Archive of Our Own ^beta

Enjolras closed his eyes and rubbed his temples to try and rid himself of his steadily worsening headache. When he opened them, he could still see Grantaire behind him in the reflection of his dark laptop screen, rummaging through the kitchen in search of alcohol. Or at least Enjolras assumed it was in search of more alcohol.

Angry words burned on his tongue, and he knew he shouldn’t say them, but he turned over his shoulder to look, and the words were flying off his tongue. “I think you finished the bottle of whiskey with breakfast this morning, or have you forgotten already?”

Grantaire slammed the fridge closed and whipped around, holding up—oh, holding up the sandwich bread and peanut butter in one hand.

“I keep more than liquor in the kitchen,” he snarled. “You’re an ass.”

Enjolras slammed his computer shut and grabbed his textbook to move into his room. “Why are you even here? You rarely sleep here, you’re too busy sleeping in everyone’s bed but your own, why bother paying rent? Why don’t you just leave me high and dry with that like you do everything else?”

He didn’t wait for Grantaire to answer, just slammed into his bedroom.

(Four months prior)

“Enjolras—”

“I know, Combeferre, we fight a lot, but I don’t exactly have a choice. Besides, we’re reasonably civil at group events, so long as politics doesn’t come up. I’m sure we can manage. Neither of us can afford to live on our own, and we’ve all heard about his series of dangerous roommates—at least he knows I won’t kill him in his sleep.”

Combeferre shrugged at that. “Being better than someone who ended up actually being a serial killer is such a low bar, Enjolras. I just don’t think it’s a smart decision for either of you.”

Enjolras sighed frustratedly towards the window. “It’s not a great idea, Ferre, but between my old roommates moving out,” he smiled at Combeferre, who pushed his glasses up his nose despite their being quite comfortably seated (a sure sign he was embarrassed), “and the price of housing here, I simply can’t afford to live alone. I won’t ask my parents for help, not when there’s a simple solution.”

Combeferre closed his eyes and shook his head sadly. “I hope neither of you ends up murdering the other. Jehan would be heartbroken.”

(Present)

The apartment itself was lovely. It had been, at one point, half of a house, but had been converted into its own unit, and had its own front door. It had a fairly spacious dining area-slash-living room, and the kitchen was pretty nice. Enjolras was pretty sure the rent was only as low as it was because when they’d gone to tour the place, Grantaire had taken one look at the old landlady and spouted a pleasant stream of… some other language. She had laughed and pinched Grantaire’s cheeks, and he had good-naturedly ducked forward to let the shorter woman do it, despite the faint grimace he’d made while rubbing his cheeks after.

What was not lovely was the experience of living with Grantaire. Enjolras would go days at a time without seeing Grantaire inside the apartment at all, not sure if he had been coming back at all or not, and then suddenly Grantaire wasn’t leaving the apartment at all, always playing music at odd hours and picking fights with Enjolras as soon as he walked through the door.

Other than his insistence on turning their every interaction into a screaming match, Grantaire was… kind of the ideal roommate. At least when Enjolras didn’t think he was dead in a ditch. He took care of his fair share of the dishes, cleaned on the weeks when Enjolras didn’t, and didn’t keep him up at night. He even occasionally gave Enjolras his leftovers, on days when Enjolras forgot to get up from his computer and make himself dinner. It was a shame that their most civil interactions were based around that, Enjolras thought. 

It always happened like this: Enjolras was working, got distracted, forgot to eat for at least two meals in a row. Some time later, he would shake himself from his stupor, feeling grumpy, to try and relieve his headache, and find a tupperware of food (whatever Grantaire had felt like making), and a glass of water at his elbow. The sticky note on the tupperware always featured the same message, though the color and the surrounding doodles changed.

Apollo; some hydrogen. Don’t burn yourself out.

Enjolras, in turn, always made sure to make extra food before he went out the next morning, labeling the container simply: 

Thanks.

Outside of that silent interaction, it was miserable. But Enjolras couldn’t afford to move, and they’d signed a two year lease, so he was fucked.

He expressed this sentiment to Courfeyrac and Combeferre, from beneath a pillow on their couch, loudly and at length. Combeferre always fixed him a look and said something to the tune of “Have you tried talking to him about it?” (Of course he had; Enjolras wasn’t stupid, Combeferre. Grantaire just wouldn’t listen!) Courfeyrac always laughed at him, then patted him on the head condescendingly, as if listening to and dismissing a child’s complaint. It was mortifying.

Courfeyrac and Enjolras were sitting on Enjolras’s couch, working on an article, when Grantaire stumbled into the apartment. The door slammed shut behind him, and he gave it an almost surprised look.

Enjolras felt his whole body go taut as a highwire to prepare for the inevitable fight and rolled his eyes slightly at Grantaire’s dazed appearance. Grantaire looked up, and his eyes finally caught on the pair on the couch.

His face flickered with different emotions, like an old projector starting up, before settling on a cold smirk. Enjolras glanced up at the ceiling, trying to prepare himself for whatever was about to come out of Grantaire’s mouth.

“Hey Courf. Is Apollo keeping you oppressed beneath the lash of his tongue? Are you slave to his revolutionary whims? Do you long for freedom?”

Enjolras glared at him, meeting his eyes. “You’re clearly more than just drunk. I refuse to engage with you when you’re like this—”

Grantaire sneered. “Oh, all high and mighty are we? Are you better than me, simply because I indulge once in a while?”

“I’d hardly call it once in a while when you’re never sober, I’d call that substance abuse.”

“Fuck you.” Grantaire stormed into the kitchen. “Would you like me to bring you something from the kitchen, my liege? Since you’re so clearly my better, should I ask you permission before I retire to the servant’s quarters?”

“You’re the one who keeps calling me that infernal nickname! I’m not a fucking god! Should you even be cooking in the state you’re in?”

“Just because you’ve got some kind of stick up your ass doesn’t mean that the rest of us—”

“Stick up my ass? What, because I actually get things done instead of sleeping with everyone I meet or doing as many drugs as I can get my hands on means I’m uptight? You could do with—”

“SHUT UP!” Courfeyrac yelled over both of them. Enjolras felt everything implode, tears prick in his eyes, and a dark feeling swallow his voice. He sat back down on the couch and curled in on himself.

“God, is this what the two of you are like all the time? This is the very picture of domestic bliss, this is. Jesus. Grantaire, you are seriously out of it, eat something, drink water, probably sleep. I’m going to take Enjolras back to my apartment, because clearly the two of you can’t be left alone.”

Enjolras studied his knees.

Grantaire snorted. “Apollo, darling, take care! You don’t mind if I make myself a sandwich, do you, sweetheart?” His voice dripped with honey and with vinegar in equal measure.

Enjolras stayed silent. Grantaire almost laughed, and sounded like he was about to start in on him again, but was silenced (most likely by a look from Courfeyrac).

Courfeyrac nudged him. “Come on, grab what you need.”

Enjolras faked a tight smile in Courfeyrac’s direction and stood, gathering his computer and notes before walking into his room. He resolutely ignored both Grantaire, as he walked past him, and the quiet murmurs that drifted to him while he packed an overnight bag, his hands feeling clumsy and slow, almost slack, like they didn’t want to move. His ears felt like they were ringing.

He didn’t speak the whole way to Courfeyrac and Combeferre’s apartment, breathing slowly and trying to pretend that the increasingly worried looks Courfeyrac sent him for each minute he stayed silent didn’t feel like a knife to the chest. Was he really that loud, that people expected a few minutes of quiet were beyond him? He curled into the window, watching the world go by.

Combeferre looked at him critically for a moment before wrapping him up in a hug. “Are you okay?” he murmured into Enjolras’s ear.

Enjolras shrugged and thought, for one overwhelming moment, that he might be about to cry.

Combeferre murmured reassuring nothings into his hair and rubbed gentle circles on his back until Enjoras, who had pretty much collapsed into his arms, began to feel the ache in his chest ease.

“Sorry,” he finally said. It came out weak, almost whispered. He swallowed and tried again. “Sorry.”

He felt Combeferre shake his head. “It’s alright.”

Enjolras was gently manhandled to the couch, and Combeferre kept a hand on his shoulder while talking to Courfeyrac.

“What happened? You weren’t supposed to be back for a couple hours yet.”

“I know, but Grantaire came in, drunk as hell and on something else, and started fucking with Enjolras. Immediate screaming match.”

Combeferre hummed. “Is that what—”

Courfeyrac sounded pained. “No, that’s my fault. I yelled at them.” A pause. “I’ve never seen him shut down like that.”

Courfeyrac sat down next to him, and pressed against his shoulder. Enjolras leaned back against him.

“Hey, I’m sorry for yelling.”

Lies. You talk too much, they’re just usually better at pretending they don’t mind.

Enjolras shook his head mutely.

Courfeyrac made a noise low in his throat. “Enjolras, how can I make it up to you?”

Enjolras shook his head again. “You don’t have to lie to me.”

“Lie to you? About what? Why would I lie to you?”

Don’t challenge him, let him pretend it’s all okay, and you can have another chance. Take the out.

Enjolras forced a smile onto his face, straightened up, and bumped Courfeyrac’s shoulder with his own. “No worries, Courf.” He stood and walked in the direction of the bathroom.

Two worried gazes followed him.

“Ferre, what?”

Combeferre frowned, thinking. “I’m not sure. Something’s wrong. What exactly got said?”

Courfeyrac exhaled. “It was fast, I’m not entirely sure. Grantaire started in on Enjolras forcing me to work, oppressing me, or something like that. Enjolras said he wouldn’t engage with Grantaire when he isn’t sober, Grantaire said something about being high and mighty for not indulging, I think? Enjolras accused Grantaire of having a problem, which… We should call Joly or Bossuet or Musichetta and tell them to check on him. They started talking over each other, and I yelled at them to get them to shut up. Enjolras didn’t just shut up, he shut down.”

Combeferre nodded slowly. “I have… a suspicion about what happened, but I need to ask Cosette a few questions. For now, I guess… feed him and let him spend the night here?”

Grantaire slammed into his room and leaned against his door, chest heaving and throat tight as he listened to Courfeyrac shuffle Enjolras out of the apartment.

When he heard the door shut, he stepped back into the living area.

“Fuck!”

It didn’t help. The room kept moving like a Van Gogh.

He collapsed over the back of the couch and let himself roll onto it.

“Fuck.”

He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, the starbursts that appeared vibrant and colorful before they dissipated.

“Fuck you, Enjolras.”

He sat in silence for a few more minutes before he stood to grab something. He felt like a screwdriver. He definitely had vodka. Enjolras had just bought orange juice…

A screwdriver it was, he decided.

He was halfway through his second mug of drink when Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta let themselves in with the spare key.

“Careful,” he intoned deadpan. “If Apollo finds out I’ve been throwing house parties, he might finally kill me.”

Musichetta scoffed, but Joly just frowned. Bossuet busied himself in the kitchen, probably digging through their pantry to see if he could make fried rice.

Grantaire stared into the mug for a moment, then set it down on the table unsteadily.

“Chetta?”

She made no vocal acknowledgement, but Grantaire knew her well enough to know she had raised her eyebrow.

“Do you think I have a problem?”

She exhaled heavily. “I think you have several, the first being the state of your hair, so you’ll have to be a bit more specific.”

He closed his eyes, not wanting to have the conversation, but knowing that now he’d brought it up it was going to happen.

“A substance problem.”

Joly shifted. “Are we doing this?” He put a gentle hand on Grantaire’s knee. “R, why are you asking now? What in particular—”

Grantaire looked up at him, suddenly unable to bear the gentleness. “Am I really never sober? Do I actually go around, drinking anything and doing any drug I can get my hands on?”

The sounds from the kitchen stopped with a clatter, and Bossuet growled.

“Enjolras said what?”

Grantaire looked around at them desperately, tears filling his eyes. “Is it true? You have to tell me, I—I can’t—”

He covered his mouth, words deteriorating into gasps and sobs.

Joly instantly wrapped him in his arms, and a moment later Musichetta did as well, then Bossuet, no longer in the kitchen.

Eventually, when he was breathing again and held safe and secure against Musichetta, Joly spoke again, his hand still caressing Grantaire’s back.

“We worry about you, R. We worry a lot.” His hand stills. “Do you want to stop drinking?”

Grantaire hesitated. “I don’t—I don’t know.” He breathed slowly. “I’m scared,” he admitted, quietly. “I’m scared of what happens next. If I don’t stop—” he shook his head. “I’ll end up killing myself.” Joly pressed into his side. “But if I do—who am I? Will I even be able to-to—” He gestured weakly at his easel. He closed his eyes, feeling the tears welling up in them again. “It was so much easier when I wasn’t thinking about the future,” he whispered, and Chetta made a soft, sad noise and held him closer. The sounds of Bossuet’s fried rice started up in the kitchen again.

There was something in the way that Musichetta and Joly were holding him tight—in the way that Bossuet went through his kitchen with comfort and familiarity that Grantaire wasn’t sure he had in his own kitchen despite how often he cooked—that forced a decision. “I can’t keep going like this.”

Three days later, Enjolras returned to an empty apartment. While Grantaire’s absence wasn’t in and of itself surprising, Enjolras had grown used to coming home to an apartment without anyone else in it, but Grantaire’s easel was gone. It was… odd. He shrugged and disappeared into his room.

It wasn’t until Grantaire wasn’t at the meeting that Enjolras realized he hadn’t seen him in almost a week. Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta were quiet in the corner, and by the time Enjolras got home, he was frantic. What if Grantaire was dead? He felt himself slam through the door.

“Grantaire?” He yelled, nearly panicking. “I get it if you’re mad at me I just want to know you’re not dead!” Silence. “Please, if you’re here, just say something.” Nothing.

He walked up to the door to Grantaire’s (silent, silent) room, his hands shaking. “I’m going to open the door.”

The room was clean.

It wasn’t empty—there were canvases propped up on the desk, sheets on the bed, books on the shelf—but had none of the signs of a room in use. No jackets thrown on the back of the chair, no sketchbooks open on various furniture. The air tasted stale on Enjolras’s tongue. Grantaire always had a window open.

Enjolras couldn’t taste anything other than his panic as grotesque images flooded his senses. Grantaire, dead in an alley behind a bar. In a park, his fingers blue around the neck of a bottle. Behind a Walmart, covered in bruises. In some converted warehouse, a needle in his arm. Under a bridge, gaunt and pale.

Enjolras couldn’t feel his fingers, and the world was spinning in pinpricks of black and white static.

He felt his knees hit the floor and the dull pain brought enough clarity back to him that he was able to dial Combeferre.

“Enjolras?”

His mouth couldn’t form words, but he could feel himself panting, tasting the stale air of the room, seeing Grantaire, dead behind a bar—

“Enjolras, breathe with me.”

Enjolras tried to speak, tried to tell Combeferre that Grantaire was missing, that he could be— Grantaire, bleeding out under a freeway—

“Enjolras! Breathe! In, one… two… three… hold… one… two… out… one… two… three…. Good. Again…”

Enjolras processed nothing, just trying to hold onto Combeferre’s voice as horrible images of Grantaire flashed across his senses, choking him, and then Combeferre was there, his voice real in his ear and not tinny through the phone, and slowly, slowly, Enjolras came back to himself. 

Combeferre was squeezing his hand in time with his hitching breaths, and Enjolras could feel his chest rising and falling behind him, in time with his own. 

Eventually, his fingers stopped tingling.

The room stopped spinning, the static gone.

All that remained was—

“Grantaire,” he said, and his voice was hoarse. He tried again. “Grantaire is missing,” his voice cracked, but he got the whole sentence out.

Combeferre picked him up, and gently carried him to the couch. “He’s okay, Enjolras.”

Enjolras shook his head firmly. “He hasn’t been home since we fought. I didn’t notice—it’s my fault—he could be dead—”

“Breathe, Enjolras. Grantaire is fine, I promise. He didn’t leave a note?”

Enjolras shook his head, tears filling his eyes, his breath catching in his throat. “Nothing. When I got back from yours his easel was gone, and—”

Courfeyrac spoke up from the kitchen. “He did. He left it on the kitchen counter.”

Combeferre looked at Enjolras sharply. “When did you last eat?”

Enjolras opened his mouth to answer, but… “I’m not sure?”

Courfeyrac tossed Combeferre a Capri-sun, which he gave to Enjolras with a stern look. Enjolras sipped at it without complaint. “You said he left a note?”

Courfeyrac held up a piece of paper. “It says, ‘Gone Fishing!’ with a cute little R in a boat, and then, ‘Back in a month, don’t starve.’” 

Enjolras nodded slowly. “And I didn’t see it because I don’t always remember to eat. The irony.”

Enjolras propped the note up next to his monitor. He spent more time staring at the doodle than he cared to admit.

The intervening month was strange. Enjolras hadn’t realized how dependent he’d become on Grantaire’s presence to keep himself in check. He hadn’t noticed that when Grantaire’s painting music stopped, he himself took that as a cue to head to bed, too. He slept half as much and half as well, for the next month, completely thrown off his rhythm.

He had a stack of sticky notes next to his desktop monitor—reminders from Grantaire that he needed to eat and sleep to keep himself from burning out. It wasn’t until Courfeyrac slammed into his apartment that he realized he hadn’t left the house in five days, and he may not have eaten more than three or four full meals in all that time, too.

He stuck one of the notes to the corner of his monitor.

(He couldn’t bring himself to admit that, either.)

When Grantaire did finally return, he looked… different. His skin looked like it had seen sunlight, and while he looked like he had lost weight, he didn’t look gaunt. He looked healthier. Enjolras did not. Enjolras looked pale, and his cheeks were sunken in, like he might not have surfaced properly in days. Grantaire was startled. Enjolras was not.

“How was fishing?” he asked evenly, the next time he ran into Grantaire mid afternoon. He was sitting on the couch, reading in the sunlight, and Grantaire froze in the kitchen, as if caught by a parent.

“You scared me there,” he said. “It was a good vacation, all in all.”

Enjolras nodded. “I’m glad.”

That was it for stilted conversation for several days.

It was strange.

Enjolras tensed up whenever Grantaire entered the room, and… Grantaire never said anything. He was greeted with a tense nod, if anything.

Enjolras was beyond frustrated. He had so much work to do, and every time he sat down to actually start it, something else came up. He had to go grocery shopping before the store closed, or Courfeyrac was calling and needed him to come pick him up from somewhere because he’d gotten stranded again, or he had to go move his laundry to the dryer, and now that he could finally, finally, sit down for five minutes, his thoughts were completely scattered, and he couldn’t even think about the article he needed to be editing, and the words were blurring together in front of him, and nothing made sense, and he wanted to scream.

“Argh!” His arm swept across his desk, knocking papers to the floor, and Enjolras’s eyes filled with tears of frustration and that just made it all worse, didn’t it, because now he thought he might be about to cry.

He felt like he was about to vibrate out of his skin, and the unresolved fight with Grantaire was still bouncing around in his head.

Grantaire whistled from the doorway. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so angry. What’s got you all riled up?”

Enjolras snarled. His frustration found easy purchase in the man in front of him. “Nothing, darling. Everything is fucking spectacular.” He stormed past Grantaire and into the kitchen, filling the kettle with water and slamming it onto the base, not even sure why he was boiling water.

“No offence, Apollo, but I’m not sure that caffeine is a healthy idea for you right now,” Grantaire drawled as he started to fill the coffee pot with grounds.

Enjolras heard the words before he knew he was saying them. “You wouldn’t know a healthy idea if it hit you in the face with a tire iron!”

Grantaire’s breath hissed through his teeth. “I am going to pretend you didn’t say that. What’s actually wrong, Apollo.”

Enjolras slammed his fist into the countertop. “I don’t know!” He yells.

“Take a deep breath, Apollo.”

“I’m not your fucking responsibility, sweetheart, you don’t have to take care of me! You can’t even take care of yourself.”

“Enjolras! Calm the fuck down! Screaming isn’t going to solve this problem. Is it an article? Do you want me to rubber duck for you?”

“I. Don’t. Know!” Enjolras can tell he’s shaking with anger now.

“Okay, not that. Do you have a headache? Do you want a Tylenol or something?”

“No! Fuck off!”

Grantaire squinted at him. “When was the last time you ate something?”

The words “Fuck you!” were on the tip of Enjolras’s tongue, but he hesitated. “It’s Wednesday?” he hedged, uncertain.

Grantaire nodded firmly and grabbed him by the elbow, shepherding him to the couch. “Alright. That’s it. It’s noon on Friday, Enjolras. You are going to eat and sleep, and I am going to pretend you didn’t scream at me.”

Enjolras blinked, doing the math. Now that he knew how long it had been since he’d eaten, Enjolras could tell that he was ravenously hungry. Huh. Grantaire was right.

It took Enjolras an embarrassingly long two weeks after Grantaire had gotten back to notice the difference. Grantaire hadn’t come back drunk or fucked up on something stronger since he’d left. He also hadn’t been to a meeting. Enjolras did the math, and came up with… needing to move the meetings to a dry venue.

He did what he always did when he was unsure how to handle something. He texted Combeferre.

i m thinking dry venue; please advise.

Any particular reason?

Enjolras hesitated. He couldn’t very well say, “I think Grantaire went to rehab, and I want him back at the meetings, but I don’t want to put him at risk.” That would be sharing someone’s private medical information.

it would open our membership to younger people. more inclusive if we don’t meet in a bar, yeah?

I’ll look into it. Courfeyrac might know a good spot, or Bahorel. Or Grantaire. I think he knows every place in the city.

we should keep it quiet. if we don’t end up moving we don’t want people to have invited underage friends for nothing. just you, me and maybe courf.

Okay…

Enjolras was on a roll with his latest article when Grantaire grabbed him by the shoulder and bodily turned him away from his computer. Enjolras made a distressed noise, trying to make Grantaire go away.

“Apollo,” Grantaire said. 

Enjolras’s thoughts slipped from his grasp and shattered, and he turned, already glaring, towards Grantaire.

“What?”

Grantaire pressed a glass of water into his hand. “It’s hot as hell, Apollo. You’ll give yourself heatstroke.

Enjolras chugged the water and put the glass down on his desk heavily. “Happy, darling?”

Grantaire made a noise of frustration. “What is it with you and nicknames all of a sudden, Enjolras?”

Enjolras sneered. “You started it, cheri.”

Grantaire threw up his hands with a growl and grabbed the glass. “Remember to eat something later, dearest.”

(Enjolras forgets.)

(There’s a sticky note on the tupperware.)

Musichetta sat down across from him at his table and closed his laptop with a certain air of finality about her that said, “I don’t care what you were doing, you’re done now.”

Enjolras studied her nervously. “Ye-es?”

Musichetta exhaled sharply. “You need to figure out how to deal with what’s going on up here.” She tapped her temple. Enjolras stared blankly.

“Your lashing out is hurting Grantaire, and I’m not going to let that happen any more. Things are hard enough for him as it is without you snapping at him all the damn time. Go get yourself a therapist.”

Enjolras blinked. “I—”

Chetta glared him into silence. “No. I don’t want to hear your excuses or apologies, Enjolras. Just be better.” She patted him on the head and left him, and Enjolras was reeling.

Enjolras’s thoughts were racing, and he couldn’t focus on the world well enough to even open his laptop.

A few minutes later, Combeferre appeared before him, and Enjolras looked up at him, his expression scattered.

Combeferre sat down and pressed a glass of water into his hand.

Enjolras drank it.

“Combeferre, do you think I need to go to therapy?”

Combeferre’s face was measured and calm as he spoke. “I think that everyone should go to therapy. Therapy is maintenance of your mental health in the same way that seeing your general practitioner is maintenance of your physical health. But you know that.”

Enjolras looked down at the table, hoping that if he spoke through it, the ache in his chest would dissipate. “Ferre, do you think there’s something wrong with me?”

Combeferre’s hands shot across the table to grab Enjolras’s. “Enj,” he said urgently. “Enjolras, there is nothing wrong with you. You know better than to stigmatize neurodivergence like that.”

Better, better, better.

The word echoed in his mind.

He slammed his hands into the table in frustration. Combeferre stepped around the table and grabbed his shoulders.

“Enjolras, what’s going on?”

“I don’t know! God, I don’t—why do people keep asking me things I can’t answer?”

Combeferre’s thumbs pressed small circles into his arms. He took a deep breath. “Enjolras, I am saying this as your friend and not at all as a medical professional, okay? I think you might have ADHD.”

Enjolras frowned at him. “But I’m not…” He waved a hand vaguely. “Energetic.”

Ferre shrugged. “Hyperactivity is only one possible manifestation of ADHD. And, to be fair, I knew you when you were a bouncing ball of undirected rage and energy.”

Enjolras blinked rapidly, experiencing self-awareness for the first time. “Huh,” he said. “Really? Was I like that?”

Combeferre looked incredulous for a brief moment before he schooled his features back into something calm and reassuring. “Yes,” he offered simply. “You really were.”

“Huh,” he said again, reconsidering his whole life. “Huh.”

Enjolras sat in the waiting room nervously, fiddling with his phone, flipping it around and around in his hands. The room itself held little of interest—a couch, a few chairs, some decorative cushions—little enough that having taken it all in, Enjolras was reduced to nervous thoughts and fiddling rather quickly. He couldn’t focus enough to send work emails or read the news or anything of the sort. His knee bounced, and he thought of everything and nothing.

He looked up, almost startled, as the door clicked softly open, and a middle-aged woman smiled at him. “Enjolras?” He nodded. “I’m Fantine, why don’t you come in?”

Fantine turned out to be surprisingly blunt in dealing with Enjolras. She didn’t mince words, and she didn’t make him lay back on a fainting couch, like Enjolras had been imagining. Their first session was a lot of paperwork, after looking at which she nodded and said, “I think your friend—Combeferre?—was right.” She looked at him directly, her red-rimmed glasses catching the light for a moment as she looked up. “So, you have ADHD, what do you want to do about it?”

Enjolras balked. “I—I thought you would know what to do next?”

Fantine smiled. “My job isn’t to tell you what to do, it's to help you achieve and maintain the life you want. You wanted a diagnosis—I gave you that information. What do you want to get out of being in therapy?”

He thought about the things his friends have said. “I want to understand myself better. My roommate and I—” he paused, recalibrated. “I fight with my roommate a lot. A mutual friend told me that my lashing out is hurting him. I guess I’ve always had a temper, but…” He shook his head. “I don’t want to hurt the people I care about, and I’m starting to think that if I don’t figure out what’s going on in my own head, I’ll keep doing it accidentally.”

Fantine nodded decisively. “Okay. For the next week, pay attention to yourself—your body, your emotions, your mind. You don’t need to take notes or anything; just practice being aware. We’re scheduled to meet at the same time next week—is that acceptable still?”

Enjolras nodded, thanked her, and walked out of the room, thoughts spinning.

His mind still hadn’t settled when he arrived home to find Grantaire set up at his easel in the living room. He nodded a hello absently, tense, and wandered towards the kitchen, only to open a cabinet and close it after and staring into it without seeing anything in it.

Grantaire came up behind him, and the mocking smile was audible in his voice when he spoke. “Head in the clouds, sweetheart?”

Enjolras snarled, broken out of his reverie. “Is yours?”

Grantaire flinched back away from him, before visibly smoothing himself out into a practiced smirk. “Alright angel, I see how it is.”

Enjolras was blinded by his anger. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

Grantaire laughed at him. Actually laughed in his face. “Did you not pay attention to what I just said, sugar?”

“You don’t get to say fuck all about paying attention!” Enjolras spit. “The whole house smells like fucking turpentine—would it kill you to open a fucking window, sunshine? Because I know it will kill you if you don’t! Unless you're hoping that because you’ve built up a tolerance to everything under the sun, it’ll kill me first?” He took advantage of the way Grantaire had frozen and shoved him away before storming into his room.

He felt like crying, and he wasn’t sure why. His words were spinning in his head, and he knew he should apologize, he was out of line, but that would require sitting up and getting out of his bed.

There was a quiet knock on the door an indeterminate number of minutes later, and Enjolras stared at it for a moment too long before he scrambled up and opened it.

Grantaire handed him a bowl of pasta. “Eat. You get snippy when you don’t.” His voice was soft and kind. Bile rose in Enjolras’s throat, and when he spoke, his voice sounded much rougher than he had expected.

“Honey, I—I’m sorry. I just…” He swallowed, trying to ease his throat. “I shouldn’t have said that. That was cruel.” Enjolras looked at his hands and rubbed his thumbs against the edge of the bowl. “I’m looking at moving the meetings from the Corinthe to the Musain which—” he chances a look towards Grantaire’s face. “It’s dry,” he says carefully.

Grantaire’s lips parted in shock, and he seemed stunned into silence. Enjolras couldn’t bear to see if Grantaire was angry, if he shouldn’t have mentioned anything—maybe he had stopped coming because he didn’t want to go at all. The thought somehow had never occurred to him. Grantaire’s attendance was as regular as his own, he was missing only very rarely, but maybe he had had enough.

“Apollo,” Grantaire breathed. He didn’t sound angry. “Apollo, look at me, starlight,”

Enjolras lifted his eyes from the pasta. Grantaire didn’t look angry, either.

“I didn’t know you had noticed,” he said at last, after holding Enjolras’s gaze for just a moment too long to be comfortable.

Enjolras felt the soft, worried frown appear on his face, and he shifted to look Grantaire in the face more evenly. “Of course I noticed,” he said. “How could I not? I used to go days on end without seeing you, only knowing you were here because occasionally, there was food in the fridge, or because you’d stumble in at three or four in the morning, drunk off your ass and probably high—how could I not notice you’d stopped, cheri?”

Grantaire let out a soft, punched out “ oh”.

Enjolras’s eyes traced Grantaire’s throat as he swallowed thickly. “I was worse than I thought, I guess. I don’t—I don’t remember coming home fucked up and seeing you.”

Enjolras reached backwards and put down the pasta before pulling Grantaire into a tight hug. Grantaire’s hands slowly came up to his back as he eased into it. “Oh, sunshine,” Enjolras said, almost cooed, into Grantaire’s hair. He sighed. “I have ADHD.”

Grantaire half-snorted a laugh. “Yeah.”

Enjolras felt himself push away from Grantaire more than he actively decided to do it. “You don’t have to mock me for it.”

Grantaire looked at him, and a startled expression bled across his face. “You didn’t know?” Enjolras shook his head, his hands coming up to grip at his sleeves without conscious thought.

Grantaire exhaled slowly. “What a mess we’ve made of ourselves, darling.”

Enjolras laughed wetly. “Sweetheart, I know.”

Enjolras grabbed the bowl of pasta and gently pushed past Grantaire, sitting down on the couch to eat. His eyes tracked Grantaire as he eventually moved from the hall, pausing in the kitchen and then hesitantly moving towards the couch. Enjolras shifted to make it clear there was space for him, and Grantaire sat down.

It was nice.

The Musain was a nice café, Enjolras decided. It was surprisingly spacious and had several large community tables on one side, while the other side was broken up into a number of smaller tables. But what had really won him (and Courfeyrac and Combeferre) over was their massive collection of board games, available to play for five bucks per player, for unlimited games. In addition, they had free WiFi, plenty of outlets, good coffee, and late closing hours. Enjolras thought he might as well move in.

Enjolras and Combeferre had spoken to the owners of the cafe, and finally, after going back and forth about the price, they were going to have their first meeting there that night.

Enjolras had been working there all day.

A shadow fell across his book, and someone set a plate containing a croissant in front of him. He looked up, the words, “I didn’t order that,” already falling from his lips, when he saw his roommate.

“Oh, Grantaire?”

Grantaire sat down next to him. “I have to finish the second half of The Summoner’s Tale this afternoon, and I am bribing you with food for your company. Hush.”

Enjolras ate the croissant and emptied his water bottle while finishing up on rereading and editing his piece, now ready to be sent off to the press.

When he finished, he leaned back and stretched, yawning, and looked over at Grantaire curiously.

Grantaire was chewing on the back of a pen, reading and annotating the book in front of him. The annotations were dense, and seemed to spill off the page and onto the notebook in front of him, occasionally.

Enjolras glanced at the text, wondering where in it Grantaire was but his eyes skidded off it, not finding purchase. He tried again. 

“Are you reading that in Middle English?”

Grantaire looked up at him. “Hmm?” He grinned. “Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote the droghte of March hath perced to the roote, and bathed every veyne in swich licóur of which vertú engendred is the flour; whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth inspired hath in every holt and heeth the tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne, and smale foweles maken melodye, that slepen al the nyght with open ye, so priketh hem Natúre in hir corages, thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages, and palmeres for to seken straunge strondes, to ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes; and specially, from every shires ende of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende, the hooly blisful martir for to seke, that hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.”

When he finished his recitation, Enjolras was completely gobsmacked. “You have it memorized,” he said, shocked. “In Middle English.”

Grantaire flushed slightly and shrugged. “Only small sections of it. That’s the first sentence—the first eighteen lines of the story. Do you know it?”

Enjolras made a so-so gesture with his hand. “I read some of it in modern English at some point, but I don’t remember it well. I remember the concept well enough, though. Can you really just… read it?”

Grantaire shrugged and put in his bookmark. “Kinda. I can mostly read it, and the words I don’t recognize and can’t guess based on their roots and context I take note of and Jehan and I compare. It’s a good system, we’ve run across only a few we can’t work out together.”

Enjolras reached towards the book. “May I?” At Grantaire’s answering nod and his go ahead gesture, he picked up the book and opened it to the beginning of the General Prologue. “I think I remember the beginning bit,” he said, studying it. He closed his eyes, trying to remember. “When April with his showers sweet with fruit the drought of March has pierced unto the root…” He hesitated, unsure, and looked down at the only vaguely familiar words.

Grantaire leaned in and directed him to the page. “You’re reciting a rhyming translation—that’s not quite what it says. There’s no mention of fruit in the first line at all, look. The words look almost familiar, right? ‘When that April with his’ and that next word looks basically like ‘showers’ and it is, it’s the word after that that throws you. It’s ‘sweet’, but more specifically, it’s ‘sweet-smelling’. So this whole first section is just about the time of year.”

Enjolras taps the page under a word. “That looks like ‘run’, why does it have a ‘y’ before it?”

Grantaire lights up. “So I don’t know how much you know about the history of the English language…”

Nearly two hours later, they were still talking animatedly about history. Courfeyrac, seeing their dramatic and impassioned movements through the window, panicked as he ran to the door, hoping that they wouldn’t be kicked out of the café before their first meeting even began.

“I really don’t see how the Viking raids had anything to do with Renaissance art, Grantaire,” Enjolras was saying, at a loud but shockingly reasonable volume.

“Darling, I told you, the palaces and fortified cities in which the patrons of the arts were living were secure mainly because they were an evolution of the classic Norman Motte and Bailey!”

“I hear you, sunshine, but the Normans were French, not Nordic—”

“No, no, no, Apollo, the Normans were Vikings!”

“They were from Normandy! In France!”

“They settled there after they were given the land as a payment to stop sacking Paris, honeybunch. I’m right and you know it.”

“Then why is English half French? Did you lie to me?”

Grantaire laughed. Laughed. Not mockingly, not insincerely, just very genuinely. Courfeyrac hadn’t moved out of the doorway where he was frozen in shock. Someone shoved past him gently, and he sprang into motion, walking quickly over to the table.

“Hey guys, please don’t murder each other while I get my coffee, thanks?”

Their conversation quieted, and they scooted apart awkwardly.

Courfeyrac returned with his coffee to an awkward, stilted silence, Enjolras and Grantaire returned to their own work. Whatever strange, doomed, once in a lifetime thing Courfeyrac had walked in on was over.

As the others started to arrive, Grantaire moved away from Enjolras and down to the far end of the community table with Joly and Bossuet and Éponine. Courfeyrac’s shoulders eased, and he leaned in to speak quietly to Enjolras. “What was that about?”

Enjolras frowned up at him. “What was what about?”

Courfeyrac waved a hand at the empty seat that Grantaire had been sitting in. “You and R, arguing.”

Enjolras looked… almost hurt. “We weren’t arguing,” he said quietly.

Courfeyrac snorted. “If you weren’t, then you would have been soon, you two can’t be civil for twenty minutes, you’re a ticking time bomb.”

Enjolras leaned back, fixed Courfeyrac with an inscrutable look, and then stood to start the meeting.

Enjolras finished up his speech and went to sit down. Grantaire spoke up.

“Honey, that’s all well and good in theory, but where are you going to get the money from? Taxing the rich isn’t really an answer, sweetheart, you don’t have that much power yet.”

Enjolras, halfway seated, stood back up. “I’m proposing a radical restructuring of a broken system—of course it’s expensive. We need to change the way schools are funded, because funding them based on property taxes isn't just unfair, it’s steeped in historical racism and redlining.

“The federal budget is currently absurdly unbalanced. If we were to spend even a fraction of what we currently spend on the military on education, we could drastically improve the system! And yes! I do think we should raise income taxes on the wealthy! I also think that taxing the money made from betting on the stock market even a little would get us a hell of a lot further than our current trajectory projects!”

Enjolras planted his hands on the table, leaning over it to speak loudly and passionately toward Grantaire. He wasn’t yelling—not quite—but anyone would be forgiven for thinking so. 

“Do you have any solutions to offer, or do you intend to simply heckle, darling?”

Grantaire snorted. “Sugar, you didn’t answer my question. Practicing to be a politician already?”

“We haven’t decided on an action yet, dearest. When we know what we’re doing, we can figure out how much money we need, and therefore how to fund it.” Enjolras growled.

Enjolras glanced around the table, distractedly taking a gauge of the room. Usually, at this point in an argument, he tries to engage with the group instead of just Grantaire, but everyone seemed to be in some sort of shock. It pulled him up short.

“What’s got you all looking like a bunch of codfish? You’re all being weird.”

Bossuet snorted slightly. “We’re being weird? What’s with you two?”

Enjolras frowned. “What do you mean, what’s with us? We always argue.”

Courfeyrac takes a deep breath and exhales loudly. “Sure. Okay. Let's pretend that wasn’t weird. Anyone have any specific ideas—action steps?”

The discussion moved forward from there, Enjolras taking notes and facilitating, Grantaire drawing.

In an odd way, they were each a perfect mirror of the other, bent over their papers with pencils. They brushed curls out of their eyes with alarming regularity, but refused to wear headbands, claiming they didn’t need them. It was uncanny.

As the meeting slowed to a natural close, Enjolras raised his eyes from his notebook to glance around just in case anyone else had anything to say on the matter. His eyes caught, then, on his roommate at the other end of the table. He watched as Grantaire blew a curl out of his face, just observing him neutrally. Grantaire was focused on whatever he was drawing, wearing a faint frown, but he didn’t look unhappy. It was… surprisingly nice to have Grantaire at the meeting. His pushback gave Enjolras something to aim for and focused everyone on finding complete and doable actions and solutions. His very presence forced everyone to be sharper, to work harder, and to think about problems from multiple angles. Like a tempering flame, their plan came out flexible and sharp after his scathing commentary.

Grantaire glared at the offending curl and blew it back again. Enjolras snorted a small laugh in sympathy. If Grantaire had been nearer, he might even have pushed it back from his face for him so it would stay put.

Enjolras turned to Combeferre, pushing his own curls out of his face absently. “Ferre, I came across something odd while doing research, would you care to try your mind at a puzzle?”

Combeferre’s lips twitched into an interested smile. “Would I ever. Hit me.”

Eventually their group thinned out until only Enjolras’s faithful lieutenants, Grantaire, and Jehan were left sitting at the table with him. Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Enjolras were bent over an old crossword together, thoroughly distracted from whatever it was they’d been discussing before spotting last week’s Sunday puzzle. Grantaire and Jehan were quietly comparing notes on The Summoner’s Tale .

“That makes sixteen down THIRST TRAP.” Combeferre said, leaning back in satisfaction and stretching. He glanced over at his phone and whistled lowly. “Courf, I’ve got an early start tomorrow, so we should head home.”

Courfeyrac yawned and nodded. “Sure thing. Hey—would you mind putting the coffee up tomorrow before you get in the shower? I have a meeting that I’ll need to do some last minute prep for in the morning, and…”

Enjolras studied his best friends. Courfeyrac, bright, cheerful, and full of love for everyone around him. His dirty blond curls bounced wildly as he laughed with open glee at some arch comment Combeferre made with a raised brow. He threw his head back when he laughed, opening his throat and his heart to everyone around him. It was impossible to know him and not find joy in life.

And Combeferre. Unerring, razor sharp Combeferre. He always had a plan, always had a point. He could be brutal and sharp—tearing everything down in just a few words—or he could be subtle and soft—finding ways to smooth out even the roughest edges and keep even the most wretched of politicians from walking away from a conversation with Enjolras, hell bent on revenge.

Two of the smartest people Enjolras had ever known. Brilliant, bright, loyal.

Enjolras looked down at his hands, blinking tears from his eyes. He was lucky. So unbelievably lucky.

He put the pencil down and stood up, giving both Combeferre and Courfeyrac solid hugs goodbye before they headed out. Then he looked back at the table—only himself, Grantaire, and Jehan remained. He opened his notebook and laptop and set to compiling and arranging a plan for himself. He had emails to draft, and he needed to block out time to do them before work swallowed everything.

A hand alighted on his shoulder, and Enjolras startled awake from his doze, his cheek stinging where he’d ripped it away from his hand. Grantaire snorted. “Sorry, sorry. Jehan headed out and I figured I shouldn’t just leave you here sleeping, Apollo.”

Enjolras nodded, yawned, and stretched, rolling his stiff wrist. “Any idea how long I was out?”

Grantaire waited for him to pack up his things before answering. “About half an hour, I think. Come on, let's get home.”

Home.

Grantaire said it so easily.

Home.

Enjolras nodded, head spinning, and they walked back to their apartment in sleepy, companionable silence.

Enjolras dropped his keys in the dish by the door, and they clinked against Grantaire’s, dropped in with the clatter of metal on ceramic just the moment before.

They had a dish by the door for their keys—Grantaire had painted it. Enjolras looked at it curiously.

Home.

It was, wasn’t it? If their interactions were ghosts on the walls, the walls screamed more than spoke, but Enjolras was home.

Enjolras struggled to get his shoes off until Grantaire took his elbow, his fingers warm through Enjolras’s blazer. He smiled at him gratefully. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

He nodded to himself, exhausted, and kissed Grantaire’s cheek absently before heading to bed.

Grantaire stood, poleaxed, by the door, halfway out of his jacket, for a long moment, staring after Enjolras with his heart thudding in his chest.

“Fuck! Enjolras, mon petit chou? Don’t walk in the kitchen, there’s glass on the floor!”

Enjolras, allergic to a large number of rules and regulations along with doing what he was told and paying attention to his own safety, made his way towards the source of the cursing.

“Are you alright, honey?” He peered around the corner into the kitchen curiously, seeing glass covering the floor and Grantaire trying not to move lest his bare feet end up full of glass shards.

“Ah. One moment.”

Enjolras walked quickly over to the front door, amused by Grantaire’s muffled and confused comments, and slipped on his shoes. They crunched on the glass as he walked over to Grantaire.

“Here. I’ll pick you up and move you out of the kitchen since I’m wearing shoes, and then I can sweep and vacuum it up. What did you even break?”

Grantaire let out a small squeak as Enjolras strained and lifted him into his arms, carrying him the few steps to safety. They would have had a problem had it been any further, given Enjolras’s weak nerd arms, but Grantaire was set clear of the glass without mishap. Enjolras leaned into the hallway and grabbed the broom and dustpan to sweep up the larger pieces of glass.

“My hands had a little oil on them, and the glass slipped right out of my fingers. Take the pan off the stove while I grab the vacuum and my shoes—I’ll finish making lunch after we deal with this, babe.”

Enjolras put his last book in his suitcase and struggled to zip it closed. He crept out of his room, hoping not to wake Grantaire as he left for the airport for his business trip—

“Enjolras?”

Enjolras looked up to see Grantaire standing in the doorway of his room, wearing only a pair of boxers, and winced. “I didn’t mean to wake you, I’m sorry.”

Grantaire laughed and waved him off, walking into the kitchen nonchalantly.

“No worries. Give me twenty minutes—I know you’ve got the time. Courfeyrac said that he and Combeferre wouldn’t be here to pick you up until five-twenty and it’s only four forty-five.” Enjolras schlepped his suitcase to the door, no longer worried about the noise, and stepped into the kitchen, smoothing down his shirt.

“You should go back to sleep, dearest. I’m sorry for waking you.” Enjolras frowned as Grantaire started up their coffee maker and started getting ready to cook. “Grantaire, what are you doing?”

Grantaire rolled his eyes and dropped four pieces of bacon in the pan. “I’m not about to let you get on a plane on an empty stomach. I know you. You’ll be miserable.”

Enjolras watched Grantaire, not properly awake or dressed, whirl around their kitchen and make sandwiches, bacon, toast, and eggs. In short order, he handed Enjolras a plate, putting his own fried egg onto the toast and eating his bacon.

Enjolras stared at him. “You really didn’t have to, I was going to walk down to the all-night cafe on main and get something—”

Grantaire cut him off with a look. “Their coffee isn’t fair trade, their fruit isn’t organic, their eggs are of dubious origin—no. You would have been miserable, Apollo.” He poured Enjolras’s coffee into his favorite travel mug and pushed it to him. “Cream is in the fridge, sugar’s behind you.”

Enjolras smiled gratefully at the coffee, setting down his half-empty plate to add cream and sugar. He offered the coffee fixings to Grantaire with a quiet hum of satisfaction as he took his first too-hot sip. Grantaire shook his head. “I’m gonna go back to sleep after you leave.”

Enjolras sighed and finished his breakfast in quiet contemplation. “You really didn’t have to get up just to feed me and see me off. I would have been fine.”

Grantaire’s grin was tired and crooked. “It was no trouble, cheri.”

Enjolras rinsed off their empty plates and put them in the dishwasher, starting on the rest of the dishes. Grantaire put a warm hand on his shoulder, so Enjolras looked at him, the question on the tip of his tongue lost when he saw Grantaire there, sleepy and warm and comfortable, his easy smile at home on his face. Grantaire pulled Enjolras’s hands from the soapy water, rinsed them off, and dried them gently.

Enjolras watched as Grantaire unrolled the sleeves of his button down and buttoned the cuffs for him, the early morning air halting his tongue.

Grantaire smiled at him. “I’ve got it. Combeferre will be here any minute now with Courfeyrac asleep in his car. You don’t have time to change your shirt if you get it wet.”

Enjolras opened his mouth to protest—Grantaire had cooked for them, had gotten up before five in the morning to make sure Enjolras ate—but no words came to him before Combeferre’s quiet and distinct knock echoed through the room, painted almost blue by the weak pre-dawn light.

Grantaire laughed and handed Enjolras the sandwiches, turning to head back to bed. “Safe travels, sweetheart.”

Before he knew quite what he was doing, Enjolras grabbed Grantaire’s arm and gently pulled until his roommate was facing him. He searched Grantaire’s face for… something.

“Thank you,” he said after a long, quiet moment. “Thank you, Grantaire.”

Before he could think better of it, he ducked in and pressed a kiss to Grantaire’s cheek, then rushed to the door and left, leaving Grantaire standing, a hand pressed to his cheek, in their kitchen.

Enjolras reached for the glass of water he’d put next to his laptop and brought it to his lips without looking at it, only to find it empty. He huffed and put it back down to finish his sentence, figuring that if he’d emptied it, it was probably time to take a break and stretch.

One sentence turned into the paragraph, and then the article, and then there was some reading he had to do and pretty soon—

“Enjolras?”

Courfeyrac flicked on the light in their shared hotel room, yawning.

Enjolras looked over at him, annoyed, knowing that he’d have lost his rhythm completely by the time Courfeyrac had finished with his little interruption.

“Are you still working? It’s four thirty, you need to sleep.”

Enjolras waved off his concerns sharply. “I’m fine.”

Courfeyrac sighed and shuffled off, only to return a minute later with a container of fruit and a granola bar. “Grantaire said this would happen. Eat. you have ten minutes before I come and close your laptop on your fingers.”

Enjolras picked up the fork and stabbed a piece of melon with more force than strictly necessary. “I can take care of myself,” he muttered mutinously.

Courfeyrac snorted and put his phone face up on the hotel desk, timer running. “Grantaire’s right, you are notably grumpier when you’re hungry.”

Enjolras chewed on his melon, scowling darkly as he made sure nothing important was out of place before he closed his laptop. Without anything to distract him from it, Enjolras’s mind wandered to Grantaire’s easy smile, hazy with sleep in their kitchen before his flight.

The frown eased off his face as he ate. His chest felt warm and fuzzy, thinking about Grantaire at home. He slid his laptop into his computer bag and noticed a piece of paper in it.

Apollo,

Be easy on Courfeyrac. Please eat and sleep. Don’t burn out, darling.

Enjolras was still staring at it, smiling faintly and studying the little doodles, even as the timer Courfeyrac had set went off and he returned.

Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow at the note, but said nothing about it. “Bed. Go to.”

“Enjolras. Quit bouncing your knee. You’re gonna shake the plane out of the fucking sky, man.” Courfeyrac put a hand on Enjolras’s leg. Enjolras huffed.

“I’m not going to shake the plane out of the sky, Courfeyrac. You’re being absurd.”

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes and patted Enjolras’s cheek gently. “You will, however, drive the person behind you insane by shaking their screen and tray table.”

Enjolras slumped down in his seat, brooding. He wanted to be home already. He was sick of hotel showers and desks that made his spine hurt more than usual and being grumpy and hungry and snapping at people and having to apologise for his behavior. He wanted to be home, where the fridge had his coffee creamer, where the bed smelled right, where the chair in the living room was worn and squishy in just the right way, and where the takeout containers had sticky notes and doodles on them.

 So sue him. He missed Grantaire.

Enjolras sighed, and Courfeyrac gave him a look. “Are you alright, Enj? I’ve never seen you so excited to get home from something like this—usually you’re neck deep in articles already.”

Enjolras shrugged apathetically. “I haven’t been sleeping well.”

It was true, he hadn’t, but poor sleep had never stopped him before. Clearly Courfeyrac didn’t buy it at all.

“You’d tell me if there was something actually wrong, right? Or at least you’d tell Ferre?”

Enjolras shook himself and sat up. “I would. There’s nothing wrong, really, I just miss food that isn’t cheap takeout.”

That admission was like catnip to Courfeyrac. He narrowed his eyes and sat up straighter. “You almost never cook,” he accused. “When we lived together, you had your own designated takeout shelf in the fridge.”

Enjolras winced, knowing that now he’d have to explain his and Grantaire’s system to Courfeyrac. “Usually, I make breakfast, and Grantaire makes lunch. Dinner is whoever feels like cooking. Collaborative even, if I’m not too buried in my work.”

Courfeyrac gaped at him.

Enjolras scowled. “I can take care of myself, you know. I’m a pretty good cook.”

Courfeyrac looked like he’d just been told Enjolras had voted for an anti-choice, pro-war Republican. “You can cook, but you don’t.”

Enjolras levelled a glare at Courfeyrac. “I have a system that works for me. Don’t judge me for it.” He put on his headphones and turned on his podcast, so he could look out the window and ignore Courfeyrac.

An hour later, Courfeyrac tapped his shoulder lightly to get his attention. “I’m sorry. I guess I didn’t think about how much you’ve grown since Ferre and I moved out. You and Grantaire haven’t fought at a meeting in a long time, and you’ve stopped coming in looking half dead. Whatever you’re doing is working for you, I just…”

Enjolras watched him struggle with his words for a moment, then put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s alright. I’m not upset with you.”

Courfeyrac gave him a tight smile. “I miss seeing you all the time. It’s quiet in our apartment, with Combeferre’s days being so long. You should come work at my place sometime. Hey, actually, would you drop by on Monday and help me outline my piece about fuckwad Tholomyés?”

Enjolras laughed. “Sure. I bet we can find a way to express your displeasure with him in words they’ll actually let hit the presses.”

Courfeyrac shrugged. “It’s easier for me than for you. I’m writing an op-ed, not a politics piece that has to sound dispassionate.”

Enjolras glared at the line to deplane like it had personally made Jeff Bezos president of the world. Courfeyrac laughed at him sleepily. “Patience, young padawan. The doors will open when the time is right.”

Enjolras turned the glare on him, making him laugh harder and punch his shoulder. “Combeferre’s waiting as close to security as he can be.”

Enjolras nodded, but didn’t stop glaring at everyone in front of them until they hit the escalator out of the secure section of the airport, and he saw Combeferre at the bottom, holding up a gaudy, glittery, painted sign.

His glare fled his face not at the sight of salvation so near, but at Grantaire, holding the other side of the “Welcome Homo” banner up for them. Enjolras felt ecstatic as he dragged his carry-on down the escalator, not content to stand on it and wait a moment longer.

Grantaire was grinning at him brightly, and Combeferre had an all too knowing half-smirk on his face at Enjolras’s expression, one eyebrow raised. Enjoras rolled his eyes and gave Grantaire a hug.

“What are you doing here? Don’t you have work in the morning?”

Grantaire snorted. “You would have woken me anyway. I’m a light sleeper. And this way—” Grantaire grabbed a shopping bag from behind the banner and handed it to Enjolras “—I get to see your face in person when you see what’s in there.” Enjolras glanced at it warily before opening it to see… a tupperware of pasta and meat sauce. A massive, still warm tupperware of pasta and meat sauce, with a little doodle of a cat sticking out its tongue on the sticky note.

“There’s a fork in there, too,” Grantaire said, clearly amused by the way Enjolras was staring down into the bag, awestruck. “Courfeyrac texted, saying that you’d been missing real people food.”

Enjolras looked up at Grantaire, wordless. He opened and closed his mouth, trying to find the words to thank him, to express that this may be the most miraculous thing anyone has ever done for him. Enjolras stared into Grantaire’s eyes, grateful and feeling settled in his skin, like he was finally home after a long day. Grantaire grinned, staring back at Enjolras with soft eyes. There was something about the moment, something between them, an almost, a possibility, a hope, a spark, a—

Enjolras’s stomach growled loudly, shattering the mood and causing Courfeyrac to laugh uproariously. Courfeyrac patted their shoulders and took Combeferre’s arms. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

I am home, Enjolras thought. Grantaire’s right here.

Enjolras slouched out of his room in the morning and ambled towards the coffee machine, drawn to it like a moth is to the light just inside of a doorway. He started it up, fetching two mugs down from the shelf and prepping them mechanically—three spoonfuls of sugar in his, one in Grantaire’s. Always done before pouring the coffee, so as not to make the sugar clump to the steam-covered spoon.

He opened the fridge and stared into it unseeingly, thinking about what to make for breakfast. He nodded to himself as he grabbed ingredients, starting on the batter before pouring the mugs of coffee. He put creamer in his own and took a scalding sip, feeling more awake just for the smell, and put Grantaire’s mug and the milk at the end of the counter closest to the door, so his roommate would see them as soon as he entered.

Sure enough, just as Enjolras was greasing the muffin tin, Grantaire emerged from his room with a yawn and shuffled into the kitchen wordlessly, moving behind Enjolras to put the creamer away in the fridge without hitting him in spite of their narrow kitchen as if it was a practiced dance.

He watched Enjolras scoop batter into the tin without a word, still more asleep than awake. Enjolras offered him a small smile, already halfway done with his coffee, and held up the bag of chocolate chips just to see Grantaire smile and make grabby hands for the bag.

Grantaire made a satisfied noise of almost-thanks as he put a few chips into his hand and started eating them, and Enjolras laughed. “You’re welcome,” he said quietly.

I love you like this, he thought, emotive with sleep, before you’re awake enough to hide.

He couldn’t say exactly when he fell in love with Grantaire, but he wasn’t sure it mattered. They worked as roommates, and dating your roommate was never advisable, even if it had worked out for some of his friends. He cracked an egg and started on a couple simple omelettes to eat while they waited for the muffins to bake.

After he finished his first mug of coffee, Grantaire leaned back in his chair and raised an eyebrow at Enjolras. “You woke up in a good mood if I’m getting muffins. What’s on the docket for today, Apollo?”

Enjolras, halfway through his second cup of the morning, rolled his eyes with a smile. “It just made sense to make them. I like them, and I don’t have any meetings until two PM. I thought I might as well.”

Grantaire narrowed his eyes at him playfully. “No, it’s not that, it’s something else. Something deeper.”

For a heart stopping moment, Enjolras thought Grantaire was going to call him out for having fallen stupidly madly in love with him.

Grantaire grinned. “You remembered what today is.”

Enjolras pretended to think. “It’s not your birthday, it’s not Christmas, it’s not my birthday…”

Grantaire chuckled and stood to refill his coffee, patting Enjolras on the shoulder as he went. “You can keep trying, but I don’t think you’ll get it that way.”

Enjolras held his mug between his palms, smiling down at the coffee in it.

“Do you know what you’ll be wearing?”

Grantaire groaned. “Everyone and their mother has advice about what to wear to your gallery opening. One thing says ‘understated, almost casual’ the next says ‘go fucking ham’. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

Enjolras hummed in sympathy. “I know how that feels. Wear that green suit you wore to the senator’s party with a black button down and a white tie.”

Grantaire was silent for a long moment. “You know what formalwear I own? Why do you know that?”

Enjolras studied his coffee, desperate for an answer that wasn’t ‘I could never forget how good you looked in that suit, even if I tried’. “I pay attention. And you told Bahorel about your options last meeting, loudly and at length.”

Grantaire seemed to accept that, as he sat down at the table. “I trust your fashion sense more than mine. You’ve been to a few more functions than I have, darling.”

There was no barb to it, no accusations about the people that Enjolras rubs shoulders with for work, or at how he was raised. Just an observation. It struck Enjolras briefly how far they’d come. He blinked the thought away as the timer for the muffins went off.

Enjolras put them out on the counter and glanced at the time. “I need to go into the office today, I should—” he started to explain that as much as he wanted to spend the morning loitering, eating muffins, and talking to Grantaire, he couldn’t, but Grantaire was already waving him towards the bathroom. “I’ll shower while you’re off saving the world with bits of paper.”

Enjolras was intensely glad that he’d thought to bring his outfit for Grantaire’s gallery opening to the office with him after he stepped out of his last meeting, already running ten minutes later than he’d wanted to. He took the suit bag to the bathroom in the nearly empty office and changed as fast as he could manage, tying his tie with practiced ease. He faced himself in the mirror and considered the way he looked.

With any luck, the black suit jacket wouldn’t look out of place at the gallery, and he’d be able to just blend into the crowd and be there to support his friend. Roommate. Grantaire.

When he stepped into the gallery, he was pleased to note that his guess had been correct. Most of the suits in the room were varying shades of black, grey, and navy, making it easy to spot Grantaire’s deep emerald in the milling mass of artists and gallery goers.

Enjolras walked over to him and smiled. “Congratulations, Grantaire. You’re a resident artist at a gallery.”

He looked around them, appreciating the art his friend had made, all around them. “How’s it feel?”

He looked at Grantaire’s face properly for the first time after a long moment of silence to see his roommate staring at him. Grantaire’s eyes flitted between his face and his tie, and Enjolras reached up to adjust it. “Is it crooked? Which side?”

Grantaire shook his head. “Your tie is green.”

Enjolras looked at it, unsure of the nature of the comment. “Yes? Green with a little gold.”

Grantaire’s mouth opened and closed. “You wear red,” he finally got out. “You wear red, and I wear green.” He sounded dumbstruck.

Enjolras frowned. “I’ll agree, red is more my color, but anyone can wear a jewel tone, I thought, and since you’re wearing green and I’m here to support you, I thought…”

That didn’t seem to help Grantaire’s confusion. “You matched your tie to my suit?”

“... Yes?” Enjolras said, after a pause.

Grantaire looked at him like he didn’t know what to do with him. His disbelief stretched out the moments of silence into an impossibly long eternity, pulled like taffy.

Enjolras frowned and adjusted his tie. “Should I not have? Does it bother you? I can take it off, if you think I can get away without it, but I don’t have a second one on my person.”

Grantaire blinked and started back into motion. “No. No, it’s fine. I’m just surprised.”

Enjolras nodded. “Have you had a chance to eat something yet, or have you been trapped in conversation?”

Grantaire eyed the snack table, then glanced back to Enjolras, who laughed. “Come on, if we walk and act like we’re deep in conversation, we can probably make it there without being stopped.”

He touched Grantaire’s arm and leaned in, guiding them through the crowd towards the table and telling Grantaire about his day at work as though it were the most important thing on the planet. For his part, Grantaire’s feigned interest could have fooled any onlooker into thinking their conversation was riveting and not just Enjolras complaining about one of his coworkers.

Grantaire quickly filled a plate and ate a few canapés before he spoke. “Do you have a lot of practice walking to get snacks during events?”

Enjolras shrugged, sipping at a glass of sparkling apple cider. “A bit. Usually Combeferre has to rescue me.”

Grantaire smiled. “It’s a good thing someone’s looking out for you.”

Enjolras felt warmth and fondness bloom in his chest. Combeferre did his best, but really, Grantaire was the one taking care of him. “Yeah.”

Enjolras’s face must have done something, because Grantaire looked at him oddly. He blinked and forced the soft smile off of his face in favor of something a bit more neutral and took an awkward sip of his drink, just to have something to do, and cast his eyes around the gallery looking for conversation.

“Do you want to tell me about your pieces, or should I wander around and look at the plaques myself and let you schmooze?”

Grantaire’s eyes widened fractionally—with fear, maybe? Though what he could possibly be afraid of, Enjolras wasn’t sure—but he shrugged. “Whatever floats your boat, darling.”

“Buoyancy,” Enjolras answered, straight faced. “I’d like to hear what you have to say about them, if it’s not a bother.”

Grantaire smiled, but there was an edge to it. “Sure, sure. I’ll walk you around.”

Enjolras followed Grantaire’s starting-and-stopping trajectory, listening politely from Grantaire’s elbow whenever he was approached by someone interested in purchasing one of his pieces. He was massively proud of Grantaire; his art was beautiful and, given the number of potential buyers, he wasn’t the only one who thought so. He made polite conversation with the partners of those interested, keeping an eye on Grantaire to make sure he didn’t need to be rescued. Despite how dizzying and exhausting the conversations seemed to Enjolras, Grantaire seemed to be doing just fine, smiling and charming and joking and looking every bit like the wealthy, high society artist that people like Enjolras’s parents adored.

When Grantaire started to sound hoarse, Enjolras took his elbow and leaned in to murmur into his ear. “I’ll grab you something to drink, sweetheart. Water, lemonade, apple cider?”

Grantaire looked at him like he was heaven sent. “Water and lemonade?”

Enjolras kissed his cheek and offered the wife of the older man Grantaire was talking to his arm. “Would you accompany me to the drinks table? I’m afraid we’re rather parched, but I wouldn’t dream of pulling Grantaire away while he’s working,” he explained apologetically.

She laughed lightly and took his arm. “You’re a gentleman, Enjolras. The two of you are adorable, he’s lucky to have you.”

Enjolras laughed and ducked his head. “He keeps me sane, ma’am, I’m the lucky one.”

She smiled at him brightly. “Oh, I hope my daughter finds a young woman as nice as you. Is he busy?”

Enjolras hummed, picking up water and lemonade for Grantaire, and another glass of cider for himself. “Somewhat. His schedule is fairly flexible, so he always has time for the people he cares about.” He thought about last week, about Éponine showing up at their door with Gavroche and Azelma behind her looking harried on her way to a job interview. Grantaire had grinned brightly, picking the kids up, one on each arm, and had taken them to the zoo while Éponine completed her interview and took a nap.

Enjolras glanced back at the woman next to him. She looked charmed, grabbing a glass of white wine for herself and a glass of red for her husband.

They started back towards Grantaire. “Young love is so sweet. How long have you been together?”

Enjolras’s eyes widened, and he nearly tripped over his dress shoes. “Oh, we’re not—I’m—” he took a sip of his drink. “Grantaire’s my roommate and a good friend. We’re not together.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh? My mistake. You act like you love him very dearly.”

Enjolras felt himself go pink to his roots. “He’s a wonderful person,” he tries.

She smiles at him knowingly. “Tell him how you feel. You’re like two pieces of a puzzle next to each other, and I’m sure he feels the same. Now, what were we talking about?”

The conversation left Enjolras shaken for the rest of the evening, even as he continued to stand at Grantaire’s elbow and get him drinks at intervals. He was constantly aware of how close they stood, nearly touching.

When they got home and Enjolras was finally able to shrug off his jacket and tie and collapse onto the couch to take his dress shoes off his aching feet, Grantaire sat down next to him, mirroring his actions and unbuttoning his shirt nearly halfway to his navel before leaning onto Enjolras with an exaggerated groan. “God, that was the longest function I’ve ever been to, what the fuck. How do people do that regularly!”

Enjolras chuckled, the warmth of Grantaire’s back soaking into his side. “Should I order Indian from that place on Grand? I want to eat real food, but I do not feel like cooking. Not even heating up leftovers.”

Grantaire looked up at him like he might cry. “Yes.”

Enjolras laughed and called in the order, then put on a nature documentary series that he’d seen suggested for being quite funny. By the time the doorbell rang, Grantaire had just about melted into Enjolras’s side, and Enjolras couldn’t have told you a single thing that had happened in the episode since Grantaire had smiled at him and kissed his cheek, murmuring, “You’re the best roommate I’ve had, Apollo,” all soft and deep with his breath warm on Enjolras’s neck.

Enjolras gently extricated himself from Grantaire and the couch to get the door. He tipped the driver and grabbed plates from the kitchen before coming back to the couch and putting it all down on the coffee table. “Eat up, cheri.”

At some point, after they’d both put their plates on the table, Grantaire had fallen asleep leaning on Enjolras. Which was completely fine, Enjolras told himself. Grantaire had had a long day, and events were always stressful: too many people to talk to and not enough space between them.

Enjolras couldn’t help the way he smiled down at Grantaire. He was beautiful, at peace in his sleep, looking almost happy. Gentle wasn’t necessarily a word that Enjolras would have used for Grantaire when they’d first moved in together, but now…

Now Enjolras knew how careful and sweet and gently and utterly, unfailingly kind Grantaire could be. He had wondered (rather cruelly), before he knew this side of Grantaire, how Joly and Bossuet could be friends with a man who would spend his time drunk and disparaging all that they fought for. He hadn’t seen, then, that Grantaire was unfailing and unflinching in the way he cared—perhaps not for causes, but for his neighbors and his neighbors’ neighbors and for people to whom his connection was tenuous at best. The shopkeepers on the streets off Main, who he knew well enough to ask after their kids and spouses and parents, the waiters at the restaurants near Theater Row, whom he would ask about their latest round of auditions.

Grantaire knew everyone, and he cared about them, and Enjolras had been blind to it all.

Enjolras yawned. He’d wake Grantaire up in a little while. The artist deserved a nap.

Enjolras roused slowly to the sound of his phone buzzing on the table, signaling his morning alarm going off. “Shit,” he muttered, grasping for it to turn it off, so it wouldn’t wake Grantaire. Sometime in the night, (shit, had they really slept on the couch? Together?) Grantaire had turned over and was cuddled up to him, his breath slow and warm in the crook of Enjolras’s neck.

Enjolras turned off his alarm, pulled the blanket off the back of the couch, and laid it over them. He checked his schedule for the day—nothing before noon—and decided he could just wait for Grantaire to wake up on his own, rather than disturb him and watch the peace slide off his features.

Maybe it was selfish to want to keep Grantaire right here. Maybe Enjolras was an idiot for falling in love with his roommate. The woman at the gallery opening had read him so easily—could he really be that transparent?

But no, Courfeyrac would be teasing him to hell and back if he knew, so it must have just been a fluke. Enjolras closed his eyes and mentally started drafting emails and text messages to his co-workers.

Grantaire shifted, his hand coming up to curl over Enjolras’s collarbone, and his breath caught, his eyes flying open as the touch scattered all thoughts of work. This was going to be so awkward when Grantaire woke up, but he couldn’t move now, couldn’t escape, could hardly breathe. He opened his text thread with Courfeyrac and Combeferre.

i hate everyone and everything that got me here, he typed out, but i need your help.

Combeferre’s response was quick. Emergency?

Courfeyrac wasn’t far behind. Arson required?

Enjolras rolled his eyes fondly. n o and no. courfeyrac, if you laugh at me i will skin you alive.

Enjolras could practically see the dryly amused expression Combeferre must have received that message with, and the scandalized look that accompanied Courfeyrac’s response. I laugh at everything, you know. And for the record, I promise not to laugh at you.

Enjolras steeled himself. i've done something very stupid.

Do you require medical attention?

no. Enjolras closed his eyes and hit send on the next message. i managed to fall in love with my roommate, and i can’t think of any possible way to fix this.

Enjolras clicked the power button and rested his phone against his side. It was silent for a long minute before it started buzzing incessantly.

You

Enjolras

Grantaire?

I wouldn’t ever laugh at your feelings

You know that

Unrelated

HOW LONG HAVE YOU KNOWN

Bonus

What is there to fix???? KISS THE BOY.

Courfeyrac, take a deep breath.

Enjolras read the messages considering Courfeyrac’s advice for longer than he should, before shaking his head slightly to clear it like an etch-a-sketch.

i can’t kiss him, courfeyrac. he doesn’t feel the same way. how could he? i spent a long time being cruel to him, and his behaviour towards me hasn’t changed, aside from becoming friendly.

There was a long pause before either of his friends responded, and Enjolras was startled to see that the comment was from Combeferre, not Courfeyrac.

Ask him.

Enjolras silenced his phone and put it back on the coffee table, unwilling to deal with any more of that before coffee. In hindsight, it had been stupid to tell them when he wasn’t ready to deal with the fallout. He’d be rubbing his temples if he didn’t think the motion would disturb Grantaire.

For an indeterminate amount of time, Enjolras sat like that, his eyes closed and his head spinning, before Grantaire started to stir. He let out a sleepy sigh and yawned, stretching and hitting Enjolras in the face. Enjolras opened his eyes with a questioning hum.

Grantaire stilled for a moment before sitting up and pulling the blanket away from Enjolras in the process, making him shiver.

Grantaire’s face was an impenetrable mask, save the blush of warmth and sleep on his cheeks. “Sorry,” he offered, voice gravelly. “I didn’t mean to pass out on you.”

Enjolras shrugged and sat up himself, stretching and rolling his aching joints and muscles. “It’s no big deal.”

Grantaire blinked. “If you say so. You should have just woken me, though.”

Enjolras stood to go make breakfast and smiled at him. “I wasn’t bothered. Besides, you looked peaceful.”

Enjolras rested his forehead on his arms, ignoring the coffee beside him as he waited for Courfeyrac and Combeferre to join him at the cafe for lunch. Combeferre put a hand on his shoulder, startling him. “Talk to him, Enjolras. You’re good at communicating, so do it.”

Enjolras started to shake his head, but Courfeyrac sat down in the chair across from him dramatically, leaving Combeferre to pull up his own. “How long did you manage to keep that to yourself? I’m impressed, Jo, I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Enjolras narrowed his eyes in warning. “I am perfectly capable of both love and keeping secrets.”

Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow. “Not from us, you aren’t. Care to tell us why you won’t just confess to him?”

Enjolras groaned. “We live together. It’s important that our relationship remains at least civil. I can’t afford to fuck with it.”

Combeferre looked unimpressed. “So make a contingency plan. You’re good at that.”

Enjolras looked at him, equally unimpressed. “A contingency plan. For if my roommate is uncomfortable living with me after I tell him I’m in love with him.”

Combeferre met his gaze steadily. “Yes,” he said simply.

Enjolras groaned. “What would that even look like? A list of apartments I could move to? Couches I could surf on? Vacation plans?”

“Just do it.”

Enjolras made the plan.

It had been three weeks, and Enjolras still hadn’t said anything. He’d bit his tongue as Grantaire leaned against him while they watched Netflix. He’d choked on the words when Grantaire smiled at him sleepily over coffee. He’d barely stopped himself from just yelling them across the room when Grantaire threw his head back and laughed, full throated, at something Joly said after a meeting. Enjolras was practically drowning in his words.

On Saturday, Les Amis volunteered at a library event, where they were bringing in animals from the local shelter and using them to draw in readers as well as to get the cute little animals adopted. Enjolras was tasked with watching a kennel of older cats and helping people in and out without letting them escape.

As traffic wound down for the day, One of the shelter’s employees caught him staring into the pen and trying to coax some of the cats over to pet them. She smiled at him. “You’re welcome to hang out with them. I don’t think we’ll have too many more people coming over before we close the doors and pack up.”

Enjolras smiled at her, a little embarrassed to have been caught neglecting his duties. “Are you sure?”

She nodded and waved him in. “Go on.”

Enjolras made his way over to a very large orange and white cat with striking golden eyes and sat down next to it.

“Hello,” he murmured, feeling silly. “May I pet you?”

The cat blinked.

Enjolras offered his hand, which the cat leaned forward and sniffed, before nosing at it with a sort of well, get on with it expression. Enjolras smiled down at the cat, charmed.

The volunteer smiled. “His name is Rocket. He can be a bit standoffish, but he seems to like you.”

Enjolras nodded at her, quickly becoming enamoured with the way the cat was purring at him and pressing into his hand. “Do you know what breed he is?”

There was a rustle of paper as she checked the adoption paperwork clipped to the gate. “We do, actually! Rocket is a Siberian. He was a surrender after his previous owner died. Apparently his birthday is June fifth, and he adores teriyaki turkey jerky.”

Enjolras pulls out his phone to take a picture of Rocket for the group chat. The cat posed for the photo, then stood up and settled back down in Enjolras’s lap. He laughed quietly, sending the photo and putting his phone away so he could resume petting Rocket.

“You know, if you like him, you should take him home. It’s hard to get people to adopt older cats.”

Enjolras hesitated. He liked cats, he’d had cats growing up, but…

“I’d have to ask my roommate, and it’s a big commitment.”

She hummed and stood quietly for a minute. “I’m gonna move on, but feel free to keep hanging out with Rocket, since he seems to have you trapped.”

Enjolras let himself be distracted by enjoying the warm weight of the cat on his lap and the relaxing motion of petting him.

Someone laughed quietly, accompanied by the sound of a phone camera going off, making Enjolras look up, startled.

“Oh, Grantaire. I didn’t hear you walk up.” Enjolras looked down at Rocket, sleeping in his lap, torn. He wanted to go to Grantaire, but waking the cat seemed cruel. Grantaire solved the problem by stepping into the pen and coming to him.

“You two certainly look happy,” Grantaire teased playfully. “I’ve heard that petting a cat is very relaxing, especially for the cat.”

Enjolras’s lips twitched into a smile. “I’ll say. His name is Rocket.”

Grantaire hummed and gave Rocket a stroke. “You seem to be trapped here, should I free you from your furry warden?”

Enjolras hesitated. “I don’t mind him. I haven’t had a cat in ages. I miss it.”

Grantaire shrugged. “Do you want a cat? Our apartment is cat friendly, and I’m not allergic.”

Enjolras smiled at him, startled. “You wouldn’t mind?”

Grantaire stroked Rocket again, looking at the orange cat and not at Enjolras. “If it would make you happy, I’d suffer much worse than a beautiful, soft cat. It’s no bother at all.”

Enjolras was sprawled on the couch in the sun with Rocket in his lap when Grantaire came back from the store.

“How are my two favorite roommates?” he greeted jovially.

Enjolras, hazy with sunlight and sleep, mirrored Rocket’s stretch unconsciously. “Tired, my love. Join us on the couch.”

Grantaire’s laugh was breathless. “Yeah, sure. One minute.”

Enjolras closed his eyes and let the afternoon sun soak into his skin. He felt the couch dip by his legs and opened one eye lazily, just enough to see that Grantaire was sitting on the edge of the couch, and moved his legs to accommodate, letting Grantaire settle in.

Not long later, Grantaire shifted a bit, and the sound of a pencil on paper started up. Enjolras hummed. “Sketching Rocket?”

Grantaire made a motion that shifted the couch, but Enjolras kept his eyes closed. “And you,” he said after a moment. “The lighting is nice. Might paint it, if you’d permit me.”

Enjolras waved a hand lazily, before dropping it back where it had been, on his stomach. “Sure.”

It was nice and peaceful, and their conversation ebbed and flowed easily, the stretches of silence not even a little strained or awkward. Eventually, the noises of Grantaire’s sketching slowed to a stop, and Enjolras yawned, opening his eyes for the first time.

Grantaire was just looking at him, his sketchbook still open, but set to the side. His face was full of unguarded warmth and adoration, and Enjolras burned with desire to kiss him—like this, lazy in the sunlight, or pushing him up against a wall and getting his hands on him like he’d wanted when he saw Grantaire in that suit.

He could feel pressure building in his chest, words he was trying to swallow down.

And then Grantaire smiled at him, and Enjolras couldn’t bear it any more.

“I love you,” the words were hardly more than a whisper, but Enjolras couldn’t stop them. Grantaire looked shocked.

“What?”

Enjolras swallowed and sat up, dislodging a somewhat annoyed Rocket. “I love you. I am in love with you. I want to kiss you and take you out and be your date to your next gallery opening, and I want to bring you to my next event and call you my boyfriend, and I am sorry if it makes you uncomfortable, but you deserve to know that I am sort of in love with you. A lot.”

He searched Grantaire’s face for a reaction frantically, but he just sat there, shell-shocked. Enjolras let a moment pass, then another, and one more for good measure, before he steadied himself and nodded. “I—I can go spend the night at Courfeyrac and Combeferre’s, if you want some space from me.”

Enjolras could feel his expression shuttering as he stood up and walked past Grantaire to go to his room to pack an overnight bag.

“Wait.”

Grantaire’s voice sounded surprisingly rough, and he reached out and grabbed Enjolras’s wrist, standing up.

“Enjolras, wait. ”

Enjolras turned towards him, braced for rejection. “Yeah?”

Grantaire looked uncertain. “You mean that?”

Enjolras closed his eyes, pained. “Yes. If you want me to be out of your way for longer than that, I can—”

Grantaire shook his head. “Not that. You actually—” he swallowed. “You actually love me?”

Enjolras took a deep breath. “Yes. I— yes.”

Grantaire’s face cleared up into something resolute. “Would you permit me?”

Enjolras had no idea what he was asking, but the answer was easy. “Anything.”

Grantaire kissed him, and it was everything he could want.