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Les Amis de L’ABC had headquarters above the Cafe Musain. This had been true for five years now. Their merry band of misfits had graduated from hoodies and finals into nice shirts and petitions to the French government and to the European Union, and that came with the need for slightly better organisation than a text group would allow for.
It was not a bad location, all in all. Close to the Metro, with good coffee and food on hand when the amis tired of their own kitchen. Though the Taverne Corinthe remained their usual haunt when they weren’t conducting official business. Madame Hucheloup was fond of them, and didn’t mind the noise and merriment that would run into the late hours. For that reason, they would be having their holiday party there in just a few hours’ time.
The keys of mechanical keyboards were loud in the office space, hands flying across them to deliver final reports before the beginning of the winter break. The 25th was off, and for that reason they kept their celebrations on the 24th. Though not all of the amis were particularly inclined towards Christianity, hitting their 30s meant that they wouldn’t pass up nursing their hangovers on a day the government officially declared to be off.
“Grantaire, are the pamphlet designs ready?,” called Courfeyrac in the midst of fighting the printer.
“Ready and submitted,” confirmed the artist. He gently struck the top of the printer and set his coffee cup on top of the machine. He proceeded to take the jammed paper out of its tray rather like prying open the mouth of a pup holding onto something it definitely shouldn’t be chewing on.
“Merci,” breathed Courfeyrac in relief, pressing a loud smacking kiss to Grantaire’s bearded cheek as the printing job finally resumed.
Grantaire winked and sipped from his mug. The ‘not paint water’ label had somewhat faded over the years, but he was loathe to replace his favourite. “Wouldn’t want our esteemed leader to have an apoplectic fit right before the new year.”
“You know he wouldn’t mind extending the deadline,” chided Courfeyrac softly, stacking and stapling the documents.
“I know that about him,” said Grantaire, rather bitterly.
That gave Courfeyrac pause. He turned to raise an eyebrow at his friend. “Meaning…?”
“It was supposed to be a break, you know?,” said Grantaire, swirling the coffee to mix it in his cup. Eggnog, if Courfeyrac had to guess.
“When you…?”
“Indefinitely extended the break? Yeah.”
It was simultaneously one of the best and worst kept secrets of their group. Enjolras and Grantaire had been at each other’s throats for years — from the brunet antagonising the blond’s speeches and goading him into covering his logical and philosophical fallacies, to the leader giving the artist chances to help out only to give cutting remarks when Grantaire fell short.
They never let slip what finally brought them together. One day, they simply were. No fanfare, no grand announcement, just them arriving and leaving together, sometimes wearing an item of the other’s, always Grantaire’s eyes glued to Enjolras, and Enjolras finally looking back.
The amis didn’t know what to make of it, at first. They knew of the depth of Grantaire’s feelings, but they underestimated the lengths to which he would go to accommodate Enjolras’ busy disposition.
The artist didn’t need much. He was happy to hold the blond’s free hand while he used the other to emphasise some point he wanted to discuss in the students’ association meeting. Grantaire was fine with the bed being empty and cold, as long as he could nap on the couch, listening to the tapping of Enjolras’ keys into the night.
Then came the graduation, and the move into the space above the Musain. Grantaire finally got a breakthrough with one of his many talents. A lot of pots and pans needed tending to at the same time, and somehow, in the chaos of it, Enjolras missed the opening of the art gallery exhibition Grantaire had been working for months to put together.
There was no clear fallout. No snide remarks to their respective closest friends, not even a clear label they were applying. ‘Exes’ was rather strong, when their situationship continued the same as it had for years, with the caveat that they didn’t share Metro commutes anymore and both of them seemed rather pained at times, as if something was missing even though it was right there within reach.
It was not, as some of them had guessed, Grantaire’s wish for the end of their relationship. He had been ready to shove the whole thing under a rug. Gallery schmallery; if anyone knew Enjolras it was Grantaire, and, upon the five minutes he had allotted himself for feeling upset being up, he knew that, reasonably, the activist had stretched himself thin between deadlines and simply forgot about attending his partner’s event. Grantaire knew the end of Enjolras’ malice, or rather that of his judgement burning cold, and it was never this indirect.
“Grantaire,” Enjolras had said, cheeks flushed in the December winds. He was out of breath. He likely ran.
“Hey, Apollo,” said Grantaire, smiling tiredly as he threw away the plastic drink flutes that had been used. The gallery was closed. He’d made sure to flip the sign as he shooed his friends away, assuring them he didn’t need help cleaning up.
“…Words are not enough to apologise for my actions tonight.”
“Eh, think nothing of it. It wasn’t that interesting anyway.”
With the brunet’s back turned, he missed the long looks the blond gave the paintings on the walls. His gaze slipped across the large canvases. Enjolras was a fish out of water when it came to appreciating the beautiful arts, but he did hold hard work in high regard. The paintings must have taken many, many hours. And he couldn’t even show up for one in turn.
“I am sorry. I should have been here.”
“Really, it’s fine.” Grantaire’s smile was tired. He was always tired lately, little as he liked to show it. How had Enjolras missed it?
“Grantaire…”
“Yeah?”
“I think we should take a break.”
And so, the artist’s life came crashing down around him.
Enjolras knew that his behaviour had been unacceptable at times when it came to Grantaire. They had outgrown the harsh words and tempers that permeated the first few years of meetings, but Grantaire would never hold him accountable for failing to be present and supportive as a partner. If anything, the artist would get it into his head that he somehow deserved such treatment.
The oblivious leader took it upon himself to prevent it happening any further, even if that meant keeping his distance until he could be certain of his capacity of keeping up with a relationship.
None of it went spoken. And, while Grantaire was well-versed in Enjolras’ patterns, the bias of this happening to him meant he was liable to get it into his head that Enjolras simply tired of him and his needs. He had never asked things of Enjolras, after all. If Enjolras felt obligated to attend, it was Grantaire's fault for overreaching. Or, at least, in his mind it was.
Which left them in this odd limbo they hadn’t quite shaken off, of being on a break but not broken up. In a way, it was easy for Grantaire — Enjolras was it for him, and though the fall into the cold water hurt after flying so close to the sun he was grateful to remain in its orbit.
For Enjolras, the self-assessment and analysis of priorities came harder, particularly around the crunch time of holidays. Did he believe himself ready to show proper commitment, if he could hardly make time for Grantaire as a friend? Never mind how Joly and Combeferre had to remind him to take breaks, eat, and sleep as if he were still in his finals week, and not ten years older and feeling it.
Combeferre popped up from behind a screen to give Grantaire a thumbs up, verifying the latest information the designer had included on the pamphlets and signing them off for printing.
Taking his cue, Grantaire queued up the files, finishing off his coffee.
“Why does it never act up for you?,” asked Courfeyrac, looking at the printer with some suspicion and envy. Somehow, Grantaire’s tray never jammed, and the printer spat out colourful cardstock with gusto while turning its proverbial nose up at the regular paper of the rest of the amis.
“I have the magic touch. Take these to Enjolras, along with a paper guillotine?”
Courfeyrac laughed, shaking his head but picking up the supplies as instructed. “Redirecting his revolutionary fervour?”
“In a way.” Grantaire’s smile was lopsided but looked just right below his nose, broken and crooked from years of boxing.
“Alright. I’ll see you at the party.”
“Ditto,” saluted Grantaire with two lazy fingers, already strolling back to his work station. Bossuet and Joly had gone through the trouble of decorating the office, and he amused himself with putting googly eyes on the miniature tree, waiting for the minutes to tick by.
At the other end of the office, Enjolras waved Courfeyrac closer as he finished up a phone call, rapidly typing up the minutes and scheduling post-holiday meetings.
He made a face at the paper guillotine, but went right to work cutting up the pamphlets. Grantaire was, unfortunately, right, and Enjolras did feel his shoulders relax at having something physical to do.
“These came out so great,” said Courfeyrac, snatching up the final product and turning it over in the overhead lights.
“They did,” agreed Enjolras readily. Grantaire had finished them with time to spare, and they’d be ready for distribution just as people were most likely to donate to charitable causes. He’d done well.
A notable change from the time he’d entrusted another series of pamphlets to Grantaire, only to find him drinking in a bar just before the charity event they were promoting. He’d banned the artist from participating for a year after that. Heated words had been exchanged. Grantaire hadn’t been visibly affected, but even now Enjolras remembers the flinch of Prouvaire. He had gone far in tempering his voice since then.
Courfeyrac threw him a look, but decided to seemingly change the subject. “Bahorel called, the Corinthe’s ready. He helped move some furniture around.”
Enjolras checked the time, by habit looking at his watch rather than at his screen. “Should we call it an early day?”
“Who are you, and what have you done with my friend,” laughed Courfeyrac.
The blond shook his head with a small smile. “It would do well for morale.”
It didn’t take long to rally the troops. Emails finished up and sent, they gathered up in the lobby, throwing on coats, scarves, and mittens. Their merry band trekked together through the icy streets. If they unfocused their gazes, it would be as though no time had passed.
Enjolras was in the middle of asking Feuilly after his Polish friends and how their celebrations were going, when he slipped on a patch of ice. It was only Grantaire’s quick reflexes that caught him, hands catching onto his waist to steady him.
“Merci,” said Enjolras, righting himself and continuing his discussion.
Grantaire, feeling his hands clench into fists at the dismissal, found a better use for them in holding on to Bossuet and Joly’s arms, taking up the middle of their trio.
“I have delivered them safely,” he declared to Musichetta upon arrival, liberating the wine bottle out of her hands for welcoming her boyfriends.
With Enjolras’ singular focus sometimes turned on to him during their relationship, Grantaire had found sobriety. He still indulged in an occasional drink, but no longer did he reach his infamously loud stupors.
Much as he wanted to get uproariously drunk on this occasion, the blond’s hair shining golden in the warm lights just out of the corner of his eye, his hand steadied after pouring a glass of his own, and went on to pour more into Prouvaire’s.
“Joyeux Noël, Grantaire,” wished Prouvaire, his eyes twinkling with the reflections of tinsel. He took in the profile of his friend as they stood side by side, watching gifts be added to the small tree in the corner.
“And to you, Jehan,” said the brunet, easily slinging an arm around the poet’s shoulders. “Busy plans for your time off?”
“A poetry slam or two,” Prouvaire confirmed readily. “And you…?”
“Nah, not really.” The nonchalant façade was well-practiced, but Prouvaire knew to decode it — if Grantaire was left to his own devices and his headspace was less than ideal, he’d either cling to any distraction he could, spending long hours in public establishments, or he’d sink his sorrows into a canvas or two.
Prouvaire threw a discreet look around the room, doing a headcount. The Bossuet-Joly-Musichetta trio would be off on holiday, and Bahorel had a championship coming up.
While the others would be more than happy to open their doors to Grantaire, particularly now that he had become less intentionally obstinate and no longer made himself an unpleasant guest, they would hardly know how to deal with Grantaire’s swinging moods in the face of their happiness.
It seemed Grantaire had resigned himself to the same conclusion. His friends were either busy or in requited love, and Grantaire was neither.
“Call me, if you have need of me,” said Prouvaire.
“I will,” replied Grantaire.
Prouvaire squeezed his shoulder and let him be, even if the words rang hollow.
Enjolras noticed the exchange, and his heavy brows drew together in a frown. He pushed his glasses up his nose. He had taken to wearing them against the blue light of the monitors, and found they staved off headaches, but he could feel one building up as the hours passed and Grantaire’s drinks kept flowing.
The leader excused himself from his own table and sidled up to the artist, resting his fingers atop the glass before more wine could be poured.
“Grantaire, have some water,” he suggested instead. The corners of his mouth grew taut, showing his displeasure at the flush in the brunet’s cheeks.
“I’ve had enough water and food to reach Troy, Achilles,” said Grantaire, biting into a mozzarella stick as if to make a point. “Concern yourself not with your poor Patroclus.”
“You and I both know of your excess this time of year,” said Enjolras softly, only for them to hear. “I am concerned. You know you have my support, should you need it.”
“Do I?”
“Do you what?”
“Have your support, or know of it?”
“Grantaire, be serious,” said Enjolras in what he thought was a reasonable voice.
“I am wild,” said Grantaire, moving his glass away and refilling it all the same.
“You are childish.”
Rather than responding, Grantaire took out a cigarette and made for the exit. He proved Enjolras’ point, forgoing his jacket in the winter evening.
Enjolras never knew when to leave things well enough alone, though, so it was only a minute before his pensive solitude was disturbed.
A coat was pressed around Grantaire’s shoulders. It was heavier than he knew his own to be. He turned to look at Enjolras, an eyebrow raised, only to be met by Enjolras having stolen Grantaire’s own jacket.
“Take mine, when you smoke. It’s warmer.”
“I didn’t know we were sharing clothes,” bit out Grantaire, taking a long drag of his cigarette.
“I would lend it to any friend. Why do you think I would not extend the same to you?”
“Truly, ange?,” the brunet frowned, shortening his name.
Enjolras frowned, watching Grantaire take another sip of the wine. “It’s icy out. At least wait until you’re back inside.”
“Jésus-Christ, Enjolras! It’s one evening! I’m not about to die or relapse!”
“…You’re right. Forgive me.”
That took the wind out of Grantaire’s sails.
“Sorry, what?”
“You’re right. All the same, I will stay with you until you are done.”
Grantaire took one more smoke from the cigarette and threw it down, half-finished, putting it out with his boot. “Let’s go.”
“Do you object to my company this much?”
“Object!,” exclaimed Grantaire.
“Keep it down,” snapped Enjolras, mindful of the late hour.
Grantaire complied, hissing his next words. “You’re the one who made it clear my company is intolerable.”
Of all the responses Grantaire expected (acidic words thrown back in his face, Enjolras turning his back on him, disappointment even), it was not this one. Hurt.
“I am sorry to have missed it, Grantaire. Truly.”
“Missed it?” It was the artist’s turn to look at him, confused.
“The gallery opening.”
“You think it’s about that?” The brunet finished his wine, closing his eyes against the sting of tears. “I never cared about it.”
“You did. I do.”
“You left.”
Enjolras reached out. Grantaire felt him rummage through the coat pockets. A small box was pressed into his free hand, and he cracked his eyes open to see it covered in red and green wrapping paper.
“I don’t intend to, anymore.”
He handed Enjolras the glass, and made short work of the paper. Within the box rested a brand new set of keys. Grantaire remembers them; they're a copy of Enjolras' own. The keys to his flat.
“I believe it’s been long enough. I have made enough space in my life, now, if you’d still like to try.”
In his hand, the proof of it. Even when they’d been together, there never was enough space. Not in Enjolras’ schedule, not in his bed, not in his closet. Grantaire was a guest, brought over when convenient. It hadn't felt that way, at the time, but what other message could have been telegraphed when Enjolras was always too busy for him? They had never spoken of moving in together, but now, Enjolras had thought it through enough to realise that if such a thing were to happen, it never would be Grantaire who would bring it up.
It may have been the wine, but Grantaire heard his own voice from rather far away, dissociating as he asked, “It really was a break to you?”
“Yes, of course.” Enjolras nodded. “I went to therapy, and got things sorted. You deserved a partner, an equal. I hope I have put in sufficient work to be deserving of being called one. I will put in the work to be called one. If… you’re still agreeable,” he repeated, unsure.
Grantaire’s features twisted, caught between a big sob and a loud bark of laughter. He was not handsome by any means, but Enjolras cared not for beauty. The blond’s hands came to rest on his cheeks.
“Grantaire…?”
“You’re a cretin.”
Enjolras frowned at that. Such words were not part of their usual repertoire.
“Pardon?”
“Only a cretin would think a break goes on for years, without actually talking about it.”
“Well, it was hardly years—”
Grantaire cut him off short, crashing their lips together and swallowing the surprised sound the blond made. It was a feat he would later congratulate himself for. Enjolras was rather tall, which meant Grantaire had to pull him down by the collar of his shirt, his neck craning back even so.
“Yes, I’ll move in with you.”
Enjolras lit up at that. If Grantaire had been at all cold, between the warmth of the wine and of the coat around him, it vanished in the golden warmth of his sun.
“How soon? If you’re busy during the holidays, I understand,” said the blond.
“I have no plans.”
“No?”
“Do you?”
Enjolras shook his head, though he seemed unaffected by it. Knowing him, Grantaire supposed he would have been content by himself. He hardly needed as much contact as Grantaire did, and even so, he readily gave it to the artist.
“I guess now you do.”
“Coucou,” said a voice from above. They looked up, and found Courfeyrac and Prouvaire, holding a sprig of mistletoe.
Grantaire only saw it for a moment, before Enjolras swooped in and stole another kiss. And another, and another, all the way home and after.