AN: So, this is the first Les Mis fic I've ever posted. Concrit is always appreciated!
It's shameless fluff (kind of?) and I don't usually write anything like this, so I am a little nervous. Obviously it's an AU - I was inspired by a list of them that I found on tumblr. "I'm in my underpants in a laundromat waiting for my clothes to get washed and your clothes are in the machine next to mine and I noticed that when you put your clothes in they were all covered in blood what the frick"
Grantaire drums his fingers against the skin of his bare thigh impatiently. He's sitting cross-legged on the floor of a dingy laundromat, picking at flecks of paint and dirt on his skin. He heaves a sigh, and stands, itching for a cigarette. He bums one off of the over-friendly forty-something year old male, who is washing a lot of leather. Grantaire's eyes catch on something that looks like a gimp mask, but he keeps walking.
Sitting ontop of a dryer, Grantaire swings his legs, and lights up the cigarette.
His beer-stained clothes spin around and around. There's probably blood on them, too, he thinks. And paint. Paint is like sand, to Grantaire; it just gets everywhere. He scratches at a spot of dried blue paint on his forearm, while his newly lit cigarette dangles loosely between his lips.
It was all a blur.
Maybe he threw the first punch, he doesn't really remember, doesn't really want to remember. His clothes reek of beer, and his bottom lip is fat and swelling. There's a dark bruise already forming under his eye - the result of a powerful right cross - and, as if that wasn't enough, there's a bad cut near his eyebrow that probably needs stitching. His clothes aren't clean, so he's sitting in the middle of a rundown laundromat with only a gimp for company, with no cigarettes, no reception on his cell, wearing nothing but his daggy red boxer shorts.
At this stage, Grantaire doesn't see how this night could get any worse.
He lifts the cigarette to his lips, and inhales, closing his eyes for a fraction of a second.
"You're not supposed to smoke in here." a voice says, sounding incredibly close, and incredibly annoyed.
Grantaire cracks open an eye. He's startled to find that the stranger is standing mere inches in front of him, seemingly unperturbed by Grantaire's lack of clothing. It seems to bother this man immensely that Grantaire makes no move to put out his cigarette. He only pulls it away from his lips, propping it between his pointer and thumb.
Both of his eyes are open, as he drinks in the appearance of the other man.
He's tall - he towers over Grantaire, but that could be because the artist is still sitting on the edge of the dryer - and he has impossibly blue eyes, that burn holes into Grantaire's skin. He has broad shoulders, too. And a sharp, chiselled jawline. His hair looks like gold, and it falls in curls around his face, long enough that it almost brushes his shoulders.
Grantaire's eyes stray lower. He's wearing a white oxford button-up, and a pair of black denim jeans. There's a speck of blood on the collar of his shirt, he notes. The man in question clears his throat suddenly, pointedly. Grantaire drags his eyes back up, to meet sharp blue ones.
"Can I help you?" he asks the man.
"You're smoking."
"I am."
"And you're half-naked."
"You're observant." Grantaire smirks.
Blue eyes flounders for a response, lips twitching up in annoyance, a wry smile. "Where are your clothes?"
"Where do you think they are?" Grantaire starts to swing his legs again, putting his cigarette between his lips again. For some reason, he really likes watching this stranger flounder for words; his cheeks are flushed, tinged with a hint of pink, and Grantaire's fingers itch for a pad and a pencil.
The man huffs a sigh, and turns his back to Grantaire.
He inspects the row of machines, selecting the one that is farthest from Grantaire. He shoves a handful of clothes into the washing machine, slams the door, fumbles around for loose change in his back pocket for a moment, then inserts the coins, and waits, watching the machine expectantly. It doesn't come to life; nothing happens. The stranger looks to Grantaire, eyebrows raised.
"It's broken."
"You didn't think to mention that?"
Grantaire shrugs.
The man purses his lips, and turns back to the machine sharply, impatiently retrieving each article of clothing. "Do any of the machines work?"
"Mine does." Grantaire exhales. A thin wisp of smoke curls in the air between them.
"Apart from yours," he says tiredly. "Do any of the machines - apart from yours - work?"
"Mhm. The one next to mine. On the right. The rest along this row are broken," Grantaire informs him. "Unless you want to wash your clothes with the friendly neighborhood gimp over there, I guess you're stuck next to me." he adds, unable to stop himself from smiling at the look of absolute bewilderment that settles upon the stranger's face.
His words seem to break something inside of the man, because he just stands there, frozen, clutching a ball of clothes against his chest.
Grantaire pushes himself off of the dryer, stubbing his cigarette out on the lid, before he walks towards the man. He is more than aware of the fact that he is practically naked, but he is made even more aware of that by the way that the blue eyed stranger pointedly averts his gaze, staring up at the ceiling instead of meeting Grantaire's gaze.
There's a faint blush to his cheeks again, and that, for some reason, makes Grantaire giddy.
"You can look at me, you know," he smirks. "I have no shame."
"Clearly." the stranger retorts.
"Are you going to wash your clothes, or are you just going to stand there all night?" Grantaire asks.
"Why are you half-naked?"
"Why aren't you? Isn't that what people do in laundromats?"
The man rolls his eyes, lips pursed distastefully. He gathers up his clothes again, and stalks towards the machine next to Grantaire's, pulling the door open. He stuffs the articles inside, and shuts the door, then fumbles around - once more - in his pocket for change. He pulls out a handful of coins, then looks to Grantaire, head bowed a little.
"Can you spare some change? I'm short. That machine ate my money."
Grantaire simply nods, and moves to retrieve the money. The rest of his belongings are piled up on top of one of the dryers. A wallet - empty, with only a few pictures and some loose change - along with a watch that doesn't even work, but he keeps it anyway because Eponine gave it to him for his birthday - she slaps him whenever he isn't wearing it, and smiles whenever he does - and lastly a neon pink marker that he sometimes uses to draw phallic images on Bahorel's forehead when he's passed out drunk on Grantaire's couch.
He gathers up the change, and walks back towards the stranger, clutching the coins in his hand.
"A dollar, in return for your name." Grantaire says.
"Don't you have any clothes you can put on?" comes the man's response, bringing a smile to Grantaire's face.
"Is it really that distracting?"
"It's inappropriate, for starters."
"I think the man washing an alarming amount of leather behind us - don't look - is probably a little more inappropriate, if you ask me."
"I didn't." the man says, blue eyes boring into Grantaire's.
Grantaire laughs, surprising both of them. "Well, I'll tell you my name. Just so when you retell the story about the crazy naked guy in the laundromat, at least you can give him a name." he says, and he swears that he almost sees a smile dance on the other man's lips. "My name's R."
"Just the one letter?"
"It's short for Grantaire."
"Enjolras."
"Bless you."
"I wasn't - that's my name." the man sighs.
"Oh." Grantaire says. He presses the coins into Enjolras's open palm. "There. I tend to keep my word."
Enjolras eyes him off, then stares down at the money as though it were foreign to him. A frown passes over his face. He moves back towards the machine with his clothes in it, and slowly inserts the coins into the slot. Grantaire catches sight of blood, on the bundle of clothes - on multiple articles, actually - and he almost asks, but holds his tongue, leaning back against the dryer instead, arms folded across his chest.
It would be rude of him to ask, to pry.
Enjolras is a stranger, after all.
"So," Grantaire says, smacking his lips together. "What brings you here on this lovely evening?"
Turns out his self-control isn't so great. Enjolras has his back to him, so Grantaire sees the tension return to broad shoulders, sees his back go rigid. For a second, Grantaire almost regrets asking, almost, but his curiosity has always gotten the better of him, and he's bored out of his mind in this dimly lit laundromat, and Enjolras is by far the most intriguing person here.
He simply couldn't help himself.
"I was involved in a protest." Enjolras draws out each word, perhaps wanting to gauge Grantaire's true reaction.
"And it turned violent."
"It doesn't always."
"But more often than not it does, I'm guessing."
Judging by Enjolras's clean clothes, Grantaire guesses that this is somewhat of a regular occurrence. That shirt is far too crisp and clean - there's no way that he would have escaped a protest with only a speck of blood on him, seeing as the clothes in the dryer have numerous stains on them. He also has his own washing detergent with him.
Enjolras turns to face him. "And why would you guess that? I'm not an inherently violent person, Grantaire. But sometimes, violence is inevitable." his eyes rake over Grantaire's face in a critical, almost clinical, way. "But I guess you know that already, don't you?"
Grantaire smiles thinly
For the first time that night, he notices Enjolras's injuries - only minor wounds. A scrape near his temple, a small split on his lip - and he isn't sure how he didn't see them before. Perhaps he was too caught up in sky blue eyes, and crisp golden curls. "That doesn't explain all the blood on your clothes."
"They aren't just my clothes." Enjolras corrects.
"So it's someone else's blood?"
Enjolras nods curtly.
"You didn't kill anybody, did you?" Grantaire deadpans.
"Don't be ridiculous." he sighs. "There's a group of us. We protest together. Some were injured worse than others. I barely have a scratch on me, which is more than I can say for you, and you didn't even attend." his brow is furrowed, head tilted to the side curiously. "You didn't mention how you got your injuries."
"So, you rally the people up to protest." Grantaire changes the subject swiftly. "Against what?"
"We fight for the good of the people."
"Ah."
"And you," Enjolras asks. "What do you do?"
Grantaire rubs at the back of his neck, and shrugs with one shoulder. "I draw. Paint. Drink."
Something twitches in Enjolras's expression, and Grantaire suddenly feels rather exposed. When it was just Grantaire and the gimp, he hadn't felt self-conscious at all. But this, this is different, it's new. Enjolras takes a small step forward, after a moment of what looked like internal debate with himself. Grantaire waits for him to speak, refuses to break the silence himself, not when he has the habit of putting his foot in his mouth.
"In that order, or?"
"Not always. I like to spice things up. Surprise myself. Maybe I'll drink, draw, and then paint. Depends on the mood, really."
The timer goes off, ringing out sharply. It makes Grantaire jump slightly, and cuts off Enjolras's response. He pads down to the washing machine where his clothes are, and pulls out a faded blue v-neck, and a pair of raggedy denim jeans with holes in the knees. The clothes are still damp, but all that matters is the blood is gone, and they smell clean. He walks around Enjolras, and crouches down in front of one of the dryers, stuffing his clothes inside. He still has some coins left, so he gathers them up and inserts them into the slot. All there is to do now is wait.
"You're still indecent." comes Enjolras's voice from behind him.
Grantaire sighs, and turns back around to face Enjolras. "I can't make the dryer go any faster. If it bothers you that much, then close your eyes."
"That wasn't a complaint."
AN #2: I hope that I did the idea justice. Not sure whether I should continue or not.