I just really like the mental image of Enjolras mopping a floor, okay? Don't judge me.
Title taken from the lyrics of Street Life by Roxy Music.
Grantaire had never spoken about work in Enjolras' hearing, and Enjolras had never really bothered to ask. The problem with this was the surprise he got about five minutes into his new job at American Bowl, the faux-American bowling alley on the edge of the tenth arrondissement.
"And this is Grantaire." Faucher waved a hand to the man behind the bar. "Any questions?"
"Um." Enjolras tore his gaze from Grantaire, who looked equally surprised, and shook his head. "No, I'm good."
"Swell," Faucher sighed and sloped off to his office behind the reception desk. "Do anything Rienne tells you."
Enjolras didn't have time to do more than cast another wide-eyed look in Grantaire's direction before Rienne was shouting his name.
"Spillage on table four," she muttered as he passed her. He looked over her shoulder to assess the damage before heading for the storage cupboard for a mop and bucket. By the time he got to the table, the little girl was on the edge of tears, and her mother was on the edge of shouting. The father and the other two kids (one boy, one girl) were clearly staying out of it. Enjolras gave the wobbly-lipped girl a smile and lifted her plate to wipe the table down.
"Don't worry about it," he told her gently.
It was far from the first accident of the afternoon, and Enjolras was kept busy till his mandatory break at six, and then well into the evening. The diner closed at seven, but the bar got louder as the older patrons came in to play pool and bowl, and there was still plenty of cleaning to be done till the bowling alley closed at eleven. An hour later the bar closed up as well, the final customers shuffling out to either head on or head home.
Navid grinned at him from behind the reception desk and Rienne clapped his shoulder after she'd locked the doors. "You did pretty well," she smiled. "Better than I expected, to be honest."
"Thanks?" His lower back was aching, and the soles of his feet weren't happy about the amount of time he'd spent standing up and walking around, but he still couldn't help smiling back at Rienne.
"R's always the last out." She cast a glance over at the bar, where Grantaire was counting up the money from the register. "But if he finishes first, make sure you let Faucher know before you leave –it's his job to lock up. I'll see you Monday?"
When he would start earlier, but do the same duties all over again. "Sure. Bye," he added as Navid grabbed Rienne's hand and tugged gently.
"See you Monday." Navid gave him one last smile, and then Enjolras was left alone with Grantaire, still standing behind the bar with his head bent over the register. He looked up when the side door closed, caught Enjolras' eye for the briefest second, and ducked his head again quickly. Enjolras went over to the supply cupboard and got the vacuum cleaner out, deciding to do the diner area first. He'd wiped down the tables and put the chairs seat-down on top of them earlier, but he still needed to do the floor.
"You've got my old job," Grantaire called over just as he plugged in the vacuum. Enjolras switched it on and spoke louder to be heard over the whirr.
"I didn't know you worked here."
"I'll bet," Grantaire grinned. The diner backed on the edge of the bar, and when Enjolras got closer, Grantaire leaned his elbows on the barrier separating them and tilted his head. "I didn't know you needed to work."
For most news, Courfeyrac couldn't keep his mouth shut, but there were a few things he knew to keep quiet. He and Combeferre had been the first to know, of course, and Joly, Jehan, and Feuilly knew as well. Bossuet and Musichetta were doubtless informed to a degree due to Joly, but as far as Enjolras knew, the others were unaware of his recent change of fortune.
"No?" he said, keeping his eyes on the floor. It wasn't nice to see how much dirt and bits of food and rubbish had built up over just one day. But of course, it was a Saturday, so today was probably the busiest.
The level of the bar was about a foot above the diner, and Enjolras saw Grantaire's shoes shift slightly on the edge, toes just poking over. "I thought you were loaded. Your family's rich, isn't it?"
"It is," Enjolras said mildly. "But I am currently not."
"How come?"
Enjolras turned away with a frown, dragging the cord for the vacuum cleaner behind him.
Grantaire straightened, and Enjolras saw him shrug out of the corner of his eye. "You don't have to say if you don't want. I'll warn you though – I'll make up my own reasons."
Enjolras' lips twitched. "Oh? What reasons would you come up with?" He looked over his shoulder and smirked at the sight of Grantaire's raised eyebrows and the smile spreading across his face.
"Okay," he grinned, leaning on the barrier again and making a show of thinking carefully. "Secret gambling addiction, maybe? No, too easy," he shook his head and Enjolras turned away to keep cleaning, keeping his head slightly turned to show he was listening. "Sudden crash in stocks for…I don't know, something dull but important. Like banana sales or something. Am I getting warmer?"
Enjolras grinned to himself. "Not even close."
"Tsss. Typical. Okay, you're suddenly poor but your family's still rich, so…okay, this is much more feasible – you decided you were living too much of a privileged lifestyle, so you split up your income and donated chunks to different charities you carefully selected from a list provided by Combeferre. Closer?"
"Nope. I did used to donate to charities though."
"Used to?"
"Can't afford it right now." Having to call up each charity to tell them that he would have to stop his monthly donations had been unpleasant.
"Wow. Okay…though can I just say that I'm not surprised at all by that? Yeah, moving on…okay, here's another one. You'll like this."
"Will I?" Enjolras snorted.
"Hey, you'll love it. Okay, so it's occurred to me that I've never seen anything of your family at all, ever, so my conclusion is that you don't really have one, and what you actually have is a secret academy of international spies behind you, and you were sent to infiltrate activist groups that look suspect."
Enjolras turned around and laughed despite himself. "I started Les Amis, Grantaire. With Combeferre and Courfeyrac, but still. There wasn't anything to infiltrate before we created it."
"Even better!" Grantaire pointed at him. "You started a suspicious activist group to find out who's inclined to join that sort of thing!"
"How does this explain my sudden lack of money?" Enjolras asked, amused.
"Obviously you got in too deep," Grantaire shrugged. "You got too attached and couldn't bear the idea of selling out your friends, so you cut yourself off from the spy academy organisation thing, and now they're not paying you anymore. How warm am I now?"
Enjolras considered it. "Unbelievably, you're actually warmer with that than the other theories."
Grantaire looked delighted. "Of course I am. Not sure how exactly, but I've been reliably informed that I can be extremely discerning when I want to be."
"If Courfeyrac told you that, just bear in mind that he once told Bossuet that he was a lucky charm."
"Bossuet is a lucky charm," Grantaire insisted. "No, look, by magically attracting all bad luck to himself, he keeps it away from the rest of us. He is cursed, but we are equally blessed by his somehow magnetic presence."
"Amazingly, I'm not convinced." Enjolras switched off the vacuum cleaner and started to wind the cord around the hooks on the back.
"That Bossuet is a lucky charm, or that I can be startlingly perceptive?"
"Both."
"Is that so?" Grantaire raised his eyebrows and put his chin in his palm. "Fine. While I can't prove Bossuet's luck-repellence, how's this – you've cut yourself off from your rich family. Am I right?"
"I gave you clues."
Grantaire smirked. "Am I right?"
Enjolras straightened and wheeled the vacuum over to the foyer. "Almost." He heard Grantaire's shoes tap on the couple of steps that separated the bar from the foyer and bowling alleys as he followed.
"How close am I?"
"They cut me off," Enjolras said finally, crouching down to plug in the vacuum again. "Not the other way around."
"Huh." Grantaire hopped up to sit on the reception desk and frowned. "How come? Again, feel free to tell me to fuck off." His casualness was markedly different to the reactions of the other people Enjolras had told. Combeferre and Courfeyrac had been angry. Joly, Jehan, and Feuilly had been sympathetic.
"No, it's okay," Enjolras said, keeping his eyes down as he started to vacuum the carpet. "It was only a matter of time anyway, I think. They weren't…they heard about me getting arrested last month. And when they heard about why, they weren't exactly thrilled." He and Musichetta had gotten into a heated argument with a policeman when the he'd tried to detain Joly and Bossuet for kissing in a public place. Musichetta had lost her temper and he'd barely kept it together himself. Bossuet had practically dragged Joly away – if even a speck of dirt appeared on his name he wouldn't ever be able to professionally practise medicine – and he and Musichetta had spent the night in a cell.
"That can't be all," Grantaire raised an eyebrow. "You've done much worse that than before."
"We argued," Enjolras said, dragging the vacuum cleaner back and forth in front of him. "Loudly. And the next day, my accounts were frozen. I guess it was just the straw that broke the camel's back." It was probably more due to the way he'd outed himself in the heat of the moment, but he wasn't ready to talk about that just yet. "So now I'm here."
"So now you're here," Grantaire echoed, pulling his legs up onto the desk when Enjolras came close to vacuum under it.
"Should you really put your shoes up there?" he asked pointedly.
"Relax." Grantaire leaned back on his hands and grinned. "Surfaces are my job, floors are yours. Which is funny, because you're usually the one above me."
Enjolras frowned at him, but Grantaire's smile didn't fade. "How long have you worked here?" he asked, changing the subject.
"Oh…since last year. I've only been behind the bar for a few months though."
"And you used to clean?"
"Yup. Start at the bottom and work up. In theory anyway." At Enjolras' enquiring look, he elaborated. "I only got the upgrade because the guy who worked there before left in a hurry and Faucher needed someone in there fast. He only hired you because trying to stretch the cleaning between Rienne and me wasn't working. He's a big fan of cutting corners and costs."
"Explains the shitty cleaning materials," Enjolras muttered.
Grantaire laughed. "Are you serious? Apollo, I bet you've never had a cleaning job in your life!"
"How much?" Enjolras asked immediately, eyes glittering. Grantaire snorted.
"Well I would say ten euro, but now you're challenging me. So either you actually have had a cleaning job before, or you're bluffing, and just in case I'll lower it to five."
"Would I bluff when I can't afford to lose five euro?"
"Good point." Grantaire lay down on the desk and put his hands behind his head, feet dangling over the edge. "But maybe you're just bluffing really well. I don't think I've ever seen you gamble for anything before, so I'm not familiar with your habits."
Enjolras pushed the vacuum around the other side of the desk. "I bet Courfeyrac twenty euro last year he couldn't get permission for that rally from Javert." The university's head of security was notoriously hard-nosed.
"Back when you had money to burn," Grantaire said dryly. "And didn't you lose that bet?"
"But we got permission for the rally," Enjolras grinned. "So I still won. And you have seen me gamble before."
"Not sure that really counts, but I'll go with it." Grantaire hummed and suddenly swung himself back into a sitting position. "In which case…I'll have to go with your previous failures and say that you're bluffing."
Enjolras shook his head and pulled the vacuum away, going to attack the carpet further away. Grantaire spun to keep facing him. "You owe me five euro."
"You think I'm just going to take your word for it? I demand proof, Apollo!"
"I'm not answering if you keep calling me that."
"Enjolras then." Grantaire rolled the syllables off his tongue and Enjolras rolled his eyes. "I still want proof before I hand over my money."
"My money. I volunteered at a community club with Combeferre one summer. It involved cleaning up the hall at the end of each day – you can ask him if you don't believe me."
Grantaire sighed. "Damn. Ah well. I'll give you your winnings when we leave."
"Speaking of," Enjolras cast him a look, "shouldn't you be doing something?"
"What, cleaning?"
"Yes."
"In a minute." Grantaire stretched out on his side, head in one hand, one knee up. He looked like an absurd caricature of a pin-up, and Enjolras hid an amused smile. "I'm enjoying what must be our first civil conversation in…well, ever."
Enjolras opened his mouth to argue, but closed it again immediately. He and Grantaire were always at odds, if they ever spoke at all. They saw a lot of each other, but the others rarely allowed them to directly interact – it was for the good of everyone, Courfeyrac had insisted. Nothing ever got done if they were snarling at each other, and listening to their friends argue was never a pleasant experience for the others.
"Plus," Grantaire continued, "I'm looking forward to seeing how you deal with the toilets."
"I cleaned up some vomit in the men's earlier – I think I'll handle it fine."
"Who threw up?"
"Some kid. Too many burgers on an overexcited stomach."
"Huh, thought it'd be one of mine."
Enjolras turned off the vacuum and raised an eyebrow. "One of yours?"
"Yeah, you know." Grantaire waved a hand at the bar. "One of those guys."
"Aren't you usually one of those guys?" Enjolras went to unplug the cord and wind it up again.
"Hence my feelings of kinship," Grantaire said smoothly. "Though I'd like to point out that I've never thrown up in a bar's toilets."
"Small mercies, I suppose."
"Ah, charming." Grantaire got off the desk and followed Enjolras to the supply cupboard. While Enjolras got the mop and bucket, Grantaire got a couple of cloths and some disinfectant spray, leaning past Enjolras to grab them from the rickety shelf. His chest brushed Enjolras' shoulder, and Enjolras moved away instinctively, taking the bucket behind the diner's counter to fill it up at the sink.
Grantaire stood at the counter and rang the service bell. "Apollooooo."
Enjolras didn't turn around. "What did I say earlier?"
"Enjolras?"
"What?"
"Think fast!"
Enjolras ducked immediately, and one of the cloths Grantaire had taken hit the wall in front of him. When he turned around, he saw Grantaire throw the other one, and he reached a hand up to intercept it in mid-air.
Grantaire shook his head. "Five marks for the first, seven for the second."
"Reasoning?" Enjolras asked, standing up and balling the cloths together to throw back at Grantaire, who caught them easily.
"Five for the first because you didn't get hit, but you didn't try and catch it either." Grantaire threw them back again, and Enjolras scowled as he caught them. "Seven for the second, because you caught it, but you knew it was coming, so it wasn't as impressive."
"Why are you throwing them at me at all?" Enjolras snapped.
Grantaire grinned. "Wondered if you'd just run them under the tap, that's all."
Enjolras was tempted to tell Grantaire to do it himself, but there was no point in being overly antagonistic. Besides, it was nice to have someone to talk to while he worked, and Grantaire wasn't being as irritating as usual. The least he could do was try and keep the peace. He still huffed and rolled his eyes, but Grantaire smiled when he chucked the wet cloths at him. "Thanks."
"Wouldn't've killed you to just ask," Enjolras told him.
"Wouldn't've been as fun," Grantaire shrugged, spraying the surface of the counter and wiping it down with wide, practiced movements. "Live a little."
"I live plenty."
"Sure you do. What shifts are you working, by the way? Faucher never told me."
"Monday morning, all of Wednesday, Saturday afternoons and evenings."
"He's spread it out pretty well," Grantaire nodded appreciatively.
Enjolras hauled the bucket out to the diner floor, glad that Nic (the guy who worked behind the counter) had already done the kitchen. "What do you mean?"
"The floors'll get cleaned three times a week," Grantaire explained, "which is much better than it's been recently."
"Who's been doing it?"
"All of us, here and there." Grantaire finished the counter and went to wring out the cloths in the sink. "But it's not like anyone likes working for free, so none of us did a decent job. And Faucher does fuck-all but give us orders and jerk off in his office."
Enjolras snorted and got mopping, working from the back to the front. "Does he know you talk about him like that?"
"Are you going to tell him?" Grantaire challenged. He grinned when Enjolras gave him a withering look. "I'm pretty sure if he knew I talked like that, he'd fire me."
"Why risk it?"
"Where's the risk?" Grantaire laughed and slouched off to the bar. "Mind if I hijack the speakers?"
"As long as you don't play that song that's been playing all night."
"Which one's that?"
"They say 'hey' a lot." There was a moment of silence, and when Enjolras looked up he saw that Grantaire was leaning on the barrier again, a shit-eating grin on his face. "What?"
"Well," Grantaire's grin seemed to grow. "I think I know the one you mean, but I can't be sure unless you sing it."
Enjolras glowered at him. "I am not singing it. It's bad enough that I can't get the damn thing out of my head."
"Songs in the charts are notoriously catchy," Grantaire agreed. "But unfortunately, unless you sing it, there's no guarantee it won't come on."
"Does that mean you have that song on your iPod?" Enjolras wrinkled his nose, and Grantaire laughed.
"Since I don't know which song you're talking about, who knows? I have thousands of songs on my iPod. It might be on there, it might not."
"You know which song I'm talking about."
"Do I though?" Grantaire shot him a parting grin and went over to the bar to plug in his iPod. Enjolras didn't recognise the music that started playing, but it wasn't the damn 'hey hey hey' song, so it was okay with him.
He realised what it was when the chorus came around and the singer belted, "A-whoooooo, werewolves of London!"
"Wasn't this the song that got you and Bahorel kicked out of that bar?" he called over the barrier. Grantaire looked round from where he was wiping down the surfaces and smirked.
"Might be. How'd you know about that?"
"Yes, then." Enjolras snorted and dunked the mop back in the bucket. "And how do you think?"
"Courfeyrac?"
"Who else?"
"Did he include the bit about Bahorel ripping his shirt off?"
Enjolras stifled a laugh. "He tried to mimic it, actually."
Grantaire snickered. "Of course he did."
They stopped talking for a while as Enjolras started mopping the bowling alleys, too far away from the bar to keep up an easy conversation, but he couldn't resist shouting when the Glee version of Don't Stop Believin' started blaring from the speakers. "Is this Glee?"
"Did you just recognise Glee?" Grantaire yelled back, entirely too pleased.
If he'd been close enough, Enjolras would have thrown something at him. "I live with Courfeyrac," he reminded him. "Of course I recognise it."
"Then I hope you know all the words!" Grantaire called, and Enjolras groaned as he started to sing. "Just a small town girl, living in a lonely world –"
Despite his distaste for the song (Courfeyrac had played it to the point of Combeferre actually confiscating his iPod and laptop until he promised to stop), it was impossible not to notice that Grantaire actually had a very good voice. By the time it ended, Enjolras was over by the bar again, and before he went to clean the toilets he caught Grantaire's eye and smirked. "I didn't know you could sing."
Grantaire was a little breathless from belting out the lyrics, and Enjolras wasn't sure if his face was pink from that or whether he was blushing. "Why thank you, Apollo. Can you?"
"I'm not singing that song."
"Who said I wanted you to sing that song?" Grantaire shouted after him as Enjolras hauled the mop and bucket into the men's toilets. He didn't bother replying, but he couldn't help smiling to himself when Grantaire put Under Pressure on and sang along obnoxiously loudly just so Enjolras would hear him.
He flipped Grantaire off as he moved from the men's to the ladies' and grinned when the Grantaire put Don't Stop Me Now on next.
"…defying the laws of gravity! I'm a racing car passing by, like Lady Godiva! I'm gonna go, go, go, there's no stopping meeeeeeee!" Grantaire belted, and as Enjolras turned he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirrors. He was grinning like a complete idiot, and he couldn't bring it down further than a crooked smile. Grantaire was actually making what he'd expected to be a boring evening surprisingly enjoyable.
The song stopped suddenly, mid-chorus, and Enjolras stopped wiping down the sinks as the sound of shouting filtered through the door.
"…not bloody paying you to host your own karaoke night!" Silence as Grantaire replied, too quiet for Enjolras to hear. "And where the fuck is the new guy?" More silence, and Enjolras started wiping again as footsteps approached the door. It opened with a dramatic bang, and Faucher glared in. "Are you deaf or something?"
Enjolras raised an eyebrow and straightened. "Pardon?"
"Could you not hear the ceiling shaking just now?"
"Nope." Enjolras shrugged one shoulder. "Sounded fine to me."
Faucher narrowed his eyes. "I don't care which one of you decided to pull this shit, but if it happens again you'll regret it. Okay?"
Enjolras decided not to push it. He needed this job. "Sure."
"Good." Faucher shot him one last poisonous glare and exited as dramatically as he'd entered. Enjolras finished cleaning, and when he came out Faucher was back in his office, and Grantaire was wiping down the surfaces of the little tables at the end of each bowling alley, humming quietly to himself.
"So," Enjolras said loudly, "what was that about not stopping you?"
Grantaire turned and lifted his hands palm-up in an exaggerated shrug. "Some people just don't appreciate good music. It's tragic, but I think trying to educate him would only end in further reprisals. You know that saying – don't poke angry bears with sticks."
Enjolras let out a surprised laugh. "Is that a saying?"
"You've never heard that before?"
Enjolras shook his head and went to the kitchen to empty the bucket. "It sounds like you just made it up."
"Entirely possible," Grantaire admitted cheerfully. "You done now?"
"Not yet. I forgot to vacuum the bar earlier." He rinsed the bucket out and took it back to the storage cupboard, feeling Grantaire's eyes on him. "You can go – I'm pretty sure Faucher won't care."
"He'd be glad to see the back of me," Grantaire agreed, but made no move to leave. If anything, he seemed to be slowing down. "I'm not done yet though. We could probably walk back together, if you…y'know, if you don't mind."
"Sure." Enjolras gave him a quick smile on his way to the bar, dragging the vacuum behind him. "Yeah."
"Okay. Cool." Grantaire turned away, but Enjolras still heard the smile in his voice.
They kept talking until they both finished cleaning up, and Grantaire popped his head into Faucher's office to tell him they were both leaving. They talked all the way back to the crossroads where Grantaire had to change direction to get back to the apartment he shared with Marius.
Enjolras shared an apartment with Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Jehan, and Combeferre was still up when he came in. "Hey," he said, not looking up from the books spread over the kitchen table. "How was your first day?"
"Did you know Grantaire worked there?" Enjolras asked, going to the fridge. "Tea?"
"I'm on coffee." Combeferre looked up and frowned. "I thought Grantaire worked at a bar?"
"There's a bar there," Enjolras explained, putting the kettle on. There was a long pause, and when he looked round he saw that Combeferre was staring at him. "What?"
"You're not frothing at the mouth or about to burn up with repressed rage."
Enjolras raised his eyebrows. "What a shame?"
Combeferre put his pen down and shrugged. "Well, it's just that that's the state R tends to bring out in you. Not that I'm complaining – this is definitely healthier. How was it?"
"What, my interaction with Grantaire, or the cleaning?" Enjolras asked dryly, getting a mug out.
"Both."
"Fine. Both fine." Enjolras grabbed a teabag from the communal jar. "My feet hurt a bit, but that's all. Grantaire was surprisingly…civil."
"Jesus."
"What?" Enjolras got a spoon out.
"You're smiling."
"Am I not allowed to do that?" Enjolras asked sarcastically, willing himself to assume a more serious expression.
"I don't think I've ever seen you smile at anything Grantaire-related, that's all."
"As long as he doesn't talk about world affairs, he's alright," Enjolras admitted, meeting Combeferre's surprised gaze as openly as possible. "I told him about getting cut off and he didn't make a big deal out of it or anything."
"He's a good person," Combeferre nodded, apparently getting over his shock. "Brilliant, actually. Courfeyrac will be relieved – I think he'd given up all hope."
"All hope of what?" Enjolras frowned. "And where is he, anyway?"
"Out with Jehan and the others," Combeferre took a sip of his coffee and pulled a face. "And hope of you and R ever getting on. You know how he takes these things personally."
Enjolras nodded. Courfeyrac hated it whenever anyone was upset or discontent, and if he wasn't stopped he would break his own back trying to make them happy again. "He wasn't as bad as he usually is," he said, turning his attention to the kettle as it boiled.
"Did you actually enjoy yourself?" Combeferre grinned.
"It was okay," Enjolras avoided his eyes. "Better with someone to talk to."
"Even when that someone is Grantaire?"
Enjolras gave him a searching look. "What are you getting at?"
Combeferre shrugged, the picture of innocence. "Nothing much. Just that I didn't think – no one ever thought – you'd ever like R. There's a reason why the rest of us conspire to keep you two apart, you know."
Enjolras resisted the urge to stick his tongue out. "I like him fine," he said, realising as he spoke that it was true. "It's his views I take issue with."
"Oh? You mean you have a problem with his pessimism and his relentless cynicism? Or is it also the way he can sleep through an entire meeting and still give a perfect summary of everything we spoke about at the end?"
"And the way he comes to every single meeting and makes no useful contributions because he's too busy trying to distract everyone and tear down our ideas?" Enjolras raised an eyebrow at Combeferre's smirk. "I have a few problems with it, yes."
"Well, either way," Combeferre finished his coffee and shuddered. "I'm just glad you didn't spend the whole time shouting at each other. Maybe you'll actually get to know the man beneath the mask this way."
"What mask?" Enjolras snorted. "He makes his feelings on everything perfectly clear."
Combeferre rolled his eyes. "By everything, you mean everything brought up in meetings and when we're just hanging out together?"
"Yes?"
"Right. Do you know anything about Grantaire himself?"
Enjolras hesitated. "He does art?"
"Anything else?"
"He drinks a lot."
Combeferre laughed, not unkindly. "I rest my case. You know nothing about what he's like as a person."
"Do you?" Enjolras challenged. Combeferre leaned back in his chair and smirked.
"I know more than you and less than Marius and Jehan. I know he's got a sister and that he hates sketching with graphite. I know he taught Bahorel kickboxing. I know he and Cosette work together to pay for Marius' drinks and stuff when we're out together. I know he failed his driving test three times before he passed it. I know he once got Joly to draw the inside of his arm on his skin – bones, veins, arteries, and so on."
"Alright, I get it," Enjolras said tetchily. "You know more about Grantaire than I do."
"Enjolras, everyone knows more about Grantaire than you do. It's not difficult when all you do is argue about politics and protests. So I think this job will be good – as long as you avoid the topics you always argue about, maybe you'll actually get to know him."
"And vice versa?"
"I think he already knows a fair bit about you," Combeferre made a show of going back to his books, and Enjolras took his tea to his bedroom, frowning slightly.
Enjolras didn't see Grantaire on Monday morning, but he turned up at one on Wednesday and gave Enjolras a cheery wave as he slid behind the bar. That night they closed up again the way they had on Saturday, talking back and forth as they cleaned, Grantaire obviously going slower than he had to so they finished at the same time and walked back together.
Between them, they were good at keeping the conversation away from divisive topics, and it flowed easily. It was strange at first to not be talking about the issues that usually occupied him – the upcoming protest against scholarship cuts, the essays he had to write, the books he had to read, the research he had to keep up with – but it was nice to have a break from it a few times each week. When he was talking to Grantaire, he wasn't thinking about it.
"In a hurry?" Enjolras gave Grantaire a pointed look. Grantaire finished scrubbing down the bar and grinned sheepishly.
"I've got some stuff to catch up on. I'm not leaving yet – I just need to do some sketching."
"What are you working on?" Enjolras dunked the mop into the bucket and shook the excess water out before letting it hit the floor with a wet splat.
Grantaire stared at him, the corner of his lips turning up slightly. "You're interested?"
"Sure." Enjolras looked over at him and shrugged. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"Never really had you down as an art fan."
"I don't know much about it, that's all."
"Ha." Grantaire jumped over the barrier, carefully avoiding landing on the part of the diner floor Enjolras had already mopped. "I bet you're a Delacroix fan."
"Who?" Enjolras turned his head to keep his eyes on Grantaire as he replaced the cloths in the supply cupboard.
"He did that painting – 'Liberty Leading the People'? You must've seen it. It's right up your street." He winked and clambered back over the barrier, going over behind the bar and getting his bag out.
Enjolras' lips twitched. "Oh that. I have a full-size poster of it in my bedroom."
Grantaire dropped his bag. Enjolras looked up and grinned at him, and Grantaire narrowed his eyes. "Are you serious?"
"Depends. Are you willing to put money on it?"
"Oh for Christ's sake." Grantaire picked his bag up and dragged a hand across his face. "It is too late for this."
"I guess you'll never know for sure."
"Urgh, fine."
"Five euro?"
"What else?" Grantaire sat at the bar and pulled a thick sketchbook from his bag. It was large and square, ring bound with lots of things stuck in it. It creaked slightly when Grantaire opened it and started flicking through to find whatever he was looking for, and Enjolras caught glimpses of bright colours and patches of material glued to the pages. A large white feather was on the verge of falling out before Grantaire turned a page on top of it, keeping it in place. "Okay," he said, finally finding his place and putting his chin in his hand. "What this really boils down to is whether or not I believe you're insane enough to have bought a full-size poster of this painting."
Enjolras said nothing, and kept his eyes on the floor as he dragged the mop across the fake wood.
"Wait, hang on," Grantaire snapped his fingers. "I've got you now – how big is its full size?"
Crap. Enjolras shrugged and looked up, trying for unconcerned. "A couple of metres, maybe. Pretty big."
"Width or height?"
"You can't interrogate me to try and trick me out of five euros," Enjolras argued. Grantaire smirked.
"Don't need to. You're lying."
"You're sure?"
"A hundred percent. At least ninety-eight percent."
Enjolras sighed and picked the bucket up to take it over to the alleys. "Fine, you win, it's not in my room."
"Ha!"
"It's my phone background."
"Bollocks," Grantaire said confidently, spinning on his stool and balancing his sketchbook on his legs, one ankle resting on the other knee to create a triangle. "I've seen your phone background – it's that photo of all of us lifting Jehan on our shoulders after he won that poetry competition."
"I meant my desktop picture."
"You are a pathological liar, you know that?" Grantaire sounded gleeful and Enjolras couldn't help smiling as he took the bucket to the far end of the alleys. "It's terrible, Enjolras. Your gambling will get you into trouble one day."
"I only ever gamble with you," Enjolras called, and Grantaire saluted before he bent his head over the sketchbook. Enjolras was sure he wasn't imagining the feeling of being watched, but every time he looked over, Grantaire was busy working. He lost himself in the rhythm of the mopping, doing each lane as he came to them until he was finally by the bar again. "Can I see?" he asked when he'd finished, slightly hot from working under the bright lights.
Grantaire pursed his lips. "No? Um," he looked away and frowned. Enjolras tried not to look disappointed. "Maybe? I don't…um, this one isn't finished yet, so…maybe then. When it's finished, I mean."
"What about the other stuff?" Enjolras looked at the bulging pages already filled, and Grantaire pulled the book a little closer before closing it and looking down.
"Maybe when it's finished. Don't you owe me five euro?"
Enjolras sighed. "Remind me at the end of the week."
"Hey, maybe you'll've won it back by then," Grantaire smirked, wariness gone as suddenly as it had appeared.
"Maybe," Enjolras shrugged and started to carry the bucket and mop over to the kitchen.
"Have you seen Grantaire's art?" Enjolras asked Jehan suddenly.
Jehan looked up from his book and blinked fuzzily. Books about WWI trench warfare were scattered around the sofa and three empty coffee mugs were on the table. "What?"
"Have you ever seen Grantaire's art?" Enjolras asked again.
"Is this related to WWI poetry?"
"No."
Jehan sucked in a deep breath and closed his eyes. Enjolras could practically hear the cogs turning in his head before he exhaled and got to his feet quickly. "Okay. I'm having another coffee. What was your question?"
"Have you seen Grantaire's art?" Enjolras repeated, and, "Do you really think you need more caffeine?"
"Coffee boosts productivity," Jehan sang. "And you're hardly one to talk. As for Grantaire, sure, I've seen some of his stuff – I modelled for him last semester, a bit. It was multimedia or something? So we went flower-picking and we must've pressed hundreds of flowers."
"Was that what you were doing when you put books under all the furniture?" Enjolras raised an eyebrow and Jehan nodded.
"Uh huh. I've been up to his studio space too – it's really cool. Definitely better than last year."
"What was last year?"
Jehan pulled a face. "They were told to focus on themselves, so R's stuff for that was pretty dark. Conventionally ugly in places, but overall very effective. Loads of bottles."
"O…kay?" Enjolras shook his head and frowned down at his laptop. He'd been working on this essay for hours, and it wasn't getting any better.
"Why do you ask?" Jehan yawned, getting a new mug out of the cupboard just as the kettle boiled.
"He wouldn't let me see his sketchbook, that's all."
"Is it a recent one?"
"I guess. He was drawing in it at work. After we finished, obviously."
"What was he drawing?"
Enjolras scowled. "I don't know – he wouldn't let me see."
Jehan leaned against the counter and grinned suddenly. "Awwww."
"What?" Enjolras snapped.
Jehan's smile only grew. "You're all sulky. It's kind of adorable." Enjolras glared at him, but Jehan only laughed. "Don't worry about it – he hates people seeing his in-progress stuff. He doesn't even like working in the studio. Only does it if he absolutely has to, or goes in after everyone else has left."
Enjolras frowned at him. "But you've seen it?"
Jehan waved a hand. "Never his sketchbooks. Only the finished work and the stuff in his studio space. He's probably just wary of letting you see it, that's all."
"Why?" Enjolras asked, confused.
"It's…" Jehan sucked his lower lip between his teeth. "It's like…it's okay for you to bash his opinions on stuff like politics, but his art is more personal. It's more like my poetry, y'know? If you attacked that, it'd be…well, not nice."
"I thought you said poets and other artists had to grow thick skins?" Enjolras twirled his pen between his fingers for lack of something to do.
"For the criticisms of strangers, yes. Fellow writers, yes. Friends and family are different. I actually care what you think, and Grantaire does too, even though he pretends he doesn't most of the time. When I write, sometimes I'm bearing my soul, you know? It's the same with any artist, whether the medium is words or paint. And having your soul judged by the people whose opinions matter the most to you is terrifying. It's much easier to perform to a room of strangers than a room of friends." Jehan poured water into his mug and dumped a few spoons of sugar into it, the spoon clanking against the sides loudly as he stirred. "R cares about your opinion. Showing you his work would be a massive leap of faith."
"Why should my opinion matter to him?" Enjolras asked. "He doesn't care what I think about anything else."
"Maybe that's because he doesn't give you anything important to think about." Jehan gave him a pointed look and padded back to his nest of books. "No more questions – I have poetic context to memorise and tragic deaths to cry over."
"Try and go to bed before three?"
"I can't make any promises."
"You have read the Harry Potter books, right?" Grantaire stared at him, and Enjolras shrugged.
"I've seen the movies."
"Please tell me you're joking."
"I'm joking."
Grantaire glared at him over the top of the sketchbook – this one was huge, A2 size and extremely unwieldy, but Grantaire had hauled it out as soon as he'd finished doing the surfaces. Enjolras was still vacuuming the foyer. "You'd better be."
"How much do you want me to be?"
"So much, you can't imagine. My heart bleeds for anyone whose eyes haven't been opened to the joys of Harry Potter."
Enjolras smirked at him. "Willing to put money on it?"
Grantaire pointed at him. "You have a serious problem!"
"Could it be the lack of Harry Potter in my life?" Enjolras bent down to get the vacuum under the reception desk and grinned to himself. "Or the money I'm about to win?"
Grantaire made a frustrated noise, but when Enjolras looked over his shoulder he wasn't hiding his smile. "You're a Slytherin if I ever saw one."
Enjolras straightened and shoved the vacuum over to where the carpet stopped and the lanes began. "Was that supposed to be an insult?"
Grantaire laughed and fell silent for a few moments. "Okay," he said finally, "I bet five euros that you haven't read the books."
"You owe me five euros."
"Goddammit!" Something small hit Enjolras' shoulder, and when he looked down he saw a red ballpoint pen on the floor.
"Did you just throw a pen at me?"
"I don't believe you've read the books!" Grantaire shouted over the whine of the vacuum. "You're a liar!"
"Test me." Enjolras switched off the vacuum and picked up the pen, going over to give it back. "Ask me anything you want."
Grantaire pulled his sketchbook up against his chest as Enjolras approached and chewed the inside of his cheek. "Okay." He fixed Enjolras with a calculating look. "What was the name of Barty Crouch's House Elf?"
"Winky," Enjolras answered promptly, holding out the pen. Grantaire snatched it and scowled.
"You'd definitely be a member of SPEW. Ah – what does SPEW stand for?"
Enjolras had to think for a moment. "The…Society for the Protection of Elf Welfare?"
Grantaire sighed. "Close enough. It's Elfish Welfare, but I won't hold it against you."
"How generous of you."
"It is generous; you're getting five euro out of this."
Enjolras smirked and went back to the vacuum. "Shouldn't have doubted me."
"When the hell did you read Harry Potter anyway?"
"Combeferre's a big fan. He forced me into it in high school."
"Do you even own the books?"
"I own the audio books." He switched the vacuum on and went back to cleaning.
"Aha!" Grantaire shouted triumphantly. "Then you haven't read the books!"
"Audio books are exactly the same."
"That's not the point!" Grantaire insisted. "I bet you hadn't read the books, and you haven't! You've listened to them!"
Enjolras scowled at him. "It makes no difference. I've absorbed the content either way."
"But the bet wasn't about whether you'd 'absorbed the content' or not," Grantaire grinned. "It was about whether you'd read the books, and you haven't!"
"For God's sake." Enjolras finished the carpet and switched the vacuum off with one hand and fished his phone out with the other. "We'll get an outside opinion."
"Not Combeferre!" Grantaire put his sketchbook on the bar and started walking over. "He's your best friend; he's biased."
"Who isn't biased then?" Enjolras asked, irritated.
Grantaire mulled it over as he approached. "Joly," he decided.
"It's twenty to one – he'll be asleep." Joly tried to be asleep before midnight at least three days of each week. Enjolras wasn't entirely sure why, but he did know the schedule, and Wednesday was one of the days Joly slept early.
"Shit, right, I always forget about that. Okay, Jehan?"
"He thinks e-books are the Devil's creation," Enjolras said dryly. "That's biased. What about Feuilly?"
"He listens to audio books all the time! He's more biased than Jehan!"
"Fine, what about Cosette?"
Grantaire inhaled, then nodded. "Call her."
"On it." Enjolras lifted his phone to his ear and rolled his eyes when Grantaire put his head on the other side.
"What?" he asked defensively. "I have to be sure you're not cheating."
"This is ridiculous." Enjolras could feel Grantaire's hair against the back of his hand, and when he moved, soft curls brushed his temple. "You're ridiculous. And you need a haircut."
"Speak for yourself," Grantaire snorted. Enjolras opened his mouth to reply, but suddenly Cosette picked up.
"Hey, what's up?"
"Settle this for us," Enjolras said, catching Grantaire's eye. "Do audio books count as having read the book?"
"That's not the question!" Grantaire said loudly before Cosette could reply.
"R? Is that you?"
"That's exactly what the question is!" Enjolras snapped.
"No it isn't," Grantaire protested. "No, listen, Cosette – I bet Enjolras that he hadn't read the Harry Potter books, okay? And he hasn't, he's only listened to the audio books. Tell me that doesn't count!"
"It totally counts!" Enjolras objected.
"I can't believe you're calling me about this," Cosette said flatly. "Are you at work right now?"
Neither of them spoke for a moment. Then Grantaire muttered, "Maybe?"
Cosette sighed. "I have the worst friends. Okay – listening to a book is exactly the same as reading it –"
"Ha!" Enjolras grinned.
"Wait!" Cosette said firmly. "Listening to a book is the same as reading it, but the phrasing of the bet means that you lost it, Enjolras."
"What?" Enjolras' expression fell and Grantaire crowed victoriously.
"However," Cosette continued, "that wasn't specified. So in the interests of fairness, I personally think it should be a draw, and neither of you wins."
"He has to admit he lost first," Grantaire grumbled.
It wasn't worth losing the money for his pride. Enjolras sighed heavily. "Fine, I lost. But you didn't win either."
"Whatever." Grantaire moved away from the phone and shrugged, grinning. "I'm used to that. Thanks, Cosette!"
"I'm hanging up now," she said, and proceeded to do just that.
Enjolras put his phone back in his pocket and glared at Grantaire's obnoxious smirk. "Listening is exactly the same as reading," he snapped finally, and when Grantaire laughed it was impossible not to smile reluctantly as well.
"Bowling is obviously good for the soul," Courfeyrac declared. Enjolras stared at him. When Courfeyrac didn't say anything else, he looked quizzically at Jehan and Combeferre, walking either side of Courfeyrac as they made their way back to their apartment.
"You're getting on better with R, and Courfeyrac's happy about it," Combeferre translated.
"And for some reason he's attributing it to bowling," Jehan added.
Enjolras nodded and waited for Courfeyrac to look at him. "You are aware neither of us actually bowls there, aren't you?"
Courfeyrac waved a hand. "Details. The point is, you don't roll your eyes every time he opens his mouth. It's not much, admittedly, but it's definitely progress."
"Towards what?" Enjolras asked.
Courfeyrac beamed. "Towards the two of you eventually discussing your opposing views instead of screaming them at each other, and still being able to be in the same room with each other afterwards."
"They don't talk about that stuff," Combeferre said gently after a moment.
"Which explains why they're both still alive," Jehan muttered.
Enjolras frowned at him. "We're not that bad."
"Aren't you?" Jehan gave him a knowing look.
"Hang on," Courfeyrac cut in, frowning, "if you don't talk about 'that stuff'." He exaggerated the air quotations for Combeferre, who smiled. "What do you talk about?"
Enjolras shrugged. "Other stuff."
"What kind of stuff?"
"I don't know," Enjolras looked up at the sky and shrugged again. "Everything else, I suppose."
"Like what?" Courfeyrac slipped between Enjolras and Jehan and grabbed his arm. "Enjolras, you don't understand – I need to know."
"Why?"
"Because the suspense is terrible?"
"I hope it'll last," Combeferre said dryly. Courfeyrac threw him a blinding grin over his shoulder, then immediately went back to wringing the life out of Enjolras' elbow.
"Get off." Enjolras shook him away, not harshly. "I don't know, other things. He plays music sometimes. I'm trying to get him to read War and Peace. We talked about Harry Potter the other day."
"Oh my God, really?" Courfeyrac sounded ecstatic, and Enjolras gave him a look of concern.
"What's so great about that?"
"Everything!" Courfeyrac grabbed his arm again and shook it. "It's not scary stuff! Well, maybe War and Peace is –"
"It's a great book," Enjolras objected, wounded.
"It's also about as thick as my head," Courfeyrac reminded him.
"So get the audio book."
Jehan made a sound of distaste they all ignored.
"The point is," Courfeyrac clutched his arm tighter, "you're talking to him about ordinary stuff. I'm so proud of you."
"Please let go." Enjolras plucked gingerly at his fingers. "Jehan?"
"Come here." Jehan grabbed Courfeyrac's wrists and tugged him away.
"I still don't see what the big deal is." Enjolras looked at Combeferre – he could usually be relied on to explain things properly.
"Ignore them," Combeferre advised. "You like talking to Grantaire?"
"Yes."
"Then keep doing it. It's that simple."
"I wasn't aware of anything stopping me."
"Just don't bring up anything thorny," Combeferre reminded him. "At least for now."
Enjolras didn't miss the looks he exchanged with Jehan and Courfeyrac, but he decided to leave it be. He did like talking to Grantaire. And Grantaire seemed to enjoy talking to him. It was only when he thought of it like that that the possibility of Grantaire not wanting to talk to him reared its head, and he frowned.
"You okay?" Jehan asked.
"Fine," he lied. "I'm fine."
"You're seeing him tomorrow, right?"
"It being Saturday tomorrow, yes."
Jehan nudged him and grinned. "Tell him Dionysus may yet be Carnus or Iapyx – the odds appear to be in his favour."
Courfeyrac whistled, impressed. "That is fucking obscure."
Enjolras was lost. "What the hell does that mean?"
Jehan linked their arms and laughed. "He'll know. Can you remember it?"
"Dionysus might –"
"May yet be," Jehan corrected him. "The wording has to be right."
"Of course it does." Enjolras rolled his eyes, but obediently repeated it word for word after Jehan until he was satisfied. What it would mean to Grantaire, he had no idea.
Enjolras had to speak loudly to be heard over the buzzing noise filling American Bowl. Mid-afternoon on Saturday was the busiest time, but Enjolras had slipped over to the bar to give Grantaire Jehan's weird message in case it was urgent (though if it was, surely Jehan would have just texted Grantaire, not made Enjolras act as the messenger).
"He said what now?" Grantaire coughed.
"Dionysus may yet be Carnus or Iapyx – the odds appear to be in his favour," Enjolras recited, and raised an eyebrow. "Does that actually mean anything to you?"
Grantaire made a strangled noise and pointed behind Enjolras. "Nic wants you."
Enjolras looked around and saw the cook beckoning him over and pointing to a party of kids who'd managed to upend one of the tables in the diner. "I hate small children," Enjolras murmured.
"Aw, but you're so good with them," Grantaire teased, apparently over his shock now the subject had been changed.
"Only because I need the money," Enjolras sighed and started to make his way over. He didn't have the opportunity to speak to Grantaire again until the place closed up and Rienne and Navid left together, holding hands as usual.
Any attempts to bring up the message again were pre-emptively derailed by Grantaire, who expertly steered the conversation into a discussion on the topic of fear.
"It's far scarier knowing that there are people who genuinely conspire to keep other people in an oppressed state," Enjolras argued, vacuuming ferociously. "Ghosts just don't have the same effect."
"You are talking absolute bullshit." Grantaire shook his head, spraying the reception desk and wiping it down with equal fervour.
"Wow, great point," Enjolras said sarcastically. "You're absolutely right, why didn't I think of that?" He was expecting the cloth when it was thrown at him, and he barely looked up to catch it and throw it back. Grantaire harrumphed and went back to wiping.
"Look, I'm just saying that that's not fear as I was defining it."
"Doesn't the knowledge that if you do something the powers that be deem to be against the rules, they can make your life a complete misery scare you?"
Grantaire hummed and straightened, squinting thoughtfully. Enjolras looked over at him and waited for his answer with no small amount of curiosity. "It…unsettles me," Grantaire said at last, looking over at him. "But it's not fear exactly, not the way I was thinking of it. It's more dread than anything else."
"Dread implies you're expecting it to happen to you," Enjolras pointed out.
Grantaire shrugged. "I'm not exactly squeaky clean, and yeah, if I fuck up I know I could really be hit hard by it, but that's not what freaks me out at night."
"It isn't?" Enjolras had spent hours lying in bed, unable to sleep because his mind was so infuriatingly busy with thoughts like that. He fully expected to end up with a criminal record at the very least – the sort of protests and rallies he intended to continue organising and participating in weren't conducive to a quiet life.
Grantaire just scoffed. "Please. Look, when you were little you didn't know about that sort of stuff, right?"
Enjolras slowed down slightly. "I suppose not. Not to the same degree, anyway."
"Right. But all kids are scared of something, usually lots of somethings. Unexplained somethings. Like…" He waved the hand holding the cloth, leaning his hip against the reception desk. "Like monsters under the bed, y'know? Aliens. Werewolves, vampires – monsters, for God's sake."
"The real monsters wear suits," Enjolras said darkly.
Grantaire laughed, maybe a little exasperated. "You're deliberately avoiding the point," he said. "Look, I know for a fact that even Bahorel won't sleep with his arms or legs hanging over the edge of the bed."
"What?" Enjolras wrinkled his nose and turned his back on Grantaire to keep vacuuming, the cord losing its slack the further away he went. "Why not?"
"What the hell do you mean 'why not'?" Grantaire spluttered. "Because things under the bed will grab any limb you dangle in front of them like bait, that's why!"
This time Enjolras laughed. "Seriously?" He switched off the vacuum and turned to grin at Grantaire, who was smiling reluctantly.
"Seriously. I don't do it either, you know."
"But there's nothing under the bed!"
"Yeah, you know that now, but you don't have that assurance when you're five years old, do you?"
"All you have to do is look."
"Some monsters are invisible," Grantaire said, and Enjolras couldn't tell if he was entirely serious or not. "Enjolras."
Enjolras pulled the vacuum back over to the plug socket and started to wind the cord up. "What?"
Grantaire came to stand close to him, frowning slightly. "Have you ever been on your own in the dark, in a room or a corridor or something, and felt like someone was behind you? Even though you knew you were alone?"
Enjolras finished winding the cord around the hooks on the vacuum and stood up slowly. "I guess," he admitted. "But that's not scary. It's…it's what you said – it's unsettling."
"Right, now you're older and wiser and know for sure there's nothing behind you," Grantaire nodded, "but what about when you're a kid? And you know there's no way there can be anyone or anything else in the room with you, but you're just as convinced that the tooth fairy collects your teeth when they drop out? And Santa can deliver presents to millions of children in one night?" He paused for a second, presumably for effect. "Suddenly it's not so impossible, is it? There might be something else in the room with you, because ghosts don't have to make a noise to announce themselves, and shadow monsters can appear from nowhere like that." He snapped his fingers and gave Enjolras an intense look. "Are you seriously telling me you've never been lying in bed, in the dark, and something's suddenly caught your eye in the gloom, and you've been absolutely paralysed with fear? Too scared to move or even breathe because everyone knows that drawing attention to yourself will only end up with you being eaten alive."
Enjolras raised his eyebrows. "That's a bit dramatic."
"That's the whole point!" Grantaire insisted. "Monsters don't do subtle, and neither do people – when they're scared, I mean."
"People create monsters to reflect the worst parts of themselves." Enjolras started wheeling the vacuum over to the bar and Grantaire followed, as Enjolras had known he would.
"Human monsters are different," Grantaire said firmly. "I'm talking about irrational, unexplainable fear. Primal fear – the sort of thing that makes you turn a light on before you go into a room even though you know the layout blindfolded. Stuff that makes you take precautions against things that don't actually exist. Superstitious crap you know is bullshit but do anyway just in case."
"What's the difference?" Enjolras bent down to plug the vacuum in again and started cleaning. Grantaire went ahead of him to wipe down the tables and put the chairs on top of them, out of the way.
"Human monsters become part of the everyday," Grantaire said flatly. "Bullies you avoid at school. Abusive parents you hide from at home. They're just as monstrous, but it's a different sort of fear."
It was on the tip of Enjolras' tongue to ask how Grantaire knew, but he sensed that a question like that would be crossing a line far more important than the ones they'd drawn around subjects like foreign affairs, politics, and anything covered at Les Amis meetings. So instead he asked, "More or less primal?"
Grantaire frowned. "More, I think. The sort of fear that makes monkeys run away from panthers in the jungle, y'know? Like when dogs and cats know an earthquake is coming. Also, the damage humans can inflict on each other is limited, if you get what I mean."
"What about the psychological effects of abuse?" Enjolras passed close to Grantaire to vacuum under the table he was stacking chairs on.
"Ignoring the long-term effects on people's minds, then. I mean, another person can't subvert the basic laws of reality. And there are limits to what they can get away with."
"Not always."
"Another person can't literally rip your spine out through your mouth, is what I'm getting at. A monster under your bed could."
Enjolras frowned. "That's just ridiculous. If that sort of thing actually happened, you'd hear about it."
"Oh my God, I can't believe you're trying to apply logic to this." Grantaire sighed and went onto the next table, spraying the surface and wiping the cloth across it briskly. "The whole point of fear like that is that it's not logical. I know there's no one else there when I'm in the studio at five in the morning. I'd hear them coming up the stairs, and I'd hear the door opening. That doesn't stop me literally losing my shit if a paintbrush falls off a table or something like that. It's like…" He stood up straight and gestured aimlessly. "The body anticipates an attack. Heart rate rises, you start looking around really fast, you try and listen really hard. Your mind knows it's bullshit, logically speaking, but then there's always that little voice that reminds you that the body is sometimes smarter than the brain. Like involuntary responses to certain stimuli, like jerking your hand away from a flame. The brain doesn't need to be involved in things like that because the body knows what's best in that situation, and what if the same's true in that moment?"
"When you're alone in the studio at five in the morning, you mean?" Enjolras asked, unable to keep the note of scepticism from his voice.
Grantaire dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "Yes. The monkey brain protects the logical brain in some situations, doesn't it? When people are in seriously threatening situations, instinct takes over sometimes to ensure their survival. Why shouldn't the same be true of threats that might not be entirely real or logical? I've had to actually leave the studio at stupid times of the morning because I got too freaked out being in there on my own."
"Really?" Enjolras actually stared at him. Grantaire didn't seem like the sort of person who scared easily.
Grantaire shrugged, unashamed. "Only a couple of times, but I couldn't physically bring myself to stay – I was too on edge. Far too on edge to work. And like, that primal fear of monsters gets translated into slightly more rational fear of things like murderers when you're older. No way was I going to stick around when a psycho might pop up behind me and stab me in the kidneys."
"Even though if there was someone else in there with you, you would've heard them come in?" Enjolras raised an eyebrow.
Grantaire gave him an unimpressed look. "Have you not been listening? Logic flies out of the fucking window when you get properly scared like that."
"Like when there's an accident and people try to get in to save their loved ones, even though it's obvious that it's hopeless," Enjolras said thoughtfully.
"Wow, Apollo." Grantaire flipped his cloth over his shoulder. "That's fucking bleak. True though."
"There should be more words for different types of fear," Enjolras decided, switching off the vacuum and tugging at the collar of his shirt. It was entirely too hot in here. "And stop calling me that."
"Make me," Grantaire retorted. "Jehan's always going on about the limitations of language."
"He's right," Enjolras shrugged helplessly, dragging the vacuum back to the wall. "We're restricted by the words we have."
Grantaire put his hand to his chest and adopted a lofty voice. "I use the words you taught me. If they don't mean anything anymore, teach me others, or let me be silent." At Enjolras' quizzical look, he smiled slightly and bowed a little at the waist. "Or perhaps you'd prefer something a little less obscure? You taught me language, and my profit on't is, I know how to curse! The red plague rid you for learning me your language!" He paused, and grinned. "No? Jehan would be so disappointed. So would Combeferre, actually – he likes a bit of Shakespeare."
"That was Shakespeare?"
Grantaire gasped, pretending to be hurt. "Are you insulting my rendition?"
Enjolras smiled despite himself. "Not at all. Though I have nothing to compare it to, since I don't know what it's from."
"And you call yourself well-read," Grantaire snorted and turned away, going behind the bar to wash out his cloth. "For your information, that was Caliban from The Tempest. Do you know the story?"
Enjolras hissed through his teeth. "Something about a storm?"
"Jesus wept." Grantaire shook his head mournfully. "It's set on an island. A banished magician lives there with his daughter, but when they arrived the island was already inhabited by this guy called Caliban. Prospero – the magician – teaches him his language, but then makes him his slave. Caliban's not exactly thrilled with this change in his fortunes, as you would imagine."
Enjolras nodded, still digesting the fact that Grantaire could quote Shakespeare off the top of his head. "What about the first one?"
"I forgive you for not recognising that. That was Clov from Endgame by Samuel Beckett – one of the immigrants who fell in love with Paris in the thirties and basically never left. Loved it here so much he wrote his plays in French and then translated them back into English."
"Where was he from?"
"Ireland, like James Joyce."
Joyce he'd heard of. Enjolras nodded and went over to sit at the bar, giving his feet a rest before he started mopping. "What sort of name is Clov?"
Grantaire grinned at him and leaned on the counter separating them. "The other main character's name is Hamm. There're Hamm's parents too, but I can't remember their names. They live in dustbins. It's a bit of a weird play," he explained, obviously seeing Enjolras' bemusement. "But it's a bit similar to the relationship between Prospero and Caliban in The Tempest. Intentionally, I'm pretty sure. Hamm is Clov's master, and he taught him how to speak and stuff so Clov could serve him, as Prospero did Caliban."
Enjolras tilted his head, taking in Grantaire's relaxed smile and unbuttoned collar, his loose curls and bright eyes. "How do you know all this stuff?"
Grantaire shrugged, one-shouldered. "I just pick it up here and there. It's interesting. Éponine was studying Beckett last year, so I got a dose of that from her, and I think I read The Tempest in high school. Can't remember why. Actually, there probably wasn't a real reason – it had a nice cover, I expect, so I played the magpie and picked it up to decorate the nest of my head with the contents." His smile was crooked, and Enjolras returned it, strangely thrilled.
"You do that often?"
"What, furnish the interior of my skull with random shit?" Grantaire stood up and laughed. "You have no idea how much time I've spent on Wikipedia. I've lost literally entire nights on that website."
"That can't be good for you."
"Probably not, but I bet no one else you know can tell you how awesome Julie D'Aubigny was, or about the history of the carrot."
Enjolras blinked at him. "Are those two even vaguely related?"
"Not in the slightest. But that's the beauty of Wikipedia – spend a few hours on it, and what you end up reading about rarely has anything to do with what you started on. It's great for killing time. Speaking of, shouldn't you be mopping right now, Cinderella?"
Enjolras sighed. "Are you done already?"
"I'll draw for a bit, yeah. Mind if I put some music on?"
Enjolras shook his head and got to his feet again, turning away. As he filled up the bucket in the kitchen, weird discordant notes filled the air, replaced after a short intro with guitar and a man's voice. When Enjolras went over to the barrier to start mopping, he heard Grantaire singing along under his breath, his own diction better than the original singer's.
"Hey good-looking boys, gather around, the sidewalk papers gutter-press you down," he sang softly, sitting on the bar with his feet on one of the stools, sketchpad balanced on his knees and pen held loosely in his hand. "All those lies can be so unkind, they can make you feel like you're losing your mind."
Enjolras used both hands on the mop, or he would have rubbed at his chest where it was feeling a little tight for no discernable reason.
Songs mentioned - Blurred Lines by Robin Thicke (aka, the damn 'hey hey hey' song, and I share Enjolras' dislike of it. However, I think he'd like the amazing genderswapped version by Mod Carousel, which I'll just casually recommend), Werewolves Of London by Warren Zevon, Don't Stop Believin' (Glee cover) by Journey, Under Pressure and Don't Stop Me Now by Queen, and Street Life by Roxy Music, the lyrics for which provide the title for this fic.
Dionysus may yet be Carnus or Iapyx – the odds appear to be in his favour: I imagine Grantaire and Jehan have come to the shared conclusion that if Enjolras is Apollo, Grantaire is Dionysus, the Greek god of wine and ecstasy. Carnus and Iapyx are two of Apollo's male lovers.