Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The One Page More new and used bookstore is a cramped, unassuming brick building in the heart of a downtown shopping district. Its door is old, and adorned with a small brass bell that jingles when it’s opened. Beside the door is a squat, arched window. The name of the shop is painted on it in what used to be neat, precise gold and black letters, now a bit faded and chipped.

Inside the window, books have been stacked, the brightest covers and the newest releases front and center in an attempt to ply someone, anyone, to perhaps take a look around inside.

It’s rare that they succeed. But that is exactly how Grantaire likes it.

The bookstore isn’t his. He’s one of a handful of employees that work around the semi-dark, small shop and the adjoined cafe. The latter of which was added only a few years back in another effort to get more people to come inside and look around. It replaced the religious works section, which had to be fused with part of the political and historical works sections to make room.

When it had happened, Grantaire made a joke to his boss—an older, incredibly grumpy man named Javert—about the importance of the separation of church and state. But it hadn’t landed.

Granted, his jokes have never landed with Javert. His boss is a former cop who acts like he’s still a hard-nosed investigator despite dealing with hardcovers instead of hardened criminals for the past two decades. If Javert had known him at any other point in his life, he wouldn’t have given Grantaire the time of day. So frankly, he was glad to just get a sneer and a paycheck.

Javert is still butthurt to this day about having to open the dinky cafe at all, in order to keep up with the big name bookstores. On a good day, he does his best to forget that it exists at all.

That fact alone is probably the only reason his best friend and coworker, Eponine, still has her job as the one and only barista on shift weekdays, despite making some of the worst coffee Grantaire (or anyone, he thinks) has ever tasted. It could honestly be constituted as a skill, since Grantaire is pretty sure it’s on purpose. He has to believe that no one could make coffee this acrid without putting in some effort.

This place, and these people have been a huge part of his life for the past decade, and he loves this place and them. But today? Today is boring.

Grantaire is sitting behind the register stand, having put a stool back there without Javert’s permission, because standing for eight hours a day is frankly not humane. The One Page More is blessedly empty, as usual, so he has time to doodle and sneak texts to Eponine, who is as usual just across the store in the cafe, also slacking.

It’s a Tuesday, in that spot of the year when fall is encroaching on summer’s territory. The leaves on the trees are just starting to yellow, some particularly ambitious ones even deciding to fall early.

Quitting while they’re ahead, a very Grantaire move.

Grantaire’s near permanent fall and winter wardrobe doesn’t feel out of place anymore, either. That he is grateful for. Today’s outfit features a worn green crew neck sweater, and a rumpled button up underneath. He has an iron now, and feels oh so adult when he uses it, but it’s rare he actually breaks it out. He’s got his usual soft grey apron over it, his name tag pinned on the right side.

It has been a particularly slow day. He’s already looked through the many rows of books multiple times, straightened the display books on the table in the middle of the floor showing off the (theoretical) best sellers, swept, dusted off some bigger tomes in the abomination of a historical/political/religious section, visited with Eponine at the cafe until she told him to fuck off, and un-stacked and re-stacked their freebie bookmarks on the pay stand five times.

Make that six.

Grantaire is an expert at slacking, but that’s only when slacking is the more fun option between work and...well, slack. With no stimulus, he just gets antsy. Javert isn’t even in today, so there’s absolutely no supervision. Somehow, that makes it worse.

Having been kicked from the cafe by Eponine for bugging her too much, he takes the next most obvious course of action and pulls out his phone, typing her a message from under the register table instead.

From: Grantaire
1:04pm, September 14:
-----
i know you said i was banned but please
for the love of god
can you give me something to do

It’s about a 50/50 shot that she’ll reply, mostly depending upon how bored she is. Apparently she is in fact bored enough to humor him, because a couple of minutes later his phone vibrates. Grantaire practically throws it back out of his apron pocket to look.

From: 🦇 Eponine 🦇
1:06pm, September 14:
-----
you work in a book shop, you realize that, right?
maybe try reading something.

Grantaire groans, glaring towards the cafe. He can’t see Eponine from his angle, just one of the tables with two chairs by a window, and the swap from hardwood floors to tile that marks the beginning of the cafe’s territory. He taps a message back.

From: Grantaire
1:06pm, September 14:
-----
you think i havent thought of that??
cmon ponine i need real suggestions here

From: 🦇 Eponine 🦇
1:07pm, September 14:
-----
i think you should be grateful i responded at all, frankly.
my advice doesn’t normally come for free.

From: Grantaire
1:08pm, September 14:
-----
fuck okay fine
do you at least have a book to recommend in this trying time
im dying out here

From: 🦇 Eponine 🦇
1:08pm, September 14:
-----
what am i, your fucking english teacher?
grab a bestseller, it’s not that hard, R.

Grantaire sighs, and drops his phone into his lap, exasperated. Honestly, at this point he’d give anything for one of his old high school teachers to drop in and give him something, anything to read. Well, besides maybe The Great Gatsby. Fuck that book.

While Eponine’s texts were mostly unhelpful, as he looks across the small front area of the store in search of a book, he finds himself going down a mental rabbit hole that’s at the very least a little distracting.

In general, Grantaire tries not to think about high school. It was a long time ago, and there isn’t much of it he remembers fondly. But sometimes the thought of how he used to be pulls him in, and he can’t stop himself.

If you had asked Grantaire when he was in high school where he thought he’d be in ten years, he probably would have said something along the lines of “passed out in a fast food parking lot, or in jail”, and then he would have laughed. Because frankly, that was optimistic of him.

Being any kind of upstanding citizen had been out of the question, and anyone who knew him at the time would have agreed. He’s sure of that. No one would have pictured him stocking shelves of a bookstore, dusting off the paperbacks, and god forbid, reading. He hasn’t talked to anyone he knew then in years, besides Eponine.

They had both been a part of a very tight knit friend group in high school. Or...really, the rest of the group had been tight knit, and he and Eponine had been the ones on the fringes, fraying off a little more each day.

The group had been good for them both, he knows. Everyone in the “ABC”, as they had come to call the club, was passionate, and driven, and believed the world could be changed. They formed a club about political action, and actually tried.

Grantaire did not share their optimism, nor their passion. But he had been a part of the ABC regardless.

He still remembers the energy in their club room when their leader, Enjolras, had a cause, and would sweep everyone on board to organize.

Enjolras was a forest fire. Bright, blazing, and running almost too hot to really be able to look at him. It was hard not to pay attention, even for someone like Grantaire, who made sport out of knowing as little as possible at any given moment.

At Enjolras’ command, they took trips together to protests, getting as many students to come with them as possible. They organized sit-ins, walk outs, all types of shit to try and make change within their community. The success of which could barely be called marginal, but that didn’t seem to matter.

Maybe his problem was that he hadn’t believed in their causes, he’d believed in a person. And that person was Enjolras. He is willing to admit now, looking back, that he’d had a big fucking crush. At the time he hadn’t even been out to himself as bisexual, even if the group was the gayest thing their school had. That included the GSA, which was mostly straight female allies looking for a gay best friend.

Eponine had fallen into the same trap, following a boy named Marius to the group, and then falling away from it when he was introduced to a transfer student senior year named Cosette.

Grantaire’s reasons for falling away were less jealousy, like Eponine’s. It had been more that Enjolras hated his guts.

To be fair, some self sabotage may have contributed to that.

Enjolras had tolerated, and maybe even liked his presence for a while. But towards the end of senior year, Grantaire was high, or drunk more than he wasn’t, especially at school. And he’s sure now that he was unbearably annoying, though he remembers little to no specifics of what lead up to the end.

All he remembers vividly is the ultimatum.

After what he assumes was a particularly boisterous distraction from whatever Enjolras was talking about that day, he had been dragged out of their club room by his arm, and he had looked at those beautiful, piercing eyes that were more angry than he’d ever seen them, suddenly terrified.

“Come back sober, or don’t come back at all,” was what Enjolras had said through his teeth, clearly not wanting to cause more of a scene.

Grantaire had picked the latter.

To this day, it’s a memory that makes him cringe. Stocking shelves, finishing checking out a customer, or doing nothing but sit at the register like he is now, he has to clench and unclench a fist, and squeeze his eyes shut to make the pit in his stomach go away. It’s never completely gone, but it’s muted. He’s done a lot worse for himself since then, but also, eventually, a lot better.

Right now, he’s on the clock for another two hours, and can’t afford to be too down on himself for something that happened nearly a decade ago.

…Christ, a decade? He’s getting old.

Sighing loudly, he pushes his stool out with a lurch, and goes to meander. If Eponine isn’t going to be of much help, he’ll have to find a way to make himself busy, somehow. He’s got this store memorized better than the back of his hand, which isn’t hard because it’s a small store, and who the fuck memorizes the back of their hand anyway?

History/Religion/Politics land is up by the cafe, at the front left, next to the best sellers table. And the rows that splay out behind it cover literary fiction, young adult, science fiction, horror, romance, mystery, and squeezed way in the back, art and photography. The shelves themselves are tall, old wood that stand monolithic above customers, crammed to bursting with books of every shape and size. They're maze-like and twist throughout the store with only the placard on the side of each shelf telling what genre is on them.

Grantaire winds his way through shelves back towards the art section; within moments, he has a copy of MEGGS’ History of Graphic Design, a textbook a college student sold back about a year ago and that no one has bothered to touch since.

He picks it because it’s the first book he sees that he hasn’t bothered with yet, and he barely cares what it has inside as he leans against the shelf, and balances the heavy textbook on both arms, and begins to read.

Grantaire never went to college.

Well, that's not entirely true; he had tried. The local community college had seemed like the logical extension to the high school experience. But by then he had met Camille, and meeting her was the natural continuation of a downward spiral he had put into motion years even before that.

People who enabled him and his...tendencies, he'd found, were a trap he'd just loved to fall into. And Camille had been the best at it.

Camille isn’t a mental rabbit hole he wants to fall into now, though. He redoubles his efforts to get interested in history, focusing hard on each word in the book until reading it begins to feel natural.

Ten minutes later, he hears the bell jingle from the front of the store. But by now he’s invested in the cave paintings at Lascaux, curious how the fuck this ties into modern graphic design.

“Welcome in,” he says absently, still leaning on the shelf and focused on the book. His back is to the front of the shop, so he re-balances, and waves an arm out into the aisle so the customer knows where he is if they need help. “Let me know if you need help finding anything.”

And he goes back to reading.

He keeps an ear on the soft footsteps as they creak around the old shop, waiting for them to get back around to the front desk.

It turns out that the cave paintings only tie into graphic design in that they are graphic, and technically designed. The connection to him seems tenuous at best, but sure, he'll allow it.

Just as he’s losing interest, he hears footsteps start to move from the literary fiction section back towards the front of the store. So he snaps the old textbook shut, and shoves it with some effort back into its place on the cramped shelf.

He finally looks up to face the new customer when he gets behind the front desk, leaning on it and rapping his fingers on the wood.

They freeze mid tap when his eyes meet blue.

The face he finds when he looks up isn’t some anonymous college student, or an old woman who has been coming here for years, though. It’s familiar, and piercing, and Grantaire’s former restlessness now has a new application of pure anxiety.

Enjolras looks good, is his second thought, after the first. Which for the record, is 'Oh fuck'. He hopes he says neither out loud. Vaguely, he wonders if he somehow summoned Enjolras here by daydreaming. But knows that if he had that ability, they would have run into each other a long time before now. It’s a little embarrassing to admit how often he’s crossed his mind over the last decade.

He’s grown up in the time they’ve been apart, which Grantaire knows is what happens as time passes, but somehow it feels unreal. Enjolras had always been like a pristine marble statue, unchanging and unflinching against any torrent that came at him, and somehow the idea of Enjolras changing in any way is ridiculous.

But he has.

He’s slightly taller, and his face looks sharper. Any baby fat he had in high school is completely gone, and his hair is a bit shorter than it was then. He’s dressed in semi-formal clothing, at least to Grantaire’s standards, a deep red cardigan over a button up, and comfortable looking khaki’s, worn brown leather shoes completing his look.

The biggest change, though, is that he looks tired.

Grantaire had seen him the usual kind of tired, everyone in high school was at least a little groggy. But this...it’s not so much that Enjolras looks like he needs sleep. He’s...dimmer. The former forest fire looks more like embers, left un-stoked.

Grantaire realizes a moment later with a start, that Enjolras looks burned out.

Silence stretches between them, the reverberations of a cymbal crash after a joke that didn’t land. He’s a little gratified to see that Enjolras seems to be as stunned as he is. And stunned is better than disgust or anger, like the last time he’d seen those eyes.

They are still beautiful, and terrifying as ever. And they seem to be sizing him up the same way Grantaire is doing to Enjolras. Grantaire isn’t sure he wants to know what Enjolras sees, so he clears his throat, shifting from foot to foot and pushing off the counter to stand a little straighter.

“So, um...” he says, stilted, “Hi. Long time no see.”

He wants to make a joke, but whatever might have theoretically come up dies in his throat. He debates faking amnesia just to save them both this embarrassment of a reunion.
If they had been friends, really friends, this would have been easy, he thinks. But Grantaire knows that he had been more of a nuisance than a pal most days, and so, easy it will not be.

Enjolras seems shocked from their staring match, giving only the barest jolt, and then a nod. His expression isn’t one that Grantaire can place easily.

“Yeah,” he says, “hi.”

Grantaire has never seen him at such a loss for words, and he does feel a little proud of that.

Enjolras is standing a few feet from the checkout stand, holding one slim paperback with a pink and black minimalist cover, and not giving any sign of moving closer.
Before another bout of silence can start, and Grantaire knows that it will, he sighs, and leans on the counter again, trying his best to look at ease, if only to make the awkwardness stop for a moment.

“Well, I can’t really help you pay unless you give me the book,” he says, plastering on a smile that he hopes doesn’t look practiced, and holding out a hand.
Enjolras, still looking stiff and incredibly uncomfortable, closes the distance in a couple of steps.

He hands Grantaire the book with the caution of someone handing a piece of bread out to a raccoon, and Grantaire takes it with the caution of said raccoon trying to convey that he does not in fact have rabies.

He flips the book to scan it, and then flips it back, finally processing the cover. It’s a used copy of No Longer Human, by Osamu Dazai. Grantaire lifts his eyebrows, glancing up at Enjolras.

“Is this a cry for help?” he asks, still holding the book, and holding it up to show the cover, as if Enjolras doesn’t know what book he grabbed. He knows that it’s rude to question what a customer buys; Javert has gotten on his case about it before, but he can’t resist.

It’s not that the book is bad. In fact it’s a great book, according to most critics. A classic piece of Japanese literature, delving into the protagonist, Yozo Oba’s disconnection from human relationships and society as a whole, and the many coping mechanisms he uses to get through life in postwar Japan.

It is, however, incredibly depressing, and doesn’t seem like something that Enjolras would have picked for himself in the past. Enjolras’ strength had always been his idealism. And this book is all hopelessness. At least from how Grantaire remembers it.

Enjolras seems torn between affront, and perhaps surprise that Grantaire can in fact read. Grantaire tries not to take offense.

After a beat, he answers, “It’s not,” respectfully snatching the book from Grantaire’s hand, and there’s a little bit of that old fire in his eyes now, “It’s for my book club.”

Grantaire’s smile is more genuine now, peevish and familiar to both of them.

“Does someone in that club want you to be depressed?”

“No,” Enjolras says, “It was Combeferre’s turn to choose. He said it’s a classic.”

At that, Grantaire’s smile falters a little. Their little group had been very close in high school, but he had never considered that they’d all still be in contact a decade later.

“Is your book club all old high school friends?” he asks, hoping the bitterness mostly at himself doesn’t poison his tone, and he’s not sure if he succeeds, because Enjolras’ eyes are a little icy now.

“We’ve kept in contact, yes,” he says pointedly, “Everyone went their own ways, but Jehan started the book club a few months ago to bring everyone back together.”

The way he says ‘everyone’ without any hesitation is like a punch to the gut. If Enjolras sees any trace of the wince Grantaire can’t quite keep down, he doesn’t react. He digs in his wallet, pulling out the exact change for his book, dropping it onto the table. Grantaire counts it and goes about putting it into the cash register, numbly.

“May I have my receipt?” he asks, holding out a hand, and this is the look that Grantaire had been dreading. There’s anger and hurt simmering there, and Grantaire gets the sense that Enjolras will snatch away the receipt, and make a point of never coming into this bookstore again. Grantaire wouldn’t blame him.

He swallows, nodding and hitting a few buttons on the cash register, which dutifully spits out the paper listing Enjolras’ purchase. As expected, it’s out of his hand in the blink of an eye, and Enjolras turns to go to the door.

Maybe he knows that this might be his last chance to clear his conscience, or maybe he just doesn’t want another loose end of a goodbye under his belt, but either way something compels him then to speak.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts, and Enjolras stops, halfway turning back as Grantaire swallows, and continues, “for how I left things. That was shitty, and I was shitty.”

His fingers are knotted under the desk, and he feels a flush touching the back of his neck.

Enjolras turns back a little more, and his face speaks of a new kind of surprise as he says, “It’s okay.” But Grantaire knows it isn’t. One shitty apology isn’t going to fix his bullshit, and he knows it. It’s part of the reason he never reached out. The amount of making up it’d take to get things back to normal feels insurmountable, and he hadn’t been able to take the idea of flopping and having yet another memory to wince at when he’s trying to sleep at night.

So he tells Enjolras to wait for a minute, and sweeps around the checkout counter and towards the fantasy section. He finds the book he’s looking for, and rushes back to the front. Miraculously, Enjolras is still there, looking confused.

He scans the book, makes a mental note to pay for it later, and holds it out to Enjolras to take.

“If you’re going to be reading that for book club, you might as well have a palate cleanser,” he says. The book is a used copy of The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue, by V.E. Schwab.

That book had made him cry like a goddamn baby, but it was not from hopelessness like the other book that Enjolras holds. It was sad, but he had been left feeling more uplifted than depressed. If Enjolras is even close to the same man he knew in high school, he thinks he might benefit from the book’s central theme of ideas being powerful, like seeds in a garden. When planted, and tended, they can grow despite their obstacles.

If it is burnout he’s seeing in his face, maybe he just needs a little hope.

“It’s about a woman who makes a bargain to get a better life, but it goes wrong, and everyone who knows her forgets her once she’s out of sight. I don’t want to spoil anything, so I can’t say more,” he says, trying not to over-explain, but justify his gift, “I couldn’t put it down when I read it. I think you might like it too.”

He feels intensely self conscious now, knowing that while this book had hit him hard when he’d read it a couple of months back, it might not yield the same response for Enjolras. But he can’t afford to make a joke out of his last ditch apology, either.

It’s too late to take it back anyway, because Enjolras has gotten over his shock. The book is in his hand, now neatly stacked under the other volume.

“Thank you,” he says, and his eyes look softer, but still wary. Grantaire will take that.

“Come again,” he says, hoping it doesn’t sound too desperate. But Enjolras just nods, and after another moment of hesitation, turns, and leaves. The bells of the door sing behind him, and Grantaire collapses onto the stool, tight wound nerves finally unraveling.

After a moment he pulls out his phone again, fingers shaking a little as he texts Eponine.

From: Grantaire
1:40pm, September 14:
-----
dude
enjolras just came in
enjolras from high school

From: 🦇 Eponine 🦇
1:41pm, September 14:
-----
RIP.
how'd that go?

From: Grantaire
1:41pm, September 14:
-----
i gave him a book

From: 🦇 Eponine 🦇
1:41pm, September 14:
-----
…why?

From: Grantaire
1:41pm, September 14:
-----
i panicked?

From: 🦇 Eponine 🦇
1:41pm, September 14:
-----
jesus christ R.

They text like that for a while, Grantaire getting his nerves back in check until a new customer comes in, and Grantaire jumps up to help them as a distraction.

He clocks out of work at 3:30. It’s earlier than most people get to, which means he also goes into work earlier than most. Yet another thing he never would have expected of himself years ago.

He says goodbye to Eponine, of course. He’d had a chance to actually talk to her on his final break, going through every minute detail of Enjolras’ visit over some predictably shitty coffee. She doesn’t seem as enthused, or surprised as he’d felt, but she does listen. Eponine had been in the group too, but she’d been pretty removed from it even when she’d been a member. She’d had just as rough of a time as he had after high school, and seems in no hurry to be reminded of it.

Grantaire leaves through the back door next to the art and photography section after giving his goodbyes. It leads out to the employee parking lot, and smoking area.
He gets into his shitty old car, the same one he’s had since high school. Miraculously, it’s still still chugging along despite its one missing hubcap and chipped paint on one door. But as usual, he doesn’t drive directly home.

Instead, per his usual routine, he drives about five minutes from his small apartment to the parking lot of the local elementary school, and gets in line for pick up.

Fifteen minutes later, his daughter, Bea, her mop of matching curly brown hair bouncing, runs up to his car. She opens the left back door, and gets into the booster in the back seat. She’s already babbling about her day before he’s even signaled and pulled away from the curb.

She is the one good thing that came out of being with Camille all those years ago. The one good thing that Grantaire still has, and honestly, the one good thing he’s done with his life. Despite her being...unplanned, to say the least.

Bea is in second grade, seven years old, and it’s gone by so quickly that sometimes Grantaire doesn’t know what to do with himself.

They drive home. Beatrice talks about her day and what she drew in class, already trying to show her dad from the backseat. He can only peek in the rear view mirror and promise to look more closely when they get home, but says it’s stunning already.

They pull into the apartment complex, and Grantaire finds his usual spot, parking with the practiced ease of someone who hasn’t moved house in years. He hasn’t been able to afford to, though the apartment is slowly but surely outgrowing them both. He’s lucky to be able to afford anything with two bedrooms on his salary. But Javert, he’s found, is generous. He seems guilty about something, which may explain why he took pity on Grantaire nearly a decade ago and gave him a job. He took a chance on him, and Grantaire is thankful enough not to question it.

He unbuckles once the keys are out of the ignition and rushes to the other side of his car, opening the back left door for his daughter, as is their routine. She unbuckles herself, and he whisks her up into his arms, Bea giggling the whole way to their second floor apartment.

He knows that he won’t be able to carry her for much longer, she’s already almost too heavy to do so some days. So when he’s not too tired, he likes to take the chance.

He sets her down once they’re inside, kicking the door closed behind them with a snap, and they both remove their shoes.

The apartment isn’t much, but it’s home. A small living room with a grey loveseat and a pink bean bag, a coffee table covered in a puzzle that’s only half done, and a fairly small TV with half bookshelves on either side, filled with both books and DVDs. A standard kitchen that’s unadorned except for the art Bea gives him to tack on the fridge using letter magnets. A small dining room with a simple square table and two chairs sits beside it. There are two more folding chairs in the coat closet for guests, which are usually just Bea’s friends.

There are three other doors that branch off the dining room; a bathroom, Bea’s small room decked out in glow-in-the-dark constellations on the ceiling, and Grantaire’s slightly larger room. His room is fairly impersonal, but there’s room for a small desk which holds his old art supplies, unused, but hopeful.

They go through the motions of their evenings without much fanfare. He gets a good look at Bea’s newest piece, a t-rex wearing a crown, because according to Bea, she’s the queen of the dinosaurs. He sticks it to the fridge with a matching dinosaur magnet.

She grabs one of the chairs and uses it to stand next to him, helping make some mac and cheese with broccoli. The broccoli despite Bea’s complaining. (He doesn’t like it either, but he’s not about to raise his kid to eat like he did growing up.) They make a mess, but have fun doing it.

They fall into relaxed semi-silence while they eat. It’s warm, and it’s easy. This has been Grantaire’s life for the past seven years. But for the first time in a long time, he actually has something to share about himself when Bea asks how his day was, after she's gotten all of her own news out of the way, of course.

“I met an old friend at work,” he says, and his kid looks shocked.

“You have friends?” she asks, and Grantaire nearly chokes on a piece of broccoli. And he has to admit, calling Enjolras a friend is a bit of a stretch. Call it aspirational, maybe. He doubts Enjolras ever considered him one, but explaining the ins and outs of their rocky relationship to a seven year old would be a little pointless, and more than a little painful.

“Of course I do, that’s harsh,” he replies, feigning a blow to the chest when his throat clears.

“Aunt Eponine doesn’t count,” she says, looking suspicious. And she has him there. Eponine is his best friend, but they’d come together again out of necessity after Bea was born. Eponine had had Gavroche to take care of, having essentially stolen him from her shitty parents once she was old and financially stable enough to do so. He and her are really more like co-parents to different kids than casual friends.

He has to admit, he would be weirded out as well if he was Bea. He never had friends over, or went out to meet them. Bea and work have been his life; he hasn’t had time to make new friends.

That's probably a lie. It's more that he doesn't have the confidence.

“It’s a friend from a long, long time ago,” he says, taking another bite after, then continues through a semi-mouthful, “I haven’t seen him in years. The last time we talked, we had a fight.”

Bea chides him for speaking with his mouth full, and he apologizes with a wave of the hand, covering his mouth.

“Did you say you’re sorry?” she asks, unfazed. And Grantaire nods. Bea nods back, approving. “He has to forgive you then. Those are the rules.”

“It’s a little more complicated for adults,” he replies, and Bea rolls her eyes. He smiles, knowing it’s his fault that she has her snark.

“It shouldn’t be,” she says, blunt as ever, “Do you still want to be friends with him?”

‘More than anything’, Grantaire thinks, surprising himself. He hadn’t realized how much he missed companionship. But he also knows that the likelihood of him seeing Enjolras again is slim, despite his efforts at a peace offering.

“I do,” he says, “But I don’t know if he does. I was a bad friend.”

It hurts to admit, even though he’s reminded of it every time he remembers the way they left things all those years ago. It sucks to say it aloud, something he hasn’t done until today.

“Be a good one now,” she says, shrugging, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world, “I fought with Valerie at school last week, but then I gave her a rice krispy the other day, and we’re friends again.”

And god help him, somehow Grantaire does feel a little more hopeful. He ruffles her hair across the table.

“Where did you get your brains from?” he asks, over her squawk of protest to him messing up her hair. Bea grins, swatting his hand away.

“Am I supposed to say from you?” she asks. And Grantaire snorts.

“Definitely not,” he says.

“Good. I’m not a good liar,” Bea deadpans. Fucking devastating.

Grantaire laughs, and thanks her for the advice. She says that he owes her a dollar for her thoughts, obviously they don’t come for free. He obliges, even though he knows she’s joking, because he knows it will make her smile. They finish their food, and sit down at the coffee table instead to work on the puzzle they started, finishing it just before bed time.

He puts Beatrice to bed, and lying on his own, he feels the warmth of hope in his chest. And for once, doesn’t bother to try and quash it. He slips into sleep, feeling excited about going into work the next day for the first time in a long, long time.

Chapter Text

The hope he’d so tenderly stoked on Tuesday evaporates over the course of the week. Enjolras hasn’t come in again. And though Grantaire chides himself for not having expected it—especially after his practiced years of disappointment—he can’t help but feel a little gloomy as the weekend draws closer.

He’s gone through the usual motions all week; he helps customers when they want him to, and leaves alone those that prefer to browse in silence. He talks with Eponine when things are slow (which is always), and tries not to feel sorry for himself as the days pass and there’s no Enjolras walking through the door.

Eponine isn’t much help. She’s obviously tired of him sighing heavily every time the door opens and it’s not who he wants to see. Probably in an effort to get him to stop, she takes to sighing back even heavier whenever he does on day two. That only serves to make Grantaire respond with an even more dramatic sigh, until the both of them are having a sigh-off. It continues until Javert snaps at them to stop when customers finally complain about the disturbance.

Grantaire curbs his sighing after, for fear of being written up.

He’s all but given up at this point, especially as the hours of his last work day of the week dwindle away. He tries to accept that things will just go back to normal, and does his best to get back to feeling normal himself.

He’s grabbed the graphic design textbook he’d had earlier that week and snuck it up to the register with him so he can skim when things get slow. He’s made it to chapter four, which covers illuminated manuscripts, and wonders how long until it gets to more modern design. He could just skip, but if he finishes too quickly, he’ll have to find another book. And that seems like more effort than it’s worth.

Even he has his limits, though. He realizes that he’s been re-reading the same sentence for about two minutes, not really taking it in, and so decides to work on stocking instead. It’s a bit of a task, since the shelves at One Page More are always crammed to bursting and very rarely have gaps to fill. But it is the end of the week. Grantaire thinks he might as well try and do his job.

He grabs a box of books from the back, separating them out on a wheeled cart by genre, alphabetically within said genres, then walks next to the aisles with his cart and gets to filling any empty spaces.

He’s about to move onto the young adult section when the bell on the door rings, signaling a customer. He gives the usual greeting, turning halfway to the door to give a half-hearted wave to whoever is coming in. He has managed to stop jolting every time someone arrives; he'd begun to feel like a fucking yoyo of emotions after the first couple of days.

But this time, he’s met with blue eyes and blonde hair.

His stomach, which had been a shallow pit, is now a veritable knot of anxiety and very, very tentative happiness.

Enjolras doesn’t look disgusted, so that’s a start. In fact, his face is warmer than last time, the hint of a smile on his lips as he enters, someone following him in.

It takes Grantaire a moment to see the person that comes in behind him, but the noise of happiness that comes out of the person next to him carries unmitigated joy that could only come from Jehan Prouvaire.

In high school Jehan had been the weirdest of the weird kids. They wore crocs to school most days, comfort always coming before style, read the Warrior Cats series religiously, and constantly changed their hair color. Plus, they’d been out as nonbinary before most of the general public knew what the fuck that was. They’d never been afraid to stand out and proudly be whoever the fuck they wanted. It’s always been something Grantaire admired about them, and he’s happy to see that they haven’t changed a bit.

Their hair is longer now than Grantaire has ever seen it; in high school, Jehan had been forced to keep it cropped to an “acceptable” length by their parents, still in denial of how their child wanted to present themself. But since then it seems they have been allowed to flourish.

They have a long, messy braid going down their back, dyed pink at the ends, and now have a couple piercings. Specifically, dangly earrings that Grantaire is pretty sure are just full sized worm-on-a-string’s with an ear wire in the tail. The rest of their outfit is a complete hodge podge of color and pattern that would make Andre Derain feel inadequate.

Jehan pushes past Enjolras, practically bounding over to Grantaire and the cart full of new books he’s stopped pushing in his surprise.

“Enj, you didn’t say that Grantaire works here!” they’re saying, already barely a foot away from Grantaire, who is thoroughly overwhelmed. Jehan reaches up, cupping Grantaire’s face with both hands and turning his face to get a better look at him.

His cheeks are smooshed between two slim hands, and Grantaire is smiling, more nervous than anything as Jehan’s eyes rove over his face. Grantaire’s not sure what they’re looking for. He thinks that they're probably looking for any sign that he’s high while at work. It wouldn’t exactly be out of character for the Grantaire that they knew in high school, but the current Grantaire hasn’t touched weed or alcohol in years.

He wonders if they would believe him if he said so.

“I have half a mind to feel offended if you’re looking for wrinkles,” he says, words semi-muddled, since his cheeks are currently being squished, “I know it’s been a while, but we’re about the same age.”

Jehan gives him a wry smile. They seem satisfied with whatever they were looking for after a few seconds, dropping Grantaire’s face and breaking into a grin again.

“You look good, R,” they say. And there’s an implication there that he doesn’t just look good, he looks better than expected. Grantaire can’t blame them for that, he would be surprised to see himself looking as healthy as he does too. He’s never particularly liked his looks, but he can admit that he looks better now that he’s sober, and has purpose. Something of that must show on him.

“Same to you, Jehan,” he says, and he means it, smiling back, “You look like a color wheel did acid. It suits you.”

Jehan laughs at that, and Grantaire has the satisfaction of seeing Enjolras give a tiny smile as well. It makes his heart do a little flip, an echo of his old crush. He does his best to ignore it, and looks at both of his old friends, easing a bit.

Enjolras was always the leader of their group of friends, but Jehan was the fun of it. Not Grantaire’s snarky sometimes-going-too-far fun, but true, innocent joy. They always made it easier to relax.

“What brings you in today?” he asks, and Jehan rolls their eyes.

“Enj said that he, and I quote, ‘liked the feel’ of this place. I need to grab a book, so he suggested coming here,” Jehan glances to Enjolras now, who has his hands in his pockets, doing his best to look innocent, “he didn’t bother to mention that you work here, the bastard.”

Enjolras shrugs behind them, and says simply, “I wanted it to be a surprise,” he glances at Grantaire after, still smiling that small smile, and continues, “And I do like the feel, it wasn’t a lie.”

“Withholding information could be constituted as lying, but I’ll give you a pass this time, mister,” Jehan replies, looking around the shop. Even at a quick glance, they seem to be deciding that they're also a fan. Grantaire has to agree, too. The shop is small, but it’s homey. Exactly what a bookshop is supposed to be like.

He’s still reeling that he is meant to be a surprise for Jehan. And not a shitty surprise, like sitting on a whoopie cushion. At least Grantaire hopes not.

Jehan asks where the fiction section is, and Grantaire points them to the correct aisle, though he knows Enjolras could easily lead Jehan there since he was just here earlier in the week. Jehan thanks him and heads towards the end of the aisle, but Enjolras doesn’t follow him. Instead, he steps closer, stopping about three feet from where Grantaire stands, hands still in his pockets.

“Came back for more, huh?” Grantaire asks after a moment, awkwardness settling into his bones again once Jehan is away. He tries to sound teasing, though he’s not sure if he succeeds.

Enjolras just shakes his head, but he’s still got a little smile, so Grantaire knows that he’s at least not fucking up completely. That’s new.

“I wanted to thank you for the book recommendation,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire blinks, then blinks again, his face going carefully blank.

“You read it?”

Enjolras looks slightly annoyed at that response, the tips of his ears getting a slight pink tinge that Grantaire isn’t sure he isn’t just imagining.

“Of course I read it. You bought it for me,” he says, as if it’s that simple. Grantaire holds back the obvious retort that Enjolras didn’t have to read anything Grantaire gave him. He wouldn’t exactly blame him for not trusting Grantaire’s taste in books.

Still, beyond the surprise, he’s happy. And incredibly nervous.

“What did you think?” he forces himself to ask, not sure if he can take the answer. It’s not like he wrote the fucking book. But it still feels personal in a way that he’s not quite ready to face to share a book that he liked, completely without irony. It’s hard to break those defense mechanisms, even with how much older he is now than when Enjolras knew him before.

But Enjolras smiles, and there’s a light in his eyes that makes Grantaire’s cheeks warm a fraction.

“It was good. Really good,” he says, and there’s a little of that passion that Grantaire realizes was missing the last time he came in. Grantaire grins.

“What a fucked up deal, right?” he says, excited to finally be able to talk about this with someone, even briefly. He can’t exactly go over the nuances of a book like The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue with a seven year old, and she’s the best company he’s got nowadays.

Enjolras nods, appreciating the existential horror that the book’s premise introduces.

“I would go insane,” he admits, and there’s an edge to his voice that makes Grantaire incredibly sad. He’s never been the best at reading people, but the understanding in his tone while talking about a woman who will never be remembered feels just a bit too personal for comfort.

“I don’t think anyone could forget you, curse or no,” he says, then realizes how corny it sounds, despite it being his honest opinion. Too late to take it back now anyway.

But Enjolras doesn’t seem annoyed. If anything, he seems touched. There’s something that softens in his expression, and he says with a small smile, “I don’t think that’s how any of that works.”

Grantaire shrugs. “I dunno, gods have gotta have some limits.”

They continue to chat about the plot, their favorite parts, the imagery that the author used and how vivid it is. Their conversation comes easily, easier than it had ever been in high school, and Grantaire wonders if it’s because he’s not trying so hard, or if something has just clicked between them. Regardless, there seems to be a truce of some kind now. And he’s not about to question it.

Soon enough, though, Jehan is back.

Grantaire abandons his book cart, and steps behind the register. There’s only ever one or two people working the floor at a time, not including Eponine, who's on her break. So most of the time, he takes on all the duties at once.

When Jehan hands him the book, he realizes that it’s another used copy of No Longer Human. It's just an older version; instead of pink, this one has a black and white cover with an amorphous, human adjacent form.

“For the book club, right?” he asks, trying not to let it sting that he knows he won’t be welcome. Why would he be? With how he’d been essentially kicked out of the ABC last time, he’s lucky that Jehan and Enjolras are even here. But rather than just nodding their agreement, Jehan’s eyebrows raise. Their lips parting slightly, and they look back at Enjolras, who’s standing a pace behind them.

He’s not sure what face Jehan makes. But whatever it is, it makes Enjolras pause. He shrugs after a beat, as if to say ‘It’s up to you’, eyes flicking to Grantaire a moment later with a mix of apprehension and something that Grantaire can’t place.

Jehan faces him again then, and asks, “Do you want to come? We meet every Sunday!”

And they say it with such earnest ease that even Grantaire can’t bring himself to question if he’s actually welcome. Maybe later he will—hindsight has always been terrible for his self perception—but right now he knows that at the very least Jehan wants him to come.

He’s stunned for a couple of seconds, stuck halfway scanning the book in his hands. Enjolras, behind Jehan, doesn’t look horrified with the idea, but that doesn’t mean that he’s totally on board. Still, he isn’t trying to stop Jehan from giving the invitation.

He smiles, sheepish, and finishes scanning the book, saying, “Are you sure I’m qualified? I’m not a college grad like you smart people,” and he’s making an assumption there, but he knows it’s right. All of them had had a college plan in high school, and they were very, very good at following through on plans.

Jehan is beaming at him so brightly that he wants to squint. Grantaire slides them the book across the counter, swapping cash for the paperback in a practiced motion.

“It’s not about qualifications you goddamn doof,” they say, grabbing their change from Grantaire’s outstretched hand, “It’s for fun, and friends. You’ve got the friends part down, and you can’t hate reading if you work in a book shop.”

Grantaire wants to argue that last point, but realizes a moment later that he really can’t. Even he, formerly an anti-bookworm to the point of nearly dropping out of high school, has gotten back into the swing of reading. It turns out when he's reading things he likes, not the fucking Great Gatsby, or whatever was on the reading list that semester, he does enjoy it. A lot.

Once he’s over the shock of being asked at all, and his own split second self reflection, it sinks in that there is a legitimate problem with him going to these book club meetings. The day it happens is a bit of a snag.

Sundays. The weekend.

So...no school.

For literally anyone else, anyone without a kid in fucking elementary school, it’s the perfect day to make plans.

He realizes that he’s paused too long; Jehan's face is beginning to look concerned. So he panics.

Never a good plan.

“I’ll have to get a sitter,” he says, “But I’d love to.”

Crickets.

Jehan has the beginnings of a laugh on their lips, as if trying to figure out the joke that Grantaire is telling. And he thinks that Enjolras’ eyebrows might become a part of his hairline.

When Grantaire doesn’t laugh, instead just becoming slightly red in the face, both of their faces morph from the confusion of a joke that doesn’t land, to outright shock.

This is what Grantaire expects, and fears more than anything. Their reactions.

He’s always tried to treat his having a daughter like the gift it is, despite her being a surprise; Bea is not something he wants to hide.

He’s not ashamed of Bea. He’s ashamed of who he used to be.

Grantaire likes to think of himself as a realist; he knows that him having a kid is so in contrast with the person that he was that it doesn’t even compute. Like, 'whoa, R has a literal child to take care of, I didn’t even know he could take care of himself.'

He can practically see those exact words written on each of his friends’ faces. Enjolras looks literally frozen, lips parted in a look of surprise so pure he wishes he could bottle it. Grantaire is honestly shocked to have never seen that look on his face before.

To their eternal credit, Jehan is a lot quicker to get over the shock, and their face morphs into one of complete and utter joy.

“You have a kid?? Do you have pictures? Don’t hold out on me now,” they say, and though phones are technically strictly prohibited while on the clock (at least when Javert is in the building) Grantaire decides that risking it now is probably worth it. Javert is squirreled away in his back office now anyway. It’ll be fine if he’s quick. He pulls out his beat up phone, a few generations removed from the current ones on the market, and in a motion so easy he feels like he’s practiced it, opens an album in his photos full to bursting, all of his daughter.

“Her name is Bea. Short for Beatrice,” he says, as Jehan grabs his phone greedily and starts swiping through the many photos there. They date from yesterday, all the way back to when Bea was a baby. He knows he has a problem, because most of his phone storage is just these pictures. Precious moments with his baby.

Enjolras watches over Jehan’s shoulder, his face still in that frozen shock, eyes flicking over every photo as if he doesn’t quite believe he’s not being completely and utterly punked.

Eventually, Jehan’s quick skimming gets him to a picture that Grantaire thought he’d deleted. It’s the last one he has of Camille, he thinks. She’s holding a newborn Bea, who's wrapped in a yellow blanket. It’s hard to see from the picture, but Bea has her eyes. Big, deep brown, and adorable. In every other way she looks just like Grantaire, but those eyes are unmistakable.

He’d done a purge of his phone for any pictures of his ex a long time ago. Clearly, it hadn’t been thorough enough.

“Is this your partner?” Jehan asks, holding up his phone. Grantaire takes the opportunity to grab his phone back, hoping that his face doesn’t show his discomfort as he subtly swipes his finger over the screen, and deletes the photo.

“Was,” he says, a bit terse, though he smiles. He slides his phone back into the pocket of his apron, “She’s...not in the picture anymore. Hence the sitter.”

Enjolras’ eyes widen a fraction, and he must be doing the mental math that not only does Grantaire have a child, but also, he’s a single father.

Grantaire tries immediately to pivot away from the subject of Camille. He doesn’t think he can take the beginnings of the look of sympathy on Jehan’s face, or the inevitable questions that will come after. He doesn’t need the prodding about why in the world someone:

A) had sex at least once with him, of all people,
B) had a literal goddamn child with him, and finally,
C) left him.

The final question scares him the most, because he’s not sure anyone would even bother to ask it.

Enjolras seems to catch the semi-sad, reserved look that he’s trying his best to push down, his brows knitting together slightly. But Grantaire is barrelling ahead before anything can be said on the matter.

He rattles off some easy information: Bea’s age, what she’s into right now (space, and in a close second, dinosaurs), and that Jehan and her would get along. They’re both free spirits.

At that, Jehan’s smile widens.

“You should bring her along to the club then!” they say, once again so forthright and earnest that it almost hurts. Grantaire starts to protest, but Jehan shakes their head, “No arguing! I’m not gonna make you pay for a sitter every Sunday. I don’t think that’s feasible on a bookseller’s salary anyway.”

They’re not wrong. He’s been doing the mental math in the back of his mind, and it isn’t working out. He also does hate to leave Bea alone, even with a trusted sitter. It must show on his face, because Jehan claps their hands and grabs one of the freebie bookmarks from the stack, retrieving a pink gel pen from one of their pockets with a flourish.

Grantaire looks to Enjolras, as if to ask, ‘is this okay’, but he still looks too shell-shocked to fully process what’s going on.

Jehan finishes what they’re writing, and passes the bookmark to Grantaire, pocketing a couple extra for themself while they’re at it.

“That has my address, and my phone number in case you lost it,” they say, “Meetings are at 2pm. You and the munchkin had better show up.”

Grantaire doesn’t have time to protest. Jehan is already turning and walking to the door, waving behind themself as they go.

“See you Sunday!”

Enjolras is looking at Grantaire as if re-sizing him up. Probably adding more flaws to his tally. He thinks whatever truce they’d had only minutes before must be broken now, with the silent looks he’s been getting for the past few seconds. But Enjolras breaks from his own frozen state a second after, robotically copying Jehan’s wave.

“See you Sunday,” he says, quiet, more reserved than just a few minutes ago, but definitely not...upset. Not that Grantaire can tell anyway. Maybe their truce is intact after all. Enjolras follows Jehan out a moment later, leaving Grantaire waving from the register, the bookmark still clasped in his off hand.

Later, when he’s clocked out and waiting for Bea in the school pickup line as usual, he checks and sees that Jehan’s number in fact has not changed since high school. His own has changed since then, but he’d imported his contacts when his phone changed. Grantaire wonders if Jehan still has their pink razor flip phone, somehow.

He taps the screen while he waits, typing out a message for his old friend with an introduction, because his own number has changed. A symptom of Camille leaving the way she did. He sends it, forcing himself not to overthink, because Bea is running to the car now, and he will forget to send it if he doesn’t just do it now.

From: Grantaire
3:50pm, September 17:
-----
hey jehan, it’s R

thanks for today
i’ll see you sunday :)

~~

On Saturday night, as is an at least monthly tradition, Eponine and Gavroche come over to hang out for the night. Sometimes it becomes a sleep over, depending on how long they stay. They tend to keep things fairly loose and go with the flow.

They make easy food all together at Grantaire’s apartment. It's a one-pot pasta recipe this time, enough to feed them all and have leftovers for the following couple of days. Bea helps by dumping in the cup of Parmesan cheese at the end, since she’s younger. Gavroche, now a tween, has the honor of slicing up the chicken.

It’s almost too many cooks in the kitchen, especially since the kitchen is so small and awkwardly shaped, but they always find a way to make it work. The recipes tend to be fairly straightforward, both for the ease of making them, and for the cost of making a large batch. Grantaire has gotten pretty good at cooking over the last seven years by necessity, but he still likes to keep it simple regardless.

Bea is a bit of a picky eater. But pasta is almost always a winner.

Grantaire is a bit more distracted than usual tonight. He steps away every few minutes, leaving the crowded kitchen with Eponine in charge, but he does have a good reason.

Jehan has been texting him ever since Friday evening, sending some of the most obscure memes Grantaire has ever seen, and generally giving him updates about the friend group when they think of them. It’s a new thing for Grantaire’s phone to ping and vibrate at all whenever Eponine is over; normally she’s the only one who texts him.

It’s a new thing for him to have a friend that actively reaches out this much. And it’s such a novel concept he can’t help but lean into the attention, his mind partially on his phone for the whole night.

“Grantaire, you’re gonna have to put that in the other room while we eat,” Eponine deadpans eventually, when Grantaire stops in the middle of setting the table to look at a new message, grinning before he’s even opened it. She doesn’t sound angry, just amused. And maybe a little annoyed. But Eponine is always a little annoyed, so Grantaire doesn’t think too much of it. “I swear, you’re acting like a tween. Do we need a phone jail?”

“No, dear,” he mock whines, shooting a text back to Jehan, "I'll put it away in a sec."

Eponine knows already what happened at the bookstore; Grantaire can’t keep anything from her, and doesn’t want to. Eponine has been just about the only person he’s had for the better part of seven years, and Grantaire has been the same to her. If not for the fact that neither of them has any interest in the other romantically, they probably would have just gotten hitched for the convenience of it all.

They’ve considered it perhaps a little too seriously before. But in the end, they'd decided against it. There's simply too much red tape to get through, and too much independence baked into each of their personalities.

In response, Eponine pinches his arm, hard. Grantaire yelps, and immediately puts his phone into his back pocket after putting it on silent. That gets him a smirk from her.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” she says, and hands him the silverware he’d set down on the table in a pile. He grabs the bundle with a grumble and sets about putting a fork at each of their usual spots, cramped around his small table with two good chairs and two folding chairs.

Bea is acting as Gavroche's shadow, standing on tip-toe by the stove as the tween beside her stirs the big pot of pasta. She chatters about nothing, and he interjects whenever she takes a breath, the two of them pretending to make a potion out of their dinner. Grantaire hopes the food won’t turn him into a toad. With the minds of these two at work, he honestly wouldn’t be surprised if they found a way to do real magic. Despite their age difference, Gavroche has always been good about being friendly with Bea. Grantaire thinks he probably likes having a little entourage. Even if it is just one seven year old. And Bea, for her part, thinks Gavroche is the coolest kid to ever exist.

It’s adorable.

He finishes setting the table, Eponine watching him like a hawk in case he goes for his phone again. He smiles at her whenever she gives him a meaningful look, raising his hands in mock surrender. Soon enough, they’ve all served up bowls of pasta and sit around the tiny dining room table. Soon, the soft chatter between Gavroche and Bea makes up most of the noise that isn’t scraping forks and chewing.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to ask Jehan if you can come tomorrow?” Grantaire asks about fifteen minutes later, when he’s nearly done with his pasta. He’s been keeping Eponine posted on everything as it unfolds, and this offer is one he’s extended probably three times already.

He knows that Eponine was never as invested as him in the ABC; Grantaire had never been very passionate about the club activities, but loved the people. Eponine had never fully gotten into even that part of the club, outside of Marius. She was content to always be a bit of an outsider. But he’s sure that they’d welcome her back regardless.

For the third time tonight, Eponine shakes her head, scraping the final noodles out of her own bowl and chewing slowly before bothering to respond.

“Grantaire. I’m happy that you’re so excited,” she says, pushing her bowl away, “But I really don’t want to go. I’m fine.”

Despite knowing the answer, he nearly asks why again, as if her answer will change. It never changes. Both of them know it’s because of two particular members of the group that will definitely be in attendance. Grantaire doesn’t think that Eponine still has strong feelings for Marius. But if nothing else, there’s definitely some residual scabs from that whole…thing, that Eponine seems in no hurry to pick open.

And he knows he shouldn’t push her, but he does wish that she’d at least try to come along. It’d probably be good for her.

It would also probably help to lessen his own slowly growing nerves if he had someone to help back him up. But he can’t ask her to come to be his emotional support friend. He doubts she’d accept that reasoning regardless.

There is another worry that’s been niggling at the back of his mind, though.

“Are you sure you’re okay with me going?” he asks, the real thought silent, but clear:

‘Are you sure you’re okay with me hanging out with Cosette and Marius?’

Jehan has made sure he knows who all is coming by now, and after seeing their names on the fairly short list, Grantaire had immediately been a bit hesitant.

He’s asked this question only once before, but Eponine still looks at him with such a steady look of exasperation that he can only smile sheepishly.

“I’m not going to tell you who you can and can’t hang out with, R,” Eponine deadpans. Still, Grantaire thinks he catches a guarded pinch to her brow. The set of her jaw betrays the discomfort she obviously feels; he still has trouble reading her sometimes, but after seven years of getting to know her expressions, he thinks he’s probably better at it than almost anyone. Granted, not a hard bar to reach, but he’s proud regardless.

“I know you won’t,” Grantaire says, cautiously, “But if you’re uncomfortable with me hanging out with them, I’ll understand.”

Eponine leans back in her chair, crossing her arms.

“I’m fine,” she says, “Just because I don’t want to go doesn’t mean you shouldn’t. I want you to be able to enjoy your old friends.”

“Our old friends,” Grantaire corrects. Eponine rolls her eyes.

“Barely,” she says, impassive. And Grantaire knows he isn’t going to get any further with this. Both of them are stubborn, but Eponine definitely wins in that department. That subtle stiffness to her expression is enough to keep him worried, but he decides to try and take her at her word. Eponine hates people pitying her, and he knows that pushing things any further will probably just get him bruises.

He drops it.

When all their food is gone, he and Bea work on clearing the dishes while Eponine and Gavroche set up for movie night, and Grantaire tries to let himself relax. Bea chatters to him about the movie they’re going to watch

They settle into their usual peace easily enough: he, Eponine, and Gavroche squished onto the love seat, and Bea flopped down in her beanbag. And Grantaire hopes that someday, maybe, Eponine will change her mind. They both deserve to have another chance at keeping their old friends. For now, though, he’s going to try not to waste his.

Chapter Text

By the time Sunday afternoon comes, Grantaire is buzzing with anxiety. Eponine and Gavroche have long since gone home—having stayed the night after all—but left the apartment by noon. Grantaire’s neck is sore from sleeping on the couch, but at the moment he’s honestly a little grateful for the dull ache of it. It’s a distraction from his growing nerves as time ticks away.

The glow of the initial invite to book club has slowly worn down, rocks under the tide, replaced by the realization that a lot of people Grantaire left behind are going to be there, and they’re going to see this new him that even he’s taken a long time to wrap his mind around.

Thankfully, he knows that Bea will be a good distraction from him. Or...maybe not thankfully? He’s not sure. She’s the source of a lot of the changes he’s made, if not all of them. As such, she’s kind of an anomaly that just begs more questioning.

While the whole old group isn’t accounted for in the book club, it’s most of them. And if they’re even slightly similar to how they were in high school, Grantaire knows that he has nothing to worry about as far as how they’ll treat Bea. That’s not what he’s worried about.

He’s worried they’ll ask questions he won’t want to answer.

Jehan’s texting has been a bit of a lifeline for him over the past couple days. They’ve been dropping tidbits of information in between memes, and Grantaire squirrels them away greedily, feeling like he needs to make up for lost time. So far he’s learned a lot of miscellaneous things, but he holds onto them like a fucking life preserver in the middle of an ocean.

For example, apparently the house where the book club is hosted is not just Jehan’s house. Them and Courfeyrac have been living there for about two years. It’s unclear if they’re dating, or just roommates, but Grantaire doesn’t know how to ask.

Marius and Cosette are married now, not just dating. That piece of information he’d kept to himself last night. He doesn’t think it’d help anything for Eponine to get that particular life update.

Jehan has told him a lot of things. And Grantaire goes over them in his head while he waits for two. It helps him to feel like he’s being caught up, but even still, he’s left feeling woefully ill-equipped to talk to these people he used to know so well. It’s not the easiest thing to re-insert himself into a group of people who he’s pretty sure hated him by the time he left the club the last time. Or at the very least, only barely tolerated him.

Even with Jehan’s texting, and the knowledge that in the moment he was sure that he was welcome, he nearly calls to cancel about an hour before.

He’s pacing around his small kitchen, Bea coloring at the coffee table the next room over, and feels a pressure he hasn’t felt even close to this much since...well, high school. It had gotten better, briefly, when he was entrenched in his friend group. But this tightness in his lungs was exactly the feeling that had initially pushed him into being so dependent on drugs and alcohol. They helped to numb the anxiety he felt, if only for a bit. That type of buzz was far preferable to a brain full of really, really mean bees.

He’s caught up to the spot Jehan told him to stop at in No Longer Human (and it’s exactly as depressing as he remembers), for once having done the “homework”, since he knows there will be discussion. That’s not why he’s struggling so much to be calm, though.

Jehan had reacted well. Very well. But they've always been the brightest spot in their little group. He doubts that his return will go over as well with everyone else. The fear of the unknown there has kept him up for multiple nights now. He’s never been the best with rejection, and he’s even worse with it now that his old coping mechanisms are off the table completely.

The only thing that keeps him from canceling like he wants to, is Bea.

Over dinner that Friday night, he'd hyped up Jehan’s house, and going to book club, because he knows that whatever place Jehan calls home, Bea is going to absolutely adore. They have a way of leaving their mark on a space in a way that’s magical, from what Grantaire remembers.

And Bea is an even bigger nerd than Grantaire had been at her age, which is saying something. She reminds him of himself in embarrassing ways, but it’s allowing him to slowly accept the kid that he was, and what he’d turned into.

He doesn’t want Bea to follow his path. She’s bright, and funny, and hopeful, and he can’t bear for her to lose that spark.

She’s been babbling for minutes on end whenever she remembers what they’re going to do, asking questions about his old friends, and it’s clear that she’s gotten it into her head that Jehan and Courfeyrac’s house is an impossible fantasy land, like the wardrobe to Narnia.

Even his roiling anxiety can’t take the idea of that place away from her. Besides, it's likely that she literally will not ever stop talking about it until she sees it for herself. Grantaire knows from his own lived experience of being a stubborn kid with endless reserves of energy.

He dresses as nice as he can, which to his credit is nicer than he ever dressed in high school, with a soft green button up and his one of two non-torn pairs of pants. Then, he gets Bea into her favorite outfit: some light blue overalls, and a cute dino tee underneath. Her socks are mismatched (to her specifications) and yellow shoes go on over those. She ties them herself.

Both of their curls are out of control, as usual, but Grantaire at least takes the time to pull hers into two cute pigtails at the back of her head. He’s gotten pretty damn good at handling his daughter’s hair, and by extension, technically his own. If he decides wants to rock second grade chic, anyway.

He drives them to the address that Jehan gave them shortly after 1:45, and Grantaire’s nerves eat him alive as his kid’s excitement mounts.

By the time they’ve parked, his brain has twisted the very clear invitation to come to the book club into a complete and outright ban on himself stepping foot into Jehan’s house. He’s not even sure how that happened. He’s never been the one in control of the wheel, so to speak.

But they’re already here. There is no turning back.

He opens Bea’s door, and hoists her up into his arms. He then grabs her backpack that he’s filled with snacks and books, though he’s sure Jehan will have no shortage of books for her to look through.

The outside of Jehan and Courf’s house is simple. It’s a small, crooked looking house that’s plain white on the outside, though the porch is slathered in decoration. Grantaire is sure it’s like that all year round.

There’s a couple of pride flags in the windows, lights along the trim of the roof, and little amorphous sculptures littering the sides of the small steps up to the front door. He thinks that they’re probably supposed to be birds, but it’s hard to say for sure. All down the pavers leading from the steps and spilling out onto the sidewalk are bright, pastel chalk drawings. He can’t say if Jehan and Courfeyrac did those, or if they hired neighborhood kids to do them for them.

He decides that either is a very real possibility.

Grantaire sets Bea down once they’re at the front door. He does his best to hide from her that his hands are definitely shaking. He masks it by taking a deep breath, and knocking on the door before he can turn tail and run back to the car.

He hears and sees someone walking to get the door through the semi-opaque glass of the front door’s small windows, and he holds his breath. Bea reaches up to hold one of his hands, and he takes it gratefully, unsure if she notices he’s nervous, or is just nervous herself.

Finally, the door swings in, revealing Enjolras.

For an instant he thinks—madly—that Enjolras will shut the door in his face. He braces for it, but instead Enjolras just looks at him, and then down at Bea, as if still not believing that this isn’t an elaborate prank, and Grantaire does in fact have a human child.

He should know that Grantaire has never had the follow-through to complete such an elaborate trick.

There’s a little awkwardness now, and Grantaire realizes after a second that maybe Enjolras doesn’t know how the fuck to talk to children. It feels like such an oversight, like whatever angels put together this person had forgotten one step in their haste to make him perfect.

It’s...incredibly endearing.

Grantaire’s theory is confirmed when Enjolras speaks.

“You must be Bea,” he says, stiff, “Nice to meet you. I’m Enjolras.”

Grantaire looks down at his daughter, and nearly laughs out loud, because Bea is looking at Enjolras like she’s looking at a renaissance painting. He vaguely recalls that he had nearly the exact same reaction seeing him for the first time all those years ago, though he hoped that the stars in his eyes had been a little less obvious. It’s a look of open mouthed, pure, unadulterated awe.

Grantaire, trying to help, gives her left hand he’s holding a little squeeze. She breaks eye contact to look at him, and then back at Enjolras, and holds out one of her small hands for a shake.

Enjolras seems stunned that Grantaire’s kid has any semblance of manners, but he leans down and takes her hand, shaking it firmly, like a fucking lawyer. Bea smiles, seeming to ease. She’s still hiding halfway behind Grantaire, shy and abnormally quiet, but she seems more bashful than scared.

She looks up at her dad, glancing between him and Enjolras.

“He’s too pretty,” she says, in a whisper that only counts as a whisper because it’s technically quieter than her normal voice. Enjolras stiffens in the doorway, and now Grantaire does laugh, though it’s awkward, glancing at Enjolras apologetically.

“That’s not his fault,” he replies, giving Bea’s hand another squeeze, “Also, it’s rude to talk about people right in front of them, Bea, we’ve talked about this.”

She huffs a small breath, and Grantaire knows it means she doesn’t really care. He doubts she ever will; she’s not good at censoring herself, and seems in no hurry to start trying. A small part of him is happy she doesn’t, even if it creates some awkwardness sometimes.

“It’s fine,” Enjolras says, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck. He addresses Grantaire first, and only glances again at Bea, obviously still a bit flummoxed on how to speak to her, “Not the worst thing to say about someone, I suppose.”

“You should have heard what she said about my boss,” Grantaire says. He gives Bea’s arm a little shake. She gives a small smile at that, coming out from behind his leg a fraction.

“Mr. Javert looked like a bulldog,” Bea offers, helpfully, “Especially after I told him so.”

Enjolras does crack a small smile at that, the corners of his mouth poking upwards for just a moment.

“I think I almost got fired,” Grantaire laments, “Eight years of work nearly down the drain because of permanent bi— um, ‘angry’ face.”

“Well,” Enjolras says after a moment, “I guess I got off lucky then.”

Bea nods, and Grantaire chuckles softly.

Grantaire makes a mental note to tell Enjolras some tricks for talking with kids later. He’d had to learn them on his own, and he doesn’t feel like anyone deserves that punishment. But for now, Enjolras opens the door wider and lets them inside.

Jehan’s house is exactly how Grantaire expects, which is to say, a complete harmonious mess. If you could physically represent the sound of an orchestra warming up before a performance, it would look like this house.

The entry hallway is covered wall to wall with books, stacked haphazardly in bookshelves that look hand painted, scraped, and otherwise marked to hell until the original color of the wood is impossible to tell.

The floors are a dark, rough wood. Shoes are piled on it all over each other in front of a hall closet, which is now unusable. The jackets that would have gone in there are stacked instead all one on top of another on a chair by the nearest bookshelf.

And on the ceiling are a fuckload of paper butterflies, strung up in a cacophony of color and tacked directly into the drywall. And that’s just the house's entryway. Grantaire wonders if Jehan and Courf rent it, and if they’ve ever heard of a security deposit before. He doubts that they care.

His kid, for the record, looks like she’s in heaven. She’ll never doubt him again.

Grantaire can hear the old, familiar thrum of conversation coming from the dining room, up and to the left, and his anxiety spikes for a moment. He’s not sure if everyone has been briefed on him coming, or his situation. He’s able to relax somewhat when he sees Jehan come through the door directly in front of the entryway, what looks like a stolen gender neutral restroom door that inexplicably leads to the kitchen.

Jehan sees him, sees Bea, and immediately rushes over.

“You’re here!” they say, sing-song and clearly elated. They immediately lean down and grab Bea’s hand in both of theirs, shaking it vigorously. Bea, for her part, looks like she’s just now recovered from Enjolras, and is now facing down another person who’s unlike anyone she’s ever met before. But Jehan’s enthusiasm is infectious, and she’s shaking back just as hard in a split second. They both babble off happy introductions.

After a few moments, Bea is grinning from ear to ear, and Jehan looks up at Grantaire.

“I have art supplies set up in the kitchen for Bea, mind if I steal her?” they say, and Grantaire lets out a breath, honestly grateful that Jehan has thought ahead. He doesn’t want to overwhelm his kid too much with introductions right off the bat.

He nods, gives Bea a pat on the head, and says, “Have fun. Make a mess, but not like, too much.”

Bea looks at him like he doesn’t know her at all.

“You’re stunting my creative growth,” she says, fully deadpan, and Jehan laughs. Grantaire gives her a little push forward to Jehan.

“There’s no growth without adversity, yadda yadda yadda,” he says, and his daughter rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling again. Bea learned what sarcasm was in the first grade, and with it came snark.

Grantaire hasn’t known peace since.

“Well, I promise not to stunt it any further,” Jehan says, holding out a hand for Bea to take, and Bea beams at them. She takes their hand, and follows them to the kitchen.

Grantaire hears them chatting as they walk away.

“Are you a boy or a girl?” Bea asks, receding

“Yes,” says Jehan, and Bea laughs as they disappear through the kitchen door.

And just like that, he and Enjolras are alone again.

This time, Enjolras is the one to break the silence.

“Cute kid,” he says, turning back to Granaire, and giving him a small smile.

“Thanks,” Grantaire says, and he means it. “I made it myself.”

And then, Enjolras laughs. Actually laughs at one of his jokes. It’s small, and mostly from surprise, he thinks. But if he thought imperious and powerful Enjolras was beautiful, Enjolras laughing is...wow.

What’s usually untamed fire in those eyes feels more like a warm hearth, welcoming and safe. His smile shows his teeth, and reveals slight dimples on his cheeks.

Grantaire gives an awkward chuckle, trying to quell the flip flopping in his stomach. He feels like a criminal who never thought he’d actually escape prison, not sure what to do now that by some miracle, he has.

Enjolras shakes his head, still smiling softly, and turns back towards the dining room.

“Come on,” he says, waving a hand for Grantaire to follow, “Everyone else is in the dining room. We’re starting soon.”

Enjolras leads him through the entryway, past the living room and that kitchen door to the dining room. Grantaire takes the opportunity to take in the rest of Jehan’s house, which is just as chaotic as the entryway.

In the living room, the fake fireplace’s hearth is stacked top to bottom with board games. The sheer amount of blankets and pillows in that room is impossible. They’re tossed over two couches, and a couple of accent chairs which surround a round coffee table in front of the fireplace. Every texture and color is represented, including a few that Grantaire is pretty sure he’d never seen, which he didn’t think was possible. There were baskets full of even more of them, some of which looked handmade. Some new, some possibly older than his daughter, or maybe even himself.

The art on the walls has no cohesive theme, except to say that they’re loud. Every wall practically screams in delight. Grantaire chooses to believe it’s delight, and not horror at who has walked into this inner sanctum of a sentient firework, or a field of flowers made human.

He feels absolutely dull in comparison to the saturation of the room.

Every door in the house is a different color, and the handles are mismatched as if they’d all been taken from different buildings. He’s sure upon seeing it closer that the kitchen door is in fact an old gender neutral restroom door, but the two people in the center of the door itself now have chef hats and are carrying fancy silver platters painted on with careful strokes of white paint.

He only has a few seconds to really look around, but knows he’ll have a better chance to later. He and Enjolras have turned the corner to the dining room now, and fear twists cold in Grantaire’s stomach as he looks out at the group of people he hasn’t seen in so long.

The room is set up fishbowl style around a large wooden table. The table top is painted with what looks like a fairy’s version of a giant monopoly board, all colors and weird symbols around the edges.

And of course, his old friends sit comfortably cramped around it, identical books except for their amount of wear sitting in front of each of them.

The room goes quiet when they appear, and he knows he’s gone completely stiff, but to his surprise he feels a tentative hand on his back. Enjolras is looking at him, offering a small smile, and pushing him forward.

Despite his fear, he’s grateful. He doesn’t think he could have taken another step on his own.

Grantaire feels an intense anxiety with all eyes on him, and a familiar itch of wanting to run. He does his best to push it down as he looks over the old, familiar group, sheepish.

He sees Combeferre, who had apparently chosen this book, looking as uncomfortable as Grantaire does, and definitely the most sussed out by him out of everyone there. Next to him is Courfeyrac, looking totally unbothered, if not excited.

Courf is seated next to Marius, who looks a little nervous, but eases when Courfeyrac gives his arm a jab with his elbow. Courfeyrac is the one who dragged Marius aboard their motley crew, and Grantaire is glad to see that they’re still apparently good friends now.

Cosette is on his left, and they’re holding hands above the table, like the lovebirds they’ve always been. She had been a late addition to the group, only transferring to their school in the senior year, so Grantaire hadn’t known her well even then. Despite his talk with Eponine yesterday, he feels like he should dislike Cosette if only for her sake. But they both know deep down that Cosette is not a bad person. He smiles despite his guilt, seeing that the two of them are still happy. Cosette smiles at him like he’s her closest friend, and Grantaire can’t help but ease a fraction. At least one person here will definitely not hate him immediately.

Bahorel sits beside her, and his book is the only one in the group whose book’s fairly small spine already looks cracked to hell. He’s also the only one besides Cosette that gives him a wide, welcoming smile.

Bahorel is the one that chooses to stand, pushing out from the table to get to Grantaire, and Grantaire thinks wildly for a moment that he’s about to get punched, even though there’s no sign of anger on Bahorel’s face. Instead, he finds himself wrapped in a hug that’s so tight it hurts, and picked up off the floor by the much taller and much stronger man in front of him.

He thinks he feels his spine pop, and grunts as the air rushes out of him.

“Christ,” he breathes, managing a wheeze of a laugh, “I think I’m dying. I don’t even have a will yet.”

“Don’t break anything, Bahorel, Joly isn’t here,” Courfeyrac says from across the table, and Bahorel laughs, easing his grip on Grantaire slightly, and swinging him back down onto the floor.

“It’s about time you came around,” Bahorel says as Grantaire gasps for breath, “You done ghosting us?”

Grantaire isn’t really sure what he means by that. He’s willing to admit he doesn’t remember a ton about senior year, but he remembers that Enjolras told him to leave the club more clearly than almost anything. It’s hard to forget being kicked out like that. He supposes Bahorel could be referring instead to how Grantaire hadn’t really reached out after being kicked, because…yeah, he had done that. But he’d assumed that they wouldn’t want to hear from him anyway.

It’s why he’d thought the reception he’d get today would be much rockier than it is thus far. Honestly, it’s incredibly jarring.

“I’m about to be a ghost for real,” he says, finally regaining control over his breathing, “Do you have like, bricks shoved in your shirt? Because holy shit.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Bahorel says, and slaps him on the back, which in turn nearly knocks the wind out of him all over again.

Christ, Grantaire really needs to work out. For a while, he’d tried to take up boxing, mostly as a distraction and a means to keep himself busy, but as Bea grew up it had become harder and harder to find the time. Maybe he’ll pick it up again someday.

Courf is standing now, and pushes Bahorel out of the way so he can also give Grantaire a hug, this one thankfully a much lighter touch. And Grantaire really doesn’t know what to do with this reception, now that he’s not being actively crushed.

He’d come into today expecting to have to do a lot of apologizing. He thought that at best, he’d get cold looks from most people, not excited that Jehan had invited him, him, the terror of their old group, back into the fold. But so far...they generally seem pleased to see him.

Maybe enough time has passed and they’ve forgotten how annoying he is, he supposes.

Grantaire vows to do his best not to remind them as Courfeyrac pulls back, and looks over his face the same way Jehan had the other day in the book shop. Grantaire isn’t sure what he’s looking for, but does his best not to look guilty. With everyone else also looking, Grantaire can’t help but feel a bit like a monkey in a zoo. Or like, a lab rat that everyone expects to grow another head.

It makes his skin itch.

Combeferre is the only one he can’t really get a read on out of who’s here. He still seems fairly wary about his presence, and Grantaire doesn’t have to guess that he probably remembers more clearly than anyone besides Enjolras how unbearable he’d been. His face is almost enough to make Grantaire apologize right then and there. For what specifically, he’s not sure, but he’s sure there’s plenty to pick from, though he remembers very little of it.

Grantaire clears his throat, and says sheepishly, “If you take a picture it’ll last longer, Courf.”

“Is that permission to take pictures I hear?” Courfeyrac says, grinning slyly. Grantaire immediately shakes his head. Both of them know how adverse he’s always been to having his picture taken, and that is one thing that definitely hasn’t changed. There’s a reason that his photo album full of pictures of Bea doesn’t include himself almost at all. There’s probably two or three pictures of himself in his phone total, and most are from the day Bea was born, holding her swaddled form.

“I take it back, take your time,” he says. Courf just laughs, and turns to go back to his chair. Bahorel is already back at his seat. Grantaire moves to do the same, but then realizes there are going to be three more empty spaces after he, Enjolras, and Jehan have sat down.

As he pauses to look at them, Cosette speaks.

“Oh, Joly wasn’t feeling well,” she says, gesturing to the empty chairs, “He, Bossuet and Musichetta had to sit this one out. They should be back next week. They told us to tell you hi!”

Grantaire nods, smiling a little nervously. He’s sure after the meeting today, meeting them again next week will probably be okay. Probably a little too okay. But it’s nice to not have to worry too much. He'd been very close with Joly and Bossuet in particular, in high school.

Getting back to his mental tally, that leaves only Fuilley unaccounted for from the old group, but he hadn’t been on Jehan’s list of people that were coming anyway. According to Jehan, he was apparently off in Poland, having found a way to study abroad despite not having much in the way of finances. (Something about a work-study program, Jehan had said?) Feuilly had always been good at making his own way in the world, though, so Grantaire can’t be too surprised.

He’s got that bittersweet feeling again, knowing that all of them have managed to keep contact all this time. Only he had been a big enough fuck up to be thrown out of orbit entirely. Well...him, and Eponine, he supposes. But she’s apparently in no rush to re-enter orbit any time soon.

He and Enjolras take their seats at the table, and Grantaire sets down his copy of the book in front of him, trying not to pick at a spot on the cover that’s starting to tear. He’d grabbed the last used copy in stock at One Page More. It’s a bit worse for wear than the ones Enjolras and Jehan had gotten.

He's read this one before, when he’d first started working at the old bookstore eight years ago. It’s a classic, after all. And he had wanted a distraction from worries about the pregnancy. As far as writing goes, the book is poignant, and definitely worth a read. But as he said to Enjolras, it’s depressing as fuck. At least to him.

Jehan enters the room, and sits on Grantaire’s left, Enjolras having taken the spot on his right moments before.

“Everyone comfortable?” they ask, looking a bit more pointedly at Grantaire than anyone else in the room. He smiles, sheepish, and shrugs.

“Getting there,” he says, hoping it comes off as joking, when really it’s more honest than he’d like to admit. He doesn’t think he’ll feel entirely comfortable being back in the fray like this for a bit, if only from residual nerves. "Bahorel may have broken one of my ribs, but I'm sure it's nothing."

Jehan whacks him gently in the arm with their book.

“Oh stop, you big baby,” they say, and slap their own copy down in front of themself, and opening it to the spot they’d specified to stop, about halfway through the book. It isn’t a hefty read, so about two club meetings will cover it. They grin once more at Grantaire, then look around the table. “Okay, everyone ready to start?”

~~

Grantaire mostly listens to the discussion. He’s still not sure exactly where he stands with the group. Mostly, he's just enjoying just feeling the waves of nostalgia he gets hearing Combeferre gush over the translated prose, Courfeyrac bemoaning the depressing nature of the story, and Marius occasionally breaking in with an opinion that is not on the same page with everyone else, but appreciated, and discussed.

Grantaire still remembers one meeting when Marius had been very new to the group, and made the decision to say ‘George Bush wasn’t all bad’. He was so green then, enamored with the ideology that his late father had had. He had been soundly slapped with reality by every other member of the group, of course. But, miraculously, he kept coming back.

Marius’s resilience has always been one of his strengths, and one that Grantaire envies even now.

Eventually, his silence is unfortunately noted by Jehan. And Jehan, ever the inclusive motherfucker, decides to call on him.

“What do you think, R?” they ask, nudging him with their elbow. Grantaire, thoroughly surprised that he’s been thrust completely above the radar, blanks.

“Can you repeat the question?” he asks, stalling for time with a small, nervous smile. He does actually know what they were talking about, but also knows that it’s in character for himself not to have been listening, and is vaguely grateful for that. He sees Combeferre shift across the table, face pinched slightly, probably in annoyance, and Grantaire winces a tiny bit. He’s really not doing himself any favors.

Jehan doesn’t even flinch, repeating their current discussion question.

“What does it mean to be disqualified from being human?”

And fuck, Grantaire knows an answer he could give, but isn’t sure it’ll come out right. And if it doesn’t come out right, he’ll look like a fucking dumbass. And this is exactly why this goddamn book is so depressing, because if he looks too closely at Yozo’s coping mechanisms, it’ll feel like looking in a mirror.

“I don’t know,” he says, deciding it’s easier to play the idiot, and knowing that that is exactly the opposite of what he’s been supposed to be getting from this book, but unable to care as anxiety grips him. He has to remind himself that this isn’t high school, and literally no one here will jeer him for getting a question wrong. In fact, he’s not sure there technically are any wrong answers right now, but that won’t stop his brain from making him believe he’ll choose the absolute worst one.

Combeferre seems more exasperated now, his eyes cold, as if to say something along the lines of ‘why the fuck did we invite him again’. Cosette looks sympathetic across the table, and honestly that makes Grantaire want to disappear into the floor even more than Combeferre’s face.

Enjolras next to him, leans forward and catches Grantaire’s eyes.

“You said you’ve read this one before, and seemed to have thoughts about it when I came by the bookstore the first time,” he says. Enjolras' expression isn’t condescending, nor is it frustrated, like Combeferre’s. He seems to actually be trying to help.

“I said it was depressing,” Grantaire counters, knowing he’s not doing himself any favors in the Combeferre department by being so blunt. Enjolras nods, unfazed.

“Elaborate on that, then.”

Grantaire swallows, feeling completely exposed.

He takes a few seconds to gather his thoughts, and then speaks, cautious.

“So, um...Yozo feels disconnected from the people around him growing up, right? So he starts ‘clowning’ to try and get people to like him, like, ‘tricks’ them into liking him,” Grantaire glances around the table, knotting his fingers under the table for some comfort, and continues, “He’s like, playing a part all the time to try and pass as human. Since he can’t relate to the people around him, and why they do the things they do, he thinks he’s disqualified from being human. If people ever found out how he feels, he thinks they would reject him.”

His eyes flick up to Combeferre, who, to Grantaire’s surprise, no longer looks as frustrated as he did. Rather, his face has morphed into one of quiet surprise, as if he expected Grantaire to have not read the book at all.

“Which is, for the record, depressing,” he finishes. Combeferre’s face is still impassive, but he thinks he sees the beginnings of a smile twitching the corner of his mouth, and Grantaire counts it as a victory.

“Thank you, Grantaire,” Jehan says, ever the good discussion leader, “Does anyone want to add anything?”

When Grantaire looks back to Enjolras, there’s something so close to pride in his face that Grantaire feels his cheeks flush, and he quickly looks away. Combeferre raises a hand, wanting to jump in now.

“I think,” he says, “that some find his honesty reassuring. Yes, it’s depressing that Yozo feels the need to hide, but is it not comforting that he’s able to put into words something heartfelt and relatable? Despite it being sad, there’s something to be said for feeling understood.”

Grantaire wants to disagree. Reading the book had felt more like a fucking call-out to his own coping mechanisms than some kind of rapport. But he knows that someone less goddamn insecure probably would enjoy that sense of parasocial understanding.

“Coping with humor? Who the fuck does that,” he says instead, to which Combeferre rolls his eyes. He smiles all the same, and Grantaire smiles back, feeling as though an olive branch has been extended. Grantaire will take anything he can get.

They go around the table, some echoing agreement to Grantaire’s interpretation, some leaning more towards Combeferre’s feeling, and Grantaire feels relieved that he’s unlikely to be called on again this session. Under the table, his hands are trembling with anxiety. And yet, he can’t stop smiling.

Just about an hour after they’ve started, Jehan stands and offers anyone who wants them refreshments. There’s chips and dip in the center of the table, which everyone has been munching on occasionally.

They decide to take a few minute long break, and Grantaire stands when Jehan gets up to get drinks for everyone, wanting to check in on Bea.

He follows Jehan through the gender neutral kitchen door, and finds his daughter sitting at a kitchen island crowded with every color of paint and every brush that Jehan and Courf have, as well as a slew of markers and pencils.

She’s grinning from ear to ear, having painted and drawn quite a few things by now, fully immersed in her work. Grantaire peeks over her shoulder. Looking over the paintings, he finds two dinosaurs, one painting of Jehan and their newest set of crazy earrings (this time, two miniature fluorescent pink flamingos), and finally, at least two that are unmistakably supposed to be Enjolras.

He nearly laughs, wondering if the urge to capture his likeness in art is a heritable trait. He’d used to doodle during ABC meetings, and he had to hide his sketchbooks and scraps of notebook paper so no one would see the many studies he’d done, nursing a crush that he hadn’t been willing to admit was a crush until long after the fact.

“You’ve been a busy Bea,” he says, leaning down and giving her a kiss on the top of her head. She laughs, and Grantaire smiles, allowing her to lead him through her work. Jehan is rifling through the refrigerator, grabbing out handfuls of canned drinks and setting them on the counter to take back into the room in a couple of minutes. They listen in as they do though, and look at Bea’s art when she thrusts it out to them. They seem honored when she offers them their portrait, looking at it like it really does belong in a museum, and sticking it to the fridge with one of the many colorful magnets covering its surface.

Grantaire has never been so relieved to have a friend so good with kids.

When Jehan finishes getting out the drinks, Grantaire looks at his daughter and asks, “Do you want to keep painting, or come sit with the adults for a while?”

He doesn’t want to neglect his daughter, though he knows she will be fine doing art for a while.

Bea takes a second to think, then eyes the cans that Jehan is holding. When she looks back at him, it's with mischief in her eyes that can only be from his side of the gene pool.

“Can I have a soda like the adults?” she asks.

“Only if you promise to be good,” Grantaire says, and pinches her cheek. She laughs, pushing his hand away from her face.

“I’m always good!” she says, and Grantaire raises an eyebrow. Her grin goes a little peevish, and she amends quickly, “I’m almost always good.”

“Good enough,” he says, and picks his daughter up, carrying her while Jehan carries the cans out to the table.

Jehan sets down the array of beverages, and Grantaire gets re-settled in his chair, Bea on his lap. He’d grabbed her backpack on the way out of the kitchen, and he sets it by his feet now.

The lack of mention of his kid tips him off that Jehan did in fact appraise everyone of the fact that Bea exists beforehand. But there’s still a ripple of surprise around the table. Some of them (Bahorel, Marius, and Combeferre in specific) are making a “he’s actually a fucking parent?” face regardless of being informed. Maybe they'd thought it was a joke when Jehan had said it. Grantaire wouldn't blame them.

“Everyone, this is Bea,” Grantaire says, not wanting his daughter to catch their expressions the way he has. He doesn’t want to have to explain to his kid that he was such a fuck up in high school that her existence is enough to stunlock people. “Bea, this is Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Marius, Cosette, and Bahorel.”

He gestures to each person as he says their name, and he sees Bea mouthing the gist of each name after he says it, trying her best to memorize them. She gives a small wave to each person, and now seemingly nervous, leans more into his chest, hiding her face.

Everyone puts on smiles for her, trying their best not to be intimidating, and saying their hello’s as they reach for their beverages of choice.

Cosette looks completely enamored, giving Marius a look that screams, ‘I want one’. The beam he gives her back is so sweet Grantaire feels cavities forming simply from proximity.

To help Bea in getting comfortable, he keeps his promise about the soda, reaching for a root beer (non caffeinated, thank god), and pops it open. He hands it to her her, and immediately she seems more at ease. Bea snatches the can from him and takes a dramatic slurping sip, then pulls it away with an “ahh” sound. Like she's in a fucking soda commercial.

“You don’t have to do that every time y’know,” he says, because since she saw someone do it in a commercial three months ago, she’s done it at every opportunity.

Bea just shakes her head, looking oh so serious, and says with complete conviction:

“It makes it taste better.”

And who is he to argue with that?

To their eternal credit, Courfeyrac and Jehan both try it for themselves a moment later, and Bea laughs as a chorus of sips, and then emphatic sighs go across the table.

Enjolras has his own can, but his is a lemon lime soda, and he does not join in on the theatrics, though he does look entertained. When Grantaire looks over, he’s still looking at Bea like she’s a glitch in the matrix. But he seems to at least recognize that she’s a damn cute glitch.

The group spends a few minutes snacking and drinking their drinks, Grantaire taking sips from Bea’s can despite her protestations. It may be caffeine free, but he doesn’t need her bouncing off the walls all night from the sugar alone.

Bea tells him that she’s hungry, and he replies with the obligatory, “Hi hungry, I’m dad,” joke, grabbing a handful of chips for his daughter to a chorus of groans from his friends around the table. And If they hadn’t liked his jokes before, they are woefully unprepared for dad joke Grantaire.

Everyone falls into easy chatter, Enjolras talking with Combeferre and Marius across the table, Courfeyrac and Jehan sitting with heads bent in a conspiratorial way that Grantaire thinks looks flirtatious, and Cosette making faces at Bea across the table. Bea makes them back, laughing, and Grantaire knows that Cosette is going to make a great mom someday.

Grantaire takes the chance to catch up with Bahorel, the only one not invested in any one conversation.

“I don't think I have any updates bigger than yours,” Bahorel says, speaking across Enjolras’ seat, and catching that comment, Enjolras smiles knowingly, then goes back to what he’s talking about after a small smile in Grantaire’s direction.

Grantaire smirks, and shrugs, unable to argue with that.

“I have to keep you guys on your toes,” he replies, but pushes Bahorel to share regardless. Hearing about other people is leaps and bounds better than talking about himself. Thankfully, Bahorel has always been a very good sport, and gives Grantaire the lowdown without any further complaint.

He dropped out of law school apparently, having never really liked it. He and Enjolras had gone to the same university for a while, and Grantaire makes a mental note to ask what the fuck Enjolras is doing now, feeling a bit sheepish that he hasn’t even thought to ask. It feels like asking the solitary heir to the throne if he’d become king, stupid to even wonder if he was successful.

Bahorel is apparently working as a bouncer full-time at a club now, with no plans of going back to university. He likes his job, and that it gives him a relevant excuse to get into a couple fights every now and again.

“It’s good for morale,” he says, shrugging, and Grantaire doesn’t envy whoever managed to piss off this six foot hunk of pure beef. Bahorel has somehow only gotten more buff since high school; even then, his shirts had looked strained across his biceps. Grantaire laughs, falling into Bahorel’s good humor with ease. He's missed this.

“I assume it’s terrible for the other guy’s morale though,” he counters, “I hope you leave them with at least a little dignity, huh?”

“Fuck no dude!” Bahorel says, then slaps a hand over his mouth, realizing that Bea is still in Grantaire’s lap. He tries to correct a moment later, still grinning, “I mean, uh, fudge no. Sorry.”

“All good man. It takes some getting used to, I get it,” Grantaire offers, shrugging. Thankfully, Bea is fully immersed in a face off with Cosette and Marius. He doubts that she even processed what Bahorel said.

“You should come to my club sometime,” Bahorel offers, winking at him, obviously remembering that out of everyone in their group, Grantaire had always been the one most willing to get fucked up, “If you need some adult time, I mean. Not that your kid doesn’t seem cool, but everyone needs to cut loose, huh?”

And god help him, it does still sound tempting. Not just for the promised alone time, but unfortunately also because It’s just fucking hard to break old habits. He still craves the haze and the blur and the not giving a single fuck about what would happen in the morning.

But he has Bea to take care of now, and he’s done a relatively good job for seven years withholding from those urges. He’s had a couple of…incidents, mostly early on, and because of those experiences, he knows that if he gets a taste, he’s one step too close to relapse. And it has taken years making these temptations feel like a low hum rather than screaming.

“Sorry,” he says, awkward despite knowing that he has nothing to apologize for, “I don’t drink.”

That catches Enjolras’ attention. Both he and Bahorel seem to notice at the same time that Grantaire hasn’t reached for one of the few cans of fancy beer sitting in the middle of the table.

“You’re sober?” Enjolras asks, before Bahorel can say anything, and Grantaire suddenly feels incredibly vulnerable, yet again. There’s something about the way that Enjolras looks at him that makes him feel inadequate on impulse. Though the surprise in his tone doesn’t sound totally disbelieving. A small mercy.

Grantaire doesn’t keep track of the days sober, as a rule. He’d tried AA as a first effort to get sober, and quickly realized that it was more a religious institution than one that actually works to make and keep people on the straight and narrow. To him, having a three month chip felt less like an accomplishment, and more like stepping up to a ledge, and knowing that if he takes one extra step, he’s failed entirely and will have to start over. A Sisyphean task if he’s ever seen one.

So he’d gone his own way, learning to distract himself, and to be compassionate when he fucks up, and slowly weaning himself, and at the time, Camille, off of their respective vices before Bea was born.

It’s not something he wants to get into here, he already feels the familiar anxiety of being judged creeping under his skin, slow and steady. Bea’s weight in his lap is a small comfort, at least. A reminder of why he’d done what he’d done.

He swallows, and nods to Enjolras' question.

“I know, being a dad has made me lame,” he says, trying to crack a joke, and Bahorel snickers. But Enjolras doesn’t seem taken with his humor this time, looking serious as ever.

“It’s not lame to know your limits,” he says, and there’s a flash in his eyes that has Grantaire transported right back to the hallway, being told to come back sober or not at all. But the flash in Enjolras' eyes isn’t anger this time. If Grantaire didn’t know better, he’d think it was some distant relative of pride, same as the look from earlier.

His cheeks heat a little, feeling a spark of that pride flare in his chest, despite knowing it can’t be what Enjolras means with that look. It can’t, right?

The idea of Enjolras being proud of him for...anything is so strange Grantaire thinks it’d act as a poison. Like, the words “good job” coming from him to Grantaire should trigger a sleeper agent somewhere to execute them both.

“I dunno,” he says, hoping to cut away the tension he feels and plastering a smile onto his face, “I had to hand in my cool-kid badge and everything. Honorable discharge; It was all very official.”

Bahorel snorts on his beer, but Enjolras doesn’t laugh. He’s looking at Grantaire like he wants to protest, frustrated that Grantaire is seemingly willfully misunderstanding him. He opens his mouth as if to counter Grantaire’s comment, but before he can, Jehan is standing, and Combeferre across the table is getting out his book again.

Break is over. Thank god for small mercies.

“Bea, if you want to, you’re free to look at any books on the shelves in the living room,” Jehan says, and Grantaire gives them a grateful smile. He doesn’t think the contents of No Longer Human are exactly appropriate, nor entertaining for a child to listen in on.

Bea loves the library more than almost any other place, so she looks to her dad for approval, and when she gets it, gives him a quick hug around the neck, and then hops off his lap to follow Jehan to the wonderland that is the living room.

Enjolras is still looking at him when Jehan gets back, but Grantaire dutifully ignores it, for once happy to go back to discussion.

The group is able to get back on topic for another 45 minutes, until it devolves into a straight up hang session. Bahorel with a couple of beers in his system is a bit more rowdy, and the first half of the book has already been thoroughly discussed, so Combeferre seems to give in and allow the rest of the meeting time to be for fun.

Grantaire stays at the table, chatting idly with Courfeyrac and Jehan, still trying to get a read on their whole thing, but he sees Enjolras get up and go to the living room. A couple other members of the group get up to mingle as well.

He learns that Courfeyrac is a performer. He’s in a production of Romeo and Juliet at the moment, with the twist of this one being it’s set in a dystopian future that has some major 80’s rock vibes, each house representing a different rock genre aesthetic. He’s playing Mercutio, which, of course he is. Jehan helps him run lines, but is also a part of the costuming department for the theater troupe that Courfeyrac is a part of. And again, of course they are.

“Now I know where to go when Bea needs a Halloween costume,” Grantiare says, completely joking, but the way Jehan’s eyes light up is positively blinding. They start babbling off costume ideas, completely enamored with the idea of making tiny clothes. Grantaire, taken aback, promises to get Bea’s input on what costume she’d want this year so they can work it out.

Eventually, the conversation comes to a lull, and Grantaire excuses himself to go find his daughter, hoping she hasn’t wreaked too much havoc on the house that’s already teetering on the fine line between eclectic and hoarder’s wet dream.

He finds her within moments, hearing laughing from the living room. She’s sitting on the floor at the coffee table in the living room, drawing on one side of a folded paper. Other folded notebook papers are strewn all over the right side of the table, and washable Crayola markers on the other. Across from her on the couch, to his surprise, sits Enjolras. He’s leaning over the coffee table, partially hiding the folded paper he has that matches Bea's, and scribbling on it in stilted, unpracticed strokes.

Grantaire knows what game Bea is having them play. It’s one he taught her as soon as she was old enough to start drawing. It’s called “Exquisite Corpse”. A deceptive name; the actual game is a lot less morbid than it sounds.

Two or more people take a folded sheet of paper, and draw either the top, or the bottom half of a creature. They mark the other side so the other person knows where to draw, and then swap, and draw the top or bottom of the creature on the other person’s paper. In the end, you’re left with two abominations that are often so juxtaposed that it’s silly. It’s one of Bea’s favorites.

For a minute or two, he just watches them work from the edge of the entry hallway, mesmerized. Both are so focused on their respective drawings that they don’t seem to notice. They re-fold their pages after a moment, and then swap them, going back to heads-down drawing.

Finally, they both finish, and each opens the paper to reveal their collaborative monsters. Bea’s marker was blue, so it’s easy to tell which side is hers. Somehow, they’re also the sides that look more polished.

The first paper’s top half is a decently illustrated half of a mermaid, shell bra and everything. Bea’s half. The bottom is what looks like it must be a foot. Just one, giant foot, drawn in confident but unpracticed red strokes.

The other sheet has red on top, Enjolras’ best rendition of a bird (what kind of bird Grantaire can’t even guess), and the bottom has two uncomfortably buff legs, muscled to the point of probably not even being able to bend, drawn in Bea’s blue marker.

They both laugh at their ‘exquisite corpses’, and Enjolras finally looks up. As he does, his face shifts to a sheepish expression, as if he’s been caught doing something embarrassing. Grantaire takes the chance to come over, and plop next to him on the couch. He picks up a few more of their drawings from the right side of the table, and looks them over.

The top half of a trash can, bottom half the other half of the mermaid Bea had drawn earlier.

What looks like the top half of a fly, but huge, and the bottom half long, scribbly stork legs.

Batman on the top, and the bottom revealing he’s coming out of a toilet. On, and on. They’ve been at this for a while.

“Mind if I join in?” he asks, grabbing a green marker from Bea’s pile. One of his legs brush Enjolras' as he leans, and to his credit, Enjolras doesn’t flinch away.

Instead, he smiles, and hands Grantaire a pre-folded piece of paper.

“You’re about to put my drawing skills to shame, I’m sure,” Enjolras says, and Bea laughs. He glances at her and continues, “Not that Bea here hasn’t already done that.”

Grantaire snorts, having to agree, but not wanting to add insult to injury. Enjolras' halves of these drawings are hilariously bad. And again he finds himself thinking again about how weird it is that Enjolras is bad at something. He knows that his opinion of him had always been high...Probably a bit too high, in retrospect.

It makes Enjolras feel more human. And that is enough to make Grantaire relax.

They’re able to play together for a little while. Grantaire has neglected his own love for art for a while, but it comes back easily enough. He has fun making terrible amalgamations of people and creatures for another half an hour. More people, hearing them laughing from the kitchen and dining room, join in after a bit. They all somehow cram in around the coffee table, eating pizza that Jehan ordered or heated up at some point, and it’s a big circle of bullshit that Grantaire lives for.

Eventually, though, it’s getting late. And Grantaire knows that Bea is getting tired when her laughs start melting into yawns. The game slowly peters out, paper running low, and energy running lower by the minute. The coziness of the living room isn’t helping either; Grantaire hasn’t felt this content in a long time.

“That’s our cue to head out,” he says, after a particularly big yawn from Bea makes him yawn too. Bea tries to protest, but immediately cuts herself off with another big yawn. He laughs, helping Enjolras and Jehan collect the papers they’ve by new strewn everywhere and organize them into a pile on the table.

He stands and grabs Bea’s backpack from the dining room, coming back for his daughter a moment later. She looks like she’s about to conk out entirely now, and he knows it’s about to be a very peaceful drive home.

She’s grabbed a few of her favorite creations from the pile, and is clutching them in her little fists. Grantaire has her put them into her backpack for later, as well as some of the paintings she did earlier, which Jehan brings from the kitchen for them.

She stows these in her backpack as well, but pauses on a few, keeping them out, and to Grantaire’s surprise, hands a few out to some people around the coffee table. It becomes clear who her favorites were among his friends, and he hopes that no one will take offense to not getting one of the few paintings she’s willing to part with.

Having already given Jehan their painting, she moves on and hands Cosette and Bahorel the two t-rex paintings, and finally, steps to Enjolras and hands him one of the two she did of him.

He looks positively shocked, and a little touched.

“This is for me?” he asks her, and Bea looks at him like he just asked her if the sky is blue. She really has gotten good at communicating her snark, Grantaire notes. That look could make any adult feel like a fucking moron.

Enjolras just smiles, though. He looks at it once more, and then carefully takes it and folds the it in half.

“I promise to put it up when I get home,” he says.

Bea beams.

“You’d better,” she says, and then motions with two fingers from her eyes, to Enjolras, as if to say ‘I’m watching you’.

From there, there’s a round of goodbyes. Cosette, Jehan and Courf all give him big hugs, and Bea high fives. She repeats names back to people as they say goodbye, and she only messes up Combeferre’s, calling him simply ‘’Ferre’ which thankfully seems to be good enough for him.

Grantaire waves goodbye to everyone else, hoping that his smile is enough to convince them that he’s had a great time. A really, really great time. Combeferre still seems to be a bit uncomfortable around him, but for the most part he feels like he could really become a part of the group again.

It’s terrifying, a chance he never thought he’d have again.

He doesn’t want to fuck it up.

They walk back to his car, and despite the fear of losing the tentative new beginning, he can’t stop smiling the whole way home.

Chapter Text

Monday evening, just after he and Bea finish cleaning up after dinner and the two of them move to the living room to chill for the night, Grantaire feels his phone vibrate.

It had been a fairly normal day, though he’s pretty sure he annoyed Eponine even more than usual while at work. It’s not often that he has anything new to talk about, and she had been a relatively captive audience who also had the benefit of knowing everyone he wants to talk about. So, really, there had been no avoiding it.

Eponine had been a fairly good sport about it, probably knowing that Grantaire has no other outlet.

The sheer amount he’d talked to her at work tells him that the text he’s just gotten almost definitely isn’t from Eponine. So he assumes it’ll be Jehan as he slides his phone out of his pocket, but instead finds it’s from a number he doesn’t recognize.

He opens the message, and feels butterflies erupt in his stomach the moment he does.

From: UNKNOWN
5:32pm, September 20th:
-----
This is Enjolras. I got your number from Jehan, I hope that’s okay.
I thought Bea might want proof that I kept my word.

For a few seconds, Grantaire just stares at his phone, at a loss at the fact that Enjolras would ever text him of all people, let alone text him first. A moment later, a photo attachment follows the message, cutting off his thought before it can get much further.

Grantaire opens it, a grin splitting his face as he finds a snapshot of Bea’s painting stuck to what he has to assume is Enjolras’ refrigerator. The painting looks wildly out of place there; nothing else is stuck to the fridge’s white surface besides a small shopping list written in clean, cramped handwriting, and a deep crimson magnet in the shape of a flag.

He looks at the photo for a few seconds, marveling that Enjolras had actually put it up, then realizes he should be showing it to Bea instead of just staring at it and smiling like a fool.

“Bea,” he says, poking her bean bag with his foot to get her attention. She’s got her eyes glued to the TV, watching a re-run of a cartoon. Still, she dutifully turns after a couple of seconds of him poking at her, with a face that screams ‘this had better be good’.

Grantaire grins, and flips the phone screen to face her.

“Enjolras wants me to show you he kept his promise,” he says, by way of explanation. Bea looks at the picture, bemused at first, and then recognizing her own work, her face practically glows with pride. She grabs for his phone and admires her own work again, pixelated, but made better by the fact that an adult cared enough to put it up somewhere.

Grantaire lets her look as long as she wants, sad that he can’t take a picture himself, since what’s making her smile is what he would have used to do so.

It takes a couple of minutes, Bea babbling about whether everyone else liked their gifts as well, and how she’s going to have to make Enjolras more work now. Eventually, Grantaire leans in and takes his phone back, since she’s talking more than she’s looking at the photo now.

He takes the opportunity to snap a picture of her, mid-speech, the candid smile radiating pure joy.

“Can I tell Enjolras you’re satisfied?” he asks, once Bea calms down a bit. And she nods. Grantaire thanks her, and leans back on the couch, letting his daughter get back into her show, if she’s able to now that she’s so excited.

He pulls the message thread open up again, and types up a response. He does his best to not overthink it, but still takes a few minutes to convince himself that whatever he wrote isn’t entirely embarrassing, somehow.

From: Grantaire
5:38pm, September 20th:
-----
sneaky of you to get my number that way
ill accept your reasons though

bea is satisfied with your proof
just know that shes never going to stop giving you art now lol

After a few minutes, his phone pings again, and he tries not to feel too desperate at the speed with which he picks it up and looks.

From: UNKNOWN
5:39pm, September 20th:
-----
I can make that work. My fridge is boring anyway.

And this time, it’s easier to reply than the last.

From: Grantaire
5:40pm, September 20th:
-----
got any requests i should pass on? bea will be excited she has a fan

Just like that, they fall into a surprisingly easy rhythm, texting back and forth for a half an hour, just chatting. And it feels…weirdly normal. He’s not sure what he would have expected Enjolras to be like texting, but it’s not this. Not with him.

He makes sure to attach Enjolras' name to the phone number between their texts, surrounded by little fire emojis, and he realized then that he hadn’t had Enjolras' number at all, even in high school.

Understandable, really. He probably would have been completely obnoxious with that kind of power.

The conversation starts to come to a lull, and then Grantaire remembers something he’d thought of yesterday.

From: Grantaire
6:15pm, September 20th:
-----
i meant to ask you
are you like officially a lawyer now? bahorel said you went to school together

There’s a longer pause after that message, and Grantaire wonders if he’s somehow fucked up. It doesn’t seem like a too-personal question, which Grantaire has been doing his damndest to avoid, since personal questions for Enjolras might lead to personal questions for him, and he doesn’t really want to answer those.

Finally, though, his phone vibrates, and Grantaire pounces on it.

From: 🔥 Enjolras 🔥
6:20pm, September 20th:
-----
I haven’t graduated yet.

Grantaire stares at the message, trying to do some mental math. He knows, vaguely, that law school takes longer to complete than just getting a bachelors or whatever. But it still seems like Enjolras, if he were on course to graduate on time, would have done so earlier than now. It’s been just under a decade since their graduation. And he wants to ask, but doesn’t know how.

Thankfully, his phone vibrates again a moment later.

From: 🔥 Enjolras 🔥
6:22pm, September 20th:
-----
I graduate this summer. Any lawyerly advice you need will have to wait until then.

And from that, Grantaire has to assume that Enjolras doesn’t really want to talk about why he’s (maybe) behind. The idea that he’s fallen behind at all is kind of ludicrous. Grantaire isn’t certain that that’s actually what’s happened, but doesn’t know what else it could be. He’s very good at avoiding awkward topics when he wants to, though, and since he’s texting Enjolras and can’t really gauge his reactions to however he might try to joke, Grantaire decides to be nice and gloss over any questions he has. For now.

From: Grantaire
6:23pm, September 20th:
-----
thankfully i dont need any now lol
i was just curious

so youre on the student grind huh? hows that treating you
law school seems like it would suck

From: 🔥 Enjolras 🔥
6:25pm, September 20th:
-----
It’s not so bad. Exhausting, but I’ve managed this long.

And Grantaire still isn’t sure what exactly compels him to send his next message, but he types it and sends it on impulse, the sense of bravery feeling completely foreign, but welcome.

From: Grantaire
6:27pm, September 20th:
-----
well if you ever need a place to take a break the bookstore has a cafe
eponine from school works there if you remember her

Despite being the one to extend the offer, when he gets the next message a couple of minutes later, he nearly falls off the couch.

From: 🔥 Enjolras 🔥
6:29pm, September 20th:
-----
I have class until noon tomorrow, I’ll come by after.

~~

Grantaire rides the high of that text until he clocks into work the next day.

“Enjolras is coming for lunch today,” he tells Eponine excitedly, as soon as he sees her. She hasn’t even gotten her apron all the way on, and looks at him with such a wry, exhausted expression that he immediately pumps the brakes a little.

“Good morning to you too,” she says, going back to fiddling with her apron strings. She ties a messy bow, knotting it tight in a practiced motion, “I would ask if you want coffee but I don’t think you need it.”

Grantaire grins, sheepish.

“Sorry,” he says, and Eponine huffs a small laugh, reaching back to tie her hair up in a loose ponytail.

“Whatever. I hope you enjoy yourself on your lunch, Just keep things PG. Kids come into this store,” she says. Grantaire immediately regrets telling her at all, his neck and cheeks beginning to tingle with an embarrassed flush.

“Don’t be weird, It’s not like that,” Grantaire says, fully defensive, which isn’t helping his case. He’s still in shock Enjolras said yes to coming at all, he definitely can’t afford to read too much into it. “Technically speaking he’s not even really coming for my lunch, he just has a class that happens to line up pretty well with it.”

The look Eponine gives him is absolutely withering.

“Uh huh,” she says, sounding wholly unconvinced, her eyes narrowing. And Grantaire fully regrets the fact that he told her about his old crush once. Many, many years ago now.

He hadn’t meant to; early on in their co-parenting journey, when Bea was just a year old, Grantaire had had one of his lapses in judgment and gotten a little wasted. Maybe a lot wasted.

Camille had been gone for just over a year, and at the time the anniversary of that incident was still a little too fresh. Eponine had been able to come over and make sure he didn’t do anything stupid, and help with Bea, but that also meant she was witness to him being a sad drunk, with very, very loose lips.

“Apparently gender has nothing to do with my type,” he’d lamented, according to Eponine when she’d reminded him the next day. “But if they’re blonde, stubborn, and want me out of their life, sign me up! Fuck it!”

And then he had elaborated for a good hour about both people that fit the bill. He’s pretty sure there’s a video of it somewhere in the depths of Eponine’s phone, which he tries not to think too hard about. Eponine doesn’t bring it up often, because she’s a good friend, but she doesn’t have to with the look she’s fixed him with now. Her meaning is clear as day.

“Shut up,” he mutters, and Eponine smirks.

“I haven’t said shit.”

Grantaire flips her off, and stalks off to the register at the front of the store, sure his red face has given him away regardless of his efforts.

~~

The first half of the day goes slower than Grantaire has ever felt it, and despite there being more than average customers coming through, every minute feels like pulling teeth. He starts to separate out the hours into groups of minutes to make it feel like it’s going faster.

It doesn’t really help. But it’s still somehow better to wait for ten minutes six times than for an hour.

Enjolras had said that it’d probably be 12:30 when he arrives, so Grantaire clocks out about ten minutes before, eats his lunch in the back room, and then goes to wait at one of the cafe’s tables. Eponine is still smirking at him, seeing his leg bounce under the table, but he dutifully ignores her, trying to look more casual than he feels.

He tries to tell himself that he’d be this antsy if it were any of the ABC coming to visit, but it’s a hard sell. He keeps trying anyway.

Finally, at 12:30 on the dot, the shop door jingles, and there is Enjolras, looking as angelic as ever. His hair is a little windswept from the walk, and he’s got a leather messenger bag over one shoulder. When their eyes meet, Enjolras graces him with a smile, and Grantaire grins, trying not to let it show how excited he is, and stands from the table.

“You’re punctual,” Grantaire says, glancing at the small clock above the cafe. Enjolras follows his eyes, and nods.

“I try,” he replies, and then lets his eyes wander, quickly finding Eponine behind the cafe’s till. Her attention is split, looking like she’s trying to both look at her phone, and pay attention to what’s going on at the edge of the cafe, probably so she can make fun of Grantaire later. She notices Enjolras looking at her quickly enough, and lifts her hand in a little off-hand wave, face an impassive mask.

When Eponine had been in the ABC, she hadn’t really participated. Mostly she’d followed Marius around, or sat quietly in the back, and left without much fanfare once Marius and Cosette got together. She and Enjolras had never been close, and it seems that she hasn’t changed her tune on that.

Grantaire is just grateful she’s not immediately using this as an opportunity to embarrass him.

“Want a coffee?” Grantaire asks, jerking a thumb to the till, and by extension to Eponine, “I have a bit of my lunch left, so we can hang for a bit if you want.”

Enjolras smiles and nods, following Grantaire up to the register.
Grantaire orders their coffees, paying for his and Enjolras' together, despite his protestations. Eponine doesn’t seem to care who pays, just taking their orders in a monotone voice and holding a hand out to take the cash that Grantaire gives her a moment later.

Once they have their drinks, they pick an empty table close to the edge of the bookstore so they can have a bit of privacy. Eponine is more than happy to give it to them anyway, taking her apron off as soon as they have their drinks, and going for her own lunch.

And Grantaire has been kind of dreading this part, despite his excitement. He and Enjolras have never really been...alone together. Their entire acquaintance up until a week or two ago had been built on a group setting, and Grantaire is still trying to figure out how he’s supposed to act.

He’s not sure if he changed, or Enjolras did in the years they were apart, but either way something has shifted. And somehow they’re veering straight at a path to genuine friendship. At least Grantaire likes to hope that they are.

Enjolras takes a sip of his coffee, and makes a valiant effort at not showing the disgust he clearly feels when it touches his tongue. Grantaire takes a sip too, and immediately puts it back down, laughing.

“That sure is bean water. Not sure it’s coffee, but I think it at least counts as hot wet bean juice,” he says, and Enjolras seems to relax a fraction, knowing he isn’t going to cause offense if he doesn’t like it.

“I…can’t say I’ve ever tasted anything like it,” Enjolras says, looking at his coffee cup as if it’s poisoned, “I’m not sure how, but it’s somehow salty, fruity, and burnt at the same time?”

“I should have warned you,” Grantaire replies, laughing, “Eponine may be a good friend, but she’s a terrible barista. I think she’s actually gotten worse since she started working here.”

“That’s impressive,” Enjolras replies, carefully. He’s smiling now, but still keeping his cup at a distance.

“I’ll give her your compliments,” Grantaire says, and tries again to sip his own. He’s only ever gotten down about half a cup before he has to stop. What better day to beat his record?

“So…you two kept in contact after high school?” Enjolras says, and if Grantaire didn’t know better he’d swear there’s an edge of bitterness to his tone. It’s well enough masked by genuine curiosity that he opts to ignore the thought. Enjolras of all people has no reason to feel bitter about Grantaire not keeping contact.

“Not initially. We reconnected a couple years after graduation, after Bea was born,” Grantaire says, offhand, returning his cup to the table, “We’ve been close ever since. It was my recommendation that got her working here.”

“I’m glad you’ve had someone to lean on,” Enjolras says, glancing back to where Eponine had absconded, and looking a little wistful. He sounds so earnest that it hurts. Grantaire shrugs, trying to cut any tension he feels building.

“We leaned on each other,” he says, swirling his cup, “I don’t know how much you knew about her whole...situation?” It’s only half a question; he knows that Enjolras probably knows nothing. That’s confirmed when he gets just a blank, concerned look back. Grantaire sighs, and decides to give the CliffsNotes version. Eponine is a private person by nature, and he doesn’t want to overstep.

“Her family life was never great,” An understatement, but he continues, “the long and short of it is, we both ended up with kids to take care of around the same time. I had Bea, obviously, and she took her little brother out of her family home.”

Enjolras looks shocked, and for some reason guilty, as if him not knowing information that hadn’t been told to him was somehow his fault.

“I had no idea,” he says, sounding genuinely upset, “If we had, in the ABC, maybe we could have, I don’t know, offered support—”

Grantaire holds up a hand to stop him, and Enjolras, blessedly, does.

“You didn’t know because she didn’t want anyone to know, at the time anyway,” he says, and then gestures to Enjolras' expression, “If you give her that look when she comes back she’s going to skin you alive.”

“What look?”

“The ‘oh you poor dear’ expression. Eponine has never wanted sympathy. In fact, she hates it.”

Enjolras tries to school his expression, but only gets it down to one of mild concern.

“Things are better now,” Grantaire says, trying to ease Enjolras' clear guilt, even if nothing that happened was his fault. He’s always been the type to take every injustice in the world as his own to fix. Grantaire had always loved it about him, regardless of how ridiculous he could be. “Like I said, we leaned on each other. We found a rhythm.”

It doesn’t seem like he’s actually helped Enjolras feel better. He watches as his eyebrows scrunch, the slightly more subtle ‘oh you poor dear’ expression now directed to him instead. He finds he doesn’t like it either, immediately uncomfortable with the attention.

“What exactly happened after high school?” Enjolras asks, and he knows that the question under the surface is more specific than that. And he’s always known the ‘how the fuck are you a dad’ conversation was inevitable, but he’d been really, really hoping it just wouldn’t come up.

Because the truth is, every time Grantaire thinks about it, he feels pathetic.

He’s not even sure exactly where to start, or how much to tell. He doesn't know where they stand. Are they friends? Acquaintances? Less?

He doesn’t think that he can take giving a full on sob story while on his break at work. To Enjolras of all people.

"Do you want like, the CliffsNotes?" Grantaire asks, his index finger beginning to pick at the skin on the side of his thumb. He moves it back onto his coffee cup as soon as he realizes. It’s an anxious habit he picked up somewhere down the line, and he’s never quite been able to shake it.

"Whatever you're comfortable telling me," Enjolras clarifies, and Grantaire relaxes a fraction at the lack of expectation. Still, it takes him a moment to get his thoughts in order.

Silence stretches out between them while he struggles to think of what to say, but Enjolras seems content to wait, folding his hands around his own cup of shitty coffee. Grantaire tries not to feel like he’s on the wrong side of an interrogation table. He knows that isn’t the vibe Enjolras is trying to give, despite how anxious he suddenly feels.

“I, um,” he says, “Obviously had a lot of…I dunno, let’s say ‘vices’ in high school. I mean you saw a good chunk of that.”

Enjolras mostly looks relieved that he has in fact decided to speak, and nods without hesitation.

“That didn’t stop after high school. I fell in with another group after...y’know,” and he trails off there. Both of them are aware of their own falling out, and he doesn’t want to scratch at scabs right now. “They weren’t as...wholesome, as the ABC, let’s say. And one of the people I started hanging out with was Camille. Bea’s mom.”

“The woman in the photo from that time with Jehan?” Enjolras asks, and man his eyes are blue. Grantaire wishes he’d look away. He feels a bit, he thinks, like a deer in headlights does.

“Yep. That’s the one,” Grantaire confirms, and takes another sip of coffee, of course, immediately regretting it, grimacing before he continues, “We started dating right out of high school, and dropped out of community college together.”

“Did you love her?”

It’s not the question that Grantaire expects, and it makes him falter for a second, looking at Enjolras as if to ask ‘that’s what you care about?’. But Enjolras is still staring him down with that same earnest look, so Grantaire nods, slowly.

“I did,” he says, and something flickers in Enjolras' expression that he can’t place. Grantaire’s mouth twists into a little smile, eyebrows scrunching, “What, did you not think I was capable?”

Enjolras shakes his head, looking a little defensive, and distinctly uncomfortable.

“It’s not that,” he says, “You just never seemed like the type to…I don’t know, settle down. In high school you were kind of all over the place.”

“That’s the most polite way I’ve ever been called a slut, I’ll give you that,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras, having just attempted another sip of his own drink to cover the awkwardness, splutters.

“That’s not— I’m not—not that there’s any problem with that, but,” Enjolras tries to correct, and Grantaire laughs, glad for the distraction. Enjolras seems to realize a moment too late that he’s joking, and glares. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

“I mean, you wouldn’t be totally wrong,” Grantaire says, shrugging, and it’s true. In the later years of high school he had taken to dating around a lot. He liked feeling liked, but didn’t like the danger of getting too close emotionally. And, looking back there was a degree of trying to cover for himself and his definitely-not-a-crush-on-a-man. How could he be gay if he liked women? And he liked a lot of women. It was simply not possible.

Turns out, the two things were not and are not mutually exclusive. He definitely doesn’t want to bring that up now, though.

He really had loved Camille, though. She was smart, beautiful, funny, and a talented photographer. But, most importantly at the time, she didn’t judge him for his various unhealthy coping mechanisms. Even when she probably should have, mostly because she shared most of them.

In retrospect, their whole relationship had been grossly codependent; she was also the only one there for him at that point in his life, which as he knows now, was super not-healthy. Nor was the amount of drinking and drug use that had gone on in their apartment. If Grantaire wasn’t drunk, it was only because he was high enough not to think about drinking.

The year following high school is a complete haze; if anyone had asked him to recall one important thing that happened that year, he’s not sure he would have an answer besides what had snapped him out of the miasma. Namely, Bea.

With his thoughts back on track, and Enjolras leaving an opening for him to speak again, he continues.

“Camille got pregnant right after we both dropped out,” he says, opening and closing his hand, which has fallen away from his coffee cup, and settled on the table. Recounting this feels like willingly re-living a moment he’s tried to leave behind. “Not sure exactly how it happened. We always tried to be careful, but you can only be so careful when you’re only not on something when you’re sleeping.”

He swallows, hard, unable to look at Enjolras' expression now.

“To be honest, I didn’t want to keep it.”

And that’s the part that he can not, and will not ever tell Bea. Given the chance to go back and change things, he wouldn’t go back and un-have her, but at the time having a child had felt like a death sentence. He had been acutely aware of how unfit he was to have a kid, and the sheer amount that his life was going to have to change had crashed over him like a tsunami for days on end.

Thinking that someday, at some vague time in the future he would get his act together had been a lot easier than being faced with a nine month countdown. But he knows now that without some kind of a hard deadline, he probably would have taken himself to an early grave.

“Camille had other plans,” he shrugs, “I think she got it in her head that it was a sign, or something. And I couldn’t tell her what to do with her own body, so we compromised. If she was going to go through with the pregnancy, we were going to do it right.”

He doesn’t go into detail on how withdrawal works. There had been days of nausea, shaking, the worst migraines Grantaire has ever felt, the works. He feels lucky that neither he nor Camille had had the worst of the symptoms, and hadn’t had to go to the hospital. Especially since they were withdrawing from multiple intoxicants at the same time.

“Alcoholics Anonymous, by the way,” he says instead, finally able to look up at Enjolras again, “Is fully religious bullshit. Like, I’m sure it does work for some people, but when step two of your twelve step program is ‘coming to believe that a power greater than myself can restore me to sanity’, you’ve lost me.”

He does get a small smile from Enjolras there, still tinged with sympathy, but he’ll take it.

"You've never been one for believing in anything, I suppose," Enjolras agrees, and Grantaire laughs softly in agreement.

"Fair enough. Maybe that was my problem," he says, leaning back into his chair and trying to relax. It doesn't really work, but fake it till you make it has failed him a lot fewer times than praying to God to help. So, he'll stick with that.

Despite his best efforts, his tenuous smile falters, knowing what comes next.

“I got us both sober, eventually. Camille had to get clean faster than me, I mean, fuck, she had a baby growing, and we both had our weak moments, but Bea was born healthy nine months later. It was honestly the closest we’d ever been, I really thought that we were on the right track.”

He steels himself, putting on his best smile. It comes up weak anyway.

“She decided after four weeks of having Bea home that this wasn’t what she had wanted after all.”

And this was the hard part, the part he tries not to think about, because no matter how he looks at it, this moment is proof of what Grantaire always tried to avoid with his own self sabotage.

He wasn’t enough.

Evidently, neither was their daughter, to Camille. Maybe it was a lack of motherly instincts, or maybe it was some really bad postpartum depression that Camille just hadn’t wanted to work through. Either way the result was the same.

“She left a note, packed a bag, and left. I haven’t seen her since,” he finishes, feeling his voice go a little hollow, and trying to hide it by taking a swig of the swill in his cup, as if he can just make child abandonment casual if he tries hard enough.

He remembers the morning he’d realized she was gone in vivid detail, whether he wants to or not. They’d had had a fight the night before, both drained from weeks of little to no sleep, and no drugs to fall back on. The bed was empty when he woke for the umpteenth time to Bea crying.

He remembers trying and failing to quiet Bea, and trying to find Camille to ask her to take a turn, but only finding a scrap of paper on their messy kitchen counter, the pen beside it still clicked out, and Camille’s apartment key sitting beside it.

He doesn't talk about the panic attack that had followed, sharp and oppressive, fueled by the baby still crying in his arms. He doesn't talk about how he sank to the linoleum floor, and begged Bea to stop crying, as if she could understand anything at all about what he was going through, or understand that she's now solely in the hands of him, who wasn't even sure he could take care of himself.

He doesn't talk about how it felt to be completely, and utterly alone.

He tries to hide the hurt that still bubbles up in his chest, not wanting to get too into his own head. His lunch break will be over soon, and besides, Enjolras probably didn’t think that asking a simple question would open up an emotional can of worms.

Despite his best efforts, his hand on the table is still clenched a little too hard for him to be considered at ease, and Enjolras seems to notice it. He’s awkward, but also serious in the way that Grantaire knows means he cares, at least a bit.

He watches as Enjolras' hand lifts from his still full coffee cup, hesitant, and hovers over his own for a moment before dropping onto his clenched fist, giving it a pat, and then just resting there.

Grantaire feels the electricity of the touch shoot up his arm, and does his best not to flinch away. It’s awkward, but his hand is warm from the coffee cup, and it does feel nice, outside of Grantaire’s immediate uptick in nerves it causes.

Grantaire forces his fist to ease under the new pressure, still trying to come off unbothered. It’s clearly not working.

“That can’t have been easy, R,” he says, and his voice is so soft, plying Grantaire to meet his eyes again. Grantaire feels seen through, like Enjolras is taking an inventory of his very thoughts, and the warmth on his hand feels electric.

He doesn’t know what to say. Because it wasn’t, but he doesn’t feel like he necessarily deserves to be comforted. He did bring it on himself, and he’s fine now. Or, mostly fine.

But Enjolras continues before he can say anything, offering an encouraging smile.

“You seem to be doing a fine job with Bea,” he says, “We got to talk a little on Sunday before our drawing game. She’s a good kid.”

Grantaire doesn’t know how to take compliments. He’s never practiced. And if he thinks too much about Enjolras giving him one, he thinks he might cry? So instead, he laughs, stilted, shifting in his seat.

“What can I say, I’m capable of not being a fuck up when I have the right stakes.”

Enjolras' face across from him darkens.

“You’re not a fuck up,” Enjolras says, as if offended for him. Grantaire’s returning look must effectively convey his thoughts, which are an emphatic, ‘Don’t bullshit me’. Enjolras and the ABC had gotten the brunt of some of his worst years, and if anyone should know that it’s not an exaggeration, it’s Enjolras.

Enjolras only looks more frustrated at the look.

“Everyone has missteps,” he says, and his eyes narrow when Grantaire tries to interrupt, shutting him up for a few more seconds as he continues, “Even in high school, you still tried to be a good friend. Everyone missed you when you stopped coming to the ABC meetings.”

And at that, Grantaire can’t help but scoff, actually scoff. Enjolras falls quiet, his hand going a little stiff on Grantaire’s.

“I was a grade-A asshole in that club. People barely tolerated me being there most of the time," Grantaire says, and Enjolras' eyebrows come together again in concern and confusion, but Grantaire continues, unswayed by his expression, “Come on, I was annoying and you know it. I pissed you off more than anyone.”

“You were disruptive, sure, but—” Enjolras starts, and Grantaire fully laughs, withdrawing his hand from under Enjolras' palm, despite how good it still feels, because he needs to release some anxious energy and doesn’t know how besides crossing his arms over his chest.

“Don’t even try to argue, Enjolras,” he interrupts, “I mean, fuck, you were the one who kicked me out, remember? I was unbearable.”

“I didn’t—” Enjolras starts again, and Grantaire’s eyebrows shoot up.

“‘Come back sober, or don’t come back at all.’” he repeats Enjolras' own words to him, unable to believe that Enjolras apparently doesn’t remember what moment caused him to stop coming to the club. The moment is seared into his brain like a brand, and Enjolras claims that people had missed him? Sure, they tolerated him again at the book club, but he has no doubt it’s only because time has made it easier to forget how he was.

Enjolras looks like he’s been slapped.

“That was what you said. Believe it or not, I can take a hint,” Grantaire says, and he’s smiling, but he knows that his hurt must still be showing through because that confused, kicked puppy look is still on Enjolras' face.

He hadn’t wanted to make him feel bad. He just wanted to make sure their facts were straight. And the facts are, Grantaire had been an annoying little shit, and Enjolras had rightly kicked him out of their group. An open and shut case.

Enjolras either doesn’t know what to say, or knows that trying to convince Grantaire that his reality isn’t what he thinks isn’t a viable choice, and Grantaire marvels at the fact that he’s managed to render Enjolras, the Enjolras, speechless again.

The silence hangs between them, stifling and charged with an energy that Grantaire can’t place. And Enjolras looks like he does want to say something, but simply can’t find the words, his eyes locked on him, as if trying to read his expression, only to find it’s written in a foreign language.

“Look, I’m not, like, mad about it,” Grantaire says after a few moments, breaking the silence, guilt for how the conversation has gone sinking under his skin, “I just want you to know you don’t have to sugarcoat this shit with me. I know what I was like.”

Enjolras' lips are pressed together, and his hand is still resting on the table between them, in no man’s land. He withdraws it slowly, a muscle in his jaw tensing as he does.

Grantaire glances up at the small clock above the cafe, noting the time, and cursing.

“Shit,” he murmurs, standing from his seat, “my break is going to be over soon.”

Enjolras is still sitting, looking at Grantaire with a sadness in his expression that Grantaire can’t for the life of him understand. He’s really not sure how this break has gone so downhill so fast, but it has, and now he feels a pit forming in his stomach, despite feeling that he’s in the right.

“I appreciate you coming by,” he says, re-tying his apron, and trying to come off more casual than he feels. His fingers are trembling slightly from nerves, but he manages to tie a shitty double knot behind his back regardless, “You can stay and chill out here if you want. I’ll be around if you need me.”

Enjolras nods, his mouth a tight line, and it’s unsettling how quiet he is. When they used to fight in the club, it’d be a back and forth, with Enjolras saying something smart and passionate, and Grantaire shooting it down or saying something as stupid as possible so that Enjolras would have to launch into a tirade. This feels entirely different, and Grantaire doesn’t really know what to do with it.

Grantaire tears his eyes away, and goes to clock back in, tossing his barely quarter-empty coffee cup in the trash as he goes.

By the time he gets back out to the front, Enjolras has stood up and left the cafe, now making his way through the towering shelves of the bookstore. Grantaire doesn’t know what he’s looking for, but he seems distracted, fingers clasped tightly on the shoulder strap of his bag.

Grantaire tries not to watch him, busying himself instead with organizing the promotional book marks, as if that’s really something that matters right now.

Enjolras leaves without buying anything about ten minutes later. They both wave, but say nothing, the bell on the door jingling behind him as he goes, leaving Grantaire to wonder exactly how, and how badly he’s fucked this up this time.

Chapter Text

Things are awkward after their lunch break coffee.

Grantaire tries to text Enjolras once Bea and him are home for the night, to thank him for coming by again.

He's left on read.

Grantaire thinks it must be the end of their tenuous beginnings of friendship. He doesn't feel like he even did anything wrong this time, though. And this is exactly why he hadn’t wanted to re-open old wounds, but somehow he’d managed to do it anyway. Reminding anyone in the group of how he’d been before was not, and is not, a good idea.

His chest is tight when he goes into work the next day, expecting to spend lunch time alone, or half-heartedly shooting the shit with Eponine as usual. He braces himself for it, and he feels ready to face the reality that he’s fucked up once again. But surprisingly, again at 12:30 exactly the bell jingles, and Enjolras is there.

Enjolras walks to the register where Grantaire is sitting on his stool. Grantaire straightens, posture more tense than he wants it. Enjolras doesn’t look angry from what he can tell, but he still feels himself on the defensive, fingers curling into the hem of his apron under the desk, bracing himself for a fight.

When he gets closer, though, Grantaire finds himself distracted, noticing that Enjolras is carrying a small, colorful cardboard box, one of those ones that folds at the top into a handle. When Grantaire raises an eyebrow in silent question, Enjolras shifts on his feet, and holds the box out to him.

"I brought donuts. If you want some," he says, by way of apology. Apology for what, exactly, Grantaire can’t begin to imagine. But he smiles, the fingers in his apron relaxing.

"I'm not a monster. Of course I want some," he says.

Enjolras smiles in return, clearly relieved, letting the box fall back to his side, and they go to sit in the cafe area to share them.

Just like that, things feel (relatively) easy again. There's still some unresolved tension that simmers under the surface, but Grantaire is nothing if not practiced at ignoring things like that as a rule.

Over the course of the next few weeks, they somehow stumble into a routine. Sundays they see each other at the book club, of course. But outside of that, Enjolras begins coming to the One Page More pretty regularly.

The first week, Enjolras only stops by once, on Tuesday. Grantaire sits with him for whatever is left of his lunch break, and afterward gets back to work while Enjolras studies at the cafe table. Grantaire tries not to stare, though it’s hard to care about anything else when it’s the first sunny day in a while, and the sunlight coming through the cafe window makes Enjolras’ hair glow like a fucking halo while he works.

The second week, Enjolras comes in twice. On Tuesday, Grantaire is ready, having eaten his lunch on his ten instead of at the regular time so that he can clock out right when Enjolras arrives and actually have time to sit with him. It’s a bit of a risk; they’ve never managed to have more than a ten minute conversation without getting into a spat, but ever since Enjolras came in that first time, things have felt a little easier in that department. Both of them avoid the topic of high school entirely, an unspoken boundary put up for the sake of keeping the peace.

Enjolras also seems to be softening his edges a bit when they talk. Grantaire can’t be sure, but a few times he catches himself saying some shit while that formerly probably would have gotten him into trouble, and Enjolras bristles, but doesn’t snap. It’s honestly a little eerie, but the relative truce they have isn’t something Grantaire wants to upset.

They manage to have a civil conversation, talking for the full half hour of Grantaire’s break over predictably shitty coffee, and some scones Enjolras brought along. At the end of the visit, Grantaire slips away, and comes back with a new book, this one The Midnight Library by Matt Haig, another of his own favorites, and hands it to Enjolras as a thank you for the scones.

Enjolras returns on Friday, having read it in its entirety.

By the third week, their routine is beginning to feel solid. Apparently, Enjolras has classes that line up with Grantaire's lunch breaks on Mondays, Tuesdays and Fridays. And the bookstore is about halfway between his school and his apartment, Enjolras tells him, so it’s a simple thing to stop by afterward.

Grantaire tries not to let it show how much it means to be fitted into his routine like this. He doesn’t know why Enjolras keeps coming back; it’s almost definitely not for Eponine’s coffee, and he wouldn’t have thought that their conversations would be enough. And yet, as promised, on Monday, Tuesday, and Friday, Enjolras comes back.

They find surprising common ground. Maybe they’d just never bothered to talk one on one before, or maybe Grantaire had never been present enough to try. Maybe Enjolras had thought it would be a waste of time for them to try to connect. But despite the odds, they seem to be managing it.

Both of them enjoy fantasy and sci-fi reads, both of them don’t have much (or any) contact with their parents (though Grantaire’s have practically disowned him, and Enjolras seems to ignore his as a rule) and both of them seem to need a friend.

Grantaire doesn’t quite understand the last part; Enjolras has always been surrounded by people. Usually at the front of them, giving an impassioned speech or whatever, but he has always drawn people to him easily.

He’s not sure how Enjolras has time to read and hang out like this as a law student, but he isn’t about to question this new normal. Even Eponine is starting to get used to it. She doesn’t join in on their conversations, but she often has drinks ready, and sometimes just sits and listens behind the counter, scrolling her phone.

Grantaire begins to expect their meetings. It scares him when he thinks about it too much, because he's beginning to feel at ease in this new routine, and his brain rejects comfort like a disease.

On days that Enjolras can't come, he talks with Eponine as usual. He tells her that she's more than welcome to sit with them and talk when Enjolras comes by, rather than just sitting awkwardly behind the counter, or going off wherever she goes for breaks. But when Grantaire tries the for the tenth time to invite her, Eponine shakes her head with finality, and hands him yet another shitty coffee.

"No offense, R," she says, looking perfectly exhausted with him, "but if I tried to sit with you two, I'd be a complete third wheel."

Grantaire shakes his head, because he knows that Enjolras wouldn't care. He knows how much Eponine means to him. He doesn't get a chance to voice as much though, interrupted by Eponine rolling her heavily shadowed eyes.

"Don't act like it wouldn't be weird, dude."

"Hey, I know you two weren't close in high school, but—" he starts.

"It's not about that," Eponine counters immediately, her eyes narrowing as if Grantaire is actively trying to misunderstand her. "Are you really going to act like this is nothing? Christ, R, you nursed your crush on him for years."

And at that, Grantaire nearly chokes on his coffee, spluttering.

"Whoa, okay, time out," he says, wiping his mouth, "That was in high school."

Eponine's face is practically a mask that reads 'what the fuck does that matter'. And it takes every last drop of his restraint not to say 'not everyone holds onto high school crushes like you'.

And he knows he can't say it, a) because it would be the absolute lowest of blows, and b) because Eponine might…actually be right.

He's been trying to quash anything that bubbles up, be it nostalgic or just because, sue him, Enjolras is and has always been so fucking beautiful that it hurts. The fact that he smiles, actually smiles now when Grantaire and him talk isn’t helping anything either. He's getting to see sides of Enjolras that he never saw in high school. His sense of humor, his surprising softness, the care he gives to all of his friends, which now, he hopes, includes Grantaire.

There is, for sure, a fondness, blossoming and growing in his chest, that he doesn’t want to think about. Because thinking about it might make it mean more than it should.

He knows he has to be doing a pretty horrible job of hiding how he’s feeling, because Eponine scoffs out a laugh, and turns to clean the espresso machine.

“Look, I’m happy to see you happy. Just let me keep my distance,” she says dryly, “There’s gonna be a blast radius of corny when you two give in and finally just make out. I don’t wanna get caught in it.”

Grantaire’s face betrays him, heating up immediately. He slams his coffee down on the counter, and straightens from his leaned position on the wood, starting to walk away.

“Thanks for the terrible drink,” he says, not looking back, trying to get as much distance between them as possible so Eponine can’t embarrass him any further. Eponine behind him just laughs.

“You’re welcome,” she calls after him, and he can still hear the smirk in her voice. They both get back to work, the subject effectively dropped.

~~

In book club, they blast through the rest of No Longer Human by the week after they’d started it, to Grantaire’s relief. The discussion around it got a bit more contentious as the book progressed, and the main character’s actions became less sympathetic and more sociopathic, especially towards women.

A good book representing one man’s broken mentality as a result of a post-war world it was, a beacon of feminism it was not. And Grantaire still finds it incredibly depressing.

After that book was finished week two of Grantaire coming to book club, Jehan had suggested the next book: The Hidden Life of Trees.

It could not have been a bigger departure from the melancholy dirge that is No Longer Human. This book is non-fiction, but still manages to be a fantastical journey through how trees and plants communicate and create a functioning ecosystem. They apparently have human-like families, and Grantaire has found himself genuinely moved by how they support each other through weather extremes.

They’re about half way through the newest book, and discussion has gone a lot more smoothly this time. It was mostly a chorus of “dang, I wish I was a tree”, and then sighs.

Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta had finally been able to join back in the week they began The Hidden Life of Trees.

According to Musichetta, Joly may not have actually been sick; he’s always been a bit of a hypochondriac, and given he had no actual fever when they checked, it was probably nothing. What wasn’t nothing, and what kept them from returning week two, was Bossuet managing to actually come down with something while caring for Joly. The unlucky bastard.

He’s been fully recovered since last week when they finally came to the club, but Joly still seems nervous, and checks Bossuet’s temperature almost compulsively. Musichetta has to stop him a few times, if only to keep distractions from discussion to a minimum.

Grantaire is glad to see that they’re all still getting along. They had each dated in different combinations, off and on during high school, but now seem to have settled into a comfortable polycule, rather than coupling off.

They’ve all been incredibly good-natured about seeing Grantaire again, though of course he braced for the worst. He’d never been a part of a four-way hug before last week; it was an awkward ordeal, but better than being smacked with Joly’s cane, which is what he’d half expected.

Bea takes the new people in stride as well. She’s gotten better at socializing with new adults since they began coming to the book club meetings, which is completely thanks to how good his old friends have been at making her feel welcome. Jehan is still probably her favorite, with Cosette in a close second, but his daughter has stopped hiding at his side almost entirely, no matter who’s in the room.

Upon meeting Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta, she'd looked at Bossuet and proclaimed much too loudly, “Wow! You’re bald!” and then asked to touch his head.

He’d been a very, very good sport about it, for which Grantaire is eternally grateful.

With everyone together, Jehan’s dining room is well and truly full every week, especially when Bea decides to sit in. Rather than being cramped, though, it feels cozy. Everyone is in good humor, enjoying the time they have together. It’s another aspect of his routine that Grantaire is still trying to get used to, despite how it sets his nerves alight.

They’ll be finished with this book by next week’s meeting, so it’s time to pick a new one. The discussion comes to a close, everyone starting to snack and chat, and Grantaire is excited to see what’s coming next.

Jehan’s eyes settle on him and stay there.

“Your turn, R,” they say, offering an excited smile, “What do you want us to read?”

And he should have expected this would come eventually, but hadn’t thought that far ahead. He’d known that the group had been coming together for this for months before he joined in, but somehow hadn’t processed that eventually he’d have to take a turn choosing what they’d read. And certainly hadn’t thought it would come so soon.

Grantaire laughs, an awkward, stilted sound, hoping he can just get out of it.

“Unless you want to be discussing socialist themes in The Very Hungry Caterpillar, you might want to pick someone else,” he jokes, gesturing to Bea, who’s across the table, apparently making up a secret hand shake with Cosette and Marius. “I’m not the best person to come to for books.”

And immediately he knows that he fucked up, because beside him Enjolras leans forward, staring at him with the intensity of a prosecutor catching the defense without an alibi.

“Grantaire, you’ve been recommending books to me for weeks,” he says cooly, and his voice is so to the point that Grantaire doesn’t dare to argue. Grantaire does manage to look at him, and forces up a shaky, sheepish smile that doesn’t meet his eyes.

He’s going to be a great lawyer one day, but fuck does Grantaire hate him for it right now.

Jehan and Enjolras are both looking at him now, as well as Combeferre, raising an eyebrow, Courf following shortly after. Grantaire begins to sweat. The all-eyes-on-him anxiety makes him freeze, and erupt at the same time, his leg immediately beginning to bounce under the table.

Suggesting a book to Enjolras had been hard enough the first time, only made easier by the fact that when he’d suggested the first book, he’d been safe in the knowledge that Enjolras' opinion of him probably couldn’t get any lower.

Suggesting something for a group of people who were definitely smarter than him, and who seemed to think he might be okay some of the time is immeasurably more stressful.

He tries to grab for a title, anything that he’s ever read, but his mind is traitorously blank.

His silence stretches out until Grantaire feels like he’s going to tear in two, the weak smile he’d conjured falling away. When he doesn’t answer, eyes darting to the people around the table, and then down at the table itself to escape scrutiny, Enjolras starts to look concerned. He opens his mouth to speak again, but Jehan beats him to the punch.

“If you don’t have any ideas now, it’s okay. How about you tell us next week what you want us to get? We’re still not finished with the current read,” they say, and they sound so kind. Grantaire finds he’s able to give a short nod, and another weak smile.

“Thanks,” he says, quiet, and feels pretty sure he’s not playing this off well. He’s completely sure of it when he catches the look on Enjolras' face. It had been much easier to ‘play off’ his anxiety when his nerves were loosened by alcohol, or weed, whichever came first. But those are clearly not options anymore.

Everyone goes about their business after, beginning to chat together in small clusters, and Grantaire takes the uptick in conversation as a chance to escape, standing, abrupt and stiff, and heading to the bathroom. He feels Enjolras looking at him as he goes, but doesn’t look back.

Jehan’s bathroom is as wild as the rest of the house. The door he wants is the one with a bright green exit sign, on the right end of a skinny hall that also leads to what he assumes is a bedroom.

Inside, it’s a tiny room made tinier by the sheer amount of color packed into it. Nothing matches, and by now Grantaire knows that maximalism is alive and well; it would be able to subsist on only this room for decades, before it even had to resort to the rest of the house. The floor’s tiles are a muddy sort of pink, the walls a bright mint green. There’s a fuzzy toilet seat cover over the toilet lid, bright purple, and the towels hanging on the rack are what look like novelty beach towels, printed in slogans and covered in surfboards.

Grantaire doesn’t know how it must feel to shower behind a tie-dye shower curtain, but he’s done acid before and thinks it must be vaguely equivalent.

He sits on the closed seat of the toilet for a moment, trying to ignore the chaotic feeling of the room he’s chosen, and works on calming his breathing, wondering if he’ll ever get better at this. He knows it shouldn’t be this hard to exist socially. He knows it, and it only makes him more frustrated with himself. It’s just a fucking book suggestion, it’s not that hard.

And he knows it’s ridiculous, but as he falls back into this group, and things feel easy, he can’t help but feel like it’ll all be yanked away. Like one mistake will be the final straw, and he’ll be alone again. He’s fucked up before and lost everyone. It had been very different circumstances, true, but the fear is oppressive, and unrelenting. The ridiculousness of it doesn’t stop it from feeling like ice shooting into his stomach.

He wants a drink. More badly than he cares to admit, even just to himself. And he hates that his shitty fucking brain has been programmed to reach for an escape that way whenever he feels anxious.

Instead of following that impulse, he counts down from one hundred, forcing his breathing steady. When he’s done, he stands up, and splashes water on his face. He feels better enough to leave once his face is dried on a fuschia and orange hand towel hanging by the sink.

He turns and opens the door, going to take a step out when he sees Enjolras, leaning against the hallway wall on the opposite side from him. There’s about two and a half feet between them in the slim hall. It feels like nothing.

Grantaire suddenly understands how Victorian ladies felt; saving room for Jesus would be very welcome right about now.

“Sorry,” he says, and the grin doesn’t come easy, but it does come to him. He hopes it covers for the fact that he can’t meet Enjolras' eyes, “Didn’t mean to hold it up. All yours.”

He makes to step out of the bathroom doorway and past Enjolras to go down the hall, but Enjolras speaks, halting him where he stands.

“Are you okay, Grantaire?” he asks.

“Yeah, y’know, nature calls,” he lies, eyes on the floor.

“I didn’t hear the toilet flush,” Enjolras counters, and Grantaire tenses, kicking himself for not thinking to do so. But he hadn’t exactly prepared for someone to follow him closely enough to know. Despite his best efforts, the curls around his face are also still damp, a clear giveaway that he’d splashed it with water only a moment ago.

“Well look at you Mr…Lawyer…man,” Grantaire says, and it’s completely lame, but he doesn’t know what else to say. He leans against the opposite wall of the hallway, and finally forces himself to look Enjolras in the face.

To his surprise, Enjolras doesn’t look suspicious. Grantaire had kind of figured he’d assumed he’d gone off to smoke or something. But instead, Enjolras just looks guilty. Guilty and worried.

“I’m fine,” he says, compelled by the unexpected expression to speak. He pushes his hair back from his face, and lets it fall back into place. “Really. I just needed a minute.”

Enjolras looks a little relieved at that, but the guilt pinching his expression goes nowhere.

And after a pause, he says, “I shouldn’t have put you on the spot out there. I’m sorry.”

Enjolras sounds so small when he says it that Grantaire’s heart breaks a little.

“It’s fine,” he says, reassuring, and he’s not sure where the bravery comes from, but he finds he’s able to reach forward and give Enjolras' shoulder a little pat. His red sweater is soft, and warm under his skin. Grantaire’s palm burns. He doesn’t really know how to make that expression go away, but he does his best to sound comforting. “I’m not like, mad. You were right to call me out. I just…I needed a minute.”

Enjolras is still staring at him, a little confusion worked into the crease in his brow now.

And Grantaire pauses, his hand falling back to his side as he tries to pick the right words.

“I’m afraid I’ll pick the wrong book,” he says after a moment, and it sounds so fucking stupid coming out as speech and not as an internal anxiety thought train that he suddenly feels completely pathetic.

Silence fills the small space between them.

“No one is going to think less of you for whatever you pick,” Enjolras says eventually, voice even and careful, and Grantaire leans back against the wall with a sigh, folding his arms over his chest.

“You don’t know that,” he says, and he does manage a smile, but it’s tight as he tries to joke, “I could, like, accidentally bring a book by an author that Combeferre has a blood feud with. Or, I bring something so boring that Marius just dies. Literally dies, and Cosette will have to bring his skeleton in the next week.”

Enjolras lifts a brow, crossing his arms.

“I promise you, as far as I know Combeferre has no active blood feuds,” he says, “And Marius is more resilient than you’d think. He reads historical books about Napoleon for fun.”

At Grantaire’s look of disbelief, Enjolras smiles, shrugging, “He brought one in as his pick a couple months ago. Ask anyone.”

Grantaire shakes his head, wondering if even Eponine knows about that side of him. She probably does. Grantaire supposes there’s no accounting for taste.

“That doesn’t mean that whatever I bring won’t bore him or anyone else to tears,” he says, stubborn as ever. The back and forth is helping his nerves down from the ledge, though, and he’s grateful to Enjolras for that on its own.

Enjolras seems pensive now, eyes flicking over Grantaire’s face as if trying to solve a puzzle.

“You seem a lot more anxious than you used to be,” Enjolras says, and his voice is gentle enough that Grantaire knows it’s not a critique, just an observation.

“I’m not,” he answers without thinking, “I just drink a whole lot less.”

Enjolras’ lips press into a tight line, looking disquieted. Grantaire snaps his own mouth shut, before he can say anything else that’s entirely too honest. Silence stretches between them again, awkward and stifling. Finally, Enjolras speaks.

“Do you want me to help you pick?”

Grantaire blinks, and blinks again at the sudden lifeline he’s been dropped. Enjolras says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world. The ice in his stomach melts a little, replaced with a warmth that tingles up his spine, comforting.

“Um,” he says, a bit dumbstruck, “That would be great, actually.”

Enjolras smiles, beautiful as ever, looking relieved, and Grantaire can’t help but fall into an easy smile to match.

“Good. We can brainstorm over coffee. Usual time tomorrow?”

“Sure,” Grantaire replies, feeling stunned, unable to question the kindness in his own surprise.

With that settled, Enjolras seems satisfied, and turns to go back to the group. Grantaire follows him out, falling into step behind him. When they reach the end of the hallway, he reaches out, hesitating for just a second, and then touches Enjolras’ back.

"Enjolras?" He says, making sure he has his attention. When their eyes meet, he continues softly, “Thank you,” and hopes that the magnitude of the offer, and the gratitude that he feels is conveyed.

By Enjolras’ surprised expression, he thinks it must be. Grantaire turns quickly, mostly to hide the flush he feels racing up to his cheeks, and walks back into the dining room, scooping Bea up into his arms and asking her and Cosette to teach them their secret handshake.

Chapter Text

As promised, Enjolras does come to help him brainstorm on Monday. At 12:30 exactly, he enters holding a legal pad and pen at his side.

Grantaire snorts to see him looking so official, heading to the back to clock out. He should have known that Enjolras would come prepared—he is nothing if not strategic, even for little shit like this.

It had been difficult last night not to feel guilty for how readily he accepted the help Enjolras offered him. He’d sent a text last night to make sure Enjolras knew he didn’t actually have to do this, but Enjolras’ response had been a firm reiteration that he does want to help, and Grantaire hadn’t known how to push back further. So he spent the night instead thinking of ways he can make up the favor to him later.

For now, he’s going to do his best to not waste the chance at help he’s been given, because honestly, he really does need it.

“You look like you’re ready to kick ass and take names, but in, like, a nerdy way,” Grantaire says when he emerges again from clocking out, sauntering over to where Enjolras is standing at the ready.

“Should I be offended by that?” he asks.

Grantaire shakes his head with a smile. Across the room in the cafe, Eponine shouts, “Yes!”

Grantaire flips her off as subtly as he can, even though Javert isn’t in today. Sometimes it feels like that man has eyes everywhere; it doesn’t hurt to be careful.

Enjolras only smiles, and taps his legal pad with the back of his pen, clicking it to the open position.

“I guess I’ll be half offended, then,” he says, and then eyes the bookshelves behind Grantiare. “Where do you want to start?”

They only have thirty minutes, and with a whole bookstore of options, it’s hard not to get overwhelmed. They work as efficiently as they can, spending minutes looking through tall shelves, nearly arm to arm at times, pulling books out from their wedged positions, reading summaries when they don’t know the contents, with Enjolras noting down any that seem promising on his pad of paper in his quick, cramped script.

The whole thing is a bigger ordeal than Grantaire expects, but he does manage to have fun. He has a list of about ten books to look through by the time his break is over, even more when he counts those that they picked and then crossed out, but feels like they’ve hardly made a dent.

They try again the next day. Enjolras brings in donuts again for fuel, and this time when he offers some to Eponine if she helps them out, she takes them up on it. Probably mostly for the donuts, Grantaire knows, but still. Getting Eponine to help is quite the feat, in his opinion.

The three of them work together, picking through shelves and finding a few more options. Even with all of their hard work, though, Grantaire isn’t satisfied with any they pick out.
He crosses out good chunk throughout the day, nixing them all one by one for one reason or another.

Friday comes, and Grantaire expects to go through the song and dance all over again, his nerves having mounted day over day as he feels the time to pick his book slipping away. His phone buzzes around 12:20, and he fishes it out of his pocket, already feeling a leaden weight in his stomach, because there’s only one person it would be.

From: 🔥 Enjolras 🔥
12:19pm, October 22nd:
-----
Hey. I’m sorry, but I have an assignment due tonight.
I won’t be able to come by today after all. :(

The emoji that Enjolras uses makes him smile, despite the anxiety starting to curl in his stomach at the knowledge that he’s going to have to finish this book search on his own.

He makes sure Javert isn’t around, and shoots back a text.

From: Grantaire
12:21pm, October 22nd:
-----
no sweat
your school work has to come first
totally understand

From: 🔥 Enjolras 🔥
12:25pm, October 22nd:
-----
Have you gotten any closer to a final winner?

From: Grantaire
12:26pm, October 22nd:
-----
lol
you have so much faith

From: 🔥 Enjolras 🔥
12:26pm, October 22nd:
-----
Call me an optimist.
I’ll take that as a no?

From: Grantaire
12:27pm, October 22nd:
-----
well
i have a long list of what i dont want to bring
so theres that?

There’s a longer pause after Grantaire sends that message, and he doesn’t really expect to get anything back. He doesn’t want to be a burden on Enjolras any more than he already has been. For fucks sake they’d already spent an hour looking through every book under the sun, and come up empty handed. There isn’t much more to be done. To his surprise, a second after he clocks out for lunch, he gets another message.

From: 🔥 Enjolras 🔥
12:30pm, October 22nd:
-----
Are you free tomorrow?

He walks slowly, and sits at his usual spot in the cafe, the table he and Enjolras usually share, feeling his heart thumping a little faster despite this being nothing big. Enjolras is being nice, he has no reason to get worked up over this. Still his fingers shake a little as he types a quick reply.

From: Grantaire
12:32pm, October 22nd:
-----
yeah
i am
i mean bea will be home but i dont have work

From: 🔥 Enjolras 🔥
12:35pm, October 22nd:
-----
Okay, good.
I think we may have been casting our net a little too wide.
If we focus on books that you own, we might be a little more successful.

Can I come over tomorrow night?
We can get pizza, I’ll pay.

Grantaire looks at his phone in disbelief. The worry he'd had about finding a book twists into a strange mix of anxious anticipation and pure joy. Enjolras wants to come to his place, and there's something that feels incredibly intimate about that. Only Eponine and Gavroche, out of his old friends, have ever come to his apartment.

His heart pounds in his chest in time with his thumbs on his phone, as he types out a reply.

From: Grantaire
12:37pm, October 22nd:
-----
who am i to say no to free pizza?

They plan to meet the following evening in front of Enjolras’ apartment. And at exactly 5pm Saturday night, Grantaire pulls up to a cramped brick building that matches the address Enjolras texted him, with Bea in the booster in the back seat.

As expected, Enjolras walks out of the front door of the building right on time. He spots Grantaire before he's fully parked, and they exchange smiles through the passenger side window. Enjolras opens the passenger side door, sliding into the seat and looking back to say hi to Bea. She's been waving and shouting hello to him through the window since Grantaire got close.

As he pulls them away from the curb, Enjolras is looking around the car, taking it in. When Grantaire quirks an eyebrow up at him a moment later, glancing over, Enjolras simply says, "Is this the same car you had in high school?"

He’s surprised that Enjolras would even notice. Sure, he’d driven him home from school once or twice (before he'd actively started day drinking), but that was a long time ago.

“It is,” he says, patting the steering wheel that’s incredibly worn by now, “This car is basically my first child. They grow up so fast.”

“It’s clean,” Enjolras says, looking around in disbelief. Grantaire does his best not to be offended by that, keeping his eyes on the road. He can’t say Enjolras is wrong to have assumed it would be at least a little messy.

There are no longer any of the fast food wrappers, discarded cigarette butts, or empty bottles piled on every inch of the floor. His car seats still bear the smell of smoke, both from hot-boxing weed, and from cigarettes, but it’s smothered pretty efficiently by the heavy duty cleaning R did to this old bucket of bolts, and the dark pine tree air freshener he has hanging on the mirror.

There are a few granola bar and fruit snack wrappers in some cup holders, and some stickers still on the dashboard that he couldn’t cleanly pry off, but other than that it looks very put together. Like a real adult car.

“What can I say,” he says, pausing to look both ways at a stop sign, continuing down the road, “Total pigsty wasn’t exactly the right aesthetic for a car that has to bring a kid to and from school. Other parents are the most judgmental people you’ll ever meet.”

It’s a quick drive. Enjolras and Bea chat beside him, an old Gorillaz CD playing in the stereo filling any awkward pauses until finally Grantaire parks in front of their apartment.

“Home sweet home,” Grantaire says when they’ve parked. He unbuckles, and as usual gets out to help Bea out from her booster. Enjolras opens his own door, climbing out and standing to wait for Grantaire to go up before him. He obliges, walking up the stairs to their door, Bea giggling in his arms as they go and babbling to Enjolras about showing him her room, and her collection of dinosaur toys.

His key is twisting the lock open, and by the time he pushes the door open, the realization of who is coming into his house is finally hitting.

Grantaire is under no illusions of what his apartment is. It’s nothing like Jehan’s house; it’s small, and the walls are fairly bare. None of the furniture matches, but not in an intentional way, more in a “this is what I can afford” way. He’s suddenly self conscious in a way he’s never had to be before.

Maybe there had been some upsides to being friendless. No one to impress means no one to disappoint, either.

He tries not to let it show how uncomfortable he is, stepping inside and setting Bea down so she can scurry off and find everything that she wants to show Enjolras personally.

“Remember to take your shoes off, Bea!” Grantaire calls after his daughter, sliding his own shoes off and setting them on the shoe rack next to the door.

“I will!” she calls, already halfway to her room, and Grantaire just shakes his head, then turns to their guest.

Enjolras has shut the door, and is bending over to take off his own comfortable looking brown leather shoes, sliding them into a free spot on the shoe rack, and finally looking around the apartment himself.

“Interior design has never been my passion, as you can see,” Grantaire says, shoving his hands in his pockets.

He’s not sure why he feels such a strong need to preemptively lampshade his home’s shitty aesthetics. He knows Enjolras won’t judge him for not having the best furniture, or wanting to keep his security deposit, unlike Jehan. But somehow he feels behind. People their age are supposed to have a starter home. They’re supposed to have used their twenties to strike out on their own, and create a space that’s all theirs.

Grantaire doesn’t have that. But given his…situation, that just hadn’t been realistic.

“It’s not mine either,” Enjolras says, offering a small smile as he straightens, “Jehan has us all beat in that department.”

And god help him, that is comforting to Grantaire. He’s always thought of Enjolras as the person in their group who had his shit on lock, only Combeferre maybe having him beat. It’s a level playing field he hadn’t known would ease his nerves so much.

He doesn’t get a chance to speak again before Bea is back, immediately shoving some dinosaur toys up into Enjolras’ arms, and dropping some to the floor. She’s already babbling out their scientific names, sometimes messing up a consonant or two, but the effect is the same.

“Shoes, Bea,” Grantaire reminds her when she takes a moment to breathe. His daughter rolls her eyes at him, but does as she’s asked, untying her yellow shoes’ laces, and setting them on the shoe rack before continuing in her dino roll call.

Enjolras, to his credit, just squats down beside Bea, putting down the dinosaurs she’d shoved into his arms with all the care of someone handling a rare artifact in a museum.

“And what’s this one?” he asks, holding up a brown dino with a long head crest jutting out from its skull.

“Parasaurolophus!” Bea practically shouts, grabbing it from him, and rattling off a few specific facts about it besides the name, not even hesitating for a second. Grantaire has heard all of these before, and practically knows all the dinosaur names at this point. Bea seems happy to have a new, captive audience to share her knowledge with.

“I’ll order the pizzas,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras turns from Bea, a grin fading from his face as Grantaire dials the number for the pizza place.

“I said I was going to pay,” he says, but Grantaire just smiles back, innocent, and puts the phone to his ear.

“You’re the guest, you can’t pay,” he says. Enjolras opens his mouth to argue, and Grantaire holds up a finger to his lips, smirking. The phone is already ringing.

“Bea, Enjolras really loves space,” he says quietly to his daughter, ruffling her hair. Enjolras, in reality, has no particular leaning towards space that Grantaire knows of, but Bea does. And as expected, her eyes are immediately full of excited stars.

She snaps her arms out, and grabs Enjolras by the hands, which are forced to drop the parasaurolophus toy as she pulls him towards her room. She may not be strong enough to actually pull him, but she is insistent. Who can say no to a seven year old who’s that passionate about the solar system? Fucking no one.

He catches Enjolras giving him a glare as he’s pulled away, but it’s half-hearted, tainted by the smile pulling up the ends of his mouth. Grantaire gives him an innocent smile back, shrugging, and turning away to order their dinner.

He pays for the pizza over the phone, something he’s never done before; he wants to make sure Enjolras can’t just jump up and use cash when the driver gets there. Raising a kid has been good for him in many ways, but now especially in the sense that he’s gotten better at sniffing out loopholes.

By the time Grantaire is able to follow after them into Bea’s room, he knows that Bea has already taken Enjolras through every inch of it. She has a routine she follows when showing her space to people, whether they’re fellow second graders, or, apparently, friends of her dad.

Grantaire doesn’t have to have been there to know that she’s shown Enjolras the star patterned sheets she has, her toy box, a small model of the solar system that Grantaire had helped her make, and has given approximately twenty space facts. All in the span of only a few minutes.

Bea is nothing if not efficient.

Grantaire knows she’s at the tail end of her tour, because she’s got a few of her space books stacked perfectly on the fuzzy rug beside her bed, with Enjolras sitting as her audience on said bed and its aforementioned star sheets.

“—and it rains acid on Venus, so we can’t go there apparently,” Bea is saying, gesturing emphatically at a picture of what the surface of Venus looks like from one of her books, “But that sounds like quitter talk to me. We can go there, it’s just a matter of how long we stay before we’re all bones!”

“The surface pressure on Venus is also enough to crush a submarine, Bea,” Grantaire offers from the doorway. He’s had to learn a few things about space in order to keep up with her. “It’s a matter of how long you stay before you’re all crushed bones. Which wouldn’t even give you time to land.”

The look Bea gives him is positively withering.

“I drink milk sometimes, my bones are strong,” she says, and Grantaire can only shrug to that, and go to sit beside Enjolras on her bed. He feels a little bad now for having basically thrown him to the wolves the moment they stepped into the apartment. Or, in this case, tossed to the velociraptors, he supposes. But Enjolras doesn’t seem to mind, just watching R and his daughter as they chat from his spot on the bed with a small smile.

He seems to have gotten used to Bea’s existence, and now takes her and her quirks in stride, better than Grantaire ever would have expected. He doesn’t know why he didn’t expect it; Enjolras is basically the head of the group that had all of the weird kids when they were in school. Probably just because Bea is basically a mini him in a lot of ways. The lowercase ‘b’ to his capital ‘R’.

“Well, sorry to distract from the mission to Venus,” Grantaire says, turning to Enjolras now, “But we should probably decide if we want to look at books now or later. We can do it while we wait for food, or after we eat.”

Bea immediately looks a little deflated at the idea of Enjolras being pulled away so quickly. She’s never been one to hide how she’s feeling, and Grantaire has never wanted to encourage her to do so. He knows she’ll learn how to whether he wants her to or not once she becomes a teen, so the longer he can keep her comfortable emoting openly to him, the better.

Enjolras notices her expression at the same moment he does, an awkward flinch hitting him, probably at the fact that the child in front of him looks so plainly upset at the idea of him not playing with her.

He looks back at Grantaire helplessly, eyes a little wide, as if to ask ‘what am I supposed to say’, and Grantaire snorts.

“Bea, is that a vote for after food?” he asks his daughter, who immediately brightens and nods her head. He turns back to Enjolras.

“Do you have an opinion? Because I can go either way,” he says, nudging Enjolras with his elbow, “If you have somewhere to be later tonight, you’re free to veto.”

He looks at his daughter, his expression firm.

“You’ll understand, right Bea?”

Bea pouts, but nods. She’s a snarky kid, but she’s pretty good at knowing when not to push her luck. He’s done his best to set down boundaries respectfully, and let her know that she can set her own in return. A huge chunk of his own parenting research over the years has been on how not to traumatize his kid. Apparently, a lot of it is just treating kids with respect. Who knew?

Definitely not his own parents.

Enjolras eases a little at the out he’s been given, and seems to consider his options carefully. Grantaire expects him to pick doing their book task now, both because Enjolras has a one track mind, and because he assumes that the prospect of spending a whole night here with him and Bea isn’t exactly the most attractive option of the two. But with barely any hesitation, Enjolras smiles, and moves to sit on the floor in front of Bea.

“We can do it later. I’m free,” he says casually. Bea beams at him, and Grantaire tries to hide his own surprise. Thankfully, Enjolras is distracted by Bea, who immediately jumps to her feet and goes to grab an armful of toys from her toy box. Grantaire moves to the floor beside Enjolras once he feels he’s recovered from his own shock, and is immediately handed a stegosaurus toy.

It takes about an hour for the pizza to get to them, and Bea uses every bit of that time to immerse them in a world of make believe. Grantaire is used to playing pretend with her, and generally isn’t afraid to look stupid when they’re alone together. It’s easy enough to act like a fool when you have a kid who laughs with you, and isn’t afraid to be just as much of a doofus back. It’s made slightly more difficult with Enjolras here.

He knows that Enjolras probably won’t care. Frankly, he’s seen Grantaire do worse things, and much more embarrassing things than act like a dumbass with his child. But there’s an odd sense of worlds colliding that is hard to shake.

It’s Enjolras slowly learning to get goofy the way Bea wants that ultimately allows him to relax. It takes him a while, which isn’t surprising, but after a half an hour he’s doing voices—albeit awkwardly—and obviously getting more comfortable playing pretend.

Bea is absolutely living for it, and Grantaire finds that he is too, grinning to see Enjolras, built for serious contemplation, making his voice high pitched and crackly to better portray a pterodactyl.

He seems surprised when a knock finally comes from the front door, as if snapping back to himself. He almost looks a little disappointed, which makes Grantaire do a double take, putting down his own dino toy. But the look is gone in a split second and replaced with a determined look instead. Grantaire doesn’t understand why until Enjolras suddenly stands and rushes out of Bea’s bedroom towards the front door, as if trying to race there before Grantaire can get up.

He understands why when he hears the pizza delivery boy say from the door, “Um. Is this tip? It’s already been paid for.”

Grantaire snorts, feeling a little proud that he’s managed for once to think ahead enough to prevent Enjolras from getting the upper hand.

“Sounds like pizza’s here,” he says to Bea, moving to stand. She’s clearly a little disappointed that they’re done playing, but the promise of pizza is enough to make her drop her toys without much complaint, and head out to the dining room.

Enjolras is already there, holding the pizzas and looking distinctly frustrated.

“You were sneaky,” he says when Grantaire comes out, hands in his pockets. Grantaire smirks, and shrugs.

“Looks like I was right to be. You really bolted for the door there,” he replies.

“Yeah, well. I said I’d pay and I intended to,” Enjolras says as he sets the pizza on the table.

“Calm down, you can pay next time,” Grantaire says, knowing that there probably won’t be a next time. He moves to the closet to pull out a folding chair so the table has enough seats for everyone, as he speaks. “Like I said, you’re the guest.”

“I’ll need to get that in writing,” Enjolras says, serious as always, and Grantaire laughs.

“If you’ll drop paying tonight, I’ll sign anything you give me,” he says, unfolding the folding chair, and then going to get them their plates.

They make quick work of setting the table, pizzas stacked in the middle, and plates set neatly at the three seats. Grantaire ordered one plain cheese, one pepperoni, to accommodate for Bea’s preferences mostly. They squeeze around the small square table, and each grab slices as hunger begins to truly set in.

Enjolras gets over his disappointment of not being able to pay fairly quickly, considering how stubborn Grantaire knows he is, and he’s not about to question it as they all sit down to eat. He has no doubt that a fully drafted contract about paying for pizza will be headed his way after tonight.

He’s surprised at how easy things feel. Somehow, they’ve settled into a rhythm over the past hour. Enjolras hands Bea a couple slices of cheese pizza when she asks. Grantaire bites into his own slice, and nearly moans. It’s been a while since he’s had take out—on his budget, it’s a bit tough to find times when they’re able to splurge without good cause.

Tonight definitely counts as good cause.

They all talk between bites, Enjolras planning for their book search after dinner, Bea throwing out some of her favorite books, most of which are children's fantasy and science books. Grantaire nods, making a note of each in his head, despite knowing that they probably won’t make the cut. He’s not about to turn down suggestions.

About two slices in, he’s suddenly hit with how…content he feels. Grantaire stops chewing for a moment, watching Bea and Enjolras joke over their respective slices, Bea quizzing him on what dinosaurs he’s learned from the hour before, and Enjolras doing an admirable job of remembering about eight of them.

He’s been holding his slice up but not eating it for half a minute before Enjolras finally looks at him again, his brow creasing slightly.

“Something wrong?” he asks, and Grantaire snaps himself out of his reverie, feeling his eyes stinging slightly.

“Nah,” he lies, putting his slice down and grabbing for a couple of napkins, “I put on too many red pepper flakes. Rookie mistake.”

He can’t tell the truth. Because the truth is, in this moment, it’s almost like he has the little family he’d hoped he’d have with Camille.

He wishes even now that his ex could have stayed, that she could have held out those couple of months before Bea gave her first, beautiful laugh. But he also knows that even if Camille had stayed with him, it wouldn’t have been like this. Regardless of how much he had loved her, they hadn’t been good for each other.

There’s an ache in his chest that isn’t related to Camille, though. It’s bittersweet, and addictive, and caused directly by the man sitting right across from him.

It’s getting harder and harder to deny that his crush has come back. He likes Enjolras. A lot. And his feelings have only been growing, steady as a weed in his chest, even though he knows with complete certainty that they will never be reciprocated.

Right now, he doesn’t care. Honestly, it’s a little comforting. Knowing that nothing will happen cuts out the possibility of hoping for anything. He’s grateful for how far they’ve come in mending things, and that he gets to experience the feeling of a family for real, even just for tonight.

Eventually, they’ve all eaten their fill, and Grantaire sets to putting the leftover slices in tin foil.

“My books are in the living room,” he tells Enjolras, who is standing to help with the cleanup, “You can make a first pass if you want. There aren’t too many that I actually own.”

Enjolras nods, and then looks at Bea, holding out a hand to lead her with him to the living room. She follows without complaint, wanting to show him some of her favorite movies and books, which share the same shelf.

He’s able to follow a few minutes later. Bea has pulled out a book for herself to read, settling into her bean bag by the TV so that he and Enjolras can work in relative peace. He’s not sure if Enjolras suggested it to her, or if she chose to do so for herself. Either way, it is a relief. He loves Bea with everything he is, but she can be distracting, and they only have a couple of hours to settle on something for the book club tomorrow.

Enjolras is sitting by the small half bookshelf, and Grantaire sits cross legged beside him.

The top shelf of the bookshelf is full of DVD’s, mostly for bea. A lot of Disney movies, a few Studio Ghibli movies in the mix as well. The second row is more of Bea’s books, slim and colorful children's books, as well as a few chapter books. The bottom shelf is Grantaire’s, close to full but not quite, of a smattering of paperbacks and hardbacks he’s collected from the One Page More over the years of working there.

They don’t have much room for storage in this apartment, so he’s tried to keep his collection small, only taking the books that really resonated with him, or that he wants to re-read.

Enjolras runs a finger along the spines, and Grantaire follows it with his eyes, though he already knows what all is there.

There’s a few classics, Frankenstein, Fahrenheit 451, and Dracula. These he’d mostly bought for their excellent covers. No Longer Human is now also nestled between those. There’s a battered copy of A Wrinkle in Time, Good Omens, Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, all books he’d read in the early years of high school, or beforehand, and remembers fondly. And of course, there’s his own copy of The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue, nestled beside a few other more recent fiction books he’s picked up.

Enjolras smiles, pulling that one out and flipping through the pages. Quite a few of them show the wear of being dog-eared. Grantaire had blasted through that book in only a couple of days, but had to keep marking his place to get back to work, or to take care of Bea.

It’s crazy to think that it’s only been about a month since he gave Enjolras a copy of it. Since then, his life has changed entirely.

“Why not just bring this one?” Enjolras asks, still flipping through pages, but glancing up at Grantaire.

Grantaire doesn’t really have an answer, other than that it feels too easy. And, somehow, too personal. There’s a reason he’d avoided picking books that he loves from the get go; if someone in book club ends up hating it, he’s afraid it’ll hurt more.

“You’ve already read it,” he says instead. Enjolras raises an eyebrow.

“And you’d already read No Longer Human. What does that matter?”

“I don’t want you to be bored.”

“I won’t be. I was going to read it again eventually.”

Grantaire stares at Enjolras, trying to gauge if he’s just being kind so they can be done with this now nearly week-long task. But Enjolras’ face betrays nothing but honesty and good humor. Grantaire feels himself begin to blush, and tries immediately to stop it.

He’d known that Enjolras had read it, and he had said that he’d enjoyed it, but Grantaire had figured it had been a ‘liked’ in the sense of reading it once and never picking it up again. Someone liking a book he’d recommended was one thing. Another thing was Enjolras liking it enough to read it more than once within a month.

Enjolras holds the book out to him, and Grantaire takes it, flipping through the pages himself. It’s a longer read than they’ve been doing up until now, but if Enjolras says it’s fine…

“Okay,” Grantaire says, closing the book with a soft thwump, and putting it into his lap, “Yeah, okay. If you promise you won’t be bored, I’ll bring this one.”

“Promise,” Enjolras says, and grins.

They’re sitting there in silence for a few seconds, thigh to thigh on the floor by the bookshelf. Bea flips the page of her book, and the sound is enough to snap Grantaire out of the spell, clearing his throat and standing to put the book in his bag for tomorrow.

“Well, that was a quicker process than expected,” he says when he comes back. Enjolras is standing up. Grantaire looks at the clock on his phone screen. It’s only seven. Their task is over, and he knows that that means Enjolras will probably head home, and the night will be over.

Suddenly, that feels completely unacceptable.

“If you don’t have plans, we could watch a movie?” he says, sliding his phone back into his pocket. Bea perks up at the mention of a movie. He half expects Enjolras to say no immediately. Watching a kids movie isn’t exactly the ideal adult passtime. But instead, Enjolras just smiles, looking somehow relieved.

“That sounds like fun,” Enjolras says, and Bea gives a little squeal of delight, running immediately to the DVD section of the bookshelf and grabbing out movies.

While her current obsessions are dinosaurs and space, Bea has a real soft spot for the movie Tangled. Grantaire is unsurprised when she pulls that one from the shelf, and shoves it into his hands.

The movie is in, and Bea takes her usual spot in her beanbag on the floor, leaving the loveseat open for he and Enjolras to sit. He regrets not getting a bigger couch now, but there had been no reason to get one larger up until this month.

By necessity, their legs are pressing up against each other. Grantaire tries to ignore it as he pushes play on the remote, and settles into the familiar intro.

Grantaire knows that both he and Bea could probably recite the script verbatim at this point, and he does mouth a few words along with it as the movie progresses. Enjolras catches him once, and laughs quietly into his hand.

Grantaire closes his mouth, smiling sheepishly. Enjolras leans over until Grantaire can feel his breath on his ear.

“How many times has she watched this one?” Enjolras asks, in a whisper.

Grantaire holds down a shiver, looking anywhere but at the face now way too close to his own.

“I think we’re up to forty five now,” he replies in a matching whisper, not wanting to disturb Bea, who’s watching the TV as if it’s her first time.

Enjolras looks a little surprised at the number, pulling away slightly.

“That…is over a full work week of your life spent watching Tangled,” he says, and Grantaire nods, smirking.

“When they say parenting is a full time job, they’re not joking,” he replies.

Bea shushes them from the bean bag. Grantaire mimes zipping his lips, sharing a small smile with Enjolras, and they go back to watching in peace.

An hour later, the familiar first few guitar plucks of “I See the Light” are filtering through the TV’s speakers, and Grantaire feels himself nodding off. He’s long since pulled the one soft green throw blanket he has over himself and Enjolras, Bea still glued to the TV. But even she looks like she’s going to pass out.

Pizza really is a gut bomb, he thinks, trying to blink himself awake again. But everything is warm, and the movie is familiar, and his eyelids feel so, so heavy.

He’s about to turn and talk to Enjolras in an effort to keep himself awake, but instead he feels the weight of a head on his shoulder, and soft curls at his neck.

Enjolras’ breathing is soft and steady, and when Grantaire dares to look over, he confirms that Enjolras is in fact fast asleep.

There’s something softer to his features when he’s asleep, Grantaire notes through his own sleepy haze. It’s as if Enjolras carries a tension in his body during all waking hours, and it only releases once he’s dreaming.

Grantaire considers waking him, but he knows that even he is too close to falling asleep himself to manage it. He doesn’t even have the mental energy to worry about how he’ll feel once he wakes up. Instead, he lets himself fall away, his head resting on Enjolras’ against his shoulder, and falling into a peaceful doze.

The credits are long since over when he finally stirs. He’s not sure what makes him wake up, other than that his body seems to know that he hadn’t meant to fall asleep for a whole night. He still feels the weight of Enjolras’ head on his shoulder, and he tries not to disturb him as he fishes his phone out of his pocket from under the blanket.

His eyes are bleary as he looks at the phone screen, which glows a big 12:14 up at him.

“Shit,” he murmurs. He has to get Bea into bed. She’s also passed out, head lolled to the side on her beanbag. But she can’t spend the whole night out here.

He doesn’t want to move, but knows that he has to. And that means waking Enjolras, too.

“Hey,” he whispers. No luck, so he reaches a hand across Enjolras’ chest, and gently pushes at his shoulder, repeating, “Hey,” until he feels Enjolras stir.

He still looks young in the process of waking up. Grantaire can honestly say he’s never seen Enjolras looking bleary, and it feels like he shouldn’t be allowed to even now. This side of him feels like it should be off-limits, somehow.

Enjolras’ hair is stuck in an awkward position, and he blinks hard, finally pulling his head up from Grantaire’s shoulder to look at him.

“What time is it?” Enjolras asks, and his tired voice is something that Grantaire is going to think about for a long time. He tries not to think about it now, rubbing at his own eyes, and smiling apologetically.

“Past midnight,” he says, making to stand from the couch. He needs to get Bea to bed.

“Shit,” Enjolras says, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. Grantaire gives a small laugh, turning off the TV, and leaning down to scoop Bea up out of the bean bag chair. He’s met with a small groan from his daughter, who whines about not being tired and not needing to go to bed, despite having been asleep not two seconds ago.

He walks her down past the kitchen to her bedroom. She’ll have to brush her teeth really, really well tomorrow, but he doesn’t want to risk her waking up more and being wired for the rest of the night. Trying to put a sleepy kid to bed is infinitely easier than a mostly awake one.

He tucks her into bed, her insistence that she isn’t tired having fallen away as quickly as it came. She’s already out again by the time he kisses her on the forehead, and heads back out to the living room.

Pulling her door closed with a soft click, he sees Enjolras heading to the shoe rack.

“You could just stay the night,” Grantaire says, unsure what exactly compels him. Maybe he doesn’t want to drive, or maybe he’s in denial of the night really and truly being over. Either way, the offer slips out before he can even think of stopping it.

Enjolras stops with one shoe in his hand, and looks at Grantaire with a pinched brow.

“Are you sure?” he asks, and Grantaire just shrugs, yawning.

“I don’t really want to drive right now anyway,” he says. Enjolras looks unconvinced, so he continues, “We’re both going to book club tomorrow anyway. I can give you a ride.”

It seems to be enough. Enjolras sets his shoe back onto the shoe rack, and goes to sit on the couch again, as if he thinks he’s sleeping there, but Grantaire shakes his head.

“Dude, No. Take the bed, you’re the guest,” he says, gesturing to his bedroom.

“Just saying ‘you’re the guest’ doesn’t win you every argument,” Enjolras counters, acting as if Grantaire sleeping on the couch would be an affront to every sensibility he has. “And in this case, I feel like the guest should sleep on the couch. It’s not my home, so it’s not my bed.”

And to be fair, Grantaire doesn’t have much experience having people over. The only other people that ever come over and stay the night are Bea’s school friends, or Eponine and Gavroche, who usually have him take the couch.

“Dude, please,” Grantaire says, too tired to really argue about this, “The couch will probably give you a back ache. I don’t want you to be in pain tomorrow.”

Enjolras’ eyes flash, and Grantaire feels like he’s made a misstep.

“So you think I want you to be in pain?” Enjolras says.

“I know how to sleep on it the best way, I’ll be fine,” Grantaire shrugs, trying to look casual.

“I think you’re lying,” Enjolras says, calling his bluff without so much as a pause.

Immovable object? Meet Unstoppable force.

Grantaire groans, trying to find a way for them both to get what they want. No matter what, Enjolras is not sleeping on that goddamn couch. Enjolras is right, he is lying. He’s woken up with cricks in his neck that don’t go away for hours.

“Okay,” he says after a minute, “My bed is a queen. If neither of us wants the other to take the couch, we’re going to have to share.”

He says it, expecting Enjolras to give up the ghost and just let Grantaire take the fucking couch like the gentleman he’s trying to be. But instead, Enjolras stares at him for a moment, and then nods, as if it’s really a good compromise.

“Sure. Let’s do that then.”

Grantaire balks, but Enjolras is already heading out of the living room and towards his bedroom door.

Grantaire knows that his bed is nowhere close to being made. The sheets were cleaned last week, thankfully, but that’s about all that’s comforting about this. If he was tired before, that sleepiness is fully gone by now, replaced with panic.

“Let me grab you some pajamas,” he blurts, reaching the door before Enjolras in an attempt to make a sweep of the room before Enjolras sees it. He doesn’t think there’s anything bad out, but he has to be sure. No one has gone into his room in this apartment besides him, or Eponine and Gavroche when they sleep over. There’s something that feels incredibly intimate about Enjolras going in.

He tries not to overthink it.

Grantaire opens the door, and does a quick visual sweep to make sure it’s not too messy, and then lets the door fall open behind him. He walks to the dresser, digging around until he finds a pair of simple grey sweatpants for himself, and some green flannel patterned ones for Enjolras. He also pulls out an old but comfortable Green Day tee as well, and sets it on top of the flannels. It has a few paint stains on it, but it’s the best he has to offer for a sleep shirt.

He stands, and walks to the doorway where Enjolras is waiting to hand him the change of clothes.

“The bathroom is the first door to the left of the living room,” he says, pressing the clothes into Enjolras’ hands, “There should be a spare toothbrush in the cabinet under the sink, too.”

He’s suddenly glad that Eponine comes over so much. Sometimes a toothbrush is forgotten, so Grantaire has gotten into the habit of having some spare new ones around.

Enjolras takes the clothes with a soft, “Thanks”, and heads back out to the bathroom to change and get ready for bed.

Once he’s alone again, Grantaire takes a few seconds just to breathe. There’s no reason to panic, he’s just sharing a bed with his high school crush, that may or may not also be a current crush. He’s totally chill.

He gets into his grey sweatpants, tossing his jeans into the hamper next to the dresser, and pulls on another sleep shirt, this one a shitty novelty one that Eponine had bought him two years ago that reads World’s Greatest Dad Bod in corny military stencil font.

When Enjolras gets back, he’s managed to get fully changed, and stands fluffing pillows.

Grantaire is the shorter of the two of them, if only by a couple of inches. Thankfully, the t-shirt and pajama pants seem to fit Enjolras okay upon first glance. He chooses not to think about how he looks wearing Grantaire’s clothes, because that is a recipe for complete disaster.

Still, it’s charming to see Enjolras not fully dressed nicely, as he usually is. Again, there’s that sense of intimacy that Grantaire tries to push away, finishing making the bed as nicely as he can, and then stepping past Enjolras to the door.

“Go ahead and get comfortable,” he says, smiling weakly, and then goes to brush his own teeth.

He gets back a couple of minutes later, and Enjolras is already squeezed into the left side of his bed against the wall, looking so out of place that Grantaire almost laughs. A little snort does escape him, though, and as he walks to the other side of the bed, he catches a look of curiosity on Enjolras’ face.

“What’s so funny?” he asks, and Grantaire gets under the covers, kicking himself for not keeping it together.

“Sorry, um,” Grantaire says after a pause, trying to get comfortable, while still leaving as much space between them as possible, “I was just thinking about how weird this is.”

Enjolras’ forehead creases at that, and there’s an edge to his voice when he asks softly, “How so?”

He feels an itching under his skin, because he knows he’s saying the wrong things, and he doesn't know how to stop. Grantaire falls back onto his own pillow, looking at the ceiling in an effort to avoid looking at Enjolras.

“I dunno, just like…I was thinking that if I took a picture of this exact second, and somehow showed it to myself a couple of months ago, I wouldn’t believe it. Y’know?” he says, and his hands are miming along on the covers as he speaks, “Like, the odds of us being friendly enough to have a sleepover? Astronomically small. I mean, you fucking hated me in high school, and with the way we left things…It’s just wild.”

There’s a beat of silence, and he leans over to the night stand, thinking that that’s probably the end of the conversation, and turns off the lamp.

They’re plunged into relative darkness, the only light in the room coming from the cracks in the blinds of Grantaire’s window. He expects to spend the rest of the night just trying to get to sleep knowing that Enjolras is right there. But as he closes his eyes, he hears Enjolras speak beside him, quietly.

“I didn’t hate you.”

“What?” Grantaire replies after a beat, opening his eyes a fraction. He turns his head a little, and finds Enjolras on his side, looking like a mottled grey smudge in the dim light from the window.

“I didn’t hate you, Grantaire.” Enjolras says, and he sounds so serious that Grantaire doesn’t quite know what to say. His eyes open, then blink, eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness.

“I already told you, I understand if you did, dude,” he replies just as softly, feeling a twist in his gut. He doesn’t like re-hashing this, and he’d kind of thought they both were on the same page about not talking about it, but feels like he has to make himself clear, “I mean you booted me from the club for a reason. It’s fine.”

“I didn’t kick you out, either,” Enjolras says, firm, and with the air of someone finally letting go of a weight they’ve been holding for a long time.

Grantaire’s brow furrows, feeling like they’ve already been down this path, but unable to let it just lie there.

“You did. You said—”

“I know what I said,” Enjolras cuts him off, and he sounds so pained in that one sentence that Grantaire can’t bring himself to speak again. Enjolras shifts beside him, restless, and Grantaire can’t see it, but he feels the weight on the bed change.

“Do you remember the reason I took you to the hall that day?” he asks, and Grantaire realizes that he doesn’t. Somehow, he remembers the aftermath, but not what the fuck led up to it.

“I mean…I probably did something really stupid, rambunctious and-or annoying?” he answers, because it’s what he vaguely remembers. He’d been completely trashed, and besides that definitely hadn’t wanted to remember whatever he did once Enjolras had spoken to him. So a best guess has had to do until now.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Enjolras says, weary.

“Yeah, no,” Grantaire says, terrified of how he must have acted if it was so out of the norm that Enjolras remembers it. Honestly, it’s kind of his nightmare. “Sorry.”

There’s a long pause, quiet filling his small bedroom, only broken by the occasional soft rustling of the covers. Grantaire’s fingers knot in his duvet, tensing and un-tensing rhythmically. It does little to soothe his nerves.

“It wasn’t so much something you did that day that was ‘rambunctious’, as you put it,” Enjolras says, finally, “It was that I found out about something you’d been doing.”

And that is surprising. Grantaire can’t remember doing much consistently at that time in his life.

“So I didn’t cause a scene?” he asks, confused, and Enjolras blows out a breath.

“No, you did,” he replies bluntly, and Grantaire winces, “It just wasn’t the reason I took you to the hall.”

“Ah,” Grantaire says, fingers fully clenched in the sheets, that familiar shame curling in his gut. For an instant, he’d thought maybe, just maybe he’d managed to do better than expected. In retrospect, though, he supposes it does make sense that him causing a ruckus wouldn’t be what did him in. He and Enjolras had gotten into it nearly every club meeting, in one way or another.

“You’d been getting progressively more disruptive for weeks. I just didn’t understand why until that meeting,” Enjolras continues, his voice low to keep from waking Bea in the next room over. Even in the low tones he uses, though, Grantaire can feel the low simmering tense quality to it that gives away the fact that he’s probably still upset about this, at least a little.

He seems to consider his next words for a moment, then speaks again, still soft, “I knew…that you, and a couple of the others drank underage when you were at parties. And I knew you in particular drank at home, sometimes. What I didn't know was that it had progressed to you literally bringing liquor in a goddamn water bottle onto school grounds.”

And at that, Grantaire has a bit of an ‘aha’ moment. He knows he’d become more brazen about drinking while at school as time went on. Honestly, he hadn’t known Enjolras wasn’t aware of him doing it; he hadn’t really tried to hide it from anyone but teachers, and even they didn’t really give enough of a fuck about what he did to try to stop him.

It wasn’t a good look to day drink so religiously, and he knows that now, but at the time it had felt like kind of a win-win. He could be numb and fun at school, and get fake social cool points for drinking underage. He hadn’t recognized it as the red flag it was at the time.

Enjolras, apparently, had. Because of course he had.

“I did do that, huh,” Grantaire murmurs, staring at the ceiling as if it’ll swallow him up if he just asks nicely enough in his head.

“You did. And, you vomited into the trash can,” Enjolras replies, dry and flat, “Mid anti-doing-things speech.”

“Not my finest moment,” Grantaire says, hoarsely. God this is embarrassing. “I guess also not my finest series of moments. Over the course of weeks.”

Enjolras sighs through his nose beside him, apparently still in semi disbelief of how reckless Grantaire used to be. To be fair, Grantaire would be too if he hadn’t actively lived that way.

“You could have gotten suspended, or expelled,” Enjolras says, and there’s an air of genuine concern and regret to his tone that makes Grantaire freeze. It dissipates in the next sentence, though. “You could have also gotten the club disbanded, if a teacher caught you and thought we were using the club as a cover to just fuck around and drink. We were already on thin ice as it was.”

“I don’t think I thought that far ahead?” Grantaire murmurs, only half as an excuse.

“Believe me, I knew that much at the time,” Enjolras says, and the edge in his tone is enough to make Grantaire snap his mouth shut for the foreseeable future, “Honestly, I figured you only did it because you saw the club as some stupid time to shoot the shit and kick back.”

To be fair, that had been the air he’d been trying to give off. It really was a good cover. Maybe too good, in retrospect.

“Obviously, I was angry. Really angry,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire remembers vividly how angry Enjolras had been. He’s not sure he’ll ever forget. “I thought maybe you just needed a reality check. To have someone tell you directly that it wasn’t okay to day drink to the point of vomiting as a teenager. So, I took you out to the hallway and…said what I said.”

Grantaire can feel his heart thundering, but Enjolras can’t seem to stop talking, words pouring out as if a dam has been broken.

“I really didn’t intend to kick you out. I was angry, and I snapped,” he says, voice coming out brittle, “I should have worded things better, I know that now. But it wasn’t like it was the first time we’d butted heads, and honestly, I didn’t think you ever took anything I said to heart.”

Grantaire swallows then. His mouth feels dry. He’s suddenly glad that he can’t see much of Enjolras’ face, and that Enjolras probably can’t see much of his. For once, he’s completely still, trying to process what exactly he’s hearing.

“When you didn’t come back, I assumed you’d been looking for a reason to leave the group,” Enjolras continues, and he sounds so regretful it hurts. “I mean…it was pretty obvious you never believed in anything we were talking about anyway.”

Grantaire feels like he’s only just now finally seeing a full picture, like half remembering a book and then re-reading it and understanding a message you didn’t get as a kid. And he realizes that…he may have self-sabotaged himself out of having friends.

Grantaire had always just assumed that in giving the ultimatum he had, Enjolras had wanted him to take the hint and leave. But that notion didn’t take into account that Enjolras, straightforward, honest Enjolras, always says exactly what he means.

It wasn’t some backhand hint to push him away. It never had been. It had been a plea for him to come back better.

They’re both silent for a moment, until Grantaire finally finds the strength to speak.

“I believed in you,” he says. The darkness around them lends the conversation an air of anonymity, as if Grantaire is speaking to nothing but the night. It feels easier to be honest when he can’t see the other person’s expression.

Enjolras seems momentarily stunned, quiet falling again for a few seconds.

“You had quite the way of showing it,” Enjolras says, and there’s more soft surprise in his tone than there is annoyance.

Despite himself, Grantaire smiles a little, knowing that Enjolras can’t see it. He lets himself face the ceiling again, no longer looking at the muddy dark and grey splotches that make up Enjolras’ face in the gloom.

His hands bunch up the covers in front of him.

“Yeah,” he says, “I know. And I know I said so in the bookstore before, but…I’m sorry.”

There’s a pause, and then Enjolras replies, “I know. I am too.”

The silence between them stretches out from seconds, into minutes, and it feels like they’ve found a tenuous peace.

Grantaire’s mind is still racing, despite the quiet. It had been easy to think that he hadn’t gone back to the club because he was unwanted there. It’s harder to square the idea that he had been so ready to expect the worst that he’d lost touch with every good friend he’d ever had.

If he’s honest with himself, deep down, he had probably always known it would be possible to go back as he always had before. But the idea of seeing Enjolras, blue eyes blazing with rage, or worse, disappointment, had simply been too much to handle.

“We should probably get to sleep,” Grantaire finally says into the silence, and he hears Enjolras’ head shift on the pillow beside him, probably a nod.

“Yeah. We should,” he replies, and Grantaire feels the blankets shift as Enjolras turns over slightly, “Goodnight, Grantaire.”

“Goodnight,” he replies, and then pauses a moment before saying softly, “Thank you.”

He doesn’t get a reply, but hopes that Enjolras understands.

Grantaire turns over, his back now to Enjolras, and tries to get comfortable. He’s not sure how he’s supposed to sleep after talking like this, even ignoring the fact that Enjolras is in his bed right now, but knows he has to give it his best shot.

The foot of space between them under his duvet feels like nothing. He does his best to move as little as possible, every twitch and shuffle making the space feel even smaller.

After about a half an hour, he hears a change in Enjolras’ breathing beside him. It goes even and soft, and when he looks over he sees the dark outline of his shoulder rising and falling in a gentle rhythm. It’s comforting that he was able to actually get to sleep, even here, with him.

Grantaire lets out a soft breath, rubbing his face, and turning back over. The silence of the room is leaving ample room for his mind to wander, even with how tired it is, and he knows he’s going to get nowhere if he doesn’t find a way to quiet it.

As silently as he can, he grabs his phone from the night stand and plugs in the headphones sitting next to it. It’s a practiced motion for him to open up YouTube and pull up a video, any video, really, something interesting enough to focus on instead of his own thoughts, but not interesting enough to keep him awake. Tonight, it’s a forty seven minute long video about some dude making rubber gloves into grape flavoring using chemistry.

He puts in a headphone, and settles the phone on his bed at low volume. Slowly, he’s able to relax, the quiet sound of the video playing, along with Enjolras’ soft breathing beside him slowly pulling him under.

Before he knows it, he’s falling into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

Waking the next morning is peaceful. Sunlight filters through the cracks of the blinds, illuminating everything in soft gold and blue, and Grantaire is warm. He’s slowly dragged back to consciousness with the sun coming up high in the sky.

He slowly stirs, his senses coming to him at a sluggish pace. He has almost none of the covers actually on him, but isn’t cold. He’s on his side, and his arms are wrapped around something warm, and his nose is full of a sweet lemongrass smell that isn’t from any of his own soap.

For a moment he doesn’t move at all, just squeezing a little tighter to what he’s holding with a sigh, his nose buried in soft fabric. It’s fairly often he wakes up holding onto one of his pillows like this; it takes his brain a moment to process the fact that what he’s holding onto right now is definitely too big, and too firm to be a pillow.

Pillows also don’t breathe, as far as Grantaire is aware.

Grantaire blinks, bleary. It’s been a long time since he slept as deeply as he had last night, so it takes him a moment to force his eyes open, and keep himself from being dragged back under.

His eyes meet the back of his old Green Day tee, partially covered by the blanket that's been nearly completely stolen off of him. It's wrapped around the body beside him, and Grantaire realizes with dawning horror that he's curled up against Enjolras' back. Full spoon. His arms are wrapped around Enjolras' middle, and decidedly not one of his pillows.

Grantaire tries not to panic, but he’s immediately fully awake. His whole body freezes for a moment, and he listens carefully to Enjolras' breathing, trying to figure out exactly how mortified he should be.

He can't tell based on the breathing pattern if Enjolras is awake, and decides that if by some miracle he isn't, he needs to extricate himself as quickly as possible.

Carefully, but quickly as he can, Grantaire disentangles himself. It's easier said than done, since somehow he'd managed to wedge his right arm under Enjolras' torso in an effort to get as close as possible, apparently. But he manages, feeling like he finally understands how stressed Indiana Jones had to be swapping that statue for the sandbag without activating a booby trap.

Once he's free, he stands, then stoops to grab his phone where it fell on the floor last night. Still trying his best not to disturb Enjolras, he steps as silently as he can across the room and out to the bathroom to take a shower. He doesn't bother to look back, kind of not wanting to know how successful he was at being sneaky.

He really needs this shower right now. Not because he feels dirty, but because he needs a minute alone to process. Outside of waking up cuddling Enjolras, which he’s going to do his damndest not to think about too much…a lot happened last night.

Grantaire puts his phone on the counter, turning on some music for background noise, and then cranks the hot water, getting it scalding as he can manage. He gets in once it's ready, and stands under the stream letting it fall over his face, hair sticking to the sides of his cheeks.

The bathroom fan and his soft music are a calming lull, and Grantaire can feel his stiff muscles relaxing slowly as memories of the night before flood in. It takes a few minutes of staring at the grout between his shower’s tiles to really convince himself he wasn’t dreaming most of it.

The hardest thing to accept is that Enjolras seems to feel guilty about the way they left things. As if Grantaire’s the one who’s been wronged. It’s so discordant with his own perception that he doesn’t know how to accept it.

But Enjolras hadn’t been bullshitting him. He’s not even sure Enjolras knows how to bullshit. Everything he says has always been so forward, so direct and right to the point.

It was part of the reason Grantaire had left and stayed away when he’d been given that ultimatum.

The other, bigger part being that he was a coward.

Even if Enjolras and the group had made an effort to get into contact with him again after he left, Grantaire wouldn’t know it. Enjolras (and he recalls now, Bahorel) was right—he had kind of just disappeared. He’d avoided all of them after the fact. Not because he was angry with them, but because he assumed they would be with him. It had simply been too much to think about facing anyone from the ABC again, and so, avoidance had seemed like the only logical response.

He tries to remember why this particular fight had been so impactful. Maybe it was because he’d been in a bit of a fragile state at the time, or maybe it was just the first time Enjolras had snapped in a way that implied he should leave at all. Even after wracking his brain for a few minutes, he can’t think of another time that Enjolras had ever given an indication he wasn’t welcome, despite their differences.

That probably should have been an indication that the whole thing wasn’t as cut and dry as he thought. But at the time, he remembers feeling like he was wearing out his welcome every day. Maybe he’d gotten so used to expecting to be kicked, at the first chance his brain got, it jumped to that conclusion and ran with it.

Regardless of how it happened, the result of his own self sabotage is the same. And now he can only hope to rebuild.

He takes a few more minutes to breathe, and think, then quickly washes his hair and body, then shuts the water off. The bathroom is steamy and warm by the time he’s done, and filled with the sound of the bathroom fan, soft music, and his own soft dripping on the bathmat.

Grantaire dries himself with a towel, and slides back on his grey sweats, leaving the sleep shirt on the counter. He’s still rubbing the towel through his hair as he pads back to the bedroom, and opens the door.

Inside, Enjolras is awake and sitting up awkwardly on the bed. His hair is messier than Grantaire has ever seen it, and he’s still partially wrapped in Grantaire’s duvet, clothes perfectly rumpled. He’s got his knees pulled up to his chest, and seems a bit lost in thought when Grantaire enters, though he snaps to attention immediately when the door opens.

The scene has the air of a one night stand. They definitely did not have sex, but Grantaire feels the weight of intimacy coloring his cheeks regardless.

Enjolras seems embarrassed too; he looks at Grantaire for a moment, and then averts his gaze with a flinch a second later to instead look down at the blanket that had all but mummified him last night.

“Morning,” Grantaire says, finally resting the towel from drying his hair over his bare shoulders, and trying not to come off as awkward as he feels, “Um. The shower is open now.”

Enjolras nods, terse, still not looking at him. It’s then that Grantaire remembers he left his shirt in the bathroom. Force of habit, he supposes. It hurts a little that Enjolras can’t even look at him, but Grantaire tries not to let it sting. Instead, he walks to the dresser and starts pulling out clothes for himself, and Enjolras to change into.

“I can make us all some breakfast while you clean up,” he offers, tossing Enjolras a clean shirt, this one a soft green, with a little alien stitched on the front pocket, and the back reading ‘I want to believe’. He wishes he had a plainer one, but it’s the best he has to offer. He makes a mental note to do laundry soon. “Not sure if this will fit, but if you want it, here you go.”

Grantaire slides on his own tee, then pulls on a soft flannel overshirt. Finally, Enjolras is comfortable enough to look over, gingerly picking up the clothes he’s been tossed and standing to go to the bathroom.

“Thanks,” he says, and turns to leave, movements stiff and awkward as he goes.

Once he’s gone, Grantaire puts on a pair of black jeans, these a couple days dirty, but he doesn’t have much of an option, and goes to get breakfast started. It’s well past noon; all of them have slept in too late to really consider the meal they’re going to eat ‘breakfast’, but Grantaire doesn’t care.

He grabs eggs and butter from the fridge, some whole grain bread from the pantry, and gets to work.

By the time he hears the shower turn off and Bea beginning to stir in her bedroom, he’s made a huge plate of scrambled eggs, and is keeping toast warm in the oven. Being a single dad for all these years, he’d had to pick up cooking by necessity. Having his daughter grow up on nothing but fast food was not an option, not financially speaking, nor health-wise.

Bea is the first to come out, tempted by the smell of the eggs cooking. She walks to Grantaire and hugs him, still bleary. Grantaire smiles, and leans down to give her a kiss on her forehead, telling her to brush her teeth once Enjolras is out of the shower. She nods, smiling, and goes to get dressed.

A moment later, Enjolras steps from the bathroom, already dressed in his borrowed shirt, and his pants from yesterday, hair slightly damp. He spots Grantaire in the kitchen, and seems surprised to see the spread that’s been set out.

“You actually cook?” he asks, walking to Grantaire’s side and eyeing the food in a way that Grantaire hopes isn’t suspicion.

“I dabble,” he replies, handing Enjolras a plate and pulling the toast out from where it’s warming in the oven, “My old specialty was a different kind of wake and bake; seemed like a natural transition.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling as he takes the plate and serves himself some eggs, and then grabs some toast, swiping it with jam when he sits.

Grantaire takes the chance to make himself and Bea their respective plates as well, her getting toast with no crust, and a small spoonful of eggs. Grantaire taking two slices of toast, buttered, and a good helping of eggs on top.

When Bea gets back, dressed in a cute pair of overalls and a striped tee shirt, they eat and chat just like last night, in no rush. Grantaire keeps sneaking peeks at how cute Enjolras looks in his shirt, but quietly hopes that no one at the club will notice when they show up later that day. It might draw the wrong kind of attention.

~~

Their friends, it turns out, do notice. Almost immediately.

It’s not like it’s hard; they pull up together in Grantaire’s shitty car, and the fact that Enjolras is dressed completely unlike his usual self is...very obvious. Grantaire also remembers much, much too late that he wore the shirt he gave Enjolras to the club on week two.

It’s hard to ignore the knowing look from Jehan, or the absolute joy on Cosette and Courfeyrac’s faces. It's even harder to ignore that Courf leans in to whisper to Marius, who has absolutely no shame nor subtlety, and gives them a look of complete shock at the apparently juicy gossip. Bahorel beside him gives him a wink when he sits down, and Grantaire can only shake his head, and smile, weakly.

He can feel that his face is warm, which he knows won’t help anything. But if he just shouts that it’s a misunderstanding, that will make things even worse. Better to address it when he’s asked directly, and just ignore it for now.

He’s sure that Enjolras will deny anything strange going on if he’s asked, too. Frankly, he has more to lose from the confusion; the person who theoretically boned Grantaire has a lot more to be ashamed of than Grantaire does.

Bea runs off to read and draw in the living room while everyone else convenes at the dining room table, as usual, the witchy monopoly board surface dotted with copies of The Hidden Life of Trees for the final time.

Discussion goes smoothly. Jehan pipes up with some extra research that they did, supplementing the already full to bursting non-fiction book with even more tree facts, somehow. They’re dressed for the part today, Grantaire notices. Jehan’s got green overalls over a brown shirt, and chunky clay earrings in the shape of monstera leaves. The effect is that Jehan is a walking, talking tree, and Grantaire knows that that was definitely their intent.

Like the previous few meetings, there’s not a lot to discuss about themes, or character analysis. The book is nonfiction, after all. Instead, the conversation devolves into small ways the group can help to mitigate their own environmental impact, or lessons that can be taken away from the book itself.

“Trees basically have the ideal socialist society,” Combeferre says, flipping through pages. And Grantaire laughs, but he’s not wrong. The book goes over in detail how trees manage their own ecosystems that include themselves, and all the other plant families in their forests. They choose, communicating through huge interconnected root systems, which plants should spread their seeds and when.

“It’s the epitome of taking only what you need, so everyone can thrive,” Combeferre continues, ignoring Grantaire’s laugh entirely, “I mean, it even talks about how singular trees that have no forest are much shorter lived. If that isn’t a parallel to the harm of hyper-individualism under capitalism, I don’t know what is.”

This is the type of discussion that Grantaire stays out of. He feels incredibly under informed about political issues, especially among these people that have been all-in since they could talk, in some cases. He’s happy to sit back and listen, and joke when it feels appropriate.

He’s gotten better since high school at figuring out when it’s a good time to interject, and even with Enjolras’ reassurance from last night that he hadn’t been hated, he knows that he had at the very best been incredibly annoying to everyone at this table at one point or another.

Thankfully, no one calls on him to speak today. They reach a good stopping point and take a break, everyone digging into snacks Jehan brings out to the table as usual, and Grantaire stands to check in on Bea.

He finds her reading a kids chapter book, legs crossed on top of a thin cushion on the floor. It seems to be her favorite spot. He pulls a cushion up beside her spot, peeking at the cover of her book. It’s a used copy of The Mysterious Benedict Society. Definitely one of Jehan’s; the pages are marked with a multitude of colorful sticky notes. Bea is thankfully not removing any of them, but to his surprise, it seems Jehan has left her a new pack of sticky notes and some markers. He can just barely tell which are hers and which are theirs, solely based on how old the notes look.

“Having fun, Bea?” he asks, and Bea holds up a finger to tell him to wait, eyes slowly picking through the words on the page like they’re prized jewels. Grantaire zips his lips, and waits thirty seconds for her to get to the end of whatever paragraph she’s on.

She doesn’t close the book when she's done, but looks up at him, grinning.

“Yeah! Jehan said that they read this one when they were a kid,” she says, and she looks so excited that Grantaire can’t help but grin back.

“They did, huh?” he asks, and Bea nods, obviously wanting to get back to it. But she humors him, and quickly describes what she’s read so far. Grantaire listens dutifully, nodding, and adding commentary where he feels it’s applicable. He’s just glad that she’s having a good time. He had hoped that the group would be a good influence on her, and so far he knows that that hope was right on the money.

“Well, have fun you little nerd,” he says, and Bea laughs, promising that she will, then immediately buries her nose back in the yellowing pages of her book. Grantaire remembers being that excited to read, and he hopes that she never loses that spark. He looks at his daughter for another couple of seconds, then stands with a soft grunt to go back to the group.

He can see Enjolras and Combeferre talking in a small huddle in one corner of the dining room, on the opposite side of the room from Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta. They look deep in a conversation, Enjolras' face a little pinched. It reminds him of how he used to look when planning something for the ABC to do, when he was struggling with a problem. Combeferre, for his part, looks...sympathetic? His arms are crossed over his chest, and he speaks to Enjolras in low tones. Whatever he says only makes Enjolras' expression go a little panicked, a hand knotted in his shirt hem, stressed about something, though Grantaire can't imagine what. They've just been talking about trees for a couple of hours.

He intends to walk up and try to lighten whatever mood Enjolras seems to be in, but when he passes by the open kitchen door, Bahorel catches his eye, and grins.

Bahorel is perched on top of the counter, Courf and Jehan standing near the fridge beside him, and Grantaire thinks that that counter is doing overtime to hold up the sheer amount of sculpted muscle that’s chosen to use it as a chair.

“Grantaire!” Bahorel says, patting a spot next to him on the counter, “C'mere dude.”

He smiles, immediately distracted, striding across the patterned tiles of the kitchen floor, and hopping up beside his old friend, who immediately throws a strong arm over his shoulder. Probably best not to bother Enjolras now anyway, he seemed busy.

Bahorel is holding a canned drink. It’s not a beer this time; once Jehan had found out about Grantaire’s sober status, they’d stopped stocking alcohol. They hadn’t said so directly, but it was pretty clear when beer stopped being an option at the meetings. Grantaire feels guilty for being the reason drinks are limited, but secretly, he is grateful for it. It means a lot that his friends are willing to make small changes like that for him.

Bahorel sets his drink down beside himself and leans in close to Grantaire, conspiratorial. Courf and Jehan stop whatever it was that they’re doing, looking over at the two of them as well.

Grantaire suddenly feels like a fly who walked willingly into a venus fly trap, his good mood immediately dissipating into wariness.

“You’ve been holding out on us man,” Bahorel is saying, “None of us had any idea that the two of you were, y’know, an item.”

“I had a feeling,” Courfeyrac interjects, saying so with the air of someone who’s had an excellent night at the casino, and wants everyone to know it, “I mean, Grantaire was Enjolras’ obnoxious little satellite in high school, what else could that have been?”

Grantaire’s face is suddenly scalding, and probably fully pink up to the tips of his ears. He’d thought that at the very least his crush had been under wraps, but he supposes in retrospect, that anyone with any kind of a gaydar would have had a better time figuring it out.

It’s really not something he wants to dig up now, though.

“It’s not like that,” he says, forcing up a laugh, “Enjolras came over to help me pick my book for today. He just stayed over afterward because it got late. I didn’t want to drive.”

It’s not the whole truth, but he doesn’t think that talking about how they fell asleep on each other while watching a movie, and then shared the same bed and woke up cuddling will help the case he’s trying to plead right now. Grantaire is still actively trying not to think about those things himself.

“Oh, okay, playing it cool huh?” Bahorel says, and reaches his free hand up to mess up Grantaire’s hair. It falls in his eyes, and Grantaire does laugh, despite himself. It’s hard not to give into Bahorel’s easy air.

“No, seriously,” he says, meeting Bahorel’s gaze, and then Courfeyrac’s disappointed expression, “It was just an impromptu sleepover. Enjolras will back me up.”

Bahorel’s eyes glint, and he yells out to the other room without hesitation, “Enjolras, come in here!”

Grantaire laughs again, but his face is in one palm, because this is ridiculous. The idea that any of them think that Enjolras would ever go for him of all people is truly astounding. The dude looks like a pristine work of art most of the time, effortless and gorgeous, and Grantaire is…Grantaire. If there were an art installation dedicated to him, he thinks it’d be more like one of those pieces that looks so close to actual garbage that the janitors toss it by accident.

When summoned, Enjolras appears in the door, and takes in the scene with all the caution of a stray cat about to enter a trap. Grantaire wishes he’d been as smart. Bahorel doesn’t even wait for Enjolras to fully enter the kitchen though, grinning and wrapping his arm more tightly around Grantaire’s shoulders playfully.

“There he is, just the man we needed to see,” Bahorel says, and Grantaire smiles at Enjolras, weak and apologetic. Holy shit this is fucking embarrassing, “Grantaire here claims ‘nothing happened’ last night. Can you fill us in on your side of things?”

Enjolras’ face, which had been all suspicion, turns stiff. He’s always been less into the playful ribbing that some members of the group (including Grantaire) sometimes got into. Grantaire remembers being scolded for doing the same thing to Marius when he’d had his crush on Cosette in high school.

He makes a mental note to apologize to Marius for it later, because this fucking sucks.

“If you mean to imply that we had sex,” Enjolras says, his voice dry and pointed, “Then no, nothing happened. Grantaire just let me stay over.”

Grantaire didn’t think his face could get much redder, but lo and behold, it can.

As Bahorel and Courf begin to whine in disappointment, Enjolras continues.

“Grantaire is straight anyway,” he says, and there’s a strained look in his expression that Grantaire doesn’t quite understand. Any worry about that look is wiped away by his own confusion as he furrows his own brow.

“No I’m not,” Grantaire replies, speaking on impulse, as if it’s unthinkable that these people wouldn’t know that he’s bisexual. It’s only a fraction of a second later, when Jehan gasps at him that he remembers he only reconciled that to himself years after he left the club.

He’s only come out to two people, ever. First, Camille. He’d done a lot of soul searching while trying to get himself sober, and one of the realizations that came with that was his own sexuality. When he had told her, at best she hadn’t seemed to believe him, and at worst seemed to think that him being bisexual meant that she would never be enough for him. In the end, he’d dropped it, and never brought it up again.

The second person, of course, was Eponine. And she’d only said, 'duh', as if Grantaire was the dumb one for not realizing sooner. Which, in some ways, was fair. But it still didn't feel great.

And suddenly, the number of people he’s come out to has tripled.

Enjolras looks completely dumbstruck, lips parted and staring wide eyed at Grantaire, and Grantaire makes a mental note to keep a tally of how many times he manages to surprise him like this this year.

“You’re not?” Enjolras asks, as if Grantaire would make this shit up. Grantaire shakes his head.

“I’m bisexual...?” he replies, as if it’s a question. Regardless of how accepting everyone here is, he still feels as if he’ll be questioned. A side effect of his coming out with Camille, he supposes. But instead of doubting him, his friends all seem either ecstatic, or surprised.

“Fuck yes!” Courfeyrac whoops, doing a cheesy fist pump and then hugging Jehan beside him with so much strength it nearly bowls them over, “That’s officially one more for the queer tally!”

Jehan laughs beside him, softly, pushing at Courf’s oppressive weight. Their eyes are sparkling as they look at Grantaire, clearly proud of him for being able to come out, regardless of how it had come about.

“The queer tally?” Grantaire asks, before he can stop himself, finally breaking eye contact with Enjolras when the dumbstruck look becomes too much to bear. Courfeyrac’s eyes flash with puckish delight, as if Grantaire has just asked a mad scientist about his theories. Grantaire almost immediately regrets asking.

Courf straightens, releasing Jehan except for an arm over their shoulder.

“Over time,” he says, speaking as if he’s teaching a seminar, “More and more people in this ragtag group of ours have realized that they’re some kind of queer.”

Jehan grins, as if this is a practiced speech they’ve heard many times. Which it probably is. “We were sitting at fifty percent,” they chime in, making Courf smile all the more.

“With you, though,” Courfeyrac takes over again, pointing to Grantaire, “We now have the majority!”

His mischievous expression turns to Bahorel now.

“Your army is outnumbered, Bahorel,” he says, grinning, and Bahorel’s arm around Grantaire’s shoulders changes, feeling more like a soldier gripping his dying comrade.

“God dammit, R, how could you abandon us in our moment of need?” Bahorel mourns. Grantaire laughs, relief at the positive reactions nearly making his body go limp. He hadn’t realized how stressed he was about it until all that pressure suddenly released.

He reaches up to touch Bahorel’s face, clutching his own chest as if it’s been shot.

“I’m sorry,” he says, leaning into the bit, his voice raspy as he feigns his dying breaths, “I can’t help that men…are…attractive…” he goes fully limp, and exhales dramatically, dropping his hand down so that Bahorel is the only thing holding him still on top of the counter.

Bahorel gives a dramatic, drawn out, “NOOOO,” and Grantaire snorts, breaking character almost immediately.

Seemingly called by the disturbance, Combeferre peeks into the kitchen, and Bahorel looks at him, with the most distraught face he can make.

“We’ve lost another one, ‘Ferre,” he says, giving Grantaire’s body a little shake, “The gays are winning now.”

Combeferre takes a second to put two and two together, giving a bemused, “What the hell are you talking about,” before it clicks, and his eyes suddenly flick to Grantaire, and then, inexplicably, to Enjolras. Grantaire doesn’t have time to question what the fuck that look could possibly mean before Combeferre has a pokerface back on.

“And here I was about to make us all commemorative pins,” Combeferre deadpans, to which Jehan snorts.

“No wonder he defected then,” they say, “Our memorabilia is far superior, obviously.”

Little jokes and jabs are exchanged for a couple more minutes, Grantaire finally straightening up and out of Bahorel’s arms when his back starts to feel a slight ache.

Finally, Combeferre, ever the voice of reason, points out that they should really finish their book discussion and move onto the next. And he is right; the break has been longer than their usual ones.

Everyone slowly filters out of the kitchen and back to the dining room, Grantaire passing by Enjolras as he goes, who still looks shaken. Grantaire offers him a small smile, feeling as though he needs to reassure him that everything is fine.

Enjolras’ expression softens a bit, and Grantaire feels a sense of accomplishment from that.

Soon, they’re all seated in their unofficial assigned seats around the dining table again, and discussion continues as normal after the chatter dies down. They talk about The Hidden Life of Trees for about another hour, and then discussion pivots to their new book.

“Well, Grantaire,” Jehan says, the de facto conversation leader at these meetings, “What did you bring?”

Grantaire smiles, and reaches into his bag resting by his foot, and pulls out his copy of The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue, passing it to Jehan.

“Enjolras helped me pick,” he clarifies to the group, wanting to give credit where it’s due. He’s not sure he would have ever settled on something if Enjolras hadn’t been with him. He looks at Enjolras then, nodding to him and mouthing ‘thank you’. Enjolras smiles, and nods back, eyes warm.

He gives a quick summary of the plot, like he had for Enjolras that first day, trying not to spoil anything but rather just hook his friends in.
“It’s one of my favorites,” he adds, finally, and stops talking.

The book is passed quickly around the table, some taking pictures of the star flecked cover so they know what to get, others just taking note of the title on scraps of paper, or in Combeferre’s case, the small journal he seems to take everywhere. Overall, no one looks disappointed with his choice, which is a big relief. If anything, some look excited.

“Awesome, thank you!” Jehan says, grinning at him, and Grantaire can’t help but grin back. They skim through the book once it comes back to them, and set an end reading point to hit by the next meeting.

The meeting devolves into lively conversation from there, as usual. The playful ribbing about Enjolras staying the night has thankfully stopped by now, replaced by the occasional Bi joke instead, and Grantaire feels relieved that at the very least the rumors have stopped as soon as they began. The group’s speculation really couldn't stand up to the fact that Enjolras hadn't known he isn't straight.

Eventually, he goes out to sit with Bea, who’s still immersed in Jehan’s old book. She’s made good progress, about a quarter of the book already devoured by the time Grantaire plops down beside her on the cushion he left earlier. His daughter has absolutely no intention of chatting with him for longer than a few seconds, obviously fully immersed in the world of her book now.

When Jehan sees her so into it, coming into the living room a few moments later, they smile so broadly it’s infectious.

“If you like it that much, you can take it home with you, Bea,” Jehan says. And that’s enough to get her attention. Bea gasps, quickly marking her place, and looking to Grantaire as if to ask, ‘can I really?’

Grantaire just shrugs, because it’s Jehan’s choice if they want to let a seven year old borrow their book.

“I don’t have a problem if Jehan doesn’t,” he says, smiling at his daughter, and Bea positively beams.

“I’ll take good care of it,” she promises, looking at Jehan with such serious determination that Grantaire has to choke back a laugh. Jehan just smiles, and nods.

“We’ll have to compare notes when you’re done. Make sure you take a lot, okay?” they say, and Bea nods, looking more excited than Grantaire has seen her in a long time. He makes a mental note to get her her own copy, and any other books in the series the first chance he gets.

Bea begins to catch Jehan up to where she is, and her favorite characters so far, and Grantaire takes that as his dismissal, standing and leaving them to their book talk.

As he walks away, he catches Enjolras extracting his shoes from the big shoe pile by the front door. Confused, Grantaire leans against one of the entryway bookshelves.

“You’re leaving early,” he says. It’s around five now, but normally people start filtering out around six or seven.

Enjolras straightens, holding his shoes in one hand.

“Yeah, I need to get home by six today. I’ve got a case I need to read for tomorrow,” he says, looking apologetic. Grantaire raises an eyebrow.

“It’ll take you an hour to get home?”

“No, more like thirty minutes. But the bus can be a little unpredictable,” Enjolras replies, shrugging, and then going to untie his shoes so he can slip them on.

For a moment, Grantaire is just trying to process the sentence. He had known that Enjolras often didn’t drive, and walked most places. He’d known that Enjolras couldn’t drive in high school. But the idea that Enjolras still can’t drive is somehow a new thought. He puts two and two together, and frowns.

“Is that how you normally get to and from book club?” he asks, crossing his arms. Enjolras just looks at him as if to say, ‘obviously’, still tugging on his shoes, and then beginning to lace them.

“Usually, yes,” Enjolras says, simply, “Sometimes Combeferre gives me a ride, but I don’t want to be a bother. I’m not on his way.”

Grantaire just stares again, dumbfounded.

“You’re close to my apartment,” he says, “Why don’t we just carpool from now on?”

It’s Enjolras’ turn to stare this time.

“Grantaire, you have a kid to wrangle,” he replies, pushing back, but Grantaire isn’t having it.

“And you’re a law student,” he points out, “You said you have an assignment due, and I’m sure this isn’t the first time this has happened.”

Enjolras’ expression is enough to tell him that he’s right. Grantaire isn’t going to take no for an answer, stepping toward Enjolras and digging his and Bea’s shoes from the shoe pile. Enjolras protests, saying that he doesn’t want to put Grantaire out. But even if he had been put out, Grantaire would have done the same thing.

“If the situation was reversed,” Grantaire says, finally, slipping his own shoes on, “You would do the same, Enjolras. Let me do this.”

Enjolras doesn’t have a retort to that, because both of them know it’s true. Enjolras is stubborn, kind, and above all, a good friend. Grantaire hasn’t had many opportunities to be one in return, so he’s not about to let this one go by.

With his shoes on, Grantaire goes out to grab Bea, apologizing to Jehan for having to grab her. Jehan just smiles quizzically, and Grantaire explains that he’s going to give Enj a ride. Bea stands without much complaint, giving Jehan a hug and a final thank you for letting her borrow the book, and sticky notes.

A minute later, they’ve all said their goodbyes, and are piling into his shitty car once again. Bea is in her booster, clutching her book and notes, and Enjolras is looking acutely uncomfortable for the ride he’s been given. Bea is engrossed in her book as soon as she’s buckled, the car silent except for the sound of turning pages every minute or two.

Grantaire isn’t entirely sure why things are so awkward now; they’ve gone through a whole evening, overnight, and the drive to the club without any incident. Now, though, Enjolras seems to not want to talk at all. He’s looking out the passenger side window, and seems content to just watch the lampposts and sidewalks pass.

Eventually, the buzzing under his skin won’t let Grantaire sit in silence anymore. He wants to figure out if he did something wrong, or if the silence is meant to be comfortable.

“Thank you again for helping me pick my book,” he says, eyes focused on the road. He glances over for just a second to continue, “I had a lot of fun yesterday.”

Enjolras’ eyes flick over for just a moment, and they catch each other’s look briefly before Grantaire brings his eyes back to the road. The second isn’t long enough for Grantaire to catch much of Enjolras’ expression; it had just looked blank to him. He lets out a small breath when Enjolras finally speaks.

“I did too,” Enjolras says, and then pauses for a few seconds. When he speaks again, it’s got the hint of a smile in the tone, “I’ll make sure to get your shirt back to you soon.”

“You'd better,” Grantaire says, happy that the tension is at least somewhat broken, “I know where to find you if you don’t.”

Enjolras does laugh, but falls back into uncomfortable silence for a moment afterward, and Grantaire thinks that maybe he did fuck up somehow after all. His index finger absently picks at the skin of his thumb, but he wills it to stop a moment later. That spot on his thumb is already worn down from years of abuse.

“You okay dude?” he forces himself to ask, unsure where the bravery came from. He can nearly feel Enjolras go a little stiff beside him.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Enjolras says after a beat. His voice sounds defeated, “Sorry. I’m a bit…in my own head right now, I guess.”

“About what?” Grantaire asks, soft. His brow is furrowed now, “If you’re still worried about putting me out over rides, literally don’t sweat it. I like the company.”

Grantaire catches the head shake Enjolras gives in the periphery of his vision.

“It’s not that,” Enjolras says, though he’s still speaking in that defeated way that feels so disjointed from how Enjolras is supposed to be. Enjolras seems to be gathering his thoughts over the gentle sounds of the radio.

“I keep feeling like I wasn’t a good friend to you. In high school,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire nearly misses a red light, jerking them to a stop a little too quickly. When they’ve stopped safely, he apologizes to Bea, and then looks over at Enjolras in complete confusion.

“You considered us friends?” he says, and immediately knows it’s the wrong thing, because Enjolras’ face looks so guilty that it hurts.

“That…came out wrong,” Grantaire says, trying to backpedal a little, smiling a little shakily, “I meant like, why would you? I mean, if anyone should be worried about being a shitty friend it’s me.”

Enjolras seems to be studying his face, but that guilt isn’t going anywhere. After a moment, he glances up, gesturing to the light in front of them.

“It’s green, R,” he murmurs. Grantaire mutters a curse under his breath, hoping Bea can’t hear it, and starts the car rolling again. Thankfully, the street beyond is fairly empty. He’s not inconveniencing anyone but them. It’s quiet again for a few agonizing seconds, but by now Grantaire knows just to wait.

“I just…you keep surprising me. I felt like I had a good grasp on everyone in the ABC, but it’s like every time we talk I find out something else that, if I had tried at all to get to know you, I probably would have known,” Enjolras is saying, and the more he speaks, the more it begins to seem like he can’t stop himself. “I mean, christ, I assumed so much that I thought I had a lock on your sexuality without ever asking.”

And at that, Grantaire has to laugh, wild and sudden.

“What’s so funny?” Enjolras asked, sounding perfectly offended, with an edge of hysteria to his tone that only serves to make Grantaire laugh harder. Bea shushes him from the back seat, and Grantaire does his best to quiet, not wanting to disturb her reading any more than he has.

“That’s what you’re worried about?” he asks, gasping, after a moment, “That you didn’t know I like men?”

Enjolras bristles.

“I mean, it’s a part of it, yes,” he says, sounding distinctly like a kid who answered wrong after raising their hand in class.

“Dude, I wasn’t even out to myself in high school. What kind of pressure is that to put on yourself?” Grantaire asks, sneaking another quick glance at Enjolras, whose cheeks have gone a soft shade of pink. Enjolras seems to consider for a moment, then looks down at his hands.

“It’s not just that, Grantaire,” he says, “Even if you didn’t know that much, all of us could see that you had…stuff…going on.” And Grantaire isn’t a rocket scientist, but he doesn’t have to be one to know that Enjolras means his litany of dependencies. Looks like he’s not the only one still thinking about their conversation last night, though he still really doesn’t understand why Enjolras seems to feel so guilty.

“I could have done more to reach out. But instead I apparently pushed you out of the group, by accident or no,” Enjolras continues, sounding a little frantic. From the corner of his eye, he sees Enjolras run a hand through his hair, and then over his face. “You should have had a safe space with us. I feel like I took that away from you.”

This time, it’s Grantaire’s turn to let the silence stretch between them. He kind of wants to be angry at the idea that Enjolras thinks he could have ‘fixed’ him, in some way. He’s never been one to appreciate when someone implies that he’d had something wrong with him, even if they’re probably right.

If someone had tried to reach out at the time, he would have pushed them away twice as hard. If Enjolras had taken his bottle full of vodka from him that day, and tried to talk sense into him rather than giving that ultimatum, it wouldn’t have gone well either. Sometimes he thinks that without a world tilting incident, like what had happened with Camille, he never would have pulled himself out of his own downward spiral.

“You didn’t take anything away from me, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, finally, rueful and quiet, “It’s not your fault I took things the way that I did. That’s on me.”

Enjolras starts to protest, but Grantaire isn’t about to argue about this.

“It wasn’t your job to make sure my life didn’t fall apart, dude,” he says, and he means it. Even if Enjolras had tried harder than anyone else ever had, Grantaire isn’t sure it would have been enough. If he hadn’t made the choice himself to fix his shit, any fix would have been temporary at best.

Enjolras still looks guilty when Grantaire glances over next, but his expression has at least somewhat eased. He supposes that that’s the best he can hope for, with a guy like Enjolras, whose savior complex has to be so deep that it’s basically a second nervous system.

“I can’t say that I wouldn’t change anything, because that’s stupid. Everyone wishes they could change shit they did,” he continues, “but I’m…happy with my life right now.”

He swallows after he says it, feeling a slight lump in his throat because it may be the first time he’s ever said that and meant it. It’s taken years of working on himself, taking care of Bea, and taking things one day at a time, but he’s finally excited for the future. Reuniting with the ABC is a big part of pushing him over that hill.

They’re pulling onto Enjolras’ street now. Grantaire pulls up to the curb in front of the brick apartment building, and puts the car into park. Bea is still immersed in her book in the back seat, not seeming to care what they’ve been talking about this whole time.

He’s able to face Enjolras fully, and smiles. The look of guilt is still simmering in his expression, but it’s mostly covered by surprise, and something that looks like relief. After a moment, Enjolras returns his smile, and begins to unbuckle.

Grantaire gives a little wave when he finally goes to open the door.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asks. And with no hesitation, Enjolras nods, stepping out onto the curb.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he says, and seems to mean it.

Bea looks away from her book long enough to wave goodbye when Enjolras shuts the door. He gives her a little wave back, and then heads inside his apartment, waving one last time before he shuts the door.

Grantaire pulls away from the curb, feeling lighter than he has in a long time.

“Ready for leftover pizza?” he asks Bea. Her excitement is immediate, and infectious.

Chapter Text

A couple of weeks pass in a blur. But not the hazy blur that Grantaire used to be accustomed to. Leaves continue to fall outside, and the weather gets colder and greyer by the day. Enjolras comes by the bookstore on his usual routine, and book club covers the book he brought. He gets to watch everyone fall in love with Addie and Henry the way he had.

As promised, when Halloween had come, Jehan had helped Bea put together her costume. It had ended up being Kate Wetherall, a character from the book that Jehan had let her borrow. Grantaire still doesn’t know much about the book, really, but he was happy to help her and Jehan paint a little bucket red and affix it to a belt.

Bea insisted that he dress up as another character from the books, named “Milligan”, but that basically just entailed him wearing a worn out hat and a big green jacket, and not shaving for a couple of days. Jehan had said it was cute. Grantaire chose to trust their judgment. They insisted on taking a lot of pictures of them both standing together in their costumes when Halloween had come.

Now though, it’s early November. Halloween has come and gone, and it’s a rainy Friday like any other. Grantaire is working as usual, counting the minutes until his lunch break.

The routine that he and Enjolras share is solid, so much so that Grantaire marvels that he ever got through a whole week without these lunchtime hang sessions. The air between them feels clearer than it ever has been, and Grantaire is savoring their newfound friendship. Real friendship, this time. Not one sided pining.

Well...there is still a little of that, he’s slowly allowing himself to admit. But Grantaire is used to ignoring his (admittedly growing) feelings, and Enjolras doesn’t seem to be exhausted every time they talk like he used to be. That’s enough for him.

Grantaire now eats his lunch on his fifteen most days of the week, since that method allows for him to spend the most time in the cafe, talking with Enjolras, and Eponine when she decides to contribute, which does happen more as the days pass. He’s not sure she considers Enjolras a friend, but she doesn’t seem annoyed by how much he’s around at the very least.

She does tease Grantaire when they’re alone; he’s not doing a good job of hiding how much he enjoys the new normal. Once, on a Wednesday, she catches him sitting in his usual spot in the cafe with a new sketchbook he bought, rendering a handsome face with very pretty eyes that could be anyone, he swears, with a little too much care.

He’s not sure he’ll ever hear the end of it.

Honestly, he’s just glad she didn’t see the other ones he’s done over the last couple of weeks. There’s more than he’d like to admit, squirreled away in the pages of his five inch sketchbook. It’s been a long time since Grantaire has felt the urge to draw anything for fun. But how in the absolute fuck is he supposed to help himself when sometimes Enjolras stays in the cafe past his break, sitting by a window and reading or studying or writing, and looking so fucking picturesque it should be illegal?

He’s better at resisting his urges in general at this point in his life, but he’s weak to this one, and he doesn’t think it hurts anyone.

Grantaire has found that the first half of the day has quickly become the hardest thing to bear, the early morning hours dragging by in a slow, antsy hum until just past noon that leaves him bouncing his leg on his stool.

Today though, the shop bell doesn’t ring right at 12:30. Instead, it rings at 12:15. Grantaire almost doesn’t even look up from his book; he’s been using his off time to re-read Addie LaRue, keeping pace with the group. In the end, he decides he probably should do his job after all, and gives the usual greeting, only to look up and see not only Enjolras, but two other familiar faces coming inside from the rain: Marius, and held protectively by the hip right next to him, Cosette.

Fuck.

Somehow, Enjolras has managed to bring quite possibly the worst two people he could have, considering that Eponine works here.

His anxiety must show, because Enjolras gives him a concerned look, his brows pinching together. Thankfully, if they do notice it, Marius and Cosette seem unbothered, both obviously completely enamored with the air of the little bookshop.

Grantaire slaps on his best customer service pokerface, and greets the both of them properly.

“Hey guys,” he says, dog-earing his page in the book and pushing it off to the side. He’s honestly just grateful that Eponine probably hasn’t noticed who's come in. At least, he assumes so, since he can’t smell brimstone. “What brings you in today?”

Cosette finishes her look around the shop first, and when she walks towards the desk, Marius follows her like the puppy dog of a partner that he is.

“I need a book!” she says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Grantaire blinks.

“Why not just go to Barnes and Noble or whatever like a normal person?” he asks, but smiles, leaning on the desk.

Cosette gives him a wry look.

“Well, I’m sure their customer service can’t compare,” she says, then gracefully inclines her chin to Enjolras, “Besides, Enjolras said he liked the feel of this place. We wanted to see for ourselves.”

It’s the second time that Grantaire has heard one of his friends tell him that Enjolras said that, and he raises an eyebrow at Enjolras, who shrugs, and smiles a little sheepishly.

It’s adorable. Fuck him and his cute goddamn face. Grantaire tucks the expression away to try and draw from memory later.

“Well, let me know if I can point you to anything,” Grantaire says, and Cosette smiles gratefully.

“Where’s nonfiction?” She asks, and Grantaire gives her quick directions. She thanks him, and strides off between shelves until she disappears, Marius in tow behind her. When they’ve gone far enough, Enjolras steps closer, leaning on the desk in front of Grantaire conspiratorially.

“What was that look for when we came in?” he asks, that concern filtering back into his expression now that Cosette and Marius are gone. And Grantaire wants so badly to play dumb, if only for Eponine’s sake. But selfishly, he wants back up should things go sideways.

“Well,” Grantaire says, voice a near whisper, “You don’t happen to know why Eponine stopped coming to the ABC, do you?”

Enjolras shakes his head. In answer, Grantaire just points to where Cosette and Marius had disappeared into the forest of shelving.

“You brought both reasons.”

And for a moment, Enjolras looks to where his friends had been, confused, then back to Grantaire, and seems to piece together that Eponine stopped coming at the exact moment that Cosette started.

“Oh,” he says, eyes going wide, “Oh no.”

“Yep,” Grantaire replies.

“And does she still…?”

“I don’t fully know? But she’s definitely not going to be happy.”

And that much is the truth. Eponine is one of the most tight lipped people in existence when it comes to her own emotions. Grantaire has only gotten her to admit that she was still sad over Marius once, but it had only been because she was drunk, and even then the moment of vulnerability had only lasted for an instant. Anger, though, she’s perfectly content to share.

It’s the main reason that Grantaire has tried to avoid making a deeper connection with Cosette up to this point. They talk in the book club, obviously, but out of solidarity with his friend, Grantaire feels he doesn’t have the right to get closer to her.

It’s undeniable that Cosette is incredibly kind, though. The way she plays with Bea is proof enough of that. It’s a testament to Cosette’s good heart that even with Grantaire’s immediate slant to dislike her, he still can’t find any fault with her.

Honestly, that makes him feel worse. It would be easier if she and Marius were terrible for each other, but by all accounts, they are disgustingly perfect as a couple.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras is saying, looking truly upset with himself, “I had no idea.”

Grantaire just nods to his apology. But he can hear Marius and Cosette’s steps moving closer to the counter again, so the time for talking is over. Enjolras follows his lead, and steps back a bit just as Cosette swirls out from the bookshelves, holding quite a few books in her petite arms.

She drops them onto the counter with a thwump, and Grantaire smiles, picking one up, only to feel his gut sink straight to the floor.

A parenting book.

Cosette and Marius are going to have a baby.

The look of barely disguised horror on Enjolras’ face is a sight to behold, one that Grantaire hopes Cosette and Marius won’t turn and catch.

Thankfully, Grantaire’s grief for Eponine is overridden for a moment by the awkwardness of knowing that his adult friends are fucking. A lot, probably.

Awkwardness he can do.

“Oh shit, are you two expecting?” he asks, beginning to scan the books. He recognizes a few of them from the panic fueled whirlwind of reading he’d done in preparation for Bea. In hindsight, he’s not sure if they were good, or if he’d just been clinging to any instructions he could get like a lifeline.

The joy on their faces speaks for itself. Cosette puts a hand over her stomach, gentle and protective. She’s nowhere near showing yet, but Cosette seems excited all the same.

It explains a bit why Marius has been following her so closely. Grantaire had thought he just stayed as lovestruck as the day they met—which may be the case—but the protective hand on Cosette’s hip, and Marius’ own excited expression tell the story of a guy who can’t wait to be a dad.

Grantaire is honestly a little jealous.

“If it’s a boy, it’ll be Georges, after Marius’ father,” Cosette is saying, her eyes a bittersweet sort of happy, “And if it’s a girl, she’ll be Fantine, after my mom.”

Grantaire remembers, distantly, that both Cosette and Marius had grown up living with people other than their biological parents. Cosette had her adoptive father, and Marius had grown up with his grandfather. He’d never bothered to ask what had happened to either of their missing parents, but now it feels safe to assume that they passed.

He feels like a bit of an asshole for never asking.

“Well hey,” he says, finishing scanning and taking the cash that Cosette offers him, “Maybe you’ll get twins, and you won’t have to pick between the two.”

The smile Marius gives him is so full of hope it nearly blinds him.

“I saw that there’s a cafe!” Cosette says after a moment, putting her change back into her purse, and Grantaire nearly winces. Of course. Of fucking course she would notice it. “Why don’t we go sit! Enjolras said you two usually talk over lunch around this time.”

Enjolras looks like he could die at any moment. It would be funny if it weren’t for the fact that they have to live in this reality right now. Grantaire’s returning smile is a little weaker than he’d like it to be, but he nods regardless. He can’t very well just leave them to walk into a dragon’s lair thinking it’s just a cave.

“Let me clock out real quick,” he says, turning to go to the back of the store after handing Cosette her new paper bag full of books. When he returns, the little group is already halfway across the store to the cafe, and Grantaire jogs to catch up. He’d been hoping to be able to warn Eponine ahead of time, but it’s looking like the chances of that are slim to none.

The best he can do is catch her eye, and offer a warning expression. Eponine has been sitting towards the back of the cafe’s small prep area on her stool, scrolling her phone. Thankfully, she does look up when they come close, well practiced at doing nothing up until the very last second.

Unfortunately, when she looks up and realizes exactly who’s headed her way, for a split second she looks like someone shit in her coffee beans. Or, maybe like he’s about to shit in them herself, just for her new customers.

Grantaire tries to look apologetic, but if Eponine sees it, she doesn’t show it. With barely a flinch, she’s slipped back into what passes for customer service a la Eponine, which is to say, bland, robotic, and absolutely nothing given away. He knows that it’s a well practiced mask, and breathes a silent sigh of relief that her job does seem to be coming before her grudge.

He sees that practiced expression buckle a little when Marius sees her, and immediately Marius’ face lights up.

“‘Ponine?” he asks, and immediately rushes up to the counter, “I haven’t seen you in ages, where have you been hiding?”

Enjolras beside him winces visibly, and Grantaire would have done the same if not for how much he knows Eponine will hate it. If there’s one thing Eponine hates, it’s getting unwanted sympathy from people. Eponine is, and has always been stronger than anyone gives her credit for.

That admirable side of herself is on full display now. She puts on a passable easy going smile just for Marius, and says, “I’ve been around,” with so much grace it’s almost hard to stomach.

Marius barrages her with questions. Eponine takes them one at a time, truly doing a great job of being conversational, though after a few of them Grantaire notices that her fingers are bunching up the hem of her apron just beyond the counter.

“You remember Cosette, right?” Marius says eventually, swinging a hand out and pulling his wife by the waist towards the counter. At that, Eponine’s back stiffens. She doesn’t have a chance to speak again before Marius is barrelling forward, “I still can’t thank you enough for introducing us. You’re a real matchmaker.”

Enjolras looks like he wants to sink into the floor.

This part Grantaire is only vaguely aware of. He’s never found out the whole story, and doubts that he ever will. He knows the gist, that Eponine had known Cosette somehow before Marius did, and she had arranged for them to meet for the first time on Marius’ request.

“You know me,” Eponine says, and her voice is a little more hollow than before. But Marius, as dense as his heart of gold, doesn’t seem to notice. “Always happy to help.”

Cosette looks like she’s about to speak, but that’s apparently about all Eponine can bear, because she says quickly, “What can I get for you?”

Marius orders a black coffee, and Cosette just asks for a hot chocolate, saying, “I can’t do caffeine right now,” her hand resting on her stomach.

Grantaire catches Eponine looking from Cosette’s face, down to the hand at her middle, and he catches the exact moment that the realization hits, his friend’s eyes going dim and dark. His stomach sinks. So much for the bagged books. He’d done his best, but he can only hide so much.

“Congratulations,” Eponine says. The smile she brings up is a testament to her own self control, “I’ll get right on those.”

Enjolras, wisely, doesn’t order anything. Grantaire opts to follow his lead.

They all sit at one of the small cafe tables, Marius pulling up two extra chairs for himself and Cosette. He turns to invite Eponine to join them, but she’s already disappeared, probably going on her own lunch now that she’s made their drinks.

Grantaire can’t blame her, he would want to run, too, if the tables were turned.

Surprisingly, when Marius takes his first sip of coffee, there’s not a hint of disgust in his expression. Grantaire barely resists gaping as he drinks it normally. He has half a mind to try it for himself, to see if Marius’ mouth is just broken, or if Eponine actually can make good coffee when she wants to, and just actively chooses violence every day.

He’s willing to bet money that it’s the latter.

Cosette isn’t as well off, it seems. She only manages a small sip of her hot chocolate before putting her mug down and not touching it again. When Grantaire can catch a look, the drink in the cup looks more like pond water than hot chocolate. It’s not a good sign that he can see the bottom of the cup from the top of a drink that’s supposed to be opaque.

They begin to chat, and Grantaire grasps for anything to talk about besides the baby, but comes up entirely empty. It’s one of those things that’s kind of impossible to ignore once you know about it, and Enjolras, as mortified as he seems, isn’t much help. Cosette seems to have come in with an agenda, anyway, leaning on the small table and looking directly at Grantaire.

“To be honest, we didn’t come just for the books,” she says, and Grantaire crosses his arms, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. Cosette gives him a reassuring smile, and continues, “We thought…maybe you might have some pointers?”

Grantaire blinks, and blinks again, confusion and then realization hitting him in quick succession. Somehow, out of everyone in their group, he is the only one with first hand experience raising a child. The idea that these two, a married couple doing everything in life by the book, wanting advice from him is nearly comical.

He’s speechless for a few seconds.

“Um,” he says finally, looking between the two of them, “Wow, I’m flattered, but I mean…you have all those books from professionals, right? Why do you want my advice?”

Cosette just smiles at him.

“Books can only tell us so much,” she says, “You raised Bea, Grantaire. And she’s one of the happiest kids I’ve met.”

The earnest kindness in Cosette’s voice brings a lump to his throat, and he clears his throat to get rid of it, blinking hard for a few seconds. He hadn’t realized how badly he wanted that reassurance, that he hasn’t fucked up his kid in some way he doesn’t see. He almost can’t bring himself to look at Cosette again, his body rejecting pride like a disease.

“I…Thank you,” he says, a little shaky now. He’s still not good at accepting compliments, but doesn’t want to step in another hornets nest by deflecting with humor, either, “But honestly I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

Cosette just shrugs.

“Why not…tell us something you wish you could go back and tell yourself? Something you didn’t know that you wish you did.” she says.

And to his surprise, Grantaire does have an answer to that. He pauses a moment, fingers tapping the wood of the table in front of him, trying to arrange his thoughts into an understandable sentence.

“Babies don’t come out laughing,” he finally says, looking from Cosette to Marius. “For…like, the first nine weeks home, you’re going to struggle. That baby will cry so much you’ll feel like you’re going insane, keep you up for days at a time, and you’ll probably hate the world and each other.”

Their faces seem to fall a little at this ominous prediction, but Grantaire continues.

“If you’re going to get through that period, you need to have compassion for each other. Y’know, share the load, ask for help. You two have a better support system than most, so use it. And try to remember that once that baby laughs for the first time, it'll be worth it.”

Cosette and Marius smile at him then, and Grantaire realizes that he’s smiling too, reminiscing about the first time Bea had smiled at him. He wishes again that he’d had someone to lean on in that time of his life. He’d eventually gotten Eponine, but she’d had Gavroche to take care of. He’s not afraid to admit to himself that he’s jealous of what Marius and Cosette are going to have. Their journey isn’t going to be easy, by any means, but it’ll be a lot smoother than his own.

Enjolras is looking at him, too, looking completely out of his depth. But there’s a wistful element to his expression that Grantaire can’t bear to look at for an extended amount of time.

Marius reaches out to hold Cosette’s hand, looking at her with so much ooey gooey love that Grantaire wants to gag. Cosette is looking back at Marius with a mirror expression.

God, they really have no shame. And that means that their kid is going to grow up with great parents.

They chat for a while longer, Grantaire throwing in any tips he remembers as they come up, but for the most part he knows that they’re going to have to take the obstacles as they come. That’s what he’d had to do. Cosette is right about one thing: books can only teach you so much.

Enjolras just sits and listens, seeming content to stay out of the 'kids' conversation. Grantaire knows that he’d be way, way out of his comfort zone anyway. Enjolras has never seemed the type to have wanted kids. And to be fair, Grantaire had been in that camp until one was thrust upon him.

Finally, Grantaire checks the clock and realizes that his break is about to end. He excuses himself, but says they’re free to sit and chat as long as they want.

His friends opt to stand when he does instead.

“Thank you again for the advice,” Cosette says, and Marius nods fervently behind her. Grantaire just smiles.

“Any time. If you ever need a sitter, I’m very experienced,” he says, offering without thinking twice. He would have given his left arm for someone to have done the same for him when he’d been on his own.

Cosette positively beams.

They turn to leave, and Grantaire thinks that he catches the edge of Eponine’s shoulder peeking out from the area behind the cafe. He wonders how long she’s been there, but has no time to worry about it right now.

They exchange goodbyes, Enjolras staying an extra second to whisper, “Tell Eponine I’m sorry,” and Grantaire gives a subtle nod, promising he will.

And just like that, the shop is empty again, the gentle sound of the bell the only sign that his friends had been there at all.

Grantaire goes to clock back in, then back out to the cafe to see if Eponine needs anything. And to apologize for blindsiding her like he feels he has.

He never gets the chance. Eponine avoids him for the rest of the day.

Chapter Text

Grantaire feels awful by the time he gets home. Eponine had kept up her avoidance masterfully for their whole shift, not even saying goodbye before she clocked out. He knows that eventually she'll act like nothing happened and they’ll get back to normal, but he wishes that she would let him apologize rather than letting the obvious slight simmer the way she likes to.

Problem avoidance only gets you so far. But Eponine has pushed the boundaries of that idea farther than anyone Grantaire has ever met. Besides Camille.

In the end, he decides that he can’t do anything if Eponine won’t even talk to him. So he shoots her a quick text to apologize for the surprise drop in from he-and-she-who-must-not-be-named, and asks to talk when she’s ready. He knows he won’t get a response, but it at least eases his nerves to know he tried.

He goes about his usual routine as best he can, trying not to habitually check his phone for a text he knows isn’t coming.

He picks up Bea from school, and they make dinner together, then settle into their usual routine. Bea sits in her bean bag, now onto book two of the series Jehan had recommended.

Grantaire had picked up the next book in the series for her the day after book club, and her answering smile had been so bright that Grantaire swore to himself he’d buy her more books as soon as he could.

Things are quiet until about ten. Grantaire has long since put Bea to bed when there’s a knock on their apartment door. He’s sitting on the couch when the knock comes, reading his own book since he hadn’t been able to focus on reading it at work after the visit from Cosette.

He closes his book, confused about who the fuck would even be knocking at this time. He’s paid rent for the month already, so it shouldn’t be his landlord, and there are very few other people who it could be.

Looking through the peephole a moment later, he’s immediately on edge. Gavroche is standing there with a backpack.

Immediately, he unlocks the door and lets him inside.

Gavroche looks normal, for the most part, maybe a little tired, but otherwise fine. He pushes past Grantaire in a practiced motion, offering barely a “hey,” and dropping his bag by the couch. He falls into Bea’s abandoned bean bag with a ‘whump’ as if him being here is supposed to be expected.

“Gavroche,” Grantaire says, closing the door behind the tween, his brow furrowed, “What are you doing here?”

Gavroche stares at him like he’s stupid.

“‘Ponine went out,” he says simply. When Grantaire’s face remains a mask of blank confusion, Gavroche raises his eyebrows, starting to look a little worried himself, “She said she was going out, and to come here if she wasn’t back by 9:30…?”

Grantaire shakes his head.

“This is the first I’m hearing about it,” he says, keeping his tone calm, because the last thing he needs is for Gavroche to panic like he wants to. He’s the adult for this kid right now. Despite his efforts, Gavroche seems to be getting more concerned. So Grantaire takes a deep breath, re-centering himself, and speaks again.

“Did she say where she was going?” he asks, walking back to the couch and sitting down. Thankfully, Gavroche nods, pulling a slip of paper out of his pocket. He hands it to Grantaire, who opens it, and sees Eponine’s scrawling, scratchy handwriting.

The address on the paper isn’t one Grantaire knows. He plugs it into his phone, quickly as he can, and finds that it’s a nightclub.

“Shit,” he murmurs, scrubbing a hand over his face. It’s been a long time since either he or Eponine got shitfaced. Eponine still drinks recreationally, but she’s always been better at managing her tolerances than Grantaire and his addictive-personality-having ass. Still, neither of them have let the other get trashed in years. Not with the kids around to take care of.

“Okay,” he says after a moment, putting the scrap of paper into his pocket, and facing Gavroche again, “Okay. I’m going to get someone to stay here with you and Bea, and then I’ll go get your sister.”

Gavroche looks a little offended at that.

“I can take care of myself,” he says, defensive, and Grantaire knows that he can, but it’s besides the point.

“You’ve been all by yourself all night, right? And you probably got here by bus?” he asks. Gavroche looks down, not wanting to admit the truth of the statements, despite how obvious the answers are. Grantaire feels his expression darken, and he nods. “Yeah. Sorry, but I’m getting a sitter.”

He doesn’t let Gavroche protest, standing to grab a jacket and dialing the only number he can think to call.

Enjolras picks up on the second ring.

"Grantaire?" The voice on the other end of the line sounds tired, and more than a little concerned that Grantaire is calling rather than just texting like usual. "What's going on?"

"How long would it take you to get to my apartment?" Grantaire asks, skipping pleasantries. The sooner he can leave to get Eponine, the easier this is going to be.

Enjolras pauses, and Grantaire hears soft shuffling on the other end of the line, like Enjolras is standing and already moving to go out the door. He's never felt more grateful for Enjolras' undying ability to be there for people when they need it, even for him.

"It'll be about twenty minutes," Enjolras says, clearly already planning on coming without even knowing why Grantaire needs him to. Grantaire lets out a shaky sigh of relief, running a hand through his hair.

“Thank you. I’m sorry I would drive you but I can’t leave the kids alone,” he says, and then pauses, unsure of how much he should share. Enjolras has gone quiet on the other end, apparently catching the plural ‘kids’, and waiting for an explanation. He’s made it to his bedroom by now. Grantaire peeks out, confirming that Gavroche is far enough away before he speaks again, soft and quick.

“Eponine’s AWOL. Her brother just showed up at the apartment,” he explains, pulling a jacket out of his closet.

“AWOL, as in left completely?” Enjolras asks, sounding a little panicked.

“No. I know where she went. It’s just not…kid friendly? So, um, I can’t take them with me to go get her,” Grantaire replies, hoping he doesn’t have to explain more. Thankfully, Enjolras seems to understand.

“I’m heading to the bus stop now,” Enjolras says after a soft curse, “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Thank you,” Grantaire says, “See you soon.”

And he hangs up.

Just under twenty minutes later, as promised, Enjolras is knocking on his door. Grantaire has been sitting on the couch, talking idly with Gavroche to keep both of their nerves at bay, though Gavroche seems to need it less than him. Grantaire’s leg hasn’t stopped bouncing since he sat down.

When the knock comes, Grantaire is up in an instant. He makes sure it’s Enjolras through the peephole, and opens the door.

“Thanks again for coming,” Grantaire says, stepping aside to let him inside. He gestures to Gavroche on the bean bag, “This is Eponine’s brother, Gavroche. Gav, this is Enjolras. Be nice to him, or…I’ll think of a punishment later, just be nice.”

“Fiiiiine,” Gavroche whines. It’s a testament to the tween’s own worry that he doesn’t put up more of a stink. When he wants to, Gavroche can be the most ornery person Grantaire knows, which is saying something. Grantaire nods to him, grateful.

“Where’s Bea?” Enjolras asks, speaking for the first time since he came in, and looking around the room. Grantaire feels his heart warm at the fact that Enjolras thought of her at all, a ghost of a smile coming to him despite the less than great circumstances.

“Bea is already asleep,” he says, gesturing toward her bedroom and giving Enjolras’ arm a small pat, hoping he’s being comforting, “If she wakes up, let her know I’ll be back soon. There are some leftovers in the fridge, and snacks in the pantry. Help yourself if you get hungry.”

“Thanks dad,” Gavroche says from the beanbag, and Grantaire does manage a small huff of a laugh. It does feel weird giving the sitter talk to Enjolras of all people. It still feels weird even when he has to give it to an actual babysitter.

Enjolras, for his part, looks completely out of his depth. It doesn’t take a mind reader to know that he’s never babysat in his life.

But…he came anyway.

Above everything else, Enjolras looks determined. There’s a pinch in his brow, and a strength in the set of his jaw that speaks only of doing what needs to be done at this moment. Enjolras has, and has always had an unwavering drive to do what he thinks is right. It’s one of many, many things that Grantaire loves about him. He's not sure how long it's been since he had someone he could depend on like this, that he could call at any time of night and they'd come, no questions asked.

Distantly, Grantaire knows that he's in trouble. That the crush he's been ignoring is growing and changing. Deepening. It has been so slow and sweet that he hasn't bothered to look at the shape it's taking.

He doesn't think he could stand having Enjolras out of his life again.

His own realization hits him like a ton of bricks, and for a second he’s staring at Enjolras like it’s the first time. Like he’s a renaissance painting, and Grantaire is appreciating him and every detail that makes him up.

“Everything okay?” Enjolras asks him, breaking Grantaire from his thoughts, and anchoring him to the moment at hand. Now isn’t the time to think about his own bullshit, regardless of how badly his heart wants to jump out of his chest.

“I’m fine,” he says, moving to the shoe rack to get a pair of boots. His hands shake despite his efforts as he pulls them on, “Sorry, just…tired.”

By the time he stands straight again, he’s able to put on a small smile. Enjolras still looks concerned. Grantaire digs in his pocket, pulling out the folded scrap of paper that Gavroche gave him earlier and holding it out to Enjolras.

“This is where I’m headed. I should be back within an hour,” he says. Enjolras reaches to take it, and their fingers brush as he takes the slip of paper. Grantaire tries not to pull back too quickly, though he feels like he’s been shocked.

To his surprise, Enjolras looks at the paper with recognition.

“This is the club that Bahorel works at,” Enjolras says, “The Castle, right?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire says, surprised. The name does match the one on his phone’s map. “Do you know if he’s working tonight?”

“He should be,” Enjolras says, nodding, and handing him back the slip of paper. Grantaire takes it, grateful, and feeling a lot more hopeful about the prospect of getting into a club on a Friday night than he did a few seconds ago.

“Good. Thanks for the heads up, Enj,” he says, smiling softly, and making to leave. Enjolras catches his arm before he can get out the door, though, his hand feeling like a brand against the sleeve of Grantaire’s jacket.

He dares to look back, meeting Enjolras’ eyes and seeing a worry that burns so earnest and bright that he feels scalded.

“Are you going to be okay?” he asks, and Grantaire knows what he means. Going to a place where he’ll be surrounded by every vice he’s ever had isn’t exactly Grantaire’s idea of a smart plan. But he doesn’t really have a choice. It’s already unlikely that Eponine will come home with him, let alone someone like Bahorel or Enjolras.

“I’ll be fine, dude,” he says, though his throat feels dry. “Like I said, I’ll be back in an hour. Don’t let Gavroche burn the apartment down while I’m gone.”

Enjolras drops the hand on his arm after hesitating a moment, and Grantaire gives him one final reassuring smile before heading out the door.

~~

The Castle on Cloud Street is apparently a very popular nightclub for the area, about twenty minutes from his apartment. Grantaire has fallen out of the know on this type of thing, but from the sheer amount of cars lining the street leading to the building, he can tell this is a hot spot to be on a Friday night.

The front of it is a large, medieval styled doorway on the corner of Cloud Street. It’s corny in the way that Grantaire used to love, the bright neon crown logo hanging above the doors drawing in patrons like moths to flame. There’s a line to get in that stretches down the sidewalk. Grantaire walks past the throng, stepping in puddles, and avoiding the ones that look more opaque than rain would be on its own.

He’s relieved when he gets to the front of the line and spots exactly who he’d been hoping for.

Bahorel, who looks like he was born to be a bouncer, stands with his muscled arms crossed over his chest, occasionally checking ID’s, and letting people cross the velvet rope into the club beyond.

When he spots Grantaire, he looks surprised, then happy, then confused, and finally, concerned.

“R?” he asks, the tough-guy act falling away as Grantaire steps up to him and the velvet rope, “What’re you doing here? I thought you didn’t…y’know, do this.”

Bahorel vaguely gestures to the people waiting in line, and then back at the big medieval wooden doors which practically pulse from the rager going on beyond them. Grantaire shakes his head, hands in his pockets.

“I don’t,” he says. Bahorel looks unconvinced. He continues, trying not to falter. “My friend, Eponine - you might remember her, she went to high school with us. She’s in there. At least I think she is. I need to bring her home.”

Bahorel looks puzzled for a moment, then realization seems to dawn.

“That’s why that chick looked familiar,” he says, mostly to himself, “Damn, that was really bugging me earlier, thanks dude!”

Grantaire just stares.

“...Can I go in and get her?” he asks after a moment, pointing to the doors. And the fact that Bahorel knows that the person he’s looking for actually exists is probably the only thing that will convince his friend he’s not just lying so he can go on a bender. Grantaire shifts from foot to foot, and adds, "Enjolras is at my apartment watching Bea and Eponine's brother. He knows I'm here too."

He doesn't know how much it will help his case, but anything that might ease Bahorel's nerves enough to sway him is worth a shot in his book.

Bahorel stares him down, assessing as he thinks over Grantaire's points, just for a minute. Then, blessedly, unclasps the velvet rope, and waves him inside.

“Be good, okay?” Bahorel says as Grantaire walks past, to shouted complaints from people waiting in line. Both of them ignore them. “The group will probably kill me if anything happens.”

By ‘anything happens’, Grantaire knows he means himself falling off the wagon. His stomach gives a little twist, both from the fact that his friends care, and the fear of disappointing them. He gives Bahorel a wave, smiling tightly.

“I’ll be good,” he says, “Promise. See you in a few.”

Then he disappears into the dark of the club.

The thump of the bass is just as oppressive as Grantaire remembers it, though it’s not as welcome when he’s not actively trying to be disoriented. The air inside The Castle is thick with smoke and sweat and the smell of spilled mixed drinks, and crammed to bursting with people. The only real illumination is up on a far off stage, above a DJ doing the absolute most to keep people dancing. Other than that, everything hangs in low light and strobing colors.

It’s noisy, chaotic, and completely nostalgic. Grantaire suddenly feels that he’s bitten off a bit more than he can chew.

Maybe a lot more.

He swallows hard, steeling himself, and dives into the sea of people anyway.

For minutes on end, he’s weaving and squeezing through people as quickly as he can. He checks the nearest wall first, following it to the back where the graffiti covered bathrooms are.

No dice on either.

He checks another wall, lined with people making out, and chatting away from the gyrating crowd towards the middle of the room. No Eponine there, either.

He gets a drink spilled on him at some point, in the shuffle to get to the large bar at the other side of the club. Eponine has never been much of a dancer, so he knows he needs to check the places that wallflowers are before the actual throng. He hopes he’ll get lucky and find her at the bar itself, because if he doesn’t, this is going to be much, much harder.

He’s back in the crowd again, pushing and swerving, and ignoring the drinks in people’s hands. Someone blows smoke in his face, and he coughs, the familiar skunky smell stinging his throat as it goes down. A man in too-tight shorts tries to get him to dance, resting forearms over Grantaire’s shoulders. He’s as polite as he can be when extricating himself. Thankfully, he gets out without much of a fight.

Near the edge of the crowd, he’s stopped in his tracks when a definitely wasted woman in a tight pink dress hands him a shot. It’s in his hand before he can say no, not that he’d be heard over the noise anyway. He thinks he hears her say something like ‘it’s from my friend!’ and vaguely gesture to a table that is, at a quick glance, full of other women holding shots up.

The shot glass is simple, the word ‘bridesmaid’ engraved into the side in a medieval font. He tries to focus on that, rather than the rippling liquid inside that practically glows the same colors as the strobing lights around him. He spends longer than he wants to staring into it, fingers tight around the small glass, and his jaw even tighter, trying to convince himself that he doesn’t want it.

But he does. He really does.

He knows that it would make navigating the club easier. He knows that he wouldn’t feel nearly as anxious for at least part of the night, at least until he’s sober and has to face the fact that he fucked up again. He knows exactly how easy it would be to say fuck it, just for tonight. And god, does he want to.

He’s ashamed for how hard this decision is even now. He likes to think he’s gotten better, and in a lot of ways he has. But the truth is, he probably will never be done recovering. He’s always going to have this itching want, because that’s how his brain is wired.

He has to remind himself that that’s okay. It’s okay for him to want it, as long as he doesn’t give in.

Grantaire takes a deep breath, steadying himself, and forces his feet to move again.

Half a minute later, he finally, fucking finally, finds himself at the far left end of the long mahogany bar. Immediately, he puts the shot glass on the wood and pushes it away, then sets to looking for Eponine. That’s what he’s here for, he can’t get distracted.

Above the bar are hanging knight helmets, lit up with multicolored LEDs which pulsate to the beat of whatever song the DJ is playing. A quick look down the bar doesn’t reveal Eponine, though it’s hard to actually tell in the darkness and through the crowd all lined up for drinks.

Grantaire tries to think, temples already throbbing from the pounding music. He regrets not thinking ahead to bring ear plugs. He’s completely overstimulated.

One hand on the bar like an anchor, Grantaire pulls his phone out from his pocket, and starts swiping through his photo album. He finds a picture of Eponine and himself, posing with Bea and Gavroche, one of the only ones he has that has himself in it, and starts to push down the length of the bar.

The nearest bartender is a strong looking woman with a shaved head. She’s wearing a tank top with the Castle’s crown logo, and serving people drinks with a scowl.

“What do you want?” she shouts over the music when Grantaire gets close, and waves her down. He shakes his head, and thrusts his phone into her line of sight.

“Have you seen her?” he shouts back, pointing his free hand at Eponine’s half smiling face. The bartender squints at him, seeming suspicious of why he wants to know, so he hurries to clarify, “I’m her DD, we need to head home!”

It’s not the whole truth, but it’s close enough to it that Grantaire tries not to feel too bad about it. The explanation seems to work, and that’s all that matters to him at the moment.

“I’ve been giving her water for half an hour!” The woman shouts, thrusting her thumb to the other side of the bar. Grantaire leans over the bar, and finally, he sees her. Eponine is sitting at the bar, arms leaning hard on the mahogany surface, one hand on her face and the other holding the current aforementioned shot glass filled with, apparently, water. Jesus. She must have drunk a lot to be cut off already.

“Thank you!” Grantaire shouts back, putting his phone back in his jacket pocket. The woman offers him the barest hint of a smile, and moves onto the next person in line. Grantaire redoubles his efforts to get across the bar, swept out into the crowd for a moment, but he’s able to find his way back within a minute or two.

Finally, he’s close enough to Eponine to touch her on the shoulder, and uses that touch to pull himself directly next to her.

Eponine turns, sluggish to face whoever the fuck grabbed her, and the anger cutting across her face goes from fiery to ice cold in a split second, eyes shuttering. She says something that must be something like “The fuck are you doing here,” but Grantaire can’t catch most of it through the noise.

“You left Gavroche alone all night!” he shouts back, snapping a little despite knowing that coming in hot isn’t going to help anything, “I came to take you home!”

Eponine pulls her arm away from his hand, her lip curling in a feral, dangerous way Grantaire hasn’t seen in a long time.

“I’m fine,” she hisses, raising her volume a couple of notches to match Grantaire’s own voice now. Her eyes are glassy and bloodshot, and despite her steady voice she seems a little shaky as she stands to walk away from him, “If you’re so worried about Gavroche, then you go home!”

Grantaire blocks her path as best he can, as if the people around them aren’t essentially a wall already.

“I have someone staying with him and Bea!” he says, “But we need to go home! You’re going to feel like shit in the morning as it is!”

Something that he says seems to strike a wrong chord with Eponine, because she stiffens, and shouts, “What, did you get Enjolras to come over and watch our fucking kids?”

Grantaire stares at her, confused about what exactly is making her this angry, and that seems to be enough of an answer for her, because she scoffs, and crosses her arms, the motion making her body sway slightly. She rights herself almost immediately.

“I don’t need help from you, Grantaire, you’re a fucking traitor!” she says, and tries again to push past him. Grantaire holds strong, feeling himself beginning to fray at the edges.

“What?” he asks, fully dumbfounded, “Because I have a friend who I asked to help while I come to find you?” Eponine looks at him like he’s somehow dumber than she’d ever thought possible.

“No! Jesus fuck, R,” she says, and Grantaire watches as she looks away, not looking at anything, and then quickly brings a hand up to her face, “because you’re supposed to be my friend!”

Grantaire realizes with a start that Eponine is trying to swipe away tears. She’s only half successful; when she turns back to face him, her usual heavy dark eye makeup is smudged and beginning to run.

“I am your friend,” Grantaire tries to say, feeling a little breathless at the fact that Eponine is here, crying in front of him, regardless of if she’s trying to hide it or not. He can’t remember the last time he saw her get this emotional, and knows that she has to be absolutely wasted. His throat feels tight, and he remembers again the most likely trigger for Eponine coming here at all.

Marius and Cosette. The baby.

“Is this because Marius and Cosette came by today?” he asks, though he knows the answer. Eponine’s answering scoff and swipe at her eyes is enough to tell him that he’s on the money there regardless. Despite his best efforts, he feels a twinge of betrayal in his gut, trying not to snap again. “I thought you said you were fine with me hanging out with them!”

“I am!” she shouts back. It’s not convincing, not to him.

“Then what the fuck is the problem exactly?” he asks, feeling the edge of hysteria in his tone grow as it mounts in his own chest. Eponine sways on her feet again, hands clenched in tight fists at her sides. When she manages to look up, her eyes are full and gleaming, and the anger there is cut by a sharp edge of betrayal that makes Grantaire freeze.

“You’re supposed to be my friend, but…you’re like, exchanging baby hacks with them, and offering to fucking babysit—” she says, voice becoming brittle. She tries to subtly swipe at her face again, taking a deep, shaky breath, but she can’t continue. Instead, she just presses her lips together and looks away.

Grantaire feels heavy, leaden weight in his stomach. Guilt. Biting, and cold.

If he's honest with himself, he had known that Eponine probably wasn't totally fine with him being friends with Marius and Cosette, despite her protestations. It's why he'd asked her if she was okay with it at all. And he probably should have known that, though she said it was okay, there are lines he shouldn't cross. Apparently, he'd managed to do it anyway. He still thinks it's the right thing to do, helping them with their kid, but he understands that it probably still has to hurt, seeing him offering support to them in the same way he'd done for her all those years ago. He had never wanted Eponine to feel like she's being replaced.

He reaches out a hand again, grabbing one of Eponine’s wrists, and trying again to pull her forward. This time, she doesn’t pull away, allowing Grantaire to bring her into an awkward, but tight hug. Eponine never asks for physical touch, if she can help it, but Grantaire has known her long enough to know that she does need it sometimes.

As expected, she first goes tense, and then eases, allowing herself to be held if only for a moment. And Grantaire can feel the subtlest of sobs gently quaking her frame, slightly off beat from the pounding vibrations of the club floor.

“I’m sorry,” he says, quiet now, but they’re close enough that Eponine can definitely hear him.

She nods after a moment, gently sniffling into the shoulder of his jacket. And that’s enough. He knows that Eponine will never let him say more than that on the matter, whether he wants to or not. But he hopes that he can get her to open up a little more someday about how she’s feeling. If tonight told him anything, it’s that Eponine has never properly processed the grief of the relationship that never happened between herself and Marius.

There’s always going to be a place in her heart for Marius, he knows, because he has a spot like that for Camille. The hardest endings to swallow are the unsatisfying ones.

“Can we go home?” he asks after a few more moments, and lets out a breath when he finally feels another nod. He lets her go, and she keeps her face to the floor, only giving him a brief look before apparently deciding it’s best to hide her smudged, tear streaked face.

Grantaire’s hand doesn’t leave her wrist as they weave back through the crowd, back to the corny medieval front doors.

Bahorel is waiting outside, and his frame visibly relaxes when he sees Grantaire with Eponine in tow.

“That was more than a few minutes, R,” he says, tapping the watch on his left wrist. Grantaire smiles, apologetic.

“Sorry, had a hard time finding her,” he says back. His ears are ringing from the sudden change in volume. He’s not sure when the smell of the club will leave his nose, either, so the quicker they leave the better.

“Thanks again,” he says to Bahorel, “We’ve gotta get home. I’ll see you at book club, okay?”

Bahorel nods in understanding as he sees Eponine stumble a bit in her heels. He waves them off, returning Grantaire’s ‘see you at club’, and then getting back to work.

Their feet splash in puddles, a slight drizzle beginning again. It’s been raining off and on all day. Eponine is dressed for the night club, wearing a dress that’s definitely too cold to be out here right now, and only a thin leather jacket over it. It’s all she needs for a night club, with all the body heat warming the room, but outside, at night, at the end of fall, it’s not nearly enough. Grantaire pauses after a block after feeling her shiver, and slips off his jacket, handing it to her without a word.

Thankfully, she takes it. Head down, wrapped in his too-big jacket, Eponine looks like an oversized bat. Grantaire leads her a few more blocks to his shitty car, and tells her to lie down in the back seat. He moves the booster to the floor to make space.

A moment later, they’re situated, Eponine lying across the back seats still wrapped in his jacket, and Grantaire shivering slightly in his t-shirt and jeans in the front seat. He pulls away from the curb, letting the radio softly lull them down from the heavy club music they’ve escaped. The familiar smell of weed is still stuck in his sinuses and his shirt, along with what he thinks must have been a tequila sunrise that was spilled on him. He does his best to ignore it.

“...Thanks for coming,” Eponine says after a few minutes. Grantaire peeks at her in the rearview mirror, but her face is shadowed, if not completely obscured by his jacket and her own messy hair.

“What are friends for?” he says, looking back at the road. They fall into silence again, broken only by Eponine’s occasional shift to get comfortable in the back seat, and Grantaire’s windshield wipers clearing the rain away as it begins to pour in earnest. Streetlights shine overhead as they drive, lighting up the pavement, and swiping bright trails through the car windows.

Seemingly at random, Eponine speaks again, quiet and quavering slightly.

“Cosette was a foster kid, in my parents house,” she says. They’ve stopped at a red light, and Grantaire is thankful, because he thinks he might have swerved if she’d dropped that bomb while they were moving. He looks back at her again, trying to balance his surprise and not scaring Eponine away from continuing to speak. This is quite literally the most she’s ever said on the matter, and it seems like she wants to say more.

“I had no idea,” Grantaire says. Eponine shifts slightly. He still can’t see her face, but it seems like a nod.

“I think she’s blocked most of it out, honestly,” she says, and her voice has the bite of jealousy to it, “Her adoptive dad picked her up when we were both only like, six.”

The light turns green, and Grantaire taps the gas, facing forward despite wanting to face his friend. The cover of darkness may be the only thing allowing her to speak freely, though. He knows that Eponine wouldn’t be sharing this if they were speaking face to face, otherwise she would have a long time ago.

Grantaire doesn’t know the full story of what went on in Eponine’s childhood home, but he knows enough to understand that Eponine running away with Gavroche was a long overdue choice, all those years ago. To this day, Grantaire knows she still keeps a baseball bat by her bed just in case her parents decide they want to pay a visit.

There’s more than one reason Gavroche was told to come to his place after 9:30, rather than staying in their apartment alone, even when Eponine is fully pissed at Grantaire.

“She got to leave,” Eponine continues, and there’s a hollow tone to her voice that echoes with that same bitter jealousy, “She got a good home. And then she got Marius. She got to live her teens and twenties, and now she gets to choose to be a mom, on her terms.”

Grantaire hears her sniffle, so quietly, and swallows a lump in his own throat. He realizes now that this isn’t about a high school crush. It hasn’t been about Marius for a long, long time. Not really. She might still harbor a love for him, but it isn’t really what keeps her hurting.

Both of them had been forced to grow up sooner than most of their friends, in a lot of ways. Grantaire knows the bitterness of losing the years that are supposed to be ‘the best of his life’, and he’s sure that Eponine feels it even more acutely.

He’s learned to love parenthood, and he knows that Eponine loves Gavroche. But neither of them can lie and say they always would have chosen this life over one where they got to choose a different path.

“I’m sorry,” he says, because he doesn’t know what else to say, and Eponine laughs in the back seat. It’s a watery, broken sound.

“For what?” she replies. Grantaire doesn’t have an answer. Eponine continues anyway. “It’s not fair to hate her. I know that. She just got a better hand.”

They fall back into silence, Grantaire out of words when words of comfort are apparently off the table, and Eponine apparently content to stew. Eventually, she shifts again, and speaks softly.

“You’re not a traitor for helping them out, Grantaire,” she says, “I lashed out, I’m sorry.”

“Whoa, an apology?” Grantaire asks, hoping to lighten the mood that’s settled over the car, “God you must be plastered.”

“I am,” Eponine says, and manages a small laugh, “So don’t expect another one. I’ll deny it ever happened tomorrow.”

The silence is easier after that, marginally. The sound of the road fills in the gaps. They’re only a couple of minutes away from Grantaire’s apartment when he decides to break the silence once more.

“I’m not going anywhere, ‘Ponine,” he says. Eponine doesn’t reply. Grantaire hadn’t expected her to.

He taps the steering wheel, turning down familiar streets in practiced motions. Eponine doesn’t have to say it for Grantaire to understand her worry. Just because he’s gotten closer to Cosette and Marius doesn’t mean he’s going to drop her.

They pull into his apartment’s parking spot soon after. Grantaire parks, gets out, and sweeps around to the back to help Eponine up and out of the car too. She needs a little help going up the stairs to his apartment, legs still unsteady. Grantaire is happy to help.

Enjolras opens the door before they’re even fully at the top, as if he’s been waiting. Which, he probably has been. It’s been over the hour Grantaire promised when he left. Enjolras’ face is all concern as he assesses them. He steps aside to let them pass without a word, but his face speaks volumes of the clashing relief and worry he feels.

Grantaire knows that they probably both look like a mess, despite Grantaire not doing anything but getting through a crowd of inebriated people. He offers Enjolras what he hopes is a comforting smile and a soft “Thanks, Enj,” then leads Eponine to his bedroom.

She doesn’t look up the whole time, face curtained with hair even as Grantaire helps her get out of her heels, and offers her a spare set of pajama bottoms and a top. Gavroche is asleep in the bed already, stirring a little when they come in, but falling back asleep almost immediately. That kid can sleep like the fucking dead.

It only takes a few minutes to make sure she’s situated. He puts a big bowl by the bed, in case she yacks, along with some Tylenol and water on the nightstand. Then, he leaves, shutting the door behind himself.

Enjolras is waiting on the couch, looking anxious and out of place. Grantaire walks through to the living room, and drops onto the couch beside him, letting out a long sigh as he does.

It’s been a long day.

“Thanks again for coming,” he says, turning to look at Enjolras, and then fully relaxing into the couch. He’s not excited to sleep on it tonight, but it happens. Right now just about anything sounds good. “I can drive you back home, I just need a minute.”

“Is Eponine okay?” Enjolras asks, seeming to relax when he sees that Grantaire is. There’s still a tense cut to his frame, and his voice is soft, but that may be a symptom of not wanting to wake up the two kids and the drunk adult currently passed the fuck out in the rooms about fifteen feet away.

Grantaire shrugs.

“Okay enough,” he says, “She came back with me willingly, so for now that’s good.”

“...Was it my fault?” Enjolras asks then, and Grantaire realizes where some of that worry he still sees is coming from. Enjolras has to feel guilty. He’s the one that brought Cosette and Marius in today; it’s not hard to figure out what the trigger was for tonight’s incident.

Grantaire faces him again, looking into those familiar blue eyes, and shakes his head.

“Nah,” Grantaire says, and looks at the ceiling. “Whether you brought them, or I slipped and told her, she would have found out about them and their baby somehow. It was inevitable.”

Enjolras doesn’t seem totally consoled by that, but he drops it regardless. Grantaire closes his eyes, taking a moment just to breathe.

He still smells The Castle. There’s a familiar itch under his skin, a want he’s gotten better at quashing over the years. But it’s like the smell has stuck to him even in the brief time he was there.

His leg is pressed to Enjolras’ on the couch, and he’s able to slowly focus instead on Enjolras’ sweet, lemongrass smell. It’s the same smell that had stuck to his sheets after Enjolras stayed over.

Grantaire wants to take a bath in it.

He could fall asleep like this. He knows that he definitely will if he sits like this for much longer. It takes every ounce of his self control, but after a couple of minutes he groans, opening his eyes and forcing himself to his feet.

“C’mon. Let’s get you home,” he says, holding out a hand. Enjolras hesitates only for a moment before taking it, and allowing himself to be pulled from the couch without complaint.

The car ride is mostly companionable silence, easy and soft. Since he’s been driving Enjolras to and from the club, it’s easier to tell from the feel of the quiet whether things are okay or not. The misty atmosphere that had felt cold driving Eponine home now feels almost hypnotically calm. He feels himself coming down from the high of adrenaline, fingers and cheeks tingling from residual anxiety as it flushes itself from his system. Enjolras is the one who chooses to break the peace.

“So…just to be clear,” Enjolras says after a couple of minutes, looking over at Grantaire, “Eponine used to have feelings for Marius?”

Grantaire taps his fingers on the steering wheel, and laughs, soft and crackly. His throat is a little sore from the yelling in the club.

“I can neither confirm, nor deny that allegation,” Grantaire answers, “because then Eponine will have both the means and the motive to skin me alive.”

Only he and Eponine know the full story. Tonight was less about a crush that didn’t pan out, and more about a string of disappointments that had culminated in a new kind of relapse. Grantaire doesn’t feel like it’s appropriate to say more to Enjolras, even if he does trust him to keep a secret. Eponine has enough trust issues as it is, she doesn’t need Grantaire throwing her dirty laundry out for the world to see.

The answer is apparently enough, though. Enjolras lets out a soft laugh.

“Fine, plead the fifth then,” he says, and pauses before continuing softly, “It must have been one hell of a crush.”

“You know teens,” Grantaire replies, glancing to Enjolras, and then back at the road, “Emotions running wild. Hormones out of whack. It’s a rough thing to be a kid in love.”

“I guess you’d know more than most about that,” Enjolras replies, and for a moment Grantaire freezes, thinking that somehow Enjolras knows. Inexplicably knows how Grantaire had felt back then, and knows how he’s feeling now. But instead, Enjolras continues, “With Camille. You two had to be, what, eighteen or nineteen when you got together?”

Grantaire swallows down a sigh of relief, his knuckles easing up on the steering wheel, but his stomach does an odd flip all the same. Because, if he's honest, Camille hadn’t even crossed his mind.

She’s been doing so less and less over the past month and a half, and Grantaire knows that that means he's in deep. Deeper than he'd even thought.

It’s terrifying.

“Yeah, I guess so,” he replies, his throat feeling dry.

He casts around for something else to talk about, knowing that they’re on very dangerous ground right now, conversationally speaking. Grantaire is tired, and that lemongrass scent has a hold on his senses. There’s no telling what he might say if he’s not careful.

Enjolras beats him to it.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks, sounding worried again, though it’s muted now. “After going to The Castle, I mean. I’m sure you can handle yourself, but…”

Enjolras trails off, not seeming to know how to finish his thought. Grantaire understands. It’s not easy to ask if your friend is going to relapse, respectfully. He glances at Enjolras, touched that he’s still worried, but not entirely sure how to answer.

Because the honest truth is, he really isn’t sure how okay he is. He’s gotten good, very good, at resisting his impulses; years of practice will do that. He knows that he’s not good at doing things in moderation, so he just stays away. Removing triggers was a big part of getting and staying clean and sober. Tonight had been the antithesis of all of that work. But there really hadn’t been another option.

“Guess we’ll find out,” he says, smiling wryly, “If I drunk dial you, just promise me you won’t record it.”

Enjolras doesn’t laugh.

“I’m kidding,” he clarifies, just in case, glancing Enjolras’ direction as they pause at a stop sign. Enjolras’ face has morphed from pure worry, to pure annoyance in the span of a couple of seconds. And honestly, that’s comforting. Some things really don’t change.

They’re barely a block from Enjolras’ apartment now, so thankfully Grantaire doesn’t have to stall for time to end this conversation. But he doesn’t want to leave Enjolras annoyed, not when he clearly does care enough about him to check in.

“I’ll be fine,” he says, saying it both to comfort Enjolras and convince himself as he steps on the gas again, “Liquor stores close at ten, and there hasn’t been anything in my apartment in years. Also, Eponine is about to have the worst hangover of her life, come morning. So that should be a good diversion.”

He nearly feels Enjolras ease next to him. Not all the way, but enough. They pull up to his apartment a moment later, Grantaire easing up to the curb in a now practiced motion. And just like that, Enjolras is unbuckling his seat belt, one hand on the door handle.

Before he leaves though, he pauses and turns back to Grantaire.

“If you do need to talk,” he says, “I’m a phone call away. I’ll pick up.”

Grantaire feels his stomach flip. He grips the steering wheel a little tighter. The idea that Enjolras would welcome a call from him is strange, despite him having picked up tonight when Grantaire had called. He clears his throat, feeling awkward accepting kindness like this, especially from Enjolras, of all people.

“Sure, I…” Grantaire says, feeling himself begin to stutter, and trying his best to stop it. He’s suddenly glad it’s so late, the dark should keep the worst of his blush from showing. “Yeah. I will. Thank you.”

In response, Enjolras just smiles, in a soft way that Grantaire had never seen him do in high school. There are a lot of expressions like that he’s found over the last month. This one warms up his whole face, softens it, and it’s so lovely Grantaire finds he can’t look away.

“Good,” Enjolras says. For a moment, there’s just charged air between them, but finally Enjolras seems to feel his own nerves fraying, and goes again to open the car door, stepping out quickly onto the street.

“I’ll see you Sunday,” he says through the open door, and that smile is still there, though it looks a little more timid now. Grantaire returns it, giving a little wave.

“Yeah. I’ll see you then,” he says, feeling weak in the knees. Enjolras shuts the door seconds later, giving another wave once he’s got his front door open, and then he’s gone. And Grantaire feels himself remembering how to breathe.

God, he’s fucked.

The drive home is a complete blur, and Grantaire can’t stop smiling. When he gets home, he collapses onto the couch, and stares at the texture of his ceiling, brain absolutely buzzing.

The scent of lemongrass stuck in the couch soothes him to sleep, sweet and slow. And Grantaire lets it take him away.

His dreams are vivid. Swirling colors make up The Castle's dark interior, surreal and pulsating. He dances with faceless people, and Eponine, who transforms into a bat part way through and flies away.

He starts to feel overwhelmed, the room beginning to churn, but the moment he does there are slender hands gently cupping his cheeks. The smell of lemongrass filters through the haze, and suddenly Enjolras is there, looking completely out of place in one of his usual comfortable sweaters, and pulling him close.

The sounds of the club fizzle out, lost to the sound of his own heartbeat. Enjolras' palms on his face are firm, and Grantaire smiles, allowing himself to be drawn in, content to be entranced by blue and gold and red.

The world melts to an encompassing black, and Enjolras' lips are pressed to his own, firm, and soft, and wanting. He feels his own hands slide up into golden curls, silky, and downy at the nape of his neck.

It's enough to wake him up part way through the night, thrown from his dream once he realizes that's what it is.

He stares at the ceiling, his breathing heavy, completely disoriented. Eventually, he scrubs his hands over his face, washing away the tingling feeling in his cheeks, and wills himself to think of other things. He needs to sleep.

His heart beat settles after a half an hour, and eventually he does manage to slip away into sleep again, this time thankfully dreamless.

Chapter Text

The next morning, as expected, Grantaire's neck and back are aching. His couch really isn’t meant to be a bed. He knows he’s better off than Eponine will be when she wakes up, though.

He does feel decently rested despite his aches, but about five minutes after he's woken up, bleary-eyed and yawning, he remembers his dream from last night. And immediately he's fully awake, and red in the face.

Grantaire does his best not to dwell on the details of the dream, still vivid in his mind. It’s hard not to focus on how real it felt. How nice. Exactly how much has he stared at Enjolras’ lips before this point to have such a clear picture?

Almost definitely an embarrassing amount. Because holy shit.

He blinks away the picture, now feeling wired, and decides he needs a distraction. He's a pro at distraction.

Eponine wakes about an hour after Grantaire does. He’s gotten dressed and ready already, having snuck into his bedroom to get a change of clothes, and is working on a greasy, easy breakfast for all of them when Eponine trudges from the bedroom holding her head.

“Morning!” Grantaire says, chipper despite his own aching neck, and thoughts he's doing his best to push away. He knows that Eponine needs to be the focus today, so thankfully, he will have plenty of other things to think about soon.

Eponine just scowls. Her face is still messy from the makeup she had on, too wasted to remove it last night. She shushes him, kneading her eye sockets with the heels of her hands, and goes without another word to the bathroom.

Looks like she’s mostly back to normal then, Grantaire thinks. And that at least is a small victory. He flips sausage links frying in his pan, and begins pulling out plates for breakfast.

Bea is delighted to see that they have surprise visitors, especially Gavroche. Grantaire has to warn her to keep her voice down so she won’t make Eponine’s headache any worse. Thankfully, Bea obliges without any complaint, making a game out of whispering to her dad over breakfast.

They sit cramped around the small dining room table and eat together, Eponine chugging down Grantaire’s coffee like water, even though the caffeine isn’t actually going to do much for her hangover. That theory has been thoroughly debunked, but Grantaire doesn’t think it’s a good idea to bring that up now. Maybe the placebo will help, if nothing else.

“Your coffee is shit, R,” she says, putting down the mug with a thunk. Grantaire snorts, not bothering to chastise her for cursing in front of the kids. Bea is distracted talking to Gavroche in hushed but happy tones, the two of them thick as thieves beside each other, as usual.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says, mouth still half full of eggs, and Bea gives him a gentle smack on the arm for talking with his mouth full. He smiles at his daughter apologetically, and finishes chewing before adding, “You’re the queen of terrible coffee.”

“Damn straight,” Eponine says, shoving toast into her mouth a moment later.

The fact that she’s willing to joke is a good sign. Grantaire knows that the likelihood of her ever mentioning anything that happened last night is clocking in at a solid 0%. But at least she seems back to her old self for the moment.

That may or may not be a good thing. Grantaire would bring up the fact that this kind of emotional compartmentalization is probably a good reason to go to therapy, but also knows that if he says that, she can just as easily point out that he needs it too. And that’s not happening. So, quiet acceptance is going to have to do for this morning.

They both eat in relative silence except for the scraping of forks for another ten minutes, only Bea and Gav really talking, until Grantaire can’t take it anymore. And maybe it’s residual adrenaline from last night, but he decides that he should take a risk. Nothing ventured nothing gained, right?

“You know,” he says to Eponine, piling eggs onto a piece of toast, “The offer still stands, if you wanted to try to come along to the book club.”

Eponine stills, fork halfway between the plate and her mouth.

“I’m not saying you have to,” he clarifies, “But if you wanted to…I’m sure everyone would be happy to have you there.”

He’s not sure how this is going to go, in all honesty. He knows odds are already against him, if only because Cosette and Marius are going to be there. But if last night had told him anything, it’s that Eponine needs support.

He’d promised to be there for her, and he will, but there’s a whole group of people who would take her in with open arms too, that she’s missing out on.

Grantaire may not know a lot, but he knows self sabotage. And he knows that he’s been much, much happier since he got his friends back in his life.

“We’re finding out what our new book is soon. It’s a great time to start,” he says, finally taking a bite of his toast, and ending his thought there. She doesn’t answer outside of a noncommittal noise, and finally takes another bite of food. It’s not much, but it’s something.

Eponine will take the bait, or she won’t. Either way, Grantaire will have tried.

After breakfast, they all sit on the couch and watch a movie on low volume, and things begin to feel easy again. Grantaire is able to lose himself in the movie, laughing with Bea as she reacts to her chosen movie like she’s watching it for the first time.

Eponine and Gavroche go home around noon.

Well, not directly. Grantaire has to drive them back to The Castle so Eponine can get her own car. The whole drive over, Eponine seems to be lost in thought. Not that she’s ever the most talkative, but there’s less grim silence, and more contemplative quiet. There is a difference, Grantaire swears.

Or, maybe it’s just the hangover making her seem pensive. Honestly, either is possible.

But just after 3pm, he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket where he sits on the couch, and checks to see a text from her. He reads it, and immediately feels himself grinning in quiet victory.

From: 🦇 Eponine 🦇
3:06pm, November 13:
-----
can you send me the address?

Grantaire texts Jehan to make sure it’s fine, which, of course it is, and then shoots the address Eponine’s way, as well as the time to be there.

Once that’s taken care of, he’s immediately on his phone again, about to text Enjolras the news. He’s halfway through excitedly typing his message when he’s slapped with the realization again of just how integral Enjolras has become to his life. He stops himself mid-message, and wonders when exactly he became the person that Grantaire wants to share everything with.

Even after wracking his brain for a few moments, he doesn’t know when or how it happened. The feeling is built on a multitude of moments. The little looks, their lunch break talks, the comfortable ease that’s grown between them, the sweet smell of lemongrass.

His feelings are larger than they had been in high school, he knows that much. That crush had been…aspirational. Infatuation. Enjolras is still beautiful, that forest fire he thought he understood. He’d always been burning so brightly that Grantaire couldn’t stop and feel the warmth behind it. And now that he has, he doesn’t know how to go back to being cold.

And something in him aches, because he knows now more than ever that nothing more will happen. He'd been able to snap out of his dream last night because of exactly how unbelievable it would be, after all. And that’s fine. Really, it's fine.

Grantaire doesn’t dare to hope, let alone to ask for more.

Resolute, he picks his phone up again. He and Enjolras are friends. Good friends, he thinks. Somehow. Which is more than he’d ever thought he’d have. Apparently, they’re good enough friends that Enjolras is fine with him calling.

He deletes his text, and in a moment of what he can only describe as audacity, he dials Enjolras’ number instead.

Bea is busy reading in her room, and Grantaire wants the company. Or maybe he just wants to hear Enjolras’ voice again before Sunday. It’s not something he’s going to dwell on, for his own sanity.

Enjolras picks up on the second ring, just like last night.

“Hello?” Enjolras says, voice tinny through the phone speaker, “Grantaire?”

“Hey, yeah, it’s me,” Grantaire says, feeling himself tripping over his own words. How the fuck had he had the nerve to call like this last night? It really had been an adrenaline rush of an evening. It takes everything he has not to blurt about how he dreamt of him last night, just for something to say.

“Is something wrong?” Enjolras asks, and the concern in his tone is palpable, even when over the cell’s sound. And Grantaire remembers suddenly that the offer to call had been extended mainly in cases of theoretical emotional distress or being on the edge of relapse.

“Oh— no, sorry, everything’s fine,” he clarifies, a nervous bubble of laughter escaping him mid sentence, “No, um. I just have some news.”

He half expects Enjolras to hang up. But instead, there’s a soft shifting sound over the phone, and what sounds like a soft sigh of relief.

“Okay. Good,” Enjolras says, a smile lacing the sound of his voice, “What’s new?”

“Eponine decided to try coming to the book club,” Grantaire says. There’s a pause on the other end of the line.

“Wow, that’s…surprising,” Enjolras says, an edge of concern to his tone, “Is she going to be okay? With…you know, Marius and Cosette being there?”

“I don’t think she would have changed her mind if she thought otherwise,” Grantaire says, reassuring, “Like, I’m sure she’ll be a little awkward at first. But I really think last night was a turning point.”

“I’m happy to hear it,” Enjolras says, and his voice is warm again. Grantaire can’t help but smile over the line, glad that Enjolras can’t see his expression. He’s sure it’s corny as hell.

“Yeah,” Grantaire says, still grinning like an absolute fucking fool, “I think it’ll be good for her. Like really good. I mean, it’s been great for me, so…”

He trails off. Suddenly embarrassed about what he’s admitted. It’s not that he was unhappy before, but he can admit that he was definitely lonely. Eponine is a good friend, and he loves Bea, but when your friend group consists of your child and one other adult, it’s not exactly the best social situation.

It’s still strange to think about where he’d be if Enjolras hadn’t bothered to come back to the bookstore like he had, with Jehan. He still doesn’t know if Enjolras even wanted him to come to the book club at all, if the invitation would have been extended without Jehan there as a middle-person. And that does sting a little, but he tries not to let it bother him.

“I’m glad,” Enjolras says, the smile in his voice vivid and pleasant, “The group has felt more complete since you rejoined.”

His stomach flip flops, and Grantaire pulls his legs up tight to himself on the couch, his free arm wrapping around them. He doesn’t really know what to say. His usual method of responding to compliments with self deprecation has been unappreciated thus far with the group, especially with Enjolras. And he’s also the hardest one to accept kindness from. It always feels so fucking surreal, and makes him…hope. He really can’t afford to look too deeply at words of kindness.

God, he’s been friend starved for way too fucking long.

Even when he’d been with Camille, they didn’t so much compliment each other, as much as they’d just insult, lovingly. It had been comfortable to him then, but he’s beginning to think that maybe that wasn’t such a great thing. In retrospect, It had kind of created an atmosphere where it was unnatural to be happy with himself.

He probably shouldn’t have an emotional crisis every time someone’s nice to him.

“Grantaire? Are you there?” Enjolras asks, and Grantaire blinks, realizing he’s been lost in thought, and picking that spot on his thumb again. He tucks his thumb into a fist, and tries to relax his nerves again.

“Yeah, sorry man, I um, spaced out,” he says, voice coming out a little weaker than he wants it to. He still doesn’t know what to say. Saying ‘thank you’ feels egotistical, but that’s only because he can’t fully believe that Enjolras actually wants him around. The very idea of it still seems ridiculous.

And suddenly he can’t stop himself.

“Hey, you don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to, but...” he says, pulling tighter into himself, “Why did you come back to the One Page More the second time? With Jehan, I mean.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. Both of them know what Enjolras had told Jehan, but that had pretty clearly been pretense for something.

“I was curious,” Enjolras says finally, sounding a little taken aback, but answering regardless, “You seemed entirely different from how I remembered.”

“Which is probably to say I used to always be inebriated beyond cohesion, huh?” Grantaire says, sighing out a laugh, and resting his forehead on his knees, phone still pressed to one ear.

“Well, yes, unfortunately, but that’s not really what I mean,” Enjolras says. And there’s a pause again as he seems to gather his thoughts. Finally, he says, “You seemed more earnest.”

Grantaire stares at a spot on the wall, feeling himself flush a little bit. He doesn’t know why he’s embarrassed, he literally asked for an answer. But it feels weird to be perceived, regardless. He knows that his deflection with humor had been a wall that was always up when he was younger. And he still does fall into that trap more than he’d like.

It has always been a way to keep people out, though. He may not have always recognized it as such, but he’d be stupid to deny it now.

Having people know him, really know him, means that people might not like what they see. And that might kill him. It’s much easier to be a joke that might not land than a truth rejected.

“Since you asked a question, can I ask one?” Enjolras asks, apparently knowing that Grantiare is at a loss again.

“Shoot,” Grantaire says, his throat feeling a little tight.

“Why did you give me the book?”

Grantaire has a million answers to that question he could give, and all of them feel incredibly embarrassing. He stops to think for a moment, his brain whirling around for the ‘right’ answer, as if there is one, until finally he gives up, and just speaks.

“I wanted you to come back,” he says.

The moment it’s out, he feels incredibly self-conscious, the honesty rubbing his nerves raw, but there’s no taking it back now. He pauses, and then speaks again, quick to cut the tension he’s sown himself.

“Also, you looked, like, really burned out when you came in the first time, and I thought…I dunno. I thought you might need something more hopeful than No Longer Human?”

He trails off, knowing he’s going to just fall into a tangent if he keeps going like this. He’s embarrassed enough as it is. There’s silence on the other end of the phone, aside from the occasional soft shuffling sound. He’s not sure whether to be relieved, or even more anxious that he can’t see Enjolras’ expression.

“You weren’t wrong,” Enjolras says, finally, and the surprise in his tone is only just barely audible through the poor call quality. Grantaire feels sudden and immense relief that the first part of what he said has been glossed over, blowing out a quiet breath. But Enjolras continues, “Was it that obvious?”

“I mean, maybe it just takes a burnout to recognize burnout?” Grantaire says, trying his best to joke. He’s only seen the burned out expression that Enjolras had that day a couple of times since then, but he has seen it. It always looks stark, and unnatural on Enjolras; his face is practically made for determination.

He doesn’t say the other half of the truth, which is that he’d practically memorized all of Enjolras’ expressions when they were in the ABC together, so a new one stood out like a sore thumb, even all those years later.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” he says a moment later, unsure where this new bravery is coming from, “What caused it?”

He’s been curious since that first day in the One Page More; anything that could make Enjolras of all people look so fucking tired has to be like, insane. He shrugs, though he knows Enjolras can’t see it, “Honestly I didn’t think it was possible for you to get burned out.”

“Everyone has their limits, Grantaire. I’m not a fucking god.” Enjolras says, sounding a little defensive, and Grantaire just laughs.

“Could’ve fooled me, Apollo," he replies, “You could power a small country with the amount of drive you had in high school.”

At that, Enjolras falls quiet again for a few seconds, and there’s something pensive and solemn in the silence that Grantaire isn’t sure how to broach.

“I thought,” Enjolas starts, finally, sounding unsteady, like these are thoughts he’d never have to put into words, “That by the time I was an adult, I’d have the power to make real change.”

And Grantaire feels a bit thrown off balance by the raw honesty in his tone. Enjolras is always honest, but he’s sometimes guarded when talking about himself. There’s none of that now. It feels like getting a peek behind a curtain, and seeing something no one else has.

“...But you don’t?” Grantaire prompts, when the silence goes on a beat too long.

“No. I don’t,” Enjolras says, “I don’t know if anyone does.”

Those words coming from Enjolras are impossible enough to knock Grantaire back into silence. It feels like those words from that mouth should be the launch codes for every nuclear weapon in the country. They’re that unlikely.

Enjolras isn’t done, though. There’s a soft sigh over the phone, and then he’s speaking again.

“I tried. I really tried,” he says, resigned, “I got my undergrad, I got into law school, because getting involved in politics is basically the only way to make any headway, but it…nothing ever moves fast enough.”

“I mean, you’re going to graduate soon, right?” Grantaire says hesitantly, unsure what he’s supposed to do when Enjolras is the one sounding hopeless.

There’s a long, long pause.

“I was supposed to graduate over two years ago, Grantaire,” Enjolras says. There’s an edge of shame to his tone, and it sounds so close to surrender that Grantaire feels his heart break a little. He swallows, holding the phone closer to his ear.

“Oh,” he says, lamely, but doesn’t know what else to say to that. He’d thought that the fact that Enjolras hadn’t graduated yet was strange, but hadn’t wanted to ask about it at the time. It had felt too personal. It feels too personal even now. He steels himself to be turned down, and speaks again, “What…happened, exactly?”

Enjolras shifts, the sound a soft crackle over the phone.

“I tried to do too much,” he answers, sounding frustrated even now, though whether it’s frustration with himself or the system is unclear. Maybe both.

Probably both.

“That’s probably what they’re gonna put on your tombstone,” Grantaire says, hoping to lighten the mood a little, “Y’know, Enjolras. He died doing what he loved: too much.”

There’s a small puff of air into the phone’s speakers, and Grantaire takes it as a victory, though it could just as easily be an annoyed sigh as it could be a laugh.

“You joke, but that just about happened,” Enjolras says, softly. And that’s enough to make Grantaire freeze, his throat feeling tight.

“What?” he says, choked, and Enjolras lets out another breath.

“I basically worked myself into the ground,” he explains, “By the time I got into law school, I was tired of waiting to be able to start doing the work I wanted to do. So I took on more classes, and tried to accelerate my studies, while keeping up with extracurricular work.”

By 'extracurricular work', Grantaire is sure that he means going to protests, organizing rallies, and all the other shit he used to do even in high school. Enjolras doesn’t have to say it for him to know, because he’s pretty sure the only fun thing that Enjolras has ever let himself do that isn’t political is the fucking book club.

“I couldn’t do it all,” Enjolras says, still sounding ashamed, and it kind of makes Grantaire want to strangle him. Of course, even when talking about how he did a fuckton more than almost anyone else would, Enjolras can’t admit it was enough. That vexation mounts when Enjolras continues, “A few months into my second term, my body basically just gave up. That’s how Joly and Combeferre described it, anyway. Some kind of chronic stress-induced exhaustion.”

Grantaire's fingers are digging hard into his leg, a strange mix of terror and anger rippling through his chest as he listens. He's not surprised, necessarily, but it's jarring to hear Enjolras basically admit to nearly killing himself through stress. Honestly, the worst thing is how unsurprising it is.

If Combeferre and Joly had to get involved, that means it was probably worse than Enjolras is even saying.

"That...sounds bad," is all he manages to say, unable to cover the panic that seeps into his tone. He doesn't think chewing Enjolras out for overworking himself will do much good right now, despite how much he wants to.

"Yeah," Enjolras admits, sounding uncomfortable at the admission, "It wasn't great. It could've been worse if Combeferre hadn't checked in as much as he did."

“How so?” Grantaire asks, his throat still feeling constricted. He almost doesn’t want to know the answer. Enjolras doesn’t seem to want to give it, either, but after a pause, he relents.

“He’s the one that found me,” Enjolras says, like that’s just fine, and not a terrifying statement that Grantaire doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to feel okay about. Enjolras keeps going, though, “I don’t remember exactly what happened, but after some radio silence, he apparently let himself into my apartment and found me passed out on the kitchen floor.”

“Enjolras, respectfully, what the actual fuck,” Grantaire chokes out.

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Enjolras says defensively.

“Obviously,” Grantaire says through his teeth, practically white knuckling his phone. He’s not angry that it happened, he’s angry because he doesn’t think that even having worked himself to that point, Enjolras would truly see the problem with it. “But exactly how quickly did you get back to work after that, huh?”

Enjolras’ silence is long and stifling.

“I probably would have gotten back to work within a week if the group hadn’t intervened,” he admits, and Grantaire sighs hard out of his nose, completely unsurprised.

“Well thank god they have more sense than you,” he murmurs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Enjolras’ sheer force of will was what had drawn Grantaire to him in the first place. It had been magnetic, seeing someone care so much when Grantaire often couldn’t bring himself to care at all.

He’d always thought that someone caring about everything as much as Enjolras did—and does—could only end in a blaze of glory, or complete devastation. It’s one thing to think that the latter is a possibility, cynically, as a seventeen year old. It’s another to know that at some point when they were apart, Enjolras very nearly did metaphorically drive himself off a cliff for the sake of getting where he wanted to be faster.

Selfishly, he’s terrified of the fact that if it had been worse, he probably would never have even known anything had even happened. It feels wrong, the notion that Enjolras was out there and burning himself up, and Grantaire had no idea. And it’s stupid, so stupid. But he can’t stop the waves of quiet fear that crash over him regardless.

It’s after a few seconds that he processes exactly what Enjolras actually said, about the group intervening.

“What did the group do?” he asks, focusing in again on Enjolras now, rather than letting his mind wander down the rabbit hole of ‘what if’. It’s not ever a good idea to lead himself to the edge of a quandary like that, and he still doesn’t know why exactly this incident had cost Enjolras over two extra years to graduate.

“Combeferre and everyone basically forced me to take a year off after…what happened,” Enjolras says, his voice solemn, and still sounding as if he thinks it was overkill. Though it absolutely wasn’t. Grantaire makes a mental note to compliment Combeferre for his good sense the next chance he gets. Enjolras continues, “And after, I went back to school on a part time basis to make sure I didn’t have a repeat incident.”

The tone he says it with indicates to Grantaire that that also was against his wishes. But he knows that Enjolras will do just about anything for his friends. He hadn’t thought that that would ever include slowing himself down, but apparently it does.

“You don’t sound too pleased,” Grantaire says, stating the obvious.

“I wasn’t,” Enjolras replies, then amends, “I’m still not. But I know they did what they thought was best.” He pauses, then adds, “‘Ferre even made me keep a house plant as some kind of a gauge for how well I keep up with myself.”

“How’s it holding up?” Grantaire asks, a small smirk turning up the corner of his mouth.

“...It died within a month,” Enjolras admits, “I’ve just been replacing it with a similar one every now and again. Don’t tell him that, though. Please.”

“As long as that’s not an actual indication of your mental health, my lips are sealed,” Grantaire promises.

The quiet static he gets in response is concerning.

“I just…” Enjolras says, after far too many seconds, “I used to think that if I just worked hard enough, eventually it would come to something. But the harder I work, the further I fall behind.”

“That’s only because you overdid it, dude,” Grantaire says indignantly, which only gets a huff from Enjolras’ end.

“That’s the thing, though,” he says, “If I don’t overdo it, I can’t make headway regardless.”

Grantaire opens his mouth to speak, but Enjolras isn’t done.

“The entire system is rigged so that the average person can’t do anything meaningful, even when they’re organized. And approximately zero percent of our laws take into consideration public opinion, because the people in charge are the same old rich people that were in charge when I was in diapers,” he says, and the defeat in his tone is palpable, “Our shitty government is so irreparably broken that nothing short of a full-on grassroots revolution would even make a dent, but no one believes anything can change, if they even believe anything should change, so nothing ever does.”

Grantaire sits up a little straighter, letting himself unwind from his crouched position. He knows now, for sure, that Enjolras isn’t burned out in past tense. He’s still burned out. He just does a good job of hiding it most of the time. And Grantaire understands, because that same feeling has simmered under his skin since high school.

“Careful dude,” he says after a minute, “You’re starting to sound like me.”

He means it to be a joke, but the laugh he hears from Enjolras’ end is more sad scoff than anything.

“Yeah, well. You were ahead of your time I suppose,” he says, and Grantaire feels his chest ache.

“No,” he says, a little too quickly maybe, but he doesn’t have time to second guess himself, “I was a fucking asshole.”

Before Enjolras can get out the protest Grantaire hears coming, he continues.

“Enjolras, you are probably the one person capable of making me want to believe in change,” he says, determined to make sure that Enjolras knows the impact he has on people. It feels like a crime to hear him sounding beat down. Grantaire can’t stand it. “Which for the record, is impressive, because apathy is incredibly comfortable, and I am nothing if not a creature of comfort.”

“What, are you an optimist now?” Enjolras asks after a beat, his voice oddly weak.

“No,” Grantaire says, stubborn, “But I’m not blind. Anyone who listens to you speak can feel how much you care. It’s powerful. Your voice is powerful. If anyone can inspire real change on a large scale, it’s you. I just hope I’m around to see it when it happens.”

He’s not sure if Enjolras believes him; the silence that follows is impenetrable. It’s shattered by Bea a moment later, who comes tearing out of her room suddenly.

“Dad!” She’s practically yelling across the apartment, “Can we go get the next book? I finished this one!”

She’s holding up book two of the series Jehan started her on, The Mysterious Benedict Society. And man, if she keeps going through books like his, he’s going to have to get her a new bookshelf just for her room soon. It’s a very good problem to have with his daughter, and he’s not about to discourage this behavior.

He completely un-coils himself from his position now, sitting like a normal person should, and smiles at his daughter as she comes up, taking the book she hands him.

“Sure, sweetie,” he says, then glances at his phone, “Let me finish up with Enjolras while you get your coat on, okay?”

“Hi Enjolras!” Bea calls to the phone’s speaker, and Grantaire holds it out so Enjolras can definitely hear. He says hi back, quiet since the phone isn’t on speaker. Bea runs off, satisfied, to get on her jacket, and Grantaire slots the phone back to his ear.

“Sorry, I’ve gotta go,” he says sheepishly.

“It’s fine, I understand,” Enjolras says, his voice thankfully warm again. He’s about to hang up when Enjolras speaks again, “Grantaire?”

“Yeah?” he answers, standing with his phone pressed to his ear to go put his shoes on and grab his wallet.

“I hope you’re around too,” Enjolras says, in a voice so earnest it makes Grantaire’s breathing stutter. He swallows hard, feeling himself go pink all the way to the tips of his ears.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” is all he can think to say, feeling crushed under his own bursting chest.

“See you then,” Enjolras says. Grantaire hangs up, and slides his phone into his pocket with a slightly shaky hand. Bea is running back now, coat on and going for her shoes. He’s thankful for the distraction as they leave the house to go to the One Page More, even if it is his day off.

His brain feels like a broken record for the rest of the day, and well into the night, drunk on the unbelievable, and now undeniable fact that Enjolras does, really, impossibly, want him around.

Chapter Text

The next day is Sunday, which of course means it’s a book club day. Anxiety is raking at Grantaire’s nerves as he picks up Enjolras, mostly for Eponine’s sake. He’s sure the group will be welcoming, but he’s not sure how Eponine herself will handle being in a group like this again. She should be spared from discussion this time, since it’s the last week they’re reading Addie LaRue. It wouldn’t be fair to ask her to catch up on such short notice, so today she’ll probably be an observer more than anything. He thinks that that’s probably for the best regardless.

Eponine is driving herself, and Gavroche, of course. And Bea seems excited to have a friend her age around for the meeting from the way she’s bouncing in her booster to the music Grantaire puts on, his usual mix of growly rock (courtesy of Eponine’s CD collection) and classic pop punk.

He pulls up to the curb by Enjolras’ apartment, and as usual, Enjolras is ready for him. He grins as he comes down the steps, looking gorgeous as always, the bastard, and Grantaire can’t help but grin back.

He still hasn’t gotten over his butterflies from their phone call yesterday. He just hopes it doesn’t show too much. Thankfully, he knows that Eponine being there will be a pretty good distraction today. He’s definitely going to need one.

Somehow, Enjolras only gets more attractive the more they talk. It’s fucking wild. Truly an anomaly that should be studied by science. The constant shock can’t be good for his heart.

Enjolras gets in and buckles up, as always looking completely out of place in Grantaire’s shitty old car, but somehow looking at peace all the same. He waves hello to Bea, and she waves back, still bouncing excitedly where she sits.

“Gavroche is going to be at book club today!” she says, as if Enjolras doesn’t already know. Enjolras is unbothered, smiling back at her.

“I heard,” he says, eyes flicking to Grantaire for an instant, and Grantaire blushes, pointedly focusing on pulling back into the street, “And hopefully he’ll keep coming with your Aunt Eponine. We’re going to try to make them feel welcome.”

Bea laughs, delighted with the prospect of having another excuse to hang with Gavroche outside of the routine sleepovers. Grantaire isn’t sure if Gav will want to come every time, he is a tween after all, and that means he’s only a couple years removed from being a petulant teenager who probably will want nothing to do with a child. But he hopes he’ll humor Bea for a while at least.

That is, if Eponine decides the club isn’t too much for her, and continues coming at all. There’s always the chance that today will go horribly, horribly wrong.

Grantaire has been trying not to think about that possibility.

His nerves apparently do show, though, because suddenly he feels Enjolras’ hand resting on his shoulder, and just barely holds back the full body flinch it nearly triggers.

“It’s going to be fine,” he says, and Grantaire peeks at him from the corner of his eye, then looks back at the road. The weight of the hand on his shoulder, he knows, is trying to push away his anxiety. It brings out a whole different kind of anxious energy instead, rippling from his shoulder through his chest and down his limbs, but he knows Enjolras is just trying to help.

It does feel nice. He tries to let himself relax into the touch, and after a second, succeeds.

“Knock on wood,” he says. He realizes he’s already been absently picking at his skin, in the usual spot on his thumb. He stops it as soon as he notices, firmly placing each hand on 10 and 2 and giving the steering wheel a squeeze. It’s a tic he can’t seem to kick, no matter what he does; the buzzing in his brain always seems to find its way out of him in one way or another. As soon as he stops doing that, his left foot starts bouncing beside him.

It’s the less destructive option, so he doesn’t fight it.

The hand leaves his shoulder a moment later, and the three of them fill the drive with lighthearted conversation that slowly smooths away Grantaire’s nerves. He appreciates that Enjolras always does his best to include Bea, even going all the way back to the first book club meeting he’d attended. And he knows it’s not Enjolras’ area of expertise, dealing with kids, so he appreciates it all the more.

Leave it to him to give his all to everything, including talking to Grantaire's kid. It means more to him than Enjolras probably knows.

They pull up to Jehan’s house, and Grantaire immediately spots Eponine’s black hatchback, with its unmistakable combo of stickers on the left side of the bumper: a dagger to one side, and ‘baby on board’ on the other.

Eponine said, when asked about that choice, that she’s never had more people avoid fucking with her on the road than with that combo.

Grantaire doesn’t doubt it.

Just like that, his nerves are back. Somehow, he hadn’t planned for what to do if Eponine got here before him. He feels like he tossed her to the wolves, despite her being the one who got here early, for whatever reason.

He curses softly under his breath. Bea gasps from the backseat. Grantaire winces.

“Language!” She chides, and Grantaire smiles at her, weak and apologetic as he parks in his usual spot at the curb behind Courfeyrac’s car. Enjolras seems to realize what he cursed about a moment later, catching Eponine’s car, and then looking at Grantaire with understanding.

He puts the car into park, and unbuckles, trying not to rush to get into the house. Really, there’s no reason for him to be worried. Eponine does know these people, and Jehan almost definitely briefed everyone on her coming the same way they had when Grantaire had joined.

Maybe it’s a good thing, akin to ripping off a bandaid. If Eponine hadn’t gotten here first, he knows he would have just been stewing in his own thoughts until she showed up. He takes a quick, quiet breath, and gets out of the car. Enjolras follows his example, and Grantaire walks around to the other side to get Bea out of her booster as usual.

She practically runs to the door, having spotted Eponine’s car as well, and knows that Gavroche is inside.

They’ve been going to the club for long enough that Bea knows as well as either of them that they don’t have to knock. It’s more trouble than it’s worth when everyone coming in is expected. So Grantaire doesn’t stop Bea as she swings the door open, and rushes inside. A four foot tall Gavroche seeking missile.

Enjolras follows behind him the whole way up and into the house, acting as a brace to keep Grantaire from backing out. Grantaire isn’t sure if it’s on purpose, with Enjolras somehow knowing that he kind of wants to run, or if he just does it on instinct. Either way, it’s appreciated.

Everything seems…normal, when they get inside, though. There’s the usual chatter coming from the dining room, and some coming from the kitchen. The only difference is there are two extra sets of shoes in the chaos of the shoe pile. Grantaire isn’t sure what he expected. Maybe an explosion? He’s relieved not to see one, but it’s jarring regardless.

They each remove their own shoes, and thankfully Bea had stopped to do so too, given the yellow shoes placed neatly at the edge of the shoe pile. Before they go to the next room, Grantaire grabs Enjolras’ arm and leans in close.

“If the topic of the crush that cannot be confirmed or denied comes up,” Grantaire whispers, trying to ignore how close they are, “Please help me run interference.”

Enjolras pulls back slightly, and Grantaire can’t be sure, but he thinks he sees his cheeks are a little pink, probably from the cold outside. Thankfully, he nods. “Will do. I’m good at distractions.”

“Are you?” Grantaire asks, raising an eyebrow.

“...No,” Enjolras admits, smiling a little sheepishly, “I just wanted to make you feel better. I’ll do my best though.”

Grantaire sighs, releasing Enjolras’ arm. “That’s all I can ask. Thanks.”

“Any time,” Enjolras replies. He reaches up to touch where Grantaire was holding his arm, smiling softly. Grantaire hopes he wasn’t holding it too tight. He turns, and heads toward the dining room, where he knows the bulk of the group will be.

On the way, he spots Gavroche in the living room, Bea pulling him to sit at the coffee table with some papers and markers. He’s being a good sport about it, and Grantaire gives a little wave. Gavroche waves back, looking at ease. A good sign.

In the dining room, nearly everyone is sitting in their spots, just a little more tightly spaced than usual. There's barely enough room for another chair to have been squeezed in, but Jehan and Courfeyrac have somehow managed it. Grantaire scans the group when they enter, and finds that Eponine has found a spot for herself between Cosette and Musichetta.

Not even close to what he would have expected, placement wise. He'd been prepared to have Eponine sit by him, probably between himself and Jehan. But apparently Eponine had other plans.

He's unsure if it's masochism, or some form of biting the proverbial bullet.

Cosette is talking animatedly with Eponine, who is looking distinctly uncomfortable. She's doing an admirable job of not showing it, but there's a tense set to her shoulders that belies her discomfort, and probably some determination. She doesn't have a copy of the book, so Cosette is catching her up on the plot, flipping through pages and showing her sticky notes.

Eponine seems to be doing her best to interact casually, but is obviously struggling not to be standoffish or hostile, as she is normally want to do. Her hands are buried under the table, and Grantaire knows enough of her mannerisms to know that they're probably bunched in the pockets of her black hoodie, white knuckled.

She looks up a second later, locking eyes with Grantaire, and her expression softens marginally. The smile she offers is tight, but genuine. And Grantaire knows she's trying her best. It's all he can ask for. She waves, and Grantaire notes the soft nail marks on the inside of her palms. He doesn't mention them as they approach.

Cosette seems to notice at the same time who's here, and looks up, grinning.

"Hey, Grantaire! Hey Enjolras!" She says, chipper as ever. Grantaire smiles at her, maybe a little more weakly than he wants to, still stuck worrying about Eponine. He really doesn't understand why she chose to sit there of all places. Maybe Marius had encouraged it? Marius for his part is looking unbothered, watching Cosette with the usual dopey expression, and only tearing his eyes away to glance up and wave to Grantaire and Enjolras when Cosette says hello.

He moves to sit in his usual spot, giving a little wave hello back, and Enjolras does the same, seeming to follow his lead for once.

"Where's Bea?" Eponine asks, obviously relieved for the distraction. Cosette has closed her book, and with that one movement half of the tension in Eponine's jaw is gone.

"Where do you think?" Grantaire answers, feeling his own tension unravel slightly, "She's with her bestie. I hope Gavroche is ready for tons of Bea time."

"Damn, she's fast," Eponine says, nodding thoughtfully, "I swear she can scent him like a goddamn hunting dog."

"I thought I was her bestie," Cosette says, looking genuinely sad, "We have a secret handshake and everything!"

Eponine looks like she’s fighting the urge to roll her eyes, but Grantaire has to admit, Cosette has definitely been one of Bea's favorite people since she met her. Probably partially because she hasn't got much in the way of a motherly influence. That thought gives him a little pang of hurt, but he does his best to push it away.

"If it helps, I think if given the choice between me or Gavroche, she would still pick Gavroche," Grantaire says. Eponine nods in full agreement.

"We should test that later," Eponine says, smirking. Grantaire doesn't ever want to test that for real; he thinks it'd sting too much. But he's glad to see that Eponine really does seem to be relaxing.

"Is today going to become a 'Who’s Bea’s Bestie' competition, or is this still a book club?" Jehan cuts in, finding their seat beside Grantaire, and setting some snacks on the table in front of their book. "I'm fine with either one, I just need to be prepared."

"Prepared to lose?" Eponine asks, surprisingly snarky. Grantaire is sure that Jehan had given her a great welcome if she's willing to be a playful asshole with them already. Jehan grins, challenging.

"I supply the art supplies and childrens book suggestions, I think I'd rank pretty high!" Jehan replies, apparently having given this some thought.

Grantaire puts his face in one hand, laughing. It's cute that his friends all want to be well-liked by his kid. But then again, who wouldn't want to be Bea's favorite? Though if they did genuinely do a bracket, he'd probably leave himself off of it. It's one thing to joke about not being her favorite despite being her dad, it's another to possibly rank lower than someone she met only a couple of months ago. Which, unfortunately, isn’t a zero percent chance.

He tells himself it's not fair to rank her dad with her friends anyway.

"This is a recipe for disaster," Combeferre says from across the table, sounding exasperated, but still smiling. "The moment we have a child start ranking us is the moment we fall apart."

"Sounds to me like you don't think you'd rank well," Eponine says. Combeferre bristles slightly. Courfeyrac laughs, apparently listening in on the conversation, despite having been talking with Marius moments before.

He claps Combeferre on the back, consoling through laughs.

"She's got you there, 'Ferre," he says. Combeferre looks like he's pouting. Actually pouting.

Grantaire doesn't think Bea dislikes him, but he does have to admit that out of everyone in the group, Combeferre probably would rank the lowest. It's not that he's been bad to her at all, he's just serious enough that Bea seems a bit intimidated by him.

Which. Same. Maybe it’s genetic. Or maybe he really needs to watch his more subtle mannerisms when he’s dealing with people. Combeferre doesn’t deserve to get the cold shoulder from his kid just because Grantaire doesn’t know how to act around him.

Out of everyone in the club, Combeferre is still the one he's had the most trouble reconnecting with. He hasn't done anything wrong, far from it. He knows that Combeferre is a great person, and a better friend, especially after his conversation with Enjolras yesterday.

It’s just…Grantaire just remembers him as being incredibly smart, Enjolras' equal. That alone is intimidating enough. Despite knowing now that Enjolras wants him around, and that he wasn’t actually kicked before, he's stuck with the lingering sense that he's still always one screw up away from being back out of the group. Like standing on a precipice. To him, it feels a bit like tempting fate to try to get closer to Combeferre, somehow.

It would be easier if he just talked to him more, just like it’s gotten easier talking to Enjolras since he became a regular at Grantaire’s work. Grantaire knows that. But it’s hard to make that leap on his own. Enjolras had been the one to continue that new, consistent rendezvous they have; Grantaire doesn’t think he would have ever had the nerve to do that on his own.

Grantaire finds himself looking to his right at Enjolras without realizing, thoughts drifting. Enjolras has a small smile on, holding back a laugh at the look on Combeferre's face, his eyes sympathetic, but filled with good humor.

He's reminded suddenly of his dream from the night before last, eyes drifting down and settling on Enjolras' lips. The soft upward turn of them when he’s smiling at his friends is absolutely hypnotizing.

A balled up sticky note hits Grantaire in the face, and he jumps, whirling to find Eponine looking innocent as she can, which only serves to make her look guilty.

“What was that for?” he asks, picking up the paper ball and tossing it back to her. She smirks.

“You seemed distracted,” she says, catching the ball in her right hand. She glances from him, to Enjolras meaningfully, and tucks the ball into her pocket, “Just trying to help.”

And suddenly, he sees a major flaw in his plan to invite Eponine along. Maybe, just maybe, inviting the one person who knows about his embarrassing crush to a meeting with said crush and all of their friends, wasn’t his smartest idea.

Thankfully, Enjolras doesn’t seem to notice, now chatting idly with Combeferre across the table. Unfortunately, Courfeyrac and Jehan do notice, if their expressions are anything to go by. They both have twin puzzled looks that dawn at the same time into understanding. And that? That is fucking terrifying.

Grantaire stands suddenly, knowing it’s a weird thing for him to do, especially since he just sat down, but he needs to move.

“Have you been shown around, ‘Ponine?” he asks, looking at her pointedly. Eponine meets his gaze, and her face falls slightly, just for a moment.

“Nope,” she says, standing, and Grantaire can’t tell if it’s a lie or not. He’s just glad she’s taken his invitation. “Wanna show me?”

Grantaire nods, and steps away from the table, and Eponine makes her own way around the dining room table. Jehan and Courf look even more suspicious now, but everyone else looks normal, or vaguely confused at worst. Grantaire will take it. As soon as she’s out, Grantaire leads her to the living room, and then down the hall towards the bathroom, pointing out loudly which doors go where, as if it’s his own house. He has to sell the pretense as best he can.

They pass by Gavroche and Bea, coloring at the coffee table, and Grantaire gives their kids a little wave, glad to see that they seem to be settling in easily.

When they’ve reached the solitude of the back end of the hallway, near the bathroom door, Grantaire stops, and turns to Eponine.

“Could you be a little more subtle, please?” he says in a half-whisper. Eponine bristles a little, already partially in fight mode.

“I could say the same thing to you.” she hisses, matching his low volume, thankfully, “Do you think you’re any more subtle than me when you’re staring at Enjolras’ mouth like that? I was trying to help.”

Grantaire feels himself flush, and he has to admit, he doesn’t know how obvious he was being. He’s not even sure how long he was staring. His expression is enough to make Eponine huff, derisive and quiet.

“I don’t know why you don’t just tell him,” Eponine says, “Honestly, even if you don’t he’s going to figure you out. You’re super fucking obvious, R.”

“No fucking way,” he balks, looking at her like she’s just asked him to disarm a bomb, “Are you kidding me? He’d kick me out for real if I did that.”

Eponine looks at him like he’s the absolute dimmest person she’s ever met. He very well might be, but he doesn’t think he deserves it right now. She huffs out a sigh.

“You two are so fucking dumb,” she mutters after a second, pinching the bridge of her nose. When she looks up again, her face is set, “He’s not gonna kick you out, R. You’re catastrophizing.”

“I don’t catastrophize—” he tries to say, and Eponine laughs, actually fucking laughs in his face, and crosses her arms, leaning against her side of the hallway.

“How can you say that with a straight face?” she asks, “Sometimes half the things you think in a given day are down some doom rabbit hole, dude.”

“I’m a realist,” he says, defensively, “Forgive me for not always looking on the bright side.”

“Did Enjolras actually kick you out last time you thought he did?” she asks, dryly. Grantaire swallows whatever other retort he has building. He kind of regrets telling her about that whole debacle in the days following his and Enjolras’ sleepover. Eponine’s mind is a vault, but that doesn’t mean she can’t bring out receipts for shit he tells her at the drop of a hat.

“Well. No, apparently, but—” he starts.

“Exactly,” she says, dismissively, pointing to him, “You assumed he did. Because you catastrophize.”

And that, Grantaire doesn’t think he can argue with. He tries, opening his mouth, but the look Eponine gives him is enough to shut him up immediately after. He’s not going to win this argument, and he knows it, despite not agreeing that Enjolras wouldn't kick him out. It still feels like a possibility, if he fucks up badly enough. Instead of trying to argue, he decides to pivot.

“You’re one to talk about never telling a crush their feelings,” he says, crossing his own arms, “You had a crush on Marius before I had mine, and you never told him.”

He expects Eponine to bristle, but instead, her face remains blank. Her own crossed arms loosen a fraction.

“I told him,” she says, eyes boring into Grantaire’s. And despite himself, he falters at that.

“You did?” he asks. She nods. His lips part in confusion. “Fucking—when, exactly?”

At that, Eponine shrugs, looking a little uncomfortable.

“Today. Before you got here.”

He stares, slack jawed at her, until her own discomfort seems to outweigh her need not to talk about herself.

“Why do you think I got here early?” she asks, looking back down the hall and away from Grantaire’s expression. There’s a pause, and then she continues, “I wanted closure. I told him I don’t feel that way anymore, but wanted him to know. And it was fine. We’re all adults.”

Marius hadn’t even acted strangely today, not any more strangely than he had any other day, anyway. Grantaire has never been the most attentive person, he knows, especially in his own worry muddled scatterbrain, but he feels like he would have noticed if things were tense just across the table from him.

He’s still staring at her, but manages to close his mouth. It does explain why she’s able to be so calm.

“That’s…” he starts, and falters. He swallows, and tries again, a small smile coming up, “That’s great. I’m glad…I’m glad it went well.”

Eponine shrugs again, and turns back to him, though her eyes don’t fully meet his.

“It was about time. I can’t be moping about all of that forever,” she says. And when she straightens from the wall, her shoulders are square and strong, and Grantaire knows she isn’t lying. He also knows for sure, more than ever, that Eponine is infinitely stronger than he is.

“If you’re so concerned about keeping your feelings a secret, I’ll do my best to keep it on the downlow,” she offers, putting her hands in her sweatshirt pockets, “But I really think you’d feel better if you just got it off your chest. ”

Grantaire straightens as well, but can’t meet her expression, looking instead at the orange peel texture of the walls of the hallway. Eponine sighs.

“Up to you,” she says, and turns, “I’m gonna go back now, if the ‘tour’ is over.”

Grantaire nods, because it is. He follows her back to the dining room, watching the way she holds her shoulders, and wishing he had her backbone. Everyone is settled around the dining table by the time they get back, ready to get started.

“Have a good look around?” Jehan asks, eyes glimmering with some unsettling mischief, Courfeyrac’s expression matching theirs. Grantaire does his best to ignore it, swallowing down his nerves, and taking his place beside Enjolras again.

“Yep. Your house is a work of art,” Eponine offers, instead of making Grantaire respond, and Grantaire smiles at her in thanks. Jehan raises their eyebrows for a beat, then shrugs, and opens their book.

“Can’t argue with that,” they say, and grin at Eponine. She offers a smile in return, and nudges Cosette’s arm.

“Mind if I look over your shoulder,” she asks her, and Cosette beams, sliding her copy of Addie LaRue in front of Eponine, looking positively radiant for having been asked for anything from her.

Beside him, Enjolras nudges his arm. When he looks, he’s surprised to see Enjolras looking genuinely concerned.

“Everything okay?” he whispers, nodding his head towards Eponine a second later. Grantaire manages a small smile, and a nod, wanting to ease the crease in his brow.

“Yeah. All good,” he says, and he knows he sounds stilted, but it’s the best he can do. Enjolras doesn’t look convinced, but Jehan is starting the discussion, so there isn’t really time for him to ask more. Grantaire is grateful for small mercies, opening his own book, and getting ready to talk about The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue for the final time.

~~

Discussion this time is tougher than usual for Grantaire to want to participate in. It would have been hard enough without the added stress of Eponine being here, because they’re at the last sections of the book, which means talking a lot more exclusively about the secondary protagonist of the book, Henry Strauss, a man who made a deal with the same old god as Addie had, an old god named Luc.

Addie’s deal, Grantaire thinks, he could learn to live with. Being able to go through life with no one remembering whenever he fucks up honestly sounds pretty great sometimes. But Henry…

He’d realized week two of reading this book that it was going to be hard to talk about him; if he related less to the book, to the character of Henry, it would be easier to talk about. But as it stands, Henry’s life and Henry’s deal had struck a little too close to home when he’d read the book the first time, and it had done the same this time.

In a moment of intoxicated, heartbroken weakness, Henry trades all but twelve months of his life to be loved. It backfires, as deals with the devil are want to do of course, but when he’d read it the first time, Grantaire was left thinking that if he’d been asked if he wanted a deal like that at his lowest, he, like Henry, probably would have traded a lot more for a lot less.

It’s not something he cares to admit in front of everyone here; he barely cares to admit it to himself. So he stays quiet, nodding along to discussion as it goes on around him.

“I don’t know if there’s anything I’d trade my soul for,” Marius is saying, looking pensive, as if going through everything he could possibly want and coming up with nothing. Eponine barely keeps down a scoff of a laugh, and Grantaire understands why.

“You’re also the poster boy for literally every type of privilege, Marius,” Courfeyrac says to him, nudging his arm in good humor. And Grantaire is glad that he’s the one that said it, because he doubts that he or Eponine would have been as eloquent about it. Marius has the good sense to look a little embarrassed.

“I suppose that’s a fair point,” he murmurs, twiddling his fingers over his book.

“What are the parameters for what we could trade it for?” Cosette asks beside him, seeming to surprise Marius, who looks at her like she’s just grown another head.

“I mean, if a god is granting your wish I don’t think there are any,” Jehan offers, “Except that they’ve got to be able to collect your soul at some point, like Luc said in the book.”

“You’d need to blend into human society, though,” Joly argues from across the table, “I don’t think they could make you fly, right? Or turn you into a dragon or something like that? Like you’d stand out too much.”

“I guess so…” Jehan says, contemplative now. They grin after a moment, and shrug, “Well, there goes my plan.”

A quiet falls over the table, everyone seeming a little lost in thought. Cosette rests her head in one palm, tapping her cheek with her fingers. Bahorel’s face is screwed up in concentration. Eponine looks around at all of them, looking vaguely amused.

It’s not exactly an easy thing to talk about; unless you’re making a joke, laying bare to the people you care about exactly what you’d give up your soul to improve about yourself isn’t an easy thing. It’s a little comforting that Grantaire isn’t the only one having a hard time with the possibility of sharing those innermost feelings.

He thinks he probably knows what some of them might pick. Courfeyrac might give up his soul to be a great performer, being the extra bitch that he is. Eponine would probably love to have Addie’s deal, verbatim. And he knows for certain, especially after their call last night, that Enjolras would give up his soul in a heartbeat if he could change the world for the better.

In thinking that last thought, he wants to catch a look at Enjolras, just to see if he can read those thoughts in the lines of his face. He hesitates to actually look over, though, worried he’ll get entranced like he did before.

After a moment, he decides to risk it anyway, tempted by how stupid attractive Enjolras’ serious looks can be. But instead of finding the focused, contemplative expression he expects, he turns to find Enjolras is looking back at him. It makes him jump, embarrassed to have been caught, and Enjolras jumps a little too, both of them looking away at the same instant.

He hears Eponine murmur “Jesus fucking christ,” across the table, and shoots her a glare. She ignores it, and mimes zipping her lips.

Unfortunately, Courfeyrac across the table notices anyway. His eyes flick again between Enjolras and Grantaire, a small, mischievous smile splitting his face.

“Out of all of us, I think Luc would probably target R for a deal,” he says, with an innocent shrug that makes Grantaire feel immediately wary, his brow furrowing. He tries to put on a passable smirk in return, but knows that it’ll crumble under the slightest pressure.

“Why, because I’m a sad sack?” he asks, trying for a casual tone. Courfeyrac’s eyes gleam.

“No. Because you’re a sad sack and you're an artist. He said they’re his favorites,” he says.

Grantaire crosses his arms, raising an eyebrow. He’s not sure where Courf is going with this, and that only makes him more on edge.

“I don’t think I really count as one anymore,” he counters casually, “I haven’t actually made anything in years.”

“Really,” Courf says, grinning all the more, “Even though you have your ‘muse’ back?”

And suddenly, Grantaire realizes he’s stepped straight into a trap. His hands clench into his sleeves over his chest, and he stares at Courf with widening eyes.

He suddenly remembers back to the day after Enjolras and him had had that sleepover, and how Courfeyrac had seemed to know about his old feelings intuitively. He’d hoped that the subject had been forgotten in the ensuing weeks, after Enjolras had effectively destroyed any speculation of them sleeping together, but apparently, Courf does in fact remember, and wants to actually murder him.

He’d come in today worried about Eponine’s crush coming up. He hadn’t prepared for his own to be the one in the crosshairs.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, but it comes out hoarse rather than natural.

“Oh I think you do,” Courf says, either not taking Grantaire’s silent plea to stop, or seeing it on his face and simply not giving a single fuck, “In fact, I’d be willing to bet money that you have a sketchbook with you right now that could prove my point.”

Grantaire pushes his backpack closer to his chair with his foot on impulse, knowing that Courfeyrac is, unfortunately, right on the money. His sketchbook is slowly becoming a constant companion again, the five inch drawing pad tucked carefully with a few pencils in the middle pocket of his bag.

It’s embarrassing to think of anyone seeing what he’s drawn in there. There are only a few pages of the ones he’s drawn on that don’t have at least a doodle of Enjolras, and that’s not something he’s in any hurry for anyone at this table to know about.

“What are you talking about?” Enjolras asks from beside him, and Grantaire wants to sink into his chair and disappear.

“Nothing.” Grantaire says through his teeth, more pointed than he wants to, and he knows it just makes him look even more fucking guilty, which just makes Courfeyrac’s grin widen. Grantaire feels his face going red, despite his best efforts.

God. Fuck Courf. Fuck him and his impeccable gaydar.

Enjolras looks taken aback by his tone, but Grantaire doesn’t have space in his head to feel bad about it. Instead, his eyes dart to Eponine.

If a face could say ‘I told you so’ without a word, hers would be screaming it right now. He hopes his own face screams back ‘some friend you are’. She just smirks.

Courfeyrac, not to be derailed, turns his attention to her as well.

“Eponine, you know what I’m talking about,” he says, and it’s not a question, but Eponine gives nothing away, keeping her face impassive even as Courfeyrac stares her down. Grantaire thanks his lucky stars that she has such a good poker face, and that her loyalty to him as his friend seems to be outweighing the urge to snark. It’s touching, really. Eponine loves to snark.

After a beat, she shrugs, and says simply, “I plead the fifth.”

“This isn’t a courtroom,” Courfeyrac says, indignant.

“Objection!” says Grantaire, rapping his fist on the table like a gavel, glad for the chance at a distraction, “I’m holding you in contempt of court.”

“Jesus christ, that’s not how anything works,” says Courfeyrac, “Fucking—why would you be the judge anyway? If anything, you’re the defendant!”

“My court, my rules,” Grantaire replies, “Overruled.”

By now, most of the table is watching the exchange with a mix of confusion and an easy, entertained air. Grantaire is happy to keep it that way. The quicker he can get them away from this topic, the better. He can still feel Enjolras looking at him, and desperately needs him to not be doing that anymore.

Based on expressions alone, Jehan seems to be the only other person who fully understands the subtext of this conversation. And blessedly, when Grantaire shoots them a meaningful look, their knowing expression softens a fraction, and they jab an elbow into Courf’s side.

Courf gives an “Ow!”, and glares down at Jehan, who gives him a look that both asks sweetly, and demands ‘stop it, dear’. And miraculously, Courfeyrac does, though he pouts all the same.

“I think now’s a good a time as any for a break, don’t you?” Jehan says a second later, putting their hands together pleasantly, “We’re starting to get off track.”

Grantaire nods immediately. Thankfully, there are no objections. He’s a little scared to look at Enjolras as the table starts to buzz with soft conversation, Jehan and Courfeyrac scurrying off to the kitchen to get snacks and probably gossip. But despite his reservations, he finds the strength to peek over at Enjolras after a second.

He’s met by a stare that manages to look both miffed and suspicious at the same time.

Grantaire smiles tightly to him, knowing he doesn’t look innocent in the least, and fully regretting every single decision that’s led him to this moment.

“I’m going to check on Bea,” he says, voice cracking part way through his sentence despite his best efforts to hold it together. Enjolras opens his mouth to speak, probably to ask what the fuck all of that was, but Grantaire is already shooting up from his chair and power walking to the living room. With any luck, Bea will be a good enough distraction to calm him down before they have to go back to their discussion, and Grantaire has to sit next to Enjolras again.

Unfortunately, it seems she and Gavroche have decided to play a two player game of hide and seek. Which, in this house is a game that actually becomes challenging, regardless of the age of the people playing it. Grantaire could probably name about five good hiding places that could fit him, even as an adult man, and approximately ninety thousand that could fit Bea. Gavroche is searching now, digging through a pile of blankets when Grantaire finds him in the living room.

Grantaire just about jumps for one of the five hiding places he thought of when Jehan walks into the living room moments later.

Fuck.

"Looking for Bea, R?" They ask, flopping down onto their corduroy couch. Grantaire smiles nervously.

"Yep. No luck, though. Hide and seek,” he says, speaking quickly, then turns on his heel to go back to the other room, or maybe down the hall to the bathroom. He immediately sees the problem with his initial plan, which had made him easy to corner. He needs to find another place to be, immediately. “Gavroche is the seeker. Gav, you'll let Jehan know if you see her right? Good."

"Actually," Jehan says, stopping Grantaire in his tracks, "I came in here for you."

Grantaire stops, and turns back. Jehan is patting the spot on the couch next to themself.

"Sit," they say, with an amount of command that shouldn't be possible for someone wearing full-size rubber ducky earrings and overalls. So, Grantaire swallows down any hope of escaping, and does as he's told.

Once he's sinking into the cushions beside Jehan, they turn, resting an elbow on the back of the couch and putting their cheek into the palm of their hand. Grantaire isn't great with people looking at him at the best of times, but this look is completely unbearable. It’s like a goddamn x-ray. Grantaire wonders if something about being nonbinary unlocked Jehan’s third eye. He wouldn’t be all that surprised. If anyone could do that for real, it’s them.

“You look like you’re about to shit yourself,” Jehan comments, gesturing to Grantaire’s pallid face.

“Yeah, well,” Grantaire says, weakly, “Would you let me go if I said that’s what it was?”

“If that were actually true, of course,” Jehan says, smirking, “I’m not a monster. And I like this couch.”

“Is it too late to say that that’s what it is?” Grantaire asks, barely hopeful.

“Yep,” Jehan replies, smiling too sweetly for someone who just pulled all the air from his lungs with one word, “Sorry bucko.”

Grantaire swallows hard, and looks down at his hands in his lap. His fingers twist together immediately, always seeking a way to release the seemingly boundless energy his brain supplies them. He’s not about to start the conversation he knows is coming; maybe, just maybe, playing dumb will get him through this. It’s a big fucking maybe, but he thinks it’s worth a shot.

“So,” Jehan says, leaning in a little closer, “Can we cut the bullshit, R?”

“You know, I don’t know if I’m actually capable of that,” Grantaire says, “Fun fact, ninety nine point six percent of what I say in a given day is bullshit. I’d just have to shut up. Which I’m more than happy to do, but I don’t think I’ll be a good conversationalist for you then.”

Jehan goes quiet, and when Grantaire risks looking at them, he finds a look that’s so full of knowing exasperation that he nearly flinches. Okay, looking at his hands is definitely the better option right now.

“...I don’t really want to talk about what I think you want to talk about,” Grantaire says after a beat, voice feeling thin.

“What do you think I want to talk about?” Jehan asks, so sweetly.

They’re evil. Fully fucking diabolical. Grantaire just decided. Definitely worse than Courf. He sits in buzzing silence, staring down at his fingers, and deciding that maybe now is a good a time as any to actually memorize the back of his hand. Maybe this is why people do that.

“I also don’t really want to answer that?” he says, when it becomes clear Jehan isn’t going to be the one to speak next. Jehan sighs, their rubber duck earrings swaying gently with them. They fix him with a look that’s gentle and so knowing that Grantaire wants to crawl out of his skin and just leave it there like a husk. He’s suddenly incredibly jealous of snakes.

“Courf is right, isn’t he?” they ask, direct, but soft, and adds before Grantaire can try to deflect again, “You have feelings for Enjolras.”

Gavroche, from the blanket pile he’s made in tearing the living room apart looking for Bea, laughs. And Grantaire knows for sure that Eponine has joked about this with him, because of course she has. Jehan glances at him, and then back to Grantaire, expectant.

And man. This is a waking nightmare. He tries pinching himself as subtly as he can through his jeans, but no dice. He’s definitely here right now.

“I have many feelings about many people,” Grantaire manages, his voice coming out strangled, “For example, Jehan, have I told you that I love you lately?”

“Aww!” Jehan says, grinning, and sounding legitimately touched despite the circumstances, “I love you too, R.”

“Great. Yes,” Grantaire says, a little breathless, and happy to have found a break in the conversation that feels relatively safe, “I love my friends. Good talk.”

He moves to push himself off of the couch, intending to help Gavroche look for Bea as a distraction, but Jehan isn’t quite done. They lean forward, resting their elbows on their knees, and stare him down with a smile.

“Okay,” they say, voice deceptively kind, “Now, since you love your friends, why don’t you go say to Enjolras exactly what you just said to me.”

And Grantaire does try not to react. He really does try. He tries to turn around, and casually say something like ‘I don’t have anything to prove to you’, or ‘why would I do that, that’s absurd’.

Instead, what comes out of his mouth is quite possibly the highest pitched word he’s ever said, his voice cracking completely out of his own control as he just says, “No.”

And Jehan doesn’t have to laugh as hard as they do at him for it, but they very much do anyway. Grantaire is pink up to his ears by the time they calm down, and he’s sure whatever expression he’s making isn’t helping the situation at all.

“Dear god,” Jehan finally manages, gasping, and half doubled over their knees, “I feel like you used to have a better pokerface? Holy shit.”

He did. He definitely did. He used to be able to let shit roll off him like fucking water off a duck’s back, but that was, again, a symptom of never being completely present, through his many methods of self medication. In fact, it had been one of the bigger upsides.

If Jehan had said any of this to him while he was drunk he could have made a joke of it, no sweat. But as it stands, the idea of saying the words ‘I love you’ to Enjolras, even platonically, is quite possibly the most terrifying thing he’s ever thought in his life, and he’s sure every ounce of that terror was on full display just a few seconds ago. It’s melted into slightly easier to handle mortification now. He decides to count that as a little blessing. A very, very little one.

“Y’know,” he says, voice coming out semi-strangled, “I think I’d sell my soul to not be here right now.”

“That seems like a very short-sighted decision,” Jehan replies, wiping their eyes, and easing back into that knowing smile. Grantaire just shrugs, in a jerky movement that’s still nowhere near enough to casual for his taste.

“My favorite kind,” he says, weakly.

The quiet fear that Jehan (and by extension Courfeyrac) knows is beginning to crash over him in waves. He’s glad that the chatter from the other room has remained raucous and consistently loud enough to drown out anyone hearing their quiet conversation, but it’s only a small mercy. Even one person knowing that he’s feeling this way is a liability, and he’d already hit that milestone with Eponine.

Now, he’s got three. Four, if he counts Gavroche.

“Um,” Grantaire says, flexing his fingers at his sides, “I’m. Um. Neither confirming nor denying anything,” he swallows hard, “But. If you could not…tell him. That. Please.”

He shifts from foot to foot, and finds he’s not able to meet Jehan’s eyes anymore. He does his best to still face them, but his eyes can’t settle anywhere concretely. He folds his arms, needing to do something with his hands, and continues softly.

“Things are good right now, and I don’t—I don’t want to fuck it up.”

At his tone, Jehan’s face softens, going sympathetic rather than playful. They stand from the couch, and step across the couple of feet that Grantaire moved when he’d attempted his escape, moving to rest a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t look so scared, I’m not gonna tell him,” they say, and despite his best efforts, Grantaire feels his shoulders slump with relief. Jehan looks like they want to laugh again at the motion, but blessedly, don’t. They give his shoulder a couple small pats, then release it, saying sweetly, “I’m not in the business of outing people. But I really don’t think it’d be as big of a deal as you seem to think it would.”

And that’s an easy thing for Jehan to say, but Grantaire knows, deep in his gut, that the friendship he and Enjolras share is anything but secure. Frankly, he feels lucky to have gotten as far as he has, like a drunk suddenly finding themselves standing dead center on a tightrope and being told to keep walking straight.

He’s not even sure how he got here, and it feels like he’ll plummet at any second if he dares to try and take another step.

Instead of giving voice to that fear, he forces up a shaky smile, adam's apple bobbing, and just says, “Thanks.”

And Jehan smiles back, easy, then loops their arm through his.

“I could use your help cutting up some apples for a snack,” they say, “You know how to cut an apple, don’t you?”

Grantaire feels a little boneless, and his hands are definitely shaking more than they should be, so honestly holding a knife doesn’t sound smart right now. But his brain is gasping for a distraction, and anything that’s not this conversation, so he just nods.

“I have a seven year old,” he replies, voice still weaker than he wants, but working back to normal as he speaks, “I sure hope I know how to cut up an apple.”

“Well okay hotshot, I expect only the finest apple wedges from you!” Jehan says, voice full of chipper mirth to see him relax. They begin pulling him towards the kitchen, only pausing to look back at Gav, who now looks a little lost in the technicolor living room.

“Gavroche, you might want to check the back of the linen closet,” they offer conspiratorially, “I saw Bea eyeing that door earlier.”

Gavroche looks back at Jehan, grins, and salutes them, then runs towards the linen closet.

As he and Jehan disappear behind the gender-neutral kitchen door, Grantaire hears door hinges, and then Bea’s high, squealing laughter.

Chapter Text

Grantaire does a fucking great job with the apple slices, if he does say so himself. The first couple are a little rough, because his hands shake regardless of if he wants them to. But after a couple of cuts, and some time to breathe, he begins to feel normal again.

He shows off a little bit for Jehan, cutting an apple slice in a cute way he saw in a YouTube video one time, years ago, where you leave some skin on but cut it so the slice looks like a little bunny. Bea loves it when he cuts them like that, and anything that gets her to eat fruits and veggies easier is a win in his book.

Jehan seems legitimately charmed by it, flat out refusing to eat the little rabbit, which kind of defeats the purpose, but it makes Grantaire grin like a fool anyway.

They bring the apples, a few more slices cut into little rabbits, and any other snacks Jehan has out to the dining room after a few minutes, both of them spreading the food out so everyone can get some while they take their break.

To Grantaire’s chagrin, when they enter the room, Enjolras is talking to Courfeyrac. He’s basically walked them into a corner, and looks distinctly frustrated with whatever Courfeyrac is saying. Courf, for his part, isn’t actually saying much. His hands are up, placating, and he’s got on a quiet, dismissive smile, which only serves to make Enjolras look more exasperated.

When he and Jehan re-enter the room, Courfeyrac looks up, and smiles innocently at them, then brushes past Enjolras’ arm, only stopping to give it a gentle pat before he’s going in for snacks.

Enjolras’ consternation is clear as day on his face, but it falters when he looks over and sees Jehan and Grantaire standing there, his face going more reserved the instant he notices they’re looking at him.

Grantaire swallows, trying not to look guilty. He doesn’t think he succeeds. Enjolras really has a way of wringing it out of him with just a look.

“Oh shit, little bunnies!” Joly exclaims, walking up to Grantaire and taking one of the apple slices off of the plate. Grantaire takes the opportunity to tear his eyes from Enjolras’, glad to have an excuse not to stare into blue.

“Damn, you’re defying stereotypes, Jolllly,” he says, rolling out the ‘L’s long, like they used to do in high school, and when Joly looks at him, confused, already biting into his apple slice, Grantaire smiles, “An apple a day keeps the doctor away, right?”

“Shit,” Joly says, and laughs, the sound morphing into a fake choking sound, “I forgot, the one weakness of my profession!”

“What, are apples to doctors as garlic is to vampires?” Jehan asks from beside him, taking one for themself now that the rest of the snacks are on the table, one of the non-bunny slices.

“I can’t believe you didn’t know,” Grantaire says, shrugging, mock offended, “Here I thought you were all about inclusivity in this house.”

Jehan flicks him on the arm.

Bea and Gavroche come into the room, probably called by the sound of Bahorel opening a chip bag where he’s shooting the shit with Eponine. Grantaire overhears bits of their conversation, and knows that Bahorel is asking how she enjoyed the club Friday night. Eponine is, to her credit, being a very good sport about it, grabbing out a handful of chips and complimenting how surprisingly clean the bathrooms were.

Before Bea can run and get chips, Grantaire catches her shoulder, and hands her a couple of apple slices instead.

“These first, Bea,” he says softly. Predictably, she pouts, until she sees that they’re bunnies. The pout is less defined after, and she takes two slices from him, picking off the skin and eating them dutifully. He takes the apple skin from her when she holds them out, and pops them into his mouth. He doesn’t particularly like them either, cringing at the texture and bitter taste, but figures it’s better than wasting them. He's gotta be a good role model sometimes.

“Can I have chips now?” she asks when they’re all gone, never one to leave a deal unfinished, and Grantaire laughs, grabbing a napkin from the table and handing it to her.

“Have Eponine or Bahorel give you some,” he says, and pushes her towards them. She grins, bounding over without further hesitation. Eponine won’t let her overdo it, he knows, so he’s able to turn his attention back to other conversations around him without much worry.

He grabs a couple more apple slices for himself and chews, glad that Jehan had the good sense to get Honeycrisp apples, and not some crime against nature apple like a Red Delicious. Whoever named that shit had to have been completely tasteless, or someone with a fucked sense of humor. Either way, he’s pretty sure those apples could be named a literal hate crime forcing Grantaire to know what they taste like.

A hand reaches in front of him, grabbing a slice, and Grantaire doesn’t have to follow the arm it’s attached to to know it’s Enjolras. Ironically, he’s probably memorized the back of his hand before his own; he knows he could draw the angles of his knuckles without a second thought.

When he turns, Enjolras is barely a foot away, a symptom of needing to reach the plate. He’s close enough that Grantaire is nearly eye to eye, able to see every one of his pale eyelashes that are stupid long, shading blue eyes that still look vaguely frustrated, his brow set.

Enjolras chooses then to look his way, blue peeking through lashes.

Grantaire shoves nearly a full apple slice into his mouth in a moment of panic, and promptly chokes.

A hand smacks his back a few times, firm and steady, and he manages to recover within a few seconds, coughing into his sleeve, eyes watering. When they clear, he’s met again with piercing blue, concern overtaking the frustration that had been there before, and he kinda wishes he’d just kept choking.

“Are you okay?” Enjolras asks, and Grantaire manages a nod.

“Peachy,” he replies, voice coming out hoarse, “Thanks.”

He watches as Enjolras’ face shifts through emotions, from concern, to relief, and back to that same vague discontent that had been there before Grantaire choked.

It’s been a while since that was his default expression looking at Grantaire. He’d kind of forgotten, over the last two months, that frustration had used to be nearly the only thing he saw on Enjolras’ face, aside from exhaustion and anger.

It doesn’t feel great to see that return to form. He’d known it’d have to happen eventually, just statistically speaking, because Grantaire is Grantaire. He’d hoped for at least a little longer in Enjolras’ good graces, but also knows that hoping that way is a recipe for disaster, emotionally speaking.

He tries not to let that simmering worry get to him as book club continues around him. The break ends without much fanfare, everyone taking their seats again

There’s a tense set to Enjolras’ posture beside him for the rest of the meeting. The few times Grantaire dares to look over, he sees crossed arms, and loses his nerve immediately. At the very least, Eponine seems to be having a decent time; Grantaire looks up at her every so often to check, both needing a distraction and wanting to know for sure that she’s not overwhelmed, and she seems fine every time he does.

She’s relaxed since they got here, now talking more with Musichetta than with Cosette, and definitely having a better time because of it. The two of them are thick as thieves by the time the evening is drawing to a close. Grantaire is pretty sure they’ve even exchanged numbers, which for Eponine is quite the feat. He’d only managed to get it because he could offer babysitting when she’d needed it all those years ago, and even then he’d gotten her landline number first, and her cell number months after.

Eponine does a decent job of talking to almost everybody in the book club, honestly. She even talks with Combeferre, which surprises Grantaire. He doesn’t know what exactly they talk about, but he sees Combeferre smile a few times, so it can’t be all bad.

She and Gavroche head out around 6:30, and with the first goodbye, people slowly begin to filter out. It’s how book club usually ends; there’s never a solid end point, people just decide to leave when they get tired.

Bea is very, very tired by the time Gavroche and Eponine give their goodbye. Hide and seek, it seems, is an endurance sport, at least when played in a house like this. Half an hour after Eponine leaves, Grantaire finds her passed out in a heap of blankets, her curly head poking out and the rest of her completely enveloped in a cacophony of color and fringe.

He snaps a picture, smiling softly at how she’s cocooned herself, then goes to find Enjolras.

Things still feel weird. Enjolras’ sour mood had only eased slightly as the evening continued on and he got to chatting again with other people in the group. Grantaire had done his best to avoid talking with him, not wanting to bring back that weird look on his face, but he’s not about to back out on giving him a ride if Enjolras still wants it.

He finds him in the kitchen, talking in low tones with Combeferre. He raps his knuckles on the door as he enters, making Enjolras jump, and then stare. Whatever they'd been talking about, apparently Enjolras doesn't see the need to continue once Grantaire is there to hear it, his mouth snapping shut the moment their eyes meet.

Ouch, but okay.

“Uh,” Grantaire says, feeling every ounce of how unwelcome he is in this conversation and trying hard not to let it bother him, “Bea is like, KO’d in the living room, so. We should probably get going.”

Enjolras nods rigidly.

“I’ll meet you out there in a minute,” he says, and Grantaire tries not to focus on the downward turn of his mouth, instead just nodding back, and going back out to get his shoes, and Bea.

Five minutes later, Grantaire has Bea in his arms, still fast asleep, and he and Enjolras are headed out to his car. With winter creeping in more each day, the evenings have only gotten darker and colder. Grantaire can see his breath in the light of the streetlamp outside Jehan’s house, and wraps Bea a little closer.

He puts her coat around her like a blanket in her booster when they get to the car, and closes her door, then his own as quietly as he can, climbing into the driver’s seat. Enjolras gets in too, following his lead in keeping quiet, and Grantaire is grateful. It’s rare that Bea is out this early, and he knows that if she wakes up, she’s not going to want to go to bed once they get home.

He puts on music after he starts the car, keeping the volume low, mostly to fill the awkward silence he knows is coming. Like the night after their sleepover, the air inside the car is stiflingly quiet. This time, it’s Grantaire focused out the window, and Enjolras who seems focused on the inside.

It’s not a long drive to Enjolras’ apartment. Grantaire hums quietly to the music, trying to come off more casual than he feels. He thinks that maybe, if he ignores the tension hard enough, it will dissipate. It's worked fine for him in the past, for the most part.

Unfortunately, he’s never been good at sitting still. Nor has he ever been good at not bugging Enjolras. After about five minutes, he can’t take it anymore, especially not with Enjolras sneaking looks at him every so often, looking like he can't decide if he wants to speak or not. It’s driving him insane and he doesn’t want to think about the quiet anymore.

“Have you ever read Catch-22?” he asks, keeping his voice low, but glancing to Enjolras. Since it had been the last day covering Addie LaRue, a new book had been suggested tonight towards the end of discussion. It had been Bossuet’s turn to choose, and he’d brought Catch-22, by Joseph Heller.

Grantaire has seen it every so often on the shelves of the book store, and remembers thinking ‘I should look into that someday’ but never actually picking it up. He’s glad for the push to read it finally coming; it has always seemed like a book he might like, if he could give himself a reason to read it.

Beside him, Enjolras shifts. He’d had his arm resting on the lip of the car door, against the window, his head resting in his palm, but he straightens a little now.

“I have,” he answers curtly, “But not since high school.”

“Ah,” Grantaire says, thinking ‘of course’, but not saying it, “I’ve um. I’ve heard it’s good?”

Enjolras hums, noncommittal.

They fall back into silence. Grantaire can’t believe he used to be used to this. This fucking sucks. He braces himself for more of it, and wonders if it’s going to be the norm again. He doesn't want it to be, but doesn't know how to go about fixing things either. He racks his brain for something to talk about, looking ahead into the misty night.

“What was that earlier?” Enjolras asks, breaking the silence before Grantaire can think of anything else to say, and jolting him from his thoughts.

“What was what?” Grantaire replies, distracted by the road, and hoping he doesn’t know the answer. He's almost certain that he does, and feels his heart plummet a little.

“That…I don’t even know what to call it,” Enjolras says, waving his hand in front of his face, “Whatever that was with Courfeyrac. Earlier today.”

Grantaire feels his stomach flip, and then freeze; he’d really hoped he’d gotten out of that conversation relatively unscathed, mostly thanks to Jehan, but of course Enjolras, as always, has to ask questions. Suddenly, he wishes for the tension and the quiet again.

“It was nothing,” he replies, trying to be casual. He doesn’t think he’s very successful, and Enjolras apparently doesn’t either.

“It didn’t seem like nothing,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire can feel his eyes burning into the side of his head, “You looked like you were going to pass out.”

Grantaire presses his lips together, his jaw tensing. He doesn’t want to lie to Enjolras. He really doesn’t. But the truth is terrifying. Enjolras ever knowing the truth is terrifying.

“Courfeyrac was just trying to get a rise out of me,” he ends up saying, mouth dry, working around the issue rather than facing it head on.

“Okay,” Enjolras says, sounding barely patient, “What I’m not understanding is why what he said worked. All he did was mention you getting your ‘muse’ back.”

Grantaire can’t help but flinch at that, and Enjolras goes abruptly quiet.

“...Is this a metaphor for drinking?” he asks after a few seconds, his voice kept carefully even. It's the voice of someone about to start a one-man intervention. Grantaire blanches.

“No! What? No. It’s not a metaphor for—” he stutters, and then stops himself, and takes a breath. He understands why Enjolras would jump to that conclusion. He knows he’s acting incredibly suspicious. He also doesn’t know how to stop without just outing himself, though. He takes another breath, and sighs it out. “It’s not that. I promise.”

“Then what is it, exactly?” Enjolras asks, clearly frustrated that this conversation has been like pulling teeth. He’s quiet for a beat, and when he speaks again, his voice is low, and undeniably hurt, “I don’t understand why you can’t just tell me. You’ve been acting weird ever since, and I don’t know why.”

A quiet guilt erupts in Grantaire’s stomach at his tone, clashing with his own sense of self-preservation. He'd assumed that Enjolras was angry with him, but...if he didn’t know any better, he’d think Enjolras is worried. But that can't be right.

He realizes, upon second thought, that maybe he doesn’t know better.

He thinks back to their conversation from yesterday, about how honest Enjolras was with him, even though he really didn’t need to be. And he realizes that if it were him, and Enjolras acted the way Grantaire has been acting today, secretive and suspicious, after they talked so openly yesterday, he would probably feel worried.

They’re barely two blocks from Enjolras’ apartment. Grantaire knows that he could just draw this out and make excuses until they arrive. He knows that he could bullshit, and talk in circles until they’re both blue in the face.

But to his own surprise, he’s not sure he wants to.

Today was a close call. A very close call. And there’s nothing to say that Courfeyrac or someone else won’t just give him away the next time they’re all together, despite Jehan’s promises to keep things under wraps. Distantly, his earlier conversation with Eponine replays in his mind.

‘I really think you’d feel better if you just got it off your chest.’

Eponine had told Marius about her old crush, and it had gone well. They hadn’t been weird at all in the meeting today, at least not as far as Grantaire could tell. Maybe…Eponine has a point. In the quiet of the car, he tries to sort his thoughts, chewing the inside of his cheek.

Enjolras said that he seemed more earnest, and seemed to appreciate that fact.

Enjolras didn’t kick him out last time, not on purpose anyway.

Enjolras said he wants him around.

Enjolras doesn’t lie.

Grantaire knows he can’t share the whole truth; it would be pointless, and pushing his luck far, far beyond its bounds. But sharing nothing, and continuing to clam up like he has been suddenly feels absolutely criminal.

He opens his mouth, feeling like a driver who’s slowly realizing their brakes have been cut, and speaks, slow and soft.

“He was talking about you,” he says, eyes focused on the road ahead. He counts lamp posts as they go past through the mist, using them to ground himself, and finishes his thought, “In high school, I had a huge crush on you. Courf was teasing me for it.”

The words are out before he’s even fully processed what he’s admitting to. He’s grateful at least that he can tell the truth in parts. He thinks he’d probably die if he tried to get out the full, unbroken truth: that he’s falling all over again, harder than before.

He knows his feelings will never, can never be reciprocated, because why the fuck would they be?

And even though he’s only told a part of the truth, he can’t bring himself to turn to look at Enjolras, who is silent and still in the passenger seat.

The fraying nerves of the admission are quick to overtake the initial relief of just having this smaller truth out in the open. The world in fact hasn’t come crashing down, but Grantaire isn’t convinced it won’t the moment he stops bracing for it.

He hears Enjolras take in a breath beside him, hyper aware of every movement of the car, and the two of them inside of it, and suddenly, his stomach feels petrified, panic gripping him, because he knows that Enjolras is about to speak.

His brain hadn’t quite processed that a confession like that often warrants a response when he’d begun to speak, and Grantaire doesn’t think he’s equipped to process the inevitable rejection that he knows is about to come out of Enjolras’ mouth.

“I know nothing would have happened, don’t worry. It would never have worked, and I know that,” he says, cutting in again before Enjolras can say anything. He feels rude, but can’t stop himself from barreling forward with the excuse, an edge of panic to his tone despite his best efforts, fingers gripping the steering wheel hard, “I just, um. You asked? And I would rather you found out from me than from Courf or whatever.”

Silence.

Grantaire is about to break it again out of sheer panic, when Enjolras speaks.

“Why do you assume it wouldn’t work?” He asks, voice tight. And that…is not a question Grantaire expects. He doesn’t really know how to answer it, because the answer feels so obvious to him. He doesn’t understand why Enjolras would want to dive into hypotheticals, especially given they’re talking about a crush that is, as far as Enjolras knows, nearly a decade old.

He’s not sure that he ever stopped having feelings for Enjolras, and that affection is only growing deeper every day. Which is exactly why Enjolras can’t ever know the whole truth. If he did, Grantaire knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that their budding friendship would evaporate to nothing. There’s already a chance that just knowing he used to feel this way might weird out Enjolras enough to ruin it anyway, and that on its own is excruciating.

“Is that a real question you’re asking me right now?” he asks, mouth cut in a bitter grin, and he thinks he sees Enjolras flinch beside him.

“It is,” Enjolras says, voice still tense. “Enlighten me.”

And this, this is a fucking nightmare. His idea of a good Sunday night isn’t listing exactly why the man he’s falling for could never love him back, for the sake of a decade old hypothetical. But he’s dug this grave, and now he has to lie in it, no matter how much it stings.

He tries to start a sentence a few times, but falters, feeling like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff. He wants to say ‘Because obviously, you’d never stoop to my level’, or ‘Have you seen yourself? And follow up, have you seen me?’. Neither of those options come out, the words sticking partway up his throat and staying there, vice-like on his voice box.

“We just wouldn’t.” he finally manages, vaguely gesturing to himself, and then to Enjolras with an exasperated sigh, “I mean, besides the fact that I wasn’t even fully aware of my own sexuality in high school, we couldn’t even get along through one club meeting most of the time.”

And that much is true. Grantaire had made it his job every week to be as disruptive as possible, mostly to get a rise out of Enjolras, looking back. Which had everything to do with his crush. If he’d been more calm, less drunk, more attentive, maybe then Enjolras might have a leg to stand on. But both of them know he was obnoxious.

“But I didn’t know,” Enjolras protests, voice low. It sends shivers skating down Grantaire’s spine, “Frankly a lot of the things you did make a lot more sense in that context. You don’t know how that might have changed things.”

He clenches his jaw, his heart thudding hard. He doesn’t understand why Enjolras is pushing this so hard, and he really doesn’t want Enjolras to go all lawyer on him right now. They’re in dangerous territory, and Grantaire can only hide his own feelings under so much scrutiny.

He feels, again, distinctly like a tightrope walker, balancing precariously, fully regretting having taken the step that’s sent the rope shuddering and buckling beneath him.

Grantaire can’t stand the idea of ruining their newfound friendship over his own bullshit. The last thing he had wanted in telling him the truth is to make things weird. It seems like he’s already failed on that front, given how this conversation is going. He can only assume that in continuing to press the issue, Enjolras is trying to leave Grantaire without a bruised ego.

It’s really not working.

Grantaire feels like he’s being taken apart at the seams, his still living feelings being autopsied, and the lack of control is making his skin crawl with sickly, paralyzing fright. He's not sure why he'd thought that this would go as well as Eponine telling Marius about her feelings, because now, in his panic stricken mind, it's incredibly clear that Enjolras is not Marius. Enjolras is inquisitive, and dogged, and maddeningly thorough. Grantaire just wants this conversation to be over before it can bite him on the ass any more than it already has. His fight or flight is kicking in, settling itself decisively on ‘flight’.

Honesty is suddenly the least of his concerns. He can’t remember why it had felt so essential only moments ago, it’s rarely been his friend before and it’s not about to start tonight.

“Enjolras, I’m over it,” Grantaire lies, eyes glued to the road. His hands can’t stop shaking. “I mean, fuck, It took me years after the fact to even realize what it had been. I don’t need you to act like something would have changed if I’d told you then. Nothing happened, and that’s fine. I’m over it.”

Grantaire sees Enjolras’ apartment coming up through the misty night, and pulls up to the curb, less smoothly than he usually does, hoping to hide the renewed shaking in his fingers. Only when he’s parked does he find the strength to actually, fully look over at Enjolras.

Enjolras’ face is a mask. His lips are still slightly parted, as if debating whether or not to speak. There’s something shuttered about his expression, newly guarded and sad in a way Grantaire can’t begin to understand. It makes his stomach clench uncomfortably, knotting up even more with every passing second.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, running a hand through his own hair, and doing his best to be casual despite how his own anxiety is spiking, “I shouldn’t…I shouldn’t have said anything, this was a mistake.”

“No.” Enjolras says, his voice striking Grantaire like a lightning bolt. There’s a bite of desperation to his tone that Grantaire can’t tell if he’s imagining. He shuts his mouth, but Enjolras seems to stop whatever he wants to say next just as quickly.

After a beat, Enjolras continues, softer than before, his knuckles white in his lap.

“I just wish I’d known.”

Grantaire manages a small, nervous smile at that.

“What, for the prize of knowing you were that kid you hated’s gay awakening?” he asks, hoping for a laugh, but Enjolras’ frown only deepens, the sides of his mouth bracketed with twin, tense lines.

“I told you before, I didn’t hate you, Grantaire,” he says, and his voice is clipped. It feels like Grantaire is stumbling headlong into an argument, and he doesn’t even know why. He can’t help himself, apparently. Maybe things really don’t change.

“You know, you keep saying that, but it feels like a very semantics-based argument, dude,” Grantaire counters, stubborn, “Hated, disliked, annoyed by, whatever, I know we’re better now, but you have to admit, I was not your favorite person back then.”

Enjolras opens his mouth to argue, and closes it again. Grantaire gives a derisive snort, feeling his point has been made. Enjolras is not a good liar, and both of them know it.

They’ve found a good peace, somehow, over the past two months, and now Grantaire knows that he’s on the brink of shattering it completely.

It’s terrifying. Absolutely fucking terrifying.

“Look,” he says, hoping to just defuse this and get them back to normal, “I’m sorry, I’m just trying to make the best of an awkward situation. I know I brought it on myself, but…can we just…forget about it? Please?”

Enjolras doesn’t seem to want to, but also doesn’t appear to know what to say. Grantaire is feeling his exhaustion mounting, fueled by the fear he feels bubbling in his stomach. Maybe Enjolras can see it on his face, because a moment later, he relents.

“Yeah,” he says, voice sounding oddly hollow, “Forget it.”

It’s what he wants, but Grantaire doesn’t feel better with the agreement he’s gotten. Enjolras unbuckles, and pushes open the car door, stepping out into the misty night without another word. Grantaire swallows, leaning down to look at him through the open door.

“See you tomorrow?” he asks, a peace offering.

Enjolras’ face still looks stony, but he nods, a stiff, unnatural movement.

“Yeah. Bye, R.”

It’s not his usual ‘see you’, which shakes Grantaire more than he’d like to admit, the air of finality of it ringing around his head. But the car door is already shut, and Enjolras is headed into his apartment. Grantaire is left alone in the quiet dark with his thoughts, and knows that they won’t be kind to him tonight.

~~

When he gets home, he wraps Bea in his arms and pulls her from the booster, her head lolling onto his shoulder, and he hugs her close, shutting both the car door, and then the apartment door as quietly as he can once they’re inside.

She’s dead weight as he puts her to bed, tucking her in and giving her a soft kiss on the forehead that just barely wakes her up, enough for her to murmur ‘g’night daddy’ before he turns off her star lamp, and slips out of the room.

The apartment is a tense kind of quiet when he’s alone with his thoughts again. It’s not late enough that he’ll be able to force himself to sleep, but not early enough to do anything, and he finds himself glad that he hasn’t had anything hard to drink in the apartment in so long. If he’d kept any kind of a stash, tonight would be the night to break into it. His skin is crawling with nerves he can’t get rid of on his own.

Enjolras had said he could call when he felt like this, but given what’s causing the feeling, he doesn’t think that’s exactly a valid option right now. So instead, he steps to his bedroom, and flops down on his bed, knowing it’ll be fruitless to try to sleep, but not knowing what else to do.

He pulls his phone from his pocket, and thumbs to Eponine’s contact. He spends a few quiet minutes just staring at it, before finally typing out a message.

From: Grantaire
7:35pm, November 14:
-----
i think i fucked up

It takes a few minutes to get a reply, but thankfully, Eponine does decide to humor him.

From: 🦇 Eponine 🦇
7:40pm, November 14:
-----
i literally saw you less than an hour ago, what could you have possibly done?

Grantaire chews the inside at his cheek, eyes burning at the brightness of his phone screen, and something else he doesn’t want to recognize.

From: Grantaire
7:41pm, November 14:
-----
i told him

From: 🦇 Eponine 🦇
7:41pm, November 14:
-----
?

From: Grantaire
7:42pm, November 14:
-----
about my old crush
i told him on the drive home

He doesn’t get a text back. Instead, barely five seconds later, his phone rings. Grantaire jumps, fumbling his phone, and then staring at the screen, which has Eponine’s contact info splashed across it. He hesitates to pick it up, unsure if he really wants to talk out loud with someone about this. Text is infinitely easier to handle, especially when he’s feeling emotional. But he also knows that Eponine probably will just keep calling him until he picks up, or turns off his phone, so he picks the road of least resistance, and pushes the green call button, putting his phone to his ear.

“Eponine, I don’t really feel up for a phone call,” he says first thing, and his voice comes out drained and a little crackly, despite his best effort to sound more okay than he feels.

“And I really don’t give a shit,” she replies, already sounding completely done with his bullshit, somehow, “I need you to tell me exactly what you said.”

Grantaire stares at the light on his ceiling, brow still furrowed, but now it’s from confusion rather than frustration.

“Why?” he asks, and he hears Eponine sigh over the receiver.

“You said you fucked up, which means you don’t think it went over well, which I cannot believe,” she says, “I need to know the full context.”

“Why can’t you believe that, exactly?” Grantaire asks, grim, “It wouldn’t be the first time I fucked up with Enjolras. In fact, I’d argue it’s one of my greatest skills.”

“Just tell me,” she says, ignoring him completely.

Grantaire turns onto his side, staring at the folds of his duvet and letting his fist clench and unclench a few times, releasing a bit of his anxious energy. Not enough of it, but it’s something. He really doesn’t want to talk about this. Eponine’s silence on the other end tells him she’s content to wait him out, though, so he sighs out of his nose and speaks.

“I told him that I had a crush on him in high school,” he answers, “And told him I’m over it so he wouldn’t feel weird around me. Like you did with Marius. Happy?”

The silence coming from Eponine’s end of the line is taut. It’s broken by a long suffering sigh after a few moments, and what sounds like Eponine flopping down onto her couch or her bed.

“Grantaire. You know I love you,” she says, voice kept carefully even, “But you’re quite possibly the densest person I’ve ever known.”

Grantaire balls his fist up again, anger and hurt flaring in his stomach.

“Okay. Uncalled for,” he says, clipped, “You’re the one who told me to tell him, I don’t know where you get off calling me stupid for doing what you said.”

“I didn’t tell you to lie to him!” Eponine snipes back, “Christ did I really have to spell that out?”

“How the fuck would telling the truth have helped, exactly?” Grantaire asks, feeling semi-hysterical, “Things are already weird now, I don’t think that adding ‘oh yeah, by the way, I also I think I might still be in love with you’ would have helped anything!”

“Really? Because I think that would have helped a lot,” Eponine replies, speaking between her teeth. Grantaire begins to scoff, and retort, but Eponine is already barreling ahead. “For fucks sake, has it ever occurred to you that he might like you back?”

Grantaire rests a hand over his eyes, his jaw working. The warmth of his palm is barely enough to keep him grounded, but the anxiety low in his gut is coiling even tighter, his nerves feeling taut enough to snap. It’s a pointless mental exercise to picture a world where he’s what Enjolras wants, and he knows it.

He definitely doesn’t have the mental space to go down that rabbit hole tonight; it’s one he’s explored before, and always comes out of it feeling drained and insufficient.

“I really don’t have the energy for this, Eponine,” he murmurs.

“I’m serious,” she says.

“I know you are, you’re just wrong,” he bites out, throwing the hand on his eyes toward the ceiling, as if Eponine can see it, “And frankly I don’t want to hear it.”

“I really don’t care if you don’t want to hear it. You’re being an idiot,” she replies, matter-of-fact and completely infuriating, and Grantaire has had about enough.

“Cool. Very cool,” he replies, voice short and clipped, “Thank you so much for your words of comfort, best friend.”

“I’ll give you comfort when you deserve it,” Eponine replies, terse.

“And I’ll give you a call back when I want a reminder that I’m a stupid fuck,” Grantaire says sharply, “Goodnight.”

He doesn’t wait for a response, hitting the end call button without hesitation. As expected, Eponine calls him back immediately, never one to leave a dead horse unbeaten.

Grantaire shuts his phone off entirely.

~~

Unfortunately his earlier prediction is right on the money. Sleep evades him for most of the night, especially with his phone off, unable to even put on a video as a distraction, the hours slipping by, punctuated by knots in his stomach getting inexorably tighter. Grantaire has probably tracked every pattern in his ceiling’s texture by the time he nods off, only an hour or two before his alarm. His sleep is fitful and brief, but he’s glad to be done with it by the time his alarm clock goes off.

He goes through the motions in a daze, dropping Bea off at school, and clocking into work, and knows that he’s going to get nothing done today. There’s hardly a moment he sits still from the time he puts on his apron, to when noon is coming up, the energy having built up in him despite his exhaustion and needing release, and it only gets worse the closer it gets to lunch time.

Eponine is giving him a bit of a cold shoulder, clearly unhappy that he’d metaphorically shut a door in her face last night, but Grantaire doesn’t have the space in his head to care. If anything, he’s glad to know she’s not going to prod him any more today about what they talked about last night.

Later, he knows he’ll feel bad, but right now, he’s too frustrated to.

He doesn’t even know what he’ll say when Enjolras gets here, but he knows he probably needs to apologize. Something he’d said yesterday has to have struck a wrong chord. He’s still kicking himself for admitting his old crush. He doesn’t know why or how it had felt like a good idea. Because of course things are different now. And if Enjolras is disgusted with him, or doesn’t want to talk to him anymore because of it, well…there will be nothing he can do.

He’s practically buzzing on his stool the closer the clock ticks to lunchtime.

When 12:20 rolls around, he hears the door jangle, and his head shoots up from the copy of Catch-22 he's grabbed. He's been trying to read it for the better part of an hour, but never making it past a couple of paragraphs. He's been jumpy all day, but even more so with how close it is to lunch. When he looks up, closing his book without even marking his page, he's expecting the usual neat mop of blonde hair, and blue eyes, even if it is a little early. The store has been quiet today, aside from Grantaire’s anxious pacing around and sulking.

Instead, though, his eyes meet deep brown. Eyes that match Bea’s. And tied back, dirty blonde hair. His face pales as hers brightens, the world feeling suddenly askew.

Camille steps into the One Page More like she belongs there, and Grantaire suddenly feels as if he doesn’t.

“Hey, R,” she says, warm and expectant, “It’s been a while.”

Chapter Text

The next minute or so is gone in a numb blur. Grantaire knows that he clocked out, and knows that he is now sitting in the cafe, in his normal spot. And he knows that somehow, inexplicably, Camille is definitely here, and sitting where Enjolras normally would. That on its own feels like a violation. But it's kind of the least of his concerns right now.

It feels as though the entire world has shifted a couple of inches to the right. It’s wrong, but Camille in front of him is acting like everything is fine. Like the past seven years haven’t happened. She’s smiling, and she’s calm, and Grantaire almost can’t stand it.

“You’re looking good, R,” Camille is saying. The words filter into his ears at a sluggish pace, his own understanding feeling a second behind reality. When the words find their mark, he barely feels them, but notes that they're a lie. He looks like shit today, and he knows it. Barely an hour or two of sleep will do that.

Camille, on the other hand, does look good.

She’s older, of course. They both are. But there’s a lightness to her face that speaks of having had a good life. Her hair is tied back, revealing a notch of undercut at the base of her neck. She’s gotten a couple more piercings since Grantaire saw her last, one in her nose, and two in her ear. Her fingers are neatly manicured, nails short and clean, her hands sitting calm and still on the small tabletop in front of them. He sees the edge of her old floral sleeve tattoo peeking out from her jacket sleeve, curling towards her left wrist.

He wonders if this is how it felt for his friends to see him for the first time after so long.

It’s surreal.

She hadn’t bothered to order coffee before they sat down, and a small, sadistic part of Grantaire is disappointed by that. Eponine, he thinks, probably is too; she’s watching from the cafe’s till, and Grantaire doesn’t have to look again to know that she’s staring. He can feel holes burning into the back of his neck.

Distantly, he recalls barely thirty seconds ago, when Camille had pulled him by the hand to come sit, and he and Eponine locked eyes for an instant. The surprise and sympathy that wiped away the bitterness that had been in her expression still feels like acid in the back of his throat. He’s beginning to understand why Eponine hates being looked at like this.

“Why are you here, Cam?” he asks, feeling his voice come out, and not quite knowing what to make of it. Camille just smiles at him.

“To see you, obviously,” she says, as if he’s stupid for asking. Grantaire must look as dumbfounded as he feels at that, because she lets out a soft sigh, and reaches across the table to take one of Grantaire’s hands in hers.

It’s casual, sweet, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. Camille has always been a very touchy person; even when they’d only just met, she was always putting her hands on him. At the time, it was comforting, a physical reassurance that he was, in fact, wanted. The touch is familiar, but what used to be comforting as a well loved blanket now feels tattered and wrong. He fights the urge to immediately pull away, skin prickling as she rubs a thumb over his knuckles, intending, he’s sure, to be soothing.

“Okay,” he says, trying to keep his voice even. He doesn’t need his voice cracking right now, despite how brittle he feels, “But, why?”

Why now, and why after seven fucking years is what he really wants to ask. But he doesn’t trust himself to get through the questions and remain civil. His leg bounces under the table, anxiety and hurt already pooling in his stomach, needing release.

He knows he won’t get it.

Camille seems to ponder exactly what she wants to say, looking away from Grantaire to search her mind for the words. Her eyes flick back to his barely a second later, that grip on his hand staying firm as she leans forward in her seat a little.

“Would you believe me if I said I missed you?” she asks. Her face is placid, affectionate, and warm. Grantaire used to know all of her expressions. He used to wake up next to her in their messy bed, and think ‘how lucky am I’, and she would smile at him like she’s smiling now, and Grantaire would feel safe.

Now, it only brings him trepidation.

He leans back in his own chair a fraction, uncomfortable with the space that Camille is trying to close between them, his brows knitting together. He wants to answer with a flat ‘no’, because it’s how he feels, and also because a part of him wants to lash out. There’s a slow bubbling anger sitting under his skin, and it has no outlet.

His expression and body language seem to be enough to answer her question, thankfully. Camille’s expression softens a fraction, and she gives his hand a squeeze with hers. Grantaire closes his fist under her hand, feeling his own stubby, bitten nails bite into the flesh of his palm.

“Look, I know it’s been a while,” she says, still smiling that fucking easy smile as if she isn’t turning his world upside down, “But I miss what we had, don’t you?”

Grantaire feels his jaw clench, his nerves feeling wired. If she had asked him that question as little as two months ago, when he had basically no support group to speak of, Grantaire might have said yes. And that makes him feel pathetic. But she’s not done.

“We were good together, weren’t we?”

They weren’t. They really, really weren’t.

It's taken him a long time to accept that fact. A lot of lonely nights and a couple of relapses. But he knows, now that he's had all these years to look back on what they were, they had been anything but healthy. Their whole relationship was one big coping mechanism, the two of them feeding each others stagnation, and reveling in the fact that they were going down, but they were going down together. It had been the most comfortable form of self-destruction, to feel worth something as long as they were worthless together.

Grantaire can see the familiar lump of a cigarette box in the front pocket of Camille’s black leather jacket, and presses his lips together.

“I’m not sure what relationship you’re remembering,” he manages, voice feeling tight, “But if I recall, you’re the one who walked out on me. I don’t think my opinion on whether we were good or not is the important one.”

Camille’s smile doesn’t falter. Her ability to be nonplussed in the face of confrontation had been something Grantaire admired about her before. Now, it’s completely infuriating.

“I know I left a little abruptly, but I was scared,” she says with a small shrug, “I wasn’t ready to be a mom then.”

Grantaire hears blood rushing in his ears. He knows that she was scared. They both had been fucking terrified. But Camille was the one who had chosen to keep the baby. She was the one who had wanted to make a family together. And she’s the one who’d left.

“Do you think I was ready to be a dad?” he asks, his voice quaking traitorously, despite the disbelieving smile he forces on.

“I knew you could manage,” she replies, and Grantaire lets out a bark of a laugh which actually seems to startle her, her smile slipping slightly. It startles him, too. But he’s also too tired to care. If he was running on fumes before, he’s nearly out of even those at this point.

“That makes one of us,” he says, feeling, and probably sounding, a little hysterical.

Behind him, he hears the bell on the shop door jingle, and barely processes it. Thankfully, there’s another cashier working today. They can handle any customers that come through while he’s busy with Camille.

Camille seems to notice that her easy air isn’t rubbing off on Grantaire the way she probably wants it to. When they had been together, it had often been easier to ignore problems than to fix them, and Grantaire had been more than happy to go along with that. It made things easy, for the most part. But it's also probably why things had crumbled the exact moment things had gotten legitimately hard.

Her brow creases slightly, and Camille reaches her free hand across the table, touching Grantaire’s cheek in the easy way that she used to. Her thumb brushes his lower lip, and the semi-hysterical smile that had been there immediately falls off of his face as he nearly flinches at the touch.

“Look, Grantaire,” she says, looking as sweet and certain as she always does, “I think I’m finally ready to be with you, and little Beatrice again.”

Grantaire feels his eyes widen a fraction.

“We can be a family,” Camille says, and her eyes aren’t hopeful, they’re assured, as if Grantaire saying no hasn’t even crossed her mind. And it probably hasn’t. She’s always had a one track mind.

For one, weak, tremulous moment, he almost falls for it.

When he’d pictured this scenario in his mind, days after she left, he’d thought he would be nothing but happy if Camille came back. He’d welcome her back into his life, and they’d make things work. Grantaire would let her do whatever she wanted, as long as they could be together raising their child.

He had just wanted to be enough.

But that scenario had her coming back a few days later, not years. And since then, he’s changed. Slowly, sure, but he likes to think that he’s stronger now than he had been before. He had raised Bea on his own, and Bea had grown from their baby to his daughter.

She’d grown up without a mom, and that is, and will always be, Camille’s fault.

“Why now,” he asks, feeling hoarse, the question coming out more as a statement. There’s a burning in the back of his throat, and he tries to swallow it down. Camille looks at him, seeming surprised he didn’t jump for joy at her offer, but her features smooth a moment later, and she sighs, dropping the hand that had been on his cheek back to the table.

“I saw you at The Castle,” she admits, finally, eyes glimmering with opportunity, “Just for like, a moment, in the crowd. And it reminded me of…well, us. How we used to be.”

And there it is: the real truth.

Grantaire hears Eponine suck in a small breath behind them, at the same moment that he feels himself stop breathing. The hand on his feels like a weight, pinning him to the table.

He remembers her parting note. The argument they’d had the night that she packed up and left. He knows that Camille had resented him for wanting to keep them both sober, even post pregnancy. It had been the only responsible thing to do, but Camille had detested not getting her way.

Of course. Of fucking course she would come back now, assuming that Grantaire had given up on staying sober. So they could get back to normal. She can jump in and be a parent once the hard part is over, and not have to sacrifice a thing.

"I wasn't there to party, I was bringing a friend home," he says tightly. He can feel his fingers beginning to tremble.

Camille looks at him with this face that just screams disbelief, and Grantaire feels like he’s going to boil over.

"We don't have to lie to each other, R, I know you," Camille says, "Better than most care to."

And that does hurt. Because he knows it's true. He knows he’s not an easy person to like, and that he’s disappointed and failed nearly every single person he’s ever known at one point or another. But what hurts more is that this woman, who knew him inside and out, still doesn't believe he's capable of not being a fuck up in anything but a temporary sense.

"Why don't we go for a drink? My treat. We can catch up," Camille says, eyes sparkling in that way it does when she's getting her way. And Grantaire can't take it anymore.

He pulls away his hand from hers, finally, nerves screaming for joy to be free. Both of his hands are quaking a bit, bursting with anxiety, and hurt, and anger that he cannot release.

“My break is over,” he lies. In truth, it’s not even half gone, but he can’t sit here any longer. He pushes out his chair, going to stand on stiff legs.

Camille seems to finally notice that something is wrong, her face falling in an instant, looking confused and a little hurt. It just makes Grantaire more fucking furious. She stands as well, reaching out again to touch his arm, always seeking out a point of contact, and Grantaire stills, fighting the urge to tear it away.

“Hang on,” she says, and Grantaire can practically see the cogs turning behind those big brown eyes. They seem to settle after a moment, and Camille gives him another smile, this one looking sad, and more than a little rehearsed. “At the very least, can I meet Bea?”

Grantaire isn’t sure whether Camille genuinely wants to meet her, or if this is some last-ditch effort to make sure they see each other again so she can try to wear him down. Either way, he feels his stomach go cold.

“She’s my daughter too, R,” Camille says. And Grantaire wants to snap at her, and completely deny it, because Camille has never once acted like it. But he knows that he can’t. He’s quiet for a moment, hands still trembling at his sides.

“I’ll have to think about it,” he says, finally, feeling defeated to even have given her this much. Camille grins, knowing it’s a victory. She lets his arm go, and quickly leans on the table, scribbling something on a napkin and pressing it into one of his hands.

“My number, since yours has apparently changed. I’ll be waiting,” she says, eyes back to that warm, welcoming demeanor. She leans up, and kisses his cheek, familiar as always. Grantaire barely holds back another full body flinch.

He has never felt so dirty in his life.

Turning with barely a mumbled goodbye, he finally extricates himself from Camille. He balls up the napkin, shoving it into one of his apron pockets, and finally turns and looks out into the bookstore for an escape.

Instead, he finds Enjolras, standing in the cramped History/Religion/Politics section nearby the cafe, expression unreadable. Grantaire remembers, numbly, the jingle of the bell on the front door.

He’s got faint bags under his eyes, matching Grantaire’s, and his posture is rigid as a board, staring towards the cafe, hands tight around his bag's strap. The expression that on first glance looked blank, is taut, as if bracing for a blow. But when he sees Grantaire’s expression, his face flickers from that odd, rigid blank, to immediate concern, and it’s so earnest an expression that Grantaire nearly stops in his tracks. But he can still feel Camille looking at him from the cafe, and he’s roiling, and burning up from the inside out, and it’s all he can do not to just walk out the front door and just keep walking.

He doesn’t want to leave Enjolras looking like that, though. So, he forces up a smile, unable to tell how convincing it is.

He doubts that it’s all that successful.

“I’m gonna need to rain check on lunch,” he musters when he gets close enough, “Sorry.”

“That’s…fine, R,” Enjolras says, eyes searching his face, still looking too worried for him of all people, “Are you—”

“I’m fine,” Grantaire says, his voice clipped. He feels bad for cutting him off like that, especially after how they left things last night, but if anyone asks him if he’s okay, he knows he’s going to fall apart. He needs to get out before that happens. He’s still walking, brushing past Enjolras’ shoulder now. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

He doesn’t wait for a response, making a beeline for the back door of the One Page More, beside the art and photography section. Grantaire swings the door wide open, snaps it shut behind him, and sits down on the mossy curb next to a trash can. He rests his elbows on his knees, and scrubs his face with both hands. They haven’t stopped shaking.

His eyes sting, and his chest aches, and he is so, so angry.

He’d kill for a drink right now.

And he feels pathetic for how badly he wants it, especially after what Camille said.

He tries his method of counting down from a hundred, but keeps losing focus after only a few numbers. His breathing won’t go steady. It stays ragged and wet, and too much and not enough.

After a minute, the door behind him opens, and Grantaire goes stiff. After a second of quiet, he warily peeks out from under one palm, and spots familiar worn, brown leather shoes.

Of course. Of fucking course Enjolras can’t leave well enough alone.

Grantaire wipes at his eyes, trying to be subtle even though he knows it’s not doing much good. He’s sniffling, and embarrassed, and angry, and a fucking mess. He knows he’s a mess. He hears, and feels Enjolras move, stepping forward, away from the door, and then sitting beside him on the curb

“You’re going to get your pants dirty,” Grantaire says, his voice coming out thick and wet despite his best efforts.

“So are you,” Enjolras says, ever the contrarian, but his voice is gentle. It only makes Grantaire more embarrassed.

The fact is, Enjolras has seen him worse off. He’s seen Grantaire vomit into a fucking school trash can, and get wasted at parties, and generally be a fucking tool. There shouldn’t be anything to be embarrassed about. And yet, breaking down like this feels worse.

He doesn’t think anyone has seen him cry in years. He does his best to hold himself in control, jaw tense and eyes squeezed shut behind his hands. He feels exposed, exhausted, and completely fucking vulnerable. And the fact that it’s Enjolras seeing him like this definitely isn't helping.

Enjolras shifts beside him, and he’s not sure why until he feels a hand on his back. He flinches on impulse, and then settles into the touch. It rests, and then moves in small circles, soothing, comfortable, and safe.

Grantaire swallows hard, and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes.

They sit for a while like that, Enjolras silently rubbing his back, and easing away his stress. It’s not a total fix, but it gives him something to focus on, so he can get his breathing right, and he’s grateful for it.

Eventually, when he feels calm enough, he drops the hands from his face to between his legs, his face going to rest on his knees instead.

“How much did you hear?” he asks, and almost doesn’t want to know the answer. He knows that Eponine heard everything, given the gasp he’d picked up, and that’s kind of mortifying already.

Enjolras’ hand is still on his back, but it just rests there now, still as an anchor, keeping him grounded.

“Only a bit,” Enjolras says, sounding a little guilty all the same, “I tried not to eavesdrop.”

Grantaire blows out a breath. He doesn’t really feel relieved, though; all of his skin feels like it’s itching, prickling in a way that isn’t easy to fix. He knows from experience that the only way to fix it is to wait it out. Logically, he knows that talking about it would probably relieve his anxious nerves faster, but his throat feels stuck, a dam he doesn’t dare to break. If he speaks too quickly he might cry in earnest.

“That was Camille, wasn’t it,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire tenses, fingers knotting together between his knees. The way he says it isn’t really a question; Enjolras has seen Camille, although only in that one picture Grantaire somehow missed deleting from his phone. There’s a note of resignation to his tone that Grantaire doesn’t have a chance to question it before Enjolras continues gently, “She has Bea’s eyes.”

Grantaire presses his lips together. It has taken him years to not make the comparison every time he looks at his daughter. The resemblance there really is uncanny.

“Yeah,” he says, speaking to the gravel under his shoes. “I know.”

He falls quiet again. Gravel crunches underfoot as he shifts slightly. And he thinks that maybe, if it’s Enjolras, it might be okay to try to talk. He doesn’t know how far he’ll get, but he does know that he’s shared more with this person than he has with almost anyone. And Enjolras will listen.

Grantaire feels like he owes it to him to try.

He waits until his breathing feels steady again, and speaks, slow and quiet.

“She wants to give things another try.”

The hand on his back stills completely, the touch going tense. And there’s a long, long pause.

“Are you going to?” Enjolras asks, finally, and his voice sounds oddly tight.

And Grantaire knows how easy it would be for him to go back to Camille. He knows that if he did, she could convince him that things are fine, and he would slip back to how he used to be. And it would be easy. So fucking easy.

But he also knows that he can't.

He can't go back to drinking and partying. He can't go back to feeling like Camille won't leave at the drop of a hat. And he can't put Bea through any of it.

"No," he says, and knows that it’s the right answer. He hasn’t been in love with Camille for a long time, and he hasn’t liked who he is around her for longer than that. He feels some of the tension release from the hand on his back. None of the tension leaves his own body at the admission, though.

While he is mad that Camille came back only now, the fear of what she wants is also beginning to set in. Grantaire can tell her that he doesn’t want her in his life, and she might respect that eventually. But Bea…Bea makes things complicated.

He lifts his head from its resting position on his knees, but still can’t bring himself to look at Enjolras, eyes fixed on details around them instead. Eponine’s black hatchback, parked beside his own terribly parked car. A stray newspaper on the ground. The shitty graffiti someone did of a cat that’s been on the neighboring building’s back wall for months.

“She wants to meet Bea,” he says, and his voice does break a little, despite him doing his best to hold it together. The shitty cat graffiti starts to look blurry, muddled by the tears stinging his eyes again. He blinks fast to clear them, fingers knotted all the tighter in front of him, “She basically said she wants to try being a mom again. As if that’s something you can just try, and I don't—"

His breath hitches a little, and he has to take a second to try to get it back to normal. It's hard when his brain feels like it's on fire, moving from thought to thought, none of them good, nor all that productive. He's spiraling, and he knows it, and that only makes it worse.

He keeps going down rabbit holes, whether he wants to or not. His mind sticks on each clinging thought, only to get stuck in a new one three seconds later.

Grantaire has spent Bea’s childhood trying to make sure that she feels wanted, but more specifically, he never wants her to feel abandoned.

Introducing Camille as her mom begs the question, where the fuck was she before? Bea is a smart kid, and she’s never been one to shy away from asking questions.

And then there’s the concern that Camille will meet her once, and decide again that being a mom isn’t for her. Grantaire can take being ditched again; he’s incredibly practiced with rejection. But he doubts it would be anything but traumatic for a seven year old.

Bea is his whole world. He can’t take her being treated like an afterthought.

But…Camille is her mom. Whether she’s acted like one or not for all these years, Grantaire doesn’t know if he can or should deny her the chance to meet her daughter.

He flinches, hissing softly, suddenly feeling a pain in his hand, and notices that he’s been picking at that spot on his thumb again. When he looks down, he sees a bead of blood forming near the left side of his cuticle, the skin there raw and stinging.

He balls his hand into a fist around his damaged thumb, and tries to focus on the hand on his back again, that warmth the only contrast to the anxiety whipping around his brain.

"I don't know what to do," he manages, finally finishing his thought, though it comes out as a near whisper, spoken to his shoes. The hand on his back stills, and then moves away, and his whole back shivers from the loss of contact. Grantaire turns, panicked, trying to see why Enjolras pulled away, but finds instead that he’s closer than before, arms wrapping around Grantaire’s shoulders, looking hesitant but determined.

And just like that, he’s being gently pulled in, and there are arms holding him close, and he realizes that Enjolras is hugging him. Grantaire’s face is pressed to Enjolras’ shoulder, nose buried in the soft knit of his sweater, and full instantly of that sweet lemongrass smell. Soft gold curls brush at his temple. Strong, slender hands are on his back again, splayed and bracing.

He stares, wide-eyed over Enjolras' shoulder, feeling frozen, because this can't really be happening. Grantaire has hugged nearly everyone in the ABC at one point or another, but never Enjolras. Enjolras wouldn't want to, and Grantaire wouldn't dare, so it just wouldn't happen. Especially not after last night, since Grantaire had been pretty certain up until about five seconds ago that he ruined everything.

But it is. Somehow, it is.

He can feel Enjolras' breath, soft and steady against his own shoulder, and the hands on his back stay put, making no move to pull away, an anchor, desperately trying to keep him steady through the storm blowing through his mind. Enjolras doesn't offer platitudes, empty 'it'll be okays', and 'don't worry's, just the steady reassurance of his touch. And it's enough. Enough to let him know, wordlessly, that he is not alone to weather this storm.

It takes a few seconds to get over the shock of being enveloped so completely, but the moment he does, it’s like something in him gives. All at once, fat, uncontrolled tears are welling up, and he doesn’t have a hope in the world of stopping them.

Their positioning is awkward; neither of them are angled right for this, Grantaire having been facing mostly forward. Grantaire moves falteringly, his body twisting in the arms around him so he can return the embrace, his hands grasping at the soft texture of Enjolras’ sweater like a lifeline, and he lets himself cry. For himself, for Bea, for what’s coming, and for how nice it feels just to be held.

A minute passes in silence, only broken by Grantaire’s barely muffled gasps and sniffles. He’s leaving a big, wet splotch on Enjolras’ shoulder. He knows it, and can’t bring himself to care.

Finally, his shoulders stop their soft shaking, and his breathing evens out. Grantaire feels a little boneless, the embarrassment beginning to set in again, despite his best efforts to keep it at bay. His nose is still pressed into the crook of Enjolras’ shoulder, and he allows himself to rest there for a moment, eyes closed, savoring the warmth.

He finds the strength to pull away a moment later, though it pains him to do so. Enjolras’ arms relent immediately, as though expecting to have been rejected in the first place, and making up for lost time. Grantaire scrubs at his eyes with his now free hands, his left still balled into a fist to hide his bleeding thumb. When his face is dry, if a little raw, he forces himself to meet Enjolras’ eyes.

Enjolras looks lost. It's not an expression Grantaire can concretely say he's ever seen on him, and he thinks it must be a crime to have made him make a face like that, the lines of it all speaking only of concern. He looks away an instant later, the intensity of those blue eyes hard to look at for long, especially when he knows he looks like a fucking train wreck. He tries to force up a small smile, but it just comes up wrong, the cut of his mouth more tight and twisted than it should be.

“...I don’t think I can go back in there,” he murmurs, looking back down at the wet gravel underfoot, his words muddled both by his own tight throat. He still has until 3:30 that he’s supposed to be working today, but the idea of having to go back to work right now, where Camille can just walk in whenever she wants to, makes him want to throw up.

Enjolras shifts beside him, not moving to touch him again, instead standing from the curb. He brushes off his pants, and extends a hand down in Grantaire’s direction. Grantaire meets his eyes again, confused.

“If you need somewhere to go for a bit,” Enjolras says, voice coming out soft and hesitant, “You’re welcome to come to my place.”

Grantaire’s sore eyes flick from the hand, up to Enjolras, whose face looks nervous but sure.

"You don't need to do that, dude," Grantaire says, doing his best to look more okay than he feels. The offer is incredibly tempting, but he can't quite push away that knee-jerk reaction that he's a burden. Enjolras has already done a lot for him just by sitting out here as long as he has, especially after their fight last night, and Grantaire is terrified of the moment he knows has to be coming where he oversteps. He swipes his wrist under his nose, and continues, "I'm fine, I'll just...I'll suck it up."

Enjolras stares back at him, face determined, and his hand still extended.

"You're clearly not fine," he says, voice at the exact line between caring and exasperation. It softens entirely when he speaks again, adding, "Please. I want you to come, R."

He pauses, and adds quietly, "Think of it as getting our lunch break. If that helps."

Grantaire studies Enjolras’ expression, looking for any sign that he’s just trying to be kind, that Grantaire would be imposing on him if he says yes, but surprisingly, after a few seconds of searching, he comes up empty.

When he smiles this time it’s still weaker than he wants, but it’s real. He takes the hand offered to him, and stands.

“Let me text Eponine,” he says, once he’s on his feet, and Enjolras drops his hand, letting him step away for a second. Grantaire wipes at his nose and eyes, and pulls his phone out, seeing he already has a text waiting.

From: 🦇 Eponine 🦇
12:45pm, November 15:
-----
enjolras find you okay?

Grantaire kind of hates that she knows already, but doesn’t have the energy to push back, even after their conversation last night. So he just types out a quick message, not wanting to leave her in the dust.

From: Grantaire
12:50pm, November 15:
-----
he did
im going to his place for a little bit to cool down
do you mind telling javert im not feeling well?

They may have been giving each other the silent treatment this morning, but Eponine is still his best friend, and Grantaire knows she cares. She’s better at compartmentalizing than anyone he’s ever met, and he’s glad for it now. He thinks if she was still ignoring him on top of everything with Camille, he’d probably lose it. It’s barely a moment later that he gets a text back

From: 🦇 Eponine 🦇
12:50pm, November 15:
-----
you got it.
let me know if you need anything else.

Grantaire sends a final text to her to say thank you, then slides his phone into his apron. He turns back to Enjolras, taking a deep breath.

“Okay,” he says, “Good to go. If you haven’t changed your mind.”

Enjolras smiles, and they turn, walking side by side down the sidewalk, away from the bookstore, and away from Camille.

Chapter Text

The walk to Enjolras’ apartment is quick, and quiet, punctuated only by the occasional lingering sniffle that Grantaire tries to keep as quiet as possible. Enjolras is keeping his hands to himself now, occupied with the strap of his messenger bag, and Grantaire almost wants to reach out and touch him himself, just for the comfort he knows the touch will bring. But he’s also not sure where the line is. Enjolras had been okay with touching him enough to hug him, but he might have just been trying to be kind. Grantaire isn’t sure what would be too far when it comes to touching Enjolras, especially after last night, and how they left things.

He still needs to make amends for that. But it will have to wait for a while. He might cry again if he tries to pick open that wound right now.

That’s not exactly high on his to-do list. Aside from the embarrassment of it all, he’s not sure his eyes could handle it.

When they reach the familiar brick building and its worn front steps, Enjolras steps forward, pulling his key ring from a pocket of his bag, and slots it into the lock. The door is pushed open a second later, and they both step into a cramped entryway. Enjolras holds the door open so that Grantaire can get inside, and then shuts it behind them with a click.

The first thing Grantaire notices is that Enjolras’ apartment is messier than he expects.

He takes a cursory glance around while he removes his shoes, and a more detailed one as Enjolras leads him to the living room. The entryway is fairly clean; there’s a peg hook by the door for jackets, but there’s only one jacket to speak of on it. Same for the shoe rack a few feet away from the door, empty until he and Enjolras put their shoes neatly side by side on it.

The mess begins in the living room. It’s a semi-cramped room with beige, plaster walls, and simple furniture. The worn leather couch, faced in towards a non-functioning fireplace, has what looks like a handmade quilt hanging haphazardly over the back, fraying at the edges, and a couple of slumped, understuffed pillows on either end. In front of it sits a coffee table, nearly completely blanketed in papers and thick law books. A half-empty, long cold mug of tea acts as a paperweight.

The mug has “Leftist Tears” printed on the side in gaudy military font, an ironic gift from someone in the group, he’s sure.

A tall, slim bookcase stands on the right side of the fireplace, and on the other side sits an old, comfortable looking, high backed leather chair. The headrest is peeling from use. A red pouf sits in front of it, indented in the middle where he’s sure legs sit on it often. A book sits lying open flat on the bricks in front of the fireplace beside the chair. Not bookmarked, literally just sitting open where Enjolras apparently stopped reading it, pages to the ground.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Enjolras says, looking a little self-conscious as Grantaire looks around, and going to hastily shuffle the papers on the coffee table into a couple of neat stacks. Grantaire watches him, hands balled in his apron he forgot to take off, and shifting from foot to foot.

He’d said yes to coming mostly on a whim, wanting to be anywhere but the bookstore right then. But now that he’s here…he’s struck with that odd sense of intimacy again, same as the night Enjolras had come over for pizza. This time, though, he’s the intruder. It’s a distracting feeling, at least. He has plenty to look at to keep his mind off of Camille, and everything that comes with her. And that’s exactly what he needs right now. Distraction.

He doesn’t really want to talk about Camille right now, and he said as much on the walk over. He thinks that if he tries to do that again before he’s had a chance to really process, it’ll only serve to stall out his brain more than it already has. Thankfully, Enjolras seemed to understand.

Still, now that they’re here, he has new concerns. It's hard for Grantaire not to think about how today is the first time they've been truly alone together. Not counting the car ride after the incident at The Castle. He wonders if Enjolras has realized it too, and if he cares. It probably doesn't feel as monumental an occasion to him.

Enjolras has finished tidying, the papers and folders now stacked on top of a couple of the law textbooks in little towers. He’s holding the Leftist Tears mug, and turns back to Grantaire.

“I’m going to heat this up. Can I get you anything to drink?” he asks.

“Vodka would be amazing,” Grantaire replies, dryly. Enjolras’ face is immediately a mask of barely disguised panic, and Grantaire snorts.

“Kidding,” he says, which is mostly the truth. He wills it to be the whole truth, and is not entirely successful, “Whatever you’re having would be great.”

The look Enjolras fixes him with does not look entirely convinced, but he turns anyway, and goes into the next room, presumably the kitchen, to get them their drinks. Grantaire, still standing at the entry of the living room, finally takes a step across the threshold. He tries sitting on the couch first, but immediately finds himself too antsy to sit still, and stands again.

He moves to the bookshelf on the right of the fireplace, and finds it crammed with textbooks, and a smattering of books that were probably for the book club. He sees the Napoleon biography Enjolras mentioned Marius picking tucked on the bottom shelf, and smiles, then spots the few that he’s recommended scattered amongst the middle shelves. When he takes one out, a hardcover copy of The Midnight Library by Matt Haig, he sees many of the pages throughout have been folded and unfolded at the corners.

His heart swells a little to know that Enjolras does actually read what he recommends. He knew that he probably did, but it’s another thing to see absolute, physical proof.

Grantaire pushes the book back into place, and looks through a few more that he recommended for the next couple of minutes. All of them have the same wear, read all the way to the end.

He’s about to shift to another level of the shelf when he spots the picture hanging on the wall perpendicular to the bookshelf. It’s small, probably only five inches wide, and hung in a simple wooden frame. It takes him a couple seconds to process what it is, but when he does, he can’t take his eyes away.

The picture in the frame is old, and creased in a few places, but he can see the old ABC club room clear as day. Everyone is scrunched into frame, sitting on top of desks, and some sitting in front of those.

Jehan’s hair is short, tied up in two tiny pigtails at the base of their neck, grinning a familiar toothy grin. Courfeyrac sits beside Jehan, leaning on them in a dramatic swoon. Feuilly sits beside them, a book still in his hand as if he couldn’t even spare a moment for the picture to put it down. Marius and Cosette are clearly already together, her blonde head resting on Marius’ shoulder. Marius looks like he’s died and gone to heaven. Bahorel is flexing at the back of the group, near Joly, Musichetta and Bossuet, all piled together, Joly and Musichetta’s cheeks pressed to Bossuet’s. And dead center, Combeferre and Enjolras stand, Combeferre’s arm thrown casually over Enjolras’ shoulder, both of them smiling. Enjolras looks caught mid-laugh, radiant as ever. A perfect focal point.

Grantaire isn’t there.

He knows from the length of Jehan’s hair alone that this had to have been taken after he left the group. And he knows it’s his own fault that he’s not there, but still, he feels a twist in his stomach to see so clearly what he missed.

And the thing is, the group looks so natural without him in it. There’s no space where he should be, the frame full to bursting with people who all clearly care about each other, so much so that the picture practically glows with warmth. It’s a stupid, self-conscious thought, and he knows it. But he also doesn’t have space in his head to stop it right now.

“Feuilly is supposed to be back for the holidays,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire jumps, not having heard him come back into the living room. He’s carrying two steaming mugs, a tea bag settled into each one.

“Is he,” Grantaire says, stumbling a little over his words. He feels like he’s been caught looking at something he shouldn’t, like the memories of the ABC after he left are sacred, and he’s a heathen. Enjolras just nods, holding out the mug from his left hand for Grantaire to take.

“When he gets back, we can take another one. With everyone,” Enjolras says, looking from the picture back to him. And Grantaire feels the lump he’d banished from his throat come back. He wonders what expression he had been making for Enjolras to see right through him like that.

He offers a shaky smile, and takes the mug Enjolras offers, focusing on the near scalding ceramic rather than the tell-tale sting he feels in his eyes.

Looking for a distraction to keep himself from cracking and spilling over, he eyes the mug he’s been handed. It’s a soft pink, the flowery cursive in white on one side reading simply, “Bitch Fuel”. It’s enough to make him snort, holding it up for Enjolras to read, as if Enjolras doesn’t know what his own mug says, his eyebrows raised.

“Family heirloom, I assume?” he asks. Enjolras just huffs a laugh.

“Jehan and Courf found out I didn’t have much in the way of cups when I moved in here,” he says, “They haven’t stopped giving me terrible mugs since.”

“Ah,” Grantaire says, understanding. He takes a sip of the swirling amber drink. It’s bitter, and definitely too hot to drink quickly, but he’s glad to have something to occupy his hands with.

He doesn’t want to get drawn back into the picture on the wall, so he turns, and heads back to the couch, flopping down next to one of the under-stuffed pillows. Enjolras follows, sitting beside him and taking a sip from his own mug.

He sets it on the coffee table near the stacked papers a moment later, and unprompted, extends his hand again, wordlessly holding out something else for Grantaire to take. He looks down, curious, and feels a quiet mix of shame and appreciation curling in his gut.

Clasped in Enjolras’ slender fingers is a bandaid, one of those special four-pronged ones made for putting on finger injuries.

Grantaire stares at it, his torn up thumb still stinging in his closed fist. He’s not sure how or when Enjolras noticed he’s bleeding, but evidently he has. Grantaire swallows his embarrassment, and sets his own mug on the table, reaching out to take the bandaid with his right hand.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, unable to meet Enjolras’ eyes again. He’s acutely aware of the fact that Enjolras is paying attention to him as he opens the bandage, and wraps it carefully around his left thumb, protecting it from any further abuse.

They sit and drink their tea for a few minutes, Grantaire absently rubbing the texture of the bandaid with his index finger, now that it’s properly covering his thumb. It’s hard not to wonder, if Enjolras noticed that, what else he notices. How much he pays attention to him. It’s both touching, and terrifying.

Grantaire doesn’t really know what to do with himself. His eyes are dry, and now more sore than anything, and by the time his mug is half empty, he feels mostly fine. He doesn’t think he’ll be completely fine for a while yet, but he’s getting there.

His knee brushes against Enjolras’ on the couch, and he nearly pulls it away, but decides after a moment that if Enjolras doesn’t, then he won’t worry about it. He lets the contact fall over him like a blanket, soothing like the embrace earlier had been.

It’s hard to deny, even for him, that they are definitely closer than they ever have been. Even after last night, his shitty fucking brain can’t come up with a reason to say maybe Enjolras hates him, just secretly. He wouldn’t have invited him over here if he hated him entirely because of their conversation.

The butterflies in his stomach are helping to push away the anger and hurt from Camille, but it’s almost scarier to feel himself getting comfortable like this. Enjolras keeps glancing at him while he sips his tea, looking earnest and concerned, and it’s adorable. Grantaire has to down a long swig of his tea to resist saying something entirely too honest.

He is still feeling antsy, the anxiety that bubbled over earlier still simmering, along with a low pit of quiet anger. But it’s manageable now, the walk here, and the tea, and the comfortable quiet easing his nerves. He pulls his right leg up underneath him, getting into a more comfortable sitting position, now leaning against the slumped pillows and trying to look more casual than he feels.

“Thank you for this,” he says after a while, somewhat stilted, holding up his Bitch Fuel mug, “And for, y’know, letting me come over. You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to,” Enjolras says, and seems to mean it, smiling into his own cup as he glances Grantaire’s direction, “You’re welcome anytime.”

“Careful,” Grantaire replies, smiling mischievously, “If you don’t set limits you might end up regretting it. I don’t think you’d want me knocking at three in the morning.”

“Depending on the circumstances, I don’t know that I’d mind,” Enjolras says, a challenging gleam in his eye, and Grantaire raises his eyebrows, his smile turning to a grin more easily than he would have expected, given the day he’s had.

“Oh yeah?” he challenges. “What if I came over unannounced at midnight for a movie marathon?”

“Depends on the movies,” Enjolras shrugs.

“If I have some important news that just can’t wait until a reasonable hour?”

“I’d prefer you text, but if it’s important, maybe.”

“Four in the morning booty call?”

Grantaire expects a scoff, and for Enjolras to finally absolutely turn down his joke scenario, but instead, his face goes red all the way to the tips of his ears, and his lips part, and then close again, as if his answer is stuck in his throat.

Grantaire remembers last night again, just a second too late, and immediately feels his stomach sink for overstepping. Christ, he’s a fucking idiot.

“You don’t have to answer that,” Grantaire says, backtracking immediately, “Sorry.”

He feels his own face flush, his neck feeling hot. He masks it with another big gulp of tea. Enjolras doesn’t reply, just drinks his own tea, looking away.

When his mug is empty a couple minutes later, he moves to set it back on the coffee table, his left leg beginning to bounce, from having inadvertently made another awkward moment. Enjolras notices him putting it down, though, and holds out a hand to take it.

“If you’re done, I’ll wash up,” he offers, and his expression looks normal again, for the most part. His cheeks still look a little pink, and his eyes look tired, but he seems…okay. Grantaire gives up his mug without complaint, and Enjolras stands and heads back into the kitchen.

Grantaire tries to sit still and stay put on the couch, but the moment Enjolras is out of the room, he’s antsy again. Being alone means being alone with his thoughts, and they’re decidedly not great right now. So, only half a minute after Enjolras leaves, Grantaire hears the kitchen sink running, and he’s on his feet and following.

The entry to the kitchen is just a push door from the living room, on the right side of the couch. It swings in when Grantaire touches it, hardly making a sound, and giving him another glimpse into Enjolras’ home.

Like the living room, it’s kept simple, but messy in a way that speaks of a person who keeps busy. There’s no dining table, just a couple bar stools along a kitchen island, which is cluttered like the coffee table in the other room is. There’s some unopened mail, and papers to one side, a bowl with some fruit, a paper towel roll on a simple wood stand, and a half empty glass of water.

Enjolras himself is standing at the sink, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, scrubbing at his mug, and Grantaire is momentarily distracted by the picture of him. It feels like a contradiction to see Enjolras doing something domestic. He watches him scrub, rinse, and put the cup on a nearby drying rack, then move on to the pink one Grantaire had been using.

And for a moment, he wonders if this is what it would be like to be with him. If, in some dream reality where Grantaire is what Enjolras wants, he could walk into the kitchen just like this, and they’d talk, and joke, and do the dishes together. The image is a good one, and he aches to know it will only ever be something for him to daydream about.

He wonders how, when his dreams are so fucking small, that it’s possible that they’re still so out of reach.

Enjolras turns off the sink, and reaches for a towel hung on the oven door to dry his hands. He’ll turn around any second, and the illusion will be gone. Grantaire chooses to end it himself, walking to one of the bar stools and sitting down.

The scrape of the stool being pulled is enough to draw Enjolras’ attention, and he flinches a little at the sudden company. Grantaire smiles apologetically, trying not to disturb the organized chaos in front of him on the island. Only then do his eyes fall on the fridge, where he sees the painting Bea did at that first book club they attended, still pinned front and center with the small crimson flag magnet.

“You kept it,” he says, surprised, and touched, despite himself. Enjolras follows Grantaire’s eyes to the painting, and then back.

“It was a gift,” he says, with so much indignation that Grantaire can’t help but laugh.

“Yeah, from a seven year old who will literally never call you on it if you don’t keep it up,” Grantaire counters. He’s had to put up and take down so many pieces over the years that at this point, the idea of one being up for over a month is a little insane. He does keep them (most of them, anyway) in a shoebox in the closet so he and Bea can look back on her old work later.

But he’s her dad. Enjolras really doesn’t have to. Just like he hadn’t had to help Grantaire pick a book for the club, and just like he hadn’t had to bring Grantaire over today.

And yet, he had.

“I’m not willing to take my chances with that,” Enjolras replies, flicking the remaining water from his hands at Grantaire. Most of it just lands on the clutter blanketing the island. Enjolras doesn’t seem to care as long as some drops find their mark.

Grantaire flinches at the sudden wetness, swiping a hand over his face and arms where the drops landed, still smiling.

“Oh,” he says, reaching for the half empty glass beside him, “Do you want to start a war?”

Enjolras’ eyes flick from him to the glass, and for an instant, Grantaire thinks he’s going to reject the idea outright. The threat he’s presenting is mostly a joke, to be fair, and the Enjolras he knew in high school probably never would have gone for it. Not with him, anyway. But Grantaire is desperate enough for a distraction that he thinks it’s worth it to ask.

Instead of the rejection he expects to get, Enjolras pauses, just long enough for Grantaire to hesitate, and then ducks behind the island, and comes back up brandishing a squirt bottle like a pistol.

“Shit,” is all Grantaire has time to say before he’s hit point-blank with a spritz of cold water to the face. He splutters, swiping the wet away as best he can, and ducks behind the island with his glass, grinning in surprise.

The next few minutes are a blur of motion, Grantaire’s scattershot of droplets from dunking his hand into the glass contrasting with Enjolras’ accurate snipes across the island and creating a wet mess. Each of them land a few good shots, and a lot of terrible ones. The island itself is the main victim, and Grantaire hopes that the few stacked papers near the mail aren’t too important.

They reach somewhat of a stalemate fairly quickly; in such close quarters, it’s hard to have many tricks up your sleeve. Grantaire is panting in his crouched position behind the island, the rapid squatting and rising doing him in.

“How does one of us win this?” he asks, dipping his fingers into the glass again.

“It’s to the death, obviously,” comes Enjolras’ dry reply, from over the counter, and Grantaire laughs.

“Well that’s a shame,” he replies, “There’s no way we can call a truce?”

“Spoken like the inevitable loser,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire can practically feel the smug look on his face.

“Oh, you dick,” He says, setting his glass down and beginning to crawl to the right side of the island to make a sneak attack, “And here I was trying to offer you a way out.”

“I don’t need one,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire starts, because suddenly the voice is directly behind him. He whirls around. Enjolras is standing at his full height, having apparently snuck around the island first, the squirt bottle poised to shoot. He doesn’t even have time to speak, his words dissolving into an unfortunate yelp as Enjolras shoots, over and over again, positively drenching his head and shoulders.

“You got me, you got me! Christ, Enj!” he nearly shouts, hands coming up to block some of the spray as he falls back onto the floor. He can hear Enjolras laughing, but can’t fully appreciate it with the barrage still coming at him. It stops after a couple more seconds. For good measure, he assumes. Grantaire wipes fruitlessly at his face, trying to at least get his eyes dry so he can see again. When his eyes are clear enough, he blinks them open, and finds that Enjolras is standing over him, grinning in triumph.

And that is an image that he's not going to be able to get out of his head for a long, long time.

“So you surrender?” he asks. Grantaire lets his head fall back onto the wet floor, laughing softly.

“I don’t think I have a choice,” he says, looking at Enjolras through wet lashes. After taking a moment to get his breath back, he holds out one of his hands, grasping the air, “Help me up will you?”

Enjolras, ever the chivalrous one, obliges without hesitation. He grabs Grantaire’s hand, and helps to haul him to his feet, setting the squirt bottle on the island. When he’s fully on his feet, rather than letting Enjolras’ hand drop, Grantaire holds it firm, his smile going mischievous.

“If I’m going down, you’re going down with me,” he says. Enjolras looks down at their hands, still together, eyes flicking from them to Grantaire with a look of initial surprise, and then dawning horror.

“Don’t—” is all he gets out before Grantaire begins violently shaking his head, like a dog would, the water in his curly hair flying out and splattering Enjolras, as well as just the general area around them. It’s already spotted with water though, so it’s really just collateral damage.

It’s Enjolras’ turn to wipe at his face now, his free hand coming up to dry his eyes with one of his sweater sleeves, which are somehow not entirely damp themselves. And it’s Grantaire’s turn to laugh, breathy and wild.

“Well you certainly seem proud of yourself,” Enjolras grumbles, clearly bitter his victory was sullied.

“I am,” Grantaire says, blinking some residual water out of his eyes. Enjolras just casts him a wry smile, and then looks down between them. Grantaire’s eyes follow them a moment later, and he realizes he’s still clasping Enjolras’ hand tight in his.

He quickly drops it, and busies his hands instead with pulling up the bottom hem of his shirt to try and dry his face better. It’s the only part of his shirt not at least mildly soaked. When he opens his eyes again, Enjolras is looking right at him, that carefully blank expression back in place again, eyes a little wide. When he notices Grantaire is looking, he turns away, almost like a flinch.

“I’ll get some towels,” he offers, and immediately stalks out of the kitchen and back to the living room, presumably to find the linen closet or the bathroom. And Grantaire feels like something is off, but can’t quite place it. It’s hard to tell sometimes when things are actually wrong, or when his brain is working overtime to make him feel like a fuck up.

Soon enough, Enjolras is back, and he does look normal again, so Grantaire decides to ignore the odd sense he got. He takes the towel Enjolras offers him, and dries his face and hair with vigorous strokes. Enjolras does the same. After, they both use their respective towels to mop up any water on the floor and island. Grantaire makes sure to pick up his discarded water glass from the floor, and wash it out in the sink, since his hands were all up in there.

Things are a peaceful sort of quiet again, coming down from the raucousness of their impromptu battle. They make their way back to the living room once they’re mostly dry, towels abandoned on the kitchen island.

Enjolras apparently has no TV, but he does have a laptop. He pulls it out from his bedroom, which is evidently the door on the left of the bathroom, and turns on a sitcom at random to play from the coffee table, the both of them relaxing into the couch cushions.

It’s a decent show, from what Grantaire manages to pay attention to, the show effectively acting as white noise, and it helps. As far as distractions go, being here with Enjolras has been a good one. Better than any he would have made for himself.

They watch a few episodes like that, sitting closer than they probably need to on the couch, scrunched in so they can both comfortably see the fourteen inch laptop screen, and hear the show through tinny speakers. Grantaire brings one leg up to his chest, holding it to him as time passes, hoping that’ll keep it from bouncing in that antsy way it likes to. In general, it does. Unfortunately, it can’t really keep his mind from drifting when the plot of the show starts to lose his interest.

The romantic and comedic leads of the show are arguing, some kind of a miscommunication plot going on that has been falling in and out of context for Grantaire’s scattered brain. The actress does this little smile, that looks judgemental despite its sweetness, and it’s a little too familiar. She does a little snipe at her acting partner, who flinches, and then snaps back.

And just like that, he’s distracted by the wrong things again.

He stares at the screen, not really processing whatever is supposed to be happening, and feels a bit swept away. Grantaire can’t be sure how long he zones out, but eventually, he’s knocked out of it by the screen pausing, mid line.

Enjolras’ shoulder brushes his, still sitting almost too close on the couch, and Grantaire realizes he’s looking at him. He wonders what his own face had looked like to make his eyebrows scrunch like they are.

“What’s up?” Grantaire asks, trying for a casual tone, but instead coming off a little hoarse. That only makes Enjolras’ brows draw together a little more.

“What are you thinking about?” Enjolras asks. Grantaire swallows, then makes to shrug, not wanting to spoil the good mood they’ve stoked up. He nods to the screen, paused on one of the male leads’ shocked faces, perfectly preserved, mouth open.

“How much of an asshole Nate is,” he says. Enjolras frowns.

“His name is Nick,” he says, dryly.

Fuck.

“I was testing you. Congrats dude, you passed,” Grantaire says, but the look Enjolras gives him at that is so steady and piercing he knows that he’s not fooling anyone. He chews the inside of his cheek, and looks away, down at the texture of his pants.

“I know you said you don’t want to talk about it…” Enjolras says, speaking slowly and deliberately, in a way that reminds Grantaire distinctly of a school guidance counselor. He’d only gone to see one a few times, not by choice, but it had left an impression.

“You going to break out some good old fashioned hand puppets and have me talk to them about my problems?” Grantaire asks, trying for a joking tone, but it comes out more defensive than he wants. It’s a knee-jerk reaction, and he feels bad about it the moment the words are out. Enjolras frowns beside him.

“No, I was hoping you could talk to me,” he says, “Since you haven’t been actually watching the show for about two and a half episodes.”

Grantaire pulls his leg in a little tighter to his chest, using it to ground himself. Enjolras just waits, eyes flicking over his face, and he wonders how much Enjolras can read him.

It’s a dizzying thought, that maybe Enjolras knows some of his expressions the way Grantaire knows his.

He seems to know, at the very least, that Grantaire needs a minute to think, and he’s grateful for it.

He’s never been good with talking about his feelings. It’s a big part of the reason things had been so comfortable with Camille. They could talk when things were good, and drink when they were bad. When someone offers you an out, a way to be just comfortable enough by never really addressing anything, it’s easy. Nothing changes, at least not for the better, but it doesn’t matter, because you just decide that it doesn’t.

His brand of emotional nihilism isn’t a good long term solution, though. He knows that.

There’s a beat, Grantaire’s skin buzzing. He doesn’t think he wants to talk about Camille directly. Not with Enjolras. The idea of getting into the nitty gritty of their particular brand of dysfunction with him kind of makes him want to vomit.

He focuses on Enjolras’ thigh pressed close against his, and takes a deep breath.

“Did you know,” he says, feeling both criminal and relieved for breaking the silence, “That the name Beatrice means ‘she that makes me happy’?”

Enjolras doesn’t seem to know what to make of where he’s going with this, confusion tainting his expression. He shakes his head. “I didn’t. Is that why you chose that name?”

Grantaire smiles, and shakes his head.

“I didn’t choose it,” he says, “Camille did.”

When Camille had suggested it, Grantaire had been hesitant, because even then, it had felt like a lot of pressure to put on a kid. Even if names aren’t meant to be prophetic, it had felt to him like it could be a threat: make me happy, or else.

Bea does make him happy now. Sometimes she’s the only thing that keeps him going, and he knows for sure that she’s just about the only good thing he’s had a part in making. But her worth shouldn’t be predicated on that.

He pauses, his finger rubbing again at the bandaid on his thumb, not knowing how much he should say. He’s never really talked about this with anyone, not even Eponine. She was always there when he needed her, but she has never been the person to go to for emotional talks.

“I think…that she thought having a kid would make her happy. Just like. Automatically,” he continues, “And when Bea didn’t magically fix her life, and then I didn’t want to let her go back to drugs and alcohol to fix it….”

He trails off, shrugging as if to say ‘you know the rest’. The words ‘she left me’ stick wet in his throat, so he swallows them down again, and moves on.

“I’ve never talked with Bea about her mom,” he says quietly, ashamed of it even now. He still doesn't know how to broach the subject without accidentally traumatizing her. He knows that the sting of Camille leaving and coming back will eventually be gone for him. He’ll get over it. But Bea…

Kids are more perceptive than adults give them credit for. And that is what’s terrifying him now.

“Has she ever asked?” Enjolras asks, after a beat, leaning back against the couch, seeming relieved that Grantaire has chosen to talk after all.

“I mean. Kind of,” Grantaire says, resting his chin on his knee. Bea had of course noticed that she was an outlier once she got to school. She’d asked him in kindergarten why she only had one parent, and he’d panicked, and asked her how she knew for sure he wasn’t two people. It had, miraculously, stumped her for a little while. She hadn’t really brought it up since. “But as far as she knows I like, laid an egg and she came out, like a fucking dinosaur.”

“That would be painful,” Enjolras says, offering a smile. Grantaire returns it weakly.

“I just,” he says after a pause, “I thought that I could have this talk with Bea when she’s older. Like. When she’s in high school or something. And now it’s here, and I don’t know how to do it without making her feel like she was abandoned.”

He knows from experience that that kind of rejection is hard to get over.

“She wasn’t abandoned by you,” Enjolras offers, the other side of the sentence unsaid, but clear. She actually was abandoned by Camille. Both of them were. His hand comes up to rest on Grantaire’s back again. It’s warm. Grantaire hopes he never takes it off. “She knows you love her, R. She’s a smart kid. ”

“I know,” Grantaire sighs, “She’s too smart for her own good sometimes. I dunno where she got it from.”

Enjolras is quiet again, and when Grantaire looks up, he’s met with a face of pinched disapproval. He smirks, rueful. “You’re going to get wrinkles if you keep making that face.”

“Don’t make me make it, then,” Enjolras says easily, “Forgive me if I don’t like it when my friends are insulted.”

The fact that Enjolras considers them friends is now not a new concept to Grantaire. But it still makes his stomach flutter a little. He smiles into his knee, waving a hand dismissively in Enjolras’ face. “Wasn’t an insult, it was a fact.”

To that, Enjolras just sighs roughly, sounding exasperated. Grantaire elects to ignore it.

“I think I’d be happy to never have to see Camille again,” he admits, kind of surprising himself in the process. Like he’s realizing as he says it. She hurt him, deeper than probably anyone else ever has or will. And she now has the potential to hurt his daughter in the same way.

He can’t bring himself to hate her, but the idea of having to see her regularly so that she can see Bea makes him want to start running and never stop.

“You have full custody of Bea, right?” Enjolras asks. And Grantaire nods. Enjolras nods back. “You don’t have to humor Camille then. With her request to meet Bea. She basically lost rights to see her kid when she lost custody. You don’t owe her visitation.”

And it’s comforting, except in the ways it’s not.

“It’s not just about the legal side of things,” Grantaire says, though he gives Enjolras a thankful smile for his expertise anyway. He looks back at the paused screen, Nate, or Nick, or whatever, still frozen mid speech.

“I don’t know if I can, like, hide Bea’s mom from her like that,” Grantaire murmurs. He takes a breath and continues, rambling now, “I know that the nuclear family isn’t totally necessary for a child to be happy. But what if…what if someday, she finds out that I told Camille she can’t see her, and she resents me for it?”

Enjolras doesn't seem to immediately know what to say to that. The hand on his back is still, that anchor keeping him from floating off in his own brain again.

"I think," Enjolras says eventually, "You might benefit from talking to Cosette about this."

Grantaire glances at him, smiling wryly.

"Tired of me already?" He asks, mostly as a joke. But he is worried, deep down, about whether he's taking too much from Enjolras by being here. He worries about overstepping, or needing too much, whether he wants to or not. He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to not worry about that.

A knot eases in his stomach when Enjolras shakes his head, expression set.

"No," he says, sounding a little offended that Grantaire would ask at all, "I just think she would have some helpful insight."

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. He knows the gist of Cosette's story, thanks to tidbits from Eponine over the years, up to and including ones he only learned a few days ago. But he knows he hasn't gotten the full story yet.

Enjolras looks awkward, as if he's choosing his words carefully. And Grantaire understands. It reminds him of how he felt trying to explain Eponine's past without overstepping.

"She and I aren't the closest, but Marius has mentioned bits of information over the years," Enjolras says after a pause. Grantaire nearly snorts.

"Let me guess, they were completely unprompted 'bits'," Grantaire asks, happy for the distraction. Marius loves, and has always loved, talking about his wife. He talks about Cosette nearly incessantly, to anyone who will listen, regardless of what the conversation had been about previously.

Enjolras returns his smile.

"Well, yes. But that doesn't mean they were completely unhelpful," he says, and his face goes back to a more reserved affect as he continues, "From what I understand, I think she might be uniquely equipped to give advice about this."

That still sounds incredibly vague to Grantaire, but he decides not to push it.

"I'll have to talk to her then," he says, and offers a smile that's stronger than any of the ones before it. "Thank you."

"I wish I could be of more help," Enjolras says, sounding like he's confessing a sin. Guilty and soft. Grantaire snorts, and leans over to bump his shoulder with Enjolras'.

"You're doing plenty," he says, "More than you need to, frankly."

Enjolras looks a little indignant at that, but doesn't argue, seeming distracted by their touching shoulders. And man, they are much closer than Grantaire thought, their faces only a few inches apart. Facing him now, he finds his eyes slipping down to Enjolras' lips, and thinking about how easy it would be to close that distance.

He immediately halts that train of thought, turning back to the laptop, feeling his cheeks warm slightly.

He puts distance back between them, not wanting to make Enjolras uncomfortable. The hand has left his back now, having slid off when Grantaire moved. He immediately misses it.

As a distraction, he pulls up his phone, and checks the time. 3:00. They must have been watching that show for a while. The time being here has passed incredibly quickly.

"Shit,” he says, running a hand through his hair, “I have to pick up Bea soon.”

If he leaves within the next ten minutes, he should be able to walk back to the One Page More and get his car to be there on time. He’s not in a rush, but Grantaire does hate that the day is coming to an end already. Enjolras didn’t have to have him over like this, but he’s grateful he did.

“Do you mind if I use your bathroom?” he asks, standing from the couch. “Tea is going straight through me.”

Enjolras nods, looking distracted.

“It’s the door on the right,” he says, gesturing to it. Grantaire thanks him, and heads inside. The bathroom is plainer than Jehan’s but that’s not exactly hard. The tile floors are plain white, and the whole room looks fairly sterile, the only color coming from the towels on the rack by the shower, and a couple of shampoo bottles.

It’s a jack-and-jill style bathroom, one door going in from the living room, and the other leading into what he has to assume is Enjolras’ bedroom. The door leading to the bedroom is ajar when he enters, and his eyes are drawn to it whether he wants them to be or not. He stares at the partially open door for a moment, able to spot the edge of a bed through it, but not much else, soft lamp light filtering onto the linoleum of the bathroom.

And he tries, he really does try, to ignore the room on the other side of that door. He fidgets, fingers opening and closing on his apron as he looks between the door and the bathroom, knowing that he really shouldn't snoop. But in the end, it’s impossible not to at least peek into the only room in this apartment he hasn’t seen yet. It may be his only chance to look, and his curiosity about how Enjolras lives is too great for its own good. He tells himself he at least won’t step inside, not wanting to break a boundary, but he does step up, cautiously, to the threshold where linoleum meets carpet, and looks into the bedroom.

Like the rest of the apartment, it’s a bit of a controlled mess. There’s a small desk by a slim window, covered like the coffee table in what Grantaire assumes are law school assignments. There’s a small potted snake plant off to the side nearest the window, almost definitely the house plant Combeferre made Enjolras start keeping. The newest version of it, anyway. Its leaves are browning, and beginning to droop, but it's hanging in there. A real trooper.

On the other side of the desk is a small lamp that’s been left on, either accident, or maybe just to act as constant illumination. A dark wood tallboy dresser stands imposing on the right side of the room, standing inside a partially open closet. The other half of the closet is taken up by hanging dress shirts and pants, as well as some cardboard boxes stacked up top.

On the left side of the room, a twin bed takes up the far corner, sheets displaced and messy, and a simple wood night stand beside it, a water glass and book settled close together on the small surface.

Out of everything he sees in the room, though, it’s the bed that catches his attention and keeps it. Grantaire stares, suddenly completely entranced, his hand gripping the door jamb a little harder. It's not the messiness of it, or the color of the sheets. Not even the simple fact that it’s Enjolras’ bed. No, what catches and keeps his attention is what’s sitting rumpled on top of the simple maroon duvet.

Striking green against red, the little alien patch on the pocket where it always is, it’s indisputably the t-shirt he lent Enjolras weeks ago, after their sleepover.

Enjolras had said he’d give it back, but honestly, Grantaire had completely forgotten he’d lent it. He would have assumed Enjolras forgot, too, but…there it is. Sitting front and center on Enjolras’ bed. Like it’s just been worn.

It takes everything he has to resist stepping across the threshold to go pick it up, just to confirm he's not seeing things. But he's not. He knows he's not. He's not even sure Enjolras actually owns a shirt that's not a button up, let alone a graphic tee. It's just not something he'd buy. It's not something he'd usually wear. Maybe he uses it as a sleep shirt?

That thought is enough to make his heart give a little flip, picturing Enjolras, sleepy, wrapped in a blanket and wearing his shirt just like the morning after the sleepover.

Grantaire steps back into the bathroom, trying hard to make the flush creeping up his neck go away. He shuts the door as softly as he can, feeling like he’s definitely overstepped now. He wants to just ask Enjolras directly why he kept it, just to stop his brain from going in circles, but knows that he can't bring it up. Enjolras hadn't said he could go into his room, so Grantaire really shouldn't have even seen it. The shirt isn’t one of his favorites anyway, he’s happy to let Enjolras have it.

He finishes his business and washes his hands, sleep-deprived brain fog doing nothing to calm his whirling brain besides giving him a headache. Worse, his stomach is getting those butterflies again, heart a staccato metronome in his chest at the fact that Enjolras wants to keep something of his around.

It feels intensely personal.

He steps back out of the bathroom a moment later, and heads to grab his shoes from the shoe rack. Enjolras stands when he sees him come back out, going to do the same, but Grantaire stops him with what he hopes passes for a casual wave.

“You’ve done enough today,” he says, and hopes his stuttering heartbeat can’t be detected from feet away. He doesn’t think walking back to the One Page More with Enjolras is a great idea right now. “I can make it back on my own. I’m sure you have other things to do today.”

For emphasis, he gestures to the stacked papers on the coffee table. If Enjolras’ expression is anything to go by, he’s right. Grantaire tries not to feel too guilty about keeping him from it, and fails. But he has so many other things to feel things about right now that it hardly makes a dent.

“Are you sure?” Enjolras asks, only a foot or two away, “I don’t mind walking you back.”

Grantaire nods emphatically.

“You’d just have to walk right back here anyway dude. I’ll be fine,” he says, shrugging, and pulling his shoes on. When he straightens, Enjolras is still standing right there, looking awkward with nothing to do, and Grantaire almost goes in for another hug on impulse, yearning for the feel of that sweater again.

He stops himself, thankfully, instead reaching up to pat Enjolras’ shoulder, and give it a squeeze. And it’s enough.

“Thank you again, for everything,” he says, hoping that Enjolras knows that it does mean a lot to him. With how things went yesterday, he wouldn’t have blamed Enjolras if he didn’t want anything to do with him. Enjolras looks at his hand, then back at his face, and returns the smile Grantaire offers him.

“You’re welcome,” he says.

God, he’s gorgeous.

Grantaire drops his hand back to his side, and turns to the door, knowing from the tingling in his cheeks that he’s going flush again.

“Hopefully we can do lunch tomorrow,” he says, trying again for a casual tone. He opens the door and steps outside, “I’ll try to give you a heads up if something else comes up.”

“It’s a date,” Enjolras says, as if on impulse, and his smile flickers the moment after he says it, expression going a little panicked. Grantaire feels his stomach twist a little, thinking that Enjolras is probably still feeling awkward about what Grantaire told him yesterday. He wants to make that expression go away. So he musters up a passable wry smile as he lets go of the door.

“Ha ha,” he deadpans, shoving his hands into his apron pockets, “Very funny. I’ll see you tomorrow, darling.”

He turns on his heel, and walks down the front steps. He turns back for an instant to wave goodbye before Enjolras can close the door, and freezes, catching a sliver of Enjolras’ face through the closing door. It’s only there for an instant, but Grantaire could swear that the expression he saw last night was back, guarded and inexplicably sad. It’s gone a blink later, when Enjolras meets his eyes, and Enjolras waves goodbye before the door is shut entirely.

Grantaire stares at the wood of the door for a few seconds longer, eyes lingering where Enjolras had been, his gut simmering with worry he’s not sure is warranted. It could have been a trick of the light.

It was probably nothing.

It was almost definitely nothing.

His chest feels tight regardless.

Still, he decides there’s nothing to be done about it right now. He does need to pick up Bea, regardless of his own worries. Slowly, he turns away, and walks back down the sidewalk towards the One Page More, fingers picking absently at the napkin in his pocket with Camille’s number on it.

Chapter Text

Grantaire does his best not to let it show how off he feels to Bea when he picks her up. Hanging out with Enjolras helped, despite his worries towards the end; it’s probably the only thing that makes it possible for him to greet his daughter with a smile when she hops into the back seat.

He knows that he’s going to need to talk to her about Camille sooner than later. But he wants a chance to think, and calm himself down about it before he does. There’s research he needs to do on how best to broach the subject, and honestly, he doesn’t fully trust himself this fresh off of meeting Camille again not to come in hot and completely color Bea’s opinion of her before they’ve even met.

He may still be angry with Camille, he may always be angry with her for what she did, but he knows that if he wants to do this right, he can’t inject his own feelings that way.

If he dug out one of his old mix CD’s and scream-sang along to ‘I Will Survive’ on repeat on the drive to pick his daughter up from school, that’s his own prerogative. Bea doesn’t need to see that.

Nobody needs to see that.

Grantaire thinks he does a decent job of acting normal, all things considered. Bea does notice that his eyes are red when she gets into the car, but he’s quick to blame it on allergies, which seems to work okay. It’s not the first time in his life he’s had to lie about why his eyes are red. Not by a long shot.

Over dinner, he tries not to stare at her, but it’s hard when Bea is laughing, and playing with her food, and just being a kid, with no fucking clue about what’s going on behind the scenes. She looks so happy, and Grantaire wishes, not for the first time and definitely not for the last, that he could just shield her from the world so she can stay just like this, and never risk her getting jaded like he had.

He knows that he can’t. He knows that even if he could, it wouldn’t turn out like he wants. Bea is a person just like he is, and she’s going to grow up, and he’s going to grow old, and someday they probably won’t be as close as they are now, and he has to be okay with that.

Still, that’s the future. For tonight, he’s going to spend as much time with his daughter as he can. When they’ve both finished their food, and the dishes are in the sink, Bea turns to run to her room.

“I’m gonna go read!” she calls, already halfway to her room.

“Bea, one sec,” he calls after her, drying his hands on a towel. She stops, bouncing on the balls of her feet, as if to say ‘okay but hurry up’, as if the characters in her book are actively waiting for her to get back to them. He smiles, and juts a thumb towards his room.

“I have to do some reading too. Do you want to read together?” he asks. His daughter has always been more interested in ‘parallel play’ than active playtime, often finding it more rewarding for her to do her own thing, just close by, than forcing herself to be interested in whatever her friends, or he is interested in at that moment. She makes exceptions, of course, when she has new guests, usually. But he knows from experience that she’ll appreciate this offer more than him offering to read to her.

She’s critiqued his character voices before. Extensively. It’s not that he does a bad job, necessarily, it’s probably more that his voice box simply is not enough to capture what her imagination can invent.

She looks him up and down, considering.

“Can we make a fort?” she asks after a few seconds, pointing to the living room instead of his room, eyes sparkling with barely muted excitement. And who is he to say no to that?

“You get your blankets, I’ll get mine,” he replies, and Bea nods, looking like an eager little strategist, tearing off to her room to bundle up her comforter in her too-small arms and drag it out to the living room.

Ten minutes later, they have a fucking sick fort, if Grantaire does say so himself. It’s definitely not the first time they’ve built one together over the years, and they kind of have it down to a science. The two folding chairs from the closet act as braces beside the couch, holding up Grantaire’s duvet over the couch. Bea’s blanket is a starry carpet underneath them, covered in every pillow they have. It’s not nearly as many as Jehan has, but that’s not exactly hard. Jehan might have more throw pillows than there are grains of sand on a beach.

“We’ll have to ask Jehan if we can make a fort at their place sometime,” he says, voicing his own thoughts aloud as they both crawl inside and work on getting comfortable.

Bea looks at him like she somehow hadn’t thought of that, whispering almost reverently at the idea of it, “Do you think they would let us?”

“Honestly, if anything I think they’ll complain we didn’t ask sooner,” he replies with a shrug and a smile.

He falls back onto the pillows behind him with a sigh, and pulls up Catch-22, which thankfully he’d remembered to grab from the bookstore when he got his car, settling it on his chest to read. Bea mimics him, flopping back with a dramatic swoon of a sigh, and pulling up her own book, as well as her sticky notes and markers. She’s kept up with her note-taking since starting this series, but the notes are now all her own, written in careful, but unpracticed handwriting.

She’s getting better and better at writing sentences, but she is only seven. He’s sure the spelling on those notes has to be atrocious, but adorable. It works for Bea, though, and for now that’s what matters. She’s having fun, and she’s doing her best.

They read like that for a couple of hours, Bea pressed into his right side, the both of them engrossed and comfortable. Thankfully, it’s much easier to get into his book when he’s not anxiously waiting for lunch time. This time, he actually makes progress, lulled to focus by the soft lamp light inside the fort, and Bea’s occasional scribbling on her notes. He steals a few sticky notes for himself, tabbing his own book on parts that make him laugh, or that he can maybe bring up in discussion.

Bea laughs at her own book, drawing his attention away after a while, and he looks down at her curly head. He watches as she turns a page, mouthing along to words as she reads them, and he hopes, silently, that he won’t fuck this up.

Camille’s phone number is plugged into his phone now, but he hasn’t bothered to call it yet, knowing that once he does, she’ll be able to contact him whenever she wants. It’ll be the start of something he’s not sure he wants. But he’ll do it if he has to.

“Bea?” he says, softly. She holds up her hand, telling him silently to wait until she reaches the bottom of the page. When she gets there, she looks up, brown eyes wide and a little sleepy. He tries again not to make the easy comparison to Camille, forcing his brain to know them as Bea’s eyes, and not hers.

It’s nearly bedtime. Instead of bringing that up, he smiles, and continues, “I love you. You know that right?”

Bea gives him a little grin, then looks away a little bashfully and leans back on the pillows again, curling up closer against his side.

“I know,” she says, and opens her book again, “I love you too.”

He makes a mental note to say it more, regardless, reaching up a hand to mess her hair up, which predictably makes her squawk in protest, one of her hands batting his away and fixing her curls as best she can.

They read together for another half an hour, until Bea is yawning, and bedtime is pushed to its limit. She goes to bed without much complaint, and Grantaire does the same, his body starting to pass out within an hour of getting into bed, heart finally settled, and brain relaxed enough to make up for the sleep he lost the night before.

~~

Eponine is waiting for him when he gets into work the next morning. Eponine doesn’t ever really look worried, per se, but Grantaire does know the signs. When he spots her behind the cafe counter, she stands a little straighter, her arms at her sides, and he notes that her jaw is clenched tight, despite it being only the beginning of her shift.

The guilt he’d known was coming even yesterday is hitting him, slowly. He’s still annoyed about their conversation, but knows that Eponine is only ever doing what she thinks is right. He can’t stay mad at a friend who’s just trying to help him. And generally, he does appreciate her no-bullshit attitude.

God knows he needs it.

He waves, trying to convey that everything is fine, and sidles up to the till.

“Hey,” he says, the awkwardness from yesterday’s silent treatment still in the back of his mind. Despite wanting to make up, it’s hard to get over the initial hump sometimes. For both of them.

Eponine nods, a rigid kind of bob of her head, and parrots, “Hey.”

They both stand there for a couple of seconds, Eponine stiff, and Grantaire fidgeting with his apron hem, until he can’t take it anymore.

“Sorry I snapped at you,” he says, the words spilling out all at once, “I was like. Really stressed out? But that was still rude. I know you were trying to help.”

Eponine nods again, in that same jerky way, but her arms relax a bit. She lifts, and then crosses them over her chest, which for her is a good sign, because it means she knows she can be an asshole again without worry of making things worse.

“No worries,” she says, and then goes quiet. And that’s about as close to a mutual apology as he’s going to get, especially if Eponine still doesn’t feel like she was wrong. He’s not friends with her for her gentle, comforting personality, though. He knew that going in. Eponine is good at tough love and that’s about it.

“How did things go yesterday?” she asks after a beat, and Grantaire knows it’s her way of asking ‘are you okay’. He smiles.

“Good,” he replies, unsure about how much he wants to share. Eponine gives him a wry look, clearly not satisfied with just that, so he huffs a laugh, shifting on his feet, “Enjolras just helped keep me distracted. There’s not much to tell.”

Not entirely the truth. But the memory of yesterday feels precious, a warm spot in an otherwise terrible day, and he’s not in any rush to spoil it by rehashing it aloud.

“Can I get an americano?” he asks, instead of waiting for Eponine to push him any more. Grantaire leans on the counter, and Eponine blinks at the change of subject, looking unsatisfied, but a moment later she relents.

“Do you even know what an americano is?” she asks. Grantaire shrugs.

“Would it matter, since you’re making it?” he says, then whines, “Let me feel fancy, ‘Ponine.”

“Fair enough,” she agrees, and the smile he gets back is genuine, or at least as close to a genuine smile as Eponine ever gets.

Whatever he’s handed five minutes later, he’s fairly certain it’s not even in the ballpark of an americano. He actually gags when he drinks it, which makes Eponine snort, and that’s such a good dose of normal that he doesn’t even care.

~~

When 12:30 finally rolls around, the shop door jingles as usual, and Grantaire looks up, already smiling in anticipation. He closes his copy of Catch-22, and slides it aside, immediately standing from his stool, but the person coming through the door of the One Page More, again, isn’t Enjolras.

This time, it’s Cosette, swirling through the threshold in a long floral skirt. Her eyes find him immediately, and she beams, practically floating over to the register.

“Hey Grantaire!” she chirps, and Grantaire returns her smile, though his smile has fallen slightly in disappointment. His eyes are back on the door sooner than they should be, waiting for it to swing wide again.

Cosette follows his eyes with hers, and a second later when it does open, and Enjolras steps in, and Grantaire’s shoulders slump in relief, the smile spreading across her face is more knowing than it should be.

Grantaire spots the look a moment too late, noting her raised eyebrows. He schools his expression back to one that he hopes is passably neutral, and does his best to not look as lovesick as he’s sure he did just a moment ago.

Eponine is right about one thing, he really does need to get better at hiding his shit. Soon enough the whole ABC is gonna be onto him, and that thought is truly terrifying.

“Hi, Cosette,” he says quickly, realizing he hasn’t actually replied yet, and knowing he’s only digging himself into a deeper hole. Enjolras steps up to the counter, following Cosette’s path, and Grantaire does his best to not follow him with his eyes the whole way there, “What’re you doing here? Need another book?”

“Enj texted last night that you wanted to talk!” she says, still chipper. She settles her hands on the wood of the counter in front of her. If she plans to say anything about how he’d looked a moment ago, she doesn’t show it now, and Grantaire is grateful. She continues, her tone going a little more gentle, “He didn’t say much about what, but I’m here to help if you want me to.”

He blinks, looking at her and trying to hide his surprise. He supposes he should have expected this, since Enjolras had suggested talking to her would help yesterday, but honestly, he is a little disappointed they’re going to miss out on having their usual lunch date. Even if it isn’t really a date.

Still, he’s not about to turn down advice on his current problems. He can use all the help he can get with this; last night, he’d tried googling a bunch of shit to try and sort through the problem of whether he should let Camille meet Bea at all, and honestly, it had only left him feeling like he’s fucked before he starts.

Everything he’s seeing says he should have just told Bea about her mom before now, so it wouldn’t be so much of a shock. Which isn’t doing anything to help his nerves.

It’s especially hard to google more when his questions all end up starting with, ‘Okay, I failed step one, what’s next?’

In his defense, he hadn’t thought Cam would ever come back. She had made it pretty clear she had no intention of doing so in her note, and seven whole years feels like a pretty good buffer time to feel sure of her sticking to her guns.

But, c’est la vie.

“Well I’m definitely not turning down any advice,” he says to Cosette, though his eyes are on Enjolras now.

It takes him a second to realize that something feels off.

Enjolras is smiling a small smile, the ends of his mouth poking up faintly, but the bags under his eyes are still there from yesterday. If anything, they look worse. He looks a little pallid, too.

Grantaire frowns.

“Are you okay, dude?” he asks, immediately completely distracted from the matter at hand by the fatigue lining Enjolras’ face, “No offense, but you look like shit.”

That’s not entirely true, Enjolras has a way of looking beautiful even when he’s more haggard than he should be, any exhaustion really just serving to painstakingly sculpt out emotion in his features. So really, Grantaire wants to say something like, ‘you look like Picasso’s blue period come to life’, because that would be closer to the truth. But that’s embarrassing, and definitely requires more knowledge of art history than would be necessary for a passing comment, so he leaves it at ‘you look like shit’.

Enjolras starts a little at his comment, the small smile slipping into something closer to panic. Evidently, he had been unprepared to be acknowledged, let alone called out for his demeanor.

“Um,” he says, stilted, a hand going up to run through his hair, and looking away from Grantaire, “Yeah. Fine. I’m just tired.”

Grantaire isn’t sure he fully believes him. He doubts it’s a full on lie, because he does look tired, but there’s something he isn’t saying.

There’s a reason Enjolras doesn’t really lie, aside from the fact that he’s generally just an honest person. And it’s that he’s kind of terrible at it.

Okay, not kind of. He’s really, really terrible at it.

It’s incredibly obvious when the dude that usually gives such intense eye contact suddenly doesn’t want to look at you, and when the same man suddenly starts using filler words when he’s normally so direct. Grantaire can probably count on one hand the number of times he’s heard Enjolras use the word ‘um’. Saying it requires a degree of hesitancy that would normally make Enjolras scoff. And as such, it can only really mean two things with Enjolras: discomfort, or an attempt at a lie. Sometimes both.

“Are you sure?” Grantaire tries asking, knowing the suspicion in his tone is a lot more prevalent than he wants it to be. Enjolras nods, a twitch of a movement, and Grantaire furrows his brow. “Do you want to sit down? I’m sure Eponine could like, make you some tea or something. I don’t think it’s possible to screw up putting a bag of leaves in hot water too badly, so…”

He trails off, because now Enjolras is shaking his head, looking both apologetic, and grave as he does.

“I actually can’t stay long today,” Enjolras says. He’s still not meeting Grantaire’s eyes, shoulders set in a tight line, apparently uncomfortable with the sudden scrutiny, mild as Grantaire had thought it was, in the grand scheme of things, “I just came to say hi and drop off Cosette so you could talk. Sorry.”

“Oh,” Grantaire says, trying not to sound too disappointed. He pauses, eyes roving Enjolras’ face, and trying to figure out why he’s acting like this. There’s a moment of tense quiet, neither of them really saying anything, and seconds stretching out into taut silence between them.

“I’m gonna go say hi to Eponine!” Cosette says, piping up suddenly, and then walking towards the cafe, and Grantaire jumps a little, having kind of forgotten she was there at all. God, he is a terrible host. If a lunch break chat needs a host.

“I’ll meet you there,” he says, still distracted, and steps out from behind the register. He should go and clock out, but doesn’t want Enjolras to leave before he can try to get a better sense of what’s up. It’s going to nag at him for the rest of the day if he doesn’t at least try.

He steps forward, coming only a foot or so from where Enjolras stands, eyes a little narrowed.

“Are you sick?” he asks, suspicious, because he knows that if Enjolras were sick, he’d absolutely still be acting like he isn’t. He’s the type to have pneumonia and still be up and about, because there are things he said he’d do, and the world won’t wait for him to get better, so neither will he.

“I’m fine,” Enjolras says, but he’s still not looking at him, “Like I said, I’m tired. And I thought you two would want some privacy to talk, anyway, so I’m just going to head out.”

Unconvinced, Grantaire hesitates for just a second, then reaches up to touch Enjolras’ forehead with the back of his hand, needing evidence besides Enjolras’ thus far lackluster excuses that he is, in fact, not unwell.

At the sudden contact, Enjolras gives a full body flinch, blurting, “What—” and looking back at Grantaire, finally. He doesn’t pull away from the touch, but goes stiff, the hands on his bag’s strap tightening into fists.

“Chill, dude, I’m checking your temperature,” Grantaire says, smiling wryly, though he’s sure his cheeks are a little pink. Yesterday, Enjolras had made it pretty clear that some touches are okay, and if Grantaire is ever going to be able to act normal around him, he knows he needs to get more comfortable touching him, too.

It’s hard not to focus on the soft curls resting against his palm, but he manages to make his brain instead zero in on the back of his hand against Enjolras’ forehead, and the information he’s trying to get from it.

Enjolras doesn’t feel warm, thankfully. He’d be able to tell for sure with a thermometer, but without one, the back of his hand will have to do. He’s had to do this for Bea a few of times, so he feels pretty confident he’s at the very least able to tell with moderate confidence if Enjolras has a temperature. He holds it there for a few seconds, to be safe, then pulls his hand back and shoves it into his apron pocket.

He takes a slight step back, and says, “You’re acting guilty as shit, you realize that, right?”

“I’m not sick,” Enjolras insists, his voice firm, and the tips of his ears going pink. His cheeks look a little pink now, too, which is honestly a little relieving. It’s better than the pallid color they’d been moments before.

“Forgive me if your word on your own well-being isn’t exactly the most trustworthy,” Grantaire says, shrugging, “Mister, I’m-gonna-just-pass-out-on-my-kitchen-floor-’cause-I-don’t-know-when-to-stop.”

“That was one time, and you weren’t even there,” Enjolras counters, sounding equal parts irritated and flustered.

“Okay, okay, so you’re not sick,” Grantaire says, raising his hands in a placating gesture, “Something is stressing you out, clearly. What’s up? Is it school?”

Enjolras looks at him, and opens his mouth to speak, hesitates, then closes it and looks away again.

“It’s not important,” he says, his tone only vaguely irritated now. It sounds resigned, more than anything. Grantaire frowns.

“It’s important to me,” he replies, crossing his arms, and thinking, but thankfully not saying, ‘You’re important to me’. It’s hard not to worry about Enjolras looking tired when the both of them know exactly how stressed he’ll let himself get before he considers it a problem. Grantaire takes a breath, and tries to soften his tone as he continues, “Seriously dude, you look wiped. You looked tired yesterday, too. I’m just…worried.”

It’s enough to make Enjolras look at him again, his brow pinched, as if he’s mulling over a problem. Grantaire for his part, just waits, arms still crossed, but trying not to look as impatient as he feels.

“I. Um—” Enjolras starts, only to stop immediately, before Grantaire can even add the ‘um’ to his very short tally, when a shout from across the store cuts through.

“Grantaire, can you stop flirting and get over here?” Eponine calls, “I need to take my break too y’know!”

Rather than wanting to take her break, Grantaire knows it’s more likely Eponine can only handle so much one-on-one Cosette time. Regardless, he feels his face flush slightly, and his back go straight, looking towards the cafe and wishing he could smite Eponine where she stands. Or maybe get someone to smite him, instead. Either would suffice, really.

“I’m not flirting!” he calls back, hoping his tone doesn’t betray the panic he feels, “I’ll be over soon, christ, ‘Ponine!”

“You are, and you’d better!” she calls back, and he hears Cosette laugh, a lilting giggle floating out from the cafe.

Grantaire huffs out a harsh breath, and turns back to Enjolras, who for his part hasn’t stopped looking at Grantaire, but that look of pinched contemplation is gone, replaced with a kind of solemn certainty that’s doing nothing to help Grantaire’s nerves.

“Sorry about her,” he says, pushing away his own nerves again, and prompting, “You were saying?”

Enjolras stares, and Grantaire watches as he puts on a small smile, noting with unease that it doesn’t meet his eyes.

“It’s nothing,” he says, with an air of finality that’s a bit hard to stomach. Grantaire opens his mouth to protest, but Enjolras holds a hand up, and points to the cafe.

“Go talk to Cosette,” he presses, hitching his bag’s strap a little higher on his shoulder, in a motion that should look natural, but instead looks jerky, “She’s right, you guys don’t have all day.”

And Grantaire opens his mouth to say ‘I’m not asking for all day’, but Enjolras has already turned and begun to walk back towards the front door. He waves goodbye, with a quiet, “See you, R”, only glancing back over his shoulder, and Grantaire is helpless to do anything but wave back, and give his own soft goodbye.

The door is shut before Enjolras could probably even hear it.

Grantaire stares at the door for a few seconds longer than he probably should, unease curling in his gut. Enjolras has never canceled their lunch hang like this; he’s had to skip for homework before, sure, but was always incredibly apologetic, and clearly didn’t want to skip.

This feels different.

It feels almost like Enjolras is avoiding him. Or, at the very least, definitely avoiding talking about whatever’s going on with him.

Grantaire knows avoidance, and he knows it well, but he never thought he’d see the day Enjolras was avoiding a problem. Usually, he can’t get at them fast enough. The dude has a grudge against unresolved conflict, no matter how small. It’s jarring, to say the least, to see Enjolras backing away, rather than hurtling forward.

Unprompted, his mind provides him with the expression Enjolras had yesterday, when he shut the door to his apartment. Guilt joins the disquieted murmur, and he presses his lips together, beginning to get lost in thought.

Absently, his index finger digs into the texture of the bandaid still protecting his thumb.

“Grantaire, come on!” Eponine calls from the cafe, pulling Grantaire from his thoughts. He jumps a little, and finally wills himself to turn from the door, going to the back to clock out.

Enjolras was right that he shouldn’t keep Cosette waiting, and if he’s so determined not to talk right now, there’s not much he can do about it. He’ll check in again with Enjolras later, because fuck if he’s letting this shit lie, but for now, he has advice to get, and a half an hour to do it.

Eponine is standing behind the counter of the cafe, face drawn into a tight smile. Cosette is twittering quietly to her about something; Grantaire thinks he catches the words ‘cute’, and possibly ‘how long’, but she stops talking the moment his footsteps come close.

“Enjolras coming?” Eponine asks him, looking glad for the distraction, and Grantaire manages to keep his mouth from twisting as he shakes his head.

“Nope. He said he’s tired, so…” he says, trailing off, a hand waving vaguely back at the door. Eponine lifts an eyebrow.

“Really,” Eponine says, dryly, looking plainly unconvinced, though there’s something else in her expression that Grantaire can’t place.

“I asked if he was sick,” Grantaire says, feeling a little vindicated that it isn’t just him that thinks it’s weird. He shrugs, “No temperature, though, so…I dunno.”

Eponine just nods, slowly, looking like she wants to say something, and only just keeping herself from saying it. There’s a tell-tale twitch at her jaw that says how badly she wants to, but whatever it is apparently isn’t worth it, because instead, she just shakes her head, and turns back to Cosette.

“Do you want anything to drink before I take my break?” she asks. Cosette lifts a hand, waving her dissent perhaps a little too quickly.

“No, that’s ok!” she says, and Grantaire almost does laugh at that; Cosette is probably a little scarred by her first Eponine drink experience. He doesn’t blame her for not being enough of a masochist to go back for more, “I have a water bottle in my purse.”

Eponine nods, a small smirk (probably of self-satisfaction) barely playing across her lips as she turns her attention back to Grantaire.

“You, R?” she asks, and Grantaire nods.

“Anything but an americano please,” he says. Eponine’s eyes glint with mischief.

“Another americano, coming up,” she replies, grabbing a hot cup and getting to work, ignoring the scandalized noise that Grantaire makes in protest.

~~

“So,” Cosette says, a couple minutes later, when they’re sitting in the cafe, Grantaire with his brand new cup of swill, and Cosette with a small baby blue water bottle in front of her, “What did you want to talk about?”

He does his best to focus on the heat of the cup in his palms as a ground, watching steam curling up from the rim rather than meeting Cosette’s eyes. They’re a darker blue than Enjolras’, a gentle pond in comparison to the glacial ocean he’s used to. It doesn’t make eye contact much easier, surprisingly.

“What did Enjolras tell you?” he asks, wanting to gauge where he needs to start. It’s always difficult to talk to people about his life, in relation to Camille especially. She’s a raw spot in his chest, which has just recently been rubbed hard into salt, so he wants to steel himself appropriately.

“He said it had to do with Bea,” she says, sounding like she’s choosing her words carefully. Her whole demeanor is similar to that of a person trying not to scare away a stray cat, “Something about her mom? He said it wasn’t his place to say all that much about it.”

“Yeah, well,” Grantaire replies, attention again focused on the bandage on his thumb. A tiny part of him wishes Enjolras had just overshared, so he wouldn’t have to talk himself, but a larger part is grateful that Enjolras keeps things so close to his chest. Enjolras is a good confidant. A good friend. And Grantaire knows he needs to get better at reaching out for help from his friends, anyway, “That’s fair.”

He pauses, making the mistake of trying to drink his americano, and nearly gagging all over again. He’s glad, distantly, that Eponine has gone on her break; she doesn’t need the satisfaction of seeing him unable to stomach one of her creations again.

“So,” he says, putting his cup back down, and hoping speaking will wash the burned rubber taste in his mouth away, “Her mom, um, hasn’t been in the picture since she was a baby? But yesterday, she came back. And she wants to meet Bea.”

She folds her hands in front of her on the small cafe table, and leans forward, ready to listen.

“Alright,” she says, “Tell me more.”

Grantaire does his best to explain the gist of the situation. He tells her, briefly, about his old relationship, much in the way he had for Enjolras the first time he’d come into the One Page More for a lunch break, keeping it quick and clean and trying hard not to get into much of the harder details.

Regardless of if he says them, Cosette’s face falls the more he talks, and Grantaire can feel his skin prickling from the sympathy in her expression. By the time he’s caught up to the present, he’s managed to actually get down another fourth of his coffee, because it’s at least something to do that isn’t looking at his friend’s face across the table.

“And I just…I don’t know how to break the news to Bea, or if I even should,” he says, and they’re finally all the way caught up. He feels like he’s just run a marathon, despite the conversation only having been a few minutes long, with Cosette interjecting every now and again, “I don’t want to fuck up by kid’s self esteem for the sake of giving Camille closure, y’know?”

He wishes, selfishly, that Enjolras were here, so he could at least have some back up. He remembers the hand on his back yesterday, that steady, warm weight, and it helps to think about it, a phantom comfort that his mind leans into subconsciously.

Cosette nods slowly, pursing her lips in thought, and looking down at the table. Grantaire isn’t sure he’s ever seen her look upset, but she does now. A strand of her long gold hair falls from behind one ear, and she pushes it back into place, looking back up with a determined sort of air.

“I think I understand why Enjolras told you to talk to me,” she says. And when she looks at him, he realizes it’s not really sympathy in her eyes, it’s empathy. A subtle distinction, maybe, but it feels better. It allows him to relax a fraction, unspooling the knots in his stomach from just the knowledge that he’s not going to have to explain how he’s feeling. He’s really not good at that.

“You know I was adopted,” she says, and it’s not really a question, but Grantaire nods regardless, and Cosette nods back. She smiles a quiet, sad smile, and says, “I don’t really remember anything about my mom. I was too young when she died, and I didn’t live with her even before that. And growing up, my dad wouldn’t tell me anything about her.”

Grantaire feels a cold, quiet guilt budding in his stomach, but he keeps it down, taking another regrettable drink from his coffee, and managing to keep his reaction to a grimace this time. Bea is only a year older than Cosette was when she was adopted, if what Eponine has told him is accurate.

He wonders when Cosette started to wonder about her mom. Bea hasn’t asked since that one time a couple of years ago, but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t thought about it. Grantaire stops that train of thought, focusing in on Cosette again.

“Like, he just refused? Or he didn’t know anything about her?” he asks.

“He knew. He was there when my mom passed, actually,” she says, smiling in a way that looks oddly closed off, and discontented, yet more expressions he’s ever seen on her. It’s disconcerting. Some of that unease must show on his face, because it morphs to something apologetic as she continues, “Don’t get me wrong, I love him. He’s a great dad. But talking about the past has always been a struggle for him, and growing up it just kind of drove me up the wall.”

Grantaire’s eyes fall to his cup again, picking at the cardboard wrap, and slowly shredding it, diligently ripping off small pieces as he listens. Cosette isn’t even talking about him, but hearing someone talk honestly about their own dad is still a little hard.

He’s probably always going to worry about how Bea thinks of him. She’s an honest kid, sometimes to a fault, but she won’t always be. He’s been dreading the day she learns to keep secrets since the day she said her first word. That day might have come already, for all he knows, and that only makes it scarier.

“I think he was trying to keep her pure in my mind, if that makes sense?” Cosette continues, her expression going more fond, and soft, “I just had to assume my mom was this perfect person growing up, and I don’t think he wanted to taint that memory for me. Out of respect for her, or fear for me, I’m still not sure.”

“I can understand that,” Grantaire says, wanting to show he’s listening, and clarify things for himself, “If she’s not alive anymore, isn’t it better to preserve the memory?”

“In theory, sure, I suppose,” Cosette muses, then looks at him and continues, “But he literally didn’t even tell me her name until after I married Marius. And I think he only told me because he knew I eventually wanted to name one of my future children after her. I think that might be a bit far, don’t you?”

“Oh,” Grantaire says, shrinking in his chair a little, “Fuck, okay. Yeah that’s…a lot.”

“It is,” she agrees, with a small nod. Grantaire pauses, rubbing one of the paper scraps he’s made between his index finger and thumb, thinking as they fall into a lull, Grantaire thinking, and Cosette happy to let him take the time he needs to mull over what she’s said.

The situation isn’t exactly the same, but Grantaire wouldn’t have expected it to be. He thinks if Camille had been a good mom, his problem would be pretty fucking simple to solve. If she’d been like Fantine, and had the decency to want to be around, but just couldn’t, he’d tell Bea everything about her in a heartbeat.

It’s harder to want to when the more Bea knows, the worse she’s bound to feel about everything. But he knows that telling her nothing is not an option anymore. If Cosette’s frustration is anything to go by. He doubts that Cosette would say she wouldn’t have wanted to know about her mom, even if she had been a bad person.

“So…” he says, breaking the silence after a moment, “Your advice is to just…tell her? Everything?”

“I don’t know about everything,” Cosette says, correcting him gently, “But I’m sure you know better than I do what Bea can handle.”

Grantaire sits, quiet again, eyebrows furrowed in thought, because while this has helped to get some of his thoughts in order, it hasn’t really made a dent in the bigger issue. He’d already planned to tell Bea about her mom, at some point. Originally, he’d planned to do so when Bea was a lot older.

But Camille wants to meet her, and she wants to meet her soon. So that time table isn’t exactly an option anymore.

“Do you think I should let Cam meet her?” he asks, deciding to just come out with it. Cosette seems to consider for a moment, and Grantaire lets her think in silence like she had for him, as long as she wants to, because fuck if he knows the right answer to that question.

“I don’t know,” Cosette says eventually, smiling that remorseful smile again. And Grantaire feels his stomach sink at that. A part of him had really been hoping for a solid answer, a path to take, given by a person who definitely has it more together than he does.

“You know Camille better than I do. I wouldn’t feel comfortable suggesting that you introduce Bea to her without really knowing who she is,” Cosette adds, clarifying, and looking like she can read every ounce of disappointment Grantaire felt at that answer.

And it’s fair. It’s completely fucking fair. Even knowing Camille pretty damn well, though, Grantaire doesn’t feel confident in his own judgment there.

“If it were you,” he says, softly, “Would you have wanted to meet the mom you didn’t know?”

Cosette blinks, then pauses for another beat.

“I would give anything to have had the chance to meet my mom,” she says, a quiet reverence in her tone at the very thought.

Grantaire wonders distantly, thinking back to last Sunday, if this is what Cosette might give her soul for. In theory.

He looks down at the table, guilty again, chewing again at the inside of his mouth, and wonders if Bea would feel the same way.

“But,” Cosette continues, lifting a hand to bring his attention back, her face more serious now, “She wanted to be a good mom. She loved me, to the last moment, and if she could have, she would have been with me.”

She takes a deep breath, considering her next words carefully, then diving in.

“My biological dad is actually still alive,” she says, and there’s a note of bitterness to her tone that feels so foreign there Grantaire feels himself start a little, fingers dropping his torn up paper pieces.

“He is?” he asks, a little dumbfounded, “Why— but you grew up with your adoptive dad?”

Cosette’s returning smile is a little rueful.

“I assumed he was dead, too, until about a year ago,” she says, “But no. As it turns out, my dad left my mom when she was pregnant, with nothing to her name. Which is why I had to go into foster care at all.”

Grantaire’s eyes flick over Cosette’s face, understanding now why exactly she can empathize with how he’s feeling so well. How Bea might feel, when she finds out about her mom.

“If you asked me the same question: would I have wanted to meet him,” she says, “The answer is no.”

Grantaire stares, index finger rubbing along the bandaid, soothing.

“I’m glad to know he’s out there,” Cosette continues, her mouth a firm, thin line, “but Tholomyes will never be my dad. And I don’t want a relationship with him in any regard.”

Grantaire feels his head swimming a little, two contradicting answers muddling his decision making ability even more than when he’d started this conversation. He swallows down some bubbling fear, feeling like all he’s learned is that this is going to be hard as shit, and he’s kind of fucked. Which means Bea’s kind of fucked. And that’s completely unacceptable.

“So,” he says, his voice coming out a little hoarse, “What the fuck do I do, exactly?”

Cosette reaches across the table, gently touching one of his hands with the pads of her fingers.

“I don’t know if it’s all on your shoulders to decide, Grantaire,” she says, “I’m telling you this, because all I wanted growing up was enough information to draw my own conclusions.”

When he looks up again, her eyes are swimming with pride, and quiet appreciation, and it’s almost enough to make him crack like yesterday, feeling a lump in his throat forming again. She gives his hand a pat, and leans back in her chair.

“Talk to Bea,” she says, “Tell her what you know, and trust that she’s smart enough to know what she wants. And if she wants to meet Camille, you can make it happen.”

There’s a swell in his chest, gratitude, for Cosette and her patience, and for Enjolras for knowing to suggest reaching out. Having someone who’s been in the spot Bea is in now, whether she knows it or not, has been illuminating, to say the least. He feels lighter than when they started, the clouds in his brain starting to clear, and that low simmering worry in his gut finally feeling like it’s beginning to ebb.

“Thanks, Cosette,” he says, smiling. His shoulders slump a little, the weight of the decision he’d thought he was going to have to make releasing, at least fractionally, “Really. Thank you.”

Cosette beams, tucking a fallen strand of blonde hair behind her ear.

“You’re very welcome,” she replies, chipper again. Her smile is infectious, all white teeth and dimples.

It’s surprisingly easy to fall into a calm conversation after, the two of them chatting idly, discussing Cosette’s mom a little more, then her dad, and some stories of Bea growing up. The air between them feels light, comfortable in the knowledge that they have a kind of a shared history.

Eponine comes back from her break around the time they start just talking about nothing, her break having been only a ten this time. Surprisingly, she decides to sit with them, silently sliding a gently steaming mug to Cosette as she does. Cosette takes it, looking politely dubious, but when she and Grantaire look into the cup, it’s a genuinely decent looking hot chocolate.

Cosette takes it, and drinks it all with a giddy smile over the last half of the break.

Grantaire doesn’t know if Eponine was listening in on their conversation, but the relatively easy way that she treats Cosette for the rest of the break implies to him that she was, and that she appreciated the advice she offered as much as he does.

At 1:00, his lunch ends, and Grantaire stands to go clock back in. He exchanges goodbyes with Cosette, and when she goes in for a hug, both from him and from Eponine, he doesn’t refuse. Surprisingly, neither does Eponine, though she looks stiff and entirely uncomfortable the whole time.

He finds he’s actually able to relax, getting back to work. The shop is still mostly empty, the weekday shift almost always is, but he doesn’t feel that usual, buzzing, nagging need to move around as acutely as he did before his lunch.

It’s about fifteen minutes later that he remembers he should probably update Enjolras, and thank him for suggesting Cosette come in at all. He also just wants to check in; he feels better about his worries in general, but he’s still got a small, quiet pit of it reserved just for how he'd acted before he left.

Javert isn’t in today, so he’s a bit more brazen than he normally would be in pulling out his phone at the register, settling it in front of him, and quickly typing out a message.

He wishes he could just call, but even with the fact that Javert isn’t in, he doesn’t dare push his luck that far.

From: Grantaire
1:15pm, November 16:
-----
hey dude
thanks for having cosette come by
she really was a good person to talk to

A couple of minutes later, his phone vibrates, and he smiles, opening the message quicker than could be considered casual.

From: 🔥 Enjolras 🔥
1:17pm, November 16:
-----
I’m glad it went well.

Tone isn’t an easy thing to tell over text, especially for someone like Grantaire, who isn’t great at gauging tone correctly even when he’s being spoken to. But somehow the message feels curt. When they text, and they do, much more often as time has passed, Enjolras usually at least tries to keep the conversation going. He frowns, his leg beginning to bounce a little on the stool, and shoots another message his way.

From: Grantaire
1:18pm, November 16:
-----
missed you today at lunch

He tries not to overthink it as he types it, going back and forth between writing 'I missed you' and just 'missed you' perhaps a couple too many times. In the end, somehow, the 'I' feels too personal, so he leaves it off. He pauses, and then sends another message, antsy about the first one, and needing to follow up on how weird Enjolras had been earlier.

From: Grantaire
1:18pm, November 16:
-----
are you sure youre ok?

From: 🔥 Enjolras 🔥
1:20pm, November 16:
-----
I’m fine. Just stress.
I’m getting over it.

If Enjolras thought that’d be comforting, he missed the mark. Both of them know that Enjolras is fairly incapable of telling when stress is actually a problem; if anything, it makes Grantaire want to press harder. He corners his resolve, and sends another message, wanting desperately to be useful.

From: Grantaire
1:22pm, November 16:
-----
can i help?
literally just name what you need and ill do it dude

The next message takes longer than the previous ones to come in, and when it does, the pit in Grantaire’s stomach only gets deeper.

From: 🔥 Enjolras 🔥
1:25pm, November 16:
-----
I don't think you can.

He re-reads the message a few times, trying his best to gauge tone, but honestly, even said in the kindest way possible, it hurts. Probably more than it should. It’s hard not to read those five words as a complete dismissal.

Grantaire knows he isn’t often the best person to come to with problems, because he often doesn’t have anything close to a good solution to offer. He often can’t even begin to attack his own problems, let alone other people’s. But he would still like the chance to try. Especially for Enjolras, who at this point has helped him more than he can say, with issues he really didn’t need to involve himself in.

The scales of their friendship already felt dangerously unbalanced, Enjolras giving and giving, because that’s what he does, and Grantaire always taking and taking because it’s all he’s capable of, apparently.

It takes him a couple minutes to get the nerve to send anything back at all. And when he does, he only manages two words.

From: Grantaire
1:27pm, November 16:
-----
oh
okay

Half of him wishes he’d just risked a call, so he could know better by tone of voice if Enjolras is upset with him. The other half is terrified that he is, though he doesn’t know why he would be. Things felt fine yesterday. Until the end.

His brain, the bitch that it is, supplies again the flicker of the expression Enjolras had had when Grantaire left the apartment, and he feels his stomach go cold, a spike of guilt lancing through.

Was it not nothing?

Another message comes through, cutting off his train of thought.

From: 🔥 Enjolras 🔥
1:28pm, November 16:
-----
Combeferre is coming over. I’m fine.
I appreciate the concern. I’ll see you Friday.
Keep me posted with everything, okay?

And he really should feel better to hear that Enjolras has someone with him to help. He knows he should. But selfishly, he doesn’t.

It feels instead like a reminder of what he already knew, in the back of his mind, but had been slowly forgetting over the past two months.

Grantaire and Enjolras are friends. Better friends now than they ever have been before, but they’re still not friends like Enjolras is with everyone else in the ABC.

They never have been. Maybe they never will be.

Enjolras doesn’t come to him with his problems. And Grantaire understands why. He knows that he often has nothing to contribute, nothing helpful, anyway. Really, he does understand. But the sudden hyper-awareness of the rift that has always existed between himself and the rest of the group is a bit hard to stomach.

He takes a deep breath, letting the heady mix of disappointment and resignation settle heavy over his chest, trying to remind himself this wasn’t anything he didn’t know.

Somehow, it still stings.

He doesn’t bother to send another message, not wanting to bug Enjolras any more than he already has. He slides his phone into his apron pocket, and slumps on his stool, wondering how on earth he’s dumb enough to feel disappointed about spinning his wheels and getting nowhere. Realistically, he thinks, he should really be used to it by now.

Chapter Text

Grantaire tries his best — which is to say, he struggles — to focus on the positives until he clocks out at his usual time. Not his greatest skill, not by a long shot, but one he’s been working on over the years by necessity.

Most of the rest of his shift is spent trying to find small tasks to keep his hands busy (sweeping the same clean spot for minutes on end, dusting shelves, re-shelving books) and trying to text as a distraction.

He still doesn’t feel up to texting Enjolras, that persistent stuck feeling tarring up his stomach whenever he thinks to try, but thankfully he does have other people in the group he can talk to without so much hesitation. Bahorel is the first person he thinks to try, and he replies almost instantly, much to Grantaire’s relief.

Bahorel’s sleep schedule is off from most of the rest of the human race, since he works a swing shift by necessity. The Castle doesn’t open its doors until the evening, so an average shift for him goes until the wee hours of the morning. It works out great for Grantaire, who doesn’t have to worry about interrupting him while at work even when he’s texting in the middle of the day.

Bahorel is unfortunately kind of terrible at texting; a lot of his texts made completely illegible by the fact that he has very beefy thumbs, and absolutely refuses to use auto-correct. But, he is still undeniably great for a distracting conversation.

He has a habit of going off on a tangent, getting distracted part way through with something else only vaguely related, and then going off on that instead. Grantaire is skilled at following the fragments of a conversation Bahorel offers, though, as his own brain tends to work in the same way most of the time.

Like a choose your own adventure novel still in the process of being written.

They started talking on the topic of boxing, when Grantaire had inquired about maybe picking it up again, knowing the exercise would be a good way to release anxious energy in a healthy way. But somehow, when three o’clock rolls around, they’ve gone from that, to Bahorel ranting about the ethics of the Olympic games, to Greek mythology, and then that had led eventually to Grantaire telling Bahorel about some shit he’d read a few weeks ago in the old graphic design textbook about Minoan art, and how it influenced Mycenaean frescoes.

If you decide to over-explain Aegean art to a himbo, turn to page 29.

Bahorel, to his eternal credit, is a very, very good sport at trying to parse Grantaire’s shitty art history explanation. As he clocks out, they manage to loop back around to the topic of boxing, and Bahorel promises that they’ll find a time to get together and train.

By the time he’s in his car and heading to pick up Bea, he’s feeling steady enough to deal with having the conversation he knows he’s going to have to have with his daughter. Talking with Cosette really did help to put things into perspective better, and he knows now more than ever that by not just being honest with Bea about her mom, he’s probably been doing more harm than good.

Today, it’s Tainted Love he blasts from the car’s stereo. Thankfully, he has plenty of music suited for venting, especially for venting anger with Cam; Eponine had made him a mix CD around the time he’d had his second bad relapse, the words ‘DIVORCE CORE’ scribbled onto it in scratchy black sharpie lettering.

He and Camille were never married, but it’s besides the point. The vibe of the music fits fine; Eponine has a skill for finding great angry heartbreak music. And it’s coming in very handy right about now.

Obviously, he switches to something more wholesome when Bea gets into the car. By the time she’s hopping into the back seat, Divorce Core is replaced by more neutral rock music, the CD’s swapped in the time between Grantaire parking in the pick up area and Bea pulling open the back door.

Thankfully, it was a good day at school for Bea. She chatters all the way home, talking about how her and her friend Valerie had made a new make-believe world at recess, turning the jungle gym into their own literal jungle, acting as explorers on a dino-infested island.

Also, lunch was tater tots and chicken nuggets, and that alone, he knows, would have made it a great day.

They keep it simple for dinner, too. By 4:30, they each have a grilled cheese sandwich and a big bowl of tomato soup in front of them. Bea eats hers separately, sandwich first and then soup, and Grantaire rips his sandwich into bite size pieces, dipping each one into his soup before popping them into his mouth.

Bea grimaces at him in distaste every time he does it, never one to mix foods together if she doesn’t have to.

“It’s not nice to judge, Bea,” he chides, smirking and ripping off another piece.

“I think it’s okay sometimes,” Bea replies, sounding as disgusted as she looks. Grantaire makes a point of ripping the next piece extra slow, and dipping it extra long before he eats it, and Bea feigns a gag, “That’s gross, dad. Get some help.”

“You say gross, I say efficient,” he counters. The look he gets back is withering in the way only a seven year old girl can be withering. It almost makes him want to stop eating this way forever.

Almost.

Too bad he cares a lot more about teasing his daughter than his pride. There’s not too much of that left, and there wasn’t much there to start with.

They both finish their food, Grantaire of course finishing first, which he marks as a point in his favor for his grilled cheese eating method. Bea is unamused when he points it out, rolling her eyes, and continuing to eat hers ‘the right way’.

When she finishes, she stands from the table, going to put her dirtied plates in the sink.

“Can we read together again?” she calls, not turning to face him as she does. She’s on tip-toe at the sink, in order to be able to see where she’s placing the plate. The kitchen is a bit of a mess right now, dishes from a few meals of the last few days lining the bottom of the sink. Normally, the two of them are fairly on top of dishes, as a rule, but Grantaire hasn’t had the mental energy to really enforce that.

His life has been a bit of a shitstorm for the last week or so, in his defense. And he knows for sure it’s not over yet. Not even close.

“Sure,” he replies, distracted. He’s been dreading the end of dinner, because he knows it means he can’t really stall ‘the talk’ anymore, and that’s still just as terrifying as it was a couple of hours ago, “But before that, I need to talk to you about something.”

Bea successfully settles her plate and then her bowl into the sink, and goes back to standing flat-footed in the kitchen. She turns, looking wary at his tone, despite his best efforts to keep it light. She steps back to the table, cautiously, hopping up into her chair again and resting her elbows on the table.

“Am I in trouble?” Bea asks, fingers pulling at the hems of her sleeves, her eyes focused on her dad.

Grantaire shakes his head.

“You’re not in trouble,” he says.

“Are you dying?” she asks.

“I’m not dying,” he replies, managing a small smile, “You’re stuck with me, sorry.”

“I’ll survive,” she replies, but her shoulders slump a little in relief, regardless.

Grantaire looks her over once more, and takes a deep breath, trying to recall the list of things he’s supposed to do in this conversation. He’d found one to use as a baseline, when googling shit to try to help, and he runs through it silently.

It had basically boiled down to, ‘be honest, validate your child’s feelings, reiterate it’s not their fault, and don’t talk shit’. He reminds himself extra hard about the last one, trying to remember not to inject his own feelings into this as he begins.

“I don’t think I’ve done the best job of talking with you about this,” he says first, pushing down his nerves deep into his stomach, and forcing himself to remain as calm as possible, “But have you ever…um…have you ever wondered about your mom?”

Bea stares, brown eyes wide across the table. Her hands go still on her shirt sleeves, arms settling down onto the table top. He watches as a flurry of emotions flit over her face, none of them settling there and staying for long enough for him to identify them. Mostly, she looks conflicted, and confused.

“It’s not a bad thing if you have. I just want to know.” Grantaire clarifies quickly, when he spots some guilt in the flickering emotions, wanting to tamp it out immediately. His fingers knot together in front of him. Once he realizes, he forces his hands apart, and settles them flat on the table instead, wanting to appear calmer than he is, because if anyone has a right to freak out right now it’s Bea, not him.

She relaxes a little at the reassurance. Grantaire can feel the air moving slightly under the table from her legs kicking; he knew already that she inherited his constant need for movement, but it’s odd to see it in action, quiet anxiety leaching out from limbs instead of her mouth.

Finally, she nods, curls bobbing around her face, which still looks apprehensive.

“Okay,” he says, and offers her his best reassuring smile, “Thank you for telling me.”

He’s not sure how convincing his own false ease is going to be, but he’s going to do his damndest to make this conversation go smoothly. The last thing he wants is for Bea to come out of this feeling insecure, in any way. He knows that it’s unfortunately pretty likely it’ll happen anyway, just given the genetics hand she’s been dealt, but he resolves to do his best, and deal with the fall out when it happens.

If it happens. If. Positive thinking. He can do this.

“So, um,” he says, “First of all, you do have a mom. So. Let’s get that settled, I guess.”

Bea just looks at him, blankly, and honestly that’s worse than if she’d looked upset.

He really, really should have written a script. Jesus christ.

“I’m sure you have a lot of questions,” he says, pushing forward despite his nerves, “And I know this is probably a lot to think about. But I’m here for you, and I’ll answer what I can.”

Bea finally looks away once he finishes, looking instead down at the worn texture of their shitty old dining table, and chewing at her lip.

He falls silent again, wanting to give Bea time to think. He knows, if he were her, he’d probably want that. He also knows that if he just keeps talking, he’s probably going to dig himself into a very, very deep hole, and doesn’t want Bea to have to sit there and watch him struggle fruitlessly.

There’s a quiet ticking coming from a clock in the living room, and it breaks the silence over and over, each second dragging by longer than it should, because his daughter is quiet, and she’s never this quiet, not for this long, especially, and Grantaire kind of hopes that after this she’ll never be quiet again.

Finally, she looks up, and her face is wary, but resolved.

“What’s she like?” she asks, her voice probing, like dipping a toe into water to check the temperature. Grantaire lets out a breath, takes in another deep one, and jumps in.

He does his best to keep his description neutral. He tells her that she’s a photographer, and a damn good one, from what he remembers.

Actually, Camille probably has the world’s only surplus of pictures of Grantaire.

When they’d been together, especially when they’d both still been trying to make college work, she’d made a habit of making him the focal point of a lot of her work. He’d never really been comfortable with it, and doesn’t like to think about the fact that so many pictures of him exist, somewhere in the depths of some portfolio.

He can only hope that they’re just sitting in the depths of some portfolio. Worst case, they’re out and on display. Unfortunately for his own mental health, it’s not impossible that they’re up in some fucking gallery somewhere.

It sucks knowing that there’s such a physical, visible record of him at that point in his life, but at the very least, the odds that he’ll ever have to see it is slim. That’s neither here nor there now, though. And it’s definitely not something he needs to get into with Bea.

He tells her simply that they met before college, both of them prospective art majors, then lists the easy personality traits, glossing over the more questionable ones that come to mind whether he wants them to or not, and comes out with a decent short list.

Stubborn, funny, resilient, smart.

Maybe that’s where Bea got her brains from.

He doesn’t say that part aloud.

After the first question, they seem to get easier for Bea to ask. She asks one after another, and tucks away his answers. What’s her name? Camille. What does she look like? He gives a description, regretting now that he deleted that final picture. It’d be much easier to show her, but he does his best to paint a picture.

The next question seems harder for Bea to ask, silence falling for a solid ten seconds before she looks at him again.

“Where is she?” she asks, finally, and Grantaire sees her hands curl into tight balls in front of her, the question underneath the one she asked screaming out in the tension of her hands: Why isn’t she here?

“She, um,” Grantaire says, knowing this question had to be coming, and yet somehow still not feeling ready for it. He knows that he can’t talk about their life before Bea came along, not really. It’s probably not the best idea to tell his daughter ‘well, your mom and I were engrossed in substance abuse and probably still would be if I hadn’t knocked her up’, so instead, he says, “She and I weren’t the right fit. So we went our separate ways a little while after you were born.”

Really, Camille had gone her own way and Grantaire had stayed put, but that’s neither here nor there. The further he can stay away from saying ‘she decided she didn’t want a kid, sorry bud’ the better.

Bea doesn’t seem totally satisfied with that answer, brown eyes falling back to the table again. Grantaire presses his lips together, wondering if now is the right time to get to the question he knows he needs to ask.

He corners his resolve, and speaks.

“If you had the chance,” he says, “Would you want to meet her?”

That gets her attention again, eyes shooting up a little too quickly for comfort to search his own. Whatever she finds, it makes her nervous, shifting in her chair.

“Is this really just about how I’d feel, or is she here?” she asks, cutting to the core of the issue with a quickness that’s jarring to Grantaire, who’d been hoping to tread lightly around the subject a little longer to hopefully not overload his daughter.

“She’s not, like, here right now,” Grantaire says, “Like she’s not waiting on the other side of the door or anything, but. Um. She did come to my work. Yesterday.”

Bea chews her lip again, and Grantaire wishes he could just read her mind. Parenting would be so fucking easy if he could. Fuck, life would be easier if he could.

Then again, he’s not sure he’d want to see what everyone honestly thinks all the time. It might be a bit too painful.

“Does she want to meet me?” Bea asks. Her voice isn’t hopeful. It sounds more guarded than anything, which isn’t a tone he hears from his kid often. He feels his brow furrow, fingers drawing tight under his palms again, despite his best efforts.

Normally, when Bea is upset, it’s not hard for him to be able to help, because in the grand scheme of things, the problem is not that big. A fight with a school friend or a broken toy he can fix; often all Bea needs from him is a hug, or some help with super glue. This is different.

“She does,” he says, the admission coming out a bit weak, because while he doesn’t want his daughter to feel unwanted, he hadn’t wanted Camille’s opinion to influence hers. He doesn’t want Bea to feel pressured to meet her just because Cam wants to. But he can’t lie, either.

Bea’s eyebrows knit together, looking deep in thought, brown eyes burning a hole into the tabletop.

“Is she a bad person?” she asks, breaking the silence again, suddenly, and catching Grantaire completely off guard.

“I…” he says, unsure how the fuck he’s supposed to answer that. Camille is one big grey splotch, rather than a black or white issue. Their relationship was unhealthy, yes, but that wasn’t all her fault either. Grantaire knows he’d done his own fair share of making that situation a toxic mess. The only difference between them was that while he’d only buckled and bent, Camille had broken. And while he’d been hurt by it, he can’t fully fault her for not being able to handle it. Honestly, he doesn’t even know how he’d managed to hold it together. He thinks for a couple of seconds, and eventually settles on continuing, “I don’t know that I buy into the idea of good or bad people. Sometimes it’s just not that simple Bea.”

Bea, predictably, does not look satisfied with that answer, but she doesn’t push back, still looking like she’s thinking very, very hard.

“If you need time to think about the question, we can take a break,” Grantaire offers, knowing that he sometimes needs an out, and Bea might too. Her shoulders are drawn tightly inward, which only makes her look smaller, sitting in the dining chair that’s already too big for her. Eventually, she shakes her head.

“I dunno,” she says, quietly, and sounding guilty again. Grantaire does his best to school his expression to be as empty as possible, realizing that she might not only be worried about what Camille wants, but what he wants.

“Either answer is okay, Bea,” he says, reassuring, “I guess it’s also fine to not know. But. Um. If you’re worried about how I’ll feel about whatever you pick, you shouldn’t.”

He reaches forward, taking one of her balled up fists in his hands and working it open gently, then just holds it. She relaxes, slightly, small fingers gripping his hand back instead of clenching closed.

“No matter what, you’ve got me,” he says, voice firm, and giving her hand a squeeze, “Okay? Nothing could make me love you any less.”

She smiles, a little shakily.

“Is that a challenge?” she asks, but squeezes his hand a little harder.

“No, it’s a promise,” he replies, reaching out his other hand to mess up her hair like he always does. “Like I said, you’re stuck with me.”

Bea laughs, but doesn’t move to fix her hair this time, letting her curls fall where they may, her smile a little stronger.

“I think…” she mumbles, slowly, her eyes flicking up to his, still slightly wary, “I want to. Maybe.”

It’s a very conflicting feeling, knowing that his daughter feels safe enough to tell him her real feelings, but knowing those feelings are going to make his life harder for a while. That’s kinda just how parenting goes sometimes, though. As much as he still wants to run the other way, if Bea wants to meet Camille, he has to take Cosette’s advice, and let her. As safely as possible.

“Okay,” he says, “I’ll make it happen.”

She still looks nervous, but there’s more anticipation than anxiety in her posture now. Bea finally gets around to fixing her curls, and nods, giving a soft, “Okay,” in return.

Grantaire nods, and then leans back in his chair, and lets out a long, exaggerated breath, forcing all his limbs to relax. He looks back at Bea a moment later, putting on a smile that’s more confident than he actually feels.

“Thank you for talking with me about that,” he says, “We can read now, if you want. Or we can talk more. Up to you.”

Bea seems to consider, hands going into her sleeves and then down to her sides again, off of the table.

“I might want to talk more later,” she says, simply, then looks to him for approval.

“We can do that,” he promises. Bea smiles, and hops out of her chair.

“Let’s read in your room this time,” she says, and walks to her room, presumably to get her book. As soon as she’s gone, Grantaire lets his body truly relax, closing his eyes and taking a couple of seconds to actually breathe. His stomach is a fucking knot, and he doesn’t think it’ll be an easy one to undo, but he’s not about to show that to Bea.

He stands once she re-emerges from her room, and follows her into his, the both of them curling up on top of his sheets with their books. They stay like that for a long time, Bea reading silently beside him.

Grantaire probably only makes it through a half a page, unable to focus on the words there over the whirling of his own brain. He flips the pages back and forth every now and again, to keep up the facade, and it seems to work okay.

Bea doesn’t ask anything else about Camille before bed time, and secretly, he’s grateful. He spends the rest of the night bracing for questions that don’t come, only letting himself relax once he’s put his daughter to bed, and even then, the respite doesn’t last.

Now that he knows Bea wants to meet her mom, he has to follow through on that promise. And it sucks, but he knows he has to do it.

Though Bea is in her room, Grantaire doesn’t feel comfortable having this conversation in the apartment. He feels intensely paranoid that she’ll overhear something she shouldn’t, especially since Camille has a way of getting under his skin. He doesn’t want Bea hearing him snap, if it comes to that, so to be safe, he pulls on a jacket, and steps out of the apartment, sitting at the base of the stairs that lead up to their home instead.

They’re dirty, and it’s freezing out, but he can’t bring himself to care, letting clouds his breath float up into the night as he pulls his phone out of his pocket, and thumbs open Camille’s contact.

He steels himself, taking a breath and letting it out again, and hits the call button.

The call connects after three rings.

“Hello?” comes Camille’s voice, sweet as ever, and Grantaire wishes, fruitlessly, that she’d assumed he was a telemarketer or something and just not picked up. That’d be a good enough excuse for Bea, right?

It wouldn’t be enough for his conscience, unfortunately.

“Hey, Cam,” he replies, trying his best to keep his tone even, despite his nerves already feeling wired, buzzing with an energy he knows he won’t be able to release long after this is all over.

“Grantaire!” she says, not having the decency to even sound shocked, just glad, and a little triumphant.

He kind of wants to hang up right there out of spite, but instead just clenches his jaw, closes his eyes, and replies, “Yeah. It’s me.”

“Took you long enough,” Camille says, the smile in her voice still palpable, “Do you want to set up that date?”

Grantaire blows a breath out of his nose, a hand coming up to rub over his eyes. As hard as this is going to be for Bea, he has a feeling it’s going to be just as hard for him. Camille is the embodiment of a life he’d thought he left behind, a physical manifestation of his past coming back to fucking haunt him, and he really, really doesn’t want to have to see it. He still doesn’t want Bea to see it either, but things aren’t that simple, and he knows it.

“Let’s get a couple of things straight,” he says, willing his tone to be firm, and not as shaky as his own resolve feels. He at the very least somewhat succeeds, because Camille is quiet, letting him continue uninterrupted. He takes a steadying breath, and continues, voice coming out stiff, but stern, “We aren’t going to date again. That’s not happening. I’m only contacting you because you said you want to meet Bea. And she wants to meet you, too.”

If she believes him about the first part of what he said, she doesn’t seem too phased by it, though, she’s never been phased by much that he says, pausing only for a couple of seconds before saying, “Okay. When can I come by?”

“You’re not coming to our apartment,” Grantaire says, on impulse. It comes out sharper than he wants, but there’s something that feels wrong about Camille being in their home.

He’d had to leave their first apartment, the one he’d shared with Cam when Bea was a newborn, because it had too much baggage attached to it. Every time he’d looked at the counter, for the last few months they lived there, he would remember the note that was there, and fall down a mental hole that wasn’t easy to come back out of. It happened a lot. More than he’d like to admit. Avoiding the kitchen of his apartment wasn’t exactly feasible.

He can’t stomach tainting their home that way again. Not after so long.

“Ouch, touchy,” Cam says, but there’s mirth more than hurt in her tone. Grantaire can’t help but feel a little disappointed at that, and knows it’s a bad, bitter impulse, but can’t stop it regardless. He probably has a right to be a little bitter.

Cam sounds like she’s relaxing, a soft ‘whump’ coming from her end of the phone as she continues, “If I can’t come there, how do you want to do this?”

Grantaire doesn’t quite know what to say to that, feeling woefully unprepared suddenly. There isn’t much that he has, in the way of neutral ground. After a moment, he settles on the one place Camille has already touched, that’s public enough to feel safe, and private enough for them to talk.

“Come by the One Page More on Saturday. I’ll bring Bea with me, and we can all talk,” he says.

“Sounds perfect,” Camille replies, all warmth and sweetness. It doesn’t help his nerves at all, and he realizes suddenly that this can’t be the end of the conversation, as much as he wants to hang up right there.

“Couple of ground rules,” he says, then pauses. Camille doesn’t interrupt, again apparently seeing the wisdom in just letting him speak. He does his best to sound strong, knowing the weight of what he needs to ask of her.

“Everything is up to Bea. After you meet her, if she doesn’t want to see you again, you need to respect that,” he says. Camille starts to speak, but he plows on, interrupting to continue, “And, if she does want to see you again, you need to be there for her. No backing out, no disappearing. If she wants you to be a mom you’re going to be a fucking mom.”

Camille pauses, and for the first time, the silence sounds tense, like she hadn’t been expecting him to set any kind of boundaries for this encounter. Which…to be fair, he’d never had any to lay down before.

“Anything else, boss?” she asks, eventually, an edge of discomfort to her tone now, though it still sounds wry.

He thinks for a moment.

“Yes,” he says, realizing there is something that he can’t leave unsaid, “Under no circumstances will you bring up that she was unplanned. Even as a joke. Actually, especially not as a joke. Just don’t.”

It’s not something he’s ever told Bea, that she was an accident. He’s not sure the mental toll it might take on a kid to know that, and isn’t in any rush to find out.

“What,” Camille says, sounding a little accusatory now, “You don’t want her to know you didn’t want her?”

Grantaire’s hands are freezing. It only makes the stubs of his nails biting into his palm feel sharper. He stares at the line of cars parked in front of the apartment complex, pushing down guilt, and trying to hold firm.

“I want her now,” he replies, the knot in his stomach growing ever tighter, “I don’t see the point of making my kid think I don’t.”

“She’s our kid, R,” Camille corrects, and man, she’s very, very good at pushing his buttons. Immediately, that anger from the other day is back, bubbling low under his skin.

“Act like it, then,” he says through his teeth, “I’m not letting you meet her until you agree to the rules.”

There’s a soft puff of air from the other side of the phone.

“Fine. Agreed,” Camille says, “God, you’ve become a hard-ass huh?”

It’s enough to make him bristle, because he really doesn’t think he has. But, he supposes, in comparison to the person he’d been when Camille had been with him, he probably does seem like a bit of a stickler. Any pushback from him, who’d used to go with the flow to a degree that was unhealthy, probably feels a bit like an affront.

“Just for you babe,” he says, humorlessly, staring hard down at his hands. Camille laughs anyway, an oily sound that rolls over him in waves.

For the next few minutes, they work through finding a time that will work for both of them; Camille works Saturdays, her part-time work as a bartender demanding a weekend heavy schedule. Thankfully, she’s available before 3pm. They settle on an early afternoon meeting time without too much trouble.

“Don’t be a stranger in the meantime,” Camille says, and Grantaire presses his lips together, wishing they could just actually be strangers again, “Adults can text each other, y’know. Even if they used to date.”

“I’m aware,” he replies, curtly, patting himself on the back for not saying ‘I just don’t want to’. Instead, he says, “We’ll see you Saturday.”

“See you then, R,” she says. Grantaire wastes no time in hanging up after. He sits, staring out at nothing for a few minutes and just letting his breath curl up into the night, until finally he wills himself to stand on stiff legs, and make his way back inside.

He feels stretched thin.

He thinks, numbly, that being an adult and having hard conversations really shouldn’t be this draining. And maybe for people with better brain chemistry, they aren’t.

He sloughs off his coat, dropping it in a heap onto the couch, and pads back to his room, doing his best to be silent so he doesn’t disturb Bea, trying to sleep in her room. He flops down on his bed, facing up towards the ceiling. After a couple of minutes, lying there with his eyes closed but not relaxing, he picks his phone up again, and texts Eponine an update, knowing she’ll want to be kept in the loop, especially since Cam is going to come to their place of work.

It’s not on a day either of them work, but Grantaire would still feel weird not telling her.

After it sends, he backs out into his messages, and his eyes hover on Enjolras’ contact, resisting the urge to text him immediately, as has become his habit. After a few seconds of staring, he opens their conversation with no intention of sending anything, the messages from earlier today still sitting there, heavy on his sternum as they were hours ago.

He kind of hates that all he wants to do is talk to him. He knows, even if they say almost nothing to each other, just having him on the other end of the line would help to ease some of the tightness in his chest.

Grantaire taps Enjolras’ contact, looking at the picture he’d managed to sneak a few weeks back. It was well before Enjolras started looking so tired, on one of their lunch ‘dates’.

Enjolras is frozen, caught by the picture in the middle of explaining what the fuck ‘fair trade coffee’ means, if Grantaire remembers right, coaxed into a rant by the fact that Grantaire didn’t know if the coffee beans the One Page More buys are ethically sourced.

Grantaire would argue that no matter how they’re sourced, what they come to be under Eponine is still enough of a crime to keep them from being considered ethical.

The smile that works its way onto his face is out of his control, pulled by the memory, despite his nerves. It doesn’t last long, unfortunately, overshadowed quickly by the memory of today, instead, and that reminder, again, of the schism that Grantaire probably made permanent by being such a fuck up in high school.

Enjolras insists he didn’t hate him, but Grantaire knows that the memory of who he used to be is a hard one to shake. He’s tried. And it probably doesn’t help anything that he went and told Enjolras about his old crush. If anything, he’s probably more uncomfortable now, and is just too fucking polite to show it.

Aside from those weird, closed-off expressions he keeps seeing.

He drops his phone slightly, letting it thunk down on his forehead, groaning in frustration to the air, eyes squeezed shut.

A second later, he hears it. Soft trilling.

He lifts his phone from his face, eyes shooting open to find Enjolras’ contact info splashed across it, a call having started without him meaning to do so.

And, it’s already rung once.

“Fuck. Fucking, shit—” Grantaire hisses, hitting the end call button as quickly as he can. He holds his breath, only blowing it out again when his screen goes black.

He knows that Enjolras said he could call him. They’ve called before, so…obviously. But after today, he’s not sure he’d want to have a call. Grantaire is acutely aware of how much he’s been leaning on Enjolras, and it’s hard to want to push that further than he already has, with how tired Enjolras looked. He can’t shake the fear that some of that exhaustion comes from how much of Grantaire’s baggage he’s been carrying recently.

That guilt has been biding its time, he knows. Somehow, he’s been managing to fend it off, comforted by the fact that Enjolras was just always there, and always willing. But he forgot that Enjolras is a good friend, to a fault.

Grantaire stares at the black mirror of his screen, and the unfortunate face staring back at him. Enjolras didn’t sign up to be the emotional sponge to Grantaire’s bursting water main. He can’t keep asking him to be.

A moment later he nearly jumps out of his skin as his phone screen turns right back on, again, Enjolras’ contact information glowing bright in the dark of his room. His heart stutters uncomfortably.

Grantaire lets it ring perhaps a little too long, steeling himself, and trying to work up the nerve to hit the call button. Eventually, he takes a deep breath, and taps it, sliding the phone to his ear in a jerky motion.

“Hey, dude,” he says, attempting casual, and instead landing solidly in awkward, “What’s up?”

There’s the sound of gentle conversation from Enjolras’ end of the phone, what sounds like a few women talking, though Grantaire can’t place them.

“Hi,” Enjolras says, and he sounds relatively normal, just confused. He pauses, then continues, sounding unsure, “...You called me first. I wanted to make sure everything’s alright.”

“Oh. Yeah,” Grantaire replies, dumbly. He casts for something to say, and comes up empty, because the truth is embarrassing. So instead, he settles on a half-truth, “It was a pocket dial?”

“Oh,” Enjolras says, sounding almost disappointed.

There’s a rustling from the other end of the phone, mixed with the odd, tinny conversation just barely audible. Then, a twangy, slow dance sounding song suddenly filters through the phone’s speakers, and to his own surprise, Grantaire recognizes it immediately as ‘Hopelessly Devoted’, Olivia Newton-John’s sweet voice floating in semi-garbled by the phone quality.

“...Are you watching Grease right now?” he asks, realizing that the quiet talking he’d been hearing had been tinnier than it should have been if there were people in the room with Enjolras.

“Um,” Enjolras replies, and that alone is enough to make Grantaire snort over the receiver, even as Enjolras follows through on his lie, the music stopping abruptly in the background, “No.”

“You’re a dogshit liar, Enj. Don’t even try,” he says, voice dry, and smiling despite the pit in his stomach, renewed at the fact that Enjolras is still lying to him. He shrugs, despite the fact that Enjolras can’t see it, and adds, “No judgment, it just doesn’t seem like your type of musical.”

“It’s not,” Enjolras replies, after a moment, probably knowing that there’s no use denying it anymore, and that much doesn’t sound like a lie, just embarrassed, “I just. I had a song from it stuck in my head, and it won’t go away until I listen to it.”

“So…” Grantaire says, noting that he’d heard dialogue, and not just straight singing, “You decided to watch the whole fucking thing?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Enjolras asks, sounding more incredulous than defensive, and Grantaire can’t help but laugh, a hand coming up to rest over his eyes, because of course Enjolras would. Of course he wouldn’t just fucking YouTube the one song he wants like a normal fucking person, because he physically cannot do anything half-way.

“Yeah,” Grantaire says through a smile, still laughing softly, “Why wouldn’t you. Silly me.”

Enjolras pauses, not seeming to know what to do with that reaction, then asks, “So…what is my type of musical?”

“Fuck if I know, dude,” Grantaire replies, his hand slipping off his face again, and back onto his covers, knowing he definitely doesn’t know enough about musical theater to be able to answer that question in any meaningful way. Any musicals he’s heard were forced upon him by Courfeyrac in high school. He knows Grease extra well, unfortunately, because their high school had put it on in their junior year, and Courf had been very enthusiastic about playing a male Frenchie.

His hair had been dyed pink for months. For ‘authenticity’s’ sake.

Grantaire racks his brain for another couple of seconds, running through the musicals he knows enough about to be able to speak on them, “Wicked, maybe?” he tries, then adds, “But definitely more inspiring than ‘The Moral is Change for a Man’, The Musical.”

“Courf would argue that it’s about young love, and the dichotomy of repression versus acceptance of one’s sexuality,” Enjolras argues, but there’s a soft smile in his tone, regardless, “Since in the context of the American 1950’s and 60’s, that was a lot more radical than it is now.”

“I see you’ve had this conversation before,” Grantaire replies, dryly.

“More like I’ve sat through it a few times. I don’t have much of a stake in that fight,” Enjolras says.

“C’mon man, you have a stake in literally every fight,” Grantaire argues, which earns him a small laugh. He tucks it away in his memory, wondering how many more of them he’ll get, if things stay as awkward as they have been.

“Fair enough,” Enjolras says, and his voice is so fond it makes Grantaire’s heart give a squeeze that’s too tight for comfort.

“Well, I’m glad you’re relaxing,” Grantaire says, and means it. Even if Enjolras doesn’t want to talk to him about what’s up, he’s glad at the very least that he’s not just throwing himself into work to get over it. If he’s watching a movie, he’s probably not overdoing it too much.

He feels his own mood dip, remembering immediately why he hadn’t wanted to call in the first place.

Grantaire wants, so badly, to ask again if Enjolras is okay. But he doesn’t feel like he can.

He wants to talk to Enjolras about how things went with Bea, and about the call with Camille, but doesn’t know if he should.

Because, the thing is, if Enjolras can’t talk to him about his problems, it feels selfish to continue to throw his own onto him. He knows that Enjolras would let him, because that’s just how Enjolras is. But Grantaire knows that the longer he does that, the sooner Enjolras is likely to get tired of dealing with him and his bullshit.

He probably would have worn out his welcome a lot sooner, if he hadn’t noticed this divide. So, in a way, he’s grateful to have been reminded. It’ll save him heartache in the long run, but for now, it still sucks.

There’s a beat of quiet on the other end, soft shifting, and Grantaire can practically see Enjolras getting more comfortable on his couch, or settling in his bed, now that he’s seen his apartment.

“Hey,” Enjolras says, suddenly, “I’m sorry for how I left. Earlier today.”

Grantaire’s fingers tighten on his phone, feeling a bit like he’s been sniped. He’s not sure how Enjolras is so good at seeming to notice when he’s getting into his own head, but it’s always jarring. He rolls onto his side, staring at the wall.

“You don’t have to apologize, dude,” he replies.

“No. I do,” Enjolras says. He sounds like he’s picking his words very carefully, each one coming out deliberate and steady, despite the sentences being semi-stilted, “I think I came off badly. I don’t want you feeling like I don’t want to be there. With you. I like our routine.”

Grantaire is quiet for a long moment, his throat feeling tight.

He wants to believe him, wants to believe that Enjolras enjoys spending time with him in the same way Grantaire does with him. He really does.

His free hand clenches and unclenches in his duvet, in a self-soothing, repetitive motion, because the absolute last thing he wants from Enjolras is pity, and he’s beginning to think that’s all he’s been getting.

He feels pathetic for being willing to settle for it anyway, if it means they can go back to how they were.

“I do too,” he manages through his tight throat. He clears it, and adds, “Seriously, though, it’s fine. We’re cool.”

“Okay,” Enjolras says, sounding relieved, “Good.”

They both fall quiet again for a few seconds.

“Well,” Grantaire says, not wanting to overstay his welcome, “I’ll let you get back to your musical.”

“Wait,” Enjolras says, stopping him before he can pull his phone away from his ear, “We haven’t checked in much today. How are you?”

Grantaire presses his lips together, staring hard at the plaster of his wall, and hating that he’s managed to make Enjolras so fucking concerned with his shit that they can’t go one conversation without him feeling like he has to check on him.

“I’m fine,” he says, but knows that that almost definitely won’t be enough to appease him, so he adds after a pause, “You don’t need to worry so much, dude. You’re not, like, my therapist.”

“Have you ever considered actually going to one of those?” Enjolras asks, clearly intending for it to be a joke. It hits a little too close to exposed nerves for Grantaire to be able to laugh at it, though. His hand fists in his covers and stays there, clenched tight, the only energy release he can muster.

He wonders if that’s how Enjolras has begun to feel. Like a fucking unpaid therapist.

“Walked right into that one,” he manages, but his voice is more hollow than he wants it to be.

There’s a bloated pause that follows, long and stifling, though it’s hard to tell if that’s his imagination. Enjolras might be expecting him to speak on how he’s feeling more, but that’s not about to happen. Not now. Grantaire forces his hand to relax, and rolls back over onto his back.

“I do actually need to get going,” he says, retracing the same patterns on the ceiling he’d found his last sleepless night, like a well worn path through plaster, “You’ve got your movie, and I’ve gotta get up early for work tomorrow. You know, the daily grind.”

“Oh. Okay,” Enjolras replies, an edge of concern working its way back into his voice, “Are you sure you’re fine?”

“Will you have the decency to actually believe me this time if I tell you I am again?” Grantaire asks.

“That’s not an answer,” Enjolras says, clearly frustrated already.

“Neither is that,” Grantaire counters, stubborn.

“I asked you first.”

“I asked you second.”

“That’s not a thing and I think you know it.”

“I’ve never known anything in my life, actually,” Grantaire replies, “Not one thing. I’m a marvel of science.”

Enjolras sighs over the line, exasperation conveyed in a crackly puff of air.

“Would it kill you to just give me a straight answer?” he asks.

And Grantaire wants to say yes, because he thinks it might, depending on the question. But instead, he musters up a passable wry tone, and rambles, “Maybe. Are you saying you want to test it? I would have hoped my life was worth more than that to you. You wound me, Enjolras.”

In the back of his mind, he knows he’s backsliding. He hasn’t felt the need to go in circles like this with Enjolras in a long while, or at the very least hasn’t allowed himself to, because he knows it’s infuriating. He also doesn’t know how to stop.

Nothing feels safe.

Another beat of hesitant silence follows, and Grantaire caves slightly, wanting this to be over so he can sulk in peace.

“I’m fine, dude,” he repeats, “Now finish your movie. It’s late, and you should actually get some sleep tonight, if you can.”

“I’ll try,” Enjolras promises, though he still doesn’t sound at ease. He relents regardless, and Grantaire is grateful, “Sleep well, R.”

“You too,” Grantaire replies, “See you Friday.”

He hangs up. He goes about his evening routine, getting ready for bed, and curling up as usual with a video playing through his headphones. Tonight, it’s a forty minute video of a dude making bismuth crystals out of Pepto Bismol tablets. It’s the same chemistry channel he’s been frequenting for the past couple of weeks; the fairly monotone voice the creator has is generally fucking great for helping him zone out enough to sleep.

It’s not enough tonight. But he pretends it is, ignoring how many videos have to auto-play before he finally starts to feel himself drifting off, muscles still wound tight, bracing for the weekend.

Chapter Text

Over the next couple of days, Bea does talk to him more about her mom. On Wednesday, she asks if he has any pictures of her, and wants to hear some stories. Obviously, he has no pictures. He’d made sure of that, unfortunately. In hindsight, he really shouldn’t have deleted all of them. It doesn’t help that there also aren’t many stories Grantaire can tell her. Not without heavy, heavy editing and censorship. But, with some creativity and brain-racking, he manages to tell a couple.

He’s less successful, he thinks, in keeping up his act, pretending that he feels okay talking about Cam. That stretched-thin feeling only gets worse as they get closer to the weekend, and he stumbles a few times while talking about their old relationship, struggling to make things sound more clean than they were without outright lying. It’s a very, very fine line.

It doesn’t help that he doesn’t remember all that much to begin with. Any good stories he has are from either the very beginning, or the very end, in those brief moments when Bea hadn’t been crying, and they had seemed to be making things work.

He may have told the same story twice, on accident.

Bea doesn’t say anything about him struggling, if she notices, but her questions become less frequent as Thursday comes to a close, probably sensing that she’s essentially tapped the metaphorical well.

Eponine is the only person who really knows what all has happened over the last few days, with Camille and Bea. She’s doing her best to be supportive, he knows, because the coffee he’s been given over the last couple of days has been markedly closer to drinkable than it ever has been before. He’s not sure if she’s trying to cheer him up, or just doesn’t want to add to his stress. Maybe both. Either way, he’s grateful.

Sleep in particular has been…rough.

Since the beginning of the week, he’s gotten probably a couple of hours of sleep per night, for one reason or another. He hasn’t had insomnia this persistent since high school, or maybe the first few weeks of being sober. It’s jarring, and more than a little concerning, considering that his sleep schedule had been relatively solid for the past few years. Minus a few edge cases; anxious days make for sleepless nights, and he’s unfortunately never managed to get fully free of those.

Quite a few of his habitual routines have fallen to the wayside, in all honesty. They’re small things, in the grand scheme of the shitstorm he’s been stuck in, but it doesn't feel great that showering has begun to feel like a chore again.

One of said habits that’s been a bit neglected by him is shaving. So what’s usually faint stubble is a bit more defined by Friday. As are the bags under his eyes, but those are a near permanent staple on his face, at least in some capacity, so he doesn’t think it’s that far out of the ordinary.

At least, he thinks so, until he gets into work Friday morning.

“We should have a sleepover tonight,” Eponine says, when he drags himself into the cafe at the beginning of their shift, unfortunately probably looking as spent as he feels. It had been tough this morning to get up and out of bed, but Bea needed to get to school, so he’d managed.

He looks at his friend, and smirks, scratching a hand lazily through his hair, as if the movement will wake him up.

“That bad, huh?” he says, and Eponine nods, putting her hair up in her usual loose ponytail.

“Pretty bad, dude,” she confirms, “Been bad the last couple of days, but I think at this point I need to be there to knock you out myself.”

“Honestly? If you promise to make it quick, I won’t complain,” he says, leaning hard on the counter in front of Eponine, “Bring your baseball bat and swing as hard as you can.”

“I was thinking suffocation,” Eponine replies dryly.

“I mean, I don’t want to die?” Grantaire replies, “And I feel like that’s more likely to do it.”

“Movies are misleading, R,” she says, finishing with her hair and moving to tie her apron, as casually as if they were talking about the weather, “It actually takes about eight minutes for someone to die of suffocation. I’d just stop before we hit a minute and you start losing brain cells to oxygen deprivation.”

“You know too much about that,” Grantaire says, unnerved, “Why do you know so much about that?”

Eponine smiles in a way that’s probably supposed to look innocent, but instead looks a lot like a wolf in sheep’s clothing might.

He knows she’s (probably) joking about suffocating him to sleep, but honestly he’d welcome it at this point. A nice pillow over the face, from a friend, and a full night of sleep? Sounds like heaven.

“Sleepover, five o’clock.” Eponine says. She doesn’t often bother to ask for any kind of permission, just kind of says ‘this is what we’re doing’ and trusts that Grantaire won’t have any objections. And usually, he doesn’t.

“You do remember what tomorrow is, right?” he asks, and Eponine looks at him like he just personally insulted her intelligence. But Grantaire feels the need to check, regardless. The meeting with Cam is tomorrow afternoon, which means anyone around him tonight — any adult, anyway — is probably going to get the sad-sack Grantaire treatment.

“Obviously,” she replies, “Which is exactly why you shouldn’t be alone.”

Grantaire tenses a little at that, his finger picking at the bandaid that’s just barely hanging onto his thumb at this point. He hasn’t had the heart to remove it since Monday, though he knows it’ll have to come off eventually.

“I’ll be fine, dude,” he says, automatic, and Eponine narrows her eyes.

“You wanna look in a mirror then try to say that with a straight face,” she says, “Christ did you even shower today?”

“Last night,” Grantaire says, defensive, and it’s only half a lie. He’d wiped down with a damp rag, because the idea of getting into the shower had felt like too much effort. It’s better than nothing, so frankly he’s happy to have gotten away with at least that.

Eponine pauses, probably trying to gauge if he’s lying or not. Whatever she settles on makes her sigh, leaning the heels of her hands on the countertop.

“The last time you had a bad relapse, what did we talk about?” she asks, her tone is a bit like a drill sergeant’s, commanding and serious, eyes hard beneath their dark eyeliner.

Grantaire jolts a little, at the sudden mention of relapsing sending a little adrenaline into his system.

“Whoa, okay, where did that come from?” he asks. In response, Eponine just looks him up and down, pointedly, making Grantaire squirm.

“We talked about the warning signs. So I can help you catch yourself before shit hits the metaphorical fan.” she answers her own question, using it to answer Grantaire’s in the same breath. She smirks, a little wry, and a little dark, “Do you need me to list them for you?”

He doesn’t.

It’s been a worry he’s been pushing down, as his habits start to get out of order. His pattern is not unique, and he knows it. Relapse, a full-on, bad relapse, not just a slip, tends to happen in three stages: emotional relapse, mental relapse, and finally physical relapse.

The final stage, physical relapse, is where someone starts actually habitually using their toxin of choice again, so it’s important to catch himself before that point. Hence, why he’d schooled Eponine in the usual warning signs of the first stages, where the erosion of his emotional and mental fail-safes start to set the stage for bigger problems.

He goes down the list of visible indicators in his head: Isolation, breaking routines and habits, trouble sleeping, and refusing help.

…Fuck.

When forced to actually list them, it doesn’t…not look concerning.

It’s been a long, long time since his last episode. He has his moments, occasionally, bad thoughts, temptations, but he's tried over the past decade to add structure to his life, so it's harder for him to fall into old, too-comfortable habits which might make those bad thoughts start to sound like good ones again. He’s not sure exactly what the trigger was this time. Then, abruptly remembers that literally almost anything that has happened over the past week could have probably done it on its own. Really, it shouldn’t be a shock that he’s starting to fall into old traps. Hell, just Camille would probably be enough to throw him head first into emotional relapse.

He’s started the cycle over stupider things than that. His second relapse had literally been triggered by the smell of oil paints. Or, technically speaking, the smell of the paint thinner used to dilute it.

Turns out, scent memory is a very, very powerful thing.

Grantaire rubs the heels of his hands hard into his eyes, murmuring a quiet, drawn out, “Fuuuuuuuck,” into the air as frustration and quiet anxiety clash for control of his thoughts.

“Yep,” Eponine says, reaching out a hand to gently pat his shoulder, “Sorry bud.”

“God damn it,” he groans, unable to form much in the way of sentences outside of frustrated curses. He knows he isn’t fucked, yet. Since he knows what’s probably happening, he can pull himself out before this spiral gets out of hand. It's just going to take work. It always takes work for him to just feel normal, and it's always easier said than done. He's pretty fucking tired of it, if he's honest. Which is exactly why it had been so easy to just ignore this shit for a week.

At least Eponine isn’t as eager as his shitty brain to turn a blind eye to his habits.

Eponine gives his shoulder a squeeze, then pulls her hand back.

“Enjolras is coming in today, right?” she asks, in a tone that’s probably meant to come off as soothing, but only serves to make Grantaire freeze. Eponine continues, despite not getting a response, “We could invite him, too.”

“No,” Grantaire says immediately, hands coming away from his eyes. He intends for it to come out off-hand, but instead it just comes out panicky and sharp. Eponine blinks at him, then crosses her arms, immediately suspicious again.

“Why not?” she asks, “He probably wants to help with everything going on, knowing him.”

Grantaire chews on his lip, eyes sliding off of Eponine’s face, and instead staring hard at the countertop.

Enjolras would want to help. Grantaire knows he would, if Grantaire had managed to actually tell him about what’s going on with Cam. Enjolras has texted a few more times, since their call, to ask how Grantaire is doing and to check in. Grantaire had used those chances to still not fill him in, and instead go off on weird conversational rabbit holes that were safer.

He knows, by all accounts, that he should have told him by now. But that sickly, roiling fear of being a burden is still hanging stubbornly in his chest, and every time he thinks to try and update him, it just gets heavier.

“So…um,” Grantaire says, weakly, “The thing is, Enjolras might not…know. What’s going on.”

Eponine stares at him, her face morphing from frustrated confusion, to irate realization in the space of a couple of breaths.

“You didn’t tell him,” she says, and it’s not so much a question as it is an accusation. Grantaire winces at her tone, but she’s not finished, “Are you fucking kidding me? Christ, you’ve been talking to him about your shit even more than me for weeks, and suddenly—”

“Eponine, that’s exactly why I didn’t tell him,” Grantaire interrupts, desperation lacing his tone. He crosses his arms, fingers digging into his arm hard enough to bruise, the only release for the anxiety that wells up to be talking about this. He continues, still speaking to the countertop, “I was dumping all this shit on him, and he doesn’t even fucking consider me one of his close friends. I can’t keep shoving my bullshit at him.”

“He ‘doesn’t consider you one of his close friends’?” Eponine repeats, dumbfounded.

Grantaire just nods, solemn and sure.

“Did he say that?” she asks.

“He didn’t have to,” Grantaire presses, “Actions speak louder than words.”

“Uh, yeah, I’d say they do,” Eponine says, pressing right back, “From what I’ve seen, I think limiting it to him considering you a close friend would be underselling it.”

“Jesus fuck, not this again,” Grantaire sighs, exasperated, a hand coming up to rub over his face, catching on stubble. He’s way too fucking tired to have this conversation right now. Frankly, he’s too tired to have any conversation right now. It’s a miracle he’s gotten as far into this one as he has without passing out. Eponine’s conspiracy theory might actually do it.

Eponine seems to sense that this isn’t a conversation that’s going to go well, because she pauses, then pivots back to the original matter at hand.

“You have to tell him, you realize that,” she says, deadly serious.

“I don’t think I have to do shit,” he says, snapping a little, despite his best efforts. His fuse has been burning away over the past couple of days, and it’s dangerously low at this point, “I’ll meet with Cam tomorrow, and then that’ll be done with, and he won’t have had to deal with my shit for a week. Lord knows he has better things to worry about.”

A little voice in the back of his head whispers his relapse warning list, on repeat, but he pushes it away. He’s not refusing all help, just…some help. Very specific help from one specific person. And he thinks he has a good reason this time. It’s isolation for the sake of not being isolated later, when Enjolras would have gotten tired of him. A preventative measure, and a necessary one.

Eponine’s mouth is a hard line, when he finally looks up. If an expression could throttle him, he thinks, Eponine would be going for the full seven minutes it’d take to kill him.

“Can’t I just let myself have a normal fucking lunch, one time this week?” he asks, when it becomes clear that she’s just going to keep staring him down, imperious and dark in that way that only Eponine can, “Christ, I haven’t gotten to have a good day with him since Monday. And Camille started that one off bad as it is.”

At that, Eponine’s expression does soften, if only by a fraction. She doesn’t look convinced, not fully, but after a couple more seconds, she seems to relent a little, scoffing softly and murmuring something like ‘I swear’ and ‘densest motherfucker’ under her breath.

“Is that a yes?” he prompts, forcing on a smirk. Eponine’s eyes narrow.

“...Fine,” she says. It doesn’t look like she really wants to; there’s a kind of cogs-turning thoughtfulness in her expression, and as such, Grantaire doubts this is actually the end of the conversation, but he lets his shoulders slump a little, breathing out a sigh of relief.

“Thank you,” he says. He starts to walk away from the counter, and back to the register, as a customer opens the door with a jingle.

“I’m holding you to your promise,” he calls behind him, “You’d best be prepared to knock me the hell out when it’s bedtime tonight.”

“Believe me, it’ll be my pleasure,” Eponine says, dryly, sounding like she’s thoroughly reconsidering the baseball bat idea after all.

Grantaire laughs, the sound coming out as a tired crackle, and goes to take his place on his usual stool behind the register, ready to battle his eyelids for the rest of his shift.

~~

The day passes for Grantaire in a fatigued fog. It helps that he naps in his car on his first break, the fifteen minutes he allows himself jump-starting his brain a little, and giving him enough energy to get through to twelve thirty without actively passing out at the counter.

Javert is in today, and though he’s a relatively laid-back boss after nearly a decade of Grantaire working for him, he thinks his only cashier sleeping on the clock might be pushing his luck a little too far.

If one day, Javert decides that he can’t trust Grantaire and Eponine to hold down the fort, working here could become a lot more difficult. Grantaire doesn’t even want to consider how he’d pay his rent if he got fired and had to find another job; there aren’t many single parents that can work just one job and make rent, (let alone single parents with only a high school diploma) and it’s a privilege he doesn’t take lightly.

Enjolras arrives right on time, as usual, thankfully looking markedly better than he did when Grantaire saw him on Tuesday. He still looks tired, but the bags under his eyes are less pronounced than they were.

It’s a relief to see that he at least seems to be feeling better. Grantaire isn’t about to jeopardize that.

“Do you need to take a nap?” Enjolras asks, cautiously, when they’ve sat at their usual table. He’s been looking at Grantaire’s face since he came in, eyes sticking at the longer than usual stubble, and eyebags, concern creasing his brow. And Grantaire isn’t surprised, since Eponine thinks he looks bad enough to offer to suffocate him.

“I’m a big boy, Enj,” he says, with his best attempt at a wry smile, “I napped on my fifteen.”

“And yet you still look exhausted,” Enjolras says, dryly, ignoring his joke entirely.

“I prefer ‘rugged’,” Grantaire says, waving a hand in the air between them, “Besides, tired-chic is all the rage with teens right now. They’re like, adding eye bags with eyeshadow as a look, did you know that? I would’ve be fucking killing it if I were only born a decade later.”

Enjolras doesn’t seem to know what to do with that, staring at him with a look of such bald-faced bewilderment that Grantaire almost can’t resist laughing. Almost.

Instead, he takes the opportunity to pivot, turning the conversation abruptly to Catch-22. He’s fallen a bit behind on reading it over the past couple of days, but knows that it’s relatively safe territory, and Enjolras might be coaxed into a tangent about the absurdity and horrors of war, if he plays his hand right.

Two days. Today and tomorrow, that’s all Grantaire has to get through. Then the meeting with Cam will have passed, with Enjolras not having to bear the brunt of Grantaire’s mess. Enjolras is only one leg of his support system. One of essentially two, since the ABC proper hasn’t been briefed on most of his shit either, but he’s gotten by before with less, and is determined to do so again.

It will be fine, and he will be fine.

Eponine stays, sitting quietly behind the counter while they talk, a silent, heavy presence at the back of the room. Grantaire dutifully ignores her staring, and manages, somehow, to have the one good lunch of his week that he wanted.

1:00 comes sooner than it should, as usual, and Grantaire stands, waving his usual goodbye to Enjolras, along with his offer to stick around if he wants, then goes back to clock out.

He thinks he hears Eponine speak to Enjolras, as he goes towards the back, but assumes she’s just saying goodbye. Usually, she just kind of grunts and waves, but maybe she’s feeling nicer than usual. When he comes back out, Enjolras is heading to the door, sliding his phone into his pocket as he goes. Grantaire gives him another wave, which is returned in kind, and Grantaire thinks, maybe, just maybe, he will get through this week unscathed, at least where Enjolras is concerned.

~~

Grantaire is sitting at the coffee table with Bea when his phone vibrates. She decided once they got home that they should have a spa day, since Grantaire’s exhaustion was apparently clear enough that even a seven year old could pick up on it.

At the moment, they’re painting their nails. Or, rather, Bea is about to paint his, and he’s just finished with hers.

Since they’re at a lull anyway, her fingers needing to dry before she can even attempt his, he slides his phone from his pocket, and looks at the text he received. Predictably, it’s Eponine.

From: 🦇 Eponine 🦇
4:32pm, November 19:
-----
i’ve got food taken care of.
don’t make anything.

Grantaire smiles, surprised, because with how Eponine and him had left things kind of tense, the idea of her going out of her way to take care of food is completely unexpected. They rarely order out for their sleepovers as it is, both of them favoring cooking from home for the cost savings and bonding time. He taps out a quick message, and sends it back.

From: Grantaire
4:33pm, November 19:
-----
oh shit whatd you get??
i haven’t even gotten to ask bea what she would be in the mood for yet
you sure its a winner?

From: 🦇 Eponine 🦇
4:35pm, November 19:
-----
it’s a surprise. but yes, i think it’ll be a winner.
it’ll get to you at five, so be by the door.

This message strikes him as a little odd—he supposes it’s not that weird to order food, knowing you won’t be there to get it, since Grantaire will be here anyway, but it still feels off. But, he supposes, Eponine has her reasons.

From: Grantaire
4:36pm, November 19:
-----
you gonna be late?

From: 🦇 Eponine 🦇
4:36pm, November 19:
-----
yep.
don’t forget to tip the delivery boy.

From: Grantaire
4:36pm, November 19:
-----
??
im not a total dick
of course i will

Eponine doesn’t reply to that, not quickly, anyway, and Bea’s fingers are dry enough now that she’s wanting to move onto his hands. She scrabbles impatiently at his right hand, yanking it forward and setting it flat on the table, fingers splayed.

Grantaire can’t argue with that level of insistence, so he slides his phone away again, and puts his left hand next to his right in front of his daughter.

“What color?” she asks, smiling up at him now that he’s cooperating.

They only have three colors, a light blue called ‘Cinderella Dreams’, a bright pink called ‘All Dolled Up’, and yellow, whose name has long since been scratched off. Neither of them are great at not just picking off nail polish when they bother putting it on, so this polish is the peel-off kind, meant to be put on, and then removed relatively quickly by fidgety hands.

Bea had chosen the light blue tonight. Grantaire smiles, and says, “Wanna match?”

She grins in response, and grabs the blue bottle.

A half an hour later, both of their nails are dry. Bea had insisted on painting toes too, so each of his toes nails are now bright pink, stark against the muted grey of their carpet, and the sweatpants he’s put on.

The only nail that’s unpainted on him is his thumb nail on his left hand, the bandaid there still blocking most of his nail. When Bea had asked what happened, he’d blamed a paper cut, an easy excuse, and thankfully it had been enough, getting only a gentle smack and a ‘be more careful’ from his daughter in response.

Grantaire had also managed to shave, at least with a trimmer, as an earlier part of their ‘spa night’, while Bea washed her face beside him in solidarity. Between spa 'treatments', he'd forced himself to do the dishes in the sink, and clean the bathroom, knowing that it might feel terrible to start, but he needs to start getting his shit in order if he's not going to spiral. With Bea helping with chores, it hadn't been so overwhelming, and they'd had their spa reward by the end.

As a result, by the time five rolls around, and there’s a pointed rap at the door, he’s looking, and feeling markedly better than he did this morning.

He’s still exhausted, but that’s not something he can really help right now.

Hopefully, Eponine will be true to her word, and he’ll be knocked the fuck out come bedtime.

“I’ll get it,” Grantaire says, automatic, standing and heading to the door. He and Bea have been coloring at the coffee table, needing something to do while their toes finished drying. Or, rather, Grantaire has been drawing her little doodles of dinosaur astronauts, at her very specific request, and Bea has been coloring them. She hums, waving him off, and going back to carefully coloring in a pterodactyl's oblong, triangular space helmet.

He swings the door open, wallet in one hand, expecting a tired looking teenager or a middle-aged gig worker who’s taken up driving deliveries.

Instead, Enjolras stands there, bundled up in a coat and scarf to fend off the cold of the November evening, two large pizza boxes stacked neatly in his hands, and a bag over his shoulder.

Grantaire stares at him, trying to figure out if he’s somehow hallucinating, and if so, why his brain decided to conjure this very, very specific image. He doesn’t think he’s sleep deprived enough for that, hopefully, anyway, but stranger things have happened.

“Enjolras!” Bea calls, immediately distracted from coloring by the familiar figure in the doorway.

So, not a hallucination. That’s good.

“Hi, Bea,” Enjolras replies, smiling a little, and adjusting the pizza boxes to a more comfortable position. His eyes slide back over to Grantaire a moment later, looking his face over, as if searching for something. His eyes seem to catch on Grantaire’s now shaven chin and cheeks before making their way back up to his eyes.

“What are you doing here, Enj?” Grantaire manages to ask, after a couple of seconds pass, finally remembering he should be saying something. Anything, really, instead of standing there with his mouth slightly open.

Enjolras startles from his own reverie, and lifts the pizza boxes a fraction.

“I brought the pizza,” he says, simply.

“I see that,” Grantaire replies, after a beat, “Why did you bring pizza?”

Enjolras stares back at him, looking like he’s starting to get uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot.

“To…eat?” he says, after a moment. When Grantaire still doesn’t seem to understand, he adds, “For the sleepover?”

Grantaire is still staring, but pieces of the puzzle start to slip into place in his mind. But…no, Eponine wouldn’t.

Clearly she would. And did.

“Can I come in?” Enjolras asks, and his breath floats off into the night as he says it, a slight shiver running through his frame even with his coat.

“Shi—Shoot. Yeah, sorry,” Grantaire replies, pushing down the dawning horror rising like bile in his throat, and stepping aside so Enjolras can come in.

Enjolras smiles, stepping inside, and toeing off his shoes in the entryway so he doesn’t have to put the pizza down.

He shouldn’t be able to make carrying pizza and taking off shoes an arresting sight, but, somehow he has the audacity to do so, right in Grantaire’s own fucking living room. The bastard. The absolute gall of him, existing like that.

Grantaire shuts the door with a click, and stands in front of him, arms crossed.

“So…Eponine invited you,” he says, slowly, trying not to come off as rude. But there’s only so many ways he can break the ‘I wasn’t aware you were coming’ news, and most of them are at least a little rude.

Enjolras finishes with his shoes, nudging them into a neat line beside the shoe rack, since his hands are still occupied. His brow furrows, looking up and meeting Grantaire’s expression again.

“Didn’t she tell you?” he asks. Grantaire shakes his head.

“No,” he says, a hand coming up to run through his hair, half sheepish, half frustrated. He’s mostly talking to himself now, murmuring to the air, “When did she even do that?”

She and Enjolras had only been alone for less than a minute in the cafe today.

“She texted me,” Enjolras says, in answer to the question that wasn’t really directed to anyone. Grantaire balks.

“Since when does she have your number?” he asks, because Eponine doesn’t give out her number to almost anyone. Musichetta being the one exception he’s seen in the past decade.

“She asked for it today,” Enjolras says, “When you went to clock out.”

“Of course she did,” Grantaire says, trying his best to keep his voice flat. And it’s official, his best friend is a conniving motherfucker. He takes a breath, knowing he’s being incredibly weird, out of any kind of context, and forces himself to continue, asking, “And then she sent you on a pizza mission?”

“No, she just invited me. I volunteered for that part,” Enjolras says. He adjusts the pizza boxes to sit balanced on one arm, stepping towards Grantaire, and fishing something out of his pocket with his now free hand. It looks like a flimsy piece of fabric, or paper, on first glance, but as more of it is extracted, Grantaire notes that it’s a paper napkin, printed with the logo of a pizza place.

“I was contractually obligated, actually,” he adds, a small smile rising to his face as he holds the napkin out for Grantaire to see, looking too much like a lawyer presenting evidence,

Grantaire looks at the napkin, suspicious, finally able to see cramped sharpie words scrawled on its surface:

‘I, Grantaire, promise that the next time the opportunity arises, Enjolras will pay for pizza, regardless of his guest status.’

It’s signed at the bottom right with Grantaire’s jagged signature, a singular capital 'R'.

He remembers Enjolras writing it, scribbling the quick contract out, and shoving it towards Grantaire, the evening he’d helped him pick his book for book club so many weeks ago. He remembers signing it, too, completely off-hand, because who in the actual fuck would take seriously a contract written in sharpie on a semi-greasy pizza place napkin?

Enjolras would. That’s who. He probably even filed it away all official and everything so he wouldn’t lose it. Holy fuck.

“You cannot be serious,” Grantaire says, despite knowing that Enjolras absolutely is, especially when he notices it’s got a little official looking stamp in one corner, “Did you get a napkin notarized?”

He reaches out to try and swipe the napkin out of his hand, but Enjolras is quick, snatching it back and folding it neatly, then tucking it back into his pocket.

“Don’t sign things if you don’t want them to be binding,” Enjolras chides, but he’s smiling, unable to suppress a smug grin. And lord help him, it’s hard for Grantaire to be any kind of upset when he’s smiling like that.

It’s infuriating, yes. Absolutely. But, sue him, Grantaire has a weakness for Enjolras’ smiles. Even the infuriating ones.

Especially the infuriating ones.

A smile tugs at the corners of his own mouth, and when he says, “You’re ridiculous,” it comes out as half laugh, and half murmur, and he sees Enjolras’ eyes soften a fraction, in a way that almost looks like relief.

“You look better than you did earlier today,” he says, and for a moment, Grantaire isn’t sure what to say, because Enjolras looks fond, and relieved, and it makes his whole chest ache.

Bea saves him from having to reel his thoughts into something coherent, finally having put down her crayons, and walked up beside them.

“We had a spa day,” she says, by way of explanation, and holds out her hands to Enjolras, to show off her nails.

“Sorry I missed it,” Enjolras says, admiring Grantaire’s work. Grantaire looks at his own nails, for something to do, because he needs to will the flush from creeping up his neck like it wants to.

“I can paint yours later,” she promises, then holds her arms out to take the pizza boxes, making grabby hands in the air. Enjolras dutifully hands her the boxes, and Bea bounds off to put them on the dining room table.

“Eponine isn't here,” Enjolras says, looking around and seeming to notice that they're short two people. Bea carefully settles the pizza boxes on the table, then pushes them to the center, and heads into the kitchen, presumably to get plates. Enjolras adds, a moment later, "We should wait for her to get here before we start eating."

“Yeah,” Grantaire says, called back to the present at the sound of Eponine’s name. That sneaky bitch. He pulls his phone out of his sweatpants pocket, “We should. Let me text her, she said she was going to be late.”

Enjolras nods.

“I’ll help Bea set the table,” he says, and Grantaire hums, noncommittal, focused now on texting Eponine, not only to check where the fuck she is, but to give her a piece of his mind for the shit she’s trying to pull. His first text is only one word, but he doesn’t think he needs more than that to get his point across.

From: Grantaire
5:06pm, November 19:
-----
eponine

From: 🦇 Eponine 🦇
5:06pm, November 19:
-----
pizza get there okay?

From: Grantaire
5:07pm, November 19:
-----
it did
are you going to explain

From: 🦇 Eponine 🦇
5:07pm, November 19:
-----
i don’t think i have anything to explain.
you, on the other hand, have plenty to say to your delivery boy.

“Don’t have anything to explain, my ass,” Grantaire mutters, quiet enough that hopefully Enjolras and Bea won’t hear. They’re contentedly chatting away in the kitchen, plates clinking together as Enjolras reaches into the high cabinet for Bea, rather than letting her climb up on the counter like she apparently wanted to.

He glances up, that familiar anxiety curling in his gut at the implication in Eponine's text, but he quickly pushes it back down, fingers punching out another message.

From: Grantaire
5:08pm, November 19:
-----
im perfectly happy to stall until you get here
when is that going to be btw we want to eat soon

From: 🦇 Eponine 🦇
5:08pm, November 19:
-----
oh, lol.
i’m not coming. it’s all you, R.

Grantaire stares at his screen, that feeling of dawning horror immediately renewed. She can’t be fucking serious. If she is, she’s diabolical, a fucking sadistic demon sent to torment him. Which…she might take as a compliment.

He should have known that she'd dropped her concerns too easily today. But in his defense, Eponine has generally been happy to not meddle in his affairs all that much, not like this. Unless she thinks he's being a detriment to his own health. He had asked her to intervene when that's the case, a long time ago, and only now is starting to realize he probably should have put some guidelines on what 'helping' is supposed to mean.

From: Grantaire
5:08pm, November 19:
-----
what

From: 🦇 Eponine 🦇
5:08pm, November 19:
-----
enjoy the sleepover.

From: Grantaire
5:09pm, November 19:
-----
WHAT

From: 🦇 Eponine 🦇
5:09pm, November 19:
-----
oh also, don't forget, i have his number now.
if you try to send him home i’m sending him that old video of you waxing poetic about his lips. and his hair.
and his everything.
have fun communicating.

She wouldn’t.

She can’t be stubborn enough to use a sleepover to force him to talk to Enjolras. What kind of parent trap bullshit…

...She would. She absolutely would. Oh fuck.

When he finishes that message, blushing furiously, he fumbles to hit the call button by Eponine’s contact, not knowing exactly what he’s going to say, except that he’s going to give her a piece of his fucking mind, because holy fuck how on Earth does she think this is a good idea.

It rings once, and then is abruptly cut short, Eponine’s voicemail rolls into his ear. He curses, soft and sharp, and opens their messages again.

From: Grantaire
5:10pm, November 19:
-----
EPONINE

From: 🦇 Eponine 🦇
5:10pm, November 19:
-----
ksrrrsskkks.
i’m going through a tunnel, you’re breaking up. oh nooooo.
ksrrrsfsskkk.

Grantaire types out a message to send back, then realizes it’s literally not worth dignifying typed connection static with a response. This is going to get him nowhere. He lets out a harsh, frustrated sigh, smacking his phone into his face.

“Everything okay?” Enjolras asks, and Grantaire jumps, because suddenly he’s barely three feet away, one hand on a dining chair, pulling it out. The table is set for five, minus one chair, since Grantaire literally doesn’t have enough chairs for that. He’s never had a reason to have more than four.

Turns out, tonight is no exception after all.

“Yeah,” he lies, dropping his phone from his face, and doing his best to not look as shaken as he feels, since Bea is looking at him now, her face starting to look confused, and a little concerned. He swallows, and continues his lie, unsure what else to do, “Eponine isn’t coming after all. Something came up.”

He can’t be sure, but he thinks Enjolras’ eyes widen a little.

“Oh?” he says, his voice a little high, he clears his throat, and when he speaks again, he sounds back to normal, “That’s a shame.”

Bea, who’s just straightened the last of the plates, pouts a little at that.

“So no Gavroche?” she asks, disappointed, and Grantaire does his best to push away his own frustration, sliding his phone back into his sweats and walking up to his daughter, and tousling her hair.

“Sorry bud,” he says, softly, “Next time I’ll get Eponine to agree to a two day sleepover, if you want.”

Bea’s eyes go wide, as if she hasn’t ever considered that that’s a thing people can just do, and she smiles, swatting his hand away from her hair.

“I guess that’ll work,” she says. Bea pauses, looking to Enjolras with a hopeful but mischievous expression, “Can you help me make a contract?”

Dear god. Bea, with a knowledge of legally binding agreements is legitimately terrifying. If she learns about forging signatures, she’ll be unstoppable.

Grantaire looks at Enjolras too, and sees the beginnings of a laugh on his lips.

“What have you done,” Grantaire says, doing his best to sound scandalized, “You’re turning my kid into a lawyer. I’ll never know peace again, Enj.”

“There are worse things she could be,” Enjolras says with a smile. And that’s fair.

She could end up like Grantaire.

He, wisely, doesn’t say that out loud.

Instead, he just sighs, and steps forward to take the two extra plates away so they can all eat in peace. His fingers are trembling, slightly, outside of his own control, anxious energy already feeling pent up and ready to burst.

He wonders, stubbornly, how realistic it would be to hope he could get through tonight without having to cave and do what Eponine wants. If he could get through tonight without spilling the beans to Enjolras about why they're having a sleepover at all, and keep things light like he had for their lunch earlier today.

If it were just him that would be affected, he'd probably try it. But he knows that that's not fair to Bea. Tonight was supposed to be about offering support to her, too. Tomorrow is going to be hard on both of them, regardless of if it goes well or not. And at the moment, Grantaire isn't certain his support on its own is enough.

Besides, the likelihood of them going through a whole evening without Bea mentioning meeting her mom is astronomically small. His kid doesn't really lie, and loves to talk. The image of her spilling the beans on accident to Enjolras, and then the uncomfortable fallout that'd come from him finding out like that is enough to make him wince, plates clanking together as he slides them up into the cupboard.

Eponine really has created the perfect little time bomb for him to diffuse. He hopes she's proud of herself, because he is going to take his sweet time forgiving her.

He closes the cabinet, and then turns, resolute and a little grim, back to the table. Enjolras and Bea are chatting quietly about their theoretical contract. Grantaire pads to Enjolras’ side, and hesitates for just a moment, before touching his shoulder, pulling his attention from Bea.

“Hey, um…” he says, in a low, serious voice, hoping not to call much attention to himself from Bea, “We should talk.”

Enjolras blinks, attention turned completely to Grantaire in a split second.

“Now?” he asks, matching Grantaire’s low tone, and raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Grantaire replies, though it makes his skin crawl, “Now. Before we eat. Since you're here, I need to fill you in on some…stuff.”

It’s vague, and he knows it, but something in his voice must tip off Enjolras that this is in fact a pressing issue, so he just nods, looking determined. Grantaire nods back, blows out a quiet breath, and then turns to his daughter, putting a smile back on.

“We’ll be back in a sec, Bea,” Grantaire says, “Feel free to dig in, if you’re starving.”

“I can wait!” Bea pipes up, heading to the kitchen, probably to get herself some juice or something. Grantaire doesn’t waste any time, giving Enjolras’ arm a squeeze.

"Let's go outside," he murmurs, eyes flicking to the front of the apartment. He steps away, dropping Enjolras' arm, and heads towards his front door. They’re going to need some semblance of privacy if Grantaire wants to speak somewhat uncensored, and outside is kind of the only place he has for that. He doesn’t trust his apartment walls to keep his secrets from Bea's curious ears.

Enjolras nods again, and follows a couple of steps behind, the both of them slipping on their shoes, and then stepping out into the chilly night.

Chapter Text

In his haste to get outside and get this over with, Grantaire forgets to grab a coat. Goosebumps immediately skitter all down his arms, only a t-shirt between himself and the cold of the November evening.

Fall is in full swing by now, starting to give way to winter. Across the street from his apartment, there are a few trees rooted beside a sidewalk, leading down the road like a funeral procession, leaves already turning brown on the ground in front of them. In the sunset, it’s easy to pretend that they’re still a vibrant orange. But, as the sun runs behind a hill the illusion is lost, and they return to just looking crumpled and sad.

Grantaire steps down the stairs, standing at the bottom of the steps, the same place he’d been Tuesday night for his call with Cam.

Enjolras is right behind him, and Grantaire leans against the side of the apartment building when he reaches him, willing his nerves to settle, though he knows it’s fruitless. He rubs his hands down his arms, hoping the friction will help with some of the cold. It does, but not enough, and not for long.

Enjolras is still wearing his coat, so he’s unbothered by the quickly falling temperature, standing steady as ever, hands in his coat pockets. Grantaire crosses his arms as a new method to try to mitigate the cold for himself.

Now that he’s out here, with Enjolras’ gaze focused all on him again, he finds all the words he’d tried to scoop together dissipating again, the letters making up sentences sinking into the alphabet soup of his stupid fucking brain, and leaving nothing but gibberish behind.

He's struck suddenly by the unfairness of how his brain decides to allocate resources to conversation. Bullshitting, he can do. He can talk for fucking hours on end when it doesn't matter. But god forbid he try to successfully communicate something important.

“Are you okay, R?” Enjolras asks, and Grantaire jolts a little, realizing he’s been staring out into nothing for some indeterminate amount of time, probably looking like a traumatized Victorian child or some shit.

“Yeah,” he says, clipped, “Fine, sorry.”

Enjolras doesn’t look convinced, crossing his own arms at the answer he gets, and Grantaire realizes that he’s going to have to just start somewhere, if he doesn’t want to get trapped saying nothing, paralyzed by what-ifs. This isn’t going to be an easy conversation, but he did do it to himself.

“So,” Grantaire forces himself to say, stumbling over his own thoughts, “To be honest, tonight wasn’t supposed to be just, like, a fun sleepover.”

Enjolras’ brow furrows, looking suddenly concerned.

“It wasn’t?” he prompts, and Grantaire shakes his head. He’s got his eyes focused on the railing of the stairs now, cold, painted metal shining under the light of the lamp overhead. Its white lacquer is peeling up in spots, and he maps the ridges of it as a distraction from looking at the person standing in front of him.

“It wasn’t,” he repeats, “And, like, just to preface this. I know you didn’t know that? Because how could you have. So. If you don’t want to stay, I’ll understand.”

He knows that Enjolras almost definitely won’t take that bait, no matter how appealingly he dangles it, but he thinks it’s worth a try. Eponine can’t get mad at him if Enjolras decides to leave of his own accord, right?

Who is he kidding. He’s never been one to entertain wishful thinking. Why would he start tonight?

He takes a breath, knowing this next part is going to sting, but also knowing it’s better if he just rips the bandaid off. Bea is waiting upstairs, he doesn’t have time to beat around the bush for very long, no matter how much he wants to.

“I um. I talked with Bea, and she decided that she wants to meet her mom,” he says, speech careful and quick, as if saying it abruptly might make it go over Enjolras’ head, “Tomorrow afternoon, I’m introducing her to Cam.”

He’s glad he kept the bandaid on his thumb, because as he speaks, he feels his index finger beginning to dig into it, coaxed to move by nerves.

“Eponine was coming over to sleep over, yeah, but. Also to offer support to Bea, obviously, and, um,” he hesitates, stopping the words 'to keep an eye on me' in his throat, and quickly amending them to something less damning, “And to keep me company.”

It's not a lie, but it's not the whole truth, either. Grantaire feels bad for withholding information from Enjolras, especially information he knows he'd want to know, but he isn’t exactly in a hurry to dive into the fact that his mental health is starting to spiral, especially when he knows tonight needs to be more about making sure Bea is comfortable than about dragging him back from a precipice of his own making.

“So. That’s all,” he finishes, awkwardly, “I probably need to brief you on, like, what to say if Bea asks you about her mom, too, but. To reiterate, it’s okay if you don’t want to stick around tonight. I’ll understand.”

In front of him, Enjolras is very quiet, and very, very still.

The paint on the railing is quite possibly the most interesting thing Grantaire has ever seen. Compliments to the landlord, for not doing the one thing he’s supposed to do and upkeep the property. Truly a captivating architectural choice.

“You…didn’t tell me,” Enjolras says, finally, his voice coming out awkward and terse. There’s an edge to his tone, a silent question simmering underneath the statement: ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

Grantaire shifts, willing the shaking from his fingers. He’s not successful, but thankfully the slight shiver caused by the cold around them is probably enough cover for it not to be noticeable, especially with his newly painted fingers tangled in crossed arms.

“I didn’t want to bother you,” he replies, speech coming out short and small.

“I asked you to keep me posted,” Enjolras says, voice coming out a little clipped, "How would that be bothering me?"

And this is the hard thing, because it’s not really about bothering Enjolras this time alone. It’s about this time, and the next time, and the next, and the next, until eventually Enjolras is worn down, and tired, and there is an ending, sudden, unsatisfying, and painful for both of them.

It’s about not being a fucking burden to the people he cares about, especially when he can’t help carry any of their weight in return.

He’d hoped that this time could be one less thing, and yet, here he is, becoming a problem again, because apparently he can’t help himself.

“I’m telling you now,” Grantaire says, instead of answering. It’s the best he has. He feels, he thinks, a lot like a defendant caught without an alibi. He doesn’t think he’s actually done anything wrong, per se; he doesn’t owe Enjolras every detail of his life. Still, guilt itches at the back of his throat for having to reveal his hand so plainly after keeping it purposefully hidden.

“How long has this even been the plan?” Enjolras asks, voice rising a little with indignation, and Grantaire feels his whole body tense up, bracing for the fight. He tries to release it, because that isn’t what he wants.

He and Enjolras have been doing well, incredibly well even, at not fighting. They haven’t even really been arguing all that much, aside from occasional ribbing, but that’s just kind of the natural rhythm of their conversations. An easy spar between friends. It’s something he’s come to look forward to, as they’ve gotten closer, and it’s scary to feel like that fine balance is being disrupted, and possibly tilted back the direction they came from.

The closest they’ve come in weeks to a real fight was the conversation in his car last week, and he’s in no hurry to have a repeat of how that night had ended.

“...Since Tuesday,” Grantaire admits, and then makes the mistake of letting his eyes drift back up to Enjolras’ face. His eyes are piercing, skating over Grantaire’s face as if taking inventory of every line of it, so he can pick it apart, and nope, he’s not looking at that anymore. Paint on the railing it is.

There’s a long, tense pause, until finally Enjolras speaks again.

“Is this why earlier today you looked so…” he says, trailing off at the end as if trying to find the right word.

Grantaire manages to put on a tired, faux-easy smile, supplying, “Bad?”

“Fatigued,” Enjolras corrects pointedly, as if biting out the word.

“How diplomatic of you,” Grantaire drawls, unable to stop himself, which only earns him a harsh sigh from Enjolras.

The sunset goes darker, and Grantaire shivers as the light beside the apartment on the lower floor flickers to life. He really should have just gone back for his fucking jacket. But, hey, if this conversation happening the way it is is proof of anything, he’s not very good at foresight. He’s not even all that good at hindsight, and where that leaves him he’ll never fucking know.

Blind, he supposes. Maybe he’s just fucking blind.

“For the record,” Grantaire says, after a beat, his voice gone guilty and soft, “I was going to tell you. After everything was settled.”

And that much is true. He hadn’t necessarily had a plan, specifically, but he wouldn’t have just never updated Enjolras at all.

“What good does that do?” Enjolras asks, his voice taut, “Honestly, tell me. Because being told ‘Oh, by the way, I went through a really hard thing, alone, right under your nose’ isn’t actually comforting.”

“It makes for one less thing for you to worry about. That’s what good it does,” Grantaire counters, firmly, “We both know that you have a lot on your plate. And believe it or not, I am capable of handling my problems on my own.”

“You shouldn’t need to handle them alone. Not things like this,” Enjolras says, and he’s gesticulating now, hands beginning to move in the air between them, as if he can force Grantaire to his way of thinking if he just draws his attention and keeps it. It’s a tactic that’s never really worked on Grantaire. Maybe he’s immune, since Enjolras has almost never not had his full attention, even when little else can manage to catch it.

He continues, pointedly, “Besides, if you ‘handling’ it means you show up to work looking wrecked, I don’t think you’re actually handling it very well.”

“I’m fine, Enj,” Grantaire says, insistent. He’s doing his best not to get defensive, but it’s hard when Enjolras is pressing him like this. He forces his eyes back up to Enjolras’, and the expression he finds is all hard lines, rigid as a board.

“Do you understand how little that means, coming from you?” Enjolras asks, his voice dangerously low.

Cold, quiet fear spikes through Grantaire’s stomach at that, at the idea that Enjolras notices how much he says he’s fine, on autopilot, like those two words can just act as a spell to make people stop questioning him. Even Grantaire isn’t sure exactly how much he says it, but he does know that it’s functionally a verbal crutch.

He says it, because it usually works.

He says it, because generally, people are looking for an easy out, when they ask him how he is.

He says it, because it’s easy.

Leave it to Enjolras to take away his easy answer in one fell swoop. He takes a few seconds to breathe, and refocus. The last thing he needs right now is Enjolras, dogged and inquisitive as he can be, digging into his mental state. There are more important things to worry about. Worrying about whether Grantaire is at 100% mentally feels a lot like looking at a skeleton in a grave and thinking 'oh shit, we'd better make sure that dude doesn't have any broken bones.'

Which is to say, it's fucking pointless.

“Enjolras, I’m not the one that needs support tonight,” Grantaire says, willing himself not to look away from Enjolras, despite the fact that extended eye contact with him right now makes him want to bolt, “Bea does. My shit can wait.”

“Grantaire, this is hard on both of you,” Enjolras says, clearly frustrated, “Your ‘shit’, as you call it, is just as important—”

“No.” Grantaire interrupts, his voice coming out strange and wooden, “It’s really not.”

Enjolras stares, eyes boring into Grantaire’s.

“You can’t just invalidate your pain like that and expect me to accept it,” he says, steely.

“I can, actually,” Grantaire replies. Enjolras opens his mouth to argue, as he always does, but Grantaire continues, firmly, “This isn’t just me being self-deprecating, dude. Out of the two of us, me or a literal child, who do you think is easier to traumatize?”

Enjolras presses his lips together, seeming caught between indignation and a reluctant understanding of his point. Grantaire does his best to stare back, stubbornly shoving back against the way it makes him want to run.

“I’ll give you a hint,” Grantaire says, “One of us could probably be traumatized by the fact that Santa Clause isn’t actually real. So maybe, just maybe, Bea meeting her mom, who was non-existent to her knowledge until a week ago, might be a lot to process.”

He knows that he’s not telling the whole story. But if Enjolras is going to be here, against Grantaire’s wishes, he’s not about to worry him more by explaining why Eponine had thought he shouldn’t be alone tonight.

It’s not a lie to say that Bea needs support more than he does, Grantaire does believe that. He's hyper aware of exactly how easy it is to fuck up a child emotionally. It's something he's always worried about, in the back of his mind, the weight and responsibility of not ruining Bea's chances at good mental health.

Kids don't tend to be able to remember much of their childhoods, consciously at least, but what happens to them in their formative years still shapes them. They're perceptive, and can soak up emotional damage like a goddamn sponge.

And Grantaire is not a perfect parent. He tries his best, but honestly, he doesn't think perfection is possible for him, with his clumsy heart and bad habits.

Tonight, he's more aware than ever of how short even his best might fall. So he, the fucking adult, can and will handle himself, just like he's handled himself for nearly a decade. At this point, it would take a lot to traumatize him. Or at the very least, it would take a lot to make him any worse than he already is.

There’s a long bout of silence, Enjolras weighing his point, and Grantaire willing it to be enough to tip him over.

“More than one thing can be important at a time,” Enjolras says, looking stern.

It’s not a surrender, but it’s the beginnings of a compromise, and Grantaire is smart enough to know that those don’t come often from him, so when they do, they can’t be wasted.

“Maybe,” Grantaire replies, not about to give in when he knows they’re so close to a resolution, “But right now, not fucking up my kid emotionally kind of actively depends upon me not being fucked up. If that means ‘invalidating my pain’ for one night, that’s what I’m going to do.”

Enjolras’ eyes are questing, roving over his expression in search of answers. Answers to what, Grantaire has no idea, but whatever he settles on makes his brows draw together.

“Is it only going to be for one night?” he asks, sounding doubtful.

Probably not. It’ll probably be a lot of nights. But Enjolras doesn’t need to know that.

“What,” Grantaire says, forcing up a crooked smile that doesn't quite meet his eyes, “Do you want me to sign another contract?”

He wonders what Enjolras would even write.

‘I, Grantaire, will deal with my emotional baggage once the clock strikes midnight, like an emotionally constipated Cinderella,’ Maybe?

“...I wouldn’t be opposed,” Enjolras replies, looking entirely too serious about the suggestion, apparently ignoring completely that Grantaire was trying to bullshit him. Grantaire lets his head thunk back against the side of his apartment building. It’s cold against his hair.

“You never stop, do you,” he murmurs, and stares up at the stars staring to poke through indigo at the apex of the sky. Only a few visible through clouds and light pollution, so it’s not actually a very good distraction.

“I do, once I’m satisfied,” Enjolras replies. Grantaire snorts.

“So…never, then,” he says, and the smile he manages is more real, despite its sarcastic turn.

Enjolras doesn’t reply. When Grantaire finds the strength to meet his eyes again, he looks conflicted, still mulling over Grantaire’s expression as if it’s going to give him the answers he clearly wants. He should know that Grantaire can’t give him what he doesn't have.

Grantaire, for his part, is doing his best not to shiver as the dark of the night settles heavy around them, but it’s a losing battle. His whole body gives a tremor a second later, and he lets out a heavy, shaking sigh that fogs between them as the shiver rolls through him.

It’s enough to break Enjolras from whatever he’s been thinking, his expression moving from conflicted, to something more subdued before the breath can disappear into the night sky above them.

He glances up towards the door of the apartment, and then back down at where Grantaire is trying hard not to curl in on himself, and his expression becomes resolved.

“Okay,” he says.

An agreement. It’s clearly begrudgingly given, but it’s an agreement nonetheless. The same look that Enjolras had the night of The Castle incident is back, that unfaltering air of someone taking on responsibility, determined to do their best.

Enjolras squares his shoulders, and asks, “What do you need from me right now?”

Grantaire’s shoulders sag slightly in relief, then immediately tense again to help with the cold that’s currently raking up every inch of his exposed skin. But he feels every bit of his emotional tension release, just for a moment, at the simple fact that he’s not going to have to fight with Enjolras over this.

He doubts it’s the end of the conversation. It's pretty clear that Enjolras isn't happy that he was kept out of the loop. But at the very least Enjolras can recognize that at the moment, they have something pressing to take care of, and Grantaire has decent reason to be repressing some of his own bullshit.

“Thank you,” Grantaire breathes, offering a small smile. Enjolras doesn’t return it, something going a little tight in his expression instead, looking a bit like a soldier giving up ground against his wishes, but he nods, and that’s enough for now.

Grantaire takes a couple of minutes to explain the simple guidelines for what not to say when talking about Camille with Bea, should the conversation arise. Just the basics, because they’ve already been out here for a few minutes, and it’s freezing, and Bea’s patience for pizza is probably running thin as it is.

He keeps it as simple as he can. No talking shit about Camille (not that Enjolras even knows enough to be able to really do that), be honest, reiterate it’s not her fault, and validate her feelings. The same list he’s been using himself.

When he brings up validating her feelings, should she share them, it makes something twitch in Enjolras’ expression, a barely withheld comment about hypocrisy, probably, but it’s left blessedly unsaid.

If he’s going to be nice enough to not say it, Grantaire is going to be enough of a coward to be grateful.

“We basically just need to make sure she feels secure,” he says, as a final thought, “In case things don’t go well tomorrow. She needs to know that she’s got people in her corner no matter what.”

He pauses, then adds, “Got all of that?”

Enjolras nods, sure and steady as ever, “Got it.”

“You’d better, this is a practical exam,” Grantaire says, forcing up a wry smile, trying to lighten the mood a little, “There’ll be a grade at the end of the night.”

“Oh, well then I’ll definitely have to do my best,” Enjolras says in a sardonic tone, crossing his arms.

“Just covering my bases,” Grantaire says, finding the strength to reach out and touch Enjolras’ arm, in the friendly way he’s learned is okay, “I doubt your perfectionist ass could resist getting an A.”

The cold is really starting to get to him now, another full body shiver running from his spine through each of his limbs.

Enjolras must feel it, because he looks down at the hand on his arm, and absently lifts his own hand out of its crossed position to touch the back of Grantaire’s, his warm palm pressed to chilly knuckles.

Seconds pass, and he doesn’t move it, holding on like one holds onto a kite to keep it from blowing away.

“Uh,” says Grantaire, dumbly, eyes flicking from their touching hands, to Enjolras’ face, and then back, “You good, dude?”

Enjolras startles a little. His face, which had gone oddly distant and pinched, snaps back to attention.

“You’re freezing,” he says quickly, dropping his arms back down to his sides. Grantaire’s hand falls away with the motion, “We should go back inside. The pizza’s probably getting cold, too.”

“Sure. Yeah,” says Grantaire, a little weakly, the cold forgotten for an instant as the heat that had been on the back of his hand seeps into his skin, tingling all the way up his arm. Enjolras turns on his heel, and starts heading back up the stairs, and Grantaire watches him for a couple of seconds, attention split between Enjolras, and the tingling of his own hand.

He shakes his head, clearing it quickly as he can, and follows Enjolras up the stairs a moment later, not wanting to get caught staring.

~~

Bea only whines a little, when they finally come back in. And it’s fair; they’d been out longer than Grantaire had wanted. But, he hadn’t wanted to have that conversation in the first place, so his own time-table was probably a little biased going in.

It went better than expected, at least. Given their history of getting into spats, he knows exactly how badly it could have gone.

Bea has put away the extra folding chair by now, so he and Enjolras find their two remaining seats and settle in.

It’s awkward, at first. Casual conversation is always difficult after a more serious one, especially casual conversation that has to involve a child. Grantaire knows that Enjolras is trying to appear unbothered, and relaxed, but given how bad he is at putting up a front, he also knows it isn’t easy for him.

He’s not sure Bea would notice his tells, but Grantaire kind of can’t stop noticing, which is a problem in and of itself. Enjolras smiles, when Bea is looking at him, and eats his pizza, but when Bea looks away, his face goes downcast, and there’s a pinch in between his brows that never quite goes away. He looks lost in thought, but not in the focused, determined way that Grantaire is used to. It's a much more somber expression, distant, and bruised.

Guilt simmers in Grantaire's stomach every time he catches it—which, for the record, is a lot, because he has never really been able to keep his eyes from straying to Enjolras—making getting down pizza harder than it should be.

Still, when Enjolras leaves his pizza crusts uneaten, Grantaire takes the chance to steal one, plucking it from his plate without a word, and taking a bite.

The last time they’d had pizza, he’d noted that Enjolras never eats his crusts. It’s the best part, as far as Grantaire is concerned, so it feels like a waste to just let them go in the trash. Besides, it’s easier to get down just crust with his current case of anxiety stomach. Grantaire knows he needs to eat, but can’t fully stomach having to stare down a whole slice of pepperoni and commit to finishing it.

Enjolras watches him steal it, eyes skating from the crust to his mouth, and then to his eyes.

“P’oblem?” Grantaire asks, mouth half full of crust, challenging, when Enjolras just stares.

“No,” he says, but swallows, looking a little distracted, and then reaches for another slice, “I’m not eating it. So.”

“I know. You’re a heathen,” Grantaire says, going in for another bite. He chews, and swallows, then adds, “Lucky for you, I’m more than happy to finish what you start.”

Bea is looking at the two of them with barely disguised disgust. Grantaire catches her look, and raises an eyebrow in silent question, popping the last of the crust into his mouth.

“His mouth was on that, dad,” she says, by way of explanation “You’re being gross again.”

And honestly, Grantaire hadn’t thought about that. He has to take a second to marvel at the fact that he didn’t. His brain supplies a very unwanted thought, a memory of Courfeyrac joking about how sharing food and drinks is kind of like an indirect kiss, and immediately pushes it away.

He forces himself instead to remember that when he’d said that, Courf had been talking about how the entire theater department in their high school had nearly contracted mono. Not romantic. Not in the slightest.

“Would you prefer I be wasteful?” he asks, and grabs the second crust from Enjolras’ plate, gesturing with it like a wand, or a conductor’s baton as he speaks, “It’s not like he spit on it.”

She scrunches her nose.

“He kind of did, though.”

“Enjolras, you don’t have cooties, do you,” Grantaire asks dryly, glancing sidelong at the man beside him. Enjolras’, for his part, has been holding a slice in front of himself, mouth open, but not actually biting into it. He starts a little at the sudden attention.

“Not…that I know of?” he says, haltingly. Grantaire gestures with the half eaten crust, towards Enjolras, whose ears have gone pink, probably not used to scrutiny from a kid.

“See?” he says, “A clean bill of health. He can’t lie to save his life, so you know it’s true.”

Bea stares at Enjolras for a second, a weird, contemplative look on her face, but it’s gone an instant later.

“I don’t believe in cooties, I’m not five,” Bea replies, back to staring him down. Grantaire snorts, taking another bite, and doing his absolute damndest not to point out that, while she isn’t five, she is only seven. Because that would be incredibly condescending, and definitely not productive. To Bea, even high schoolers are practically geriatric; she's unlikely to understand or appreciate to him, at his age, anyone not in their second decade of life is a fucking baby.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says instead, after he’s finished his bite, “Didn’t remember there was a hard cutoff on when cooties stop being a concern. I haven’t been five in a long time.”

“I guess you can’t help that you’re old,” Bea says, sagely, “I forgive you.”

Grantaire mimes a blow to the chest, but doesn't argue. Bea giggles. He takes the chance to finish off the second crust, while she's distracted.

Enjolras finally manages to actually bite into his pizza as well. The pinch in his brow is at least somewhat lessened, not gone, but less. A few minutes later, his slice is finished, and he wordlessly hands Grantaire the crust, and Grantaire takes it happily, much to Bea’s chagrin.

He makes an effort to talk with Bea while they eat, the three of them falling into a rhythm chatting with relative ease.

Over the past two months, Enjolras has gotten much better at talking with Bea. He’s not great at small talk at the best of times, it’s just not how he works, so he kind of ends up just talking to her like she’s a little adult. Bea doesn’t seem like she minds. If anything, she seems to appreciate it, hanging on his every word, and jumping in when she thinks of something to add.

Sometimes it seems like she treats talking with Enjolras as a mini vocabulary lesson. A couple of weeks ago, she’d become obsessed with using the word ‘equitable’, after hearing Enjolras use the term, and asking him what it meant.

She’d only used it appropriately about five times, but that’s besides the point. Grantaire isn’t about to complain about his daughter expanding her vocabulary, especially when it’s not just to add curse words.

“Can I paint your nails now?” Bea asks Enjolras a while later, when they’ve finally come to a lull. In the end, Grantaire had only managed to eat one whole slice himself. But the three crusts he got by the time they’d all had their fill help him to feel a little better about it.

“We should clean up first,” Enjolras says, the responsible fucker he is, but Grantaire just shakes his head, moving to stand.

“I can handle it,” he says, “You two can go ahead and get started.”

Mostly, he offers because he doesn’t want Bea to notice that there’s only one slice of the pepperoni pizza missing. He’s the only one that had favored it, since Enjolras sometimes has the palate of a seven year old, and Bea is a seven year old. So it’s pretty obvious who wasn’t pulling their weight. Having his kid, or Enjolras for that matter, worry about him is not exactly high on his list.

“Are you sure?” Enjolras asks, even as Bea shushes him for pushing back.

“Yeah, I got it covered,” Grantaire says, and stands to remove the two pizza boxes from the table without waiting for another word. He needs to practice good habits anyway, and doing the dishes as they’re ready to be done is a part of that.

Bea doesn’t wait to be told again, grabbing one of Enjolras’ hands and dragging him out of his seat, and towards the living room.

The two rooms are only separated by a wall, so Grantaire can hear bits and pieces of their conversation as he works. He hears Enjolras pick the color as he wraps pizza in tinfoil, hears Bea tell him to hold more still as he’s putting the new bundles into the fridge, and hears Enjolras apologize profusely a few seconds later, apparently failing Bea’s request.

He takes his time washing their plates, kind of mesmerized by the burn of the water on his hands as he scrubs. Even when he’s finished, and the dishes are stacked on the drying rack, he holds the back of his hand under the stream for a few more seconds, feeling a bit like he had as a teen, barely awake in a high school bathroom and holding his hand under the hot tap just to feel for a moment like he was still warm in bed.

He’s still not sure how he’s going to sleep tonight. Hope of Eponine knocking him out is shot at this point, and now there’s the added stress of Enjolras being here. Plus, he doubts Enjolras will be comfortable sharing the bed again, now that he knows Grantaire ‘used to’ have a crush.

Grantaire has already mentally prepared himself to take the couch, given Eponine and Gavroche were supposed to be over. So it’s really not a big deal. But he’s not going to pretend to be looking forward to another night of insomnia, but this time with the added benefit of not being comfortable for the entirety of the night.

Maybe he could convince Enjolras to smother him? Or, alternatively, annoy him until he does it of his own accord?

The latter is probably a more likely possibility, but Grantaire’s heart wouldn’t be in it. So, he resigns himself to another sleepless night.

He turns the water off, finally, and flicks the water off his fingers, drying his hands fully on a towel hung over the oven’s handle after, then turns to pad out towards the living room.

He’d zoned out of whatever conversation Enjolras and Bea had been having when he’d turned the sink on, the extra white noise covering their soft voices. He zones back in now, the tail end of Enjolras' sentence filtering through, a question, "...feeling about tomorrow?"

And suddenly, his attention is completely captured again, snagged like a thorn in skin. He stills, just behind the final corner of the wall that leads out to the living room.

"Okay," comes Bea's response, kept light, but quick.

She pauses, and for a second it doesn't seem like she's going to elaborate any more, but then, over the quiet clink of her dipping the nail polish brush back into the bottle, she does.

“Can I tell you something, Enjolras?”

“What is it?” Enjolras replies, sounding wary. Grantaire doesn’t move. He knows he should, knows that he should either leave, or make his presence known, but the tone of Bea’s voice is that of someone about to divulge a secret, and he’s too worried about the fact that she apparently has those to be able to move his feet.

There’s a beat, and the sound of shifting. It's heavier than it would be if it was Bea, so he thinks it's probably Enjolras adjusting on the carpet. A second passes, and Grantaire holds his breath against the quiet fear in his gut.

“I already knew I had a mom,” he hears Bea say, finally. The words come out casual, but the weight behind them feels like an admission, or maybe a confession, like one confesses a sin to a priest.

And her voice is soft, but the words hit Grantaire like a punch regardless.

He moves as silently as he can, taking a step back onto the linoleum of the kitchen to be better obscured, his hands knotting in the hem of his shirt, still slightly damp.

He’d known there was a chance that Bea was aware of the fact she has a mom, outside of just wondering about it, but to hear it so plainly, in this tone that says she knew for sure, is jarring. And more than a little concerning.

Extra concerning in that she’d only brought it up now. He isn’t sure if she’d waited purposefully until he was out of the room, but it feels that way. And while that does…sting, he can’t afford to let his ego get in the way of his daughter expressing her feelings. Even if it’s not to him.

“Really,” Enjolras says, a note of panic to his tone that would be masked to the untrained ear, and hopefully will be masked for Bea, too. Considering Grantaire’s kid just dropped a bomb on him, he’s handling it admirably, based on tone alone.

“Yeah,” Bea says, “Dad didn’t say so, but my friends all have them. I’m not stupid.”

“No one thinks you’re not smart, Bea,” Enjolras says, “Least of all your dad.”

“I know,” Bea replies, and it’s a small comfort.

There’s another pause, and the soft sound of shifting.

”Don’t move, I’m still trying to finish this one,” Bea chides.

”Sorry,” Enjolras replies. The sound of shifting stops, leaving a heavy kind of silence in its wake. Grantaire isn’t sure if that’s the end of what Bea wanted to say, and apparently, neither is Enjolras, leaving space for her to talk again if she wants to.

“Do you think that she’s a bad person?” Bea asks after another pause, repeating her question from the other night. Her voice is still casual, but there’s an edge of determination to it now, belying how much she’s been wondering about the answer.

“...I don’t think it would be my place to say,” comes Enjolras’ response, and Grantaire can practically feel the disapproving face that Bea makes from the weight of the silence that follows. Enjolras seems to cave to whatever look she’s giving, continuing after a moment, “I don’t know your mom personally. If you want a better answer, you’ll probably have to ask your dad.”

“I did,” Bea says, so, so softly. Grantaire bites the inside of his cheek, wincing slightly. “But I didn’t get a real answer. It’s a yes or no question and I only ever get a maybe.”

“Not everything is as easy as a yes or no answer,” Enjolras says, diplomatically, thankfully seeming to remember the ‘no talking shit’ rule, and he hears Bea sigh.

“What if I need a yes or no answer though?” she asks, clearly frustrated.

“Is it that important to have it be that clear-cut?” Enjolras asks, concern lacing his tone.

“Yes,” Bea answers, unyielding.

“Why?”

There’s a long, long pause.

“If she’s not a bad person, and she still left,” Bea says, finally, sounding unsteady, “Then what if I just wasn’t a good enough kid?”

It takes every ounce of Grantaire’s control to stay put where he is, the low bubbling fear in his stomach beginning to boil over, because this is exactly what he’d wanted to avoid. He’d tried to convey to Bea that if it was anyone’s fault that her mom had left, it was his. His and Cam’s.

Never hers.

But the scariest thing is, Bea hadn’t given any indication that she was internalizing this. Not that he could see, anyway. He’s tried to create a relationship with his daughter where she can feel safe talking to him about things like this, and for the most part, she does. But if she can’t talk to him when it matters, when she’s hurting, in that familiar, bone-deep way, then he’s clearly not doing a good enough job.

Grantaire thinks, maybe, If she had a different dad, a dad with better brain chemistry, maybe she wouldn’t be predisposed to this kind of thinking. He’d hoped, desperately, that she’d get Cam’s resilience, instead of inheriting his sensitivity to rejection. But the universe is not that kind, and he’s not that lucky.

Enjolras, seemingly stunned into silence by the question, manages to recover within a couple of seconds.

“It isn’t your fault that she chose to leave, Bea,” he says, and his voice is firm, almost sounding scolding, but just soft enough not to sound angry, “I know it’s…confusing. And you’re probably hurt. But thinking that way isn’t productive. It isn’t your fault.”

“Then why did she leave?” comes Bea’s response, still sounding so hesitant it makes Grantaire’s chest ache.

“The only person who can really answer that is your mom,” Enjolras says, carefully. He pauses, then adds, in a tone gentler than Grantaire has ever heard from him, “But…anyone who would choose to not be in your life is a fool. Her making that choice has nothing to do with you, or your worth.”

Bea doesn’t respond to that. There’s more soft rustling that fills the quiet instead, probably Bea trying to get comfortable. Both he and his kid get antsy under scrutiny, and Enjolras is great at scrutiny. It’s his main export, most of the time.

“I think you should tell your dad you’re feeling like this,” Enjolras presses, still gentle, but insistent.

“I know,” Bea says, again, sounding almost a little ashamed, “I will. But he’s too nice sometimes. I wanted an honest answer.”

Grantaire's jaw works, realizing suddenly that his efforts to sugarcoat Camille as a person and his past may have backfired, slightly.

He'd only been doing what he thought was right. Unfortunately, the guidelines he'd gotten, in retrospect, do clash a bit. It's hard to be one hundred percent honest, and not talk badly about Camille at the same time. The contradiction of him acting like things had been fine, set next to the fact that Cam had left, he supposes, wouldn't square under scrutiny.

“Am I not nice?” Enjolras asks, sounding legitimately worried about the answer.

“Dad said you can’t lie,” Bea clarifies, bluntly.

“Oh,” Enjolras says, sounding a little dejected. Bea laughs, quietly, but it’s something.

There’s another brief pause. Grantaire uses it to get his breathing right, and settle himself. As much as he’d like to talk to Bea immediately about this, he can’t. She told Enjolras, not him. The fact that he heard at all is overstepping a boundary; it might make her feel more unsafe than supported if he approaches her about it.

She's going to have to talk to him herself, in her own time, and he can't rush that.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Bea says to Enjolras, sounding lighter than she did a few seconds ago. Grantaire hears the cap of the nail polish bottle clink into the bottle again, and then Bea blowing air softly, probably trying to dry Enjolras’ nails. After a moment, she adds, “Dad is happier since you made up. He really likes you.”

“I really like him too,” comes Enjolras’ reply, after a beat, and the smile in his voice is enough to make Grantaire’s chest give a painful squeeze.

“He really, really likes you,” Bea says, her tone going insistent, and more than a little conspiratorial. And that’s about all that Grantaire can take. They’re through the hard conversation now, and it’s definitely been more than long enough for him to get the dishes done.

He’s not sure where Bea intends to go with this thread of conversation, but given her tone, it can’t be anything not embarrassing, or maybe uncomfortable for Enjolras.

He steps a little heavier than he needs to back onto the carpet, to alert them he’s coming, and steps into the living room. As expected, Bea and Enjolras are sitting across from each other, on either long side of the coffee table. Enjolras looks up as he enters, and he’s smiling this small, private smile that gives way to something slightly more flustered the moment their eyes meet.

It’s a very conflicting thing, to have heard his daughter admit to his friend that she thoughts of inadequacy, but to have had that friend handle it surprisingly well.

Well. Not that surprisingly, Grantaire supposes. Enjolras is nothing if not earnest, and while he’s still serious to a fault sometimes, there’s no denying that Bea likes him, and trusts him. Implicitly.

Bea, for her part, jumps a little when he walks in, but then smiles. She’s still holding onto one of Enjolras’ hands, both of which are settled flat on the table in front of her, completely drowned in pink polish.

What Bea lacks in coordination doing nails, she more than makes up for in enthusiasm.

“Ready for the cleanup crew?” he asks, managing a small smile that he hopes is passable. Apparently, it’s enough for Bea, who nods, letting go of Enjolras’ hand, and scooting to her left to make room for Grantaire to sit next to her at the coffee table. He makes a quick detour to the bathroom, grabbing the small bottle of nail polish remover, and some q-tips.

A moment later, he’s cross-legged beside his daughter, unscrewing the cap, and carefully dunking a q-tip.

“Went for ‘All Dolled Up’, huh?” he asks, reaching out to take Enjolras’ left hand, gently picking it up off of the table so he can better maneuver the q-tip around cuticles. He only barely hesitates before doing it, truly, a herculean task. Gotta give himself a pat on the back later for progress in acting like a normal fucking person.

“What?” Enjolras asks, sounding distracted. Grantaire looks up from the index nail he’s neatening the painted edges of. Their eyes meet just for a moment before Grantaire gets back to work.

“The pink one,” he clarifies.

“Oh,” Enjolras says. His hand is stiff in Grantaire’s, “Yeah. I did.”

Enjolras’ nails are a lot neater than his own, unbitten, and short, but clean. A much easier canvas for Bea to work with, and now an easy one for him to touch up. The bandaid on Grantaire’s thumb presses into Enjolras’ knuckles, the starkest contrast between his own semi-callused, rough fingers, and Enjolras’ slender, smoother ones.

It’s weirdly intimate, sitting cross-legged on the floor, Enjolras’ hand in his, even if it is to clean up a messy nail job.

Bea, bored almost immediately with the cleaning, stands, grabbing the polish bottles she’d brought out and heading towards the bathroom.

“I’ll put these away!” she calls as she goes, leaving the two of them alone for a moment. Grantaire hears the bathroom door open, and then shut with a soft click. It won’t take her long, even with how she often likes to make sure things are ‘just so’ in their bathroom cabinets, so before his daughter has time to get back, he steels himself, and speaks.

“Thank you,” Grantaire says, softly, still working the q-tip around one of Enjolras’ nail beds. When Enjolras looks up, confused, he continues, “I...kind of caught most of that. What Bea told you."

Grantaire doesn't know if Enjolras would have told him on his own, or if he would have kept Bea's secret until she could tell him herself. But he doesn't want to leave Enjolras here, wondering what the right thing to do is. It's not an easy question, to wonder if your loyalty to the parent or the child should take precedence.

"Oh," Enjolras says, looking a little uneasy, "...I hope I didn't overstep?"

"No, no you didn't," Grantaire says quickly, waving the hand holding the q-tip, "You can't help when a kid decides to open up. So. Thank you for, like. Being so good about…that.”

He swallows, looking back down at the hand in his. He still wishes Bea could have talked to him about it, but as far as Enjolras had responded…he had done really well. Probably better than Grantaire would have.

“I meant what I said,” Enjolras says, recovering from the fact that he’d been listening fairly quickly, "It's not 'being good' about it. I meant it."

And it’s a simple thing, but the weight of those three final words sit heavy in Grantaire’s chest. When he looks, Enjolras’ expression is serious, and focused, taken to the task of talking down a kid with the same fervor as if he were on a picket line.

“Seriously, though,” Grantaire presses, “You didn’t exactly come into tonight expecting to have to be the emotional crutch of a seven year old and me. So...It means a lot.”

Enjolras’ eyebrows draw together in concern, but a second later, he smooths the expression away, saying softly, “I take it that means I’m on course to get an A?”

Grantaire laughs, surprised, and turns Enjolras’ hand, working on cleaning up the pinky now, which has an extra large dose of pink overspill.

“I’d say on course for an A plus, if you must know. Full marks. And like, a little note on your report card that says ‘a pleasure to have in class’," he says, "All that overachiever shit you’re used to."

“That would actually be the first time I got one of those notes,” Enjolras says, smiling back. Grantaire raises an eyebrow, surprised. Enjolras had always been a great student, from what he remembers. He’d been set to graduate with honors and everything, before they’d had their falling out, and Grantaire had lost track of everything to do with everyone in the ABC.

Noting the look he gets, Enjolras adds, “Good grades don’t always equate to being good to have in class. I usually just got notes like, ‘Has difficulty with backtalk’, or ‘Often lacks tact with other students’. It drove my parents insane.”

"Ah,” Grantaire says, nodding in understanding. The thought of Enjolras’ parents, staring down a straight A report card, covered in complaints, is enough to make him smile. He finishes the pinky, and puts down Enjolras’ left hand, picking up his right directly after, and continuing, “Well, you’re in good company for bad report card notes. One time a math teacher just wrote ‘Doesn’t’ on mine.”

Enjolras stares, blankly.

“Just…‘Doesn’t’?”

“Yup,” Grantaire smirks, “I should have gotten it framed. Sold it to the MoMa, ‘Ode to a teenage alcoholic’, 2013, Medium: disappointment. Eat your heart out, Banksy.”

Enjolras doesn’t seem to know what to say to that, looking at Grantaire in that quiet, concerned, semi-disapproving way he’s started favoring whenever he can’t quite tell how serious Grantaire’s self-deprecation is. And to be fair, Grantaire is never quite sure how serious he is, either. He hears Bea open the bathroom door, and goes abruptly quiet himself.

“This polish is like, made to be picked off, by the way,” he says, changing the subject before Enjolras can decide whether or not to scold him in front of his daughter, “You won’t need nail polish remover when you get tired of it. I dunno if you have any, so.”

“Good to know,” Enjolras says, softly. The pinch in his brow is back, when Grantaire dares to look up at him. Bea comes back into the room then, and immediately sits down in her bean bag, her current book settled in her lap.

Grantaire turns his attention back, fully, to finishing up Enjolras’ nails. He’s more than happy to let the rest of the night be dedicated to reading, because clearly, he cannot be trusted to talk.

Soon after, the nail polish remover has been tucked away again. Grantaire digs his copy of Catch-22 out from his bag, and goes to sit on the couch to read. Thankfully, Enjolras has his copy as well, and though he’s caught up, he doesn’t seem to mind the chance to make more progress, sitting beside Grantaire without complaint, and opening his book to a spot much, much farther along than Grantaire is.

They read for a pretty long time, all things considered, talking every now and again, and even making popcorn as a snack at one point when taking a break, but even so Grantaire makes little progress, despite really needing to in order to be caught up for book club on Sunday.

It becomes clear, as minutes, and then a couple of hours slip by that his lack of sleep is finally starting to really catch up to him. It makes his brain thrum, and the words start to morph together on the page, sending him in cyclical, labyrinthian paths across the page that end with him re-reading the same paragraph ten times before he even realizes.

Eventually, when the words start to look like words, rather than their meanings, and he’s conscious of the fact that this book is really just 26 letters in a trench coat, laid out over and over again to try to trick his brain into seeing pictures for an hour, he knows he’s not going to make any more progress.

It’s nine o’clock when he sighs, putting his book down, and rubbing his eyes. In the end, he’d only gotten a couple more chapters deep, and is going to have to re-read them anyway, because fuck if he actually processed any of it.

Enjolras looks up, hearing the sigh, a finger tucked into his book, marking his place as he closes it. Grantaire gives him a small smile, rubbing a hand over his face, then peeks up at the clock on the wall, noting the time at last, and turns his attention to Bea instead.

“It’s past bedtime,” he says. She holds up a hand, not looking up, her usual signal that she needs a minute to finish what she’s doing, and then she’ll respond. He waits, patient as usual until she reaches the bottom of her page and marks her place, then finally turns back to him.

“I’m not tired,” she says. Funny, that, considering Grantaire has heard her yawn at least twice in the past half hour, when he wasn’t falling down a rabbit hole of letters and punctuation.

“Dang, I hadn’t thought of that,” Grantaire says, and thinking as quickly as he can with his sleep dampened brain, glances sidelong at Enjolras, “Too bad Enjolras is so tired, huh Enj?”

Enjolras snaps to attention, looking quickly between Grantaire and his daughter.

“Um,” he says, stilted, “Yes. I’m tired. I’d like to sleep.”

Bea looks at him, and blinks, plainly unconvinced, her book forgotten in her lap. Grantaire barely swallows a laugh.

“You really can't lie,” she says, almost sounding impressed. Enjolras sighs, and puts his face in his hands, and murmuring something under his breath that sounds like ‘even a child?’.

“Well,” Grantaire says, hoping to salvage his argument, “Even if he’s not, I am. Can we please say goodnight?”

And that much is the truth. He doesn’t necessarily feel like he’ll be able to sleep, but he is exhausted. Bea looks up at him, dubious, but whatever she sees when she actually takes the time to look at him seems to be convincing.

“...Okay,” she accedes, then clarifies, stubbornly, “But only because you said please.”

“Well of course,” Grantaire says, “Now, please, go brush your teeth, you little gremlin.”

Bea grins, mischievous, and hops out of her bean bag to go to the bathroom. Grantaire waits until he hears the bathroom door close, and then turns to Enjolras, who’s still looking a little shell shocked over the fact that he’s got such a bad poker face a seven year old can see through it.

“You bring a change of clothes for bed, or do you want to borrow some?” he asks, leaning his face into his palm, arm rested on one knee.

Unbidden, his brain supplies the memory of the shirt Enjolras has already borrowed, rumpled on Enjolras’ bed. He pushes the thought away; he’s not about to be the one to bring it up. For a moment, he thinks Enjolras might, considering Grantaire just provided him an easy segue to it, but instead, Enjolras just shakes his head, setting his book aside, and standing.

“I brought some,” he says, simply, “I’ll go change.”

Grantaire watches him go to his bag, still sitting by the door, and pull a pair of soft looking red flannels, and a simple grey v-neck out. No sign of the soft green shirt, and still no mention of it from Enjolras.

“I’ll put Bea to bed while you do,” Grantaire says, pushing back at butterflies currently occupying his stomach, “Feel free to use my room.”

Enjolras nods, and strides with purpose to the bedroom door. It shuts with a snap behind him a second later. Grantaire stares after, trying hard not to let himself assign meaning to things that could be mistakes.

He tucks the thought of the shirt away, a secret, just for himself to pull out sometimes, and turns his focus to the opening bathroom door, and his daughter coming out of it.

He takes his time putting Bea to bed. She’s been in PJ’s since their spa treatments, earlier that evening, so really it just involves making sure she’s snug under the covers, and making sure she has a water glass beside her bed.

He sits beside her on the bed once she's tucked in, snug, and gives one of her hands a squeeze.

He wants, so badly, to bring up what he heard, but knows that he can't, not directly. So, instead he just says, "I love you."

"I know. I love you too," she says, in that casual way people who say 'I love you' a lot say it to each other, like second nature, and suddenly, it's not enough.

He realizes, in the space of a breath, that she might know he loves her, but she might not know what he means when he says it. Grantaire pauses, reaching up a hand to brush the hair out of her face where it's tumbled, loose over her forehead.

"I'm proud to be your dad," he says, making sure to speak softly, but clear, not to be misunderstood, "No matter what, you will always be enough. I love you."

Bea stares back, caught off-guard by his sudden more serious tone, eyes large and owlish, the look of a person seen through and unsure how to handle it. She squeezes his hand back after a moment, and nods.

"I know," she says again, softer this time. But she smiles a second later, recovering from surprise. Grantaire smiles back, letting relief flow over him for a moment, because Bea may have learned how to keep a secret, but she wouldn't lie to him. Not about this.

"You'd better," he says, straightening up where he's sitting on the bed, "Otherwise I'm going to have to tell you over and over and over until you can't stand me."

He reaches forward to poke her on the forehead, and she laughs, blocking him before he can. He retaliates by poking in rapid fire at her arms and cheeks until she's laughing and swatting his hands away. He stops after a moment, figuring he's been obnoxious enough for one night. He knows he can't just linger in here forever terrorizing his kid.

Even still, he takes longer than he needs to, giving her a tight hug, and a kiss on the forehead. They both murmur goodnights, and he finally stands, heading to the bedroom door with a sidelong glance back at Bea, watching as she curls up under the covers, still smiling to herself.

Grantaire turns off her bedroom light as he leaves, and shuts her door with a soft click.

Chapter Text

Grantaire pads back out to the living room, once Bea’s door is shut tight. His bedroom door is still closed, with Enjolras inside, so he takes the chance to grab an extra blanket and pillow from the closet near the bathroom, and start setting up the couch as a makeshift bed.

It’s a well practiced routine he has, given he sleeps on the couch every time Eponine comes for a sleepover, so he makes quick work of it, tucking the blanket into the inner corner of the couch cushions and punching the pillow to fluff it a little.

He’s just barely flopped onto the couch cushions, wrinkling the sheets, when his bedroom door opens, and Enjolras steps out, carrying a toothbrush, and wearing his pajamas. He stops just outside the door, looking from Grantaire, to the couch, to the pillow peeking over the side, and frowns.

“That had better be for me,” Enjolras says, teeth brushing apparently forgotten. He crosses his arms, eyes narrowing slightly, “Because there is no way in hell you’re taking the couch.”

God damn it.

“I was gonna sleep on it tonight if Eponine was here,” Grantaire replies, waving a hand dismissively, “So I don’t see why not.”

“Maybe you’d see why not if you saw yourself,” Enjolras says.

“And here I thought you said I looked better,” Grantaire replies, smirking over his shoulder.

“‘Better’ still leaves room for improvement,” Enjolras argues, “You still look exhausted, and you need to be feeling your best tomorrow. You’re not taking the couch.”

Grantaire sighs in frustration, dropping his head back onto the couch cushions behind him, his neck craning back with the movement.

“Dude, I’m in such a fucking sleep deficit right now I doubt it’ll actually matter where I sleep,” he says, waving a hand in front of him for emphasis, as if it’ll help his case.

“Oh, wow, that’s such a convincing argument,” Enjolras says, voice positively dripping with sarcasm, “Please do tell me more about how bad your sleep has been, I’m so moved to want to make it worse.”

“Good,” Grantaire says, ignoring the sarcasm entirely, “Glad to see you’re coming to your senses,”

“I’m not—” Enjolras says, then stops himself, and blows out a harsh breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. A saint, praying for patience.

Grantaire looks at him, wondering what that prayer would sound even like.

‘Forgive me father for I’m about to kick my friend’s ass. But as you can see, he is insufferable.’

Grantaire thinks he’d get a pass. If god were real and for some reason gave a single fuck about them.

Enjolras drops his hand a moment later, apparently having had his prayer for patience granted.

“Why is this even an argument we’re having again?” he asks, the exasperation in his tone evident, but muted by confusion, “We’ve already hashed this out once before and found a compromise that works.”

Grantaire lifts his head from the couch, and turns to look at Enjolras more fully. He’d been hoping to let Enjolras just take the bed without arguing, so they wouldn’t have to drag up the reason out loud. But, of course, here they are anyway.

“I don’t want you to be uncomfortable,” he says, trying for casual, but his voice is weaker than he means it to be, awkward and quiet. He clears his throat with a cough, “I was trying to save you the trouble of saying you were."

Enjolras stares. Something flickers across his expression, quicker than Grantaire can hope to process it.

“I’m not,” he says, a couple of seconds later, and it’s not a lie, but there’s a tightness in his tone that still doesn’t feel right. He shifts, an odd, distant look in his eye, “I know you’d never do anything.”

It’s a low bar, but it’s something. Grantaire is glad at the very least Enjolras thinks enough of him to know he wouldn’t cross a boundary like that.

“Are you?” Enjolras asks, suddenly looking concerned, “Uncomfortable with it, I mean.”

Grantaire huffs a laugh. As if Enjolras could ever make him uncomfortable by wanting to be around him. That might be how his friends could tell him apart from an evil twin, if he ever has an evil twin come and try to steal his life, or whatever evil twins do.

Evil Grantaire, with a backwards R on a beanie like fucking Waluigi, swooping in to steal his little bookstore job and be a parent to his kid. Diabolical.

“No, Enj, I’m fine with it if you are,” he says, “I just don’t want you to feel pressured. I’ve slept on this couch many a time before,” he pats the top of the couch, not unlike one does to a prize cow, “Not to brag but I’m kind of a pro.”

Enjolras does not look impressed.

“You getting a decent sleep is important,” he says, “I want to do anything I can to help that happen.”

“Well, Eponine offered to smother me with a pillow,” Grantaire says, dryly, “Wanna do that?”

“Alright, maybe not anything,” Enjolras amends, “But trust me when I say that I’m not uncomfortable with sharing the bed with you. It’s fine.”

Grantaire stares at him, trying to make sure he’s not somehow managing to lie well for once in his life, but can’t find anything to support that theory. He might be a little embarrassed, given the slight pink high on his cheekbones, but other than that, he just looks determined.

Grantaire is entirely too tired to want to press this any further, and if he’s honest, the bed really will be a lot better to sleep on than the couch. He still feels guilty, but knows that he’s going to get absolutely nowhere with this, not when Enjolras is standing there in chivalrous statue mode.

And if he says he really won’t be uncomfortable…

“...If you’re sure,” he says, finally, and Enjolras’ shoulders ease a little in relief.

“I’m sure,” Enjolras says. Grantaire stares at him for a couple more seconds, to be sure himself, then sighs, and pushes himself up from the couch.

“I’ll trust you, then,” he says, hands going into his sweatpants pockets as he pads towards the bathroom door, “but kick me out if you change your mind.”

“I don’t do that very often,” Enjolras says, smiling softly. Grantaire smiles back, but it’s dampened slightly by an ache in his chest at the absolute truth of that statement, and what it means for the shape of their relationship.

“Believe me,” he says, “I know.”

~~

The next few minutes are spent with both of them going through the motions of a nightly routine. They stand, shoulder to shoulder, brushing teeth in the small bathroom, Grantaire occasionally sneaking glances at Enjolras’ face in the mirror.

And it’s…weird, but nice. Almost too nice.

He tries not to let himself lean too much into the comfort of a domestic moment, enjoying it while it lasts, but accepting it for what it is: a luxury.

“I know you’re not tired yet, so don’t worry about, like, doing other shit for a while,” Grantaire says when they’ve made it back to his bedroom. He steps up to the bed, pulling his covers down to make room for them to get in, “I probably won’t actually be able to sleep for a long fuckin’ time. You won’t be disturbing anything.”

“Why not?” Enjolras asks from behind him, “You said you were tired.”

Grantaire snorts.

“Sleep and I have a very one-sided relationship at the moment,” he says, fluffing the pillows, “Just because I want it doesn’t mean it’ll come.”

“Do you have a sleep aid you could take?” Enjolras asks. Grantaire straightens, and turns back to look at him, raising an eyebrow.

“Y’know,” he says, wryly, “I used to have a pretty great ‘sleep aid’, and we both know how that went. I don’t think it’s the best idea for me to try more of those, do you?”

He’s definitely considered using sleeping pills before, many times, especially when insomnia got bad early on. But he’d always come back to the same conclusion: they’re not worth the risk.

Even something like melatonin, which isn’t addictive, and is meant only for short term use, he doesn’t dare touch. Call it an over-abundance of caution, paranoia, whatever. He’s not willing to bet on himself. Not for this.

“Oh,” Enjolras says, face falling, “I’m sorry. I should have…I should have considered that.”

“Nah, it’s chill dude,” Grantaire says, waving a hand at him, “You’re trying to help. Just know, I’ve dealt with this shit for a long time. Like. Since high school. I’ve kinda just gotta ride it out.”

Enjolras does not look satisfied with that, never one to like a problem without a good solution. So before he can try to suggest something else, Grantaire gestures to the bed, grandly, like a footman awaiting a gentleman to get into a carriage.

“After you,” he says, which does earn him a small smile and an eye roll. Enjolras obliges a second later, crawling under the duvet, and sliding to the far side of the bed, just like the first time.

Grantaire climbs in afterward, again settling himself perilously close to the edge of the bed, as if him putting space between them now will keep him from rolling over in his sleep and treating Enjolras like he’s a eucalyptus tree and Grantaire is the world’s clingiest koala.

Given how it went last time, he doesn’t have high hopes. But hey, maybe his insomnia will come in clutch this once and keep him up all night so he won’t have to risk it anyway.

He doesn’t even bother hiding it as he plugs his phone in to charge, then immediately puts an earbud in and opens up YouTube. He has a fuckload of those chemistry videos queued in his watch later, most of them already watched to the end.

They have a lot of rewatchability, since usually, when he’s not being a full blown insomniac, he’s not awake for more than ten minutes of them. Thanks to his shitty sleep, he’s now listened through most of them completely, but still doesn’t remember much of what was said. So they’ll still serve their purpose a little longer.

He clicks one, and starts it playing, deciding to actually watch it for a little bit instead of just listening to wind down a little.

“What are you watching?” Enjolras asks. Grantaire turns, glancing to Enjolras. He assumes at first that Enjolras is politely trying to make small talk to pass the time, but when he actually looks, he finds only genuine curiosity. Enjolras has leaned over, his elbow resting on the mattress between them so he can see the screen, and his eyes flit between Grantaire’s phone resting on his chest, and his face.

Grantaire blinks, surprised that he’s interested, given he has his own phone, and could be watching videos he’s actually going to be interested in, if he wanted.

“This dude is making ferrofluid,” he says, lifting his phone, and showing his screen a little more. On it is an inky black liquid over a magnet, spikes popping up from the fluid wherever the magnet goes, “It’s this magnetic shit that looks like a symbiote. Normally comes in like, novelty jars, but he’s making it from scratch.”

“Can I watch with you?” Enjolras asks.

“I mean, yeah, if you want to,” Grantaire says, dubiously, “It’s like forty minutes long though, I dunno if you know what you’re signing up for.”

Instead of dignifying that with a response, Enjolras just shifts a little closer, and holds out a hand. Grantaire stares at his open palm for a moment before realizing he’s asking for one of his headphones.

He fumbles his phone a little, letting it fall flat onto his chest, and following the wire of his headphones with his fingers to find the left earbud. Once he finds it, he takes a moment to make sure it’s not, like, disgusting, and then places it gingerly into Enjolras’ hand.

Enjolras takes it, and puts it in his ear. Grantaire waits for him to get comfortable, and then restarts the video, propping his phone up on his chest so both of them can see the screen.

They’re lying barely a few inches apart now, forced together by the finite nature of wired headphones, and Grantaire is trying very, very hard not to focus on how close Enjolras’ face is. He catches blonde curls in his periphery every few seconds, and definitely does not think about how soft they look.

He’s much too busy thinking about ferrofluid or whatever to even consider that.

It doesn’t get less distracting, but it does get easier to relax as the video continues. Enjolras doesn’t seem bored, any time Grantaire dares to glance his way.

Granted, he’s not sure he’s ever actually seen Enjolras bored. Maybe it’s just, like, a quirk of being a lawyer? If he can find reading legal cases interesting, he can probably find anything interesting. Even a weird, hyper-specific chemistry channel.

“Do they have any other videos?” Enjolras asks forty minutes later, when the end cards pop up. Grantaire’s eyebrows raise, finding himself surprised again. It’s one thing to sit through one forty minute video politely right before bed. It’s another to want to subject yourself to more.

“They do,” he says, slowly, “But aren’t you getting tired?”

Enjolras lifts an eyebrow back, challenging, “Are you?”

And Grantaire knows he doesn’t mean just ‘tired’, because they both know he is. He means, ‘are you going to sleep’. And the answer to that is still a resounding no.

Rather than answering, he turns his head back to the screen, and pulls up his queue, scrolling through the next few videos.

“You want one about turning cotton balls into cotton candy, or making transparent wood?” he asks, glancing Enjolras’ direction. From the corner of his eye, he just barely catches the warm smile he gets in return, and as a result almost doesn’t even hear which one Enjolras picks.

Two hours later, they’ve run through a good chunk of his queued videos, and Grantaire is feeling warm, and dangerously close to actually falling asleep at a semi-reasonable hour.

It’s unfair, Grantaire thinks, that having Enjolras here right now seems to be actually helping him get to sleep. There’s something steadying about his weight on the bed beside him, the even breaths, occasional conversation kept to low tones. His mind doesn’t have the space, or time to race and keep him awake, not with the steady stream of video content, and company waiting when the video ends.

Apparently, he thinks through a sleep foggy brain, having Enjolras here is the only sleep aid he needs.

“This one next?” Enjolras asks. Grantaire is feeling fuzzy enough he doesn’t even bother responding outside of a soft hum, but it seems the question was rhetorical anyway; Enjolras is already reaching out to tap the screen himself.

His nails are still pink.

And of course they’re still pink, they were only painted a few hours ago, but it catches and holds Grantaire’s attention regardless, because here he is, Enjolras, meant to do important, big things, having spent the night doing small things with him and his kid.

He wonders, through the haze starting to settle over him, exactly how long he can hope to hold onto this.

The video starts playing, and he blinks, slow, looking at the play bar and its timecode in the bottom left.

Forty five minutes, thirty nine seconds.

At the very least, he has forty five minutes, thirty nine seconds.

Grantaire closes his eyes, not wanting to watch the time count down. He breathes deep, taking in that lemongrass smell he likes so much, letting it out again, and feeling himself sink into the mattress. His head falls to one side, landing on something harder than his pillow, but he doesn’t really care.

He doesn’t feel it, when a minute later, his phone falls flat on his chest, the hand propping it up going limp, doesn’t hear Enjolras gently speak his name, just sinks into the warmth and the dark, and lets himself go.

~~

His dreams are vague and blurry, out of focus, until suddenly, they’re not.

A dark room comes into sharp relief, builds itself around him, deep indigo forming into recognizable shapes. Grantaire finds himself in his bed, lying on his stomach, his face pressed to his pillow.

His arm is outstretched over the spot beside him on the mattress. It’s still warm, and he knows that there is supposed to be someone there, but there isn’t. Far away, a baby is crying.

And his stomach sinks, because he’s been here before. Not for a long, long time, but he knows what this is, and how it ends.

He pushes himself out of bed, and rushes to the bedroom door, as if he will somehow stop the inevitable. Movements come in blinks, time an illusion, stop motion jumping from one second to the next.

The door is open. He’s in the living room. He’s looking at the front door, expecting to find it solidly closed.

It’s not.

The door is half open, light from outside cutting through the gloom of the apartment like a scythe, and someone stands, silhouetted in the dim light from outside, already halfway out.

He expects to see Camille. When he's had this dream before, usually the door is closed. But when there is someone there, it's always been her, because who else would it be?

The silhouette he sees standing there, though, is stronger, taller, more dear than Camille. His face is in shadow, blotted out, but Grantaire would know him by shape alone, by the cut of his jaw, and the set of his shoulders, and the way he holds himself.

His hand, with its pink painted fingernails, is tight on the door, and about to pull it closed behind him.

Grantaire’s mouth opens, to speak his name, to call out, but words lodge in his throat, impossibly big, big enough to turn him inside out, much too big to ever actually get out of his mouth.

Don’t leave.

Please.

The door closes.

There’s a note left on the counter, scrawled on a napkin, and a baby is still crying, and there is absolutely nothing he can do.

He stands, frozen in the dark, the world around him still eerily sharp for a dream.

Unbidden, he thinks of a line from Addie LaRue: “Déjà vu, déjà su, déjà vecu. Already seen, already known, already lived” and wonders if that’s just what his life is going to be. One big fucking closed door, and an unsatisfying ending, over, and over, and over.

~~

Grantaire snaps awake, breathing hard, a drowning man breaking the surface of waves.

Disoriented, it takes a few seconds for him to realize he’s awake. The sound of the door closing is still echoing in his ears, and he’s on his side, in a cold sweat. His left hand is clutched tight in a soft fabric, holding on for dear life.

The lamp on the nightstand is still on, casting the room around him in soft yellow light, which does help to drag him back to awareness, and he realizes that his face is pressed into a shoulder, not his pillow, nose buried in a shirt sleeve.

He realizes shortly after, that he has an arm wrapped around Enjolras beside him, and the fabric his hand is clenching is not his duvet, it’s Enjolras’ soft grey shirt.

Once he knows what he’s doing, who he’s holding onto, he jolts like he’s just touched a hot stovetop. All he wants to do is hold tighter, but even half awake and in a panicked daze, he knows that that’s not an option.

He sits up, extricating himself as quickly and quietly as he can, and pulls his knees up to his chest, sitting against the headboard behind him. His breathing is still shallow, and too fast, and his hands are shaking, but he tries to keep quiet, starting to count under his breath back from one hundred.

Anxiety dreams are not a new thing for him. They tend to uptick when insomnia hits, since both are caused by the same shit. But just because they’re nothing new doesn’t mean they get any easier.

Even as he counts down, all of his skin is crawling, itching with want for an escape, and it isn’t stopping.

There is something that would make it stop quickly, his brain reminds him, needling the idea into his psyche, but he forces the thought away, teeth grinding in frustration at how quickly his thoughts jump there.

It’s not an option. It’s not an option.

“Grantaire?”

He’s reached eighty two when he hears the voice, rough with sleep, and abruptly stops, going stock still where he sits, aside from his chest, still working overtime to try to regulate his breathing.

Enjolras, beside him, has apparently been stirred awake. He’s beginning to sit up, leaning on one arm and squinting at the light of the lamp on the bedside table.

He looks mussed, and drowsy, and if not for the confusion on his face, it might be the most beautiful he’s ever been. But, that might also be the heady mix of exhaustion and panic still bombarding Grantaire’s senses talking. It’s unfair how relieved he feels, just to see his face clearly after the blurry, blotted out version of him that had been in his dream.

Grantaire swallows, forcing deep, slow breaths, with mixed success.

“Sorry,” he manages, but it comes out strangled. He clears his throat, and continues, more convincingly, he hopes, “Didn’t mean to wake you up. Go back to sleep.”

Enjolras stares, eyes quickly shifting from bleary to focused. Instead of lying down again, he sits up more fully, leaning on one hand.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Fine,” Grantaire replies, only realizing once it’s out of his mouth that it’s quite possibly the worst thing he could say to Enjolras to convince him. Predictably, Enjolras frowns, looking him up and down as if cataloging evidence. So though it’s embarrassing as shit, he adds, “I, um. I had a nightmare. It’s nothing.”

At his explanation, Enjolras’ face softens slightly, and Grantaire’s stomach twists with shame. He’s not sure he’s ever said something so fucking pathetic to another adult. Not sober, anyway.

It would have been worth it, if Enjolras had taken the explanation and let that be that. But of course, because it’s him, nothing can be that easy.

Enjolras moves to sit cross legged beside Grantaire on the bed, intent on him even as he shifts, and re-settles himself, clearly having no intention of going back to sleep.

He’s silent for a moment, looking like he’s trying to pick the right words, and maybe give Grantaire a chance to get his breathing better under control.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, eventually, his face a mask of concern.

‘Fuck no,’ is what Grantaire wants to say, with ‘I would quite literally rather be waterboarded’ coming in a very close second, but he thankfully catches himself before either of those can come out. Instead, he keeps it simple.

“No,” he says, finally succeeding in making his breathing start to even out, if only slightly, “I don’t.”

He’s managed to avoid putting his own emotional baggage on Enjolras for the whole sleepover, somehow. He’s in absolutely no rush to start now. Especially not after waking him up like this. His skin prickles, all the details of the dream still fresh in his mind, a grim prophecy, readied and waiting, mere inches from reality.

Enjolras’ eyebrows knit together, and he stares for a few seconds, before glancing to the side, and looking at something past Grantaire’s knees. Whatever he sees, it seems to renew his conviction.

“It’s morning,” Enjolras says, as if that should mean something to Grantaire. He glances to where Enjolras had been looking, and spots his alarm clock, 3:32 in glowing red numbers staring back at him.

Okay, so not only did he wake Enjolras up, he also managed to wake him up at the ass crack of dawn. Fucking sick.

“Cool?” Grantaire says, still not sure why Enjolras even commented on it.

“You said it’d only be one night that you’d repress your ‘shit’,” Enjolras clarifies. He looks dead serious, leaning forward over his crossed legs, arms resting on his knees, “It’s tomorrow. Technically speaking.”

His expression softens somewhat a second later.

“Please,” Enjolras says, “Talk to me.”

And man, if Grantaire had known that Enjolras was actually trying to abide by that self-imposed deadline to not ask about his shit, he would have set it further into the future. Much, much further.

“I never actually signed a contract for that,” Grantaire says, brusque, and more defensive than he needs to be, “Nice try.”

It seems to stun Enjolras into silence for a moment. His hands, which were relaxed, ball into loose fists, and he glances down at nothing, the pinch coming back to his brow, the same as earlier.

“Did I…do something?” he asks, looking back up, his jaw tight, and eyes shining with a quiet, bruised kind of hurt.

“What?” Grantaire asks, defensiveness faltering in his confusion.

Enjolras hesitates.

“I thought…that we were getting to a good place, communication wise,” he says, slowly, “You seemed like you were actually getting comfortable talking with me. But now you’re…hiding things, and refusing to talk, and I don’t understand why.”

He swallows, clearly struggling, but manages to finish his thought, reiterating his question, “Did I do something to make you uncomfortable?”

Grantaire stares, guilt wasting absolutely no time in spiking straight through him. He hadn’t wanted this, in trying to put less onto Enjolras’ shoulders. He’d wanted to ease the burden. Somehow, it seems, he’s only succeeded in making things worse.

“Enj, no, it’s not—” he starts, then stops, trying to find words. The right ones aren’t coming, but he can’t stand Enjolras looking like that, guilty and hurt, so he looks down, and manages to continue, “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then what is it?” Enjolras asks, “Because something has clearly changed.”

Grantaire stares at his knees. There’s a tiny hole just starting to form on the left leg of his sweatpants. His fingers find it immediately, pulling at the edge. Enjolras is silent again in front of him, face stony, and clearly unconvinced that Grantaire acting like he has been isn’t his fault.
He takes a breath, steeling himself.

“I just—” Grantaire says, falteringly, “you don’t have to do…this.” He waves a hand vaguely between them.

His eyes flick up for a moment, and he catches the look of confusion he gets in response.

“Do…what?” Enjolras asks.

“This. Like. I dunno,” Grantaire flounders a little, trying to find the words, “This whole…constant checking in thing you do. You really don’t need to force yourself to do it.”

It does mean a lot that Enjolras is trying. More than he can even say. It always has, and it always will, but eventually, he knows that Enjolras will have to notice how much he’s been doing, and how little Grantaire deserves it.

Enjolras’ own expression shifts the moment he speaks, moving from concern right over into displeasure in the space of a breath.

“I am not forcing myself, Grantaire,” he says, and he sounds almost angry, “When have I ever said I was forcing myself to check in with you?”

Grantaire is a little taken aback by his tone, pulling in on himself a little more. His jaw works, and he grasps desperately for the right words, feeling again like he’s accidentally stumbling into a fight when he’d thought he was just stating the obvious.

“That’s…it’s not something you’d just say, dude,” he counters, defensive, “It’s like. Subtext.”

“Subtext.” Enjolras parrots, deadpan, still staring him down.

“Um,” Grantaire says, wishing he’d look away, “Yes?”

Enjolras does not look away, if anything he gets more focused, which makes Grantaire squirm. After a few seconds, he can’t take it anymore, looking away himself, and murmuring, “If you could like, not look at me like that, that would be great.”

“Sorry,” Enjolras says, not sounding sorry at all, “I’m trying to figure out exactly what I’m apparently saying, ‘subtextually’, that makes you think I don’t care about you and your well being. Because I’d like to stop it.”

To that, Grantaire isn’t quite sure what to say. His heart thuds a little faster, which he tries to ignore, focusing hard instead on the hole in his sweatpants again.

“I know you care,” Grantaire says, finally, because he does know that. It would be pointless to argue otherwise. Enjolras cares about everything from littering to the death penalty with an amount of fervor which is frankly a little obscene. If Grantaire and his issues didn’t fall somewhere on that spectrum, it would be impressive. He doesn’t say that, though, instead continuing, resolute, “But you don’t need to go out of your way like you do and, like, drop everything because I’m upset. I’ll be fine.”

“Will you?” Enjolras asks, “Because the last time I didn’t take the time to check in, you convinced yourself I hated you, and dropped off the face of the earth for a fucking decade.”

Grantaire opens his mouth, and then closes it again, finally finding the strength to look up at Enjolras. His jaw is set, eyebrows drawn together in a way that looks more pained than it does angry. After a couple of seconds, Enjolras is the one to look away, suddenly seeming to find the sheets more interesting than the eye contact he’d been so determined to hold only seconds ago.

Grantaire realizes with a start that the expression on his face definitely isn’t anger. It’s much closer to fear. Carefully muted, and held close as a secret.

“I wouldn’t do that again, Enj,” he says, shaken by the expression. He’s not sure he’s ever seen anything close to fear on that face, and never would have expected it directed at him.

He hesitates, then adds, hoping to be comforting, “I’ll be around as long as you want me to be.”

At that, Enjolras does not look comforted. If anything he looks more fed up, eyes flashing as he looks back at him again.

"Grantaire, that's not how friendship works," he says, voice sharp, "Christ, I’m not going to just, fucking, get tired of you one day and send you away."

Grantaire flinches a little at his tone, staring wide-eyed back at Enjolras’ face, which is filled with righteous indignation. His mind sticks on the last part of his sentence, the words ringing around his head, echoing loud and long as the sound of that closing door.

Two words fall out of his mouth before he can catch them, stricken and soft:

“You might.”

It’s not like it would be the first time, if he did. Grantaire has an absolute wealth of examples to pull from to prove the validity of that possibility, Cam being the biggest, with his parents in a close second. Hell, up until two months ago, he’d counted Enjolras and the rest of the ABC on that list, and there’s nothing to suggest they won’t someday change their minds.

People getting tired of dealing with him is kind of the only constant he has, and in its own way, it’s comforting, because he at least knows what to expect.

It’s the truth, but he hadn’t meant to say it. His mouth snaps shut the moment he realizes that he did, but he can’t take it back.

Enjolras stares at him, his jaw working.

“Is that really what you think?” he asks, his voice tight. Grantaire doesn’t give any indication of an answer, just pulls in on himself a little more. He’s tired, and drained, and trying to come down from sleep-addled panic that has apparently done away with his filters.

His lack of response is apparently enough.

“Grantaire, I need you to look at me,” Enjolras says.

He may as well have asked Grantaire to stare directly into the sun.

“I dunno if that’s in the cards right now, dude,” he says, weakly. In his periphery, he sees Enjolras move, and suddenly there’s a hand resting on his left knee, covering the hole he’s been using to draw focus.

“We need to talk about this,” Enjolras says, commanding but careful in a way that makes the protest die in his throat. The hand on his knee squeezes, gently, “Please, look at me.”

Grantaire has never much cared for following orders, but coming from Enjolras, with that earnest tone? He’s not nearly a strong enough person to refuse. So he forces his eyes to follow the path from the hand on his knee, sweeping up Enjolras’ arm, and back to his face.

Grantaire is struck with a bone deep panic the moment his eyes meet blue, but he pushes back at it, fingers twisting in the fabric of his sweatpants.

In soft lamplight, Enjolras practically glows, his face set, and eyes fixed on Grantaire. A fucking seraphim in pajamas. He really shouldn’t have a right to look this terrifying and beautiful at the same time, but, Grantaire supposes, that is kind of his MO.

Enjolras keeps eye contact once he’s got it, and the hand on Grantaire’s knee stays, holding him steady.

“Do you see me getting tired of Combeferre, or Courf, or any of our other friends?” he asks, speaking low, and deliberately, not to be misunderstood.

It’s a question with an obvious answer.

“No,” Grantaire answers, and it’s the truth, but it’s a truth that’s beside the point. He swallows, and continues, weakly, “But that’s not…it’s not the same.”

“How is it not the same?” Enjolras asks.

Grantaire feels himself clenching his jaw. He’s suddenly very glad for the peel off nail polish, because it’s something for his hands to do that isn’t entirely destructive in his moment. The itching, crawling feeling on his skin has only gotten worse, and his throat works, trying to find the right words.

He knows what the answer is, but it isn’t something he’s ever wanted to say out loud. Not to anyone, but definitely not to Enjolras. It isn’t something he thought he would have to say to Enjolras at all; frankly it feels a little sadistic of him to make Grantaire say out loud what they both already know.

“I’m not…” he starts, voice breaking a little, despite his best efforts. He steadies it, and tries to keep going, "I’m not like Courf or Combeferre, or any of them. I don’t fucking add anything."

He feels a growing pressure at the back of his throat, and behind his eyes. It’s one thing to think these things, to look at his demons when they’re just in his head. It’s another to speak them into reality.

It feels like carving prophecy into stone.

With the words out in the open, looking at Enjolras quickly becomes truly unbearable. He can’t take watching the way his eyes widen slightly, and definitely can’t handle the way his expression shifts to what looks sickeningly similar to pity.

Grantaire’s eyes drop, Icarus plummeting to the sea.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t—” his breath hitches, frustrated that he can’t do something as simple as hold eye contact. He knows it’s not that hard, it shouldn’t be, and yet, it is.

“It’s okay,” Enjolras says quickly, seeming to note the way his breathing is picking up again. The hand on his knee moves, lifting and then settling instead on his shoulder, and giving a reassuring squeeze, “Thank you for trying. You don’t have to, if it’s that difficult. It’s okay.”

They fall to silence again, broken only by the sound of Grantaire’s shaking breaths, slowly coming under control again.

Enjolras’ hand stays anchored on his shoulder, his pink-nailed thumb sweeping up and down in a constant rhythm, just distracting enough to be grounding.

“What do you mean you ‘don’t add anything’?” Enjolras asks eventually, when Grantaire’s breathing has eased into something more manageable. He sounds painfully patient, prompting the continuation of their conversation.

Grantaire’s fingers work, still picking at the nail polish. His index and middle finger are basically bare already, little blue flakes fallen to rest on his sweatpants. He’s going to have to remember to clean those up, so they don’t end up all over his bed.

Not important right now. Which is exactly why he’d rather think about that than his answer.

“I feel like it’s pretty self-explanatory,” he says.

“It’s not,” Enjolras says, frustration creeping back into his tone, “I need to know exactly what you mean so I can tell you exactly how you’re wrong.”

Grantaire makes an aborted sound in the back of his throat, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Because of course, even right now, Enjolras is being a fucking contrarian.

And maybe it’s just because he’s exhausted and edging on hysteria, but it’s kind of comforting that even when Grantaire is crumbling where he sits, Enjolras is just as dedicated as ever to his cause of bickering with him.

It’s weird that that actually does make some of the tension in his chest release, a sense of normalcy cutting through his anxious fog. Not all, but some, enough for him to be able to get a foothold. He lifts his hands to scrub them over his face.

“Ridiculous,” he murmurs into his palms, affectionately, a small, broken smile drawn onto his lips despite the continued shaking in his hands, “You’re so fucking ridiculous.”

If Enjolras catches what he says, he doesn’t reply. But Grantaire can feel his eyes burning into his head even without looking up.

He’s not just going to drop this.

Grantaire sniffs, as subtly as he can, and works to get his thoughts in order. It’s not easy; he’s had a lot of time to think over the past week, and as such, the evidence he’s found to support the idea he’s a burden are innumerable. A veritable constellation of fuck ups, spread across his brain, and painting a picture that’s clear to him, but might take some explaining for someone else.

His hand moves to run up through his hair, tangling in curls and staying there.

“Enj…we both know that I don’t have anything to offer,” he says eventually. His voice comes out quieter than he wants. He’s managed to keep up a small smile, but it wavers, even with its only real audience being his own lap. He sniffs again, grasping at the last strings of his self-control.

“I don’t—I’ve never really brought anything to the proverbial table,” he continues, feeling the beginnings of a nervous ramble building, “And like, that’s okay when I’m not…fucking, taking anything from the table either, but as it stands I’ve been just taking, constantly, without ever giving back, and eventually, you’re gonna have to look up and be like, ‘Hey, why is this asshole even at the table again? We’re all out of Hawaiian rolls’.”

“...Hawaiian rolls?” Enjolras asks. And yeah, that’s fair.

“That metaphor kind of got away from me,” Grantaire admits.

Fuck this is hard. He’s great at joking about how he’s a useless fuck, but having to give a fucking dissertation about it doesn’t exactly feel great.

“I just. I’ve been leaning on you a lot,” he says, “Like. Way too much. And you don’t lean on me. And like, I understand why, believe me, I know I’m not—”

His breath catches, the words beginning to feel heavy in his throat. He pushes back against it, but shame twists at his vocal cords, mangling his voice into something misshapen and small.

He blinks, too much and too fast, the hand in his hair clenching a little tighter.

“I’m not someone you can trust with your problems. Not like…everyone else,” he says, “I can’t help. Not when it matters. I mean, fuck, you said so yourself that you don’t think I can, and I don’t know how that wouldn’t cause an imbalance—”

“Hang on, when have I ever said—” Enjolras interrupts, only to cut himself off mid-sentence. Grantaire shuts his mouth the moment Enjolras starts to speak. He’s surprised enough by the interjection that he looks up, catching the moment Enjolras’ face shifts from confusion, to realization.

The thumb on his shoulder stills its movement entirely. Grantaire braces himself for the worst. If Enjolras somehow didn’t realize he’s been a fucking burden, he definitely does now. And what that means for them he’s really not sure. Nothing good.

He presses his lips together, looking back down at his lap, ready and waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But it doesn’t.

Instead, he hears Enjolras speak, in a voice so gentle it hurts.

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

And at that, Grantaire can’t not look up. The face he finds when he does is creased with guilt, but also understanding, an understanding that Grantaire can’t wrap his head around.

It’s his turn to look confused; he feels like he’s just stepped forward expecting to fall off a bluff, only to find solid ground instead.

“I don’t think you’re incapable,” Enjolras says, “When I said that, it was—” he stops himself abruptly, and seems to cast around for the right words, and then continues, looking pained, “It was about one very specific problem.”

His adam’s apple bobs.

“Honestly, no one can really help with it. I never meant it as a judgment of your ability to help me on the whole,” he adds, softly, “I…really value your opinions. I’m sorry that I made you feel like I don’t.”

He’s not lying.

He’s not lying, and it makes no goddamn sense.

Out of every response Grantaire had expected, the last one he’d been prepared for was an apology. It feels like fur being pet in the wrong direction, ‘I’m sorry’ hitting his mind against the grain and pushing through anyway.

A lump is threatening to push up Grantaire’s throat, but he shoves back at it, wrapping his arms around his legs and holding on tight. It’s a hard pill to swallow, after spending so much time so fucking certain of his own reality. But he does his best not to reject it outright.

He respects Enjolras too much to accuse him of offering false platitudes. It’s just not something Enjolras does.

His fingers press into his calves, and he looks down at the texture of Enjolras’ pajama pants.

“I’ve still been asking a lot of you,” he murmurs, guilty and soft.

“No,” Enjolras says, “You really haven’t.”

Grantaire’s brow knits, and tries to protest, but Enjolras moves his free hand, re-settling it on Grantaire’s other shoulder, effectively bracketing him in place, and once again gracing him with the full force of his determination.

“Do you know how many times you’ve asked me for help?” Enjolras says, staring him down. Grantaire can do nothing but stare back, stomach twisting.

When he doesn’t answer, Enjolras speaks again, “Two. Two times. That’s it.”

“That can’t be even close—” Grantaire says, but the look Enjolras gives him when he speaks is so withering that the rest of the sentence curls up and dies before it can get out.

“I’m not talking about accepting help when I offer, I’m talking about actually asking for it,” he clarifies, pointedly. “I know, because both times it’s happened, I’ve thought, ‘oh, he’s finally learning to trust me’, and I felt so fucking relieved—”

He stops, his breath seeming to catch in his throat, and abruptly looks away, blinking a little too fast. Grantaire feels his own breathing stop, stuck behind a sudden, shocked kind of pressure in his chest.

That look is back. That quiet fear, etching itself into the lines of Enjolras’ face. Grantaire wants to reach out and smooth those lines away. But he stays, frozen, as Enjolras gathers himself again.

“I can’t see what’s going on in your head,” he says, pained and slow, “So when I start to see you pushing me away, and I don’t know why, it scares me.”

He manages to look back at Grantaire, eyes shining, raw and too open.

“I want you in my life,” he says, “And I know firsthand exactly how quickly I could lose you. So believe me when I say I couldn’t give any less of a shit about you ‘asking for too much’.”

Grantaire stares at Enjolras, taking in his expression with a quiet, stupefied awe of someone witnessing a miracle.

The words hang in the air between them, dizzying.

If not for the fact that his dreams have been so fucking unkind to him recently, Grantaire might have thought that’s what this is. But Enjolras is here, and his hands on Grantaire’s shoulders are almost too tight, like he might float away if Enjolras lets go for a moment, and his eyes are positively burning and…he’s still not lying.

And Grantaire realizes, in a sudden, blooming moment of clarity, exactly how skewed his perception has been.

He has spent so fucking long bracing for the worst, that he hadn’t had space to consider it might not even be coming, let alone consider Enjolras might actually be afraid of it too.

With the added context of Enjolras’ perspective, it’s much easier to take a step back, mentally, and see what the last week has been for what it actually has been: the beginnings of yet another self-sabotage.

Things that look like prophecies to him often seem so inevitable that it’s hard to recognize that they are often self-fulfilling. He believes his friend will pull away from him if he gets too close, so he starts to pull away, preemptively. He’s scared of distance, so he puts it there himself. And that...can't be a healthy impulse.

It’s terrifying. Terrifying to think of how easily he almost screwed himself out of a good thing, again. Terrifying too, to think of what it means to live without waiting for the other shoe to drop. He’s not sure he even knows how to do that.

But if he’s ever going to stop being terrified, he knows he’s going to have to try.

Two things become painfully clear to him, as this new world settles around him.

1. Eponine is going to actually murder him, and he will deserve it.
2. He needs to apologize.

Whether he intended to or not, his self-destructive habits have hurt his friend, and that is unacceptable.

“What are you thinking about right now?” Enjolras asks, snapping him from his thoughts. His face is a mask of concern, and Grantaire aches to know that he’s the reason for it.

“I. Um,” Grantaire says, unsteady, “I think that I…might have some self-worth issues that haven’t been...totally resolved.”

Enjolras’ face shifts, not to surprise, but to relief. The face of someone finally breaking ground.

If Grantaire had needed any more proof that he's finally right on the money, that'd be it. Jesus fucking christ. Not even a fucking ounce of surprise, and Grantaire is over here thinking it's some big revelation.

He eases his arms from where they’ve been, frozen around his legs, and lifts his hands to settle on Enjolras’ arms, still bracketing his shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire says, “For…fucking, all of this.”

"It's okay—" Enjolras starts, but Grantaire shakes his head.

"No," he says, "It's not."

Enjolras looks back at him, brow knit with concern, probably expecting this to be some kind of self-deprecation, but Grantaire pushes forward.

"I'm not excused from accountability just because I was feeling insecure," he says, insistent and guilty, "I shut down, and that hurt you. I'm sorry."

It’s not fun to admit, but he knows he needs to. If he’s not held accountable for the things he does when he’s feeling anxious, he’ll never stop hurting the people he cares about. Or himself, for that matter.

Enjolras seems to consider that, and after a moment, nods.

"You're right," he says. The hands on his shoulders give a squeeze, gentle and steadying, and Enjolras’ expression changes to that of a strategist, determined and intent, "So, let's talk about how we can keep this from happening again."

Grantaire nearly chokes on a laugh.

It’s comforting, in a bone-deep, world-righting way, to see Enjolras once again running headlong at a problem, even if it’s one that doesn’t really have a good, consistent answer, in Grantaire’s experience.

"I’m all ears if you have solutions, dude,” he says, “If I knew of something that worked every time, this wouldn't have happened. Trust me.”

"That doesn't mean we can't try," Enjolras says, matter-of-factly, which pulls another boneless laugh from Grantaire. The relief of the situation is starting to settle over him now, a kind of dizzy comfort wrapping around his shoulders like a blanket, held there by Enjolras’ hands on his shoulders.

Enjolras is still here. He’s still here, and they’re talking about solutions at three in the fucking morning, because he wants to keep Grantaire in his life.

Enjolras values his opinions.

Enjolras feels relieved when Grantaire asks for help. Not annoyed. Relieved.

He’s someone who has seen the absolute worst versions of him, has looked at the mess that is Grantaire, and said how can I help instead of goodbye.

It’s going to take a long time for that to feel normal. But he wants it to. More than anything.

"Earlier, you said you were depending on 'subtext', when it came to how I was feeling," Enjolras says, drawing Grantaire’s focus back to the conversation at hand. He nods, and Enjolras nods back. "I don't think that's entirely accurate."

Grantaire's brow furrows.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“Calling it subtext implies that I put it there, intentionally,” Enjolras says, painfully patient, “But I didn’t. We need to call it what it is: that’s not subtext, those are assumptions.”

“That—” Grantaire starts, intending to contradict him, but after a second to think about it, finds he can’t.

He stares ahead of himself, looking at Enjolras’ grey shirt, but not really focusing on it, and murmurs, “Fuck.”

“Does that mean I’m right?” Enjolras says, with an impressively small amount of smugness. He’s earned the right to be a little smug, with everything Grantaire has put him through tonight, so instead of snarking, Grantaire just nods.

“You’re right,” he confirms, and has the absolute pleasure of watching Enjolras’ expression go from subtly teasing, to surprised, and finally settling on pleased.

He doesn’t rub it in, for which Grantaire will be eternally grateful, instead continuing with his thought.

“Okay. So, the root of the problem there is that your brain tends to want to make assumptions, and those assumptions are almost always negative,” Enjolras says, laying out his argument with the care of someone handling a priceless heirloom, “To keep that from happening, we have to cut assumption from the process entirely.”

“Easier said than done my guy,” Grantaire says, because he can only not contradict Enjolras for so long before his skin starts to itch.

“Things that are worth doing often are,” Enjolras says, dryly, his eyes narrowing, and Grantaire snorts. Enjolras opts to ignore him this time.

“Here’s what I need from you,” he says, focusing in again. He makes sure he’s got Grantaire’s attention, locking eyes on him again, and continues, deliberately, “The next time you’re starting to worry about how I’m feeling, or what I meant by something. I want you to ask me.”

His eyes flick over Grantaire’s face, looking for any sign of dissent, probably.

“I’m promising you right now that it will not bother me. Ask me, and I’ll do my best to answer.”

Grantaire stares back, chewing at the inside of his cheek. Enjolras says it like it’s so simple, but Grantaire knows that in the moment, it’s not. It’s an incredibly uncomfortable thought, of actually doing what Enjolras is asking of him.

But that probably means it’s the right thing.

Still, he drops his arms down to his lap again, index finger going to pick at the bandaid on his thumb.

"What if it's, like, really fucking stupid, though?" he asks, smirking to try to play it off like a joke. It’s weak, and not all that convincing, but Enjolras ignores it regardless, shaking his head.

"It's not stupid if it makes you feel anxious," he says.

What is stupid, Grantaire thinks, is how much of a relief it is to hear that.

His shoulders slump slightly, dropping some tension he hadn’t known he was still holding, and this time when he smiles, it’s more genuine than before.

"I dunno,” he says, “I could think of quite a few very, very dumb things to ask."

"Well then I'll be happy to give you some very, very dumb answers," Enjolras replies, returning his smile.

He seems to realize then that he’s still holding Grantaire by the shoulders. His hands slide down his arms, and then drop off, and Enjolras sits back, as if he didn’t just activate literally every neuron in Grantaire’s brain and send them sparking over his biceps.

"Do we have a deal?" Enjolras asks, folding his hands in his lap.

Grantaire regains the ability to speak, and pulls up a wry smile.

"Do I have to sign something?"

"I'll trust a verbal agreement this time," Enjolras says, then narrows his eyes, "but if this happens again, I'm drafting something official."

Grantaire laughs, though he knows Enjolras probably isn’t really joking. Thorough bastard.

"Fair enough," he says, still smiling, “Deal.”

“Good,” Enjolras says. They sit in silence for a moment, settling into their renewed ease, until eventually Grantaire can’t stifle a yawn, exhaustion starting to hit him in earnest. Enjolras takes the hint, moving to settle himself back in his spot on the left side of the bed, and sliding back under the duvet.

Spurred to action by Enjolras moving, Grantaire reaches to the side, before he can forget again, and turns off his lamp. The beginnings of soft, periwinkle dawn light are cutting through Grantaire’s open blinds, keeping the darkness around them from being absolute.

He hesitates before lying back down, his body precariously on the edge of the bed, unsure of if he should even bother to try and stay away like he’s done the last few times. It clearly hasn’t done any good, considering every time he wakes up he’s wrapped around Enjolras like a fucking maypole.

Enjolras is lying on his side, already having gotten comfortable closer to the middle of the bed. In the semi-darkness, Grantaire catches the way he looks at him, confused for a moment, and then shifting into understanding.

“You don’t have to lie on the edge like that,” Enjolras says, “You’re just going to roll to the middle. It happens literally every time.”

And yep. That’s mortifying. Enjolras might not have directly mentioned the sleep-cuddling, but there’s no way he hasn’t noticed that if he’s noticed Grantaire can’t keep to his side.

“Sorry, dude, um,” he says, stumbling over himself in his own embarrassment, “I usually sleep hugging a pillow? But I can’t do that when you’re here, so—”

“It’s fine, R,” Enjolras says, “It doesn’t bother me.”

And that, Grantaire finds hard to believe. It must show on his face, because Enjolras continues.

“I shared a dorm room with Combeferre and Courfeyrac in our freshman year of college,” he says, “‘Ferre sleep talks, and Courf sleepwalks. I love them both dearly, but there was not one night of peace. Nothing you do even compares.”

Bothering Enjolras in the sense that he would be annoying him or keeping him awake wasn’t really what Grantaire was worried about, but if that’s all Enjolras is worried about, he supposes that should assuage the worry of making him uncomfortable as well.

He hesitates a second longer, and as a result, wobbles slightly on the edge of the bed, just barely righting himself in time. Clearly catching that moment of unbalance, Enjolras gives him a look of pure exasperation, and pats the spot next to him on the mattress.

Grantaire doesn’t let himself hesitate again, scooting himself closer. He leaves a few inches between them, not wanting to push his luck, and rests his head back against his pillow, flipping it over to the cold side with a soft sigh.

“Just kick me, if I do bother you,” he says, softly.

“Will do,” Enjolras replies, a smile lacing his voice.

They fall into companionable silence again for a while, Grantaire’s tired eyes tracing patterns in the ceiling. He feels sleep beginning to weigh on him again, surprisingly, and doesn’t fight it. But before he can actually drift off, he remembers something that’s still nagging at him.

He takes a moment to gather his thoughts, listening to Enjolras’ breathing. It’s steady, but not heavy and slow like it’d be if he were asleep already, so Grantaire decides it’ll probably be okay to ask what he wants to.

“Hey, um,” he says, letting his head drop to the side, to face Enjolras beside him, “I actually have a question.”

Enjolras’ eyes open, peering at Grantaire, drowsy, but alert enough that Grantaire doesn’t feel bad.

“What is it?” he asks.

Grantaire’s hands come together on top of the duvet, fidgeting.

“You don’t have to answer this if you’re not comfortable. I don't think it necessarily falls under the umbrella of what we talked about,” he says, slowly, “But…what was the problem you were dealing with? The one you didn’t think I could help with.”

Enjolras tenses slightly beside him. He doesn’t answer for a few seconds, silence dragging uncomfortably long, until Grantaire can’t take it himself, and says, “Y’know what, I um. I don’t need to know, I’m sorry.”

“No, I—” Enjolras says, immediately, “I want you to ask me when you’re wondering about these things. We just agreed to that.”

He pauses, eyes unfocused as he seems to try and get his thoughts in order.

“I think…I missed my chance at something good,” he says, and then swallows, “I was…emotional about it, and didn’t want that to affect you. Especially with everything you have going on.”

Grantaire can’t say that that’s the answer he expected. Not at all. Enjolras is normally so on top of his shit, the idea of him missing out on something he’d want is a little wild.

His answer is vague enough it could have been anything from an exclusive item, to a life-changing career or something, but if he’s still feeling sore about it, Grantaire doesn’t want to press the issue too much. He’s just happy to have gotten this far.

“Was there, like, a hard deadline that you missed?” Grantaire asks, trying to probe a little more without being too invasive. He turns onto his side, wanting to face Enjolras as fully as he can. Enjolras looks back at him, face taut. There’s something buried behind his eyes, a kind of muted, barely obscured soreness, the pain of a battle lost.

“No,” he says, and looks down, “I was just too late.”

His hand, resting on the mattress between them curls into a fist.

“I’ve been trying to come to terms with that,” he murmurs, “There really isn’t anything to help it.”

And it’s not the first time Grantaire has seen him looking or sounding defeated, but it still feels just as wrong, just as incongruent with how Enjolras is supposed to be. Grantaire frowns.

“What happened to fighting for what you want?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. Enjolras looks back up at him, brow furrowing.

“This…really isn’t something I can brute force, R,” he replies.

“Literally, when has that ever stopped you from trying?” Grantaire asks, the ghost of a wry smile poking at his mouth, “Brute forcing change is kind of your thing, isn’t it?”

Enjolras doesn’t reply, but doesn’t deny it either, staring back with a mix of quiet contemplation, and skepticism. Grantaire blows an exasperated breath out of his nose, and then looks back at Enjolras, determined.

“Is this, ‘something good’, still something you want?” he asks.

Enjolras’ eyes flit over his face. There’s something timid in his expression, a careful kind of openness, just barely there in the gloom.

There’s a beat, and then he speaks, in barely a whisper, “Yes.”

Grantaire nods.

“Is it worth fighting for?” he asks.

There's not even a pause this time, before Enjolras responds with complete conviction, looking a bit more like himself.

“Absolutely.”

Grantaire smiles.

“Then you have your answer,” he says, rolling onto his back. He gestures a hand in the air above him, “Whatever it is, it clearly means enough to you to give it another shot. And if they don’t, like, let you into the club, or give you the job, or whatever it is, fuck ‘em. They’re missing out, ‘cause you’re pretty fucking great.”

Enjolras beside him is silent for a couple of seconds, and then, suddenly, he laughs. Quietly at first, and then harder. Grantaire turns his head on the pillow, curious, and finds Enjolras with one hand over his face, stifling the laughter still making his shoulders shake.

“What?” Grantaire asks.

“Nothing,” Enjolras says, starting to calm himself, “Just not the advice I’d expect from a cynic.”

“Hey, I’m just trying to keep my job secure,” Grantaire says, the beginnings of a grin forming on his lips, “If you become a cynic, I’m shit out of luck. The whole market dries up.”

“Oh well we couldn’t have that,” Enjolras replies, laughter petering out entirely, and leaving a smile in its wake. It’s a small one, subtle and soft, but Grantaire thinks it might be his favorite of all the ones he’s cataloged, because he knows for a fact that he helped put it there.

He stares at it for perhaps a beat too long. But he does manage eventually to tear his eyes away, gluing them back to the ceiling instead.

“Think about it, at least,” Grantaire says. He stifles a yawn, the heady feeling of relief from before starting to push him back towards sleep again, re-doubling its efforts now that his question has been answered.

“I will,” Enjolras says, and seems to mean it, “Thank you.”

“Anytime dude,” he says, and smiles, finally closing his eyes.

It’s surprisingly easy to fall asleep, even with the quiet, and nothing to distract him but the sound of Enjolras breathing softly beside him. He’s exhausted, but for the first time in days, he’s also fully relaxed.

Ten minutes later, he’s being pulled under by that warm, sinking feeling. An arm wraps around his middle, and he barely registers it, but leans into it regardless, curling towards warmth like a freezing man to a fire, and lets himself drift off. This time into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

Early afternoon sun is pouring through the window by the time Grantaire stirs. It’s the first time in a long time he’s felt over-rested, the beginnings of a slight headache pressing at the back of his skull, but compared to the exhaustion that has been his norm for the last week, it’s more than welcome.

He drags himself to consciousness, resisting the urge to fall asleep again as best he can, and slowly opens his eyes halfway.

He’s met with gray fabric, arms predictably wrapped around the person beside him, though thankfully not with the degree of desperation they had been last night. As he slowly comes to, he realizes that there’s a hand in his hair, fingers dragging slowly along his scalp in a way that’s so soothing he nearly lets himself be dragged back under, his eyes falling shut again for a moment against his better judgment.

He feels a sudden, and intense understanding of why cats enjoy being pet; if he had the ability to purr, he’d be doing it right about now. Instead, he feels himself sigh, a long, slow breath into the shirt in front of him.

Unfortunately, at the sigh, the hand abruptly stills, and then pulls away. Grantaire wants to whine for the loss, but thankfully he resists, waking more with that warm pressure removed.

“Good morning,” says a voice, coming from above him. It manages to wake him up all the way, coming back to self-awareness with the efficiency of someone snapping a rubber band on skin.

He does his best not to jolt back like he had last night, but quickly pulls his arms back, and rolls onto his back to face the person beside him.

Enjolras is partially sitting up, resting back against the headboard, his phone in his right hand, and left hand now hovering awkwardly on the mattress beside him. If not for the residual tingling in his scalp, Grantaire would be absolutely certain that he’d dreamt that hand being in his hair less than ten seconds ago.

As it stands he’s still only about 60% sure he didn’t dream it up, but that’s better than his usual as far as optimism goes.

“‘Morning,” he replies, the word raking through sleep to get out of his mouth. He clears his throat, and continues, “What time is it?”

Enjolras looks down at his phone.

“A quarter past noon,” he says, and smiles, “So, I guess good afternoon. If we want to strive for accuracy.”

“Jesus,” Grantaire says, rubbing a hand over his face. He pauses, realizing now that Enjolras had already been awake, “How long have you been up?”

“A while,” Enjolras replies, which could mean anything from something reasonable, to entirely unreasonable. But given he opted to not be specific, Grantaire has to guess it was much closer to unreasonable.

Grantaire pushes up onto his elbows, looking to Enjolras with a kind of stern confusion.

“You could’ve gotten up, dude,” he says.

Enjolras just shakes his head, setting his phone down in his lap.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he says, “You clearly needed the rest.”

“I—” he starts, intending to protest, but he stops himself a second later. Guilt is kicking at him, a knee-jerk reaction to making Enjolras sit here all morning. But given their conversation last night, he does his best to catch the guilty thought, and force himself to look at it critically.

He didn’t make Enjolras do that. He’s not forcing him, no matter how much it might feel that way. Enjolras sat with him, and let him sleep, because he cares.

So instead of saying ‘sorry’, or ‘you didn’t have to’, like he wants to, he forces himself to say just, “Thank you.”

The soft smile he gets in response is fucking radiant.

If he needed any positive reinforcement to stop worrying about accepting help, he’s fucking got it. He thinks he’d probably give his left arm to make Enjolras smile like that again with any kind of consistency.

The door handle turning, and his bedroom door opening suddenly is enough to tear him away from the expression. He turns his attention to the door, and sees Bea peek in. When she sees they’re both awake, she pushes the door open fully, and walks in, hopping up onto the foot of the bed.

“Morning,” Grantaire says, sitting up fully. Bea looks his face up and down, and, apparently satisfied with whatever she sees, smiles.

“I’m hungry,” she says, skipping pleasantries all together, “Can we make breakfast?”

At this point, it’ll technically be lunch. But Grantaire doesn’t have a chance to point that out before Enjolras is shifting, and moving to get out of bed.

“I’ll help,” he says, “Let’s give your dad a chance to wake up.”

“I’m already pretty awake, dude,” Grantaire says, but Enjolras just shakes his head, and looks back at him, determined.

“Shower then. We’ll handle food,” he says, and it’s not a request, it’s a command. As much as Grantaire wants to push back, he can’t bring himself to. Not after last night. And if he’s honest, he probably really does need a shower.

It still feels like more work than it should to have one, but that feeling is slowly lessening, easing with the stress that’s gone running from his brain and body.

Enjolras doesn’t wait for a reply anyway, holding out a hand to Bea. She takes it with a grin, and they walk out to the kitchen, Bea chattering about what they could make as they go. Grantaire watches them leave, struck again by that aching feeling of domesticity.

He does his best not to squash that feeling as he stands and follows them out of the room so he can shower.

~~

His shower is quick, but invigorating. He tends to fluctuate from two extremes; he’s either in for ten minutes and out again, or he takes a fucking hour. Today, his body wants to take an hour, nearly surrendering to the trance of hot water hitting skin a few times, but he won’t, not with the company waiting outside, nor the time limit imposed by the meeting with Cam. They’re supposed to meet her around 1:30, and it’s already past noon.

He gets out once he’s clean, and puts back on his sweats and shirt for the short trip back to his bedroom. He’ll have to take them off again once he’s there, but he passes near the kitchen as he goes, and though Enjolras and Bea are distracted by whatever they’ve chosen to make, he doesn’t want to risk making Enjolras uncomfortable by walking out in just a towel.

Back in his room, he finds his phone on the floor, apparently knocked to the ground at some point while he slept. It had been on his chest when he passed out the first time, but since then has made its home on the carpet, thankfully still plugged in.

Grantaire fishes it up, still rubbing dampness from his hair with a towel, and swipes it open.

There’s a text from Eponine waiting for him, dated much, much earlier in the morning.

From: 🦇 Eponine 🦇
7:24am, November 20:
-----
morning sunshine.
are you feeling better?

He smiles, staring down at the message. He knows that Eponine absolutely intended to be snarky, but it doesn’t dampen the swell of affection that rises in his chest. He types out a quick message, and sends it back.

From: Grantaire
12:33pm, November 20:
-----
yeah
i am

He has enough time to drop his towel on the bed, and slip on a clean t-shirt before his phone buzzes, insistent, Eponine’s contact information lighting up the screen with a call.

Grantaire shuts his bedroom door completely, and then grabs his phone from the duvet, and picks up.

“Hey, ‘Ponine,” he says, keeping his voice low. His door may be closed, but he can still hear Enjolras and Bea working in the kitchen, voices muffled, but present. Apartment walls aren’t known for their thickness, and his are no exception.

“Hey yourself sleeping beauty,” Eponine says, voice dry. Grantaire can practically feel the smug look she has to be giving through the phone. And it’s fair. Grantaire has no room to deny her the right to be smug as she wants. She continues, with deadpan self-satisfaction, “Glad to hear you’re feeling better. Did communicating help?”

As much as Grantaire wants to be a little shit, and deny her the satisfaction, he knows he can’t. Because the truth is, without Eponine’s intervention (as brash and maybe a little irresponsible as it was) he’d probably be in a much worse place this morning than he currently is.

Her methods aren’t always the best, but he can’t argue with their results.

“It did,” he says, sitting on his bed, “You were right.”

A hand feels absently at his sheets, and almost immediately finds a little flake of dried blue nail polish. Of fucking course, he’d forgotten to clean them up. And now he’s probably going to be finding little pieces like this for a week.

The anxiety he’d felt last night is beginning to feel distant, like a bad dream, these little scraps tiny reminders littering his sheets. And it’s thanks to Eponine that that’s all there is. He smiles softly, gripping his phone a little tighter.

“Thanks for pushing me,” he adds. There’s no point in mincing words. Eponine was right, and she deserves a proper thank you.

She’s silent on the other end for a few seconds, apparently not having expected such easy acquiescence.

“No problem,” she says, eventually, and her tone has softened somewhat, into the reserved embarrassment of someone not used to thanks given earnestly. He hears her sniff over the line, and then her tone is back to something more normal, teasing and dry, “I should have recorded this call. I didn’t think you’d just give me ammunition like that.”

“Hey, it’s deserved,” Grantaire says, “You’re better at reading my bullshit than I am, apparently.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Eponine says, the smirk in her tone clear as day. She pauses, then adds, “Free tip for next time: usually whatever the fuck you’re avoiding the most is the actual root of the problem.”

At that, Grantaire has to pause. He’d assumed before last night that the root of his probable emotional relapse was Camille. He’s sure that she didn’t help; her coming back definitely brought up a lot of old feelings and memories that haven’t helped his mental state, if his dream is anything to go by. But if he really thinks about it, the worst of his spiral probably hadn’t been caused by her.

The one night of decent sleep he’d had all week was Monday. The day she’d come back. His sleep had been bad on Sunday, got better for one night, and then went back to being bad on Tuesday.

Both Sunday, and Tuesday, he'd felt insecure about his relationship with Enjolras.

He's not scared of losing Camille. He's already done that. A much more triggering thought had been losing his newfound support system. Of not being enough for them, and as a result, being left alone again.

He shifts, pulling a knee up to his chest and holding on tight.

Insufficiency might be a bigger emotional trigger than he'd thought.

It's easier to wrap his mind around it logically, now that he's had proper sleep, and actually talked some things through. It's a fun little prank his brain likes to pull on him, cutting him off from the things that will actually help by convincing him they're dangerous.

It's a very, very effective prank. Or maybe Grantaire is just a very, very gullible prankee.

“Damn," he says, realizing he’s been silent for a little too long, in all likelihood, "I guess you just have the cheat codes to my mental health, huh?”

“Hey, I just push you,” Eponine replies, “You’re the one that’s going to have to actually address the abandonment issues. No cheat codes for that.”

“How the fuck would you know if I have ‘abandonment issues’?” he says, unable to resist the sudden and intense curiosity, despite not being completely sure if he wants to know the answer.

“Grantaire,” Eponine says, with the tone of someone stating the incredibly obvious, “You can’t watch Treasure Planet without crying. Like. Ugly sobbing.”

Fuck.

He does his best not to follow his immediate impulse to counter with the fact that Eponine can't make it through Lilo and Stitch without crying, because that would just be rude, and not totally relevant anyway.

“It’s a good movie,” he says instead.

“Is it?” Eponine replies, dryly, “Or are you just a queer adult with abandonment issues.”

“...Touché,” Grantaire mumbles, rubbing a hand over his face.

He’s barely had time to recover from that blunt force trauma of a psychological read, when he smells something acrid.

A burning smell slowly wafts in from the kitchen, even through the bedroom door, and he hears Bea say simply, ‘uh oh’.

Not exactly a comforting combination of smells and sounds.

“I think something might be on fire in the kitchen,” he says, quickly, already standing to grab his pants and put them on, “I’ve gotta go dude.”

“Congratulate Bea on her first arson for me,” Eponine replies.

“Will do,” Grantaire replies, automatic, and then stops, one leg already in his jeans.

“Seriously, though,” he says, “Thank you, Eponine.”

“What are friends for?” Eponine replies, a smile in her tone, “Let me know how things go today.”

“I will,” he says, and smiles, heart full for the simple fact that, no matter how much Eponine tries to act stoic, she does care, “I’ll text you tonight.”

Eponine gives him a goodbye, and he hangs up, and then pulls his pants on all the way, and heads out to see where the fire is.

The kitchen is a disaster.

On the counter, there’s an open bag of pancake mix, vegetable oil, and milk, set amongst a couple of metal bowls and some measuring cups. Inexplicably, there’s also a knife. A big fucking kitchen knife, which Grantaire can only assume was for some reason used to level off the measuring cup, given it’s covered in pancake mix as well.

Standing by the stove are Enjolras and Bea, a small stream of black smoke curling up from the pan in front of them.

Bea looks confused. Enjolras looks panicked.

“They’re not supposed to look like that,” Bea says, standing on tip-toe to look into the pan.

“No, they’re not,” Enjolras agrees.

“Why do they look like that then?” Bea asks. Enjolras lifts his hand, and pinches the bridge of his nose, swiping it with pancake mix in the process.

Grantaire steps into the kitchen, hands in his pockets, and peeks around Enjolras' shoulder.

Inside the pan are a couple of blackened splats. They're misshapen, oblong, and burnt to a degree that Grantaire didn't even know was possible, black all the way to the edges.

"...Well," Grantaire says, reaching up to pat Enjolras' shoulder with mock sympathy, "You're lucky you're pretty."

He jumps, apparently not having seen or heard Grantaire approach. A flurry of emotions flit over his face, surprise first, then something flustered, and finally annoyance.

"I don't know what happened," he says, turning back to the pan and glaring at it like it's the one responsible for these little war crimes masquerading as pancakes. Grantaire glances at the blackened pan, and then at the stove, and snorts.

"The fact that the burner is cranked up to ten might have something to do with it," he offers, unable to suppress his grin, shit eating as it is.

Enjolras looks from him, to the burner, and back, an embarrassed flush creeping up his cheeks.

"...I thought it'd go faster that way," he mumbles.

He prods one of the pancakes with the spatula, and it skitters like a fucking Frisbee on concrete.

"Not how pancakes work, dude," Grantaire says, "Not how any cooking works, actually."

Enjolras seems to deflate a little, but all Grantaire can do is watch his brow pinch in frustration, and marvel at how fucking endearing it is when he's not good at something. Enjolras, imperious, perfectionist bastard that he is, is practically pouting right now, over fucking pancakes.

Grantaire lets his hand slide to Enjolras' back, and rubs it in a way he hopes is soothing.

"Don't worry Enj, we can fix it," he says, taking the spatula from his hand, "No need to get all grumpy."

"I'm not grumpy," Enjolras says, grumpily.

Still, a moment later he eases, the muscles in his back releasing some tension under Grantaire’s hand, and he lets Grantaire take the spatula without any fuss.

Grantaire pulls out a different pan to cook with, since the one Enjolras had been using is now covered in what is in essence just pancake-adjacent charcoal, and they all get to work again, Bea and Enjolras handling remaking some batter, and Grantaire in charge of actually cooking.

Enjolras still seems sore that he failed at actually making breakfast, a deep frown stuck to his face, but it lessens a moment later when Grantaire elbows him, and takes the time to show him the proper methods for cooking a pancake.

“You can give it another try next time you sleep over,” he says, flipping one of the pancakes in his pan once the top starts to bubble.

There’s still a bud of unsteadiness in his chest, at the idea of actually letting himself look forward to a next time. But when he glances to the side, and catches Enjolras’ answering smile, it blooms instead into assurance, tentative, but warm.

~~

Half an hour later, they’ve all had their fill, and Bea hops out of her chair to go get dressed. Enjolras stands to do the same. Grantaire, already dressed, takes over dish duty.

Five minutes later, Enjolras re-emerges, dressed as usual in a soft looking sweater, though this one is a muted pink, instead of his usual maroons and reds. If not for the fact that he hadn’t known Bea was going to paint his nails, Grantaire would have assumed he coordinated. He sits again at one of the chairs around the dining table, phone out, the picture of casual ease.

Grantaire peeks behind him, towards his daughter’s door, but Bea hasn’t emerged yet, which means this is probably the last chance he has to ask something he wants to.

“What else do you have planned for today?” Grantaire asks, drying his own hands on the hand towel hanging over the oven in a way he hopes passes as casual.

“Nothing specific,” Enjolras answers, and looks up from his phone. Something in Grantaire’s tone, or posture must give away that he has a reason for asking, because Enjolras follows up after with, “Why?”

Grantaire hesitates, leaning back against the counter. His hands are dry already, but he wipes them on his jeans, up and down, in a nervous motion.

“I, um,” he says, looking away, “I was wondering if…maybe, you could come with me today?”

He clears his throat, skin beginning to itch at the fact that Enjolras is looking at him. His own eyes drop to the linoleum floor of the kitchen, mapping the dated white squares as a distraction.

“Obviously, not to fucking, sit and watch whatever happens with Cam, but, um,” he says, waving a hand in front of him, “But as, like, support. You don’t have to, I just think it might—”

He pauses, steeling himself again.

He doesn’t have much practice in asking for help. It still feels intensely uncomfortable, a nagging feeling at the back of his mind that he shouldn’t ask, because he doesn’t need it; he would be fine on his own. He just wants it. And that doesn’t feel like enough justification.

But Enjolras said that he felt relieved when he'd asked for help before. It still doesn't sit right in his stomach, the idea of himself taking up time that could be used for something better, more important, and not being seen as annoying, or a bother. It rubs wrong against every impulse he has, nails screeching over a chalkboard.

He wants to try, though. He needs to. So he makes himself finish his thought.

“It might help to not be alone. If things don’t go well.”

A hand suddenly touches his shoulder, and Grantaire nearly jumps out of his skin, not having heard Enjolras stand from the table. He’s apparently right in front of him now, and staring back at him with a smile.

“I can do that,” Enjolras says. Simple. Like it’s just that fucking easy.

And man. Grantaire isn’t sure how long he’ll be able to survive this. His heart simply can’t take it. He looks away, coughing to clear his throat, and shoving his now dry hands into his pockets.

“I’ll get you free coffee for a week, as a thank you,” he says, putting on his best wry smile.

Enjolras wrinkles his nose.

“If you really want to thank me,” he says, “Then please, don’t.”

Grantaire snorts.

“Eponine will be so proud,” he says, “Her coffee is officially a punishment, huh?”

He pulls a hand from one pocket, placing it low in front of him, and then slowly raising it between them, imitating platforms rising.

“It’s like, community service, Eponine’s coffee, then waterboarding, and finally, like, capital punishment.”

“Give her some credit,” Enjolras says, smiling solemnly, “She definitely has waterboarding beat.”

Grantaire gives a surprised bark of a laugh, and has the absolute pleasure of watching the way Enjolras’ face splits into a grin, clearly proud of himself.

“I’ll be sure to tell her that she’s passed the ‘cruel and unusual’ benchmark,” Grantaire says, “Guantanamo level bean water. Truly the highest honor.”

“What’s waterboarding?” comes Bea’s voice from beside Enjolras. Grantaire looks down, surprised, and finds his daughter standing barely a foot away, fully dressed in her favorite overalls and tee shirt combo, and watching them talk with a kind of quiet fascination.

Oops.

Father of the year over here, introducing a second grader to the horror show that is the U.S. army’s favorite torture methods. Fucking sick.

“It’s…” Grantaire starts, unable to find the end of his sentence.

“A human rights violation,” Enjolras finishes for him. And…yeah, that is one way to explain it. Maybe not the exact way Grantaire would have explained it to a seven year old, but sure.

Bea, for her part, just mouths the words ‘human rights violation’, as if trying to memorize them.

Which, she probably is.

Grantaire is fully expecting to get a call from her teacher sometime soon, complaining that his daughter is calling everything she deems bad a human rights violation, from snacks with raisins, to not being allowed to take recess in the school library.

He glances at the clock on the stove, noting that it’s now getting dangerously close to the time they’re supposed to meet Camille. He uses her distracted pause to step away from the counter, and by extension out of Enjolras’ grasp on his shoulder, and starts to herd Bea towards the door.

“Get your shoes on, bud,” he says as he does, “We gotta get going soon.”

She only whines a little. Grantaire kind of wants to whine, too; he'd much prefer to just stay here and spend the morning like they have been. But that's not in the cards today. At the very least, he's not going in alone anymore. It's enough to keep his feet moving, to finish getting them all ready, and out the door.

~~

The drive to the One Page More is heavier than usual. Grantaire does his best to put on music that Bea enjoys, and keep the chatter light, but it’s not hard to notice how quiet she gets as they get inexorably closer to the bookstore.

When he looks at his daughter in the rear view mirror when they stop at a red light, he sees her hands are in her lap, fingers twisted together even as she looks out the window. Her legs kick, though thankfully not enough to be hitting the back of the passenger seat, and Grantaire knows enough about his own fidgeting habits to know that she’s feeling nervous. And he can’t really blame her.

It’s not every day a kid meets their fucking absentee parent. He doesn’t know exactly what Bea is thinking, but knows no matter how much she’s mentally prepared, it’s a lot.

“Use the nail polish,” Enjolras says quietly from beside him. Grantaire feels himself snap back to attention, looking at Enjolras in the passenger seat in confusion. Enjolras, for his part, just lets his eyes flick to Grantaire’s hands on the steering wheel, then pointedly back to his eyes.

Grantaire looks at his own hands, and realizes his index finger is, of course, beginning to dig at his thumb again. He’d finally had to take off the bandaid, when he’d showered this morning. The skin has healed by now, but his hands are apparently anxious to rectify that. He makes it stop, and does as Enjolras suggests, letting his thumb mess with the nail polish still remaining on his middle finger instead.

“Thanks,” he murmurs back, feeling his cheeks warm a little at the fact that Enjolras noticed at all. He really shouldn’t be surprised at this point. But it’s still hard to wrap his head around how much Enjolras pays attention to him and his habits.

“Anytime,” Enjolras says, reaching to give his shoulder a soft squeeze.

The light turns green. His hand drops, and Grantaire tries hard to focus on pulling them safely into the One Page More’s employee parking lot.

They’re right on time, but Grantaire knows Camille, and she’s never been on-time to something in her life.

She was fashionably late to her own grandfather’s funeral, and insisted after the fact that it’s what he would have wanted. So he knows that they really, really don’t need to rush.

As expected, when they walk in, Grantaire looks to the cafe, and finds it empty, apart from the weekend barista behind the counter, Montparnasse.

Since they’re on opposite shift schedules, Grantaire doesn’t know him well; they’ve only worked together on the rare occasion that Montparnasse had taken one of Eponine’s shifts during the week. But he knows enough to know that he absolutely follows Javert’s pattern, as far as who he hires.

Javert has never said so explicitly, but after working here for eight years, Grantaire would have to be pretty fucking blind not to notice that nearly everyone he hires has a fairly spotty history.

Sometimes, it feels like he seeks out people that are having a rough time, and offers structure.

Montparnasse is possibly the shadiest person he’s ever hired, which does, in a way, make sense, since he was recommended by Eponine. The first time they’d met, Grantaire had seen him expertly twirling a fucking butterfly knife behind the counter, and then using said butterfly knife to stab a pack of coffee stirrers, like that’s just a normal thing to do.

He does make some good fucking coffee, though.

Javert stands behind the register, in place of another cashier. He doesn’t often like to be the one out in front, but when someone calls out, he steps in. Grantaire gives him a little salute as they enter, which earns him a scowl.

“He’s having a good day,” Grantaire says, leaning down to pick up Bea, “That’s his happy scowl.”

“What’s the difference…?” Enjolras asks, looking Javert up and down.

“There’s no vein on his forehead,” Grantaire answers, “It bulges when he’s mad.”

And he might regret this later, but he can’t help himself, a peevish curiosity gripping him as he sees for the first time, his boss, and Enjolras in the same room. Grantaire hugs Bea close, and leans in, conspiratorial to Enjolras.

“We’re gonna go wait in the cafe,” he says, “It might be a little while before we’re done with…everything. So if you get bored, talk to him about police reform.”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow, looking like he’s not sure if Grantaire is fucking with him.

Both of them know it’s a subject he can, and will talk for hours about. And Grantaire has the added benefit of knowing Javert is an ex-cop, with some apparently very complicated feelings on the prison industrial complex, if the bits Grantaire has caught over the years are anything to go by.

“Or prison abolition,” Grantaire adds, eyes glinting with mischief, “And like. Film it. I want to see what happens.”

“Is this for my entertainment or for yours?” Enjolras asks, but he smiles regardless.

“Who says they’re mutually exclusive?” Grantaire asks, and shrugs, then straightens his back, grunting a little as he does. Bea really is starting to get too big for him to carry. Or maybe he really does just need to start working out again, “Just trying to give you options.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Enjolras replies, and reaches up to touch Grantaire’s elbow. He gives it a squeeze, and offers a final, soft, “Good luck,” before heading into the sea of shelves that make up the bookstore.

~~

A few minutes later, Grantaire and Bea are sitting, three chairs pulled up to his usual cafe table. Bea has a vanilla steamer, courtesy of Montparnasse, and Grantaire has a coffee, though he’s not sure he should touch it. Anxious energy is already mounting under his skin; drinking coffee might do more harm than good.

A shame, really.

Bea has hardly touched her little twelve ounce cup, either. He catches her picking at the paper heat guard, in the same way he’d done when Cosette came to give her advice, peeling off little pieces and making a pile in front of herself.

He reaches out, taking her right hand in his left, and giving it a squeeze. She looks up, and he can see that she’s started chewing on her lip.

“If you’re uncomfortable,” he says, softly, “We can leave.”

“‘M okay,” she says, and smiles. It’s weak, but it’s real.

“Okay,” Grantaire says, “But if you start to feel uncomfortable, just say the word, and you can be done. It’s all up to you.”

Bea knows that she doesn’t have to stay in situations she’s uncomfortable with. He’s tried to instill a respect for boundaries in her since she was young; she knows that her discomfort isn’t something she should ignore, and normally she does just say what she needs and wants. He just needs to make sure.

“I know,” she says, squeezing his hand a little harder.

“Good,” he says.

She doesn’t let go of his hand. So Grantaire doesn’t let go of hers either.

It’s 1:39 when Camille finally steps into the One Page More, looking just as put together as she did on Monday, and this time, carrying a small package wrapped in bright pink wrapping paper, and a bag over her shoulder.

She looks around, and her eyes brighten as they settle on the cafe, locking with Grantaire’s instantly. Grantaire for his part, pushes down a frown, trying his best to keep his body language and expression neutral.

He’s done decently keeping his own feelings out of this, he thinks. No need to trip at the fucking finish line.

He has his work cut out for him. Cam walks up, and immediately has a hand on his arm. And yep. This sucks. After a morning of casual, welcome touch, this feels a bit like being branded.

“Glad you made it,” she says, “I got worried when I didn’t hear from you again.”

Grantaire forces up a smile. He hadn’t been able to get the motivation to text her, in the end. She’d texted him once since their call, her name popping up without the usual emojis that his contacts have as a rule. He thinks whatever he picked would be entirely too mean, or uncomfortably sentimental, so he’d chosen not to give her any at all.

“Sorry,” he says, “Slipped my mind.”

He shifts his arm under her touch, not able to really move it, but needing movement as a distraction. It doesn’t really help. He turns his attention back to Bea instead. She’s looking at him, big brown eyes going from the hand on his arm, to his face, a silent kind of concern pressing at the corners of her mouth.

“Bea,” he says, doing his best to look more comfortable than he feels, “This is Camille. Your mom.”

It’s stating the obvious, but he really doesn’t know what else to say. There’s nothing comfortable about this, besides the knowledge that once it’s done, he won’t have to worry about it in the same way again.

Camille, for her part, finally turns her full attention to Bea. Her hand drops from Grantaire’s arm, and she squats beside Bea’s chair, immediately reaching out and taking her free hand in both of hers, giving it a squeeze.

“Hi, Beatrice,” she says, smiling as sweetly as ever, “It’s good to finally meet you.”

Bea looks down at the hands on hers, and then back up at Camille.

“Nice to meet you,” she says, then looks at their hands again. She tries to pull the hand free, but Camille doesn’t drop it. So she looks back up, and adds, calm but serious, “Let go please. I don’t like that.”

Camille blinks, surprised, but does as she’s asked, dropping her hands. Grantaire looks at his daughter, mostly only able to see curly hair from his angle, torn between surprise, pride, and relief that she didn’t even hesitate to state her discomfort.

Bea looks back up at him as Camille stands, moving to take the free chair beside them, and gives him that same look of concern from before, asking a silent question.

‘Why didn’t you say that?’

And he’s glad he can’t really give an answer, because he doesn’t have a good one.

The truth is, at the point in his life that he’d been with Cam, his own boundaries had been so non-existent, he’s not sure how to start enforcing them now. It’s easier when it’s something to do with Bea, it gives him a reason to have a spine.

Standing up for his own needs requires him to think his comfort is worth the effort.

Even if he doesn’t often feel that way, Bea clearly does. And he knows Enjolras, and Eponine do.

He really needs to get with the program.

If nothing else, he needs to be a good example, and that means practicing what he preaches. So he smiles, apologetically, and gives Bea’s hand in his a gentle squeeze, which she returns.

Cam had come into this interaction with as much calm confidence as she ever does, but now that they’re all sitting here, and she’s already been ‘snubbed’ once, she looks slightly nervous.

Nervous might not be the right word, he supposes. Looking at her now, he realizes the expression she has is similar to the one Enjolras had had, the first time talking with Bea. The ‘how in the world do I talk to children’ face, is apparently universal. Grantaire half expects her to offer Bea a beer, just for something to say.

Selfishly, he doesn’t want to help her. He would absolutely love to watch her crash and burn a little, but given if she does, Bea might get burned in the process, he really can’t afford to succumb to that impulse.

“What’s that?” he asks her, gesturing to the pink wrapped box still in her hands.

She startles a little, seemingly having been distracted by looking at Bea, which Grantaire can’t blame her for. It’s gotta be weird, seeing a kid you helped bring into the world suddenly much, much older than you last saw them. Hell, he’s been here for every day of Bea growing up, and the amount that she changes just one year to the next still shocks him sometimes.

“This,” Camille says, coming back to herself, and putting up her usual dazzling smile, looking to Bea again, “Is for you.”

She puts the box on the cafe table, and slides it across like a fucking bartender slides a shot down the bar. Expertly. Bea, surprised, catches it and picks it up. She gives it a soft shake, trying to hear what’s inside.

“Can I open it?” she asks, with a degree of restraint Grantaire isn’t used to from her.

Camille beams.

“Sure thing, kid,” she says.

With permission given, Bea picks open the wrapping paper, and opens the box. Inside, under a small layer of tissue paper, is a doll. Not a Barbie, but something like it, posable, and pretty, and in the poofiest dress Grantaire has ever seen.

It’s going to be destroyed within a week, he knows that much. Dolls have never been Bea’s thing; when she gets them, she treats them like any other one of her toys, playing make-believe, sure, but not…gentle make believe. Bea doesn’t do tea parties, she does the fucking Boston Tea Party.

This doll is going to be the head of a group of dinosaur researchers, and probably get trampled by a t-rex, if he had to guess. Sooner than later, she’ll have her hair cut off by safety scissors, and probably have an arm missing.

Thankfully, Bea knows how to be polite when she needs to be. And even though dolls like this aren’t her go-to, she looks at it, puts it gingerly back into the box, and says, “Thank you.”

Cam smiles, but seems a little disappointed, like she was expecting a bigger fanfare.

For a few minutes, things are tense, but okay. Cam orders a coffee, and sits back down after to sip it while they talk, lipstick staining the to-go cup’s lid.

She asks Bea the usual questions people ask kids, almost like a checklist. What grade is she in, (2nd), what’s her favorite color (yellow, and blue. She’s never been good at decisions), if she likes any boys (she doesn’t, and Bea seems incredibly uncomfortable with that question, despite her insistence last night that she doesn’t believe in cooties.)

While they make small talk, Grantaire tries to act as mostly a silent observer. He keeps a hold on Bea’s hand, using it as kind of a barometer for her comfort based on grip strength, but mostly just watches the two of them interact.

It’s incredibly surreal. Like Monday, when Cam had come in the first time, there’s a sense of something off, a ‘worlds colliding’ feeling. It’s not as bad this time, nor as jarring, and Grantaire finds himself grateful that he’d had the mental space to buy time for himself to calm down before they had this meeting. He doesn’t think he could have handled this, fresh off that first meeting.

It’s weird, too, to see subtle mannerisms that Bea has reflected in Camille. There’s a debate, he knows, about nature vs nurture shaping how people are, and everything Grantaire has seen has always leaned to a mix of the two being the truth.

That much is incredibly obvious now; she and Cam have the same little nose wrinkle, when they disagree with something said. The same tendency to mess with the hair near their face when they’re distracted. Little things. But things that Bea doesn’t have any kind of a model for to have picked up habits from ‘nurture’.

It’s so fucking weird. He makes a mental note to talk to Joly about it, curious about how that shit even works.

Eventually, Camille seems to exhaust her supply of questions, which leaves Bea the space to ask some of her own. And once that door is opened, she doesn’t waste any time cutting to the point.

“Why did you leave?” she asks. To anyone who didn’t know her, the tone she uses would sound incredibly blunt, and sure. But Grantaire knows his daughter well enough to feel the quiet uncertainty behind the words. The hand in his tightens, as if on cue. He holds it firm, shifting only so his thumb can sweep along small knuckles, reassuring, and constant.

He feels himself going a little tense at the question, but tries his best to ignore it, looking at Camille, and doing his best to give a subtle, but clear ‘don’t fuck this up’ expression, urgent, and serious.

For her part, Camille looks completely taken aback by the question. She meets Grantaire’s expression with one of barely disguised panic, a ‘you didn’t talk to her about this?’ look. He shrugs, subtly, because he had tried. But his explanation just hadn’t been enough for her. Even if it had been, he’s almost certain she would have asked anyway, to make sure she got an answer directly from the source.

Despite clearly being caught off-guard, Camille’s shoulders stay set, strong, and she leans forward on the cafe table, clasping her hands in front of her, looking calm as ever after only a beat of nerves.

It’s something Grantaire had always envied about her. That composure. Where he basically becomes a fucking perpetual motion machine when he’s nervous and not drunk, she’s utterly still. Infuriating as it is, he’s jealous.

“Quite the hard-hitting interviewer, aren’t you,” Camille says, a snarky smile pulled up to her lips with the ease of sliding on a mask. Bea doesn’t laugh, just stares, and waits.

Cam stares back, but Bea doesn’t break, so Camille picks up her coffee, and takes a long drink, seeming to consider her words carefully. When she sets the cup down again, she looks resolved, and more uncomfortable than she had a few seconds ago.

“To be totally honest, I wasn’t ready to be a mom,” she says, simply. She smiles, a sad little smile that looks a little rehearsed, but is probably passable for a kid.

“You were a beautiful baby,” she adds, and smirks, “With very powerful lungs—”

Grantaire shakes his head, eyes wide, the most minute movement he can do to get Camille’s attention, cutting her off before she can finish that thought. It’s straying dangerously close to blaming Bea for her leaving, and he’s not about to let that fly.

Thankfully, Camille catches his look, and though her brows twitch, and she frowns slightly, she does stop, and pivot.

“Healthy lungs for a healthy girl,” she says, a quick save. Grantaire lets out a small breath, grateful for small mercies.

“I know that twenty sounds old to you right now, but believe me, in the grand scheme of things, it’s fairly young,” she continues. Bea makes a face, nose crinkling in that way Grantaire had noticed earlier, clearly not believing, or not really understanding the scope of how age works. But she doesn’t interrupt as Camille continues, “I was overwhelmed. And couldn’t…”

Grantaire gives her another look, knowing she’s about to bring up drugs and alcohol. And thankfully Camille stops herself, again, and instead says, “...relax.”

“So you ran away,” Bea says, softly. It’s not a question, it’s a statement.

Camille’s smile falters a little.

“I…” she says, seeming stuck on the phrasing. After a moment, though, she relents, and admits, “Yes. I did.”

Bea nods, looking thoughtful. Grantaire gives her hand a little squeeze, which she returns, but doesn’t look at him, looking focused on her little twelve ounce drink, instead, deep in thought.

Camille looks from her, to Grantaire, and then back, resolved. She smooths her face into something placid, warm, and inviting, and leans forward a little more, recapturing Bea’s attention.

“I know I haven’t been around, but I’ve never stopped thinking of you, Beatrice,” she says, once she’s satisfied Bea is listening. Her confidence is nearly palpable, assurance hanging on the very curve of her smile, “I haven’t been able to show you before now, but I do love you.”

Bea looks at Camille, contemplative. She's quiet for a beat, and then speaks.

“I don’t believe you.”

Her hand is slack, relaxed in Grantaire’s hand, and her voice is casual when she says it, as if she just said no to more snacks, not to her birth mom's affection.

Grantaire looks down at his daughter with some pretty terribly masked surprise. Camille's surprise is a lot more evident than his own, though, her face falling from practiced confidence and affection to immediate, dumbfounded shock.

“What?” she asks, the ghost of a laugh breaking off in her throat, as if she thinks she misheard her.

“I don’t believe you," Bea repeats, simply. She doesn't even sound sad, just sure. When Camille still just looks shocked, Bea's expression goes more scolding, a blunt kind of disappointment that Grantaire feels incredibly lucky to not be on the receiving end of, as Bea continues, “You haven’t even said you’re sorry.”

And that simple sentence is enough to squeeze the breath from Grantaire's lungs.

…She hasn't?

He looks down at his daughter, and her expression that's so certain, and tries to remember. After a beat, his eyes widen, slightly.

She hasn't.

Not even just today. Camille has never once apologized. Not this time, and not when she'd come to the One Page More the first time. Not fucking once.

And Grantaire hadn't noticed. Hadn't even thought to ask for an apology. His fucking seven year old had, but he hadn't.

Jesus christ, maybe he really does need therapy.

…Okay, no, he definitely does. There's no maybe about it, not after last night, and not after getting his emotional intelligence soundly beaten into the ground by a person who still needs a fucking booster seat.

“Of course I have,” Camille says, dismissive even through the shock she's still trying to recover from, “What are you talking about?”

“No. She’s right,” Grantaire says, as firm as he can through the aftershocks of his own emotional catharsis, looking at Camille like he's only just now truly seeing her, “You haven’t.”

Fuck if he's gonna let her try to worm her way out of it. Bea's hand in his gives a squeeze, a wordless comfort, or relief that he backed her up, he isn’t sure.

“I—” Camille says, looking between the two of them and seeming a bit like she feels cornered. Grantaire can’t even find it in himself to feel bad about it. She hesitates, and then continues, “I am sorry. For leaving.”

It seems like she’s struggling to get the words out, but to Grantaire’s surprise, she doesn’t sound insincere. It could be that she’s just a better liar than the people he’s been hanging out with, but he doesn’t think so.

When she’s uncomfortable, truly uncomfortable, her shoulders shrink in, and she tends to start looking for distractions. Camille’s first instinct in stressful situations is usually more close to ‘fight’ than ‘flight’, with the only exception being when she’s actually remorseful.

It’s not something Grantaire has seen often. Maybe two times total, in the couple of years that they’d been together.

Now, it’s three.

“Do you think you can forgive me?” Camille asks. Bea stares back at her, contemplative and quiet.

“Yeah,” she says, but before Cam can smile at that answer, she adds another word, “Someday.”

Both Grantaire, and apparently Camille are a little stunned into silence at that. Grantaire is surprised only because he’d been under the impression Bea thought all apologies required forgiveness. She’d said as much only a couple of months ago. Apparently, since then her mind has changed.

Despite the awkward silence, his daughter doesn’t waver, still looking at her mom with a steady kind of resolve.

“It’s not a real apology if I asked for it,” she says, and smiles, sweet, and bright, “You can try again another time.”

It’s an olive branch, even if it might not feel like one to Camille. And as much as Grantaire doesn’t want to have to see her again, he hopes, for Bea’s sake, that she takes it as one.

For now, she just seems to be at a loss for words, staring at the kid in front of her like she just spoke in tongues. There’s a few moments of tense silence, that only Bea seems to not notice, just smiling, looking satisfied. After a beat, she speaks again.

“I think I’m done,” Bea says, looking instead up at him, “Can we go soon?”

Camille’s face across the table twitches into a subtle frown, which Grantaire only barely catches.

He really shouldn’t get any joy from that. If he were a better person, he wouldn’t. He tries very, very hard not to. With mixed success.

“Yeah. We can,” he says, turning back to Bea. He releases her hand from his, finally, and instead uses it to pull her curly head closer, kissing the top, and then letting her go again, “Go find Enj, okay? I’ll meet you at the front in a minute.”

There’s a flicker of confusion on Cam’s face at the name, clearly not recognizing it. She hadn’t seen them come in, since she was late. Grantaire ignores it for now. Bea is already hopping off of her chair with a nod.

“Can I get a book?” she asks, and then adds, with the biggest puppy dog eyes Grantaire has ever seen, “I’ve been really good.”

He snorts.

“Sure thing, bud,” he says, though he hadn’t been planning on saying no, regardless. Bea beams, starting to turn to go now that she’s gotten approval. She stops herself a moment later, and turns back to Camille, stepping a little closer.

At the movement, Cam perks up a little, opening her arms as though expecting to get a hug.

Bea looks at her, and blinks. Instead of acquiescing to a hug, she holds out a hand, waiting for a shake. Camille stares at it, and lets her arms fall, thankfully not pushing her luck. She does take Bea’s hand a second later, giving it a weak shake, which Bea returns.

“It was nice to meet you, Camille,” she says, simply, then smiles, and then drops to run off and find Enjolras.

Cam watches her go with a look of pure disbelief.

“Christ,” she says, after a moment, sounding a little bruised, “Didn’t even call me mom. She’s a blunt one.”

“She’s honest,” Grantaire corrects, grabbing Bea’s vanilla steamer and taking a drink, since she hardly touched it. It’s sweet, much too sweet, but it has no caffeine, so it’s a better option than his coffee right now. He puts the cup back down, and looks back at Camille, pointedly, “Which is better than either of us can say, a lot of the time.”

Cam hums, a noncommittal noise, still watching Bea go.

Bea gets as far as the front counter, chattering to Javert, probably asking where she can find Enjolras, when Enjolras steps out from behind shelves, and comes to her himself.

Bea immediately grins up at him, saying something that from a distance looks like ‘dad says I can get a book’, to which Enjolras just smiles, and holds out a hand, saying something Grantaire can’t catch with lip reading. She takes his hand without hesitation, and the two of them disappear again into shelves, still chatting, this time heading towards the children’s section, if Grantaire had to hazard a guess.

For the life of him, Grantaire couldn’t stop the smile that works its way onto his face, watching the two of them go, soft, and definitely sappier than it should be. He can’t help it. He’s not sure Enjolras will ever understand how much it means that he puts in the effort to treat his kid as well as he does.

“He was in here last time I came in,” Camille says slowly, drawing Grantaire’s attention back. He turns to her, and finds that she’s also looking at the spot where they disappeared, an odd, stiff element to her expression. Her eyes finally flick back to his, face blank, “Good friend?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire says. His voice definitely comes out more like a sigh than it should. Christ. He clears his throat with a cough, “His name’s Enjolras. He came by to help today.”

“Enjolras?” Camille says, like she thinks she should know that name. A moment later, her expression shifts into realization.

“Wait,” she says, “Isn’t Enjolras the name of the dude from your high school that made you think you were gay?”

Grantaire feels his jaw go a little slack with surprise, feeling his cheeks flush, but unable to do all that much about it. He hadn’t remembered bringing him up in trying to come out to Camille back then. But apparently he had. Probably as some kind of proof, when just saying ‘I like multiple genders’ hadn’t gone down as smoothly as he’d hoped.

“I—” he says, caught between embarrassment, and indignation, “Okay first of all, he didn’t make me think I was gay, I am bisexual.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re ‘bisexual’, whatever,” she says, flippant, “That’s him though?”

Grantaire swallows, uncomfortable with being cornered like this. His silence seems to be enough of an answer.

“Is that why you don’t want to give things another try?” she asks, sounding bitter, “If you were dating someone else you should have just said that.”

“I’m not—” he says, stumbling over his words, “We’re not—Why would you jump to that?”

“Well for one thing,” she says, resting her chin on the heel of her hand, and pointing to his face with the other, “You practically had little hearts in your eyes just now. It was disgusting.”

Fucking christ. If even Cam is picking up on it, that’s not a good sign. The slight flush crawling up his throat isn’t helping anything. He does his best to ignore it, and presses on.

“We’re not dating,” he says, as firmly as he can, “There are many reasons you and I are not going to date again, but that’s not one of them.”

“Many reasons, huh?” she asks, with a scoff, “Like fucking what?”

Grantaire stares back at her, in disbelief. At least ten reasons come to mind immediately, but there’s one, big, glaring one that’s most important. His eyes fall again to the lump of the cigarette box in Camille’s jacket pocket.

“For one, I’m sober,” he says, flatly.

In the haze of exhaustion and anger and hurt that had been their last meeting, he hadn’t gotten a chance to really press that issue. Camille, across from him, has the gall to look skeptical. That look alone makes his eyebrows twitch down, and his frown only gets deeper as she speaks.

“Like, for real sober?” she asks, raising an eyebrow, and then her free hand, to make air quotes, “Or, ‘sober’.”

If nothing else, this conversation seems to be distracting her from Enjolras, which is nice. But that’s just about the only thing that’s nice about it. A defensive kind of hurt has taken up residence in his stomach, the anger from Monday returning with the ease of bringing a kettle to boil.

“For real sober,” he says, and snaps a little, despite his best efforts, “And if you could stop assuming I’m not, that would be fucking awesome. It actually feels like shit.”

She seems a little caught off guard by his tone, her little, bitter smile faltering for a second. Grantaire takes this moment, this glimmer of surprised vulnerability, to ask something he's wanted a real answer for for days.

“Be honest with me, for a second,” he says, “Why are you trying so hard to, like, get us back together, or whatever this is?"

He lifts a hand, gesturing it between the two of them, and leaning back in his chair.

"You were fine not being in my life for seven years, what’s…I dunno, forty more?”

Given the damage he's done to his liver and lungs, Grantaire thinks that that timeline is incredibly generous. But given in high school he'd assumed he'd kick the bucket before hitting the legal drinking age, he'll be happy with however many years he gets. He's already surpassed expectations.

Camille, for her part, actually pauses. She looks at him, and then looks away, chewing her lip, as of deciding whether or not to be snide.

“...We’re almost thirty, R," she says, eventually, and her voice has gone softer, more earnest now. It's enough to make some of the tension in Grantaire's shoulders release, if only from surprise.

Camille sniffs, and folds her hands in front of her on the table.

“All my friends are…growing up," she says, sounding weirdly bitter, and distant, "They're, like, getting married and settling down, and before, I was ahead of all of them. I had a kid for fuck's sake, but now…I just keep being a goddamn bridesmaid.”

Her eyes flick over his face, considering, “I dunno, I thought…we had something special," she shrugs, "I think we could've been happy together.”

And that's…a lot to unpack.

Not great to know his life has been a shitstorm because his ex-girlfriend had apparently had a quarter life crisis, after a like, eighth life crisis that had landed him with a human child.

He can't wait to see what'll happen at the midlife crisis. It's sure to be explosive.

Another thought plucks at his mind, though, attention pulled by the word 'bridesmaid', because suddenly, he's struck with an image, a memory, clear as day, of that word etched into glass in medieval font, bursting with strobing colors.

“Wait,” Grantaire says, “You said you saw me at The Castle.”

He looks at Camille, brows brought together. She wouldn’t, would she?

“Did you—” he says, slowly, “Did you have a friend give me a shot?”

Camille blinks.

“Well, yeah,” she says, like Grantaire is the dumb one for not knowing, “Obviously.”

It’s Grantaire’s turn to stare, slack jawed at the casual way she just admitted to giving a fucking recovering alcoholic a shot. He really shouldn’t be surprised, and yet, somehow, he is.

“I thought at the very least you’d come over to say thanks for the drink,” Camille says, waving a hand vaguely in the air beside her, “But clearly that didn't work. Rude, by the way.”

“I’m sober,” Grantaire says, finding his voice, his hands gesturing pointedly in front of him. He’s suddenly very, very glad that he had been so fucking distracted in the club that night. If he’d taken a real, good look at that table full of bridesmaids, and found Cam there, that might have actually pushed him over the fucking edge.

“Well I didn’t know that at the time,” Camille says, attempting nonchalance, but coming off slightly defensive. She crosses her legs under the table, leaning back in her seat, “Who goes to a nightclub when they’re ‘sober’?”

Apparently it’s a rhetorical question, because when Grantaire tries to speak and explain again why he was there, she talks over him, continuing, “Addicts do. Because addicts fucking lie. You can’t really blame me for assuming you were there to cut loose.”

She’s right, technically speaking.

Addicts, especially ones trying to get, or stay sober and struggling, do lie. A lot. But it doesn’t excuse encouraging the addictive behavior, when last time Camille had seen him, he had been actively trying to remain sober. She knows better than literally anyone else how fucking hard he’d been trying. Christ, she’d been so annoyed that he wanted to keep trying that she’d fucking left him.

“If you had known, would it have stopped you from giving it to me?” he asks, more accusatory than he probably should be. Cam’s eyes flash.

“Obviously!” she says, but clearly catches the look of skepticism she gets in response, because her face sours, “I’m not that much of an asshole.”

He's not sure if he believes that. But he does his best to school his expression back to something more neutral regardless.

“Believe it or not," she says, voice going more reserved again, "I’m not actually out to get you, Grantaire."

She crosses her arms, suddenly looking much smaller.

"I know…I didn’t handle things right, back then,” She swallows, looking distinctly uncomfortable with the vulnerability she’s showing. She looks down, “I was barely twenty, and it was…it was just hard.”

And it’s not another apology, but Grantaire does understand.

He knows how stressful it had been. He knows it was even more stressful for Cam than for him; her body went through the actual pregnancy, and pregnancy can fuck you up, mentally, hormonally, and physically. It's truly a horrifying process, and Grantaire isn't sure why people choose to go through it willingly, multiple times. Quiverfull religious families are truly batshit.

He shifts in his own seat, feeling some of the tension in his own frame release a little at the simple fact that Camille is finally, finally acting like a fucking human.

“I know,” he says, “It was.”

A couple of silent seconds tick by, punctuated by Montparnasse’s quiet working in the cafe. Grantaire takes another drink of the steamer.

“Do you think we could ever be friends, R?” Camille asks, quietly.

Grantaire looks at her from over the rim of the cup, considering. He’s surprised at how easily the answer comes.

“Honestly?” he says, putting the cup back on the table, “No.”

Camille’s face falls a fraction, barely visible through her practiced stoicism, a micro-expression of surprise peeking through in the twitch of her eyebrows.

“I’ll talk with you, for Bea’s sake,” he continues, “But. For my sake? We can’t.”

Maybe Camille hadn’t caused the worst of his spiral this week, but he knows that she definitely made things worse. Her existence in Grantaire’s life is always going to be painful.

He could act like it isn’t. He could lie, and say he’s fine, and try to humor her, but at a certain point he has to look at that impulse to roll over and see it for what it is: a path of least resistance, that he knows almost definitely ends in self-destruction.

He can’t keep doing that to himself.

Grantaire swirls the cup, doing his best to smile, not bitter, just sure. Sure, for once, that he’s doing the right thing.

“You’re not good for me,” he says, and then shrugs, “I’m not even good for me. But…I’m working on that.”

Cam stares, lips pressed together in a tight line, clearly not happy with the answer she’s gotten. But, blessedly, after a moment, she nods. It’s terse, but it’s a resolution, finally.

“I can still see Bea?” she clarifies, probably just to be safe.

“If she wants to, yes,” Grantaire says, and nods, easing in his seat, “Sometimes.”

“Okay,” Camille says. She looks at the gift box, opened, but abandoned in favor of the charms of the bookstore, and sighs, “Thank you.”

She pauses for a beat, and then sighs, pushing her ponytail behind her shoulder in a practiced motion, and moving to stand.

“Well. I’m going to head out, if that’s all,” she says, “Got a bar to tend.”

Her shift doesn’t start until a couple of hours from now, and both of them know it, but Grantaire is feeling kind enough not to mention that. He’s not about to stop her from ending this conversation, anyway.

“That’s all,” he confirms, and moves to stand himself, the chair making a loud scrape across tile as he pushes it out.

Cam shoulders her bag, looking at him, and for once doesn’t try to put her hands on him.

“Bye, Cam,” he says, leaning back against the table, hoping the extra distance will help convince her that it’s the right thing, not touching him.

She looks him up and down one more time, and puts on a small smile. It doesn’t really meet her eyes, but she nods, regardless.

“See you, Grantaire.”

A moment later, she’s stepped across the front of the store. The door jingles as it opens, and Camille waves behind her, already pulling it back shut. Grantaire waves back, for the first time maybe ever, feeling nothing but relief at the sight of a door closing.

As soon as it is, and Cam is gone, he pushes off the table with a smile, taking a moment to toss the half-full cups in the garbage and to grab Bea’s gift, and heads into the store to find Enjolras and his daughter.

It doesn’t take long. He’s halfway past the history/religion/politics section just outside the cafe when he nearly crashes straight into a soft pink sweater. He stumbles back a step, and his eyes meet blue, just like the first time, two months ago

Enjolras looks as surprised by the near-miss as he is, but he manages to stay standing straight, just halting, Bea halting with him, the both of them still hand in hand. He’s got a couple of books under one arm, and Bea has one in her free hand as well.

“Hi,” Grantaire says, putting his hands in his pockets, now that he’s recovered from his initial shock, and smiles, deciding to joke, “Long time no see.”

Enjolras returns his smile, relief immediately rising to his expression as natural and beautiful as the dawn.

“Yeah,” he says, “hi.”

Whoa. Deja vu.

Grantaire clears his throat, knowing he’s going to get completely distracted just by Enjolras’ expression if he’s not careful.

“Get anything good?” he asks. Bea is busy admiring the cover of hers, so it’s Enjolras who answers first.

“Javert pointed me to some books,” he says, lifting the books under his arm, serious looking thin volumes stacked neatly, Enjolras smirks, “He has a surprising amount of literature about police reform.”

Grantaire grins, unsurprised, but completely delighted that Enjolras actually fucking asked him. Curiosity had gotten the better of him, as Grantaire had known it probably would. Grantaire had half expected a straight up debate to break out at the register.

He’s a little sad it didn’t, honestly. But for the sake of Grantaire continuing to have a job, or at the very least for the sake of Enjolras being able to continue coming in for lunch, it’s probably for the best.

“Enjolras said I should get this one,” Bea says, finally pulled from her study of the cover by the end of Enjolras’ sentence. She holds up book one of the Percy Jackson series, The Lightning Thief.

“I liked that series when I was a kid,” Grantaire says, surprised, taking the book from her hand, and rifling through the pages, “Haven’t thought about it in years.”

Annabeth, one of the main characters, a strong-willed blonde and child of Athena, had probably been his first fictional crush. But saying that now doesn’t seem like the smartest idea.

Dear god. He really does have a type.

“I liked it too,” Enjolras says, and smiles. And it makes sense; Grantaire knows Enjolras well enough to know that he’s a sucker for a good found family and fight the power story, but there’s an odd sense of closeness that comes from knowing that the both of them were probably, like, twelve, enraptured by the same book series.

It’s enough to drag a dopey smile into his face, picturing Enjolras, scrawny and young, nose buried in a book, reading as fast as possible so he could start the next volume.

Grantaire wonders if they would have been friends, if they’d met back then. Grantaire had been a weird fucking kid. Just as weird as Bea, if not more so, obsessed with Greek mythology and cool bugs rather than space and dinos.

He would have probably been insufferable, if they had. If Grantaire’s talking is sometimes a bit much now, his talking as a kid Bea’s age was a never ending faucet. A stream of consciousness babble, bouncing from one topic to the next with the speed and enthusiasm of someone who doesn’t even know the word ‘annoying’ yet.

He’d learned it very, very quickly.

Enjolras reaches forward, plucking the book back from Grantaire’s hand, pulling him from his thoughts, and then hands it, and his own books to Bea, along with a few bills from his wallet.

“Do you mind paying for these?” he asks her. In response, Bea just grins, grabbing the money like she’s just stolen it, and scooting off towards the register before Grantaire can so much as protest about Enjolras being the one to buy her book, too.

“Bastard,” he says, once she’s gone, glaring half-heartedly at Enjolras, “Sneaky bastard.”

In response, Enjolras just shrugs, clearly proud of himself, but this time rubbing it in is apparently not his focus.

“How did it go?” he asks, instead. And immediately, Grantaire understands why he’d had Bea step away, quiet gratitude hitting him at Enjolras’ quick thinking.

“Good,” he says, simply, glancing at Bea. She’s shoving bills into Javert’s waiting hands, happy as ever, like meeting Camille hadn’t even happened. She’s fine. And he’s fine. Really fine. Honestly, he feels lighter than he has in a long time. Grantaire smiles, and shrugs, “Better than I expected.”

“That’s not exactly a hard bar to clear,” Enjolras replies, but his face is still mostly relieved, just a touch of snark working its way into his smile.

“Damn, harsh,” Grantaire says, grinning sheepishly all the same, “But, fair.”

And that’s kind of the heart of the issue, isn’t it.

Grantaire likes to think he’d graduated from a pessimist to a realist, at some point in his recovery. At least that’s what he tells himself. But the truth is, when it comes to himself in particular, his outlook still skews heavily to the negative side of things. To a degree that’s almost definitely not healthy, nor helpful.

“I think, um,” he says, eyes falling to a piece of lint on Enjolras’ sweater, “I think I want to try and actually get a therapist.”

He shoves his hands back into his pockets, fingers playing with a loose receipt he finds in one of them.

If the last week has been proof of anything, it’s that while he’s been able to make progress on his own in recovery, it’s not always enough. He has metaphorical tools he can use to try and keep himself together. But they’re a bit…prone to failure, under new stresses, especially.

Probably partially because they’re completely jimmy rigged, and based only on his own imperfect research and sheer force of will.

Grantaire is very good at making quick, bandaid repairs to his own mental health. But he knows it’s not enough, not really. Quick repairs aren’t meant to last. They’re meant to help him cope.

The thought of going to a therapist still actively makes him want to curl up into a little fucking hermit crab shell and never come out again, sure. But he doesn’t want to just cope forever. And that means that he needs to try and get actual, professional help.

“Do you think anyone in the ABC would be able to help me figure out where the fuck to start?” he asks, finishing his own thought, and finally managing to look up from Enjolras’ shoulder, and instead into his face.

The expression he finds is an odd mix of surprise, and carefully held relief. He probably doesn’t want to scare Grantaire away from going by being too into the idea, which is absolutely fair.

“Considering two of them are in the medical field,” Enjolras says, smiling softly, “I’d say so. I’m sure either Joly or ‘Ferre would be happy to help. All you have to do is ask.”

Grantaire isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to wrap his head around how easy Enjolras makes some things sound. But rather than pushing back, this time he smiles, sheepish, and pulls a hand out of his pocket to rub at the back of his neck, looking away again.

“Okay,” he says, “I will.”

He has an urge. To touch, to be touched, craving the comfort that comes with it, but isn’t sure where the line is. Grantaire looks at the fabric of Enjolras’ sweater, and remembers what he’s supposed to do when he’s wondering these things.

“I have a stupid question,” he says. The speed at which Enjolras’ face shifts from surprise to a kind of admonishing expression is impressive. Grantaire ignores it, opting to barrel ahead before he can lose his nerve.

“Can I—” he starts, falters, and tries again, “Can I hug you right now?”

For a moment, Enjolras just stares. Grantaire bites back the urge to backpedal, hands at his sides now, stiff, and is rewarded for his patience with relief, as Enjolras smiles, soft and warm. He steps forward, not even bothering to give an answer before wrapping his arms around Grantaire, and holding on tight.

“You don’t have to ask for that,” he says, hands splayed near his shoulder blades, just as grounding as they had been the first time.

Grantaire’s chin is fitted to Enjolras’ shoulder, resting like it’s meant to be there. It takes him a moment to remember that he can and should hug back, arms coming up to squeeze around Enjolras’ back, fingers brushing at soft pink fabric.

“So I did find a stupid question,” he says, words murmured partially into fabric. Enjolras laughs, the sound a rumble that passes from his chest, to Grantaire’s.

“I guess you did,” he says, and Grantaire can hear the smile in his voice.

Grantaire could, and would, happily stay here all day. Enjolras is a surprisingly good hugger. Or, maybe it’s not that surprising. He’s capable of being good at anything he puts his mind to. Grantaire is just more able to appreciate it when he’s not awkwardly crying into his shoulder like last time.

He’s not entirely sure what the appropriate amount of time is, to hug your friend like this. Let alone in public. But he knows it can’t be long. He only lets himself have a few seconds, knowing any more will almost definitely be weird.

He gives a final squeeze, wishing he were as strong as Bahorel so he could, like, pick Enjolras up and crack his back just as a less awkward ending than stepping away. Unfortunately, he is decidedly not a beefcake, emphasis on the beef, like Bahorel is. So he just pulls away, distracting himself from the feeling of hands sliding off his back by turning to face Bea, who has started walking back over, carrying a paper bag with the One Page More’s logo.

“Good to go?” he asks her, and she nods, fishing her book out of the bag, and then passing it off to Enjolras. He takes the bag without complaint, seeming incredibly interested in inspecting the contents of it, despite knowing what he’d had under his arm, head bent to look inside.

He turns back to Enjolras, letting his hand rest casually on his arm. It’s getting easier, touching him casually.

“Let’s get you home,” he says, “I’ve gotta catch up on reading, and I’m sure you have plenty of work to catch up on.”

Enjolras looks up, looking slightly pink, but otherwise fine. His eyes slide from Grantaire’s, off to the side, the prelude to a lie, and he says, “Not much.”

It’s harder to resist the guilt that spikes at the lie, but Grantaire does his best to practice.

Enjolras wouldn’t be here if he didn’t want to be. And Grantaire is allowed to be grateful for that without feeling guilty.

“Sure dude,” he says, and smiles. He drops his hand from Enjolras’ arm, palm tingling as he does, and instead reaches for Bea’s hand, turning to head towards the door.

He waves goodbye to Javert, who returns the wave with his happy scowl, and they all head out to his car. It’s an easier drive than the one before; Grantaire puts in a well-loved CD, full of early two thousands music, and he and Bea sing along, Grantaire tapping the steering wheel to familiar beats, releasing any remaining tension from his frame as he does.

By the time they reach Enjolras’ apartment, they’ve all gotten into it. Grantaire finds himself surprised that Enjolras knows the Backstreet Boys, but delighted to duet ‘I Want It That Way’ with him, as exaggerated and loud as he can be.

He turns down the music once they’ve parked, tragic as it is, and gives Enjolras a wave, as he steps out of the car, leaning over the center console to peek out the window better.

“See you tomorrow,” he says, no question in his tone, for once.

“See you tomorrow,” Enjolras agrees. He lingers for perhaps a beat too long, smiling softly, before shutting the car door. Grantaire watches him shoulder his overnight bag, and walk up the steps to his apartment. He turns back before going inside, giving one more wave, which Grantaire returns, already antsy for book club tomorrow.

He doesn’t drive away until Enjolras has disappeared into his apartment, sad for the goodbye, but finally absolutely certain there will be another hello.

Chapter Text

Sunday afternoon, book club cannot come soon enough.

The rest of Grantaire’s Saturday had been blessedly uneventful. He and Bea had taken the rest of the afternoon to read together, curled up together on Bea’s twin bed this time. They shared leftover pizza for dinner, and thankfully, Grantaire was able to eat more than one full slice this time.

They went back to reading after, Grantaire texting Eponine, Joly, and Enjolras in between chapters to give his brain a break, and by the time bedtime came, he’d managed to catch up to where he needed to be for club the next afternoon.

If he’d stayed up later than he should have texting Enjolras, that’s his own business. It’s not his fault neither of them had stopped replying.

Okay, maybe it’s half his fault.

Maybe both of them are incapable of not having the last word.

Or, maybe Grantaire had been having too much fun, bullshitting over text for hours on end.

Maybe Enjolras was having fun too.

Whatever the case, it had led to Grantaire falling asleep, just past midnight, with his phone still in hand, his last message half-legible, and half string unintelligible letters.

In the end, Enjolras had gotten the last word. As he often does. In this case, it had been two words and an emoji, in response to his final keyboard smash mess of a message:

From: 🔥Enjolras🔥
12:03am, November 21:
-----
Sleep well. :)

Cheeky bastard.

If Grantaire spends the first few minutes awake just smiling at his phone, that’s also his own business.

He’s very glad he wakes up late again, because waiting from the early morning to the afternoon would have been truly unbearable. He tries not to look too deeply at how excited he is to be driving to Enjolras’ apartment around 1:30.

He could lie to himself, and say it’s because Bea also seems so excited. That is a part of it, so it wouldn’t even be a full lie. She hasn’t stopped talking about the book Enjolras got her since they got home, and she actually got to crack into it.

The doll Cam got her is all but forgotten, still in its box, resting on top of her toy box. But the book? The spine is already cracked, and the pages are littered with sticky notes, practically bursting at the seams with colorful tabs. And she’s only about halfway through.

That stream of chatter doesn’t stop over breakfast, nor does it stop the whole car ride to the apartment. Grantaire doubts it’ll stop at all.

It’s the opposite of a problem. It means his daughter is happy. And that’s the best gift he could have been given, especially after yesterday, and the stress that had led up to it.

Enjolras comes out of his apartment as soon as they pull up, his messenger bag as usual over one shoulder. Grantaire grins, and waves as he walks to the car, Bea doing the same, already buzzing with excitement.

As he gets closer, it’s hard not to notice how nice he looks.

Not that Enjolras ever looks not nice. Not even close. But today it seems he’s turned it up a notch, in a nice, fitted button-up and a muted red jacket, rather than his usual sweaters. Even his hair looks more styled than usual, a few curls falling with a kind of effortless grace around his face, golden and soft.

How he has the fucking audacity to walk up to Grantaire’s shitty car looking like he’s walking off a magazine shoot, Grantaire will never know.

He does his best to keep his staring to a minimum, despite how hard Enjolras is making it right now.

Asshole. Gorgeous, absolute fucking asshole.

“Dang, slick,” he says, when Enjolras opens the door, and climbs into the passenger seat, waving to Bea, “You’re dressed to impress today, huh?”

Enjolras, now buckled, lets his hands fall on top of the messenger bag now in his lap. Grantaire notes that they fidget, slightly, at his question, a weird, nervous motion for Enjolras, who’s normally more composed than he could ever hope to be. He’s smiling, though, eyes on Grantaire in the driver’s seat.

“Is it working?” he asks.

It sounds like it’s supposed to be teasing, but there’s a note of something in his tone that Grantaire can’t place. Something almost nervous. He might be imagining it, but it’s enough to make him swallow the snarky retort he’d had ready, and replace it with something more earnest.

“You look really nice, Enj. Of course it is,” he says, glancing sidelong at Enjolras, and then leaning over to bump his arm with his elbow, “Got me feeling underdressed.”

Also not a lie. Grantaire’s Green Day t-shirt and worn-in jacket are feeling very out of place right about now. But c’est la vie. Or, more correctly, c’est la Enjolras.

Enjolras smiles, reaching up to touch the spot he was bumped, and seems to relax a fraction at the compliment. Grantaire puts the car in drive, desperately needing a distraction from that fucking smile, and pulls them away from the curb.

“What’s the occasion?” he asks, curiosity getting the better of him. Enjolras pauses, so Grantaire takes a second to glance over, and catches him fidgeting again, fingers playing with the hem of his messenger bag’s flap, pink painted nails standing out against the deep brown of the leather bag.

The polish, he notices, has been picked at, just slightly.

“I decided I’m going to take your advice from the other night,” Enjolras says, sounding more determined than nervous. He pauses, and amends, “Or. Technically the other morning.”

Grantaire has to look back to the road, for safety’s sake, but he raises his eyebrows, surprised, and pleased. His face splits into a grin, pride swelling in his chest, both for Enjolras deciding to try again for what he wants, and for himself, having given advice that Enjolras can apparently actually use.

“Well dang, dude, lemme know how it goes,” he says, “I’m rooting for you.”

Enjolras is looking at his lap, smiling a private smile to nothing but his hands when Grantaire peeks over again.

By now, Bea has had her fill of waiting for them to be done talking, and takes the small pause Enjolras left as her chance to start.

She launches into a speech about Percy Jackson, her favorite cabins at Camp Halfblood, how cool it would be to be a demigod, everything she’s been telling Grantaire over the last twenty four hours, condensed into the space of a relatively quick drive. Efficiency truly is Bea’s specialty.

To his credit, Enjolras is able to actually interject a few times, and offer his own opinions, or ask questions, which only serve to make Bea more invested in talking, which leaves Grantaire listening in silent gratitude as he drives.

He’s glad, not for the first time, that Enjolras and the rest of the ABC have been so good to Bea. They never shut her down, when she’s into something, always displaying nothing but patience, and genuine interest.

They encourage her to not only grow, but to flourish. And Grantaire has enough experience to know that that’s not something he should take for granted.

It feels like no time at all before they’re parked in front of Jehan’s house, and all walking up the front steps, and through the front door. Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta, as well as Bahorel, are still missing. But everyone else is present, chatting in the kitchen, in the case of Jehan and Courf, or sitting at the dining table as usual in the case of everyone else.

Once inside, Bea immediately runs and finds Gavroche, standing near Eponine in the dining room, and shoves her book into his hands. A moment later, she’s pulling him by the arm to sit in the living room, presumably so they can read together.

Gavroche follows without complaint. A good choice.

Eponine, sitting in Courfeyrac’s usual seat to talk with Combeferre, watches with undisguised amusement as they go. Her eyes find Grantaire’s a moment later, and flick then behind him to Enjolras.

“You two have a good sleepover?” she asks, resting her chin on the back of her hand.

Combeferre, who had been focused on Eponine, looks up. He looks at Grantaire, and then at Enjolras, expression unreadable, aside from a quick, unfathomable flicker of something that looks almost like concern.

Grantaire, who had been pulling out his usual chair, raises an eyebrow, looking from Combeferre to Enjolras, who’s sliding into his own usual seat on Grantaire’s right.

“We did,” Enjolras says, looking back at Combeferre, and seems to be trying to converse with him telepathically.

It’s something they’d practically mastered in high school; the two of them could exchange a glance and seem to have a full conversation. Handy, for meetings, and during classes, but unfathomable to everyone else.

Grantaire had always found it eerie.

This time, whatever Enjolras is trying to communicate doesn’t seem to have the desired effect. Combeferre’s brow just furrows, and he pushes up his glasses with his thumb and ring finger, one on each side round lenses.

“Sorry you missed it, Eponine,” Enjolras says, ignoring whatever that expression from Combeferre was, and powering on, “Did you take care of your urgent business?”

Eponine smiles, and looks pointedly at Grantaire.

“Some of it,” she says.

Grantaire, busy wishing he was privvy to what the fuck Combeferre’s weird expressions are supposed to mean, jolts when Eponine looks at him. Then, retroactively tries his damndest not to look suspicious. With dubious success, at best.

Combeferre, noting the looks they’re exchanging, turns again to Eponine, confusion working itself onto his face and staying there, stubborn as a pinched nerve.

“You guys had a sleepover?” Marius pipes up, pulled from making big, lovesick puppy eyes at Cosette by curiosity. He looks between them all, apparently not picking up on any of Grantaire’s discomfort, or Combeferre’s weird looks. Bless him. “Can we come next time?”

Cosette elbows him delicately, giving him a look.

“What?” Marius asks, looking at her with his best confused, kicked-puppy eyes, “It sounds fun.”

And even if this new turn in conversation wasn’t the biggest gift of a distraction Grantaire could have asked for, he would have agreed with Marius. Because that does sound fun.

His own apartment isn’t nearly big enough to hold everyone, but a sleep over in someone else’s house, with the whole ABC does sound like a fucking great time.

In high school, the group had had sleepovers together a few times. Grantaire had only attended once, and he regrets now that he hadn’t gone to the others.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t been invited. It was more that at the time, he’d found more reasons not to go than to go. He’d actually made a pros and cons list when he’d been invited the second time, noted in the margins of his sketchbook.

Pros:
1. friends

Cons:
1. enjolras in pajamas
2. cant drink or smoke in someone elses house - parents might smell
3. wont be able to sleep - see #2
4. enjolras in pajamas.

Numbers 1 and 4 are technically still concerns, but given they’ve had two sleepovers successfully now, and he’s not actively in denial about his bisexuality, it’s really not that big of a hurdle. And he really would like the chance to have those experiences he’d missed out on again.

“I bet we could make a sick blanket fort in Jehan’s living room,” he says to Marius, “Bea’s been wanting to try that anyway. If we all pitched in we could for sure make one that fits everyone.”

“What’s this about a blanket fort?” comes Jehan’s voice. They walk into the dining room, followed closely by Courfeyrac, and Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta.

“Marius wants to have a group sleepover sometime,” Grantaire offers helpfully, before Eponine can ‘helpfully’ bring up his own sleepover again. He hears her snort, clearly aware of what he’s doing, but ignores it, continuing, “Do we have permission to make the sickest fort the world has ever seen with your bottomless pillow and blanket reserves?”

“Well if it’s going to be that sick of a fort,” Jehan replies, eyes positively twinkling, “Then it would be criminal to say no.”

“Damn straight,” Grantaire agrees, grinning.

With Courfeyrac at the table now, Eponine has to move, going back to her self-assigned seat between Cosette and Musichetta. Combeferre, Grantaire notes, watches her go, still looking contemplative.

Bahorel comes through the front door then, unmistakable for how he slams it behind him without any attempt to mitigate the noise, which makes Cosette, Grantaire, Eponine, and Enjolras respectively, jump.

Enjolras jumping at the noise is enough to catch Grantaire’s attention. He reacted less dramatically than Grantaire and Cosette did, a minute flinch, closer to Eponine’s, but it was still a reaction. Grantaire turns to him, raising an eyebrow.

He had seemed twitchy in the car, but it’s still fucking weird.

“You good, dude?” he asks, a hand coming up to settle on Enjolras’ bicep, “You’re kinda jumpy today.”

His shirt is fucking soft.

Not important right now. Christ.

Enjolras pauses, tensing for a moment under the scrutiny. But his eyes rove from Grantaire’s, down to the hand on his arm and back, and he seems to relax.

“Yeah,” he says, and smiles, warmly, “I’m good.”

Bahorel has made it to the table by now, pushing past Grantaire and Enjolras and patting each of them hard on the back with one of his big hands as he goes to take his seat, offering loud apologies for being a few minutes late as he goes.

It serves as a great distraction from Enjolras’ smile, entrancing as ever. And Grantaire is eternally grateful to him for it.

Bahorel’s arrival thankfully also means that the club can start in earnest. Grantaire wills the beginnings of a blush away from his face, and digs his copy of Catch-22 out of his bag as Jehan pipes up to start discussion for the day.

~~

Discussion goes fairly smoothly, the first couple of hours of the club passing in a blur of quotes and laughter. Since they’ve only really covered the first part of the book, it’s blessedly easy to talk about. From what Grantaire understands, Catch-22 starts off pretty farcical and only satirically dark, and eventually declines into outright traumatic war stories, which he's kind of terrified to get to.

He notices, part way through discussion, that Enjolras' book has more tabs than usual. He's generally pretty sparse with them, marking passages he likes, or ones he wants to return to with simple yellow tabs.

Today, though, there's something new.

Green tabs, all throughout the book. Quite a few, actually. Initially, Grantaire thinks he must have run out of yellow sticky notes. But a couple of minutes later, he sees him place a new yellow note on a quote Combeferre mentions.

So they must be purposeful.

Eventually, Grantaire gets up the nerve to peek at one of the pages, noting where the green tabs sit.

Mostly, they seem to mark quotes from Yossarian, the main character, which surprises Grantaire, because Yossarian is possibly the biggest defeatist to ever exist; quotes from him don’t exactly seem up Enjolras' alley.

A bombardier obsessed with surviving the war at whatever cost, Yossarian is trapped in army service by the pivotal Catch-22, which says anyone deemed 'crazy' will be removed from duty, if they can request it. But in requesting to be removed, they prove they aren't, in fact, crazy. And therefore cannot be removed from duty.

A fucking ouroboros of bullshit.

Honestly, he's surprised that Enjolras seems to like the book at all. It's all incredibly depressing, in a sardonic kind of way. Hopeless but witty. Which means that Grantaire loves it, but by all accounts, Enjolras shouldn't.

Then again, they do have more in common than either of them had thought two months ago.

Currently, Combeferre and Eponine are doing most of the discussing, with everyone else listening. So rather than interrupt, Grantaire grabs a small sticky note pad from his bag, and quickly scribbles on it, then subtly sticks it onto Enjolras' open copy of the book.

you have more notes in this one than usual

He doesn't really expect a note back; there's about a 40/60 chance that Enjolras will humor him, with the greater chance being on him ignoring, or scolding him for interrupting.

Enjolras does look down, and read the note, and after a moment, he glances Grantaire's way, raising an eyebrow.

Grantaire doesn't react, staring straight ahead. A second later, Enjolras plucks the note off of his book. Grantaire thinks he'll probably crumple it and that'll be that, but to his surprise, a few seconds later, Enjolras' hand reaches over, and sticks one of his new green sticky notes to the cover of Grantaire's copy.

I had more thoughts on this one.

Pay attention.

Grantaire’s mouth twitches, the corners coming up into a barely-there smile, trying to be as subtle as possible given they are, as Enjolras’ note says, supposed to be paying attention. Rather than take the instruction, though, Grantaire takes out another sticky note, and quickly scribbles a reply.

thoughts that you havent shared with the group?

He sticks it to Enjolras’ book, sneakily as he can.

A moment later, he gets one back. Quicker this time than last time.

Not yet. If you pay attention, maybe eventually you’ll get to hear them.

Grantaire snorts, softly.

yeah and maybe if yossarian makes it to 55 missions he’ll actually get sent home this time
i believe you

Underneath, he draws a eye rolling face, and then sticks it, again, to Enjolras’ book. He gets one back, again, a minute later.

Did you really just compare me not sharing my thoughts over sticky notes to unfairly trapping soldiers in an endless cycle of death?

In response, Grantaire draws a very quick, shitty doodle of Enjolras in an army uniform, and an arrow pointing to him, labeled ‘evasive bastard’.

The note he gets back is an impossibly even shittier doodle, presumably of Grantaire, given it’s got dark squiggles over its crooked stick-figure body, and an arrow pointing to him labeled with cramped, clean handwriting simply, ‘Rude bastard’.

It’s enough to make him laugh, surprised, sudden, and definitely louder than he should have.

Combeferre abruptly stops talking, and looks at him, eyebrows raised, followed in suit by everyone else at the table.

Fuck.

Grantaire smacks a hand over the post-it, hiding the others from view as best he can. It really only serves to make him look more suspicious, though, especially when Enjolras covers his own little pile of sticky notes, in an only slightly subtler motion.

“Care to share with the class, you two?” Courfeyrac asks, the beginnings of a shit-eating grin already forming on his lips.

As Courf’s smile grows, beside him, Combeferre’s frown deepens. It’s like the corners of Courf’s mouth are tied to pulleys on Combeferre’s, the two working in complete opposition to each other.

“For the record, we were on topic,” Grantaire says, hoping to make Combeferre look at least a little less upset.

He’s really not sure why the interruption is getting that response from him; it’s a very similar look to the one when they’d come in together.

In general, Combeferre has learned to just ignore it when Grantaire does something semi-distracting, or use it as a chance to get him to contribute to the discussion, like a fucking teacher would. Not…this.

“I bet you were,” says Courfeyrac. And then he winks. Grantaire feels his face flush, slightly. Jehan, blessedly, elbows Courf after the wink, which keeps him from saying more. But Combeferre, having caught the wink, is now looking at Courf with a face of pure bewilderment.

Courfeyrac meets his eye a second later, and raises his own eyebrows, clearly also confused. They stare for a second, apparently trying to do their own brand of telepathy, until Combeferre suddenly pushes his chair out, and moves to stand.

“I think we should take a break,” he says, tone slightly clipped, “Do you need help with snacks, Courf?”

Courfeyrac’s eyebrows are still raised, initially, but after a moment, he nods, his face falling into an easy smile with all the unaffected grace of a professional actor.

“Sure,” he says, pushing his own chair out, and standing, “Chips are definitely a two man job.”

Combeferre nods back, ignoring any undisguised snark in that response, and heads towards the kitchen, Courfeyrac in tow behind him.

The table stares after them, and Grantaire is silently glad that he’s not the only one who found that interaction weird as fuck.

Even if he hadn’t stood in the most abrupt way possible, Combeferre is almost never the one to call for a break. He’s capable of, and invested in talking about books as much as is humanly possible, especially when it comes to classics. He’d probably be content to talk for hours at a time with no breaks.

Combeferre is saved from the brunt of the group's suspicion, though, by the fact that they are actually over the time that they’d usually have taken a break by. The initial silence is followed by general murmurs of agreement, and then the beginnings of chatter around the table. Eponine, Enjolras, and Jehan are the only other ones that seem to actually focus on the weirdness, watching the spot that Combeferre and Courf disappeared to a few seconds longer than everyone else.

“Is he good, d’you think?” Grantaire murmurs to Enjolras a moment later. He finally turns, facing him, and gingerly picking at the sticky notes in front of him, “I hope we didn’t piss him off.”

Enjolras is still staring after them with a furrowed brow.

“He’s not angry,” he says, after a beat, and leaves it at that. Grantaire had kind of expected a better explanation than that, but Enjolras apparently isn’t interested in giving one.

He drops it, deciding that if Combeferre is in fact angry with him for fucking around during discussion, he’ll probably let him know. He’s a pretty forward person, usually. Honest as Enjolras is.

“Hey, Enjolras,” Bahorel pipes up, “Hypothetically speaking, if I clothes-lined a guy at the club last night, do you think he could sue me?”

Enjolras’ attention is immediately drawn away, a slow, knowing smile overtaking his expression.

“Again, Bahorel? Did he deserve it?”

And while Grantaire is curious to know exactly what went down at The Castle last night, he thinks he’d be pretty far out of the loop when it comes to talking legality of Bahorel’s most recent dalliance with the vaguely necessary assault of drunk assholes.

So instead, Grantaire decides to stand, and follow Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta out into the living room to chat, leaving Enjolras and Bahorel to talk in peace.

Jehan has already made their way into the living room, and is sitting with Bea and Gavroche, fully engrossed in a talk about Greek gods, from what Grantaire catches of their conversation.

Within a minute, the Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta have nestled together into one of Jehan’s soft couches, surrounded by pillows, and Grantaire has taken up residence on a pouf in front of them.

From here, he can just see Combeferre and Courf talking in the kitchen, heads bent over a bowl of chips, conspiratorial. Grantaire does his best to ignore that, not wanting to intrude, and instead focuses on talking with Joly.

They’ve been texting off and on since yesterday, though those conversations aren’t ones they’re picking up here.

He’d taken Enjolras’ advice, and reached out in order to ask for help in getting referred to a good therapist. It’s not the easiest ask, considering whoever he gets needs to be someone he can afford, and preferably be one who will be at least nominally chill with dealing with someone who is not only queer, but who’s struggled with addiction. Or else it’ll probably do more harm than good.

Luckily, Joly assured him that he knows many recent psychiatry program graduates who are reportedly very cool, and blessedly affordable. Grantaire is feeling...tentatively optimistic about the prospect of at least getting access to help, though he knows it’s still going to be a long process.

They aren’t talking about that now, thankfully. He’s better at talking about it over text, where he can sort out his thoughts first, and doesn’t want to drag down the mood of book club anyway.

Instead, Joly has launched into an explanation of how field medicine worked in wartime, historically, probably inspired by the fact that they were talking pretty extensively about a Catch-22 character, Doctor Daneeka, about twenty minutes ago. It’s an area of historical study that Grantaire is completely in the dark on, so he’s more than happy to let Joly go off about how fucked amputations used to be or whatever.

After a few minutes, when everyone has settled into little huddles to talk, only occasionally shifting around, Courfeyrac peeks his head out from the kitchen then, and looks around the room. He spots them within a few seconds, still chatting with Bea and Gavroche nearby Grantaire in the living room.

“Darling,” he calls, “Can you come in here?”

Jehan looks up, and raises an eyebrow. Courf just stares back, insistent, so Jehan stands, apologizing to Bea for having to leave their conversation about the goddess Demeter, and walks to the open gender-neutral kitchen door.

Courf grabs their arm when they get close, and practically pulls them inside.

Grantaire goes back to focusing on Joly, whose talk has only gotten more graphic and more interesting as it’s gone on. But his focus is pulled away again when a moment later, he hears Jehan say, much too loudly, “He said what?”

Joly stops talking, everyone in the living room looking up to peek into the kitchen, curious to see what could possibly have made Jehan of all people use that tone.

Grantaire looks up too, wondering which unlucky bastard had managed to make them sound angry. Jehan is standing across the kitchen island from Combeferre, Courfeyrac off to one side, arms crossed, and looking incredibly amused.

Initially, Grantaire thinks nothing of it. Even if Combeferre had looked upset before, there are plenty of people who use male pronouns in the ABC, most of which Combeferre is much more likely to talk about than him.

A second later, though, Jehan turns, and looks back through the kitchen door, immediately locking eyes with him on the pouf. They don’t even stop to glance at anyone else. Just Grantaire.

Grantaire feels his soul promptly exit his body.

Combeferre, behind Jehan, stays put, looking as confused as Grantaire feels, and a little apologetic. Courfeyrac, for his part, looks absolutely tickled, a grin pulling up the corners of his mouth. He gives Grantaire a look that screams to the rooftops, ‘you fucked up’, as Jehan turns on their heel, and stalks towards him, completely focused.

It’s like a dryad has become the fucking terminator.

“Joly, if I die,” Grantaire says, eyes still locked on Jehan, “please make my bones into one of those cool skeleton models doctors have so I can keep you company from beyond the grave.”

Joly looks at him, confused, but there’s no time to explain, because Jehan is upon him, in all their weird, technicolor glory, and grabbing him by the ear like a fucking angry grandmother in a cartoon. They drag him up from his seat on the pouf, and head towards the hallway.

All he can do is give pathetic little, ‘ow, ow, ow’s, and follow as quickly as he can. He’s not even sure what he did this time, but clearly he’s done something, and it’s easier to go with the flow than to try to resist the surprisingly strong grip on his ear.

Jehan pulls him into the room across the slim hallway from the bathroom, one of the only rooms in the house that Grantaire hasn’t actually been in yet, and shuts the door behind them.

The room around them is dark, the only light coming in from the window on the far wall. It casts the room in a pale, golden glow, illuminating what is a…surprisingly normal looking bedroom.

It's cozy, a queen bed stretching out in the center of the small room, covered by grandma-chic floral sheets, and a warm knit throw blanket. On either side is a night stand with a lamp (both the nightstands and the lamps mismatched). The one on the right is decidedly messier, loose papers of what looks like a script and a few hi-lighters settled by an empty glass.

There's a bookshelf on one of the walls as well, but this one is crammed to bursting with what looks like books on poetry, and ancient looking classic plays. Grantaire can spot the collection of Shakespeare’s works from where he stands, even with a hand still mercilessly holding him by his ear. Honestly, it's a decent distraction.

It's a room clearly designed for comfort over show, unlike a lot of the rest of the house. Not nearly as cluttered, so as not to distract from its purpose: sleep.

“What is the matter with you?” Jehan asks as soon as the door is shut. Their voice is a whisper, though a harsh one, effectively pulling Grantaire back to the moment with their tone, and their fingertips.

“In like—ow—a clinical sense, or…?” Grantaire asks, still wincing at the slim fingers gripping the shell of his ear, “Can you please let go, Jehan? I like Van Gogh’s work as much as the next guy but I’d like to keep my ear.”

Jehan is apparently feeling merciful, because they do let go, hand dropping, and instead going to cross with their other arm over their chest. Grantaire rubs a hand over his ear, looking back at Jehan like they’ve lost their mind. They’re looking back at him as though they’re thinking the same thing.

“You lied to Enjolras?” they ask, cutting directly to the chase.

Grantaire snaps his mouth shut.

Oh.

He must look as guilty as that sentence makes him feel, because Jehan’s eyes, usually gentle and bright, flash with displeasure.

“You did,” they say, “Holy shit, you did. Why would you do that, R?”

Grantaire opens his mouth to answer, but apparently the question is mostly rhetorical, because Jehan is still talking, worked up into a rant.

“Of all the boneheaded things—I was willing to let you try to take things at your own pace,” they say, the whisper working up into a quiet, hysterical tone, “Courf wanted to meddle, and I told him to leave it be, because I assumed, hey, my friends are adults who can talk about their emotions, and should be able to do that on their own terms. But now I find out after we talked, you went and lied to him?”

“Jehan—” Grantaire tries to cut in, but is immediately cut off again.

“I’m not in the business of outing people,” they say, “I told you that already, but you can’t just lie to your friends! I don’t want to have to be the one to tell him, I don’t want Courf to have to be the one to tell him, you should have just told the truth.”

“You’re right,” Grantaire says, guilty and soft.

“I’m—” Jehan says still angry, then hesitates, apparently processing what Grantaire actually said, “What?”

“You’re right,” Grantaire repeats, looking down at his hands, “I fucked up.”

Between the relief of his talk with Enjolras the other night, and finally getting some closure with Camille, he’d kind of forgotten. It’s a little mortifying to think that Enjolras apparently told Combeferre about their conversation in his car. But Enjolras tells him basically everything, so he supposes it’s not all that surprising. That’s not really the main concern right now, though.

He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to move on, into this new stage of their friendship, still hanging onto a lie. He and Enjolras made an agreement to communicate. It wasn’t an explicit agreement for honesty, but Grantaire would be stupid and more than a little shitty to act like it wasn’t implicit.

He should have told the truth then, no matter how terrifying it was. But he hadn’t. It had felt a bit like his own personal catch-22, before.

To be a good friend to Enjolras, he had to be honest with him. But being honest with him would mean Enjolras wouldn’t want to be friends with him.

He’d made a choice that night in the car. And it was a selfish one, based on self-preservation. Which, in retrospect, was probably blown a bit out of proportion, regardless of how he’d felt at the time.

He backs up a couple of steps, and lets himself sink onto the bed, wrinkling the soft floral sheets. He pauses, gathering his thoughts, eyes flicking over the texture of the carpet in front of him.

“When, um,” he says, slowly, after he’s settled, “When it came up, I was feeling…not the most secure. Or like. Not at all secure with where we stood. And I panicked.”

He clears his throat, shifting on the bed, and doing his best to look back up at Jehan. He’s only half successful, eyes landing on their earrings of the day instead of their expression.

Today, they’re little paper airplanes, made from folded lined paper and just hooked onto some earring wires. Grantaire wonders if that’s how Jehan has so many; maybe they literally just grab household objects and put them onto ear wires.

Not important right now.

“I thought, if he knew that I still—” he says, but stops abruptly, the words sticking in his throat, terrifying. He lets himself take a couple of seconds, grounding himself, and manages to continue, “That I still have feelings for him, he might be, like, upset. Or uncomfortable, and I’d have ruined everything.”

He pauses, looking down at his left hand, and his unpainted left thumb, bandaidless now, but having had enough time to heal, un-picked, that it’s not scabbed. Shit like that normally takes weeks to actually heal over for him, with his shitty, anxious hands, unable to not fuck with things.

But, because of Enjolras, it had been able to mend itself.

He rubs at the healed skin gently with his right thumb, and does his best to continue.

“I still…feel scared,” he admits, “But you’re right. I shouldn’t have lied. That was shitty. Really shitty. Just like. Know that I am trying to work on communication. Because it turns out I’m still pretty dogshit at it sometimes.”

Jehan, in front of him, is silent for a couple of seconds, but then steps to his side, and slides onto the bed beside him, a hand going to his knee.

“Okay,” they say, much more gently than they had been speaking only moments ago, “Good.”

For a few seconds, both of them sit, silent, only the soft murmur of conversation outside the bedroom door breaking the quiet. Grantaire hears Courfeyrac’s high, pealing laughter, and Bahorel’s deep baritone voice rising, probably telling a joke. Musichetta laughs. Marius says something panicked, followed by Cosette saying something soothing, a murmur barely audible through the wood of the door.

"I really thought I was going to have to lecture you more," Jehan muses, still quiet. They seem to be taking in the sounds outside the door with just as much reverence as Grantaire is.

"What can I say, I aim to underwhelm," Grantaire replies, in a wry murmur, which only earns him a gentle smack on the arm.

Grantaire smiles, and touches the spot Jehan smacked. They fall into an easy kind of quiet again, letting the sounds of their friends wash under the door, soothing. Grantaire thinks it’s probably the most comforting sound in the world. All of them, just being together.

He’s not sure how he survived so long without it.

“I don’t know if Enjolras said anything to you,” Grantaire says, finally, staring at the door, “But, um…up until about a month ago I thought he kicked me out of the club, in high school.”

The hand on his knee stays, but its grip tightens a fraction, and when Grantaire looks to his right, Jehan is staring at him with unabashed surprise, their eyebrows pulled together in concern.

“I know now that that’s not what happened,” Grantaire clarifies, smiling weakly, “It was a misunderstanding. A really, really unfortunate misunderstanding. We’ve talked about it. But, um…”

He pauses, steeling himself.

“I think…” he says, softly, “Honestly, I think I’ve just been waiting for that to happen again? For real this time.”

The hand on his knee moves, and suddenly, slender fingers are gripping his, Jehan holding his right hand steady in both of theirs. It’s enough to make Grantaire look up, and he finds a face that’s smiling, but sad, a flower field after the rain.

“Grantaire,” Jehan says, and their voice is slightly scolding, but there’s no heat behind it. “Enjolras doesn’t have the power to unilaterally kick you out of anything. He never has.”

Grantaire tries to protest, his mouth morphing into a smirk, automatically, but Jehan gives him a look that immediately makes him stop before he can actually say anything.

“Don’t argue, I’m right,” Jehan says, “Enjolras doesn’t like any kind of power structure that leaves one person with all of the power. Why on earth would he ever apply a power structure like that to his friends?”

Fuck.

That’s…actually a fair point.

It’s not like Grantaire had ever pictured him kicking anyone else out of the group either. Just him. Because in his mind, he’d always been, and always would be the odd man out. Tolerated, rather than embraced. But that idea had been fairly shattered as well the other night, too.

“Even if things had gone as badly as you seemed to think they would—which they wouldn’t, and they won’t—we love you,” Jehan continues. Their brows lower then, face going suddenly more serious, even through the smile, “I’d drag you back to my house kicking and screaming if I had to.”

Somehow, past the threat, that is reassuring.

“You are surprisingly strong,” Grantaire says, a hand coming up to rub at the shell of his ear again.

“Damn straight,” they say, grinning sweetly, and somehow still managing to look a little scary, “You’d best not forget it.”

The smile softens, and goes more reserved a moment later, Jehan’s eyes sweeping over his face again.

“We tried to get in contact with you, you know,” they say, breaking the silence again, “Many times.”

Grantaire blinks, his chest giving a squeeze, half guilt, half surprise.

“You did?” he asks. Jehan nods, solemn.

“We did,” they say, and then look towards the door, that sad smile still in place, “Not even just in high school. In college, Courf tried calling you every time he had a show. To invite you to opening night.”

Grantaire’s throat suddenly feels very tight. Jehan shrugs, and finishes, gently, “He only stopped when someone finally picked up, and he found out the number he was calling wasn’t yours anymore.”

“I didn’t know,” Grantaire murmurs, his voice feeling heavy. He’s struck, again, by just how much damage he’d done by trying so fucking hard not to be present, mentally, for years.

Until Camille’s pregnancy, he’d been checked out entirely. And then, during the pregnancy, he’d been busy trying to figure out what to do with himself when he had to be checked in, after so long just…not. He’d changed numbers a couple of times, too. Out of necessity the first time, when his parents had cut him off, and then again voluntarily when Camille had left.

A perfect fucking storm.

“I’m sorry for how I handled everything then,” he says, looking down at his lap, “If I’d thought for one second it was like that, I wouldn’t have…”

“I know, R,” Jehan says, and the hand on his leg moves, coming up instead to rest on his back, and continues, “I’m not trying to lecture you. Just know that we all want you here.”

They give his shoulder a soft squeeze. Grantaire manages to look up, and finds Jehan’s eyes shining.

“We always have. And we missed you.”

Enjolras had said as much, the first time they’d hung out at the One Page More, Grantaire recalls now. At the time, Grantaire hadn’t believed him. Hadn’t had the space to even consider it might be the truth.

It still feels wrong. His absence being considered a bad thing.

He’s never really considered himself something people would miss.

“I missed you all too,” he manages, pushing past the heavy weight in his throat, “Every day.”

He has to look away, pressure threatening the back of his eyes. Jehan doesn’t seem to mind, using the chance to wrap their arm more firmly around his shoulders, and pull him in for a tight side hug. Grantaire lets himself be pulled, laughing, damp and low.

They let go after a moment, hands going instead to rest on the sheets below them, and gently bump their shoulder with his.

“No more lying?” they say, casting a smile his way that’s only mildly scolding.

“No more lying,” he confirms.

“And you’ll come clean?” they press, poking his arm with a slender finger.

“Yeah,” Grantaire confirms, after a pause, though his voice is weaker this time, “I’ll tell him the truth.”

His fingers knot in front of him, twisting together into a clump of nerves. Finding the right time is going to be a struggle. They’re almost never alone, not completely. And there’s nothing to suggest he won’t just lose his nerve the moment they are. Like last time.

“Good,” Jehan says, and nods, moving to stand from the bed. They straighten, and hold a hand out to help him up. Grantaire takes it, with a shaky smile, his hands coming un-twisted as he stands. As soon as he’s up all the way, Jehan’s expression goes more stern again, pointing a finger towards his chest.

“Just so you know, though,” they say, “if you do that again, I’m letting Courf do whatever he wants.”

Shit. That’s some fucking incentive if Grantaire’s ever heard it. Grantaire is pretty sure Courfeyrac has the word ‘subtle’ blacklisted from his vocabulary. Whatever he’d do, with nothing holding him in check, is sure to be absolutely fucking mortifying.

“You’re a little evil, y’know that, Jehan?” he says.

Jehan just laughs, too high and melodious to be a supervillain laugh, but just as effective, and turns to open the door.

~~

Discussion is able to continue for another hour or so. Combeferre and Courf do actually bring out completed snack plates before they restart, apparently able to multitask talking about Grantaire and making presentable platters.

It’s hard not to notice that Combeferre is definitely looking at him differently when they all sit back down. Him, and Enjolras, to be completely accurate. His face isn’t concerned anymore, it’s just observational, like someone looks at animals in a zoo; focused, and a little too intense.

Grantaire decides that that look might be worse than the concerned one. It leaves room for the imagination to get carried away, and Grantaire’s imagination is very, very good at that.

It doesn’t help that Jehan has reminded him of what he should have felt guilty about before. He’s hyper aware of Enjolras sitting beside him, in his soft looking button down, red coat hanging picturesque over the back of his chair, ignorant to the fact that about half of their friends probably know Grantaire is pathetically into him.

An ignorance that he’s going to have to willingly shatter, if he wants to be a good friend. And he does. He owes Enjolras at least that much.

For now, though, he tries his best to focus on discussion. Enjolras has practically become a fucking bloodhound for sensing when he’s feeling anxious. A terrifying concept, truly, so the less he can give off that vibe, the better. And the best way to do that is to be distracted.

Thankfully, Catch-22 is actually a book he can discuss with pleasure. And he does so to the best of his ability until his mind is full of the infuriating, roundabout logic the book loves to poke fun at, and use to its fullest extent.

After a while, as is the norm, people start getting distracted, and discussion kind of just devolves into friendly banter, the book club portion of the day ending naturally as a sunset, replaced by casual chatting.

Enjolras stands, offering to help Combeferre take care of the snack plates, Combeferre just smiles, and when Enjolras comes around the table, pats him on the back with a free hand as they step out of the dining room, towards the living room. Whatever weird mood Combeferre had been in has definitely dissipated for the time being. He seems normal as they round the corner, only casting one more glance back at Grantaire. As a result, their eyes meet, briefly.

Grantaire does his best to look innocent, looking away immediately, and then and throwing himself into conversation with Courfeyrac instead, as a distraction. Partially because he’s the nearest person not completely engrossed in another conversation, but also because Grantaire does actually have something he needs to say to him, after talking with Jehan.

“What’s up loverboy?” Courf says, voice dripping with open mirth, now that it’s just the two of them talking. His eyes twinkle with a kind of peevish delight, “Jehan is a little scary when they’re angry, huh?”

Grantaire ignores him, and his tone, pressing forward.

“According to them, I’ve missed a lot of your shows,” Grantaire says, a hand coming up to rub at his own arm, a nervous gesture. He smiles, apologetic, and finishes, “Sorry.”

Courfeyrac blinks at him, the smirk falling away, replaced with something gentle, and surprised. After a moment, he seems to right himself, crossing his arms, and cocking his head to the side, playful.

“Well I have a ticket reserved for you for Romeo and Juliet,” he says, “Opening night is coming up soon. Think you can make it to that?”

Grantaire grins.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he says, and means it. Courf grins back, eyes sparkling with pure delight. He’s always been a sucker for compliments, Grantaire knows, so he adds, “You’re gonna make a fucking great Mercutio. I’m excited.”

“Oh, you’re not even ready,” Courfeyrac replies, and winks, “The director has been very open to suggestions.”

That’s a little terrifying. But also a recipe for possibly the best Shakespeare interpretation anyone has ever seen, at least as far as Mercutio is concerned.

They talk for a good while, until eventually Courf gets distracted, Combeferre, who'd come back into the dining room after only a minute or two, calling him over to chat instead. Grantaire uses the chance to step away from the kitchen table, and go look for Bea. He hasn’t seen her since their last break, but assumes she’ll still be reading, or playing with Gavroche in the living room.

When Grantaire steps into the room, his eyes are drawn immediately back to the fireplace. Usually, there’s just the love seat, and blanket basket over there. Now, stretched over the couch, and a couple of poufs that have been strategically placed, there’s a fort.

It’s a complete patchwork of colors, constructed from an admirable chunk of the blankets and pillows Jehan owns, which gives it the effect of a circus tent, stretching taller, and larger than the ones he and Bea are able to make at home. Pillows are practically spilling out of the entrance, only covered by one, floral blanket hanging over the opening of the fort as a kind of door, carefully held in place by some old, wooden laundry pins.

It’s also notably much neater than the ones he and Bea make. Neither of them have the focus to make a super solid fort. Not on their own, anyway.

Curious, Grantaire steps towards the fort. He knows his daughter absolutely had something to do with it, so he doesn’t hesitate to pull back the blanket door, and peek inside.

As expected, Bea is there. A fuckload of cushions are both behind, and under her, forming a pillowy bed, and beside her, reclined on his elbows, legs crossed, is Enjolras.

Apparently, he’d taken Grantaire mentioning that Bea wanted to make a blanket fort to heart. Leave it to him to take a small suggestion and follow it through to the end.

The two of them have their heads bent together, talking, softly, but stop when the blanket door opens. Bea looks up at him, and grins.

“Room for one more?” Grantaire asks, still bent in the entryway.

“What’s the password?” Bea asks.

“Micropachycephalosaurus,” he says, automatic. It’s the longest dinosaur name that Bea knows, and she’s incredibly proud of herself for being able to say it correctly, consistently. She’s been using it as her ‘password’ for shit like this for a year.

If someone is going to be let into her fort, they have to work for it. Thankfully, since Grantaire had been the one who had to teach her the pronunciation, he also knows it by heart.

Satisfied, Bea smiles, and scoots closer into Enjolras’ side, leaving room on her left, the right side of the fort, for Grantaire to crawl in, and settle in beside her.

With all three of them inside, the fort is very much full, Bea sandwiched comfortably between them. A fact which she looks very pleased about, relaxing into pillows, and letting her curly head lean onto her dad’s shoulder.

“I didn’t have to give a password,” Enjolras says, once Grantaire is settled, but Bea just waves a hand at him.

“You helped make the fort, you don’t have to,” she says, matter-of-factly, as if that’s just a rule that everyone should know. Enjolras nods as if she’s given sage advice, and relaxes again.

“This is discrimination,” Grantaire says, with mock affront, “I would have helped make the fort if you’d told me you were going to make one.”

“I wanted to make it with Enjolras,” Bea says, simply, “We can make forts any time.”

Fair. Absolutely fair.

“You just wanted to hear me struggle to say micropachycephalosaurus,” Enjolras says, pointedly not struggling with the word at all. He looks incredibly smug about it, especially when Grantaire’s face flits quickly from surprise, to outright disappointment.

“Yeah,” Grantaire grumbles, “I did.”

He sighs, and leans back a little more on the pillows.

“You love ruining my fun, don’t you?”

“Sometimes,” Enjolras admits with a soft smile, “But you love ruining mine too.”

Grantaire grins, wide and fond.

“I do,” he says, “I really do.”

The blanket flips open again, then, and Jehan peeks in, smiling once they see who’s inside.

“Password?” Grantaire says.

Jehan just rolls their eyes, and dutifully ignores him.

“Bea, can you come out here? I need help with snacks,” Jehan says instead, holding the blanket door a little more open.

“Sure!” Bea says, always excited for snacks. She scrambles up from the pillows and crouches to crawl out from the door without any complaint, and Jehan smiles at her as she does, holding a blanket out of the way.

“Just Bea?” Grantaire asks, brow furrowing. He doesn’t know what they could only need a seven year old for, especially if they’re making snacks for more than twelve people.

“Yep. Just Bea,” they say, locking eyes with him. When he still doesn’t seem to get it, their eyes flick pointedly over to Enjolras, and then back.

Oh.

Grantaire feels an odd mix of freezing panic, and gratitude. But he manages a nod, as small as he can make it. Jehan smiles.

“You two just relax. I’ll have her back to you in no time,” they say.

Bea looks back inside, giving them each a meaningful look, and adds, serious as a soldier, “Defend the fort with your lives.”

From what, Grantaire can’t even begin to imagine. Probably an imaginary mythical creature, given the book she’s been reading. But regardless, he gives a little salute, and taking his cue, Enjolras mirrors it, which satisfies Bea enough for her to turn, and head towards the kitchen.

Jehan laughs, shaking their head, and then waves, dropping the blanket back over the entrance, leaving them alone.

The fort is suddenly much, much too small for comfort. It’s hard not to be hyper-aware of the fact that he and Enjolras are practically shoulder to shoulder, the space left where Bea had been much too small for any kind of actual safe distance.

“She really is a good kid,” Enjolras says, breaking Grantaire from his racing thoughts. He manages to look to his right, and finds Enjolras staring at the mostly covered opening of the fort. There’s something a little wistful in his expression; it’s a look Grantaire has seen on him before, only a couple of times, but he’s never really understood it.

“She is,” Grantaire says, “I’m a lucky guy.”

“No,” Enjolras says, shaking his head, “You’re a good dad.”

And that really shouldn’t be enough to make Grantaire’s throat go tight with emotion, but it is.

He tries to say thank you. Does his best to push away the impulse to make a self-deprecating joke. But any attempt at voicing gratitude for the compliment stutters to a stop as he really takes in the absolute vision before him.

The light in Jehan’s living room is moody, different lamps around the room casting light through the tapestry of colors above their heads, splashing Enjolras’ skin and hair with red, and yellow, and blue, and pink.

Bathed in color, dappled like an impressionist painting, he is warmth incarnate. Soft, languid, and content.

He turns then, and their eyes meet, blue cutting through the symphony of colors, and Grantaire is struck by a simple, but overwhelming thought:

Oh man. I really love you.

It’s not really a revelation, or at least, he knows it shouldn’t be. He’s been falling hard for…fuck, weeks, if not the whole fucking two months since Enjolras walked into the One Page More for the first time.

Maybe he never really stopped, from the moment they met, to right now.

Grantaire doesn’t know what face he’s making. But whatever it is seems to have Enjolras just as stuck as he is, blue eyes widening a fraction. For one tiny infinity, there’s silence, each of them seemingly frozen, stuck in a breath, until suddenly the air rushes back in, and both of them try to speak at the exact same time.

“Hey, um, Enj—”

“Grantaire, I need to—”

They both stop.

“Sorry,” Grantaire says, “But can I go first?”

Grantaire knows that the polite thing to do would be to let Enjolras speak. But there’s a crawling feeling, edging under his skin, and he knows that if he doesn’t get this out now, he’s never going to. And he needs to.

…He wants to.

That surprises him, but the moment he thinks it, he knows it’s true. He wants Enjolras to know. To understand how much he means to him. Even if he doesn’t feel the same way, it suddenly feels incredibly important.

Enjolras, for his part, looks surprised. The tips of his ears have gone a little pink, and his hands resting on pillows beneath them twitch, slightly.

“Yeah, you can,” he says. His voice comes out a little tight, and high, initially, a verbal stumble of sorts. He rights himself, and it’s relatively back to normal when he adds, a second later, “Go ahead.”

Grantaire, reclined in his elbows, turns onto his side, facing himself more towards Enjolras. Mostly so that he can have his hands in front of himself, if he’s honest. He’s not anywhere near able to make eye contact right now, but he tries to get close, focusing on one particular curl out of place, near Enjolras’ cheek bone.

“Okay. So. Um,” he starts, already stumbling, “In the spirit of honesty, and not, like, repressing shit, I…need to tell you something.”

He’s not looking directly at Enjolras’ expression, but he can see the way it tenses regardless. That same kind of bracing stiffness, subtle, but definitely present.

“Okay,” he says, sounding wary, “Is it something bad?”

Grantaire nearly chokes on a laugh.

“Ain’t that just the fucking question,” he says, which doesn’t seem to make Enjolras feel any better. Grantaire feels his fingers beginning to tremble, so he puts them to work on his nail polish. His eyes follow the motion down, watching blue flakes rather than Enjolras.

“So, remember last week? When we talked in my car?” he says, voicing statements like questions, as if there’s any doubt that both of them remember. In front of him, he sees Enjolras’ hand, long pink-nailed fingers resting on the pillow covered floor in front of them, twitch again, and then curl closed.

“...I do,” he says, prompting, but still decidedly guarded.

“Cool. Yes. So,” Grantaire says, stumbling again. He tries not to focus on tone, knowing that if he starts weighing it now, he’s not going to stop, and then he’s going to tip himself right on over into self-loathing again. Better to power through and deal with it once everything is out in the open. So he steels himself, and continues, “I wasn’t…entirely honest with you.”

Enjolras, in front of him, goes absolutely still.

“And I am sorry about that,” Grantaire says, quickly as he can, the words nearly falling out of him now, “I panicked. A little. Or. A lot. I really didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. I still don’t. But I don’t want to lie to you either.”

“The truth is, I—” he starts, stops, voice cracking, “Um,” he tries again, “The truth is, I’m—I’ve been in love with you, like, fully fucking head over heels, for…a while.”

The words settle over the space between them, a curtain pulled away, leaving the truth on stage, bare and bracing for its audience’s reaction. It takes everything Grantaire has not to try and take it back. Metaphorically hook it with a cane and drag it back behind the aforementioned curtain.

The silence probably doesn’t actually last that long, less than a breath, but it feels like an eternity before Enjolras speaks.

“You said you were over it,” he says, breaking the quiet. And he doesn’t sound angry, mostly he sounds kind of breathless, disbelief and something else Grantaire can't even begin to place winning out over everything else.

“Yeah, uh, that’s quite possibly the biggest lie I’ve ever told in my life,” Grantaire manages, his voice rising in pitch as his panic starts to grow. He’s still focused on his fingers, eyes locked there as if not looking at Enjolras means he’s not actually reacting to the truth Grantaire is laying bare right now.

Worse, though, it feels like a seal has broken somewhere in his chest. Whether he wants them to or not, words keep coming now, bubbling up and out of him in a frantic ramble.

“You’re like. Incredibly smart. And passionate. And absolutely fucking ridiculous. And beautiful to the point that it’s kind of infuriating? Like damn, who gave that dude the right, y’know? And it’s only gotten so much fucking worse since we started getting closer, because the more we talk, the more I want to be around you, and—”

Jesus christ, he needs to stop.

He’s suddenly painfully aware of how much worse he’s probably making this for himself, cheeks absolutely burning, so he forces the tide of words to stop, just for a moment, and pivot.

“To be clear, I’m happy just having you in my life. I don’t expect anything from you,” he clarifies, quickly as he can. Grantaire swallows hard, and puts up his best smile, shaky as it is, and continues, “I know you don’t feel that way about me, and that’s okay—”

“Have I ever said that?” Enjolras says, abruptly knocking Grantaire’s train of thought off of its proverbial tracks.

“You—” he starts, then freezes. His hands freeze too, and he finds himself looking up, “What?”

Enjolras is looking at him already, blue eyes piercing as ever, and definitely much closer than they were a moment ago. The no-man’s land between them, which had previously only had Enjolras’ hand resting in it, is being crossed by Enjolras himself, and Grantaire finds himself startled by the sudden proximity.

The expression on his face is unfathomable. At least, it is to Grantaire, who isn’t sure he isn’t hallucinating, because Enjolras is smiling. It’s hopeful, and bursting with a kind of unmitigated joy that Grantaire cannot for the life of him understand.

“What did we agree to the other morning?” he asks, and when Grantaire does nothing but stare, wide-eyed, he clarifies, firmly, “Don’t assume how I feel.”

"What?" Grantaire repeats, dumbly, feeling like his brain has been replaced by a broken record. He might never say another word again, stuck skipping over the same four letter word for the rest of his life. There’s an implication behind what Enjolras is saying that’s clear even without asking, but it’s completely out of the question.

Or. Grantaire had thought it was.

But now, Enjolras is so close, what had been a foot and a half between them closed to barely a foot now, and his eyes flit from making eye contact, to somewhere lower down Grantaire’s face, almost like—

“Ask me, Grantaire,” Enjolras says.

The command in his tone is enough to jolt Grantaire out of his thought loop, which had still consisted mostly of the word ‘what’ over and over again. His eyes are practically glued to Enjolras’ face now, eyes searching his expression for the joke, the ‘gotcha’ that has to be coming, it has to be—

But this is Enjolras.

Enjolras, who doesn’t lie. Who is capable of being terrible, but not like this. Not as a cruel joke.

Enjolras, who reads the books he recommends, and sits with him for lunch three days out of the fucking week, and stole one of his t-shirts and still hasn’t said anything about it.

Enjolras, who is definitely looking at his lips right now.

It feels an awful lot like looking at an optical illusion, Enjolras who could never want to be with him, shifting in a blink to Enjolras who could, and just might actually—

“Do you—” Grantaire says, having intended to ask more, but the end of his question catches in his throat, held fast by the fraying vestiges of disbelief. He manages to free them, and finish his sentence, choked, and feeling incredibly childish as he does, “Enjolras, do you…like me?”

“I do,” Enjolras says, and it’s just two words, but they strike Grantaire like a rhapsody, because he’s looking at Enjolras’ face, and he can see, in warm eyes, still somehow intense, and in the flush at the highest point of his cheek bones, nothing but open affection, and want.

For a moment, Grantaire can only stare, mouth opening, and closing, but no words coming out. The only ones that come to mind are the insufficient ‘what’, and the insecure ‘why’, neither of which will ever make it out of his mouth, if he can help it.

What does make it out a breath later, hesitant and soft, is, “Are you sure?”

Which isn’t all that much better than ‘why’, in retrospect, but Grantaire has to be sure himself. Sure that Enjolras understands what he’s saying, and who he’s saying it to.

A second later, Grantaire finds a hand on his jaw. Enjolras has lifted it there, fingers, and then a palm sliding over cheek and stubble, electrifying, and staying there. Grantaire looks towards the shape of it, and then back to Enjolras’ face, still in disbelief.

He’s only just really gotten used to being touched by Enjolras. But he’d gotten used to it on his back, his arms, his shoulders. His face is new territory, intimate, and brand fucking new.

“Have you ever known me not to be?” Enjolras asks.

And, no, Grantaire hasn't. But he also hadn't known Enjolras could get burned out until a month ago. Anything is possible, he thinks, at least when it comes to Grantaire falling below expectations.

His hesitance must show on his face, because Enjolras smiles, looking almost shy and adds, “I was going to ask you to go on a date, but you kind of beat me to the punch.”

Grantaire balks.

“Just now?” he asks, strangled, remembering suddenly that Enjolras had tried to speak, at the same moment he had, “Is that what you were—”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, then quickly amends, “Well. Initially I’d planned on asking on the drive home. But you looked—” he stops himself, the flush on his cheeks going a little deeper, then continues, “the time just felt right.”

Grantaire is still staring, wide-eyed and overwhelmed, and trying hard not to give into his knee-jerk skepticism. Enjolras must see something of it in his expression, because he nods minutely to the blanket door of the fort, and speaks again.

“I have note cards, in my bag, if you don’t believe me—”

“You have fucking what?” Grantaire interrupts.

“I thought I was going to have to convince you,” Enjolras explains, dead serious, “Last time, you said you didn’t think we’d work. So I prepared my arguments on why I think we would.”

“Prepared your—” Grantaire repeats, only to stop himself part way through. His voice disintegrates suddenly, instead, into incredulous laughter.

It catches him by surprise, the way it starts, like tripping over his own breath, and then tumbling into shoulder shaking laughs, because Enjolras cannot be serious.

But he is.

He is, and Grantaire knows for certain that he’s not bullshitting him, because he’s absurd, and stubborn, and incredible, and absolutely enough of a fucking nerd to strategize asking someone out on a date on note cards, and jesus christ Grantaire loves him so fucking much it hurts.

And, somehow, impossibly, but absolutely undeniably, Enjolras feels the same way about him.

“Holy shit,” he manages, after a few steadying breaths, “Holy shit, Enjolras.”

“...I really can’t tell if you’re mocking me right now, or if you’re happy,” Enjolras says. When Grantaire manages to actually gather himself enough to look at him again, he finds a face that seems caught between hope and offense.

“Not mutually exclusive,” Grantaire says, still giggling, unable to come down from the giddiness that’s found itself content to take over his senses, “But mostly the latter.”

At his answer, Enjolras seems to ease, his expression slipping over the line from guarded to open again. His palm is still pressed to his jaw, and his thumb moves now, swiping along Grantaire’s cheek, and then down, tentative, to the edge of his lips, his eyes following the motion.

Grantaire finds his own eyes falling down a familiar path to Enjolras’ mouth. He’s smiling, and so close, and Grantaire just might get drunk on the smell of lemongrass, and—

“Can I kiss you?” Grantaire asks. He’s almost certain he knows the answer, but feels he has to get permission, and give Enjolras one more chance to back out, if he wants.

Enjolras doesn’t answer verbally. His smile goes soft, and long-suffering in a way that makes Grantaire absolutely certain he's managed to find another stupid question.

Enjolras' hand on Grantaire’s face moves to help tip his face up; he’s not going to leave Grantaire to close the space between them alone, and Grantaire is grateful.

His hands lift, unsure where to go, but eventually settling on Enjolras’ chest. His fingers, trembling slightly, splay out, and then grip into soft fabric like a lifeline.

There’s a breath, the barest hesitation before Grantaire lets his eyes slide shut, and he leans forward, pressing his lips to Enjolras’, chaste, but firmly as he can.

Enjolras’ lips are soft. Softer than Grantaire’s, which are always at least a little bitten. He feels blonde lashes brush, feather light along the highest point of his cheek as Enjolras’ eyes close, and he sighs out of his nose, content.

Grantaire finds himself lost. His life has been simplified down to one point of connection, of sweet pressure that makes his whole brain go quiet, just for an instant, the buzz reduced to a thrum by the smell of lemongrass.

It must be Enjolras’ shampoo, he thinks, dumbly, because it’s a much stronger scent now, up close like this.

The instant ends as soon as his mind catches up to his body; Grantaire comes back to himself, and pulls away, as painful as it is to do so, suddenly self-conscious. His hands, still knotted in Enjolras’ shirt front, come loose, and smooth the fabric down slightly, resting flat against his chest.

“Was that—was that okay?” he asks, faltering. Nerves are starting to set in, now that he’s had a moment to think, words falling out in a shaky ramble, “I haven’t actually done this for a really long time. I mean, I had a dream like this a few weeks ago and I was great in that, but that’s not. Um. Really relevant—”

“Grantaire," Enjolras says.

“Yep?” he replies, voice cracking up an octave in a way he doesn’t even have the space to be embarrassed about, given what he just accidentally admitted to. But Enjolras isn’t looking at him with mockery, only vague amusement, and affection so plain it nearly hurts to look at, cheeks flushed, and eyes half-lidded and focused again solely on his mouth.

“Stop talking,” he says.

Grantaire laughs, a semi-hysterical sound that bubbles from his throat outside of his own control.

“Dear god, please make me,” he says. And the words are hardly out of his mouth before it’s covered again, Enjolras making good on his request with such enthusiasm Grantaire is left breathless.

He loses track of time, a little. At some point, his hands slide up from Enjolras’ chest, winding over his shoulders, and finding their way into Enjolras’ hair. He has just enough mental space to note that, holy shit, it is just as soft as he’d always thought it would be. Carding his hand through it draws a hum from Enjolras. It’s possibly the best sound he’s ever heard, low, and warm, and satisfied.

Enjolras’ hand on his jaw has moved, slipping down to wrap an arm around Grantaire’s middle, and pull him even closer. Grantaire feels his hand fist itself up in the fabric of his faded tee, holding on like he half expects Grantaire to disappear. And all Grantaire can do is kiss him, keep kissing him, lips parting open in silent reassurance that he won’t.

He has absolutely no idea how long it’s been when a high-pitched, squealing kind of laugh pierces the air, snapping Grantaire back to reality.

He breaks away, in his surprise, regret striking him immediately at the loss. He has just enough mental space to look towards the source of the noise, dazed, and immediately spots Bea.

She’s grinning, one hand pushing up the blanket ‘door’ of the fort, and when she sees them look up, she smacks her free hand over her eyes, giggling, and immediately drops the blanket, leaving them to stare after her.

There’s a few quick, thumping footsteps, and then, from the kitchen, Bea’s voice, high and fast, practically shouting something nearly unintelligible to the group. A smattering of overlapping voices follow.

Grantaire only catches a couple, clearly. He hears Courfeyrac shout, “Finally!”, over Cosette saying, “Awww!”, and finally, Bahorel saying, “Oh fuck, really?” followed by a chorus of miscellaneous voices, including Bea’s, chiding him for cursing.

“Well,” he manages, slightly strangled, “Fuck. I guess everyone knows.”

Enjolras hums softly in agreement, unbothered. And it shouldn’t make Grantaire’s heart squeeze, but it does, because it means Enjolras isn’t ashamed of being caught. He just stares, unabashed and almost proud at the blanket door. His cheeks are still flushed, pink dusting smooth skin from his cheekbones to his ears. Absolutely beautiful.

“Combeferre has known for weeks,” Enjolras admits, “At least as far as my feelings go.”

Initially, Grantaire nods, because that makes sense. Of course Enjolras would talk about his feelings with his best friend. He’s about to mention Eponine knowing as well, but then, the last word of the sentence actually sinks in.

His head whips back, so fast he thinks he might get whiplash.

“Weeks?” he asks, staring at Enjolras like he’s never seen him before.

Enjolras looks back at him, raising an eyebrow, but then his face goes more contemplative.

“I guess more like a month,” he says. When that only makes Grantaire’s eyes go wider, Enjolras slides a hand back up to his cheek, and then back further, letting his fingers bury into curls, his thumb sweeping one stray away from his temple, “I don’t know how you didn’t notice. ‘Ferre says I was being…really obvious.”

He very well may have been. Given Eponine has been peddling him that reality since…fuck, nearly the beginning, he almost definitely was. But Grantaire’s blind spot is, apparently and very conveniently, one big Enjolras-shaped blotch.

Fuck. Eponine is never going to let him hear the end of this.

A fucking month, and Grantaire had been clueless. Completely fucking clueless.

“What…” he starts a question, not sure if he should ask what he wants to. He pushes through that moment of doubt, knowing it’s better if he just asks, and continues, “What, like…I dunno, did it for you?”

Enjolras smirks, raising an eyebrow.

“What ‘did it’ for me?” he asks.

“Yeah, like,” Grantaire says, feeling a self-conscious flush crawling up his neck, “I dunno, I feel like it’s a pretty big leap for you to decide I’m boyfriend material,” he pauses, and quickly amends, not wanting to be presumptuous, “If. Um. If that’s what you want. I don’t want to assume—”

“It is,” Enjolras interrupts, with so little hesitation and so much intensity in his gaze that Grantaire feels like the wind has been knocked out of him.

It really shouldn’t be so overwhelming, considering Enjolras just gave him probably the best kiss of his life, but the absolute conviction with which he says he wants a relationship, not just one date, is completely intoxicating regardless.

There’s only so much one heart can take. Especially Grantaire’s, which is very much out of practice with being on the receiving end of affection.

“It really wasn’t that big of a leap,” Enjolras continues, unaware of the absolute sentiment-based blunt force trauma he’s doing to Grantaire’s poor heart, “I only really started to realize my own feelings the morning after our first sleepover, but it had been building for a while before that.”

Grantaire remembers that morning. How distracted Enjolras had seemed when he came back from the shower, the way he hadn’t been able to look at him. At the time, Grantaire had taken it for disgust, or discomfort. Or both.

Apparently, it was neither.

Apparently, he and Enjolras had probably been feeling close to the same thing.

Apparently, Grantaire had been so ready to expect disdain, that he’d completely missed very, very obvious signs, over, and over, and over.

“It’s not really as simple as one thing ‘doing it’ for me,” Enjolras continues, seeming to search Grantaire’s eyes for the end of his sentence, “I just…started noticing things. Things that I liked,” he pauses, and smiles, “Stupid things.”

Grantaire is pretty sure he’s forgotten how to breathe.

“Like. The way your nose crinkles when you smile. Or how you stick your tongue out when you’re focused,” he says, thumb swiping slow back over Grantaire’s cheek, “How you clearly went to a very dark place, and managed to come out of it kind.”

Grantaire swallows against the tightness that abruptly takes over his throat. It doesn’t help much. He finds he has to look away, cheeks flushed, and skin prickling with his compulsive discomfort to compliments given earnestly.

He’s pretty sure he’s allergic. Is that possible? Maybe he can get a doctor’s note. Joly might be able to be bribed.

Okay, no. He needs to stop. He knows he needs to.

It’s hard, but he manages to resist the immediate urge to make a joke at his expense, just to clear the tension for himself. The self-deprecation goes back down his throat about as easily as a handful of gravel, but he does succeed.

It doesn’t stop him from feeling, deep in his gut, that he doesn’t deserve it. But it’s a start.

Grantaire is a work in progress. A work in progress, that Enjolras apparently already likes. Likes enough to date.

That fact still hasn’t quite sunk in yet. But it’s starting to. And as it does, Grantaire feels a twinge of trepidation prodding at the back of his mind. His hands, which had slid out of Enjolras’ hair when Bea surprised them, move again, coming together in front of him to twist together, automatic.

“I still have a lot of work to do on…everything,” Grantaire says, slowly, managing to flick his gaze up again to meet Enjolras’ eye, briefly. It feels back to his hands a moment later, but he’s trying.

He swallows, and continues, carefully, “I just…you’ve gotta know what you’re getting yourself into. Just statistically speaking, I’m definitely going to mess up sometimes, and I—”

He stops, takes a moment to breathe, and manages to continue, though his voice comes out small, “I really don’t want to fuck this up, Enj.”

“You won’t,” Enjolras says, with so much confidence that Grantaire has to laugh, the sound coming out high and a bit hysterical. It releases a bit of the tension in his chest just from the sheer, undiluted certainty with which Enjolras said it. Like it's law.

“See, I don’t think there’s actually a way for you to know that,” Grantaire says, “I’m speaking from experience here. Fucking things up is kind of my specialty.”

“I’m not saying you won’t make mistakes,” Enjolras clarifies, firmly, “I’m saying it’s not all on you.”

His free hand slides forward, pink nailed fingers settling warm over Grantaire's balled hands. Warm, and solid. It's enough, enough that Grantaire finds he can look up again, eyes meeting blue.

"We’re human," Enjolras says, carefully, "We're both going to mess up. And we're going to fight, and argue, and then we’re going to make up. And there’s no one I’d rather do that with than you."

There’s a thrum in the way he speaks. Passionate, and pressing, and his eyes are alight with the spark of someone ready and excited to face the future. He’s at his most beautiful like this. Like he’s the most himself. A living, breathing beacon, almost painfully bright.

“You’re awfully confident,” Grantaire says, a smile pulled up, tentative by the absolute swell of hope rolling off of Enjolras.

Enjolras shrugs, his smile going slightly softer. More reserved.

“I happen to think that this is worth fighting for,” he says.

Grantaire opens his mouth to snark, but whatever joke he’d had ready stops halfway up his throat, pulled back by sudden, heavy realization.

Enjolras says he realized his feelings a month ago. Well before Grantaire had panicked, and lied about his own feelings just last week.

He’d had a problem he didn’t think Grantaire could help with. Something he’d missed out on. Something absolutely worth fighting for.

Grantaire feels his breathing stutter.

“Shit,” he says, choked, “Shit. That was—”

The look on Enjolras’ face is as plain an answer as he ever could have asked for. He’s still smiling, but there’s an echo there, buried in blue, residual hurt. And god, Grantaire feels like such an asshole.

He’s misunderstood a lot of things, in treating Enjolras’ feelings towards him as immovable. Things, like Enjolras’ expressions, every time Grantaire had tried to make things less awkward, or the other morning, when he’d looked so completely defeated, and hurt, and still stayed.

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire says. He knows he’d already apologized, but it had only been for lying.

He knows, better than most, what it feels like to want someone who doesn’t seem to want you back. It’s an aching, stubborn kind of pain. He wouldn’t wish it on anyone, let alone Enjolras, and yet, here he’d been, inflicting it. In complete ignorance.

He’ll probably never fucking forgive himself for that. Even if Enjolras does.

He swallows, bringing one of his hands back to cup Enjolras’ cheek, holding it there, steady, and feels his heart stutter when Enjolras closes his eyes, blonde lashes fanning over his cheeks, and leans into the touch, “I’m so fucking sorry, Enj. I didn’t—”

He’s stopped by Enjolras leaning forward, and pressing an insistent kiss to his lips. And then another, and another, like he’s making up for lost time, and refuses to waste any more.

Apparently, he's taken the knowledge that kissing Grantaire is an effective method of shutting him up to heart, and intends to use that new trick to its fullest extent.

Grantaire can't bring himself to complain. Though he's not sure his heart rate is ever going to lower to something normal again.

Eventually, he does stop, pulling away and leaving Grantaire feeling like a melted, blushing mess.

"You can make it up to me by actually agreeing to a date," Enjolras says, with more composure than Grantaire will probably ever be capable of. He does feel a slight twinge of pride at the fact that he sounds a little breathless. A just barely there airy quality to his sentences belying a bit of discomposure.

“What, do you need it in writing?” Grantaire asks. Enjolras smiles, rueful.

“With how badly we’ve been misunderstanding each other, I don’t think it’s unreasonable to want to be very, very clear about this,” he replies, dryly.

Fuck.

“Fair point,” Grantaire replies, sheepishly, “Well then, to be as clear as possible, I would take you on a date right now, if I could.”

It’s not feasible to actually drop everything and go, right now, unfortunately. Though both of them have to know that. Grantaire has Bea, and any one-on-one time they get will definitely have to be planned in advance.

But, if there’s one thing the both of them are good at doing for each other, it’s finding ways to fit each other into their schedules.

The way Enjolras beams at him is absolutely blinding. He looks like he’s going to kiss him again, and Grantaire is more than happy to welcome it, but at that moment, a voice comes from the front of the fort.

“Are you guys decent?” comes Eponine’s voice from the front of the fort.

“No,” Grantaire calls back. It doesn’t matter, though; before the word is even out of his mouth, Eponine has pushed the blanket door open, and peers inside, smirking.

“Why ask if you’re just gonna come in anyway?” Grantaire asks.

“It was rhetorical,” Eponine says, simply, “Somehow, I don’t think you’re enough of a horn dog to jump Enjolras’ bone in a blanket fort in your friends’ living room, Grantaire.”

Grantaire wants to reply to that with something witty, but unfortunately whatever words he might have had dissolve into a stuttering pile of nonsense, a flush shooting up his face. Eventually, he manages to get out, in a horrified whisper, “Why would you say it like that?” but Eponine just ignores him, and continues.

“We’re ordering Chinese food. If you two want some, you’re gonna need to come back out here,” she says, then adds, “Also I think Courfeyrac is going to explode if he has to wait much longer to pester you.”

By the way she says ‘pester’, Grantaire knows she means ‘interrogate’. Honestly, it’s a miracle he hasn’t just hopped into the blanket fort to see for himself yet. Probably why they sent Eponine on this little message delivery mission instead. Courfeyrac would probably just hop in and go off.

“We’ll be right out,” Enjolras says, clearly also understanding the actual meaning of the word ‘pester’ by the way he’s smiling, amused and affectionate. Eponine nods, and moves to close the blanket fort ‘door’, only to re-open it a second later.

“I think I’ve earned an ‘I told you so’,” she says, leveling a mild smile Grantaire’s way. He’s still trying to will away his embarrassed flush, but whatever he’d managed to get under control comes immediately back in full force.

“You have,” he says, and adds, hopeful, “But luckily you’re a wonderful friend who would never stoop to that level?”

“Oh honey, I live on that level,” Eponine replies, dryly, “But lucky for you, I am a wonderful friend, so I’ll rise above it. For now.”

She turns her gaze to Enjolras instead, and adds, in a tone like tinted glass, “Treat him right.”

The ‘or else’ is silent.

Grantaire starts to say something like ‘you’re not my overprotective dad, ‘Ponine,’ but before he can, Enjolras has already spoken.

“I will,” he says, with all the conviction he’s capable of. Which is, for the record, a fucking lot.

Eponine nods, satisfied, and finally actually lets the blanket door fall shut.

Grantaire hears her retreating footsteps as she goes back to the dining room through the gentle murmur of conversation that’s picked up. He doesn’t really want to move. The inside of the fort feels a bit like a dream. An insulated pocket dimension where the impossible is somehow possible.

But they can’t just stay in here forever.

Enjolras is the first to go. He sits up, and moves to the front of the fort, making no attempt to really straighten out his shirt, or his hair, which are both mussed to a degree that will probably be immediately obvious to all of their friends.

He pushes the blanket door up and away, and moves to stand, stepping just outside the fort, and Grantaire watches him go, feeling oddly stuck, waiting for the blanket to flap closed again.

Instead, though, Enjolras holds it open. Grantaire can see him bend slightly, looking back into the fort, and then extending a hand.

“Coming, R?” he asks.

Grantaire looks at the hand being offered, at long fingers, splayed, and welcoming, and an odd sense of relief washes over him at the sight. At the gesture. He finds himself smiling, moving without any more hesitation to take Enjolras’ hand.

“Sure you haven’t changed your mind?” he says, as he lets himself be pulled up and out. Enjolras waits until he’s standing to respond, but even then doesn’t drop his hand, just adjusts his grip, threading their fingers together with purpose.

“I don’t do that very often,” he says, an echo from the other night. His smile is sure, and warm, and his hand is clasping Grantaire’s tight. And this time, Grantaire is able to take it for what it is: simple, steady reassurance.

He returns the squeeze, savoring the simple pressure of palms pressed and fingers interlocked, and replies, “I know.”

From the dining room, Courfeyrac spots them, and his face quickly splits into a grin. He waves them over, already talking at them at a breakneck speed, which draws the attention of everyone else at the table, including Bea, who’s sitting on Cosette’s lap, but wastes no time in also beginning to babble at them from across the house, her voice and Courf’s merging into an absolute cacophony of gibberish.

The rest of their friends are quiet, but wait, expectant and welcoming, and Grantaire steps forward, pulling Enjolras behind him back to the dining room, the tentative assurance from yesterday blooming stronger, and more sure with every step he takes back to the dining room.

Back to his family.

Chapter Text

The One Page More new and used bookstore is a cramped, unassuming brick building in the heart of a downtown shopping district, which against all odds is now regularly frequented by a number of friendly faces.

And that is exactly how Grantaire likes it.

It’s a Friday, at the very beginning of June, and one of the most beloved of said friendly faces is due at any minute. A fact which nearly makes the fact that summer has reared its ugly head early bearable.

Grantaire is sitting, as usual, on his stool by the register, leaning in time to follow the flimsy stream of cool air coming from a small fan on the counter.

The One Page More does have a little air conditioning. It’s a necessary expense to keep the books in good shape. But, unfortunately, Grantaire would rather die of heat stroke than wear shorts to work. Black jeans may not be good summer attire, but they’re what he’s got to work with, and by now, he’s more or less resigned himself to suffering for two to three months.

Eponine (whose outfits are always dark, no matter the season) has taken to hanging out with him by the register whenever she can as the heat picks up. She’s leaning beside him now, pressing a plastic to-go cup full of ice to her neck and cheeks, and boiling alive for the very worthy cause of looking hot and goth all summer long.

She’s been humoring him for half an hour, playing Exquisite Corpse on the backs of discarded flyers for the One Page More’s summer reading program.

There’s a little pile of monstrosities sitting in between their elbows, extra monstrous today since when it’s only adults playing, Eponine doesn’t have to hold back on making her halves as cosmically horrific as possible.

She pushes away their most recent abomination (a stork-legged jumble of what looks like nothing but a mish mash of eyes and teeth) and holds out her hand for another sheet. Grantaire dutifully hands her a pre-folded paper.

“Do your worst, ‘Ponine,” he says, twirling his own pen between his fingers. Eponine raises an eyebrow at him, challenging.

“I’m gonna draw a dick, then,” Eponine replies, deadpan, taking the page from him, “The hottest schlong you’ve ever seen.”

“No dicks,” Grantaire replies, “Too easy. Everyone and their grandma can draw a dick and call it a day. It’s probably the most-drawn thing per-capita in the entire fucking world.”

“What, is that in the rule book?” she asks, but starts drawing anyway, hiding her work with her arm.

“It’s an unspoken rule,” Grantaire says, turning his attention to his own page.

“Maybe someone should have spoken it then,” Eponine replies airily, her pen moving in a long, suspiciously phallic line over the paper behind her arm.

“I just did,” Grantaire says, trying and failing to keep a serious expression.

“Too late, R. It’s already in motion.”

Grantaire snorts, and puts his own pen to paper.

A couple of minutes later, Grantaire’s attention is yanked away from drawing the lower half of Eponine’s probable dick abomination by the bell on the front door of the shop jingling. He immediately perks up, dropping his pen in the process.

Enjolras walks through the door, right on time, as usual, hooking a pair of sunglasses on the collar of his light short-sleeved button up.

Golden summer sun is pouring through the front windows of the bookshop, bathing him in light, and raising pink high on his cheekbones. Enjolras’ face splits into a warm smile when his eyes meet Grantaire’s, which in turn makes the butterflies that have taken up permanent residence in Grantaire’s stomach take flight.

It’s been just over six months since he and Enjolras started dating, and sometimes Grantaire still can’t believe it’s real.

Something cold suddenly touches the back of his neck, snapping him out of his trance.

Grantaire yelps, and smacks the affected spot, only to see Eponine pulling her ice cup away with a smirk.

“Oops,” she deadpans, “I slipped.”

Grantaire was already slightly flushed from the heat. Now, he feels that flush deepen with embarrassment at the noise that just came out of him.

“How’s it going Mr. Enjolras J.D. Esquire?” Eponine asks, expertly lifting and swerving the cup away from Grantaire when he tries to swipe it away from her.

Today was Enjolras’ final class.

Him passing every one of them is a foregone conclusion at this point. And with no intention of going to the actual graduation ceremony, (with all of its ‘literal pomp and circumstance’, as Enjolras put it), he, and all of their friends are considering him graduated already. It’s really just a matter of when he can pick up his diploma.

“Technically, only the ‘Juris Doctor’ addition is applicable,” Enjolras corrects, making his way to the counter in only a few long strides, “‘Esquire’ is an optional addition after passing the bar exam.”

“Well hurry it up,” Eponine says, “‘Esquire’ will really lock in the pretentious vibe.”

Enjolras wrinkles his nose at that, probably considering not taking the bar at all just to avoid giving Eponine that ammunition. A beat later, though, he turns his attention again to Grantaire, who’s still trying in vain to grab Eponine’s ice cup.

"Hi, R," he says, and immediately Grantaire’s attention is pulled back to him, as it always is, with irresistible magnetic force. Grantaire had thought that maybe it’d dampen once they’d been dating a while. But, he supposes if it hadn’t after a fucking decade, it isn’t liable to do so any time soon.

Grantaire stops flailing for the cup, and looks instead at his boyfriend.

"Hello to you t—" he starts to say, cut off almost immediately as Enjolras ducks in, and kisses him, slow and sweet. The end of his sentence peters out into nothing, falling away in time with his eyes falling shut.

Every time he’s kissed, Grantaire’s heart still feels like it’s bursting, whether it’s a quick peck to say hello, or deep, unhurried kisses the morning after a sleepover. Every time, every single goddamn time, he feels like he’s melting from the inside out.

It’s too much. It’s perfect. He will never get enough of it.

Eponine makes a gagging sound beside them.

“God, it’s like you don’t even care about the sign,” she says, once Enjolras pulls away.

She gestures to the sign in question, a simple piece of printer paper covered in deliberate, thick strokes of a Sharpie that read ‘ABSOLUTELY NO PDA’.

Javert put it up a few months back, directed at literally no one besides Grantaire and Enjolras.

A couple weeks after he and Enjolras had started dating, Enjolras had come in as usual for lunch, and seemed to finally notice that the politics and religious books sections are mixed. He’d asked about it, and Grantaire, giddy with the opportunity to try his luck with this joke again after it hadn’t landed with Javert all those years ago, had sighed melodramatically, and said,

“People really just don’t give enough of a fuck about the separation of church and state. It’s a goddamn travesty.”

Enjolras had stared for a moment, and then proceeded to grab Grantaire by the front of his apron, shove him against one of the shelves in question, and kiss him so thoroughly he saw stars.

Grantaire had learned two things that day:

1. Enjolras really, really likes it when he makes blatantly political jokes, and
2. Javert does not take kindly to finding his employees engaging in, quote, ‘a flagrant display of casual blasphemy,’ by making out against approximately twenty five copies of the bible.

Javert probably would have taken it better if they’d been against the political books instead, but he thinks Enjolras might actually combust if he found out they’d been kissing on top of ‘An American Life’, the Ronald Reagan autobiography.

“‘Unjust laws are meant to be broken’, and all that jazz,” Grantaire says, which makes Enjolras look like he very badly wants to pull Grantaire to the nearest shelf and have a repeat incident.

Eponine just sighs.

“Can’t you two ever just flirt like normal people?” she asks.

“I dunno, ‘Ponine," Grantaire says, a grin tugging at his mouth. He jerks his thumb towards Enjolras, "Let me consult with my lawyer."

He’s been fucking dying to be able to use this bit. For months. And frankly he thinks he deserves an award for being able to wait until Enjolras actually finished classes to do so.

It earns him another sigh from Eponine, and an eye roll from Enjolras. Though it’s accompanied by the barest hint of a smile.

Grantaire stands on his toes, leaning over the counter, ignoring the eyeroll Enjolras still has in progress, and murmurs into his ear, “Habeus corpus, mens rea, something, something, legal jargon.”

Enjolras nods as if he’s taking in crucial information, the corners of his mouth twitching with a barely withheld smile. After, he turns, apparently willing to play along, much to Grantaire’s delight, and leans to whisper something back into his ear.

He expects a similar string of nonsense. Maybe some legal terms that Grantaire doesn’t know, but instead, Enjolras just murmurs,

“You look gorgeous today.”

Grantaire feels himself flush from his neck to the very tips of his ears. He pulls back, heartbeat stuttering, and when he catches the cheeky, pleased smile Enjolras is giving him, he rests his elbows on the counter, and buries his burning face in his hands.

It still takes practice for Grantaire to not respond to compliments like that with self-deprecation. But, much to Grantaire's chagrin, Enjolras has made it his mission to give him many, many opportunities to get said practice.

He still struggles to believe that Enjolras actually means what he says, in that regard. A sticky kind of doubt still hangs on every time he's called any variation of handsome, or beautiful, or…all of the types of things Grantaire thinks about Enjolras all the time. Because, frankly, the idea that they’re even close to a level playing field in the looks department is asinine.

But…Enjolras is never lying when he says things like that. Never. A fact which baffles Grantaire as much as it makes his heart squeeze.

“You can’t just do that,” he mumbles weakly, speaking to nothing but a day-old swipe of paint on his palm, "It's illegal. Fucking illegal."

"What was that about unjust laws?" Enjolras replies, voice still low and now with an edge of satisfaction to it, which only makes Grantaire dissolve even deeper into a pile of curly haired, somewhat paint-stained mush, muttering indistinct oaths under his breath.

Enjolras is already turning again to Eponine, not even missing a beat.

“I’ve advised my client not to speak,” he says, through a very good impression of his serious face.

“Jesus fucking christ,” Eponine groans, “Disgusting. The both of you.”

Despite her words, when Grantaire is finally able to show his face again, he can see that she's smiling. It's small, but it's there. She pushes off of the counter a moment later, setting her ice cup down and going to clock out for her lunch.

Once Grantaire has marginally recovered from being a pile of goo, he does the same, only taking a moment to glare (read: stare, lovingly) back at Enjolras before he does, still completely red-faced.

When he gets back, Eponine is gone, and Enjolras is waiting for him. He’s looking over the little pile of exquisite corpse drawings.

“I see you two have been keeping busy,” he says, eyeing the many, many repurposed summer reading flyers with a small smile.

“It’s too damn hot to work,” Grantaire says, “Do you expect me to touch books right now? I’d just sweat all over them. No one wants a sweaty book.”

Enjolras hums, and picks up the topmost paper, unfolding it fully.

“Might want to hide this one,” he says, “I don’t think Javert would approve.”

On the bottom, Grantaire’s half-finished drawing of a pair of skinny legs with very knobbly knees. On top, of course, Eponine’s best rendition of a dick. As threatened.

It’s gloriously detailed, and just as eldritch styled as any of the other drawings Eponine did today. Honestly, it’s pretty fucking impressive, horrifying as it is.

Grantaire takes the abomination out of Enjolras’ hand, folds it, and stuffs it into his apron pocket, making a mental note to put it in Eponine’s station before she gets back from lunch.

“Nice catch,” he says, “Thanks.”

“Any time,” Enjolras replies, the corners of his mouth twitching with a barely repressed smile.

Grantaire takes the opportunity to reach out and take Enjolras’ hand, pulling him towards what has been cemented permanently in his mind as ‘their spot’ in the cafe.

“Ready for Sunday?” he asks as they walk.

Sundays are still reserved for book club. It’s going strong—Grantaire’s bookshelf has literally never seen this much action, nor variety—but this week, the regular book club discussion has been waived in favor of a party.

They have two big reasons to celebrate. One being Enjolras’ graduation, obviously, and the other being Bea’s eighth birthday.

Technically, her birthday isn’t until Monday, the 6th. But Grantaire already has plans with Eponine and Gavroche for her actual birthday. They have their own traditions, solidified years before their return to the ABC. And besides, Enjolras’ graduation needs celebrating too. So, a joint celebration on Sunday, the 5th, had been decided upon instead.

“I am,” Enjolras replies. He allows himself to be pulled by Grantaire, eyes on their clasped hands, “I still don’t think we need to make any fuss about my graduation, though. I’m more than happy to let it just be about Bea.”

“You’re graduating from fucking law school, Enj,” Grantaire pushes back, “That’s a big deal. Not many people can say they’ve done that.”

Enjolras pauses, lips pressed into a thin line.

“It usually doesn't take people an extra two years, though,” he says eventually.

There’s an element of barely disguised shame in his tone, covered almost entirely by the seriousness with which he says it. It’s not enough to hide it from Grantaire, who in the past six months has become intimately familiar with Enjolras’ expressions and tones. More so now than ever before, now that he’s actively encouraged to ask what they mean when he isn’t sure.

For someone so obsessed with making meaningful change, Enjolras is not actually that good at giving himself credit when it’s due. Or, knowing when what he’s done is enough, for that matter.

Grantaire knows for a fact that he’s already started reaching out to union contacts to see if anyone needs representation. If Enjolras had his way, he probably would actually get away with no celebration at all.

Even in high school, the few times one of the ABC’s projects had borne any kind of fruit, he’d never take credit himself, always deflecting it to the group as a whole, and then moving onto the next thing.

No matter how much Enjolras does, he will never be satisfied. Not until the entire, literal Earth is free, probably. He’s always on to the next project. The next cause. He’s always trying to do more.

It’s an admirable impulse. But it’s also exactly why Enjolras’ burnout is able to fester and grow like it has in the past. He seems to have been getting better as the end of classes drew close, but there’s nothing to say it won’t get worse again.

Getting worse, Grantaire knows, is much, much easier than getting better.

Grantaire stops, just shy of their usual table, and turns to face Enjolras again.

“It’s a big accomplishment,” he says, firm and sure, “You’re allowed—nay, fucking required—to be proud of your work.”

Enjolras gives him a look that’s a perfect blend of embarrassment and indignation, and tries to argue, but Grantaire interrupts him by stepping forward and leaning up to kiss him again, insistent.

“Just once,” he says, once they part, “Fucking once, Enj, Take a breath, and let yourself be proud of what you did.”

Enjolras’ cheeks are pink, brows still pinched. But a beat later, he relents.

“Alright,” he says, squeezing Grantaire’s hand tight, “I will.”

Grantaire smiles, relieved.

“Say it for me all together,” he prompts, his grin going a little more shit-eating. Enjolras rolls his eyes at him, the tips of his ears going pinker.

“It’s a big accomplishment,” he says, “And I should be proud.”

“You are proud,” Grantaire corrects.

“I am proud,” Enjolras says softly, his voice having gone much more vulnerable than it was moments ago.

“Good,” Grantaire says. He squeezes Enjolras’ hand one more time, and then pulls them the rest of the way to their usual table.

“Now, before I praise you some more, because you deserve it, I squirreled away some of Montparnasse’s batch of cold brew,” he says, nudging Enjolras to sit, “Want some?”

Enjolras sits, settling his bag down at his feet, and looking up at Grantaire with such open affection he feels scalded.

Six months. Six fucking months, and Enjolras is still absolutely blinding.

“I’d love some,” he says, finally relaxing into his chair, “Thank you.”

Grantaire turns on his heel to get it, not even trying to hide the ridiculous, dopey grin taking up most of his face.

~~

“Dad, come on,” Bea pleads. She’s bouncing on the balls of her feet, shoes already tied and ready to go out the door, “You’re so slow, we need to go!”

They do not, in fact, need to go. Not right this instant.

Grantaire is not dressed yet, having stayed in his pajamas as long as he possibly could this fine Sunday morning.

“I’m getting there, bug,” he says, padding from the kitchen, past his frantically bouncing daughter, to his bedroom, “I promise, I’m going as fast as I can.”

He steps to his dresser, yanking open drawers, and starting to pull out clothes. His muscles complain as he bends down, but he smiles at the ache.

Saturdays are his self care day by necessity. Sometimes that means an extended session with his therapist, Jeanne. Sometimes it means painting for a few hours, and forcing himself not to care about if what he makes is any good.

Yesterday, it meant boxing with Bahorel for three hours, earning himself a litany of bruises, and some very, very sore muscles.

He winces as he pulls on a t-shirt over some older marks, and some new, tender spots that haven’t quite darkened yet.

His room is in many ways transformed from how it was only half a year ago; formerly sparse, and fairly impersonal, it’s slowly become a carefully curated mess.

Boxing gloves hang from his desk chair. Newly bought prints, some of Bea’s artwork, of course, and now, even some of his own work, fills an increasing amount of real estate on his walls.

He’s run out of sticky tack, which is just about the only thing keeping any space open.

Grantaire finishes pulling on his clothes (black jeans, and his World’s Greatest Dad Bod tee, today) and stretches, popping his back with a groan before finally heading back out to the living room where his daughter is waiting.

“Finally,” she says, as if they aren’t still running early.

Grantaire raises an eyebrow at her, and just to be a shit, slows his walk to the shoe rack to a snail’s pace. It earns him a frustrated cry from Bea, who promptly rushes up behind him and starts actually pushing him to the door. Grantaire lets her, laughing, and only stopping to grab his keys and slide his shoes on.

Bea alternates between pushing and pulling him all the way out the apartment and into the car, When they get in, Grantaire manages to sneak a text to Enjolras to let him know they’ll be a few minutes early before Bea loses patience and just hops into the driver’s seat herself.

Because Enjolras is amazing, he’s waiting by the curb when they show up. Smart on his part; Grantaire’s pretty sure Bea wouldn’t be above frog-marching him to the car herself if she had to.

Enjolras is at the door before the car has even fully stopped, and slides into the passenger seat like he always does: like he belongs there.

The moment he’s buckled and the usual greetings are exchanged, Enjolras leans over and presses a quick kiss to Grantaire’s lips, which leaves him fighting a stupid love-struck grin, and leaves Bea feigning a gag in the back seat. (A mannerism Grantaire is fairly certain she picked up from Eponine sometime a few months ago.)

Enjolras takes the sound as his cue to break the kiss, smiling as he turns back to Bea, and suddenly produces a little gift bag from his messenger bag.

“Happy birthday, Bea,” he says, extending his peace offering. Bea immediately drops her disgusted face and perks up, grabbing the bag and pulling it into her lap. In an instant, the sound of tearing tissue paper takes over the car.

“Wanted to get ahead of the crowd, huh?” Grantaire teases, pulling them away from the curb again and back onto the familiar roads to Jehan and Courfeyrac’s house, “Aiming to improve your standing in the Bea’s Bestie Bracket?”

Enjolras huffs a laugh beside him, which is decidedly not a denial.

From the back seat, Bea squeals with delight, finally extricating her gifts from the bag. Glancing in the rear view mirror, Grantaire sees she’s holding a clip on reading light, and a small stack of what look like stickers. When she shifts her hand, he can see that they’re meant to be the planets, Saturn's rings sticking out from the stack.

Those are about to be stuck all over their apartment. And possibly Jehan’s house. Grantaire can already feel it.

Bea thanks him gleefully without need of a reminder, and promptly buries herself in admiring her new treasures.

“Word of advice,” Grantaire says to Enjolras, glancing at him wryly, “You’ll have a lot of parents coming after you with pitchforks if you give their kids stickers.”

“What?” Enjolras says, “Why?”

In answer, Grantaire just nods to the backseat, where Bea has just finished peeling up Mercury, and smacking it directly onto the car door beside her.

“...Oh.” says Enjolras.

Grantaire laughs. This car has seen a lot worse than some planet stickers, so he really couldn’t care less, but he’s not one to miss a chance to make fun of his boyfriend. Enjolras looks a little sheepish when he glances over next.

He’s adorable.

It’s a crime Grantaire can’t kiss him right now.

Instead, he drops his right hand from the steering wheel and takes Enjolras’ hand, giving it a squeeze. Enjolras returns the pressure without an ounce of hesitation.

It’s jarring, even now, just how routine it’s become to do so. How easily Enjolras fit directly into this space, once Grantaire was able to leave it open.

Enjolras’ grip is firm and steady, as it always is. His thumb brushes along Grantaire’s slightly bruised knuckles every so often, an absentminded motion kept up even as they all chat.

He keeps Grantaire’s hand in his for the whole drive.

~~

Once parked in front of Jehan’s, they all clamber out of the car. Grantaire is about to move to take Enjolras’ hand again, but Bea beats him to it. As soon as she’s scrambled out onto concrete, she’s at Enjolras’ side, and holding her arms up, making insistent grabby hands.

The first time she’d done it, Enjolras hadn’t known what to do. But by now, he knows it’s a request—or, more accurately, a demand—to be picked up. A demand which he readily gives in to, bending down and scooping her up with nothing but a soft grunt.

Bea wraps her arms around his neck, and rests her chin on his shoulder. As soon as she’s settled, she shoots Grantaire a look that can only be described as smug.

Grantaire raises an eyebrow, smiling at his daughter.

Sometimes, he thinks she must have a genetic predisposition to be a little shit. And that, he knows he can’t blame on anyone but himself.

“You’re gonna be too big to do that soon,” he says.

It’s true enough; Grantaire is stronger than Enjolras is, and even he struggles sometimes. Although, his renewed practice of boxing might extend his abilities a little longer.

“You’re being a defeatist, R,” Enjolras says, even as he has to heft her to a better position so they don’t topple over. Bea laughs, squeezing her arms tighter around Enjolras’ neck.

“Yeah, a defeatist, dad,” she parrots.

“Do you even know what that word means?” Grantaire asks, shoving his hands in his pockets. Bea doesn’t even hesitate before nodding.

“A grump,” she says, with the confidence of someone who hasn’t even considered they might be wrong. But honestly, as far as a child’s definition goes, it’s not as far off as it could be.

“Very close,” Enjolras says, apparently thinking the same thing Grantaire is. He proceeds to give her the correct definition, and use it in a sentence so she can use it as accurately as possible.

Once he’d become aware that she actually uses vocabulary she hears from him, Grantaire is fairly certain that it became Enjolras’ mission to teach her as much as possible. It’s a mission that has borne a lot of fucking fruit, in the sense that his daughter is now a little ball energy with an absolute wealth of political words and phrases to use whenever she sees fit.

He’s given up on trying to explain to Bea’s teachers when they ask why she’s at recess spouting off about ‘class solidarity’ from the top of the jungle gym, or prodding her classmates to share the fancy scented markers with everyone to achieve ‘an equitable distribution of wealth’.

Maybe someday Enjolras will want to come with him to those parent teacher meetings, too. Then he can explain for himself.

The thought makes him smile. It also makes his stomach swoop with an odd mixture of anxiety and hope, the latter of which he does his best not to tamp down.

He thinks he’s getting better at that. Slowly, sure, but still.

Since Enjolras’ arms are full of Bea, Grantaire is the one to open the door. He does so with as much flourish as he can manage, waving a hand out to usher them in and giving a mock bow. Enjolras scoffs, and the tips of his ears go pink.

“Is that really necessary?” he asks as Bea giggles against his shoulder.

“Um, yes,” Grantaire says, grinning, “You’re the guests of honor today.”

It earns him an eye roll, and Enjolras opens his mouth to argue, only to shut it again the moment he actually looks inside the house. Grantaire catches the exact moment he realizes exactly how big of a deal their friends are going to make out of today. Enjolras’ eyes go wide, and the pink at the tips of his ears spreads down to his neck.

Grantaire’s grin grows, and he uses his boyfriend’s moment of shock to let go of the door, and gently push him the rest of the way inside.

The entryway is somehow even more colorful than it usually is. There are long rainbow streamers tacked up amidst the paper butterflies on the ceiling now, balloons are in every corner, music is blasting from a stereo somewhere in the apartment. And right at the end of the entryway, just above the stolen gender neutral kitchen door, la pièce de résistance: a banner reading “CONGRADU-8-TIONS” in big, glittery bubble letters.

Courfeyrac had been particularly proud of that little bit of word fuckery. The banner’s contents had been hotly debated in the private party planning text groups, with inclusivity of both milestones being of key importance.

Speak of the devil—the moment the door closes, Courfeyrac pops his head out from the kitchen door, and when he sees Enjolras and Bea, grins a Cheshire grin and shouts, “They’re here!” back into the kitchen.

Excited voices pour out of the kitchen, and soon their friends follow suit. Courf is the first to step out, immediately coming right up to Enjolras and Bea.

“You’ve made this very easy for me, thank you,” he says, and before the ‘what’ that’s forming on Enjolras’ lips can escape, Courf has surged forward and tugged him (and by extension Bea) into a smothering hug. Enjolras makes a little strangled noise of surprise, at the same moment Bea makes a soft ‘oof!’.

“Careful, Courfeyrac, you’re crushing Bea!” Cosette calls, having just stepped out into the entryway with, of course, Marius close behind.

“I’m okay!” Bea calls back from the crush of curls, words broken by little giggles.

“See, she’s fine!” Courf says, rocking all three of them side to side slightly, and Cosette’s face does soften.

Cosette looks about ready to pop; her baby is due within the next couple of months, and she’s taken to motherhood with an excitement that’s infectious. Grantaire has seen her when she sits alone, one hand pressed to the front of her stomach waiting for a kick, and cooing gently to it.

Or rather, to her. Little Fantine, as was revealed officially a couple of months ago.

Grantaire already has her and Marius loaded up with hand-me-down shit. He regrets not keeping more, but in his defense, his apartment isn’t huge, and cribs definitely are. Luckily, it doesn’t matter all that much. According to Cosette, her dad is both fucking loaded and apparently determined to bankrupt himself making her and her baby comfortable.

Right now, she’s got one hand for support on the small of her back, and the other resting protectively on her stomach.

“Well let her go soon,” she says, looking to be almost pouting, “I want to be the first to give her a gift.”

Grantaire hisses sympathetically through his teeth.

“Enj beat you to it already,” he says. Technically, Grantaire had beaten all of them to it; he’d given Bea her gift—a little shopping spree through the One Page More—the week before. But he doesn’t think saying so will help right now. Cosette already looks devastated at the news.

Enjolras smiles at her, looking sheepish but not in the least apologetic as Courf finally lets go and steps back, readjusting Bea in his arms.

“Well, better second than last I guess,” Cosette pouts. She turns her attention to Bea after, brightening again as she says, “It’s in the living room when you’re ready, Bea.”

Bea, grinning with excitement, turns to Enjolras and starts to wriggle, giving a meaningful look at the ground. He, thankfully, gets the hint, and begins to bend at the knees to set Bea down gently onto the hardwood floor. Even once she’s flat on her feet and settled, though, she doesn’t let go, holding on just a moment longer to hug Enjolras around the neck. They are a muddle of curls, Enjolras’ head like a sun peeking over dark clouds.

She holds on for a couple of seconds, and then says something to him quietly, which from where Grantaire’s standing a couple of feet away, sounds an awful lot like, “Thanks, dad.”

Bea is bounding off toward the living room a split second later, her gifts from Enjolras still clutched in small fingers, and for a moment Grantaire isn’t sure if he misheard her.

Judging by the fact that when Grantaire turns to look at him again, Enjolras’ face is doing its best impression of a very flustered tomato, he didn’t.

A beat passes, and suddenly Enjolras’ eyes dart to him, wide and hesitant, but—

Hopeful.

His expression seems to be asking in equal measure, ‘Did you hear that?’ and ‘Is this okay?’ And any worry Grantaire might have felt is swept away in an instant.

He finds himself smiling, giddy relief flooding his senses. He holds out a hand to help Enjolras back up, and as soon as he’s standing, tugs him closer and presses a kiss to his cheek, trying to convey silently,

‘I’m okay if you’re okay.’

They’ll have to talk about it properly. Just to be safe. But for now, Grantaire just savors the way Enjolras smiles, soft and excited, like having Grantaire’s kid call him dad is the best gift he could receive.

“I hate to interrupt,” says Courf, “but Bea isn’t the only one getting gifts today.”

That gets Enjolras’ attention.

“Courf,” he starts, sounding equal parts exasperated and embarrassed, “I told you not to–”

“When have I literally ever listened to you when you say you don’t want gifts?” Courf interrupts, waving a dismissive hand in between them. He darts that same hand out and grabs Enjolras’ wrist (before he can try to run, presumably), and then turns to Grantaire.

“I’ll bring him back soon,” he says, but Grantaire just laughs, waving them off.

“No, no, take your time,” he says, “Spoil him as much as you want.”

Courf beams at him, and proceeds to tug Enjolras towards the dining room.

Enjolras casts a look back at him that screams, ‘Traitor’. Grantaire just blows him a kiss that turns his ears pink, and watches him and Courf until they disappear into the other room.

Once he’s alone, he sets to making himself busy. He admires all the decorations, stops into the kitchen where Bahorel, Joly and Bossuet are not-so-subtly stealing swipes of frosting out of a mixing bowl—Joly promises they washed their hands—and finally finds himself in the living room, a paper cup full of too-sweet soda clasped in one hand.

Bea is still there; having already opened her gift from Cosette—bright green dino feet slippers, apparently, which are already on her feet—she’s just turned her sights to where Combeferre is sitting with Eponine. She’s babbling away before she’s even reached them, shoving the Mars planet sticker from her new sticker pack directly into Combeferre’s hands once she’s close enough.

Combeferre grins and takes it, appearing to take his time admiring the little sticker, and then pointing to a spot on the planet and starting to talk to her.

Ever since Combeferre gave Bea a huge book of space facts for the holidays, the two have become much, much closer. Once Bea realized that she had a veritable encyclopedia of science facts literally right there, and Combeferre realized that he had the most willing little scientist to impart that knowledge to, the two started spending a lot more time talking to each other at meetings.

Combeferre has also warmed up to Grantaire significantly since he and Enjolras figured everything out. A fact which has led to Grantaire understanding even more clearly Enjolras' side of the story.

He'd given Grantaire a similar speech to the one Eponine had given Enjolras: a simple reminder to treat his best friend right, with an additional caveat.

Combeferre had pulled him aside at the tail end of the meeting, the same day he and Enjolras had finally gotten together. He’d been gentle, but serious.

“I think he was about a week out from discovering Taylor Swift's discography,” Combeferre had said, both of them watching Enjolras and Bea talking together over their respective cartons of Chinese food, “He really, really likes you. Do him the courtesy of not doubting that. Please.”

Grantaire is trying his best to respect that. To respect Enjolras, and to trust him, even though the idea of Enjolras pining over him still feels ridiculous.

He does still have moments of doubt, sometimes. Moments where he can’t help but get lost, suddenly aware of every second that’s passing, and wondering if they’re just ticking towards an ending that he’s forcing himself not to prepare for.

On days when he starts to think like that, when doubt seeps in, and bad ends start to feel like inevitabilities, he digs through his night stand and pulls out four ruled note cards, crowded front and back with Enjolras’ cramped handwriting.

He’s read each one many times, with their litany of bullet points, and painstakingly crafted arguments, complete with citations.

Fucking citations. Grantaire somehow landed the biggest, most amazing nerd on the planet.

But no matter how many times he reads them, it still makes his chest feel full enough to burst, when he gets to the last card. It’s the only one not completely covered in text, and reads simply:

Closing argument:

I believe in you. I believe in us.
I hope you can too.

And usually, it's enough to push that doubt away.

He’s broken from his reverie by Jehan, who taps his shoulder with one painted finger to get his attention. Grantaire turns to look at them, and grins. Today, they’ve chosen to wear a rather poofy white skirt with bright pink trim, a matching poofy sleeved top, and dangling earrings in the shape of candles. The ensemble gives the impression that Jehan is a walking, talking cake.

Grantaire is fairly certain they have actual sprinkles in their hair.

“You really have something for everything, don’t you,” Grantaire says, hoping he sounds as impressed as he feels.

“Everything but business casual,” they say, giving a little twirl.

“Fuck that oxymoronic standard of dress,” Grantaire says, nodding sagely, and Jehan beams at him.

He notices the little Earth sticker poking out of one of the pockets of Jehan’s frilly pinafore. Bea got to them too, apparently. She’s not going to have any stickers left by the end of the day.

“Enjolras is in the kitchen with Courf last I checked, if you need to give him a gift,” he says, nodding his head towards the kitchen, assuming that they didn’t listen to the gift ban either. None of their friends are likely to.

Grantaire hadn’t listened either, but his gift is one better given in private later tonight. And he won’t say as much in polite company.

“I’ll catch him later,” Jehan chirps, confirming Grantaire’s theory, which makes him smile into his cup as he takes another sip.

The song playing changes to something with a stronger beat. It makes Grantaire’s foot tap on instinct, and hum idly into his cup.

At that moment, Jehan seems struck with inspiration; they perk up, looking at Grantaire’s tapping foot, and suddenly they’re in front of him, bouncing on the balls of their feet and holding their hands out to him.

Grantaire looks down at the proffered hands and raises his eyebrows.

Jehan huffs.

“I remember winter formal, I know you can dance,” they say, beckoning with their hands to emphasize their point. A slow smile creeps onto Grantaire’s face.

“Gotta make up for missing prom sometime, I guess,” he offers, setting his paper cup down on the nearest coaster.

“Damn right you do!” Jehan replies, and then swings him to the center of the living room with so much gusto that sprinkles go flying.

From then on, Grantaire lets himself get lost in the fun of it all.

Music thumps, friends dance, games are played. At some point, someone (Courf, he thinks?) put a little green cone-shaped party hat on him, and Grantaire hasn’t bothered to remove it. Every now and again, someone approaches Bea with an offering and she tears into wrapping paper with all the joy and vigor it deserves.

Enjolras gets more gifts too (as expected, everyone seems to have unanimously ignored his insistence he didn’t need any, as they should) but he’s a lot more subtle about it, choosing to go off and sit with each person in turn and offer his quiet thanks. At this rate, his face is going to be stained pink, Grantaire is sure of it.

After a couple of hours, Jehan breaks the cacophony of conversations and music by clapping their hands, and calling everyone together in the dining room for cake. His friends dutifully shuffle in, Bea and Gavroche leading the charge towards dessert.

Grantaire, not as tempted by the siren’s song of sugar, watches from the far side of the dining room as Jehan cuts into the cake, and starts handing out slices over the fae-monopoly-board-monstrosity table. Bea was given the first slice, and has already eaten a good amount of it, even with how quickly she’s chattering to Jehan and Eponine in between bites.

He’s not in a rush for cake himself. He’s having just as much fun just watching his daughter, surrounded by his friends and a myriad of opened gifts.

Up until now, birthdays have had to be a pretty small affair.

There had been years, especially when Bea was very young, that he couldn’t really afford to get her anything at all. Let alone have an actual party.

If he could, he’d give her the world. He still can’t do that, so for now he’ll settle for watching her look over her gifts like a dragon’s hoard, surrounded by friends, and shoveling cake into her mouth.

There’s a soft shifting beside him, an arm brushing his, and he looks over, to find Enjolras sliding up to lean against the wall right beside him.

“She’s having fun,” he says, gently. Grantaire hums in agreement, scooting a little closer so that their shoulders are fully pressed together. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Enjolras smile, and then feels him relax into the touch of shoulders.

“She’s gonna get so fucking spoiled,” Grantaire murmurs to him with a smile.

“Is that a bad thing?” Enjolras asks, raising an eyebrow.

“No,” Grantaire replies, “It’s good.”

It’s really, really good.

Enjolras hums his agreement. They stand like that, pressed together as cake is passed around, until Enjolras breaks the easy silence again.

“Are you going to get some cake?”

Grantaire glances up at him, smiling wryly.

“Trying to get rid of me, are you?”

“Never,” Enjolras says, with the usual ease and certainty that still sometimes surprises Grantaire, and then adds, “I just don’t want you to miss out. I think Bea is going back for seconds already.”

One quick glance at the table proves he’s right. Shit. Grantaire’s gonna have to cut her off soon. The last thing this party needs is a sugar rush followed by a sugar crash.

“I don’t see you going for any, either,” he says, deciding that slice number two is a lost cause already. He’ll stop her before she starts on number three. For now, he just bumps Enjolras’ elbow and continues, “It’s partially your cake too, you know. You should be over there getting some, not being a wallflower.”

Enjolras huffs indignantly.

“Don’t act like you wouldn’t be doing the same thing,” he says, then pauses, and adds, “In fact, you literally are doing the same thing.”

“Ah, see, but I’m allowed to be a wallflower,” Grantaire says, “I don’t have anything big to celebrate.”

“I think you have plenty,” Enjolras replies, and oh god, Enjolras suddenly looks like he’s having ideas. Kind ideas. The type of ideas that usually end with Grantaire blushing and feeling like his heart is oozing out of his body.

“Don’t change the subject,” Grantaire says, hoping to divert his boyfriend’s attention before he can start being far too sweet for his own good.

“This is important, though,” Enjolras presses, and oh, this is dangerous. He already looks determined. That’s no good. He looks about three seconds away from making a comprehensive list of Grantaire’s accomplishments, and Grantaire may be working on accepting compliments, but if Enjolras tries that he thinks he might burst into flames.

“Not today,” Grantaire says, hoping it doesn’t sound too much like he’s pleading.

“Why not?” Enjolras presses, “And if not now, when would be the right time?”

That, Grantaire doesn’t answer. Whatever answer he gives, he’s sure Enjolras will hold him to it. So he just looks away, and wonders if pleading the fifth would work right now.

Sensing his reluctance, and never one to back down from a challenge, Enjolras leans back into his field of view.

“I think it’s important that you appreciate how far you’ve come,” he says, with a small, determined smile on his face, “In fact, I think you’re required to be proud of it.”

Grantaire looks at him, his chest doing those funny flips that never seem to stop, and his stomach clenching around the slowly lessening instinct towards self-deprecation.

Grantaire still struggles with self-perception, but even for him it’s hard to deny the shift that he’s gone through over the last decade.

He remembers how he was. How determined he’d been to believe he was beyond repair. That addicting ease nihilism offers seeping its way into every corner of his life, and keeping him stuck, completely fucking convinced that nothing would, or could, ever change.

But even Grantaire, a master of not seeing the forest for the trees, can see that he’s not the same anymore. He’s not.

He’s better.

Not fully, not always. But it’s enough. Because for once, finally, he thinks he might actually stay that way.

Enjolras is still looking at him, though, and Grantaire’s skin is starting to itch, so he grumbles, feeling his neck flush, the traitorous blush quickly creeping towards his face the longer his boyfriend stares.

“I should be proud,” he mutters, forcing the words out.

“You are proud,” Enjolras corrects, with a semi-smug, affectionate look.

This fucker.

Grantaire gasps, placing a hand over his heart in mock offense.

“Are you really using my own pep talk against me right now?” he asks.

“I am,” Enjolras replies, knocking his elbow with Grantaire’s, “And you would do well to listen to yourself. I think you knew what you were talking about.”

Grantaire snorts. When his following silence only gains him a stern stare, he sighs and relents.

“I am proud,” he mumbles. Enjolras gives him another nudge with his elbow, carefully avoiding a fresh bruise on his upper arm.

“I couldn’t hear you.”

“I’m proud! Jesus!” Grantaire repeats, this time in a much clearer, closer approximation of a normal voice. He doubts anyone heard over the general din of the party, but his cheeks get ruddy with embarrassment anyway.

Enjolras—the bastard—is smiling, warm and pleased. Grantaire lifts a hand, scrubbing it over his face, trying and failing to hide the worst of his embarrassment.

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?” he mumbles, peeking past his palm.

“So are you,” Enjolras replies, sounding much too satisfied with himself.

“Yeah,” Grantaire says, “but you like me anyway.”

He was aiming for flippant, but his tone lands somewhere just a little too earnest. Grantaire glances at his boyfriend, nerves getting the better of him, but Enjolras’ face is warm, a pleased smile on his lips. There’s no censure in his tone as he corrects,

“I love you.”

It’s not the first time Enjolras has said so. That had been a few months ago, during the holidays. But Grantaire has yet to experience a diminishing return on its impact.

There was a point in time where his gut instinct would be to doubt he means it. He’s not afraid to admit he’d had a flutter of fear the first time, knee-jerk and icy. But like so many things, Enjolras means it. He means it, and he says it with all the confidence he gives to any one of his causes.

So, Grantaire does the one thing he knows is always the right decision:

He believes him.

He snakes his hand down between them and clasps Enjolras’ tightly, threading their fingers in the way that is against all odds, not just normal, but comfortable.

“I know,” he says, “I love you too.”