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The snow piled up gently outside the window, and just by looking at it, Grantaire could tell that it wasn’t going to melt any time soon. It wouldn’t soften either, where it reaches that stage where it becomes more slush than anything else, or at least for a few days. It was going to be a long handful of days, and Christmas was creeping up sooner than any of them knew it. Two days, and then it was Christmas, and everyone would be swept away by their families, or other happenings, and then it would be the New Year. Another year would have come and passed, and nothing had changed. The world was still moving, and he was still standing still. Everyone was— well, they were moving on, and yet, there he was, stuck in the cement that he’d mixed himself, then stood in, waiting for it to dry. Waiting to get himself out of it.
“R,” Jehan called from the kitchen. “Wake up. Come on. We have snacks to make.”
Grantaire snapped out of it, or at least tried to, and pushed himself up off the couch. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “What’s the job?”
“We have so many apps to make,” Jehan sighed, running a hand across their forehead. “Like, so many.”
“We did it to ourselves, didn’t we?” Grantaire huffed. “I knew we should’ve stuck to three apps and an entree. Why did we— why did we go five and two?”
“Look,” Jehan started, pushing their glasses up their nose. “We have so many people to feed. Like, so many, okay? Ten. Not including carry-ons. We have some vegetarians, some vegans, y’know. We gotta keep everyone fed and happy.”
“I know,” Grantaire replied, trying to breathe all of the irritation out of his own body. “We just— God. Sorry. We need to get started, don’t we?”
“Yes,” Jehan smiled, lightly pressing the tip of their finger to his nose. “Have you made your PowerPoint yet?”
They turned to the refrigerator to start pulling ingredients out, and Grantaire paused. “I haven’t, no.”
Jehan turned back. “Well,” they started, “What are you— what are you thinking about doing?”
“I dunno,” he shrugged. “Maybe some— some, like, bullshit. I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it, I guess.”
“R, the whole— the party is tonight,” Jehan reminded, sighing, and slamming the pack of sausage down on the counter.
“And I’ll never understand why we do Christmas so ear-late,” Grantaire argued. “I’ll never understand it, honestly. Nowhere else— I mean, like, nobody I know other than us does a Christmas party both so close to Christmas and so late. Like— everyone else does their parties in the teens, and we’re celebrating two days before—”
“It’s tradition,” Jehan insisted. “And it’s the one day we can all manage to get it together to hang out, you know that.”
“I know,” Grantaire sighed. “I just feel— I don’t know. I’m in a slump this year. A major one.”
“You get into one of these slumps every year,” Jehan reminded him. “And every year, this helps get you out of it.”
“I just don’t see the point in wasting what precious energy I have on making a PowerPoint,” Grantaire argued.
Jehan leveled him with a look, pulling a knife from the block, and slamming the knife into the sausage on the cutting board. “But you see the point in wasting it on arguing?”
“You hate me,” Grantaire groaned. Jehan smiled, and they seemed to be going for sarcasm, but it felt a little too warm. “Fine. Fine. You just— you tell me if you’d rather have me helping in here, or if I should be working on my PowerPoint.”
“How are you supposed to work on your PowerPoint if you don’t know what you’re doing it on?” Jehan asked, quirking an eyebrow. “Come on. Think about it. I won’t start ‘til you do.”
“Oh my God.” Grantaire’s brain wasn’t even working well enough for him to think about the ingredients he was supposed to throw into the gumbo, and yet, he had to make a presentation about something.
“It can be anything,” Jehan reminded. “Like, anything. I don’t know— rank your top five worst oil paints, or, like, the worst poetic forms. Some bullshit. It can be anything. There are no rules.”
“Top Ten Reasons Why Enjolras Should Go Out With Me,” Grantaire laughed snarkily, but Jehan froze in place. “Oh no. No— no, I’m not, like, actually doing that—”
“Why, though?” Jehan resumed cutting the sausage.
“Because it’s weird and predatory, and—”
“Well,” Jehan laughed. “You know, like, I’m pretty sure that Enjolras just. Y’know. Isn’t familiar with the best things about you.” They pointed at him, using their finger this time, and not the knife. “You have plenty of redeeming qualities, and if you— if you want to actually date him, instead of, y’know, all this. This weird stuff you’re doing. With you— with you two, like. Hanging out. And being civil. I mean, think about it.”
“Think about what?” Grantaire asked, wanting the ground to swallow him whole.
“Think about how the last fundraiser went,” Jehan explained. “The arts and crafts thing. You sort of, like— you led that, you know? You led the activities. You did great. And he was just— he was looking at you like you had suddenly turned into a walking god. And afterward, remember—”
“Yes,” Grantaire interrupted. “Yeah. I remember, and I kind of, like— I kind of don’t want to. At all.”
It was the first time he and Enjolras had really been alone together— it was something new. Something unfamiliar, a terrain not yet traversed by either of them. It was— strange. Enjolras walked up to him after all of the kids had left the cafe, and offered to walk him home. He’d never done that— in all of the years that they’d known each other, throughout all of the push-and-pull of their relationship, Enjolras had never once walked him home. Not even when Grantaire was too drunk; in those circumstances, though, Enjolras would always call him a cab, or help him get an Uber, or arrange for another one of their friends to get him home. That, though— that was something he hadn’t realized until that moment, thinking about his not-relationship with Enjolras while standing in the kitchen with Jehan.
That was beside the point, though— the first time Enjolras and Grantaire had ever been alone together was that night, after the arts and crafts lesson for the kids in the community. They’d done holiday crafts— simple things, like making hot cocoa cones that look like reindeer or making bar soap snowmen, and the entire time, Grantaire had led the activity. And while Grantaire led the activity, Enjolras, according to Jehan and Courfeyrac, couldn’t peel his eyes away from Grantaire. And then Enjolras had offered to walk him home.
“R,” he’d said, his voice and eyes all soft and gooey, or at least, softer and gooier than Grantaire had ever witnessed. “You did great. Everyone else offered to stay and clean up, so you’re good to head home. I’ll walk you?”
“You— you’ll, um,” Grantaire stammered. “What? You’ll. Huh?”
“I’ll walk you home,” Enjolras repeated. “You did us a solid by, um, leading this. So, you’re good to go. You don’t have to stay for cleanup. And I want to make sure you get home alright.”
“I’m fine to walk alone,” Grantaire managed, but Enjolras’s soft face grew tight, almost scrutinizing. “Um. Unless—”
“No,” Enjolras insisted. “I’m walking you home. I owe you that.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” Grantaire tried. “Like, um. Like. At all. I mean, I owe you, like, a million times over for, like, everything ever, y’know, um, in the entire world—
“Grantaire,” Enjolras interrupted, voice going soft again. “Let me walk you home.” He placed a hand on Grantaire’s arm, so confidently unsure, and so certainly hesitant. “Please.”
And then, well— Grantaire melted. Of course. Because Enjolras had a hand on his arm, and suddenly, the world was glowing golden through the quiet, soft snowfall in the mid-December sky, and everything felt a little bit more beautiful.
“Alright,” Grantaire replied, swallowing down whatever was rising in his chest. “Yeah. Okay.”
The walk home was— uneventful. Until it wasn’t.
They walked in near-silence, the only sound between them, at least for a while, being the quiet huff of their breaths cutting into the cold air, warmth evaporating into mist into nothingness.
“Thank you,” Enjolras said suddenly, and Grantaire froze. “For, um. For taking care of things tonight. You know that I don’t have a creative bone in my body. Nobody but you and Feuilly does, really.”
“Thanks,” Grantaire replied quietly. He scuffed at the snow on the ground with the toe of his boot, and Enjolras laughed softly.
“You’re different like this,” Enjolras observed, tucking a loose hair behind one of his ears, then tucking his ears under his beanie. He looked cold, and Grantaire wanted nothing more than to reach out and warm him up.
“Like what?” Grantaire asked, suddenly aware of his entire existence. Suddenly aware of the way he was holding his body, suddenly aware of the way Enjolras was looking at him— up until that point, he wasn’t sure that Enjolras had ever looked at him, and now, well— now, Enjolras was looking at him like Grantaire had stopped the car in the middle of the highway to avoid hitting a deer, then got out to redirect a stray box turtle.
“When we’re alone,” Enjolras explained. “You— you turn off the theatrics a little. You’re more of what I think you might actually be.”
“I don’t know what that means,” Grantaire squeaked, and hoped that the cold concealed his flush, or at the very least, hoped that he could conceal the reason for the flush by blaming it on the cold.
“It means that,” Enjolras started, then sighed. He tugged on one of his own gloved hands, playing with the loose ends of the fingers. “It means that I think you’re far more valuable than you feel you are. And I know you value what I think. And— and it means that I’m seeing you in an entirely different light.”
“Oh.” Grantaire breathed slowly, and tried to level his shaky breaths and shaky movements. “Thanks, I guess.”
Enjolras looked at him, and for the first time, it seemed that Enjolras was really looking at him. At everything Grantaire had ever done, or not done, for him. At everything Grantaire was. Blue eyes dug under his skin like a scalpel, and Grantaire could feel Enjolras picking apart what he saw beneath the surface.
“You’re welcome.” Enjolras’s nose turned red as he spoke. “I look like Rudolph,” he added, evidently aware of the flush spreading across his own face.
“Yeah, if Rudolph were, like, a god. Or whatever.” Grantaire shrugged, and resumed walking.
“Grantaire,” Enjolras said, seemingly out of the blue, almost toward the end of their walk. “Grantaire.”
They both stopped.
Enjolras turned toward him, and Grantaire breathed in harshly, drinking in the ice-cold air, and everything in his body froze with the chill. Enjolras reached for him, and Grantaire looked back with wide eyes. It wasn’t real— there was no way it could be, truthfully; it was the first time they’d ever been alone together, and it was the first time that Grantaire had proven himself to be competent in any way, shape, or form ever in Enjolras’s eyes, but there it was, actually happening.
“Can I—” Enjolras was asking, and Grantaire nodded fervently, and then—
Their lips touched, and it was— everything. It was soft, but it was so certain, and unsure, and meaningful. Grantaire could tell that Enjolras meant the kiss the same way he meant anything else he’d ever done in his life.
Then it was over, and they were three steps away from Grantaire’s apartment, and Enjolras was brushing his arm as Grantaire unlocked the door, and then Grantaire was alone. Enjolras was gone, his presence as evident as a ghost in mid-day snow, his absence heavier than anything else. Enjolras had kissed him, and then disappeared into the night, saying nothing more than, “I’ll see you later.”
Grantaire shook himself out of the memory. “It probably didn’t even mean anything,” he sighed. “Like— I bet he. You know. I bet he, like, kisses people platonically all the time.”
“On the cheek, sure,” Jehan argued. “Maybe even on the head. But— he definitely doesn’t kiss people on the lips just, like, out of nowhere. So. I say, y’know, go for the PowerPoint. Just do it. Stop worrying.”
“Fine,” Grantaire sighed. “Fine. Just— let me think while I do it. No questions. You’ll see it when everyone else does.”
He crossed back into the living room and plopped down on the couch, grabbing his laptop. It was probably a mistake, but hey— mistakes were what he was best at.
ᕯᕯᕯ
“That concludes my presentation on why Puppet Yoda is inherently superior to CGI Yoda, and why LucasFilms definitely could have done the fight sequences with Puppet Yoda. Does anyone have any questions?” Combeferre looked around the room expectantly. “Alright, that’s all then. Thank you.” He returned to his seat in the armchair in the corner, and Jehan got back up, standing by the TV.
“According to the numbers we drew,” they said, “Grantaire is next. Are you ready?”
Well, no. Not really. But would he ever be?
He took a deep breath and nodded, clearing his throat as he stood up, toting his laptop with him, and intentionally avoiding eye contact with everyone in the room, but particularly, avoiding eye contact with Enjolras, who seemed— almost too happy to see him. He’d seemed that way upon arrival, too, his face glowing red as he smiled, the joy in his face putting the rest of the world to shame; Grantaire didn’t want to admit it, and he definitely wasn’t going to say it, but seeing Enjolras like that— that was what the holidays were about, really. Seeing the people you love that happy.
“Um, before I start,” Grantaire tried, choking on every word as it came out of his mouth, “Please just. Just— don’t take this too seriously.”
Jehan looked at him with a smirk, their face much lighter than Grantaire’s, as Grantaire clicked onto the first slide.
“Um,” Grantaire squeaked. “Top Ten Reasons Why Enjolras Should Go Out With Me.”
Enjolras’s face fell, and Grantaire’s heart clenched in his chest, almost like it ceased to beat for a moment; he watched as Enjolras rose from the couch and pushed through the crowd of their friends, mumbling something under his breath. Grantaire, for once in his life, said nothing, only watched as Enjolras ran away. It seemed that things would always end like that.
“You aren’t going to stay and hear him out?” Courfeyrac asked. Enjolras scowled tightly, and kept walking, ignoring the shouts from the rest of the group as he left. Grantaire felt frozen in place— what was there even to do?
Grantaire, needless to say, did not present his PowerPoint, but followed Enjolras out— but not to seek him out, not to talk through it, not to finally come clean and tell him how he’d felt about him for the longest time; he followed, yes, as he always would, but it wasn’t to tell Enjolras that the moment they first saw each other, what felt like lifetimes ago— before all of the useless pleasantries of adult life, before all of their bullshit liberal arts degrees, before everyone around them seemed to overdose on gilded optimism— Enjolras had, with his eyes alone, strummed at the strings of Grantaire’s heart, fingering the frets of his soul with masterful precision, until all Grantaire could do was sing Enjolras’s praises.
“Enjolras,” he tried— but only once. He watched as Enjolras’s taillights disappeared into the darkness of the December night, singing their own lonely song. His heart pounded, echoing in his ears, but he was home— there was nowhere else for him to go, and more than that, there was no reason he could find to follow Enjolras this time. He turned back around, moving inside, going to face their friends.
Inside, though, they said nothing to him. He said nothing back. He grabbed his laptop, slammed the lid closed, and shoved through to his bedroom, setting his laptop down on the desk, but flinging himself onto his bed at maximum velocity. He didn’t move for the rest of the night.
ᕯᕯᕯ
In the morning, Jehan rapped on his door lightly, the sound of their rings tapping the wood stirring Grantaire from his sleep. “Hey, I’m about to head out. You gonna be alright?”
“Yeah,” he managed, still mostly asleep, and still entirely buried under his blankets, his voice barely audible through the layers. “I’ll be fine.”
“Can I come in?”
The question was arbitrary. They knew the answer. They shuffled in quietly, perching like a bird on the edge of Grantaire’s bed.
“That was quite the scene last night,” they half-laughed, more out of discomfort than anything. “Um, I’m sorry for telling you to make that presentation. I am, really.”
“Well,” Grantaire grumbled, shoving his face into the pillow. “It got me out of dish duty, I guess. So. There’s that.”
“Are you planning on wallowing all day today and tomorrow while I’m out?” Jehan took a rip of their vape, exhaling slowly. Pomegranate, Grantaire noted. Sweet.
“No,” he lied, unconvincingly. “I’m going to triple-feature Muppet Christmas Carol, RENT, and Meet Me in St. Louis, so.”
“Okay,” Jehan sighed, “I’m officially putting you on Being-Watched-Watch.”
“Fuck off.” Grantaire finally rolled over, staring at the ceiling. “I’ll be fine, seriously. I did it to myself.”
“I helped,” Jehan protested. “I’m sorry. Again. Seriously.”
“C’est la vie.”
“Nearly everyone else is headed out of town for the next few days, R,” Jehan started, reaching out and brushing one of Grantaire’s wild curls from his face. “Will you be alright? I mean it. I can— I can stay if you’d like. I don’t want you to be alone during the holidays, and—”
“I’m fine,” Grantaire insisted, rolling back over. “I’m fine. It’s fine. It doesn’t even matter, anyway, like—”
“Stop that,” Jehan huffed. “Like, actually. Stop that shit.”
“Just let me die here,” Grantaire groaned. “I don’t give a shit about the holidays, you know this. And it’s not like I’m dying to show my face anywhere around here at any point soon, so just—”
“Fine.” Jehan stood up, and Grantaire’s mattress bounced back into shape a little bit, but they didn’t leave just yet. “Enjolras is staying in town for Christmas. Just so you know.”
“That’s— that’s not my business.” Grantaire scrubbed his hands over his face, wondering if pressing the heels of his palms hard enough against his eyes would make it all feel better. It wouldn’t. “Just leave me be, and go do your family stuff. I’ll— I’ll be here when you come home, alright?”
Jehan’s lips pursed, their face tense. “Fine.” They hovered awkwardly in the corner of his bedroom, like it physically pained them to leave; their body and face contorted in similar manners. “Just remember that, y’know, you don’t actually have to be alone on Christmas. Someone will be there for you, even if it’s someone you aren’t expecting.”
Grantaire resisted the urge to throw a pillow at them. “I’ll be fine,” he insisted. “I love you, though, and I’ll see you when you come home?”
“Remember to feed and water yourself,” Jehan replied, smiling softly. “I’ll see you. I love you! Have a good holiday, and don’t mope too much.”
And with that, Jehan was leaving, and Grantaire was alone. It wasn’t the first time he’d been alone for the holidays— not by a long shot—, and he knew that it wouldn’t be the last. Though he was a social creature, solitude and loneliness always found him during the Christmas season, the two empty feelings being more of a family than emotions typically were, and he had, until very recently, been content with it. Normally, he felt like he was nothing without friendship, but the holidays felt— different. The holidays had always been a time where he reflected on the time that had passed— the people he’d been, and the things he’d done, or not done. It was never like—
Well, it was never like this. It was never that mopey, hollow feeling that was overtaking him at that moment. Maybe it was different before, because before, he knew that he could reach out to the others who stuck around during the holidays. The others, typically, consisted solely of Enjolras. Enjolras, who probably wanted nothing to do with him after the PowerPoint fiasco. And so he was alone on Christmas Eve, having maybe burned the only bridge in town that still stood.
He laid flat on his back and stared blankly at the ceiling, hoping the flaking popcorn plaster would tell him something he didn’t know, but it didn’t. Because of course it didn’t. He spent most of the day like that, hardly even glancing over at his phone, ignoring the text messages that he wasn’t getting, because everyone else was busy with their own families, and the restaurant was closed that day so nobody would be asking him to come into work, and Enjolras probably never wanted to talk to him again— God. How could he have been so stupid?
The day passed quicker than he expected. Time flies when you’re having— nothing.
At eight-forty-five on the dot, as Grantaire did every year, he settled into the well-loved couch in the living room, having flipped through every DVD he and Jehan owned to find the disc he played almost exclusively on Christmas Eve every year. The DVD loading screen felt like it was taking forever, so he gave in, switching his phone off of do not disturb, with a gut feeling that his messages inbox was likely empty, but—
It wasn’t.
It wasn’t empty at all.
ENJOLRAS 3h ago: Hi, Grantaire. Can we talk?
ENJOLRAS 3h ago: I’m not angry at you, I’m just upset; sometimes I need a moment to gather my feelings, and then the moment I was reacting to is over before I can explain how I’m feeling. If you’re amenable, I would love to explain to you how I was feeling then, if it isn’t too late.
ENJOLRAS 3h ago: I know you aren’t busy.
ENJOLRAS 3h ago: Grantaire?
ENJOLRAS 3h ago: If you are upset with me, then I understand. I know that I must have hurt your feelings when I left, but that was not my goal.
ENJOLRAS 3h ago: Jehan told me you aren’t busy, and that you’re sitting at home.
ENJOLRAS 3h ago: I just want to talk to you.
ENJOLRAS 2h ago: I’m sorry if I overstepped; you don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to.
JEHAN 3h ago: sorry lolllllllllllll don’t hate me hahaha
R just now: what have you done.
He took a deep breath, trying to read between the lines with what Enjolras was talking about— time was ticking faster, though, and soon it would be time to press play. It was tradition, and he was not someone to break his own traditions, especially the ones that existed as quiet rituals between himself and nobody else, like this one. Sometimes, his seasonal solitude came in handy.
Yes, his routine was nice, but— if he waited too long, it could be too late. He stared at his phone screen, re-reading the messages Enjolras had sent until his eyes started to hurt, staring at the tiny version of Enjolras that beamed up at him from the top of their messages. He closed his eyes, breathing slowly, then opened them, tapping on Enjolras’s contact, then pressing the call button. The call barely rang for a second, before Enjolras’s voice broke the crackly silence, rasping out a quiet, watery, “Hello?”
“Come over,” Grantaire rasped, in lieu of a greeting. “Let’s talk. Fuck what I was going to do tonight, come over. Please. I want to know what you’ve been—”
A knock on the door interrupted him, and the call dropped. Carefully, but not quite hesitantly, he made his way over to the door, opening it slowly. He didn’t care to check the peep-hole before opening, because he knew exactly who it was.
Enjolras stood out in the cold, his face wind-flushed. Rudolph, Grantiare’s mind added unhelpfully.
“I wasn’t waiting outside here,” Enjolras explained. “I was— I was going to the store, and then I realized that it was Christmas Eve and everything was closed, because everything runs on the Christian calendar, and—”
“It’s fine,” Grantaire smiled. It felt weird to smile after spending the rest of the day in such a miserable state, but something about seeing Enjolras on the porch lit him back up. “Come inside. I actually have the heat going.”
“I’m sorry,” Enjolras blurted, half-stumbling into Grantaire’s apartment. “I really am. I shouldn’t have—”
“Sit down, and warm up. You look like you’re going to freeze to death.” Grantaire grabbed Enjolras’s coat, and pushed him toward the couch, pointing toward the massive pile of blankets that would most definitely be warmer than the wet coat Enjolras had draped around his shoulders.
Enjolras went willingly, pulling a puffy quilt over his whole body, then turning to look at the TV. “Were you watching something?”
“I was about to start RENT,” Grantaire explained. “Nine PM. It’s a tradition I have with— myself.”
“Don’t let me get in the way of your plans,” Enjolras started, but Grantiare simply placed a hand on his shoulder, and Enjolras relaxed back into the couch. “I’ll watch it with you. And then we can— we can talk after.”
“Are you sure?” Grantaire asked. He looked down at his phone again, checking the time. “It’s about time to start it, so make your decision.”
“I’ll watch it,” Enjolras said quickly. “I’ve never seen it.”
“Oh God,” Grantaire groaned. “You have no idea what you’re in for.”
Evidently, this proved true, as Enjolras silently sobbed through the last ten minutes or so of the movie, countering Grantaire’s own shoulder-wracking sobs.
“Why do you put yourself through this?” he asked, his big blue eyes tainted with the red that only comes after excessive crying.
Grantaire sniffled, then shrugged. “I don’t know,” he confessed. “It might just be— like, I don’t know. Art is powerful. It gives me something to do each year. And— well. You know I don’t, like, believe in everything. But I believe in this, you know?”
“I— I don’t know if I do.” Enjolras looked down at his hands, then back up at Grantaire, then down to Grantaire’s hands, and then up at Grantaire's lips.
“Good art,” Grantaire said, looking back at Enjolras. “I believe in good art.”
Enjolras seemed to purposefully look away from him then, staring out at something in the not-so-distance. “I’m glad there’s something you believe in.”
“I believe in things,” Grantaire argued back half-heartedly. “Plenty of things.”
“Like what?” Enjolras asked pointedly, and Grantaire felt himself start to deflate into the soft fabric of the couch. “Because we’ve known each other for years now, and, well. I’m yet to see it. You do things sometimes, and I feel like, you know, maybe there’s something there. Maybe you do believe the world could be better, and maybe there is more to you than meets the eye. But sometimes, you know. It’s just. It’s like I’m staring at a TV that’s been powered off.”
“When did you get so good at figurative language?” Grantaire deflected, and Enjolras finally looked into his eyes. It felt like he was being hollowed out, like Enjolras was scraping all of the superficial marks from the surface of his body, then digging into him, trying to find what was real.
“I’m a speechwriter,” Enjolras reminded him, shifting on the couch, scooting impossibly close to Grantaire. Both of their hearts were racing.
“Yeah,” Grantaire not-laughed, an effort that must not go unmentioned, because all he wanted to do was laugh; it was unreal. It was something out of a rom-com. It was something out of his wet dreams. It was something out of his nightmares. Enjolras being that close to him, Enjolras willingly leaning in as Grantaire deflected, Enjolras kissing him outside of his apartment.
“Are you scared of me?” Enjolras asked, his voice almost small. Like he was unsure. Like he was scared too.
“No,” Grantaire lied. Enjolras said nothing, and Grantaire’s body seemed to shake with the emptiness that bloomed between them. “Yeah.”
“You don’t have to be,” Enjolras sighed, more of a soft murmur than anything, each word falling from his lips in their own exhale. “I’m not— I’m not scary.”
“You haven’t seen yourself, then,” Grantaire deflected. “You really haven’t, I mean. You— you’re something else, sometimes. You get up on the stage for a rally, and you— you’re just. Otherworldly, man.”
“But that doesn’t— does that scare you?”
Enjolras’s voice was a little bit too earnest for Grantaire’s taste, like he was digging into him, like he was decoding Grantaire as a cipher, like he was reading the spaces in between Grantaire’s words as terrain yet uncharted. As chaos that hadn’t been sorted through yet.
“It does, a little,” Grantaire confessed. “Like— I don’t. I don’t know if I understand why you kissed me. I really don’t. Because— because sometimes, I think you hate me. And then we’re alone together, and you’re holding my hand and kissing me, or you show up to my house and your nose is all red and adorable and you bundle up on my couch, and—”
“You being scared of me is the very last thing I could ever want,” Enjolras interrupted. “Like, I— I don’t know how to tell you how I’m feeling. But I don’t know how not to be around you. I want to be around you. I want to talk to you. And I— I mean, I guess. I guess I haven’t really shown that.”
“At all,” Grantaire said flatly. “I want— I want to understand what you want. I want to understand how I feel. Because. I— I mean. I know how I feel. And I don’t know how it lines up with how you feel. But I know that. Um. Honestly? I don’t even, like, know how I feel about— about the way you might feel.”
“You’re talking in circles,” Enjolras sighed, unwavering in his somehow-gentle stoic facade. “You do that a lot. Mostly around me.”
“So you know how I feel, then.”
Enjolras said nothing, only took Grantaire’s hand in his own. The skin was freezing, despite the bundle of blankets wrapped tightly around him. Grantaire shivered, and goosebumps raised on his skin, silent braille patterns that spelled out Enjolras’s name covering him all over.
“I do, yeah,” Enjolras said finally.
“Your hands are cold,” Grantaire blurted. “Sorry. Just— I wasn’t expecting that.”
“You know, I wasn’t expecting a lot of things,” Enjolras replied, squeezing Grantaire’s hand tightly. “I wasn’t— I wasn’t expecting to be so irritated by you all the time. And I wasn’t expecting for that irritation to not even be irritation, but— affection. You’ve grown on me. And— I’ve grown around you, a little. I— I think you, like. Maybe have made me. Maybe— maybe sort of gentle.”
“Gentle?” Grantaire asked, lightly tracing his thumb over the ridges of Enjolras’s freezing hands. They were both growing warmer, but Grantaire wasn’t sure if it was from the blankets or the outpouring of emotions.
“Gentle,” Enjolras confirmed. “Like— like I can worry less when I’m around you. I don’t have to— I don’t have to pretend. I have to pretend around— around so many people. But, um. I don’t have to pretend around you. And— it’s not just you, I mean, I wouldn’t put that on your plate, it’s just— I wasn’t expecting it. I can’t, really, um. Read between the lines sometimes. But— but with you, I mean. I don’t have to.”
Enjolras blushed, and paused. Grantaire looked at him, something soft resting on his face.
“I’m normally good with words,” Enjolras huffed.
“I’m normally good with— well, nothing,” Grantaire replied. His heart fluttered, and Enjolras squeezed his hand again. They were both starting to warm up, thawing from the inside out; everything, at that point, was on the table.
“You— well. I think you’re probably, um. A good kisser,” Enjolras squeaked, turning even redder.
“Yeah?” Grantaire asked. He tucked a loose hair behind Enjolras’s ear. “You— you can find out, you know. I do have some strengths.”
“Show me, then,” Enjolras whispered, and Grantaire leaned in. Their lips brushed gently— just softly, just in a way that sent waves of electricity down their spines. Enjolras sighed against him.
“This has been— an unexpected Christmas,” Grantaire said, pulling away. Enjolras nodded silently, soft and pliant from the changes in the air. “But I guess. I don’t know. I guess I can tell Jehan that the PowerPoint worked.”
“I think you can, yeah,” Enjolras agreed, his voice almost— giggly. It was novel, and Grantaire expected that it would stay novel for a long time. “Merry Christmas, R.”
“Merry Christmas,” Grantaire replied, pulling Enjolras closer to him, closing any gap between their bodies on the couch. The snow was still falling outside, and the DVD menu screen danced silently. As they sat there, intertwined, and inextricable from each other for the first time, Grantaire had a feeling that they were at the corner of something new— that this Christmas would welcome in every draft from the winds of change in his life, that every coded word between them would be deciphered in time.
It was a strange thing, to be so openly for each other, even in the confines of his living room, but it was strange in a good way; it was strange in the same overwhelming way the current rushes against your body in the ocean, like something that overtakes you, dragging you down and lifting you up in one motion. If it meant every Christmas would feel like this, and would end like this, with them wrapped up on the couch, Grantaire was happy to walk into the waves every day for the rest of his life. The gas heat rumbled at the floorboards, and their hearts beat in time. They fell asleep on the couch, neither of them bothering to move, and when Grantaire woke up in the morning, Enjolras’s head was resting lightly on his chest, tiny nests of blond curls going every which way, and if Enjolras hadn’t been drooling a little, he would have sworn it was a dream.
But it wasn’t— this was real. And it would be real for as long as they both let it. Enjolras stirred on his chest, mumbling his way through a yawn.
Grantaire could get used to that.