Chapter Text
.31st December
Grantaire hasn't seen Enjolras since Boxing Day. Not deliberately - Grantaire doesn't get the luxury of the entire week off so he's been busy picking up extra shifts since everyone else wants the time off, and Enjolras still has to go into the office. (But then again, it's not not-deliberately either, since that's pretty much a normal week for them, but Grantaire's trying not to think about that. Or the half a dozen missed phone calls.)
He considered picking up a New Year's Day shift too, since it'd pay time and a half, but Courf's New Year's Eve party is an immovable tradition. They play Cards Against Humanity. They play truth or dare jenga. They play charades. They drink cheap champagne and turn off all the lights ten seconds before the start of New Year's and then snog random people in the dark. Marius has skipped out on his grandfather's end of year party in favour of Courf's party. Everyone would kill him for having to be all moderate and leaving early.
And honestly, as much as Grantaire is not-really-deliberately avoiding Enjolras, he doesn't really want to miss Courf's New Year's bash, because it's really fucking fun and he loves his friends, and he's not going to let a little bit of relationship troubles get in the way of that.
Well, that's what Grantaire is determined to do right up until he gets there, anyway. Enjolras opens the door wearing the woolly jumper Grantaire had got made for him for Christmas two years ago (he didn't actually knit it, Feuilly did, but Grantaire commissioned it, so it totally counts) and looking cheerful and rumpled and warm. Grantaire doesn't even know how a person can look warm, but Enjolras does.
Enjolras freezes in the doorway, and the happiness just drains out of his face.
"Hey," says Grantaire, stamping his feet against the cold and ignoring the nauseous lurching in his stomach.
"Grantaire."
"Are you going to let me in?" asks Grantaire. They're adults, they can do this. They're both very good at pretending things are fine when they're not.
"I half thought you were going to run away when you saw me," says Enjolras simply, and Grantaire winces, because he supposes he deserves that. But Enjolras does step aside, and stiffly helps him take his coat off and brushes the faintest of kisses against his cheek, so he supposes they're still kind of okay. They still exist, at least. Maybe Enjolras is saving the argument for after the New Year.
Their friends are spread out all over the living room, in various states of fed and drunk, and everyone waves when Grantaire walks in, the tips of his ears tingling from the change in temperature. They shuffle over to make room for him on the floor; he slides in between warm bodies and warmer hearts, and he thinks he can do this.
And, he can. It’s all fine, really, right up until everyone starts talking about what they’re doing after the party. Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta are heading home – there’s a direct bus from here to theirs – and Combeferre and Jehan have already staked claims on the beds in the flat. Bahorel dibs on the sofa, claiming he’s way too big to fit anywhere else.
“Eh, I’ll take the armchair and the footstool,” says Grantaire, and Enjolras frowns at him.
“You’re staying?”
“Um. Yes?”
Enjolras leans in, and says tentatively, “I thought we could spend New Year’s day together.”
“Oh. Alright.” Grantaire raises his voice. “Never mind, scratch that. I’m heading over to Enjolras’s afters. Marius can take the armchair.”
“Not yours?” asks Enjolras hopefully, and God, it’s like he’s not even bothering to be subtle anymore.
“Nooooope.”
“Why not? Mine’s miles away from here.”
“Stop angling for an invitation, you’re never coming over to mine,” says Grantaire, and he meant it to be a joke, but it comes out more serious than he thought it would.
“Oh,” says Enjolras, peeling away from Grantaire. “Oh. Okay.”
Enjolras gets up and panic wells up in Grantaire’s throat but nothing comes out and he watches in mute horror as Enjolras just walks unsteadily away into the kitchen.
“Shit,” says Grantaire, and sinks his face into his hands before pulling himself to his feet. “Urgh.”
They end up huddled around the fridge in Courfeyrac’s kitchen, both of them under the pretense of getting drinks.
"I just don't see why it's a big deal," says Enjolras and Grantaire can see from the way he blinks just a little too often that he's holding back tears of frustration. And yes, he's sure it does suck to be dating someone for months and never get invited over, but – but. Enjolras should trust Grantaire when he says that Enjolras really doesn't want to be at his.
"It's not," says Grantaire, and damn it, he can already feel himself hunching in on himself, building his defences up around himself. "It's not a big deal so please can you stop talking about it?"
"I don't care if it's small or in a bad part of town or whatever," says Enjolras earnestly, and Grantaire knows he's trying to make it better, but he's really not. "I mean, what did you say about mine? As long as there's me and the bed, we don't really need anything else, do we?"
"I don't have a bed," grits out Grantaire.
That takes Enjolras back. He pauses, and then rallies himself. "I don't care. Mattress, futon, whatever. How bad can it be?"
Grantaire lets out an involuntary bark of laughter, barely manages to swallow the next one down. "How – Right, fine. Sure. Let's go over to my place." He gets up, marches out to go grab his coat.
"Right now?" asks Enjolras, startled. He glances at the clock; it's just past eleven, which means the others will be starting on the alcohol and charades soon, starting the countdown to the new year. The streets will be deserted, everyone either already out or tucked inside their houses, watching for the fireworks and festivities soon to go off.
"Yeah," says Grantaire. "You want to see where I live, let's fucking go see where I live. And then we can have fresh fucking starts and all for next year." He's aware he's biting off his words and swearing more than usual, and Enjolras catches his elbow when he rams his arms into his sleeves so roughly he feels the fabric strain.
"Grantaire," says Enjolras gently.
Grantaire pulls away. "Come on," he says brusquely, because he knows as much as Enjolras is concerned about him, he is also far too curious about where Grantaire lives to say no. Grantaire wishes he’d say no.
He steps out into the brisk night air, hears Enjolras quickly saying his farewells and explaining to someone in a low voice so they know where they've gone. He stares up at the cloudless night and lets the wind pull the breath out of his lungs, until he's shivering and gasping and his eyes are watering.
Grantaire starts walking when Enjolras comes out, waiting just long enough for Enjolras to fall in step with him. The buses are running all night since it's New Year's Eve, and he feels Enjolras hesitate when Grantaire walks right past the bus stop. He doesn't actually live that far away, but a fifteen minute walk in the silence of the night, with darkness shrouded around them, feels infinite.
Enjolras holds his hand out at some point, and Grantaire takes it, more relieved at the offer than he wants to admit. Neither of them say anything at how Grantaire's grip gets tighter the longer they walk.
The silence doesn't help quiet his imagination. It's a reasonably nice part of town. There are a lot of young professionals in the area, which is exactly why Grantaire chose it, and he can imagine the observations ricocheting through Enjolras's head. The streets are well-lit, and the houses are large. It's very suburban.
Grantaire stops outside a semi-detatched place, the sort with lace curtains in the window and a tasteful string of lights over the door, twinkling along to a tune of its own. He jerks his head at the door, but makes no move towards it. "There's a nice couple in there," he says, and his voice comes out reasonably steady. "They both commute to work in the city."
Enjolras turns towards him and frowns, probably confused as to why the first thing Grantaire's said since they stepped out is about some random couple.
"So, you know, they both take the underground every day. Not much use for a car, really. They sub-letted me their parking permit."
It takes Enjolras a while to figure out what that means, and he turns almost comically slowly to look at Grantaire with wide eyes. Leaning against the street light, Grantaire shrugs, and points at the car next to them.
“Is this legal?” Enjolras blurts out.
Grantaire’s eyebrows disappear into his beanie. “What, being homeless?” he says dryly.
“I – sorry. Sorry.”
The car's already frost-rimmed, as it has been for the last few weeks, so it takes Grantaire few tries to pry the passenger side door open for Enjolras. "I've got stuff all over the place," says Grantaire. "I don't exactly get many visitors."
He leaves the door open for Enjolras to climb in – and there really is a lot of stuff in there because that's where he leaves clothes when they're done at the coin laundry – and goes round to the driver's seat so he can delay having to see Enjolras's pitying look, and shoves himself in.
Enjolras sits gingerly on the edge of the seat, Grantaire's stuff squished up against his back and his knees knocking against the glove compartment as Grantaire plonks himself down, and kicks a few food wrappers out of the way. He hasn't actually driven the car in a while.
"Make yourself at home," says Grantaire dryly.
Enjolras looks around in slow motion, taking in the thermos stuffed between the seat and the gear change, the toothbrush and razor in a plastic cup in the cup holder and the car mattress and sleeping bag in the back seat, currently rolled up out of the way so Grantaire can reach into the bags of things on the floor of the back.
The top of the dashboard is mostly used as a fridge in this weather, so there’s a half-pint of milk, some cheese and some ham shoved into the corner. Somewhere under Enjolras’s feet are Grantaire’s smart shoes, not that he gets to wear them much these days but it’s always a good idea to keep a pair around, and the small compartments in the front are stuffed with loose change and coupons torn out from leaflets and magazines.
“I –”
Grantaire waits, lets him reel the words in.
“It’s nice,” says Enjolras weakly. Grantaire just looks at him. “Sorry. Sorry.”
“Jeez, stop apologising. It’s not your fault,” says Grantaire, fishing around for one of those pocket warmer things. He has a lot of those, since it’s not exactly like he has central heating.
Enjolras catches the pocket warmer Grantaire tosses at him, clicking the little metal button to release the heat, and huddles around it. “Grantaire. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Grantaire grimaces. Shrugs. “When you’re trying to seduce a nice guy, you don’t exactly tell him you don’t have a house.”
“I thought you shared a flat with someone.”
“I did. Months ago. The landlord wanted the place back though, so we couldn’t renew our lease and then the guy was an arse and I couldn’t get my security deposit back and without it, I just.” Grantaire shrugs.
“You can –”
“If you’re about to ask me to move in with you, I will break up with you,” says Grantaire. “And hit you. I’m serious. Don’t pull that shit on me, Enjolras.”
Enjolras slumps back. “But –”
Grantaire huffs out a long exhalation of air, which mists up white in front of his nose. “It could be worse. I still have a job, a phone, laptop, bank savings, et cetera. I get post here and everything. I’m just, you know. Between places.”
“Where do you shower, and... stuff?”
“And stuff,” says Grantaire with a snort. In all fairness, trying to maintain a certain amount of hygiene has been one of hardest things. “The gym. I just head in early before my shifts.”
“Who else knows?” asks Enjolras. “Am I the only one who doesn’t?”
“Really, Enjolras? Jealousy at a time like this?” Grantaire sighs. “No one knows.”
“No one?!”
Grantaire lifts a shoulder. “Well. I suspect Eponine knows, but she wouldn’t bring it up if I didn’t bring it up first.”
Enjolras looks horrified, as if the entire lot of them have collectively failed as friends. “But –”
“I spent five months trying very hard not to let anyone know,” says Grantaire. “So don’t tell them. I don’t need everyone’s guilt trip.”
“But why?” asks Enjolras. “We could have helped you! You have a support system, a family. That’s what we’re there for!”
“Yeah, I know. But I didn’t need the help. Seriously, it’s not that bad. So I live in my car, so what?” says Grantaire, his voice rising despite himself. Now he’s started, the words come out easier, things he’s wanted to tell Enjolras, tell everyone, for ages. “I’d be able to pay rent, you know? It’s just, I’m still saving up enough for a security deposit because you’ve got have it up front. I’m getting there.”
Grantaire can practically see Enjolras stopping himself from offering to lend Grantaire the money for a security deposit right there and then.
“A lot of people have it a lot worse. I have friends with sofas I can crash with sometimes. I have a boyfriend I spend a couple of nights a week with. You know, if I actually still have said boyfriend after this. That’s help enough,” says Grantaire quietly. “I can do the rest myself.”
Enjolras swallows. “‘Course you do,” he says thickly, holding out a hand. “Like you could keep me away.” Grantaire slides his fingers through Enjolras’s gratefully, even if Enjolras’s fingers are like fucking ice right now; the relief itself is enough to keep him delusionally warm.
“I’m a strong independent woman who don’t need no man,” says Grantaire, lips twitching into a grin despite himself as he nudges Enjolras with a shoulder. The tension cracks and dissolves entirely as Enjolras snorts involuntarily, and then laughs.
“Come here,” says Enjolras, pushing up the armrest and wriggling over towards Grantaire’s seat, letting Grantaire slide his arms around Enjolras’s waist. “You will say something, won’t you? If you really do–”
“Yeah, of course,” says Grantaire, meeting Enjolras halfway on a sloppy, desperate kiss that’s more a graze of chapped lips and a clack of teeth than anything else and ends up with them nuzzling each other with the cold tips of their noses.
“Does the car still have fuel?” asks Enjolras.
Grantaire hums thoughtfully. “I think so? I haven’t taken it anywhere in a while though.”
It does, but it also takes the poor car a few minutes to start up, not having been asked to do that for a few months and especially not in this weather. Then it takes even longer for the heating to warm up, both of them valiantly not commenting on the chill wind they blast through the car for the first few minutes, until enough of the frost has melted that Grantaire can scrape the rest off the windscreen.
“Come to mine,” says Enjolras.
Grantaire’s hands falter and Enjolras must see it, because he quickly adds, “Not to – I mean, you can park in my space in the complex.”
And oh, Enjolras is very good. The carpark at Enjolras’s posh block of flats is indoors, which means it’s better insulated, and there’s better security. He won’t have to worry about frost or snow, or even rain. Grantaire tries to breathe through the rising tide of his pride.
“You just can pop up to mine to shower instead,” says Enjolras, far too casually to actually be casual.
Grantaire ducks his head and groans. “Yeah, alright. I get the point. You’ve convinced me. You do have great water pressure.”
“And occasionally, I’m in it,” says Enjolras.
“Just what I’ve always wanted. A free naked man in the shower,” says Grantaire with a small smile, leaning over to brush his hand through Enjolras’s hair, not entirely sure how else to say thank you.
Bursts of colour explode across the dark night sky, startling both of them so much that Enjolras grabs at Grantaire’s arm, and Grantaire stamps on the accelerator and stalls the car. They exhale giddy giggles of laughter as the fireworks continue from somewhere the other side of the river, enormous pops of red and yellow, fading into fizzing streams of purple that hang weightless in the sky for just a moment before fading away.
“Happy New Year,” says Enjolras.
“Happy New Year,” says Grantaire, and brushes a soft kiss across his lips. “And here’s to another.”