Chapter Text
.December 22nd.
Last Christmas, it hadn't been so bad. This year, it's... complicated.
Because this year, Grantaire has a boyfriend. Grantaire shudders at the idea of going to visit his family. For one thing, they're halfway across the country and for another, he hasn't spoken to them for three years. They probably think he's still studying business. "No," he says when Enjolras asks after their last official meeting of the year - Les Amis are going to see each other after this, of course, since there's a Christmas party hosted by Joly and Bossuet, an anti-Christmas party hosted by Eponine, and then a New Year's party hosted by Courfeyrac, but they've wrapped up business for the year, since most days not occupied by party plans are penned in as time to go visit family. "It'll be just me, alone, for Christmas Day."
Enjolras looks slightly horrified. "What? No, don't be ridiculous. I'll come over and join you and we can have Christmas lunch together."
"You have to lunch with your parents," says Grantaire gently, knowing how much Enjolras hates the reminder. Unfortunately, he more or less still has to stay in touch with them since they paid for his flat, and his tuition. Grantaire tries not to rankle at that. "I could come with you though?"
Enjolras shudders. "I would not subject you to that for the world," he says, and Grantaire knows that he's stressing out about his father and not thinking about coming over to Grantaire's anymore, and he only feels a slightly bit guilty for that.
"Want me to come over?" asks Grantaire.
"My flat's a mess," says Enjolras apologetically, like Grantaire hasn't been there more days than not this week, and knows exactly what it looks like. "We could go to yours?"
Grantaire snorts. "As if my place would be less tidy than yours. As long as the bed's free, I couldn't care less."
"You only want me for my bed," says Enjolras mournfully.
In all fairness, Enjolras does have a pretty great bed. It's king-sized and Enjolras has soft sheets and lots of pillows, and most of the time the bed comes with an Enjolras. "Yep," says Grantaire. "You're welcome to join me in it though," he says, laughing as Enjolras swats playfully at his arm.
Deflection successful.
.December 24th.
'Can you grab me a shirt I left at yours?' texts Grantaire. He shoves his hands in his pockets, and jangles the change until the round bits of metal are warm to the touch.
His phone buzzes with Enjolras' reply. 'Why do you need a new shirt?!'
'I spent the night at Joly and Bossuet's after the Christmas party, and then hung out with them all day.' Enjolras had left the party reasonably early, with apologies, too tired from the overload of work in the last three months to stay up late properly. Grantaire had simply drunk enough to look sleepy, and curled up on the sofa until everyone had left, and Joly had flung a blanket over him and told him to stay the night.
Grantaire feels bad for forcing the offer, but he also knows that his friends don't reeeeaaally mind that he crashed over at theirs. And in truth, he'd rather try for Joly and Bossuet, who have a living room and a sofa, than try Eponine, who has a bedsit that they all cram into.
It started out a bit of a joke, with Eponine grumbling about the practicalities of Christmas for someone who didn't have a lot of spare cash, and Enjolras had suggested that they each buy one small thing for her and they'd decorate out her bedsit together. She had looked at him very seriously, and said, "I will shank you."
So now she's holding the anti-Christmas party instead.
'You couldn't swing by your place and pick one up instead?' texts back Enjolras.
'Out of the way. Also if I don't retrieve a few clothes from yours, I won't have any clothes at my place left.'
Grantaire tucks his phone back into his pocket, where it mingles with the coins, and Grantaire huddled into his coat, starting across the city towards Eponine's. He's going to be late.
*
“You’re late,” calls Courfeyrac as Grantaire stomps his feet in the entranceway. He grimaces - he’s mostly stopped feeling his feet about half an hour ago.
“I’ve got your shirt,” says Enjolras, leaning over the back of the sofa and waving it at him. Grantaire grins, and waves back at him.
Joly turns. “What? I thought you went back to yours to get changed?”
Grantaire freezes. Shit. Too cold to lie. “Yeah, I – out of the way, I realised.” He smiles sheepishly. He takes the shirt, and waves them off to go and get changed.
Eponine raises an eyebrow at him, but he shrugs her off.
.December 25th.
“Merry Christmas!” says Enjolras, and he’s trying to sound cheerful, but Grantaire can tell the tension in his voice.
“You too,” says Grantaire. “How’re the parentals?”
“Ugh,” says Enjolras, which is all he will say about it. “Have you opened your presents yet?”
Grantaire puts his phone on speaker. “I just started. Shall I skip to yours? I’ll open it now,” he says. “This is a lot of sellotape, Enjolras. What – oh shit, Enjolras. You shouldn’t have!”
“Do you like it?”
Grantaire peels off the festive wrapping paper and pulls out a new watch. It’s shiny and the face says ‘Holy shit, it’s already ten fucking fifteen motherfucker!’ He laughs, because it’s exactly the perfect blend of useful - his old watch face flickers in and out occasionally and the strap is basically stuck in place - and humorous. It’s perfectly… him. “I –Enjolras, I can’t accept this. It looks way too expensive for a Christmas present.”
“...You don’t like it?” Enjolras sounds strangled.
“No, I – I mean, I do. I just.” Grantaire stalls, hoping that Enjolras will get what he’s trying to say without making him say it.
“You know it doesn’t matter to me how much things cost.”
Grantaire puts the watch down. “I know that. It matters to me. I gave you a scarf!”
“You knitted me a scarf.” Enjorlas sounds indignant. “It has mitten-pockets on the end!”
Scrubbing a hand over his face, Grantaire sighs. “Enjolras.”
“Please accept it,” says Enjolras quietly, and Grantaire caves.
.26th December.
“I missed you,” says Enjolras, and Grantaire’s heart skips a beat because... well, because that’s just ridiculous.
“You’ve been gone a day.”
“And I missed you for the entire day,” says Enjolras and slides his hand into Grantaire’s, and stuffs both their hands into one of the mitten-pockets in the scarf Grantaire gave him, and nuzzles against his cheek.
“Want me to come over and take care of you?” asks Grantaire, half amused and half serious.
“Let’s go to yours,” says Enjolras.
Grantaire squeezes his hand. “Don’t you want to spend a night in a bed of your choosing after your cold and lonely childhood room?”
Enjolras frowns. “And what if I choose your bed?”
Shit.
“Yours is nicer.”
“Well, why don’t you let me decide for myself?” Enjolras slows down, and turns to face Grantaire, his face pinching up; Grantaire’s heart sinks, because that means Enjolras is getting suspicious and he’s spent too long avoiding the subject, and really four months is just about long enough to be dating someone and never get invited over to their place. Four months is also the longest Grantaire’s had a relationship, so... it’s been a good run.
“You’re rich,” says Grantaire, forcing the words out even though he knows they’ll make Enjolras flinch. He does, and Grantaire feels simultaneously victorious and guilty. “You have a spare bedroom and a study, and you know, a kitchen and. Posh stuff. Your place is nicer, trust me.”
Enjolras stares at him, speechless, because Enjolras’ wealth is something they never talk about, partially because Enjolras doesn’t like to, and partially because it’s a bit of a sore point for Grantaire.
“I just - I just. Thanks for the watch. I should go,” he grits out past the growing lump in his throat, pulling his hand out of Enjolras’ warm grip and backing away.
“Grantaire, what? Stop, wait.”
“I’ll see you at Courf’s for New Year’s,” says Grantaire, and hunches his shoulders up against the wind, walking briskly away. He knows the streets better than Enjolras, so he ducks down a side street, and another one, breaking into a jog, doubling around and stopping in a shop doorway for a minute, five, until Enjolras probably won’t be able to follow him. He looks down at his hands, which are shaking and it’s not because they’re cold (he’s used to that).
God. He fucked up.
Grantaire sniffs – something to do with the weather, surely, and not anything to do with the strange prickling in his eyes and the strained feeling in the back of his throat, and starts walking home.