Archive of Our Own ^beta

The meeting's halfway over when it starts. Enjolras picks up on it because it's Grantaire, because he can't stop glancing over to the table where he usually sits--off to the side, closer to the front than the back, sandwiched between Bahorel and Prouvaire.

Grantaire is speaking quiet Spanish, his dark eyes lively under his darker curls. Enjolras catches a word that sounds like "Enjo" and pauses in his speech. The side of Grantaire's mouth quirks up in a half smile, and he reverts to English to argue about posters before Enjolras gives the floor to Courfeyrac to talk about their latest project (petitioning for unisex bathrooms in university buildings).

Enjolras watches him as Courfeyrac debriefs the rest of the group. Grantaire's eyes flick to his and he should look away, but instead he watches Grantaire lean toward Bahorel to say something else. Bahorel smirks and waves at him. Jehan chuckles under their breath and Enjolras resists the urge to sigh loudly, though he does roll his eyes.

"When did this happen?” Enjolras spits the words at Courfeyrac, in French. “He's just so," Enjolras throws his hands up. "Good looking," he finishes dejectedly. Beside him, Courfeyrac laughs.

The meeting has all but wrapped up; he, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre are getting their papers in order and preparing to leave while others are lingering at the coffee bar for a pick-me-up before they go.

"Coming?" Combeferre asks, and Enjolras realizes the other two standing while he has been staring at the way Grantaire's back muscles shift under his thin white t-shirt for the past several minutes.

Enjolras stands and slings his bag over one shoulder, hoping his blush isn't noticeable in the dim light. "You're so far gone," Courfeyrac sighs, keeping their conversation in French as they wind through the tables to the door.

"I wouldn't be if he weren't fucking perfect," Enjolras says as they pass the coffee bar. Grantaire and Bahorel are facing the kitchen, still speaking rapid-fire Spanish, but Jehan is facing the rest of the cafe. They meet Enjolras's eyes with a knowing look, and Enjolras's blush deepens. He stutters his goodbyes; the cool night air is welcome on his warm face.

It isn't until Enjolras is in bed later that he remembers Prouvaire speaks Spanish and French, that they learned because they wanted to read Neruda and Baudelaire and Hugo “as they were meant to be read.” Enjolras sighs. A text buzzes through on his phone. It’s Jehan, of course it is. So much as think of the devil and they shall appear, reciting dirty limericks to boot.

Don’t worry, I won’t tell xx

Enjolras begrudgingly texts back a quick word of thanks and tosses his phone at the bedside table. It skates over the surface and thuds to the floor.

“Fuck,” he says to his ceiling.

“Shut the fuck up and go to sleep, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac yells. From Combeferre’s room.

He doesn’t get Jehan’s reply until the morning.

You should tell him though xx

Grantaire only gets worse with the Spanish over the next few meetings, and Enjolras doesn’t even want to know what he’s saying because it’s probably all insults. Because Grantaire probably hates him. They’re not not friends, but they don’t really hang out alone with each other. Half of this is to do with the fact that their friends make up one slightly incestuous group of individuals who don’t actually recognize personal space, and the other half is because if Enjolras is being honest with himself, he’s way too nervous to actually be proactive about his love life. He’s a fighter, not a lover. He’s good at People but he’s not good at people. Or, person, because if he’s being honest with himself, Grantaire’s the first person who he’s had serious interest in, ever. And maybe even sexual interest. He’s pretty comfortable with the demisexuality thing and he’s been comfortable with the homoromantic thing since he was fifteen, but he doesn’t know how to act on it. Grantaire makes him want to.

He tells this to Courfeyrac in French, because Grantaire is sitting six feet away, drawing stick figures on a napkin.

“Is it weird to fantasize about someone’s hands?” Enjolras asks.

“Can you stop,” Courfeyrac deadpans, rescuing the piece of paper Enjolras has been nervously shredding for at least the past four minutes.

“I’m so in love and he hates me, Courfeyrac.” Enjolras lets his head thunk onto the table, missing Courfeyrac’s eye roll.

Grantaire glances up and Enjolras feels like he’s a burning man, seared from the half-second of eye contact. He blushes and they both look away, but he doesn’t miss the hurt expression that flashes across Grantaire’s face.

“He is so out of my fucking league,” Enjolras says, leaning his head onto Courfeyrac’s shoulder. “I want to tell him but the rejection might kill me.”

“Calm down, drama queen,” Courfeyrac says, stroking his curls. “Enjolras, go home. Let Combeferre make you tea and tell you about the weird mutation he found in the moths he’s studying and tuck you into bed. You’re tired and I don’t think you’re being sensible. We’ll talk about this tomorrow, okay?”

“You’ve been spending too much time with Combeferre. You’re starting to sound like him. You’re parenting. You’re Combeferrenting.”

When Jehan returns with coffee, he offers one to Grantaire. Grantaire takes it and stands to leave, throwing one last odd look at Enjolras.

“Shit,” Enjolras says, grabbing his bag and running after Grantaire.

“Here,” Enjolras says, once he’s managed to catch up to Grantaire. He offers the pen Grantaire left on the table.

“Um, thanks.” Grantaire accepts the pen, shoving it into the knot of wild curls tied up at the back of his head.

“Can I walk you home?” Enjolras asks.

“Are you sick?” Grantaire feels his forehead with the back of his hand and Enjolras nearly passes out from the contact. Poems should be written about Grantaire’s hands, so many poems.

“I think I’m fine, why?”

“Well, you don’t normally do this, so.”

“Oh.”

“So, what are you working on?”

Grantaire looks as awkward as Enjolras feels. Enjolras answers and the ensuing argument is not heated like their usual ones, but bantering and easy.

Enjolras leaves Grantaire at his front door and walks away smiling.

“Courfeyrac, we have a fucking problem.” Bahorel shakes the table when he sits, sending Courfeyrac’s meticulously organized pens rolling across the scratched wood surface. “Are you aware that my best friend is in love with your best friend?” he asks.

“I had my suspicions, but I couldn’t confirm,” Courfeyrac says. “Because my best friend is definitely in love with your best friend.”

Bahorel nods and waves his hand dismissively. “Jehan told me.”

“Right. But anyway, Enjolras is a shy, delicate flower and I want him to be happy so I was trying to take it slow. Except that wasn’t really working.”

“Well, I have an idea that’ll probably work, but it might make both of them hate us, and maybe Jehan,” Bahorel says, looking hopeful.

“Perfect. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

“Seriously, R just sits there and rambles in Spanish about how beautiful Enjolras is. Do you know how that is? I think I’ve heard him compared to every conceivable god. I have to go home and punch things to feel manly again.”

Courfeyrac pats Bahorel’s hand sympathetically. He knows that look. Bahorel is a scarred man.

The Plan goes into effect on the next Friday night. There’s no meeting because the next day is Movie Night and Enjolras had decided that they all deserved a break from Operation: Genderless rally planning, so Courfeyrac gets Grantaire out to go out while Jehan and Enjolras have a Girls’ Night In.

In any case, there is (semi-responsible) drinking involved, and by eleven Grantaire is spilling his feelings in a flood of words that surpasses even the best of his rambling arguments.

He’s not drunk, not really, but there’s a reason Courfeyrac is the glue of their friend group.

“Listen,” Courfeyrac says, sipping his beer. “I think the fact that you won’t talk to each other in English is frustrating, but also cute in an incredibly fucked-up way. So I’m here to do you a favor. Together, we can go where no man has gone before. We can conquer the final frontier.”

“Is that a euphemism?” Grantaire mumbles into his beer.

“Only if you want it to be, babe.” Courfeyrac winks. “Now, fais attention.”

Jehan is a cruel, cruel person despite their penchant for flowers and soft, flowy skirts. Really, Enjolras probably should have known by the skull collection.

Because now Jehan has him trapped. They’re painting his nails, freshly dip-dyed hair twisted into a bun on top of his head. And, right, Jehan got him a little bit drunk on like, daiquiris or something, because Enjolras is a lightweight, which he cannot help, thank you very much.

Enjolras feels the impending confrontation, and he cannot run.

“Babe, we have to do something about your crush,” Jehan says, carefully applying a heavy glitter topcoat to his fingernails.

Enjolras swallows.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Jehan gives him an incredibly unimpressed look, and Enjolras wonders how much practice that particular type of soul-searing glare must have taken.

“Do you trust me?”

“Of course.” Jehan is one of his oldest friends.

“Then listen to me.”

Movie Night arrives and Enjolras changes into his tightest jeans and four different colors of the same v-neck before settling on a red one that matches the ends of his hair. He’d be biting his nails, but he doesn’t want to end up with a mouthful of glitter polish and anyway, people are starting to arrive. Marius and Courfeyrac are first, always early, and Jehan last, with Bahorel and Grantaire in tow.

Here goes nothing.

Courfeyrac greets Bahorel with a fistbump and a quiet, “For the Vine.”

Enjolras tugs Grantaire into a corner and this cannot be Grantaire’s real life. Enjolras is standing in front of him looking better than he has any right to, and then he’s speaking. Speaking Spanish.

Grantaire’s face goes pale and Marius lets out a choking noise from the couch. Oh god, oh god, Enjolras should not have trusted Jehan. But then it might not have been all bad, because Grantaire’s mouth opens, and French comes out and…oh. Enjolras can’t help the furious blush that spreads across his face.

“Um. Is there a particular reason you just told me you want to ride me like a whore?” Enjolras asks, voice faint.

“I assume it’s the same reason you told me you’d like me to fuck you until you cry?” Grantaire’s face is still paler than usual, and it looks like he’s trying really hard not to look as miserable as Enjolras feels. Because everyone lied and Grantaire still doesn’t return his feelings and his life is a joke.

“Ah, so. Our shit friends?” Enjolras looks like he’s about to round on them all, and so Grantaire pulls them both into the kitchen.

“Look, all kidding aside…” He scratches the back of his neck. “I do like you. A lot, and I don’t know if you return those feelings, but I thought I should tell you in English so we both understand. And if you never want to see me again after tonight, I totally understand that too. I’m sorry this happened. I didn’t know they were going to do this.”

He tries to turn away, but Enjolras stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Grantaire, I’m sorry I wasn’t more forward. I think…I think this was their way of telling us to get our heads out of our asses, because Courfeyrac has had to deal with me yelling about how great you are in French when he could be kissing his boyfriend and I think it might have been getting on his nerves. And, well, I do like you. And if you would maybe want to give a relationship a try, I’d really like that too?”

Enjolras rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, quickly retracting his hand when he realizes he’s still hanging on to Grantaire’s shoulder.

“Can I kiss you, I’d really like to kiss you,” Grantaire says nervously.

“Are you sure you don’t want to ride me like a whore?” Enjolras asks wryly.

“Well, you know, there’s always later, but I mean of course I’ll respect your boundaries and—”

Enjolras cuts him off with a kiss.

“Yeah, there’s always later,” he says.

There’s cheering from the living room, and, by midnight, an incredibly embarrassing Vine on both of their timelines.

“We need revenge,” Enjolras mutters. He’s sprawled in Grantaire’s lap. Grantaire’s evil smirk is adorable, even upside down.

“We will get revenge, don’t worry.”

“My eyes,” Courfeyrac complains to Combeferre the next morning. “My eyes have seen things they were never meant to see. Like Enjolras’s hands in Grantaire’s pants.”

“I think you’ve done worse,” Combeferre says.

“We use that table. Do you know how hard it is to eat breakfast at the table when your best friend is getting some on top of it?”

Bahorel may or may not wake up screaming with Grantaire’s ball python sliding up his torso the next morning.

“THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU,” he shrieks, while Jehan laughs and sits up in bed. They let Cupcake coil around their arm.

“You probably deserved that,” they say.

“For the Vine,” Grantaire says, fistbumping Enjolras.