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According to Cosette, the café is only a few blocks away from his internship at the embassy. According to Cosette, the coffee is fair trade, and the to-go cups are recycled, and her boss is really nice. According to Cosette all of the business protocols and hiring practices are entirely nondiscriminatory.
Apparently ‘nondiscriminatory’ actually means ‘hot as fuck.’
Apparently, nondiscriminatory hiring practices mean that they only hire ruggedly beautiful men with messes of black hair and the biggest blue eyes that Enjolras has ever seen. Apparently, it means they only hire a barista who has broad shoulders and exquisite, muscled forearms and purple and green grape leaves growing up his wrists. Apparently, he’s staring and his eyes can’t decide what to focus on, whether it’s the tattoos, or the two days worth of stubble, or the – is that chest hair hinted at just under his collarbone? Apparently, Enjolras has a very specific type.
His eyes track up his body and Enjolras can’t think for the shock that sight of the undone buttons at the top of his shirt. Is three indecent, even if he’s wearing V-neck underneath? Enjolras wants to drag him away and undo the remaining buttons with his teeth. The man’s eyes are crinkling at the corners as he smiles at the girl in front, handing her a cappuccino with an elaborate milk foam oak leaf, and then the eyes are on Enjolras. It feels like jumping out of the plane when Courfeyrac persuaded him to go skydiving for his last birthday.
“Hi.” Enjolras is dying. “What would you like?” His voice is soft and a little scratchy and it makes Enjolras want to sink his hands into the mass of black curls and show him what he wants.
“Just . . . a latte . . . please.” Everything, anything, you.
Dimly, Enjolras realizes that maybe he’s having rather a strong reaction. Enjolras realizes that maybe he should chill out and calm down, but then Coffee Man is back and as he hands Enjolras his change and his drink, he smiles at him.
Enjolras smiles back and maybe doesn’t stop for another forty-five minutes.
*
The next time he comes in, Gorgeous Man is nowhere in sight and Cosette is working, which is probably a good thing, because Enjolras has actual work to do, and it’s hard to form an argument while drooling. When there’s a lull in the customers, and everything’s clean, Cosette comes over to where he’s furiously typing a paper with a refill.
“So what do you think so far? Better than Starbucks?”
“So much better, I’m sorry it took me so long to come in.” Cosette waves his apology away and pats him on the arm. “I promise, Dearest Sister, I’ll never go anywhere else.” For more reasons than just the coffee, well, for one reason, he thinks.
They talk about the shop a bit. Apparently there’s a knitting circle and a book club that meet there regularly, and then Cosette says that one of the other baristas, one who’s not working that day, bakes pastries for the shop.
“We ran out early today, but the next time you have to have one of his scones. R makes some with a lavender glaze; I thought I was dying the first time I had one.”
Enjolras pauses mid-sip of his coffee. “I, ah, I came in once before, but you weren’t here. There was a guy, with . . . with blue eyes.”
He barely needs to finish. “Did he have grape vine tattoos? That’s my R.” The affection in her voice makes it sound like she’s talking about a mystery brother he’s never met. “He showed me how to work the espresso machine without making me feel like an idiot. He’s really great.”
Enjolras nods slowly. “ . . . Your R?” He desperately hopes the possessive pronoun means nothing, but it wouldn’t be the first time he fails to notice that she’s gotten a boyfriend.
“Not my R,” she says with a laugh “not like that at least. Actually, he just helped me pick out an outfit for a date with one of Courfeyrac’s friends.”
“Oh, right. I, ah, thought you might be together for a moment.”
Cosette pauses in a way that makes Enjolras feel nervous without knowing why exactly. “He did say something about a godlike blonde visionary that came in.” She’s smiling, and definitely in a way that means she might want to torture Enjolras just a little bit. It’s the same smile she had when they were children and she knew what Enjolras was getting for his birthday and refused to tell “I asked him how his day was and he said one of Michelangelo’s angels had escaped the Vatican and come to make a believer out of him.” Enjolras isn’t blushing; he’s not. “He waxed very poetically.”
At that moment a couple comes in and Cosette gets up to take care of them. Before she leaves, she pats Enjolras, still gaping at her, on the head, like he’s a puppy who hasn’t learned how to go down stairs yet. “His next shift is Friday afternoon.”
*
Enjolras goes to the café again on Friday afternoon, and again a few days later, and very soon it becomes too familiar a place. If he does plan most of his visits for when R is working, not-too subtly inquiring about his schedule from Cosette, then it blends into him dropping in even when his favorite barista has a day off. It’s quiet and sprawling in a way that creates a plethora of secluded corners to work in, and even though the all of the furniture is mismatched, none of the tables wobble, and even the most uncomfortable wooden chair doesn’t make his back ache. It’s often full, but seldom loud, and even though Enjolras loves the Musain and the Corinthe, he finds a welcome little haven in the café. R’s scones are, in fact, to die for, and Enjolras ends up trying one of everything he makes.
Enjolras isn’t normally shy, but he hasn’t had an actual crush on anyone since grad school, and now he can hardly speak to Grantaire without blushing, so it’s mostly Grantaire who moves them into friend-territory, since Enjolras has become a huge chicken. It’s a Wednesday and Enjolras is actually frustrated over a presentation he has to do, when R slips up to his table quietly. It’s a testament to his stress levels that Enjolras doesn’t notice until he feels a warm hand prying his fingers off of his empty cup. He looks from the cup to Enjolras, and, Christ, Enjolras hopes he isn’t blushing too obviously because R just touched him, oh god.
“Well, that won’t do at all.” R murmurs, and walks back to the counter. Enjolras just stares mutely at him, and then looks away when R catches his gaze and smirks at him. He doesn’t look up again until R is across from his little table with a full cup of coffee and very generous piece of tiramisu on a chipped china plate.
“On the house.” He says. “You look like you need it.”
“But..”
“Enjolras, you come in here all the time.” He paused. “Can I call you Enjolras? Sorry, that’s so awkward, it’s just Cosette sort of indirectly introduced you, and…” He’s fidgeting just a little, gripping the back of the chair he’s standing in front of and then holds out his hand. “You can call me R. Everyone does.”
Enjolras shakes his hand, is proud that his palm is dry. “Enjolras, I mean, you know, and yeah, it’s fine, great, she, Cosette, she did the same thing to me.”
“Anyway, don’t worry about it.” R nudges the plate across the table. “Just tell me if it’s good or not.”
The “or not” is not an option. Enjolras has been there for four hours, and has heard at least ten people pay compliments to R about the tiramisu. Even if they hadn’t, Enjolras has tried, five varieties of scone, two Danishes, three cookies, and one pie of R’s craft: there’s no way R could bake anything that tasted less than amazing. He picks up the fork and takes a bite.
“Well?” R actually looks a little nervous, and it’s more adorable than witnessing Marius ask Cosette on a second date (five minutes of stammering). The idea that R might actually care about what he’s about to say gets tucked in the back of his mind for later.
“I think,” Enjolras says very seriously. “I would give up every sexual experience I’ve ever had for this.” And he means it.
The laugh that rips from R’s mouth is a sound Enjolras wants to hear for the rest of his life. Preferably while eating the tiramisu, but he’d be willing to bargain.
*
They start to talk after that, beyond coffee orders. Enjolras will stay at the counter for longer than necessary when he goes up for a refill, or take breaks from his work to chat while R wipes down empty tables nearby.
(There always seem to be a remarkable amount of tables around Enjolras that need cleaning, and many that involve R leaning quite far over the surface. Enjolras tries very hard, though not too hard, to not imagine bending him over one of the tables in an entirely different context. Or being bent over himself.) He learns that R bartends in a few upper crust bars at night, that he used to be an art student, that he dances, and boxes, and reads voraciously. He’s a bit of a sommelier, but drinks far less than he used to. They have no less than five close friends in common, and R is loyal to them with a ferocity that makes Enjolras’s chest tingle in a way that’s a little new. The more he learns, the more he wants to know.
R argues back, and Enjolras finds his mind more stimulated by an opposing viewpoint than he has in years, ever since he still lived with his parents, but now it challenges him and makes him mentally jump higher and faster. R listens quietly one empty night in the café when the story tumbles out of Enjolras unplanned about how his parents handed him a colossal check with “for university” written in the subject line and told him he had an hour to get his things out of the house. R tells him about his mother putting herself between him and his father’s rage, and how he stopped his heavy drinking when she finally left.
*
Months pass, seasons change, and he is put through a host of small, wonderful tortures at the café.
The first happens innocently enough in November. R enters a bet with Bahorel and Joly, and Enjolras watches his five-o-clock shadow grow to stubble and then to an outright beard over the month. He’s never thought about facial hair as something sexy before, but he starts to think about it a lot more (and a lot about the burn it could leave on his neck and on the insides of his thighs, but he is resolutely not thinking about that). When Enjolras tries, and fails, to off-handedly tell him that it might, possibly be a good look, R winks obscenely at him.
He does shave, months later in March, but it’s done in several stages over a week, accompanied by hilarious pictures of muttonchops, a goatee, and several different mustaches. The mustaches are accompanied by lewd poses and one-liners Enjolras suspects he stole from the porn industry circa the 1970’s.
*
One day he gets caught in the pouring rain coming to the café, and arrives sneezing and dripping like he went swimming with his clothes on. R actually fusses over him. He is given a towel to dry his hair, and made to sit in the comfiest chair in the café with the biggest mug of tea that he’s ever seen. He’s in the middle of protesting that really, he’s fine, it’s not even that cold out, when R ducks into the back room and comes out with a pilled, much loved sweater.
“It’s clean, I promise.” R says. “You’ll get sick if you stay in yours any longer, it’s soaked through. You can borrow mine, and we’ll put yours over the radiator in the break room to dry.”
“What about you?”
“Don’t worry, there’s a huge batch of muffins baking and the kitchen is super hot. I’ll be fine.” He holds the sweater out, and Enjolras’ further protests are silenced by a pitiful sneeze. After that he tries not to strip out of his wet one too eagerly, though he can’t manage to feign reluctance. He pulls on R’s and can’t hold back a sigh of relief at how much warmer he suddenly feels. “There.” R says, smiling. “I’ll be back with some soup. You keep too busy of a schedule to get sick.”
Enjolras drinks the tea and the soup and is warmed by the sweater and the little thoughts in his head that keep whispering to him R knows his schedule.
*
Enjolras gets his turn to fuss the next week when R comes in a half hour late for his shift with a black eye, a split lip, and severely bruised knuckles on both hands.
“I’m okay, really.” He says as Enjolras inspects his hands, his wonderful, talented hands that are now blue and purple. “I told you, I was having a simple discussion with my friend’s ex-boyfriend and I let the time get away from me.”
“Is this how all your discussions go? Christ, R . . .” Cosette appears with the first aid kit and an ice pack in the form of a bag of frozen blueberries.
“Enjolras, could you make sure my dear coworker is okay while I take care of the front?” She says it through gritted teeth and gives R a glare that is fueled by nothing but love.
Enjolras nods and opens a packet of antiseptic wipes. “Is this a habit of yours? Having discussions?”
“Only when they’re necessary.” R smiles ruefully and let’s Enjolras dab at a cut on his right hand over his first and second knuckles.
“Let me know if your boyfriend ever needs something explained to him.” He says, the softness of his voice masked in wry humor. “Or rather, leave some of him for me. I have no doubt you’d verbally eviscerate him before I had the chance to kick his ass.”
Enjolras prides himself on taking care of his bullshit himself, at being independent, but the thought of R defending his honor warms something in his chest.
“I don’t have a boyfriend.” He says, taking the ice pack. “Now hold this on your face.”
“Bullshit.”
“What?”
“What do you mean what?”
“What?”
R is looking at him strangely, or maybe that’s because he probably can’t see very well out of his swelling left eye. “Enjolras, certainly, there is no one on your level, physically or intellectually, but there has to be a line around the block, around the city, to try to take you out to dinner or something. Don’t laugh; I’m in shock right now! Like, not that anyone should subscribe to the belief that another person should fulfill one’s life, because Plato’s theory of circles and halves and whatever is just as bullshit as Hallmark soul mates, but people must be falling all over themselves for a chance to woo you, Apollo.”
“That’s . . . they don’t . . . Apollo? Really?”
R smirks and then winces at his split lip. R doesn’t appear to be taking the ice pack from him, so Enjolras gingerly holds it against R’s face himself.
“Well, if someone ever proves worthy, they can’t treat you as any less than the god you are. I’ll make sure of that, if you don’t.” Enjolras can feel a tiny smile pulling on his face, and if he doesn’t try as hard as he could to wipe it away, well, R can really only see out of one eye, so he probably won’t notice.
“Goat sacrifices and all?” He asks. It makes R burst out laughing and quickly hiss at the pain in his lip, which brings on a new bout of fussing from Enjolras.
“Stop laughing!”
“Stop making me laugh!”
R reaches up and takes the ice pack from Enjolras, briefly covering his hand in his own. “Seriously though.” He says, as if he’s very concerned that Enjolras understand what he’s about to say, and maybe he is. “You deserve . . .” He stops. “Everything.”
Enjolras only holds his sudden focus for a few moments, before turning back to the first aid kit to find something for R’s lip, and maybe also to hide his blush.
*
Two weeks before Christmas, Enjolras is putting the final touches on a term paper when R decides to push most of the tables against the walls (Enjolras is the only one there besides the knitting group on the couches in the very back) and teach Cosette how to waltz. She’s a quick study, particularly with the little background in ballet she had as a child, and after barely twenty minutes of turning around the room, she’s gliding like she was born in a ballroom. Enjolras doesn’t pretend not to watch, Cosette’s face is alight like the Christmas tree in the park, and R moves them with a grace that Enjolras has never seen in him before.
He spins Cosette away to release her and strides over to Enjolras, a determined smirk on his face, and Enjolras panics, has a brief fight or flight debate in his head, because he can’t dance to save his life, and he’s about to severely embarrass himself. R just pulls him out of his chair, deaf to the undignified sputters coming from his new partner, puts his hand on Enjolras’s waist and says firmly, “Like this.”
Enjolras stumbles. He trips. He knows he has to have stepped on R’s toes several times by now, but R isn’t saying anything, he just keeps counting quietly and directing him on when to turn and how to move. “Stop thinking, Apollo.” He says gently, and Enjolras wants to reply I’m not thinking, you’re just very, very close to me. Then a strange thing happens, and Enjolras stops tripping every step, only trips every other step, and then stops tripping almost entirely. He lets R move him and turn him and just gives up at trying and for some reason that actually seems to help. R moves them a little faster, and Enjolras hears the high scream of anxiety in his chest decrescendo to a quavering note, something that sort of feels like fun. R never takes his eyes off of him and keeps up a steady mantra of, “Just look at me. Don’t look at your feet, you’re doing fine. Look at me; don’t look down. Look at me. Look at me. Look at me.”
*
Enjolras sees a sweater in the window of a little shop on his way home a few days after the Dancing Incident, made of tightly woven dark green wool, a mix of lamb’s wool and alpaca that will keep out the cold and still be soft. He thinks about R’s tattered sweater that he had reluctantly given back after his own had dried from the rain. He thinks about how it smelled like cloves and the rich, dark tobacco that R used to roll his cigarettes, and how under that there had been the salty-sweet, human scent that was unpleasant on so many other people, but which had made Enjolras want to bury his face in the sweater and never come out.
He can’t decide which size would fit R better, so he puts one on. It’s big, made for someone whose shoulders and chest are bigger than his own, with a neckline that comes down just a little too low the way R’s old sweater did.
“That one might be a bit large on you, dear.” The shopkeeper says, not unkindly.
“It’s not for me.” He says, taking it off and pulling out his wallet. “I think it should be the right size for him though.”
He plans to stay late one night and leave it on the counter for R to find when he cleans up, which is precisely what he does, but he’s halfway down the block when he realizes that in his careful timing of when R went in and out of the back room – he left his keys on his table. He had taken them out of his pocket while he was studying so he could sit more comfortably and left them sitting on the table as he slipped out. He’s 90% through a text to Combeferre asking if he can stay at his place for the night, before he’s able to talk himself into not being such a baby.
The sign has been flipped to “Closed” but the door is still unlocked when Enjolras pushes the door open again. Really, he couldn’t have done worse if he had planned it. R is standing at the counter, running his hand over the sweater, tissue paper wrapping laid open, and a very dumbstruck look on his face. When he looks up, Enjolras panics.
“I just, um.” He walks stiffly to the table and grabs the keys from where they’re still sitting, preparing to run back out the shop as fast as he can.
“Enjolras.” R is holding up the sweater, looking from it to him. Enjolras has dreadfully crossed some line, or several, or all of them. He’s going to be heartbroken and he’s going to have to go back to Starbucks.
“Merry Christmas.” He is going to pretend his voice doesn’t crack. He pretends he doesn’t feel embarrassed enough to die. R runs his hand over the wool again, and then he’s pulling his hoodie off and putting the sweater on over his thin t-shirt. Enjolras feels a little bit of his sanity come back to him, because, even if he’s ruined their friendship, the sweater fits R like it was made for him alone.
“Enjolras.” R is saying his name again. “It’s . . . it’s wonderful! This…this is beautiful! I don’t know what to say!” His face transforms into one of soft awe, happiness and surprise, and it’s the most wonderful thing Enjolras has ever seen. “You didn’t have to, it must have cost a fortune, and – and I don’t have anything for you – I’m so-”
“Your name.” Enjolras blurts out. “I . . . I know everyone calls you R, but . . . I don’t actually know your name.”
R smiles like it’s more a present to give Enjolras his name than receive his sweater. “It’s Grantaire.”
“Grantaire.” Enjolras repeats with a smile.
*
Enjolras and Cosette have a quiet little Christmas with their grandparents before heading back to the city just in time for the New Year. Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta have a New Years Eve party for all their friends and Grantaire comes straight from his other job, bartending at a semi-fancy tequila bar, in well tailored black slacks and a black dress shirt that Enjolras wants to simultaneously smooth his hands over appreciatively and rip off.
He resolves to drink instead.
An hour before midnight, fairly drunk already, he trips over absolutely nothing coming out of the kitchen. His stomach lurches in the way it does when he realizes his powerlessness and the inevitability of the fall, and accepts he will definitely make a fool of himself. Only the fall never happens. Without warning, an arm catches him around the waist and then Grantaire is holding him tightly against his chest and there is almost no distance between their faces. Enjolras feels every molecule of air leave his lungs and every inch of his body now plastered against Grantaire spontaneously combust.
“You okay?” Grantaire asks.
No, Enjolras is not okay, because if his head wasn’t already buzzing from the champagne, it is now from how close Grantaire’s face is, how blue his eyes are, and how much Enjolras wants to kiss every inch of his horrible, beautiful face. His hands have fallen right against his chest, and the skin underneath his shirt is muscled and warm, and everything about this is intoxicating. He needs to move his hands off of Grantaire’s chest, anywhere else will be better for his sanity and so moves to grip Grantaire’s shoulders. This is a horrible idea. Grantaire’s shoulders are hard with muscle from boxing, and Enjolras very much wants Grantaire to throw him over one broad shoulder and carry him off like a Viking war prize. He feels the arm around his waist tighten, Grantaire’s arm, oh god, Grantaire’s arm is around his waist, feels the press of his palm against his back and how he fits right there against his body.
“Yeah.” He says hoarsely. “Just . . . need some air.” The arm around his waist doesn’t loosen. Maybe it’s the wine, but he swears Grantaire’s eyes flick down to his mouth for a split second. Then he lets go and Enjolras is running outside to take huge gulps of cold air and regain some semblance of control over himself.
When they count down, R is nowhere to be found. Enjolras stands sandwiched between Courfeyrac and Cosette as the numbers diminish, and feels unhinged, unsure where to turn. Then, as people kiss and cheer and sing, the crowd of his friends parts, and Grantaire’s eyes are burning into him from across the room. Cosette turns to kiss Marius, and Courfeyrac turns to grasp two fistfuls Combeferre’s shirt, and Enjolras is willingly caught in Grantaire’s gaze. He raises his glass to Enjolras, and downs it in one go. Enjolras wants to teleport across the room and wrap him in his arms, and do something to make the sad twist of R’s smile into the happy one from the Sweater Night, but then the dancing starts back up and he loses sight of Grantaire.
Enjolras starts the New Year with the worst hangover he’s ever had and the realization that the fireworks of his crush have burned to a steady furnace that he doesn’t quite know how to label.
*
On Valentines Day, Enjolras’s cappuccino has a heart swirling in the milk foam, and he blushes whenever he takes a sip, and whenever he looks at Grantaire, and whenever Grantaire looks at him. He is essentially blushing the whole afternoon. It’s busy, very busy, so they don’t talk as much, but he gives a little gasp of delight when Grantaire replaces his empty mug with a plate of pink macaroons.
The café only gets busier, which makes sense since it’s gotten several good reviews. Customers flirt with Grantaire throughout the afternoon, most of it harmless, but some.... Enjolras knows because he is sitting near the counter and can hear and see every line they pull, and every time his favorite barista laughs and plays along. It makes him want to set things on fire.
He’s glowering at his laptop when Grantaire takes advantage of a rare lull and collapses into the empty chair across from him.
“I hope Cosette get’s here soon. I can’t handle all these people.”
“Gotten too many numbers, have you?” His voice is sharper than he intends it to be.
“What?”
“You seem to enjoying the rush quite a lot today.”
“What?” Enjolras doesn’t answer, just deletes a few sentences and starts typing away again. He refuses to look up, but out of his periphery he can see Grantaire lean forward like he’s going to say something. Then Cosette is rushing in followed by another whirlwind of couples that want espressos and cookies. He hears Grantaire sigh, and then a hand comes out and takes his empty plate and disappears.
His regret is immediate and intense. Enjolras’s stomach sinks out of his body to the floor, when he realizes he never thanked Grantaire for the macaroons. His grandmother used to make them before her arthritis made it too difficult, and he hadn’t tasted any as good as hers until R’s. He looks up and watches Grantaire, hoping against hope that the rush dissipates quickly so he can apologize.
R is mid coffee pour and telling the customer the total at the same time. He’s biting his lip a little, like he does when he wants a cigarette but doesn’t have time for one. Then he’s turning around and starting an unnecessarily complicated order for a couple, something involving artificial sweetener and no soy, and he gives them a smile that’s absolutely genuine, and tells them he has a friend with a soy allergy, really it’s no problem. He hasn’t even finished his sentence and Cosette is emerging from the back room and apologizing profusely, looking genuinely upset that she’s even five minutes late, and Grantaire just wraps an arm around her, kisses her on the cheek, and wishes her a happy Valentines Day while frothing milk with one hand. Then the next order is coming in, and the next and the next.
Enjolras slowly starts to feel as though his stomach has returned to his body, but only because he feels sick. Grantaire has been going nonstop all day, is probably exhausted and frustrated at the unusual rush, and he just spent the few seconds of free time he had so that Enjolras could snap at him for a jealousy that isn’t his fault in the first place. Enjolras was an asshole because he couldn’t admit that he’s been jealous all day.
And there it is, the admission that’s come too late. He likes Grantaire, really likes him, quite a bit more than he expected to from his initial crush. He’s so jealous of all these people that keep flirting with Grantaire, jealous that he’s laughing with them and playing along, and jealous that these complete strangers have enough courage to flirt with him, and to let him know that they think he’s attractive when Enjolras hasn’t had the nerve to make his affection known when he’s had months to do so. There’s a distinct possibility that he might throw up.
Grantaire is just sprinkling cocoa powder on the top of a concoction of whipped cream and white chocolate when Enjolras hears Cosette’s not so hushed whisper.
“What do you mean you haven’t had time for lunch? You’ve been here since seven in the morning!”
“It’s fine, I had a scone just a bit ago.”
“You should have told me, I would have brought you something! You can’t run on an empty tank on a day like this!”
“Cosette, it’s fine, look, there’s another group coming! Really! Don’t worry! I’ve done far worse to my body, believe me.”
Enjolras has saved his work, shut his laptop, and is out the door into the awful February weather before he can tell them he’ll be right back.
It’s twenty minutes until he pushes it open again. Grantaire’s back is turned, making a double espresso for the woman standing off to the side of the counter on her phone.
“He’s back!” Cosette sings softly, pushing Grantaire away from the machine. “Told you so!”
“Enjolras?” Grantaire’s face is suspicion masked by surprise. “I thought you left . . .” He trails off as Enjolras extricates the bag he stowed under his coat. It’s the Thursday pad Thai special from the little old couple-owned closet of a take out place down the street that Grantaire likes. He had kept it under his coat so the walk back wouldn’t cool it down.
“I’m sorry.” He starts awkwardly. “I was an asshole. It wasn’t your fault.” Enjolras had thought about saying, “it had nothing to do with you” but that wouldn’t have been the truth.
“I shouldn’t have been so judgmental and irritated, especially when you’ve had such a hard day. I, uh,” he pushes the box across the counter, knowing that it’s not enough to excuse his behavior to himself, but maybe Grantaire might consider forgiving him now.
“I heard you tell Cosette you hadn’t eaten yet, and I wanted to make it up to you.” As if on cue, a pitiful rumble comes from Grantaire’s stomach, but he’s looking at Enjolras and his smile is only a little hesitant. “Thanks.”
Cosette appears from behind Grantaire, holding the woman’s now finished drink. “Both of you go and sit down. I saved the table Enjolras was at because while some people had doubts, I had more faith.”
“Cosette, the people –“
“The people will not die and never come back because they had to wait in line for five minutes. Go and eat the food that my stupid brother brought for you.”
The two obediently sit down. Enjolras tells Grantaire how much he liked his macaroons, tells him about his grandmother’s cursing in French over the cookies, and then listens to Grantaire talk about almond flour and egg whites for twenty-five minutes. When he finally does go back to work, Cosette comes over to wipe down the neighboring table.
“Could you two be a little more obvious?” She hisses. “I don’t think the entire country knows that you’re pining.”
“Cossette . . .” and then Enjolras pauses. He glances toward the counter to make sure Grantaire is deep in the territory of milk frothing and won’t be able to hear him. “Cosette, I really like him.”
“Yeah, I know,” She smiles kindly at him. “It’s sort of adorable and painful to watch. When will you guys be official?”
“I don’t know . . . I don’t know if he likes me back.”
The supportive smile drops off of Cosette’s face like he personally slapped it off. “Jesus Christ.”
*
March arrives gray and wet and just as cold as February, which means the café is warm and bright. Grantaire has concocted a dense tray of something involving figs and pistachios, and has taken to brushing away Enjolras’s protests of his free drinks with bad one-liners and excessive winking. Enjolras has gotten better at not blushing quite so much, provided he isn’t counting when their hands accidentally touch around a coffee cup, or when Grantaire touches his arm as he leaves, or the time Grantaire got bored and braided his hair. He tells Grantaire about his classes, about his internship, what he’s reading, and they argue sometimes, Grantaire tells him stories about customers, about his art, about music he listened to while baking the night before.
Grantaire is finishing an order for a woman, and Enjolras is looking up from his laptop to give his eyes a break when he notices the change.
“Grantaire,” he says as Grantaire wipes down the counter “did you guys change the paintings?”
“Yeah, this morning. I wanted to change them all out at the same time, and I didn’t finish two until last night. They’re all sort of inspired by my friends, not really a portfolio, but they go together so I wanted to have the whole thing at once.”
“Wait, you made these?”
Enjolras knows about R’s art, about his art school career, and has heard most of his rants about the art world and modern art and painting. Grantaire told him that some of his things sometimes get hung around the shop, when Enjolras had pressed, he’d only said that he’d been working on something and that he’d show him as soon as it was done. Grantaire is shrugging as Enjolras connects the dots, but he can tell Grantaire’s real nonchalance from his feigned nonchalance.
“Tell me about them.”
“Don’t you have . . .”
“I can take a break. I mean, if you have time . . . “
“Yeah.” Grantaire’s smile reaches his whole face even though it’s only quirked half of his mouth upwards.
They start by the door and work around the café, and Grantaire tells him about each one: who it’s for “My friend, Eponine, just went through a bunch of shit with a guy, and I wanted to show all the colors she makes me think of when she’s happy”, what he used “I got stuck on this one because I couldn’t find the right shades of blue”, how long it took “Fucking bitch, this one was.”
The second to last one is an explosion of reds; brick, scarlet, flame, garnet, crimson, licking the canvas and swirling in on one another. “I like this one.” He doesn’t know why exactly, but he does. Grantaire doesn’t say anything; he had kept up a steady stream of commentary with all the others. “Tell me about this one.”
Grantaire sighs like he’s been holding his breath. “I, um, this is one of the ones I finished last night. It took awhile; I sort of ran out of red halfway, which is probably not surprising. It was hard. I . . . I made it for . . . someone. One of the regulars here, actually. I’m a little gone on him.” His voice gets very quiet. “More than a little, really.”
It’s like Enjolras is a balloon and someone has pricked him with a pin, he can feel himself deflating slowly and steadily. His jealousy on Valentines Day was nothing; this is a cold, helpless sort of numbness in his chest, and his stomach has dropped out of his body, but he’s going to throw up anyway. He remembers how he thought looking at Grantaire was like skydiving. There’s a metaphor there about making sure you have a parachute before you jump.
“Does your regular . . . does he feel the same way?”
“I don’t know, I don’t think it’s possible. He’s out of my league, a living, breathing Apollo.” Grantaire’s voice is so quiet, almost shy. Enjolras wishes he could look at him. “And I haven’t told him yet.”
“Oh.” It’s when Grantaire uses the nickname, the one Enjolras had thought was for him, was special, that Enjolras realizes the futility of his months long more-than-crush. He wants to cry. He hasn’t cried since he was ten when Cosette fell out of their tree house and broke her arm.
Then something brushes against his hand. Enjolras looks down and Grantaire’s fingers are lacing through his, a warm palm pressing against his cool one, he can feel all of Grantaire’s callouses, and his hand fits just right.
“Oh.” He does have a parachute; he’s pulling the ripcord; he might be flying.
Grantaire actually looks nervous. Enjolras wants to kiss the anxiety away, and his stomach lurches at the thought that maybe he could and Grantaire wouldn’t mind.
“If I’m completely misinterpreting this . . .”
“You’re not.” He’s reaching out, not sure what he’s going to do.
A bell rings somewhere, and it takes a second for Enjolras to realize that it’s the door opening, and then there’s a voice saying “Uh, excuse me?” and there’s a very freckled man standing awkwardly in the café.
“Hey, Marius.” Grantaire says slowly.
“Hi, R, uh, hi, Enjolras.” Enjolras recognizes Marius, Cosette just introduced him. He hopes he’s got his “I will wreak death upon your unfortunate soul” face on, as Courfeyrac calls it.
“Are you looking for Cosette?” Grantaire asks.
“Oh, no, she’s having lunch with Eponine. Her birthday is coming up, and I wanted, well, I know you sell your paintings sometimes, and she really loves your work.”
“Yeah,” Grantaire is saying, and he turns a little more toward Marius, but he runs his thumb over the back of Enjolras’s hand, like he’s saying, “Please don’t let go.” Enjolras isn’t letting go.
“Did you have one in mind?”
“Not exactly, I’d love a recommendation. I sort of liked the red one.”
“That one’s mine.” Enjolras says it at the same time Grantaire says, “It’s not for sale.” They glance at each other.
“I’ve bought it already.”
“It’s a gift.”
“I’m going to buy it.”
“For him. A gift for him.” He turns a bit back to Enjolras. “I painted it for him, so, by all rights, it’s already his.”
Marius looks very confused. Only part of Enjolras has pity for him. It’s the part that is still holding Grantaire’s hand.
“The yellow one.” Grantaire says, turning back to Marius. “I painted the yellow one on the far wall with her in mind, so I’d recommend that one, but she would probably like the blue one as well.” He looks to Enjolras and squeezes his hand once before letting go and leading Marius back to the painting, talking for a bit, gesticulating, and then finally lifting it off the wall. Enjolras, untethered, sits back down. Grantaire painted the red painting for him. Grantaire will let him have it. Grantaire likes him. He likes Grantaire, and Grantaire likes him back, and they held hands.
Grantaire takes the picture to the biggest empty table and wraps it in brown paper. Enjolras can hear him bargaining the price with Marius, and because he’s a wonderful human being, he’s talking Marius down in price, insisting that, since Marius is his friend and purchasing it for his girlfriend who is also his friend, he can’t reasonably take that much money for the painting. They settle on a price that is part money and part wine and fancy cheese to be delivered at a later date.
Then Grantaire is walking back to his table, and Enjolras is standing up and Grantaire is biting his lip oh god.
“This is going to sound awful,” Grantaire says, “but . . . don’t you have to be at the embassy for your internship in ten minutes?”
For a second, Enjolras can’t actually process what he’s said, words like “embassy” and “internship” having fallen out of his vernacular. Then he looks at his watch, and can feel his eyebrows climb up his face. “Oh, shit.” Then he looks up again and Grantaire is biting his lip again, to try to stop himself from smiling. “Oh. Shit.”
“Go.” Grantaire says gently, nodding toward the door. “The people aren’t going to make themselves cry.”
“That was one time.” Enjolras stops himself, looks down, and looks up again. “Thank you. I really liked hearing about your paintings. I want to hear more later, if you’ll tell me. And thank you, for . . . for not selling the red painting. I really do want to buy it from you.”
Grantaire is shaking his head, blushing, beaming, and Enjolras wants to make him do all of those things all the time. “You’re not paying for the damn painting, Enjolras. It was already yours.” He bites his lip again as the words leave his mouth. Enjolras can’t breathe and it feels great.
“I can’t take it now. Could I come pick it up later?” And you as well goes unspoken.
“I have to leave in an hour. But” He falters, “I could bring it to you. If that’s okay.”
“Yes.” Enjolras is already saying before Grantaire backtracks. “That would be fine, that would be great.”
“Okay, yeah, great.” The pink is still high on his cheeks and Enjolras wants to kiss everywhere it touches. He stops himself by scribbling his address onto a scrap of paper.
“Would eight be-“
“Great. Eight would be great.”
Grantaire walks him to the door, keeps looking at him and Enjolras is realizing how little he can handle it. He opens the door for him, and catches his arm in the same hand that was just holding Enjolras’s hand a matter of minutes ago. He looks down, likes the way Grantaire’s hand looks touching him and then Grantaire is impossibly close. Enjolras’s eyes flutter closed and all the breath leaves his lungs in one exhale, because Grantaire’s lips are pressing softly to the corner of his mouth. He’s flying. He’s falling. He’s freefalling through the blue of Grantaire’s eyes; there’s no parachute, but there’s no ground either.
*
When the knock echoes through Enjolras’s tiny apartment, he’s in the middle of downward facing dog in his third changed outfit in half an hour. He had taken up yoga with Courfeyrac as a way of relaxing and getting some fitness into his busy schedule, and though it has toned his entire body and made him sore in places he didn’t think possible, it hasn’t done shit to relax his nerves tonight. He nearly runs to the door, only to stop and hyperventilate a little bit. He should wait a few seconds before opening it; he can’t act like he was just waiting around for Grantaire to come, right? He has to be cool. Enjolras gets his breathing under control (he hopes) and decides that Grantaire probably knows him well enough now to know that Enjolras has never been cool, will never be cool, and opens the door.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
Grantaire has the painting wrapped in brown paper and a shine in his eyes. Enjolras holds the door open for him and there’s a lot of shifting and awkward politeness.
“Where would you like it?”
“Anywhere. I mean the coffee table is okay. It’s out of direct sunlight, so . . .”
“Did you do research on storing paintings?” Grantaire is smirking as he sets it down gently on Enjolras’s second hand coffee table.
Enjolras colors. “Yes. I’ve never bought an actual painting before. I wanted to make sure I didn’t do something stupid. Like…put it in direct sunlight.”
Grantaire chuckles as he straightens up. He pulls his hat off, the worn gray beanie releasing the mass of curls that he’s let grow so long this past winter. There are a few feet between them, but Enjolras’s stomach is tying itself in knots; they’ve never been alone somewhere as private as his apartment before.
“Before we,” Grantaire starts. He’s twisting his fingers in the knit yarn of his hat. “Before anything . . . just before. I’d like to…buy you dinner, if you want, or if you don’t, or if you just want…” he makes a vague sweeping gesture that Enjolras thinks he can still interpret, “or, I don’t know how you feel about dating, or whether you’re even looking for a relationship, or where you want this to go…”
“Where do you want it to go?” Enjolras can feel his nervousness ebbing away as he watches Grantaire’s nervousness.
“You can’t do that, I asked –”
“I want to know what you want, not what you’ll say to tailor your answer to mine.” He swallows the lump in his throat and takes a few steps forward, reaches out and covers Grantaire’s hands with his own.
“You might not like my answer.” Grantaire’s looking down at their hands, Enjolras’ thumbs resting on the pulse points on his wrists, and his voice is only a whisper. “I’m a selfish bastard.”
“So be selfish.”
“Everything.”
Enjolras sways forward and kisses him as gently as he can. Grantaire is a deer in the headlights, stock still, and when Enjolras pulls away his eyes flutter open slowly in a daze.
“Was that okay? I’m sorry if it wasn’t okay. I just thought maybe…” The sentence is not fully out of his mouth when Grantaire steps definitively into his space, and kisses him. He doesn’t pull away, just frames his face with his hands and keeps kissing him slowly as Enjolras melts into him. He didn’t know kissing could be like this, gentle enough to slow down time but thorough enough to make him tremble and pull Grantaire against him.
“Everything sounds good.” He murmurs against Grantaire’s mouth. Grantaire only chuckles and wraps his arms around him properly. “Good.”