to think about the implications in that, because nope, there aren't any, nothing to think about here. Can you be at the library in 30 minutes? I'd meet you at the main entrance. Grantaire checks the time. Bus schedules are the most annoying thing about not living very close to campus. 45 mins?, he replies. You'll need your tax ID number & copy of insurance card, Enjolras texts back, which Grantaire can only take as an okay for the 45 minutes thing. what abt criminal record & birth certificate? high school diploma? baby photos? Grantaire hits send before he can stop himself. And people say texts make it easier not to fuck up by speaking before thinking – bullshit. It makes things way worse, everything looks witty typed out on a screen, it's just too tempting. It's not a requirement, but feel free to bring & show, Enjolras replies, and Grantaire honestly can't tell if he's being hilarious or the most literal person on the planet.

When Grantaire arrives at the library, Enjolras is waiting by the main entrance, hard to miss despite the crowd of people – as ever, he's a beacon. Grantaire does his best to ignore the actual, physical pain in his chest and waves awkwardly.

“Am I late?” he says, pushing his fists into the pockets of his parka as he approaches Enjolras. “The tax ID thing took a while, I didn't even know I had one until now, and I don't have a copier so I went to the book shop and they were out of paper; I stood there for like, ten minutes, which was all kinds of dumb because I just realised that you can copy in the library, right? So yeah, talk about time efficiency.”

He stops to catch a breath. Enjolras is looking at him with an inscrutable expression; Grantaire is surprised at the lack of reaction to this whole waterfall of nonsense the poor guy had just been greeted with, but Enjolras is just looking, as if this isn't embarrassing at all and he's been hanging on to Grantaire's every word with angelic patience. Somehow, this is way more unnerving than having freaked him out could possibly be.

“Anyway,” Grantaire says lamely, completely thrown off and with no intention to follow that previous tirade up with anything worse.

Enjolras blinks. “You're not late,” he says. “I just figured I'd better be here soon enough in case you were early.”

He starts rummaging through his messenger bag, distractedly handing Grantaire things to hold until he's got a scarf, an orange kale smoothie, two books and an apple piled up on Grantaire's arms and finally pulls out a thin white folder. He holds it out to Grantaire, who looks down at what's probably half the contents of Enjolras' bag cradled in his arms, and Enjolras realises the infrastructural difficulties he's accidentally brought along. “Ah. Hang on.”

Grantaire follows him over to one of the tables that are scattered across the hall, and Enjolras sits down on the bench, his bag next to him. Grantaire, in turn, sits next to the bag and prays that Enjolras can't actually feel the hammering of his heart as he takes his stuff back from where Grantaire has been holding it to his chest.

“Orange and kale?” Grantaire asks as Enjolras takes the bottle from him. Enjolras smiles.

“A friend of mine recently diagnosed me with scurvy; early stage. I've found that carrying around things that hold vitamin C puts him at ease.”

“That's a pretty cold tactic if you don't actually drink it. Does he think you spent a lot of time on a 16^th century galleon lately?”

“I don't always know what he thinks. I'd rather assure him I'm listening to his health advice than ask too many questions.”

“Again, cold.”

“I don't think so at all,” Enjolras says, his eyes twinkling. “He's the expert. I'm not in the position to question his medical judgement, and if that means drinking orange kale smoothies, there's no harm done.”

“We both know you don't actually drink these.”

Enjolras stares at him, and then, wordlessly and without taking his eyes off Grantaire's, grabs the bottle and uncaps it. It's a small bottle, holding about the equivalent of the average drinking glass, probably, but Grantaire still watches in horror as Enjolras tilts back his head and downs the entire thing in one go. The word stubborn has just acquired a completely new definition.

“Dude,” Grantaire says, nothing more. He's dumbfounded, and hates that Enjolras seems to inherently have that effect on him, but at the same time, he feels as if he's just fallen ten times harder. As of now, Enjolras isn't only ridiculously beautiful, nerdy and spirited to a fault, he's also hilarious, and Grantaire can't even tell if he's aware of that or if it's completely unintentional.

Enjolras looks triumphant and basks in that glory for a second before he puts the cap back on and tosses the empty bottle into his bag. “You don't have to worry about anything fishy in the contract,” he says casually while getting the rest of his stuff sorted. “The office just sends these down, but the two law guys we have had a proper look at it, so if there was anything wrong with it, we'd know.”

“I wasn't as worried about you guys scamming me as you're implying I should be,” Grantaire frowns. He's still taken aback by the smoothie-chug and he doesn't know what to do with his arms once Enjolras has taken his things back; he's so conscious of them now.

“Good,” Enjolras says plainly, offering no further explanation. He opens the folder and spreads the sheets of paper from inside out on the entire desk. “So, this is the sheet for basic information, which you'll have to fill in twice, but I brought two copies, so you don't have to copy them yourself, and then there's the actual contract; there's only one of those, which is lucky...”

Grantaire sighs as he watches the desk get covered in paper. He's grateful for the whole job thing, he can't stress that enough, but he also remembers why he didn't go out and actively look for one. “Man, what a nightmare,” he murmurs, and Enjolras, who was actually still going on about what to fill in how many times and what additional papers might be needed, stops to look at him.

“Excuse me?”

It's not said in a threatening way, but Grantaire feels a shiver go down his spine anyway. He shrugs. “This is the worst. I mean, what does that say –” He pulls one of the sheets in closer. “See, this paragraph? I just have to check yes or no in the end, but what am I even agreeing or not agreeing to?” His eyes scan the paragraph. “What the hell does that mean? The only words I understand are 'pension' and 'relief' and I'm not even sure these guys and I have a matching definition of that last one.”

“Are you having second thoughts about this?”

The question comes out of nowhere, and Grantaire laughs a little. “Fourth and fifth, actually, but that's not what this is about.”

“Isn't it? Because if it is, you can—”

“It isn't. Relax. I was just pissed about this Newspeak shit legal documents pull when they should be at least remotely accessible for, you know, the average human that has to fill them in.”

Enjolras squints. “But you are still hesitant,” he notes then. Astute observation. Again, Grantaire shrugs.
“I was before, I am now. Doesn't matter, though. I'm here, aren't I?”

“You'll feel better once you've met the others,” Enjolras says with utter confidence. Grantaire expects some kind of continuation, but nothing happens.

“You should do this professionally,” he says flatly. “My doubts have completely dissipated.”

Enjolras furrows his brow. “I wasn't trying to do that. You're entitled to your doubts. But I think once you get to know the people behind this you're going to feel better about working for the paper even though you don't support its philosophy.”

Of course, this is the official reason for why he's ambivalent about the whole thing. Grantaire has to keep that in mind. In the official version, he cares very strongly about being opposed to their ideals, thank you very much, he cares so much he'd actually contemplate refusing a job offer over this. Yeah, right.

“If you want to, we can still delay the actual signing until the meeting on Friday,” Enjolras offers.

“About that,” Grantaire says, guessing that now's as good a time as any. “I was thinking that I probably might as well just stay away from the meetings? I can work just as well anywhere, I'd just need the contents and maybe some details on minor stuff, but not, like, the full load of revolutionary fervour every week. And you don't technically need me there, right? So...”

“No, you'll have to come,” Enjolras says. It's put as a fact, so abruptly that Grantaire is speechless for a second.

“I will?” he says then.

“You'll be on the editing staff, so you'll be required to be at the meetings,” Enjolras says easily. “If that wasn't a requirement, we could have commissioned someone on a professional fee, but all of our work relies on the staff being a community, so that was never an option. You'll be a part of the team, so you're going to have to be there.”

“Oh, come on,” Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Who could possibly be monitoring who's there and who isn't?”

“I am,” Enjolras says, slightly offended. “Is it really such a nightmare for you to spend a few hours a week in the same room as people whose opinions differ from yours?”

As you, Grantaire thinks. Just you, because only sitting next to you right now feels pretty fucking impossible and you have no idea, you never will, and this is terrible. “Don't tell me that's not an actual, genuine nightmare of yours,” Grantaire says. “I didn't even say a word back in class and you were so pissed off that I was there, I thought you were going to kick my ass out of there yourself.”

Enjolras' jaw clenches. It does look glorious, but Grantaire hates himself for noticing. “I apologised for that.”

“Oh, zero reproach here, trust me. Having thought about it, I actually kind of get it, I'd kick my own ass if I came across myself, probably. I was just making an example, you know, glass houses, stones, blah blah blah.” This is so ridiculous. He isn't even behind his own words; he's defending a fake-problem of his – it's really come to this, he thinks. Pretending he cares about stuff in order to hide a massive crush, it's like the teen drama he never had because, surprise, he never actually cared enough about anything for it to cause teen drama. Oh, the irony.

Enjolras shuts his eyes and Grantaire is reasonably sure he's slowly counting to ten in his mind. “If the thought of working together with people is that abhorrent to you just because you oppose their views, maybe there's your chance to overcome that,” he says finally. “Because it seems to me as if that's something that's bound to stand in your way sooner or later.”

“When I'm launching my promising career in a team-based and communication-oriented profession, you mean?” Grantaire says. “Don't think that's going to be much of a problem, Apollo.”

Shit. He hadn't meant to say that last part out loud – Grantaire considers himself the proto annoying nihilist, but sometimes the universe just seems to hate him so much that he gets the sneaky feeling there has to be a bigger picture here. One in which he probably has a target drawn all over his face, but still. This kind of bullshit doesn't happen coincidentally.

Or maybe he just can't keep his mouth shut.

Surprisingly, Enjolras doesn't even stop to comment on it. “I'll admit that I should have told you that the meetings were obligatory from the beginning,” he says, another half-apology that doesn't sound like one at all, not even a little bit, “but since I haven't, I'm making it clear now. You can't do the job unless you come to the meetings. If that's impossible for you, for whatever reason, you won't be able to work for us.”

Grantaire feels heat rising in his cheeks, and he's not sure of the exact reason. He's angry, of course, and then it's a tiny bit humiliating to be spoken to like that, because Enjolras' words are sharp like a blade, but it's not only humiliating – there's something else the words do to him, and he doesn't want to give it any further thought. At least not right now. “Anything else I should know?” he replies. It doesn't sound as casual as he wants it to.

“I'm not doing this to put you off. We just need to be clear about the terms,” Enjolras says, in a slightly more forgiving tone. “It's twice a week. You're already friends with someone there, you won't be forced to be friends with anyone else.” He catches Grantaire's gaze. “You'll manage.”

You have no idea what you're saying, Grantaire thinks. This right here, twice a week? He won't manage. He won't anywhere near manage, he'll crash and burn. “Fine. I'll go.”

Enjolras doesn't take his eyes off him. “You're certain?”

“Oh my God, just tell me where to sign.”

Enjolras does. It takes them another half hour to go through all the papers, for Enjolras to explain some pointless paragraphs, for Grantaire to make fun of the pretentious phrasing at as many opportunities as possible, but they get it done, and on the way home, Grantaire feels weirdly powerless. He already knew he was in over his head before, but now, the extent of it is a little clearer, and if Grantaire was slightly more invested in his own wellbeing, he'd be terrified.

On Friday, Éponine picks him up at the studio and they leave for the Musain together. Grantaire had thought it might help to spend the afternoon working, and in a way, it did – for their main project work this semester, they've had to choose between painting, etching, and sculpture, and Grantaire, ever the rebel, decided to take the wood whittling-route as a sub-section of sculpture. There's something therapeutic about handling raw materials in a delicate way, he's noticed, and the focus it requires doesn't leave room for moping.

Éponine doesn't, either. Probably well aware that Grantaire isn't keen on the next, say, five to ten hours, she finds him outside the studio and just starts talking. About annoying psych professors, about how a guy tried to pickpocket her in a club the other day and they ended up making out, about Magnon's obsession with cat-related merchandise (“That's some Umbridge shit, R, have you seen that woman's bedroom?”) and about how she'd failed to properly estimate the amount of fluids she'd have to consume if she was going to spend sixty percent of the coming winter nights singing in a stuffy café.

“I swear, it's not even going to be worth it one of these days, all the money I make there is just going straight to chamomile tea again,” she says, shaking her head.

“Éponine?”

“Hm?”

“You know the ABC people, right? What's your verdict?”

She rolls her eyes. “Be honest, were you listening to a single thing I just said, or was it all blond demigods in your mind?”

“Hey, of course I was listening,” he says, feigning offence. “Tea, neurobiology, Harry Potter, actual criminals, what the fuck by the way – I'm all ears, I just want to know what's expecting me.”

She sighs. “You're about to meet them, aren't you? Find out for yourself.”

“Please,” he says plainly.

“I don't even know them that well. You could have asked Jehan.”

“You know everyone well. And I trust your judgement.” He trusts Jehan's, too, but sometimes it's good to have a misanthropist's take on things. Jehan's default setting is to adore people, Éponine's to distrust them.

Éponine shrugs. “I don't know what to tell you. They're a pretty close-knit bunch. All their names seem to start with a C for some reason. Hyper PC about everything. I talked to one of them after singing last week, and he asked my pronouns before we even knew each other's names.”

“Well, that's really respectful.”

“Whatever. They're weird, you know? Super nerdy, but some of them way more frat boy than editor. Actually, if I didn't know what they were doing up there, I'd have no idea there was any paper at all, they don't really seem like they're just working together, I'd suspect something more like a cult. Slash weird family.”

“This is making things a lot worse right now, just in case you were wondering,” Grantaire informs her.

“You asked,” Éponine says indifferently. Grantaire nods; point taken. “Listen,” Éponine says with a sigh when she sees Grantaire's probably pretty pathetic expression. “I know this isn't what you want to hear, but I don't think you've anything to worry about. They're fucking weird. You're fucking weird. If you weren't such a crybaby with the whole social dry spell thing, I'd say you'd fit right in.”

Éponine isn't great at comforting, but sometimes, she says just the right thing. In this case, it keeps Grantaire lucid enough to make it to the Musain and then, after Éponine shook off his arm and pushed him toward the stairs, up to the back room.

Jehan sees him before Grantaire sees anything at all. “You're here!”

And that's the cue for everyone, literally every single person in the room, to cast their eyes on Grantaire who's standing in the doorway, momentarily frozen.

“I am,” he says weakly as he feels the weight of eleven pairs of eyes staring at him. Then, “What the hell are you doing here?”

That second part slips out before he can stop it, because he's too surprised to hold back when he spots a familiar face besides Jehan and Enjolras among the people gathered around the table. Bahorel laughs and gets up, crossing the room to give Grantaire an unprompted bear hug. “Avoiding actually getting a law degree, like I'm supposed to,” he says and slaps Grantaire's back. Grantaire coughs. “So, you're the artist, huh?”

“Poor example of one,” Grantaire says, but he can't help but smile. This really is unexpected, in a good way: Bahorel, like Grantaire, had a habit of going to the gym at ungodly hours, which was how they met. It's hard to do your thing on the treadmill all quietly and by yourself when there's only one other guy in the room; dead silence between three or more people can probably be tolerable, but it gets difficult with two, and Grantaire doesn't complain. There are worse people to share a gym with at 1am, even though he's declined Bahorel's offers to have a beer together afterwards so far – that part has nothing to do with Bahorel and everything to do with what Éponine so accurately called the social dry spell thing he was being a baby about.

“Who'd have thought, man,” Bahorel grins. “I mean, I wouldn't. You don't look the part.”

“Come on, frayed jeans, beanie and all? What am I doing wrong?”

“You could do with a béret, for one,” Bahorel suggests.

“Bahorel, stop suggesting horrible things to people, and stop with the artist clichés,” a voice pipes up and Grantaire traces it back to a short guy with a wide smile and fuzzy hair. “Please never listen to his advice,” the guy adds, his eyes on Grantaire now. “When I was crushing on my girlfriend, he told me to buy new pants to impress her.”

“And it worked,” Bahorel protests.

“It sort of did,” the girl next to pants guy admits and kisses his cheek. Boyfriend and girlfriend, then. Grantaire manages to save that information, or so he thinks, before she turns around and kisses the boy to her left as well – boyfriend number two? All righty.

“Everyone.” Enjolras, who, as Grantaire hadn't failed to observe out of the corner of his eye, looked onto the whole spectacle without batting an eye, stands up. “I'd like you to meet Grantaire, who's going to be replacing Émeline as the one in charge of design and layout. Grantaire, this is everyone.”

It's not a particularly warm introduction, so maybe it's the fact that Bahorel still has his hand on his back or the way Jehan is smiling or just the dim and almost romantic lighting in the room that's softening him, but he manages to smile and wave and say, “Just call me R.” It's strange enough, because it took him two weeks to offer the R to Éponine, slightly less time with Jehan, but for the moment, his anxieties seem to have decided to give things a rest. He'll be damned if he doesn't make proper use of that.

“R, that's new,” Bahorel notices, and Grantaire just shrugs.

“Sort of less square in the mouth than Grantaire,” he says.

“Since Enjolras didn't bother to be more elaborate,” the girl who was sitting next to Enjolras says and gets up – Grantaire is momentarily distracted by how pretty she is, all sparkly eyes and soft features – to offer her hand. “I'm Cosette. It's so lovely to meet you.”

The weird thing is, she sounds like she actually means that, smiling as if the sight of Grantaire is the most delightful thing the evening could have brought on. “Hi,” Grantaire says, a little dumbfounded.

The guy on Enjolras' other side gets up as soon as Cosette sits back down, and introduces himself as Combeferre. He's the librarian type of handsome, that is, handsome in spite or because of the lumpy sweater vest, gangly limbs and thick glasses. It's the cheekbones that do it, Grantaire thinks, and after that, it's just a long chain of introductions. Next in line is Courfeyrac, at whom Grantaire stares a little too long, because he's pretty sure he's seen him before, but can't figure out where. At least Éponine's comment about their names makes sense now.

Pants guy turns out to be Joly, who explains that he'd rather not shake hands in such a downright honest and cheerful way that Grantaire doesn't question it for one second, he just accepts and takes a small bow instead, which is received with a grin and a bow in return. The girl next to him is called Musichetta, and contrary to her boyfriend, she does take his hand.

“You can say Chetta,” she says, and adds, with a smirk, “less square in the mouth.”

Boyfriend number two is indeed boyfriend number two, as Grantaire concludes when he sees his fingers laced together with Chetta's between them, and introduces himself as Bossuet. Marius, freckled and seeming perpetually flustered, is sitting between Bossuet and Jehan and says his name in such a soft voice that Grantaire has to ask him to repeat it. Finally, the guy in the flannel who's sitting between Jehan and Bahorel, introduces himself as Feuilly.

“Looks like I'll be your second in command, design-wise,” he says with a smile. His handshake is firm and warm.

“So you do have a designer?” Grantaire turns and arches an eyebrow at Enjolras. Feuilly laughs.

“You have no idea what a relief it is to have you here,” he says. “Not that I'm not happy to give the ABC everything I've got, but a full time job plus the entire layout can get a little much.”

“We wanted to take the pressure off Feuilly as soon as possible, I'm sure you can understand that somehow,” Enjolras says, not without a sharpness in his voice. Grantaire can see Cosette's fingers wrap around his wrist and for no reason at all, the pull in his chest is back.

“Should we get started?” Combeferre suggests meekly, and Bahorel pulls another chair from where they're stacked at the wall to position it next between Jehan and Feuilly so Grantaire can sit down.

Grantaire isn't sure how he imagined the meeting to go down – he hadn't really formed a clear image of it in advance. He does know, however, that he didn't imagine it to be a slow procedure of ticking items off a list that's laid out before Enjolras, things that have to be taken care of, discussed, checked off, concluded, because that's about as uncontroversial as it gets. The discussions are interrupted by inside jokes and friendly teasing, another thing that Grantaire didn't expect, and don't include as many impassioned monologues from Enjolras' side as Grantaire had feared, or, for what it's worth, hoped. The one he walked in on a few weeks ago must have been really bad luck on his side – which, again, isn't really a surprise.

Most things on the list are completely organisational and respectively boring. Grantaire finds himself observing the others more than actually paying attention to what's being said – he registers the way Marius is constantly fiddling around with his fingers; Grantaire can't tell why, but the kid is incredibly nervous for some reason, he notices that Combeferre pushes his glasses up with the back of his hands instead of his fingers when they slip down, sees Joly rest his head against Musichetta's shoulder and hears him softly complain to her when he's bored, catches a glimpse of Feuilly's distracted doodles on his notepad in front of him that he draws while listening.

More often than at anyone else, however, and in spite of himself, he looks at Enjolras, growing consistently angrier with himself as he soaks up the details about him. He knows the freckles on his hand already, too well for it not to be weird, but like this, he also sees the other things, he sees the way Enjolras keeps distractedly touching people, he's ridiculously tactile with his friends, and while Grantaire wouldn't have guessed for him to be that kind of person in a million years, it suddenly looks natural for him to always have a hand on the arm of the person next to him, or to lean in slightly and touch shoulders with them. Also, Grantaire realises now, that sort of fits in with how self-evidently Enjolras had used Grantaire as a human hat-stand on Wednesday. The guy doesn't seem to have much of a concept of personal space, which forms an odd contrast to his tendency to be... well, bristly in personal interaction. Not that Grantaire is particularly easy to deal with, Enjolras probably can't be blamed for that. To him, though it won't add up properly; he doesn't get Enjolras at all, to an extent that's frustrating, and at the same time, he can't keep himself from trying. It feels like a farce, to have been talked into this by Enjolras himself.

Hardly anything that's discussed in the meeting concerns Grantaire, so he's only addressed at about two or three points during the entire thing. Every time there's an inside joke that hits the others particularly hard, however, either Joly or Bahorel go the length of explaining it to him, which Grantaire is desperately grateful for. That's also how he finds out that Bossuet caught fire at a Christmas party last year, Feuilly prevented a murder by accident while he was doing work and travel in Australia a few years back, and Joly was once witness to a surgery where the doctors removed large amounts of a substance that they couldn't name or define from a man's body.

“It was so incredible, okay, you wouldn't believe it,” Joly says, his cheeks heated. Grantaire has a fleeting suspicion this might be the friend Enjolras owes his smoothies to. “They just spooned that stuff out and chucked it in the trash, and I thought they knew what they were doing, so I was like, what do you call that? And they shrugged. They had no idea, they just found it and rolled with it. And it looked so gross, it was just a lot of weirdly coloured goo, and they didn't know where it came from or what it was, they were just like, oh well, this doesn't normally exist in the human body, or any body, so, hey, we'd better get it out. Anyway, that was the point in my life where I decided no one would ever convince me that aliens aren't real.” Grantaire considers that a sound enough argument.

He doesn't want to admit it to himself at first, but it'd also be pointless to deny that he doesn't actually want this to be over as quickly as it is. At half past eleven, Enjolras declares the last item on their list settled and begins to gather up the paper that's strewn across the table. “Grantaire,” he says as he does it, “I've still got the laptop for you in the car. If you want to take it with you today, you can come outside with us in a second.”

“Well –” Grantaire glances at Jehan. “I was going to leave anyway, I guess?”

“No way,” Courfeyrac chimes in and holds up a warning finger. “You're staying, new guy. It's Friday night, and we know next to nothing about you. We're drinking together.”

Even if Grantaire wanted to protest at that, his words would pretty much definitely be drowned out by Joly, Bossuet and Bahorel cheering loudly in agreement. He has to admit defeat. “Looks like I'm staying,” he smiles when it's reasonably quiet again. “We can go fetch the laptop now, if you like?”

Enjolras exchanges a look with Cosette next to him. “Sure,” he says then. “We're leaving, you can just come along to the car.”

The group breaks up then; Marius decides to call it a night as well, Feuilly declares the same and goes over to talk to Combeferre before he leaves, and Bahorel explains with sincere regret that he can't stay either. “Promised to meet some people at the other end of town,” he says. “Not that I ever would have made that deal if I'd known you'd be here, man. Next week.”

Grantaire grins. “Next week.”

“We'll all just have one more than necessary, so you can be here in spirit,” Bossuet promises, cracking both Grantaire and Joly up with the pun, and Bahorel leaves after giving Grantaire one of those handshakes that mutate into half a hug.

“I think I'll get going, too,” Jehan says. He's been dying to give Grantaire the I told you so all night, Grantaire can tell, but apparently, finding the opportune moment isn't worth staying up.

“Do you want me to walk you home?”

Jehan doesn't live too far from the Musain, so Grantaire could go there and back in no time, but Jehan declines. “I'm good.” He pulls Grantaire into a hug, and Grantaire is very much expecting the “I told you so” now, but instead, he gets an “I'm really glad you're here,” whispered so that Grantaire only just hears it. Grantaire swallows hard, his fingers tensing against Jehan's back for a moment, then he lets go.

“Text me when you get home?”

Jehan smiles. “Sure.”

Enjolras comes over to them a few minutes later, car keys dangling from his fingers. “Ready?”

Grantaire follows him and Cosette downstairs. He hasn't really figured the two of them out, and he doesn't know what options are even debatable here – at first glance, he thought they might be siblings, both with their radiance and angel curls, but that's not really it. Not that Grantaire would ever admit to being anything but indifferent by asking someone about it.

On their way to the exit, Cosette stops in her tracks and suddenly turns, stepping around the tables to make her way over to where Éponine is standing at the bar. Grantaire frowns as he watches – Cosette greets Éponine with a kiss on the cheek, and Éponine is visibly flustered, which is probably only apparent to Grantaire, but boy, is it apparent to him. Slowly, a few things start to add up in his head.

“Does Cosette do Psychology?” he asks Enjolras, who's started walking again.

“Yes,” he replies simply. Grantaire sighs. Oh, Éponine. Enjolras stops and turns to him. “Are you coming?”

“What about Cosette?”

“She knows where we've parked,” Enjolras says and Grantaire follows him outside.

His car is an ancient Ford Fiesta the colour of which Grantaire can only guess in the half-dark. He's pretty sure it's not red, though, which is probably cause to celebrate, because honestly, that would have been too much.

“You seemed okay back there,” Enjolras says as he opens the door to the back seat. “To be honest, I was half expecting something terrible.”

Grantaire smirks. “Is that a challenge?”

“Heavens, no.” Enjolras hands him the laptop case. “Just... You kept making it sound as if this would be a nightmare, for you as well as for us. That's not what it looked like to me.”

“Good to know,” Grantaire says dryly. It's never possible to be completely sure if Enjolras is going for a compliment or something entirely different.

Enjolras is quiet for a moment, and Grantaire is about to turn on his heel and walk off when he speaks again. “I mean, I'm glad. You're going to keep showing up?”

Grantaire shrugs. “You didn't really give me a choice. Nothing's changed as far as that's concerned, so... I sort of have to, don't I?”

“You don't hate this,” Enjolras says confidently. “Be honest, this isn't half as much of an inconvenience as you're making it out to be.”

Grantaire doesn't know what part of that rubs him up the wrong way, but he feels a sting in his chest. “You don't know me like that,” he says, defensive for no good reason. “You don't – just don't talk to me that way.”

The confusion in Enjolras' expression is obvious, and the moment is shaping up to get even more awful, so Grantaire silently thanks whoever's listening when Cosette shows up.

“Sorry,” she says, hurrying over to them. “Sorry, I just had to say hello.”

She comes to a halt next to them, immediately stilling when she picks up on the tension. Hesitantly, she gives Enjolras a look, and he glances away before closing the back door of the car and turning to get into the driver's seat. Grantaire doesn't want to look after him, but he can't help it. Cosette pretends not to notice and puts her smile back on. He doesn't know how she does it, smiling so much and meaning it all the same.

“It was great to meet you, R,” she says sincerely. “Thank you for giving this a shot.”

He doesn't know how to reply, still struggling with that kind of unfamiliar sweetness, so he lets her hug him and they say goodbye.

Éponine is nowhere to be seen downstairs, so he goes straight to the back room again, where Musichetta, Bossuet, Joly and Courfeyrac are the only ones left. Grantaire smiles when he sees them, they've moved from the table to the couch and the two chairs next to it. Courfeyrac jumps to his feet.

“Have a seat, my friend,” he manoeuvres Grantaire over to the vacant chair and pushes him down by the shoulders, handing him a shot glass in the same motion.

“It's all on us, special offer for tonight,” he grins and sits in the opposite chair, taking his own glass from the small table between them. The trio that shares the couch takes their respective glasses as well and they toast to nothing before drinking. Grantaire has vague flashbacks to doing this as a sixteen year old in Paris, about laughing at the other kids for worrying that they might get caught, getting drunk on canned beer and cheap vodka. Somehow, a lot of things about this feel similar, but it's also so ridiculously different. He can't tell if it's regression or progress to find himself in such a situation again and perceive it in another way.

It is completely different, though, really. First of all, these people are actually able to hold their liquor, which isn't something Grantaire was used to in people from his time at school. During his last year, he was older than everyone in addition to being more practised in drinking, and his nights had often consisted of watching other people around him get drunk really quickly. That, in itself, was actually sort of entertaining, but it's more fun to be part of the action, he finds. Also, people who are able to handle a few drinks are also capable of actually talking despite the drinks, which can be nice, provided they are the right people. Tonight, they are.

They talk about this and that, Grantaire finds himself unexpectedly answering questions about himself pretty easily – he moved here from Nîmes, lived in Paris before that, born and raised, is in his first semester at 20 because he repeated a year and was enrolled late at primary school, and yes, it's true that he's pretty much roommates with the singing girl, which, yes, is sort of adventurous sometimes. He doesn't know what's happening to break through his mental block like that, and he doesn't care; it's good to talk, and the others offer chunks of their life stories in return. It feels like a pretty fair trade, even as they gradually become more drunk. While the effects show on Courfeyrac rather quickly – although it's not impossible that what Grantaire is interpreting as drunkenness is just part of the guy's personality – Musichetta seems completely unaffected after some considerable time has passed and a considerable amount been consumed. Everyone laughs when Grantaire comments on it.

“She's famous for that,” Bossuet says. He, at least, is slightly tipsy.

“There's the theory that one reason we work so well together is that she can drink us both under the table,” Joly agrees.

“What can I say,” Chetta says nonchalantly. “It's a gift.”

“How blessed we are,” Courfeyrac laughs. “To Chetta and her unbelievable constitution.”

As he toasts, Grantaire's brain decides to finally make the connection he's been waiting for all night. “I have seen you before,” Grantaire bursts out. “You're the guy who whisked Enjolras away when he was having his weird almost-apology moment, right? Are you in the econ thing, the – intro to political econ?”

“Yeah?” Courfeyrac frowns. “Wait. No way. Hang on. Are you the guy Enjolras told to piss off in the first week?”

Grantaire shuts his eyes for a moment. “You know about that,” he discerns.

“Oh my God,” Courfeyrac breaks into laughter and doesn't stop until he's crying. The story doesn't seem to have made the rounds, luckily, because Musichetta, Joly and Bossuet look fairly confused. “Oh, God, R, man, I'm so sorry. I mean. Enjolras already said that, I hope.” Courfeyrac wipes a tear away. “See, he told us about that, back in the first week, said how infuriating it was that you didn't see his point and all that, and we were like, actually that was sort of dickish of you? To just tell a kid who's probably in their first semester or something to get out of a class, who cares if they're paying attention, that's just rude. Like, he didn't mean it to be, you have to see that. He often doesn't get stuff like that, he just...” He sighs. “Anyway. Ferre suggested it was probably a good idea to apologise, and it took a while for Enj to see the light there—”

For some reason, Grantaire's mind latches on to that nickname, Enj. He rolls it over in his mind, imagines the word on his tongue. Enj, ange. Why didn't he think of that? But then, giving Enjolras that name is utterly redundant. Calling ice cold would have the same effect as calling Enjolras an angel – it's a given, there's no need for it to be pointed out.

“And then one day, I got to him after class, and he was pissed at me, kept saying that he was about to apologise when I made him take off. Ah. Man, I had no idea, that – that explains some things.”

“All I gather from this is that Enjolras fucked up,” Bossuet notes.

“You're not wrong,” Courfeyrac grins. “Has he apologised by now? Properly?”

“Uh, sort of?” Grantaire has a sip of his rum and coke. “It was weird. He said a lot of stuff and I think he meant it, but he was gritting his teeth and everything, so – he also gave the impression that he didn't mean it at all?”

The others exchange knowing looks. “The Enjolras-Apology,” Musichetta says dramatically. “Note the capital A. Feared and loathed across the land.”

Grantaire frowns. “That's a thing?”

“Oh, it's a thing,” Joly smiles. “You're not one of us until you've been through that, seriously.”

“See, his apologies, they always come across as dishonest,” Courfeyrac says. “Trust me. Always. He can love you dearly, he can be deeply sorry, and it'll still sound as if the whole thing is hurting him physically. That's just how he is.”

Grantaire scoffs. “That's a shitty reason to be bad at something.”

“No, that's actually a pretty legit reason,” Courfeyrac says. “It's not that difficult for him because he's proud, he's just – ah, Enjolras, he's way too hard on himself. When he screws up, he's so angry at himself for that, he just, I don't know, he really beats himself up, and then super weird apologies are the result.”

“Yeah, we've a general rule of thumb by now that basically just says – the worse an Enjolras-Apology is, the more sorry he actually feels,” Joly says. “You get used to it.”

They move away from the topic pretty quickly, but it sticks with Grantaire, the fact that Enjolras talked to his friends about their encounter in the first week, that he got angry at Courfeyrac because he had messed up the first opportunity to apologise – Grantaire hasn't really made sense of his own comment from earlier, so he can't whole-heartedly regret it, but part of him already does. It's entirely possible, though, that without the alcohol, he wouldn't have gone ahead to send Enjolras a half-drunk text that says nothing but sorry abt earlier. It's 3am by the time he sends it – he's typed it out on his way home – but Enjolras replies. Nevermind. Grantaire, on his bed by then, rolls over and groans, letting his phone drop to the floor. For some reason, whenever things seem to get easier, they also don't, at all.

Chapter Text

After his first meeting with the ABC, the knot that was cinched tightly around Grantaire's social life starts to unravel. He's not sure why it happens, if it's the experience of feeling welcome when he didn't expect to or just plain the infectious cheeriness some members bring to the group, but after that Friday, Grantaire finds himself rediscovering that fraction of his personality that actually enjoys going out. And he's missed it, going out to dance and kiss strangers, which, as it turns out, is more fun when you're with people you can actually stand.

Bossuet, Musichetta and Joly are dead set on introducing him to every single club and bar the town has to offer, an endeavour that goes reasonably well considering Bossuet's (spectacularly) bad luck and Grantaire's inexpertness as far as these particular surroundings are concerned, but more importantly, there are some unexpected opportunities now that he leaves the house again. For instance, he learns that going out with the JBM-trio (the unimaginative name he came up with after noticing how annoying it is to say all of their names every time he mentions them in a drunk story) is fun, but going out with Éponine is an adventure.

The first time Éponine agrees to him coming along, she lets him in on her single most important principle and objective for a night out: Leave with more money than you came with. Grantaire claims that's impossible. Éponine proves him wrong. By letting anyone who's willing buy her drinks, she has no expenses, and by spending half her time snatching people's empty glasses and bottles to return them to the bar to collect the deposits, there's a considerable income. It's amazing to watch. Éponine, the cider-drinking, money-making hurricane.

“Seriously,” Grantaire says to Jehan who's walking next to him, “you have not lived until you've seen that girl fleece an entire bar in like, one evening. It's like watching a bushfire or something, she roars past and leaves three dozen barren wallets.”

“I know,” Jehan says and smiles. “Although honestly, I'm sort of disappointed with myself now for not having written about it while the image was fresh. Stop being poetic and reminding me of missed opportunities.”

“You know?” Grantaire narrows his eyes. “Have you been out with Éponine?”

“A couple times,” Jehan nods. “She introduced me to some people.”

“Not her felon friends, though, right? Please tell me she didn't introduce you to her felon friends.”

Jehan is quiet for long enough to make the answer obvious. Grantaire sighs. “Well, she has just lost all her hoodie stealing privileges.”

“I don't think you're actually in the position to take those away, R,” Jehan says and pats his arm. “Plus, there's nothing to worry about. I can actually hold my own against most people, you know. Not that I'd have to, because they're not nearly as satanic as you're making them out to be, but I could.”

“I still don't like that,” Grantaire makes a face. “Honestly, it wouldn't bother me if they weren't so close to her, you know? Like, who cares if they robbed a bank once, I just don't want them to drag her in.”

“She knows what she's doing, R,” Jehan says softly. “And so do I.”

Grantaire takes the liberty to doubt that, but they've arrived at the Musain and drop the topic. It's Friday, exactly six weeks after the first meeting he attended, and by now, it would already feel unnatural for Grantaire not to go. He enjoys being there. The company more than the meetings themselves, but nevertheless, not going would mean missing out on something.

Not that he actually has the option not to go, because Enjolras is iron when it comes to the rules concerning meetings: no alcohol during the actual thing, if you need to get smashed, you're free to do so afterwards; always be there unless you have a good reason not to; no interrupting other people (Grantaire has flashbacks to primary school); every important decision is voted upon with everyone present. So far, Grantaire has only challenged Enjolras on two of these, because why the hell wouldn't he be allowed to have one beer in the two hours they're talking, and what's the point in making it obligatory for the volunteers to be there when they're volunteers?

Then, of course, in a more singular incident, there was the latest nonsense of no one being allowed to do any work at all on campus. It wasn't established as a rule, but it came up when Grantaire made a comment on the side about intending to finish the rest of his designs during the Art History lecture concerned with Cubism. Enjolras immediately cut in to explain why that was completely impossible by elaborating on the complicated situation between the university and the journal: about half a year ago, during a “minor conflict” as Enjolras put it, Lamarque University broke their ties to the paper and thus forbade them to continue their work on campus – literally, on campus, which was why the editors went on to meet at the Musain. Apparently, the journal was lucky to be in existence and to be acknowledged as a student paper without being tied to an actual university, but Grantaire still refused to see where the point in not doing any work in, say, the library was. What were they going to do if he did, arrest him?

Needless to say, Enjolras didn't approve of his lack of will to recognise the rules as such, but after a while, he gave up on trying to reprimand Grantaire for it.

Since he's rarely actually needed during the meetings, Grantaire has been quick to find ways to entertain himself. Sometimes he actually works on things so they can discuss the layouts right there, but most of the time, he resigns to excessively distracting Joly, sketching whoever is sitting in the most interesting light, and tossing in sarcastic comments here and there. Also, naturally, there's always the option of observing Enjolras.

Grantaire likes to think it's not even a big deal. Enjolras happens to sit directly in his field of vision most of the time, and he's moderating the meetings, so everyone's looking at him anyway. Of course, they're probably not looking at him the way Grantaire is, curious and observant, watching him in order to learn things about him, like how he always drinks too much coffee and gets jittery, or how his eyes are shiny sometimes for a blink-and-you-miss-it-moment when a particularly tragic case is brought up for a story. It's not weird to notice things like that, right? To notice details and try to remember them, to make a tiny mental note of realising that the only drinks Enjolras ever orders – if he orders any, which he does rarely – are sickly sweet and always include ridiculous quantities of either fruit juice or sugar? Or that he's already concluded that Enjolras' mood is always worse when the weather is particularly cold, that he counts every single thunderstorm as one more injustice in this world? Everyone else is probably aware of that stuff as well, they just didn't have to be pining idiots to acquire that knowledge. It isn't a big deal, Grantaire thinks, it's just hard to avoid when you're bored and stuck in the same room as Enjolras twice a week. On some days it feels like watching a forest fire, on others the steady flame of a match in the dark. Both things are hard to look away from.

On rare occasions, though, either when a discussion turns towards the philosophical, or when the exchanges plain become amusing, Grantaire is happy just sitting back and listening. Like now.

For the first ten minutes of the meeting, Enjolras has been trying really hard to convince someone, anyone at all, to tackle the task of translating and editing twenty pages of Spanish within the next eight days. It's a testimonial by a Mexican student; pretty controversial stuff, probably, Grantaire hasn't been following the context. The interesting thing about this is the lack of enthusiasm from the group. With it already being mid-December, finals are coming up, and even within this group of probably the most dedicated people in the entire student body, no one seems to be up for it.

“There's really no one? I know for a fact that some of you speak Spanish.” Enjolras looks at Courfeyrac, who has been subtly braiding a strand of Jehan's hair in order to appear occupied.

“Hey, barking up the wrong tree here, I don't speak Spanish,” Courfeyrac says defensively. “I can order breakfast in Spanish. I can ask for any drink in Spanish. Hell, I could like, buy a live chicken in Spanish if the need was ever there; I can't translate half a novel on drug trafficking.”

“What about you, Jehan?” Combeferre asks. Grantaire wonders why he doesn't volunteer himself – there's no way he doesn't know Spanish, the guy can read hieroglyphs. “Wasn't Spanish in your repertoire?”

Jehan shakes his head; Courfeyrac only just manages to hold on to the braid. “I'm sorry. Italian, yes; Spanish, no.”

“Same thing,” Courfeyrac nudges him.

“Not same enough,” Jehan says, sounding genuinely apologetic, but his eyes have been on Grantaire the entire time. There are two people in the room right now who know that Grantaire is, in fact, fluent in Spanish, and those are Grantaire himself and Jehan. Grantaire is praying for Jehan to be in a merciful mood and not rat him out. Finals are going to be hell for him, too, what with having to pass an exam in a subject he has absolutely no inclination to or interest in, and if he wants to have remotely enough time to prepare for that, he can't take on an extra job.

“Chetta?” Enjolras says, and she shakes her head.

“Two jobs and a double major, Enjolras,” she says pointedly. “I'm sorry. I don't have the time.”

“Marius?” Enjolras tries, almost hopeful, but Marius shuts him right down, even though he does sound remorseful about it.

“I don't do the Romance ones as target language,” he says, and Grantaire vaguely remembers something about Marius freelancing as a translator. “I'm sorry, Enj, Spanish isn't my thing.”

One by one, Enjolras confronts everyone present, gracefully skipping Grantaire, until he accepts his fate. “It's going to be me, then,” he says, in the voice of someone who's just received a death sentence. “There's honestly no one willing to do it?”

Grantaire, of course, is right there. The entire time that Enjolras was going through every single name on the list, he was sort of assuming he'd at least be asked, but apparently, Enjolras didn't think it was worth a try.

Since that first meeting and last text, Grantaire has consistently been either confused or infuriated by (although naturally, the entire time infatuated with) Enjolras. The meetings have served to bring Grantaire considerably closer to everyone there, but little as they might have gotten along before, Enjolras seems to have been driven away from Grantaire by them. They don't talk outside the meetings, and while Courfeyrac sometimes goes to sit with Grantaire in econ, Enjolras appears to be making a point of not joining them. And granted, there can be plenty of reasons for that, because Grantaire is fully aware his behaviour at meetings isn't exactly delightful, and he's unsure whether or not Enjolras might actually have been wounded by Grantaire snapping at him that night, and then there's just about a million other ways in which it makes perfect sense for Enjolras not to want to be friends with him, but still. Grantaire has been able to distract himself from that quite well now that he actually feels like leaving the house again, but in moments like this, Enjolras' disapproval, no, dismissal of Grantaire's entire existence feels like a slap in the face.

Maybe that's why Grantaire is actually stupid enough to open his mouth. In retrospect, he can't tell anymore if sympathy for Enjolras' heartbroken expression at having to take on an extra task or his own pathetic reaction to having been left out is the reason, all he knows that he would have done far better not to say anything.

“I can do it,” he says, breaking the momentary silence.

All eyes turn to him, and Enjolras, pragmatic as he is, doesn't try to hide the blatant disbelief in his voice as he immediately replies. “You?”

It comes out in such a disparaging way that everyone falls silent again, only Cosette mutters a soft, reproachful “Enjolras”.

Grantaire just scoffs. “I know, right? Pretty unbelievable. I keep surprising myself on those rare occasions that I might actually be good for something.”

Enjolras flushes a little, and Grantaire ignores his immediate heart-fluttering reaction to that. “I didn't mean it like that.”

“I'm sure you didn't,” Grantaire says. “In fact, you think so highly of me that you didn't even want to burden me with this, which, I trust, is why you didn't bother asking.” He doesn't intend for that much sharpness to accompany the words, but once they're out, there's nothing to be done.

“I didn't ask because it's not your job,” Enjolras says quickly. “I didn't think you'd be interested.”

“Trust me, no one's interested,” Grantaire says, with a half-hearted smile. “I just figured I might as well, before you break your back trying to balance everything at once.”

Enjolras cheeks are slowly resuming their normal colour. “I didn't know you spoke Spanish.”

“Well, you wouldn't, would you, because again, you didn't ask. My mum's Puerto Rican.” He's not sure why he uses present tense. Technically, his mother not being alive doesn't make her any less Puerto Rican, and he's not keen on dropping the dead parent bomb in front of everyone. Not even Jehan knows about it. “Raised me bilingually.”

“Then you're fluent?” Cosette asks lightly, dissolving the tension with a single question like no one else could.

“I guess? As fluent as it gets when you haven't spoken in a couple years. It's not something you really unlearn, so...”

“That must be amazing, having two mother tongues,” Cosette says. “And French and Spanish out of all things! You could communicate with seven per cent of the world's population in their native language without a problem.”

To Grantaire's left, Marius seems to die a little inside. It's adorable and awful.

“And it's one less problem for us,” Joly says with a grin. “Although, make no mistake, I'm offended you never mentioned that you were a multilingual genius.”

“I wanted to make sure you weren't friends with me for my linguistic brilliance,” Grantaire replies. “You gotta be careful when you're okay at a language pretty much everyone speaks; people start being fake to get close to you.”

Joly rolls his eyes and elbows Bossuet. “Remind me not to compliment this guy without expecting to be sassed in return.”

“I'm just saying”, Grantaire says and shrugs. “It's not a big deal, I mean, who doesn't speak Spanish?”

“Close to everyone here, apparently,” Combeferre says gingerly. “Are you sure you're up for it, though? It's a lot for only a week, especially right before finals.”

“You don't have to feel obligated,” Enjolras adds. “It's not technically in your job description, and if it's too much to do—”

“You were going to do it yourself,” Grantaire says, irritated. “You'd have jumped at an opportunity to get someone else to do this five seconds ago, but now that it's me, you're worried it's too much?” He manages to hold Enjolras' gaze, somehow. “Careful there, monsieur, you wouldn't want to demonstrate a lack of faith in the people.”

Combeferre clears his throat. “Grantaire does the translation; all in favour?”

Everyone raises their hands, Enjolras gives a half-hearted wave with his. Under the table, Jehan nudges Grantaire's knee lightly, the smallest gesture of comfort, but it's lost on Grantaire.

Enjolras finds him once the “everyone is allowed to buy drinks” phase has begun to go over the details. Apparently, the text in question is for the February cover story and has to be sent to the publisher in advance, hence the early (ridiculously early) deadline.

“They need to go over cover stories like that some time before publishing,” Enjolras explains. “If there's ever a story we can't do, that leaves a large enough gap for us to come up with something else. I keep telling them the entire idea that they get any say in the content is ridiculous in this day and age; talk about censorship, but it's pointless. Unless we find a new publisher overnight, that's how things are.”

Grantaire can't help a small smile. “Is that defeatism I'm hearing?”

“No, it's actually something we're working on,” Enjolras says, unfazed. “We've been trying to find an institution that grants some more liberty for a while now. It's just not easy.”

Some more liberty. Grantaire can't imagine there's a publisher in the country that would grant a student paper any more liberty than allowing them to single-handedly accuse a small community in the South of electoral fraud, which, according to Courfeyrac, is something that actually happened in this year's April issue. It doesn't get much more laissez-faire than that.

“Why sell commercially, anyway? Isn't that pretty much against the whole idea of... anti-capitalist... something?”

Enjolras squints at him, distrustful towards the question. It's kind of hilarious, the way he suspects every question Grantaire asks to be a trap he might be walking right into. “If we could reach as many people as we are now without selling commercially, we wouldn't sell commercially. For now, all articles are accessible for free online, but presence on the actual market has some advantages towards handing out free papers on campus. Which, again, we wouldn't be allowed to do anyway.”

“Hm. Still. Not very radical of you.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know that phrase, the one that's like... I think it was about libraries or something? If it's inaccessible to the poor...”

“It's neither radical nor revolutionary,” Enjolras finishes. He looks nonplussed. “We've already made it more accessible than we were originally allowed to by putting everything online. There's still options, of course, but it does depend strongly on the publisher, which, as I said, we're trying to change.”

“Maybe you'll find one that'll let you change the logo to a Marx caricature,” Grantaire muses. “I'm great at drawing beards. Or you could, like, sneak Louise Michel's name into the imprint, see if anyone notices...”

Enjolras gives him a look. “You know about Louise Michel,” he says, the surprise in his words perfectly audible.

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “You're surprised I had history at school now? Jesus, Enjolras, how do you trust me with every day tasks, let alone a job? Do you ever lie awake at night thinking, man, I hope Grantaire's okay, I hope he made it from the couch to the bed today without randomly dying?”

“That's not what I meant,” Enjolras frowns. “I just thought considering how little you care for politics – you know what?” He shakes his head. “Forget I said anything. The reason I brought up the deadline is because it's really, really important to have it done by then. If we don't send it in on time, we can't do the story for February, and so far, we don't have another to take its place.”

“And the deadline's next Saturday.”

“Midnight.”

“Okay.”

“Are you sure this isn't too much? It's very sudden.”

“Listen, if you'd really, honestly rather do it yourself, just tell me, for the love of—”

“No,” Enjolras says. He sighs. “You keep doing this, acting like I'd never trust you with anything—”

“Because you don't,” Grantaire frowns. “Enjolras, I'm not expecting you to, God knows I'm not giving you a lot of reasons. You don't have to get all righteous about this, it's just a fact.”

“I trust you with this,” Enjolras says earnestly, fingers tracing the edges of the paper. Grantaire says nothing. “I just need to be sure you're aware of how important it is for us.”

“I think you've managed to make that pretty clear,” he says. The whole thing was so dramatic, if there's one thing he's certain of now it's the relevance of that one task.

“Good.” Enjolras sets the stack of papers down in front of Grantaire on the table. “If that's possible at all, it'd probably be best to aim for being done with it by Friday, just in case anything puts a crimp on things...”

“Sure,” Grantaire says. Or in case he fucks the entire thing up so spectacularly that Enjolras receives the translation and decides to do it all over. “You can relax, okay? I'm not going to screw this up.”

Enjolras looks down at the paper, then at Grantaire, and nods quietly. Then he turns away, moving back to his seat, and Grantaire decides to go for shots of vodka next.

After meetings, it's become a ritual for Grantaire, Éponine and Jehan to walk home together. Jehan's dorm is pretty much halfway between the Musain and Magnon's house, so it's not much of a detour. Éponine is waiting for them when they get outside.

“There you are,” she says with a critical look at Grantaire, whose state of intoxication is probably easy to deduce. “Everything all right?”

Jehan sighs and hooks one of his arms around Grantaire's. “Well,” he says. “Sort of.”

“I'm fantastic,” Grantaire protests. “I got an extra assignment. I'm one of the cool kids now.”

“I'm sure you are,” Éponine says, and is, just then, distracted by Enjolras and Cosette leaving the Musain right behind them. Cosette stops to say goodbye to Éponine, smiling brightly, giving her a hug and a kiss on each cheek.

“There they go,” Grantaire murmurs as he watches them get into Enjolras' car. “Thalia and Apollo. Do you ever think they could be, like, cut outs from the 'cutest couple'-page in a high school yearbook or something?”

“They're not a couple,” Éponine and Jehan say simultaneously and look at one another, both startled by the accidental synchronisation. Grantaire blinks.

“They aren't, hm?” He's trying a little too hard to sound casual about it; he's not even sure if he ever actually thought they might be together. He certainly hadn't discarded the possibility; after all, Éponine's and Grantaire's respective crushes dating each other sounded just like their luck.

“They definitely aren't,” Jehan says, his tone reassuring. “She could be Artemis to his Apollo, though. They live together.”

“Doesn't Enjolras live with his parents?” Grantaire can't remember where he acquired that knowledge, he just sort of happens to have it. With Enjolras, he seems to soak up every bit of information he comes across like a sponge – it's probably an interesting process, cognitively, if you can ignore the obvious creepiness.

“He does, but Cosette's dad is in some legal trouble at the moment,” Jehan explains. “So she's with Enj and his family for the time being, I think they're really old friends.”

Now, that's certainly new information. What would legal trouble even mean, anyway? ...Wait. “Is Cosette's dad in jail?”

“Uh.” Jehan looks down at his shoes, sheepishly. “It's not really my place to talk about details, is it? Cosette would probably tell you in a second if you asked.”

“He's in jail,” Éponine says flatly. “There's going to be a trial in spring, and he might get out. Or not, I think it's pretty much even odds.”

“She told you that?” Grantaire asks. He knows so little about how close the two of them are, how well they know each other... God, he needs to ask Éponine more stuff when he's sober.

“No,” Éponine shrugs. “Everyone just sort of... knows.”

“Huh.”

“I can't believe you thought they were dating all this time and never even asked,” Jehan says. For no reason, he curls his arm tighter around Grantaire's and rests his head against Grantaire's shoulder. The reason might just be pity. Grantaire doesn't want to think about it.

“Let's get home,” he mutters. They don't talk much for the entire walk.

Back home, Grantaire spends about twenty minutes lying on his bed, still dressed, awake and not moving an inch. One of his go-to strategies for dealing with things is postponing the actual dealing with them by falling asleep, but he can't fall asleep now, not with the stack of pages glaring at him menacingly from the desk, not with the humiliation of the earlier situation still etched into the back of his mind. He'd been an objectively good solution to a problem, and even then, Enjolras was reluctant to accept his help – considering that, he must have been seriously desperate to offer Grantaire a job. But then, he didn't properly know Grantaire then, he probably underestimated the extent of how insufferable Grantaire could actually be.

It's really only one bullet point in the whole power point presentation of ridiculous here that Grantaire is actually still not used to that. Enjolras didn't like him when they talked for the first time, and he doesn't like him now – between, though, what was that? Grantaire thought they had sort of started to get along, not exactly building a picture perfect friendship, but certainly some mutual tolerance. And then Grantaire had gone and messed it all up by snapping at Enjolras first and then being either disruptive or apathetic at the meetings. He groans and burrows his face into the pillow. Being a colossal fuck-up isn't new to him. Fucking up something that he actually cares about is a whole different story.

Thinking about fuck-ups, he remembers something else. He remembers Jehan saying he's been out with Éponine, which he didn't know about even though he introduced them to each other – when did they even become friends without him, he has no idea, and he remembers never talking to Éponine about the assumption that her crush might be dating his, and he notices that making new friends has made him a shitty friend to the ones he already had.

Grantaire rolls over on his stomach and reaches for his phone on the bedside table.

talk to me about cosette, he texts Éponine, as if it's still two months ago and this isn't a conversation long overdue.

cosette works at lush and her dad is in jail, Éponine replies, snide and on point. Grantaire thinks for a second that if anyone were to recommend him sea salt shampoo to lift up his hair and add body, he'd probably want it to be Cosette.

contain the sass i was being serious, you know as your best friend and roommate^tm, he texts her back.

tomorrow, Éponine replies. go to sleep, stupid face xx
As always, she has a point.

He's woken by Éponine, or rather, he's woken by something hard and edged being thrown at him. He flinches and groans, pulling the covers over his head.

“Did it have to be this early?” he says, and Éponine cruelly pulls the covers away, exposing him to the cool morning light that fills the room.

“Sure it did,” she says. “It's gonna do you good.”

He sits up and rubs his eyes, finding that the thing that hit him in the face is a juice box. Through the mist of sleep in his eyes, he sees Éponine smile.

“I brought breakfast.” A plastic-wrapped chocolate croissant follows the juice box.

“How thoughtful,” he mumbles, even though he's grateful. Even with the few privileges his salary brings, breakfast is still a meal he tends to skip.

Awkwardly, he crosses his legs and leans against the wall, unwrapping the croissant. Éponine grabs two of his pillows and tosses them on the floor, sitting down on them and resting her back against his cupboard across from the bed.

“Something threw you off last night, huh,” Éponine says. Her eyes are so attentive and awake; he has no idea how she manages that at this hour.

“I guess,” he says and can't help but yawn. “There was... I don't know. Doesn't matter. First the meeting was weird and then I felt bad because I'd made this assumption and I just, I don't know, sort of should have talked to you about it?”

Éponine shrugs. “Nothing to feel bad about,” she says. “Crushes are useless. I'm probably best off just stewing in this.”

“You think?” he huffs out with a laugh.

She frowns. “What's funny?”

“I don't know. I sort of keep telling myself the same thing, and... I mean, you can see how amazingly well that's been working out.”

Éponine sucks orange juice through her straw. “Are you miserable?” she asks then. There's never any embellishment with her. She doesn't say things the roundabout way.

Grantaire stares at his croissant; he doesn't feel hungry suddenly. “I don't know,” he says, for the what, third time in this conversation? “Sometimes.”

“I wonder what's worse,” Éponine muses, chewing on her own croissant now. “Your thing with the ice king himself, who's sort of less responsive than a rock, or my thing with the sweetest person in the world who loves pretty much everyone but not in the right way.”

Grantaire doesn't want it to happen, but he can feel pity seeping into his gaze. It's hard not to like Cosette, and he can't imagine what it must be like to be on the receiving end of a gentleness that's never going to be enough. Really, he can't imagine it, it's not like he's ever going to have that problem.

Éponine gives him a warning look. “If you're about to say you're sorry, I'm taking that croissant and feeding it to Curie.”

“Don't,” Grantaire says quickly. “Who does that, give baked goods to a cat? They shouldn't eat that sort of stuff.”

“What? Why not?”

“Uh, I think they're not supposed to have things with yeast?” He examines his croissant. “And certainly no chocolate.”

“Yeah, whatever. My point was, I'm taking your breakfast away if you're going to pity me.”

“I'm not.”

“Mhm.”

“No, I'm not.”

She gives a long sigh.

“How close are you two, anyway?” he attempts carefully.

“No idea,” she shrugs. “Hard to say when it's someone who's close with everyone.”

“She isn't close with everyone.”

“Oh?”

“She's not close with me.”

“Give it time,” Éponine carelessly waves a hand. “She will be. It's unavoidable. That girl's like a friendship ninja, she'll ambush you out of nowhere and before you know it you have her saved in your contacts with like, a heart behind her name, and you get manicures and talk about boys together, and you love it, and that's just the deal.”

“I'm serious, though,” Grantaire shakes his head, “I don't even know how you met; you said she was in a class or something...?”

“Intro to Neurobiology,” Éponine says. “Obviously, that class is a fucking dream. We sat next to one another on the first day, whined about the lame professor together. She's friends with everyone there, too, though, so we didn't talk a lot after that.”

“And now?”

“We talk at the café sometimes, and she came over to study once.” Éponine squints at him. “I always figured you knew about that.”

Well. He should know about that.“Yeah, sorry, I suck,” he sighs.

To his surprise, Éponine giggles. It's not a particularly Éponine-ish sound. “It's fine. That's actually a little funny, you being so distracted by the God of Justice or whatever.”

“What keeps you from making a move, though?” Grantaire asks, and the only reason he's pushing this is that he obviously wants to encourage Éponine to open up, not that he's really desperate to avoid talking about Enjolras right now. “If you two are friendly.”

“What keeps me from making a move?” Éponine's eyes are wide with disbelief. “What is it with you, man? How is that even a fucking question?”

“I practically checked out for a month, okay?” Grantaire says apologetically. “Humour me here, apparently I've got no idea what's happening in anyone's life, I've spent the last couple weeks being a selfish asshole with a weird obsession; Jehan told me about you two meeting your felon friends together, I had no idea at all, so please, just pretend this is all brand new information, because it sort of is. To me.”

Éponine sighs. “Okay, it's still pretty obvious. First of all, she's straight, most likely. Second? Even if she wasn't, it'd be impossible to tell how much she actually likes anyone, because on the one hand I think she does genuinely love everyone, but on the other hand that can't be true, so where does that leave me? Third, the Marius thing.”

Grantaire frowns. “Marius?”

As if it's completely self-evident, Éponine nods. “Marius.”

“You can't mean that. I mean, I get Marius-Cosette, but Cosette-Marius...?”

“Everyone knows about it, Grantaire,” she says, apparently still having a hard time adjusting to Grantaire's complete lack of awareness of, well, everything. “What happened to the guy who called the hook-ups before they happened at every single night out we had? Does he just dissolve the second you walk into the Musain, or...?”

“Man, he got fucked up,” Grantaire sighs and sips from his juice box. “So fucked up.”

“I can see that,” Éponine says.

“I'm not gonna whine to you, you don't deserve that”, he murmurs. “Just, I don't know. Tell me shit. You've got to have stuff to get off your mind.”

And she does. It's nice, really, because she doesn't normally open up, and she's not exactly elaborate now, but she tells him about how Cosette was the first one who talked to her in any class, and she mentions that she sometimes comes up to Éponine during her performances and just watches a song or two right in front of the stage, only to clap with embarrassing enthusiasm at the end, and she tells Grantaire about Cosette and Marius and how it's only a matter of time, really, and she's made her peace with that but it's still not cool and it certainly doesn't do anything to diminish her annoying feelings, and Grantaire listens and, for some absurd reason and in what Grantaire later comes to interpret as the calm before the storm (or, bluntly put, destiny giving him time to catch his breath before brutally beating him to a pulp), feels a little better.

At first, Grantaire really thinks he's going to do the translation. He's pretty convinced of it, in fact, as convinced as a guy like him can possibly be. Maybe this conviction is the reason that when it doesn't happen, Grantaire doesn't know why.

He doesn't have a good reason, but the deadline comes, and he has nothing.

Not a single thing. He didn't even translate the first sentence.

He's not sure why he bothers to go to the meeting, why he thought it would be better to admit to being a complete failure in person in addition to having done so via text, because Enjolras has been texting him. Throughout the entire week, actually. It started on Tuesday night, with a harmless How's the translation coming along? Just noticed I didn't give you any background info, if there's anything you need to know, please ask. E. Grantaire doesn't reply to that one on the grounds that A, it's the first text he's gotten from Enjolras ever since the disaster of the first meeting, and B, he doesn't have any questions, because he hasn't started translating. Enjolras texts again two days later, on Thursday morning. If that came across as me being doubtful, I apologise. Just wanted to make sure everything was okay. That one stings, because Enjolras is being kind, unreasonably so, and Grantaire, still, hasn't even started translating. And this message should most definitely make him want to get to work, because he feels desperately guilty at reading it, but then when he gets home, Éponine is there and cooking lunch for Gavroche and he drops in on them and lingers and then Éponine asks if he wants to go out later and before long, he's too drunk to even consider sitting down to work. He wakes up on Friday to see that Enjolras texted him again, some time during the night. I don't want to be a control freak, I really don't. Just say you're doing okay.

And that's the point where Grantaire doesn't feel guilty anymore. Just like that, he stops feeling sorry and he just cracks, because screw this, screw Enjolras sounding caring twice in succession, with the sole reason for his concern being a fucking translation job when Grantaire has been in misery because of him for the past three months – part of him is perfectly aware that this isn't Enjolras' fault at all, he didn't will Grantaire to fall for him, hell, he'd probably be disgusted if he knew, but Grantaire is pissed at him anyway. He knows it's stupid. Knowing it doesn't change anything.

Once more, he doesn't reply, and naturally, during his Friday 11am class, Enjolras doesn't fail to deliver. If it's doable at all, could you bring the translation or what you have so far to the meeting tonight? It's fine if you can't, there's still tomorrow.

And that's when Grantaire decides not to go to the meeting. Not because he's angry, not really, not because he feels paralysed by guilt either, but because by now, something in him has clicked and he simply can't do it. He can't. The task is unimaginable; the thought of taking up that stupid stack of pages that side-eyes him from across the room and dedicate any time or energy towards it is impossible, and it doesn't even have anything to do with laziness, but he's put it off for the entire week now and given the mere thought of the thing itself enough time to blow up into something insurmountable. Enjolras and his far too polite and trusting texts don't help – he's being polite because Grantaire has managed to make him feel guilty for not trusting him, when he was actually completely fucking right not to trust him, and now Grantaire's too much of a coward to face him.

He was meant to go go to the meeting with Jehan and Éponine, so he texts both saying he's too busy to make it, and adds a footnote in Jehan's text to say tell enj sorry for going awol. Éponine, who witnessed him procrastinating and wasting his time all week, texts him back you're not busy, that's bullshit what's wrong, but Grantaire fails to reply. She's going to show up in his room sooner or later anyway, and he wouldn't even know what to tell her then.

Resigned and with nothing but a bottle of calvados for company, Grantaire goes to bed, determinedly ignoring his phone when it chimes once at about midnight and once early on Saturday morning. He sleeps miserably, rolls out of bed just before noon, and only just manages to shower and put on sweatpants before Éponine barges in.

“You're alive,” she says, sounding uncomfortably indifferent to that fact. “Good to know.”

“Uh.” Grantaire scratches the back of his head. His hair is still damp. “Good morning?”

“Not really.”

“Right, it's...” He leans over to grab his phone. It informs him of the time (12:18), three new texts, and two missed calls. “God,” he groans without finishing the previous sentence.

“Dude. You don't get to be annoyed about how much your friends care about you right now.” Éponine plops onto the couch next to him. “I had to physically restrain Jehan from coming over here last night. Wasn't easy, you know. Kid's stronger than you'd think.”

“Psh. I gave you both an amazing note of absence.”

“You're a disaster, R.” Her eyes wander to his bed, finding the half-empty bottle of booze. “Did you drink all of that by yourself? Last night?”

He frowns at her. “No, I shared it. My two best friends self-pity and self-loathing were over.”

“Don't be dramatic,” she sighs and grabs a plastic bottle of water from her bag. “Drink.”

He does.

“So,” she says as he gulps down drinks of water. “What's up? Jehan says you're weird about that extra assignment thing. Is that it, you're stressed or something?”

He laughs. Stressed doesn't begin to cover it, really, and at the same time, it's just plain not applicable. He should probably be stressed, but he's been avoiding it by not doing anything of use. Next to not doing the translation, he hasn't revised for econ at all, and the final is in four days. The other classes he might pass by bullshitting his way through the exams, but as far as econ is concerned, it's pretty much a lost cause.

“I didn't even try, Ép” he murmurs, the bottle in one hand, cap in the other. “Like, I volunteered to do this, and I didn't even look at this thing once. For the first couple days, I thought I'd just start tomorrow, and, like, halfway through the week, I couldn't even go near it, I was so fucking angry at myself. Basic task, yeah? You'd think so. Translating a few fucking pages from one mother tongue to the other. And I couldn't even make a fucking attempt.”

“When's that thing due again?”

“Tonight.”

“And you have to hand it in with blondie?”

Grantaire scoffs. “Yeah. Hey, Éponine, if there's ever something in your life that you need thoroughly fucked up for some reason, I'm totally your man.”

“Stop that,” she says firmly, but her fingertips are lightly resting against his knee. “So knowing you, no one has any idea that you haven't produced anything even though they need to have it by tonight.”

“Yeah.”

“You're telling them right now.”
“Éponine,” he says weakly, but she's already leaned over and snatched his phone from the side of the couch.

“Be reasonable for like, half a second, R,” she says while sliding a finger across the screen, unlocking it. “Pretty boy's going to be pissed at you no matter what, but more so the longer you wait and the less time you give them to figure something out.”

Grantaire knows that. He knew that yesterday, too, and the day before.

“He's tried to call you,” she says. “Jehan, too.”

“I know.”

“Go ahead,” she says, tossing him his phone. He looks at her, and she raises her eyebrows with an expectant look. “Rip off the band-aid,” she says. “Literally every second you're stalling is making it worse.”

He chews on his bottom lip, closes his eyes, breathes. He deliberately doesn't look at the chat window as he types his text to Enjolras; he doesn't want to see what his new texts said. It would be bad if they were still patient and understanding, and worse if they weren't.

His fingers are a little shaky as he types, embarrassingly, and his mind isn't in the right state to be eloquent. The text he produces probably does as little as was at all possible in making this situation better, but it's all he can come up with, plain and simple. i don't have anything.

As soon as he's sent it, he thinks that it's not even that unambiguous, after all, he could be talking about anything. He could be saying he's broke. Or lonely. Homeless. High. Anything, really. Despite that, he can't find it in himself to send another text to clarify, especially since he's thrown the phone at Éponine as soon as he pressed sent.

“He hasn't replied,” Éponine informs him after a few minutes of silence.

“Shocker,” Grantaire murmurs. He's peeled the entire label off the water bottle.

“Oh, he's posted a thing to the ABC group chat,” Éponine says, nudging him with her foot. “...He's calling an emergency meeting, anyone available is supposed to show up at the Musain as soon as they can.”

“I'm the worst person on earth,” Grantaire mutters matter-of-factly. Éponine sighs.

“We all are, sometimes.”

Grantaire has his eyes fixed on his phone in her hands.

“You're not thinking about going, are you?”

“You think that'd make it worse?”

“For you, yeah it would,” she frowns. “You'll be scourging yourself anyway, you don't need blondie's disdain directed at you on top of that.”

“I'm used to that. He hated me before.”

“Oh my fucking God,” Éponine whispers. “Listen, for your own good, don't go to the Musain today. Whatever you do after that, beg him for forgiveness, kiss his feet, whatever you think is going to make it better, but listen to me for today, okay? Don't go.”

Grantaire goes. It takes him a while, because it's not too easy to get dressed and make yourself look vaguely presentable when you're so pissed at yourself that it's impossible to so much as glance in the mirror. He's more of a mess after Éponine leaves, feels raw and ashamed and flinches at every little sound, angry at himself merely for taking up space.

Eventually, when it's already dark, he goes out. He tiptoes in the stairway, lest Éponine hear him and tackle him to the ground to keep him from going any further, and lets the December wind take him into an icy grip the second he steps outside. He hasn't zipped up his parka, and the cold allows for a welcome numbness to settle in his bones before he reaches the café. When he arrives, he doesn't let himself stop walking even though his instincts are rebelling. He's not even sure what he's expecting, if part of him thinks it can atone or if he's just genuinely masochistic, but he walks straight on until he's at the top of the stairs and then he stands in the doorway.

Enjolras isn't there.

Actually, the turnout is less than amazing; only a handful of people seem to have made it. Combeferre is there, along with Courfeyrac, Feuilly and Marius, all of them gathered around the table on which pages of the report are scattered along with dictionaries and red pens. They all look towards Grantaire when he comes in. The earlier question answers itself when he sees the looks in their eyes – he's definitely a masochist; has to be.

“Hi,” he says. He feels useless.

There's no reaction at all, and then, before anyone comes to their senses enough to come up with a reply, their attention shifts and Grantaire can see their looks dart behind him. He doesn't have to turn around to know who's there, and Enjolras, who must have stopped for a moment at spotting Grantaire, walks past him. Their shoulders brush. Grantaire's entire body grows tense within a second.

“What are you doing here?” He's gone to stand in front of Grantaire, his arms crossed and his eyes fierce. He's openly furious, his words more spat out than enunciated.

“I gave you all this work,” he says. His voice hardly sounds like his own. “I thought I could help.”

“You don't think you've helped enough?” Enjolras says coolly. Grantaire meets his gaze.

“I'm trying to make up for this,” he hisses. “You think I don't know I fucked up? I'm sorry, okay? I can help now.”

Enjolras huffs. “You'd think that, wouldn't you, that you could just show up and it would magically just be okay? Are you aware of what the others are sacrificing right now? Half of them don't know the language, they have finals to revise for, they have jobs, for heaven's sake, Feuilly gets an afternoon off once in a fucking blue moon—”

“Enjolras,” Feuilly says quietly, and it has no effect at all.
“They're here because of you. They'll probably be here until midnight because of you. As if they weren't stressed out enough already!”

“And you think I'm not?” It's the worst retort. For so many reasons. Grantaire wishes, for once, that he didn't have it hardwired in his constitution to be incapable of keeping his mouth shut.

“You volunteered! I had to be talked into this, by you! Because, big fucking surprise, I knew this was going to happen, and you had to go on and make us all rely on you just to throw that back into our faces – is that funny to you, knowing how much you screwed us over?”

The implication alone hits him hard enough to knock the air out of his lungs. He's gone ahead and done it now, convinced Enjolras he's not just useless, but vicious. “If you knew for sure this was going to happen, why didn't you start making a fucking backup translation the second you have me the job,” Grantaire says under his breath. “Would certainly have saved the others the trouble.”

“Are you serious?” Enjolras is shooting daggers at him. “Because I was busy, maybe? Because I had things to do? Or, possibly, just maybe, because you fucking asked me to put my faith in you? And I did!” His cheeks are flushed with anger, and his eyes are dark. He looks terrifying. “And you just went ahead and – and you pulled this.” He doesn't seem to have any other words for it. The disdain in his voice is clear enough.

Grantaire says nothing. He would do anything, he's certain, anything at all, if it meant forgiveness, anything Enjolras might ask, but he knows right then that forgiveness isn't an option.

Enjolras is still looking straight at him, and maybe he's waiting for something, a comeback or more apologies – he shakes his head when he realises he'll likely wait forever. “Please leave,” he says, and it sounds less enraged and more disappointed, which comes like a blow to the face to Grantaire, who turns on his heel and leaves.

Someone catches up with him once he's down the stairs, and when he turns around to face whoever is holding him by the shoulder, he sees Marius, looking terribly distressed. “You know,” he says, a little out of breath, “it's not actually too much work.” Grantaire stares at him. “I mean, we can manage,” he adds quickly. “It's not that bad, I'm – I'm sure you're sorry, and we're not all mad at you.”

Grantaire is angrier at himself once he's left the Musain without saying a thing to Marius, not even thank you, but he can't trust his voice at the moment, can't trust himself not to start crying like a child in front of poor Marius who would undoubtedly be overwhelmed by that, and so he makes a run for it. They way he should have, he thinks, when Enjolras first approached him about working for the ABC.

When he arrives at Magnon's, he doesn't immediately go inside. It's a cold, dry night, his fingers are frozen rigid, and for some reason, he doesn't want to give up that numbness yet. The street is quiet, even though it's not even eight, and he stands alone in front of their house, staring up and down the pavement looking for nothing in particular.

Curie finds him. She rubs her head against his shins, purring, and Grantaire's knees buckle and he drops onto the ground as if he's been deflated. Curie presses her head into his torpid hand, and his fingers sink into her fur as he starts shaking, his teeth chattering, his mind blank. She curls up by his side, and as they sit together in the flicker of the street lamp, Grantaire finds comfort in knowing that if he cries, no one will know but her.

Chapter Text

In the approximately two hundred meetings with the school counsellor Grantaire was forced to sit through during his last three years of school, he has learned exactly one useful thing, which is a method he likes to call the Scale of Trash. According to the school counsellor, who sort of doubled as a grief counsellor at the time, putting whatever event you're dealing with into a context and trying to see it in scale can be helpful, so together, they came up with a scale for shitty events in Grantaire's life, and somehow, Grantaire has never managed to drop the habit of low-key applying it to stuff that happens in his life whenever something hits him a little harder.

Imaginatively, the scale ranges from one to five, one being roughly the equivalent of discontent about an art project, and five the singular event of losing his mother. He's aware it's probably not the healthiest way of coping with loss to give an event the prize for being the worst thing he's had to deal with in his life, but back then, he went with whatever worked, and the five did. To him, the five was proof that it couldn't get any worse, that there would never be a pain that could take him by surprise after this, and fucked up as it was – and little as that was the way of coping his poor counsellor had probably intended – that's how he managed to muddle through.

Grantaire estimates his translation-debacle to lie vaguely at a three on his scale. He comes to that conclusion when he wakes up on Sunday morning and finds himself unable to get out of bed. The night before, he still thought this cup might pass from him, this utter inability to complete so much as the most basic task that comes over night, but when he wakes, it's there, that heavy, sinking feeling in his stomach, the feeling of being void of any drive or motivation. He knows the mindset so well that the most messed up part of him suggests that it's kind of comforting to have it back.

Without looking at his alarm clock or making so much as an attempt to get up and maybe grab a bottle of water at least, he curls up on his side and waits for nothing in particular. There's not much else he feels he can do.

Any amount of time might have passed when Éponine comes in. He hasn't moved from the bed ever since he woke up, although the lethargy was briefly interrupted by a crying fit – always Éponine, he thinks when he hears the door. Éponine, who has shit to deal with of her own and shouldn't have to take care of her pathetic roommate that can't get out of bed, but still does, for whatever reason.

“Shit,” she utters in a quiet voice, and then he hears her walk towards him, the thump of her knees as they settle on the ground beside his bed. “R, I fucking told you,” she murmurs, and her fingers brush his hair. He tells her to leave, only just mutters the words under his breath, and she ignores him.

“What do you need?” she says instead, and that's how she ends up staying. He weakly asks her to manage his phone, because only thinking about the texts he must have gotten over night makes him feel sick, and she goes through his notifications, gives him vague summaries of any messages he received, replies to them without asking twice, promises to find a way to put Jehan, who has been calling Grantaire pretty much non stop since last night, at ease, and is generally the angel Grantaire doesn't deserve.

“You shouldn't be doing this,” he notes later when she comes back from a food run downstairs – Grantaire doesn't feel like eating at all, but he's been there before and is painfully aware that sustenance is sort of a necessity, seeing as bodily functions don't have the decency to go on hiatus along with their friends “instinct of self-preservation” and “basic will to live” during a depressive episode. “You should go out, meet up with your gang friends or something. What do those people do on Sundays, anyway? Rob a church?”

“You're not funny,” she says flatly and stacks up the chocolate and cookies she got from Magnon on his bedside table. He asked for chocolate specifically, because it tends to be the only thing he can make himself eat when he's like this, even though he doesn't have a sweet tooth at all. Neither does Éponine, which is why she was forced to scrounge from their landlady. “Oh, and Magnon says we're paying her back for all of this, by the way.”

“Of course she does,” Grantaire mutters and lays his forearm across his face. “Seriously, Ép. Go do something. You've been here for what now, five hours? And I'm the worst company.”

“Speaking of company,” Éponine murmurs and pats the mattress beside Grantaire. Grantaire feels a shift and blinks to see a flash of red fur, and then there's the rough touch of a cat's tongue on his fingers.

“Hi, Curie,” he murmurs, and the cat curls up next to him immediately, purring. “See, you can leave now,” he says to Éponine, who brought a stack of text books and notes in addition to the food and cat, and is setting up an impromptu study session on the floor. “She can take care of me just fine.”

“Sure she can,” Éponine murmurs, and continues to study in silence.

Sunday passes, somehow. Éponine leaves when it's been dark outside for what feels like forever, and after another eternity of doing basic multiplication in his head to drown out the voice that keeps telling him how much better off the world would be without him, Grantaire falls asleep.

Monday morning isn't good, but he hadn't been expecting it to be. Two days, that's how long these phases normally take, and that's the knowledge he holds on to. He can handle two days – he can handle a three.

There's a juice box on his bedside table, along with a note from Éponine.

Thought you probably weren't going to look at your phone – this stuff has sugar and vitamins, DRINK IT. I'll come by during lunch break, don't die while I'm gone xx

P.S. You can get a sick note for this kind of stuff if you miss an exam or sth. Not sure if you knew (or cared, which you probably don't).

Trying to be excused from uni for this feels so wrong that he never even considered it. Being unable to move and very sad doesn't seem like a worthy excuse to him, although he's very aware of the technicalities that say that he definitely is ill – maybe having to repeat a couple classes is just the price he's supposed to be paying.

He manages to check his phone today, although he doesn't look at any new texts at all. He's well aware that he owes everyone explanations and apologies, but most of all, he owes that to the five people he hurt pretty directly.

First, he texts Marius, and then, by difficulty, works his way up to Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Feuilly – lastly, there's Enjolras.

Grantaire types out multiple messages to him and deletes them all unsent. He leaves the task of texting Enjolras unfinished, and the irony doesn't escape him.

Éponine shows up during her lunch break as promised and brings a ridiculous amount of chocolate, as in, I couldn't eat that if I melted it all down, poured it in my bath tub and just sucked it out with a straw-ridiculous.

“I wouldn't be able to eat this if you have me like, twenty lifetimes,” he says, too weak to be as snide as he'd like to be.

“Didn't know what sort was most likely to keep you from starving, so I brought them all. Gav's probably gonna be grateful if you pass some of them on.”

“Right,” he says and rubs his eyes. Then he adds, more quietly, “Thanks, Ép. Honestly.”

“It's chocolate, not a kidney,” she says with a shrug. “I have an exam to get to, though, is there anything else?”

I don't know how to put together a 75 word short message and I haven't showered in two days, he thinks. “Nah.”

“Convincing.”

“How do you say 'I'm sorry and I totally get it if you hate me for the rest of your life' in a text without sounding dramatic?”

“You don't,” she replies with a frown. “Are you using your phone again?”

“Fifty per cent using it, sort of,” he murmurs. “Not using it–using it.”

“I don't know what to tell you, man,” she says. “The only apologies that are worth anything are non-bullshit ones. Like, you know you fucked up, so say you did, own up to it, say you're sorry, say you understand the consequences, and if there's anything at all you think you can do to fix things, offer to do that. There's not much more to it.”

“You're so smart,” he sighs, fully meaning it, but given the circumstances, it comes out like a very pathetic attempt at sarcasm. She's merciful enough to ignore it.

“Have you thought about getting a sick note? At all? Didn't you have a thing this morning?”

Grantaire gives off a groan, muffled by his pillow, at the thought of the essay for Theoretical Analysis he failed to hand in.

“I see,” Éponine says diplomatically. “Well, it's not my semester wasted.” She semi-affectionately ruffles his (dirty, greasy) hair and then she's out of the door again.

After two more hours of lying curled up in bed and occasionally half dozing off without ever actually falling asleep, Grantaire takes his phone again. Almost everyone has already replied to his earlier texts, but he can't find it in him to look at their replies now. Instead, he types out the fifth apology and sends it.

enjolras, i'm sorry for messing up and i'm aware that's technically irrelevant because it doesn't help you to know i'm sorry but it should probably be said? also i'm friendly with a bunch of art majors that don't hold a grudge against your department so if you need help finding someone new i could probably rec a few people that might be interested. not that it's enough to make up for being a massive jerk but it's sth i won't fuck up – r.

Enjolras doesn't take long to reply. He never does, despite being the last person on earth Grantaire expected to sleep with their phone in hand. This time, it's so fast Grantaire doesn't have time to contemplate the fact that he doesn't actually want to read the reply; it's just there suddenly, right before his eyes.

Are you quitting?

Grantaire squints at the screen.

uhh sort of assumed you were going to do that for me? it's ok promise, i can get by

He can't. His father had happily stopped supporting him once Grantaire told him to, so in order to make ends meet, he'd have to find something new as soon as possible, with Christmas and the end of the year around the corner where more people are being let go than hired. He very much can't get by at all, but he figured he was just going to have to find a way.

Enjolras takes about two seconds to reply.

No one had any intentions of that, if only because it's impossible to legally justify asking someone to leave because they didn't do something that wasn't their job.

Grantaire isn't okay enough to deal with that. He types out thanks, because what else is he going to say, and lets the rest of Monday pass in the familiar mixture of misery and apathy.

Tuesday signifies the end of two days, so when Grantaire wakes up and very carefully sees how getting up and walking to the bathroom feels, he silently thanks his brain for at least being sort of consistent in its uselessness.

It's not great. He doesn't magically feel okay again, but the feeling of something dark and heavy taking up all the room in his chest has ebbed away. He takes a shower, eats half a bowl of cereal and, not because he plans to go out but because it's probably a good idea after not having changed clothes in two days, gets dressed.

The usual ABC meeting they'd have on Tuesday doesn't take place due to finals week, which relieves him of feeling shitty for not being able to go, but, lucky as he is, there's other stuff to feel shitty about. Like the essay deadline he missed yesterday, or the econ exam he's definitely not taking today. It seems even more ridiculous now, the fact that he actually sat through every single session of that course just for the sake of – well, for what? Was he proving a point? Was he trying to stay in Enjolras' proximity any way that he could? If so, why not be honest and stop the whole thing once he'd gotten the job at the ABC? Thinking about it makes it seem even worse, so he decides to avoid it for now.

The one semi-productive activity that he can think of is to try and use the day to vaguely prepare for his Art History final tomorrow, but he's not really capable of doing more than just skimming the few notes he took and marking something here or there. It has to be enough. He'll be lucky if he's able to go at all; his body hasn't taken kindly to not being fed or exercised at all for two days.

Once going through his notes becomes too exhausting, he checks his phone. He can't put off reading the replies to his poor attempts at apologies forever, after all.

It could have gone worse, is his first thought after he's gone through all of them in a hurry. Way worse, in fact. The general consensus seems to be “there's nothing to be done now, just never behave like a giant fucktruck again”, which is probably more than he deserves. Combeferre's text is most forgiving, and, surprisingly, most conversational.

Hi R, I'm glad you're owning up to this, it reads. In case you were worried; we managed to hand everything in on time and it's been approved – despite the fact that it was a small disaster, word-wise, and is definitely going to need a lot of work and touching up. But there's still time for that. Good luck with the rest of finals; C.

Grantaire goes over the text a few times and tries not to read anything into it. Combeferre can be sort of a sneaky bastard when it comes to encouragement. He brushes the thought aside, and goes back to the only studying he's capable of.

He sees Jehan during the exam on Wednesday, and they don't talk – it's without animosity from either side, but Grantaire doesn't know what to say, and Jehan apparently deems it wise not to say anything. It's on Thursday that Grantaire decides that words are a little overdue now, so he texts Jehan after he gets home from studio time in the afternoon. any chance u feel like listening to the worst movie scores in history and sketching what they make u think of, he suggests. Considering the content of the text, it's an absolute miracle how quickly Jehan manages to reply. No need to ask, I'm ever so inclined; a plan of yours is one that I'm behind. Grantaire has no idea whether to be terrified or delighted. i'm coming over then? are u ok, he texts back, and Jehan does not relent. Come see me, friend, in my most humble home; for all your claims, you're best off not alone. Grantaire has a slight suspicion that he doesn't want to put into words, because that's likely to take the fun out of it. wow perfect iamb good on u what's the occasion, he texts back instead. Jehan's reply confirms his suspicion. Honestly I'm a little high, he texts back, dropping the metre in favour of honesty. Please don't come over if that's likely to make you sad!! If it isn't, do join us; J+B are here too, and that's all. Grantaire smiles a little. Somehow, and to the horror of probably every shrink in the world, the thought of listening to his stoned friends speak in slurred iambic pentameter or babble about underwater slugs (something Joly has actually done in a sober condition before) is deeply comforting to him, which is why he finds himself at the door of Jehan's dorm room twenty minutes later.

Despite what one might guess, Jehan's door in the hall is actually the least extravagant one, because he has done nothing to it. All other doors are plastered with movie posters or post cards or drawings or concert tickets; his is completely blank. Grantaire is never sure if that has to do with Jehan's modesty, or with the fact that a blank door in an entire hallway full of exuberant ones is the biggest act of rebellion possible in a public dorm.

Bossuet opens after Grantaire's had to knock three times, every knock being answered with

rumbling noises and raised voices from the inside of the room.

“Sorry you're not being greeted by the host,” Bossuet says and drapes an arm around Grantaire's shoulder, pulling him into the room. “The duty of door-opening falls to me, since these two losers refuse to get up.”

The two losers in question, Jehan and Joly, are both lying across Jehan's bed, their knees pulled in and taking turns pointing at things they spot behind the window. In the third week of the semester, Jehan had enlisted Grantaire's help to rearrange his dorm room, an activity strictly forbidden by the rules of the dorm and strongly encouraged by Jehan. Together, they'd pulled the bed where the desk used to be – right below the window – and pushed the desk in place of the bed, directly in front of the wall. The rearrangement was questionable, Grantaire thought, because it made Jehan's room considerably more narrow, making it an act of balance to get from the door to the bed and back, but Jehan, until now, doesn't seem to care much for practicality – at least, he doesn't value it over the romantic aspect of being able to look at the stars from his bed.

“R!” Joly sits up quickly when he sees him, only to fall back down. “Too fast,” he explains, on his back again, staring at the ceiling. “Give me a second, I'll make it over to you.”

Jehan, gently patting Joly's shoulder, gets up and walks over to Grantaire very slowly, only to take both his hands and stare into his eyes with unnerving focus.

“Hi,” Grantaire says after about ten seconds. “No offence, but, uh, I imagined you to be more talkative when intoxicated.”

“I was taking you in, my friend,” Jehan says calmly, as if that explained anything. “You are considerably less distressed than yesterday, I believe.”

“Well, I should bloody well hope so,” Grantaire shrugs. Two days aren't a lot of time for recovery from another two days of misery, but he's trying really fucking hard. “You've turned the place into an opium den in my absence, I take it?”

Jehan's eyes widen and he lets go of Grantaire's hands. “That is so fitting. I'm so angry at myself for not having come up with it and mounted a sign to the door.”

“Standing up in just a second, R,” Joly announces from the bed, not moving an inch. “Hang on. Gonna be there soon.”

Bossuet, who's sat down in the desk chair, pushes a plate of cookies at Grantaire's face. “Courtesy of Jehan,” he says. “Poet, raker, space cookie baker.”

“Raker makes no sense. You could have said quaker, that actually describes a person.”

“You're not a quaker, though.”

“Just leave the rhyming to me,” Jehan says, softly stroking Bossuet's arm and then falling back onto the bed. Bossuet is still holding out the plate expectantly.

“Ahh, no thanks,” Grantaire takes the plate and examines it. “Did you use actual Christmas cookie cutters for these, Jehan?”

“Don't judge,” Jehan says from the bed, resting his head on the windowsill and pouting. “When presented with the opportunity to put hallucinogens into festive shapes, I consider it a crime not to seize it.”

“Fair point.” Grantaire eyes Bossuet. “You don't look high.”

“I'm not,” Bossuet sighs. “Too many risks.”

Right. He's seen the havoc a drunk Bossuet accidentally wreaks; chances are a high Bossuet might cause the end of times.

“R, come here,” Joly demands with a wave of his hand. “Doesn't look like I'm getting up after all, so you'll need to get on this thing if you're going to get a hug.”

Grantaire lets Joly grab his wrist and pull him onto the bed between him and Jehan. “Why am I getting a hug, anyway?” he asks as Joly practically drapes himself over him and wraps his arms around Grantaire's shoulders. It's not like Joly isn't an affectionate person, but he's sort of particular about when and who he hugs at all; Grantaire guesses for germ-related reasons. His hugs tend to be reserved for Bossuet, Musichetta, and people either on their birthdays or in seriously shitty situations. That aside, Grantaire isn't sure what he expected from Joly and Bossuet, but carrying on as usual hadn't really been it. They could at least glare at him or be a little taciturn.

“Jehan let us know you haven't been doing so hot,” Joly says into Grantaire's sweater, then lets go, flopping onto his back again, smiling easily at Grantaire. “Just because you did something dumb doesn't mean you're not getting hugs when you're sad. Feeling awful takes precedence over behaving awfully.”

There's a stretch of silence, in which Bossuet falls onto the bed next to Joly so that they're all awkwardly on their backs with their legs dangling over the edge of the mattress and staring up out of the window. Jehan's room faces the trees around the front yard of the building, and beyond them, the sky is a greyish dark blue. It's quite melancholic, as if the view and weather adjusted specifically for Jehan.

“Can you do Soothing Science Stuff, Joly?” Jehan asks eventually, with a wistful sigh. “I think we could all use that.”

Soothing Science Stuff is normally an interjection at meetings. Whenever things get too heated or stressful, someone will call in a break and ask Joly or Combeferre to supply them with a fun fact about the universe or whatever that's going to put things into perspective. Grantaire was incredibly sceptical when he witnessed it for the first time, but it's proven to work. Those scientific digressions are followed up with a minute or so of solemn silence in which everyone is different degrees of awestruck, and normally, the meeting goes on calmly after that.

“I am not in the condition to talk intelligently about science,” Joly protests. Bossuet grins and laces their fingers together.

“No one's asking for intelligent talk,” he says. “Just talk.”

Joly contemplates that for a moment. “Okay,” he says then, “do you guys ever just think about how – you know, how weird it is that life is actually possible? Like, what were the odds that any life at all, not even human, can even come to pass? That the conditions for life are actually met? Because, for instance, you have your – your uh, your nuclear force, that just happens to be exactly right for hydrogen atoms not to fuse in the infant universe to form helium and leave no hydrogen for water later on, and it's also exactly right for all the complex atoms needed for biology to hold together, so basically, if it was a few per cent off, life wouldn't have stood a chance at all. At all.”

“Sounds like intelligent design,” Jehan says in a quiet voice. Joly nods eagerly.

“You'd think so, right? Because what sort of off chance is that; does the universe care if life can be in it? Did someone decide to make it fulfil the criteria for life? It's so improbable, scientists didn't know what to do with the question for a long time. So!” He grabs on to Grantaire's arm. “Enter the multiverse theory. You don't have to keep wondering why life's possible in the universe if you stop assuming that there is one universe.” He lets Grantaire's arm go again in order to gesture wildly with his hand, but the movement is slowed down by about fifty per cent, which Grantaire finds amusing and endearing in equal measure. “So, if you start assuming that there's, like, zillions of universes with different properties, then it all makes a little more sense, because, you know, obviously there's a whole bunch of universes that can't harbour life at all, tons of universes that don't meet the criteria and everything; but us, well, we just happen to be in one of the universes that can hold life, because, naturally, otherwise we couldn't be asking that question. It's like, it's like a book or a story or something!” He reaches over Grantaire and pokes Jehan's cheek, excited to have found a simile. “Sometimes when you have, like, everything happening at once in a story, like, fuck, I don't know, you have three of the Bennett sisters married within a year, and people who hate a good romance are like, what are the odds they'd all get married at once even though it was so hard to find husbands for them for years? And, see, that's the wrong way of asking the question, because, you know. How likely is it? Not very, that's why Jane Austen decided it was a story worthy of being told. Authors don't just write down someone's ordinary life on the off chance that something exciting might happen in it; the stories only exist because the extraordinary thing already happened. So, in the same principle, the question of why life exists can only be asked because the extraordinary thing already happened; namely that we're here, and we can ask it.”

“I'm dizzy,” Bossuet announces after a short silence. “And I didn't even have a cookie.”

“Same here,” Grantaire murmurs. “This wasn't soothing at all. I wanted to hear about, I don't know, the cosmic irrelevance of my mistakes.”

“How much more irrelevant do you get when there might be an immeasurable number of other universes?” Joly offers. “Don't worry, R. The universe doesn't care about your tiny existence. Or about your even tinier mistakes. Cosmically, everything about you is tiny.” He sighs. “So very tiny. Tiny Grantaire.”

“This is super uncomfortable,” Grantaire says flatly, which the others seem to find amusing for some reason. Once they've stopped laughing, it's quiet.

“You know what sucks?” Jehan says after a while.

“Musichetta's work schedule,” Bossuet says.

“Most vacuum cleaners,” Joly suggests.

“I do,” Grantaire supplies.

Jehan considers that silently for a while. “I really meant to say something else, but you all have a point and now I've forgotten what my own point was going to be.”

“Sorry,” Bossuet says. “Know the feeling.”

“Hey, speaking of work schedule,” Joly says, squinting. “What's the time?”

“Almost four,” Grantaire replies with a glance at his phone. “Time for you to pick up Chetta?”

“Yes,” Joly says and stretches. Grantaire has become a little familiar with her schedule at job number two – helping out at the campus book store – when he started hanging out with the three of them. “She's going to kill us. We were going to cook dinner, but I'm incapacitated, and Bossuet's going to set everything on fire again.”

“Again?” Grantaire and Jehan say simultaneously as Joly struggles to sit and is lifted up by Bossuet to be carried piggyback-style.

“It's a long story,” Bossuet sighs when he stands, Joly on his back. Joly has both arms wrapped around his neck and looks thoroughly content with that arrangement.

“Sure you can pull that carrying thing off?” Grantaire asks critically.

“Please,” Bossuet grins. “He's tiny.”

“Cosmically,” Joly adds.

“No, you're honestly just tiny.”

“None of that,” Joly says and kisses the top of his head, which is pretty easy from his position. “Did you know I can see my reflection on your head? My hair is a mess. Oh, and R?” Joly gestures at where Grantaire is still lying on the bed. “You're coming to the meeting tomorrow night, aren't you? You must be. Non-negotiable.”

“Uh.” Grantaire hasn't actually thought of that. The Friday night meeting is going to be the last of the year, with two weeks of Christmas break ahead of them, and is more of a small Christmas party than anything else. So far, he's just assumed he probably wouldn't be wanted there. “I don't know?”

“No, you're coming,” Joly says and tries to look at him sharply, which fails. Grantaire laughs. It's not easy to deny high Joly anything.

“If I'm allowed in, I'll be there,” he concedes and Joly gives him a thumbs up.

“You ready?” Bossuet, who's still got his arms hooked around Joly's knees, asks, and Joly hums in agreement.

“Onward.”

Jehan and Grantaire are left behind in stunned silence when the door closes after them. “I never get tired of that,” Jehan says after some silence. “Seeing people in love.”

Grantaire scoffs. As a general rule, he gets tired of that pretty quickly. Bossuet, Joly and Musichetta are the unicorn of relationships; sugary and wonderful and not annoying at all. It's disconcerting. “Lucky them,” he murmurs. “Most of us poor bastards can't get one person to fall in love with us. For each of them, it worked out with two, just like that.”

“Yes, lucky them, to have their relationship shunned by all of society, to be highly unlikely to ever be permitted to marry,” Jehan says dryly. “There are always difficulties. That doesn't negate the possibility of happiness.”

“Ugh,” Grantaire says, which has to be enough. Jehan glances at him and then pats his hand.

“You, love, are in need of a calorie boost and something warm to drink.”

Grantaire can't be sure if Jehan would cook hot chocolate and steal pastries in the same way when he hasn't had a space cookie as he does now, but right now, it's an adventure. In the communal kitchen, Jehan raids the pantries of the others in his hall, always with the excuse that he sometimes randomly stocks up other people's pantries when he notices what they're lacking (which is probably true; it does sound a lot like Jehan), and then engages in the wildest procedure of hot chocolate-making that Grantaire has ever witnessed. It involves smashing up an entire chocolate Santa and tossing the pieces into hot milk, stirring spoonfuls of Nutella in, adding cinnamon and a pinch of chilli along with powdered sugar, and finally stirring as if his life depended upon it. The product is astonishing; they get back to the room with a tray carrying fresh brioche, a plate of frosted Christmas cookies (without special ingredients), and two large mugs of cocoa with tiny marshmallows piled on top. As soon as Grantaire takes a sip, he decides to never doubt Jehan's methods again.

“Holy shit,” he says as soon as his lips part from the mug, and Jehan looks triumphant.

“Good?”

“Jehan, I can't possibly express the love and dedication I'm feeling right now. I want to sweetly make love to this hot chocolate. I will wear this chocolate's armour to battle and die in its stead. I want to take this hot chocolate out to stargaze in the desert and feel alive for the first time.”

“I'm that good,” Jehan says with a slow nod. “I know. Try the brioche! I was in the kitchen when it was in the oven. Whoever made it used steam to make it soft; it's amazing.”

Grantaire knows he doesn't deserve hot chocolate and steamed brioche, but he can't help but feel comforted by it nonetheless. It's just what Jehan does; make people feel warm and cosy and safe. No one is really immune to that.

“How did your exams go?” Jehan says after a while.

“Exam,” Grantaire says. “Singular. You were there for it. It didn't suck as bad as it could have.”

Jehan tilts his head. “You only had the Art History final?”

Grantaire clears his throat. “You could say so.”

Jehan takes a while to process that. “What about econ?”, he says then, with genuine concern in his voice. “You didn't go to econ?”

“Why would I have? I didn't study for it at all. I'd only just managed to actually stand on my feet again on Tuesday,” he says bitterly. “Trust me, not having gone is fucking triumphant in comparison to the train wreck that would have ensued if I'd actually shown up.”

“Oh, R,” Jehan says, his eyes wide and full of hurt. “God, R.”

“It's not a big deal,” Grantaire frowns. “One class. Hated it, anyway. I sucked at it.”

“It's not about the class, though, is it,” Jehan says softly, and Grantaire closes his eyes. Of course Jehan knows. Everyone probably fucking knows what's going on. He wonders if it's a running gag with the other ABC people, if they ever chat after their meetings on Tuesday and go, “oh, look, lunch break's almost over, it's Grantaire-pines-after-Enjolras-o'clock, time for tea for all normal people.”

Jehan reaches over to briefly touch his shoulder. “What's your campus e-mail?” he asks then, turning back to his desk and opening his laptop. Grantaire frowns.

“What are you doing?”

“I'm getting you a chance to re-take that exam,” he explains, as if that was perfectly obvious, and is already scrolling through the list of staff on the uni's website. “What was your professor's name; Magloire?”

“Yeah – Jehan, you're an ethereal creature of grace and kindness and I love you, but this is pointless. It's done, not showing up to the exam gets you a failing grade automatically. Even if being high gave you superpowers, word-wise, you couldn't convince her to give me another shot.”

“We're talking about the same professor here, aren't we?” Jehan says, opening up the log-in screen for their academic e-mails. “The one who let you pass a quiz because she liked your rendering of her in intergalactic armour?”

That's a compelling argument. The only reason Grantaire had passed the midterm test was that he'd accidentally made his attempt at solving the problem from the worksheet on the very same paper that held his sketch from the first week, and Magloire had awarded him with two extra points for it. That, and the fact that Éponine had reluctantly tutored him in calculus in exchange for candy, which Grantaire was reasonably sure she just passed on to Gavroche. Grantaire shifts, hesitant. “What are you going to do?”

“Write to her and explain the situation.”

“The – real situation? What are you writing, I'm sorry I couldn't make it to the exam, I was busy being a dick first and a sad fuck later?”

“Have some faith in me, will you,” Jehan says softly and, once Grantaire has dictated his e-mail address and password, opens up a new window to start typing. Grantaire doesn't look over his shoulder; he knows Jehan hates nothing more than people reading along as he writes. Hitting send without letting Grantaire read over it, Jehan turns back towards the bed in his swivelling chair.

“You know, R,” he says thoughtfully, “aside from the friendship thing and the procrastination thing...” He slips off the chair and onto the bed next to Grantaire. “You're also pretty bad at being in love.”

Grantaire has never actually admitted to being in love out loud in Jehan's presence. Crushes are one thing. The l-word, that's different, but it's just a given, apparently. The frankness in Jehan's voice would sound harsh if it came from anyone else.

“That's not news,” Grantaire says, trying to shrug it off.

“No, I mean, you can't keep being like this,” Jehan says. “You're hurting yourself. And I'm sure you don't mean to, it just happens, doesn't it? And in the end, you can't really tell why?”

How would anyone reply to that? Jehan is right, of course. It doesn't escape Grantaire that ninety per cent of the mess he's in right now is owed to his crush on Enjolras. That crush made him volunteer for an extra job he probably never really intended to do, that crush made dealing with the aftermath more terrible than it already was, that crush continues to make him feel like absolute trash. So yeah, “pretty bad” is probably an understatement.

“You know, if you're asking me to stop being in love...”

“I'm not,” Jehan says. “R, I'm not asking you to do anything, I don't think I'm in the position to do that. Just...” He sighs. “There's a life outside of all that, you know. There are people other than him – most importantly, there's you. You can adore someone and not tear yourself to shreds.” Grantaire laughs mirthlessly, but Jehan shakes his head. “No, you can. Maybe you don't think you can, but you do.”

“How would you know that?” Grantaire asks, and he doesn't want to bridle Jehan's faith in him at all, he wishes he could believe him, in fact, but every fibre of his existence rebels at the thought. “That I can?”

“I just do,” Jehan shrugs. “Anyone can. That's in the nature of love.”

There's a lump in Grantaire's throat. He looks quietly at the mug of cocoa in front of him and says nothing. Jehan, sincere as he is, is unlikely to really mean that. He's a romantic without being naïve; he adores love, but he knows it can't be trusted. Grantaire mulls over the implications of that, and it's quiet for a long time.

“The gender binary,” Jehan says suddenly, breaking the silence. Grantaire frowns.

“Things that were once supposed to create an arbitrary order to stabilise a system and instead created hostilities based on perceived difference? Annoying social constructs? Things that stand in the way of a lot of people's self-fulfilment?”, he suggests. “What are we listing here?”

“No – I mean, yes, but that's what I was thinking about earlier,” Jehan says. “You know what sucks? The gender binary. That was my point.”

“What a point,” Grantaire says. They're quiet again, and then, watching Jehan's pensive face and his melancholy eyes, he's struck by something and is pissed at himself for never having made sure of that before. “Jehan, are you cool with everyone referring to you as he?”

“I wish I had a good answer,” Jehan says. “Most of the time, yes? I'd say about eighty per cent of the time it's okay. Today, for instance. Today; definitely yes. And then, sometimes, I just – I don't know. Some days it's not quite right.”

“Fuck, sorry I never asked,” Grantaire murmurs. “I'm trash.”

“You are not,” Jehan corrects firmly. “And this isn't about you.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“It's annoying, you know,” Jehan continues. “I can't figure this out right now, or I already would have. I'm not there yet. But I really, really want to be. It's exhausting.” He's distractedly kneading Grantaire's hand, which he took into his earlier. “And I know for a fact that this would be much easier if people weren't so obsessed with putting everything into these narrow categories. What's so hard about accepting all clothing as gender neutral? It's pieces of fabric cut into shapes, but people side-eye you for shopping in what they think is the wrong section for you, as if they were in any way entitled to pass judgement.” He huffs. “And that's not even where it ends. I've no idea what the worst part of it all is.”

“Would you...” Grantaire chews on the inside of his cheek. “I don't know, do you want to give me, like, updates on how you'd prefer to be referred to? Just whenever necessary? So you don't have to worry about me getting it wrong, at least.” He frowns. “Actually, I'm pretty sure the others wouldn't mind either, if you told them.”

“No, they wouldn't,” Jehan says, sounding quite confident in that. “I don't want to talk to them until I've at least sort of figured something out. You I could text, though.” He nods at Grantaire. “You know. Pronoun updates.”

“Cool,” Grantaire says. “And you get to punch me if I mess up.”

“Looking forward,” Jehan says. Sarcasm sounds amazing from his lips; it's like being slapped across the face with a sunflower.

“Prouvaire,” Grantaire says after more silence, “your nails look amazing.”

“Thank you! Don't they? It took forever.” Jehan holds up both hands, showing off nails in a perfect, soft gradient of light blue and mint green. “Do you want me to do yours?” And that's the rest of the evening laid out for them.

Feeling the way he imagines a gladiator would feel on their way out in the arena, Grantaire goes to the Friday meeting. He's not scared, necessarily; it's not like the ABC kids are lions waiting to tear him to shreds, but he doesn't know what exactly is expecting him, either. He's never been around any of them when they were angry (that's not entirely true – there's Enjolras, who was literally angry at him the second they met, and Bahorel, who Grantaire was privileged enough to witness in a brawl at the gym) – maybe Courfeyrac only seems fluffy and can actually hold a grudge for ten years. Maybe Feuilly is big on the silent treatment. Maybe Combeferre is going to take his sad attempt at a redemption and beat him to a pulp with it. Maybe Marius acts all forgiving at first and then plots to kill you in your sleep. Well, that last part might be a little far-fetched, but the rest of them Grantaire can't really be sure about. Just because Joly and Bossuet want him to be there doesn't mean he's going to be welcome.

Éponine promises to come by the back room later, which Grantaire is pretty sure has little to do with her argument that she's annoyed at having to play covers of obnoxious Christmas songs all night, and everything with seeing Cosette again before the holidays, but he's wise enough to keep that thought to himself.

There's already Obnoxious Christmas Songs playing when they enter the Musain, although the speakers go silent when the girl behind the counter spots Éponine. Grantaire runs into Musichetta before he can even make it to the back room.

“R! There you are, you massive diva. Half an hour late? Really?” She gives him an enthusiastic hug, patting him on the back.

“Well, you know me,” he says, and can't help his smile. He's a little relieved; you wouldn't want to get on Chetta's bad side, and it looks as if he hasn't. “Weren't you on your way out?” he asks as she drags him along by the wrist.

“Cigarette break can wait. You might have behaved like a dick,” she turns around to look at him sternly for a second, “but I'm not letting you walk into the lion's den alone.”

Grantaire's heart sinks. “They're still mad at me, aren't they,” he says and stands.

She tugs at his wrist impatiently. “No, they're not. Not throw-you-out-of-the-room-mad, at least. Honestly, I think most of them were cool when you apologised and meant it, but you're a scared little child and might just be too scared and too little to withstand golden boy's righteous fury.”

He has to introduce her to Éponine some time, he thinks. Then says, “So someone is still mad.”

“Enj is always mad. At the weather, the system, coffee prices, unjust laws, himself, the sun, I don't know, you name it. But I am very determined not to let that influence you, so toughen up and come inside.” She's still tugging, her fingers around his sleeve now. He doesn't move. She rolls her eyes. “R, for heaven's sake! I promise no one's going to be an asshole to you, okay, and if they are, I'll eat them – that aside, you don't want to miss this. Jehan's drunk on vin chaud, Bossuet is wearing a Santa hat...”

“Okay, fine!” He sighs. “I yield. Lead on.”

She pulls him inside, and Grantaire is greeted by the most obnoxious explosion of Christmas cheer he has ever witnessed. Someone brought a tiny tree that's been placed in the middle of the table, there's glittery things everywhere, forest green and shining red practically slapping him in the face from where the colours are reflected in tinsel and garlands – Christmas overkill. It's physically painful.

Not as painful as Courfeyrac pinching his cheeks is, as it turns out. “Look at you!” Courfeyrac has the ability to spring out of nowhere like no other person Grantaire knows, and is suddenly holding his face in both hands, grinning from ear to ear. “And here I thought you wouldn't show up. Season's greetings! Try the elderberry schnaps.”

So much for the grudge-holding-theory, then. Musichetta pats Grantaire's arm and leaves him for her boyfriends who seem dangerously close to a terrible accident as Joly stacks up shot glasses to balance on Bossuet's outstretched arm.

“Elderberry?” Grantaire frowns, but Courfeyrac unceremoniously presses a glass into his hand.

“Have some faith, my friend.” He hasn't stopped smiling. “Enjolras brought this. His dad has made like, a gallon of the stuff every December for as long as I've known Enj.”

Grantaire, still critical, drinks and makes a face as his mouth is filled with a disgustingly sweet taste, with no berries to speak of, just sugar and a very faint hint of alcohol. “What the fuck, man,” he murmurs, “that's just mean.”

Courfeyrac's smirk has turned devious. “I didn't say it was good. Plus, you deserved that, and now we're even.” Because he's Courfeyrac, he pulls him close and kisses Grantaire's cheek enthusiastically, and it's another small relief for Grantaire. If apologizing and swallowing down one gross shot is all he has to do to earn Courfeyrac's forgiveness, maybe he doesn't have to be too worried after all.

“I was just about to force those nerds over there to participate in a round of truth or dare with me,” Courfeyrac gestures over at Marius and Cosette, who are both on the floor (the back room is actually sort of badly stocked, with its ten chairs, one table and single couch), sitting cross-legged and giggling about something on Cosette's phone. Grantaire can't help but feel guilty as he realises for the first time that they actually look all kinds of right together – maybe Éponine is best off not coming up here. “You joining us? The more the merrier.”

“Trust me, I've never wanted to say yes to anything more,” Grantaire murmurs, because Marius dared to do anything at all can only end gloriously.

“But?”

“But there's semi-responsible, mature stuff to do first,” Grantaire says regretfully. “Where's Ferre?”

Courfeyrac nods to the opposite corner of the room, and Grantaire turns to see Combeferre and Enjolras sitting in the half-light near the entrance, talking in hushed voices and probably the only two people in here who aren't hell-bent on spreading drunk Christmas cheer or die trying. Grantaire sighs. He'd hoped to catch Combeferre without Enjolras, which he realises now was a little too much to ask from the universe.

Courfeyrac looks closely at him, a knowing spark in his eyes. “Go forth and be responsible, son,” he clasps his shoulder and then releases him, joining Marius and Cosette on the floor.

Grantaire reluctantly makes his way over to Combeferre and Enjolras, who only look up once he's stopped to stand awkwardly in front of them.

“R,” Combeferre says with a small smile. “It's good to see you.”

Is it? Grantaire very desperately tries to ignore the way Enjolras' silence weighs on him.

“You too,” he mutters. “Could I, uh, talk to you?” He glances at Enjolras, who stares at him with a cool defiance that sends chills down Grantaire's spine. “Just you, I mean. ...No offence, Enjolras.”

Without another word, Enjolras gets up and walks over to the couch, where Bahorel and Feuilly are playing cards and simultaneously trying to hold a drunk and very sleepy Jehan upright between them.

“So,” Combeferre says once Enjolras is gone, and nudges the now vacant chair in an invitation for him to sit down. “Gotten through the week all right?”

Grantaire has a feeling he isn't really inquiring about finals, which makes him wonder if Jehan has just sent around a group text informing everyone about Grantaire's mental state. He's not sure he's too happy about that, but if it did happen, Jehan probably had all the best intentions.

“Sure, whatever,” Grantaire replies vaguely, a little less friendly than he wishes he had the energy to be. “Have you?”

“Well enough, I suppose,” Combeferre has a sip from a bottle that Grantaire didn't realise he had until now. “Honestly, the higher the semester, the less eventful finals week is. I miss the excitement sometimes.”

Grantaire doesn't know what to say to that. He often thinks that he could have the most interesting discussions in the world with this guy, despite having literally nothing in common with him. Who gets excited about stressful finals?

“What did you want to talk about?” Combeferre says helpfully, and Grantaire bites his lip. He hasn't prepared this part well enough.

“Right, well, listen, this is – ah. Fuck, this is going to make me look like an even worse person than I already am, I didn't really—” He should have thought this through. He should have practised a speech at home. Combeferre, bless his heart, looks at him, calm and patient, as if he isn't being completely incoherent and useless. Grantaire takes a deep breath. “I sort of did the translation? I mean. Not on time, as you know; I didn't like, do it and then say I didn't – I did it yesterday, and today, technically, which I realise probably seems like a massive middle finger to you guys, but that's not how I mean it, I swear.”

Combeferre nods. “I know.”

“Uh. Yeah.” He pulls a stack of paper out of his messenger bag with some effort and hesitantly hands it to Combeferre. “I just figured since you sort of had to improvise the whole thing and that was my fault, I'd at least save you the trouble of having to revise everything, not to say that mine's like, inherently better, but – it's, you know, something? You can just look it over and if it's trash, I'll help you edit yours, or I'll write another version; I just really... you know.” He's really hitting the heights of eloquence here, he thinks, holy shit. Combeferre is still remarkably unmoved by that extraordinary display of social incapacity and is leafing through the pages, stopping to scan a paragraph once in a while. The silence becomes unsettling very quickly. “You don't have to use it,” Grantaire says. “I can't even tell if it's okay or not, I've never done this kind of stuff before, and I probably should have taken more time—” A lot more time, in fact. It was a night's work. Grantaire had started when he came back home from Jehan's yesterday and finished just before noon today. It occurs to him now that even his attempts at fixing stuff are makeshift and messed up.

“This is great,” Combeferre says simply. Grantaire forgets to close his mouth. “Really. The wording, the way you've managed to uphold the mood of the original... It's very authentic, exactly what we need.”

Grantaire clears his throat. “Well.” Saying thank you doesn't feel right; it would mean accepting a compliment he hasn't really earned. “I'm sorry this is, uh. Late.”

Combeferre is still skimming the pages and lightly shakes his head. “Don't be. It would have been amazing to have this in the first place, sure, but there's no point in being upset about that anymore.” He looks at Grantaire, his eyes sincere. “Thank you.”

“Uh.” Grantaire shifts in his seat. “I mean, I realise it's sort of dumb to show up with this now. Like, hey, obviously, I wasn't unable to complete this task, I just didn't do it on time and gave you all a huge amount of work. I know that this is kind of... I don't know. It's not really enough.”

“You shouldn't think that way.” Combeferre frowns. “It was a mistake; you've messed up, so? There isn't a single person in this room who hasn't. And it's in the past – I understand why it's eating at you, but no one's demanding you bend over backwards to make up for this. I'm certainly not.”

Grantaire laughs bitterly, in spite of himself. “Yeah, well, speak for yourself.”

The frown disappears as it dawns on Combeferre. Grantaire isn't sure just how much of it he understands, but it's enough for him to hold out his beer bottle to Grantaire. They're nowhere near the stage in a relationship where bottle-sharing would be appropriate, but the situation bends the usual conventions considerably. Grantaire takes it and drinks. And keeps drinking.

“I might have accidentally chugged this,” he says matter-of-factly when he sets the bottle down. “Sorry.”

“It's fine,” Combeferre says with a smile. “I didn't want to be the guy who refuses to consume anything alcoholic at all, but beer's really gross. I've no idea why people do that to themselves.”

“Personally, I just hate happiness,” Grantaire mutters, barely scraping by in making it come across as a joke.

“I figured. Half that bottle in one go; you must be pretty mad at the world.”

“Man, you have no idea.”

“So,” Combeferre says, leaning forward a little. “Any plans for the holidays? Are you celebrating?”

“Christmas?” Grantaire makes a face. “Nah. I mean, I get people gifts and stuff, but I don't have like, the whole nativity scene with a little crib and everything at home...” It's an understatement. He doesn't even have any plans to acknowledge the thing itself. His mother was catholic, and he used to celebrate with her – after moving in with his father, he just snuck out and spent the holidays here and there, anywhere but at home. Overall, it's just not his favourite time of the year. “Are you?” he adds before his shitty mood seeps into the conversation too much.

“Oh, definitely. There's lots of not-so-great things about everything built around it, but I do enjoy Christmas. The family time's nice.”

Grantaire snorts. “You're literally the first person I have ever heard that say.”

“Yeah, I'm one of those people, I'm afraid,” Combeferre smiles. “It's to do with luck, probably. The sheer amount of people who are forced to spend time with unsupportive and terrible families this time of the year, it hurts to imagine.”

Grantaire doesn't reply. He agrees, but being broody about it won't help anyone.

“So you're not going home?” Combeferre asks. Grantaire silently wonders why he's not offended by that question at all.

“Nope,” he says. “Not much to go home to. I'm best off here.” Then, more than anything because he doesn't want that question to be followed up by anything, he adds, “You're from around here, too, aren't you?”

“Born and raised,” Combeferre says with a nod. “Won't be around for Christmas, though; we're always with my mum's family down south for the holidays.”

“R!”

Jehan is waving at him, still wedged between Bahorel and Feuilly on the couch. Enjolras has moved on, Grantaire notices, and is now sitting with the JBM trio at the table where Musichetta and Joly are trying to decorate the small tree with bottle caps and cocktail umbrellas.

“R, I need you to settle a fight. It's really important,” Jehan insists, slurring the words slightly.

“Well, if it's really important,” Grantaire grins and gets up. Combeferre stops him, holding up the translation.

“Thank you for this. I mean it,” he says.

Grantaire sighs. “Trust me, I'd love to take the credit, but come on. You put me up to this, and it's painstakingly obvious.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” Combeferre says with blatant fake innocence and gets up as well to join Enjolras and the others at the table.

Jehan, drunk and desperately tired, has forgotten what the extremely important fight was about when Grantaire gets to the three of them. Bahorel and Feuilly promise to forgive Grantaire his errancy if he agrees to buy the next round, which is a deal Grantaire is happy to take. On his way downstairs, he spots Éponine who has somehow managed to sneak in and join Courfeyrac, Marius and Cosette on the floor without Grantaire noticing. She doesn't look too pleased, but she isn't crying for help, either, so he decides to leave her to it.

Bahorel leaves to get Jehan home safely soon afterwards (to no one's surprise, he can carry Jehan on his back with little difficulty: “Kid's a lightweight in every fucking sense of the term.”) and Grantaire takes his place in the card game with Feuilly. Joly gets in on it eventually, then Bossuet does the same, then Grantaire wanders over to Éponine, Cosette, Marius and Courfeyrac, who have all gotten spectacularly drunk within a rather short amount of time and are much more just daring each other to do terrible things than playing the actual game. Marius is dared to lick the underside of the table and consequently tackled to the ground by Musichetta before he can fulfil the dare – “With kind regards from Joly, who would have done this himself but wouldn't have been quick enough for leg reasons; apparently you'll thank him later when you're not dying of cholera”. Grantaire decides it's a worthwhile evening, which is why he decides to leave around midnight, before he somehow manages to turn everything around and to shit again. It's just his luck that Enjolras catches him on his way out.

“You're leaving?” he asks, probably not consciously cornering Grantaire, but still very much cornering him by standing in the middle of the stairs and blocking any way to get past him. Grantaire is frozen in place anyway, staring at Enjolras in utter terror.

“...Yes?”

“So soon?”

Grantaire swallows hard. He's not sure if Enjolras knows, but everything he says right now is making him sound like a serial killer. “Listen, if you want to murder me, I get it, okay, but just out of respect for the café owners, let's at least go outside.”

Enjolras shrugs. “Fine.” He turns and descends the stairs; Grantaire, still frozen, looks on. At the foot of the stairs, Enjolras looks back at him. “Coming?”

Grantaire keeps staring. Then, because apparently he's an even bigger idiot than anticipated, he follows Enjolras down the stairs and outside.

They stand in the cold outside the Musain in complete silence for about a minute or so. The alley in which the café hides away is completely empty and out of the range of any street lamp – it really would be a pretty good spot for a murder, Grantaire thinks as he burrows his hands into the pockets of his coat.

“Enjolras?” he softly says after a while. Enjolras just glances at him, and Grantaire can't read anything in his expression. It's deeply unsettling. “What... are we doing out here?”

“I wanted to talk to you,” Enjolras replies, and has the nerve to look composed. “I mean, wanted, past tense. Now I don't really know what to say.”

Grantaire frowns. “Fine,” he says slowly, “so can I go home, or...?”

“Are you scared of me?” Enjolras asks bluntly. Grantaire, dumbfounded, has to collect himself for a few seconds.

“Right now, yeah, you're giving off a pretty vampire vibe,” he says then. “Is something wrong, man? Do you wake up at night craving blood and it's unsettling you, because I'm seriously the wrong address for any problems concerning the supernatural—”

“Combeferre showed me the translation,” Enjolras says and turns so that they're facing each other. It's dark, but Grantaire can see his eyes, clear and stern and beautiful as they stare him down. Grantaire, still not sure if he's about to be stabbed in the gut, decides that if this is how he goes, there could be worse ways. “Why did you go to him? You could have just given it to me.”

“You – what?” Grantaire is too dumbfounded to come up with anything better. “What?”

“I gave you the task of the translation in the first place. You didn't finish it on time. When you did finish it, you could have given it to me, but you didn't. You asked me to leave before you even admitted to having done it; so, do I really seem like that much of a dick to you that I'd – I don't know, what did you think I was going to do?”

“Okay, I'm trying to understand what your problem is right now, I swear I am,” Grantaire says helplessly. “Did I insult you by giving Combeferre my version of the translation?”

“No,” Enjolras says quickly, and his composed exterior falters for a second. “Yes? I don't know. I guess I've just – I've been told that I can be intimidating sometimes and if that's why you didn't think you could talk to me about writing another version or maybe editing ours, if I, God, if I scared you off because I got upset last Saturday—”

“Woah,” Grantaire interrupts. “Enjolras, slow down. Believe me, that wasn't it. I promise. You were angry, you had a right to be, I get it. Hell, I get it if you still are. I mean, yeah, I sort of didn't want you there today because I thought you were still pissed at me, but that's not the whole reason.”

“I was still angry at you,” Enjolras says frankly. Grantaire sighs. “Earlier, I mean,” he adds. “I didn't know you were trying to fix anything. I know you apologised, I'd have come around eventually, but I wasn't... over it. Then.”

“But you are now?” This entire conversation is absurd enough for Grantaire to wonder if he might be imagining it.

“Well.” Enjolras has his hands in his pockets too, his shoulders pulled up as he tries to protect himself against the cold. He looks smaller this way. “Probably.”

“Probably.”

Enjolras sighs. “Listen, I looked at what you did, and what I don't get is how you couldn't just have produced that on time. You're obviously good with words, Spanish is a native language to you, and from what I've heard, it didn't even take you a lot of time, so why not deliver that in the first place? See, that's what's eating at me. If you could just explain...”

Grantaire had really, really hoped that no one would ever care to ask. “I can't explain that,” he says simply.

“Why not?”

“Oh my God, please believe me that I'm not doing this to piss you off, okay?” Grantaire's cheeks have grown warm with agitation. “I just genuinely can't explain. I can't. I fuck up constantly, and half the time, I swear to God, I have no idea why. Because I'm me, probably? Or because I'm just sort of used to it by now so it keeps happening, or, fuck, I don't know.” He takes a deep breath. “Just let it go. Seriously, I'll do anything if it means you're going to let this be.”

Enjolras frowns at him, but says nothing. Grantaire, embarrassed by his own melodrama, closes his eyes and breathes. Enjolras is still looking at him when he opens his eyes again.

“What was the other reason?” he asks then.

“What?”

“You said you were worried I was still angry, but that wasn't the entire reason you went to Combeferre. What was the rest of it, then? Why didn't you come to me?”

Grantaire knows the answer to that. Because I didn't do this for you, he thinks. It's the only objective he had when he started the translation the night before, to make up for the time and effort the others had put into this, not to backhandedly win Enjolras' forgiveness. He owed that much to the group, he owed it to himself – hell, he even owed it to Enjolras, who still has no idea that Grantaire accepted the task for all the wrong reasons to begin with. And while Enjolras deserves honesty, he really, really doesn't deserve disturbing, half-drunk confessions in a dark alley.

“He was the one who encouraged me to do it,” Grantaire says in lieu of a better explanation. He's grinding a pebble between the cobblestones with the tip of his shoe. “And he was cryptic as fuck; I wanted to make sure I hadn't misread his weird hint.”

Enjolras narrows his eyes, scrutinizing. Grantaire thinks that he was probably expecting a better answer. Trust me, Grantaire thinks, I'm sparing you here.

“Okay,” Enjolras says eventually, even though it's clear from his tone that nothing is resolved. “Sorry for ambushing you like this. In retrospect, that probably didn't really succeed in making me seem any more approachable.”

“Oh, will you get over that,” Grantaire groans.

“I will when I find a good reason to,” Enjolras says, indignant.

“Come on, you're making it sound as if you're like, some sort of overbearing presence with an evil aura that kids run from when they spot it in the streets, that's bullshit,” Grantaire says. “I didn't take this to Ferre because I thought you'd eat me alive, and even if that were the case, I'd know that you had every right to be angry. Stop fussing about it.”

Enjolras looks at the ground. “You're not going home over the holidays, right?” he asks after a short silence. Grantaire makes a mental note not to tell any of the ABC people anything ever again unless he wants all of them to know.

“Yeah,” he says. “Although, I mean, I have something slightly resembling an apartment that I can actually pay for, so this is sort of as... home as it gets. You know. I'll be home. Technically.”

Another note not to say anything at all ever again, period, because apparently, he can't be trusted not to get far too personal in what probably qualifies as small talk.

“The rest of the January articles still have to be edited,” Enjolras says, looking at him again. “Everyone's going to be away or busy with holiday things, so Cosette and I were going to do it on Christmas Day. My family's sort of a celebrate on the 24^th type, we thought we'd just get the rest of the editing stuff done right afterwards.”

Grantaire squints, unsure of what to do with that information. “Okay?”

“Would you like to help?”

“...Seriously?” Grantaire doesn't even attempt to hide his disbelief.

“You don't have to,” Enjolras says. “It's just a lot to do, so I thought I'd ask, just in case you weren't busy...”

In case I wasn't busy, you thought you'd ask the guy who jeopardised an entire cover story just by being lazy and useless? Sure, how could that possibly go wrong? Grantaire has to bite back the remark. Combeferre's nudge had already been almost too much for him to handle; this is a whole new level of blind trust that he can't cope with right now. “Listen, I appreciate the whole second chances-thing, but I'd rather not give myself the opportunity to screw up that bad again any time soon,” he says.

“Well, it's not really an opportunity. There's not much to do wrong; you just sit in a room with us and correct spelling mistakes for an afternoon or so.”

“I'd find a way,” Grantaire says, unable to put any humour whatsoever in his voice. “Listen, I don't know where this is coming from, but it's a dumb idea. A week ago, I was asking you to trust me with this kind of shit, and look where it's left us.”

“We can leave that in the past,” Enjolras offers. “Get over it, try again.”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says pleadingly. “Please don't be all, I don't know, messianic here, okay? Not that I'm not amazed and all that your saviour complex is actually big enough to make you think I should have another shot at helping out, but trust me, you're best off not wasting your time on this. Let's just – let's say it's in the past and go back to me doing the layout and being a massive distraction at the meetings. Please?”

Enjolras shivers slightly, hands still in his pockets. “If that's what you want,” he says. Grantaire isn't sure if the indifference in his voice should irk him, but it does.

They're quiet for a while. “Well,” Grantaire murmurs finally. “Enjoy the holidays, I guess?”

Enjolras nods slowly, his eyes still on Grantaire, giving nothing away. “You too. ...The offer stands, you know.”

Grantaire has to try very hard to keep in the stream of curses that's on the tip of his tongue as he turns and walks away, leaving Enjolras in the dark of the alley.  

Chapter Text

“Holy shit.” Grantaire recalls the presence of the ten-year-old in the room a beat too late. “Fuck, I'm sorry.” He's not very good at this. “Ah. That didn't make it better. Uh... Swearing is bad, kid.”

Gavroche, perched on the couch with a graphic novel that he picked from Grantaire's bookshelf and that probably isn't exactly age appropriate either, doesn't even look up. “What're you swearing about?”

He's swearing about Jehan's terrifying gift of manipulation, actually, because he'll likely never find out how, but a certain space-cookie-and-sympathy-induced e-mail has managed to persuade Professor Magloire to give him a chance of retaking the exam after the holidays. He's not really excited about that as much as he's in awe of his friend's (slightly worrying) abilities, but after all the shit that went down, maybe it'd be nice not to have thrown away an entire semester.

“Word to the wise, always make friends with the kids that seem like they could be evil masterminds if they chose to,” Grantaire mutters in response. Gavroche snorts.

“Like I'm going to listen to advice that comes from you.”

“Woah there, I happen to be great at advice. In fact, here's another piece of wisdom; no matter how much your cat loves you, she'll always love the hot chocolate you're holding more.”

“You're still a sad guy who's spending Christmas Eve with his landlady's kid,” Gavroche shrugs. “Why take advice from a friendless loser?”

“Low blow, kid.”

“Seriously. Don't you have a family or something? Everyone else has gone home. Even 'Ponine.”

Gavroche generally doesn't include Éponine when he talks about everyone. Grantaire isn't really sure where that comes from, just as he doesn't know how Éponine, who has a tendency to yell at strangers for looking at her wrong, came to treat Gavroche with a warmth and protectiveness you'd never expect from her. It's hard not to be fond of the kid, obviously, but with Éponine, there's a genuine concern Grantaire can't quite explain. Before leaving, she'd made him promise to check in with Gavroche regularly, and while Grantaire wasn't really sure what to look for while checking in, he didn't mind doing it. Today, though, Gavroche had wandered upstairs on his own, offering no explanation as to why before picking out a bunch of books and settling on Grantaire's couch.

“Yeah, well, 'Ponine has a good reason to go home, and I don't,” Grantaire shrugs. Honesty has proven to be the best way of dealing with Gavroche's questions, even though the truth has to be watered down a little sometimes.

“What's her good reason?”

“She has a sister back there,” Grantaire says, finding it needless to mention Éponine's disdain for her parents and concern for her sister. Come to think of it, maybe that's why she's taken to Gavroche the way she has, because she's seen messed up family situations up close. “I don't really have that kind of motivation, so...”

“Huh,” Gavroche says, nudging the abandoned comic book with his foot. “Sad.”

“What about you, anyway? Shouldn't kids your age be trying to catch Père Noël red-handed right now?”

Gavroche pulls a face. “Everyone knows he isn't real.”

“Don't be such a non-believer. You think it's cool now, so you go on like that, and before you know it,” he darkens his tone and gives Gavroche a glum look, “you end up like me.”

Gavroche gasps and theatrically clutches his heart, falling on his back on the couch as if shot dead.

Grantaire laughs. “See? You don't wanna be heading down the wrong path there.”

“Ts,” Gavroche sits back up and reaches over to pick more gingerbread from the bowl on the table next to the couch. “Still not taking advice from you.”

Grantaire is just glad that Gavroche is strategically destroying the gingerbread. It had arrived in the mail two days ago, a far too thoughtful gesture from his grandmother.

Sometimes, and that's just proof of what a colossal asshole Grantaire can be, he forgets that he has one. He never used to have a grandmother, when his mum was still around, and his father completely out of the picture. In the whole mess of questionable custody and possible emancipation that ensued after his mother died, his grandmother ended up being the only real winner. Apparently, she had always wanted a grandchild and just assumed she didn't have one, thanks to the dedication his father put into pretending that he didn't have a son. And despite his father's hostility and Grantaire's aloofness, she was kind and sweet and would probably have made an amazing addition to their family if she had been in Grantaire's life when he was a kid, but for a depressed sixteen year old, the thought of what could have been didn't count for much. Now, he regularly feels shitty about having pushed her away in the past, but he does make sure to call or send her a landscape watercolour now and then. In return, there's gingerbread, and an eternal guilty conscience on Grantaire's side.

“Seriously, though,” Grantaire says, “where's your mum?” He only half-manages to make the question sound casual. Magnon is away a lot for someone with a ten year old kid, and the only reason this doesn't concern Grantaire more is that Gavroche always seems healthy, goes to school, and just overall gives the impression of a pretty happy kid. The sheer absence does get disconcerting though, especially since Grantaire never found out what Magnon does for a living or how she's come to own the house – she doesn't seem like the kind of person who has ever been in the financial situation to actually buy one.

“Who knows,” Gavroche shrugs. “Belgium? New Zealand? Anatolia?” He grins. “Did you know that's just a different word for Asia Minor?”

“You honestly have no idea where Magnon is?” Grantaire asks, his voice softer.

“Don't be dumb, sure I do, she's working,” Gavroche says with a wave of his hand. “We don't do Christmas Eve. I'm getting my presents tomorrow.”

Grantaire decides not to press the issue further. If he needs to investigate, Gavroche is probably the wrong address anyway – after all, he'd be the one affected if anything was wrong, and much as he loves to talk, he'll snap shut at anything too inquisitive. “Ts. I'm asking about your mother and you tell me about presents.”

“It's Christmas, dumbo,” Gavroche sighs, as if Grantaire is being very unreasonable. “What else would I be talking about?”

“Any wishes this year?” He's got something for Gavroche, and was considering just giving it to him now, but if his Christmas is tomorrow, he'll get it then.

“I want a skateboard.”

“God forbid.” Grantaire makes a face. “You'd be an absolute menace on a skateboard, the streets wouldn't be safe anymore.”

Gavroche grins happily at that. “They aren't safe now. I have roller skates, you know.”

“Heaven help us once you have both, then.”

“I'm gonna roller-skate on the skateboard.”

“I'm sure you will.”

“I mean it.”

“Your funeral.”

“What did you want for Christmas?”

Grantaire replies too fast to keep the sarcasm in. “Not much. Socks. A sense of purpose.”

“You're a sad bastard, you know that?”

“How do you know that word?” Grantaire frowns. “Did I teach you that? It's a bad word. Don't use it.”

Gavroche scoffs.

“I'm dead serious,” Grantaire says. “You're a ten year old boy, that makes you sound like a fifty year old man.”

“I'm almost eleven, sad bastard,” Gavroche retorts. Right, that's what kids do, Grantaire remembers. Telling them not to do something is no good.

“You know what, you're probably right.” Grantaire sighs dramatically. “I'm so sad, I'm going to spend all of Christmas in here. No point in going outside. It's just sad out there. Hell, it's sad in here too, but at least I don't have to look at happy people.”

Gavroche frowns, vaguely recognizing the sarcasm, but unable to make sense of it. “Are you really going to spend the next two weeks locked up in an attic?”

“Isn't that kind of my thing as a friendless loser?” Grantaire says. He remembers having that same conversation with Éponine all those months ago, but this time, it's different. It's not like he just doesn't want to leave the house. He went out a couple times before Christmas Eve, but over the actual holidays, none of the people you meet in bars make for very good company. He's in his room because there's literally no better place for him to be.

That is... there might be. After all, there's an offer still standing, as he recalls.

“I guess,” Gavroche says and shakes his head. “Sad.”

“Don't sass me, kid, you're eating my gingerbread,” Grantaire mutters and Gavroche falls back onto the sofa.

“You'll regret saying that tomorrow when I'm not here to keep you company,” Gavroche says, and Grantaire knows that he's right.

In retrospect, Grantaire's reaction to Gavroche's reminder that he was going to have to spend Christmas Eve alone in an attic might have been a little extreme. Grantaire is well-aware of that when he finds himself at Enjolras' front door the next day, feeling horribly out of place and holding a bag of chocolate toffees.

He could alternatively blame Cosette, if he wanted to. After Gavroche left, Grantaire texted her to very casually check if they were still looking for help, and she didn't have to be so welcoming and sweet that he forgot how terrible this idea was for a long enough while to actually agree to come over. It took him ten more seconds to regret that decision once he'd sent the text, but there really was no taking it back, even though on his way to Enjolras' house (which took two different buses and a kilometre of walking because the guy lives in the middle of nowhere), there were four instances so far where he nearly turned back around and blew the whole thing off anyway.

It doesn't help that the house he's currently standing in front of is painfully Upper Middle Class^TM, which Grantaire should probably have expected. It still serves to make him feel very misplaced – after ringing the doorbell and praying that he's not actually going to be greeted by one of the older Enjolrases – oh God – he considers jumping ship at the last minute. Maybe he could just make for the neatly trimmed boxes (because apparently, people actually have those) to his left and wait it out there until whoever is about to answer the door is gone and he can slink back home in peace —

The door opens and Cosette, looking more beautiful and glowing than anyone should be allowed to in a lumpy sweater and leggins, is smiling brightly at him.

“Welcome! Oh, I am glad to see you.”

“Hi,” he says, awkwardly waving his hand, and she pulls him into a hug in reply, ushering him inside with the same motion.

The inside isn't as intimidating as the outside, he notices when he takes a second to look around. They're standing in a small foyer, with a coat rack to their left and a narrow spiral staircase to their right. The walls are white, but not empty: there's a pinboard with post cards by the key holder, and a few paintings and framed pictures scattered around. It looks less like a representative estate and more like a family home in here, which should put Grantaire at ease, but instead he's reminded of how much of a stranger he really is. He likes Cosette and they get along, but they haven't had time to grow particularly close, and Enjolras – well.

Being near Enjolras in any place at all comes with problems not only because of Grantaire's massive crush, but also because things seem bound to get difficult between them whenever they have a slightly longer conversation. The fact that they're not even friends and Grantaire is still in his home on Christmas isn't going to make that much easier.

“I brought – stuff,” Grantaire says and hands Cosette the chocolate, helplessly wriggling out of his jacket at the same time. He figured it was probably part of the etiquette to bring something, but shops were closed and the only bottles of wine Grantaire still had in his flat were already open, so he grabbed something from the pile of chocolate Éponine had bought him that he hadn't touched ever since, and figured it was as good as anything. Enjolras definitely has a sweet tooth, and as far as Grantaire knows, Cosette is fond of chocolate, so he could have done worse.

“Thank you!” Cosette says, looking at the toffees as if she's found the holy grail. “R, you are a saint, this is exactly what we need right now. Enj!” It's directed at the door nearest them, which opens at Cosette's call. “Look, you'll get your sugar fix,” Cosette smiles and holds the toffees up.

The ominous door, in opening, has revealed Enjolras, and Grantaire takes one look at him and all of a sudden, he is sure he can feel the earth spinning. 750 miles per hour, Combeferre said once at a meeting, that's how fast they're rotating in their latitude, and Grantaire swears he can feel it, because oh God, Enjolras is wearing an oversized burgundy sweater and his hair is just long enough to be put up in a badly-done top knot, golden curls falling out everywhere and tickling the sides of his face and lightly touching his neck, and he looks so adorable it's painful. Enjolras. Adorable.

Grantaire is suddenly very dizzy. It's like looking at an entirely different person, as if aliens plucked up the put-together and righteous Enjolras while he was sleeping and replaced him with a grumpy and dishevelled model. Grantaire can't say that he has never wondered about this version of Enjolras, the one that's probably disgruntled in the mornings and that stays up too late studying and uses tiny clippers to keep annoying strands of hair in check, but he had thought about it the way people would think about a unicorn: as something that's beautiful, but sadly doomed to forever remain a figment of the imagination.

He really, really didn't think this whole editing-event thing through well enough.

Enjolras vaguely waves. “Hey,” he says and stands next to Cosette. “I was glad to hear you changed your mind.”

Grantaire is pretty sure he wants to say something substantial, but his brain is working against him. “Yeah,” he says, nothing more. This is bound to crash and burn.

“Do you want anything? I was making coffee just now, but there's tea too, and – water, I guess?”

“Coffee's fine,” Grantaire says, desperately hoping that he's able to keep the wonderstruck expression off his face. This is an otherworldly experience, and he's not handling it well. Aside from the outfit and just overall appearance, Enjolras is the same as always, and the fact that he's acting just as composed and slightly aloof as ever is such a stark contrast to everything else that Grantaire has no idea how to behave in return.

“All right,” Enjolras says, faltering for a moment, as if he has no idea how this situation is supposed to continue. Cosette, heroically, steps in.

“How about R and I go upstairs? You can get the drinks and join us after.” She pats Enjolras' shoulder. “I'll have chai, by the way; thank you so much.” With that, she grabs Grantaire's arm and gently pulls him along the hallway and up the winding stairs.

“Enj isn't really the best company today, sorry about that,” she sighs as they walk upstairs. “He's been grumpy all day. Maybe because his parents aren't here the next couple days, out visiting family, but I don't think that's it, because, you know, he didn't have to stay here with me, he just asked to. So it's just bound to be a mystery, although really, I think it's the weather.”

Well, it just might be the weather. It's been grey and sloppy over Christmas, with no proper snow or sun in sight, and Enjolras, famously, has a personal vendetta against every single hailstorm that happens to pass. So it might be the weather, or he's been grumpy about the prospect of Grantaire crashing their editing session, never mind that he was the one to invite him in the first place.

Cosette leads them all through the second storey and up another set of stairs which ends in a short corridor with few doors. She opens the the middle one and holds it for Grantaire, and Grantaire wants to groan out loud when he steps inside.

“Come on. They have a library?”

The tall bookshelves against the three windowless walls and the large desk by the window certainly suggest it. There's a couch, or more of a daybed, embedded into the shelf construction on the right, and, of fucking course, there's an armchair as well, completely with a foot stool and all. Grantaire can think of some remarks about how utterly bourgeois the room looks, but there's not really a point to them when Enjolras isn't around.

“Yes, well,” Cosette says, looking almost regretful. “It was more intended as a home office, I think, but Enj claimed it for himself pretty quickly. Which ended up lucky for me; it's my room for the time being.”

“...Wow. Are you a ghost?” The room doesn't look very lived-in, certainly not like it holds Cosette and all her belongings, but then, he's not sure what he would expect from her bedroom. Considerably more flowers, probably. Frill, for some reason. A nice ornate dressing table, at least. Anything but a neat, tidy study that looks like it holds approximately ten thousand books on political theory.

“To be honest, I cleaned up a little before you came,” she says with an easy smile. “And I am a guest after all, so I try not to, you know, spread out too much.”

That thought stings Grantaire somehow, that she's been here for months and is still trying not to impose. He doesn't have any details about her past, but her being here obviously means that a mother isn't in the picture, and a father in jail doesn't exactly scream healthy family history either. Bubbly and sweet as she is, there's something of a burnt child about her, and Grantaire finds that frustrating. The world can't even leave the best people alone with its shit.

“So,” Grantaire nods towards the desk, where papers and books are piled up next to a laptop that's still running. “You've already started?”

“This morning, actually,” she says. “You'd think it's not too much to read through, especially if you can compartmentalise, and after all, our readers do it in a wink – it's easy to underestimate. If you really have to pay attention, possibly scrap entire paragraphs, keep the overall structure and coherence in mind all the time...” She sighs. “Let's just say we're grateful for your help.”

Grantaire has to bite back a comment about them probably having come to the wrong person if they're looking for an actual relief as far as the workload is concerned. Cosette doesn't deserve to be exposed to sarcasm and self-deprecation.

“Sit down”, she says, smiling again and gesturing at the couch – her bed? – and the armchair. “I had the armchair earlier, so you can have the couch, or we could swap. If you'd rather be at the desk, I'm sure Enjolras can be persuaded to strike a deal.”

Grantaire can't begin to wonder what he'd probably have to offer to persuade Enjolras to do anything, and he'd rather not think about it. “The couch is good,” he says.

“All right!” She picks a flipped-shut laptop from the armchair before letting herself fall into it. “Did you bring a laptop? You can have mine if you haven't, or we'll print some of the articles out.”

“No, I've got that fancy one you guys gave me,” he grins, holding up his bag. “All set.”

“Great,” she says, and then her expression grows more focused as her eyes wander over the screen in front of her. “Okay, so... Enjolras has been reading through the current events section, that covers Feuilly's and Combeferre's articles, also my own. I've been going over the cover story – that's Courfeyrac's, and oh, don't envy me for this, he's so great with words, but boy, does he have a tendency to ramble...” She tilts her head. “Would you like to do the Portrait, for starters?”

“Oh, the Employee of the Month? I can do that. Probably.”

There's a part of the ABC newspaper that presents a different under-appreciated historical figure in every issue. Traditionally (and pretentiously) called the Portrait, Grantaire has taken to referring to it as the Employee of the Month section, simply because he can, and it sounds a hundred per cent less pompous.

“Yes, exactly,” says Cosette, who has, contrary to Enjolras, never taken offence at the new terminology. “Chetta did it this time, so that'll give you an easy start. She writes like an angel.”

“Sure, I'll take it,” Grantaire says, indifferent. He's heard Marius and Musichetta in particular referred to as the grammar heroes of the group, so any article of theirs will probably give him fewer chances to fuck up than the rest.

“Great,” Cosette says with a wide smile. “Once you're done with that, you could do the student pages, or there's this longer thing Joly's working on...”

At that moment, the door opens and Enjolras, carrying a tray – an actual tray, oh God, Grantaire wants to preserve that image forever – with three cups on it, struggles to come inside. He must have opened the door with his elbow, poor guy. Cosette starts to stand up, but Grantaire is on his feet first, if only because Cosette has the strange quality of mysteriously making every single person around her want to be at their best behaviour. He awkwardly takes the tray from Enjolras, who grants him a short, grateful nod as he closes the door.

“Sorry this took a while,” he says. “Someone's box of chai was empty and I had to find an unopened one.”

“Love you too, Enji,” Cosette smiles sweetly and accepts the cup of tea that Grantaire hands her. “We took the liberty of dividing the rest of the work. Grantaire's starting with Chetta's article.”

“Oh, that won't take you long,” Enjolras prophecies. He sits at the desk, taking up the coffee cup Grantaire deposited there, and checks something on his laptop. “Bahorel just sent his story in, you could continue with that once you're done?”

Grantaire shrugs. It doesn't really matter; it's not like he's picking out the tasks by interest.

“It'll be on the cloud storage in a few minutes,” Enjolras informs him, and then, when Grantaire has already settled back on the couch with his laptop, turns back around. “Did you bring these?”

He's holding up the bag of toffees. It's sort of comical, Enjolras with his hair pulled back holding a massive bag of chocolate and with that sceptical look on his face.

“Yeah,” Grantaire says. Cosette is smiling widely, and he'd rather not ask why. He knows he's not blending in particularly well in these surroundings, what with his 1€-toffee and tattered jeans. “Thought it was probably appropriate, you know, gift for the hosts and all?”

Enjolras examines the chocolate. “That wasn't necessary.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “God. You know, I'm happy eating all of that myself if you guys don't want it, so...” It's a blatant lie, but he has to somehow uphold a scrap of pride.

“No,” Enjolras says. “I mean, thanks. These are... good.”

“Oh, please,” Cosette pipes up. “R, he's been crying about needing chocolate all day. Which is ridiculous, because the house is full of chocolate because it's Christmas, but he kept claiming it wasn't the right one.”

Enjolras gives her a sharp look – et tu, Cosette? – before turning back to his desk and his work without another word. Cosette winks at Grantaire, who is just deeply grateful for her general existence, and slightly heartbroken for Éponine, because fuck, he gets it.

“They're not poisoned, you know,” he says to the back of Enjolras' head. “Go ahead, man. It's like, half a kilo, knock yourself out.”

Enjolras opens the bag, still not speaking, and, after unwrapping one, resumes typing.

Remembering that he's here to work, Grantaire downloads the document titled “portrait jan.” from the cloud and opens it up.

“Charlotte Corday?” he says before he can think better of it. “Really? Did that go under your radar, Enjolras?”

Enjolras is glaring when he looks at him. “Why? She was a political assassin whose biography is only overlooked because she's female; I voted to have her on that page.”

“She's not even underappreciated, everyone knows about her. Hell, I know about her.”

“As a horror story, maybe,” Enjolras says. “Her treatment in today's literature and academia is ridiculous – she's more depicted as a hysterical murderer than a woman with a political agenda.”

“She was a murderer, though,” Grantaire argues. “Doesn't that, like, offend your sensibilities? That she killed a revolutionary?”

“She killed a killer. There's nothing revolutionary about mass executions.”

“Hear, hear,” Grantaire says with a grin he can't help. This is familiar ground; it feels much more natural than awkwardly offering chocolate. “And here I always thought you were a fan of the Jacobins.”

“I'm not a fan of dogmatism, however admirable their objectives might have been,” Enjolras says, and his frown would look a lot sharper if he wasn't still holding a toffee wrapper in his hand. “That aside, having someone in the Portrait and acknowledging their life doesn't mean supporting their actions or political ideas, it just means drawing attention to someone the history books ignore, with no judgement passed.”

“Ah, sure. Because everything about a paper named after a revolutionary group from the 1700s screams no judgement.”

“We can't express opinion in a biography. It's a political journal, but historical truths require objectivity; you can't see them through a lens.”

“Wow, Enjolras. How very centrist of you.”

“Excuse me?”

“Boys?” Cosette clears her throat. “I'm all for friendly exchanges of opinion, but if we want to get this done before tomorrow morning...”

Enjolras takes a deep breath, and Grantaire, still smiling, knows he should be looking away from him, but can't bring himself to. If picking a fight with him is what it's going to take to minimise the absurdity of this situation, Grantaire won't say no.

He takes another look at the article. The text isn't even a page long, but he can already tell he's going to have trouble fitting it on the layout later, because usually, the Portrait page includes an actual picture of the person in question, and he has to manage to squeeze that in somehow. “Do you guys think I could shorten this?” he asks the room at large. “For, y'know, aesthetic reasons, not because I'm looking for some journalistic freedom to butcher.”

“Sure, go ahead,” Cosette says, waving a hand. Enjolras, naturally, looks less convinced.

“Give a heads up before you cut anything”, he says. “Just so we can look over it first.”

He's only using the plural for the politeness of it, Grantaire realises. Cosette, as she's made clear, doesn't really care. “If Monsieur Senior Editor so wishes,” Grantaire mutters and ignores Enjolras' gaze as he goes back to the article.

They continue to work in silence until Cosette gets up, walks to the stereo that's nestled between books in one of the shelves, and turns on the radio. Ten minutes later, she gets up again and switches to a CD after noticing that the news report was distracting all of them. The music is calm and subtle, so subtle that Grantaire becomes hyper aware of the other sounds in the room – Cosette typing, Enjolras chewing toffee, the laptop on his own knees humming. It's nice, even though the domesticity feels strange; just coexisting in peace is sort of the most positive experience he's ever really made with Enjolras. Maybe coming over wasn't the worst idea in the world – it's certainly preferable to sitting alone in his flat or getting drunk with strangers who may just be sadder and lonelier than him.

Once Grantaire is pretty sure he's been over the article enough times, it feels strange being the first one to say anything in a while, as if their symphony of background noise has somehow turned sacred. “I think I'm done?” he says, sitting up. “If you want to go over it or whatever.”

Enjolras has turned in his chair and nods, leaning over to take the laptop from Grantaire.

“The stuff that I'd cut is in red,” Grantaire says. “Not sure what your priorities are when being, uh, objective about history, so just shift this however, but for the sake of the layout, it'd be best to take a chunk of text out.”

Enjolras scans the article with the laptop on his knees, not bothering to turn back to the desk. “This works,” he says with a small nod. “We'll take all of it out. Except – I'm not sure we should leave in the bit about the autopsy, it seems...” He makes a face. “Cosette?”

She gets up and walks over to Enjolras, peering over his shoulder. “No, take that out,” she says. “Doesn't add anything to her biography, and including it just for the sake of context would be demeaning. It's not like the word 'virginity' would ever appear in a man's biography.”

“All right,” Enjolras says with a nod. “Cut the autopsy part, and leave in the last paragraph on representation in the media instead. People tend to be more interested in historical figures if they can watch a movie on them for some reason, so...”

“Right,” Grantaire says, taking his laptop back from Enjolras. “God forbid someone who can't afford a personal library on historical figures turn to less worthy media. Do I go on with Bahorel's thing next, or...?”

“If you like,” Enjolras says, ignoring the comment. “It's online under... something with student politics, you'll find it.”

Bahorel has written about students' lack of participation in university politics and ways to fix that, to cut it short. It's a pretty dry topic that Grantaire knows not even this paper's readers will care about – university politics are hardly more than a means for ambitious students to make themselves look more committed on résumés, and everyone's very aware of that – but Bahorel manages to make it entertaining enough for Grantaire to actually want to read the whole thing. He writes with conviction, wit and creativity, even though there's considerable work to be done on sentence structure and vocabulary. It's also quite a long article, and before Grantaire is through, it's grown dark outside, and the clock is striking six.

“Break?” Cosette asks, stretching in her chair, and Grantaire sighs with relief.

“Please,” he says. “The letters on this screen are like, dancing cancan. Why do you guys choose this life?”

He's been wondering this for a while. The ABC editors meet twice a week in the back room of a café, they have no real base, hardly any supervision, and somehow manage to put together an actual paper that sells every month. From what Grantaire has gathered, about eighty per cent of the work gets done by everyone independently – the writing, the editing; it's mostly a process of sitting down at home and dedicating time to this, and they're not even paid. Grantaire can't imagine being this passionate about anything. Even his art assignments are annoying and frustrating most of the time.

“Oh, this life chose us,” Cosette smiles. “We never stood a chance. If you feel like you're making a difference, screen-induced vertigo is a sacrifice you're willing to make.”

“Hey, when were you going to leave?” Enjolras says suddenly, turning to Cosette. “Don't you have to be there by seven?”

“Yup,” Cosette hops off the chair and walks over to the couch, plopping down next to Grantaire. “Which leaves a window of about ten minutes, so I can still enjoy both of your company.” She cocks her head. “With more coffee, maybe?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes, but leaves to get new drinks without protest. Meanwhile, Grantaire is trying very hard not to show the tiny spiral of panic Enjolras' question has sent him into.

“You've got plans for tonight?” he asks, because she can't have, she mustn't. Her being here was the reason he'd even been able to agree to come.

“Yes,” she says, and then, in a deliberately dramatic tone, “I'm going to jail.”

Grantaire stares. “Sorry?”

She gives a smile that barely misses looking happy. “I'm going to see my Dad; they've got special visiting hours on Christmas Day.”

“That late in the evening?” Grantaire says, because he's not sure what else to say, and Cosette is probably tired of people asking the same ordeal of how did he get there and oh no, I'm so sorry over and over.

“Strange, hm?” She looks down at her hands, picking at the layer of peach-coloured nail polish on her thumbnail. “It's not particularly festive at the facility, but there's a meal and a service and everything, and I figured that'd be the closest to Christmas dinner we'd get, so...”

Grantaire makes a face. “Man. I'd say better than nothing, but...”

“Yeah.” Cosette pulls her legs close to her chest and wraps her arms around them. “I don't want to be ungrateful. I'm glad I get to see him.”

“I think it's all sorts of appropriate not to be grateful for that kind of stuff,” Grantaire says with a huff. “Once you're in a situation where you have to be grateful for things that actually sort of suck, I mean, it's fucked up that you're expected to be thankful for whatever you get when you actually deserve a lot better. And I don't even know anything about, uh, the exact situation, but I'm pretty sure you both do.” He pauses. “Deserve better, I mean.”

She glances at him, the hint of a smile on her lips. “We do,” she says. “I know we do. Which is why I'm quite confident it's going to turn out okay, and I'm not an impatient person, it's just... The time until it does turn out all right, it's not easy and sometimes...” She rests her chin on her knee and sighs. “I don't know. Some people, you know, especially everyone at the ABC, they're all able to go through bad stuff or witness bad things, all kinds of injustice, and it makes them want to go against that, it makes them stronger. Sometimes I feel like all it does to me is make me sad.”

That, for once, is something Grantaire can relate to. He used to get angry at the same things that the ABC is criticising, but in time, it got too exhausting, and thinking about it was depressing more than motivating in any way. In Cosette's case, the fact that it's such a personal injustice is just an extra kick to the face.

He hesitates. He's great at empathising with shitty feelings – less great at making them go away. All he can think to do is to get up and grab the bag of toffees from the table. She laughs softly when he offers it to her.

“Thanks.” She nudges him with her elbow as she unwraps the chocolate. “I'm glad you decided to come over. It's nice to have you here.”

“Sure. I'm a fucking delight to be around,” he says with a weak smile, and then mentally chastises himself for not sticking to the no-sarcasm-around-Cosette-rule. “I mean. It's good to be here. Seriously, our landlady's kid called me a sad fuck with no friends yesterday, it's... pretty cool of you to help me prove him wrong.”

Cosette's eyes have grown wide. “Tough kid,” she says once the toffee isn't sticky between her teeth anymore.

“Oh, you have no idea,” Grantaire sighs. They're silent for a bit, and the room is quiet save for the stereo still softly humming away with some sleepy chanson.

“Hey,” Cosette says finally. “Speaking of tough kids – Courf says you grew up in Paris?”

“Hmm,” Grantaire nods.

“What was that like?” The spark is back in her voice after that downer of a conversation topic, and Grantaire is grateful for that.

“Have you ever been?” he asks, feeling that she'll probably benefit more from talking about Paris than listening to him do the same.

“Once,” she says dreamily. “When I was little. I hardly remember anything. Just... There was a Disney store, I think?”

“Know the one,” Grantaire murmurs.

“That part I remember so vividly, you know? I was in that store and I had never seen a Disney movie before in my life, so none of the characters meant anything to me, but there were so many toys, so many pretty things – I thought it was heaven. I got a Tiana doll and named her Catherine. I had no idea who Tiana was.” She gives a little sigh. “I've always wanted to go back, but I've never had the chance.”

“Maybe you shouldn't,” Grantaire says earnestly. “I'm pretty sure Paris is like, voted most overrated by tourists across the globe. I mean, I know for a fact that it doesn't get much better than the Disney store.”

Cosette laughs, but before she can reply, the door opens, and Enjolras comes back in. The tray in his hands is back, badly balanced and dangerously close to tipping over. He'd make a terrible waiter. Grantaire relishes that knowledge.

“You,” Cosette says with a deep frown that could probably be threatening if it was on someone else's face. “Shame on you for taking so long; now I have to go get ready.”

She gets up and, with both her hands on Enjolras' shoulders, manoeuvres him to take her spot on the couch.

“We were just talking about Paris, so if you want to pick up there, you're probably very welcome,” she informs Enjolras. Then she's out of the room, leaving the two of them on the couch, baffled and at a loss for words.

Enjolras doesn't move for some time, which is moderately funny given that he still has the tray in his hands. Grantaire is about to break the silence himself when he moves to set the tray – it's holding a plate of cookies next to the coffee mugs now – down on the table and turns to Grantaire. “So,” he says calmly, “about Charlotte Corday—”

Grantaire can't help it; he laughs. And keeps laughing. Enjolras frowns at him, but Grantaire doesn't stop for a good while. “Ah, man,” he says once he's calmed down a little. “You're – you're actually going to do this, aren't you?”

Enjolras, looking slightly irritated during the laughing fit, looks softer. “Bad etiquette to leave that kind of argument unfinished, don't you think?”

“Sure,” Grantaire says, shaking his head, marvelling at just how absurd this boy is. How terrible and defiant and insistent and absurd. “Go on. Talk. Make your point.”

Enjolras takes a deep breath, and then he talks.

Maybe, Grantaire thinks, arguing with Enjolras is so easy because it's just nice to hear him talk. It's a generally acknowledged fact that everyone likes to listen to Enjolras speak; he likes to hold impromptu speeches at meetings, and he's spoken at rallies in the past, apparently, which is something Grantaire isn't sure he'd survive witnessing.

He's incredibly attentive, too, when he talks – he notices every reaction from his opposite, every slight shift in topic, so Grantaire makes a point of steering the conversation here or there, just for fun. They manage to make it from Charlotte Corday to woman murderers to historical perceptions of the female psyche to Ancient Greek to slavery, and Enjolras is in the middle of a rant about shared overarching principles in oppressive systems (“All I'm trying to say is that the ideology that has been used to justify slavery since Aristotle is extremely close to the one held in any capitalist society – Grantaire, there's literally nothing funny about that, stop smiling”) when Cosette opens the door again. She has changed into a skirt and blouse, and her hair is untied now, falling down her shoulders in loose waves. For what feels like the hundredth time that day, Grantaire thinks that poor Éponine never stood a chance.

Cosette smiles when she sees them engaged in that friendly exchange she had been forced to interrupt earlier, and maybe that's why she keeps the interruption brief.

“Just a heads up; I might sleep at home tonight, so no nervous breakdowns if I only come back here tomorrow morning.”

“All right,” Enjolras nods. “Sure you're okay driving yourself?”

“Don't be ridiculous, of course I am.” She looks at Grantaire. “It was lovely to see you, R.”

“Likewise,” he gives a brief wave. “Have a good... thing?”

Cosette, bless her heart, laughs instead of giving him a less kind and far more well-deserved reaction. “I will. Work hard, you two.”

And with that, she's gone.

“Hey,” Grantaire says after a few seconds of silence. Enjolras glances at him. “Can I ask you something? As in, no-bullshit-answers-please ask you?”

Enjolras frowns. “I never give bullshit answers.”

“Oh, come on. That was a bullshit answer; it wasn't what I asked.”

“Yes, then,” Enjolras says.

“Better,” Grantaire sighs. He's not sure where he gets the boldness for saying the next thing he says; it comes as a surprise even to himself. “Listen, this whole thing about you asking me here – what made you do that? Was that actually some sort of granting-me-redemption-spiel?”

Enjolras looks at him, eyes narrowed.

“Jesus, don't look at me like that. I have a right to ask, okay, because today is actually one of the least shitty days I've had in a couple weeks and I swear to God, if this is, like, some weird sneaky plot you came up with because you were feeling guilty—”

“No,” Enjolras says, and sighs when he notices how sharply it came out. “I don't – I mean, I probably come across like I do, but I don't actually keep some sort of good things-bad things balance of whatever people around me are doing, and when someone's in the red, I try to give them, what, a redemption loan?”

“You know what, I'm sort of angry at myself now for not putting it like that, that totally sounds like you, bank metaphors and all.”

Enjolras runs a hand through his hair. “Honestly?” he says. “After things being so off all the time, I just wanted to try being friends for once.”

Grantaire frowns. “Friends.”

Enjolras shrugs. “Is that so absurd?”

“Uh, I don't know?” He really doesn't. Enjolras has been everything from furious at him to absolutely unreadable within the past two weeks, and before that, it was the same kind of weird roller coaster, starting with the blatant insults at their first meeting going over the infamous apology followed by encouragement and finally, as far as Grantaire could tell, deep regret for said encouragement once Grantaire started working for them. He supposes, looking back on the total sum of their interactions, Enjolras wanting to be friends is just as likely as Enjolras kicking him out of the ABC.

“I mean.” Enjolras shifts on the couch. “Obviously, we don't have to be, if you'd rather not, because honestly, I've never really been able to tell if you're just opinionated or if you genuinely don't like me, so if it's the latter—”

“What.” Grantaire wonders how all their conversations eventually make it to this point, where he's almost speechless and Enjolras is making no sense at all.

“What?” Enjolras repeats, taken aback.

“How are you the one saying that. How are you – do you – just for the record, you think you're the one who isn't likeable here?”

“I didn't say anything about likeable,” Enjolras argues. “No one's liked by everyone, and I suppose lots of people dislike me for a lot of different reasons, some of them probably valid – it's not a big deal, really. I don't take it very personally.”

“You're absurd,” Grantaire says, shaking his head. “Seriously, you make no sense.”

“Speak your mind,” Enjolras says dryly.

“No, sorry, it's not – well. Let's just say I always thought the, uh, occasional animosity between us wasn't radiating from me, exactly.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“I did apologise, though, for that one time in econ,” Enjolras says. “And you said you understood that I was angry, so you know that had nothing to do with a personal dislike.”

“Well, it wasn't either of those things that made me think it,” Grantaire says, even though it's not entirely true. He doesn't want to hold grudges, but he tends to, and Enjolras trying to kick him out of a class is not exactly something that seems indicative of Enjolras' high opinion of him. “I just... after you had, like, recruited me? For your thing? It just seemed like you really regretted making that call, you know? You never really talked to me at the meetings, and if you did, you were telling me off – which is your right,” he hurries to add, “believe me, I get it, I can be such an asshole, I want to punch myself in the face half the time, so I just thought it was – well, it just made sense? For you to, uh, sort of hate me? A little?”

“Hate you?”

“A little.”

“Grantaire.” He's frowning, and Grantaire fails to properly interpret that frown, because there's something else in his eyes Grantaire can't quite put his finger on.

“Please don't give me that look,” Grantaire sighs. “Listen, I've said this before, you're not, like, a villain from a Lemony Snicket story or something, I don't think you're just plain hateful for the sake of it. I mean, I know you're not.”

The frown hasn't gone away. “But you still thought I hated you for no good reason?”

“It's got nothing to do with you as a person,” Grantaire says, feeling very worn out by the conversation all of a sudden. “And, I mean, you would have had a good reason, wouldn't you, because I've done plenty of shitty stuff, I interrupt you and the others too much and I distract everyone and I know you've seen me smuggle that flask in that one time—”

“You smuggled a flask in?”

“Uh, what? No, I didn't. I mean. Obviously not, why would you say that? How do I know you didn't smuggle a flask in? What are you even talking about? Do you need to lie down?”

“Grantaire.”

Grantaire runs both hands through his hair and takes a second to breathe. “The only important thing here is that if I thought you had a problem with me, it's not your fault. Okay? It's just – it's this thing I've got going on sometimes; listen, can we just leave this be? Can we just say that you thought I didn't like you because I say dumb stuff sometimes, and that's how it was the other way round as well?”

Enjolras looks at him for a while, as if he's debating if he's ready to drop the topic at that point. “So we're both idiots,” he says then, matter-of-factly, and Grantaire closes his eyes in relief.

“I guess?”

“Why does this always happen?” Enjolras looks directly at him to emphasize that this isn't a rhetorical question. “Do you think we've ever had a conversation where we weren't talking past each other?”

Grantaire shrugs. “Communication issues. It's pretty common, I guess, but I always took it for the sort of problem old couples who have been married for like, forty years and started to hate each other after twenty had.” Oh, God. Obviously, comparing the two of them to an old married couple is exactly the right thing to do when Enjolras is trying to be friends.

“Just to be clear, then.” Enjolras sits up, as if having the right posture is somehow going to contribute to the value of this conversation. “You don't actually have a problem with me?”

“Clearly, I don't,” Grantaire says, gesturing at both of them and the couch they're currently sharing, and simultaneously wondering if that's a lie. Does a massive one-sided crush count as a problem with someone? Does it classify as problematic that his palms have been sweaty and his heart has been keeping up a pretty unhealthy rhythm ever since he got here? ...Probably.

“Okay,” Enjolras says. “And you believe me that you're not here to work off a debt or anything of the like?”

“You really need to stop lawyering everything,” Grantaire advises. “It's giving this entire conversation the weirdest overtone.”

“But do you?”

“Oh my God. Yeah, I do.” And he does. If not because of Enjolras' assurance, certainly because of Cosette and her ability to wrap people in warm, fuzzy feelings with her mere presence.

“Okay,” Enjolras says again, sounding slightly more content this time.

It's silent for a while, until Grantaire clears his throat. “We should probably – uh, you know. Things to do. Not that I don't appreciate the emotional progress that's been made here or anything, but...”

“Right,” Enjolras says with a small nod, but his eyes are still on Grantaire, and it's slightly disconcerting. “Hey, can you reach the desk from where you're sitting?”

Grantaire stares at him. Enjolras isn't even sitting a full meter away from him. “...Are you seriously trying to avoid getting up right now?”

“I'm comfortable here,” Enjolras insists. “Can you hand me the laptop?”

“...Dude. That's going to require a bodily distortion from me that's like, ten times worth you getting up and just bringing that thing back here.”

“Just do it.”

“Seriously?”

“Please.”

“All right,” Grantaire says incredulously. “As monsieur wishes.”

“Thank you.”

Grantaire is still shaking his head in disbelief as he moves to climb onto the sofa's armrest and lean over to reach the desk. He has to seriously stretch out to reach it, and only just manages to grab the laptop before he crashes back into the couch in an attempt not to lose his balance and tear everything down with him. Enjolras takes the laptop from him, barely acknowledging the acrobatics Grantaire had to go through in order to retrieve it. “Thanks.”

“Why does my friendship upgrade come with servitude, and Cosette gets to boss you around?”

Enjolras grimaces. “She's the only one who gets to do that.”

That's probably a sufficient explanation. Thinking about it, it's pretty easy to imagine Enjolras pulling the same stunt he just did with Grantaire on Combeferre or Courfeyrac or Feuilly, or, well, anyone of his friends, instead. Grantaire is surprised to find that he likes that thought; it occurs to him for the first time that being friends with Enjolras might not be the torments-of-Tantalus- like experience he had always assumed it would be.

They go back to work then, Enjolras with his laptop in his lap and sitting on the couch with his legs crossed and leaning against the backrest, Grantaire with his back against the armrest and his legs pulled in, balancing the laptop on his knees. He's done with Bahorel's article soon after, and Enjolras suggests he continue with Joly's work.

“It's a two-part article, the first part's going to be in the January issue.”

“Hm.” Grantaire opens up the cloud storage again, scrolling to find the document.

“Oh,” Enjolras adds, “you might want to be careful though, it deals with experiences with some bad discrimination based on disability in a student environment, so if that might upset you...”

Grantaire looks at him over the edge of his laptop screen. “Did you just trigger-warn me?”

“It's not an unreasonable thing to do. I know I didn't find that article easy to read.”

“Ts. All right, considerate guy.”

Wordlessly, Enjolras throws a piece of chocolate toffee at him, and Grantaire is too baffled to say anything in return.

Enjolras was right to warn him. The article isn't gorey, it's not dramatic or manipulative either (which isn't a surprise – after all, this is Joly), but it's honest, and reading about experiences his friend made that he had no idea about hits him in an unexpected spot. He interrupts his reading after the second paragraph. “What the fuck.”

Enjolras glances at him. “I know.” Grantaire is grateful for the lack of “I told you so” – Enjolras' voice is serious and sympathetic, when it could have been sardonic.

“This actually happened to him? In his first semester?”

“I didn't know him then,” Enjolras says. “But it turned into a larger thing, blown up by the administration who were pretty desperate to look non-discriminatory, and everyone knew about it before long. That's actually how we met.”

Grantaire would reply something about Enjolras probably starting an uproar in the main hall in the name of someone he didn't even know personally because he heard of a single administrative injustice, but he doesn't feel like it. Joly is so cheerful and energetic that it's easy to forget how much shit he regularly goes through – dealing with a phobia, chronic pain, and every burden and inconvenience that goes along with both of those things, all the while putting on a happy face. It's tricked Grantaire into thinking that maybe it isn't all that bad, and now he feels a twinge of guilt at finding out that already in his first semester, Joly had to deal with an incredible backlash both from students and administration for daring to demand a spot in the only dorm that had an elevator at the time. It did happen to be one of the more fancy ones, and students didn't take kindly to someone being “preferred” instead of going on the wait list like everyone else, while administration insisted on making “no exceptions” as far as admission guidelines for the dorm were concerned. Grantaire can only imagine that after the whole thing became a public issue, things got even more painful for Joly.

“Were you in your first semester too?” he asks, only because reading this is probably bad enough, and talking about it won't make it better.

“In my third,” Enjolras says. “That was about a year ago. He walked straight into the ABC desk room, I'll never forget that; he just marched in and went, hi, I heard this is where you go to expose discriminatory bullshit, and that was it. I never saw him that angry again after.”

“Hard to imagine you guys actually had a room,” Grantaire grins. “I can't even picture that. The whole homeless rebels thing that's going on with meeting in an abandoned café back room... that's kind of the whole charm.”

Enjolras opens his mouth, and Grantaire is fully expecting him to go on a tirade about romanticising homelessness, but he seems to think better of it, and closes his mouth again, contemplative for a while. “I think you're right,” he says then, and Grantaire raises both eyebrows. He's considered the possibility that he might have woken up in a different universe at several occasions today, but this is certainly what tops it off. “When ties to the university were breaking, I wasn't exactly optimistic about the ABC's fate. I mean, a student paper without a university? Pretty unheard of.” He's not smiling – he never smiles a lot, Grantaire has noticed that, he can be tactile and warm and even funny, but smiles are rare. There's something else about his expression now, something so fond and almost vulnerable that he suddenly looks a lot softer. Grantaire' cheeks feel warm. “It ended up being for the best. Once the bubble of professionalism was gone, everything shifted. Some people left, and some only became interested once the setting looked less intimidating. It's brought all the people together that are there now.”

Grantaire smirks. “You know, I was just going to follow that previous statement up with adding how the Musain has the best beer in town, but yours was better.”

Enjolras sighs, probably thinking his touch of sentimentality wasted. He has no idea, Grantaire thinks, because that thing he has for Enjolras has just gotten ten times worse and if he hadn't made a joke, he only would have tumbled further down.

“We should go back to work,” Enjolras reminds him.

Grantaire nods, thinking that not continuing the conversation is probably best for him as well. “Right.”

It goes on like that, with the silence that's turned comfortable now occasionally broken by either of them to comment on or ask about something (“How come Marius is the only person who always writes for the same section and it just happens to be the most apolitical one in the whole journal?” “...Go back to work, Grantaire.”), and the more time passes, the more Grantaire realises that his eyelids are drooping and he's yawning more frequently, all of that despite the two cups of coffee he's had. He knows he should be asking Enjolras if the buses are still driving at this hour – it's past midnight by now – or just generally inquiring about how much there is left to do because he's tired and should probably get going, but he doesn't do any of that without knowing why. He keeps reading, making a correction here or there, even though his eyes are burning because the light in the room is dark and the laptop screen is bright and he's yawning with every other breath now, and he has no idea how it happens, but before long, he drifts off and doesn't manage to shake himself awake again.

He's woken up by something soft tickling his nose. At waking up, his thoughts are immediately racing – how did this happen, oh God, he can't actually have fallen asleep on the couch in Enjolras' house, please no, oh God, but then he opens his eyes and sees that it's the pink tips of Cosette's dip-dyed hair that woke him, and, yup, he definitely fell asleep on the couch in Enjolras' house.

“Good morning, sunshine.” Cosette's smile is, coincidentally, sunshine itself, but it doesn't do much to ease Grantaire's mortification.

“Please tell me I didn't actually fall asleep yesterday,” he whispers, and he wants to scream it to let out the frustration, just yell it out and add that Enjolras was still on the couch when he fell asleep, fuck, is there anything he can't find a way of fucking up somehow?

“You know what, technically, it wouldn't be a lie to tell you that, because from what I've heard, you actually fell asleep extremely early today. Not yesterday.”

Cosette is still smiling, but isn't leaning over him anymore, so Grantaire slowly sits up to be more level with her.

“Fuck. I'm so sorry, this is so – I don't even know what this is.” He ruffles his hair with both hands and shakes his head a little, but it only makes the disorientation worse. “You know what, people whine so much about not being able to like, sleep on planes and shit, and that's so ridiculous, because it's a curse if you can just fall asleep anywhere, okay, you fall asleep in other people's homes when you were invited over for like, an afternoon, literally what is desirable about that, holy shit...”

“Hey,” Cosette laughs. “Easy. The only thing that's remotely reproachable about this is that apparently, dear Enji wasn't able to tell where the line to getting completely overworked was. Again. Which is just typical, and proves my assumption that you should never leave that boy to his own devices.” She huffs and shakes her head. “I coerced him to make breakfast to make up for it.”

The word breakfast alone prompts Grantaire's stomach to growl. He hasn't eaten properly since he had lunch the day before, so he's been functioning on cookies and coffee for about twenty hours, which can't be healthy.

A chequered, woolly blanket slips off his arms as he stretches, which reminds him that this definitely wasn't there yesterday. “Uh, thanks,” he says, tugging at the fabric. “For this.”

“No need to thank me,” Cosette says, slightly amused. “I wasn't there last night, remember, sleepyhead?”

Oh no. Enjolras gave him a blanket. Enjolras probably had to pry the laptop from his body. Enjolras had to give up the couch and probably clear out the room because Grantaire fell asleep like an exhausted toddler after a long day at kindergarten. Grantaire closes his eyes and lets the humiliation wash over him. “Do you happen to know if the NASA is looking for volunteers to be shot into the sun?” he asks after a while. “Because, like, I'm a healthy young man, I'm right here, it's not like they're going to find a better candidate...”

“None of that,” Cosette tuts, hands on her hips. “You're going to get up and own this, you hear me? You're going to go out into the world today and say, I fell asleep on a random couch and I am not ashamed of that because I'm human and I need sleep. And because you've got nothing to be ashamed of. You're adorable in your sleep.”

“Oh my God,” he whispers, and closes his eyes again.

“If you want to shower, the bathroom's just next door, the one on the right. Towels and spare toothbrushes in the cabinet above the sink, in case you need any of that,” she informs him and Grantaire is struck with another unpleasant realisation. They're really piling up.

“I hijacked your room,” he groans. “I slept – this is your bed, isn't it?”

“I normally take the time to actually convert it to one, but yes,” she grins. “Which, again, isn't a problem, because, again, I wasn't here last night.” She walks to the door. “Take some time to properly wake up, yeah? Breakfast is downstairs, just follow the smell of burnt pastry, because Enjolras is a horrible cook but still insists that toasted croissants are better than ordinary ones.”

Grantaire manages to whimper something of an “okay,” and then Cosette is out of the room.

He has to collect himself for a bit. A shower sounds amazing, because he feels the disgusting way everyone does after having slept in their dayclothes, sticky and warm and uncomfortable, but he sure as hell isn't going to use their shower after having crashed at this house without having had anyone's permission.

After a considerable while of sitting upright and staring at the opposite bookshelf, he gets up, finds the bathroom and settles for washing his face with cold water and gargling with a (pretty gross) water-toothpaste-mixture, which has to be enough. He's glad he didn't bring a lot of things, because now, he may be humiliated and feel like death, but at least he can get out reasonably quickly. The only things he brought were the toffees and his laptop, so once he's packed up the latter, he walks downstairs.

Enjolras runs into him in the foyer. “Morning,” he says, looking more put-together than yesterday. He's exchanged sweatpants for jeans, which Grantaire can't help but feel slightly robbed by.

“Uh. Morning? ...Sorry?” It's just a reflex, really, Grantaire doesn't even think about it before he apologises.

Enjolras sighs. “Nothing to be sorry for. Breakfast?”

Grantaire feels powerless. “Okay.”

The kitchen has a tall counter that serves to separate the cooking area from the dining area, and they sit on the bar stools in front of it while eating. It's probably lucky that breakfast doesn't require a lot of cooking, and a little luckier that the croissants didn't burn, so it's actually the most substantial breakfast Grantaire has had in a while.

“Where's Cosette?” Grantaire asks after an uncomfortably long silence.

“Took the car back to her place. Well, hers and her dad's. Said she forgot something important there,” Enjolras says. He's clearly tired as well, but he does manage to cover it up better than Grantaire, because of course he does.

“Hm.”

“We're almost through with the editing,” Enjolras supplies. “Just the last half of Marius' part left.”

Grantaire sighs. “Which could be done by now,” he says. If he hadn't fallen asleep in the middle of it, obviously. He can't even blame Marius, because his style is simple and neat and slips up very rarely, so by all accounts, it's everything but falling-asleep-worthy.

“Please don't say that,” Enjolras says, frowning a little. “I'm the one who tried to be less serious and intense about the whole thing, and the first thing I do is make you work until you lose consciousness.” He takes a breath, then looks at Grantaire over the edge of his coffee cup. “That wasn't okay.”

Grantaire shakes his head. “Can we not do this? The whole my fault, your fault thing, it doesn't even suit you. Let's just forget it happened.”

Enjolras' eyes are on him for an uncomfortably long while after that, but Grantaire refuses to meet them. “All right,” he says then, and pointedly takes a sip of coffee. “Change of topic. Have you checked your econ results yet? They've been online for a couple days, I think.”

If Grantaire was less tired, he might have gone about this differently, but right now, he lacks energy. “Not really a point in checking them.”

“Why? Didn't the exam go well?”

“The exam I didn't take, you mean?” He gives a wry smile. “Yeah, you could say it didn't go that great.”

“You didn't take the final exam?” Enjolras looks as if he's genuinely affronted by that. “You went to class all semester and didn't take the final?”

Jesus. “I wasn't at the top of my game that day,” he murmurs. “If that's even remotely appropriate to describe it. Anyway, I couldn't go.”

Enjolras is quiet for a while. When he speaks, he sounds unusually hesitant. “That was – because of the – was that why you weren't well?”

He doesn't even have to specify. Grantaire doesn't say anything, just shrugs vaguely. It's not something he ever wants to discuss with Enjolras, certainly not after he's just spent a night at his house unwanted.

“I'm sorry,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire feels something tug in his chest. This isn't an Enjolras-Apology, it couldn't be further from one. He has no idea what to make of it.

“No need,” Grantaire says. “I can re-take it, thanks to Jehan's magical powers. Not sure I'm gonna go yet, but...”

“Why wouldn't you?”

Grantaire laughs. It's not like he has anything to lose. “Because I'm really, really bad at it,” he says honestly. “I mean, spectacularly bad. I don't care about any of the actual content, and as soon as math comes in, I'm hopeless anyway. Ép used to help me with that stuff, and she's across the country, so...”

He's fully expecting Enjolras to ask the obvious question – why take a class you hate and suck at – so he's already thinking of ways to work around the truth in his answer when Enjolras says something else.

“If you do want to take the exam, I could help,” he says. “With studying, I mean. I loathed the class, and I can't say I'm exactly passionate about economic theory, but I passed at a decent grade.”

Grantaire looks at him to see if he's kidding, but Enjolras looks dead serious. “Uh. I mean, it's really not as if my world's going to fall apart because I didn't pass a sucky class,” he says. “I just figured maybe if I took the exam and passed, at least I wouldn't have thrown away an entire semester.”

“That's a better reason than most people have for taking an econ exam,” Enjolras says dryly, and Grantaire grins in spite of himself.

“That's probably true. Must be better than yours.”

“It's an obligatory class for me, so, yeah. Much better.”

Grantaire stuffs the rest of his croissant into his mouth at once to stop the smile from becoming creepy as it won't go away. “I'll think about it,” he says once he's done chewing. Enjolras nods.
“Do.”

“Hey,” Grantaire says after a while, “did I mention that Joly gave me smoothies for Christmas?”

“Finally,” Enjolras says. “What sort?”

“Spinach, kale and matcha,” Grantaire says, fondly remembering Joly's extensive speech on the drink's nutritional value. “I'm not sure he thinks I'm sick, it just seemed to fit a colour scheme. Apparently, I can do with ten times as much green.”

“Ah. Well, it's a good colour on you.” Enjolras is actually smiling now, just lightly, and Grantaire feels a little more awake when he sees it, and a little dizzy at his words. “You know you're doing him a disservice if you don't drink them.”

“Perish the thought,” Grantaire says with a smile, and downs the rest of his coffee.

He's already walking down the driveway, having exchanged obligatory and slightly awkward words of goodbye with Enjolras and regretting not getting an opportunity to say goodbye to Cosette when Enjolras' car comes speeding down the road and a dishevelled Cosette jumps out just in time to catch Grantaire. “You,” she says, out of breath and holding on to his forearm as she digs around in her purse. “I almost missed you, that would have been such a disaster – it's still Christmas, right? Technically.” Grantaire doesn't find it in his heart to object that it really isn't. “Here,” she says, finally pulling something from her purse and presenting it to Grantaire. “Happy Christmas.”

She's holding up what Grantaire thinks is a piece of ribbon at first. At closer inspection, he sees that it's several strings braided together, making up a swirling pattern of blue and green, and holding a small charm the shape of a crescent moon in the middle. He stares at her.

“Did you make this?”

She nods. “Last night.”

“Last night? You made this while I was sleeping in your bed?”

“Well, I had my own bed at home,” she says. “Plus, I couldn't sleep and I feel like you needed one. Everyone else already has them.”

Now that he thinks about it, they really do. He never consciously took note of it before, but everyone in the ABC group has a bracelet, each with different colours and a different charm. Grantaire wouldn't vouch for what all of the others have, but he's pretty certain Jehan's is yellow and green with a flower charm, and Enjolras' is red and yellow, but he's never registered the charm.

“You just – had the stuff for this lying around at home?” Grantaire says, still stunned, because him getting friendship bracelets is a thing that simply doesn't compute. Not necessarily because he's twenty years old and pays for his own flat, but because he never even had one of them when they were age-appropriate. It's just not something that happens to him.

“Well, I'm not an amateur,” Cosette says. “I've got a whole DIY kit for this. There's lots of different charms, but it didn't really take long to pick yours. It just jumped at me.”

“Uh.”

“You don't have to wear it,” she says, sounding as if she genuinely wouldn't mind, but he shakes his head.

“No, I'm just – I've never had one of these.”

“Now you do,” she says with a smile. “Do you want me to put it on?”

“Okay?” He holds out his hand, and she ties the bracelet around his wrist with quick, clever fingers. “There you go,” she says and gives the knot a firm tug. “That's gonna hold.”

He stares at her, then his wrist, and can't really think of anything to say. The confusion and surprise are a little too much to process after the events of the past 24 hours, but Cosette seems to understand.

“Well, that was all,” she says, and gives his upper arm a light squeeze. “I'm glad I caught you. Enjoy the rest of the break, yeah?”

“You too,” he says simply, still dumbfounded. She smiles, and is about to turn around when he catches himself. “Cosette?”

She raises her eyebrows, and Grantaire takes a deep breath before he steps forward and hugs her. He's not exactly a serial hugger, at least not with people he's not too close to, but if he can't say anything, at least he can do that. She hugs back, and the warmth of it lingers as Grantaire walks down the road to the bus station.

Chapter Text

Jehan is back from Christmas break a week early. Grantaire, to his later shame, doesn't even find out first hand, but instead over pretty much the least likely detour there could possibly be.

He's settled for working on his final project for the semester at night, because it sort of fits the mood of the thing itself, and he's gotten used to leaving for the studios in the evening and coming home around midnight. The day before New Year's Eve, he arrives at the studio later than usual, which is why he's all the more surprised to find that he's not the only one there. Campus is eerily quiet over the break, and the studios especially have been completely abandoned every time he's been there so far. From a distance, he can vaguely make out the figure standing next to the main entrance – flowery dress that has to be too cold for the low temperatures, dark red hair, black combat boots. He grins when he recognizes her.

“Boissy,” he says, standing to take a dramatic bow. “Fancy seeing you here. How are we, belle dame sans merci?”

“Slightly worse, now that my headache's back,” she says, arching an eyebrow, and then she holds out her cigarette. “Light?”

He fishes a lighter out of his pocket. “You should really buy your own, you know,” he says as she leans back against the front wall of the building and watches the smoke from her cigarette dissipate in the cool light of the street lamp. “Useful for all kinds of things, these.”

“True,” she says, “for instance, I was genuinely considering lighting your final project on fire only a few minutes ago. Just because something's depressing as fuck, doesn't mean it's good art.”

“Cold,” he notes, and she nods briefly.

“It is. Shouldn't have left my jacket inside.”

“What are you doing here, anyway? Aren't you supposed to be skiing with that rich guy?” He wouldn't call the two of them friends, but he likes to listen when people ramble about their holiday plans. Plus, Irma isn't bad company. Her utter honesty and lack of consideration for literally anyone's feelings can be refreshing, and she does have talent, to the point where it's almost forgiveable that she enjoys making people feel inferior in her presence. Unless you take it to heart, that's quite an entertaining trait.

She pulls a face at the mention of her skiing trip. “Yeah, well, as you can see, I'm not anymore.”

“Bad break-up?”

She scoffs. “You could say that.”

Grantaire watches the ashes from the tip of her cigarette fall to the paved ground like snowflakes.

“What about you?” she asks, barely glancing at him. “No one to go home to?”

“No one to go home to, vague dislike for the holidays in general, take your pick,” Grantaire says easily. It's not difficult at all to be honest with half-strangers. He's always wondered why that is.

“Huh,” she says. “I thought maybe you'd come back to keep your little friend company; you know the one? Saw him this afternoon, he didn't look good.”

Grantaire frowns. “Who?”

She shrugs. “Hell, I don't know his name. Pretty face, looks like he gets dressed in the dark? Sort of shy, too, I guess.”

“...Jehan Prouvaire?”

“Is there something that's particularly cryptic to you about the words 'I don't know his name,' or...?”

Grantaire is still frowning. The last update he got from Jehan was a Christmas text that had a small addendum asking to please be referred to with neutral pronouns, no further specification. Grantaire had replied to that and not heard from them again, and if they were actually back, it was extremely unlike Jehan not to say anything about it.

“So when you say 'didn't look good'—”

“I mean, like, gaunt like a stick-man, sad eyes, that kind,” she says. “Honestly, if he'd broken down crying right on the spot, I wouldn't have been too surprised.” Something ghosts over her expression just then, a slight hint of worry Grantaire hasn't seen on her before. “You didn't know he was back?”

“When did you see them?” Grantaire asks, getting his phone out to find Jehan in his contacts.

“Couple hours ago, around four, I think? Is something wrong?”

“Wish I knew,” he mutters, typing out a message. “Thanks,” he says then and gives her a clap on the shoulder before going inside.

In the light of that, there's a change of plans – he has a feeling taking his project home and preparing for a long night is smarter than staying at the studio, even though Jehan hasn't replied yet. When they finally do, Grantaire is already on the bus back home. Work, they needed me at the library, Jehan has replied to Grantaire's text that actually included the two questions of whether they were a) back and b) okay. The fact that they don't answer the second question at all is worrying enough, but the lack of exclamation marks and smileyfaces (or, in lieu of both, at least iambic pentameter) is even more disconcerting.

Grantaire decides to call. Jehan dislikes talking on the phone, but Grantaire figures they can always not pick up, and it would feel really, really wrong not to try to reach out.

Jehan answers. “R.” Grantaire didn't think it was possible to put so much misery into a single syllable before.

“Jehan? What's wrong?”

The voice on the other end sounds very small. “I'm fine.”

“I don't think you are – listen, please, can I come over? Tell me to fuck off and I will, promise, but you don't sound so good and Boissy saw you earlier—”

“Can I come to yours?” The question takes Grantaire by surprise, but at least the resignation in Jehan's tone recedes a little. “I'd rather – well, my room is full of books right now. I mean, it's full. You can't sit down anywhere.”

“Of course,” Grantaire hurries to say. “Sure, come over, I'll be home in ten minutes, we can meet downstairs if you want – or we can just stay on the phone until you're there?”

“No, don't worry,” Jehan says softly. “It's not that bad.”

“Are you sure?”

Silence. “I'll see you there, okay?” Jehan says finally. “Please don't worry.”

Few things would have encouraged Grantaire to worry more than that exchange of words. Jehan didn't sound good at all, and ten minutes later, when Grantaire reaches the house at the exact same time as them, he realises that Irma was right and they don't look very good, either.

“R,” Jehan says with a careful wave, and their face is fallen and their shoulders slumped and Grantaire doesn't think before pulling them into a hug. Jehan eases into it, burrowing their head into the crook of Grantaire's neck, and a small, dry sob escapes them.

“You could have told me you were back,” Grantaire mutters, perfectly aware that he's being a hypocrite – the last time he was in a bad place, he'd wanted to send away even Éponine.

Jehan murmurs something, but it's swallowed up by the collar of Grantaire's coat.

“What was that?”

Jehan pulls back and tugs on Grantaire's sleeve. “I said,” their eyes look dark, “wine.”

Grantaire is reasonably sure that wine is a terrible idea for both of them, but on the off chance that Jehan only agreed to come by because they knew Grantaire would be their best shot at getting drunk, he promises to find a bottle and they go upstairs together. Jehan immediately goes to curl up on the couch, legs pulled in and looking so small and miserable that Grantaire has to fight the impulse to wrap them in multiple blankets and force-feed them soup.

“How long have you been back for?” he asks instead while pretending to rummage through his cupboard in search of wine. There's a bottle very prominently standing on the counter, but Grantaire can probably count on Jehan not noticing.

“Three days,” Jehan says, voice barely more than a whisper. Grantaire stops to look at them.

“And what was that about work? Is the library that busy with research over the holidays?” He knows it isn't.

“The French department tidies out every winter, and they wanted help with the selection, they asked all assistants who were free,” Jehan replies. “There were so many books I didn't want to be seen thrown out.” There's a pause. “I have all of them in my room now,” they add then.

“And that's what you came back for? They couldn't have gotten someone else off their break—”

“Don't make me talk about this,” Jehan says with an unusual bluntness. “Please? R, I know you worry, and I love you, but I don't want to talk, and I really want wine. I promise it's the best thing you could possibly do for me right now.”

Grantaire hesitates. “Just wine?”

“And the worst movie you own, if you like,” Jehan concedes.

“That animated Lord of the Rings from the 70s?” Grantaire offers, and Jehan shrugs. “Right,” Grantaire says and takes the already open bottle of wine from the kitchen counter. “That's settled.”

Some conclusions about Jehan's emotional state can be drawn from their reactions to the movie. After watching half of it (and at this point the first bottle is empty and they're halfway through a second), Grantaire has decided that they are almost as frustrated as they are sad, and that it must have something to do with their family. All that information derives from the fact that Jehan broke into a rant about “these bastards leaving out Arwen as if it's no big deal to have even fewer female characters in a story that already doesn't have nearly enough, can you believe this, R, it's like the seventies were the true dark ages,” and started crying when Boromir showed up for the first time.

When the crying begins again and doesn't stop, Grantaire pauses the movie and Jehan leans against him, resting their head on Grantaire's shoulder and occasionally wiping their face on the sleeve of Grantaire's shirt. Grantaire, trying really hard not to start weeping in sympathy because it's heartbreaking to see them like this, lets his sleeve be used as a tissue and can't think of anything more useful to do.

“I just ran away,” Jehan whispers between heart-wrenching sobs, “I just ran without – I love my parents so much, and they've always loved me, and when I told them – when I told them, they said – they told me I had to understand they were shocked, and that they're sure this was something that could be dealt with – dealt with, R, they said that, and I didn't even tell them I was going back here, I just took the next best train and a bunch of taxis and they – they don't know I'm here and I don't want to answer the phone – I don't have to understand, R, and they don't get to be shocked, because I'm their child and if I'm in pain they're not supposed to – they should be—”

No two syllables come out clearly after that, but it's already more than enough for Grantaire to understand what happened. He can relate to shitty experiences as far as coming out to a parent is concerned, but at least when his father was disapproving, Grantaire didn't really care. Jehan loves their parents, which is a completely different story.

“I shouldn't have told them.” It's been quiet for a while when Jehan speaks again, very softly. “I should have known better.”

“Oh, fuck that.” Grantaire knows it's the wrong tone to take, and at the same time, he's too angry for anything else. “They're the ones who screwed this up, not you. It's pretty damn incredible that you actually worked up the courage for that, you know that, right? That it's messed up if all you get in return for being that brave is more pain?”

Jehan shrugs. “Keeping everything inside just got harder than telling them. Nothing brave about that.”

“Come on. Everything's brave about that.”

Jehan only scoffs in response. It hurts to see them be the cynical one for once, but this is so far from Grantaire's area of expertise, and there's hardly anything he can do to make it better.

“I'm proud of you,” Grantaire says quietly. It's the truth, at least, even though it doesn't offer a lot of comfort. Jehan edges closer to him.

“I haven't even figured anything out yet,” they say into Grantaire's shirt. “I hardly said anything specific, and they still got angry – I just told them what I told you in the text.”

“About the pronouns?”

“Yes – and I never even explained that to you, oh, R, I'm sorry.”

“You don't need to explain anything,” Grantaire frowns. “To me or anyone. You don't owe people shit.”

Jehan pulls their knees in. “I'm not even – I'm not done with this, you know, and I thought they'd help me. Because – just because they're my parents, I thought they'd help me figure this out, because they always have, and now they don't.”

“Maybe they want to,” Grantaire says carefully. “Who knows? I mean, there's a reason they keep calling.” He's not sure that's really it, because he doesn't know Jehan's parents and as a general rule, people suck, but to him, calling non-stop and desperately trying to reach their child is an indicator of concern more than anything else.

“I don't want to talk to them now,” Jehan says quietly. “I don't – I don't even want to talk about this anymore.”

“I get it,” Grantaire says. Then, “What do you want? Still wine and bad animation?”

Jehan blinks, their eyelashes sticky with tears, and that's probably why the next sentence comes out less harsh than it might under different circumstances. “You never talk about your family.”

Grantaire stills. It's the wine, he's pretty sure. Jehan cares about everything, but they never press for information, and they never overstep. Grantaire has yet to meet anyone more sensitive and tactful than them.

“Jehan, I don't mind telling you about this stuff, but fair warning, literally nothing I could say about my family is going to turn this conversation any brighter.”

“I know,” they whisper. “I don't always need brightness. Do you?”

Grantaire has no answer. Their hands are tucked together between the two of them, and Jehan squeezes Grantaire's fingers.

“I've heard you talk about your mother twice,” they say quietly. “And it just – it always sounded like you loved her, but you're here right now, and you hardly ever mention her.” There's a short pause. Then, in a gentle tone that considerably eases the hardness of the question, Jehan asks, “What happened?”

Grantaire knows his lips must already be blue from the wine, and they feel very dry now. The words are surprisingly light on his tongue, maybe because in a way, it's a relief to have someone know. “She died.”

Jehan's grip on his hand becomes tighter. It might be the weight of seeing Jehan in such a bad place, or the fact that he's never told any of his friends the truth, but he feels tears burn in the corners of his eyes and has to focus very hard on keeping them in. Then, before another word is said, the silence is broken by the chime of Grantaire's phone.

Jehan looks up at him. They both know the few days between Christmas and New Year's aren't really the time where anyone Grantaire knows would just want to casually text him, except for maybe Jehan, who's right here. Jehan picks at Grantaire's woven bracelet, their index finger running over the moon charm. “Come on,” they say softly. “Check it.”

“What? No,” Grantaire grumbles, still a little hazy from his almost-crying just then.

“Did you want to say anything else about it?” Jehan asks. “I'll listen, if you do. But you don't have to, you know. I don't know why I pushed. R, I get drunk so quickly.”

Grantaire can't suppress his smile at that. “You really do. How are you the most composed high person I can think of, and get knocked out of this realm by two sips of wine?”

“Used to the one, less used to the other,” Jehan says, as if that's a perfectly reasonable explanation that requires no further elaboration. “Come on. Look at the text.”

“Probably the phone company. New Year's offer; text your loved ones at midnight for the low price of your soul.”

“I'd take that deal,” Jehan says immediately.

“Proof that you're drunk and sad,” Grantaire replies. “Also, you're always way too on-board with selling your soul anyway. It's disconcerting.”

In response, Jehan moves far more quickly than Grantaire had thought they could in their slightly intoxicated and deeply melancholic state, and snatches Grantaire's phone straight out of his pocket. “Hah.”

Grantaire is too baffled to snatch it back. “I'd be mad, but that was super impressive,” he admits. Jehan gives a weak smile.

“Neat, isn't it? Someone taught me. I could probably steal your beanie off your head without you noticing.”

“Someone taught you?” Grantaire frowns, because even to his sad and only a tiny bit tipsy brain, that evokes a connection he doesn't want to make, but Jehan waves it off and their eyes are already scanning the screen of Grantaire's phone.

“Ohh,” they hum, and for a second, it looks as if that familiar spark is back in their eyes. “Oh, I knew there was something I was forgetting in my misery. You,” Jehan pokes Grantaire's cheek with their little finger, “slept at Apollo's house on Christmas. Hence the bracelet.”

“That... makes it sound very different from what actually happened,” Grantaire says. “Jehan, for the love of everything, don't feel obliged to make this about my pathetic teen drama. Wine and crying was supposed to make you feel better, not cater to me.”

“This is making me feel better,” Jehan insists, wiping their eyes with one hand, the other still at Grantaire's phone, and their eyes still fixed on the screen. “Distract me. What was it like? Does Enjolras own pyjamas? I don't know why I can't imagine that he does. Where exactly did you sleep? ...Was it his bed? Did you have breakfast together?”

“How do you even know about this,” Grantaire murmurs, lacking the energy to phrase it as a question.

“Combeferre,” Jehan says easily, because of course.

“Naturally.” Grantaire groans and tips his head back. “Okay, then. Uh... It was sort of surreal, not necessarily in a bad way, but still awkward as fuck? Enjolras might not own pyjamas, I actually have no idea, but he does own sweatpants. I slept on the couch, which is incidentally also Cosette's bed, which is why it would be super weird to tell Éponine about this. I'm pretty sure if any scenario where I slept in his bed had unfolded, you'd know about it. We did have breakfast; it lasted ten minutes and could have gone worse.”

“Hmm.” Jehan is typing now, and Grantaire is a little late in wondering what exactly they discovered on his phone to make them ask about this.

“Jehan?”

“Huh?”

“...Did Enjolras text?”

That prompts an almost-smile. “Oh, look at you, all invested in your teen drama – that's adorable.”

“That's not funny, we both know me being invested in this is slowly killing me,” Grantaire murmurs. “Did he text?”

Jehan rolls their eyes. “Yes, oh Hyacinth, he texted. Sounds like he's angling for a study date. Is that likely?”

“Shockingly,” Grantaire says, and Jehan winds out of their awkward cuddling position.

“So you're taking the exam?”

“I guess? Thanks again, by the way.”

“And he offered to help you? Have you revised at all so far?”

“A little,” Grantaire shrugs, and it's not even a lie. He's started going over his notes at the prospect of possibly being tutored by Enjolras, because it's bound to be humiliating and embarrassing anyway (not to mention hopelessly ironic: the one reason he even took the class might become the one reason he has a chance at passing it), but he'd like to have a little more than the economic knowledge of a five-year old going into this. “Not really enough, but like, trying to reach semi-acceptable ground-enough.”

“Right”, Jehan says determinedly, erasing what they'd typed so far. “When are you free?”

“You can't be doing this,” Grantaire says, shaking his head and taking his phone back, ignoring Jehan's appalled expression.

“Why not?”

“Because you're clearly capable of witchcraft and I won't have that poor guy hexed into helping me study.” Ever since he got Magloire's reply, he's been wondering how many problems in his life he could fix by letting Jehan handle all of his correspondence. Knowing Jehan, they wouldn't even object, but it's bound to get impractical after a while, and since he's proven to be capable of having a civilised conversation with Enjolras, he can do this, too. Probably. Hopefully.

“If you say so,” Jehan says with a shrug. “Don't come running later.”

Enjolras' text is as unceremonious as expected. Any chance you'll be done with the layout by tomorrow? I'll be at the printers anyway, so if you're done, I could take it then. P.S. Given studying any further thought?

“Who the fuck uses post scriptum in a text,” Grantaire mutters. Jehan rolls their eyes.

“Don't pretend you don't adore it.”

“Oh, please. Pretentious is only cute for so long.” The lie is probably pretty obvious, so he quickly types a reply to distract from that. in celebration of the fact that there's actually a living and breathing creature that has nothing better to do than swing by the printers on new year's eve, i'll send it over tomorrow morning. Then, realising he left out his answer to the P.S. in favour of sass, he adds, re-take date for the exam is the 8^th, i'm p much free any time before then.

Enjolras takes about ten seconds to text back. That's pretty anthropocentric of you. Think of all the mayflies and possibly small rodents that call the printers their home and have no idea it's New Year's.

Grantaire stares at the screen. “Oh my God.” what the actual hell, he types and sends, and then, are you fucking with me?

I resent that accusation. How about Friday for studying? That's the 2^nd.

“Please tell me I didn't miss out on three months of this hilarity because I was being an idiot,” Grantaire says flatly.

“Afraid so,” Jehan says, glancing over his shoulder. “He's really funny sometimes, in that deadpan way. Although I have a feeling that particular brand of sarcasm is something he gets from you.”

Grantaire has to take a second before he can text back. sure whatever, 3 or 4 in the afternoon ok?

4's good. Would you be okay with me coming over? I know it's hard to get here without a car, forgot about that the last time.

if you're ok with studying in an attic. rue henri iv 33, don't ring unless u want a huge ginger cat to tackle u on sight

Thanks for the warning. I'll text.

k. layout tomorrow, see u on friday

Grantaire isn't really confident he hasn't just made a huge mistake, but when he looks to his right, at least Jehan is smiling again. “I'm so proud,” they say, wiping a tear that isn't there. “See, I knew you two could fix things. You're far more capable than you give yourself credit for, R.”

“You literally didn't trust me with my phone five minutes ago.”

“Reverse psychology. Ask Éponine, she'll confirm.”

“I'm sure she will. ...Pizza?”

“Please.”

Jehan stays over, partly because they're too tired and drunk to get home by the time the two of them have finished the pizza and the movie, and partly because they admit that sitting alone in a room full of rejected books might not be the best way of coping with things. They spend the next day mostly on the couch, Grantaire finishes the layout in the morning and uploads it for Enjolras, who he hopes can happily take it to the printers on a holiday now, and Jehan writes. Grantaire hopes it helps.

When Courfeyrac reminds everyone via group chat that he's hosting a New Year's thing at his house and they're all invited, Jehan declines, telling the rest of the group they're still not back and admitting to Grantaire that they don't feel like seeing anyone yet. Grantaire, half because he's flattered not to be included in 'anyone', and half out of pure solidarity, declines as well, and they end up holed up inside Grantaire's room for another night of wine and movies. Right before midnight, they go outside to catch the sparse fireworks of the neighbourhood, and instead catch Gavroche experimenting with a small arsenal of firecrackers. Together, they help the kid make a lot of noise and put on a rather spectacular light show without setting fire to anything he's not supposed to set fire to. Jehan finds an unexpected friend in Gavroche, who compliments them on their sweater (pink with white polka dots, granted, it's adorable) and attentively listens to their stories about the origins of fireworks in China.

Once everything's used up and they're left with nothing but the haze of smoke in the air, Jehan gives Grantaire a hug and doesn't let go for a while.

“Happy New Year, Jehan,” Grantaire says quietly.

“Happy New Year,” they reply. Then, in an even softer voice, “I'm not going to ask about it again, R, but if you ever want to talk about it, you know I'll listen.”

Grantaire says nothing, and Jehan holds on tighter.

“You still have a family, you know.”

Jehan decides to tackle their book problem the next day, and thanks Grantaire for taking them in for those two days. Once Grantaire is alone in his tiny living space again, he realises what a mess they've made of it – there's clothes and empty bottles (wine, soda, water, they didn't really bother cleaning anything out) strewn everywhere, Grantaire's supplies for his project are taking up his entire desk, and the kitchenette is a small nightmare that might just be on the way to forming a new eco system. At the thought of Enjolras coming over tomorrow, Grantaire feels like he may have no other choice but to clean up, which works out as well as could be expected. He mostly ends up throwing away a lot of stuff that's probably still perfectly good but just happens to be in the way, and stuffing everything he can't dispose of into various drawers. By the time he's done, the illusion of cleanliness the room gives off is all sorts of hilarious to him.

The cleaning aside, Grantaire can say not without pride that he only has two minor freak-outs about the fact that Enjolras is going to actually, physically be in his room. Both times, he wants to freak out at someone, because that usually helps, but neither Éponine nor Jehan should have to deal with him right now, so he has to settle for getting all of his art supplies back out of their assigned drawers and dive into work. It's useful, because it gives his hands something to do and his mind something to latch on to, but especially on Friday afternoon, it also serves to make him lose his sense of time. When he looks at his phone and realises he has about twelve minutes get his supplies out of the way and get himself into a semi-acceptable state, it seems like just his luck.

Enjolras is exactly on time. It probably shouldn't be a surprise, but it hits Grantaire unprepared anyway.

I'm there now, the first text from him simply reads. Then, one sent two minutes later, I'll risk the cat-tackle if you don't respond to this.

Grantaire, who had been busy trying to stow his final project away in a safe place without risking its complete destruction, hurries downstairs and finds Enjolras directly outside their door. “Hey,” Grantaire says, awkwardly holding the door. “Sorry for the wait, I was – uh, hiding things.”

Enjolras raises his eyebrows. “Right. I can wait for a little longer if you have evidence to clear away.”

“No, it's fine. I mean, it's art stuff, not like, murder stuff.”

“I see.” Enjolras looks at Grantaire expectantly, and it takes Grantaire a while to realise that he's waiting to be asked inside. That's something he's not used to, sharing a house with Gavroche and Éponine; they'd bulldoze a door down before politely asking to be allowed in.

He steps aside, making way for Enjolras. “Come in. Don't be put off by the stairs; I know they look like it, but they haven't actually killed anyone so far.”

Enjolras frowns at him, not in irritation as much as in confusion, and then makes his way up the narrow staircase. Grantaire closes his eyes and takes a breath before following him upstairs.

“How was your New Year's?” he asks Enjolras once he's caught up with him and ushers him through the door on the left hand side of the corridor. “Did you go to Courf's thing? I heard there were explosions, kind of regret having missed it now.” Cosette updated him on the New Year's situation, because apparently, they've reached that kind of friendship level now. Grantaire isn't going to complain if that means receiving texts that sum up Courfeyrac's misadventures with pyrotechnics.

“Oh, God,” Enjolras shakes his head as he steps inside and doesn't make an effort to conceal his looks around the room. “Don't even ask about that. Every time Courfeyrac hosts anything at all, things catch fire, and no one knows how it works. Bossuet's usually involved, but other than that, I honestly don't have a rational explanation.”

“Yeah, Bossuet's magic like that,” Grantaire says, smiling. “Coat?”

Enjolras hands it to him, still looking around. “How come you didn't go? You were around, weren't you?”

Right. That. Cosette had had the grace not to ask about Grantaire's absence, and before that, he'd just assumed nobody would notice anyway. “Didn't feel like it,” he says with a shrug. “Isn't New Year's sort of pointless, anyway? Like, at some point, the whole new beginnings-deal just gets depressing.”

“I imagine it does, for people who don't think positive change is possible at all,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire shoots him a look. “Honestly, though, I'm not a fan either,” he adds before Grantaire can say anything. “Fireworks do more damage than most people are aware of, and there's a massive rise in drunk driving accidents each New Year's. Which is even more ridiculous when you consider that a calendar's hardly more than an arbitrary system of order that has no influence on—”

“Yeah, I just think resolutions are dumb,” Grantaire says, because he fears he might never stop listening if he doesn't cut this short now. “Do you mind if we study on the couch? I don't have a good excuse, other than the fact that I own exactly one chair, and Éponine's room is like Fort Knox when she's not there, so I can't steal one either, which means we can't use the desk.”

Enjolras sighs. “No, I don't mind. What do you want to start with, anyway? I brought my notes, and I think I remember most questions from the exam, if you'd just like to know what's expecting you and go through that.”

“Actually,” Grantaire says, and is seriously glad that he prepared for this at least a little, “I've got a bunch of questions, uh, like a list of things I don't get? Most theories are fine, it's just stuff to memorise, and I can deal with that, but the applied things are...” He doesn't even have a word for it. He's just catastrophic at that, and this is humiliating enough already.

“It's only logical for it to be hard,” Enjolras says sits down on the couch, going through his bag. “That's what they do to make grading easier. Using questions that apply the theories, that require actual calculation, means they'll only have to check if the final answer is correct. Reading through two hundred essays is more work. Even though, of course, it makes no sense to ask for anything to be applied in a class that mostly deals with macroeconomics anyway, but in favour of bad education, they tend to ignore that.”

“Just what I was about to say,” Grantaire says dryly. “Listen, I think you might be underestimating just how bad I am at this. Again – I'm really, really bad. I suck. Honestly.”

Enjolras frowns. “How about we just start with your questions? If we notice nothing's working out, we can still start over with the basics.”

“Fine. You've been warned, though.”

Enjolras pulls in his legs and crosses them on the couch, his notebook with page after page of that eerie handwriting (he must have colour-coded his notes while revising, because they're pretty much a rainbow of markers in different colours now) in his lap. “Go on. Questions.”

“Right.” Grantaire clears his throat and looks down at his own notebook, where he's managed to scribble down about five bullet points about the stuff that he's really certain he can't get through on his own. “Okay. First thing, uh... IS and LM curves? Like, I know so little about that, I don't even have a question, the whole thing's just sort of a blur?”

Enjolras nods. “Did you get the formula that determines the curves?”

“No.”

“All right. Well, I can promise you that you won't have to establish the formula in the exam, unless Magloire has a serious grudge against you, so we can just see if you can apply it. Okay?”

“Dude. You're a much better judge of this than I am, I swear.”

“Good, then just – let's look at the formula first. Context later, it's actually not as obscure as it seems.”

Grantaire can't remember just how many times he's heard those words before. Mostly from well-meaning teachers, back when they were actually still well-meaning towards him and tried to give him chance after futile chance at improving. Enjolras is the first person he remembers who doesn't say it like an empty phrase, and it's not necessarily encouraging – just because Enjolras is deeply convinced of every single thing that he says doesn't mean he's right – but it certainly says a lot about him.

Enjolras is good at explaining. Grantaire had expected that, and to some extend counted on it, but other than that, he'd had no idea what kind of tutor Enjolras would be. Unsurprisingly, he turns out to be slightly pushy, not very patient (in a good sort of way – Grantaire tends to stall or block when he's frustrated with himself, and Enjolras doesn't put up with that for a second), and above all, annoyingly competent. Grantaire supposes that's something he should have guessed, that the guy just naturally rocks even a subject he thought was a nuisance, because he's Enjolras and apparently, Enjolras is too disciplined, or too hard-working, or just plain too fucking smart to be bad at something he has no interest in.

They get along, though, and that's the real surprise. Grantaire had thought it would be slightly humiliating at least, especially since he hasn't been able to shake the thought that Enjolras is the one helping him with this, which pretty much goes against the whole intention he had behind taking the course; namely, proving Enjolras wrong – but the longer they work, the more he realises that there's none of that between them. It's most likely owed to the fact that Enjolras, of course, has no idea of the additional absurdity of this, but it's still a pleasant surprise.

When it's almost six, they've hardly finished the first of Grantaire's problems, and Grantaire's head is spinning. Enjolras is still completely endorsed in their studying – naturally – but Grantaire has been unfocused for a while and finally gives in. “Break,” he demands, falling against the backrest. “I beg you, this is torture.”

Enjolras frowns, discontent. “It hasn't even been three hours.”

“No,” Grantaire shakes his head, “that's not how you say it, Enjolras. The normal way to say it is, wow, fuck, it's almost been three hours.”

“You're two steps away from getting this, we're not taking a break now.”

“Oh, because you're the boss here?”

Enjolras shrugs. “I'm not. You're free to go get a beer and lose all progress from the past two and a half hours even though you almost have your problem fixed.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Right. Okay, fill me in on the magic last two steps, I'm fucking ecstatic.”

Enjolras glares before turning back to the papers in front of them. “You've got all the points you need to draw the curves, right?”

“...Do I need more than two points?”

“You know that, Grantaire. You've probably known that since sixth grade.”

“I don't.”

“Don't what?”

“Need more than two.”

“That's right.”

“So?”

“So you can draw the curves now.”

Grantaire does. “This took us forever,” he says, slightly disgusted. “And it's literally just two crossing lines.”

Enjolras sighs. “That's what it's supposed to look like. Now, what's their point of intersection?”

Grantaire points at the paper. “It's right there. Are you making jokes again? Because I don't get it.”

“I didn't mean – okay, you're right, that was obvious. I mean what does the point signify? In the context of the theory, not in the mathematical sense.”

“I don't know.”

“Of course you do, we talked about this two minutes ago. The intersection of investment-saving and liquidity preference – money supply signifies...?”

“Simultaneous equilibrium in both markets,” Grantaire says with a groan. “I get it, I've had an economic epiphany, blah blah blah, can we take a break now?”

Enjolras frowns at him. “You know, I have a feeling you could solve most of your problems by not automatically assuming that you're bad at this anyway. You hardly got anything wrong when I asked.”

“Maybe I was so terrified of your fury that my brain dug up the right answers as a defence mechanism,” Grantaire suggests and sighs when Enjolras looks mildly upset. “Right, sorry, not the best joke. You're not actually that scary.”

“Thanks,” Enjolras says flatly.

“Oh come on, don't be like that. I just – this isn't a problem of me being stubborn, or self-deprecating, or anything, I just need to have stuff explained like, three times before I get it. And when I get it, I do. This took us two hours, Enjolras – honestly, it was about time I got something right.”

Enjolras' is still frowning, and something else is mixed in that look, something Grantaire doesn't want to think about.

“So, uh, break? Are you hungry?” he tries instead and gets up.

“Sort of,” Enjolras says, seeming surprised by that. Grantaire can only imagine he sometimes forgets he's human as well – probably understandable.

“Okay, I have – uh, not much actually, sorry,” Grantaire says, surveying the kitchen. “Do you like garlic bread?”

“What do you think?” Enjolras sounds vaguely offended. “I'm not a monster.”

“Right.”

Enjolras has gotten up and is wandering through the small room, completely obvious about his intentions of inspecting it closely. It's freaking Grantaire out only slightly – okay, it's actually pretty fucking terrifying, the way Enjolras picks up random books and papers and spends far too much time examining the pinboard on the wall by Grantaire's desk.

“Anything interesting?” Grantaire finally dares to ask when he's already put the bread in the oven and Enjolras is still looking at the corkboard.

“Lots of things,” Enjolras says with that sincerity Grantaire still isn't used to. “It's a nice place. Very you.”

“Oh, that's the most polite way anyone's ever called me trash,” Grantaire grins and leans against the desk, across from where Enjolras is standing. “I mean, most of the charm of the place is in the complete lack of heating in the bathroom, so you're actually sort of missing out.”

“You know I didn't mean it that way,” Enjolras says. “The collection of different things in here, it's just... interesting. Plants of dubious origins on the windowsill, tiny wooden skulls on the desk... Not the most conventional way of decorating.”

“Dubious plants? You mean that thing over there?” Grantaire points at the window. Enjolras nods, and Grantaire's eyes widen. “You think that's weed?”

Enjolras shrugs. “Isn't it?”

Grantaire is almost too baffled to answer, and is glad when he catches himself. “That is a basil plant. Jehan gave it to me because I like pasta.”

Enjolras stares, and Grantaire stares back for a good ten seconds before he starts laughing.

“Oh my God,” he whispers. “Holy shit, Enjolras. Yeah, that's exactly the kind of thing I'd do – just casually grow weed on my fucking windowsill like nobody's business, because hey, enough sunlight there, plus it never hurts to put that stuff where people can literally see it from the street, never mind the actual eleven year old child that lives in this house – oh man.” His grin is so wide it hurts. “I don't even know what's more hilarious, the fact that you have no idea what marijuana looks like or that you've clearly never seen basil before either.”

Enjolras is thoroughly unimpressed. “You're aware that you're laughing at me when you're the one with a box of miniature skulls on his desk, right?”

“Ah,” Grantaire says, brushing his sleeve over his eyes, slowly regaining his composure. “Ah. Yeah. Sorry, those are the art stuff I didn't have time to hide.”

“You made these?” Enjolras reaches into the small cardboard box containing Grantaire's work for the day – he was actually proud of himself for finishing that many, although considering that he has to hand the project in by Monday, he's still ridiculously far behind.

“I mean, I didn't go to the miniature skull store at the other end of town and just purchase a handful,” Grantaire shrugs. “Actually, I swept like, a bucketful of wood shavings off the desk just before you came; didn't really consider that factor when I took this stuff out of the studio.”

“So that's a real project?” Enjolras doesn't sound disapproving as much as incredulous. “Just – small wooden skulls?”

“You know, I'd be more defensive of this if that wasn't pretty much it,” Grantaire mutters. Then he caves. “Do you want to see the rest? Wasn't going to leave it standing around in case it's too disturbing for, uh, normal people to find in my room, but I guess that's a moot point now. And there's actually sort of a bigger thing behind it. Like, not in the artistic, this-is-super-meaningful-sense, I mean literally.”

“Sure,” Enjolras says critically. “I feel like I need to be convinced.”

Grantaire gives a crooked smile. “If you're looking to be convinced of the relevance of a university art program, you're so, so unlikely to find enlightenment here.” He walks over to his wardrobe, where he, to his dismay, has had to stow the larger outline of his project away. He thought it'd probably freak anyone out, not to mention Enjolras, who has as much interest in art as Grantaire has in – well. Economics, for example.

“Here we go.” He carries the board and everything on it over to the desk and carefully sets it down in front of Enjolras. “Four weeks of work, believe it or not.”

Enjolras looks on for a long enough time for it to become uncomfortable, and then, just as Grantaire is about to dive into a spiel about how this was a horrible idea and Enjolras should probably just go home, Enjolras tears his eyes away. “You're making miniature catacombs?”

Grantaire shrugs helplessly. He doesn't even remember how he came up with the idea, but what it boils down to is that wood turned out to be a pretty restrictive material to work with, and miniatures were sort of the obvious choice. He's spent hours mapping the thing out, simplifying the actual legally accessible catacombs into a small labyrinth that would be possible to recreate on a board, and since then, the project has mostly been nerve-wrecking detail work.

“It's super unfinished,” Grantaire says, scratching the back of his head. “I was actually going to paint it later, but I don't think I'll even have the time now – and obviously, you'd need a bunch of tiny skulls for this, so I'm not even bothering with counting by now, I just make them. If there's spares in the end, I could probably give them to Jehan for like, a bracelet or something.”

“Is it accurate?” Enjolras asks, running a finger along the edge of the walls Grantaire has finished so far. “In scale, I mean?”

“Should be, yeah,” Grantaire nods. “Not everything, because I couldn't have taken the original structure of the tunnels, seeing as they're, like, two hundred miles long, but I broke down the heights of the walls and everything so it wouldn't be completely messed up.”

Enjolras glances at him. “And these?” he says then, touching one of the inscription plates. It's the one at the entry – the one that reads Arrête, c'est ici l'empire de la mort. “Are they actually there?”

“You've never been?” Grantaire asks, surprised when Enjolras shakes his head.

“To Paris, yes. Never the catacombs, though.”

“Ah. Well, they're all there, I couldn't make this shit up,” Grantaire replies and gestures vaguely at the other plates he's finished so far – most of them the names of graveyards for the respective parts, some of them Latin script. Enjolras, disturbingly, takes his time looking at every single one, and Grantaire has given up on trying to read his expressions.

“This one's awful,” he finally says with a frown, pointing at one particular plate. “How did they settle on this? It's not like the place needed to be made any bleaker.”

Grantaire almost laughs when he sees which plate Enjolras means – first of all, because of course the guy reads Latin, and secondly, because... well.

“Actually,” Grantaire clears his throat, “fun fact?” He doesn't have time to think before his fingers slightly tug down the v-neck of his shirt, exposing the fine black script right below his collarbone. He realises only now that no one in the ABC knows about any of his tattoos and that Éponine is the only one who even knows they exist, because it's not really something he flaunts. For good reason, he thinks as Enjolras stares unabashedly, looking terrified for a split second and simply resigned afterwards.

“You didn't honestly get the most depressing line of writing I have ever read tattooed,” he says flatly. “Tell me you didn't.”

“I was an angsty teen,” Grantaire says, although that doesn't nearly begin to cover it. Non metuit mortem qui scit contemnere vitam, the plate reads, as does his tattoo. He who knows to despise life does not fear death.

“That doesn't seem like teen angst to me,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire shrugs it off.

“Wasn't in the best place when I got it. No regrets, though. Once you're sufficiently fucked up and twist the thought around enough, it can be sort of an uplifting idea, y'know?”

“I don't,” Enjolras says, shaking his head for emphasis. “I really don't.”

“Oh well,” Grantaire says, and realises that he forgot to let go of the edges of the neckline until now. “It's already been established that we don't exactly share philosophies, so...”

“I think I underestimated how deep that difference ran,” Enjolras says, and his indignation is hard to miss. “That was important enough for you to permanently have on your body? That's your mantra?”

“What can I say? We can't all be bright and beautiful, in case that's never occurred to you before,” Grantaire says, in a sharper tone than he intends. “You're gonna tell me off for not being particularly enthusiastic about life now? Because I don't say this a lot, but that's an argument I'd win.”

Enjolras opens his mouth, and then stops. “The garlic bread,” he reminds Grantaire in a voice that lacks any inflection. Grantaire frowns, but there's not much he can do but yield and walk back around to the oven. He's quiet while he slices the bread, although he feels Enjolras' eyes on him, and he can feel the fire in his gaze as heat on his skin.

“Come on,” he says with a weak nod towards the couch, which is really the only place they can eat. They sit back down, and Enjolras, admirably, keeps up his intense gaze even as he eats. After two slices of bread, Enjolras is the one to break the silence.

“Why are you here?”

Grantaire blinks. “You mean, on the planet in general, or like, in this particular house...?”

“No – I was just wondering. You used to live in Paris. You seem attached to it.” He points at the desk where Grantaire's project is suddenly looking very ominous even to Grantaire. “Leaving the capital in favour of a small town in the middle of nowhere, that's... unusual.”

Grantaire decides not to waste his time wondering why Enjolras would even care about that – who gets the guy anyway – and shrugs. “I didn't leave Paris to come here, I left Nîmes. Moved there from Paris before I even finished school, for uh, family reasons? And then, well. Going from Nîmes, lame city in the south, to a lame city in the north to go study – it's not all that absurd, is it?”

“Couldn't you have gone back?” Enjolras says. “To Paris. Go back and study there?”

Grantaire laughs. “No, I really, really couldn't.” There's a lot of reasons for that, but Enjolras is probably best left with the least personal one. “See, there's people who probably have the financial means to take their pick of universities–” he gestures at Enjolras, “and there's people who don't. I was lucky I found a place that had low enough rents to house me at all, or I would've needed to take out a loan. Plus, I sort of had this thing where I wanted to get as far from Nîmes as possible, so I just headed for the furthest thing I could afford.” 

Enjolras does it again, the thing where he doesn't reply verbally and just looks. It's profoundly disturbing every time.

“What about you?” Grantaire says. Enjolras narrows his eyes. “Hey, you ask me random personal questions, so can I. It's only fair.”

“I don't mind. I'm just not sure what you're asking.”

“Well, for one, why you decided not to move away to study. Like, it makes sense for some people not to do that, and I mean, it's their business, but you just – I don't know. You don't really strike me as the type.” He pauses. “That, and I'm pretty sure you drool a little bit every time you hear or say the word Paris.” It's true. Not literally, but Enjolras' face always momentarily lights up when the city is so much as mentioned. Grantaire can't even remember the first time he noticed it.

“I love Paris,” Enjolras says earnestly. “It's not a secret. If it had ever been an option, I'd have moved there in an instant.”

“But it wasn't?”

“Not really,” he says. “Moving away wasn't on the table when I graduated. No one would have wanted to keep me from doing it, but I didn't think of it as a possibility.”

Grantaire frowns. “Why not? Even the grandes écoles must have wanted you.”

Enjolras doesn't even deny it. “If I'd moved, I'd have been the only one of my friends to leave. Ferre was always going to stay home to look after his mother, we all knew that way before we graduated, and Courfeyrac made up tons of excuses, but it was obvious that he just wasn't going to go anywhere that Combeferre wasn't. Cosette was two years below us, I'd have left before she'd even graduated...” He trails off. “So, going away was out of the question. And it's not like it's impossible to invoke change from here, I knew that. There's the ABC, of course, and the community is one of the more active ones as far as rallies and protests go. There's one later this month, actually.”

“Oh? What are you demonstrating against? ...For?”

Enjolras sighs. “It's in support of the victims of the renewed rise of xenophobia in Europe. France, in particular, of course, but there's been worrying developments in Germany and Italy as well.”

Grantaire figures it's best to say nothing. He doesn't feel like arguing, and the fact that a 500 man demonstration in a French small town is going to do jack for the end of xenophobia in Europe isn't the most interesting topic up for grabs, anyway.

“I keep forgetting you three all went to school together,” he says instead, with a grin. “The terrible trio. Did teachers hate you? I bet they hated you.”

“Mostly, they hated Courf and me,” Enjolras admits. “Why Combeferre was friends with either of us was sort of a mystery to the entire staff. Which, in retrospect, isn't completely fair, because he was as bad as us, he was just so subtle about it that hardly anyone noticed.”

“Sounds like him,” Grantaire agrees. “What was Combeferre even like as a kid? Like, as an eight-year old or something? I honest to God can't imagine him without those old man jumpers.”

Enjolras smiles a little. “You'd be surprised, actually. When we were little, about primary school age, everyone considered him the unruly one. He was always coming home with muddy shoes, climbing on every single tree that looked remotely climbable... He wanted to become an explorer. You know, the kind that carries around a butterfly net in a rainforest?”

“That's amazing,” Grantaire says, meaning it. He's tentative about the next question, but curiosity wins. “What about you? Were you set on saving the world as a kid as well?”

“Not exactly,” Enjolras says. “I wanted to be a priest.”

Grantaire chokes on his bread. Just as Enjolras is starting to look concerned, he stops coughing enough to wring out a “Seriously?”

Enjolras shrugs. “I think it was an early gay thing, or an ace thing. I only really understood what that was about when I got older, but as a kid, all I knew was that catholic priests had to take a vow of celibacy, so I sort of thought being a priest, or a monk, for that matter, was the only socially acceptable way to, uh. Never be with anyone... like that. Especially not someone female.”

It's the most casual and simultaneously the most awkward way anyone has ever come out to Grantaire, and it throws him off enough to actually delay his response. Enjolras has arched an eyebrow, probably waiting for the backlash, but Grantaire manages to catch himself.

“Wow. You know what, I honestly never considered that before.”

“What exactly?” Enjolras asks warily.

“Y'know – priests, monks, et cetera; it makes so much sense. Imagine how many ace monks in history even became monks because they were like, hey, might as well just go with it, not much to miss anyway.”

Some of the tension in Enjolras' posture bleeds away. “Courfeyrac had a similar idea once,” he says. “He's convinced that, historically, people attracted to the same sex were more likely to be found in monasteries than anywhere else, because, and this is a direct quote, 'isn't it pretty much paradise for them?'”

“I can see that,” Grantaire nods. “Just tons of ace and gay monks, they'll take their vows like, I shall never know the touch of a woman, what a tragedy—”

Enjolras clears his throat. “I mean, technically—”

“I know, I know, the distinction to celibacy is important and I'm super aware of it. Promise.”

“I was going to say that they're sacred vows and we really shouldn't be talking about it like that, but good point.”

“Tell that to Courfeyrac,” Grantaire grins. “What did he want to be, anyway? As a kid?”

“A wizard, I think.”

“Oh my God.”

Without either of them noticing, the study break stretches as Grantaire asks questions and Enjolras tells stories. Enjolras seems to be genuinely losing himself in it a little; meanwhile, Grantaire prefers this to studying and is glad they've somehow been able to turn the mood around. When they start studying again, it's almost eight, and Grantaire's ability to focus has gone down accordingly. They work more slowly now, and as Enjolras seems to be getting more tired as well, he becomes less feverish in his impatience.

“Do you think you've got it now?” He taps the top of his own notebook to direct Grantaire's attention to the formula there.

“I guess?”

“All right.” Enjolras covers the formula with one hand and languidly swipes back his hair with the other. “Go ahead.”

Grantaire closes his eyes. “That was... Balanced budget government spending equation?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, hang on... ugh. Delta y equals... delta G times one, and delta y equals delta T times one?”

“Delta T signifies?”

“Change in aggregate rates?”

“Right. Delta G?”

“Change in government spendings.”

Enjolras nods. “All right, well done. That's – question number four finished, I think.” He tilts his head a little, the joints in his neck cracking, and Grantaire suddenly feels terribly guilty about this. After all, the poor guy is only here because of Grantaire's failure at, well, pretty much everything, and now he's been sitting on a (super uncomfortable, let's be real) couch for half a night and is probably in desperate need of, what, a back massage? Grantaire is a second away from offering one when something among the strewn-out papers on the cushions between them catches Enjolras' eye. “Were you going to take Ancient History, originally?” he asks, and Grantaire follows his gaze to – ah.

He should really have printed his class schedule out again once he'd adjusted it properly, but printing isn't cheap and he knew where his econ class took place, anyway. There hadn't really been a need to even cross out Ancient History on the timetable, because it was so blatantly obvious that the class wasn't happening anyway. Of course, there's not really a believable lie he can come up with on the spot, and Enjolras can probably put two and two together, especially seeing as the timetable that doesn't mention econ at all is lying right in front of him.

“Yeah,” Grantaire says, trying not to come across as helpless as he feels. “Had a, uh, fallout with the professor, though, so that didn't happen.”

“I can almost imagine how that went down,” Enjolras says with a slightly bitter smile. “The man embodies everything that's wrong with higher education in this country.”

In his surprise, Grantaire doesn't point out the extreme dramatics of that last sentence. “You know Javert?”

“Oh, you could say that,” Enjolras says and huffs a laugh. “He led the hate campaign that ended the university's affiliation with the ABC. Javert threatened to sue us; don't give me that look, trust me, I wish I was joking. Sedition, I think, was his charge.”

“Wow,” Grantaire frowns. “I mean. He seemed like a dick, but, like – what did he think, you'd have a crazed mob bring down the government by publishing a paper?”

Enjolras scoffs. “Joke's on him. We're still there, and things are going better than ever for us, so in the end, if he wanted to add fuel to the flame, he certainly succeeded.”

“Strong metaphor,” Grantaire grins. “Not megalomaniac at all.”

Enjolras just shrugs. “What was your problem with him?”

It's probably lucky that Enjolras asks that question just as he raises his hand to tuck a stray curl behind his ear, because if he hadn't, Grantaire wouldn't have been too thrown off by what he spotted on Enjolras' wrist to give a reply, and that could only have ended badly. Like this, Grantaire doesn't answer, but stares at the red and golden threads of Enjolras' bracelet – or, much rather than those, the small silver sun charm that's dangling from them. Grantaire gazes, forgetting the question completely, and thinks back to Cosette and what she'd said about his charm. It didn't take long to pick yours, it just jumped at me.

Instinctively, Grantaire pulls his left sleeve over his hand, even though the bracelet was already covered before, and he's not sure why he would be hiding it anyway.

“Grantaire?”

He snaps out of it. “Present,” he says, and curses himself inwardly for being so obvious about his moment of confusion. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

Enjolras opens his mouth, but a loud knock at the door swallows up whatever he was about to say. Grantaire looks over at the door, and Enjolras glances at his watch, frowning.

“It's ten thirty,” he notes, intelligently.

Grantaire nods slowly, but any warning of what's probably about to happen is rendered pointless when Gavroche pushes the door open and marches straight in. He's in his pyjamas and leaves a wet trail on Grantaire's floor as he walks over to the couch.

“Gav?” Grantaire is already mildly panicking, and has to try really hard not to let it show. “What's up?”

“Hi. Not much,” Gavroche says, unabashedly examining Enjolras. “That was fast, man,” he says to Grantaire once he's looked his fill. “What happened to the one with the funny shirt? I liked him better.”

Grantaire stares. “I – what?”

Gavroche sighs, like Grantaire is testing his patience with his slowness. “Whatever. So, the reason I'm here.” He gestures to his feet and the hems of his pyjama pants that are completely soaked. “I flooded our kitchen, and Ponine's not home, so you need to fix it.”

He doesn't even put it as a request – it's an order, which, out of the mouth of an eleven-year-old, is almost scary. Grantaire glances at Enjolras. “Okay?” Enjolras looks back at him, both eyebrows raised, and Grantaire shrugs, clueless. “We'll, uh. We'll be right down?”

Chapter Text

There's one thing Grantaire absolutely has to hand to Gavroche: the kid always cuts to the heart of the matter. When he says he flooded the kitchen, then you can bet that's exactly what happened, no more and no less. Grantaire, in spite of this, had hoped the description wouldn't be as literal as it turns out to be.

“Wow,” is all he can think to say when they stand at the kitchen door, the puddle of soapy water creeping forward and threatening to invade the hallway as well. “Fuck.”

He feels Enjolras nudge him, probably reprimanding for the swear word, and Grantaire has to bite his lip to keep in a smile. Little he knows.

“So, how did this happen?” Enjolras asks, glancing down at Gavroche who looks comically tiny next to him. Enjolras has been far too relaxed about this entire situation, only shrugging and walking after them when Grantaire asked if he wanted to wait upstairs, and deflecting most of Gavroche's deeply belligerent comments with an artfulness that Grantaire has never mastered.

“It just did,” Gavroche says. “I was hungry, and there weren't any clean pots, so I opened that thing,” he points to the dishwasher, “and it just turned into this soapy fountain. I didn't even do anything.”

Grantaire exchanges a look with Enjolras. He's understood the situation well enough not to ask after the kid's mother, but the question in his eyes is still obvious. There's some reproach, even.

“Okay,” Grantaire breathes. “Let's just – uh, I guess we should make a dam before this thing spreads too far.”

“A dam.”

Grantaire turns to Enjolras. “Yeah, a dam. With like, towels or something? I mean, unless you know a good place to find sandbags?”

Enjolras doesn't look convinced, but Grantaire can't worry about that right now. What he worries about isn't the fact that his landlady's kid flooded the kitchen, either, it's that he flooded the kitchen because he was hungry. He was hungry at half past ten at night and his mother is nowhere to be found.

“Just wait here,” he murmurs. “I'm getting towels.” He turns on his heel and finds the bathroom, ignoring the hammering in his chest, because he can't make room in his mind for panic right now. He piles half the towels he can find in the bathroom closet on his arms and takes about ten seconds to close his eyes and breathe before he walks out again.

When he gets back to the kitchen, Gavroche is standing in the doorway with a wide grin, and next to him on the ground, to Grantaire's horror, are Enjolras' shoes and socks.

“I was just thinking,” Enjolras says from where he's standing in the middle of the kitchen with bare feet and his trouser legs rolled up over his ankles, “a dam might be about to become a necessity here.”

Grantaire is speechless, still taking it in and looking from Gavroche and his happy smile at seeing Enjolras debased like this to Enjolras who's facing down the dishwasher with a critical frown.

“What do you mean?” he finally manages to ask, kneeling down by the doorway to roll up towels and stack them up, pressed as tightly as possible to prevent the water from taking over the entire apartment.

“There's still more water coming out,” Enjolras says, crouching slightly to get a better look at the open dishwasher. The water is leaking out of the crack where the open door meets the bottom of the counter, and Enjolras looks frustrated at his own inability to stop it. “Before you ask, closing the door doesn't help.”

“Oh, doesn't it?” Grantaire mutters. “And here I thought we'd fix it all by closing the door.” Enjolras shoots him a look, and Grantaire sighs. “Sorry. Hang on.”

He kicks off his own shoes and toes off his socks to awkwardly step over the small towel barricade he's created and wades through the water to Enjolras.

“Ponine knows how to fix it, you know,” Gavroche calls from his safe place behind the towel dam. “Thought you would, too, but looks like that was my mistake.”

Grantaire doesn't know why, but he only remembers now that Gavroche is actually standing there waiting on them while wearing wet socks and ruined pyjama pants. “Shit, you'll catch your death like that,” he says and stalks back to him, careful not to slip. “You need to take those socks off, kid, and get new pyjamas. Think you can manage that?”

Gavroche glares, actually glares, and for a split second, Grantaire is reminded of Éponine. “Don't be stupid. I'm eleven, not four.”

“Then go on, get some dry clothes,” he orders and Gavroche scurries away, frustrated at missing some of what has to be a pretty neat spectacle for him. “Oh, and put on fluffy socks,” Grantaire calls after him. “If you plan to stick around instead of going to bed like any other fifth grader should this time of night, at least.”

“What do you think,” Gavroche yells back from his room at the end of the hall and Grantaire takes another deep breath before turning back to Enjolras.

“You didn't have to, uh.” He glances to where Enjolras neatly placed his shoes next to one another and stuck his socks in. “Come along for this. Or wade into the mess, for that matter.”

Enjolras gives him an odd look. “Of course I did. I wasn't going to sit around up there twiddling my thumbs and let you deal with this.”

“Because we're so on top of things right now,” Grantaire says, and he knows now's anything but the time for sharp words, but he's in over his head with this and snapping is just the logical consequence.

“Well, do you know how to fix a dishwasher?” Enjolras asks, still half leaning on the open door as water continues to run out and spill on the floor before them. “Because I'll admit, it's a little much to ask of me. Not that I need to remind you, but I had never seen basil before tonight.”

“All right, snark-master,” Grantaire says, fishing for his phone. “I'm calling Éponine.”

Enjolras continues his futile attempts at understanding the dishwasher, twisting random hooks and trying to at least find the source of the water, as Grantaire dials. Gavroche shows up again, sitting on the carpet in the hallway with a gleeful grin. It looks more natural on him than the glare from earlier, and Grantaire feels unreasonably relieved.

“Someone better be fucking dying,” Éponine greets him after the third ring. “I have to be up at four tomorrow, R, so I don't think I have to elaborate on what body parts you're going to have to say goodbye to if there isn't a good reason for this.”

“Good to hear from you, too, beloved roommate, how were your holidays,” Grantaire says and Enjolras looks at him pointedly, as if there was a chance in hell Grantaire could actually be out to make small talk right now. “Listen, I'm sorry, Ép, but Gavroche sort of implied that you're the only one with a solution to the, uh, minor problem we're having here.”

All the anger fades from Éponine's words in an instant. “What happened?” she asks, her voice tense. “Fuck, I knew something was going to be up – and of course, I just had to leave anyway, like a complete fucking idiot—”

“Woah,” Grantaire says, “no, it's nothing like – it's nothing terrible, okay? Breathe.”

“Is he okay?” Éponine asks, rather than taking his advice.

“What, Gavroche?” Grantaire looks over at him. “Yeah, happy as a clam, just, uh. Hungry and about to lose his home to a dishwasher-caused flood.”

“God.” Éponine huffs audibly. “The dishwasher? Fuck you, R, you scared the hell out of me.”

“Sorry.”

“Yeah, you'd better be.” She pauses, seeming to collect herself. “Okay,” she says then. “Was it the same as always? You open the thing, and everything goes to shit?”

“From what I've heard, yeah,” Grantaire says. “And it's sort of not really... stopping?”

“Yeah, I figured you'd just clean up the mess and leave me in peace otherwise,” Éponine says flatly. “The glitch this thing is that most dishwashers have this mechanism that shuts them off the second they're opened while they're running, right? And this one doesn't, because it's like, a thousand years old. The solution to that is to just not open it, which I've told Gav about ten times already.”

“Right, uh, how is this supposed to be helping, exactly?”

“Context, asshole,” Éponine snaps. “I can hang up any time, you know.”

“Sorry,” he says, subdued. “We depend upon your wisdom.”
“Better,” she says. “So what you want is to get the flow to stop, right? Switching it off doesn't work, obviously, I'll just assume you've already tried that out by now—”

“I think I just did something right,” Enjolras announces from pretty much the inside of the dishwasher, because he's half crawled into it by now and is fiddling with a clasp beneath the lower dish rack.

Éponine has fallen silent on the other end. “R,” she says after a few seconds, her voice low, “is there something you'd like to tell me?”

Grantaire closes his eyes. As if this can't get any more disastrous. “Some other time, okay? Now is sort of a bad moment to—”

“Seriously,” Enjolras says, “it's gotten less, I think.”

Grantaire looks to their feet, where the gushing water seems to have been reduced to an insistent trickle. “It has,” he says, puzzled. “What did you do?”

“Why is he even there,” Éponine says on the other end, and Enjolras shrugs.

“I'm not entirely sure? There was a white screw cap and I unfastened it—”

“Hand Prince Charming the phone, R,” Éponine demands in a stern voice and Grantaire is too baffled to do anything but obey.

Enjolras takes it, wiping his hand on his sleeve first, which Grantaire winces at – Enjolras' shirt has suffered in his journey to the bottom of the dishwasher, he's barefoot on flooded kitchen-tiles, and it's all Grantaire's fault.

There's no way of telling what Éponine is saying, because Enjolras hardly replies anything other than “Yes” and occasionally nonsensical things like “The red one?” or “There's a white knob there, but no latch.” Grantaire can do little other than stand by and let it happen, which, in all honesty, is stressful enough, or so he thinks, until Enjolras gestures for him to crouch down next to him.

“Hang on a second,” he says to Éponine and looks at Grantaire. “You need to hold the dish rack, Éponine says I'll need both hands for this.”

“Right –” Grantaire remembers something as he reaches for the contraption that, comically, is still holding an entire assortment of plates and pots. “You can't put her on speaker, that phone's four years old and speaker hasn't worked in two.”

“Hm.” Enjolras frowns a little. “Can you hold it up to my ear with one hand and hold the dish rack with the other?”

It takes everything out of Grantaire not to say what he thinks, which is no, no, I can't, I definitely can't hold my fucking phone up to your ear and simultaneously play twister with you on a completely flooded kitchen floor, and just silently replace Enjolras' hand on the phone with his own instead, holding it steady.

“Thanks,” Enjolras says, face twisted in concentration as he puts both hands into the dishwasher again, his arms squeezed under the dish rack Grantaire is already struggling to hold up after ten seconds. He has to focus on not dropping it on Enjolras completely, and he's not sure why they didn't bother to take out the dishes before they started this entire operation, but at least the searing pain in his arm distracts him from how close they are, how he can register every single huff of frustration Enjolras lets out, every minute tug of a smile at his lips when something works out, the way the muscles in his neck work as he struggles to move his head as little as possible so Grantaire won't have to follow the movements with the phone. At some point, Grantaire is pretty sure he can Gavroche snicker behind them, which, he supposes, is all sorts of understandable.

By the time Enjolras finally makes a triumphant little sound and announces that he's “got it,” Grantaire can't feel his right arm anymore and is half convinced he's passed out on the couch and only been dreaming the past twenty minutes, but water has finally stopped.

“No, I think it's okay now,” Enjolras says to Éponine, his fingers brushing Grantaire's as he takes the phone back. “Thanks for your help.” Then he goes silent, and Grantaire reaches out a hand, expecting to be handed the phone, but instead, something comes over Enjolras' expression as he listens to Éponine. Grantaire doesn't dare move.

“Right,” Enjolras says after a while, his brow in deep furrows. “Understood.”

Then he hangs up.

“She, uh. Didn't want to talk to me again?” Grantaire says carefully, and Enjolras shakes his head, his look somewhere between puzzled and scrutinising.

“She sounded more eager to get back to sleep,” he says, refusing to acknowledge the obvious strangeness of the past ten seconds. He hands Grantaire his phone and they stay like that, crouched in front of the no-longer-leaking dishwasher, for an odd moment until Gavroche pipes up.

“So, are we getting the floor dry or what?”

“Right,” Grantaire says, fighting the urge to slap himself in the face to get his proper senses back. “Let's do that.”

It's not as big a task as it seemed at first, mopping up the excess of water on the tiles and then going over it with towels until everything seems a reasonable degree of dry again. Enjolras is the one who ends up doing most of the mop-work, because by now it's after eleven and Gavroche still hasn't had the dinner he was originally after, so Grantaire sets about making spaghetti, still barefoot, as Enjolras dries the kitchen floor without question or protest.

Grantaire wonders if he's done wrong by him. Not so much in accepting his help, but far more in the assumption that Enjolras would consider it an inconvenience to be asked for it. Enjolras has had his moments of stand-offishness, even elitism, in the past, but thinking about it closely, he's been nowhere as cool and distanced as Grantaire often catches himself assuming – or going so far, a few times, as saying out loud, with Enjolras in earshot. It's even worse when he remembers the way Enjolras spelled out his priorities earlier that evening: friends first, saving the world second, everything else trailing pitifully behind both. Grantaire can't imagine where Enjolras would place his own needs on a scale like that.

Wallowing in his guilt, Grantaire is so distracted he ends up making enough spaghetti to feed a small army.

“Normally I'd say this is a problem, but you eat like a horse,” he says to Gavroche who's peering over the counter as Grantaire drains the pasta. “Seriously, though. Don't eat all of this, you'll die and Éponine's going to send me to my early grave right after.”

“Who's dying?” Enjolras asks, coming back into the kitchen from drying off his feet and getting his shoes and socks back on.

“All of us, should this kid here try to eat a kilo of pasta by himself,” Grantaire says, scratching the back of his head. “You wouldn't happen to be hungry again?”

“I can share, if you are,” Gavroche offers, surprisingly merciful.

“Oh?” Enjolras smiles a little, which almost knocks Grantaire off his feet. “A gesture of good will?”

“Pah.” Gavroche determinedly takes the pot of drained pasta from Grantaire's hands and carries it over to the table. “Fair payment. You fixed the washer.”

“Actually, I'd really like to eat, just—” He looks at Grantaire, slightly embarrassed. “Is there any chance I could borrow a shirt or something? I'd wait for this one to dry, but it's – well. Sort of uncomfortable.”

“Shit, sorry, sure you can,” Grantaire says before he realises that it's a terrible idea. Leaving Enjolras in the shirt that's sticking to his body at the wet patches on his chest and arms is still a worse one. “Let's just, uh.” He flees into the hallway, Enjolras in tow. “You can probably go ahead and grab anything from my closet that looks like it fits,” he says, handing Enjolras the key even though he's not sure he even bothered to lock up. “I'd come with you, it's just – I feel like someone should stay down here.”

Enjolras nods and takes the key from him, thoughtfully chewing on his bottom lip. “Does that happen a lot?” he asks quietly. “That his mother's away overnight?”

“She always comes home at some point during the night, I think,” Grantaire says. “Ép or I normally come down to watch Gavroche; I don't know why she didn't bother to ask me this time.” Or if it's possible that she's only been asking them a fraction of all times anyway. The thought has been gnawing at him.

“Do you know anything more about this?” Enjolras asks, and Grantaire is infinitely grateful about the lack of reproach in his voice. “None of this seems right, he's only eleven, she shouldn't be away that much at all.”

“I know,” Grantaire says in a strained voice, “I know, just – can we talk about this later? He still hasn't eaten, you're still—” He waves vaguely at Enjolras.

“Sure,” Enjolras says, with only slight reluctance. He pushes open the front door. “I'll just be a minute.”

“Make sure to grab something clean,” Grantaire says, defeated, and slumps back against the wall as soon as the door shuts.

Grantaire is quite certain that Gavroche notices the tension of the situation, but he doesn't seem to care. He's laid the table in Grantaire's absence – three plates, Grantaire notices – and is already squeezing half a gallon of ketchup on his own spaghetti.

“Seriously?” Grantaire asks, sliding onto a vacant chair. “I chopped tomatoes and everything, and this is what you go for?”

“Ketchup's tomatoes,” Gavroche comments and piles grated cheese on top. Grantaire pulls a face.

“You have no taste for the finer things, kid.”

“Oh, screw the finger things,” Gavroche says through a mouthful of spaghetti.

Grantaire bites back the comment that he's constantly trying to do just that.

“Hey, are you making another issue of G&C?” Gavroche asks, tapping the well-read booklet that's on the bench next to him, along with a stack of newspapers. “I've read the first one twenty times, and it was already lame the second time when I already knew how it ended.”

“Why go for eighteen more times, then?” Grantaire grins and Gavroche kicks his shin under the table.

“I just want more stories. You didn't even explain what happens to the wolf girl, you need to do another one.”

G&C had been the result of an entire week of red-eyed nights for Grantaire. He'd wanted to give Gavroche something for Christmas and only realised at a very late point in time that his budget for December was already quite strained through all the other Christmas presents (calligraphy pens for Jehan, a Jurassic Park boxset for Joly, a knit-your-own-beanie kit for Bossuet, the list went on), so he regressed to crafty gifts for Éponine and Gavroche. Éponine had called him a terrible sap for making her a beaded bracelet, and Gavroche had exploded with excitement about the tragically short, self-made graphic novel Grantaire presented him with. It featured Gavroche and Curie as the heroes of a medieval world, living as outlaws in the forest and protecting the settlement in secret, always on the lookout for the arm of the law. Faerie magic and shrinking potions might be involved.

“Did you like her? I based her on someone.”

Gavroche squints. “She's not going to like that, you know. Ponine hates being drawn.”

“She just says she does,” Grantaire says. “She loves it, but she doesn't want anyone to know.”

This, he's sure of. Éponine has a habit of demanding every single sketch he makes of her, “to burn in a sacrifice to the Gods of the Arts so they may grant you some more talent,” and then keeping them safely hidden away in her top desk drawer. He's also caught her looking his way when he was sketching and then pretending not to have seen while at the same time quite obviously holding her pose to make his work easier. They've never talked about it, but she hasn't pronounced an official decree forbidding him to use her as a model. That aside, no comic book for Gavroche could be truly complete without her in there somewhere. He'd made her the mysterious, secret protector that never actually meets the heroes face to face and disappears into darkness in the last panel.

“Well, I'm showing her when she gets home,” Gavroche says, still not bothering to swallow before he speaks. “If she doesn't like it, you'll probably pay.”

“That's a risk I have to take as an artist.” He reaches out. “Let me see?”

“You made it,” Gavroche frowns, but hands it over. “Shouldn't you know what it looks like?”

Grantaire should, but he'd only gotten one copy printed and bound, and hadn't had the time to go through it after. He leafs through it briefly, wincing at some of the illustrations now. Given the time frame he'd had, the colouring was done roughly and almost neglectful at times, and he hadn't bothered to fix some anatomy mistakes either. “What was I thinking,” he murmurs, shaking his head.

“Oh, don't start that now,” Gavroche says impatiently, grabbing the book. “It's mine, you just lost the privilege of touching it.”

“I'm wounded,” Grantaire grins. “Seriously, though, you're getting a sequel, and it's going to look a lot better than this and you get to wish on something that's going to be in it.”

Gavroche's eyes widen. “Anything?”

“Just one thing,” Grantaire restricts as he's seized by a vision of him struggling to squeeze in aliens, werewolves and Godzilla all at once. “But with that one; hell, go wild.”

“I don't think you understand what you just did,” Gavroche informs him nonchalantly.

The kitchen door opens, then, and reveals Enjolras wearing one of Grantaire's hoodies that's hopelessly too wide on him – it's loose on Grantaire as well, and his shoulders are broader than Enjolras'. It also happens to be one that Grantaire's rather fond of, a particularly soft, grey one with fleece lining. Grantaire has literally never wasted a thought on what effect seeing Enjolras in his clothes might have on him before, but even if he had, he's not sure it could have remotely prepared him for this. Swallowing around the lump in his throat, he nods towards the last set on the table.

“Kept a place for you.”

“Thanks,” Enjolras says, taking his seat opposite Grantaire. “Is this okay?” he asks and tugs at the hem of the hoodie. “I just took the one with the longest sleeves.”

“Sure,” Grantaire nods, realising only now that he spent an hour earlier today trying to make the closet contain the mess of his room, only to ask Enjolras to go through his closet later that night. Irony doesn't even seem to describe it anymore. “Help yourself to this stuff, there's... well. Plenty.”

He still doesn't really feel like eating, but he's infinitely grateful when Enjolras decides to go with olive oil and tomatoes rather than ketchup.

“If you could put anything into a comic book, what would it be?” Gavroche says while chewing, his eyes on Enjolras.

“I'm not sure,” Enjolras says, frowning a little. “What would it be for you?”

“Kss, that's not the point, I'm asking for your input here. I've got an entire list of things.” Gavroche nudges the booklet towards Enjolras before Grantaire can protest. “See this? I can add anything to the story, but just one thing.”

Enjolras glances at Grantaire before examining the booklet. “'R'?” he reads, one finger at the author's name below the title, and looks back at him. “Did you make this?”

It's one of those times where Grantaire wishes he was the kind of person who could send a quick prayer up to the heavens and actually feel better about their current predicament afterwards. Needless to say, he isn't. He nods and decides to go for digression. “The printers even gave me a discount because they thought it was an ABC thing,” he says. “Guess I've been dropping off layouts often enough for them to remember the face.”

As Enjolras skims the booklet, his brow in deep furrows, Grantaire slowly accepts that death by embarrassment is probably imminent and starts to shovel spaghetti onto his own plate, if only to distract himself.

“Is that Éponine?” Enjolras asks, pointing at a panel of the mysterious wolf girl mid-fight. Grantaire shrugs helplessly.

“She'd make a really good woodlander?”

Enjolras holds his gaze for a long time, and just as Grantaire is sure that his heart is about to jump out of his chest, he lowers it again.

“So?” Gavroche says impatiently. “You still haven't answered.”

Enjolras hands the booklet back to him. “Because I'm still not sure,” he says. “Although, in that particular story, I suppose I'd add an evil king.” He gives an easy shrug. “You know, to kill.”

“Oh my God,” Grantaire blurts out, but Gavroche doesn't seem put off.

“Could have done worse,” he judges mercifully, most likely mentally adding the evil king to kill to his list.

“I can't believe you're trying to indoctrinate small children, Enjolras,” Grantaire says. “That's a new low.”

“I don't think anyone actually has the means to indoctrinate him,” Enjolras replies without denying the intention. Grantaire knows that to be true, so he goes back to eating his pasta in silence.

He notices that Gavroche gets drowsy pretty quickly, which isn't much of a surprise after he's been up for that long and eaten a pound of pasta in five minutes. “You want to go to bed, kid? It's past midnight.”

“I don't want to,” Gavroche says with a determined shake of his head. “I've stayed up longer than this, I'm not even tired.”

“Oh, you're not? That's great, I wanted some help with the dishes anyway.”

Gavroche pulls a face. “Fine. You're the worst, though.” He slips off the bench and gives Enjolras a look before he walks out. “You could probably do better than him, just so you know. Even with your face and stuff.”

Enjolras opens his mouth, but Gavroche is out and has closed the door behind him. Grantaire shuts his eyes for a second, letting the shame wash over him, and then gets up to collect Gavroche's dishes.

“Does he think we're dating?”

Grantaire is glad to have his back turned to get the plate in the sink. “Sorry about that,” he says, trying to keep whatever he's feeling out of his voice. “He assumes a lot of stuff. I'll set it straight next time I see him.”

Enjolras doesn't say anything. There's no point in already cleaning Gavroche's dishes now, when Grantaire and Enjolras haven't even eaten up, but Grantaire really, really doesn't want to go back to the table, so he waits as the sink fills with water.

“Does he – why would he just assume, though?” Enjolras sounds so hesitant it's actually, physically painful to listen to. “Does he know about – I mean, if there's anything to know at all, you don't have to tell me, but – he's only eleven.”

“You'd be surprised by the lack of heteronormativity in some eleven-year-olds,” Grantaire says flatly. “Fuck, I've no idea how he knows stuff. Éponine could have said something, maybe I got cocky when he asked me about girlfriends and I don't remember; I don't know. I said I'd set it straight, don't lose any sleep over that, okay?”

“That's not what I meant,” Enjolras says quickly. “I didn't mean—” He sucks in a breath. “I'll shut up now. I apologise.”

Enjolras-Apology. “Nevermind. Don't worry about it,” Grantaire murmurs, leaving the plate in the sink, assuming it's probably safe to return to the table.

“So,” Enjolras says carefully when Grantaire sits down again. “What's the situation, exactly? With his mother?”

“She's gone a lot, he says she's working, she comes back sort of in the small hours in the morning. I don't know what she does; never found out. This...” He sighs. “This doesn't normally happen. It's the first time he explicitly mentioned being hungry, and as far as I know, the first time that something happened because she wasn't there. I'm just not sure if it looks that way to me because I'm missing things.”

“Is that likely?”

“I don't think so.” He's not as sure about it as he sounds. “If there was something I didn't notice, Éponine would have. And she – I don't know what it is, but she'd sooner die than let something happen to the kid, so maybe it's just...” Maybe it's just Éponine, he thinks. Maybe he's never noticed something was wrong because as long as Éponine is there, things work out. “I have to talk to her,” he says. “She's coming back tomorrow, I'll talk to her then.”

Home, Gavroche had said. Grantaire doesn't know how he only notices now. I'm showing her when she gets home. And isn't Éponine supposed to be home right now, with her sister and her parents?

Enjolras is watching him. “And for tonight?” he asks.

Grantaire is actually still debating options for tonight. “I mean, he didn't set anything on fire or like, lose two fingers trying to chop onions. It's not like he isn't safe. “ He sighs, knowing he'll end up sleeping on their couch anyway. “At least he knew when to ask for help.”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, his eyes still on Grantaire, and Grantaire is beginning to wonder if the concern there is all for Gavroche.

They both finish their pasta and do the dishes, mainly in silence. Grantaire makes sure the light in Gavroche's room is off before they head back upstairs, careful not to make any noise. Enjolras packs up his things, then, and Grantaire awkwardly stands by and tries not to notice how small Enjolras' body seems to get under the too-large hoodie, how his eyelids are drooping a little and how soft and utterly human he looks. It's not working too well, the not noticing.

Enjolras slings the strap of his bag over his shoulder, finally, after having shrugged on his coat. “Do you want to meet again before the exam?” he asks, tentative. “Just to go over the rest, maybe try some more example calculations?”

“You don't have to,” Grantaire says before he can stop himself. “You don't – today was already sort of too much. You don't have to, uh, be all saviour-y on this. I mean, in the messiah sense, not the – the rémoulade sense.” Shut up, shut up, shut up.

“I don't mind,” Enjolras says, frowning when he sees how Grantaire rolls his eyes. “I don't. You shouldn't think that you're inconveniencing me, you're not.”

“Enjolras—”

“No.” Grantaire startles at how genuinely aggravated Enjolras sounds. His eyes are tired, but no less sincere than ever. “If I can help, I want to. It's as simple as that.”

Grantaire just stares.

“So will you let me?”

“Yes,” Grantaire says, admitting defeat. He has a feeling he might not have had a choice – as if he could ever say no to that voice. As if he could ever want to. “If you want.”

“I really do.”

“Fine.”

Enjolras looks down at his shoes now. They always have that strange moment of limbo when they say goodbye, because Enjolras, accustomed to his friends' closeness as he is, tends to give hugs as a goodbye, and Grantaire normally goes for whatever gesture seems most fitting – handshakes for Bahorel, kisses on the cheek for Jehan. Around each other, they don't quite know what to do, as if all conventions of social interaction are escaping their memory for the moment.

“Good night, Enjolras,” Grantaire supplies helpfully, and Enjolras nods, giving him an odd look.

“Good night.”

“Thanks for your help. Not saying sorry, in case that'd make you bite my head off.”

Enjolras gives a weak smile; a rare gift. “Good choice. ...Take care, Grantaire.”

“You too.”

It's not until he hears him drive off that Grantaire realises Enjolras has forgotten his own shirt, discarded, by the side of Grantaire's bed.

The shirt is ominous. Grantaire realises that when it spends three whole days in his room, looming and serving as a constant reminder of their forced shirt-exchange. Luckily, with their break being over, there's enough distractions to go around.

Éponine is back, pretending she was never gone and demanding explanations. “I talked blondie through repairing a dishwasher on the phone, and I don't know what you saw, but from what I had to tell him, he is not a skilled handyman. By right, I think you owe me some details.”

“Ugh,” Grantaire says into a pillow. He was taking a nap on the couch – that is, he'd accidentally fallen asleep while reading – when she came in. “That was nothing. There aren't any details. I mean. We're friends now, I guess?”

Éponine makes a face. “Friends? Can you handle that?”

“Excuse me? Why wouldn't I? You've been handling exactly that for what, three months?”

“No offence,” she says, “but I'm a lot tougher than you.”

“Ts.”

“Oh, don't pout, you know it's true.” She shifts on his couch, kicking her legs over the armrest. “Seriously, though. Are you dealing okay? I won't see you pining ten times the usual over this guy because you're getting too close to him.”

“No need to worry,” he says flatly. “I mean, even if that does happen; well, R's hopelessly gone, what else is new, you know? You'd hardly notice.”

Éponine dodges the subject of Gavroche. Not even particularly artfully; she just bristles as soon as he mentions it and replies curtly. “I'm not going away again,” she says, her jaw set. “I've got this, I'll talk to Magnon. Don't think about it, R. It's not your problem to agonise over.”

It's all he gets out of her.

She's not the only one who comes back, though – everyone else is trickling in in time for a new semester, while Grantaire still isn't sure where the first one went. It's not technically over yet, and he still has an exam to prepare for, but looking back on the past few months feels unreal to him.

The others don't leave him much time to think about it. JBM insist on celebrating being back from the break (as they insist on celebrating most things – winter solstice, Douglas Adams' birthday; Grantaire is terrified at the mere thought of Bastille Day), and he meets Enjolras again twice before the exam. Once on Monday, and they give each other their shirts back then, which is only slightly awkward in the middle of Copains where more than one person regards them with a knowing look. Enjolras has washed the hoodie, and Grantaire wonders how creepy and terrible he is for slightly regretting that. The second time is the Wednesday right before the retake date, and even though Grantaire fought tooth and nail to convince him that meeting again wasn't necessary, Enjolras insisted. With Grantaire's own lack of motivation, Enjolras' enthusiasm is nice to be around, like something you sit near to keep warm. Enjolras makes the slightest attempt at a motivational speech Wednesday night before he leaves, ticking off the entire you're really well-prepared and I'm sure you'll do well so please be confident in your abilities- routine. Grantaire would react better to it if it wasn't so overwhelming, but he manages to keep his sarcasm to a minimum.

He texts Enjolras right after the exam, wondering by what giant cosmic joke this became their thing somehow, the one thing in his life he can think of that Enjolras might be interested in having an update on, something for them to get closer over. If any more people actually knew the truth about the whole situation, Grantaire would never hear the end of it – Éponine's constant derision is already hard to bear.

it is finished, he texts. there's even a chance i didn't completely fuck up? thanks more times than i can say etc. Enjolras seems to have been waiting for an update. Glad to hear it went well, although I knew it would. I'm still convinced you hardly needed my help for anything aside from all the nagging. A second text follows, For that you're welcome, though.

Grantaire shakes his head at his phone. are you implying that it's theoretically possible to substitute u with some sort of ass-kicking machine bc i won't stand for that kind of self-deprecation

Not exactly what I meant, but it sounds like a worthwhile hypothesis to pursue. Mention it to Joly some time, he could love to come up with an experiment to test it.

not another word if you're going to be that unreasonable. i don't say thank you a lot and you're rly failing to value it

I'm wallowing in your thankfulness, Grantaire.

i'll ignore the obvious sarcasm here and just go on w/ my day now ok

Fine. I meant it too, though. Well done.

If Grantaire saves a screenshot of that conversation, it's not for anyone to know.

A week passes, and ABC meetings resume in an unsteady rhythm. They still meet Friday nights, and the only real change is that Éponine seems to have developed a habit of swinging by whenever she's not singing, which Grantaire is happy to embrace and even happier to watch Enjolras squirm over. She's not one of the editors, and Enjolras tends to be quite particular about the “only ABC staff” rule, but he also doesn't seem to dare tell her off.

She's not there today; Friday being one of the music days. The meeting is about to come to an end, but Grantaire has stopped paying attention a while ago, his focus instead settling on Jehan, who seems fidgety and uncomfortable in a way they never normally do.

“You okay?”

He nudges Jehan with his knee, and Jehan, in turn, immediately grabs his hand and squeezes it tightly. Their palm is sweaty, and the fingers on their free hand are visibly shaking.

“Yes.”

Grantaire's look darts around, but no one else seems to have noticed anything. “Do you need to leave? I'll make something up for the others.”

“No,” Jehan shakes their head adamantly, “I just – I'm sorry.”

“What for?” He tries to sound calm, but Jehan has been upset lately, and it's not only upsetting Grantaire, but also possibly the order of the universe. Grantaire doesn't know the pain they're going through, but he can see it. Courfeyrac was talking about a campaign for gender neutral restrooms on campus earlier, which seems to have had a bad effect on Jehan.

“I was just thinking,” Jehan says softly, “I told you all this, and now you have to make a split all the time trying not to out me and be respectful at the same time. I shouldn't have put you in a situation like that. I'm sorry, R.”

“Jehan.” Grantaire struggles to keep his voice appropriately quiet. “No. Come on, this isn't – you don't have to do right by anyone, we should be doing right by you, I should be doing that.”

“I'd rather decide that for myself, thank you,” Jehan says, the hint of an unhappy smile on their lips. “I do want to come out to the rest of them. I know I have nothing to worry about, I just... I don't think I've got the right words yet. And they're important, the right words.”

Grantaire squeezes their hand. “I know.”

“Did you read the poem I sent you a link to?” They squeeze Grantaire's fingers. “It has exactly the right words for you.”

“Not yet.”

“Thief, crook, cynic,” Jehan quotes in a soft hum. “You beautiful anarchist; I salute thee.”

Grantaire smiles. “I'll read it.”

“I think I might write letters,” Jehan says. “For telling the others. It's easier than talking.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Grantaire?” Grantaire looks up. Enjolras isn't really very different to him in the meetings, but then, most of his other friends aren't too disruptive. He probably doesn't have a friend-protocol for people being nuisances while he's being important. “Something you'd like to share?”

He sighs, telling himself decidedly that Enjolras has helped him a lot and does not deserve being eye-rolled at. “Nothing, Professor.”

“Right.” Enjolras stops narrowing his eyes at him. “There's only two more points left that I'd like to address, anyway, one of which isn't technically related to the ABC. I'd like to start with the one that is, though.” He taps the calendar in front of him with the back of his pen. “The Fondane considerations.” He looks up as if what he just said should ring a bell with everyone in here. “As most of you know, we've signed up for consideration for the past years, and we've been successful, too. Last year, Feuilly was awarded with a prize for his photo series in the previous September issue – which we should be more than thankful for, considering that the additional funding he won us kept us afloat during the separation from the university last summer.”

Grantaire figures that interrupting is part of the routine anyway. “Sorry. Who's Fondane?”

Enjolras gives him an incredulous look, apparently rendered speechless by Grantaire's ignorance.

“Oh, you can just look him up,” Courfeyrac steps in. “He was awesome, but that's not the point. The Fondane Prize is a whole thing for student papers, they can sign up for consideration and then there's awards for like, best photo series, best column, most notable editorial...”

“So, ABC Oscars,” Grantaire concludes.

“Yes,” Joly says, grabbing Musichetta's forearm randomly in excitement. “They have a ceremony and everything, it's great, and if any of us wins, they get to go.”

Grantaire frowns. “Exciting.”

“Save the sarcasm,” Bahorel chides. “Whatever we win brings money, and since you've been eating up half our budget...”

“Wow,” Grantaire cocks his head. “Low blow. Where's the love, Bahorel?”

“Stop it, both of you,” Enjolras says simply. “Bahorel, the budget isn't yours to complain about, and any other comments on Grantaire being paid will get you kicked out for tonight. Grantaire, try not to derail a point I'm making for once, if only for five minutes. With any luck, we'll be done by then. Understood?”

Bahorel does so grudgingly, but they both nod. It's hard not to.

“All right. My only question, as it is every year, is if anyone objects to the paper being signed up for consideration. All categories, in case you're curious, can be seen online, but the most important thing to know is that the ABC would be signed up as a whole, meaning that if you contributed, your work will be up for consideration, too. Are there objections to this?”

Silence.

“The ABC is being signed up for consideration; all in favour?”

Everyone raises their hands, and Enjolras makes a point of visibly checking that part off his list.

“Right. That concludes the actual ABC business – as I've mentioned, there's something else I'd like to talk about, but if you've been dying for a beer, you're officially free to get one now.”

Grantaire might be imagining Enjolras' eyes resting on his as he says that last part, but he stays in his seat as a silent protest anyway. Well, it's the protest thing and the fact that he still has Jehan's hand in his, which doesn't seem like something either of them is quite ready to give up.

Courfeyrac and Feuilly get drinks for everyone without bothering to ask if anyone wants them, so the protest element falls away after all. Enjolras is the only one still left with his glass of water when he resumes speaking.

“The last thing I'd like to address concerns the oncoming demonstration – this isn't something that directly connects to the ABC, but seeing as some of us are close to the organisers and we'll have two people speaking at the rally, I'm going to mention it here.”

“Who's speaking?” Grantaire asks Jehan in a whisper.

“Courfeyrac and Chetta, I think,” they whisper back. “Do you know if you'll be there yet?”

Grantaire opens his mouth, but Enjolras' sharp look in his direction shuts him up.

“There's some disconcerting news we'd like to share with all of you, but they're not mine to tell. Bahorel?”

“Present.” Bahorel gives a quick wave and looks around, making sure he has everyone's attention. “So. As far as the planning goes, the rally is supposed to be happening on the 24^th, yeah? Next Saturday. I'd have let everyone know sooner if I'd known, but I only heard about it yesterday, so I have to make my announcement now.” He clears his throat for no reason besides dramatic effect. “You probably know that it's going to be one of the larger things, so more of a three thousand than five hundred people thing, which, in itself, is neat; only we rely on people from other places to join us if we want to live up to the way it's been advertised. And for all we know, their willingness isn't what we have to worry about – if they can, they'll show up. However, rumour has it there's a group of people, ah, kids, really, planning to sabotage the train lines leading here from Arras.”

If he was waiting for scandalised gasps, they don't come. Partly, that may be because it's not new information to everyone: Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Enjolras, Cosette, Musichetta and obviously Bahorel seem to have known, Feuilly doesn't seem particularly surprised either, and Grantaire can't imagine Joly and Bossuet weren't aware of something Musichetta had already been informed of.

“Now, we don't know how serious these rumours can be taken,” Combeferre reminds all of them. “Bahorel has a good track record with them, that we do know, and if there is an actual danger of this happening, we need to be aware that this kind of sabotage is considered a form of direct action and therefore a politically motivated crime.”

“So go to the police,” Grantaire says with a frown. “Seriously – I get why Bahorel would know about this, but like, why bother with it here? Did I miss the part in my contract where I was signing up to an actual alliance of vigilantes?”

“We've been to the police,” Courfeyrac says, “and we've talked to the organisers. The organisers believe in letting things happen as they do, which is understandable given their own situations, and the police gave us a pretty straightforward brush-off saying that a rumour was impossible to base an investigation on. So in short – we have Bahorel's radar, which tends to be right about stuff, but nothing more.”

“So all we need is more information,” Jehan assumes. “Who was it you talked to, 'Rel? They might know more than they told you at first, or know others who do.”

“Oh, that guy's long gone,” Bahorel gives a dismissive wave. “Sketchy dude who wanted to sell me something, and we ended up talking. He didn't have names, not even a particular place for me to look – I've been asking around, but no luck so far.”

“Maybe you're asking in the wrong places,” Bossuet says. “No offence, but you might not really be criminal enough to get through to the places where this kind of stuff is actually brewing up. Obviously, the guy you talked to was a middleman, probably also between legal and, y'know, not.”

“Well, what do you want me to do?” Bahorel has a pointed sip of his beer. “You need me to pose as a gangster, hell, I'm game, but I'd need some pointers on where to start.”

“No, that's not happening,” Combeferre says. “It would be helpful to have more information, yes, but if we do choose to acquire it – which we don't have to – the process isn't going to involve you going undercover in a gang, Bahorel.”

Bahorel pouts, making no attempt at hiding his disappointment.

“There have to be other ways,” Feuilly says, one comforting hand on Bahorel's shoulder. “Honestly, you don't have to be evil to know a lot of things, just sneaky and street-wise.”

“Actually,” Grantaire says, “I might have an idea.”

Enjolras, who has been listening to the argument unfold with his eyes on his notebook, looks up.

“Oh!” Courfeyrac tugs on Combeferre's sleeve. “If he's secretly part of an underground cage fighting ring, you owe me money.”

“What? ” Grantaire looks over at them, puzzled. “Come on, Courf. Of all the things to bet on?”

Courfeyrac just shrugs.

“Anyway. Hate to disappoint, but that's – that's so not it. No, I meant to say, none of us are really enough of a criminal to get that kind of information because, you know, no viable access to the underworld. I know about someone who has, though.”

The only one who seems to be keeping up is Bahorel. “You mean your roommate's friends?” He considers that. “I mean, they're sort of bad, but they're not that kind of bad, you know? I'm imagining proper skinheads behind this one. The Patron-Minette isn't political, they don't really care about anything other than making trouble. Well, trouble and money.”

“Hey, I'm just spitballing,” Grantaire says. “From all I know about one of these guys, if something is going on in the tiny underworld of this town, he can find out about it.”

Looks are exchanged, and there's everything there from doubtful to optimistic.

“He's right,” Jehan says, after some silence. “Assuming you're talking about Montparnasse?”

Again, in blissful denial, Grantaire had forgotten about Jehan's connection to them. Of course. “Yeah,” he says, trying to find any indication in Jehan's eyes about whether or not he just made a terrible mistake in suggesting that. “I mean, you'll probably know better than me—”

“He'll know about it,” Jehan says confidently. “I'm sure. If he doesn't know, he can find out.”

Grantaire shifts a little. It might come in handy for the others right now, but Jehan's confidence in this is kind of unnerving. Grantaire has met Montparnasse once, and it was... well. Adventurous would be one word.

“Who are we talking about here?” Combeferre asks critically. “Part of reliability is always the matter of how trustworthy someone is.”

“It's just someone from this – uh – gang... thing?”

“Oh, Patron-Minette is a pretty familiar term here,” Courfeyrac waves. “They steal things sometimes, one of them broke into the lycée once and took nothing but the entire contents of the kiosk, ended up being my idol for months.”

“Montparnasse can help,” Jehan says in a hesitant voice, “I'm just not sure he will. If he agrees to, we can rely on him, but he might ask for something in return. And I'm not sure how to contact him.”

“Éponine knows,” Grantaire says. “That's not going to be the biggest problem.”

“Aren't we getting ahead of ourselves?” Feuilly says carefully. “He might be a source of information, but wasn't the entire idea to not get involved with criminals while preventing a crime?”

“Well, we weren't about to send Bahorel to his inevitable early grave in a gang war, yes,” Grantaire argues, “but this isn't the same.”

“Isn't it?” Bossuet looks doubtful, too. “This is going to require some amount of trust, and he is a thief, after all.”

“I say we do it.”

All eyes are on Cosette suddenly, her words silencing every other side-discussion that had been held in hushed voices. Cosette can easily make herself invisible when she wants to, and today, she seems to have chosen to, until now.

“Cosette,” Bossuet says, grimacing. “Shit, I'm so sorry. I suck. Fate's likely to punish me, but you're welcome to kick my ass, too, if you want.”

Grantaire blinks, still not sure what just happened.

“It's fine,” she says mildly, reaching over the table to pat Bossuet's hand. “Don't worry. I just – I think we have to keep in mind what's important here. I don't think every thief in the world is an innocent who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, contrary to popular belief, but at the end of the day, we have a problem, and there might be a solution to it within our reach. And shouldn't that be worth the risk?”

Silence again.

“It should,” Enjolras says then. “I agree.”

“We can ask Éponine for her opinion first, if that's going to help,” Cosette suggests. “Her we can trust completely, and she'll know what our chances are and how to get in touch with him.”

Enjolras looks around. “All in favour?”

This time, it's unanimous.

“No way,” Éponine says firmly once she's come up after finishing her set and heard their suggestion. “You realise what you're doing right now, yeah? Condescending to ask the poor girl for help from her criminal friends?”

“I like to think of it as asking a friend for help,” Courfeyrac says. He seems more excited about all the sinister involvement ahead than the rest. “Seriously. You know no one here thinks of you that way.”

“Don't tell me what I think,” Éponine snaps, stealing Courfeyrac's beer and exchanging it for her own cup of peppermint tea. “Do you even know what you're in for here?”

“Not really, that's why we're asking you,” Enjolras admits. “Do you think there's a chance he might help us?”

“Depends on what you're offering,” Éponine says easily, shooting a glare at Grantaire. “I can't believe this is what you asked me here for.”

“Sorry?”

“Too late, Judas.”

“What sort of payment are we talking about?” Combeferre asks. “Is it money, or—”

“I honest to God wouldn't know. He could want a favour, he could want five hundred euros, he could want a voucher from you,” she nods at Joly, “to sew up a leg some time, I don't know. I mean, I can promise that if you do have something he wants, or if he happens to have a grudge against petty fascists, you can probably rely on him, but... that's pretty much it.”

“That's the best we could hope for,” Enjolras says earnestly. “We weren't expecting anything more.”

“Just to be clear about this, though,” Combeferre says, “there's things we're not going to give if he asks for them. Joly, you're not sewing up any legs. We're not touching the ABC budget – if he wants money, we can talk about how to acquire it, but not if anyone objects.”

“There's still a chance he's not going to ask for anything,” Jehan says, and Éponine gives them an odd look.

“Are you going to ask him personally? Because in that case, all bets are off.”

“Are we missing something here?” Bahorel says, quirking an eyebrow.

“No,” Jehan says quickly. “Just – I know him a little, and I'm one of you, so maybe if I just talk to him, he'll come around.”

“I'd rather we all talked to him,” Enjolras says. “It does concern all of us, and as Combeferre said, in case he asks for something, we have to agree on it.”

“For fuck's sake,” Éponine groans. “I don't have forever, and if your democracy's going to take much longer to work out than ten minutes, you won't get to talk to him at all. I can order him here, Jehan can talk to him, and if he says yes, you all can. If he says no, he's gone. It's that simple.”

Enjolras looks around for objections, but none come. “Okay.”

“Fine,” Éponine says, “then I'm calling him.”

“Now?” Marius squeaks; he obviously had hoped to put off any meeting with the ominous guy forever.

“Yes, now,” Éponine gives him an amused look. “Unless you think justice can wait.”

Marius says nothing, and Éponine leaves the room with her phone to her ear.

“He's coming here,” she announces when she walks back in two minutes later. “Fifteen minutes, give or take. Hope you're happy.”

“Thank you so much, Ponine,” Cosette says sincerely, standing next to her to press her hand. “Your help means a lot.”

Only someone who was as familiar with Éponine as Grantaire would see the blush on her cheeks – he notices, even when her answer is cool.

“Yeah, well,” she mutters, “don't thank me 'till you've talked to him.”

Montparnasse arrives when Éponine has already gone downstairs again and is now returning with him. Grantaire wants to take a panorama picture of the room the second they walk in – silence falls as all eyes fix on them. Grantaire can see some jaws drop, and it's so amusing he wants to take out a sketchbook then and there. Of course, he could have seen this coming if he'd given it some thought; the others who'd never seen him before might have been expecting Montparnasse to be a lot of things, but probably not one of the most gorgeous people they'd ever laid eyes on. The existential journey they each seem to go through as they realise that criminals can be very hot is comedy gold – next to Cosette, Marius seems to question his entire existence, Courfeyrac is openly gaping, and Musichetta is suddenly very interested in the coaster in front of her.

It's understandable, of course. Grantaire knows he would be pulling a Courfeyrac if he was seeing Montparnasse for the first time right now, because he actually looks better than the first time Grantaire met him. He could have jumped straight off the centrefold of a men's fashion magazine, with his impeccable style and terrible, terrible cheekbones. There's something of a mischievous spark in his eyes, mild amusement as he surveys the room, but beyond it, there's this coolness that Grantaire remembers finding unsettling about him. He has a dangerous sort of charisma, like he might smile and compliment your choice of cologne one second and stab you in the jugular in the next.

Montparnasse decides to skip the introduction completely. “So,” he says, his eyes settling on Enjolras, who's the only one standing up and level with him. They look like a photography project come to life standing opposite each other, light and dark in juxtaposition. “I hear you've got something to ask of me.”

There's such a sense of superiority dripping from the words, Grantaire almost thinks Enjolras will kick him straight out – God forbid someone with a similarly large ego walk in and start stealing the thunder. Enjolras looks calm, though. “We do,” he says. “Have you heard anything about a group of people planning to sabotage railway traffic in the near future?”

“Ease me into it, why don't you,” Montparnasse says with a curl of his lip. “Well, I might have. Why should I tell you?”

Before Enjolras can reply, Grantaire feels Jehan's hand slip out of his and they stand up. “Because we're asking.”

Montparnasse's eyes flick over and Grantaire isn't sure he's imagining what happens as they find Jehan. The cold in his look falls away in an instant, the assumed aloofness bleeds into something else, his entire disposition seems to shift. “Jehan,” he says, with the edge gone from his voice and suddenly replaced by gentleness. “I didn't know you'd be here.”

Éponine rolls her eyes, effectively breaking the softness of the moment, something that everyone else seemed just as baffled by as Grantaire. “Right,” she says. “I'll be downstairs.”

“Well, I am,” Jehan says, not shyly, but there's a flush on their cheeks that nobody misses. “It's good to see you.”

“I thought I wasn't going to see you again at all,” Montparnasse says, walking to stand a little closer. “You left so early last time – I hadn't even made a halfway decent thief out of you.”

“Still not the career I'm aiming for, I'm afraid,” Jehan says with a small smile. “Not that I'm ungrateful for the instruction. It's come in handy.”

Montparnasse smiles, genuinely smiles back, and Grantaire decides right then that he's never going to assume he's seen it all again. “I'm glad to hear it.”

Jehan moves around the table and gently takes Montparnasse by the wrist. “Come,” they say softly. “Let's go talk.”

It's completely silent as they leave, and stays that way for several seconds after they've turned the corner. Bahorel is the first to speak again.

“What the fuck.”

“You know, I'm still not entirely sure what we just witnessed, but bringing up Montparnasse might have accidentally been the most romantic thing I've ever done,” Grantaire frowns. “Joly, give me your drink.” Joly doesn't, but Bossuet complies. Grantaire downs it.

“R, I think you might legitimately be Cupid,” Cosette says, in awe. “That was adorable.”

“But – little Jehan!” Courfeyrac has stopped gaping and looks genuinely distressed now. “Adorable; he's a criminal, Cosette! I mean – Montparnasse is all – he's this – did you see his jacket?”

“I know,” Bossuet says ruefully. “I could never pull off leather like that.”

“Hey,” Bahorel shrugs, “at least can be pretty sure we're getting his help now, right? Ow!” Feuilly has flicked his ear. “What was that for?”

“Ruining the romance with your business-like demeanour,” Cosette chimes in. “You're doing God's work, Feuilly.”

“Always happy to help.”

Combeferre and Enjolras are talking in hushed voices, and Grantaire can't help but wonder if they're discussing the ethics of this situation. Or they might be concocting a battle plan for when they actually have the information, how to run every single person involved down and hold a private sermon on inherent human rights in front of them.

The soft chatter that has broken out ever since everyone regained their composure stops when Jehan and Montparnasse walk back in, Jehan softly touching Montparnasse's fingers with theirs before they take their seat next to Grantaire again. Montparnasse assumes his earlier posture within a second, defiant and proud.

“Okay,” he says, looking at Enjolras again. It's a terrifying transformation, seeing him like this again after he pretty much melted into a puddle of affection not ten minutes earlier. “Tell me what you need.”

“You agree to help us?” Enjolras asks, which earns him a snarl.

“Why else would I still be here? Give me specifics to find out, I'll find them out, I'll get the information to you by next week. That's the most you'll get.”

“That's enough,” Enjolras says, looking around in the group, checking for objections. “We'll need the names,” he says when none come. “Names, if possible, and the exact place they're planning to go, a railway station or something in between—”

“A time, too, if that's possible,” Combeferre says. “If you can get time and location, names won't be necessary, but of course, having everything would be best.”

“Fine,” Montparnasse says simply. “That's all?”

Enjolras has a look around again; here or there someone gives a shrug. “Yes,” he says with a decisive nod. “That's all.”

“All right. You'll be hearing from me, then.” Montparnasse takes a step back, letting his gaze wander one last time before it lands on Jehan. He smiles again, just slightly. “See you around, little poet.”

With that, he turns and leaves, gone swiftly enough to leave them all to wonder whether they might actually have been dealing with a ghost.

Chapter Text

Magloire lets Grantaire know he's passed the exam on Monday morning, and by Wednesday, Enjolras still doesn't know. Grantaire doesn't feel like telling him, although he can't quite say why. He has, since talking to Éponine, spent an unreasonable amount of time questioning his own answers to her – he told Éponine, Jehan, and especially himself, a hundred times that being friends with Enjolras was really more than he could have hoped for and that he was fine with things as they were now, but the longer it lasts, the less he believes himself.

He thinks that it only comes to him slowly because the changes between them are so small. Enjolras, who has no idea of personal space with any of his friends, never used to give him as much as a clap on the shoulder, never touched him at all, and he doesn't do it now, but that's only because Grantaire goes out of his way to avoid it. He doesn't even notice he's doing it at first; always taking care to leave some distance between their hands and shoulders when they were still studying together, then making some effort to sit far from Enjolras at the meetings. It becomes a pattern, though, too obvious to himself to ignore, and he begins to think that yeah – Éponine probably had a point. It's blatantly clear to him by Wednesday morning, when he wakes up feeling strangely unenthusiastic about pretty much everything, including tonight's meeting, and that's sort of all the indication he needs.

Hung up on his newly acquired feeling of dejection, Grantaire almost doesn't go to the meeting. In fact, he was completely set on not going, because it's not an ABC meeting anyway, it's just a “Montparnasse has handed over the information and we're going to talk about rally stuff” meeting, which is why Grantaire should probably consider it an honour to be even invited, but he figures since he's allowed to miss it this time, he might as well seize the opportunity.

When he's already settled on the couch with cereal and his laptop, there's a knock on his door. Grantaire frowns. “It's open,” he says, too dumbfounded to consider the fact that he's in sweatpants and a ratty t-shirt and has no idea who's about to walk in. The surprise doesn't end when he sees the mysterious visitor walk in, accompanied by Curie. “Cosette?”

She smiles widely, and Grantaire could swear the room lights up. “Hello,” she says, her hands tucked deep into the pockets of her coat. “I hope you don't mind me barging in like this; Ponine mentioned you might be in need of company, and since she has to, quote, 'sing to live', I thought I'd stop by.”

“Uh. Okay?”

Cosette cocks her head. “If you don't feel like having someone here, I honestly don't mind,” she says. She's one of the few people Grantaire can think of who actually manage to make stuff like that sound sincere.

“No, that's – hell, I'm thrilled to see you—” He gets up, only to find that he doesn't really know what to do with himself that way either. “Just – shouldn't you be at the meeting?”

“Oh,” she waves a hand. “The meeting. They can do without me.” She closes the door behind herself, taking his answer as a sign that she's okay to stay.

“Can they, though?” Grantaire says. “Someone needs to be the voice of reason.”

“Well, there's always Combeferre for that. No worries,” she says, walking around his room like she's having a pleasant stroll in the park. “Your cat's lovely, by the way.”

“Curie?” Grantaire looks over to her, the way she's (probably purposefully) rolling around on his bed just to get it full of hair and piss him off. “Oh, she's not mine. And she's not lovely. No one says that.”

“But she is! Your landlady left me in, and the little one saw me and said hi and followed me right upstairs.”

“Cosette, that honestly never happens. She hates strangers, took me two weeks to get in her good graces.” He shakes his head. “You're an actual Disney princess, aren't you?”

Cosette laughs and does an impromptu twirl, the flaps of her coat swinging. “I might be! Which one would suit me?”

“You tell me,” Grantaire shrugs. “Tiana?”

“I want to say yes,” Cosette sighs. “More of an Ariel type, though, I think. In the end.”

“Hmm.”

“So what are we doing?” she asks. “Talk, watch a movie, eat ice cream? I'm pretty much up for anything.”

“Uh.” Grantaire is still baffled by how self-evidently all of this is happening. “What did Éponine tell you, exactly?”

Cosette looks a little more serious, a small line appearing between her eyebrows as she frowns. “She just said you weren't having the best day, so you weren't going to come to the meeting. And that it might help you to have someone there. R, if you'd rather be alone—”

“No,” he says, shaking his head with a weak smile. “It's just... man. Éponine, you know?”

“I do,” Cosette says with a gentle smile. Grantaire is grateful for that, it looks a lot more natural on her than the frown. “She cares about you a lot.”

That's not just it, though. Éponine hadn't only predicted that he wasn't going to handle this friends thing for long, she was also sending someone to hold his hand even though he'd hardly said anything to her that day. “Yeah, well,” Grantaire mutters. “I've no idea why. Sometimes I feel like she knows me better than I do.”

“I think she makes everyone feel that way,” Cosette says. “She has such an insight to people, she absolutely picked the right thing to study. It's a little intimidating sometimes, I'll admit.”

Grantaire awkwardly sits back down on the couch, gesturing for Cosette to do the same. Talking about Éponine is good. It's a distraction, and maybe he can try and get Cosette's side on their – friendship? Whatever it is. “I have a feeling she'd say the same thing about you,” he says. “It's a close call. If you ever got, like, offices in the same town, you'd constantly be out-therapist-ing each other.”

“Does she want to work in therapy with her degree?” Cosette asks, drawing in her legs to sit cross-legged.

“I actually don't know,” Grantaire admits, almost ashamed of himself. Éponine doesn't talk about her motivations behind studying, but that might just be because Grantaire never asked. “What else do people do with psychology?”

“There's always research,” Cosette says. “Although that might not be for her. Too jejune, too...” She makes a vague hand gesture, but Grantaire understands.

“Yeah,” he says. “She'd need more action than that.”

“I've always wondered what brought her here, you know?” Cosette muses. “Here of all places. I just feel like she belongs somewhere that's less rural, less boring. The South! Marseille or Nice. I never asked her, but she has to have a really special reason for being here.”

Grantaire laughs a little at the irony of Cosette talking about Éponine the way he talks about Enjolras. He doesn't know if it means anything. He's not sure he wants to know. “She'd probably tell you,” he says. “If you asked.”

“Maybe,” Cosette sighs. “We joke about that sometimes, leaving to live somewhere nicer, getting a terrible job at a bar, she could sing, I could draw beer, we'd be doing our homework on the beach every day...” She smiles. “I don't think she knows how dead serious I actually am about that.”

Grantaire looks at her. “You don't like it here?”

“I do! Of course I do. I love it, but I think I love it because it's my home, and when I was little, I never thought I'd find one. Maybe it's ungrateful to feel that way, but I just – see, I love it here, but I keep thinking that there's more to the world. There's even more to France, and I want to see it all.” She's absent-mindedly twirling a strand of her hair. “I wouldn't want to be alone, though.”

Grantaire is interrupted by his phone chiming before he can reply. “Huh,” he murmurs, reaching over to retrieve it from the coffee table. Jehan has texted. “Do you mind if I...?”

“No, go ahead.”

Grantaire immediately feels like an asshole when he skims the text. Éponine said you weren't coming – do you think you could anyway? It's okay if you can't, but I brought letters for everyone.

“Shit,” he murmurs, and sighs when he sees Cosette's worried look. “Did you drive here?”

She nods. “I'm here with Enji's car.”

“Okay, well,” he reaches for a sweater to pull over his t-shirt, “do you think we could make it to that meeting after all?”

When they arrive, they both notice how quiet it is in the back room before they walk in. Cosette gives him a questioning look, and Grantaire shrugs, but the sight that greets them inside only confirms what he was thinking anyway – everyone is silent because everyone is reading. Well, everyone but Jehan, who immediately scurries over to them and hands them each a letter without so much as saying hello. Cosette, looking around, goes with the rules of conduct quite quickly and smiles at Jehan before finding a seat and opening her envelope.

“Me too?” Grantaire whispers, because somehow a normal volume would feel like a disruption.

“Of course, you too,” Jehan says, their hand still holding the one end of the letter. “You can't think I have so little to say to you that I wouldn't write one. Go, sit down, read, chop chop.”

Grantaire manages to squeeze on the couch next to Musichetta, who doesn't even look up, and carefully opens the envelope.

It takes Grantaire about two lines to understand why Jehan insisted on Grantaire getting a letter even though they're already out to him – because Jehan is Jehan, and naturally, that means that them coming out via letter is equivalent to two pages worth of beautifully crafted musing on society, identities, humanity, and ultimately, friendship. The part where they talk about their identity is actually quite short, if comprehensive – there's an explanation of what demigender means, an elaboration on pronouns, and the invitation to ask any questions that might come up. It's so self-evident and casual, Grantaire can't help but deeply admire Jehan for their courage, and more than that, their ability to turn something that has the potential be seriously unpleasant and awkward and horrible into something beautiful. Because that's what the letter is, it's captivating, a work of art, more love confession to all their friends than something they had to painfully get over with. Once he finishes reading, Grantaire sits in stunned silence for a while, strangely moved and filled with pride of his friend.

“Hey,” Musichetta nudges him gently. “You still with us?”

“Huh?” Looking up, Grantaire realises that he must have zoned out long enough for Courfeyrac to tackle Jehan with a hug and for Bahorel burst into tears. Musichetta's eyes look a little shiny, and Grantaire thinks his might be, too. “Yeah, sorry. Just – this is, uh.”

“Yeah,” Musichetta murmurs and gets up to join the hug, which now only takes seconds to turn into a dog pile as Joly and Bossuet follow Chetta, and Cosette pulls Marius along as well. Grantaire isn't sure why he doesn't join; it's so personal a moment that he doesn't want to puff it any further, although Jehan is probably grateful enough for the hugs.

Combeferre and Enjolras, ever more observers than actual participants when it comes to these things, are whispering to each other, and then the massive group-hug begins to dissolve and Jehan reappears, looking flushed and only a tiny bit overwhelmed. It takes a while for silence to settle in again, and once it does, everyone seems to be looking at Jehan.

“The floor's still yours,” Cosette says gently, “that is, if you want it.”

“I don't think I need it,” Jehan says, looking around. “I've said everything I needed to in the letters. Unless anyone has questions?”

When reading the way they write, it's easy to forget how timid Jehan gets when a lot of attention is directed at them. Grantaire knows they dislike it, which might have been another factor in why they'd waited to come out to everyone in the ABC, when they'd known a bad reaction wasn't what they had to be afraid of.

“I think the most important thing for us is for you to know that we'll do everything we can to give you any support you might need,” Combeferre says. He's stood up.

“I know,” Jehan smiles. “I never doubted that.”

“How would you like to go about the rest of tonight?” Enjolras asks. “We can easily postpone the planning until tomorrow, if you'd rather not have us talk about the rally today.”

“Oh, no, heavens no,” Jehan shakes their head. “I beg you, let's just go about this as usual. I've already had, uh, sort of enough excitement to last a couple of weeks.”

Courfeyrac pokes their side gently. “Are celebratory drinks okay? I'd be deeply uncomfortable if I couldn't buy the hero of the hour a cocktail.”

“That depends,” Jehan frowns, looking over at Enjolras. Courfeyrac rolls his eyes.

“Permission to buy special-occasion-drinks, dear leader?”

“It's not an ABC meeting,” Enjolras says. “You're free to buy whatever you want.”

“Hah!” Courfeyrac makes for the door, gesturing at Bahorel and Grantaire. “You two, help me carry. I have tiny matchstick arms.”

“Good job on the self awareness,” Bahorel says, swiping a sleeve across his eyes, and then pulls Grantaire up from the couch. “Come on, sad face.”

Courfeyrac orders more drinks than there are people present in the back room, which Grantaire supposes is probably promising. When they get back, everyone is back at the table, and Enjolras is already speaking. He barely looks up as they take their seats.

“Since there's still a lack of information, we have no possibility of preventing the group from at least attempting sabotage, which we can be sure they are planning to do now.”

“Montparnasse got in touch with Enj yesterday,” Joly whispers, catching Grantaire up. “He couldn't give names, but time and location, which isn't enough for preventive investigation.”

Enjolras glances in their direction, and Joly falls silent. “Here's what I suggest,” Enjolras says. “We can contact the police again on Friday night, possibly anonymously, and alert them to what we know will be happening then. A hunch isn't enough to call for action, but an immediate concern will be, so we could make use of that.”

“The problem we have is that people who want to show up might be prevented from it, isn't it?” Feuilly says. “The economic damage the sabotage might inflict is actually secondary – it's not great, but harsh as it sounds, it's not our problem.” Enjolras nods. “Right,” Feuilly says. “In that case, shouldn't we consider just letting people know that they shouldn't rely on trains? It's Wednesday, they could still make different arrangements if they're serious about being here.”

“The only problematic thing about that would be that we'd be practically telling them to go by car,” Musichetta says. “The bus connections from Arras here are terrible; take it from someone who's had to commute there and back for an entire summer.”

“The train line from Arras might be the only one sabotaged, but that's going to affect people from other towns as well,” Combeferre says. He has the ABC laptop in front of him, turning it so they can all see the event's facebook page. “The furthest place that considerable numbers of people will be coming here from is Amiens; they rely on the Arras trains as well. Those people could find buses, maybe, and there's still options like carpooling, arriving the day before...”

“Not everyone has the financial means to stay overnight,” Bossuet says. “Isn't a majority of the people who signed up our age?”

“They could still camp,” Enjolras says, looking as if he's perfectly prepared to let them all sleep on his couch, however physically impossible that might be.

“You think people care enough to spend a night in a tent in January because of justice?” The words are out before Grantaire can stop them. “I mean. The whole multicultural enthusiasm has sort of gotten a dent, hasn't it? Especially now.”

Enjolras' eyes fix on him. “Especially now,” he says, “is the time that people who might be feeling unsafe need to be reassured that they're welcome. When mosques have to be guarded by the police, anyone who was planning to come to an event like this before will very likely be reinforced, much rather than discouraged. It only shows the urgency of the cause.”

“Again,” Grantaire says, “it's January. Temperatures at night are way below zero. I wouldn't go camping if it meant instant world peace.”

“Meanwhile, Combeferre, Jehan and I are going camping in January for purely space-related reasons,” Joly says, poking Grantaire with his elbow. “Priorities can differ vastly, my friend.”

“Wait,” Grantaire says, momentarily confused. “That's this week? Your star thing?” There's a meteor shower, he remembers vaguely, and there's been talk of the three astronomy nerds in the group going out to observe it at some planetarium further east.

“Precisely on Friday night, actually,” Combeferre says. “But that's beside the point. Enjolras was speaking hypothetically – I think we can all agree that it's a good idea to alert people that they should have alternative travel plans. We can easily spread that via facebook, it's no effort, and the least we can do.”

“But we're still informing the police on the day, right?” Marius says. “I mean – we do know a crime will be happening, we have to notify them.”

“It's not like we haven't tried,” Bahorel mutters.

“I think it's important, too, Marius,” Enjolras says. “I'd say we're definitely alerting them, but we're going to have to take a vote on everything when we're through. Are there any more suggestions concerning this?”

“What happens if we inform them and no one cares?” Bahorel says. “It's a possibility. Right now, there might be a financial threat to the SNCF, and we've told the police and they don't give a shit. They might say the same on Friday.”

“Fair point,” Courfeyrac says, nudging Enjolras. “We've both seen how amazingly the police around here has their priorities down, number one on the agenda: never listen to anyone who's under forty and not white.”

“For the record,” Bahorel says, “since we have a location, I take no issue at all with just showing up there and, you know, preventing them myself.”

“No,” Combeferre, Cosette and Feuilly say simultaneously.

“That was impressive,” Grantaire murmurs. “Concentrated reasonableness.” Jehan lightly kicks him under the table.

“Why not?” Musichetta says, a gleam in her eye, and Grantaire remembers that she once mentioned having been trained in capoeira ever since she was little. Combined with that look in her eyes, she's slightly terrifying. “Didn't Montparnasse say it's most likely just three people?”

“We could take them easy,” Bahorel says, fist-bumping Musichetta across the table.

“No,” Cosette says again, pointedly. “No one's getting into fistfights with neo-fascists, come on, people, we're above this. It's too dangerous, not to mention most likely unnecessary. I don't love law enforcement either, but we have to rely on them.”

“Seconded,” Feuilly says with a wave of his hand. Grantaire looks at Enjolras, who has been oddly quiet about this, and finds him tapping his fingers against the table surface, lost in thought.

“One more thing to vote over, if you brutes won't give in,” Cosette says with a sigh.

“Let's try and go over it point by point,” Combeferre says. “First of all, we're notifying everyone on facebook that they shouldn't depend on trains to make it here; all in favour?”

Everyone raises their hands, and the same goes for the next question of whether or not to notify the police again on Friday, when the concern is more urgent. At Combeferre's last question – “We're not going to try to stop the sabotage personally” – the vote isn't unanimous, but still quite clear – almost everyone raises their hands in favour. Grantaire registers that Enjolras isn't one of them.

“All right,” Combeferre says. “That's actually the most important questions dealt with. Was there anything else?”

“Give that thing here,” Courfeyrac reaches out for the laptop. “I'll update the facebook page.”

Combeferre pushes the laptop over, and Feuilly joins Courfeyrac. They manage the ABC's website as well, as far as Grantaire knows; they're a winning combination for social media: Courfeyrac is charming and Feuilly is savvy.

“So your camping adventure's this weekend, huh?” Grantaire says, taking the finished vote as a conclusion to the rally-discussion. “How exactly is that going to go down, you'll just take sleeping bags and like, lie down in a meadow all night?”

“There's an actual observatory,” Jehan says, smiling. “They have a whole event planned around the peak of the shower. We'll try to catch everything they're offering, and stay at a campsite nearby.”

“I hope the stars appreciate what I go through for them,” Joly says, shuddering. “Campsite bathrooms. The mere thought.”

“It'll be worth it, love,” Musichetta promises, squeezing his hand. “Although I'm not sure the stars are all that aware of your sacrifice.”

“Of course they are,” Jehan protests. “They're always up there, Chetta, you can't insinuate that they're anything but omniscient.”

“I agree,” Grantaire says and has a sip of his beer. “Isn't the starlit sky the best indicator of divinity we have? 'Finding myself in need of religion, I go out and paint the stars.'”

“Why don't you come along, R?” Jehan asks. “There's always room for one more, we were going to share two tents anyway.”

Grantaire smiles. He feels childish whenever he gets happy about being included, he can't quite explain it, but it always seems to fill a hole he never knew was there. “Tempting as that sounds, I think I'll rather stay in a badly heated attic than an even colder shelter of the same shape,” he says. He's not even sure why; turning down an invitation to go stargazing is really the last thing he'd normally do. It might be the slump he seems to be in mentally, but he also has a feeling he'd better be here on Friday night, for whatever reason.

“If you're sure,” Joly shrugs. “But you're missing out, you know.”

“I'm sure I am,” Grantaire says with a sigh. Jehan, across the table, is watching him worriedly, which is the last thing Grantaire wants them to do, especially today. “Hey,” he says, in an effort to sound light, “no one here is nearly drunk enough. Anyone up for Never Have I Ever?”

“Yes,” Musichetta says emphatically and waves Cosette over. “R, go get shots.”

It becomes quite a long night after that, between Courfeyrac being forced to confess that he got into an actual bar fight at the tender age of seventeen once (“It's a cute story, really,” Combeferre says with a smile. “He said he was defending my honour.”) and Joly turning out to be a serial thief of disinfectant at the clinic he interns at (“It's extremely effective, okay, and the bottles are huge, so I only get like, one every four months or so; it makes no difference at all. ...They don't pay me enough there anyway.”), and before long, they've all forgotten that there's classes waiting for them in the morning.

“I'd like to make a toast,” Courfeyrac says in a drunken conclusion to their meeting at around half past two in the morning. “To Jehan Prouvaire. Beloved friend and badass extraordinaire; fuck me, that rhymed.”

Jehan giggles. They've had wine, but Grantaire also thinks it has a lot to do with relief. It's good to see them more light-hearted again.

“To Jehan,” the others echo, raising their glasses.

“To the future,” Jehan says when they've all drunk, and raises their own glass once more.

“To the future,” the rest chimes. Grantaire hides a smile in his glass as he drinks.

Thursday passes terribly. Grantaire knows why he doesn't make a habit of partying particularly hard in the middle of the week; there's a natural low occurring whenever Thursday comes around anyway, so for the entire duration of the day, he feels like death, and even though he gets some sleep the next night, Friday isn't much better. In fact, that's an understatement, Friday turns out to be extraordinarily weird and awful. If someone had told Grantaire on Friday morning how his Friday night was going to look, he would have laughed and rolled over, and in retrospect, Grantaire seriously regrets not having done that.

“If I fall asleep right here, Ép, are you strong enough to carry me upstairs?”

Éponine and Gavroche give him a synchronised glare. They're at the dinner table, eating like civilised people while Grantaire is half-conscious on the couch.

“Whether or not I theoretically could carry you upstairs is completely irrelevant,” Éponine says dryly, “because I'd choose not to either way. You pass out down here, you deal with the aftermath.”

“Heartless,” Grantaire mutters.

“Why don't you go to sleep, anyway?” Éponine frowns. “I'm not going out tonight, you don't have to stay.”

“Yes, he does,” Gavroche protests. “We're watching a movie later, who else would I throw popcorn at?”

“I have to stay up for the thing,” Grantaire says vaguely, waving his phone. “Uh. Rally-thing? Courf and Enjolras are talking to the police, they said they'd tell us how it went.”

“What do you care?” Éponine asks. “Are you even going to go tomorrow?”

“I just have a weird feeling about this,” Grantaire mumbles. “Whatever. Doesn't matter. Hey, speaking of weird, did I mention the super non-platonic vibes I got from Cosette when she was talking about you the other day?”

Éponine's eyes dart to him. “What?”

“I don't know,” Grantaire says, tiredly rubbing his eyes. “She just – she talked the way people do when they have a crush. Did you know she wants to run away with you?”

“Christ, Grantaire,” Éponine mutters. “She talks about everyone like that. Hell, I've heard her talk about you like that, about – fucking everyone.”

“That's a stamp,” Gavroche comments off-hand, and Éponine sighs.

“You're right.” She flips open her phone, absent-mindedly tapping around on it. “Four more to go. In all honesty, kid, I don't think that's going to take me long. ...Even less the longer R's here.”

“There's something I'm not in on,” Grantaire observes, squinting.

“I swear too much around him,” Éponine says. “For every fifteen times I do, he gets a box of oreos.”

“Chocolate-covered oreos,” Gavroche corrects. “Note the difference.”

“Wow,” Grantaire murmurs. “In that case, I'll just keep riling you up, and I'll be making someone happy.”

“Seriously,” Éponine says. “Don't fuck with me when it comes to that kind of stuff, R.” There's the soft 'ping' of her adding another stamp on her phone. “It's not fair. We both know it's not happening, so stop rubbing it in.”

“You weren't there, though,” Grantaire says seriously. “I'm not an idiot, she has this whole fantasy of like, a romantic life in the South with you. That's the kind of shit that I come up with in my wildest dreams, Ép.”

“No more,” Éponine says decidedly. “Shut your mouth right now.”

“Fine.”

“I said shut it.”

“Okay!”

“R.”

“Hey,” Gavroche says, nodding towards Grantaire. “Wasn't that your phone?”

“Huh?” Grantaire twists his hand and there's actually a few new texts in the group chat.

Courfeyrac: back from police station, now on our way to buy ACAB shirts in bulk

Courfeyrac: no really, it was awful. they're dead-set on not taking us seriously and it was sad as hell :/

Courfeyrac: enj is seething, he's too pissed to text

Bahorel: fucking told you so.

Feuilly: there's still a chance they won't be able to do any damage? montparnasse didn't sound like they were a group known for their sagaciousness.

Cosette: I'm sorry it didn't work out. Reminder not to practise street justice nonetheless!

Jehan: Great use of sagaciousness, Feuilly!! :)

Jehan: Maybe it was an empty threat after all; the police's reaction sounds like it. Or are they really that ignorant?

Courfeyrac: yes

Courfeyrac: yes they are

Bahorel: yes

Musichetta: oh yes

Combeferre: Again, though. No going against the vote. Definitely Not Looking At You, Bahorel.

Bahorel: ex fucking cuse you

Bahorel: go back to your stars

“What is it?”

Grantaire looks up from his phone and at Éponine. “I wish I knew,” he says honestly, swiping a hand across his face. “I think a bunch of frustrated racist kids might be about to jam train traffic at large and obstruct justice at the same time?” The chat happens faster than he can follow with his overtired eyes.

Combeferre: Just saying.

Feuilly: don't worry, i'm with him, he's not going anywhere.

Bahorel: the sheer audacity, i'm a bit speechless

Jehan: Is everything okay though, with you and Enj? :( That must have been awful to hear.

Courfeyrac: dear space kids, it's not your turn to worry abt this, just stargaze in peace

Courfeyrac: we've got this here at ground control

Courfeyrac: dropping enj off at home once he's cooled down a lil

Jehan: Take good care!!

Cosette: !! I'm not there so make sure he's okay!

Cosette: Just text if you do need me to be home after all.

Enjolras: Could everyone please stop pretending this is the secret “Minus Enjolras” group that I know you have? I'm right here.

Courfeyrac: HE KNOWS

Bossuet: What Minus Enjolras Group

Bossuet: Did you not invite me

Marius: Or me? :(

Feuilly: it doesn't exist, folks.

It goes on like that, and Grantaire watches it happen for a while, his eyelids heavy, trying to figure out what it was again that he was worried about, what he was really staying up for. Éponine is right, the rally isn't really his business, although he would probably have gone in the end, to support Musichetta when she was speaking or just to see the others or, well, all non-cause-related reasons, really. All reasons that have nothing to do with the train sabotage. What does he care about it?

He doesn't, he tells himself. He doesn't. There's just this image in his head of how quiet and absent Enjolras was during their discussion, how he voted against not making an own attempt at stopping the saboteurs... Somehow, it's eating at Grantaire. He ponders on that in silence until Courfeyrac texts another sort-of-update.

Courfeyrac: 1 fearless leader safely tucked in

Courfeyrac: i know this sucks, kids, but we're probably all best off not wasting our energy on being mad abt something that's out of our hands

Courfeyrac: we'll need our spirit tomorrow, so turn in early or hit the bars, whatever gives u the boost u need

Courfeyrac: tomorrow's going to be great, regardless of what happens tonight :)

Grantaire looks at the screen for a long time before his eyes flick up to Éponine. “You have a bike, right, Ép?”

Grantaire noticed when he was at Enjolras' house that it wasn't really as far away as the buses would have you think, it was just badly connected to the city centre. He does live in the outskirts, definitely, and there's an eerie lack of other houses around his, but that aside, Enjolras can actually be reached within – Grantaire guesses about twenty-five minutes by bike, going normal to fast. Grantaire just isn't sure if that's enough.

It almost isn't, he realises when he makes it to Enjolras' place and Enjolras is actually halfway to his car. A part of Grantaire is triumphant, another part is pissed at himself, because driving three kilometres at night to catch the guy he can't even handle being friends with is really the last thing he needs right now.

Enjolras doesn't seem too thrilled, either. He freezes in place for a few seconds as Grantaire deposits Éponine's bike somewhat safely in the driveway, and then gives Grantaire an annoyed frown. He looks mildly terrifying like this, only illuminated by the light from inside the house, anger making his features tense. “What are you doing here?”

“Joining you on a righteous quest, it seems,” Grantaire says, walking over to him. “Unless you're on your way to, quote, hit the bars, in which case I'd join you on a less righteous quest, but happily join you still.”

Enjolras is still frowning, Grantaire even thinks he sees the crease in his brow deepen. “Why would you think that?”

“That you're about to get yourself in danger by ignoring the vote? Just a hunch.”

“I'm not ignoring the vote,” Enjolras says. His breath forms tiny clouds; it's as cold tonight as Grantaire anticipated, if not colder. “I never would. I'm not out to fight them; the police said our concerns weren't acute enough, so I'm giving them acute concerns. All I have to do is see them at the scene and then contact the authorities again.”

Now it's Grantaire's turn to frown. “So – you are going there. To what's planned to be the scene of the crime.”

Enjolras doesn't look away from him for a second. “Yes.”

“You're planning to go on your own. To go there, wait, and catch them in the act to call the police then.”

“Yes,” Enjolras repeats, and Grantaire groans.

“What the fuck, Enjolras,” he says. “Of course you would. I mean, this is messed up enough, but – you couldn't at least have asked someone to go with you? You want to get out there, face down a bunch of rightist kids in the dead of night, alone?”

“I don't plan to face them down, I plan to call the police on them. And I would have asked Combeferre,” Enjolras says. “Normally.”

“Right,” Grantaire says. “And you mentioned this intention of yours to him, I'm sure.”

“There was no need,” Enjolras says sharply. He breathes for a second, and his tone is more soft when he continues. “He wasn't going to be home, and he doesn't have to worry. It's not as big a deal as you make it sound, they won't even know I'm there, I just – all I have to do is see them.”

“Fine,” Grantaire says. “Then I'm going with you.”

“Grantaire.”

“Hey, if it's entirely risk-free, it shouldn't be a problem,” Grantaire says. “And, I mean, if it isn't,” he adds a little more gently, “you shouldn't be going alone.”

Enjolras shifts a little at that. His gaze is unaltered on Grantaire, who, strangely heated by its intensity, hardly notices the cold that has been killing him on his bike ride here. “Are you sure?” he asks after a while. His features have barely softened, although his tone has.

“Yeah,” Grantaire says with a vague shrug. “As sure as I get, anyway.”

“You have to be sure.”

Grantaire sighs. “I am.”

Enjolras watches him for a long time, and Grantaire is about to say something when he gives a curt nod and turns to his car. “All right.”

It's all he says before he gets in the car, so Grantaire follows unceremoniously. Enjolras doesn't say anything as he starts the engine and leaves the driveway, his eyes front, fingers tapping against the steering wheel.

Maybe it's because he's dead tired, but this feels oddly surreal, surreal enough for Grantaire not to be entirely sure he isn't asleep on Magnon's couch right now. The car heating only works slowly, and Grantaire is thankful that he was at least far-sighted enough to bring a warm scarf.

“Where's Cosette, anyway?” he asks, glancing at Enjolras. “She would have dragged you back inside by the hair if she'd been there.”

“She's out,” Enjolras says with a shrug. “Dancing, I think? Chetta's with her.”

“Hm.”

Enjolras pulls onto the main road. His driving style is seriously unpleasant, which Grantaire is amused by – he starts with too much force and brakes too suddenly, like an aggressive seventeen-year old.

“Did you catch the location on Wednesday?” Enjolras asks. “We might be driving for a while.”

Great. “No, where is it?”

“Near Hesdin. I looked up the exact station, it's rather remote.”

“Hesdin,” Grantaire mutters, rubbing his eyes. “That's – what, an hour away? ...Do you mind if I nap?”

Enjolras glances over at him, somehow managing to put deep indignation into a look that barely lasts a second. “Yes,” he says. “You wanted to come; not sleeping is a requirement.”

That's quite hard to contest. They drive on in silence for a while, Grantaire watches the streetlamps go by in a blur of light above them. He likes driving at night, normally, but this is really the opposite of cozy, dreamy night driving. The silence is tense. Grantaire reaches over to switch on the radio and laughs when a news report comes on.

“I guess I shouldn't be surprised,” he grins, seeking another station. “Why could anything but news ever be important to the conscientious poli sci student? Is that station your preset? What was that even, RFI Monde?”

“France Inter,” Enjolras says. “I don't have the radio on at all, normally, but when I do, I might as well learn something. Most of the regional stations are awful anyway.”

“Too good for pop music, are we,” Grantaire says. “Well, you have someone riding shotgun now, so get ready for some quality entertainment.” He finds a Top 40 station and delights in Enjolras' pained expression when a thoroughly dramatic ballad by the last The Voice-winner comes on.

“Please don't, Grantaire,” he says, sounding strained.

“How about we see this as a sanction for you being unreasonable and self-righteous?” Grantaire says, grinning, and props his knees up against the dashboard. “Come on, don't be all high-brow. Unapologetically enjoying mainstream stuff is good for the soul.”

“Is it, now,” Enjolras says flatly, but Grantaire is perfectly aware that he could easily change the station, and doesn't.

At the next traffic light, Enjolras makes such a racing start when it turns green that Grantaire is thrown forward against his seatbelt. He coughs, somehow stopping himself from choking and looks over at Enjolras, who hasn't noticed a thing.

“Dude,” Grantaire says. Enjolras gives him a quick look. “Do you know that you're a horrible driver? Is this happening purposefully?”

“Is what happening purposefully?” Enjolras squints. “I'm a safe driver.”

“Safe, maybe, yeah,” Grantaire says. “And also deeply violent. Do you have, like, a personal grudge against the clutch?”

Grantaire can see him clench his jaw. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Okay.” Grantaire shakes his head. “Okay, you need to stop torturing that poor car, you start way too strongly.”

“I start normally,” Enjolras insists. “It's an old car, those are just loud.”

“No, you're – ah, man. Tell you what, next time we stop, just let go of the clutch a little more slowly, same goes for opening the throttle. Just – don't be so brutal, you know? Be gentle with the clutch. Love the clutch.”

“You realise that you've been telling me what to do ever since we got into this car, right?” Enjolras says, annoyed. “It's still my car. And my radio, mind you.”

“Fine,” Grantaire shrugs. “Keep wasting gas. I'll shut up.”

He does, until they're at a crossroads and taking a left turn, and Enjolras seems to heed his advice and manages to start a lot more gently.

“Not a word,” Enjolras says when he sees Grantaire's triumphant grin.

The rest of the ride is more relaxed, strangely, and even though Grantaire still has no idea why he's doing this or what he's in for, he doesn't feel anxious about it anymore. He's even a little more awake, in the kind of way that somehow kicks in when the tiredness turns into misplaced energy. Pop song after pop song plays on the radio, Grantaire hums along to some of them, and Enjolras, eventually, starts commenting on them. Turns out, he doesn't hate them all; another cause for Grantaire to feel triumphant.

There's some navigation trouble once they've passed Hesdin and have to start looking for the actual railway station, but after going in circles for about twenty minutes, Enjolras finally pulls into the only vacant parking spot at a rundown station.

“This is it,” Enjolras mutters. It's eerily dark here, not a single streetlamp in sight, and the railway station itself seems too old and too, well, abandoned to be lit. “Station St. Martin.”

“How sure are we that this is the real thing?” Grantaire squints. There's lettering on the station building, but it's too dark to decipher anything. “Doesn't really look, uh. I don't know. Important enough?”

“That might be the point,” Enjolras says. “Less likely for them to be caught here than in Arras Gare Centrale.”

“How do you sabotage train lines, anyway?” Grantaire asks, leaning back in his seat. “Like, what are they going to do? Saw through a bunch of cords, bang up the tracks?”

“The latter, probably,” Enjolras guesses. “Sounds easiest. I don't think they have the means for anything more intricate.”

Grantaire laughs a little. “Even assholes can be smart, you know,” he says. “That's one of the most frustrating things about this world. Being vicious doesn't mean you're stupid.”

“I still don't think they're particularly smart,” Enjolras says. “Just the fact that they're seeking out a station at all isn't a great move, strategically. They'd be far better off going up the tracks somewhere, harder for the police to locate and easier for them to do damage there.”

“Maybe that's what they're doing,” Grantaire says, curling in on himself a little. Enjolras has turned the engine off completely, and the cold is getting worse by the second. “Montparnasse could have lied.”

“No, I don't think so,” Enjolras says. “He's shifty, but he seemed like he had a code of honour. Of sorts. And I don't know what Jehan did to make him come around, but it obviously worked.”

“That was weird, wasn't it?” Grantaire rests his head against the window. “I mean, I'll happily play Cupid any day, but – I asked Jehan later, they wouldn't even tell me what went down.”

“It's none of our business,” Enjolras says, shrugging.

“You're not curious at all?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “No.” He gives Grantaire an odd look. “They're old enough to look after themself, you know.”

“Are they, though?” Grantaire murmurs, the breath of the words fogging the window. “Is anyone? Ever? I know I don't feel like I am.”

Enjolras' eyes are still on him, Grantaire can feel it, but he doesn't look. Enjolras seems to be looking for something to say, and Grantaire decides to spare him the agony.

“So what are we doing?” he asks. “Just... waiting here until we see people who look racist? I'm great at spotting those, but the lighting conditions aren't exactly in our favour.”

“No trains stop here this time of night, I checked,” Enjolras says, finally taking his eyes off Grantaire. “Literally anyone who comes by is likely to be them, although we're still looking for a group of three.”

“And when are they supposed to show up?” Grantaire asks. His phone informs him that it's just past eleven.

“Around midnight, possibly earlier,” Enjolras replies. His fingers are tapping a rhythm against the steering wheel, and Grantaire sees them tremble. He must be cold as well, or maybe he's more nervous than he lets on. “Put your phone away. The light's visible, they can't know someone's here.”

Grantaire frowns at him. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. I'd have left on the light and heating if that was an option.”

“Fine.” Grantaire pockets his phone, burrowing his chin into his scarf.

He's naturally pretty immune to cold weather; when it bothers him, that means it's hell for normal people. It bothers him tonight. He was dead right about camping being completely unreasonable – Jehan, Joly and Combeferre are better ditching their tents in favour of a motel.

“Grantaire?”

It's been silent for a while, so Grantaire starts a little. “Hm?”

“Why did you come?”

Grantaire blinks. “Sorry. What?”

“You heard,” Enjolras says, turning his head to look at him. Grantaire can barely make out any of him in the dark, but he can see the reflections of his eyes. “You drove all the way to my house on a hunch.”

“My hunches are pretty reliable,” Grantaire says, deflective.

“Still,” Enjolras says. “You could have just let me go. I mean, you've probably noticed by now that this doesn't exactly require two people.”

“Yeah, well,” Grantaire murmurs. “Seemed like bad etiquette. You think any of the others would have let you go alone if they'd known?”

“No,” Enjolras says, “but largely, that'd be because they'd understand my motivation. I know you don't share our convictions, so why come along anyway?”

Grantaire looks away, focussing on the cold of the window against his skin. The answer is obvious, of course, but there's no way of saying “I'd literally follow you into the ninth circle of hell if you needed me to” and sound chill about it, so it's probably best not to stick to the truth. “You don't think I'm enough of a rebel to just... roll with this?”

“Rebel, maybe,” Enjolras says softly. “Just not one with a cause.”

“We make a great team, then,” Grantaire says. “I'll be the rebel, you'll be the cause.”

“You're ridiculous,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire notices the clatter of his teeth.

“Well, I try,” Grantaire says, looking over at him now. “...You're freezing, aren't you?”

“I'm not turning the engine back on,” Enjolras says as firmly as it's humanly possible when one is practically in the process of being deep-frozen.

“Okaaay, well, that's unreasonable.”

“It's not,” Enjolras mutters. “We'd be drawing attention to ourselves, that's the last thing we need. I'm not turning on the engine.”

“For fuck's sake, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, and it's a shame that it's dark because his impressive eyeroll goes unseen. He undoes his scarf quickly.

“What are you doing?” Enjolras says, watching him.

“Making sure you don't end up as a human popsicle before the night's out,” Grantaire says and offers the scarf. “Come on. We're going to be here for a while, and I'll bet you aren't in your best thermal clothing under that coat.”

“I'm not taking your scarf,” Enjolras says with a shake of his head, arms wrapped around himself. “Don't offer that, you need it.”

“Not as much as you,” Grantaire says, his hands falling back in his lap in resignation. “Seriously, Enjolras, I'm sort of a walking furnace. And I know this colour scarf doesn't exactly go with your coat, but, you know. All cats are grey by night, and so on.”

“No,” Enjolras says. “I'm not taking it.” Grantaire can tell he's gritting his teeth to keep them from chattering again.

“Enjolras,” he sighs. “Don't be ridiculous. Seriously, okay, I'm a naturally warm-blooded creature, and I never catch colds, just – you're fucking sad to watch, okay?”

Enjolras is silent, eyes fixed on Grantaire. Then, completely without a warning, he reaches out a hand and puts it over both of Grantaire's, which are still holding the scarf in his lap. Grantaire hasn't even halfway registered what's happening before he pulls his hands away abruptly, as if he'd been burned – it had actually felt like the opposite; Enjolras' fingers on his had been cold as ice, soft and ghostly for the brief moment that they'd been there. Pulling away comes as a reflex, of what exactly – self preservation, maybe – he can't tell.

“Don't,” Grantaire says sharply, still too surprised to play this off any cooler.

“Sorry – I'm sorry,” Enjolras says quickly, having already pulled his hand away. “I just wanted to see if you were actually warm, that wasn't – I'm sorry.”

It's surprisingly earnest, with no trace of the reluctantly apologetic Enjolras in it, and Grantaire can't handle it.

“Just take the fucking scarf,” he says weakly and holds it out again.

Enjolras hesitates. “All right,” he says then, taking it, and Grantaire is pretty sure he's not imagining the way he's going through some effort not to touch Grantaire's fingers as he accepts it. “Thank you.”

Silence settles in again. Grantaire watches out of the corner of his eyes as Enjolras wraps the scarf around his neck and shoulders – it's a long, bulky thing, loose-knit and shabby, but warm. It still won't help much, because the cold is biting and merciless, but Grantaire figures it's better than nothing.

He shifts a little in his seat, annoyed at the thought of having to sit here for another – what, hour? The cold notwithstanding, the seat is just plain uncomfortable. Grantaire moves around, trying to find a better position. “Has anyone ever told you that your car's super uncomfortable?”

“No,” Enjolras says, his tone a little lighter than before. “Only the people who also tell me how bad my driving is, that my taste in music is unrefined and barbarous, that my general world view is, quote, naïve and delusional—”

“Hey,” Grantaire says. “I remember distinctly that I called it naïve, ivory tower and delusional. Big difference. If you're going to quote me in direct speech, I'd like to hear the brackets and three dots pronounced, please.” He's turned around in his seat now, resting his back against the edge of the dashboard, which might be strange, but the most comfortable position he's found so far. He tips his head back to look up through the windscreen – and almost gasps out loud.

The sky is breathtakingly clear. The darkness around the station has this advantage; there's no light to hinder the amazing sight the stars are offering. “The others are lucky,” he says, instead of letting loose the litany of poetry and curses that's on the tip of his tongue. “It's supposed to snow soon; sky doesn't look like it.”

Enjolras looks at him, then he leans forward, crossing his arms over the steering wheel and resting his chin on them. He cranes his neck to look up through the fringe of his curls, which is unfairly adorable and prompts Grantaire to quickly direct his gaze at the stars again. Damn the whole eyes-getting-used-to-dark-thing, he was better off when he couldn't see Enjolras.

Enjolras, looking up, makes a small noise Grantaire can't interpret, and immediately adds, “That's... really nice.”

Grantaire laughs. “Nice? You're like a robot learning how to love. The stars aren't nice, they're sublime. They're unfathomable.” He pulls a face. “I'm starting to think I should have picked the camping trip over this.”

“You're free to leave any time,” Enjolras says flatly. Grantaire only grins.

“Do you know constellations? We could pass the time like that.”

“How would that pass the time?”

Grantaire doesn't have to look at Enjolras to know he's frowning. “Constellations have stories, you philistine,” Grantaire says. “Have you seriously never had a night of stargazing and telling constellation stories?”

“...Should I have?”

“Everyone in the world should have, yeah,” Grantaire says. Sue him, he's a romantic, both with and without the capital r. “Sounds like the storytelling's going to be up to me.”

“I know Ursa Major,” Enjolras says, half-defensive.

“And do you know the story?”

“Vaguely. It's a bad story, something about Jupiter and a nymph. Rape is involved.”

“Yeah, that one actually kind of sucks,” Grantaire concedes. “It's a pretty distinct constellation, though, so it has more than one story. I could tell you a better one.”

Enjolras is quiet for a while. “Okay?” he says then.

“All right,” Grantaire says, “you can take your pick; Greek or South Korean myth.”

“South Korean,” Enjolras replies within a second.

“That's the happier one,” Grantaire notes. “Okay – so, once, there was a widow with seven sons, and she was deeply unhappy after the loss of her husband. She mourned him for years, until finally, she fell in love again, with a widower who lived nearby, but was separated from her by a powerful stream that she would wade through every night, even though it meant getting wet and cold. Her sons saw her suffering to see the one who made her happy again, and secretly built a bridge over the river so their mother might cross more easily and be with her love without danger. The widow, surprised and grateful, spoke out a blessing to whoever it was that helped her, and so blessed her own sons without knowing it. When they died, the blessing took its course and each of the seven sons turned into one of the seven brightest stars in Ursa Major, the seven that form the Big Dipper now.”

There's a beat of silence. “That's way better than the Zeus one,” Enjolras says then. “People should stick to that.”

“Hmm,” Grantaire hums. “That's one thing we can agree on.”

“What other stories do you know?” Enjolras looks indignant at the nonplussed look Grantaire gives him in the half-dark. “What? I want to learn.”

“Oh,” Grantaire smiles and leans back to look up again. “Yeah, that must sting, finding something I know more about than you.”

“Don't be ridiculous. There are lots of things you know more about than I.” He's quiet for a second, his voice softer when he speaks again. “They're a good distraction. The stories.”

Right. Grantaire tells himself to remember that this whole thing is probably a lot more unnerving for Enjolras than it is for him. For all that he's here, Grantaire doesn't really care too much whether any train tracks are going to be damaged tonight, and he's been in enough fights not to be scared of a few half-grown guys with superiority complexes – he's sure Enjolras isn't scared of the latter, either, but Enjolras does care, actually has a tendency to care far too much. To him, the pressure of tonight must be unbearable.

“Well, I live to serve,” he says, smiling at the sky. “Distract I shall. Any requests in particular?”

“I told you, I don’t really know constellations,” Enjolras murmurs. “Just show them to me and tell the story.”

Grantaire feels his heart step up its game – it’s about time, he thinks, wondering how he managed to be anything resembling calm for the past two hours. Enjolras is grouchy and beautiful and wearing his scarf against the cold and demanding to be told things about stars and it’s very, very unsettling. “As you wish,” Grantaire says, hoping he can keep the helplessness out of his tone. “So... Hm. How does Cassiopeia sound?”

“Like a turtle from a children’s book.”

“What?”

Enjolras scowls. “It’s true. It’s a turtle. From that one book about grey men.”

“...Do you mean Momo? That painfully moralistic children's book about a kid living in an amphitheatre?”

“It’s a criticism of consumerism wrapped in a heart-warming story,” Enjolras says. “Don’t put it down like that.”

Grantaire breathes. “Fine. Anyway. Cassiopeia the turtle was, incidentally, named after Cassiopeia the constellation, which, in turn, was named after Cassiopeia the lady from the myth. The constellation...” He points, and then realizes that it’s useless from Enjolras’ perspective. “Do you still see the big dipper?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. From there, you go downwards until you have the North Star.”

“That one?”

“Uh, maybe?” He tries to follow Enjolras’ finger with his eyes. “It’s the brightest one in the little dipper, if that helps.”

“I’ve got it.”

“All right. And from there, you draw the line on until you see five stars forming sort of a W-shape, with the left arm of the W in a slightly weird angle.”

Silence.

“Yes,” Enjolras says then.

“Okay.” Grantaire fixes his eyes on the W in the stars as well, very determined not to look at Enjolras. “That’s Cassiopeia. The story is – wow, fuck, hang on.” He narrows his eyes, but as it always is with those things, the meteor is already gone. It was definitely there for a second, just a flash of light, sudden, beautiful, then already in the past. Grantaire wonders what it says about him that seeing them always makes him feel tingly like an excited child. 

“What is it?” Enjolras asks, suddenly alert. “Did you see someone?”

“No – shit, sorry for the scare. I saw a shooting star; fuck, I was wondering where those were hiding, like, meteor shower my ass.” The truth is, he hadn't even been thinking about that. Enjolras really does have a worrying effect on him – Grantaire always knew it was bad, but he forgot all about shooting stars in his presence. That can't be healthy.

Next to him, Enjolras sighs audibly.

“Come on,” Grantaire says. “It's meteors. You have to like them. Hah!” He smiles. “There was another one.”

“Hope you're making wishes,” Enjolras says flatly.

“Oh, don't be like that,” Grantaire says. “They have a radiant right there, man, I should have watched out for that anyway – it's just below Ursa Major, see? Just look right there, and you'll see one eventually.”

He's aware that he's rambling, but who could blame him?

“I don't see any.”

“A little patience,” Grantaire says. “You see that – that vaguely kite-shaped thingie? It's called Boötes, and it's the radiant, I think, I'll have to look it up—”

“Saw one,” Enjolras says simply.

“Make a wish.”

He sighs. “R, I'm twenty-two.”

“And you call me a nonbeliever.” The words are out before Grantaire realises what sounded off about that last thing Enjolras said – Enjolras, until now and today, has never called him R before, not once. This is strange. This is different. It feels like Enjolras decided to bridge a gap between them that Grantaire had barely realised was there.

“Hey,” Enjolras whispers suddenly, his voice taking a turn for the more tense. “Sit down properly; there's someone there.”

Grantaire moves and sits back down in his seat, his gaze following Enjolras'. Sure enough, two people, barely more than silhouettes in the dark, are moving toward the station, and somehow, their vague shapes already look suspicious. “Okay,” Grantaire says slowly, “it's only two. Is that evidence enough?”

“They're carrying something, right?” Enjolras asks in a hushed voice. “Can you see that?”

“The taller one has a bag, I think.”

“Roll down your window.”

“What?”

“Manual window crank, roll it down, just a little,” Enjolras says. “Roll it down, and be quiet.”

Grantaire complies, even though he's mad at himself for it the second he feels the cold creep in through the tiny crack that he's opened the window. It does have an effect, though – as the two people walk closer, clearly making for the path that leads by the station and to the tracks, Grantaire can actually make out their voices, both of them sounding male. They don't speak clearly, and it's impossible to make out anything more than scraps of their conversation. Always fucking late – could have been on time once in her life – problem with bitches, fucking unreliable –

Grantaire turns to Enjolras, giving a small nod. That's asshole talk if he's ever heard any, and the person they're talking about has to be the missing third party. There's a pinch in Grantaire's stomach – there's no question that these are the people they'd been expecting, and the situation seems to become strangely real all of a sudden.

Enjolras gestures for Grantaire to roll the window back up as he dials something on his phone with his other hand. “Hello?” he says when someone answers, keeping his voice down. “I need to report two people trespassing.”

Grantaire barely listens as he talks, he's watching the two people, both climbing over the fence next to the – probably locked – station. Just a second, and they'll be out of sight – only a matter of moments now – and they're gone, swallowed up by the darkness the platforms are enveloped in. Grantaire glances at Enjolras, who has been keeping both eyes on them as well and seems to be gripping his phone tighter than would be strictly necessary.

“All right,” Enjolras says, although there's some bite to his tone. “Yes, we'll stay put. ...Fine. ...Thank you.” He hangs up. “Fuck.”

Grantaire frowns. “What? Don't tell me they're not coming.”

“They are,” Enjolras says, “in about twenty minutes.” His tone is icy in that last part of the sentence, and Grantaire swallows hard.

“They can't do any serious damage in twenty minutes,” he says, although he has no idea what he's talking about. Maybe they can take the entire station apart in less time; he wouldn't know. “Enjolras. We have to wait.”

“Wait and see while they're right there?” Enjolras says, his hands balling into fists. “Twenty minutes. That's too much time. They're so apathetic, the whole lot of them, they couldn't fucking care less—”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says firmly. “You need to calm down. I know it sucks to be told that, trust me, I know, but you're not helping anyone when you're like this, okay? Just – fuck, take a few breaths, this is a shitty situation, but you have to keep a level head.”

Enjolras closes his eyes, and does take a few deep breaths, although it hardly seems to serve his relaxation. “Twenty minutes,” he says, opening his eyes again. “We have to go after them.”

“No,” Grantaire says, shaking his head, “we do not, and we will not.”

“I don't want to fight them, I – we can't just sit here, Grantaire.”

“There was a vote,” Grantaire hisses. “Fuck, do I have to be the one to remind you of a basic fucking democratic principle? What was that earlier tonight; 'I never would'? This isn't what you want, Enjolras, you'll be so pissed at yourself later if you let this get the best of you right now.”

“That's not what the vote was about,” Enjolras says, although his voice doesn't sound sure. “We said we wouldn't personally get into a fight with them, yes, but we don't have to. Maybe we can just distract them, maybe we don't even have to show our faces, maybe if we get them scared enough—”

“Now you're nitpicking the system that you're so damn particular about? The vote was clear, and you're looking for a loophole right now. You know it. Fuck, that vote was a promise not to put anyone from the group in the line of fire, not something for you to twist so you'd get to play the hero after all—”

Enjolras breathes. “I'm not trying to play the hero,” he says, every syllable tense. “I'm not. I can't take this, Grantaire, I wish I felt like I had an actual choice here, but I – they're right there, how can we just sit here? If the police arrive here a second too late – and they're already far too slow to prevent anything – this is going to fall to pieces even though we were right here.” He shakes his head. “I can't let that happen.”

“Jesus, you're not Batman, how fucking superior can one person find themselves—”

Enjolras looks straight at him, effectively shutting him up. “Grantaire,” he says, only a slight tremor in his voice. “I'm going.” Before Grantaire can reply, Enjolras has opened the door and gotten out of the car.

Grantaire lets out a string of curses, but Enjolras, of course, can't hear, and is already moving toward the station, going after the two people who only just disappeared there. Grantaire breathes deeply for a second, and then he follows.

There's no debate anymore. Enjolras walks ahead, light on his feet, practically tiptoeing, and Grantaire silently questions his entire existence while he stays on his heels. The cold is biting now, especially around Grantaire's throat, but that's easy to ignore when one is in pursuit of two possible criminals.

They follow the two partners-in-crime in question over the fence, always walking along the side of the station building, until they get closer to the platforms and Enjolras comes to a halt. He peers around the corner for a second, then turns back to Grantaire. “They're there,” he whispers. “Climbing down to the tracks.” He glances behind Grantaire. “Keep looking behind yourself. Whoever they're waiting for might still come.”

“Yes, they might, which is why we're in a sort of shitty position right now,” Grantaire murmurs, but Enjolras' focus is already back on the platforms.

“Okay,” he says after a while, nodding. “They're walking up the tracks. Let's go.”

Grantaire doesn't have time to ask just why Enjolras would think that's a smart move; he just scurries to follow him as quietly as he can. They move up the platform, then Enjolras manages to somehow jump down on the tracks without making a single noise, and Grantaire makes an effort to do the same. In the distance, not fifty metres away from them, the two figures seem to have taken to using a flashlight, which makes Grantaire more nervous than he'd ever care to admit. If either of them decides to turn and light behind them, they'll have a perfect view of Enjolras and Grantaire, and the thought isn't exactly reassuring. It's made even more risky by the fact that they're walking on the gravel beside the tracks, and gravel is anything but a good material to walk quietly on. The second the two guys at the front stop walking and hearing the sounds of their own steps, Enjolras and Grantaire are bound to be heard.

Or so Grantaire thinks. Enjolras seems to manage to stop walking exactly the moment the guys in front of them do, and looks around for a second, realising they can't just stay standing here. There's a dip right next to the tracks, only just deep enough for both of them to duck into and stay – hopefully – hidden. Enjolras crouches down in it, gesturing for Grantaire to follow, and they stay like that for a while, completely still.

“They're not doing anything,” Enjolras says after a while as he carefully peeks at them, his voice the smallest whisper. “What are they waiting for?”

“Their third party, probably?” Grantaire whispers back. The most frustrating thing is that the two guys aren't making an effort to be quiet, so it's clear that they're talking, but whatever they're saying just makes it to Enjolras and Grantaire as an incomprehensible mumble.

They're quiet again, for a while, and then Enjolras moves. Just slightly at first, and without standing up, just shifting closer to the two guys while remaining crouched on his knees. Grantaire follows, more crawling than walking, the gravel digging uncomfortably into his shins. When Enjolras stops moving, they've somehow made it into earshot.

“Come on, you think I can't unscrew a fucking bolt? We don't need her for this, we're wasting our time waiting.” The voice sounds so young. Grantaire feels sick.

“She knows this shit, okay?” This one's accented. Belgian? “We're waiting. We'll just end up fucking stuff up that they could fix in a second, that'd really be a waste of time.”

“There's no wrong way of fucking something up,” the other one replies, sounding irritated. “All damage is good damage. I say we start now.”

Enjolras almost moves too quickly for Grantaire to intervene, so Grantaire probably has good reflexes to thank for the fact that he manages to catch Enjolras' arm and can pull him back before Enjolras has the chance to get up and leap at the two – well, they can hardly be more than teenagers – on the tracks. Enjolras, not having expected to be caught, falls back against him; Grantaire might have pulled a little hard, and his fist hits the side of the tracks with a loud thump.

Grantaire doesn't breathe. Enjolras is looking at him, probably with rage, and the two guys have fallen silent.

Finally, the Belgian one speaks. “You heard that, too, right?”

Silence again, and then the sound of steps on the gravel, coming closer. Enjolras pulls at Grantaire's grip on his arm, trying to stand up; meanwhile, Grantaire has the impulse to both grab Enjolras and run, and to jump out and try to intimidate the fuck out of the two. Chances are, these guys aren't even up for a fight; they certainly don't sound like hardened criminals.

The decision is taken out of his hands as suddenly, the ringing sound of police sirens pierces the air, steadily growing louder. Grantaire exhales, closing his eyes for a second, and then the steps on the gravel are quick; moving away from them, running, and there are curses and random insults thrown between the two, and Enjolras is still struggling in Grantaire's grip.

“They're probably not even fucking here for us, fuck, calm down—”

“Of course they are! What else do you think they'd be in the middle of nowhere for? We need to get the fuck out of here, just – move!”

“We haven't even done anything! What the fuck did you think we were here for, twiddling our thumbs and get our asses arrested? We still have time—”

“Time? Where the hell are you even getting that? Woah, what – fuck, what are you doing?”

Suddenly, there are loud noises, metal banging against metal, and in flinching instinctively at the sound, Grantaire loosens his grip for just a second, enough for Enjolras to pull away immediately, jumping to his feet.

“Stop,” he shouts, his voice clear as a bell, and the clanking falls silent. “Drop that. Now.”

Grantaire scrambles to get on his feet, and there's only flashes of light from the guy holding the torch who seems to be having a nervous breakdown, so Grantaire has trouble assessing the situation. He barely makes out that the one who isn't holding the flashlight is wielding a crowbar, and Grantaire wants to scream, because they're idiots, they're frustrated boys who probably have an entire assortment of insults to throw at Grantaire just because they think it's edgy, and they brought a fucking crowbar to shut down train traffic at large, and this is far too awful and too ridiculous and too pathetic for Enjolras to have pored so much over.

“Who the fuck are you?” Crowbar-guy says, without dropping his weapon. “Fuck - you called the police, didn't you? I swear to God, if you—”

“If I what?” Enjolras spits out the words. “What are you going to do? Try and beat me to death with that thing? Because I did call the police, and unless I'm mistaken, you were in the process of damaging government property, and I doubt you'd want a charge of battery on top of that.” He takes a few steps towards them, and Grantaire, having given up on this entire situation, does the same. Enjolras' voice has lowered when he speaks again. “Drop. The crowbar.”

Several things happen at once: the guy, intelligently, does not drop the crowbar, but instead raises it and, in a flurry of desperation or just plain anger, makes for Enjolras. Simultaneously, flashlight-guy starts running, away and back to the platform. Grantaire moves toward Enjolras, pulling him back and standing between him and his deeply misguided attacker, and then Enjolras is gone, having turned around and run after the other boy.

What follows can hardly be described as a fight: Grantaire catches the guy's wrist as he tries to bring the iron bar down, tears the crowbar away from him and tosses it into the bushes. The guy isn't strong, just angry, so after taking a sloppy punch to the shoulder, Grantaire manages to catch both his arms and twist them behind his back, holding them steady. “Trust me, man, this is the last thing I want to be doing on a Friday night as well,” he murmurs as the guy struggles. It really is. Grantaire feels exhausted more than anything, the rush of adrenaline has already far gone by.

Enjolras is back suddenly, appearing in the dark, and the lack of a light cone along with him lets Grantaire know that flashlight-guy got away.

“I didn't catch him,” Enjolras says, panting slightly, stopping right in front of them. “You—” He breaks off, looking behind Grantaire, and his eyes grow wide. “Watch out!”

He lurches forward to get behind Grantaire, and Grantaire turns around, not quick enough to register what's about to hit him in the neck – the pain stings sharply, it must have been something edged, a shovel, maybe, but who the fuck was even hitting him – he's dizzy, stumbling forward as the guy he'd been holding on to twists out of his grip and instead turns and manages to push Grantaire to the ground, and Grantaire can hear a female voice cursing; the girl who finally arrived must have been the one to attack him, and he catches a glimpse of Enjolras with her, trying to keep her from struggling, but then there's pain in his neck again and he realises that he's still on the ground, the guy is still pissed, and he's trying to get a payback, probably, landing a few weak kicks to Grantaire's side. Grantaire, forcing himself to at least partially regain his composure, manages to grab the guy's leg when the next kick is delivered, and pulls sharply, getting him to lose balance and tumble to the ground. Grantaire scrambles to move above him, trying to catch his arms – then, suddenly, there's a painfully bright light and a swarm of voices, and Grantaire freezes. Right. The police.

It's a blur of events that Grantaire fails to completely follow. He registers the light, the uniforms, the orders – arms up, now hands behind your back, hold still – he registers Enjolras next to him, being ordered to do the same, registers Enjolras watching him with tired eyes; he registers the loud protest of the girl and two boys, they must have caught flashlight-guy after all; finally, what brings him back to full lucidity is the cold feeling of metal against his wrist, the soft sound of handcuffs clicking shut.

“This one I know,” one of the policemen says with a scrutinising look at Enjolras. Grantaire wants to laugh out loud. “You're in a world of trouble, boy.”

Chapter Text

For the first twenty years of his life, Grantaire has been successful enough at dodging an actual arrest. He got sort of close a few times, once in Paris, more than once in Nîmes, but he's quick on his feet and great at blending in, and he's never actually committed an offence that the police deemed worthy of prosecuting with an effort. He can't say he's never been curious about the procedure, though, so when he does go through it, he's bitterly disappointed.

The most interesting thing that happens is that they're read their rights – the whole you're entitled to a lawyer, you can be held in custody for a maximum of twenty-four hours, you have the right to remain silent-routine – and after that, it's sadly unceremonious. They're stuffed into the back of a car and brought back into a tiny police station. Neither on the way there or in the actual station do they seem to be permitted to talk to one another, which Grantaire thinks is ridiculous, as if they might plot their spectacular escape the second they're allowed to open their mouths. Enjolras is constantly looking at him, though, which makes the entire prohibited-to-speak-thing a little worse, because he looks anything between worried and tired and angry within seconds, and Grantaire wants to talk to him, although the things he wants to say shift just as quickly. One moment, he wants to put Enjolras at ease, the other, he wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake him and say “what the fuck” a thousand times over. It's confusing and exhausting.

At the station, they're patted down (Grantaire has to try very, very hard to keep his mouth shut about the ridiculousness of that), their handcuffs are taken off and they have to take off their jackets and hand over their belongings. Once that's done, a policewoman leads them into a windowless room that half looks like an office, half like a cell – they're made to sit down, the policewoman leaves, the door locks, and suddenly, they're alone.

Grantaire has a lot of things to say, but the only thing that comes out when he finally gets a chance to talk is a feeble, “Are you okay?”

Enjolras blinks. He seems puzzled at the question, like he has been expecting it as little as Grantaire. His answer isn't one. “Are you?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire lies, because he's so exhausted and tired he could fall asleep right here and now, and his ribs seem to begrudge him every single heartbeat with the way they ache. “Nothing a night's sleep won't fix, I guess. Seriously, though, are you in one piece and everything?”

Enjolras certainly looks fine. Grantaire had briefly been pissed at that earlier, at how Enjolras could get into hand-to-hand combat with someone and not carry away a single scratch, but thinking about the alternative, he quickly discarded that thought again.

“I'm fine,” Enjolras says, and then huffs. “Angry. Really angry, but other than that – fine.”

Grantaire wishes he wasn't so desperate to make this better for him. “Not much of a point in that, is there,” he says. “I mean, we're here, yeah, and that sucks, but the tracks are okay, the others are probably going to spend the night here, and, y'know. Nothing happened.”

Enjolras' eyes widen as he looks at Grantaire with disbelief. “Nothing happened? Grantaire,” he says, shaking his head slowly. “You were there, weren't you? You actually saw the same things I did?”

“Yes? Listen, if you're angry at those kids, they're – well, they're kids, and I don't think that's an excuse for being a racist piece of trash, but they're not worth the rage. Seriously.”

“It's not them,” Enjolras says, like Grantaire is being really slow on the uptake. “I mean, yes, I am angry at them, but that's not—” He pauses. “Do you realise what I did? I don't get how you aren't furious at me right now. I put everything on the line back there, and I didn't even think. I just – I didn't think ahead at all, I didn't take anything into consideration, not anyone's safety, not the ABC, nothing. That was completely – unacceptable doesn't even cover it. The one person I have any right to be angry at is myself.”

Grantaire doesn't know what to reply. It's all true, essentially.

“Hey,” Enjolras says with a wry smile. “At least you get to say I told you so.”

At that, Grantaire feels something cold settle in his stomach. Of course Enjolras would think that. Of course he'd have no idea what is actually going on here. Of course he's still expecting Grantaire to be generally hostile, because that's how things are with them, friends or not, and Grantaire had let himself forget that for half a night. That's what he gets. “You honestly think I'm the biggest asshole imaginable, don't you,” Grantaire murmurs. “Hell, next you're going to tell me you thought I only came along to see you mess up.”

Enjolras doesn't answer, just looks at him. There's some guilt in that look. Grantaire laughs softly. Of fucking course. “Wow. Okay. Yeah, what could I possibly want from life if it's not kicking you when you're down? I live for that shit, seeing my friends fail at stuff, I get a total kick out of that. Why would I ever want to do anything if there wasn't a great deal of spite involved?”

“I don't know why you do anything,” Enjolras says with blatant sincerity. “I don't really understand you. I try, but most of the time, I'm left with guessing, and even then I get it wrong more often than not.”

“Yeah, well, you got it wrong,” Grantaire mutters, deciding in the same breath that this is impossible to talk about. “Anyway. It doesn't matter now, right? It's happened, it's in the past, the others are going to be pissed – rightfully, let's be real – but in the end, you know. No harm, no foul.”

Enjolras eyes him up, almost carefully. “No harm isn't true,” he says then, looking back at the tabletop. “There might be consequences I should never have risked. I'll be completely honest, I'm – I'm at a loss as far as those are concerned. I don't know what to do.”

It's an unexpected confession. Enjolras is just going to keep dropping these out of nowhere tonight, as it seems, and Grantaire doesn't know what to make of it. He has to be properly at the end of his rope. “You mean charges? Because I'm less of an expert than you as far as getting arrested goes, but since we were the ones who actually tried to prevent people from damaging the SNCF's property, I don't think we'll be the ones to pay the high fines here.”

“It's not that,” Enjolras says. “It's – if anyone gets wind of this, of me being here, they would—” He sighs and breathes for a moment. “Last year, during the whole separation from the university, the local papers, they were – engaged, to say the least. People were after the story like bloodhounds. A lot of our funding was cut, sponsors were backing out, and we haven't exactly been doing great since then.”

Grantaire frowns. “That's not what it sounded like when you hired me,” he says, but Enjolras just shrugs.

“I wasn't lying. We were in a position, once, where we could theoretically pay everyone on the editorial board, but it's – it's a finite resource. Some of Feuilly's prize money helped. If anyone else backs out, there's going to be a budget crisis I'm not sure we could recover from.”

“What Bahorel said the other day,” Grantaire realises slowly, “about me straining your budget too much. That was true, wasn't it?”

“He shouldn't have said it,” Enjolras says, which is a yes. Grantaire feels dizzy.

He thought he'd lose his job with the ABC once before, and it wasn't pleasant, because he's pretty much living on the bread line. He can't take a month or so to find something new; he has nothing to fall back on. Technically, his father is legally bound to pay for his living expenses, but not even the threat of not being able to pay rent would send Grantaire back to ask him for money. It may be selfish, but the very idea of the ABC having financial difficulties is enough to send him into a small panic attack. If there's anything the ABC can dispense with, it's him, or rather, the burden he puts on them by requiring payment – Enjolras can say all he wants, Grantaire knows there are graphic designers with the proper ABC convictions who wouldn't mind working for free.

“Okay,” Grantaire says slowly. “So – let's just – let's figure something out to keep that from happening. The problem is that it's you being here, right, no matter if that's in the name of the ABC or not? You're the face of the ABC, so should the locals get wind of you being here, that might be enough for the paper to lose funding once the word gets around?”

“Potentially,” Enjolras says. “I don't know how desperate for stories the press might be, or how close an eye the sponsors are keeping on us, if at all – it all depends on that. It's just – it's too many uncertainties to risk anything.” He clenches his jaw. “Or, it should have been.”

“What if we told them it was all my idea?” Grantaire knows it's a pretty desperate idea. It's all he has, for the moment, because he's tired and his ribs have to be bruised they hurt so much and now his job might be on the line as well.

Enjolras seems to pick up on the absurdity of it, but little else. “What – why would we do that?”

“To take the focus off you? Fuck, I don't know, I don't even know how this works, okay? Does the police like, snitch to the press or is it just rumours, or—”

“A bit of everything,” Enjolras says. “Even if pinning this on you wasn't completely out of the question, which it is, it wouldn't have an effect on anything. It's enough for one person here to know about me being connected to the ABC, and someone's already recognized me.”

The policeman who had talked to Enjolras at the station, Grantaire remembers. “What was that about, anyway?” he asks. “Did he arrest you on ABC business?” If he did, that certainly wouldn't bode well for their current situation.

“No,” Enjolras says, then tilts his head, “well, technically, no. It was a rally, like the one tomorrow, and the ABC was close to the organisers. Courfeyrac and I were arrested.”

“Charges?”

“Criminal damage. We had to pay a fine.” He shakes his head dismissively. “It doesn't matter now. The point is, he remembered me, apparently, and that's all it takes for this to possibly turn out badly for the ABC.”

Grantaire knows that Enjolras isn't nearly as relaxed about this as he sounds, but this is still infuriating, because this is Grantaire's job, something he depends on, and Enjolras knows how much he relies on that, he has to know, and he's not even bothering to address it. “If they do ask,” Grantaire insists, “if they ask you about the ABC, or if one of us was more responsible for this than the other, we have to say it was my idea. We have to. It's the least we can do, even if it does nothing, we have to at least try to keep your name out of it.”

“No,” Enjolras repeats. “That's not – don't you see how unfair that is? To you, most of all, because I have to own up to this, and blaming you would be – you wouldn't even have been there without me, how could I be okay with that?” He pauses. “That aside,” he says, then, calmer, “you're a part of the ABC as well.”

“I'm not, though,” Grantaire says, and then quickly adds, “not the way you are. I mean, obviously I'm not the head of editing and representative for the whole paper, but I'm also a commission worker – that's nothing more than a contractor on paper, right? They don't know I'm at the meetings or have a vote in the decisions you guys make. Technically, I'm not even a member of the editorial staff.”

It's very apparent on Enjolras' face that he only chooses not to say anything because if he did, he'd have to agree.

“It's worth a try,” Grantaire presses. “We'll just – fuck, we can even say that you guys have been trying to go easier with the political shit after everything that happened, and that I'm not on board with that and I went on some sort of justice spree here, that you just came along because you were trying to convince me—”

“We're not doing it,” Enjolras says, not as firm anymore as he sounded just then. “Why would you even try to talk me into that? Imagine what the others would say if I just let you—”

“Oh, now you care what the others would say? Because if that's a chief concern of yours, I suggest you get a fucking time machine and don't go against their vote in the first place,” Grantaire snaps. “Can you stop pretending this is about anything but your self-righteousness? You keep saying you fucked up, so fix it! How am I even the one telling you this right now?”

Enjolras breathes, running a hand through his hair. Then he shakes his head, having made up his mind. “Fine,” he says. “If the question of responsibility comes up. It might not, but if it does...”

“If it does, we're pinning it on me,” Grantaire settles. Enjolras, despite having agreed, looks as if Grantaire had asked him to wade through lava. “Listen,” Grantaire sighs, “I know this goes against your egalitarian instincts or whatever, but it's the best option we have right now.”

Enjolras shifts in his seat. “That doesn't make it okay.”

Grantaire shrugs. “Yeah, well, I think we've sort of gone beyond things that are okay to do anyway, so.”

At that, Enjolras is silent. It's quiet for a while, and Grantaire can feel Enjolras' eyes on him, but he refuses to meet them. Then, Enjolras is leaning over a little, as if inspecting something at the nape of Grantaire's neck.

“You're hurt,” he says, his voice tense. “You're – why didn't you say?”

Grantaire reaches up to touch the patch of skin Enjolras' eyes seem to have settled on, and Enjolras is right – as he brings his fingers back to look at them, they're dipped in red. The blow to the side of his neck must have torn his skin, but he hadn't noticed so far. It's not even painful.

“You know you can ask for a doctor, if you—”

“Leave it,” Grantaire says quickly, edging to the other side of his seat. Enjolras' hand, which had been hovering somewhere in the air next to the wound on his neck, withdraws immediately. “It's nothing. Doesn't hurt.”

He hears Enjolras take a deep breath. “If you're sure.”

There's some noise outside that saves him from having to think up a reply for that. Grantaire turns around just in time to see the policewoman from earlier walk back in, armed with a clipboard. She takes a seat on the opposite side of the table, sorting through some papers before facing the both of them.

“All right,” she says, with a sigh in her voice. “We've gone over their version of events with the other party, so you're going to walk me through yours. You have the right to remain silent, although I will remind you that you are both in police custody and obligated to tell the truth if you do say something. Do you understand that?”

She's young, Grantaire notices, not ten years older than the two of them. Going by how monotone her voice sounds, this isn't really what she pictured her night to be like, and Grantaire feels inexplicably sorry for her. Maybe she had plans to go dance all night, or laze on the couch and watch Die Hard, and instead, here she is, about to be lied to by two students almost the same age as her. This can hardly be what she dreamed of ever since she was a little girl.

“Yes,” Grantaire says cooperatively as Enjolras looks straight forward and gives the hint of a nod. Again, the policewoman sighs.

“Good,” she says then, the word just barely missing an ironic tone. “Now, I understand that one of you was the one to inform the authorities about what was happening at the station. Why were you there at all?”

Grantaire guesses that it's sort of a standard questioning about the progression of events from there. The story is quick to be told – Enjolras describes everything that happened meticulously, and jumps at every single additional question that's asked before Grantaire can even open his mouth. Somewhere along the line, Grantaire kicks him lightly under the table, because what he's doing isn't exactly helping the case they might have to make if the question of responsibility comes up. Still, Enjolras isn't deterred, every intention of going with Grantaire's idea forgotten.

“So during the altercation, you claim that both of you acted out of nothing but self-defence,” the policewoman says when they get to the end of the story.

“Yes,” Enjolras says firmly. The policewoman's eyes flick to Grantaire.

“At one point, while you were on the ground, we have been told that you pulled the young man down by his leg, causing him to hit the tracks.”

“Uh,” Grantaire says, “are we just going to ignore the fact that he was literally trying to break my ribs?”

“He didn't mention that, no.”

Grantaire scoffs. “Didn't he, now. He was kicking me like a punching bag; I mean, kicking bag, technically, and I guess I could have just let that happen, but I'm sort of not a huge fan of broken bones?”

“So that was an act of self-defence as well.”

“Well, if there's that much doubt about it, I should have the bruises to prove it,” Grantaire mutters. He doesn't miss the way Enjolras' fingers go white around the knuckles as they tighten their grip on the armrest.

“Either way, from what we can tell, no member of the other party is planning to press charges against you,” the policewoman says and gives Grantaire a stern look when a bitter laugh bubbles up. “If they did,” she continues, “I don't think there'd be anything to worry about, since you'd have quite a solid claim of self-defence. Therefore, a valid charge of battery should be out of the question.”

There's a but somewhere in there, Grantaire can tell.

“However,” she says, “every reported case of trespassing is prosecuted by the SNCF. In a case like yours, it's not punishable by imprisonment, but fines can range from two hundred to one thousand euros.”

Grantaire's mind goes blank. If he was anxious earlier, he's panicking now, silently and without moving a muscle, but still definitely panicking.

“They can't do that,” Enjolras says, his voice shaking from rage. “They – we were there to prevent something, we did prevent it; without us, who knows what the damage might have been! And we're going to be prosecuted for that? For helping?”

“The charges they decide to press are out of our hands, M. Enjolras,” the policewoman says. “If you'd been on the tracks to commit suicide, they would still be prosecuting. It's their policy, not our choice or preference.”

“And that's all the same to you, isn't it,” Enjolras says. “Never mind that we've been trying to warn you that this was happening since Wednesday, never mind the fact that we would never have been in that situation if you'd bothered to take us seriously – there's no blame on you at all, is there? Because the police is just off the hook by default, even though you were clearly negligent and ignorant to what was happening, what we were trying to warn you about—”

“If they do press charges, you will be perfectly within your rights to consult a lawyer and contest them,” she says, admirably calm. Grantaire is just listening, letting it happen, because it's all he can do. He doesn't even care about the charges much, about the idea of actually having a record. What he does care about is possibly being home- and jobless in the near future, all because he was a fucking idiot with a crush who didn't know when to call it quits.

“It is our duty to report every case of trespassing to the SNCF. Leaving you two out of that report would count as an obstruction of justice, no matter whether or not I or any other officer here personally agrees with that. What I can tell you is that contesting the SNCF's charges on the grounds that you've just laid out isn't a hopeless endeavour, and that you can come to an arrangement concerning paying by instalments, should you be unable to pay the fine in total at once.”

Enjolras isn't pacified. “It's not fair,” he says. “Them pressing charges is not fair, as is the assumption that anyone could just afford a lawyer to challenge their fine. And Grantaire shouldn't even have been there, that was – you can report me, but he wasn't – this wasn't his mistake.”

Grantaire, coming back to reality, lacks the energy to say anything against that. He should have known when they were agreeing on him taking the blame that Enjolras wasn't planning to go with the idea.

“Neither of you should have been on the tracks,” the policewoman says, sounding very tired. “Your convictions of the endeavour don't matter here, or at least, they won't to the SNCF. Whether or not it makes a difference to you is something you're going to have to talk out among yourselves.” She looks between both of them when Enjolras is quiet. “The report to the SNCF will be issued, and both of you are free to go, unless there are any objections or questions left to sort out.”

Grantaire only just finds it in himself to shake his head.

“No,” Enjolras says reluctantly, and the policewoman nods and pushes her chair back.

“You will be asked to sign a few documents, and to pick up your belongings at the exit. You can ask to use a phone if you need to. Your car,” she looks at Enjolras, “has been brought in by an officer, who will show you the way there when you leave.”

Grantaire is so tired. He's glad of that, because he supposes that if he wasn't an opportunity to lie horizontally away from nodding off, he'd have the energy to be angry, and who knows what sort of shit he'd be pulling then. He's not even sure who he's angry at – between himself and Enjolras, it's at least equally divided, and the SNCF's bullshit is somewhere on the list as well.

They're led outside and through a bunch of corridors before they each get handed a bunch of papers and a pen, and Grantaire signs without bothering to read. There's not really a way for this to get any worse, he supposes. When they're given back their jackets and belongings, he grabs his scarf from Enjolras' box before Enjolras can reach out. Enjolras is looking at him, then, and Grantaire deliberately doesn't meet his eyes.

The policeman who had recognized Enjolras is the one to lead them outside and show them to Enjolras' car, and Grantaire considers just walking away and calling a taxi for a second, because he really, really doesn't feel like sitting in a car with Enjolras for another hour right now, but then he thinks better of it. Aside from the fact that it would undoubtedly cause more drama if he refused to drive home with Enjolras, taking into consideration the fact that he might be out a job not long from now, he can't afford a taxi.

They're standing next to the car uselessly once the policeman has left, because Enjolras hasn't unlocked it, just stands before Grantaire, trying to catch his gaze. “You won't have to pay,” he says after a while. He looks unsure, shifting his weight, and somehow, that makes Grantaire angry. “We can contest the charges, and if they don't drop them, I'll account for them. I promise. I can't change that it happened now, but you won't be left with the fine.”

Grantaire stares at the ground, feeling his heart pound. “Whatever,” he mutters. “Can we – can you just open the car?”

Enjolras shifts again, then he moves around the car wordlessly and unlocks it. Grantaire gets into the passenger seat, leaning against the backrest and closing his eyes. The car sounds uncomfortably loud to Grantaire, probably because everything is louder when you're dead tired, and Enjolras has fallen back to that old pattern of almost killing the engine every time he starts. Save for the tortured noises of the engine, it's quiet.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says after a while. Grantaire blinks. They're on a larger road than the one they came by, and Grantaire briefly wonders if Enjolras knows what he's doing, navigation-wise. “Could you – I know I'm not in the position to ask anything from you right now, but can you just tell me if you're okay? This is – sort of disconcerting.”

Jesus. “I'm fine,” Grantaire says. “Just tired as fuck. Don't worry about it.”

Enjolras doesn't seem happy with that. “You have a right to be angry,” he says. “If you wanted to yell at me or something, I'd understand.”

“Well, I don't,” Grantaire tells the window rather than Enjolras. “Leave it be, okay? Let's just try to make it home.”

It's quiet for a while before Enjolras replies. “All right,” he says, his voice uncharacteristically small.

They drive in silence after that, and Grantaire starts somehow drifting into and out of sleep. It makes the drive pass faster, never being entirely awake, and Grantaire counts himself lucky for that, because at least, when Enjolras pulls into Grantaire's street, it doesn't feel like they've just spent an entire hour in the most uncomfortable silence Grantaire has ever experienced.

“Thanks,” Grantaire murmurs when Enjolras parks on the side of the road. He's unbuckled his seatbelt and is about to flee into the at least sort of safe confines of his home when Enjolras holds him back.

“Wait,” he says, his tone a strange mix of commanding and pleading. “We can't leave things out in the open like this. Just talk to me. There has to be something I can do to – well, not make up for this, just – something I can do to make it better.”

Grantaire takes a deep breath. “I don't get you, you know that?” he says then. “I know this is pretty much half my fault, because I just had to fucking talk you into taking me with you, but you're – if you care so much, and you knew about how much the ABC was struggling, you couldn't just have taken a fucking minute to consider that before you got yourself arrested? Despite having a record?” He doesn't want to talk himself into a rage, he really doesn't, but it's suddenly hard to stop. “And when you were talking then, you didn't even try to make it better, you just pressed on with your fucking convictions, talking to a policewoman as if she didn't have the power to make this even worse for you, what were you thinking? Because I get that you can't care about my job as much as I do, fine, but I thought you at least cared about the paper enough to keep some of that bullshit in check for like, five minutes – as if the fact that you ignored the vote wasn't bad enough in itself, but to think that you did that while knowing that part of your budget was on the line, that the only fucking income I have was—” He stops himself there, biting down on his bottom lip, because tonight was fucked up enough already and he definitely isn't going to cry right now and in front of Enjolras. He is not.

When Enjolras speaks, it's very softly. “You think you're going to lose your job?”

Grantaire swipes a hand across his face. “Do you see a scenario where I'm not, if your budget changes?”

“I see nothing but that,” Enjolras says earnestly. “Grantaire, if I'd known you thought – how could you think that letting you go would even be a consequence we'd consider?”

“Do you have a choice?” Grantaire asks. “Do you? Because it sounded to me like you'd either have to make cuts or stop publishing if anyone else backed out.”

“Well, we would have to make cuts, of course, but you weren't – we'd cut marketing, we don't really need that anyway, or we'd stop publishing online to save costs. Your salary wouldn't even be on the list of things that are anywhere near possible to dispense with, just – you seriously thought that, that any of us could consider dropping you like that?”

Grantaire shrugs. It never occurred to him that he wouldn't be the first liability to let go of, but he's not sure why. It might have as much to do with shitty self esteem as with the fact that he has no idea of how much the ABC spends on what.

“I didn't know,” Enjolras says. When Grantaire glances at him, he looks miserable, even in the feeble light of the streetlamp outside. “I'm sorry I didn't clarify. Grantaire, you're a person, not some sort of animate budget strain, and – you're involved in our decisions, how could you possibly think we'd go over your head and discard you like that?”

“Does it matter?” Grantaire says evasively. “It's not an issue yet. That is, apparently it won't be, so – who cares?”

“I do,” Enjolras says, frowning. “I realise I was thoughtless today, and that doesn't speak for me being a trustworthy person, but if you seriously felt like there was a genuine possibility of me risking something you depend on—”

“You risked a lot more than me losing my job, if I'm not completely off track here,” Grantaire says coolly.

“I'm not saying it wasn't wrong, I'm not saying it wasn't stupid. I'm not trying to make excuses for what I did, but if there had been the possibility of actual, immediate damage to anyone in the ABC, I would never have gone that far.”

Grantaire says nothing.

“Grantaire?”

Literally all he wants to do is go to bed. If he's relieved about the job-thing, the feeling doesn't manage to reach his consciousness. “Yeah.”

“I do know that you got hurt because of me. I won't forgive myself for that.”

Oh, for the love of everything. “I didn't lose a leg, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, finally reaching for the door and pushing it open. “Don't beat yourself up for my sake. If you want something to feel awful about, make it the ABC.” He gets out of the car, and looks in again before closing the door. Enjolras looks miserable, which makes everything worse, but Grantaire is angry, and he wishes the urge to try and make everything better for Enjolras would go away already. “Drive safe,” he says, and Enjolras gives a small nod.

“Good night.”

Grantaire hums something of a goodbye and throws the door closed.

Every muscle in his body aches as he walks upstairs. Unlocking his door in the narrow space between Éponine's room and his, he sees her shoes sitting next to her doormat and realises that her bike is still in Enjolras' driveway.

He sleeps like a dead man. There's something strangely satisfying about that, about just passing out and knowing it's Saturday and sleeping the strain and the ache and everything else the last few hours have brought along off. It's half past one when he wakes up, and he rolls over and decides to shut the world out for a little longer, even if he doesn't have sleep to assist him with that anymore. It's sunny outside, that much he sees, all blue skies and singular white clouds, as if the weather took pity on him and decided to take a break from the continuous grey.

He hears his phone chime after a while, and reluctantly reaches over to grab it from his bedside table. There are three new texts. One is from Éponine – Return my bike or die painfully, I don't care what happened to it just get it back – one from Jehan – Are you going to be there today? We can pick you up if you like, just text!! – and the latest one is from Musichetta. I have been informed that you might not show up, she writes. Here's a reminder that I'll be speaking and I advise that you make an appearance unless you want to lose your couch privileges xx.

Ah. He hadn't forgotten about her speech, not really, but he can't say he expected her to ask for his support – she had it, of course, and the reason he's going to show up isn't the fact that her couch is the most comfortable thing Grantaire remembers ever having slept on. Although it is. He's just not exactly keen on seeing Enjolras again, which he's aware is childish, but having a slightly longer reprieve from this than the ten hours of sleep he was granted would have been nice. Promise I'll be there, he texts Musichetta. Unless I've already slept through it – when's your turn? He falls back into bed after that, and then talks himself into taking a shower.

When he gets back, half-dressed and hoping that his hair will have the good will to dry before he has to go outside, Chetta has replied. 15:00 if we stick to the plan – you better hurry, son, everyone's already here. Everyone is there – well, that's his ride out of the window, then. It's completely within the realm of the possible to walk to the town centre, but a lot more convenient to drive, especially with a pair of possibly contused ribs – that is, he thinks that's what they are, and what the bruises are indicating. The cut on his neck isn't serious, although he thinks it might scar. For now, he slapped a band-aid on and hoped for the best.

He decides to kill two birds with one stone and take the bus to Enjolras' house, seeing as he won't be there right now, fetch the bike and take it to town. That way, he'll probably make it in time and won't have to go through the inevitable awkwardness of bike-business with Enjolras.

The fact that it's sunny doesn't mean it's warm in mid-January, so Grantaire regrets his decision of going by bike about halfway to the town centre. He doesn't have time to linger on the unfairness of the world, though, when he tries to make it to the event and realises that he won't get much closer by bike, because the centre is packed.

It probably shouldn't surprise him, but it does. He hasn't spend a lot of time wondering how many people were actually going to show up to this, drive into the middle of nowhere in the freezing cold to try and make a difference in one of the most insignificant towns France has to offer, but he realises now that he had vastly underestimated the number. A few streets away from the town hall, it's already impossible to make it through the mass of people and stay on the bike, so he locks it to a random railing at a bus station and silently prays that it won't get stolen until he gets back.

It's hard to make out a lot as he tries to struggle toward the town hall. There's people everywhere, people in thick winter coats and colourful scarves; he remembers that, that they'd been encouraged to bring rainbow scarves and, if necessary, umbrellas, something about symbolizing the beauty of diversity. He can only just make out the tip of the clock tower of the town hall when something very small and very fast crashes into him, sending him reeling backwards and almost causing him to double over in pain. “Shit,” the thing that hit him says, “R? What were you doing, standing in my way like that?”

Grantaire blinks and his vision clears, revealing Gavroche's dark brown curls and crooked grin.

“What the hell, kid,” he says, looking around. “Jesus, you almost killed me – what are you doing here?”

Gavroche crosses his arms. “This is my cause, too, unless I'm mistaken and woke up without what the cool kids call a migration background.”

Grantaire pulls a face. “That expression is honestly worse than any swear word you could ever use.”

“I know,” Gavroche trills. “Hey, what was that secret mission you went on yesterday night, huh? Ponine and I watched Brave without you.”

“The secret mission was a disaster and we lost one of our best men. Not at all worth missing Brave,” Grantaire admits. “You're not here alone, are you? Is Éponine around somewhere, or your mum?”

“It's a free country,” Gavroche says. “I don't need supervision.”

“You're eleven,” Grantaire says. “You do need it. Are you here on your own?”

“I'm very much not,” Gavroche says with a grin. “Look around you! No one's here on their own. One big bulk of solidarity. Long live the French! We have a knack for being brotherly.”

He's about to dash off again, but Grantaire manages to catch him. “Ép's here, isn't she?”

“Yes,” Gavroche nods. “Waiting to hear that one girl's speech. She's by the stage somewhere.”

“Then off you go, to the stage,” Grantaire pats his shoulder and Gavroche looks one remark away from sticking his tongue out. “While we're at it, have you seen – anyone? Save for Éponine, anyone I know?”

“Lost, are we?” Gavroche points behind Grantaire to a spot in the crowd, and it takes a moment for Grantaire to understand that someone there seems to be blowing soap bubbles. “Follow the bubbles, they'll lead to one of your pals. The nice one, you know? With the hair.”

Jehan. Who else would be blowing soap bubbles at a rally? “Thanks,” Grantaire murmurs, but Gavroche has already disappeared, hopefully in Éponine's vague direction.

He makes his way over there very slowly, moving through the crowd at a glacial pace, and Jehan spots him from a distance. “R!” They wave with their free hand. “Over here!”

Grantaire smiles. Maybe coming here wasn't so bad after all – at least Jehan's company won't leave time or room for moping over the weirdness of yesterday. And, as he realises when he reaches them, he now also has utter horror to distract him from those thoughts, because Jehan brought Montparnasse.

They make a surprisingly harmonious image together, Montparnasse standing next to Jehan, holding the tube of liquid for them and somehow managing not to look ridiculous. Damn him. “Capital R,” he says with a smile that carries no friendliness whatsoever. “How's your art?”

“How's yours?” Grantaire asks, failing to sound flippant, and reciprocates as Jehan leans in for a hug. “Am I interrupting a date here? I can try to find Joly and Bossuet or something.”

“Technically, about three thousand people are interrupting this date,” Jehan says, smiling. “You're good. I'm only insulted that you didn't take the offer of us picking you up.”

“Trust me, I'm insulted at that too. Or at least, my half-frozen fingers and sore calves are,” Grantaire says. “Éponine's bike is a terrible means of transport.”

“She was looking for you earlier,” Montparnasse notes, slightly less forgiving about the whole date-interruption-thing. “Something about possible murder?”

“Doesn't even sound like such a terrible fate right now,” Grantaire murmurs, and is chastised by Jehan blowing a stream of bubbles at his face.

“I forbid your negativity today,” they say strictly. “Did you take one look at the sky last night? That shower was the precursor of something even more beautiful, just you wait.”

Grantaire won't look down out of sheer politeness, but he can see Montparnasse lace his fingers together with Jehan's.

“How was your thing, anyway?” Grantaire asks, setting it up as the final question before he gets out of their faces, because who is he to spread his negativity all over young love? “Didn't freeze to death?”

“Oh, if we had, it would have been worth it,” Jehan says with utter disregard of the terrifying reality death poses to most people. “Anyway, I don't remember the cold at all. I remember the stars. Joly might be coming down with something, but he hasn't complained once.”

“Wow.” That's really something. “He's here, though, right?”

Jehan nods. “He's further to the front. It's so admirable, because you just know he'd give anything to get to curl up in bed with some soup, but he wouldn't dream of missing this.”

“I better go find him, then,” Grantaire says. “Keep it PG, you two.” One of the soap bubbles Jehan blows after him in reprimand bursts on Grantaire's ear as he walks away, and he figures he probably deserved that.

Joly becomes quite easy to find, because apparently, for a better view and to celebrate the special occasion, he has decided that his place is on Bossuet's shoulders.

“You are constantly inviting bad luck into your life, I hope you know that. Can't blame our dear Tyche for everything,” Grantaire says, observing the precarious construction the two of them make up.

“Look who made it,” Bossuet grins. “I'd give you a hug, but I think I might topple over.”

“Yeah, don't risk it,” Grantaire says and waves up at Joly. “Everything all right up there, space kid?”

“Hardly,” Joly says, and sure enough, his nose is a little red and his eyes are bleary, but he's smiling. “No regrets, though!”

“That's the spirit.”

“This is terrible,” Bossuet says, his hands wrapped around Joly's calves to steady him. “I think I'd be less nervous if it was me up on that stage.”

“There can't possibly be a good reason for that,” Grantaire frowns. Chetta is the most in-charge person he knows. Hardly anyone has their life together the way she does. She can work two jobs and keep up amazing grades, she can have two extremely chaotic boyfriends and be in one of the most stable relationships Grantaire has ever witnessed, she probably does her own tax declarations.

“No reason,” Bossuet agrees, “save for the awful sense of shared sentiments that comes with love. It's a blessing and a curse. Who needs more anxiety in their lives?”

“Oh!” Joly grabs both of Bossuet's hands where they're settled right below his knees. “It's happening. R, get ready to catch me in case I swoon.”

Grantaire looks toward the stage that's been set up right in front of the town hall, where Musichetta is talking to someone Grantaire doesn't know. The crowd slowly grows silent when she walks up to the microphone, steady as ever. Grantaire takes a look around – people and more people, as far as his eye reaches, which, granted, isn't very far currently, but still. The turnout really is impressive.

Musichetta taps her finger against the microphone twice and smiles when the taps resound in every speaker that's been set up around the stage. “I've always wanted to do that,” she admits, grinning, and soft laughter ripples through the crowd. “Anyway – I asked one of my friends what a good way to kick this thing off might be, and he told me that it was never a bad idea to start a speech with 'citizens'.”

Bossuet snorts. For a split second, Musichetta glances over to them, and Grantaire might be imagining it, but he thinks he sees her eyes light up.

“Now, I have the utmost respect for him, and his speeches would blow you away, I can testify to that, but I decided that it wasn't quite my style. I thought that if I was to address you all, I would find something sort of personal, something that might express my gratitude to see so many of you here.” She takes a breath. “My friends, I thank you for coming.”

Applause rolls through the crowd, and Grantaire wasn't enthusiastic about this thing at all, he really wasn't, but in the same way a good concert or sports game would be, it's his own kind of intoxicating. Next to him, Joly and Bossuet are beaming with pride, both grinning from ear to ear.

Musichetta is a great speaker, indisputably. She talks for ten minutes without making a second of it boring; she's confident, hilarious, and warm. From the introduction, she makes her way through praising the turnout, explaining the further programme, addressing a few relevant current events, and drawing attention to some local issues, until she concludes on a broader level.

“There are lots of things I could tell you about what it's like to grow up here as a black girl,” she says towards the end of her speech. “I'll go with one anecdote that stuck with me. When I was ten, my mother sent me to one of those confidence-building classes for kids – you know the ones? In my case, it was pretty unnecessary, because I know martial arts –” Laughter – “but I went, and during one of those classes, the teacher was talking about how to deal with bullying, and for some reason, she thought it was okay to ask me outright what my experiences were, since I was sure to have some. Now, the thing is, I wasn't easily offended, and she wasn't wrong, so I told her and the rest of the class about some of the things other kids said to me back then. I mentioned some kid telling me I must have walked through fire to look the way I did, and the teacher said to me, 'Well, if you did, then you must be really brave and strong – see, you have to try and pick the positive parts out of the things people mean to be hurtful.' I'll be completely honest here – for kids that are being bullied, I think that's terrible advice. But what she said stayed with me, even if it was just because it bothered me, and the older I got, the more I thought that maybe there was something to it after all. Not in the positive parts of things that are meant to be hurtful, but in the things we learn in dealing with these hurtful words and these ignorant people.”

Éponine has joined them at some point during the speech and elbows Grantaire. “I know it's taught me a mean left hook.”

Grantaire shivers. “Éponine, I fear you and your pointy elbows, but your bike is okay. ...I think.”

“No one is meant to be grateful for the bad experiences they have made or for the displays of ignorance they have suffered through,” Musichetta continues, “but I do believe that if we manage to take these experiences and grow through them, that is the most powerful way of defying those who try to put us down. To me, growing up this way meant learning to choose my friends wisely, and to hold people to the standard I deserved. To anyone who shares the experiences I've made, it might mean anything at all: it can mean learning to press on, to stand up for yourself. It can mean learning tolerance in your own turn, questioning your own prejudices. Possibly most importantly, it can mean learning to forgive those who misstepped and are prepared to recognize their mistake and promise to do better – something that, I'll admit, has taken me a long time to learn.”

Grantaire looks at the ground. It shouldn't have hit so close to home, but it did.

“If we can forgive others – even those who have hurt us, even those who took years to see their mistakes or overcome their pride – we can build the future we deserve. There are hurtful things in all our pasts, even on the grand scale – there is pain in our history, there are wounds that haven't healed. To me, it seems like a lot of the conflicts we still struggle with, may it be xenophobia or religious discrimination or, when it comes down to it, any kind of prejudice, are based on exactly this lack of resolution and forgiveness, which is why I will encourage you to forgive each other. Forgive readily while still being mindful, forgive each other for the most trivial things, forgive as an act of rebellion. If we manage to start forgiving in the smallest of ways, each of us for ourselves, we will have taken a step towards a less hateful world. I dare say you have already taken such a step today, by choosing to spend your Saturday afternoon out here in the cold with the rest of us, showing your support and solidarity, and coming together in a shared belief. For that, I am grateful, and proud to call you my friends.”

The applause is thunderous and wild. Joly has to reach out and steady himself against Grantaire's shoulder at one point, only to completely ignore that it happened and go on clapping nonetheless.

“Imagine that,” Éponine says, her eyes on the stage. “Being able to make people listen to you like that.”

He glances at her. Sometimes, she gets like this, almost melancholic, with every word she says dipped in bitterness, for no apparent reason. He's never sure if she wants him to say something about it or not. Right now, he decides not to. “Where's Gavroche?”

“With Bahorel,” she says with a wry smile. “Gav loves him. Not sure how supportive I should be of that friendship, but, y'know. No point in telling him off.”

“Hah,” Grantaire says, and, as if on cue, catches Bahorel giving Gavroche a piggyback ride not too far from them. “Why don't people ever carry me on their backs?” he wonders out loud, looking back up at Joly. “Is that really so much to ask?”

Éponine gives him a look.

“What?” he asks, shrugging. “Is that a weird thing to want?”

“Yes,” Éponine says at the same time that Bossuet and Joly give a decided “No.”

“Bahorel could easily lift you,” Bossuet says. “Maybe you can arrange something there.”

“Oh, please. I'm not a good person, but I won't deprive a child of such joy.”

He's pretty sure Joly says something in response to that, but Grantaire doesn't hear him, because he's followed Musichetta down the stage with his eyes, and right there, she's greeted by Enjolras.

Grantaire doesn't get how he hasn't noticed him until now. He's hard to miss, that flash of red and gold among a mass of winter coats in subdued colours, only interrupted by the occasional rainbow scarf. Grantaire looks on and tries to figure out what the twinge in his chest means, but it's to no avail. Enjolras is his old self again, composed and glorious, and Grantaire shouldn't have expected any less, but he still finds it infuriating. He's a mess, the bruising on his ribs hurts more than yesterday, and he's lucky no one has pointed out the huge band-aid that's only half-hidden by the collar of his coat. But then, while he certainly feels like a mess, no one has really taken notice of that so far. Éponine might have, but she doesn't seem too well herself, so maybe she's preoccupied with that. If he doesn't make the impression of someone who's had one of the weirdest and worst nights of his life, then maybe Enjolras is just pulling off the same masquerade.

He's not given much time to dwell. While he was busy staring at Enjolras, Musichetta seems to have made her way over to meet her boyfriends, and Joly's shriek as he struggles to make it off Bossuet's shoulders safely startles Grantaire awake again. Musichetta hugs them both for such a long time it's bordering on the absurd, and then she spots Grantaire over Bossuet's shoulder.

“R! I saw you from up there and thought, see, that's a guy you can rely on.” She twists out of one hug and pulls him into another. “Thank you. It means a lot.”

“Yeah, I think it's safe to say I made an enormous sacrifice in listening to you being witty and entertaining for ten minutes,” he says with a soft smile. “Seriously. You were great. Somewhere right now, Cicero is recoiling in shame of his inferiority.”

“Your charm will buy you nothing but my everlasting friendship,” she grins, and then someone else takes the stage, and they're busy listening.

There are two more speeches, both of them shorter than Musichetta's. One of them is held by Courfeyrac, who has the task of drawing attention to the needs of a refugee's shelter in Arras. He speaks with all the seriousness that the topic requires, mixing in just enough positivity to save it from being the downer it has the potential to be and from getting too light to be appropriate. There's also a girl reading poetry, and some music, which manages to keep the programme from being monotonous. Grantaire can't help but wonder about all the people who are standing too far away to really benefit from it, but other than that, he's genuinely surprised about how well everything goes, how enthusiastic people are. He can't find it in himself to interpret that as a sign of a brighter future, but it does feel good to see so many people engaged in something so not-shitty after tonight, and he lets himself enjoy it.

There's a march once the program is done, and in that, too, only the people at the very front have a chance of participating, because the town centre is not large and there are so many people that a complete march in one round that ends in front of the town hall again would just be a bunch of people standing in a circle. There's some awkwardness, logistics-wise, but it works out well enough.

In total, the whole thing lasts for about three hours, although it somehow manages to feel like much less. By the time the last speech finishes, the sun has already gone down, giving the scene a dramatic lighting that's really all sorts of fitting. Éponine has already left for her set at the Musain, and Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta seem eager to follow.

“We were all going to meet up there, as soon as we make it through the masses,” Chetta says as they move along as slowly as the crowd requires, into the very vague direction of the café. “You're coming, right?”

Grantaire shrugs helplessly. He doesn't really want to, he feels like just calling it a day while nothing terrible has happened, but JBM are extremely difficult to say no to.

“Of course he is,” Bossuet says, draping an arm around his shoulders. “There's no debating this. You've been moping, my friend, you deserve a proper distraction.”

Right. Maybe Grantaire hasn't been as good at that masquerade thing as he likes to think.

“I just have to get Ép's bike first,” he says. “She was merciful so far, but I really should get it home before tonight.”

“Do what you have to, R,” Joly says graciously. “As long as you make it to the Musain, I don't mind if you take a detour over New Zealand.”

Grantaire thinks of how preferable that would be to what he's actually going to do.

He rides the bike home and deposits it in the back yard, where he had picked it up yesterday night. It seems strangely long ago; there's an eternity between then and now, and the past day and night still feel like some sort of hazy dream to him. That feeling doesn't go away when he makes it to the Musain, where everyone has already arrived and gathered right at the entrance rather than in the usual back room.

“This is unusual,” Grantaire says with a squint as Feuilly greets him. “Are we changing things up?”

“We thought it'd be nice to be closer to the bar,” Feuilly smiles and leads him over to one of the tables the ABC have claimed. “Plus, we get to appreciate the music for once.”

He toasts Éponine, who's too engrossed in her singing to notice. Grantaire was right earlier, there is something especially gloomy about her – not that she's usually a ray of sunshine, and not that her music is normally upbeat and light, but today, sadness seems to pervade her songs like veins.

“R!” Courfeyrac is waving at him from two tables over. “Get over here, this game of Truth or Dare has the potential to be amazing, but it's no fun without people who would actually be up for the weird stuff.”

Grantaire manages a smile, secretly wondering how most of the ABC's hangouts seem to ultimately culminate in the cheesiest party games imaginable. “So naturally, my name came up. I'm flattered,” he says, making his way over. He catches Enjolras' gaze halfway there and, in spite of himself, actually stops.

Enjolras, who had been sitting, immediately gets up and takes two step away from the others, obviously expecting Grantaire to follow. Grantaire does.

“So,” Grantaire says, burying his hands in the pockets of his coat. “Are you planning to let them know any time soon?”

Enjolras' jaw clenches; he doesn't miss the implication in the words. “I'm not trying to keep secrets,” he says. “Before the rally, I didn't want to add to the tension, and right now, I couldn't – they've worked hard for this, and it's a cause to celebrate that everything went well. They deserve to enjoy that.”

“I mean, it's none of my business,” Grantaire says with a shrug. “You can say or not say whatever you like, and I'm not being passive-aggressive here, I mean that. Just – when someone asks, I'm not going to lie to them.”

“I wouldn't ask you to.”

“Good.”

Silence. Grantaire clears his throat after a while.

“Right. On to that game of Truth or Dare I was going to improve with my presence.”

It's more than uncomfortable. It physically hurts Grantaire to walk away like this, to leave things so unresolved, and he wonders if that is what Musichetta meant about pain and conflict being born from the inability to forgive. He's being so dramatic. There's no very good reason to be angry at Enjolras, not really, because Grantaire chose to go with him and Enjolras has already explained that he hadn't been putting Grantaire's job on the line, but there's a feeling of resentment that just won't go away, and Grantaire hates it. He doesn't want it, doesn't want to direct that sort of feeling at Enjolras when he's still, always, utterly gone for him at the same time.

“Welcome, R, we're so glad to have you,” Courfeyrac says and tugs Grantaire down by his sleeve when he reaches their table. Grantaire manages to squeeze onto the bench next to Jehan, who kindly makes room for him.

“Where's Montparnasse?”

Jehan gives a smile that barely misses looking happy. “Oh, I know better than to bring him here.”

Grantaire has no time to give that any further thought, because Cosette is already urging them to continue the game. It's five of them; Cosette, Jehan, Marius, Courfeyrac and Grantaire, and Marius seems to have been in the process of thinking up a question to ask Courfeyrac, who picked Truth.

“Okay,” Marius says, with none of the menace that usually comes with being in such a powerful position. “What's the story behind the first love letter you ever wrote?”

“Oh!” Courfeyrac clutches his heart. “What a Marius kind of question. It's okay, it's a good story, full of heartbreak and such.” He clears his throat. “I wrote it in primary school, at the tender age of eight. It was about two sentences long, I think, although I'm not sure what I wrote anymore. From my very nature, though, we can tell that it must have been extremely sweet and charming.”

Cosette giggles.

“Anyway,” Courfeyrac says with a pointed look at her, “the lucky recipient was a girl called Marielle. I was so excited for her reaction that I watched her read it, and then I watched her throw it in the trash.”

Jehan and Cosette let out a simultaneous gasp. Courfeyrac grins.

“No worries, no worries, my friends, this hero is one that isn't easily set back. Romantic and clueless as I was, I didn't hesitate to come back for seconds after having been rejected, and picked that tiny handwritten masterpiece out of the trash—” Cosette shakes her head in horror – “and brought it back to her. Marielle, with all the hardness that an eight-year-old could possibly possess, looked at me for a long moment, and then very slowly and deliberately walked back to the trash can and did away with it again.”

“No,” Cosette says, “oh, why did you have to ask that, Marius; this is the saddest story I have ever heard.”

“Eight-year-old you was a real trooper,” Grantaire says. “I mean, in a sad way, but still.”

“I liked the story,” Marius says defensively. “You were a brave kid. I would have run away crying if that had happened to me.”

“They do say courage is a kinder word for stupidity, but either way, I'll wear it as a badge of honour,” Courfeyrac says. “Now – Jehan.”

Jehan is dared to approach a certain person at the bar and convince them, with whatever story it might take, to take their shirt off, only they're not allowed to tell the truth. Jehan accepts and determinedly cracks their knuckles before going in, and once they do, it barely takes them two minutes before the guy in question is discarding first his coat, and then almost his shirt, although at that point, the bartender intervenes. Courfeyrac manages to convey via gestures that the guy trying to take his shirt off counts as having the dare fulfilled, and Jehan returns with a content smile.

“What did you tell him?” Marius says, the horrified expression he watched with still not having worn off.

“Oh, you know,” Jehan says. “What was necessary.”

It's impossible to extract any other information from them.

After that, there's a steady stream of heartfelt stories and ridiculous dares that Grantaire feels comfortable enough in. Bossuet was right, it is a good distraction, and being drawn into a something trivial but fun is just light enough for him to handle. Until the game somehow manages to take a slight turn, that is. The one responsible is Cosette.

She has just revealed what the last lie she told was – to everyone's surprise, it had been a really elaborate and detailed lie about someone's birthday gift – and her eyes look mischievous when Grantaire chooses dare for his turn. “All right,” she says. “R, I dare you to go up there and sing a full duet with Ponine. No Row, Row, Row Your Boat or anything, I mean a full song, two minutes minimum, with the entire thing where you make an effort and have a well thought-out second voice and all.”

He stares. “What makes you think I'm even capable of that?”

She smiles sweetly. “She might have mentioned something indicating that you are,” she says.

“Okay? Right.” He looks over at Éponine. She won't even object, probably, especially not if she hears that it was Cosette's dare – Cosette's wish, technically. “Any song in particular, or...?”

“No, just whatever you can think of,” Cosette says.

Grantaire thinks for a few seconds, Éponine is in the middle of a song anyway, and abandons some ideas for always differing reasons before something comes to him. It's a small epiphany, really, because he looks around in the room and at the faces of his friends who are so proud, so happy after being sure to have accomplished something, and he thinks of Éponine's voice softly permeating the air with that particular twinge of sadness that nobody but Grantaire seems to be completely aware of, and he knows what the right choice is.

“Okay,” he says, emptying his glass and getting up. “Let's do this, then.”

He waits patiently by the small stage that's really more of a platform leading up to the bar, and Éponine fixes her gaze on him when she finishes. “What is it?”

He hops onto the stage and quickly whispers all the relevant information in her ear. She frowns at him. “I don't know the chords to that.”

“Is that your only objection?”

“I guess,” Éponine says, glancing at Cosette for the fraction of a second. “I can do the bottom part, if you like. Can't be rocket science to come up with one, right?”

“It won't be,” he promises. “I know the chords, I can take your guitar, and – I guess we'll have to share the mic?”

“No, there's – hang on.”

She slides off the barstool she usually sits on and searches through something behind the bar while Grantaire goes to get a second barstool for himself. Éponine retrieves a second microphone out of nowhere, although there's no stand for that one, but she just shrugs. “I can hold it like this. Unless you want to make this a twenty minute jam session, it's going to be fine.”

“All right,” Grantaire says, breathing deeply before he pulls the standing microphone a little closer and adjusts the height. It's gotten quieter as some of the people around the bar and entrance have stopped their conversations to observe the new development. What the hell, Grantaire figures, he's done much more embarrassing things than this. “Okay, folks, I know this is sort of a variation of the usual programme, so you're free to take a cigarette break or something while I'm on here. I promise it won't take a very long time, but I take my Truth or Dare games super seriously, so we're all just going to have to grin and bear it.”

“Do Wonderwall,” Joly calls over, and Grantaire smiles.

“Sorry to disappoint,” he says, adjusts his posture a little, and starts strumming.

It's surprisingly easy, playing in front of people like this. Maybe it's because there's a fair amount of prelude before he actually has to sing, or because everyone knows this is a dare and no one is likely to have high expectations, but it's not terrifying at all.

When he does start to sing, he doesn't realise he's closed his eyes for the first few notes, and then, noticing that he probably looks ridiculous, opens them. He happens to catch someone's eye as he does, but the light is dim and he can't tell who it is, and people are listening, and his friends are watching, and okay, right, now he might be a little terrified.

He makes it through the first verse, and he can tell that the others, Cosette probably most of all, are starting to wonder why he'd choose a song with such an utterly depressing tone to it. It's a good song, really, but constantly shifting between genuinely heartbreaking and hopeful, and the hopeful part only comes with the chorus. He's relieved when he reaches it.

Éponine hasn't joined him yet, but when he glances over to her, he finds her staring forward and tapping her foot in the rhythm, figuring the song out as she listens. Then, during the end of the second verse, she joins in, and, heaven bless that girl, it works.

Grantaire knew their voices went together in a pleasant enough way, but they've never actually tried making something out of it, never even tried for an entire song.

The anxiety goes away. He can latch on to Éponine's voice, cling to the sound of the two of them together, and focus on the words and the chords next to it, and that's enough. His eyes wander along the tables, finding his friends one by one – there's something so fitting in that, in singing about hope and fighting, and watching them listen. Cosette gives him a wide smile when he meets her eyes, Jehan is whispering something to Marius just then, Bossuet has linked hands with Musichetta and is resting his head on Joly's shoulder, and Bahorel quietly toasts him.

They're almost through the second chorus when Grantaire's eyes land on Enjolras. He's sitting with Feuilly and Combeferre, watching intently, and there's something so strange to that look – new and deep and almost curious and completely unreadable – that Grantaire can't stand to hold his gaze for long. He goes back to looking at the others, to focusing on the notes, and on the strange mood of both accomplishment and melancholy that has somehow crept up on all of them during the song.

They reach the final note, and Éponine harmonizes so beautifully that Grantaire considers it more luck than strong will that he doesn't burst into tears then and there. He strums the last few chords, and finally lets his hand fall to his side.

Everything's a blur of hands and voices after that. Éponine, for unknown reasons, gives him a short, almost violent hug, and then Cosette pulls him off the stage and people are talking to him and he's caught in a strange haze where the heavy mood from the song should lift, but doesn't. After a while, when he's already been back at the table for a few minutes, he dares to look over at Enjolras, fully expecting him to have gone back to his conversation.

He hasn't. When Grantaire looks over, Enjolras is watching him, his eyes shining and still holding that look from earlier. Grantaire lasts a little longer in bearing it this time, but ultimately, he's the one to look away again. There's no point in lingering, he tells himself, when he's so very unlikely to ever find out what, if anything, that look wants to convey.

Chapter Text

No one in the ABC is thrilled when they're all gathered at the Musain before noon on a Sunday, especially seeing as Saturday night feels like it only just ended.

“This better be good,” Bossuet murmurs, his head on the table and angrily blinking at the too-bright light from the ceiling lamp. “I don't see what could've come up overnight that would be so important.”

Grantaire bites his lip. He has a pretty clear idea of what place Enjolras' Meeting at 10, please be there text was coming from, and he feels like an asshole for leaving everyone in the room to wonder.

“I don't think it's so bad,” Jehan says with a gentle smile, cradling their mug of herbal tea with both hands. “It's a beautiful morning. I wouldn't mind having gotten up earlier to catch the sunrise.”

“Do you not need sleep? At all ?” Courfeyrac says, desperately shaking his head. “God, I'm so hungover. Bahorel, you can't be human.”

Bahorel looks up from the big breakfast he ordered and shrugs. “Hangovers aren't an excuse for not getting decent nutrition. It can actually help. Want to try?”

Courfeyrac groans.

“I'm sure we'll be done here soon,” Cosette says, gently stroking Courfeyrac's back. “Enj was really insistent on letting Combeferre pick him up, so maybe they're just being secretive about a big announcement that's going to be over in a second.”

Cosette looks like a morning in spring, fresh and beautiful and awake, smiling like the Musain's toffee latte can make up for any inconvenience life could possibly throw at you. She and Jehan are morning persons; everyone else in the room is not. The two of them radiate peacefulness, but it's not enough for Grantaire not to want to scream as he listens to the rest of them speculate.

“I couldn't even properly tell Joly where I was going,” Bossuet complains. “He was asleep, as one should be, and no one's allowed in his room when he's sick. If this is so important, he's going to be devastated later.”

“You're quiet,” Musichetta pokes Grantaire's side. “Everything all right?”

Grantaire opens his mouth, and just then, Combeferre walks in, followed by Enjolras. Seeing the grave expression on Combeferre's face, Grantaire can tell Enjolras has already talked to him.

“Joly?” Enjolras asks, shrugging off his coat and looking through the rows.

“Home,” Chetta says, not without reproach. “Miserable and making us wish we could be making tea for him right now.”

“Ah,” Enjolras frowns a little. Grantaire wants to laugh – of course that's a problem. Joly, good with money and better with numbers, is the ABC's treasurer. “There's not a chance you could facetime him for this, is there?”

“Dude.” Bossuet shakes his head. “It's bad enough that we have to be here. Just say what you've got to say and let us get back to trying to take care of a sick boy through a closed door.”

“Seriously, man,” Bahorel doesn't bother swallowing before talking, “you have exactly until I've finished these eggs, then I'm out of here. Make it quick.”

“All right,” Enjolras says, determined, and his eyes catch Grantaire's. Instinctively, Grantaire gives a small, reassuring nod, which he curses himself for a second later – why would he do that? Enjolras doesn't need reassurance, and there hadn't been anyone to hold Grantaire's hand when he had been owning up to his mistake last year. Well, no one but Marius, which really has created a permanent soft spot in Grantaire for the boy.

“I will start by letting you know that I regret not having told you about this earlier. I do have a reason for not doing so, but I don't want to make excuses.” He pauses, takes a breath. “I was at Station St. Martin Friday night. I went there to be able to call the police again once I'd seen the three people in question, the ones we thought might attempt sabotage. When I informed the police, they said they'd come, but they were obviously going to be too late, so I went after them, there was an altercation, and all of us were arrested.” For a very brief second, Grantaire thinks Enjolras has gone and done it now, cut Grantaire completely out of the story for whatever obscure reason. Then, Enjolras adds, “Grantaire was with me.”

Somehow, incredulity only breaks out after that last sentence. “What? ” Bossuet says, turning to Grantaire next to him. “You were with us all day yesterday, you didn't think that was worth a mention?”

“Are you okay?” Jehan briefly extends a hand to him, as if they wanted to check him for injuries then and there. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“How is this the most important thing here?” Grantaire asks helplessly. “I'm fine, and I wanted to tell you, obviously, but that wasn't—”

“I wanted to be the one to tell you,” Enjolras says. He's still standing up, with everyone else sitting down. “It was my responsibility.”

“Wait a second,” Cosette says, trying to follow, “how did this even happen? Courf dropped you off at home, and you went out as soon as he was around the bend? And you asked R to come, without telling any of us?”

“He didn't ask me,” Grantaire says quickly. “I just – Courf said in his texts that he'd dropped Enjolras off, and I thought I'd just go check on him, and he was on his way out when I got there.”

Courfeyrac, to Cosette's left, looks genuinely hurt. “You could have said something,” he says to Enjolras. “Were you lying? When I asked you if you were going to be okay? I never would have left you alone if you'd said no.”

“I know that,” Enjolras says, sounding strained now.

“I wasn't there either,” Cosette says softly. “If I'd been home, he wouldn't have gotten far.”

“Well, that's it, you weren't there,” Courfeyrac says with a bitterness Grantaire has never heard in his voice before. “I was. I could see he wasn't okay with it, that he wouldn't settle for what the police gave us, and I still left.”

“Why would you say that?” Enjolras says with a frown. “You couldn't have known, because I told you it was all right. Cosette, you were out; it's not your job to babysit me when I lose my temper. I'm the one to blame; I am, and I know that. Don't talk like you could have kept me from going after them myself – I didn't want you to know I was doing it. I thought I could fix it on my own, and it was wrong of me to think so and act on it, but it was my mistake. I didn't want anyone to know, so no one knew.”

It's silent for a few seconds, and then Feuilly is the one to state the obvious. “R did.”

Grantaire forgets how to breathe for a moment.

This isn't good. This is steering dangerously toward why the fuck would you check on someone in the middle of the night on a hunch unless you were head over heels in love with them – territory, and Grantaire has no idea what to say to change that. He tries to cobble together an explanation, because he knows the others aren't reproachful towards him, but they're all looking at him now. “It wasn't – it wasn't like I had a vision of Enjolras on some train tracks or something,” he says, “I didn't know there was anything, I just thought, y'know, talking to the police must have bummed him out,” that part was at least sort of true, “and I didn't even have anything better to do anyway,” that's a lie; Brave with Gavroche and Éponine would have been great and so would getting some sleep, “so I just went to swing by and check, that's all. I didn't know he wanted to do something, I didn't think I'd catch him on his way to practice vigilante justice.”

“Well, that's part of the point, actually,” Cosette says seriously. “You didn't know more than us, and you still went. What we're blaming ourselves for is not having thought to do the same.”

Oh, Cosette. Grantaire looks at her with pleading eyes, wishing they could just drop this. Because that's exactly the difference, isn't it? Everyone in that room is Enjolras' friend, everyone is concerned for him, most of them have known Enjolras much longer than Grantaire has, but they didn't drop everything to go to his house on a hunch, because that's something people only do when they're completely, stupidly besotted. And the longer they talk about this, the more obvious that is going to become.

“It's not your obligation to do that,” Enjolras says, a little heated. Grantaire thinks most of that anger is probably directed at himself. “I shouldn't have gone this far in the first place, it's no one's fault but mine. You have to understand that.”

“I was about to say the same thing,” Bossuet says tiredly. “Every person in here has the potential to do stupid things at all times. Enjolras isn't some sort of justice werewolf we have to chain up in a basement on nights where there's, I don't know, a fascist full-moon.”

“Okay,” Combeferre says, “I couldn't for my life of it have come up with such an apt metaphor, but I agree. The problem here is that what he did doesn't exactly speak in favour of that.”

Grantaire is taken aback. He's not sure what he had expected – were the ABC supposed to corner Enjolras with torches and pitchforks? – but it wasn't this.

“I'm not sure I understand what exactly it was that he did yet,” Marius says, frowning. “How did this proceed? With R, and everything? What happened to the people who were trying to sabotage, and did they just let you go like that at the police station?”

“Maybe we need the entire story,” Combeferre says. “Everything from start to finish. It's difficult to make proper judgement unless we can get a better picture of this.”

Hums of agreement go through the group. Enjolras looks over at Grantaire.

“Do you want me to—?”

Grantaire shrugs. “Go ahead, if you're not tired of it yet.” He almost adds that being an idealist, Enjolras is probably used to constantly repeating himself, but he swallows it down, surprised at his own bitterness.

Enjolras' look lingers for a second, then he starts talking. Grantaire barely listens; he's busy trying to ignore how everyone – literally everyone in the room – is giving him these occasional glances that could mean just about anything, concern or distrust or suspicion or reproach. Maybe that's where the bitterness comes from, too: no one apparently thought it was a priority to criticise Enjolras for his rashness, but very much to call Grantaire out for not having told them. Are they used to Enjolras pulling this kind of bullshit? How has Grantaire even managed to give them expectations he might disappoint?

Enjolras goes for full disclosure as he narrates the entire thing again. He even closes with a commentary on the risk that he took – possible cuts to funding, should anyone find out, and the consequences for him and Grantaire, read: a fine that might reach pretty astronomical heights. When he gets to the last point, finally, opinions seem to shift more severely against him.

“You know what, man, until that last part, I didn't even care that much,” Bahorel says. “Because I get it, you know? Hell, if anything, I was offended that everyone thought I was the one they had to keep in check.”

“Seriously,” Musichetta says with a frown. “Dick move, Enjolras. Didn't you know how severely trespassing was prosecuted?”

“No,” Enjolras says firmly, “which isn't an excuse.”

“It isn't,” Chetta echoes. “Especially not since you managed to drag R in there with you. You should have known better.”

“He didn't drag me into anything,” Grantaire says, and why is he even saying that, and wasn't he angry at Enjolras just now? “He didn't even want me to come. I could have stayed at home. I could have stayed in the car. He may have fucked up, but I went with him by choice.”

“Still!” Musichetta shakes her head. “He's the one responsible. If he'd just risked his own safety and wallet, yes, that would have been stupid, but knowing that you were there should have been enough for him to keep a level head.”

Grantaire wants to say something and catches himself, because he really shouldn't defend Enjolras, and the instinct is so misplaced. What is he supposed to say, only I am allowed to accuse him like this?

“It's just a mess you don't deserve to be in,” Bossuet says, bless his heart, bless his beautiful bald head. “Something on your permanent record, the financial aspect...”

“He already said he'd try to fix that,” Grantaire says with a helpless look at Enjolras.

“It's my responsibility,” Enjolras says. His expression is stony, so composed it's almost eerie. Marmoreal, indeed. “I'll do what I can to make sure there aren't consequences for Grantaire.”

“It's really not the biggest problem here,” Grantaire tries to remind the others. “Shouldn't you be more concerned about your budget?”

“Our budget has been an issue for almost a year,” Bahorel says, waving dismissively. “It's nothing new.”

“People backed out when my father was detained, too,” Cosette says, putting on a brave face when she obviously doesn't like remembering that. “Those that found out about me being his daughter, that is.”

“We can always try finding new sponsors,” Combeferre says. “And Joly can work wonders with the budget sometimes, we can talk to him about it once he's better – although we should keep in mind that chances are that nothing will happen. We'll have to wait and see as far as that's concerned.”

“Doesn't sound very satisfactory,” Bahorel notes.

“True as that might be, I don't think there are other options here.” Combeferre gives Enjolras a quick look. “Knowing you, you've passed verdict on yourself as well?”

“I have.” Enjolras' face is still expressionless, and Grantaire doesn't like it at all. Being like this, cold and immovable, isn't like him, doesn't suit him. It's painful to see. “As a consequence of what I did, I offer to step down as head of editing.”

It's silent for a long moment.

“You are such a drama queen, E,” Bossuet says then, shaking his head. “Seriously.”

Enjolras protests on different grounds than expected. “That term is—”

“Unnecessarily gendered, you're right, I apologise and hereby name you supreme drama entity. Drama monarch. Heir to the throne of drama.”

“I was being serious.”

“When aren't you,” Courfeyrac says, still with some residual hurt in his tone. Grantaire feels sorry – Courfeyrac is the last person who should think of themselves as a bad friend, but this entire thing obviously hit a sore spot for him. “Enj, you can't step down. Who would even take your place? You may have, to stay with Bossuet's image, royally screwed up, but I think all of us trust you to have learned your lesson and try to avoid getting your ass, plus a friend, arrested in the future.”

“It's not meant as a preventive sort of step, I consider it a sanction,” Enjolras says. Courfeyrac rolls his eyes.

“We'll come up with a different one. We'll even put this to a vote, if you like. Enjolras stays on as head of editing, all in favour?”

Everyone raises their hands, and Grantaire, who still hasn't entirely caught up with the situation yet and even less so with how he's supposed to feel about Enjolras right now, doesn't.

“I, uh, abstain,” he says when all looks turn to him. “You know. Me being part of the situation and all. Too biased.”

He doesn't even know what direction he would be biased in.

“Still,” Courfeyrac shrugs and looks around. “I think we're getting quite a good overview here.”

“Joly isn't there,” Enjolras says.

“Enjolras,” Musichetta says slowly, “if you're going to make us call Joly for something that everyone already knows his opinion on and that will have no outcome on the vote whatsoever, then we're really going to have reason to vote you out of office.”

For the first time this morning, with all the effort he must have made to keep his face as stony and unreadable as it was, the façade crumbles. Evidently, similar to Grantaire, he had expected harsher judgement from the rest of them. “I don't – there's nothing else I can offer.”

“We'll think of something,” Bossuet says flatly. “A month of you giving me free rides whenever I need them would be a good place to start. We're not all lucky enough to own a car.”

“I'd settle for a few bottles of your dad's gross liquor,” Bahorel grins. “That stuff is disgusting. I want to stock my entire cellar with it.”

“Pay for my coffee for a week,” Feuilly offers.

“Write my essay on environmental ethics, I care a lot but not enough to research for ten years,” Courfeyrac says.

“Access to your library would be nice,” Marius muses.

“You know that one really nice scarf you have, the grey one with the feather print?” Jehan leans over the desk, narrowing their eyes at Enjolras. “I want it.”

“Guys,” Cosette says, the trace of a smile back on her face, “we can't really ask for favours like that, can we? I mean, I want to, I do, but he made a mistake on an ABC-level, and we can only draw consequences on the same one.”

“I don't mind,” Enjolras says seriously. “I don't think it's enough, but if that's where you want to start, I'm fine with it.”

“I like that,” Courfeyrac smiles. “Shall we say... a voucher for one favour each? Valid until always?”

“Are you sure?” Cosette asks. “I mean, do you know what you're agreeing to?”

Enjolras shrugs. “Nothing I don't deserve.”

Grantaire shifts in his seat, his fingers drumming against his coffee mug. Enjolras' self-flagellation is the worst, because Grantaire feels he might be part of what caused it, and he hates seeing it so much that he gets angry at himself again, when he'd barely even settled on being angry at Enjolras. His chest feels tight. He needs to get out.

“So, uh, if that's settled, are we done?” he asks, looking up at no one in particular. “Because it's early, and I'm sort of not really awake, so...”

“I'll walk with you,” Jehan says, getting up and pushing their chair in. “We can all talk more at the next meeting.”

The others let them go, waving their goodbyes, some of them getting up to leave as well. Jehan slides their arm under Grantaire's, the way they always do, and they leave the café together in a mutual agreement on silence until they're outside.

“So,” Jehan says when they're halfway down the street. “Want to talk about it?”

“No,” Grantaire mutters, more into his scarf than at Jehan.

“All right.”

Grantaire wouldn't mind spending the walk home in silence, but he remembers something from the day before he'd meant to mention to Jehan. “I was a dick about Montparnasse,” he says. “The others probably wouldn't mind, you know. If you ever wanted to bring him around for stuff.”

Jehan gives him a long look. “Trying to be polite doesn't suit you at all,” they say then, scrunching up their nose. “I know you don't like him, R. I know the others don't. It's fine. You don't have to.”

“I—” Grantaire falters. Jehan is right. They have to like Montparnasse. He's not Grantaire's boyfriend, or the ABC's. “Okay, yeah. You just seemed sad yesterday, like you wanted him to be there, and I mean, if you did, you – you shouldn't think you have to keep him away from us or anything. None of us even really know him, maybe if we did, we'd get along. Uh. Maybe.” It's a long shot, but who knows? Jehan might have a tendency to see the good in everyone, but they also have a remarkable insight to people in general. They don't see good where it doesn't exist in some way at least.

“You know, R, one of the reasons I decided I wanted you as a friend was that I knew within a second that you were one of the least judgemental people I'd ever met,” Jehan says, thoughtful. “You have a right to dislike people, but it surprised me how quickly that happened with Montparnasse. For that exact reason. I didn't think you'd judge when you barely know someone.”

Grantaire didn't think that either. He wouldn't, normally, it really isn't like him to judge – partly because he seldom cares enough to jump to conclusions about people, partly because he hates the arrogance that accompanies premature judgement. “I don't know what it is about him,” Grantaire says. “He's not really a standard guy, is he? Like, it's not only that he's obviously a criminal at least on occasion, I'm more concerned about him being – I don't know. Wantonly violent?”

Jehan looks genuinely surprised. “You're worried? About that ?”

“Doesn't seem that absurd to me,” Grantaire frowns, but Jehan laughs.

“Oh, R. That's sweet. Completely unnecessary, but really sweet.” They grin when Grantaire gives them a critical look. “You don't need to worry. Honestly,” they say. “Montparnasse is only eighteen, he's even a couple months younger than I am. And a thief, yes; violent, sometimes. But I dare say your hands aren't entirely clean of that, either.”

“That's not the same,” Grantaire protests half-heartedly. “I used to get into bar-fights when I was that age. I didn't, like, ambush people to steal their wallets.”

“You're right, it's not the same at all. But is one better than the other? If violence is a means to an end, isn't it more controlled and less of a threat than violence that comes in a surge of anger?”

Grantaire just stares. Jehan sighs.

“Probably the wrong moment to make that point. What I'm trying to say is that Montparnasse could never, honestly never, be dangerous to me. Or to anyone he likes. Ask Éponine. Ask her about the time she was trying to have a normal conversation with him and it was impossible because there was a broken beer bottle on the table between them and he kept replying to everything she said with 'mind the shards.' It's – I know he's not exactly a friendly person, to most people, anyway, but he can really be kind of sweet. And I do feel safe with him.”

They're both quiet for a while.

“Anything else I should know about him?” Grantaire says then, defeated.

Jehan smiles. “When we first met, he listened to me pick apart the history and mythology behind his name for a whole hour.”

“Ah.”

“Hmm,” Jehan hums, the grip of their arm tightening around Grantaire's.

“And you're sure you're going to be okay with that, being with someone who's good to you and pretty awful to most other people?”

“No,” Jehan replies softly, smiling a little. “But he'll come around.”

“All right,” Grantaire sighs. “Whatever you say.”

Jehan gives a content hum. “Oh, I meant to mention that earlier, but there's going to be a thing at my dorm a few weeks from now? You should come. I'll let the rest know in the group chat.”

“Like a party?” Grantaire frowns. “Doesn't seem like the type of thing your dorm would normally allow.”

“It's not a party. It's more of a... think of it as one of those adoption fairs for animals, only for books.”

“Huh?”

“Remember over Christmas, when the department I work for was tidying out their section of the library and I ended up with about three hundred books in my room that I'd saved from being thrown away?”

Grantaire does remember that. It's probably going to be one of the things he'll always keep in mind as anecdotes to characterise Jehan by. “Yeah.”

“I thought since all the books are technically mine, I could just give them away to people who want them. You can donate, if you like, and the money's going to go to a charity I haven't settled on yet.”

“So – it's a book sale.”

“I don't like to call it that,” Jehan says decidedly. “You can sell things. I'm finding these books new homes.”

Fair enough. “I'll be there.”

“You'd better,” Jehan smiles and bumps Grantaire's shoulder with theirs.

Things remain largely the same after that: Grantaire, having no idea how to talk to or look at Enjolras without his mind dwindling into crisis, avoids both of those things altogether. He semi-comfortably lives in denial of the fact that there is a conflict, because anything else would probably require him to work through his mess of contrariness that's still nestled in the back of his mind, and, well, he'd rather not risk that.

It's easy to distract himself, anyway. The semester is starting to get pretty work-intense again, and it's not even all in a bad way – he passed the module on sculpture last semester, which means he can paint now, which is far more up his alley. Spending time in the studio, instead of being a requirement, starts to be genuinely enjoyable. He's missed that without even noticing, not seeing art as a chore. The last arty thing he actually did because he wanted to was Gavroche's comic book.

His schedule is also slightly kinder to him in this semester, with more studio time and fewer classes in the afternoon. Grantaire figures he could use that time for getting ahead of schedule with the layout once in a while, or for actually being diligent with his homework, but being who he is, he doesn't. Instead, always looking for ways to keep otherwise occupied, he mostly abandons schoolwork in favour of socialising.

The night before Jehan's not-book-sale, he's out with Bahorel, both of them too exhausted and annoyed to do anything more exciting than sitting slumped in a booth and murmuring complaints about the quality of the drinks and the choice of songs from the speakers.

“That's exactly why I avoid this place,” Bahorel murmurs, speaking more to his beer than to Grantaire. “Eighties revival from the speakers every fucking time.”

Grantaire shrugs. He likes the Corinthe, and he likes the eighties. “The only thing that bothers me about this is that I absolutely kill at moonwalking, and I can hardly get up and demonstrate that in here. Trust me, you're missing out.”

Bahorel grins. “Ten euros for a demonstration right here, right now.”

“Tempting as that is, I don't have the energy,” Grantaire says sincerely. He hasn't slept much the night before, and spent about four hours staring down an easel today. “Some other time.”

“One time offer,” Bahorel says, shrugging unapologetically. “Your loss. Speaking of, have you checked in your favour with E yet?”

Grantaire scoffs. “I can't believe that's actually a thing. Did you really end up going for the booze?”

“Of course not,” Bahorel says, indignant. “That was the best thing I could come up with on the spot. He gave us a freebie. Now that's the kind of thing that's too precious to be wasted on liquor.”

“There's some words I never thought I'd hear you say.”

“Hey, screw you, I have a life outside booze and boxing. E turned me down for speaking at a funding thing for the shelter once. He wasn't a dick about it, he genuinely couldn't find the time, but guess who's going to have to cancel dinner plans with their professor now to charm rich people into donating large sums? That's right.”

Grantaire feels a pang of guilt. “Okay, you're right, that wasn't fair. Sometimes I forget how much you all care.” It's a miracle he can forget about that, really, working with these people and witnessing their enthusiasm almost on a daily basis. Bahorel was already volunteering at that homeless shelter for two years when Grantaire met him.

“You're forgiven if you stop pretending that you weren't distracting from my original question just then,” Bahorel offers. Grantaire sighs.

“No, I haven't checked in a favour. Doubt I will.”

He takes a sip of his own drink to escape having to elaborate. Bahorel just watches him, something like amusement in his eyes.

“You know, you're being pretty tough on him,” he says after a while, leaning back in the booth. “I mean, you've got every right to be pissed. Hell, I was pissed at him for you. But you're avoiding him, aren't you? Leaving meetings early, always pretending that other people definitely need to be present for conversations that could be between the two of you...”

“I hate that you're observant,” Grantaire mutters. “Careful with that, or you'll actually make a decent lawyer one day.”

“Threats will get you nowhere,” Bahorel deadpans. “I know you like to run away from shit and it's probably really satisfying to get into a huff like that, but E is seriously fucked up over this. I've never seen him sulk like this, tiptoeing around you all guilty and meek.”

“Okay, he does not tiptoe around me.” This is absurd. Enjolras doesn't even get a chance to tiptoe, because Grantaire hasn't ever let him get close enough to do that since. “And he's not meek. That's against his nature. Honestly? I wouldn't even know what to say to him to ease his conscience without lying.”

That's not entirely true. He could say, for instance, that everything didn't end up being that bad after all, because for some miraculous reason, Grantaire has been waiting for a letter of doom from the SNCF to reach him, but none ever did, even though it's been almost a month.

“You're a dick,” Bahorel says bluntly. “There's plenty of things you could do, you just don't want to. I don't know why, and I mean, I don't really care, but you should get over it and throw him a bone or something. I've known that guy for almost three years, and he's never been this messed up over anything. Or anyone, to be honest.”

“Where are you even getting that?” Grantaire says, shaking his head. “He seems fine to me.”

“Have you even looked at him lately? He's just super unfocused all the time, all of that marble statue-thing out the window,” Bahorel says. “I mean, I guess you wouldn't know, because you sort of somersault out of a room whenever he comes in, but for the rest of us, it's really hard not to notice. If Combeferre wasn't still a little, uh, disappointed in Enjolras as well, you'd have felt his wrath by now for making his best friend that miserable. And trust me, you don't want that.”

Grantaire stares at his beer and says nothing. This is difficult to take in, especially when he has just spent a month very vigorously Not Dealing with these thoughts.

“Part of it wasn't even his fault,” Bahorel argues. “Maybe he wasn't adamant enough about it, but he didn't want you there. Knowing him, he probably made that clear.”

“What was I supposed to do?” Grantaire says, more honestly than he had planned to be. “Do you think I felt like I had a choice? I didn't know what the fuck was expecting him there, it was the middle of the night, and he's so stubborn I think I sort of knew he was going to try and stop them, I couldn't just – should I have let him go all on his own?”

Bahorel frowns at him, more disturbed than surprised by the outburst. After a few seconds in which Grantaire tries to decide whether playing dead or just getting up and running fast is a better way of escaping this situation, Bahorel smiles.

“You know,” he says in an unusually soft voice, “when E said you were there with him, for a couple seconds, I honest to God wanted to kill the guy.” Before Grantaire can ask, he adds, “Because I thought he'd taken advantage of... that. That thing with you. Like, knowingly. I thought he'd sought you out because he knew you were going to go with him.”

Grantaire feels his heart thumping. Shit, shit, shit. “Does he know?” he says numbly.

“Hell, no. That's how I realised that couldn't be it. He wouldn't know if you smacked him 'round the head with a giant sign proclaiming it.”

Grantaire's mouth is dry and he has a feeling more beer won't help that. “Who else?” he asks.

Bahorel shrugs. “Never talked to anyone about it, I just sort of guessed. Cosette might know? She has a weird radar with these things. And Jehan, although you might've told them anyway.”

“I didn't,” Grantaire says dryly. “I've never said that out loud to anyone, not really. Jehan still knows. Hell, everyone probably knows.”

“Is that a big deal to you?”

Is it? Wasn't Grantaire already aware of that? He thinks about it for a few seconds, and then something clicks into place.

He's wondered what it would be like to confront Enjolras, a few times on accident. He's also wondered why this is so complicated, why he can't just either be angry or forgive him, why he has to be stuck in that weird place in between. He's wondered what he would have to say to Enjolras if he was honest, really honest with him. And he knows what he'd have to say. He'd have to tell Enjolras that the largest reason he hasn't forgiven him yet is that he doesn't want to feel like he's only forgiving Enjolras because he's painfully, stupidly in love with him. He'd have to tell him that he wants to cling on to this one mistake as a reason not to be in love with him, even though he knows that it doesn't work this way, that this isn't a rational thing. Any honest conversation with Enjolras, and any attempt at being honest with himself, would ultimately up there, at him being in love with Enjolras and somehow wishing he wasn't, because it's exhausting and it hurts and he has enough to deal with already.

It is a big deal. Grantaire groans and drops against the backrest of the booth.

“Hey,” Bahorel kicks him lightly under the table. “He's not gonna find out from any of us, no matter who knows. You know that, right?”

Grantaire shrugs. “I don't know why I thought it wasn't obvious to everyone. Nothing I can do to help it now.”

“Well, since the possibility that he might find out obviously terrifies you, I'll shut up about it forever if you want me to.”

“Please,” Grantaire murmurs. “Since you're offering.”

“Sure.” Bahorel grins. “You heard of the change in management at the campus restaurants? I think it's safe to say that we've had deliciously greasy burgers for the longest time.”

Grantaire is grateful for the change of topic, thinly veiled as it may be, and spends the rest of the night arguing about food prices and university politics.

The snow that had been announced first in the middle of January reaches their town by the end of February. On the way to Jehan's dorm, Grantaire has several moments of thinking that, well, okay, this is how he goes, that's it, folks, it was nice sharing some time on earth with you, because the snow is accompanied by squalls and walking feels like pushing against a wall of white, cold and wet. By the time he arrives, he's soaked through just from the snow melting on his clothes, and Jehan almost starts crying when they see him.

“R, you're a terrible person, you walked all the way here, didn't you, there's a weather alert, how dare you!”

“Uh,” Grantaire says, teeth clattering. “Sorry?”

“You'd better be. Come in, you need to warm up and get dry before poor Joly has a heart attack.”

Grantaire manages to talk Jehan and Joly out of having to take a hot shower, but they do get him to retreat to Jehan's dorm room to towel his hair and borrow a dry sweater. It's lucky that Jehan has a tendency to buy (Thrift? Miraculously receive through fairy envoys? Seriously, where do they get their clothes?) tops several sizes too large, even though Grantaire still has trouble picking something that won't make him look clownish. “You don't happen to have anything without print?”

Jehan gives him a stern look. “Because I love myself, I do not. You're far too narrow-minded with this, with all that fuss about prints you're completely overlooking that some of these colours would be great on you.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Do I need to get Montparnasse?”

Grantaire closes his eyes. “I surrender,” he sighs. “Just pick one you can dispense with.”

Jehan smiles widely, and seconds later shoves a beige sweater with a pattern of daisies at Grantaire. “Join us in the common room when you're done!”

The common room of Jehan's floor, about three times the size of their bedroom, is packed. It's not that surprising; everyone from the ABC promised to swing by, and Jehan must know about a billion people interested in second-hand books from their work and studies, but wearing a daisy-sweater and with his hair still damp, Grantaire is still kind of taken aback by the mass of people.

He looks around the room in search of familiar faces. Jehan is sitting cross-legged on one of the book tables, chatting to a girl Grantaire doesn't know, and Montparnasse is slouched in a chair by the same table, reading from a thin volume the title of which Grantaire wishes he could decipher. Marius is browsing with a gleam in his eyes that Grantaire is only used to seeing in people when they're high. Courfeyrac is bustling about near him, tossing books into a bag seemingly at random but probably with a precision Grantaire is just too slow to grasp.

He browses aimlessly for a while, picking out something here or there when he likes the cover or when a name seems familiar. He used to read more before he moved here, maybe because he had more time, but he also has a suspicion that the need to flee from reality was bigger then. Which is a surprisingly optimistic thought about his current circumstances. He'll take it.

Cosette appears out of nowhere when he's just made his way to the biography section that has been precariously set up on one of the armchairs near the television set. She's just there suddenly, standing in front of him with one arm full of books, the other extended to offer him a plate of cookies.

“Cookie, R?” She smiles. “You look lovely.”

“Don't I always. Snow is evil,” Grantaire mutters and takes a cookie. “Thanks.”

“More of a spring girl myself, too,” Cosette says. She sets the plate down and pokes one of the daisies on his sweater. “That's why I like the print. It's downright rebellious in this weather.”

“Yeah, nothing shows disregard for authority like a nice floral sweater. Successful haul?” he asks, nodding to Cosette's stack of books.

“Oh, absolutely. Look!” She hands him a volume from the top. “Coppée. You hardly ever find larger volumes of his poetry, I was so lucky. Can't imagine why they would want to throw it out.”

“Jehan must be pleased to find a loving home for it,” Grantaire says, turning the book in his hands. He's never heard of the poet before, and he'd be surprised that Cosette has, but it makes sense for her to have a penchant for pretty words. Having a poetic streak suits her.

“I think they are. So many potential new homes for the books; too.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire can't help but smile, “it's quite the turnout.”

“Wasn't Ponine going to come? Jehan must have invited her.”

“They did. I think she's kind of, uh, disinclined with the whole belles-lettres-thing? I've only ever seen her read non-fiction and Stephen King.”

“Ah,” Cosette says, still smiling, but Grantaire isn't just making things up right now, is he? It's not wishful thinking and there's definitely sort of a disappointed shade in her eyes?

“She did seem bored when I left, but I think she didn't want to fight her way through the snow for the fine arts. You could text her, she'd appreciate the distraction.”

Okay, he is not making things up, there is definitely a blush on her cheeks, but he doesn't have time to let his thoughts linger on that, because Cosette suddenly waves at someone behind him and Grantaire is actually thoughtless enough to turn his head.

“Hey, Enj,” Cosette calls over. “Hurry before all the boring stuff you like is gone. Oh wait – it's boring. You'll be fine.” She winks.

Enjolras opens his mouth, ready to take issue with that, but his look meets Grantaire's and he doesn't say anything. Grantaire doesn't hold his gaze for long, and he can see Enjolras walk away out of the corner of his eye. Cosette gives Grantaire a long look, then she carefully takes him by the wrist and pulls him along for a few steps, manoeuvring them out of the centre of the room.

“Okay,” she says softly, “I really hope I'm not completely overstepping with this, but I meant to ask you something.”

All right. This probably had to happen somewhere along the line. Cosette is scarily close to Enjolras, she must be out to tell Grantaire off for being unfair to him – it's a miracle she hasn't done it already.

“How are you getting along with the charges?” she asks, genuine concern in her eyes. “Because you haven't said a word about it, and I understand that you're mad at Enjolras for getting you into trouble like this, and there are plenty of valid reasons for you not to want his help, but I really want to offer mine.”

Grantaire just stares, at a loss for words. This is not what he'd been expecting. For one, because he isn't being told off, and also because not a word of this makes any sense at all.

“The lawyer who has been representing my father, he would absolutely take you on pro bono if I asked, and I'm sure he could help you either find a payment plan for the fine or contest the charges. It'd be no trouble at all, I just want you to know that, because I'd hate for you to feel like you have to take this on by yourself. I know how much work it is, Enjolras is just poring over papers day and night with his lawyer, and if you're going through the same—”

“Cosette,” Grantaire says slowly, starting to add some things up in his mind, “did Enjolras actually receive word about the SNCF's charges? Because I didn't.”

Cosette gazes. They're quiet for a while, the gears in both their heads turning.

“Oh no,” Cosette says then, her eyes wide. “Oh, I think I just – I'm so sorry, I think I just did everything wrong.”

“No – it's not your fault, you didn't—” Grantaire's head is spinning. He had considered himself unusually lucky that the paperwork from the SNCF hadn't reached him, he had assumed maybe the police had decided to be benevolent after all, or had been trying to scare them – overall, he just hadn't given it a lot of thought, too busy distracting himself from the entire conflict to notice how very unlikely it was for those charges to be dropped unless someone had intervened.

“Listen,” he says, his mouth dry, “I don't want you to feel bad, okay? Please don't – don't do that. I just, uh, I have to go.”

“R, I'm really sorry—”

“Fuck, no, I'm sorry, Cosette, don't feel bad, yeah? I'll just...” He breathes, then turns around, somehow manages to shove a ten euro bill into the piggybank that collects the donations, and leaves.

The snow has eased off a little, but even though it's not a full blizzard anymore, it's still there. At least Grantaire can see the road in front of him now, he figures, so the odds of him not finding his way home are pretty low. That's something, right?

He's furious at himself. It's cold around him, probably, but he's burning up with the heat of anger. He's spent a month running away from Enjolras, mad at him for all the wrong reasons, and what has Enjolras been doing? Taking the fall and being a good fucking person, because that's what he is, and Grantaire had nothing better to do than ignore and avoid him for it. Fuck.

“Grantaire?”

He recognizes the voice and deliberately doesn't stop walking, because if he's already trampled on his own dignity by storming out of the room like a thirteen-year-old, he's not going to lose the remaining shreds of it by crying in front of Enjolras.

“You left your coat. Grantaire – R – please stop.”

Grantaire stops. He doesn't turn around. “Go back inside,” he says, his numb and frozen hands balling to fists at his sides.

“I really wish you'd take your coat, at least,” Enjolras says, with some resignation in his tone. “You don't have to talk to me.”

Grantaire wipes a hand across his face once before he turns. Enjolras has only thrown on his own coat, not even bothered to button it up, and he's standing not five metres away from Grantaire in the snow, looking lost and a little helpless. Grantaire feels sick to death of himself.

“Get out of the snow,” he murmurs nonsensically. “You'll catch a cold like that.”

Enjolras takes one step toward him, carefully. “If you can stand in the snow, so can I,” he says.

“Egalitarian bullshit,” Grantaire says. Enjolras shrugs and holds out Grantaire's coat. Grantaire crosses some of the space between them and takes it tentatively. He pulls it on, buries his hands in the pockets and looks at Enjolras. “What did you do?” he asks weakly, his anger slowly fading to exhaustion. “If you exchanged the charges for trespassing for charges of bribery, I'll say it now; you shouldn't have.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “No bribery. I talked to our lawyer right the day after, and apparently, there's a loophole with this kind of charge. You can't make them drop it, but – they don't care if what we did was illegal, they care about receiving their part of the fine. As long as that's getting paid, they don't care how many people they're actually pressing charges against, and then what's left to do is twist the words in the right paragraphs and you can get one person out.”

“So you took on both our fines,” Grantaire infers. “And both our charges.”

“I didn't want you to find out,” Enjolras says sincerely. “Really, I didn't – Cosette just, well, she lives with me, and because we weren't talking, she thought – I didn't tell the others, or her. I didn't want you to know.”

“Why are you always like that?” Grantaire asks bluntly. “Even when you fuck up, you're a good person. I was a total asshole to you for a month, for hardly any reason.”

“You weren't an asshole,” Enjolras says with a frown. “And you had a perfectly valid reason. I was irresponsible, you were in physical danger because of me. I wanted to do right by you this way, but I realise it's not enough.”

“Of course it's enough,” Grantaire protests. “That's – hell, it's too much, it's way more than anyone else would have done, do you realise that? I was completely overreacting anyway, nothing happened to me, and I should have stopped whining about this once I knew my job was safe.”

“You were hurt,” Enjolras says pointedly. “You were only there because of me, and then you were hurt, and I wasn't. That's not nothing.”

“It was a scratch on my neck, Enjolras.” Grantaire sighs and unconsciously raises a hand to rub the skin there. So far, it's been healing quite slowly, confirming his suspicion that it would definitely scar, but the pain of the bruised ribs had ebbed away after a week. “And anyway, it's not like you were the one clobbering me. They were on you, too.”

Enjolras shifts his weight. He's frowning. “Maybe,” he says. “I still don't feel better.”

“Jesus.” Grantaire sighs. “Listen, I'm really sorry for the past month, okay? I don't – I don't think I was even really angry at you anymore, I was just—” Stubborn and fucked up and grossly in love. “I don't know. I'm sorry, me constantly running away from you probably didn't make you feel a lot better.”

“That was—” Enjolras looks at the ground for a while, then back up at Grantaire. Their eyes meet through the falling snow, which is strange, because the contact is constantly interrupted through blurs of white, but Grantaire thinks that makes it easier, like it takes away some of the intensity. “There was something Éponine said on the phone to me that one time, and I never meant to bring it up to you, but now that – it's been constantly on my mind.”

Grantaire remembers, remembers how Enjolras' expression had changed in those last few seconds that he was on the phone with Éponine that night, and he realises that he never talked to Éponine about it. “Uh. What did she say?”

Enjolras looks away again, looks over Grantaire's shoulder rather than at Grantaire. “She said, carefully paraphrased, that if I got too close and you got hurt, she'd bite my head off.”

Éponine. Fuck, Éponine. He knows, Grantaire thinks – after that, he has to know, doesn't he? “She didn't mean – Éponine, she's—”

“She's protective,” Enjolras says. “For good reason, apparently. You got arrested, hurt and almost fined eight hundred euros because of me.”

Okay, or maybe he doesn't. Because Grantaire knows for a fact that being arrested for trespassing and hit in the neck with a shovel wasn't what Éponine had meant with him getting hurt, but Enjolras seems blissfully ignorant of that. Well, small mercies.

“Okay,” Grantaire sighs, “I know this is apparently really hard for you to believe, because I've told you this before, but I don't think you're dangerous or scary. Éponine, she's – she threatens to bite everyone's head off, that's just what she's like. She doesn't think you're a threat, just like I don't.” It's thin ice, just like Grantaire knew it would be if they actually talked this out. He has no idea how to steer this conversation into safer territory, territory where he isn't constantly a single question away from having to either lie or lay everything bare.

“I just figured,” Enjolras says, his look somewhere between confused and just plain dissatisfied, “that – and you don't have to say anything about this, please don't think I want to make you – but since you're obviously uncomfortable with me touching you and fine with everyone else doing it, I thought that—“

That's it. “Oh my God,” Grantaire says, his voice thick with frustration, and steps closer, extending his hand. “Give me your hand, Enjolras.”

Enjolras stares. “What?”

“Give me your hand.”

Enjolras' right hand slips out of the pocket of his coat, and he raises it slowly. Grantaire decidedly ignores the twinge in his chest and slides his fingers under Enjolras', taking his hand and holding on to it tightly. They stand like that for a moment, Enjolras' hand loose in his, snow flurries enveloping them in cold. After a few seconds, Enjolras' fingers tighten around his, accepting the touch.

“How are your hands still colder than mine,” Grantaire murmurs, barely trusting his voice not to betray the hammering of his heart.

“Low blood pressure,” Enjolras whispers, but his eyes are on Grantaire, wide and wondering, searching for an answer they can't seem to find. Grantaire swallows hard, trying to ignore the lump in his throat.

“I don't mind touching,” he says, a little hoarsely. “And you don't scare me.”

Enjolras holds onto his hand, and even if Grantaire wanted the moment to end – which he doesn't – he couldn't let go; Enjolras' grip is too tight.

“Is it strange that I still feel guilty?” Enjolras says. Snowflakes catch in his hair and linger there for a few seconds before they melt. Grantaire can't seem to look away.

“For you, it probably isn't,” Grantaire says. “Although, as far as I'm concerned, you're good. I don't know what's making you hold onto this so much, but you should probably get over it.”

Enjolras blinks. There's still some wonder in his eyes, faint, but so unusual and beautiful Grantaire has trouble thinking straight. “Maybe it's not that easy to get over,” Enjolras says, his tone gentle. Grantaire doesn't know what he means by that, but then, he doesn't really understand a lot of what's happening right now.

It's a few more seconds before he finds his voice again, a few more seconds of them standing there with their hands clasped between them, of Grantaire not knowing where to look as Enjolras keeps his eyes on Grantaire in iron determination, or possibly just because he's similarly overwhelmed with the situation but knows how to handle it a little better.

Grantaire loosens his grip, but the message doesn't seem to reach Enjolras. “Enjolras,” he says weakly, and can't help but sound a little pained. “You can let go now.”

Enjolras lets go, his long fingers slipping out of Grantaire's, and for some reason, as if the distance between them needs to be restored at once, takes a small step back.

“I passed the final,” Grantaire blurts out, latching on to the first thing his mind supplies when he tries to think of something to say. “Uh. Econ. I've known for a while, I – I don't know, I didn't think to mention it. Thank you. For your help.”

“You could have done that without me,” Enjolras says, sounding like he actually means it. “I knew you'd pass.”

“Yeah, well, you believe all sorts of ridiculous things,” Grantaire mutters. Enjolras smiles.

“I'm,” he says, and doesn't finish the sentence. He looks at the ground for a second, then back up at Grantaire. “I'd be glad if we could – go back to normal. If that's – if you're amenable.”

Normal had become painful for Grantaire in the time before the train station incident, but the past month had been worse. Grantaire has no choice, not really. He'll take what he's given.

He clears his throat. “I do believe we should be able to come to an agreement. I'll let my secretary know, and the paperwork should reach you Wednesday at the latest.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “You're not that funny.”

Grantaire is aware. Bad jokes were the best way he could think of to ease the tension a little. “We can't all possess your dry wit and unwittingly comical business parlance.”

Enjolras nods towards the dorm. “Are you coming back inside?”

“Uh.” He hadn't even thought that far ahead. “I don't know. That was kind of embarrassing just then, storming out in a daisy sweater and without a coat.”

“No one noticed,” Enjolras says. “Cosette just let me know. She was pretty upset.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Grantaire sighs. “Guess that's one more thing to apologise for, huh?”

“It'll be fine,” Enjolras says with a small smile. “She's a forgiving person. Come on.”

Enjolras turns to walk back to the dorm, and Grantaire closes his eyes for a second and breathes deeply before he follows.

When he gets back home a while later, having returned Jehan's sweater, reclaimed his own, and reassured Cosette a thousand times that she hasn't done anything wrong and that she's actually helped them both, there's still something eating at him, and it's stressing him out even through the lingering disbelief of what happened back there. (He held Enjolras' hand. More importantly, Enjolras had, out of own initiative, held his. It's so absurd that he can't even find it in himself to be particularly thrilled about it, although there's a steady, subtle beat of happiness somewhere in his chest, reminding him that this was real.)

He knocks on Éponine's door without even bothering to first go into his own apartment.

“What,” Éponine replies in her usual hospitable manner, and he cracks open her door.

“Hey,” he says, and if he'd been slightly less in the middle of an emotional turmoil or if he hadn't spent the past month pretty much focused entirely on himself, he might have noticed that this was very much the wrong moment to talk to her. “I'll make this quick, uh, I was talking to Enjolras and I was wondering; is there any particular reason you thought it was okay to threaten to murder him in case he tried to be my friend?”

“You called in the middle of the night and he was with you,” Éponine says without looking up. She's sitting cross-legged on her bed, surrounded by small stacks of paper that she doesn't take her eyes off of as she talks. “What the fuck else was I supposed to say to him, 'use protection'?”

“You knew that wasn't what was happening,” Grantaire says, suddenly agitated, because in all honesty, he hadn't expected her to retaliate. “And even if it had been, you might as well have stapled a sign saying 'this guy has a crush on you' to my forehead.”

“Oh, please, he wouldn't get it even if I did,” she says. “What's your problem here, me trying to make sure you don't get fucked over? Because I'm fine with never doing that again, hell, I'm great with never having to do that again. Next time we're out together, you're welcome to retrieve your own damn wallet.”

“What is going on with you?” Grantaire says, frowning. “Is it that hard to understand that I'm not keen on you pretty much proclaiming to Enjolras the one thing he's not supposed to know? Not to mention that it's invasive as fuck of you to think you can meddle with my relationships like that.”

“Don't fucking give me that,” she says, finally looking up, and the sheer fury in her eyes actually scares Grantaire for a second. “Don't act like we don't constantly live in each others back pockets anyway, like the screw-ups we are; don't pretend I suddenly overstepped some sort of boundary that clearly has never been there before or since. I'm literally wearing one of your shirts right now, Grantaire, the one you gave to me this morning in exchange for coins for the washing machine. That's how good we are at maintaining boundaries. And you know what? While we're at it, could people just stop bitching to me about every last thing in their lives in the first place? Do you know what sort of a fucking full-time-job that is, listening to your crap? 'Éponine, I have a huge crush on your hot friend, can you ask if he likes me?' 'Éponine, I keep standing in my own way but like to blame other people, can you sit by my bed and help me fix the mess I made of myself?' Give me a fucking break.”

That last part knocks the words out of Grantaire. He's never heard or seen her this way, and somehow, he's more shocked about her dig at Jehan than about the obvious knock at his mental health. No one is angry at Jehan and pronounces it like that, so harshly; no one puts Jehan into their list of things that annoy them; it's just an implicit law that everyone who knows them sticks to.

He wants to speak up for a second, but she's already at it again, and what keeps him from interrupting is the obvious tremor in her voice as she speaks, and her glassy, blood-shot eyes.

“You think you have problems, fuck, do you have any idea what that word even means?” she spits. “You want something to whine about? Try studying one of the most difficult subjects at this damn university while keeping up good grades so you can make money with something you don't give a shit about some day. Try making ends meet with nothing but the tips you get four nights a week. Try studying, working and somehow having to make sure your little brother grows into a halfway decent person because even his own mother didn't give a damn about him and the piece of human trash that adopted him can't be bothered to make an appearance in her own house now and then. How about you take that on for a week and then come back and see how good it feels to moan about your problems to me, because fuck knows, I'm curious too.”

She looks at him when she's done, obviously trying to glare, but with every moment that passes, her composure crumbles until she folds in on herself, pressing her face into her palms and sobbing quietly. Grantaire is frozen for a second – Éponine doesn't cry, he does, he's cried several times in her presence, actually, but she just doesn't, he's always thought that was another implicit law, and maybe he should stop assuming those exist – and then he slowly steps into the room and shuts the door behind himself.

Chapter Text

For a long time, neither Grantaire nor Éponine say a word, and Grantaire feels increasingly useless sitting next to Éponine on her bed and handing her tissue after tissue from the box on the bedside table. He's never been good at this, although he's confident that no one in the world is particularly talented at dealing with crying people – it's a terrifying feat for everyone, right?

Wrong, Grantaire thinks. Because ironically enough, Éponine is good at it. Éponine, who's listened to him complain and who's watched him shed actual tears more than once. Éponine, who, all that time, was dealing with her own shit and never said a word about it, and hardly ever asked him for anything that wasn't a clean t-shirt or the permission to use his bathtub. Grantaire is so sick of himself.

“Fuck,” Éponine finally says, drawing the last handkerchief Grantaire gave her over her eyes and taking a deep breath. Then she starts talking.

Grantaire helps with questions. He figures he can apologise later; fuck knows he's waited long enough, but now, the best he can do is let her tell him what she chooses to. He starts with the thing that left the biggest question mark in his mind earlier – little brother? Éponine lets out a bitter laugh at his genuine confusion.

“You're so thick, R,” she says, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “Fuck. What house've you been living in?”

It takes him a while to catch on, because as she keeps talking – her explanation consisting to about fifty per cent of verbal slaps in the face which Grantaire guesses is her way of letting off steam – her story starts getting more and more convoluted, to the point where he has to stop her occasionally.

“So you were – what, eight years old when he was born?”

“I don't know why you keep saying that you're bad at math. That was a sound calculation,” she says flatly. Grantaire, meanwhile, is actually kind of proud for having kept up so far, given what little information he has: apparently, Gavroche had been an unwanted child to the point where his mother neglected him, so Magnon – who was, which was also new to Grantaire, a friend of Éponine's family – had taken him in by a semi-open adoption.

“I still don't get how – was Magnon, like, a well-adjusted rich person ten years ago?” Grantaire asks. “They wouldn't let her adopt a kid now, there's so many tests and like, paperwork involved, the financial part alone...”

“It wasn't—” Éponine sighs. “They called it a kinship adoption. Those were easier to pull off back then, no idea what it's like now. Magnon, she's like, a great-cousin of my father's, I don't know, but if you're related and familiar and shit, the most it takes for an adoption is a minor background check and the birth parents' consent. Also, her husband was still around back then, and he made decent money, so they actually sort of had their life together.” She scoffs. “Skip ten years ahead, here we fucking are, and there's the second person who's supposed to care for Gav and doesn't.”

“Why did she want to take him, anyway?” Grantaire asks, then immediately wants to slap himself. “Fuck. I don't mean – why take in a child if you don't want one? It doesn't really make life easier.”

“It didn't,” Éponine shrugs. “No idea why she did it anyway. Maybe she really did want a kid, or maybe her husband did. And there's pity, I guess. She must have known he was still better off with her than with my folks or in the system. And, like, she didn't fuck up mothering until now, he's healthy and he goes to school, I mean—” She runs a hand through her hair and closes her eyes. “He's a good kid, right?”

“You know he is,” Grantaire says quietly and nudges her knee with his. “Hell, I'm not related to him, and I'd take a bullet for the kid.”

Éponine almost smiles for a second, and leans forward to pull her knees in and wrap her arms around them.

“So you came here as soon as you were able to?” Grantaire asks. “And Magnon just – happened to have the flat available?”

“She's always been renting those rooms out to students. The house was inherited from her husband. I talked to her about coming here and she said she'd make sure I'd get one of the rooms.”

Grantaire frowns. “But they were both available when we moved in.”

“Yeah,” Éponine huffs. “Don't know who lived here before, but she pretty much kicked them out – on the grounds of personal requirement to the space in question, as she put it when I asked, and you can't just extend that sort of thing to one half to the attic, so they both had to go. As soon as I signed on to rent one half, she was free to let the other again.”

Grantaire's head is spinning. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he registers that he's deeply uncomfortable with the thought of living in a flat that someone was kicked out of on short notice, and he's also quite sure that claiming personal requirement and then renting out a living space again is illegal, but right now, that has to wait. “So Gavroche – does he know?”

“For the longest time, I thought he didn't,” she says tiredly. “None of us ever visited him here, even though we were technically entitled. Magnon didn't want anyone from, y'know. The immediate birth family around. He knew she wasn't his birth mother, though, she'd brought him up knowing that.”

“What changed her mind about you visiting?”

“Getting overwhelmed with everything? Fucked if I know,” she murmurs. “She used to keep us updated with how he was doing, y'know, wrote letters and stuff. Not that anyone but Zelma and I would read them, but at least they were there. Then they started getting rarer a couple years ago, so I got in touch with her, and she had a complete breakdown on the phone, just kept saying it was all too much and – I don't know. I guess I thought she'd end up putting him in the system, so I offered to come and help as soon as I was done with school.”

“Éponine,” Grantaire murmurs, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “Fuck.”

“No, don't,” she says, with no sharpness in her voice. “What else was I supposed to do, R? When they gave him away – he was more than a year old already, he'd been with us for a year, and they just – they didn't give a shit about him, but Zelma and I, we did. He was our little brother, R.” She looks up at the ceiling, her eyes shining.

Grantaire can't help but try to picture her then, only just a child herself, not even ten years old when she lost her little brother for what she must have thought was forever. He shudders at the thought, forcing himself to ignore the stinging feeling in his eyes. “So the deal with the babysitting...”

“Yeah,” she says bitterly, “not a thing. Can't say I'm sorry for lying about that; I mean, it's not like the truth was an option.”

“So – you said you thought he didn't know. But he does?”

“Well, yeah, I mean, he already knew Magnon wasn't all the family he had. And you know how he is. He started making comments about it after a while, and when I asked him about it, he gave me pretty much the complete story of how everything went down; no idea how he figured it out in the end.”

“So – that's all, the only reason you ever even came here was him.”

“You think I'd ever have chosen to live in a place like this?” She shakes her head with a wry smile. “People end up here, R. I dare say you did, too, Monsieur le Parisien.”

Grantaire isn't sure what to say. There's certainly nothing he could say that would properly convey how in awe of her he is, how overwhelmed he is by that thought, that someone would direct their entire future after their younger sibling, to finding a possibility to see them again, without expecting anything at all in return. He'd like to think he doesn't know what it's like to love so deeply, to miss someone so much, but he can't fool himself. After all, he stopped loving and started hating a city he still blames for having taken his mother away.

“I'm sorry,” is what he settles for, even though he knows how insufficient it is. Éponine shakes her head.

“Flipping out on you wasn't really fair. My life may be complete shit, but only, I don't know, two per cent of that's your fault.”

“Then I'm sorry for those two per cent,” he says. “And for, y'know. Never noticing the other 98 existed. I literally didn't realise you had a little brother living under the same roof as me, that's a whole new level of shitty friend.”

“Sort of,” she agrees and kicks him lightly. “You're forgiven. I unleashed all hell on you there, you've had your punishment.”

Grantaire sighs. “That doesn't really make it okay. Listen, I don't know the first thing about this kind of stuff, but this – things can't go on like this with Gavroche, can they? I mean, her never being around, all that responsibility with you, that's...”

“I know,” she says, her tone a little cooler. “I'm not delusional, I know it can't go on forever. But it's not like I have a whole lot of options. I'm furious at Magnon, I am, but it's sort of not completely her fault? I think she needs help. Like, actual help, I'm pretty sure she's depressed, and it doesn't help that she can't catch a break from work...” She sighs. “Can we stop talking about this?”

“If you like,” Grantaire says, although he still feels like there's a lot left to say. “Anything you'd rather talk about?”

“I feel like an asshole for talking about Jehan like that,” she offers, shaking her head. “That was uncalled for, they've never been anything but grossly sweet to me. I'm not even into Montparnasse and they still asked me a million fucking times if I was okay with it, like they needed my blessing.”

“Are you?” Grantaire asks. “Okay with it, I mean?”

“Why wouldn't I be?” She sounds bitter. “Hell, I'm thrilled for them. There's a lot more to Jehan than meets the eye, and a lot less to Montparnasse. They're perfect for each other.”

“Éponine.”

She gives him a long look, then she shrugs. “Parnasse has a lot of attention to spare. I know that's shitty, but I liked when it was on me. Especially seeing as the person I actually like; well, we both know how splendidly that's going.”

She sounds so deeply and completely convinced when she says it and oh God, Grantaire is going to combust. “I really don't think we're on the same page with that, Ép,” he says, trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice. “More importantly, I don't think you and her are, either.”

“Oh, don't go off on your 'she actually likes you'– thing again, I'm not in the mood for that,” she says, pulling a face. “I know being in touch with reality isn't what you do best, but you should be knocked around the head for sticking with that story.”

“But—”

“Stop it,” she says sharply. “Fuck, I'm glad with things as they are, okay? Imagine her being stuck with someone like me. She deserves better than that.”

Grantaire swallows hard, wondering for a short moment if this is what it feels like for his friends as well when he talks like that. It stings so much to hear it. “Éponine, no one in the world could deserve better than you.”

She laughs, a cold, tinny sound. “Yeah, right. Listen, I'm done with moping for now. In fact, I think I'm done with moping for the next ten years. This was really nice and all, thanks for listening, I'm ready to go back to stoic apathy. Let's get drunk and do a medley of 90s songs or something.”

“Uh.” He frowns. “Are you sure?”

She decidedly swipes her sleeve across her eyes one last time. “Yes. Done whining; I'm sick to death of this version of me already.”

“Okay? If you're certain.”

“There's a reason you haven't seen me like this before; it's because I hate it,” she mutters and straightens her back, running her fingers through her hair to get it in order again. “So. Let's see just how cheery we can get before being miserable tomorrow.”

Grantaire humours her, partly because it seems like the best thing he can do for her right now, and also because the day had one too many surprises in store for him as well. After making a scene at a not-book-sale and finding out you've been living in the same house as your friend's little brother for half a year, there are worse things than vodka and Los Del Rio.

Two hours later, Éponine is on lying on her back with her guitar on her stomach, drunkenly plucking at the strings and hitting all the wrong chords while Grantaire delivers a heartfelt and off-key rendition of Désenchantée. Éponine gives up first, her careful attempts at harmonising dissolving into giggles. “We have to stop, R, you're so butchering this, God, if poor Mylène wasn't still alive, she'd be spinning in her grave.”

“Hmm. I think I really picked up on that... existential melancholy. And, y'know, made it my own,” Grantaire murmurs, the words only slightly slurred. “What's the time, anyway? Should we be sleeping?”

“No such thing as should,” Éponine says and lets her guitar slide to the ground next to the bed. “Our idea of time is a feeble construct and all societal expectations tied to it are made up.”

“You're a fucking eloquent drunk,” he replies, fishing for his phone in his pocket. “I'm supposed to be the pointlessly rambling one – hang on, that's weird—”

“What is?”

“Text. Strange. Doesn't normally happen after, uh, ten at night.”

It takes him a few seconds to get the meaning of the words on the screen, but when he does, he groans out loud. “Why won't this fucking day just end already,” he mutters.

“Hey,” Éponine kicks him. “Don't be cryptic.”

“Joly texted,” he says. “Didn't want to tell us before Jehan's thing, but he got word today that one of the sponsors is backing out. Some guy – Pabourgien, Parvageon, I don't know – he's sort of a local, apparently? And he must have heard of Apollo's, uh, altercation a while back?”

“Wasn't that as much yours as his?”

“He disagrees,” Grantaire sighs. His drunken brain, useless as it may be, still registers that this is decidedly not-good news, and he doesn't feel like thinking about it now. He locks his phone again. “Anyway, we're talking about it at the meeting on Monday, and... Ah, I'm not in the right state to deal with this right now.”

“Then let it be,” Éponine says and takes his phone away with a quick movement he hadn't really thought her capable of in this state. “And shut up, and sleep.”

He curls up on his side, his head at the foot of her bed. “Sounds like a plan.”

Sunday is terrible. It's not just the hangover, although that is already torturing him when he tries to make his way from Éponine's room to his own, but even when he gets to his own bed and downs half a bottle of water, he's still left with far too many things to figure out for his sluggish mind. There's Éponine, who felt comfortable sharing her struggles for no more than thirty minutes and is unlikely to accept help; there's the fact that Grantaire may very well have been renting this flat illegally without his knowledge for six months; there's the sudden gaping hole in the ABC budget that Grantaire didn't do anything to prevent when he had the chance. Feeling so responsible for so much is new to Grantaire, and it's not pleasant, especially as those thoughts follow him into Monday and the hangover fades, but the anxiety over that mass of new problems doesn't.

He drags it to class with him, lets it sit in his chest as he half-heartedly takes notes on the lecture. (He has the vague ambition to do a little better this semester, given the amount of classes he has to re-take because he fucked up his first, although so far, his dedication to keeping that resolution has been rather fickle.) Then, during his second class for the day, his focus breaks completely when he doesn't even think before checking his phone when he feels it vibrate in his pocket. Are you on campus? And free for lunch? Grantaire wonders if Enjolras knows that texting without a greeting, goodbye, or at least the perfunctory emoticon makes the kindest message seem vaguely threatening. yes to both, sir, unless this is budget-related pre-meeting business bc i honestly can't take that rn, he texts back, and Enjolras is quick to reply, Not budget-related at all, promise. Meet in front of Copains right after class?

Grantaire is not as hesitant as he should be, given that these words bring back the familiar tug in his chest that comes whenever Enjolras takes the friendship-thing to levels Grantaire has trouble dealing with. He knows that he's in for more of that feeling, but he agrees anyway, because it's not Enjolras' fault and he decides that getting a decent lunch would at least benefit him health-wise.

Enjolras is already waiting in front of the café when Grantaire gets there, and waves a little when he sees Grantaire. Grantaire feels that familiar sensation flare up, and forces it down with all the willpower he can muster. “Hey,” he says, coming to a halt before Enjolras and tucking his hands into the pockets of his coat. “Sorry I'm late, I had to walk over from – well. You know the art building. Basement classes, et cetera.”

“Ah, you've mentioned,” Enjolras says. “What was that you called them – the perks of being an art major?”

“Exactly. Nothing like cave-like hallways and dark classrooms to get you into that mood of existential dread required for inspiration.”

“Is it required?” They've gone inside and are standing waiting in line at the counter. “Seems like an exhausting feat.”

“I think we've had this conversation the other way round,” Grantaire muses. “You're not into art, fine, but you bleed for your stuff, don't you? Never felt like you needed that streak of fatalism when you were writing an article, holding a speech?”

“No,” Enjolras says, tipping his head to the side. “Writing and speaking, those are antidotes for that kind of feeling. I don't revel in it.”

“Good for you,” Grantaire says, barely managing to keep it from sounding flippant. “I consider it sort of a healthy masochism. Y'know, to keep the actual bad stuff in check.” He feels Enjolras' eyes on him after that, so he keeps his own look forward, scanning the board above the counter. “Do you know what you're getting yet?”

“Greek salad, I think,” Enjolras says, looking up at the board as well. “You can just tell me what you want and go find a table, if you like?”

“Uh, yeah, I'll do that. Quiche Lorraine, no drink. Thanks.” Grantaire probably wouldn't have accepted the offer, normally, but even knowing that it's hopelessly pathetic, he appreciates the opportunity for a short breather before this whole thing continues. It never changes, the feeling of being around Enjolras resembling being exposed to scorching heat, especially when it's just the two of them.

He doesn't get a lot of time to himself before Enjolras finds him at the table by the window, putting the plastic tray of food down between them. “They never used to have actual feta here,” Enjolras says, eyeing his salad not without distrust. “It's strange, I was almost expecting those oil-drenched anchovies by now.”

“Tell that to Bahorel,” Grantaire murmurs and leans down to get his bag. “What do I owe you?”

“Never mind that,” Enjolras says with a dismissive gesture, and Grantaire briefly has to fight the urge to press his face into his quiche and just yell.

“Dude. You've already spent a ridiculous amount on pretty much bailing me out, which, by the way, you're absolutely getting back once my income doesn't equal my living expenses anymore, and we all know I'm the one sucking the ABC budget dry. Literally the worst thing you can do here is spend more money on me.”

Enjolras pulls a face. “That's a horrible way of phrasing it.”

“Yeah, well.” Grantaire hands him a five euro bill, because two slices of quiche can't have cost any more, right? “I'm not really known for being diplomatic.”

Reluctantly, Enjolras accepts the money, and looks thoroughly disgruntled as he picks at his salad.

“You seem more relaxed than I thought,” Grantaire notes carefully. “You know, given Joly's bad tidings.”

“It wasn't too much of a surprise, was it?” Enjolras says. “I've had a month to mentally prepare, that's more than I could have asked for.”

“Yeah, what a luxury.”

“Weren't you the one who didn't want to talk about the budget?”

“Well – what did you want to talk about, anyway? There must have been something.”

“Is it such an absurd thought that I just wanted company for the break?” Enjolras asks, frowning.

Yes. “I suppose? I always sort of thought you were the kind of person who worked through their breaks, for some indiscernible reason that has nothing at all to do with the fact that we, oh yeah, used to work through every Tuesday lunch break.”

“That wasn't ideal,” Enjolras agrees and stabs a cherry tomato. “I just don't like eating lunch alone.”

“Hmm,” Grantaire says. “I mean, I sympathise. School was a dark time for everyone.”

Enjolras gives him an odd look, and Grantaire sighs.

“Look, while we're here, maybe we should talk about the budget after all.”

“Why? We're all talking about it tonight, and you didn't want to breach it.”

“Hey, I can change my mind. It's a free country, sort of.” When Enjolras shoots him a punishing glance, he gives up. “There's just some stuff I was wondering about that probably has obvious answers, so I might as well ask them now. I don't want to waste anyone's time at the meeting.”

Slowly, even though he looks critical, Enjolras nods. “All right.”

“Okay. First of all, I didn't really think about it before, but I realise I've never had to work a single ad into the layout before. Please tell me you're not refusing to place them because you think it's capitalist.”

“It is capitalist,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire groans. “No, I mean it. It's one of our most fundamental policies not to use ads, and be honest: if we did, we'd sit here all the same with you accusing us of hypocrisy. It goes against every last part of our philosophy to draw support from corporate giants.”

“Then who are your sponsors? Rich philanthropists in support of socialism?”

“Partly,” Enjolras says, as if that isn't ridiculous at all. “There are foundations that specify on supporting projects like the ABC, and they make up for about half of our funding. Then there's the revenue that selling commercially brings, but our prices are low and most of it flows directly back into the cost of printing. The rest comes from private sponsors – private, but they're not businesses,” he says when he sees Grantaire's expression. “Pabourgeot was one of those. We'll find his money elsewhere.”

“I'm sure you will. Ads are always a good place to start.” Grantaire shrugs, pretending to be unimpressed by the daggers Enjolras is shooting his way. “I'm just saying. This free-market-thing kicks all our asses, I'm sure as hell not willingly supporting it, but if I want to eat, I have to resort to buying mass-produced stuff. Just a suggestion, but maybe for your paper to survive in the long run, you might want to consider submitting to that pressure.”

“Why would we? There are other possibilities, and the lack of ads is a statement in itself. It's exactly about refusing to feed into that system; submitting to pressure is literally the one thing our paper is supposed to avoid.”

“How did your private sponsors end up with piles of money, then? They must have gotten rich somehow, you think that was all ethical? You, of all people, think there's a way to be that wealthy and not rotten in some way?”

“By donating, they're certainly using the money they do have in a more ethical way than most. Do you think I don't find their wealth obscene? I'm disgusted by money-hoarders, and I loathe the way they profit from a harmful system, but—”

“You depend on them to evoke change?” Grantaire arches his eyebrows. “My point. And it's not like every ad you decide to place has to be feeding into the evil, capitalist machine. Shouldn't supporting local businesses be part of your world-saving agenda as well? You could start there.”

At that, Enjolras narrows his eyes. “You mean place ads of small-scale enterprises?”

“Why not? It's a small town, there's plenty of those. And it wouldn't even matter that they can't afford to pay as much as larger firms could, seeing as you've been getting by without any ads at all so far.”

After half a minute of silence in which Grantaire decides to focus on his quiche to avoid things getting weird, Enjolras says, “That's actually a really good idea.”

“Yeah, I never cease to amaze myself,” Grantaire mutters, still chewing.

“No, I'm not surprised that you had it, just... have you been thinking about this?”

He has. Deeply, as he's almost embarrassed to say. “I'm not a complete asshole, you know,” Grantaire tells his plate. “It's not like I don't give a fuck at all about the ABC. I know you're paying me, and I still maintain that most of your goals are pipe dreams, but I'd have to be a pretty heartless bastard not to care about the thing pretty much all my friends devote so much to.”

Under the gaze from Enjolras that follows, Grantaire feels his cheeks heat. He clears his throat.

“Anyway, you could put it to a vote or something if nothing else comes up. Joly probably already thought up a bunch of better ideas overnight, so.”

“No,” Enjolras says, his eyes still on Grantaire, who begins to feel pity for the neglected salad. “I don't think he did.”

“I'll tell him you said that.”

“R,” Enjolras says, still refusing to look away. “Thank you.”

“Right. So. Remember earlier, when you were complaining that your salad was too healthy? Can we go back to talking about that?”

The odd expression of intensity breaks away, and Enjolras smiles. It's one of those small smiles, those barely-there-ones which Grantaire thinks might be the only ones he ever gives, but it's so brilliant Grantaire has to fight the urge to avert his eyes. “All right,” Enjolras says and deliberately puts his critical face back on. “I think the lack of canned olives is appalling. These are so fresh, it's making my skin crawl.”

“That's a good start. Keep going.”

“And what is it with the dressing? Is that actual balsamic vinegar? I came here expecting the usual greyish goo of questionable ingredients, and what do I get? This is an outrage.”

It's incredible. They can actually carry on like that for the rest of lunch break, talking, arguing in the most silly sense of the word, and it's not even all that bad. It's good to see Enjolras more light-hearted for a change; Grantaire finds himself trying to tease smiles out of him when he can. By the time he has to get to the studios and Enjolras needs to be on his way to class, Grantaire has almost forgotten how painfully this feels like something he can't ever have.

The meeting goes surprisingly smoothly given the issues at hand. The month between the incident and its consequences, evidently, has been enough for everyone's tempers to settle, and most of the discussion is focused on strategies to fix their budget problem. Joly suggests maybe asking other printers for offers to see if they can find a cheaper deal than their current one, and they discuss the possibility of raising their price by a few cents rather than discontinuing the website. “There's no point to leaving the articles accessible exclusively against payment, and the only way we can justify raising the prices is by supplying the same content for free on a different forum,” Feuilly subsumes. “That's the way I see it. Obviously, there are going to have to be cuts, but I don't think the website should be impacted.”

The vote on ads by local businesses ends in favour, and Cosette offers one more suggestion when they're nearly done with the topic. “Okay,” she says, and Grantaire sees the way her fingers are tapping against the table in a nervous rhythm, “I've been thinking about this for a while now, and I thought I might as well include you in the process, because it's going to be your choice in the end. I thought that – and this is just based on the best possible outcome, but – if the trial next month goes well, if my father is released, theoretically, he could help us out as a sponsor as well. I understand if you have your reservations about that, which is why I haven't offered it so far, and I promise, if you'd rather not be affiliated with him like that, I won't be mad or hurt. Just – seeing the situation we're in, I wanted to let you know that the possibility is there, if he does get out.”

It's silent for a while.

“He agreed to that?” Enjolras says then. It seems to be complete news to him as well.

“He offered it,” Cosette says, nodding. “He knows – well, I tell him about these things, obviously, and he still has a considerable amount in savings from when he was running his own business. But, again, I completely understand if you'd rather not take him up on it.”

No one quite knows how to react, Grantaire least of all. Cosette's father is sort of a mythical creature to him; he doesn't even know what exactly happened to get him into jail, and it always felt like breaking a taboo to ask. At the same time, he can see how nervous Cosette is, and it's painful to see her this way.

“We'd probably be risking other people backing out,” Cosette says quickly. “Sorry, I didn't want to get you into a weird position. It was just – you can forget about it.”

“No,” Courfeyrac and Enjolras say simultaneously. They look at each other, and Courfeyrac continues. “This is great, this could make a lot of things easier; we'd be all up in arms looking for a sponsor to replace Pabourgeot with things as they are,” he says. “But – won't he want to get back on his feet first? Before he gives a lot of money away the second he's free again? As we know he should be, Cosette, no one here doubts that.”

“If he offers something, he means it,” Cosette says. “That part you don't have to worry about. But I realise this is all really speculative, and we can't count on the trial ending in his favour, so I should have waited to bring it up.”

“No,” Enjolras says again. “No, I'm glad you did. I think we all are. Let's just say we'll take it down as one of our options; that way we won't depend on it, but keep it in mind.”

They settle things that way, and Cosette seems relieved, but the image of her so insecure in a field that she normally flourishes in stays with Grantaire. He has the urge to talk to her, and there's a vague and unformed idea at the back of his mind about how he might be able to help out two of his friends at once, but it can't seem to take shape – either way, it's not an issue for the day anyway, because he has to hurry out to get back to the studio the second the meeting is over.

He doesn't forget about it. More than a week passes, time in which Grantaire is mostly just trying to keep his head above water even with classes, projects and end-of-the-month-layout-stress coming together. He's also trying to take some of the weight off Éponine's back by offering to look after Gavroche more – he suggested he could help her look for a better job as well, but she declined. “I shouldn't have bitched about that part at all,” she tells him. “So it doesn't pay amazingly, who cares. Singing is one of the few things around here that doesn't make me want to gut myself.” So he leaves it be.

Ultimately, it's a coincidence that makes him talk to Cosette. He's on his way back home from the printers, trying to duck into the hood of his jacket while the wind whips about him, when he happens to pass by the store Cosette works at and spots her distinctive light hair through the shop window. For a second or two, he wonders if he's above this, distracting someone who's at work because he's not sure when else he might catch them alone, but that moment is over pretty quickly.

The smell of – everything hits Grantaire when he walks inside; there's the scent of lavender and of honey and of sweet things he can't even name, and it's a little overwhelming for a second and he steadies himself against a shelf. Soft music is playing and the store is empty save for himself and two employees; Cosette chatting to a colleague behind the register. “Oh,” she says when she spots Grantaire, and pats her co-worker's shoulder, “I've got this one.”

“Hey,” Grantaire waves awkwardly as she scurries over to him. “Sorry for interrupting there.”

“No, please, you're a customer,” she says with a wide smile. “You always come first.” She lowers her voice. “That aside, he's just a bit too chatty, and has been talking my ear off for the past twenty minutes. I have nowhere to flee in here, so thanks.”

“Happy to help,” Grantaire says, a little adrift, because he knows he wants to talk to her and he walked in here by instinct, but now, he realises that he doesn't actually know what to say.

“So,” she says brightly. “What can I do for you? Assuming you're here as a customer and this isn't social call; I just have to check all the boxes. It is a job, after all.”

He really hasn't thought this through. “Uh.” A thought crosses his mind briefly, something that can't be called a good idea by a mile, but in his plight, he goes with it anyway. “I'm – actually looking for a gift?”

“Oh?” She cocks her head and pouts, a mock expression of hurt. “And here I half thought you were just stopping by to say hello. Gosh, don't look so alarmed, I'm kidding! I'd be happy to help. What's the occasion? Or rather, who's it for?”

“My roommate,” he says, hoping his lie is obvious enough not to actually be unethical, because sneakily lying to Cosette; now that has got to be something people go to hell for.

She gives him a long look, and the air shifts between them. A small nod lets him know she understands. “I see,” she says and clears her throat and straightens her shoulders, obviously assuming her role as saleswoman. “Well, what are they like? Is there anything you have in mind for them specifically?”

“She's – well, she's pretty hard to get a hold of, gift-wise,” he says. “She's been a little stressed lately, so maybe something to help with that? You know, one of those small things that sort of make life easier for a bit?” He bites his lip, realising how stupid he sounds. Spontaneous cons aren't exactly his forte; he's an outright person for a reason. “Just – something that could cheer her up now and then.”

“Sure,” Cosette says, strictly keeping her professional face on. “Does she happen to have a bathtub?”

“She has... access to one.”

“In that case, we have some things she might like over here,” she says and pulls Grantaire to a shelf further from the counter, to where they're definitely out of earshot. “Baths can work miracles to relieve stress. A lot of products focus on scent and colour, others are wonderful for bubbles – any idea what she might prefer?”

“Uh, less bubbles, I think. More... with the other stuff. She's not really a bubbly type of person.”

“Hmm.” She picks up a purple bath bomb with a glittery coat, twirling it in her hand, the glitter particles sticking to her fingers immediately. “How do you think she feels about glitter? This one is quite popular – looks amazingly pretty; very romantic, and great to share with a partner, as I hear.”

“As you hear?”

“Yes, well, dear random customer, not that it's any of your business,” she breaks character and smiles a little, “but I don't, in fact, have anyone to share a bathtub with.”

“Neither does she,” he blurts out and takes a quick breath. “I mean. Uh. That's great and all, but it's no to the glitter, probably. Is there anything a little more, I don't know – subdued, maybe?”

Cosette bites her lip, obviously trying to stifle a smile, and reaches for a different bath bomb; a pink one with a swirly pattern of white, and with the edges of flower petals poking out. “Well, there's this one I like to recommend to anyone – it looks lovely in the water, with pink and white swirls, and has a very subtle scent of rose and apple.” She looks up at him, and he can see that she's wavering again, right on the edge between the charade of the saleswoman-persona and blatant sincerity. “It's my personal favourite, but – it might not be to her taste.”

Grantaire breathes deeply. “Why wouldn't it be?”

“Well, isn't it too... too rosy for her taste, a little too flowery? And girlish?”

Grantaire, his eyes still fixed on the bath bomb she's holding out for him to smell, looks her in the eye and she looks back at him, dead serious and inquisitive and not talking about a bath bomb at all. “No,” he says, holding her gaze. “Not at all. I mean. I... I think it'd be a great fit.”

She looks him over, scrutinising, with a soft blush high on her cheeks that makes her look even prettier. Quietly, she says, “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely positive,” he says, and oh God, he has never been more off his game in his entire life; but then, he's never had to flirt in someone else's place before. “She'd be completely gone for this one.”

Cosette finally looks away, her eyes wandering the shop and finally settling on the bath bomb she's still clutching. “All right,” she says after taking a deep breath. “Then I'll get this one packed up for you – was there anything else?” She's herself again, reaching up to tug at one of Grantaire's curls and laughing. “Maybe something to smooth those locks out? They get a bit frizzy, you know. Don't think I haven't noticed.”

“Oh, they're beyond remedy. Thanks for the offer, though,” he says, forcing himself to come to terms with the fact that he's actually going to have to buy this bath bomb now. Five euros for that thing.

Cosette notices as she sweeps past her co-worker to the register and gives him a small smirk. “In for a penny, in for a pound, love,” she says, folding the small paper bag closed. Then, at his dismayed expression, she cracks. “R, I'm joking. You don't have to buy a thing, I'm not heartless.”

“You know what? Give it here,” Grantaire says and fishes for his wallet in his bag. “You're just too good at your job.”

She beams and prints out a label to stick on the bag. “There you go,” she says and hands it over. “Enjoy. I bet you were long overdue for a nice relaxing bath anyway.”

He scoffs, although she's not wrong. His back would certainly thank him for taking a break with some rose-scented bath water. “Thanks.”

She gives him a funny look, as if she expected something more, and then nods. He stands there doing nothing for a second, several unspoken questions at once on the tip of his tongue, but ultimately, they remain unsaid and he mutters a goodbye before he turns to leave.

She catches up with him when he's already a few houses down from the store. “R,” she calls, jogging down the street, and comes to a halt before him, catching her breath. “R,” she repeats, and then she gets on her tiptoes, steadying herself with her hands on his shoulders, and kisses him on the cheek. “Thank you so much,” she says softly when she pulls away. She looks at him, her eyes suddenly regretful. “I want to do this for you too, R, I do, but...”

It takes him a moment to understand what she means, and a cold feeling spreads in the pit of his stomach when he does. “No,” he says, “Cosette, it's fine. I understand.”

“Do you?” She sounds desperate. “Because if I could – God, R—”

“It's okay.” It is. Sort of. It's nothing he didn't already know, in the end. And none of this is Cosette's fault; amazing at persuasion as she may be, it's not like she could somehow talk Enjolras into reciprocating Grantaire's feelings. “Don't worry about me, yeah?”

She doesn't take her hands off his shoulders for a few moments, her eyes still on him, looking like she's about to say something else, and then she sighs and lets go. “Thank you,” she says again, smiles, and quickly makes for the store.

To say that he's slightly absent-minded at the meeting the next day would be a terrible understatement. It's not deliberately, but he barely listens; his mind busy with scattered thoughts and questions. For a part, he's finishing up the sequel of Gavroche's comic book in his head, because Gav is getting (rightfully) impatient about it, and then there's still the question of whether or not his not-so-subliminal message actually managed to reach Cosette in a way that would be helpful. Of course, he didn't expect the two to stride in the next day holding hands, but waiting for something to come out of this is making him nervous, especially since he's not at all sure he did the right thing. He never swore a vow to Éponine not to tell Cosette about it, and technically, he didn't tell her, but if someone went behind his back that way, he'd be furious. That aside, he did it because he wants something good for both of them, but what if he's just given them more problems? After all, starting to date someone you were dead sure wasn't interested doesn't really scream stress-free experience.

“R,” Bossuet nudges him. “Hey, R.”

“Present,” Grantaire says and blinks. “What's wrong, what'd I miss?”

“Nothing,” Bossuet grins. “Just wanted to make sure you're still among the living.”

“Ugh.” Grantaire rubs at his temple. He's very aware of why he's normally in a perpetual slump with – well, everything. Actually trying not to be is exhausting.

“All right,” Enjolras seems to be wrapping up whatever he talked about just then, and God, Grantaire has no idea what that even was, “last order of business. I deliberately didn't mention it earlier because I didn't want to cause any tension, but as Jehan has informed me, we got word from the Fondane Association.”

Jehan manages the paper's correspondence, and Fondane rings a bell as well. “Were those the prize people?” Grantaire asks Bossuet quietly, and Bossuet nods.

“That they are. If they've written, that means they've decided on the winners.”

“They write first? That's super lame. Why not have like, the proper thing with the ceremony and the envelope and everything? So much more dramatic.”

“As you know, we've signed up for consideration to their prize, so in order not to spoil anything, Jehan hasn't opened the letter yet.” Enjolras looks over to them. “Jehan?”

Jehan stands up, the small white letter in hand, and clears their throat. “All right. I wanted to blow this out of proportion a little, maybe download an app that does a drumroll, dress up, and so on, but I seem to have forgotten my ceremonial robes today. What I haven't forgotten,” they reach down to retrieve something from their bag, “is my ceremonial letter-opener.”

“Come on, they are literally the worst person for this job,” Bahorel complains, and Jehan shoots him a sly smile as they carefully slice open the letter with a small, silver, beautifully ornate knife. “Have mercy, Jehan. I'm dying over here.”

“Poor Bahorel, so keen,” Jehan sighs and unfolds the letter with graceful fingers. “Patience is a virtue, you know. So, what have we here...” Their eyes sweep across the lines and Grantaire can tell that they're trying not to give anything away, but they can't help the sunny smile that breaks across their features. “All right,” Jehan says as Bahorel nears his end a few seats down from them, “I'm happy and honoured to announce that this is the first time the ABC has been awarded the prize for Best Feature Story.”

“Yes!” Bahorel slams a fist on the table the same time that Grantaire hears someone gasp, Cosette lets out a yelp, and then there's whispering and someone (Feuilly?) declaring that it was “about fucking time.”

“Uh, is that big?” Grantaire murmurs and Bossuet gives him an incredulous look.

“It's a prize for papers, what do you think their most coveted award is? We're talking Best Picture here, R, holy shit—”

“Quiet, everyone,” Enjolras says, although Grantaire can tell he's beaming with pride. “Jehan, please – don't torture us.”

Their smile grows gentler. “Joly,” Jehan says softly. “Congratulations.”

The two-second silence is immediately followed by a cacophony of cheering and whooping and various curses. Musichetta and Bossuet have smushed Joly in a hug sandwich, and Feuilly, as it seems, is demanding money from Bahorel.

“Did you guys have a bet?” Joly interrupts his cuddle-attack to shoot Bahorel a glance that completely fails to look sharp. “Bahorel, you fucker, you didn't believe in me?”

“That wasn't it!” Bahorel swears. “No, fuck, I so believe in you, okay, I just didn't think the committee would actually get their heads out of their asses with this one, and this chucklehead was so dead sure that they would that he wagered me on it.”

Feuilly grins. “That's what you get, being an eyebrow-raiser. Don't worry, Joly, I won't spend that money on anything but celebratory drinks for tonight.”

“Just to clarify,” Courfeyrac says, “we are talking about the two-part-article, right, Jehan? Because if it's anything else, not to discredit Joly's other work, but—”

“No, that's it,” Jehan says. “I quote, this two-part testimony that criticised and examined a problem of such weight convinced the committee with its unapologetic honesty and distinguished wording – Oh, Joly, you're brilliant. They go on like this for half a page.”

Thinking back to what he read in the first part of Joly's story when he was proof-reading it, Grantaire can really only agree with the committee. He thought then that the testimony mostly moved him because Joly was his friend, but really, it had also just plain been good. Not to mention how difficult it must have been for Joly to tackle his own experiences like that; experiences that Grantaire wouldn't hesitate to call traumatic. He can barely imagine the courage that must have taken – and the exhilaration at seeing that effort acknowledged. Grantaire is saved from crying embarrassing happy tears by Enjolras, whose voice somehow manages to pierce the chatter and find Joly.

“They're right. You have absolutely earned this, Joly, and we're incredibly lucky to have you. Congratulations.”

This minimal laudation is met with cheering again, until Jehan, still standing, raises a placating hand.

“All right,” they say, “much as I would like to tackle our dear Joly with a hug as well, I'm not quite done with the announcement yet, because he's not the only winner.”

Silence falls again.

“You're such a terrible person, Jehan,” Bahorel says, shaking his head. “Do you want me to have an aneurysm before the night's out?”

“I'll graciously ignore that and not completely refuse to read out the rest because I'm too wounded by the negative feedback here,” Jehan says. They take a deep breath. “Now, to the non-believing design-genius of my heart, to my esteemed friend, Grantaire – R, congratulations on winning this year's prize for Best Layout.”

Grantaire has to admit that it takes him a few seconds, because he's still completely buzzed about Joly, and at first, he doesn't realise he's even being addressed, and the words only make their way to his mind when Bossuet next to him envelops him in a hug tight enough to smother.

“What,” Grantaire chokes out, because none of this makes sense, but Musichetta has gotten up to ruffle his hair and join Bossuet in the group hug, and Courfeyrac across the table is beaming at him, everyone seems to be congratulating him at the same time, and Jehan is biting their lip, their eyes suddenly shiny.

“What the – Jehan. You're fucking with me, right?”

“Accept that something great happened to you, you brilliant, ungrateful grouch,” Bossuet says and finally lets go, letting him breathe again. “And it's deserved! I mean, it's common knowledge that we've never looked better.”

“It's right here in writing, R,” Jehan says and leans over to hand him the letter. “Nothing to be done about it – your work is officially award-winning.”

“What the fuck,” Grantaire says, briefly scanning the letter before Joly snatches it away from him. He only just catches a few lines; we are happy to announce that the paper under your direction, the ABC of Lamarque University, is the recipient of two awards and congratulate you on this outstanding accomplishment, then the names and prizes in question, Joly's name directly above his own. There's really no way of denying it. “That has to be a mistake. The other people up for consideration for this can't possibly have sucked so much.”

“They didn't,” Chetta says and squeezes his shoulders from where she's standing behind him, leaning over to read the letter while Joly holds it. “You're good at what you do. Deal with it.”

“But—” Grantaire shakes his head and takes the letter back despite Joly's protest. “That's just – that's not even fair, they can't give me an award for this. All I do is take the templates you were already using and adjust them—”

“And then there was the re-design of the entire table of contents page, the new logos for pretty much all sections, and the drawing of actual portraits for the portrait-page which is honestly one of the most aesthetically pleasing things I have ever seen in a student paper,” Cosette lists casually. “Honestly, I wasn't going to say anything about it, but I'd have been offended if they hadn't honoured you.”

Grantaire doesn't know what to say. He'd suggested the drawings for the portrait page as a joke – he even remembers saying to Feuilly after a meeting, slightly tipsy, “That portrait-thing you guys do would be twice as cool and half as pretentious if you put actual portraits in there, like, drawn ones with a sort of old-timey frame design around them and shit.” Feuilly, which Grantaire thinks he maybe should have expected, took him at his word. They've only done it in the last two issues, but if the committee honoured Joly for his story, that means they've been looking at every issue including the latest from February.

“Come on, R, don't pout,” Joly says and pokes his arm. “We're going to Paris! And I can finally cross receiving an award off my bucket list.”

“Finally? How long has that been on there?” Grantaire asks helplessly. Joly smiles.

“Only for about ten years. I mean it, though. You've earned this, now appreciate it.”

Grantaire only fully registers Joly's words then – they're going to Paris. The actual ceremony is in Paris, so to accept their awards, they're going to have to show up, and there's probably no way around that.

He's hit by a wave of nausea, and can feel the tremor begin in his fingers. Everyone's eyes are still on Joly and him, and he can't panic right now, oh God, he can't panic, but the thought catches him so unexpectedly, so suddenly, that he's completely defenceless, completely unable to rationalise. If that hadn't been the case, maybe he could have told himself that it wasn't a big deal, that Paris was just a city and maybe he wouldn't have to show up there personally anyway, but he's been unfocused all night and then somehow the universe decided to hit him with three blows at once, and it only takes him about two seconds to slip into that swirling pit of anxiety he's been so desperately avoiding over the past few days.

He breathes deeply, and convinces himself that he can keep it together for the few seconds it takes to turn this around, because Joly really does have a cause to celebrate and the last thing Grantaire wants is to spread his bullshit all over the cheery mood. “All right, then,” he says, trying to stop his voice from sounding forced as all eyes are still warily on him, “drinks?”

Grantaire has never felt luckier to be part of a group where that sentence can manage to divert pretty much everyone's attention at least for a short time. Jehan seems to have caught on, though, because they're by Grantaire's side almost instantly, pulling him away from the table where the others have jumped into discussing drink orders.

“Paris?” Jehan asks softly, both of Grantaire's hands in theirs, and Grantaire can't help but marvel at how Jehan knew because they don't even know half of it, Grantaire never told them the whole story, but Jehan knows, and Grantaire swallows hard and nods.

“I think, uh. I just need to be alone for a bit, and – away from here, I'll calm down, can you—”

“Okay; hey, it's okay. Are you sure you want to be alone?” Jehan squeezes his hands, which can't feel really nice for them, because Grantaire's palms are sweaty and cold, but that's Jehan for you.

“As sure as I get,” Grantaire murmurs. “I'll be back in a few minutes, promise, I just – I can't—”

“It's fine. I'll come up with something,” Jehan promises. “Tell me you'll be okay on your own.”

“I will,” Grantaire says, and Jehan nods and lets him go.

It's a busy night at the Musain, so Grantaire, for lack of a better instinct, makes for the men's room and locks himself in a stall.

He's had enough ineffective counselling session and, God knows, enough practice, to know how to deal with panic attacks. Well, to sort of deal. He knows to breathe evenly, he knows to tick off all his symptoms in his head, allowing him to understand that this is something his body does, his brain trying to protect him, and not actually the end of the world.

The problem isn't the panic itself; maybe that's the reason it helps. The problem is the trigger. Physical symptoms don't scare Grantaire – he presses a hand to his chest, feels the rapid beat there, and feels reassured. It's the thought of what had been said earlier that might send him spiralling even deeper into this, the mere idea of having to see Paris again, of being forced to go back to a place he promised never to cross the border of again years ago. It was ridiculous, of course, and his reaction to it now is ridiculous as well – he knows that. Objectively. Objectively, he also knows that he won't be forced to go there, and could probably talk his way out of it without much trouble, but he can't think about these things now, because if he does, he's lost again.

Instead, he thinks of his sympathetic nervous system and of epinephrine, and he makes himself breathe steadily until his heartbeat starts to resume a slower, normalised rhythm. He closes his eyes for a while, and stands upright again, testing how it feels. When he isn't immediately taken in by a dizzy spell, he decides that he's good to go back.

He's going to ask Enjolras about it tonight, if he can, is what he decides as he makes his way back to the stairs, still trying to get his trembling hands under control. If he puts it off, the anxiety is going to remain, and he doesn't have the energy to deal with that.

Just as he thinks it, he spots Enjolras by the counter; or rather, he's spotted by Enjolras, who waves him over. “Congratulations,” he says with that almost-smile and offers his hand. “I meant to tell you immediately, and I was going to be really elaborate, but you disappeared.”

Grantaire, thankfully, manages to wipe his palm on his jeans before he lets Enjolras shake his hand. “Yeah, uh, sorry about that. And thanks, I guess.”

Enjolras must hear how insincere it sounds, because he frowns. “Are you okay? I know you were surprised earlier, but—”

Grantaire takes a breath and bites his lip, feeling the anxiety flare up in his chest again.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras looks genuinely concerned. “What's wrong?”

Grantaire doesn't feel like he has much of a choice – and this was the plan anyway, wasn't it? He might as well get it over with. “I'm – uh, listen, this is—” He steadies himself with a breath. “I know this is weird. Potentially. But – do we have to, like, be there for the award presentation? I mean, can we accept the award and not be at the ceremony? Because I know the prize money is important for you, but I sort of—”

“Hold on,” Enjolras says, trying to follow. “What's this about? Are you really that convinced you don't deserve this award?”

“Uh – it's – something like that?” Grantaire fidgets a little. “I just – I don't mind accepting it, but I sort of don't – want to go to the thing itself? It's not really about the prize as such, I mean, I don't get it, but fine, if they want to fund us because I hardly did anything, they're welcome to. I just don't think I can come to the ceremony.”

“I suppose it's possible not to go,” Enjolras says carefully, his brow in furrows. “It's just not something that anyone really wanted before. And it doesn't have to be a big deal if you don't want it to be, normally we stay for two nights or so, but the ceremony is only a few hours long, so if you wanted, you could only show up for that—”

“It's not that,” Grantaire says, frustrated. “Really, it isn't. If they wanted to have their ceremony here in the town hall, I'd go; hell, I'd host that thing, but—”

“Is it Paris?” Enjolras asks plainly. As if it's an easy question to answer, like it's this simple. His eyes are sincere and still so concerned that Grantaire can't even find it in himself to be angry at Enjolras' insistence. “Because I know we've talked about this before, but you were so elusive about it. I thought that was because you missed it; was I wrong?”

Oh, boy. “You were – well, yes,” Grantaire says in a strained voice. “I don't miss it. I'd rather not go back there, not now, so – so if there's any way I don't have to show up for the ceremony, I'd like to take that. That's all.”

“But why?” Enjolras sounds genuinely confused. If he wasn't, he wouldn't be pressing, Grantaire thinks – he knows him well enough for that by now. “You love Paris, it was so noticeable, even though you barely said anything about it—”

“Because I didn't want to say anything about it, okay?” Grantaire runs a hand through his hair. “And I don't want to now. I just – I don't want go. If that's possible. I don't want to, that's it.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says carefully, “I know this is probably overwhelming, but I think you're doing yourself a disservice here. You'd have a chance to go back to a place you love, you'd receive actual recognition for your work; don't you think you should at least give it a shot?”

Kindness is not making this any easier. “Yeah, no, I can do without all that,” Grantaire mutters. “Enjolras, I don't want to cause trouble with this, I swear I don't, but if there's any possibility at all that I don't have to go, I won't.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “You made tiny catacombs out of wood, Grantaire, you can't honestly tell me you're doing this because you don't want to see Paris again. At least not without giving a proper reason.”

Something in Grantaire finally snaps. “Listen, I know you think Paris is the land of fucking milk and honey; hell, for you, it probably is, but it's different for me, okay? I spent most of my life there, Enjolras, did you think I left and never came back on a fucking whim?” It's not fair to go off like this, and somewhere in the back of his mind, Grantaire is aware of that, but the dam breaks without any hope of lasting any longer. “I can't go back there, I feel like I honestly, physically can't. That place, it – I used to have a home there, I went to kindergarten there, so yeah, maybe I did love it. Hell, maybe I still do, but that's not – those things I had? It took less than half a year for all of that to go to hell, it just broke down, and that city – now it's just – it's a school I was never going to get in to, and a dead mum, and a complete fucking tailspin of getting high with strangers and blacking out for days at a time, and if I'm reminded of that shit, I don't know – I don't know how I'd even come back from that.” He slumps against the doorframe and breathes. He hadn't expected this to bring by any feeling of relief, so at least he's not surprised when it doesn't. If anything, he feels way worse than before, and Enjolras' silence doesn't help. “Shit,” he murmurs, “sorry, I didn't want to drop this on you, I just—”

“R?” Enjolras catches his gaze, and his voice is so careful and gentle Grantaire feels sick. He should be furious. Weirded out. Disgusted, if that's the best Grantaire can get. Not this. “I'm sorry.”

“God, don't say that,” Grantaire murmurs. It's not easy talking evenly again, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice, but if he wants any chance at saving this, he at least has to make an effort. “I'm fine, it's not like – that was years ago, I've – well, I'm dealing with it, it's not like it's a huge deal. And I don't want to seem like I'm trying to get out of the award thing, but—”

“No, that's not – R, I never would have pushed if I'd known.” Enjolras has moved slightly to stand between Grantaire and the open space, shielding Grantaire from the other guests, and he sounds so terrifyingly sincere. “Of course you don't have to go, I didn't want to make it seem like you did, that was – I thought maybe it'd be good for you, being acknowledged like that, to see that you've done something that's acclaimed by others. Obviously, that can't be the case when the thought of going back there is so – understandably – horrible to you. I'm sorry for pushing. I didn't know.”

“Oh.” Grantaire looks at his feet. He's breathing a little easier, but it's strange to come back from that edge, and it only happens very gradually. “Well. Uh, still, sorry. I don't even know anything about the ceremony, just, when I heard Paris, I sort of panicked, so...”

“Hey.” The voice of the girl behind the bar interrupts them, and Enjolras turns to her to accept the plate of tortilla chips she hands over. “There you go.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, and turns back to Grantaire, completely ignoring the almost comical interruption. “Don't worry about it,” he says, and then makes an effort to sound more light-hearted. “I mean, sure, it would have been nice to have someone there who actually knows the city, but Joly and I should do fine on our own. If worse comes to worst, we can always text you for good places to have breakfast.”

Grantaire frowns. “What do you mean, on your own?”

“Well – if you don't go, that leaves him and me.”

“I thought everyone was going.”

“Oh, no, it's really just the presentation of awards, so normally, only the part of the editorial staff goes that's actually affected.”

“But you're still going.”

“That's – well, yes,” Enjolras says and looks a little uncomfortable. “The head of editing is requested to be there. Representative of the whole paper, and so on. It's not fair, obviously, because I'm not the one responsible for the fact that we get to be there in the first place; that's the winner's doing. We put it to a vote last year, and they sent me off anyway.”

“Of course they did,” Grantaire says. He manages a smile. “Come on, like you're not glad you get to go. I bet it's full of important people, too, like a networking-opportunity.”

“Yes, actually, that's one of the reasons I –” Enjolras stops and blinks. “Are you making fun of me?”

“Maybe just a little.” It feels like the natural thing to do; it eases him back into a more normal state of mind. “Seriously, though. You're going to have a good time. I probably would have been more hindrance than help, anyway.”

Enjolras gives an unhappy frown and Grantaire, not for the first time in his life, wishes he had a filter to keep in the self-deprecating sad stuff nobody wants to hear.

“Did you read the letter?” Enjolras asks, the most translucent change of topic. “Completely?”

Grantaire shakes his head.

“I think you should.”

“Uh, okay.”

Enjolras looks at him for a few seconds, then he sighs and nods to the plate of nachos in his hands. “We best get back. Several threats were pronounced in case the food didn't get up there soon.”

“Right,” Grantaire murmurs, although he can't help but smile at imagining a hungry Courfeyrac demanding nachos or death. “Barbarians.”

Back upstairs, all of the others are merciful not to mention the ceremony again and stick to congratulations. Grantaire doesn't find those easy to deal with, either, but at least he's over the crippling panic that had managed to seize him so easily earlier.

Later, he walks Jehan home, who, bless them, doesn't ask any questions, except for one, which comes when they're already almost on the doorstep to Jehan's dorm. “Did you read all of the letter?”

“What's in that thing?” Grantaire asks, shaking his head. “Seriously, is that some sort of cosmic revelation stuff? Or like, a really good joke? What am I missing out on here?”

“Oh, R.” Jehan smiles, and it looks a little sad even in the dim, blue light. They give him a long hug, a kiss on the cheek, and then disappear into the dorm building without another word.

Grantaire falls into bed immediately when he gets home. It's been a while since he actually experienced a full-blown panic attack, and he had forgotten how exhausting those are – the extended time period of muscle tension and shivering takes its toll now; he can feel sore muscles coming on already, and he could fall asleep on the spot. When he goes to set his alarm for the next day, his phone informs him of one new message – it's from Enjolras; a picture with no caption.

Grantaire has to zoom in to make sense of it and realises that it's a photograph of the Fondane letter, particularly of one paragraph, which Grantaire reads slowly, the light from the phone screen not helping at all with the soreness of his overtired eyes.

The committee is delighted to also award the ABC this year's prize for Best Layout, given the astounding work displayed in Issue 21.2 (February 2015). The ABC's layout stands out through an overall harmonious composition while paying extraordinary attention to detail. Particularly impressive is the integration of original art into the design, which shows an inspired stance that can be seen as exemplary for many of the other contesters. With its clean, linear and yet surprising makeup, the ABC'S layout is not only an example of well thought-out and executed design, but also a work of tremendous artistic value that shows dedication and creativity without equal.

Grantaire reads the paragraph twice. He feels a tug in his chest and isn't sure what's causing it; the words or his friends' insistence that he read them.

Blacking out the words and Enjolras' name above them, he locks his phone, and curls in on himself, falling asleep with his fingers still folded tightly around it.

Chapter Text

Three days and one meeting later, Grantaire wakes up to a text from Joly. winner's brunch! you + me, i'm buying. 11 @ musain, be there! Grantaire rubs his eyes and checks the time – it's ten thirty; if he makes a run for it he'll only be a few minutes late. if it's winner's brunch why are u buying? also i'll be late, 15 mins max, he texts back. When he gets out of the shower not much later, Joly has simply replied, i'm less broke, which Grantaire can't argue with. After all, he may lack most of the details, but as far as he knows, Joly pays the rent for himself and Bossuet both in their apartment.

He makes it to the Musain only seven minutes past eleven, and Joly is waiting for him at a table by the back windows.

“Good morning, my ruggedly handsome friend,” he says with a sunny smile and moves to let Grantaire sit on the bench next to him.

“I look like this because I had to make a sprint here, thanks to you,” Grantaire mutters, running a hand through his hair in a hopeless attempt to smooth it out.

“You're welcome,” Joly says and pats his shoulder. “I took the liberty of ordering black tea for you; wake you up. The rest is up to you, I think, once our lovely friend Louison makes her way back here again.”

“How kind of you to leave me some choice. What sort of black tea?”

“Darjeeling.”

“Hm, okay.”

“So,” Joly says, wrapping his fingers around his mug of hot chocolate, “heard from Jehan yet?”

“Ugh.” Grantaire pulls a face. “No. Not sure that's a good sign, to be honest.”

Jehan is back home visiting their parents, something they've been putting off ever since the disaster in December, with the intention of sorting things out with them. Grantaire guesses that it can only go perfectly or horribly, and the whole radio-silence thing that's lasted for months between them now doesn't really indicate a happy ending. Jehan has been happier lately, inspired and confident, and Grantaire would hate to see them regress after everything they've worked so hard to achieve.

“They'd let us know, though, right? If things went wrong,” Joly says.

“No idea,” Grantaire replies honestly. “I used to think so, but the last time this happened, they were back here without me even knowing. And I'd say that's fine and well, y'know, people need privacy and stuff, but when I called them, it was... I don't know. They didn't seem like they actually wanted to be alone.”

Joly hums. “The good old not-wanting-to-inflict-yourself. Well, we're probably all a little guilty of that sometimes.”

Grantaire narrows his eyes. “Joly, are we having breakfast together because you want to talk me into going to Paris?” He's broken the news to the rest of the group yesterday, and they'd all taken it pretty well – because why would they care – except for Joly, who had seemed personally offended by that choice, possibly because Grantaire refused to elaborate on his reasons.

“What?” Joly immediately puts his mug down. “I am appalled, R, absolutely shocked at this accusation. Here I am, buying you breakfast, emptying my pockets, and you think I have ulterior motives?”

“Uh. You're sort of not denying it.”

“All right, fine.” He sighs, his shoulders slumping a little. “I was going to bring it up, yes, but it's not why we're here. Tell me you don't want to talk about it, and we won't. I'm really just happy we get to treat ourselves for an actual good reason for a change.”

“If you say so. No talking me into stuff, though.”

“I whole-heartedly promise. Oh, hey, Louison!”

They order, and before long, Grantaire's anxiety fades away. Maybe he really was a little ungrateful, accusing poor Joly of using this as a guise when he was just excited about having a cause to celebrate, and in general, Grantaire has a positive attitude towards anyone willing to buy him a meal. Except for maybe Enjolras, who was apparently just a very generous person and had no clue about how torturous those nearly-date experiences with him could be.

Luckily, talking to Joly comes a lot more easily. The guy always has something to discuss, whether it's medical questions of ethics (“See, I think it all boils down to the two questions of where life begins and where it ends”) or the thing they eventually get stuck on – evolutionary theory.

“First of all, you've got it all wrong,” Joly says, spreading jam on his bread. “The question can't be what would have happened if dinosaurs hadn't died out, because they're not extinct.”

“Joly – man, listen, I didn't want to be the one to break this to you, but—”

“Birds, Grantaire. Dinosaurs are like, 7/8 extinct, because technically, the maniraptorans for instance, lived on to evolve into birds. What you really want to know is what would have happened if the K-T extinction hadn't happened.”

“Oh. That was the comet, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then, yeah. Because humans probably wouldn't have evolved, and mammals in general wouldn't have stood a chance.”

“Hardly,” Joly nods. “We can't know what would have happened, but there's not much room for speculation, either, because the dinosaurs were so successful for such a long time. Like, a creepy long time compared to how long homo sapiens has been around, right? The most interesting thing to wonder is how exactly dinosaurs would have evolved, how their bone structures would have changed, if their brains would have gotten bigger, blah blah blah. There's even people who speculate that the dinosaurs could have assumed humanoid forms.”

Grantaire snorts. “Amazing. That's not arrogant at all.”

“Well, we're an arrogant species,” Joly sighs. “Speaking of! Enjolras wanted me to, quote, subtly touch upon a topic next time I saw you.”

“That was the meanest transition you possibly could have made,” Grantaire says, half admiring, and half offended on Enjolras' behalf. “Is he trying to sic you on me? What's next, Pontmercy tackling me in a dark alley?”

“Please, as if he'd even need any of that. No, he just wanted me to be the one to talk to you about it so it wouldn't seem like he's trying to pressure you. Y'know, since we're both winners.”

“Uh.” Grantaire frowns. “Talk about what, exactly?”

“Isn't it obvious?”

“No.”

Joly looks a little regretful; he's obviously not happy to ask. “Have you thought about what you're going to do with the prize money?”

His cup of tea halfway to his mouth, Grantaire stops in confusion and sets it down again. “You mean what you're going to do with the prize money?”

“Us? No, that's – hang on.” Joly blinks. “You really have no idea, do you.”

“Not of most things.”

“The prize money won't go to the ABC. It's yours.”

“It's what?”

“R, I don't want to belittle you, so please stop acting like you can't understand basic French.”

Good point, although, to be fair, Grantaire genuinely doesn't understand what's happening. Feuilly's prize money went to the ABC, and Grantaire knows for a fact that Joly's will, too. So...

“Wait a second. Does the winner always get the money, but it's sort of code of honour to give it to the paper? And you guys are singling me out because I, as we all know, suffer from a pretty obvious lack of the aforementioned honour?”

“No!” Joly shakes his head, looking genuinely shocked. “No, R, we would never. It's not like that. It's just that, me, I don't even have a choice, the money from the prize goes directly to the paper because I'm signed in as a member of the editorial staff. But you're a commission worker. Enjolras wasn't sure about how that would go down, because it's never happened before, so he dug through all the contractual stuff and as far as we can tell, that money is yours.”

Grantaire stares at Joly wordlessly, feeling his shoulders slump, his whole body deflating. This is... well. The prize money for his category, and for any other, as he's been informed, except for Joly's, amounts to one thousand euros. Grantaire's first instinct is to laugh hysterically and inform the entire café that a month from now, he's going to bulk-buy the most expensive oil paints France has to offer, but somehow, he doesn't feel elated at all. A few months ago, he had been dead sure that being able to make money was the least complicated and most advantageous thing about the ABC. Grantaire has no idea how or when that turned into the exact opposite.

“Please say something,” Joly says, poking Grantaire's knee carefully. “Please. If you just figured out how to achieve world domination with a thousand euros, I have a right to know.”

“We both know that once I figure out this world domination-stuff, you'll be the first to hear,” he quips half-heartedly. His mind still feels scattered, not quite caught up with the reality of the situation yet. “You can put Enjolras' mind at ease if he asks. This is super weird, I have no idea what I'm going to do, but that also means I have no immoral plans for the money yet, which is probably what he was worried about, so...”

“I don't think that's what he was worried about,” Joly sighs and goes back to his hot chocolate. He takes a long sip before he looks at Grantaire again. “But, y'know, just – think about it. You don't have to tell any of us what you decide to do with it; it's going to be your money and no one else's. E technically shouldn't even have made me ask.”

Grantaire hums distractedly, his fingers drumming against his mug of tea. “Joly?”

“Hm?”

“Could you – now that you've won, and with all the stuff we've discussed with the budget and all. Between you and me, how are things now with the ABC?”

Joly watches him. “Well, what exactly do you want to know?”

Grantaire sighs. “Are you going to make it?”

With a small laugh, Joly elbows Grantaire. “Oh, R.” He shakes his head. “Come on, of course we are. If the ABC ever stops publishing, it'll be because we broke some ridiculous censorship law or, I don't know, started a nationwide student uprising. It's never, honestly, never going to be the money.”

“Uh. Yeah, okay, if you say so.” Grantaire gives Joly a sideways glance. “What?”

Joly is grinning from ear to ear. “You were worried about us. Look at you, all fussy about the annoying social justice club that you thought would be the necessary evil that came with your job...”

“Joly—”

“Ah, it's the classic tale – the detached and disaffected nonbeliever, taken in by a group of loveable misfits, at last succumbing to his own soft heart—”

“I will pay you to stop talking.”

“—and finding out in the end that all along, the true treasure were the friends he had made along the way – it just moves me to tears—”

“Joly.”

“All right, fine. I'll stop.” He's still smiling. “I'm not wrong, though. You love us.”

“Not for much longer.”

“Like you could help it.”

“Change of topic,” Grantaire says decidedly. “Completely aside from the fact that I'm not going; are you looking forward to Paris? Picked an outfit for the ceremony yet?”

“Oh, not you as well,” Joly says. “Bahorel has been nagging me with this non-stop. I think the only reason he was excited about anyone winning was that he'd get the opportunity to annoy them into going shopping with him.”

“Are you?”

“Well, obviously.” Joly winks. “It's not every day you get to hold an acceptance speech, I have every intention of looking amazing.”

“Speech?” Grantaire snorts. “Wow, I so made the right call in not going.”

“You wouldn't have had to hold one, you dweeb,” Joly says affectionately. “Just me and my supreme discipline. They take this story thing really seriously. That aside, though, it's not like I'm only over the moon with joy. Picture me with a weeping and a laughing eye.”

“No thanks, that's super creepy.”

“I mean it. There's a lot of great stuff about this, and I don't want to seem like I'm being ungrateful, but travelling is sort of one of my least favourite things to do, so that part I'm not really looking forward to.”

Grantaire feels a little guilt at that. He had been so preoccupied with his own problems concerning this one trip that he'd never stopped and considered that maybe it wasn't easy on the others either, especially Joly and his anxiety. “Get homesick easily?”

“Hm, that's not really it,” Joly says. “It's just all the travelling-related gross stuff I don't like; rest stop bathrooms, whoever you're on the road with always seems to think it's necessary to throw up at some point, you don't really know what food is safe to order, accommodations are never clean...” He shudders at the thought. “Plus, I'll have to shake like, a million hands at the ceremony, so that's going to suck. Yay, nosophobia.”

Grantaire remembers how Joly had also been anxious before his camping trip earlier this year, and finds himself strangely in awe of that, of how nothing really seems to be able to drag Joly down. He has plenty of reasons not to be thrilled about the trip, and he's perfectly aware of them, but he goes anyway, apparently without even questioning that decision. Grantaire would gladly give his soul for as much as a speck of that kind of courage. “So what are you going to do?”

Joly shrugs. “Wear gloves, tell people I have a condition where it's in their best interest not to touch me?” He grins at Grantaire's nonplussed expression. “Kidding. Honestly, I don't have a non-panic-recipe that works. It's not going to be nice, it's going to make me really anxious, and then it's going to be over, and if things go really well, I'll even have enjoyed myself a little. Same thing earlier this year when we were out camping; same thing every time we do anything remotely scary in med practicals. That's the only way I can go about it.”

“I don't know how you can just do that,” Grantaire says honestly.

“I don't just do it,” Joly says. “It's more of a – you have to understand, R, I've been this way for so long, you know? Nine-year-old me got into the worst fight Bossuet and I ever had because I didn't want to go on a school trip, and he didn't want to share a room with anyone else. I wasn't even going to move out to study because I only felt safe at home.”

“You had your worst fight with Bossuet when you guys were nine?”

“Yes. It was terrible.”

Grantaire shifts. “So what changed?”

“Hard to say,” Joly muses. “I think I just got frustrated. You know, impatient? Like, I wanted to make all those experiences I'd been missing out on, and that slowly became more important to me than feeling safe. It took a lot of convincing at first, but I came around to thinking that whatever would be waiting for me if I did try to overcome that fear would be worth it.”

That sounds like such an easy thing to say. “How?”

“Well – it sort of wasn't a difficult choice, in the end,” Joly says. “That fear – and I mean, it's a phobia, it doesn't go away overnight, I knew it was going to be a huge ordeal, and it still isn't gone. But that thing was between me and like, the whole world.” He smiles. “And the whole world, that's worth quite a bit. So really, the answer was pretty obvious.”

Grantaire says nothing for a while, and Joly, bless his heart, doesn't press on. It's not really fair to bug him with questions about this, but he doesn't seem to mind much. Either way, Grantaire only really wants to know one more thing. “But isn't, like – this is going to sound dumb, but isn't avoiding pain actually sort of a good thing to do?” Joly cocks his head. “I mean. At least that means you're trying to look after yourself, right? And jumping headfirst into something you know is going to suck for you, that's – well.”

“Hm.” Joly's eyes wander as he thinks. “I guess it all depends on how sure you really are that you're going to get hurt. Fear does weird things to you, you know? It tricks you into thinking stuff is worse than it actually is. And even if that wasn't the case – generally, yeah, avoiding pain is a healthy choice. But – avoiding everything that might entail pain as well as a real opportunity, that's dangerous.”

“Joly,” Grantaire says, staring blankly at his now-empty plate, “you are wise beyond your years.”

“So I'm often told,” Joly says, and then laughs. “Well, often by some standards, anyway. Honestly though, don't worry about me, the trip's going to be fine. I hear Enjolras is a great travelling companion who can offer a lot of insight – insight such as, legend has it, 'I can't believe you want to visit Versailles, Cosette; that palace was built on the blood of the people.'”

“Go easy on him,” Grantaire grins. “He must be hurting all over whenever he comes across great architecture owed to the people's suffering. Which is sort of everything pre-1900.”

“We're going to have a great time,” Joly says flatly, and then frowns at his own words. “You know what? I'm sounding way too bitter, I don't like that. I blame you.”

Grantaire opens his mouth to protest, but then thinks better of it. “Blame taken,” he says and reaches for his tea mug. “Here's to existential bitterness at breakfast?”

Joly toasts him with his hot chocolate, and, with some determination, keeps the conversation deliberately light for the rest of their breakfast.

Éponine wakes Grantaire that night. It's nothing that hasn't happened before, him waking up by Éponine somehow, although for the most part, Éponine never actually intended to wake him. There was one memorable occasion where she had drunkenly assumed Grantaire's doors was hers and that his couch was her bed, a mistake Grantaire had only been able to clear up the next day, not without being first startled awake at two in the morning. This time, though, she's very intentionally shaking his shoulder until he forces his eyes open to blink at her.

“G'way,” he manages to mutter and she sighs.

“I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't have to, R. Fuck knows it was a small highlight to see you go to bed before 1am for once.”

At that, he feels a little more awake. The light from the hallway is shining through his still-open door, showing Éponine's silhouette vaguely in the backlight. “Something wrong?”

“Jehan's here,” she says, and Grantaire sits up, running a hand through his hair.

“Jehan's – what? No.”

“Hmm, afraid so,” Éponine says and tugs on Grantaire's wrist. “Showed up at Parnasse's place a couple hours ago, and my dear emotionally stunted friend panicked and brought them here.”

“Ugh.” Grantaire gets up rather slowly, rubbing his eyes. “Their parents?”

“I guess, but they won't talk. Didn't tell Parnasse much that made sense, either.”

Well, not talking is always an answer in itself. Grantaire huffs angrily at the thought. “Why do parents always suck so much? Get through eighteen years of parenting just fine and suddenly, boom, become assholes just because their kid came out. Like that's the worst thing imaginable. I hate the world.”

“Yeah, well, your grumbling's not going to help them either,” Éponine says. “Come on. You've got about ten seconds and the three steps it takes from your room to mine to figure out a better strategy.”

Ten seconds and three steps, as it turns out, aren't enough, so Grantaire still feels pretty clueless when he steps into Éponine's room and is very prominently not greeted by Jehan and Montparnasse. They're both on Éponine's ratty couch, Jehan's head tucked into the crook of Montparnasse's neck. Montparnasse murmurs something into their hair when he sees Grantaire, and Jehan looks up. They've been crying, and for once don't actually manage to crack a smile at seeing Grantaire.

“Hey,” Jehan says in a small voice. “I told Ép not to wake you.”

“Ts. It's a Saturday night, I was barely asleep,” Grantaire lies and pulls up Éponine's desk chair to sit near them. Montparnasse gives him a look that's probably supposed to be glowering, but expresses hardly anything besides helplessness. Grantaire hesitates before asking, but then goes on, assuming that Jehan would probably say so if they didn't want to talk about it at all. “You talked to your folks?”

“No,” Jehan murmurs into Montparnasse's shirt and Éponine, Grantaire and Montparnasse all look up simultaneously. All of them had expected a different answer, but this actually has the potential to be moderately good news, because if Jehan didn't talk to their parents, at least their parents didn't screw up.

“No?” Grantaire asks, as if there could be anything indistinct about that word. Jehan just shakes their head. “So you didn't go home?”

Unintelligible mumbling from Jehan. “They did go home,” Montparnasse translates.

“But you didn't talk to your parents,” Grantaire says.

“No,” Jehan says, lifting their head a little. “I meant to. I did. I think – maybe – they might even have been okay about it, now. But I got there and I got off the train and I just didn't – I really didn't want to see them.”

“That I can relate to,” Éponine says darkly. She's sat down on her bed, legs crossed before her.

Jehan sniffles a little, and takes a while before talking again. “It's not like that,” they say then. “It's not them, not really, I just didn't want to talk this all out again, I didn't want...” They drift off, and Montparnasse very carefully tangles a hand in their hair, fingers drawing slow circles. “I'm so tired of explaining myself.”

“You don't have to,” Éponine says quietly. “When you're here.”

“Unless you want to talk about it,” Grantaire adds. “Do you?”

Jehan shakes their head. The rest of them exchange glances, all similarly perplexed.

“God,” Grantaire murmurs. “This is the worst. What kind of emotional support team are we; a broke singer, an ex con and... whatever the hell I am.”

“Hey,” Montparnasse shoots him a look. “I've never so much as been arrested.”

“What, seriously?”

“It's true,” Éponine says ruefully.

“How is that possible?”

Montparnasse shrugs. “Too smart to get caught.”

Jehan makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a snort, and Montparnasse looks down at them. “Was that a smile?”

“No,” Jehan says, although Grantaire is pretty sure their voice sounds a little lighter. “Don't make me laugh. I don't want to laugh.”

Grantaire hums. “Do you just want to cry?”

Again, Jehan shakes their head, swiping a hand across their eyes as if to emphasize this point.

“Do you want to punch something?” Éponine suggests. She looks like she certainly does. Grantaire has noticed before that Éponine's kind of sympathy is rather special – when people close to her are suffering, she tends to get angry rather than sad.

“No,” Jehan murmurs.

“Do you want me to teach you weird Spanish phrases?” Grantaire offers, but again, Jehan declines.

“Do you want to get high?” Éponine mouthes a 'what?' as soon as Grantaire's reproachful look meets hers.

“No,” Jehan says quietly and Grantaire and Éponine, both at their wit's end, look at Montparnasse.

He's chewing on his bottom lip, looking like the only offer he can think of making would include extreme torture for him.

“Do you want to paint new designs on our shirts?” he says after some silence, the small twinge of pain in his voice betraying just how grand a sacrifice this is, but Jehan finally sits up and drags a sleeve across their eyes.

“Yes.”

Grantaire has never seen a simultaneous expression of pure horror and genuine relief like the one on Montparnasse's face in that moment. He'd comment on it, but Éponine has gotten up with a resigned sigh and gestured for Grantaire to come with her.

“Come on, only artist in the room. You think I have textile colours?”

“You think I do?” Grantaire hops off the desk chair. “Will acrylics do, Jehan?” He loves Jehan, but there's not a single person in the world he could love enough to sacrifice his oils for past-midnight t-shirt painting.

“Because we're friends,” Jehan concedes and Grantaire ducks out with Éponine to fetch the paints.

Jehan, as it seems, has quite a clear idea of how this thing is going to go down, and manages to cobble together everything else they need quite quickly. Grantaire brings brushes and paints, Éponine tears out the cardboard back of one of her spiral notebooks to use as a palette, and Montparnasse, lying back on the couch so Jehan can lean over him and paint, more or less willingly serves as the first victim. Grantaire hadn't really anticipated that Jehan had every intention of redesigning their shirts while they were still wearing them, but thinking about the alternative, it seems pretty obvious.

“You're twitchy,” Jehan complains as Montparnasse flinches away from the brush for about the tenth time. Montparnasse's shirt is plain black, but unconventionally cut, all crooked seams and fabric patches that are various levels of distressed. It doesn't take an expert to know it was expensive, but Jehan is thoroughly unimpressed by that, tracing the seams with thin lines of white paint before starting a more elaborate pattern, thick lines starting at the hem of the shirt and branching out across the entire front.

“I can't help it,” Montparnasse grumbles. “Sympathetic reactions on behalf of my shirt.”

“It's going to end up looking better than before. You'll thank me,” Jehan assures him curtly and goes about their work.

Éponine took a wine bottle from Grantaire's room, which he only notices when she offers him a sip.

“Of my own wine,” he says, accepting the bottle. “How generous.”

She shrugs. “Be more careful. You know I don't spend money on this kind of stuff.”

Grantaire frowns, still frustrated with himself for going so long thinking he was the broke one between the two. By now, he knows that the reason Éponine had to get a job so quickly after moving in was that next to the rather sparse allowance she received from the state, she'd been living on her own savings, a quickly dwindling resource.

Once finished with Montparnasse, whose shirt really does end up looking better than before, as he grudgingly admits, Jehan moves on to Grantaire. He's still wearing the shirt he slept in; dark blue with the logo of a boxing club he used to be in right at the centre. Jehan looks at it quietly for a long time, then they start mixing a lot of white, some red, and very little blue into a pinkish tone that they use to turn the round logo on Grantaire's chest into a giant squid. Some of the paint seeps through and Grantaire knows that he can look forward to scrubbing pink off his skin tomorrow, but he doesn't mind much – it's not like this is the first time that happened.

By the time Jehan has supplied the back of Éponine's shirt with butterfly wings, the bottle of wine is empty, Montparnasse is asleep on the couch, and Jehan is looking a lot more peaceful sitting cross-legged on the floor by the couch and studying the intricacies of Montparnasse's hand that's dangling over the edge of the couch. Grantaire and Éponine are both on her bed, Éponine still on her stomach as the paint dries, Grantaire leaning against the wall and rolling the empty bottle between his palms.

“Are you going to try again?” Grantaire dares to ask into the silence.

“I think so,” Jehan replies, their voice a whisper. “I think... I'm going back tomorrow, just for the day. Maybe I'll actually make it to my house this time.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Jehan hums. Then they get up and carefully move Montparnasse over on the couch so they can lie down next to him, which Grantaire thinks can't work out for long because no two people in the world sleep peacefully enough to be able share a couch that small, but Jehan doesn't seem too concerned. They curl up in the small space that's there and Éponine grabs a blanket from the foot of her bed that she tosses over for Jehan to tuck them both into.

“So,” Éponine says after another extended silence, when it seems like it's just the two of them. She has both arms crossed in front of her and is resting her chin on them, and it's only now that Grantaire realises the bracelet on her wrist – next to the one he gave her for Christmas, which she claimed she didn't like and then went on to wear daily, there's another one, braided, black and purple, with a small silver charm the shape of a quaver.

“Pretty,” Grantaire says, tapping the bracelet with a finger. She looks up at him.

“Nothing else you want to ask?”

He sighs. “Éponine, I am dying to ask so many things, I've been dying to do that for like, the past week. I'm honest to God out of energy. You don't have to tell me shit if you don't want to.”

“I know,” she says. She slides a finger under the bracelet, slowly turning it on her wrist. “She gave it to me Friday. Said she'd been meaning to make me one for a while.”

Grantaire swallows. “And?”

“And she asked me if I wanted to go to a concert with her. Like, a fancy one. By the guy who did the Intouchables-soundtrack?”

Grantaire makes a vague sound of recognition.

“It's in Arras, next month.” She stares forward, still picking at the bracelet.

Not long now, and Grantaire is going to legitimately burst into flames. This is impossible to listen to. “So – did you say yes?”

“Yeah.”

Halle-fucking-lujah. “And... the reason you're not over the moon is what, exactly?”

Éponine looks up at him. “Was she asking me out? Do you think?”

He breathes deeply. “Okay, well... Classical concert by an Italian composer. Tickets were probably expensive. Just the two of you. The whole thing came with a self-made bracelet. I mean, you tell me.”

“She makes everyone bracelets. She made you one.”

“Well, she didn't want to listen to piano music for two hours with me, so.”

“Do you have any idea what this means for me?” Éponine says, and sits up. There's something in her eyes that he can't quite place, like apprehension, but angrier. “Can you imagine – if she was asking me out, what do I do? That – that can't happen.”

Oh no. “It can't?”

“No, R! Obviously! The only money I make is under the table, and whenever I happen to forget my key to the front door downstairs, I just pick the lock with a bobby pin, because I knew how to do that at age eleven. I can't date Cosette. Cosette can't date me.”

Her voice is broken and she's running a hand through her hair and doesn't seem to know where to look, and Grantaire has a bit of trouble keeping up with how quickly she got upset, so he puts a hand to her knee carefully and says nothing.

“I'm such a fucking mess,” Éponine says, shaking her head. “I thought I wanted this, you know? And now I have no idea what to do. It's just – it's so typical. Like, I get what I want for once, and then I can't fucking deal with it.”

“You know,” Grantaire says carefully, “not to gossip, but there's this guy I know who I'm pretty sure is like, a minor crime boss, and he's dating someone teeth-rottingly sweet. They don't seem so unhappy.”

Éponine boxes him in the shoulder. “Shut up.”

“I'm just saying, you can't make decisions on Cosette's behalf. You're not obliged to go out with her, God forbid, but if you don't, make sure it's not because you're convinced she deserves better. She knows what she's doing.”

“No, she doesn't,” Éponine says with a wry smirk. “She can't. It's not like I flaunt that I'm a fuck-up when I'm around her. Best behaviour, and all that shit.”

“Still,” Grantaire insists. “It's hard to fool her. It is, don't look at me like that, you know I'm right. And that aside, I'm pretty sure she's not squeamish about that sort of thing, seeing as her father is literally in prison right now.”

“And obviously, the thing a girl with a convict for a father needs most is more trouble.”

“You're not trouble, Ép.”

“No,” she says, irony dripping of that one syllable, heavy like tar. “I'm the very fucking image of stability and balance. I'm a rock.”

“You are to me,” Grantaire says. It's true; he's leaned on Éponine in a way he's never relied on anyone for support. It wasn't always fair, as he recently understood, but if there was something about his constant whining and fluctuating mental stability that she found hard to take, she never let it show. Which was considerable – Grantaire knows he's not easy to deal with, but nothing ever really seemed to shake Éponine, at least not as much as it would have shaken other people. In her own way, and considering all she's been through, she is remarkably strong.

She watches him, her expression a little softer. Then she shuffles closer and leans against him a little, their knees touching. “The other day,” she says. “When I was – telling you about stuff. I was an asshole, talking about you like that.”

It takes him a second to catch on. “No, you were right,” he says. “I shouldn't have thought it was okay for me to cry on your shoulder every other day.”

She shakes her head. “Still. I don't want you to think you can't, you know? I'll patch you up any time I can. We're friends.”

He touches her fingers lightly. The thank you gets stuck in his throat, but she probably knows. “You'll give it a chance?”

Éponine gives him a long look before nodding, just once. “I think so.”

“Thank fuck,” Grantaire murmurs and lets himself fall back against the wall.

They stay up for the rest of the night, talking in hushed voices in a half-hearted effort not to disturb Jehan and Montparnasse. There's not much of a point to it, because Jehan falls off the couch twice during the few hours that remain until morning, and Grantaire has to heave their miraculously still sleeping self back onto it. The sun starts to rise and the sky above Éponine's rooflight starts turning light blue, and Grantaire's head feels fuzzy.

Jehan wakes at around seven, and mercilessly shakes Montparnasse awake as well. Grantaire wonders if there is any fairness at all in a world where Montparnasse can look that good even after four hours of sleep on a too-small couch, but then, it's a difficult thing to be bitter about when Jehan is so innocently and completely enamoured. Éponine, whose hospitality has reached its limits, doesn't take it upon her to offer breakfast. “If anything, you rich kids can drive out and bring me breakfast here,” she mutters, sitting on her bed as the two of them gather their things.

“Thank you for letting us ruin your night,” Jehan says sheepishly and leans down to kiss her cheek. “Also, sorry for ruining your night.”

“Any time,” Éponine says flatly. “Now get out, both of you.”

“Always a pleasure, R,” Montparnasse says, the old scowl that had disappeared in favour of helplessness last night back and at full capacity.

“Likewise,” Grantaire sighs and accepts Jehan's hug before they both slip out.

Lucky for Grantaire, it's a Sunday, so he can sleep through the morning and into the afternoon. When he wakes up, it's half past three, and Jehan has texted him – Everything all right. They're coming around, slowly but surely. :) I'll be back tomorrow morning!

To say it's a relief would be an understatement. One less thing to possibly worry about, one more friend who's not dangerously close to falling into a bottomless pit of despair any time soon; it's great.

It may also be one of the reasons why the next week passes more easily. Some things that really needed sorting out have been sorted out, and Grantaire can go back to focusing a little more on his classes. It's not too bad, not being in a constant vicious cycle of panic and procrastination, even though he's not all that sure how long he's going to be able to keep that up. He figures he might as well enjoy it while it lasts, and rewards himself with a movie night on Saturday.

Joly, whose love for sci-fi is legendary and who had previously agreed to keep him company, cancels on him last minute in favour of cramming for an exam. Grantaire, feeling only slightly pathetic, gets Curie instead, lets her curl into a ball on the couch next to him, and they watch Galaxy Quest together. They manage to get started on a second movie when they're interrupted – by Enjolras, as it turns out when Grantaire checks the message on his phone, of all people.

It's really not that much of a surprise. Enjolras has been texting him quite regularly lately, which, granted, is still all kinds of confusing, but Grantaire has almost come to expect it by now. What he doesn't really expect is for this to happen at one in the morning, because Enjolras might be known for his tendency to forget about the less important things in life (read: sleep and sustenance), but if he does stay awake forever, it's because he's working, not because he feels like socialising.

Are you up? Grantaire squints at the screen for about three minutes before he texts back. by most definitions, he texts back, then, that's a weird question to ask via text, u ok? His phone chimes again before thirty seconds have passed. Yes, Enjolras replies. I need a distraction; trying to stay awake.

should u actually be awake on a saturday night for something that isn't saving the world?? wonders never cease

Cosette cashed in her favour; I have to drive her any time she's out late because I'm “always sober and free on weekends anyway”

sounds like a fair deal. how late is late for her?

3-4 in the morning, according to her last text.

HAH. picture me with a gleeful smile & calmly sipping tea, that just about expresses my sentiments on this

I don't mind doing it, it's just strange to sit around waiting like this. What are you still up for, anyway?

sci-fi night, i'm having a blast here

Oh, sorry. I didn't want to keep you from anything

dude it's literally just me, a cat, popcorn and treasure planet, ur not keeping me

Treasure Planet?

yeah, disney was on a total run in the early 2000s. don't tell me you “prefer the classics”

I wouldn't know.

enjolras. have you never seen treasure planet. be honest right now

No, I haven't.

ahhhhhhhh

How far into watching it are you? Too far for me to get anything if I came over now?

like 5 minutes in. are u sure?

If it's okay with you? Sounds like the nicest alternative I have, to be honest.

Grantaire puts his phone down and closes his eyes. This is terrible. This is terrible and he knows it, but his brain is too mushy for him to actually decline. i'll make more popcorn, he texts, and then he tosses his phone to the other end of the couch and buries his head in a pillow.

There's nothing to be done about it. He's in sweatpants, his room looks like a small disaster, and Enjolras is going to be here in what, ten minutes? He does the best he can to clean up the worst of the mess, implores Curie to be on remotely acceptable behaviour, and that's just about all he has time for before Enjolras texts to let him know that he's at the front door.

Enjolras looks tired and is just a little dishevelled when Grantaire lets him in. It's kind of cute, which Grantaire tries, and fails, to ignore as they tiptoe up the stairs.

“You didn't actually have to make more popcorn,” Enjolras says when he sees the two bowls on the coffee table. “It's bad enough that I'm misusing your sci-fi night as a pathetic means to stay awake.”

“I did have to make more popcorn, because mine's salted, and I know for a fact that you're allergic to most foods that aren't grossly saccharine,” Grantaire explains, trying to sound nonchalant. “That aside, I don't really see it as you misusing sci-fi night, I sort of consider this the only shot I get at educating someone on the cultural importance of early-2000s-Disney, so...”

Enjolras nods slowly. “If you say so,” he says. “I've got a lot to learn, apparently.”

“Oh, absolutely. Depending on how long Cosette takes, we'll just move straight on to Atlantis.”

“She did say she was planning to dance until sunrise, so...”

“Wow.” Grantaire grins. “I was kidding, but okay.”

Curie has vacated her seat on Grantaire's left the second the door opened, so Enjolras can take it in her stead. “What's the backdrop?” he asks, because the frame Grantaire paused on, granted, doesn't give much away.

“Space,” Grantaire says and grabs the remote. “It's Treasure Island, just in space. I mean, space pirates. That's all you need to know. Oh, and you missed the touching childhood flashback from the beginning – do you need me to rewind?”

“How would I know?” Enjolras asks, pulling the bowl of popcorn into his lap. “Do what you think works.”

Grantaire starts the film again, from the beginning. It takes Enjolras seven minutes to find something to take issue with. “Please tell me the film you've presented as a masterpiece doesn't have an absent father as one of the key plot elements.”

“I mean, I didn't say it was masterfully written,” Grantaire says and laughs at Enjolras' glare. “No, listen. This is all very single-mum-that-son-has-to-take-care-of, yeah, but not in, like, a horrible way. Give it time.”

Enjolras squints at the screen and takes another handful of popcorn. Grantaire is surprised by how much Enjolras seems to take this in stride, like it's no big deal to show up at a random guy's house after midnight to watch a Disney movie. But then, for him, it probably isn't – it's a thing friends do, after all, right?

Grantaire watches his profile, cast in the light of the screen that seems to love the angles of his face. Suddenly, he knows that this is a thing he can't have forever, that sooner or later it's going to become too painful to be around him, and Grantaire will probably have to... well. Do something. Most likely, he's going to have to tell Enjolras, because love confessions tend to be quite a handy device for ruining friendships.

“Oh look,” Enjolras says, his tone suddenly sarcastic. On the screen, the crew is being introduced; specifically, Captain Amelia. “A woman.”

“His mum was a woman.”

“Completely without agency. And Amelia, is she a cat?”

“I see we're judging by appearance now?” He smiles. “You'll like her, she's a good character. Oh, shit, and in case you really hate spiders, I'd look away before—”

Enjolras makes a sudden keening noise as Scroop crawls into view on the screen. Grantaire remembers being seven years old and scared out of his mind by that thing, so this is at least sort of understandable, but even so, Enjolras' reaction is endearing bordering on hilarious.

“Sorry,” Grantaire says, unable to conceal his grin. “Should have warned you in time.”

“It's fine,” Enjolras murmurs. “Nothing like a good scare to shake you awake.”

Halfway through the movie, after Grantaire has already held a ten-minute monologue on the brilliance of the animation of the supernova and Enjolras has complained half a dozen times about the stereotypical father-figure plot device, Enjolras starts shifting. He's been sitting cross-legged the whole time, which can't have been comfortable for longer than three minutes, but Grantaire had figured it was just sort of a posture thing. Straight back at all times, and such.

Enjolras moves to sit sideways, leaning his side against the backrest of the sofa and pulling up his knees a little. His toes are awkwardly tucked under Grantaire's thigh this way, but since Enjolras is generally oblivious of awkwardness as related to physical contact, Grantaire chooses not to comment. It's kind of nice, this one point of touch, and occasionally, Enjolras deliberately pokes him with a toe to get alert his attention to something (mostly things like “Why do people always assume robots have a gender? Are they assigned one by their creator?” or “If Silver is supposed to be morally ambiguous, shouldn't there be more behind it than his affection for Jim? And no, this being a kids' movie isn't an excuse.”). Despite his – and the longer the film takes, the less sharp-eyed it gets – criticism, by the time they get to the finale, Grantaire is pretty sure that Enjolras is actually enjoying himself. There's no non-creepy way of watching him while they're both supposed to be watching the movie, but Grantaire steals glances when he can, and Enjolras is definitely invested in the plot, which is probably as much of a victory as Grantaire is going to get. A few times, Enjolras catches his eyes when Grantaire looks over at him, but he never says anything. Small mercies, Grantaire supposes.

Enjolras is silent for a long time when the credits start to roll. For a lack of a better option, so is Grantaire, and then Enjolras says, as if it's taken him these five minutes of credits to make up his mind, “I liked it.”

Grantaire gasps dramatically. “He liked it! The gods have looked upon us with mercy this day; the stars have aligned in our favour.”

Enjolras seems too tired to glare. His posture has become more slumped in the entire duration of the movie, the lack of sleep now also showing in his hunched shoulders and curved back. “It's important to point out flaws. That doesn't mean I can't enjoy something, it has to do with engaging critically with products that are meant for a supposedly unquestioning clientele—”

“You mean real, actual children?”

“Children can think critically.”

“Of course they can. Children have open minds, I'm all for six-year-olds questioning the hegemony. Doesn't mean you have to serve them the Communist Manifesto on a silver platter. Or in the shape of a Disney movie.”

Enjolras opens his mouth, and then he shakes his head. “You know what? I can't argue right now, I'm too tired. We can postpone this.” Grantaire has several things to say about that, but he saves them when Enjolras pulls a face as he checks his phone. “She still hasn't texted.”

“Means she's having fun,” Grantaire shrugs. “Be happy for her.”

“I am. I'm thrilled,” Enjolras murmurs and rubs his eyes. “Not that she's been particularly down lately, but whatever works.”

Grantaire perks up at that. “What was that?”

“She's been sort of different lately,” Enjolras says. “She's never gloomy, but it's sort of... disconcerting how cheerful she is. With the trial coming up and everything.”

“When's the trial again?”

“End of April. The – twenty-something, I'm not sure.”

“Well, maybe she's confident it'll work out.”

“Maybe,” Enjolras says thoughtfully, and Grantaire almost says something about how Enjolras' long-time friend and sort-of roommate might also be excited because she likes someone. He's surprised how much it would feel like giving a kid the talk about the birds and the bees, it probably hasn't occurred to Enjolras even once that Cosette might have these sorts of things on her mind. He doesn't want to imagine the nightmare of having to tell Enjolras the same thing about himself. He doesn't have to, yet.

“So who was your favourite character?” Grantaire says instead. “Was it Doppler? I know it wasn't Jim.”

“It was Morph,” Enjolras says with surprising confidence, like he's already given this some thought. “And why wouldn't it be Jim? I liked him. He reminded me of you.”

Grantaire isn't sure what part of this statement to react to first. “Okay,” he says, “first of all, this is super weird because Jim was pretty much my first crush. Second – Morph? Seriously?”

“Morph's moral ambiguity was more interesting and realistic than Silver's,” Enjolras says, as if that's the sort of sentence a twenty-two year old university student can say in all seriousness, just like that. “And I don't think it's weird. You have some things in common with Jim.”

“Hm. I mean, he does screw up a lot,” Grantaire concedes and Enjolras frowns.

“That's not what I meant,” he says. “Jim's inventive. He's smart; he makes his way in the world with the talents he has, but he struggles to find his place and has a self-esteem that doesn't match up to his actual abilities.” Enjolras ponders on that for a moment. “Sort of an unusual hero, if you think about it.”

Grantaire shakes his head, grinning. “You've got this all wrong. If anything, I'm Ben, the robot. You know, annoying and superfluous. The Jar Jar Binks of Treasure Planet.”

“You're nothing like Ben,” Enjolras says, still dead serious. “I don't think anyone could be. It's arguable that Ben doesn't even have a personality, considering that he lacks parts of his original programming for most of the movie.”

“Wow, talk robot psychology to me,” Grantaire says and punctuates that sentence with a yawn. It's long past two by now, and he had originally planned to go to bed after Treasure Planet, but, oh well. This wasn't too bad. “Are you okay like that? You look like you're considering amputating your own leg.”

Enjolras pulls a face. His new position seems to have gotten uncomfortable as well by now, which Grantaire can sort of understand – the fact that his couch is tiny has never bothered Grantaire, but for someone with gangly limbs like Enjolras, it's probably anything but pleasant. “It's fine,” he says, his frown saying the opposite. “At some point, when you're tired, it doesn't really matter how you sit, everything's uncomfortable.”

Grantaire eyes his legs, pulled in too tightly to his chest, and then, without thinking, hooks his arm beneath Enjolras' shins so he can rest them across Grantaire's lap. “Better?”

Enjolras looks surprised, almost startled, but he nods. “Yes,” he says. “Thank you. If you're – is that okay for you?”

“I sort of offered,” Grantaire reminds him. It's quiet for a second, and then, maybe because he's been wondering this for months and has to get the question out, or because it's late and things tend to get weirdly personal when two people haven't gotten any sleep in a while, he asks, “Why are you always so concerned about that?”

Enjolras blinks slowly. “About what?”

“This kind of stuff. Y'know, not overstepping boundaries, worrying that you're intimidating and stuff. Like, you always seem like that's constantly on your mind, trying not to scare me or something. Do I seem that fragile? Or is it just a political thing?”

Enjolras gives him a long look, like he's trying to get his answer right before he says anything. “I used to see a therapist,” he says then, out of nowhere. “For anger management. It was... a problem for me, then. When I was younger.”

“Oh,” Grantaire says dumbly as it dawns on him. This makes sense, but he wouldn't have asked if he'd known the question was actually that personal. “Sorry, that's – I shouldn't have—”

“I don't mind,” Enjolras says easily, tipping his head back to lean against the backrest. “I mean, it's not something a lot of people know of, but it's not impossible to talk about. It was just – therapy, you know? You learn things, and you apply them, and you're doing okay, so by definition, you don't need the help anymore, but that doesn't mean you stop worrying.”

A lot of things about Enjolras and his behaviour seem to fall into place. He's so controlled and composed, to the point where Grantaire sometimes has trouble believing he's actually human, and at the same time, he seems to falter whenever he might get the impression that his behaviour could hurt someone. Suddenly, it seems like such an obvious explanation that Grantaire doesn't understand how he didn't come up with it himself.

“For how long did you go?”

“About a year.” Leaning back like that, his legs stretched out, Grantaire would normally say that Enjolras does seem relaxed about discussing this, but he never quite meets Grantaire's eyes as he talks. “I was fourteen, so – that's already a while back. I wasn't made to go, I wanted to, I was...” His eyes wander. “I had violent impulses in reaction to things you'd consider trivial. They were trivial. I knew that, I think, which just resulted in me being angry at myself whenever I wasn't angry at something or someone else.”

Grantaire has a question on the tip of his tongue, but it would very decidedly cross the boundaries of okay things to ask even a friend. Enjolras, ever an advocate for full disclosure, answers it anyway.

“I never—” He takes a breath. “I didn't act on it. I mean, I did, I used to break things, sometimes, and throw them, but – just alone in my room. I never – I wouldn't, with anyone else around. I didn't.”

His voice is so small. Grantaire wants to tell him to go easy on himself, that even if he had done something, it would have been forgiveable. He'd been a kid; fourteen years old, for everything's sake, it's a miracle he'd had himself in check at all, considering how poorly fourteen-year-old boys tend to cope with aggression. The words don't make it out of his mouth, though, because he only starts to realise now how trying and terrifying that night at the train station must have been for Enjolras. He remembers Enjolras' knuckles white around the armrest of his seat, remembers how he'd recoiled almost in horror when Grantaire had flinched away from his touch, and feels a pang of guilt.

Enjolras is looking at him now, with something like apprehension in his eyes, and Grantaire realises how easy his silence is to misinterpret.

“I was just thinking,” he says. “I must have been giving you a hard time like this, always making you feel like I considered you a threat. I never did, honestly. Never.”

The relief shows in Enjolras' face as nothing but a twitch of his lips. “Thank you,” he says. “It's really not your fault. I have these thoughts all the time, even when people do nothing to encourage them.”

“Must be tough,” Grantaire says, and wants to grind his face into a pillow the second he says it. That's rough, buddy. So much for expressing sympathy in mature ways.

“I don't want to complain,” Enjolras says sincerely. “It's not a problem I should be struggling with in the first place, and it's not grating, just... difficult, sometimes. A lot of people have it worse.”

There's probably no point in asking him to cut himself some slack, or telling him that there's no such thing as “should be” when it comes to these things. Especially in his self-discipline, Enjolras is iron; his personality bleeding together with his convictions. Luckily, Enjolras doesn't seem to be expecting an answer, because he's suddenly examining the bookshelf next to his side of the couch. He runs a finger along the tops of the spines, humming with recognition at some of the titles. “You've a lot of books,” he notes astutely.

“Yeah,” Grantaire says, looking over at the shelf. Pretty much all the books he owns come from flea markets and the like, he's always figured there was no point in spending twenty euros on something that other people are desperate to get rid of. As a consequence of that, all his books, even the ones he only skim-read once, look well-loved and a bit shabby, but he likes the look of them. Books age well. “Sort of the one thing I wasn't really prepared to leave behind when I moved here.”

“So much Spanish,” Enjolras says, pulling out one of the books. Grantaire catches the author (Márquez), but not the title.

“It's actually not that much,” he says. “You're sitting next to the Spanish shelf. What is that, amor en los tiempos...?”

“El otoño del patriarca,” Enjolras reads off the cover. His Spanish sounds nice, textbook pronunciation with a soft underlying melody. “You've read it?”

Grantaire laughs. “We can't all afford to buy books and then not read them. Yeah, I've read it. Actually, you should, if you haven't. You'd like it. Or maybe you wouldn't; could be interpreted as sort of defeatist, if you squint. Either way, you'd end up with one more strong opinion, that never hurts.”

Enjolras arches an eyebrow. “Any other recommendations?”

“Uh. Well, from where you're sitting, there's En el tiempo de la Luz, which in itself is pretty good, but the actual interesting thing is the author, because you absolutely have to read everything by Sáenz, like, that's not even a question, even this guy's children's books are masterpieces. Jehan has a lot of them, I think, so you can ask them if you're interested. This one's the only one he's written in Spanish, the rest are all English, and I'd read them in English, too; they don't translate that well.”

“Oh,” Enjolras says. “That was detailed.”

Grantaire shrugs. “You asked.”

“I did.” Enjolras turns the book in his hands. “No Puerto Rican writers?”

Grantaire feels bad for being surprised at the fact that Enjolras would apparently recognize a Puerto Rican writer by name. “All the Puerto Rican books we had were mum's,” he says. Fucking 3am conversations, they always get heavy. “I gave them away. Uh, after.”

Enjolras looks at him. “I'm sorry,” he says, without specifying what he could be sorry for. “If – I've been thinking about that, and I've been meaning to say, I can see now why the translation was difficult for you. I was harsher about it than I should have been.”

“What?” Grantaire frowns, and then it slowly dawns on him. “That – the translation; God, no. I didn't screw that up because – no, no. I mean, I'd gladly take that out if it was actually true, but it's really not.” He sighs. “Spanish is just a language. I mean, there's nothing 'just' about languages, obviously, but even when I was younger, I was happier seeing it as a means to an end than an actual, set part of my identity, you know? I've never even been to Puerto Rico, maybe if I had, that would be different, but...” He shrugs. “My mum used to lament that. Guess I turned out more French than she really intended.”

“I'm not so sure.” Enjolras puts the book back, his movements overly careful. “If I get that right, half the books in here aren't French.”

Grantaire can't help but smile at that. “Yeah, well, I don't think a son with his identity cluttered all over the place was what she wanted either.”

“Do you think about that a lot?” Enjolras asks, and Grantaire wonders when this became so easy to talk about. Must be the lack of sleep. “What she would have wanted?”

“Ridiculously much,” Grantaire says. “Like, mourning is one thing. Grief sucks, and honestly, I think to an extent, it never really goes away, but that's not what's eating at me anymore. The thing that pisses me off is just –” He pauses, questioning for a second if he's really about to say this. But then, it's not like he has anything to lose, right? “Okay, you sort of have to promise not to laugh about this.”

“I wouldn't,” Enjolras says, in that tone that Grantaire can never help but believe.

“She thought I was going to go to the Beaux-Arts,” he says with a wry smile. “Like, that's something she was genuinely convinced was going to happen. Fucking ENSBA, Enjolras. That's what she thought was going to be my future. I passed the bac by the skin of my teeth and I live in an attic.”

“You just won an award for your work.” He says it so easily.

“Okay, no offence and all, but obviously that committee had no idea what it was doing,” Grantaire says. “I don't even like graphic design. Think about it. I don't know what the others up for consideration were like, but at this point, I'm pretty sure they were just desperate to give that prize to a paper that was already prestigious.”

“Would you say that to Joly?”

Grantaire bites his bottom lip. He makes a mental note never to underestimate Enjolras' ability to shut someone down with a single remark, even when he's a comfortable pillow and a completely horizontal position away from falling asleep. “I see,” he says, nodding. “That was – I mean, wow. Beating me with my own weapons, that's smart. Very Slytherin.”

“We're known for being resourceful,” Enjolras says, dead serious. “R, the committee doesn't draw lots and toss awards just anywhere. Joly has earned his prize. You've earned yours. Personally, I think ENSBA would have been lucky to have you, but I realise I'm not exactly an expert on the art front, so if you won't believe me, at least believe the committee.”

Grantaire says nothing. He looks at his ceiling and blinks, hoping Enjolras is too tired to notice the shine in his eyes. “I, uh, thought about the prize money,” he says when the silence gets too close to being uncomfortable. Maybe this isn't exactly the right moment to discuss the matter, but here they are. “I want you to have it. I mean, part of it. The part that makes up for you bailing me out on the... the thing. The charges.”

Enjolras is quiet for a moment, then he shakes his head. “I don't want it.”

“Enjolras.”

“No, I don't. There's a reason I didn't want you to know this was happening; and it was more than just sparing you the consequences. You're not supposed to have anything to do with it, because it was my responsibility, and my mistake.”

“But it wasn't. I wasn't a child under your supervision, Enjolras, and it doesn't even matter, because the fact remains that you spent money that you wouldn't have had to spend if it wasn't for me, and that makes me uncomfortable. You know what? Not just uncomfortable, I hate feeling like this, I honestly hate thinking anyone lost that much because of me.”

Enjolras looks at him and then says the exact wrong thing. “It wasn't that much to me, R.”

“That doesn't – oh my God, why don't you people ever realise that saying shit like that is literally the worst thing you could do?” He bites his lip, trying to calm down a little before he continues. “I don't care that whatever you spent there is peanuts to you, it's a lot to me, and I'm honestly revolted by the thought of having cost another person that much. If that's something you can't understand, fine, but you need to take my word for it, because you don't know what it's like to be in my shoes.”

There's silence. Then, “All right.” Enjolras doesn't look like it's all right. “I mean, obviously, if you want to give it back to me, that's your choice, but you don't have to do it now, do you? There's a better use for that kind of money right now, you said you were thinking about moving, so there's probably going to be a security deposit at some point—”

“That doesn't matter,” Grantaire states. He had thought about moving, but it was barely a serious consideration yet. “And I can get by, it's not like I was relying on a 1000 euro windfall to get me through. There's... there's stuff, money, that I'm entitled to that I'm not getting right now. Semi-orphan's allowance, et cetera. I've done research on that, and I think I don't have to worry about paying rent any time soon, so just—” He sighs. “Just say you'll accept it?”

Enjolras' eyes are scrutinising. “If that's what you want,” he says.

“It really is,” Grantaire says, relieved. “Thank you.”

“Is that the angry ginger cat I didn't get to meet last time I was here?”

Grantaire twists around to see Curie, who seems to have left her spot on Grantaire's bed, stand beside the coffee table, arching her back at Enjolras.

“Well, I didn't say she was angry, that was all you,” Grantaire says and laughs when Curie hisses, baring her teeth. “Oh, man. She hates you.”

Enjolras looks almost hurt at that. “Cats normally like me.”

“That's already more than most people can say of themselves,” Grantaire says in a sad attempt to cheer him up. “Cats don't normally like anyone.” He stretches a hand out to Curie and she willingly hops onto the sofa to curl up on Grantaire's lap, pressed against the portion of Enjolras' legs that's still weirdly deposited there. “See, she doesn't hate you enough to avoid getting fur on your jeans.”

There's a chiming sound before Enjolras can answer. “God,” he says, unlocking his phone. “It's almost four. Where does she get the energy for this?”

“Youth and optimism,” Grantaire guesses. “Mixes well.”

Enjolras sits up slightly and sets his feet down on the ground again. It's strange to feel their weight gone, even though his own legs had started to tingle uncomfortably. “Thank you,” Enjolras says. “For this. I'm... I hope I didn't ruin sci-fi night.”

It's almost funny how little he knows. “My pleasure,” Grantaire says. “Yeah, any time you need a guy to bother you with his favourite childhood movies...”

Enjolras has moved to the door and is putting his jacket on, but he stops to look at Grantaire. “I'll take you up on it,” he says.

“I hope so,” Grantaire says helplessly. He walks Enjolras to the front door and unlocks it for him. “Are you good to drive? Wouldn't want you to be, like, the next victim of microsleep behind the wheel.”

“No, I'm fine.” He gives a small smile. Grantaire's chest feels tight. “Can I...?”

He's stepped closer, and Grantaire heroically fights the instinct to step back, and just nods awkwardly without knowing what's expecting him before Enjolras leans in and gives him a hug. It lasts for three seconds, three seconds of strange warmth, and the impact of closeness is so sudden Grantaire feels like he might burst. He doesn't manage to hug back.

When Enjolras pulls back, he's still smiling, the upward curve of his lips so faint and hesitant it's barely there. “Good night, R,” he says. His hand lingers on Grantaire's shoulder.

“Good night,” Grantaire hears himself say. Enjolras' hand slides down his arm, and then he's gone.

Maybe it's the weird trance the hug has left Grantaire in, or maybe the fact that he actually managed to talk about his mother without a crying fit or panic attack. Maybe, he comes to think later, it's just the usual 4am thoughtlessness, but before passing out on his bed, he sends Enjolras a text.

I think I should come along to Paris.

Chapter Text

The realisation of what he's done is bright in Grantaire's mind the moment he wakes up. His brain doesn't even give him time to adjust, doesn't grant him those two seconds of sleepy haze that always feel calm – he wakes up and feels terrified. The reality is undeniable; he hung out with Enjolras last night, they watched a Disney movie, Grantaire talked about his mum, and then he asked to go on a trip scares him out of his mind whenever it's so much as mentioned by someone else. What was he thinking? Nothing, probably, Grantaire thinks bitterly and stumbles out of bed, out of his room, leaning against Éponine's door and knocking.

“Éponine,” he mutters against the wood of the door. “Ép, say you're home. Please.”

She tears the door open and Grantaire, not anticipating that, all but falls into her arms. “Charming,” she says, grabbing him by the shoulders and helping him straighten up. “What's cooking, good looking?”

Grantaire pulls a face. “Ugh. What's wrong with you?”

She shrugs and closes the door behind him. “Nice of you to ask that when I'm actually in a not-bad mood for once.”

“I can't believe you say not-bad instead of good. Our ability to wrestle positivity from our lives is so worrying, Ép.” He rubs his eyes and falls onto her couch. “What time is it?”

“Just past noon,” Éponine says. “You look like trash.”

“I am trash. Always. Certified. Ép, I'm so fucking stupid.”

She makes a slow gesture asking him to cut to the chase, so he skips the rest of the self-pity-fest he had planned and tells the whole story. She seems thoroughly unimpressed with it – and maybe he's dedicated one sentence too many to how well he'd gotten along with Enjolras last night, how natural and comfortable it had felt to just be around him, and how much it had stung nonetheless because it was still overshadowed by wanting something that he couldn't have, and how frustrating it was that he couldn't just accept and appreciate what he did have because fuck knows that's already a lot – until he gets to the end. He tells her about the text, and that's when she nods and makes a small hum of approval.

“All right,” she says, “I get that you're freaking out, and it wasn't that smart of you to send the text, and it probably seems like really shitty situation right now, but let me explain to you why this is actually a good thing.”

Grantaire blinks. “Are you wearing my obligatorily bitter friend as a flesh suit? That's disgusting. What have you done to her?”

Éponine rolls her eyes. “Listen, I know you're very intent on that whole thing where we wallow in misery together, and I'm down for that any day, but I don't think it would be productive right now, because you sort of have a real chance here. And you can trust that I'm acting in your interest, because your award thing is the same weekend as the concert with Cosette, and I was ironically hoping you'd be there to hold my hand. Not finished,” she says as he opens his mouth. He shuts it again. “You never would have asked to come along if you'd been in your right mind. That's because your right mind is like, packed with a ton of anxieties that you've had four years to collect, and you did, you ate them all up, because that's what you do. No offence, of course. I do, too. But the point is that now that you've had this one dumb moment where you forgot yourself, you have a chance to actually confront this and maybe get over it. Which is a chance you never thought you'd get.”

“I fail to see what's so great about this,” Grantaire says after a beat of silence. “Seriously. It's not a chance for me to overcome this, or whatever. It's a chance for me to fall on my face. I mean, I know I jump at those, normally, but I'm not that far gone.”

“That's the sort of stuff you say when you're not high on endorphins, like you were last night,” Éponine says. “But your judgement is just as clouded when you're like this, by that pessimism of yours, and by anxiety, and a fuckload of emotional baggage. You can't know what's going to happen, you just think you do, because you're grossly confident in your negative assumptions.”

“Wow, don't hold back.”

She sighs. “I'm just trying to be honest, R. I don't want to bash you, you know that.”

Grantaire tilts his head back. She's right, he really was hoping for more of a defeatist reaction than this.

“What did he reply, anyway?”

“What?” Grantaire runs a hand through his hair. “Oh. I, uh. I actually don't know.” He fell asleep last night and went straight here after waking up, he doesn't know if Enjolras has replied at all.

“Right,” she says and gets up, leaving the room. She returns ten seconds later, holding up Grantaire's phone. “He says 'It would be great to have you there, let me know if you'd like to talk about it.' Fuck, even this guy's texts are well-adjusted.”

Grantaire huffs. That much, at least, is not a surprise to him. “I don't know what to say to that. Honestly, I'd never be able to face him again if I backed out now.”

“Good,” Éponine says. Grantaire groans.

“Ép, this isn't going to work. I didn't have like, an epiphany last night that made me realise I actually had the strength to do this all along. It was an accident.”

“So? That's life. Not just yours, it's life in general. Darwin knew that. Accidents happen, and sometimes, they help you evolve. It's a perfectly logical principle.”

“What on earth has gotten into you?” Grantaire shakes his head. “I'm never making friends with a psych major again.”

“Well, I'm probably not going to stay a psych major for much longer, so there's that.”

“Huh?” He sits up. “That's news.”

“Shouldn't be. You knew I hated doing that,” she says. “Any way, that's not important right now. The point is I'm trying to help, not because my required reading informs me that the confrontational method is all sorts of helpful with this kind of stuff, but because I actually give a shit about you and I think this could work.”

Grantaire swallows hard and looks at the ceiling. He wonders when this happened, when he started talking to his friends about shit like this instead of sticking to complaining about school and making lewd jokes. About at the same time that he started making real friends, is probably the answer. “What if it doesn't?”

“Then I'll be here and pick up the pieces with you,” she says. She's rarely so sincere, and there's a ghostly, undefined sting in Grantaire's chest. That much, at least, he knows is true. Even if this goes wrong, if everything goes to hell again, at least this time he won't be alone.

He texts Enjolras later that day, once he's had time to go over the whole back-and-forth again and again and ultimately arrived at the conclusion that he was best off talking it through with Enjolras himself. can i call you? he texts simply, and instead of texting back, Enjolras calls.

“Hey,” Grantaire says, trying to sound like his fingers weren't shaking when he picked up the phone. “Good to know you're alive.”

It's quiet for a second before Enjolras understands. “We got home safe. I actually had trouble going to sleep after, there was so much to think about suddenly.”

There was? Grantaire decides it's best not to ask. “So, uh. About that text, I thought I'd – well. This is me, letting you know I'd like to talk about it, because honestly, I think I want this, but I don't really know what's happening because I really sent that on a whim? But I do think it could be a good idea. For me. Personally.” He swallows. “Obviously, I know you've made arrangements for the two of you already, and I want you to know that I can totally try and find a hostel or something of my own—”

“Nonsense,” Enjolras says. “You'll stay with us. It won't be too difficult to get another room, or just change our reservation from two to three beds. And, of course, we'll have to let the publishing house and the event manager know that there's going to be one more person, and I'll contact the foundation. It's no trouble. Just...” He sounds reluctant to ask this next thing. “How certain about this are you? I want you to know that if you want to cancel or back out at any time – the night before, five minutes before the ceremony, on the drive there – that's absolutely okay, and no one is going to say a word about it, I can promise you that. But I don't want you to get anxious about it in advance because you're not confident in your choice.”

“Well, I'm not,” Grantaire says honestly. “Confident, I mean. But that's not really a problem, you know? It's not going to eat me up, worrying about this. I'm just about as sure as I get about anything.”

Enjolras doesn't sound completely happy with that, but he concedes. “All right. Well, I can call the hotel today, if you like, and – would you rather the others didn't know about this?”

“I don't really care,” Grantaire says. “Why?”

“Because I think Joly would be really excited to hear about it, and he deserves good news,” Enjolras says. “Plus, Bahorel is going to want to take you shopping. You can get around that by saying you already own everything he suggests.”

“I would never,” Grantaire says. “First of all, because I'm an amazing friend, and also because I genuinely don't have anything to wear. I'll need his help.” He smiles. “And I'll text Joly myself. He'll have a few things to say about me making him think I wasn't going to be there and changing my mind last minute.”

“Oh, he will.” Enjolras pauses. “I'm really glad. It's going to be good to have you there. Do you want to meet up and go over everything, talk about what you need?”

It takes Grantaire a second to understand that Enjolras means what he needs to feel safe, what they can do to make this easier for him. He's a little floored – he can count the times he's been asked that in his entire life on one hand. “Sure. Uh. Lunch, tomorrow?”

“All right.” There's a pause. “R?”

“Yeah?

There are easily five seconds of silence before Enjolras speaks again. “I'm really glad you're giving this a shot.”

“Hah.” All of this feels extremely surreal. “Yeah, well – we'll talk tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Enjolras confirms. “See you then. Break it to Joly gently.”

“I will.” Grantaire breathes. “See you tomorrow.”

Joly is over the moon. It's easy to get him excited, which is lucky for Grantaire, because there isn't really someone else he could have expected that much enthusiasm over a two-day-trip together from. It's nice, because this is one more brick in the wall that's keeping Grantaire from backing out. No matter how much Enjolras assures him that it'd be completely fine if he did – which Grantaire, by now, trusts it would be – he wouldn't want to let Joly down like that, now that he's so thrilled.

Enjolras is more subdued, because of course he is, but he does seem pleased. When they meet for lunch, he's already heard back from the hotel and informs Grantaire that they'll all share a small suite. Grantaire has heard the name of the hotel before; it would be embarrassing if he hadn't, it's one of those small chains that have their branches scattered everywhere across Paris. They'll be in the one in Montmartre, chosen for nothing but its close proximity to the venue of the ceremony – a small theatre that Grantaire remembers to be a couple doors down from the Moulin Rouge and to look a little dubious.

Once the formalities are sorted out, Enjolras starts asking him things. He wants to know if there's anything they can do to help, if there's things or places they should avoid, anything they should know. Grantaire only really has one request, which is that things go over as normally as possible, without anyone coddling him. He knows it's well-meant, and under some circumstances, knowing that the others are going to be considerate would probably be helpful, but he has a feeling that maybe, being constantly reminded that this is a difficult situation for him isn't necessarily helpful. He also tentatively asks for possibly getting some time alone once they're there, not because he has a plan or anything, but because he's not entirely sure he won't need to be alone eventually, and he'd rather sort out the possibility in advance.

Enjolras readily agrees to both, and Grantaire almost feels guilty about how strange he finds it to see him take on this position, not because it isn't like Enjolras to care – it is like him, very much – but because he's so strict and severe in his kindness. He acts like good cop and bad cop in one, unapologetic about ensuring his friends' safety, because Joly already told Grantaire that Enjolras has been through the very same ordeal with him. Grantaire can't help but picture Enjolras in a darkened interrogation room, slamming his fist down on the table, Listen up, you better know that we consider your mental health an absolute priority, you got that, punk? Any time you feel like you're too anxious or edgy to stay, you let us know, and you bet your ass we're going to do what we can to fix it, and if I have to put down my badge for it. Sometimes Grantaire really wonders why his brain does the things it does.

It's good, though. Enjolras is calm and centred, and something about his self-assuredness seems to pass over to Grantaire. Not permanently, but that doesn't matter much. It's nice to stand in some of that light and warmth while it's possible.

April comes, and brings along dangerously changeable weather and a sense of impending doom that hangs over everyone and everything. For Éponine, there's the showdown in her romantic life coming up, for Cosette and everyone close to her, it's her father's trial, and for Grantaire and Joly, it's what's beginning to feel more like an acid test in the form of a weekend trip the closer they get to it. In their semester, they're very slowly beginning to approach final exams, which oddly seems like the last thing anyone has on their minds.

For Grantaire, the few weeks left before the ceremony pass in a trance. He can't quite explain it, but he sees things as through a veil, and whenever he feels a little more clear-headed than that, he considers himself lucky that his brain seems to have chosen this as a defence mechanism instead of constant terror and anxiety. It gets confusing though, spending the days sleep-walking, and Grantaire finds that his art suffers.

“This is bullshit,” he says one night halfway through April to the sketchbook in his lap. It's the last week before the ceremony, and preparations for his final projects aren't going too well.

Jehan is there, laying back on the couch with their legs dangling over the edge of it. They came by earlier that night without offering an explanation, but they didn't seem distressed or in need of support, so Grantaire just went with it.

“How are you feeling, R?” Jehan asks, their eyes fixed on the ceiling and determinedly ignoring Grantaire's comment. The two of them have simply been sitting in the same room so far, Grantaire trying to sketch out painting compositions, Jehan sporadically offering input and ideas, throwing in the occasional Baudelaire line. Grantaire realises now that this is probably the question they've been putting off asking all night.

“Weird,” Grantaire says, looking over the edge of his sketchbook at Jehan. “Like I dreamt the past couple weeks and now I'm waking up and the world is on fire. See?” He closes the sketchbook and flings it over; Jehan barely manages to catch it.

“Wow,” they hum, inspecting the latest pages. “That's... abstract.”

Grantaire shrugs. He's been producing nothing but blurry, untidy sketches lately, nothing that would be worthy of being put on a canvas. And it's not like he's normally particularly collected, but he's used to art being the one thing he thinks he's in control of, the thing that he can somehow keep in check.

“I'll probably get back to normal,” Grantaire says. “Once I've gotten this over with, you know? No matter how it goes, I just want it off my back already.”

Jehan nods. “How have things been with Enjolras?”

“Uh.” Grantaire frowns. The first question had been predictable enough, but this is a topic of conversation that Jehan has never breached so openly before – out of discretion, Grantaire had assumed. “We've been getting along, if that's what you're asking.”

“I know that,” Jehan says patiently. “I was just wondering how you're dealing with that. I feel bad for not having asked before, because you seem...” They squint, searching for the right word. “Torn?”

Grantaire leans back until he's resting against the wall. It's undeniable; this has been on his mind, because how couldn't it be – Enjolras is behaving no different, technically, but the shift of their relationship to a pretty solid friendship has changed things nonetheless. He's seeking Grantaire out like he would his other friends, and that includes the casual touches and those rare smiles that Enjolras seems to reserve for people he likes. It's good; pleasant. It's more than Grantaire ever thought he could ask for. Also, it's probably going to kill him one of these days.

“I think I'm going to tell him,” Grantaire says.

Jehan's eyes widen. “You are?”

“I guess?” Grantaire shrugs. He's about to elaborate why, but suddenly, Jehan is crouching in front of him and clinging onto both his hands, staring at him intently.

“I am so proud of you,” they say, eyes wide with joy. “Finally! Oh, R, I thought this was never going to happen.”

“You thought I was never going to come to terms with how hopeless all of this is and put a stop to it? That's... well, that's very you, actually.”

Jehan's wide smile crumples. “Put a stop to what? Your friendship?”

“Well, it's not really working for me to be friends, so. We can just go back to being uncomfortable acquaintances that occasionally say mean stuff to each other, I'll be at peace, and he'll be... whatever he was before.”

“That's not the objective I hoped you had with this,” Jehan says, shaking their head. “It's also one of the most stupid things I've ever heard. R, you're so smart, why do you insist on acting like you're not?”

“I don't want to give people standards?” Grantaire tries. Jehan glares at him.

“Listen. Generally, I'm a supporter of people expressing their feelings, you know that. So I'm going to tell you that I think telling Enjolras is a good idea.”

“So – you're lying.”

“No,” Jehan says firmly, “I do think it's a good idea. I just think both the attempt to end your friendship that way, and the assumption that you'd feel better if you went back to not being friends with him, are ridiculous and unfounded.”

“Sounds perfectly like me.” He sighs when the glaring gets more intense. “I can't keep doing this, Jehan. It's – I mean, for me, it sucks, sure, but it's also not fair to him. It's not right to keep him in the dark about constantly wanting more from him than he's willing to give, that's just – that's creepy and shitty. Fine when we barely talk to each other, but not okay when we're friends.”

“Grantaire,” Jehan says in a pleading tone. “Why have you never, for one second, considered that maybe this isn't so one-sided? Why is that so absurd to you? Why do you just assume—”

“I don't just assume,” Grantaire says tiredly. He's grateful Jehan is here, he really is, but this isn't a conversation they should have struck up. “I don't. I mean, I used to before, but by now, I've, uh. I've got pretty reliable sources.”

Jehan's frown deepens. “What sources?”

“Cosette?” Grantaire smiles wryly when he thinks back to their conversation. “We, uh. It sort of came up. Indirectly. She was sweet about it, but she was basically saying that I should let it go.”

“When did you talk about that?”

“When I made my very desperate and unplanned attempt to set her up with Éponine,” Grantaire says. “It doesn't matter now, the point is, I'm not making wild guesses here. It's just – I mean, I don't know when I'm going to do it yet, but I will. I have to.”

Jehan looks at him for a long time, still on their knees opposite him. Then, they shift to squeeze next to him, wrapping their arms around him carefully. “This isn't something I ever thought I'd say to you,” they say, “but R, you should do what you think is best.”

It's hard to say why, but the hug is ultimately what manages to fulfil what he now realises was the original purpose of Jehan being here; to make Grantaire feel a little better. He gets some decent sketches done the next day, and painting comes easier and easier the more the strange fog in his mind dissipates. By the end of the week, he feels like a proper person again, and to his surprise, he isn't yet a shaking ball of anxiety either. He can't say he's excited – surely not as excited as Joly or Enjolras, who have been discussing the programme points of the ceremony for a week – but by now, the mere thought of the trip doesn't put the fear of God in him anymore, which Grantaire is generous enough to see as a victory.

He considers it a miracle the morning of the trip that he actually managed to get a few hours of sleep. Not many, but at least he can stay upright by himself. It's Friday, and technically, they all have classes, but everyone agreed that those had to take a backseat to their road-trip – not that Grantaire would have been any good in class, anyway, with his head spinning like this. He's anxious, and feels just a tiny bit helpless, but there's really nowhere to run now.

Enjolras is on the doorstep, smiling lightly and with his car (and Joly) parked precariously on the curb. “Good morning,” he says. He looks oddly casual in his flannel and jeans; normally, even his hoodies have sort of a formal look to them. “Ready?”

He bites back the sarcastic comment that this question, frankly, deserves. “Yeah.”

They load Grantaire's bag into the trunk – Grantaire wonders if Enjolras' ancient car is even going to make the trip to Paris, it's going to take them a couple hours – and as Grantaire gets into the back seat, Joly greets him from the front. “Hey there,” he says cheerfully. “Ready to be sprayed with disinfectant by me every time you touch a doorhandle in public?”

“Can't wait,” Grantaire grins. “I brought an extra bottle, just in case.”

Joly points at him with finger guns. “Excellent. Onwards, Enjolras, the capital is waiting!”

Enjolras starts the car and gets it off the curb and onto the road. His driving is just as nightmarish as Grantaire remembers from that fateful night, and there's something comforting about that.

The drive is silent. It bothers Grantaire, even though he knows he can't really blame the others. He'd asked not to be coddled, and to him, that included everyone acting at least sort of normal. Of course, silence in a car at nine in the morning isn't abnormal per se, but cars that hold Joly and Grantaire at the same time are normally never quiet, and while Grantaire could be grateful for the additional safety (because let's face it, their antics have been a risk to traffic at large in the past), the constant silence is maddening.

Éponine texts him about an hour into the drive. Just noticed that I have no idea how Cosette is going to get me and her to Arras when E is gone with you and the car, she texts, and Grantaire grins. pumpkin carriage, if i know anything about cosette, he replies, and adds, freaking out abt tonight already? It riles her up enough to make her reply immediately. Sure. Can't breathe, butterflies, bla bla bla. You? Grantaire looks up at the by now very familiar back of Enjolras' head. He thinks about sharing a room with him, and he thinks about how they're getting closer to Paris with every second, and wishes he could be as sincerely sarcastic as Éponine when he texts, same.

After that, she doesn't reply, so Grantaire is back to the silence – and he's getting fed up with it. Which isn't fair, he realises. If this was a trip to literally anywhere else, he'd probably be the one to annoy the others into playing twenty questions with him, or to point out random cities and make up trivia about them that everyone would know isn't true. If he wants normalcy, he should be the one to introduce it.

After one and a half hours, they pass Froissy. “Did you guys know that when they elected this town's last mayor, Abraracourcix was competing as a write-in candidate because a bunch of kids signed him up?” Grantaire says.

Joly turns to look around at him. “I always thought he sucked as chief,” he says. “Does he make any valuable decisions at all, ever?”

“It's a satire,” Enjolras comments from the driver's seat. “An accurate one. What else is there to expect from an unelected chief who thinks he's too good to walk on his own? Having two people literally carry him at all times makes him no better than the Romans they fight.”

“Maybe his bearers get paid,” Grantaire suggests. “How could you know for sure?”

“If they do, it's still a degrading job meant to emphasise power structures that shouldn't exist. They take on the role of slaves.”

“Cards on the table,” Grantaire says, “did you write angry letters to dead comic book authors as a kid?”

Enjolras is quiet. Joly stares at him, incredulous. “You didn't.”

“I'm just going to focus on driving,” Enjolras says.

Things feel considerably lighter after that.

When they've been driving for two and a half hours and Grantaire can't escape the very real fact that they're about to cross the city border anymore, the sweaty palms and the slight tremor that Grantaire had originally started this trip with are back. Everything is familiar by now: he knows the signs on the side of the road, the rest-stops that have always been there... The small changes that have been made feel terribly off-putting for Grantaire.

His heartbeat supplies a drumroll. Grantaire doesn't know what he's scared of or what he thinks will happen when they cross city limits – what could happen? It's not like the ground is going to crack open and swallow them up. Hell, he sort of wishes it would. He can see the town sign already, quickly coming closer, and he looks between Joly and Enjolras, who are casually discussing some exhibition in the MNHN. Neither of them seems to know what a big deal this is; how can they not know? Grantaire stares at the sign in horror, his fingers digging into the fabric of his seat.

They pass the sign.

To say it's anticlimactic would be a vast understatement. They cross the line into Paris, and no world ends, no abyss opens up before them. They drive on as if nothing has happened – well, nothing has, Grantaire realises, deflating. Tension makes his mind turn childish; he forgets that sometimes. Enjolras and Joly are still talking, but in the rearview mirror, Enjolras catches Grantaire's eyes, just for a second. The look is reassuring, even though it only lasts for a moment, and Grantaire, helpless, smiles.

It's a popular assumption and easily said that it's impossible to know all of a city as large as Paris, the kind of city that doesn't seem to end even at the edge of the horizon. It's true, in all likelihood, but it doesn't feel that way to Grantaire as they drive through those streets. It feels like he knows them as if he'd mapped them out himself, it still feels this way after years of being gone – even the changes that have been made feel natural, that building that was finally torn down because fuck, that one had it coming anyway; that once inconspicuous side road that's been completely re-designed and re-cobbled, incorporating more green areas and lightening the space up a little... It's so organic, the place hardly feels different. Grantaire wonders if maybe part of him knew of those changes while they were happening, the way some people can feel pain in a phantom limb.

Joly is an extremely good navigator, which is lucky, because Grantaire has a hunch that Enjolras is terrible at navigating, and Grantaire himself feels like someone glued his mouth shut. Even if Joly started navigating them to go in circles, there'd be nothing Grantaire could do; he just sits in silence and tries to make sense of the dozen different things he's feeling at once as the city drifts by the car windows in quick flashes. He's not scared. He's not even anxious, really; this isn't exactly nice, but it isn't scary. It's a different kind of uncomfortable, like seeing someone you went to primary school with and blinking at them a few times before you can be sure it's really them.

Enjolras eventually makes it to the narrow street leading up to their hotel and lets Joly and Grantaire get out right in front of it so he can try and find somewhere to park, leaving them to deal with the check-in. Joly ends up doing most of the talking, because Grantaire doesn't trust himself to open his mouth, but he does carry all their stuff, so he figures he's not completely useless.

“The lady said we're on the third floor,” Joly says, fidgeting a little as the elevator goes up. It takes a second for Grantaire to realise that he's actually edgy from excitement, not anxiety. “And did you hear that they have a roof terrace? A roof terrace, Grantaire. On the roof.”

“That would seem the best location for one,” Grantaire says, because apparently, sarcasm works wonders against self-imposed silent spells.

“A fake lack of enthusiasm for things doesn't make you cool,” Joly says and elbows him lightly.

“I'm just worried you'll be disappointed. Enjolras pretty much changed the reservation last-minute, which probably means the room's going to be—”

“It's a suite, Grantaire.”

“Of course. The suite is probably going to be, uh, not all that.”

“You're just prissy because you're going to have to sleep on the couch or something,” Joly grins. They've come to a halt in front of the door that carries the number from their key cards, 337. Grantaire slides the card in. Joly's right, he thinks, he probably is going to end up on the couch, because that's how hotels work, their rooms – sorry, suites – aren't cut out for three people, and then he stops thinking because they're in the room and there is no couch.

There are three beds. Well, two beds, technically. Or, if you were being extremely nitpicky about it, the strange construction could count as one bed, a bunk bed with an abnormally large bottom bunk that's obviously cut out to hold two people. It's... well.

“Why,” Joly says, staring at it. He even forgets to inspect the rest of the room – suite, which Grantaire realises is nice enough. They have a small kitchenette, probably the thing qualifying this shoebox for suite-status, a narrow bathroom, and even a little coffee table and two comfy-looking chairs by the window.

“I mean. It's not ideal,” Grantaire concedes, a little disconcerted by Joly's expression.

“Literally the only way I'm not going to have to share a bed now is if you and Enjolras tossed me into the top bunk and lifted me down from it in the morning,” Joly says, slowly shaking his head. “How is this accessible accommodation? I cannot climb that ladder, I physically can't.”

“Okay,” Grantaire says, “we'll talk to the reception. If we can't switch rooms, they probably have a single for one of us to take, and in all honesty, it's sort of their fault if—”

“No,” says Joly and sighs. “No. You know what? Life's nothing without a challenge. My dear friend,” he sits down on the bed, resting his cane next to himself on the mattress, “would you like to share a bed with me?”

“I'd be honoured to,” Grantaire says. “Any opportunity to banish Enjolras into the top bunk is one I'm happy to jump at.”

Enjolras is less than thrilled about the arrangement when he makes it to the hotel – not because he doesn't want the top bunk, but because Joly had said in advance that he didn't want to share beds, and “some hotel manager's ignorance” shouldn't force him to compromise.

“I asked for three separate beds, we should have gotten three separate beds. They can't assume that there's just snobbery behind every last thing their customers ask for, there could so many other valid reasons for this kind of request—”

“Breathe, Enjolras,” Joly says. “I'll be fine. Hey, secretly I've always wanted to sleep in the same bed as R. There's something there neither of us can deny.” He winks.

“This isn't what they told me they'd provide us with,” Enjolras huffs. “You don't have to settle for this, Joly.”

“I'll go ahead and pretend that wasn't hurtful,” Grantaire says flatly.

“That's not what I meant and you know it,” Enjolras snaps. “I just don't want him to take on more than he has to.”

“I'm not taking anything on,” Joly insists. “It's a pleasure. A dream come true. Now, let's be done with this and talk about how we're going to spend the afternoon.”

Enjolras has to yield. No matter how furious he gets, Grantaire is pretty sure that his most fundamental principle is still not to let his own voice drown out someone else's, and Joly requests to leave this alone. Grantaire is actually glad to have the attention diverted so far from himself; it distracts him from his own tension.

They have a to do-list. Well, they have a places-to-go-to-pick-something-up-for-me-list, each one of them from someone else. Each of them has a list of bookstores – Grantaire's is from Jehan, Joly's from Musichetta, and Enjolras' from Combeferre – where they're supposed to look for obscure editions of stuff Grantaire has never even heard of. He's heard of most of the bookstores, though. Courfeyrac also gave Enjolras the task of dropping by a certain market to buy some type of cheese that's apparently only available there, and Cosette demands they bring back an exclusive perfume from the Lafayette that she researched in advance.

“It's going to be a miracle if we get anything done at all that we actually want to do,” Joly frowns once they've all listed the runs they have to go on for friends. He looks disappointed, like he genuinely fears he's not going to see the evolutionary exhibition at the MNHN, and Grantaire makes a spontaneous choice.

“How about I do everything?”

Joly and Enjolras both look up to stare at him, immediately ready to protest.

“No, hear me out, I mean. No offence, but I'll definitely get it done fastest. Today's Friday, and it's still early, so it's probably not even going to take me too long, and you guys could do your natural history thing in the meantime. I've been wanting some alone time with this old hag of a city, anyway.”

Enjolras perks up at that. “Sounds good,” he says, obviously trying to make sure Grantaire got his wish after Joly hadn't gotten his. Grantaire wonders if Enjolras had any expectations of his own for this trip, other than trying to look after his friends, or if he'd been so distanced from his own needs that he hadn't even given it any thought. “What do you say, Joly?”

“If you're sure,” Joly shrugs. “And if Enjolras thinks he's going to survive me smothering him with fun animal facts all afternoon.”

“So, that's settled,” Grantaire says. “We can meet tonight, either here, or we could go out to eat, if that's...?”

“What's the point of a kitchen if you don't use it?” Joly grins. “I'm going to cook. Half because not enough people know that I'm really good at it when Bossuet isn't around, half because I don't trust you guys to touch my food. No offence.”

“None taken,” Grantaire and Enjolras reply in unison, and Enjolras smiles a little – for the first time since this morning, Grantaire realises.

“We could have dinner on the roof, since we're eating here anyway,” Enjolras says. “The view must be amazing. We're a stone's throw away from the Sacré-Cœur.”

“It's a date,” Joly says, determined. “I think I even already know which one of you two I'm going to take home after.”

Grantaire has to laugh about both the joke and Enjolras' stone cold expression.

After they've settled in as much as it's possible to settle in on seventeen square metres, most of which are taken up by a bunk bed, they embark on separate adventures. Joly and Enjolras promise to call if they get lost, and Grantaire is forced to promise the same, even though he doesn't really see how they'd help.

The list is ridiculously long, now that they've merged all their separate lists together into one. Having released Joly and Enjolras into the wild (or, for that matter, the station where they can catch a train to the museum), Grantaire decides to start with the items on the list that are doable right in Montmartre. Two of the bookstores he's supposed to visit are nearby, one of them Grantaire knows quite well, the other he's never been in. The latter turns out to be a small historic one that holds antiquities as well as books, and Grantaire is genuinely tempted to buy a meerschaum pipe he finds next to the poetry section. Thankfully, he manages to resist, and leaves after an unnecessarily long conversation with the shop-owner who thinks that e-books might be a threat to the printed word anywhere in the world, but not in Paris. Next, Grantaire makes for the Galeries to fulfil Cosette's request – it's his favourite on the list, because there's nothing like walking into a beauty shop in search of expensive perfume and enjoying the heavy side-eye from all directions when you look like Grantaire. The looks get worse when he buys the tiny, delicate flask of women's perfume (Cosette had gone as far as to give them her budget in cash) and pockets it without much ado – he's a customer, and as such, he's going to do as he pleases.

After the fifth item, Grantaire is starting to wonder if the others have laid out the list strategically to hustle him across all of Paris. It gets difficult to go with the most efficient route, because there doesn't seem to be one – he's going to make his way through pretty much the entire city. He's not complaining, because, and this is the strange part, it isn't actually bad.

He'd taken on this task first and foremost as a distraction, but also to hurry along the process. He imagined that if he went ahead and threw himself into city life for an afternoon, the inevitable big bang would just happen, and that'd be everything over with. Whatever panic attack or breakdown life had in store for him would wash over and maybe that'd have been it. But he's been criss-crossing the city for a few hours now, and he's still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It's not that it's easy. So many places here hold some kind of meaning to him, so many things make him ache when he comes across them, it seems impossible to escape the memories. (At fifteen, that bookstore that doubles as a gallery humoured him and hung up an abstract that Grantaire's art teacher had been swooning over. As a child, that park the flower arrangements of which Jehan demanded pictures of was the place Grantaire's mum used to take him on Sundays. There's a public swimming pool just around the corner from that chapel that has the only diving towers that were high enough for his cocky teenage self.) And it's painful, but it's the kind of pain that Jehan would call douleur exquise – it's not killing him, it invites the same pleasant sort of melancholy that Éponine's singing or Jehan's poetry does. And Grantaire doesn't understand why.

He's far away from the more bitter memories, of course, because among the few parts of the city that he has no business in is also the one he used to live in. The one that has his former school, his former building, all the bus stations he spent the night at and alleys he threw up in. It makes sense that none of his friends needed anything from there – what would anyone want from the 13^e? – but even so, he doesn't think that it'd kill him to go there, either. He won't, but for the first time in years, he feels like it wouldn't push him into an immediate depressive state to try.

The only logical conclusion comes to him when he's on his way to the bibliothèque Mazarine to gather some scans of an obscure ancient manuscript that Combeferre asked for. A street sign he passes informs him that just around the corner, there's the Rue des Beaux-Arts, and the sight sends a sudden dart of pain through him – the bad kind, this time. Grantaire walks on quickly, but he suddenly knows exactly why he hasn't fallen into a deep, swirling pit of panic yet, even though he's back in Paris. It's because Paris isn't the problem.

Joly and Enjolras are already in the hotel room by the time Grantaire gets back. Joly throws something soft at him the moment he walks through the door, and Grantaire drops one of the book bags he was carrying trying to catch it. “What kind of skull is this supposed to be?” he asks, inspecting the – well, it doesn't count as a stuffed animal when it's just a weirdly shaped skull made of plush.

“That of a prehistoric horse. You're welcome,” Joly says. “Enjolras thought it would be funny. Apparently you have some kind of skull-inside-joke I know nothing about.”

“Oh.” Grantaire bites his lip trying to hide his smile. “Thanks, I guess?”

“How was your trip?” Enjolras asks from the top bunk, where he's sitting surrounded by books and papers. Grantaire should have known better than to think he wasn't going to try and catch up on class work when he's technically on holiday.

There's somehow more in the question than just a plain “did you have a nice time and get everything the others asked for,” which makes it difficult to answer. “Insightful,” Grantaire says vaguely and sets what feels like twenty shopping bags down on his and Joly's bed. “Not tiring at all. We have some fucking high-maintenance friends. How was yours, apart from the successful skull-shopping?”

“It was amazing,” Joly says and thrusts a crumpled museum brochure at Grantaire. “I never want to walk again, but other than that, it was so great. You have no idea.”

“True,” Grantaire has to admit, having never been to the MNHN.

“Most of the exhibits completely pre-dated history,” Enjolras says. “They might as well have called the entire exhibition 'Eat that, creationists.'”

“Do I hear you mocking other people's beliefs?” Grantaire arches an eyebrow. “Not very progressive of you.”

“We can absolutely discuss this at length, but not before dinner,” Enjolras says dryly. “Joly, not to hurry you, but...”

“I'm on it,” Joly says and reluctantly sits up from the bed. “Totally on it. Grantaire, we're having gratin. I'm only informing you for the sake of completeness, it's sort of non-negotiable.”

“Right,” Grantaire says, falling onto the bed. “I suppose you don't want any help?”

“No thanks,” Joly says from behind the thin wall that provisionally separates the kitchenette from the bedroom-part. Grantaire sighs and looks up to the underside of the top bunk.

“Do you?” he asks the mattress, because he can't see Enjolras from there. “Need help, I mean.”

“You want to help me study?” Enjolras asks, a disembodied voice from somewhere up there.

“Why not?” Anything to distract from weird realisations, Grantaire thinks. The same question has been on his mind for about an hour; if Paris is not the problem, then what is? He doesn't want to think about it, and he can't seem to think about anything else. “I can't promise I'll be extremely helpful, but I could, like, turn book pages for you or something.”

It's silent for a few moments, then Enjolras' voice says, “Would you mind coming up here? I'm afraid I can't move without destroying my system.”

Grantaire doesn't make a joke about how destroying systems sounds like something that's completely in Enjolras' interest and moves to get up from the bed. “Can that bunk hold two people or are we going to come crashing down if I climb up there?”

“Guess we're about to find out,” Enjolras says with an easy shrug. Sometimes Grantaire still can't believe him.

The bunk does hold two people. Enjolras' system is impossible to grasp for an outsider, so Grantaire sits down directly by the ladder, careful not to touch anything, and stays there. Him keeping his distance has absolutely nothing to do with Enjolras' tendency to lean against people with one shoulder when he's sitting close to them. Nothing at all.

Enjolras is studying for a final in something called Theories of Modern Society. Grantaire helps by quizzing him using colour-coded cue cards (because of course Enjolras has those), and by throwing in one or the other background question about stuff that sounds interesting. The latter method especially seems to be a success, because on every other question, Enjolras launches into a ten minute speech that connects elements they've mentioned before and not-so-subtly tries to indoctrinate Grantaire to defect to Enjolras' side. It doesn't work, but it helps him learn, so Grantaire guesses his purpose is fulfilled.

“Pretty hardcore that you're already revising for your final now,” Grantaire says when Enjolras calls a five-minute break. “Like, you've still got a month. I have a couple classes where I don't think I'm starting earlier than the night before.”

“We're barely scratching the surface here,” Enjolras sighs and leans back against the wall. “I wish I could afford studying less, but not in that class.” He pauses. “Or any. Sometimes I wonder if I'm wasting my time like this.”

Grantaire's eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me? Did you just say that, monsieur You better value education and appreciate all the people who gave their lives for your access to it?”

“I just...” Enjolras gives an unhappy frown. “Obviously, I'm grateful for the opportunity, and I enjoy learning, but the more I study and the more intense it gets, the more I start seeing it as a means to an end rather than appreciating it for what it is. And it takes up so much time that I could use differently.”

“Like how?”

“Volunteering, interning, actually working instead of living off a grant, gaining experience... I'm not sure. Sometimes it just feels like I'm stuck, like I could be doing more.”

“But – shouldn't you be done with your Licence soon? This is your third year, right?”

They've never talked about this, the fact that Enjolras shouldn't be too far from graduating. To Grantaire, it was always just a fact like any other, and Enjolras had never mentioned that he'd be going away for his Masters, so it didn't seem like a thing to dedicate much thought to.

“It is, but I'm not graduating,” Enjolras says. There's something of a wry twist to his lip. “There's a possibility that I spent most of my second year trying to fend off an ABC lawsuit and not actually studying all that much. It's also entirely possible that I had to re-take the year and will now take four years for my Licence.”

Grantaire stares. “That's – uh.” That's actually very much like Enjolras. “I didn't know about that.”

“Dinner's ready!” Joly pokes his head in. “I feel like a mum. You two look like teenagers at a sleepover, too.” He frowns. “I'm strangely okay with that.”

Grantaire coughs and slides off the bed, ignoring the ladder and just letting himself fall to the floor. “So, are we taking everything to the roof or what?”

To an outsider, they probably look like they're planning to pilgrimage all the way to Lourdes. Enjolras is carrying the baking dish that holds their ratatouille au gratin, Joly has plates and cutlery wrapped up in a dish towel and stuffed in a bag that's slung over his shoulder, and Grantaire drags along glasses and a bottle of water and one of wine. It's already getting dark, so Grantaire fears that the roof is going to be full of people trying to catch the view from the rooftop, but when they arrive, there's no one there except for one girl who's smoking near the railing. That makes no sense, because the terrace is tiny, but breathtaking, lined with hardwood, half-stuffed with flowerpots, and offering quite the view. Enjolras was right; the basilique is visible from here, ominously towering above Paris and lit in white, eerie light.

“Wow,” Joly says after a few seconds of silence. “No offence to you both, but I kind of wish you were two different people right now.”

“If you're looking for someone to kiss, I'm right here, bedfellow,” Grantaire says with a wink. Joly laughs.

“Careful, one of these days I'm going to take you up on it and then we'll both be left with a mess.”

“Dinner,” Enjolras reminds them, setting the dish down on the low table that's surrounded by sunbeds. Grantaire isn't sure about their purpose this time of the year, especially with rainclouds gathering above them that very second, but they make for decent enough chairs.

“Before we start,” Joly says, distributing the plates, “I'll have you know that this is a speciality of mine that you'd better appreciate. That said, I had limited equipment in that joke of a kitchen, so I'm less confident about it than usual.” He makes a grand gesture. “Enjoy.”

The girl who was smoking has observed them from the corner of her eye, Grantaire noticed, and is now turning to leave. As she walks by, she gives them a look that reminds Grantaire of Éponine, and he blanks for a second. “Oh shit,” he whispers.

Enjolras' eyes snap to him. “What?”

“What? Uh, nothing. Nothing to do with – with this.” He fumbles for his phone in his pocket and, just as he guessed, has half a million notifications. Most of them come from a group chat he doesn't remember joining, called “Éponine's outfit discussion round.” It's administrated by Jehan. The others are from Éponine herself, and as Grantaire scrolls through them, he's glad to be assured that he doesn't seem to have done much damage by forgetting to check his phone. Éponine texted him first, Okay we were joking earlier but I AM panicking, then, God I hate you so much I can't believe you're in fucking Paris which you don't even LIKE on the one day I need you, followed by, Jehan took over because you're pointless. Apparently we're talking about what I'm wearing in a group chat now. My life is a mess and I hate my friends, and finally, Ok, about to leave. Calm now, no thanks to you, & hoping that your silence doesn't mean you're dead. It reads like a tetralogy by a prized author. The discussion group, on the other hand, has less structure and is just generally very unrefined. It doesn't help that it's made up of Jehan, Bahorel, Montparnasse, and Musichetta, who have somehow managed to use up fifty messages discussing what kind of jacket Éponine should go with.

Bahorel: so she's definitely going with the sheer maxi skirt now?

Jehan: Yes!! It's just accessories etc. now.

Jehan: Oh, and the jacket

Jehan: We're torn between black leather and washed out denim?

Jehan: The denim is kind of cropped, leather reaches her hips.

Bahorel: this would be easier if we were actually allowed to know who she's going on a date with y'know

Bahorel: do they already know her well? or is it sort of a fancy good-first-impression thing

Bahorel: you know what fuck good first impressions. she should go with denim either way

Montparnasse: is it someone she secretly hates and wants to scare away? because in that case, yeah she should go with denim

Bahorel: who the fuck let him in here

Montparnasse: oh, you wanna go big guy?

Bahorel: meet me in the fucking pit

Musichetta: ALL RIGHT, zip it up, you two. Let's do a poll?

Musichetta: I vote denim. It's her. Anyone can do leather for an event like that, only Ép can do denim, she'll pull it off like woah

Jehan: I vote leather.

Bahorel: i'm v disappointed, jehan

Bahorel: also i vote denim

Montparnasse: because you're too petty to admit i'm right?

Bahorel: i read that as pretty and ngl man i blushed

Montparnasse: fuck you

Montparnasse: i say leather if she doesn't want to look cheap

Jehan: Looks like we need a tie breaker!

Montparnasse: oh, i'm about to break something all right

Musichetta: Yes, you're all very manly and intimidating

Jehan: The tie has been broken by the lady herself.

Jehan: She says denim, and to let you know you're all useless.

Jehan: Also she says thanks.

Musichetta: I don't think she said that

Jehan: Well, she did in spirit.

“Oh boy,” Grantaire mutters under his breath.

“All right, now, no phones at the dinner table,” Joly says and immediately frowns. “When exactly did I become a mum?”

Grantaire realises that the others have started eating while he was behaving a spectacular kind of antisocial even for him. “Sorry,” he says and pockets his phone again. He feels strangely relieved in Éponine's stead – Jehan probably watched out that she didn't run away last minute, and she'll be on her date now, giddy and fidgety and not like her ordinary, broody self at all. The image makes Grantaire smile.

“Who was it?” Enjolras asks, pulling his plate from the table onto his knees so he doesn't have to lean over for every bite.

Grantaire remembers just in time that Éponine had declared telling anyone other than Jehan about the date punishable by death and so much as mentioning Éponine might be too much of a hint, seeing how close Enjolras is with Cosette. “Just. Someone,” he says, which he realises is anything but inconspicuous, but oh well. He can't be expected to be at the top of his game right now.

“Don't talk back, young man, and eat before dinner gets cold,” Joly says.

“Yes, mother. ...This is amazing,” Grantaire says after his first bite. “I mean, wow.”

“Pretty good for a fake kitchen, huh?” Joly grins. “The secret is rosemary.”

“Did you actually bring spices here?”

“I had every intention of cooking. I'm sure you know a lot of great places, R, but this just feels safer.” Joly's look sweeps over to the railing. “Man, this place could be so romantic.”

“Oh, I don't know,” Grantaire says and leans his head back a little. “Appalling lack of stars. That used to fuck me up so much when I was a kid, driving out of the city for the first time I can remember and being like, woah, there's way more stars than I thought there were.”

Joly hums in agreement. “That's counter-argument number one whenever I think about moving here.”

“You do?” Enjolras says, surprised. “I didn't know that.”

“Oh, it's all not really serious,” Joly waves a hand. “You know, just like everything when I'm talking about the future. Pipe dreams, my friends. The only sure plan I have is to become a person who heals people one way or another. Like a friendly, less tall version of Doctor House.”

Grantaire snorts. “You literally couldn't be any less like House.”

“Not true. I could have no flames on my cane, but?” He lifts it to wave the end in front of Grantaire's face. “There they are.”

“Fair point.” Grantaire looks over the silhouette of the city, more prominent the darker it gets. “You'd like it here, though. If the whole thing ever was to become less pipe-dream-y.”

“I agree,” Enjolras says. “Have you thought about where you're going to do your externat?”

“Well, I won't have much of a say in the matter,” Joly says. “Our university is tied to a hospital in Amiens. Although I could always switch universities, if circumstances called for it...” He smiles. “Who knows? I can figure out that stuff when it becomes important. What about you, Enj?”

“Me?” Enjolras glances at Grantaire. “Well...”

“We were just talking about that earlier,” Grantaire says. “You know, about how Enjolras heroically became a martyr for the cause by sacrificing a year of his academic career.” It comes out slightly more sarcastic than he means for it to be – well, at the core of it, he doesn't mean it sarcastically at all, but this sounds a little more vicious even than the mask he likes this kind of remark to have.

Enjolras gives him a look that's something between confused and irritated. “I'm not sure yet what I'm going to do after graduation. I actually had an offer to come here at one point in my second year, from the mairie of the 8^e.”

“What?” Joly looks like he's about to drop his plate. “You never said anything about that.”

“There wasn't any point to it. I already knew I was going to fail the year, and they offered the internship for after graduation, which they thought would be this year.”

“But would you have taken it?” Joly asks.

“Probably?” Enjolras looks down at his plate, thoughtful. “I don't think I would, now. Not because I wouldn't like it here, but because I'm not sure if the work would be ideal. I'd prefer a non-profit, maybe, or an embassy...” He shakes his head. “I don't know. My whole idea of the next few years is still pretty blurry.”

Grantaire is shovelling seconds onto his plate when he feels Enjolras' eyes on him. His look is strangely hard, like a silent challenge. “What about you?” he says.

The question sounds so easy that Grantaire can't tell if Enjolras doesn't know how loaded it is or if he's completely aware and is deliberately pushing this. “Oh, you know me,” Grantaire says with a mirthless smile. “I'll make money, one way or another. Always wanted to try bartending. Although realistically, I guess I'll end up as one of those people who sculpt grave stones. Pretty much the only upstanding art job out there in this day and age.”

“I thought sculpture was your least favourite art form.”

“It is.” Grantaire frowns at Enjolras, taken aback by the hostility flying his way. “And that matters why, exactly?”

“Fuck,” Joly says, not because the tension of the situation is suddenly unbearable, but because there is rain on his food. Grantaire hadn't noticed it had started to drizzle, too busy trying to deflect Enjolras' sharpness.

“Guess that's our cue,” Grantaire murmurs, and starts gathering up the supplies of their makeshift picnic.

They flee the roof as quickly as possible to escape the drizzle that's rapidly developing into a downpour. Grantaire tries not to mourn the view of city lights they've just left behind; he was only just starting to get a little used to it again. He's watching Enjolras now, glancing at him from time to time, trying to find something there that gives away what he's thinking, but Grantaire remains none the wiser.

He'd never normally do what he does this time. Confrontations are only fun when they're not serious, and he avoids the serious ones wherever he can, but this isn't normal circumstances, and he's too tired and exhausted to do a dance of passive aggressive remarks between them for the next two days, so he waits until Joly's in the shower – he shouldn't have to witness this and have to deal with it on top of everything else – and lets himself drop into the chair opposite Enjolras at the coffee table. “So,” he says.

Enjolras looks up at him. He's in sweatpants and a sluiced-down, probably once black t-shirt, still somehow looking dignified when he's basically in his pyjamas. He says nothing.

“Listen, if we're going to be weird while we're here, that's fine, that's cool by me and everything, but I sort of need to know why. And what's happening exactly. Because I know this is probably my fault, but that doesn't make it any easier to understand or deal with, so. Uh. Just tell me what's wrong?”

Enjolras gives him this look, like he thought it was perfectly obvious. “I don't understand why you insist on turning every ambition and ideal anyone holds into a joke,” he says then, in a matter-of-fact voice that's laced with frustration. “I don't know why you have to keep up the ridicule even with people who are close to you, and I don't know why you can't seem to talk about me without making fun of me, but honestly? That's not even what's bothering me.”

Grantaire already wants to interrupt him, because he regrets his earlier choice of words immensely; he'd known he was going too far, and, being who he is, he'd just gone ahead anyway. Stupid.

“Because in the end, I can probably take it,” Enjolras continues. “It's not pleasant, but if I wasn't capable of enduring at least some mockery, I suppose I never would have gotten anything done in my life. So, yes, I can take it. But I don't think you can. And somehow, you always make yourself your biggest target, no matter how damaging and counter-productive for yourself you know it is, and no matter how much those around you hate to see and hear it.”

When he asked, Grantaire had not expected to kick this loose. Obviously, this isn't something Enjolras just got momentarily upset about – this has been on his mind. Grantaire has no idea what to do with that knowledge.

“I wasn't going to mention this to you now, not here, because I know you're in a vulnerable place, so it's not fair of me to bring this up at all. But you're apparently not taking a break from it while we're here, so neither am I.” Enjolras has been looking at him the entire time, and at last, his eyes flick downwards. “You don't know how exhausting it gets,” he says, eyes lowered, his voice quiet, “watching that.”

Grantaire swallows hard. Everything seems to happen at once. Enjolras looks frustrated, with himself and Grantaire both, and there's something in that moment that Grantaire can't name that feels so intimate that his immediate instinct is to recoil, because this can't happen, this is never going to happen, and he has to stop thinking it is and hoping that it will – and then, there's the other side, where Grantaire suddenly realises what's been keeping him from coming back here. Paris isn't the problem, this exact thing that Enjolras just described is, he is, he and his failure to give something a shot, his refusal to accept chances when they were offered. He's been angry about that for years, and he's been blaming a city.

“I'm not,” Grantaire says nonsensically after a stretch of silence. “I'm – not making fun of you, I mean. I say a lot of bullshit, I know that, and a lot of it probably sounds way over the top, I mean, it's supposed to sound that way, I just – ah, fuck.” He squeezes his eyes shut for a second and starts again. “I realise I haven't exactly been doing a great job at this, and I'm not saying I've secretly been holding a super solid belief system all this time, but I swear, I've never thought lowly of you, never. Jesus, Enjolras, you repeated a year because you were busy trying to save a newspaper with centuries of tradition from ruin. I repeated a year because I was more interested in drowning my grief in booze than going to school at seventeen. I know that's not really what you want to hear right now, but if you're going to take anything away from this at all, please just – let it be that I think the world of you. I do.”

It'd barely be a stretch now, Grantaire thinks, to tell the whole truth – he wouldn't be making any more of a fool of himself than he already is. But it's too much at once in that moment, all those realisations crashing down on him, and he only just catches Enjolras' gaze again before they can hear the sound of the lock on the bathroom door.

For either of them, it would have been easy to excuse themselves and flee into the hallway together to work this out. They could have discussed it with Joly in the room, or texted angrily, but neither of them makes an effort. Enjolras says nothing more and silently climbs the ladder to his bunk, which is so unfitting for the scene it's almost comical. Grantaire lets Joly settle into bed and then takes his place on the other mattress, switching off the light first and curling up on his side in the quiet dark.

There's nothing quiet about his thoughts. They're racing, chaotic and terrifying, all too much at once. He's not sure for how long he's lying there silently in the dark, wondering how the fuck he got here and what made him this way, what about him it was that somehow managed to make a mess out of everything he touched, but when he's finally clear-headed enough to perceive his surroundings for what they are again, Joly's breathing has completely evened out and it's utterly silent. The others must be asleep. Grantaire doesn't think he's going to fall asleep at all tonight.

It's another long while before the half-formed idea in his mind becomes a choice. As quietly as he can, he slips out of bed, plucking his discarded jeans from his bag and tiptoeing towards the door of their room, where he changes his sweatpants for jeans, picks up his wallet and key card, and goes out.

Outside, it's still pouring, which he notices immediately and couldn't care less about. His hands buried in the pockets of his jeans and his shoulders pulled up, he makes for the nearest métro station – he didn't bother with a jacket and is soaked within seconds, but it doesn't really make a difference. In a way, the rain is nice. Cathartic. Which is sort of the point of this entire thing.

The route is simple, which is lucky, because it's difficult to see anything through the rain and dark. Grantaire gets on the train, 14 bound for Olympiades, and tries not to think about the damage he might be doing to the seat by sitting in it while he's dripping with rainwater. Either way, the ride is over soon enough, and he starts walking again, walking and walking until he reaches the Seine, crosses the Pont des Arts, walks a little more, and then he's there.

A lot of things have changed in his absence, he realises, but this place isn't one of them. Obviously not, he thinks bitterly. The two weird busts by the gate still look vaguely creepy, the blue plate against the fence still looks misplaced. Site Malaquais, it reads. École nationale supérieure des Beaux-arts. Grantaire stares at it from the other side of the street, the rain still steadily beating down around him. Eventually, he sits down on the ground by the shop window he's been standing in front of. It's a real estate office, which, for some reason, strikes him as hilarious.

There are few people out this time of night in this particular corner, and only a few drunk students and a couple of tourists pass. None of them pay any attention to him, luckily. If any of them asked what the hell he was doing here sitting on the ground like this, he'd have no idea what to reply. All in all, his head feels strangely empty. He really wants a cigarette, which he hasn't wanted in forever.

The school opposite him just sits there. He finds that infuriating. He expected it to look like it's mocking him, or that he'd want to beat his knuckles bloody on its walls, but none of that happens. There it is, old and venerable and indifferent. If it was sentient, it would probably be used to crying art students at its gates, Grantaire thinks. This is nothing special, a regular enough occurrence.

Grantaire closes his eyes when the rain stops suddenly. He can still hear it on the pavement, the soft rush of it bleeding into a symphony of city background noise together with the sound of cars and the low chatter from cafés up the street. It's only above him that it's not raining anymore, and he doesn't need to look up to know how it happened. He doesn't need to see Enjolras at all to know he's there.

“So,” he says, eyes still closed. “Is this sort of our pattern now? You running after me in bad weather when I freak out?”

He hears the rustling of clothes and sees Enjolras crouch down next to him when he opens his eyes. He's holding a large umbrella, and Grantaire can see the edge of his plain, not-quite-black shirt beneath the coat – he didn't even bother changing before he came after Grantaire.

“We can make it a thing, if you like,” he says, but the lightness in his voice is forced. “The precipitation might not always play along, but we could probably make adjustments.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire huffs. “Move around. Set up camp in Ireland for the most dire situations.”

“Rent out a cabin in the Alps, in case something calls for snow.”

“You shouldn't be doing that,” Grantaire nods towards Enjolras and how he's huddled next to Grantaire on the cold – cold and wet – pavement. “You'll catch a cold.”

“Joly mentioned,” Enjolras says, curling his arms around his knees. “He's right, and I hate letting him down like this, so you better feel guilty. If you go around ignoring common sense and risking your own health, so will I.”

“Egalitarian bullshit,” Grantaire murmurs. “Joly's up?”

“Of course he is, R. You ran away, we noticed.”

“Shit.” Leave it to Grantaire to pull people who have nothing to do with his angst right in, regardless of the consequences. “How did you know where I was?”

Enjolras shrugs. “I had a hunch. My next guess would have been your former address, which I'd have had to try and squeeze out of Éponine, so I suppose it's lucky for everyone involved that you're here.”

“Ks,” Grantaire mutters. “Yeah. Lucky.”

Enjolras is silent for a while. The umbrella is over both of them now, and the drumming sound of the rain on it is soft and even. “Are you better? Now, I mean?”

“Better?” Grantaire almost laughs. “I'm having a fucking ball, Enjolras, isn't it obvious?”

“I don't mean it like that,” Enjolras says with more patience than Grantaire feels he deserves. “I wanted to say something, earlier. I'm sorry I didn't. I didn't really...” He trails off. “If I'm to blame for this, I'm sorry.”

This entire situation is such a textbook example of fucked up, Grantaire doesn't even know where to begin. “You're not,” Grantaire says. It's true. Whatever triggered this midnight stroll is such a mush of different things that he can't even pick his way through them anymore. Everything about the day was overwhelming. Everything was too much, and it just happened to peak in that moment. “I am, sort of? I don't know. Sometimes I realise stuff and then I can't deal with it and I just physically move, like that's going to make things any better.” He shakes his head at himself. “Oh my God, I have no idea what I'm saying right now.”

“I'm listening,” Enjolras says simply.

And that's exactly the problem, isn't it? Grantaire can't afford to be honest with Enjolras, and he's never needed to be honest with someone as much as he does right now. “I want my favour,” he says. Enjolras looks at him, surprised.

“Now?”

“I still can, can't I? What was that Courf said; valid until always?”

“Well – yes,” Enjolras says, his voice a little hesitant. “Of course you can have it.”

“Okay,” Grantaire says, and chews on his bottom lip for a few moments before he says, “I need you to forget about everything I'm about to say. I mean, obviously not really forget, that's impossible. But I need you to never mention it to me again, and for both of us to pretend like it never happened.”

“R—”

“No, seriously.” He wants to tell Enjolras that this is also in his best interest, because he knows how unfair he's sounding, but there's no way of saying it that wouldn't come out wrong. “I think I'm about to say a lot of stuff I'm not supposed to, and I just, uh. I need to make sure you're not going to take me up on any of that. Later.”

Enjolras is quiet. “Okay,” he says after a long pause.

“You have to promise,” Grantaire says. “I don't – I'd have told this stuff to someone in a bar, or like, to a homeless guy who doesn't give a shit, but you're here now, so just. Promise you'll forget everything I say.”

“Grantaire, I can't just—”

“Please—” He breathes. “Humour me, okay?”

Enjolras hesitates, and then nods, resigned. “I promise.”

“I'm just – I'm so pissed at myself, you know?” Grantaire talks more into the sleeves of his coat than to Enjolras, with his arms wrapped around his knees and his chin leaned against them. “For so many reasons, and no one even knows the half of it, it's so ridiculous. And this city, it's just like – it didn't even do anything to me, and every last idiot could have told me that. Like, how did it never occur to me in four years that I was the one who screwed up? I mean, I knew, obviously, I was aware of that somehow, but apparently I refused to acknowledge it? Paris isn't the one who ran away and threw their life away after their mum died and was too cowardly to apply to this fucking school. I am.”

Enjolras is shifting a little, like he's unsure of what to do, and if Grantaire hadn't already talked himself half out of his mind, he'd immediately shut up. He doesn't.

“I could have at least tried. I could have tried something. I should have tried applying, even though I knew I was never going to get in there.” He's gesturing towards the school, its high walls and the iron fence. Ironically enough, the gate is closed, leaving only glimpses of the illuminated courtyard behind it. “It's just so – it's pointless. She was so convinced. She thought I could do anything. She wouldn't even hear of anything else. Monet went to that school, fucking Monet, and whenever I, like, drew something on her birthday card she'd give me this look and I just knew she was so sure I was going to actually be someone one day, and now I've – I'm this – Jesus, Enjolras—”

His voice is threatening to give out, so he stops talking, burrows his face into his crossed arms and focuses on not sobbing out loud. The shivers are back, and his muscles are straining not to let them show – it's really the last thing he needs, Enjolras being here, but the feeling of wanting him near and far away at the same time is so familiar that it's almost a comfort.

Suddenly, the rain is back. Heavy drops land on his hair, his arms, his hands still clenched in the fabric of his sleeves, and he lets out a weak noise of protest before he realises why it's raining on him again. Enjolras has put the umbrella aside and his arms are around Grantaire, lying warm and heavy around his shoulders in a careful embrace.

Grantaire can let it happen, for a while. Maybe it's best to. Right now, it's not like he can move, anyway, and this isn't a bad reminder of how impossible it is to put ending this off for much longer. He's going to do it, in a second. If Enjolras ever lets go. If he doesn't talk himself into waiting for another night and day. If he can actually work up the courage to, because right now, he's terrified to the point of paralysis.

Enjolras doesn't say anything for the entire time that he's holding him. He lets go a little, then, and cards his fingers through Grantaire's hair. “Listen,” he says quietly. “I know you think you failed in taking the path that you did, but no one else feels that way. I don't have to know her to believe she wouldn't have felt that way.”

“Enjolras, she thought I was going to go to an elite art school. I can't even make decent grades at a less than mediocre university. I'm sad or drunk or both like, seventy per cent of the time. You know I'm useless, just because you're too good to say it out loud doesn't mean—”

“Stop,” Enjolras says, his voice pained. “I'm not going to let you say that. You make money with art. You're receiving an award for something you've created. And that's not nearly all there is, you just fail to assign value to everything else that you do, no matter how important it is to other people. You're the only one Jehan trusted enough to talk to when they were struggling, you were the one to try and keep me in check when I was getting in over my head, you made a personalised comic book for a kid – Grantaire, I could go on.”

He doesn't, because Grantaire has resigned to burying his head in his crossed arms. He can't listen to this, he knows it should help, and it's breaking his heart that Enjolras decides to be soft and gentle now, when Grantaire almost wishes for him to be cruel. It would make this so much easier – or so he tells himself, when really, he knows that it wouldn't make any difference. From the beginning, this has been the most pathetic thing about the whole deal; that he's hopelessly besotted, no matter what Enjolras does or says.

“R,” Enjolras says. “No one would blame you if you weren't there to accept the award.” He has one arm back around Grantaire's shoulders, his fingers softly stroking his arm. “If you need to leave, you can have my car, and Joly and I take a train back, or Combeferre can come fetch us—”

“No,” Grantaire says, with some colour back in his voice. “It's bad enough that you're here for my pity party, I'm not going anywhere.” He lifts his head and breathes, closing his eyes for a second and half revelling in the merciless cold of rain on his skin. “Listen, I'm sorry for the outburst,” he says then. “I know that wasn't – well, isn't what any of us needed. At all. I'll be fine come morning.”

“I never would have pushed earlier if I'd known,” Enjolras says. “I'm sorry.”

They're both soaked by now. Grantaire didn't even bother telling Enjolras not to sacrifice their protection against the rain for a hug, he was that immersed in his breakdown. “Don't do that,” Grantaire says weakly. “It was my fault. I shouldn't have gotten cocky, I don't really know why I did.” He shakes his head. “Honestly, I think I was actually petty enough to get pissed because I know you both have futures as, like, Nobel Prize winners.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, a little sternly, his fingers tightening on Grantaire's shoulder.

“No, it's true. I don't know why I do that, it's not like I'm twelve, and I want good things for all of you, probably more than I want – most other things. But I guess there's a reason I used to only be friends with people who were as fucked up as me. I don't look as bad in scale to them.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras repeats, his grip easing up a little. He doesn't seem to find anything else to say, but Grantaire doesn't miss the pain in his voice, the way he leans closer to Grantaire, the sides of their bodies pressed against each other. He's so close it hurts, his arm still wrapped around Grantaire's shoulders, the other one curled so that his hand rests on Grantaire's knee, his thumb drawing small circles there, and Grantaire knows then that he has to do it now or it's going to come crashing down on him tomorrow, or in a week, or in a month, a thousand times worse.

“That's another thing, you know,” he says, trying to numb himself to his own words as they roll off his tongue. “This. We can't – I can't do this, we can't be like this.” He manages to wave his free hand between them weakly. “I know you mean well and you want to be a good friend and everything, but I – I can't be close to you; I tried, I swear I wanted this to work out, but I thought I could have you near me without feeling like it's eating me alive, and I can't. I can't do the hugs and the bed-sharing and the, uh, this, I can't.”

Enjolras, frozen for a second, moves to let go of him completely. Grantaire couldn't look at him if he wanted to, it's physically impossible, every part of him feels immovable and if he thought this was going to feel like a weight off his back before, he's wondering now how he could ever have been that stupid.

“Okay,” Enjolras says quietly. Then, in an even smaller voice, “Can I ask why?”

“You know why, Enjolras.” After what Grantaire said earlier, he has to know.

“I – I don't think I do, actually,” he says. His tone is killing Grantaire, it's so unsure and so unlike him and this is sort of the worst possible outcome of this; he'd have preferred Enjolras to get up and leave or yell at him or be offended or anything, just not this. “I know we didn't immediately get along, and if I was wrong in assuming we were doing better, that's fine, but – was it something I did in particular, did I go too far earlier—”

“Oh God,” Grantaire whispers, shaking his head. He fixes his eyes on the wall across the street, the one with the blue inscription plate he's spent so much time lingering in front of he knows it by heart. The curtain of rain makes it impossible to see any details at all; the street in front of them washes into a vague abstract of blue, black, and yellow. It's not a bad scenery, he thinks, and for some indiscernible reason, that's when the words come out, sounding half like a question, half like something nonchalantly mentioned, and not at all like a confession. “I'm in love with you.”

It's more of a weight off his back this time, even though he does feel like he's still left with more pain than before. As if the weight was lifted off his shoulders and dropped onto his foot.

Enjolras is looking at him, he can feel it, but he doesn't turn his head. It already takes everything out of him not to collapse into a sobbing heap again. When Enjolras speaks, it's in an off tone Grantaire has never heard from him before.

“What?”

“You heard,” he murmurs. “I mean, it doesn't make a difference now; I can say it again. I'm in love with you, I've been in love with you for fuck knows how long – I think I was in love with you the first time we talked, Enjolras. And I figured if I just kept my distance, I'd make my peace with it, but you were just – there all the time, and then you wanted to be friends and that's when I thought maybe that way I could get over it, that somehow being close to you would – would sort of quench that? Whatever you want to call it, it doesn't matter, but it only got worse the closer I got to you, and right now, this – I've just been feeling like this was easier when I thought you hated me.”

He immediately realises how heavy the silence is that follows these words, and if he could take them back, he would. He's already done enough damage, and he wants it to end, he wants that at any cost, but there's really nothing he can do, and Enjolras still isn't speaking.

“I wasn't going to tell you this,” he says. “At the beginning, I don't think I was ever going to tell you, and the only reason I could say it out loud just now was – because you promised, you promised you'd forget anything I said, so we can just pretend it never happened. For what it's worth, it's probably best that way, and – I mean, this is your out. We don't have to talk about this again, you can forget about it.”

He knows he's not being fair. He knows he's making this harder and harder for Enjolras with every word he says, and God knows Enjolras doesn't deserve that, but it's too late to change anything now. The words are out, and still, he can't even look at Enjolras.

“I don't want to,” Enjolras says, his voice barely above a whisper. Grantaire doesn't think he heard him right. Enjolras slowly draws an arm around his shoulders again, pulling him closer until their heads are almost touching. Grantaire can feel Enjolras' breath on his skin, a sudden warmth, and then Enjolras tangles his fingers in Grantaire's hair and draws him in close enough to rest his forehead against Grantaire's temple. “Forget that, I don't – I don't want to. Don't make me, R.”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire murmurs, feeling exhausted. “If you – this might be a lot to ask, but please don't say you're flattered or honoured or—”

“R,” Enjolras says simply, fingertips still stroking his scalp, and then the weight of his own head against Grantaire's is gone and Grantaire feels his lips instead, soft and warm and pressed against his temple in a gentle, lingering kiss.

Grantaire's head is spinning. He tells himself it's the rain, the cold; maybe he's passed out on the pavement and the past five minutes have been a feverish dream, but this feels so lucid and Enjolras is right there, so real and close.

His lips leave Grantaire's skin. “Come on,” he says softly. “Let's go back. You need to get warm.”

Everything that happens after feels like a dream. They get to the hotel, so Grantaire thinks they must have walked to the métro and taken a train somewhere along the line, and then they must have walked all the way here, but it's all sort of a blur. Joly opens the door before Grantaire can offer his key card, and he's not happy.

“You're the worst,” he says to Grantaire, grabbing him and squeezing his shoulders. “I love you and I'm glad you're okay, but you're the absolute worst. Go take a shower.”

“Joly—”

“Go take a shower.”

Grantaire does. And it helps, everything is clearer once the cold fades, it feels like shedding skin, in the not-gross, cleansing way. There's still a lot of things he doesn't have an answer to, and he has no idea what's happening with Enjolras, who never let go of his hand on the entire way back here, but despite that, he feels almost peaceful. Apparently, crying in the rain in front of a school you didn't make it to can have healing proprieties. Who knew?

Enjolras takes over the bathroom once Grantaire has left it. Grantaire is wrapped up in an extra blanket by Joly, despite his protests that he's actually warm now and this isn't necessary, and is handed a small mug of tea.

“These are all the precautions I can take to try and pull you back from the edge of getting pneumonia,” Joly says. “And you better be grateful for the effort, I had to call reception for the tea. The guy who works the graveyard shift is not friendly.”

“I wouldn't be, if I was working that shift,” Grantaire murmurs. “Joly, I'm an asshole. I'm sorry.”

“That's okay.” Joly smiles a little. “I mean, I freaked out, and I wish I hadn't gone ahead and woken up Bossuet and Chetta to calm me down, but it's fine now. You're allowed to get weird about this kind of thing.”

“Actually, I think I'm done with getting weird about it for a while,” Grantaire says. “This was exhausting.”

Joly nods slowly. “Did it help?”

Grantaire leans back, hands wrapping around the mug. “Yeah. I think it did.”

“Good.”

“Oh,” Grantaire remembers, “could you hand me my phone? I was going to – uh. I think I might have a text.” He almost forgot about the date, for the second time today, like he wasn't the one who pretty much set this up. He checks his notifications, and there really is a text, but it's not from Éponine, it's from Cosette. Thank you. ♥ it reads, nothing more. It's vague enough to leave a lot of things open for interpretation, but Grantaire chooses to take it for a good sign.

The next morning is good, despite the odds. They've all slept in after being up until half past two the night before, so it's not technically morning, but Grantaire wakes up still feeling a strange, tentative kind of peaceful, and he intends to enjoy it while he can, until he'll undoubtedly freak out about Enjolras and his lack of response to Grantaire's confession. It's contrary to be irritated by that, Grantaire knows it, because this is what he asked of Enjolras, that they wouldn't mention it again, to have it over with. The perspective might have enabled him to be honest, but in retrospect, he wonders what the fuck he'd been thinking in setting that up.

They've missed breakfast at the hotel, so they go out and let Grantaire direct them to the next best place to get churros. Joly prefers to stick to some crackers he brought, and they eat together in the small green space going down the Boulevard de Clichy.

Grantaire tries not to think too much about how strange Enjolras seems to be deliberately making this – the overall mood is a lot lighter than yesterday, and it shows in each of them, but Enjolras isn't just in a better mood, he's also affectionate in a subtle and effortless way, more so than usual and with his friends. When he reaches around Grantaire to steal one of Joly's crackers at breakfast, his arm lingers longer around Grantaire's shoulders than it strictly has to. When they walk next to each other, sometimes Enjolras touches Grantaire's fingers with his, just softly grazing them, too frequently for it to be accidental. Grantaire would call it teasing if it wasn't Enjolras, and even so, it's more than maddening. But Paris looks different in the light of today, and Grantaire can't find it in himself to stress out anymore, if only because he's tired of it.

They spend the day together after having spent yesterday apart. The others don't seem keen on tourist-y stuff, so they stick to the quieter parts of the city, stopping at one or the other store and talking about the world. In the late afternoon, Grantaire remembers that he forgot to do one of the favours he'd promised Jehan on his odyssey yesterday – they had given him a tiny paper bag of flower seeds and asked him to do everything in his power to get them to the grave of a German poet whose name seemed vaguely familiar to Grantaire and who's buried on the cimetière de Montmartre. They go there together, Enjolras keeping a lookout while Grantaire and Joly hide the flower seeds in the loose soil around the marble base of the (frankly monumental) gravestone. By the time they're finished, Joly announces that it's time for them to get dressed for the ceremony.

Bahorel dressed all of them save for Enjolras. Joly seems to have gone on a pretty wild shopping spree (his suit jacket has sequined lapels to match his shoes, he pulls it off brilliantly although Grantaire has no idea how), while Grantaire just borrowed a jacket and shirt and packed his best jeans. Enjolras is in simple black and white, but he's the kind of person who could throw on anything and get away with it, so he looks dressed up without trying.

Grantaire, on the other hand, is underdressed. Only slightly, as he notices when they get to the venue, but it's noticeable. He can't say he wasn't at least partly aiming for it, and he figures that as the representative for artists on this thing, it's going to be expected of him to make sort of a scruffy impression. There's a reception in the restaurant next door to the theatre, and it's noticeable from the second they walk in that the space isn't made for this many people. It's crowded, and Grantaire is lucky to be able to grab three glasses of champagne when a waiter passes them. “Never underestimate my ability to acquire alcohol,” he says when Joly gives him an impressed look. “Santé.”

Joly clinks glasses with him, but Enjolras has disappeared as soon as he accepted his glass.

“Probably mingling,” Joly says, grinning. “He was so excited about this in advance, as if we were going to the Pulitzer ceremony. Ah, look at all this.” He raises his glass. “Once a year, the elite of university journalism gathers to conspire! We're lucky, R.”

Grantaire looks around himself. Most people here are their age, it's kind of refreshing. He feels a little out of place, because enthusiasm and commitment seem to radiate from everyone here, but overall, it's nice. Watching Joly, who's recognized by some people who seem to have read his story, be congratulated and celebrated already at the reception is its own reward, even though Grantaire has to slip him some hand sanitizer every three handshakes he goes through.

After a few glasses of champagne and one short welcome speech by an important-looking lady, everyone is ushered through a narrow passage to the theatre and they're led into the hall where the actual ceremony takes place. Enjolras finds Grantaire and Joly again when they've all taken their seats, slipping into the one next to Grantaire just seconds before the ceremony begins.

“Gotten some successful networking done?” Grantaire asks. He barely dares to take on a joking tone.

“You could say that,” Enjolras says, refusing to take the bait. “Hold these for me for a second, will you?” He reaches into his pockets and, a second later, drops about fifty different business cards into Grantaire's lap. Grantaire stares.

“Did you just out-joke me?”

Enjolras shrugs, but Grantaire doesn't miss his smug smile, even though they're interrupted by the host taking the stage for the first time.

Grantaire dreaded the supporting programme in advance, but it's surprisingly good, and entertaining enough to make the long stretch of time they have to spend here feel short. Turns out, slam poets and small philharmonic orchestras aren't always bad. Some of the speeches in between are a bit of a drag, mostly because despite being here, Grantaire has really no idea about anyone or anything going on in the student journalism-scene, which apparently is a thing that exists. To Grantaire, the one thing that all of this seems to culminate in is Joly's speech, which is coming up halfway through the programme. He's already jittery with anticipation by the time the host announces the prize, and then Joly's name is read out, and he grins like a cheshire cat as he takes the stage.

There's some fumbling with the award itself, a small golden plate shaped like a book on a wooden foundation, when Joly takes it and then has to hand it back immediately because he has one hand on his cane, then there's a photo, and finally, Joly stands behind the speaker's desk.

“Hi, everyone,” he says, and it's indicative of how not-grown-up most people in here are when there's a “Hi” echoing back from the audience. “First of all, I'm going to thank the foundation for this, because I've wanted to win something big ever since I was a kid, and I'm obviously neither an athlete nor a particularly good actor, so my chances seemed pretty slim.” Grantaire bites his lip to suppress the probably inappropriate smile. “Second – if you've read my story, you probably know that it was quite serious. I'm not a very serious person, some of the people in the audience can confirm that, but I suppose that in the light of this particular topic, it would only be appropriate for me to hold a speech that tackles these issues with an apt degree of solemnity.” It's very quiet when he pauses. Then, he says, “I'm not going to do that.”

What follows is the most pun-packed, hilarious and witty speech Grantaire has ever heard. Some of the jokes are lost on the audience, even though Joly giggles to himself as he tells them, and some of them have everyone in stitches. He talks for ten minutes, and they feel like nothing at all. His joy and pride make him radiant, and once or twice, Grantaire sheds a tear that has nothing to do with how hard he's laughing.

By the time Joly finishes, the mood in the hall has shifted from light to downright cheerful. Grantaire walks to the end of their row to accept a massive bouquet of flowers in Joly's stead when he returns, and when they're back in their seats, Enjolras reaches over to squeeze Joly's shoulder.

“You can say it, you're proud of me,” Joly grins.

“I am,” Enjolras says, completely serious. “You're never getting out of a speech with the claim 'You're better at that than me' again.”

“You know what? I think I can live with that.”

Grantaire gives Joly a hug, and finally, Joly falls back in his seat and laughs. “Worth it,” he says, more to himself than anyone else.

The presentation of Grantaire's award is up not much later, and it doesn't even seem like a very big deal at this point. When his name is read out and he gets up, Enjolras stands up with him, gripping his shoulders and straightening his posture. “You always do this,” he says softly over the applause around them, the hint of a smile on his lips. “Makes you smaller than you are.”

Stumbling to the stage and accepting the award is uneventful. He gets a bouquet, considerably smaller than Joly's, and his award is a certificate that he hands to Enjolras to put away in his messenger bag (because that's something Enjolras brings to award ceremonies) as soon as he's back in his seat. It felt strange accepting it and listening to people clap, but not as strange as it probably would have at some point in the past. Grantaire books that as a success.

After the last speech, it becomes apparent pretty quickly that none of them is interested in the party that follows. Most people here are students, so it's likely to get wild, and even Grantaire lacks the energy for that at this point. There are some group pictures, then Joly has to pose for about fifty shots that show him next to Important People, and even after that, they stick around for a while. Joly to accept more congratulations, Grantaire and Enjolras to take some of the pressure to talk to everyone off him. When the wave of congratulants finally ebbs off, Joly demands of Grantaire to direct him to some place where he can skype with Bossuet and Musichetta in peace, so Grantaire shows him to a cozy café a few doors down that, as far as he knows, is the only place still open and not too crowded. Joly seems happy with the arrangement and declines their offer to stick around – “No, off with you, I've been waiting for some proper privacy for two days now.” Enjolras and Grantaire find themselves on the Boulevard in front of the café, holding an absurd amount of flowers and suddenly alone.

“You should take me somewhere,” Enjolras says decidedly after some silence.

Grantaire blinks. “Where?”

Enjolras shrugs. “Somewhere nice. And nearby. Consider it a challenge.”

“All right,” Grantaire says slowly. He's a little suspicious of Enjolras' motives. “Yeah, all right. That's doable.”

Not too far from where they are now, Grantaire remembers a spot that he sincerely hopes is still there. Montmartre isn't actually a part of Paris he's as familiar with as some others, but he remembers being on a party here once that he fled with a girl who was from the area and showed him to what she called her insider's tip for makeouts. Grantaire is reasonably sure that no making out is going to take place there today, but he remembers the place to be beautiful, and it is nearby, so it's really the only one fulfilling Enjolras' criteria.

They only have to turn two corners before they reach it. Enjolras doesn't seem particularly impressed when Grantaire stops in front of a high brick wall, but Grantaire stops him before he can say anything. “Patience,” he says, looking around until he finds what he's looking for. A few metres down, there's a dip in the wall, just low enough to set a foot in and high enough to help a person of reasonable size to climb on top of the wall. Grantaire takes all the flowers and pushes them up onto the wall, then he steps back. “Okay,” he says, “you go first.”

“So you have the best view in case I fall?” Enjolras says flatly, but he settles the tip of his shoe in the dip.

“So you'll have a soft landing in case you fall,” Grantaire corrects him and stands behind him. The climb is a little clumsy, but Enjolras makes it onto the wall safely, and freezes as soon as he gets a look at the view behind it.

“Oh,” he says quietly, just as Grantaire heaves himself onto the wall next to him.

“I know,” Grantaire says and crosses his legs to sit.

Paris is laid out before them, in a far wider view than the one they had from the roof terrace, the lights of it glittering in a sea of black and purple. If the top of the wall wasn't a little sticky and the alley behind them pretty much a garbage dump, the image would be unbearably cheesy, but then, Grantaire has always been a sucker for over-the-top scenery.

He doesn't want to be the one to say something first, but Enjolras seems lost in the view, looking on silently and in awe. Grantaire watches his profile, barely more than a silhouette in the low light. He thinks that he's probably about to receive a very politely worded brush-off, and can't find it in himself to care.

Finally, Enjolras tears his eyes away. “I didn't think you'd win that challenge this easily,” he says.

Grantaire snorts, he can't help it. “Sorry,” he says, not sorry at all. “In your defence, I sort of underestimated my residual Paris-knowledge too.”

Enjolras looks back over the city, shaking his head silently.

“So,” Grantaire says. “What was today about?”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Enjolras says.

“Come on,” Grantaire says, pleading. “Put me out of my misery. You've got something to say, or we wouldn't be here.”

Enjolras is silent again, for a long enough while to make Grantaire think he's never going to get an answer. “You deserved it,” he says then. “That was a day of being in the dark about how I felt. You gave me half a year, six months of never making sense.”

“Now, that isn't fair,” Grantaire says. “I may not always be upfront, but I don't try to mislead people.”

“Don't you?” Enjolras frowns when he looks at him. “What was that about, then? The constant bickering?”

“I think that was as much you as it was me,” Grantaire says, knowing it's not true. He can be annoyingly belligerent, and he knows it. “But let's say I've learned my lesson, okay? I've suffered. Now say something. ...Please,” he adds.

Enjolras doesn't look away this time. Paris is right there, and Enjolras isn't taking his eyes off Grantaire's. “Do I need to?” he asks.

Grantaire nods desperately, because maybe he doesn't really deserve answers after the way he's been acting, but this is downright cruel, and that's not what Enjolras is. Enjolras is passionate to a fault and easier to anger than some people know, he's strangely goofy at times and he's deadly serious at others, he can go too far and regret it, but he's not cruel. Grantaire feels privileged to know all those things about him. In that moment, he thinks that it might be even enough, knowing Enjolras like this.

At last, Enjolras looks away, down at the wall they're sitting on and at their hands resting next to each other. He shifts his own hand, pressing his palm against Grantaire's, their fingers intertwining. “How about that?” he asks, his voice barely audible. Grantaire can feel nothing but their hands together, and he can't think of anything to say but, “It's a start.”

Enjolras lifts his other hand and rests it against the back of Grantaire's neck. He leans in and kisses his cheek, just once, the touch hardly more than a breath before he pulls back again. “That?”

Grantaire's throat feels dry. More than I could ever have wished for, he thinks. “Better,” he says. Enjolras' hand is still at the side of his neck, the touch gentle, and from there, it's easy for him to lean in again, his eyes on Grantaire's lips for a second before they flick up to Grantaire's eyes. “Can I...?”

Grantaire answers by crossing the remaining space between them.

The kiss is careful, closed lips and the soft touch of Enjolras' fingers against Grantaire's skin. Grantaire wants the moment to last, part of him still stuck in that space where he's convinced that this can't be real and will be taken away from him at any moment, but it doesn't happen. Even when he pulls back, Enjolras is close, and real, and smiling at him so brightly it makes Grantaire's chest feel tight.

“I think I've wanted to do that for a while,” he says into the silence. “I wasn't even sure why; I never thought kissing was for me.” He squeezes Grantaire's hand. “But it's not so bad.”

“I,” Grantaire says eloquently. He's too dumbfounded for a decent answer, not to mention witty retort. “You. Uh. I mean – a while?”

“Yes,” Enjolras says. “Quite some time, now.”

“That's – how long?” It doesn't matter, but Grantaire feels like he has to know anyway.

“I'm not sure.” Enjolras frowns, thoughtful. “January, maybe? At the latest when we were studying in your room – but then, I might already have started to be suspicious around Christmas. It's sort of hard to tell in retrospect when I was in love with you and when you just confused me.”

“I really, really hope I'm not just confusing you right now,” Grantaire says. In love with you. It sounds so odd coming from Enjolras. Odd, but lovely.

“I'm certain,” Enjolras says, smiling again. “But I can't really pin down when it started. It wasn't easy to figure out, in the beginning. You wouldn't believe some of the conversations I've had with Cosette, I think I was driving her to her wit's end.”

“Cosette?” Grantaire stares. “So – she knew?”

“I think she knew before I did,” Enjolras says, slightly self-conscious. “I forbid her to tell anyone. It was a pinky promise, she takes those very seriously.”

Oh. That... certainly puts her conversation with Grantaire in a different light. And makes a lot of sense, actually. “So—” Grantaire breathes. “You've had feelings for me since January. And you're telling me off for never saying anything?”

“I tried to!” Enjolras says, genuinely indignant. “Every time I got close, you brushed it off, so I thought there wasn't a point to it.”

“Hang on, now,” Grantaire says, shaking his head. “That's not – when was that?”

“After Jehan's book adoption fair, for the first time,” Enjolras says, like it's obvious. “Then for the second time when we were having lunch a few days later. I was actually trying to make that a date, but... I don't know. It didn't happen. And then, I got pretty close last month when you called about wanting to come here, but that only lasted a moment and I didn't really have any momentum, so.”

Grantaire stares at him. Each of those times couldn't have been further from being romantic. “This is literally the least smooth attempt at courtship I have ever heard of,” he says, genuinely stunned.

Enjolras looks thoughtful again. “I think I didn't really know what I wanted for the longest time,” he says. “I've never been attracted to anyone – romantically before. And it took me a while to understand that that's what it was. But there are some feelings that are too obviously different from infuriation and admiration, so in the end, I suppose I could have been more unambiguous in my... well. Attempts.”

“You're being unambiguous now,” Grantaire says helplessly.

“Yes,” Enjolras says, nodding like he's surprised with himself. “Is that okay?”

“Only you would ask that,” Grantaire says. Enjolras kisses him again, the slightest brush of lips on his.

They stay there for a long time, talking and looking over the city. Because it feels wrong not to, Grantaire confesses the entire story of how he walked into a wrong lecture hall and came back for questionable reasons, and Enjolras, to his surprise, isn't creeped out at all. “Getting too distracted to notice something isn't the right class sounds like something I could have done,” he says. “Not distracted by someone's hands, granted, but maybe by someone's wrong opinion.”

“I think that was sort of the reason after the first time,” Grantaire says. “Like, at first, it was definitely weird, because I was really hoping to run into you? But after that, I wanted to prove you wrong. Which, y'know, failed spectacularly.”

“Oh, I don't know.” Enjolras smiles. “Some good came of it.”

Enjolras brings up asexuality at one point, clearly insecure about it, which Grantaire has some trouble wrapping his head around. He tells Enjolras honestly that he never thought a relationship with Enjolras would involve sex – not that he has given it much thought at all, since he never thought a relationship could be anywhere within the realm of the possible. Enjolras seems relieved, but he says they're going to talk about it a lot more, because it's not something he's very confident about (which was apparent by now, but still comes as a surprise).

Enjolras asks where Grantaire used to live, and Grantaire seeks for some landmarks to find orientation at before he points vaguely west from them. “All the way back there. The 13^e,” he says.

Enjolras still has Grantaire's hand in his own. “Are you ever going to go back?”

“Maybe,” Grantaire says. It's a very strong maybe, but it's not a no.

When it's starting to get too cold for both of them to stay, Grantaire climbs off and helps Enjolras down so he won't hurt himself, because, as Grantaire found out today, he's not an elegant climber. Joly texted Grantaire some time while they were there, saying he went back to the hotel and good luck with whatever was happening. When they get back to the room – sorry, suite – as well, they don't make an announcement before Joly, but they don't try to hide anything either. There's no reason to. Joly is gracious enough not to comment, even though he smiles knowingly.

They take their time the next morning, lingering in the Boulevard for breakfast for some time after they've checked out, and none of them seems to be quite ready to leave. No one is more surprised by that than Grantaire, who expected to want to flee the city by the first night, but they all feel like there's something there while they're still here that they're going to lose as soon as they leave. When they finally do and cross the city limits in Enjolras' ancient, rattling Ford, Grantaire doesn't look back.

Joly's street is their first stop, and Grantaire helps him with the bags, accompanying him to the front door of his building. “I never thought I'd say this to you,” Joly says in a mock-serious tone, “but sharing a bed with you was a pleasure.”

“Likewise,” Grantaire smiles. “Permission to hug?”

Joly squeezes him tightly. “I'm glad you were there,” he says. “And, Monsieur Grantaire,” he glances at the car where Enjolras is waiting, “I think you've done pretty well for yourself.”

“Ah,” Grantaire mutters, “we'll see how that goes.” He's about a thousand times more enthusiastic than that sounds.

“You will,” Joly agrees and ruffles his hair. “See you tomorrow?”

It's such a normal statement that Grantaire almost laughs. Everything feels different, but there's a meeting tomorrow night, and Éponine is waiting back at Magnon's house in the attic they've shared for half a year. It seems so surreal. “See you tomorrow.”

Grantaire falls into the passenger seat and shuts the door behind himself. “Right,” he says. Enjolras looks at him, and reaches out to let his fingers graze Grantaire's forearm.

“Yours next?”

Grantaire catches Enjolras' hand with his own and lifts it to kiss his knuckles. That's something he can do now. He doesn't think the thrill is ever going to go away. “I don't know. I'm not sure I want this to end yet.”

“Always with the dark perspectives. What's ending?” He carefully pulls his hand from Grantaire's grasp and twists the ignition. “As I see it, this is a beginning.”

That, at least, is something Grantaire can't argue with.