Archive of Our Own

Enjolras tries, he really tries, to not hold a lot of expectations for his arrangement with Grantaire. He thinks he's not wrong, to at least hope for this.

“There,” Grantaire gasps. “There, ah, ah— Apollo.”

It’s only the second time it’s happened, and Enjolras is still not prepared for it, or for the dread that rises up in his heart. Instead of stopping, or correcting, his first reaction is to take his hand from Grantaire’s knee, and grasp his chin, tilting his face.

“Look at me,” he says.

“I—what,” Grantaire pants. His eyelashes flutter, and his head shakes in a frantic loll on the pillow. “No, uhm, can’t.”

“Look,” Enjolras pleads, feeling that same desperation that arises every time he hands out flyers or champions his causes to doubtful strangers on the street, that same hopeless fear. Do it. Please look at me. Please understand how important this is. Figuring out how to push past that worry for the cause was necessary. Figuring it out here—Enjolras has no experience, little confidence. He’s not even sure he’s in the right. That he’s allowed to ask.

“Not fair,” Grantaire says, arching, but he opens his eyes. Lidded low, glazed with pleasure, undecided between Enjolras’ face or his hands or the roll of their hips together. “Would you have me look directly upon—upon the—“

He never finds out what Grantaire considers unfair, but that’s all right, because for the rest of that evening, Grantaire doesn’t say someone else’s name in Enjolras’ bed.

Enjolras and Eponine don’t spend a lot of time together, primarily because they’re both busy and while they’re comrades in the way of all the Amis, they’re not particularly close.

Grantaire and Eponine, though, is a recipe for—something. Either disaster, or the best night of your college life. So a recipe for—for Alaska Flambé. Sweet, and addictive, and actively on fire. Honestly, Enjolras thinks they used to be wilder, but at some point after joining the ABC they’d settled. Now they spend house parties curled up on the sofa giggling together, sharing a bottle of wine between them. As is his habit when he manages to attend, Enjolras helps set up and then sneaks into the quiet of the host’s room for a while. By the time he returns, pulled by Courfeyrac, they’re always loose-limbed and loose-lipped, wine-flushed and puddled together.

When he first hears Apollo, Enjolras still doesn’t really know Grantaire, besides as the one who interrupts and derails some of the best ABC discussions at the Musain.

“Jehan!” Courfeyrac exclaims delightedly. Still hooked to Courfeyrac’s side, Enjolras nods at Jehan, then looks past them.

“No, no, shut up,” Eponine is saying, even though she’s nudging Grantaire with one besocked foot. “If you call yourself Icarus one more—“ hiccup “—fucking time, I swear to god.”

“To Apollo,” Grantaire slurs, slumped a little. Suddenly, he jolts up. “No. Not here, Ep.”

“C’mon, it’s not like they don’t know,” she says. “Everyone’s seen mine.”

“They haven’t, they haven’t,” Grantaire coos, soothing, curling an arm about her shoulder. Enjolras is fairly sure Eponine would shank anyone else who attempted this, besides Marius, and that includes a sober Grantaire. For drunk Grantaire, though, she plops her head on his shoulder in turn. “You’re good, Ep. You’re perfect, Ep.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Eponine says, “and you’re drunk.” There are things Eponine does not say to Grantaire, which Enjolras notices much later, things like you’re stupid and you’re useless. They know the tender bruises to avoid, with each other.

“I just love you,” Grantaire declares, vibrant and flushed red with alcohol, and it’s not for Enjolras, but his heart stumbles. “You’re so lovable.”

“Shut up,” Eponine tells him, squirming on Bahorel’s couch, and smacks him in the chest with a bottle of wine. “You only love Apollo.”

“I am a man of many loves,” Grantaire declares grandly, which is ruined by the way he sloshes the wine bottle back and forth with his hand. “Yet. There are many stars in the sky, but there’s only one sun.”

“Your drunk poetry is worse than your drunk praises.” She winds one of his black curls around her fingers, lets it go. “Write your Apollo something, while you’re so inspired—“

“Ep,” Grantaire warns again. It sounds like he’s lost the thread of it, though.

“As though there’s any likelihood your Apollo would be here.”

So it’s someone outside their group. Enjolras has to ignore the urge to sweep over, to join their conversation rather than stay in his own. Grantaire, who believes in nothing and no one, calls someone his sun.

Courfeyrac is brightly explaining something to Jehan, with as many hand motions as he can manage. Smiling at him once, with a nod, Enjolras can’t help but refocus across the room.

Grantaire’s head lolls, considering, while he fingers the neck of the wine bottle, lifts it again to his lips. “Would Apollo ride down from the skies, from Mount Olympus, to cavort amongst the ugliest of his worshippers?” Eponine jabs him, once. “To—“ he drinks “—partake like Bacchus? No.”

“Partaaake,” Eponine sings.

“Partaaaay,” Grantaire slurs back, tipping the bottle, and then bemoans, “we’re out.”

“No we’re not,” Eponine declares, and rolls to a swaying stance on her feet. “To the shady corner store!”

“Adventure!” Grantaire declares, slinging an arm about her shoulders, and they’re off. Enjolras doesn’t get the chance to say hello. At that point, he doesn’t. Sneaking off together after one of the Amis’ parties wouldn’t start for months yet. More often than not Enjolras has homework, or is spending the Friday night preparing a speech and can only show up for a few drinks and well wishes for all his friends. When he does first say hello, Grantaire seems surprised that he would even show up. But at some moment, some change, after a few months of knowing each other— they settle into routine.

There’s no reason for Enjolras to remember it, that first conversation. But he does. He remembers, and he thinks on it. He listens, when Eponine and Grantaire speak. He wonders, when he watches Grantaire sneak off to lock lips with whatever man or woman or person he’s seeing that week, if this is Apollo, a supposed god in the flesh. Just some college kid, Enjolras has to remind himself. Just another person. He knows this. It’s logical.

Grantaire doesn’t stay with any of his dates. He still whispers Apollo in Eponine’s ear, sometimes, the shape of it somehow familiar enough for Enjolras to recognize.

He doesn’t look at any of the people he hooks up with like they’re his.

Once they start sleeping together, he doesn’t look at Enjolras like that either.

Grantaire is lazy and careless and drinks too much, but he also is kind and generous and, according to Joly, “the best giver of hugs.” There’s a certificate for the last, somewhere. Bossuet found the template online. Grantaire had looked at it, and there was something soft in his eyes, and eventually he drunkenly admits to Enjolras that it’s hung up in his room.

Grantaire is—delicate. He wouldn’t like that Enjolras thinks of it that way. At first, Enjolras didn’t. He used to want to treat Grantaire as recklessly as Grantaire himself always seemed to be.

But Enjolras stopped seeing him that way. And now he looks at Grantaire, those strong lines of his dancer’s calves and his knuckles bruised from boxing and calloused from a paintbrush, and he thinks, precious. On the opposite side of the room in the Musain or the opposite side of his bed, that’s what Grantaire is. Precious. Flawed, but everyone is.

When they start it, the arrangement, he is brusque. He winks. They kissed for the first time when Grantaire was-- characteristically-- drunk, but Enjolras confirmed during a sober and rushed conversation in the art studio the next morning that it was fine. That it was welcomed.

"I welcome it," Grantaire says, slumping and mouth curving down down and up, flickering. Twisting on his stool. "Do you? Really?"

Enjolras does. Enjolras knows, from Apollo, that there is some uncontrollable passion in even the most apathetic of the ABC members.

If I can make it better, Enjolras tells himself. If I can make it the best, for him, then maybe.

Maybe Grantaire will always say his name, when he trembles apart. Enjolras always tries to strive towards his personal best.

He says it sometimes. Especially at the beginning of their evenings. Yet Enjolras’ theory had been all wrong. The less coherent he becomes, the better Enjolras takes him apart, the more likely he is to lapse into—

“Apollo,” Grantaire sobs. Deeper, harder, it doesn’t matter. Tender and shallow and slow, all the same. Grantaire looks away, like he can’t bear it. His eyes flutter shut, chest heaving, and he calls for someone else.

He never wants to talk about it after, either.

“Apollo?” Enjolras manages to prompt once, still holding him, throat burning and clenched as a vice. In his arms, Grantaire goes still, and then very quiet.

“Heat of the moment?” He offers, finally, into the silence. “I’m not—you know it doesn’t have to mean anything. I know we’re—we’re having fun. You understand, right?”

“I understand,” Enjolras replies, and he does. Too well. Because he is direct, he follows this with a candid, “I don’t like it.” Grantaire doesn’t say anything. He may not even be breathing. “Apollo,” Enjolras adds, to be painfully transparent.

 “I’m not trying to—shit.” He bites down on his lip. His voice lowers. “It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have—said it. Sorry. I didn’t mean any harm. Whatever you’ll allow, Enjolras.”

But Grantaire is Grantaire. No matter how deeply Enjolras cares about him, that holds true. And Grantaire always makes his mistakes more than once.

“Here,” Grantaire says, one Tuesday, dropping into the seat opposite Enjolras in the library café.

“I know you have class now,” Enjolras says, unthinking. Rolling his eyes, Grantaire crumbles off a piece of Enjolras’ dry scone and says,

“Before you accuse me of truancy and report me to the dean, you should know art classes occasionally get cancelled. Unlike your kind, we are only human, and sometimes fall ill.” Chewing, he mumbles around a mouthful, “wow, the pastries here are still shit.”

“Insult your own food,” Enjolras mutters, pulling the wrapper towards him on the table. “Fuel is fuel. Waste isn’t worth enjoying myself slightly more for a minute.”

“Even my cooking’s probably better than this,” Grantaire says, considering. “Besides, I paid you for the privilege.”

Enjolras finally looks up properly from his poli-sci textbook. In front of him, still steaming, is a cup of coffee from the sustainable chain three streets away from campus edge.

“Thank you,” he says, softly.

Leaning back in his chair, Grantaire takes a long sip of his own coffee, fingers skittering across the metal tabletop in a way that eventually settles into a rhythm.

“Gotta keep you awake,” he says. “For later. Don’t worry, it was a buy-two deal.”

“Sure,” Enjolras says, dully. He slides a foot forward, hooks their ankles, which he knows he’s allowed, because Grantaire’s done the same before. “It’s good.”

“Yeah, I know you like a sacrilegious amount of sugar.”

“Mm,” Enjolras agrees, taking another sip, and slides his other foot forward to bracket Grantaire’s paint-splattered sneakers entirely. Balance, he justifies to himself. “I’ve never been to that café.”

“Um,” Grantaire blinks, like he’s barely paying attention. “It’s cute. Big postmodern mural on the wall, which I like. Fresh flowers. Not as big as the Musain, or half as tolerant of shouting students, so I don’t think it’d fit your club.”

“Our club,” Enjolras corrects absently.

“Yeah,” Grantaire says, easy. Bouncing one foot against Enjolras’ calf, he smiles, small, while he sips again.

“We should go,” Enjolras says.

“I just said it wasn’t big enough for us. Unless you want Bossuet, Joly, and Musichetta to share a chair. They’ve done it before. I’ve seen it. Might impact their efficacy, though, which I know you treasure above all else—“

“We should go,” Enjolras repeats. “I think it can fit two people.”

His whole face is burning. Saccharine sugar and good cream still lingers on his tongue, though, and it makes him bold. The art school’s at the opposite end of campus from the sustainable coffeeshop.

“As usual,” Grantaire says, “your logic is infallible, Enjolras.”

From Enjolras’ personal experience, infallible logic doesn’t usually lead to a date. In fact, he’s been told on multiple occasions that most facets of his personality don’t lend well to dates.

“It was just an idea,” he retreats, trying not to be defensive. Settling back into the uncomfortable chair, he gazes down at his textbook. Enjolras can read Latin, and French, and English, and bits and pieces of Italian. He can no longer read whatever makes up the paragraph in his textbook.

“It’s a good idea,” Grantaire blurts. “Shit. Yeah. It’s a good one. Your ideas are always good.”

“Except when they’re for social reform?”

“I contest the execution, not the idea,” Grantaire protests, grinning.

“So we’ll theoretically get coffee,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire laughs.

“Point made. Not theoretically. Tomorrow?”

Enjolras nods. Through some kind of witchcraft, the words in his textbook are getting clearer. His heartbeat’s slowing down in his ears.

“Cool,” says Grantaire. They sit peaceably for a while, Enjolras slipping back into reading, Grantaire pulling out his phone to text.

Eventually Enjolras taps their heels together, pulls back his legs and starts to pack up. “I’ve got class now. See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire says, standing and circling the table. “Um, let me get your cup. It’s compostable?”

Zipping his backpack, Enjolras offers it up with one hand. He likes looking at Grantaire, especially on those rare occasions when Grantaire is taller. New angles on a beloved face. That’s why he sees it, when Grantaire grabs the cup by its lid and pulls it away from the cardboard cover, caught by Enjolras’ hand.

Apollo, proclaims the bored scrawl beneath. Bile settles in the back of his throat.

Not a declaration, then. Or even a kind action. Just an accidental afterthought, when Apollo didn’t want it.

“See you tomorrow,” Grantaire says, casual, and leaves.

Grantaire takes four pictures of the mural, and slides in a booth across from Enjolras, and looks like he might cry when Enjolras grabs his hand beneath and holds onto it.

“Um,” he says.

Enjolras says, “what do you want?”

“Want?” Grantaire breathes, eyes wide and panicked like he’s just remembered a project deadline or realized what he did while blackout wasted.

“To drink?” Enjolras prompts gently, bewildered. “A latte?”

“Oh! Um, sure,” Grantaire croaks. He barely touches his latte, though he lets Enjolras touch him, and chatters broadly the whole time, jumping between classwork and friends and their usual philosophical exchange. When Enjolras stands to return their mugs he says, “I’m free the rest of the day.”

Enjolras pauses. “Okay.”

“Like.” Grantaire licks his lips, which are bitten and probably a little chapped. “Joly’s in class until seven.”

“Okay.”

He takes Enjolras’ arm when they walk out the door, and walks briskly, which is fine with Enjolras. Normally he’s much faster—he has longer legs and more singular focus on the destination. Today he barely keeps up, and then they’re at Grantaire’s door, and then they’re in Grantaire’s door, and then he’s pushed up against Grantaire’s door.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says, and his heart stutters.

“Grantaire,” he replies, serious and low.

That’s all it takes to have Grantaire all over him. They’ve had each other when they’re both completely sober, but it’s—it’s not common, and it’s certainly never in the middle of the afternoon, sunlight peeking through curtains. Never at Grantaire’s apartment, which is smaller than Enjolras’ but much more lived in.

“Sorry,” Grantaire has to say, at least three times, knocking books and papers from surfaces, pausing only when one of Joly’s textbooks lands awkwardly. “Shit, this brick’s like, a thousand dollars and laminated, gimme a second.”

Enjolras holds his hips, and breathes, and waits.

“Okay, okay,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras hitches himself up on the cleared table, and Grantaire crowds in. “Hey,” kiss, “hey, mmm, this is.” He pants a little, brushes their lips together. “I want this to be really good for you.”

“It will be,” Enjolras says. It always is.

“Shit,” Grantaire mutters softly, black pooling in his eyes. “You’re that sure of this. Of me.” His fingers twitch on Enjolras’ neck. “Well, the sex, at least.”

“The sex, at least,” Enjolras echoes back, sighing, and squeezes his eyes shut. Idly, with an ache starting in his heart, he wonders how long it’ll take. Just sex, he tells himself, that refrain. Back when he was younger, just sex had been fine. A biological imperative, like eating, where quality wasn’t so important as the fact that once it was over, he could focus on what mattered.

But Grantaire matters. He matters to Enjolras, so much. No matter what anyone says, or what Grantaire occasionally mocks, Enjolras has never considered himself above friends or romance. He wasn’t necessarily—good at either of those things. But he tries to make up for it, with a clinical ferocity. Hugs for Joly, patching up Bossuet after his accidents, picking up the phone each and every time Marius called. Holding Courfeyrac while he rambled about his love life, even though Enjolras understood little of the fine details. Serving as the truest companion for Combeferre, studying long nights and throwing each other M&Ms from the vending machine once it hit 2am.

He can try to make up for it here.

“I liked the coffee,” Grantaire says, like a confession, and rolls his hips, and bites very gently beneath Enjolras’ ear.

“Good,” Enjolras replies. He slides his fingers beneath Grantaire’s shirt, hitches it up to hear their breaths do the same. “Do you want—“

“Yes,” Grantaire says. He’s athletic enough that they both manage to get atop the table, uncomfortable until it’s not, still kissing, hot and slow, until— “Fuck, fuck, we can’t.”

Enjolras stops immediately. Scrubbing a hand through his already wrecked dark curls, Grantaire sits up. Enjolras doesn’t know what to say. Sorry. I didn’t mean to. Let me try again. Make me leave. Ask me to stay. Anything. Just don’t say Apollo to me, not now.

He settles on, “what now?”

Grantaire stares down at him, seems to shake himself into words, still considering something.

“Joly will be so freaked if we do this in the kitchen.” He takes his hand. He drags him into the next room over, the living room, and deposits Enjolras on the couch. They’d come through the living room, earlier. Enjolras doesn’t remember much of it. There’s three bookshelves stuffed to the brim, and a battered television that’s clearly been passed through several college apartments.

“You always make fun of me for my twin bed.” Enjolras has had a twin bed since freshman year. It came with the dorm, and it’s not like he needed a bigger one for any reason, and then his residential hall got knocked down and the beds were up for grabs, and—it doesn’t matter. A twin bed just happened. Then remained. Maybe Enjolras enjoys how little space there is, on those occasions where he convinces Grantaire to go to sleep instead of leaving. “But all you have is a couch?”

“I have a bed,” Grantaire protests.

“Theoretically?”

“God,” Grantaire says, and straddles him, and kisses him soundly. “My room’s a mess. I wasn’t expecting—I just wasn’t expecting company.” Enjolras kindly does not point out that Grantaire is the one who brought him here, and who proposed today for coffee. “At least I have a king-size mattress.”

“Or so you claim,” Enjolras says, raising his eyebrows. “Evidence? Besides, I’m not a fan of monarchies, so it’s a poor selling point.”

“No pre-law in the bedroom,” Grantaire retorts, the familiar phrase, and then groans. “Okay, we’re not in a bedroom, you win, you win—“

Today had been so good. Coffee and linked arms in the cool, muted sunlight of fall. Kissing on Grantaire’s kitchen table and seeing his apartment for the first time.

“Apollo,” Grantaire cries, and shudders beneath Enjolras, “Apollo, Apollo,” in the aftershocks, the trembling ripples, and it’s quicker than it’s ever happened before. Readier, too. Honest. Too honest. Too honest is not a thing Enjolras had thought he’d ever despise.

Grantaire wrestles him into a nap, Enjolras’ head pillowed on his collarbone, but it’s fitful. Enjolras is gone before Joly gets back.

“Oookay,” Courfeyrac says, tapping the eraser of his pencil and giving Enjolras the oddest look. “I know I’ve told you every single detail of my hookups, and you used to be incredibly blasé about your few-and-far-betweens, so I don’t know why you’re being so weird about this.”

“Maybe you know them,” Enjolras says. Courfeyrac is also pre-law, but even were he not, he could spot an opening gaping that wide and make a break for it.

“Do I know them?”

“This is Enjolras sharing,” Combeferre says gravely, resting a hand on Courfeyrac’s arm.

“Okay, yes, so this person I absolutely don’t know, who doesn’t come to our meetings,” Courfeyrac continues. “Too much?” Combeferre pats.

Enjolras sighs. “It’s Grantaire.”

“I’m shook,” says Courfeyrac. To his credit, it’s almost convincing. Pre-law. “Okay, just have to say, Grantaire’s mostly kept his hookups outside of our group or even our mutual groups, and did not take me up on my generous offer when we first met,” Enjolras grimaces at him, “so I am very interested in hearing about what he’s like.”

Enjolras wishes he could shut himself inside his textbook. Become flat, unfeeling, just a series of researched statements. “Distracted.”

Courfeyrac blinks. “By your hair? By getting every part of you in his mouth? By whatever bickering you two engage in?”

“By someone else,” Enjolras grits, and turns a page he didn’t read. He doesn’t have to look up to know that his two best friends are staring at him.

“In the room?” Courfeyrac says, voice climbing, and starts excitedly espousing something about voyeurism and threesomes that has Enjolras burying his face in his hands and riding it out. Meanwhile, Combeferre scoots his chair closer to speak beneath the rant.

“Enjolras,” he says. “You know that we share most of our views. Some would say too many of our views. Besides, say, our opinion on punching Nazis.”

“If you punch them they could get right back up and return to terrorizing minority groups,” Enjolras mutters. “My solution is better.”

“Your solution is illegal. Punching is less illegal and almost within the bounds of the Hippocratic oath.”

“Assault is assault,” Enjolras says, stubborn. They both know Enjolras hates violence, but the argument is well worn. “Make it worth the jail time.”

“You’re reading a chapter on the difference between aggravated and simple assault.”

“I’m not actually reading this,” Enjolras pouts, squeezing the bridge of his nose. He hasn’t made it through a single chapter. He’s jittery and caffeinated and has been looking up every time someone passes them by to see if it’s Grantaire.

“Okay, so like, is he touching the other people too much during the orgy,” Courfeyrac contributes from the background. “That’s a simple communication thing!”

“I’m saying I disagree with you,” Combeferre continues placidly. “Even though I don’t have all the facts. I admit I’m biased, but I just—I have my doubts.”

“Is it his boxing club friends or his swing dance friends or his frat brothers?!” Courfeyrac demands. “Oh, oh, is it the people he lifts with? His art friends? I’ve always wondered about finger painting except with—”

Enjolras decides he’s tortured them all enough. “We’re the only ones in the room, Courfeyrac.” Maybe this will dispel Combeferre’s doubts. “It’s only us. I always think it’s going well, but then.” He swallows. If he rushes the next words, gets them out, it’ll be over. “Then-he-says-someone-else’s-name.”

“Shit,” gasps Courfeyrac.

“Wait,” says Combeferre. “Whose name?”

“I don’t know,” Enjolras breathes, “it’s some nickname.” He can feel his hands fisting on the sleeves of his red hoodie, picking at the seams. “It’s not every time, but it’s every time it’s—really good,” which is always, recently. “He’s bought them coffee and I’ve heard him talking to Eponine about them for forever and just—he likes them so much. I think he’d do anything for them.”

“Oh,” Courfeyrac says, gentle and still so direct in his warmth. “Oh, Enjolras. I’m sorry. If Grantaire knew it bothered you, if he had any idea you felt this way, I’m sure he’d stop.”

“Exactly,” Enjolras bites. “He’d stop.” And that’s—unbearable. Enjolras is a man of sacrifice for causes he cares about. Now one of those causes is Grantaire.

“You need to stop sleeping with him anyway,” Combeferre murmurs. “For both of you.”

Enjolras knows this. Enjolras’ intimate awareness that Combeferre was going to say this may have been the reason he didn’t bring it up for so long. He knows what is right.

“What if I can’t,” Enjolras lets out.

“We’ll be at your side,” Courfeyrac assures, “I can be a professional cockblock. It’s my especial talent. You know this.”

And certainly, being alone with Grantaire or being tempted by Grantaire in that way is a danger. But it’s moreso the—

“What do I do if he tries to kiss me,” Enjolras says, and then the damning word, “now.”

Combeferre and Courfeyrac freeze. “You’ve kissed him already,” Courfeyrac ventures, carefully. He knows as well as Combeferre and Enjolras do that Enjolras does not kiss. Not his friends or his former hookups or anyone in between. But Enjolras nods. “Okay. Okay. That’s fine, Enjolras.” It’s not fine. “Let’s just try to avoid doing it again.”

As always, words are easy and action is harder.

“Hey,” Grantaire says, scooting inside Enjolras’ apartment with a bag, arrival clouded with a mouthwatering scent. “So I tried out my oven after I fixed it, and like, I think it’s back to normal?” He scowls down at the bag. “You’ll see. Just,” he gestures, and Enjolras raises his arms to accept automatically. Grantaire settles the bag into them, starts rifling through it on his tiptoes. “I went overboard, but you can pick between this stupid X-men Tupperware and—uhhh.” He’s making eye contact, suddenly wordless. Neither of them speaking is practically a novelty, but so is the way Grantaire stutters, “can I?”

“Do it,” Enjolras says, uncertain exactly what that means. Faster to just find out. That’s why he doesn’t move, when Grantaire pushes up further onto his tiptoes, perfectly balanced, and presses their mouths together.

“Fridge,” Grantaire says after, and grabs the bag’s handles, and backs up just enough to see Courfeyrac, standing in the hallway. “Fuck!”

“Hi, R,” Courfeyrac greets conversationally, flashing a grin. “How’re you?”

“Um, shit, fine?” Grantaire’s wide-eyed again. “I didn’t know you were here?”

“I live here,” Courfeyrac says cheerily. More accurately, Courfeyrac sleeps here rarely and stores all his things here, because Courfeyrac is always out and about.

Whether or not Grantaire is aware of this, he’s still staring between Courfeyrac and Enjolras like this was some kind of ambush.

“Should I come back later?”

“No no,” says Courfeyrac. “I haven’t seen you in forever!”

“We did a barcrawl yesterday,” Grantaire mutters.

“And today is mooching time,” Courfeyrac replies smoothly, holding out his hands and making a grabbing motion twice. “You always make enough excess to feed twenty people and Enjolras eats like the Calvin Klein model he is.” At Enjolras’ scoffing noise, he says, “you do. I’m surprised you know who that is.”

“Sometimes I allow myself fifteen minutes of television a month for popular culture exposure,” Enjolras deadpans, even though it is probably uncomfortably close to truth.

“Well find some and let’s watch,” Courfeyrac says, cracking open a Tupperware when Grantaire selects and offers one up. “Ooh, I love Bolognese.”

“There’s no carrots in there,” Grantaire explains mysteriously, but Courfeyrac is already off rustling up whatever clean silverware he can find.

“That’s fine!” He calls from the other room. “I know Enjolras is a heathen and doesn’t like them.”

Perching hesitantly on the edge of the couch, still looking at Enjolras, Grantaire repeats: “should I come back later?”

“No,” Enjolras says bluntly. For all that Grantaire was ready to drop by with extras of whatever meal prep he’d made, he’s also ready to leave the second it’s clear they won’t be getting naked. Aggravated, Enjolras settles at a safe distance on the couch, and accepts his own Tupperware of—something delicious. Courfeyrac returns, lobbing spoons and cut-up T-shirt napkins, then wiggles in between them.

“Netflix,” he announces grandly. Enjolras liberates the remote from whatever sticky substance on their coffee table Courfeyrac had last left it in, and hands it over.

By the time the documentary Courfeyrac selected is finished, Grantaire has stopped jiggling his foot and shaking the whole couch. Courfeyrac pats his belly, beams, and says, “marathon?”

And Grantaire stays. He stays until Courfeyrac passes out on the couch, and smirks down at him before winking at Enjolras.

“Got a Sharpie? Maybe some warm water?”

“I may be rash sometimes, Grantaire, but we’d have to deal with the fallout come tomorrow.” Courfeyrac makes for some very spirited fallout.

“Boo, responsibility,” Grantaire snorts, standing, and, suddenly wavering, “then, um, should we go to bed?”

Enjolras evaluates. You have to stop, that voice reminds, the voice in him which Combeferre works daily to install.

“Courfeyrac’s here.”

It sounds weak. It is weak.

“Um, yeah. The snoring is hard to miss.” Grantaire ducks his head, and the next words are a lot softer. “I can be quiet? Won’t say a word.”

Which word, crests traitorous and powerful in Enjolras’ mind, which word, Grantaire, and then he says: “not a word?”

“Not a word,” Grantaire confirms. “Though between the two of us, I know that’s hard to believe.”

“You can manage that?” Enjolras asks, feeling as though he’s far away.

“I think I can manage that,” Grantaire murmurs, stepping closer.

He mostly does. Little sharp pulls of air, the barely suppressed please, something hurt and surprised when Enjolras jolts into him at even that.

“Sorry,” Enjolras breathes, and Grantaire startles, a quirk at the edge of his lips.

“Shh,” he reminds him, teasing as he always is, and angles their faces together for a kiss. Enjolras turns, so he misses, and buries himself into Grantaire’s shoulder. “Um, are you—“ Enjolras bites him. “Message—“ bite “—received. God, Enjolras, I know you’ve got perfectly pearly whites but what you choose to—“

He quiets, when Enjolras bites him again, devolving into a hiss.

Courfeyrac’s slept through Enjolras practicing a speech by megaphone for an outdoor rally. There’s no way the sound will carry from Enjolras’ bedroom to the couch and disturb him, no matter how loudly Grantaire sobs “fuck,” and scrabbles so hard for purchase anywhere on Enjolras he can get that he knocks his skull into the headboard. “Ow, shit, give me a second,” he whimpers. And this is it: an opportunity. Enjolras should take it.

“We should stop,” he says.

“What, no, no,” Grantaire babbles, but he’s still curled in on himself and holding the back of his head, eyes a little wet. “That’ll hurt more, at this point, like I,” he swallows, rolls their hips together once experimentally. “I am not gonna go home and take a cold shower. It’s fine if it hurts a little,” he finishes, still in a low whisper. “Kinky, right?” He means it as a joke. Enjolras knows this, but when Grantaire laughs, it’s dry and humorless. “It’s fine. Go for it.”

Enjolras does not stride boldly forward in this. He waits, and it’s terrible and too quiet, and Grantaire shifts awkwardly against him. Shifts awkwardly, and meets his eyes with an idea in his own, tilting his chin up for a kiss. There’s no available distraction. Enjolras panics and looks past him, but they’re too close for him to miss the way Grantaire’s expression snaps shut.

“Oh,” Grantaire says dimly. “Okay.”

After a long moment, Grantaire takes them and flips them, starts a long, slow grind. Enjolras hates it. He hates it, because maybe this is meant to be his apology, or maybe it’s not an apology and Grantaire just wants it over, or—

Enjolras doesn’t know. He tries to work it out from every angle, to think about it rationally, but the problem with people is they don’t wait for you to organize yourself into bulletpoints. They don’t provide an organized rebuttal. Outside the realm of politics and government the boundaries of what is right descend into murky greys and become about want. It’s too quick and loose and it plays by rules Enjolras has never learned.

He hangs onto Grantaire’s hips, and he tries his best.

“Ah, um,” Grantaire lets out, breath catching. There’s a lethal familiarity in that sound, that pattern. When he buries his face in Enjolras’ collarbone and shudders and starts, plaintive, “Apo—” Enjolras snaps.

“Not a word,” he reminds him, and Grantaire lifts his head, heavy and pleasure-drunk. Almost sickeningly. “Can you manage that, Grantaire? Can you manage to commit to one thing, in your life?”

Grantaire’s return of fuck you is silent, but perfectly clear.

After, when he makes his exit, it’s fast and unreal, that early-morning haze. Neither of them turn on the lights. Courfeyrac twitches on the couch, and when Enjolras moves to extricate Grantaire’s dish from his elbow, Grantaire snaps, “leave it.”

Yanking on his shoes, not even bothering to tie them, he gives Enjolras a sweeping bow.

“Now that I’ve finished being of service,” he says, harshly singsong, “I’ll leave my offerings upon your altar and go. Sorry I couldn’t do it properly.”

Nothing makes sense. It’s for the best, Enjolras thinks. When the door slams, he still flinches.

In the rush of preparing for the rally, when Combeferre says, uncharacteristically stressed, “Bahorel has the paperwork but he’s tied up in boxing club across campus, can you go grab it right now?” Enjolras doesn’t even hesitate. Boots on the ground. This is his purpose.

In fact, Enjolras doesn’t even realize, until he gets to boxing club and Grantaire is smashing someone to a mat in front of his eyes. Angry isn’t really a word that describes Grantaire. Exasperation. Exhaustion. Desperation. Reckless acceptance, at the end of those. But he brings the hem of his shirt up, past the hard lines of his chest, and wipes the sweat dripping from his forehead. He helps his opponent up with one hand while not really looking at him. There’s something free, about him, a fierce kind of free. One that Enjolras could fight for.

Apollo may be Grantaire’s sun, but Enjolras buys him coffee and walks home with him from the Musain and makes him feel so good, pressed together, that he cries. Yes, until he cries, Enjolras’ brain reminds at him. Or thinks of someone else and then storms out.

A large hand claps on Enjolras’ shoulder. “Hey. Here to pick him up?”

“What?” Bahorel looks between them. Enjolras shakes his head, understanding, says, “no, I’m here for you.”

“I’m flattered, but I like watching drama, not being at the center of it.” To his eyebrow waggle, Enjolras sighs, Combeferre? and Bahorel lifts his hands. “Oh, yeah, paperwork,” Bahorel remembers. He starts sifting through the mysterious depths of his backpack. “I know you have to go deliver this to Combeferre to save the day, but want to watch Grantaire mop the floor with some pretentious asshole from the football team? Shouldn’t take long. He’s feisty today.”

“I actually have to—“ and that’s when Grantaire spots him. The exact moment, when a series of emotions splash across his face, only for him to turn abruptly and start wrapping up his knuckles. And there it is: Exasperation. Exhaustion. Reckless acceptance. “…go.”

Bahorel has stopped tossing through his things.

“The fuck was that,” he questions, deep and immovable. “What the fuck did you do.”

This is potentially the last time Bahorel will be at friendly ease with him, if Grantaire’s frosty reception is any indication. Enjolras is, against his best judgment, bold. “Do you know who Grantaire has nicknames for?”

It is impossible to catch Bahorel off guard. He just narrows his eyes, and says, “yeah, everybody? When he gets philosophical.”

“Not for me,” Enjolras murmurs, mostly to himself, and picks up the papers from the table. “We’re fighting, Bahorel. We always fight. Thank you,” he lifts them, “for the papers. I’ll see you at the meeting.” He hopes he’ll see them both at the meeting. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, man,” Bahorel says, and shakes his head. “Hope you guys work it out.”

Instead of editing his government paper for the third time, Enjolras opens Google.

Apollo, he types, and there’s a million hits. Enjolras has studied the political structures and uprisings of both Greece and Rome extensively, but his knowledge of their mythology extends mostly to Ares, or Athena. He bought a mythology compilation, once it was clear Grantaire was becoming a fixture at the Musain, even a distant one. Enjolras always tries to understand his members’ hobbies. Some of it was interesting—Zeus was always atrocious—but mostly it just served as a way to recognize a few of the words Grantaire spouted when he got into a certain drunken mood.

Apollo. A god of so much. Poetry, light, healing. Archery and prophecy.

Enjolras is terrible at driving a car, much less a chariot. His musical talents extend to violin lessons his parents had forced him to attend and that he’d only eventually, grudgingly, come to enjoy. He’s more a fighter than a healer, is baffled by the level of dreamy emotion in Jehan’s poems, cares little for order over justified chaos, definitely can’t shoot a bow and arrow, and the closest he usually gets to agriculture is the farmer’s market at the park on Saturdays.

Grantaire had told him about that farmer’s market. They’d wanted to go together.

It seems there are no similarities, between himself and this god of everything that Grantaire loves.

“Admittedly I said to stop kissing him, and Ferre said to stop sleeping with him, so props for listening to one of us,” Courfeyrac says, ticking it off on his fingers. “But we were kind of hoping you might do both. Or at least, well, the flip of your final decision. We’re like the US government and the executive branch just went ham.”

“As a friendly reminder, you’re setting yourself up to be the legislative branch in this metaphor,” Enjolras mumbles.

“Senators are hot,” Courfeyrac says. To combat veering off into a discussion of his own thirst, he holds out an arm for Enjolras to scoot under, pats his shoulder.

“I said to stop sleeping with him, not to break him,” Ferre contributes, for his turn. “He won’t respond to my text.”

“Or any of my texts! I sent the conspiracy meme, Enjolras! Grantaire loves conspiracy. Everyone loves conspiracy.”

Enjolras had texted him, can you bring the flyers for the march to the Engineering Hall to hand them off to Musichetta and Grantaire had texted back it’s done.

Somehow, that’s worse.

“You told him why,” Combeferre says, “didn’t you?”

Well, Enjolras knew he’d rushed too quickly past something.

Enjolras’ grand plan to find Grantaire at the Amis’ weekly house party goes very poorly. For one, Grantaire shows up as drunk as he used to get sophomore year, and alternates staring through Enjolras like he’s made of mist and staring directly at Enjolras with the kind of queasy, devastated concern usually reserved for a housefire. Secondly, and somehow worse: Marius is in love.

“Haven’t you ever,” his eyes are shining, “looked across the room, and seen someone, and it’s just so right.”

“Yes,” Grantaire says.

“No,” Enjolras says. Most of the people Enjolras loves dearly, the ones he would die for, are ones he looked across the room at and thought, I hope you will be devoted, but none of us can know. Also, for Jehan, are the clothes some kind of interactive art exhibit. It wasn’t a cruel thing, the question. Trust was just earned. Enjolras has seen enough of politicians to know not all people are good. He has to rely on his hope, on his ever-growing faith, that his people are.

“What’s her name?” Courfeyrac asks, fingers steepled beneath his chin.

Marius sighs, spinning round. “Castleonacloud1815.”

“Oh my god, Marius is getting catfished,” Musichetta mutters.

“We can go on double dates,” Bahorel says. “Marius, castleonacloud1815, me, and my Nigerian prince.”

“It’s a pretty name,” Joly offers.

“It’s an Instagram handle,” Marius finally says, to the group’s relief. “Look, look.” Castleonacloud1815 must be extraordinarily pretty, because Musichetta looks and declares,

“Definitely a catfish.”

“I’ve seen her in person!” Marius yowls, pulling the phone back. “…and then I watched that location’s Insta tag until I saw her again.”

“How romantic,” Grantaire muses, “but what would I know.”

No one comments on that, but Joly jabs him in the leg.

“I saw her, and my life passed before my eyes,” Marius continues, undeterred.

“Like you were dying?” Jehan wants to know.

“Like I used to be dying,” Marius declares, “but now I’m alive! So alive!”

“Maybe this makes sense to people in love,” Feuilly says to Enjolras, as an aside, and Enjolras tells him,

“It doesn’t.”

“What,” Feuilly says, looking at him like maybe his twelve-hour cashier shift has induced hallucinations.

“I need more wine,” Grantaire announces loudly.

“What,” Feuilly repeats, still staring at Enjolras. “Did you just say you were in—“

“Angels carried this angel down to me,” Marius sings as Grantaire pats him on the shoulder and moves past him. “The sweetest of smiles! The way she tucked a curl behind her ear!”

“I’m going to help Grantaire,” Enjolras invents, “pick a bottle up.”

“What,” panics Feuilly. “Combeferre? Joly? Can one of you come take a look at me?”

“I knew lovesickness was catching,” Joly says, pointing his cane, as Enjolras strides past him and manages to follow Grantaire downstairs. Jehan’s house is two floors, with a finished basement, and his rush down the stairwell is padded by carpeting.

Apparently Grantaire’s given up on the wine. But he’s opened the cooler that’s decorated with a million stickers, courtesy of Bahorel, and is just crouched, staring down into the ice.

“Grantaire,” he says. He jumps as much as someone with that much alcohol in their bloodstream can. “I need to speak with you.”

“Do you have needs,” Grantaire mumbles back, wandering and unfocused. “Desires.”

Ignoring a flare of indignance, a what do you think I am, Enjolras swallows. “Yes.”

Just a person. Just another college student. That’s what Enjolras is.

“Was it,” Grantaire steadies himself on the wall, standing. “Was it because you fell in love?”

For all his flaws, Grantaire’s always had excellent insight.

“Yes, Grantaire,” Enjolras says.

“I, that’s,” he’s leaning heavily against the wall, face buried in his elbow. “Shit, um,” he gasps, quavery, “thanks for telling me, I guess. Fuck. Fuck. This always happens to me. You’d think I’d see it… coming. Especially with you.”

“What does that mean?” Enjolras challenges, feeling dangerous. Grantaire has slept with plenty of people, has experience in spades, but he’s never been arrogant about it. He’s never claimed to be a heartbreaker.

But Grantaire doesn’t answer him, just his phone, which has begun blaring the opening strains of some catchy pop tune. If you wanna be my lover, you gotta—

Fumbling the phone up between his ear and shoulder, Grantaire listens and then says, “Eponine, no. Do not come here. Stay where you are, lovely, I’m—I’m coming to you. Neither of us should be lonely tonight.” He’s jamming a hand in his pocket, to the unmistakable tune of jangling keys. He’s passing Enjolras by, skimming along the wall. Enjolras grabs his arm.

“Grantaire, you can’t drive.”

“These are my house keys,” Grantaire emphasizes icily, still unsteady on his feet. “I don’t—drink and drive, Enjolras, I’m only self-destructive.” Enjolras has always hated this, his wordplay even when he’s a handle deep, when it takes Enjolras years of schooling and practice to speak while sober. He shakes off Enjolras’ hand from his arm.

“Just be safe,” Enjolras tells him, fist clenching at his side, empty. “Please.”

“Wow, you really care,” Grantaire marvels.

What do you think being in love means, Enjolras wants to demand. But then—maybe Grantaire’s a skeptic about that, too. So he says: “I’ll see you at the next meeting.” It’s meant to be a question. Enjolras is always better about commands, even though he doesn’t necessarily believe they’ll be followed. But Grantaire nods. He nods, and continues on his way.

“Thanks for descending down from on high for a time, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, sarcastically presenting the stairs with a flourish, and then clambers his way back up them, clinging onto the railing.

From upstairs, he can hear Marius continuing to trumpet the glories of love, love, love. Enjolras waits for a long moment, sorting himself internally in the way that is brutally familiar, and then returns to his friends.

“A toast,” Courfeyrac says, but it’s a shot, and none of the others let him get away with it. It seems in the absence of their heaviest drinkers, the other members of the ABC are willing to take up the banner. Enjolras has never cared much for alcohol, but there’s no rally tomorrow, no reason to pull back, and he’s trying not to think. To not think, for just a minute. To be among his friends.

Things get wobbly. Wavery. There are more toasts and someone pounding on a table and then there’s jello to eat, which doesn’t help Enjolras feel better at all, for some reason. The lights won’t stay at the same brightness. The hours go whoosh. Someone is petting Enjolras’ head and telling him it’s all right, it’s all right. At some point they realize they have run out of tequila, and Marius says, “Eponine has the best tequila in her cabinet,” and someone must call her, because she stumbles in at 3am brandishing it. Grantaire trails, somehow drunker. He’s clipped on her shoulder. Dangling. He says, soft, Ep, like a warning or a prayer. She’s very small. Enjolras has never noticed how small she is, before.

Joly and Bossuet have passed out in a pile with beanbags. Enjolras has been resting his head on what is probably Bossuet’s knee. The pile seems to grow, another warm body or two pressed atop it all. There’s singing. Loud singing, from faraway.

Someone slings a body down across from him, and Enjolras squints, and it’s Grantaire, with Bahorel rolling him into something resembling a normal formation of limbs.

“Too fucking flexible, dancers, man,” he’s telling someone else that Enjolras can’t see. “He’s gonna break something.”

“Go ‘way,” Grantaire gives the first sign of life, giving a middle finger that points nowhere. “Hi,” he says to Enjolras, eyes luminous and miles away from lucid. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Enjolras manages, the best speech he’s capable of. He reaches out to run a finger down Grantaire’s face. “Hi. I like—this.” He slides down the bridge, taps at the soft end of Grantaire’s nose. Which is where his finger ended up.

“Mmph,” Grantaire says, pulling himself forward by the red blanket Enjolras has just realized he’s wrapped up in, and they’re kissing. They’ve done this before. They’ve done this before a lot, especially after house parties, so in the Hozier playing from Musichetta’s smashed up speakers through the wall, the steady shaking of his hands, the sour-sterile alcohol lingering on his tongue, it all makes sense. Someone’s forgotten something, though, a detail. Either him or Grantaire. Possibly both of them. Enjolras isn’t sure.

“Holy shit, well that’s happening,” a voice says quietly, and there’s footsteps. It’s neither of them, so Enjolras doesn’t care.

Tongues in mouths, Grantaire holds the back of his neck, nudging closer and closer and occasionally making a little noise that sounds like pure want. The blanket’s in the way. The blanket is an enemy. He wrestles it off, tosses a leg over Grantaire’s hip, and kisses harder. Scrabbles for Grantaire’s hand, so he can hold it, but it’s nowhere to be found.

Then it’s over. Easy as that. Just one word.

“Enjolras.” That’s all he’d wanted. That word. But it’s Jehan saying it, hauling him up by his arms. Surprisingly strong. “Nope, nope, nope. Stay, honey,” they order suddenly, gently, but that command’s not for Enjolras at all. “Okay, Enjolras, I’m also not sober so I need you to—to keep up like a third of your weight for me.”

“I’m pulling my weight,” Enjolras tells them seriously. “Equal partnership. Equality.” Jehan tips him forward, so Enjolras remembers how to take a step. Somehow they find a bed. Enjolras is poured into it.

“Stay, okay?”

Enjolras considers. “Anything for you. Anything my friends say.”

“Just proved that wrong, Enjolras. Courfeyrac told me. You’re worrying us. Bad decisions aren’t like you.” They pat Enjolras’ cheek. “This kind of bad decision, anyway.”

The other body already in Jehan’s bed must be Courfeyrac, because it rolls over and suddenly his voice makes a questioning noise and says, “Thought you talked to Grantaire.”

That takes a while to sort through. “I think… I did?”

“Oh, Enjolras.” The hand leaves his cheek. “Courfeyrac and Ferre decided. We called Cosette. She’s already in town.”

“Love Cosette,” Enjolras tells his pillow, directly into its pillowy depths.

“Yes, and your sister loves you. Tough love. The brand that’s needed in times such as these. Now go to sleep.”

“Put it to a vote,” Enjolras tells them.

“I did,” Courfeyrac reassures him, reaching over to rub a hand down Enjolras’ back. “We all voted for you to go to sleep right now, and have brunch with Cosette in the morning. Now sleep.”

Who is Enjolras to question the will of the people?

Though Enjolras has missed most of them, there is a standing tradition of bar brunch on free Saturdays.

“I’ll come get you there,” Cosette’s lovely voice rings over the phone. His dehydrated body can barely keep up. “I can meet all your friends, and then we’ll have a walk so we can talk by ourselves, and then you can let me and Papa love on you.”

“No Javert?”

“A break in some case,” Cosette mourns. “Just one father today.”

Enjolras does not actually have even one of them as a father, much less both. Javert had made the mistake of introducing his husband to the youth who kept ending up in his jail for protesting, and the deadly mistake of having him present when he asked, when are your parents coming to bail you out?

Well. Javert and Jean are his fathers now, and Cosette his sister. The idea of seeing her is enough to get him past his pounding headache. Well, that and—food.

The household is waking up, not slowly or peacefully, but with Courfeyrac strumming talentlessly at Jehan’s guitar.

“UP, everybody! It’s time to seize the day, and by day, I mean pancakes!”

The pile of college students on the couch begins to murmur and yawn. Jehan is on their knees, a hand on Grantaire’s back and a water bottle in the other, waking him up with a low voice. Pressing his palms deep into his eyes, unable to reach the ache, Enjolras directs his thoughts to coffee and Cosette.

The brunch place isn’t far, and they parade there in a sleepy stumble, giggling and speaking softly in the morning light. Eponine seems to be the only one missing, but Grantaire looks too exhausted to worry, held up in a vicegrip between two layers of bedazzling on Jehan’s sleeve. Enjolras doesn’t want to think about that. Enjolras asks Combeferre to describe the Krebs cycle to him. Combeferre sighs, and links their elbows, and starts up. Somehow, they manage to all make it to the restaurant.

Always responsible for begging the servers to jam tables together for them, Courfeyrac disappears inside and they mill on the corner.

Two mins! <3 Cosette texts him.

It’s been a while since she’s seen him, but certainly not long enough for her to spot him on the streetcorner and break into a sunrise smile.

“It’s you,” she says.

Glancing down at his jacket, which is the same red one he always wears, Enjolras says, “yes. It’s me.”

“My angel,” Marius breathes behind him, and oh no. As is his duty, he walks forward to hug Cosette, and maybe also keep her away from Marius for another moment. He suspects once they make contact they’re not going to stop. Cosette kisses him on the cheek and loops their arms together.

“Okay, we’re all hot, but this picture is like, unreal,” Joly declares excitedly. Enjolras squints at him fondly, unsure what that’s supposed to mean.

“I,” Marius looks about to faint, “may I ask…”

“No,” says Enjolras’ hangover, sullen. It’s not like he’ll stand in their way, and he knows Marius will be an excellent boyfriend, but he’s hopeful they can delay their love story for five minutes while everyone catches up and things get in order. “Everyone, this is Cosette.” She looks up at them from beneath golden lashes, and beams. There are joyous greetings. Marius may or may not be pinching himself.

“And this,” she says, almost directly to Marius, “is my beloved brother, Enjolras.”

“Hello, Enjolras,” Joly grins, dutifully, and several chorus after him. “Elbow bump?” He asks, sticking an arm out. Cosette laughs, and slips forward, Enjolras in tow, to give him one. “I’m Joly. Bossuet,” he points, “Musi—“

“Musichetta,” Musichetta finishes flawlessly. “Feuilly. Bahorel.”

“Sup!”

“Jehan, Grantaire,” Grantaire waves, looking pale, so potentially he has the worst of the hangovers, “and Combeferre.”

“We’ve met. Courf’s inside,” Combeferre offers.

“And this,” Enjolras finishes, “is Marius. If you were interested.”

“I’m interested,” Cosette says sweetly. Marius somehow manages to stay on his feet.

“I didn’t even know you had a sister,” Bossuet says, sounding a little awed.

“It’s not biological,” Enjolras explains.

“It looks biological,” Joly says.

“We know,” they say simply.

“I’ve got us three tables and a barrel for someone to sit on, so start playing some roshambo!” Courfeyrac announces, sweeping out. Bossuet dejectedly says, I’ll take the barrel, because he knows he’ll lose any game of rock-paper-scissors, without fail. “Hello, darling Cosette! Let’s eat!”

It only takes a few minutes, to get everyone settled with their unnecessary menus. Everyone knows this place inside and out. Jehan has the best house for hosting the Amis, and this place has potatoes.

Cosette, because their similarities do not end at the color of their hair or the supposedly pleasing lines of their face, tugs on Grantaire’s sleeve and sets him down beside them. She is bold.

“Greetings, fair lady,” he says. His hangover seems to be improving.

“Grantaire, right?” She asks, like she doesn’t know. Enjolras has sent her pictures, when she asked.

“The one and only, that’s me,” he says, faintly.

“Enjolras has talked about you,” she says, and Enjolras has to watch Grantaire’s reaction, the clench of his unshaven jaw.

“Has he.”

“Of course.” Cosette goes for her phone, and Enjolras has to bolster himself internally. “He’s shown me both you and— Eponine’s?— art. The one with all the celestial bodies was my favorite.”

She pulls it up, slides it to him on the table. Grantaire barely glances at it; likely, he knows his own art, or at least the piece Cosette’s talking about.

“Artemis, indeed,” Grantaire murmurs, looking at her, and Cosette smiles at him.

“What?”

“You,” Grantaire mutters, ruffling his curls with one hand, looking up at the ceiling. “As Artemis. The—“

“Virginal moon goddess, right?” Grantaire nods, and she lets out a little peal of laughter. “Considering I’m hoping to date a certain man,” luckily, Marius is at the opposite end of the table and cannot hear her over the din or his own doe eyes, “I doubt Artemis would approve.”

“It’s more the association that earns you the moniker,” Grantaire admits, and his face goes red, and he starts ripping up his napkin. Enjolras wants to set his palms down atop everything, to quell until he’s settled and easy.

Cosette shakes her golden head. “I’m not a mythology major. I don’t even go to school here.”

“No,” Grantaire says, cutting a quick glance past her to Enjolras, “I meant—nevermind.”

She places a perfect hand on his elbow. “We’ve only just met, but as we get to know each other better, you’ll find I’m not a fan of secrets. Just simple truths.”

Grantaire ducks his head. “Fed at the breast of Korythalia and Aletheia as well, were you.”

“Simple truths,” Cosette reminds him, “as I’ve said, I’m not a mythology major. Are you?”

“No, something else with equally poor job prospects after college,” Grantaire says, the slightest quirk to his lips. Cosette frowns at him, then prompts, Artemis. “I only meant—Apollo and Artemis. The twins.”

“Oh,” Cosette says, “now that, I could see.” She smiles, beatific. “Enjolras is Apollo, then.”

Enjolras is Apollo, then.

Enjolras. Apollo.

Enjolras waits. He just waits. Unsure of what he expects Grantaire to say.

“No one suits the name better,” Grantaire says, to the table. To below the table. His own shoes. When he glances up at Enjolras, ruddy red floods his cheeks. “Sorry. I know you don’t like that nickname, but it just kind of—stuck in my head. It’s stupid. I tried to stop.”

Something tugs in Enjolras’ chest. “I—I’m Apollo?” He shouldn’t go on, but he has to. Enjolras has always been terrible at curbing his tongue. “Just me?”

Grantaire’s brow furrows when he says, quietly, “there’s only one golden god of the sun, and truth, and warding off evil.”

“I—“ Enjolras falls too easily into disagreement. “He’s the god of poetry. And music. And—healing.”

Enjolras had been—he’d been guessing a gentle medical student with a guitar and a love of purple prose. Not—not Enjolras.

“Some could argue your speeches are poetry,” Grantaire mutters. “You literally campaign for health and education reform for kids; he’s the patron of youths. Seriously, are you so offended to be compared to a Greek god just because he sometimes represents liberal arts, rather than your fiery logic and renegade law?”

“I’m not,” Enjolras counters firmly. “But. Me? I’m Apollo?”

“Enjolras?” Cosette hums softly, peering at him, squeezing his forearm. “What’s the problem?”

“Yeah, Enjolras,” Grantaire digs, gaze sharp, and there it is, that acrid mocking. “What’s the problem? Don’t like my opinion on this completely random, harmless topic? Don’t like the compliment? Why don’t you say the actual fucking problem, Enjolras?”

“The actual problem?” Enjolras echoes, low and dazed. This seems like the opposite of a problem. Apollo, Apollo, rings in his ear, like they’re curled close and hot beneath the covers of Enjolras’ bed. Apollo, I—I lo—

“You just don’t like me!” Grantaire explodes, breathing hard. Something in his face crumples, and then he’s standing, and nodding at Cosette. There’s raggedness in his voice when he continues, “it was nice to meet you. Sorry. Shit. Sorry. I—hangover. I’m gonna go.”

Then he spins gracefully on his heel, and leaves.

“What,” Cosette says, after the awkward silence, little baffled smile frozen on her face. “Enjolras, what. I knew you two fought, but not like that.”

Everyone hears her, because everyone has stopped talking.

“I’ll go after him,” Jehan says, quietly.

“No,” commands Enjolras. Even he’s surprised, at how sure he sounds. “It should be me.”

No one asks, can I have your potatoes if you’re leaving, so they truly are shellshocked.

Enjolras ignores all of them, even Cosette, and runs.

Grantaire is much more athletic than Enjolras, but he is significantly more dehydrated, so he finds him curled up on a bench halfway back to Jehan’s house, face buried in his knees, rocking slightly and breathing hard.

“Grantaire?” He says.

“Fuck,” says Grantaire into his knees. “Don’t apologize if you don’t mean it. I—I know I’m kind of in your group and you think you have to be nice to me, but—I can’t—I can’t, Enjolras.”

Enjolras sits beside him. “You called me Apollo.”

“Is this really a sticking point with you?” Grantaire scoffs wetly, and lifts his head. His eyes are red. “Sorry. I’m sorry I revere you like a god. Sorry I had the gall. Sometimes, when you sleep with people, and kiss them, and ask them out for coffee, and tell them it’s okay if they spend the night and then spoon them even though they’re a pathetic mess of a person, and destroy fascists on the daily and you’re—like that, all perfect and golden and good… they get attached.”

“You called me Apollo all the time,” Enjolras says, feeling desperate. “You called me Apollo, and you never told me that’s who I was to you.”

“…what?”

“I thought you had someone else.”

Grantaire’s jaw drops. “What? How?”

“You never called me that unless you were,” Enjolras closes his eyes and can’t believe he’s going to say it, “in the middle of…”

“Coming,” Grantaire finishes for him. Then he’s laughing hysterically, which Enjolras instantly resents, because he doesn’t feel like laughing at all. “Holy. Shit. But I—you told me not to call you that!”

“I told you not to call out for somebody else while you were in my bed,” Enjolras says hotly.

“Um,” Grantaire chokes. His knees are still tucked into his chest, and he’s staring. “This is going to sound—crazy. And I know you’ll call me out on it. But it sounds like—like you were into me.”

Enjolras sits up straight on the bench.

“I was!” He suspects yelling at the person you love isn’t the best plan. Enjolras swallows, centers. “I still am. I don’t know if you’ve noticed this about me—“

“I notice everything about you,” Grantaire murmurs, awed, like he can’t not.

“But I don’t really change my mind without good reason. I know where I’m at. It’s just up to you to decide where you want to be, Grantaire.”

Grantaire unfurls, and slides against Enjolras on the bench. “With you, Enjolras.” Enjolras trembles. A secret, finally free. This is right. They both know it’s right. Grantaire takes his hand. “I always want to be with you.”

“Did we miss the potatoes?” Enjolras asks, when they enter the restaurant together.

“What did we miss,” Musichetta retorts, eyeing where their fingers are laced together.

“Cool, um, sitting down now,” Grantaire says. “Enjolras is used to all of you staring at him, but I’m not.”

“Hi,” says Cosette again, much sharper this time. She and Marius are already sitting knee to knee. “Enjolras.” Courfeyrac has a look of unconcealed and also insincere guilt at the other end of the table. “Maybe you could try this introduction thing again?”

Enjolras’ face burns. Well, he likes the color red.

“Um. Courf. Ferre. Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta. Feuilly, Bahorel, Jehan. Marius. And this is my boyfriend, Grantaire.”

Grantaire squeezes his fingers and makes a pleased, wondering little sound that makes it all worth it.

“This,” Grantaire says, “is my Apollo.”

“Oh shit,” gasps Courfeyrac from the end of the table, giving up all pretense of not listening.

“Much better,” Cosette approves. “Here! Potatoes.”

Brunch is delicious, but Enjolras has a plan.

Enjolras drops to his knees, and pins Grantaire back against the door by his hips. All his, and here now. He runs his hands along Grantaire’s belt and Grantaire gasps out: “Holy shit, Eponine.”

Enjolras stops unbuckling.

“That’s… new,” he remarks. Maybe he wonders if Grantaire would notice, if he muffled a scream into the jean fabric of his thigh.

“Shit, um, no, look.” Grantaire cards a hand through Enjolras’ hair, pupils still dilated and dark. “This has been the best day of my life, starting at around—noon. Better every second. But it has patently been Eponine’s worst.”

Enjolras rubs his thumb over the sliver of skin just above Grantaire’s belt loop, trying to be soothing. From the way Grantaire’s knees wobble, it may have been the wrong thing to do. Refocus. “Is… is Eponine ill?”

“I really like your sister, but she’s thrown a wrench in the whole heart-rending-life-consuming crush Eponine’s been nursing on Marius since freshman year, so—why do you look like that?”

“Eponine?” Enjolras blinks. “Marius?”

“Come on, it was a whole thing!” Grantaire says. “Me and Eponine sitting there mooning at the two of you. Everybody knew!”

“Marius doesn’t know,” Enjolras says. Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “Okay, so Marius wouldn’t know. But Courfeyrac didn’t say anything,” Enjolras proposes, as a much better argument.

“How could he not,” Grantaire mutters. “We’ve talked about it for hours, and—ohhh, shit, you guys are apparently terrible at putting nicknames together.”

“Yes, sensitive and eccentric people with a history of being bullied, not a group with full appreciation for nicknames. Especially since you were mostly drunk when you used them.” He presses his lips tightly together. “Do I want to know what nickname Marius has?”

“Okay, hey, my nickname is nice,” Grantaire disagrees, putting a finger up in the air. “Fun reminder that these are nicknames bestowed by people hopelessly in unrequited love with the recipients.”

Enjolras looks up at him. New angles on a beloved face. “Not anymore.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t know much about Greek religion, but if I had to guess, it’s worshippers that kneel.”

Grantaire drops to the floor too, and buries his hands deeper into his hair, and kisses him deeply.

“Mm, Enjolras.” He pulls back. “Enjolras, I have to go be with Ep for a little while. Is, um—is that all right?”

“Yes,” Enjolras says. It is right. Grantaire will be there to hold later, too. “I have some work I can do. I’ll wait up for you.”

“You are—incredible. See you soon.”

“One thing,” Enjolras says, as Grantaire scrambles to gather his things from wherever they’d been thrown, “I—I don’t know about Marius. But Cosette has four of Eponine’s paintings.”

Grantaire blinks at him. “…what?”

“I—she was understated, earlier, when she acted like she’s barely heard of either of you. She’s heard a lot. Cosette was trying to be subtle. All of the paintings of Eponine’s that I’ve bought went to her.”

Grantaire flushes. “You actually told your sister about me.” Enjolras had ranted. He doesn’t want to get into it. “That’s nice, but like—I don’t think Eponine wants to watch them skip through her art exhibit holding hands, singing the most romantic Elton John songs.”

“Cosette has two hands?” Is all Enjolras can think to say. “Does Eponine know Elton John lyrics?”

“Holy shit,” Grantaire reels. “You guys are crazy.”

“Because… we have feelings?” Enjolras tries, narrowing his eyes.

“Because you’re gods and Eponine and I have never even been loved!” Grantaire bursts. He waves his hands, trying futilely to clear the air. “Um, that is private information about Eponine.”

He has all of his things, his shoes and keys and his beanie on his head, but he’s not leaving. He looks at Enjolras, crunches his shoulders in, like he’s ashamed. And that’s unacceptable. Enjolras does what he does best, and speaks his mind.

“I’d argue that you and Eponine love each other as family. Additionally, that I love you.” The reaction is definitely—gaping.

“Shit, shit, we started dating three hours ago,” Grantaire panics, and Enjolras snaps his mouth shut. He is aware that in this, as in all things, he’s gone from zero to one hundred. Grantaire shakes his head wildly and blurts, “no, please don’t take it back, I’m really into it.” A deep breath. “I love you too. Obviously. We’ll— talk when I’m back. Kiss me?”

Enjolras does.

Grantaire

Cosette’s Insta handle?

Enjolras

??

Grantaire

Sorry, should’ve asked Courfeyrac.

An Insta handle is a username on Instagram

                                                            Enjolras

                                                            What’s yours?

Grantaire

lol no way

that’s a third date privilege

Eponine

Enjolras said you were interested in my art.

                                                            Cosette

                                                            We’re interested.

“I have to ask,” Grantaire mumbles into Enjolras’ bare shoulder. “Because I will probably say it. You realize I have genuinely been trying not to, all the rest of the times? I’m a man of habit. But I’ll—“ he shivers, when Enjolras ruts against him, just a little. “I’ll supplicate penance for my mistakes however you want.”

“I think,” Enjolras says, “that I’d like you to. Much more than I’d like you to,” he buries a grin in Grantaire’s neck, “say vocabulary words in the middle. Supplicate,” he teases a spot with his teeth, gentle, “and penance?”

“Okay, Mr. LSAT,” Grantaire groans. “I get poetic. That has been made—umm, uhm—astoundingly clear. I’m constructing fucking—fucking…” He gulps in a few breaths. “Metaphors about your godhood. Hey, other question, do you already have a name for down there, and if not can I submit godhood for consider—“

“Veto, veto, veto,” Enjolras splutters in laughter, and swallows up Grantaire’s own with his lips.

“This, sir, is a democracy,” Grantaire declares, mock-scandalized, squirming back. But Enjolras has got him. Enjolras has got him everywhere: his little couch, and Enjolras’ bed, and Grantaire’s king-sized bed, and curled up in the big windowsills of the Art Department, and after meetings at the Musain, and unfortunately— yes, Joly. Even the kitchen table.

When Grantaire gasps, “Apollo, Apollo, I—I love—I love you, fuck, Enjolras—“ and holds him close, and squeezes their fingers together, Enjolras thinks he might understand, for the first time, why he is Grantaire’s sun. Everything is warm.

“I love you too,” he tells Grantaire. He’s considered it over and over, and he always comes to this conclusion. He kisses him again. “Grantaire?”

“Mm hmm,” Grantaire sighs, blissful.

“Do you want me to call you by your nickname?”

Grantaire rubs their noses together. “Let’s try it.”

“R.”

Grantaire wraps his legs around him, grinning. “Who? How dare you? And in my bed.”

“We missed the bed,” Enjolras reminds him. “Decided it wasn’t worth the extra three feet.”

“I was coerced.”

“R,” Enjolras rolls his eyes fondly, and Grantaire spends about three seconds looking around, dramatically wide-eyed, as though Courfeyrac’s entire imaginary orgy is going to burst from the closet at the word. Huffing, Enjolras pins him.

“R,” Enjolras repeats, with conviction, taking his chin in hand and locking their eyes. This time, Grantaire shudders. “Is that a yes?”

“Yes,” Grantaire allows. Enjolras settles into it, that acceptance, that feeling. “Apollo,” he whispers against Enjolras’ lips, “I could get used to this.”