When Grantaire steps out of the train at Gare de Lyon, he realises just how rushed his decision was.
He got so excited about relocating closer to Enjolras that he didn't plan absolutely anything. He's got some shitty hotel booked for two nights—the shower cabin abuts the bed on mere six square meters, and yet the room still costs fifty five euros a night. If he's unable to find a place that's at least slightly more presentable than a common shithole for considerably less than the French president's salary—all preferably under forty eight hours—he'll be forced to spend the following nights in a bar. Not really cheaper, if you consider alcohol prices in Parisian bars, but significantly more enjoyable.
He did of course instruct the gang to keep their mouths shut until he's settled, which probably gives him two or three days before Courfeyrac cracks and blurts it all out to Enjolras—not in bad faith, naturally, but does it change anything? Grantaire has seventy two hours for preparing himself. Tops.
Will Enjolras want to meet with him? Or will he just send a courtesy text welcoming Grantaire to Paris and wishing him good luck with all his future endeavours? Will he even acknowledge Grantaire's presence?
The gallery opens in two weeks, which leaves him nothing to show for himself yet—in all truth he needn't have moved before Friday the following week. Patience has never really been one of Grantaire's virtues.
He sighs and throws the bag over his shoulder. The day is rather sunny—a rare sight in Paris this time of year. Grantaire almost gives in and lets his legs lead him further along the riverbank towards Notre–Dame—he loves Seine almost as much as he hated the mountains back south. He's always considered himself a city boy. The streets of Paris twinkle with Christmas decorations which, sure, may be somewhat tacky, but Grantaire can't help it—the very sight almost immediately makes him hungry for chestnuts.
The instinct, however, wins. Not fifteen minutes later he finds himself hurrying in a familiar direction. Last time he visited Paris, he was still a student, but he remembers every little street he wandered about, every shady tavern he stumbled upon, every crack in the pavement, every building, every wall covered with angry anarchist slogans... All about Paris shouted: "Stay!", but his heart belonged to Provence.
Now he knows it wasn't Provence that kept him away. And he can finally admit—Paris is home. It's been home since Grantaire saw it for the first time seven years ago.
It just didn't have Enjolras in it then.
He passes the Panthéon, manoeuvring between crowds floating down the street—who knew it'd be so packed with people in December? Grantaire crosses the street and finds himself in front of the Café Musain. You can see the entrance to the Luxembourg Garden from the main room, where Grantaire chooses to sit by the table closest to the window. Until now he has never stayed there, as there's another room at the end of a long corridor, space full of Grantaire's most cherished memories. They used to hang out there all the time one summer when Combeferre signed them all up for an event called 'democracy workshops', which Grantaire attended solely because it allowed him to gape at Enjolras all day long without being too obvious. It was later pointed out to him that he had been nothing short of obvious, fortunately though—Enjolras hadn't noticed. No one except their party were allowed in the room—apparently Bahorel 'knew some guy'. He usually did.
"Grantaire?!" he hears a surprised voice and turns.
The waitress is smiling at him gleefully. She's got long, honey–gold hair and big brown eyes. Grantaire remembers her as a girl who used to have an enormous crush on Courfeyrac—Floréal was her name?
"Oh, hi Floréal," he says with a smile. "It's good to see a familiar face."
"So, what's up with you these days? Are you staying in Paris for long?"
"I don't wanna jinx it or anything, but hopefully indefinitely."
"Oh, fantastic! I hope we'll be seeing a lot of you then." She offers him a menu which he doesn't really need—he knows exactly what he's going to order—but he takes it from her anyway. Floréal lingers for a few seconds, and then asks seemingly indifferently: "Are your friends going to be joining you?"
And it saddens him, because they are not. He left them and went chasing his dreams—the art and Enjolras—not even sure if either of those dreams had a chance to be realised.
"It's just me," he murmurs, tossing the menu aside. "I'll have Irish coffee, please. And Floréal? Make it twice as Irish. In other words—limit the coffee part to a minimum."
She just smiles and nods. That's why Grantaire likes this place so much.
When Floréal comes back with his coffee five minutes later, she looks concerned.
"Do you need anything else?" she asks. "A muffin, a sandwich, advice?"
He briefly considers dismissing her with a polite handwave, but eventually settles for dressing his misery in a grim joke: "I don't know, could you maybe point me to some bridges that are comfortable to sleep under?"
Grantaire takes a sip of his coffee and notes that it's deliciously high–voltage. Floréal frowns.
"I don't understand. Are you looking for a flat?"
"A flat, a room, a box... Anything really, I'm not picky."
She starts rummaging through her pockets, and after a minute or so finally finds a phone. A few agile taps later she grabs Grantaire's arm.
"Call this number," she says whilst scribbling something on his wrist. "I know this girl from jujitsu, she's super dope. I met with her the other day for a beer and she mentioned some guy, her boyfriend I think, who was looking for a flatmate. You should start there. And even if he's already found someone else, Cosette's father owns the whole building, they should be able to offer you an affordable place."
Grantaire struggles to find words—a rare occurrence for him.
"Are you serious?" he asks and honestly, he should probably call Enjolras and straight up confess his undying love, considering how lucky he's been with this Paris thing so far.
Floréal just smiles.
"Call Cosette. Good luck!"
She's only a few steps away when Grantaire starts frantically pressing the numbers on the phone screen. Being lucky never applied to him in any way, so this must be a glitch in the system. He's not going to let it fly from his grip.
"Hello?" The voice on the receiving end is cheery and warm, and does nothing short of boosts Grantaire's excitement.
"Hi," he says, smiling. "I got your number from Floréal, you know, from the Musain? I just moved here and I'm looking for a decent place to rent. Reportedly you may know a person who's looking for, well, me."
"Oh, I see," the girl answers in a sweet tone which never sounds truly honest, but in her case it does. Grantaire feels strangely reassured. "Are you a nice person?"
He hesitates.
"I don't think so, personally. I'm grumpy and moody, overly melodramatic at times. Weirdly enough, my friends tend to dig that."
Cosette laughs at his confession.
"We've dealt with much worse, believe me. Are you an actor?"
"A painter."
"Well, then you have the right to be melodramatic. I'm sure it makes you good at what you do."
"I'd like to believe it."
"Just a few routine questions. I guess it's safe to rule out the usual faults of human nature, right? You're not a murderer, a rapist, a—" she gasps with horror "—right–winger?"
"That I am, indeed, not."
"Workaholic?"
"Not once was I accused of that."
"Good, I already know one too many," she laughs. "Favourite cake?"
"Why?"
"Just curious."
"I'm afraid I'd have to say Napoleon."
"In my personal opinion—yummy! Just don't mention this to your future flatmate and you're golden. Are you an activist?"
Grantaire thinks of all the Les Amis meetings—he never missed any. Every protest, every lecture, every sleepless night... He always came and not once for the right reason.
"No," he admits straightforwardly.
"Don't worry, you will be once we're done with you!" Cosette answers with a chortle. "Listen, since Floréal gave you my number, she must think you're a decent person, and in my book that's the best possible recommendation. I take it you're okay with sharing?"
"I'm okay with anything that saves me some money."
"We're on the same page then. The flat isn't big, but it's cosy. It's got two bedrooms, so you guys wouldn't get in each other's hair all the time. I'm afraid there won't be much room for your painting, but you could always do it in the attic, we hardly ever use it anyway."
"When can I see it?"
"How's now?"
"Give me an address and I'll be there in five. Or, you know, fifty five, if you don't live within three–hundred–metre radius from the Panthéon."
"Oh, you're near the Panthéon? It's like twenty–minute walk from there!"
Is he the luckiest person today or what?
He downs his coffee, not exactly minding that he'll meet Cosette and her boyfriend smelling of whisky. That's the one thing they should prepare themselves for before letting him share their space. He leaves a twenty–euro note on the table—more than twice as much as the coffee cost, but Floréal deserves a big tip for what she did for Grantaire.
It's already dark outside by the time he leaves. Paris glows and so does Grantaire's face, probably. He barely refrains from stopping strangers in the street and hugging them. What the hell happened to him today?
He arrives at his destination even sooner than Cosette predicted. The building turns out to be an old town house, a well–kept architectural gem. There are small sculptures over the main entrance, and a sentence in Latin carved in stone right above them. He could try and decipher it, but who is he kidding, his Latin stinks.
He's always considered himself more a philosopher than a linguist.
The door is open, so Grantaire lets himself in. A well–lit corridor leads up to a spiral staircase—everything painted in white and light–blue, cleaner than some hospitals. He feels both extremely unfitting and a part of a whole, and the latter scares him.
He comes to a halt at the bottom of the stairs, suddenly nervous.
Does he really deserve to be here? He, a rugged presence mixed with a strong odour of alcohol and sweat—he'd been almost running the whole time—unshaven, visibly exhausted, panting...
He imagines Cosette as a ray of light. Won't he just cast a gloomy shadow over her joyful self?
It's either here or in the streets, you idiot, he tells himself and starts climbing up the stairs. He's heart is racing as though it knows something that is still hidden from Grantaire.
He finds the right door and knocks.
At first nothing happens—there isn't any sound coming from the other side—but after half a minute or so someone finally pulls the door open and Grantaire finds himself in the presence of the most beautiful human on earth—head crowned with golden locks of hair, piercing blue eyes, lips more tempting than a basket of raspberries... He feels like a beggar approaching an angel so radiant and mesmerising that Grantaire barely withholds a sudden need to bow.
"Grantaire?" the angel says, disbelieving.
But Grantaire cannot bring himself to speak.
"Grantaire, what are you doing here?" Enjolras insists, not taking his eyes off Grantaire's face and, well, that's unfortunate since Grantaire's face isn't something that should be looked at, especially now, especially by Enjolras.
They would stand like that for hours with Enjolras' expression growing more and more annoyed and Grantaire's—more stunned, if it weren't for a girl who shouts from inside the flat:
"Is that the melodramatic artist guy? Let him in!"
Enjolras frowns and steps aside.
"The melodramatic artist? Well, I guess he happens to be like that from time to time. But mostly a cynical chatterbox with an attitude."
And incredibly—he smiles.
Grantaire finally lets out a breath and forces himself to enter the flat. His brain refuses to cooperate. This cannot be happening, he keeps repeating himself. It must be one of those weird, disturbingly realistic dreams I sometimes have.
The inside is much bigger than Cosette advertised it. He's standing right in the middle of a spacious, uncluttered living room with two huge windows—they're facing south–west which must make the room unbearably hot in summer, but now is probably not a good time to dwell on that—there's also a small kitchenette on his right, and the corridor behind the bathroom door must lead to the bedrooms.
"Hi, I'm Cosette." A petite blonde stands up from the couch and shakes Grantaire's hand. She's the cutest thing he's ever seen in his life, and her voice is sweeter than a lark's song, but there's also something unsettling in her eyes, like she knows all your secrets and can read your thoughts. "So I gather you guys know each other?"
She puts her hand on Enjolras' arm and beams at Grantaire, but all he can feel is an increasing pain in his chest.
He didn't know that Enjolras liked girls. He wasn't even sure if Enjolras liked anybody.
Those were simpler times.
"It's nice to meet you," he finally replies, his voice still a bit stifled. "And Enjolras..." he doesn't dare to look Enjolras in the eyes, "I had no idea."
"Again, what are you doing here?" Enjolras repeats, and he doesn't sound angry or irritated, just surprised.
Grantaire tilts his head and sighs.
"There's this gallery here, they called last week and asked for my paintings. I could probably manage it from home, but given that I've sold a total of one painting this year, I really felt like I needed to dive in head first. It's now or never, you know."
And right now he kind of wishes it was 'never'.
"You should've called me."
"I didn't want to bother you," he admits with all the honesty he can muster. "The opening isn't until the next weekend, I can still fail and be forced to go back, I truly don't need witnesses of my demise."
"It's your lucky day, my friend, since you've just gained two future witnesses of your success," Cosette says and takes his bag from him. "So what do you say? Interested? I can show you your bedroom."
"I'm not sure whether I can afford it," Grantaire groans because of course he can't, and even if he could... Living in such close proximity to Enjolras would probably kill him.
How exactly did he go from not having seen him or heard from him in a month to considering an offer to move in with him in less than an hour?!
"Of course you can." Surprisingly, it's Enjolras who says that. Wait, does he want Grantaire to move in? "The rent is very moderate. Cosette's father cares more about who lives here than how much they are prepared to pay."
"Doesn't that diminish his profit margin and defy the very institution of capitalism as a whole? That doesn't seem like a smart way to run a business. No offence, but how exactly can he afford this standpoint?"
"Daddy has a number of other businesses," Cosette says lightly. "There are some things more important than money."
"Not in business," Grantaire insists. "Sure, he can be all Father Christmas and shit, but sooner or later he's going to run out of funds. What will happen to your precious tenants then?"
Enjolras opens his mouth to say something undoubtedly fervent yet naïve, but Cosette raises her hand and smiles.
"I suppose you'll have to confront him about it directly, since neither of us are his business advisers," she says simply and it shuts him up, which surprises both Enjolras and Grantaire himself. "Now about the vacancy..."
Grantaire casts a glance at Enjolras.
"Why do you even need a flatmate anyway? Aren't you loaded?"
"What's with you and the money today?" Enjolras asks and he finally sounds a little annoyed. Good, neutral ground. "My parents are well-off, yes, but being their son doesn't automatically entitle me to their wealth."
"That's literally the definition of inheritance law."
"Well, I think it's preposterous."
"You're full of these little revolutionary ideals, aren't you?" And even though Grantaire intends this remark to be ridiculing, it comes out adoring. He can feel Cosette's heedful gaze, but he doesn't turn.
Enjolras scowls at him and asks: "And this is news to you since when exactly?"
"Touché."
"Listen, Grantaire," he sighs and Grantaire bristles because ninety nine percent of their fights start with Enjolras' 'listen', but his head gets a little dizzy at the same time because he'll never be tired of just how intoxicating it is to hear his own name vibrating at the end of Enjolras' tongue, "I think you should stay here. If you want to, that is."
"Do you want me to?" And more importantly—why?
"I do. I miss home, and you're home to me." Enjolras pauses, then adds, "In a way," almost as an afterthought.
Grantaire blinks. He thinks Cosette may be saying something, time may still be passing, there may even be life on earth beside him and Enjolras standing here in this flat in Croulebarbe. He just doesn't want to acknowledge any of these facts.
You're home to me.
You're home to me.
After what feels like eternity he tries and focus his attention back on reality. Enjolras' expression remains indifferent, as though he has no idea what he said or what it did to Grantaire's heart. Typical.
"Grantaire," Cosette says in a delicate tone, and she sounds like she understood the situation perfectly. Well isn't he fucked. "I asked if you wanted to see your bedroom."
He nods because, if he's being honest, there is no way in hell he'd ever decline an offer to move in with Enjolras, however hard he pretends to mull over it.
And it's going to be the most beautiful, craziest, most nerve–racking time of his life, that's for sure.
Cosette approaches him and slightly nudges him towards the corridor. Grantaire follows her sheepishly, taking one last look at Enjolras who's waving his hand in encouragement, but apart from that doesn't move.
Cosette opens the door, and Grantaire finds himself in a tiny yet quite comfortably furnished room with long willow–green curtains and a bed with what looks like a thousand pillows on it. It's so obviously non–Grantaire, but Grantaire is nothing if not a chameleon, he can easily adjust. Cosette, reading his mind again, grins.
"I knew you'd be willing to give this a chance!"
"I haven't said 'yes', Cosette."
"You haven't said 'no', either."
"You don't think I'll be a nuisance?" Seeing that I'm in love with your boyfriend and all that.
"I think you'll fit in just fine with us."
And there it is, 'us'.
Definitely not the 'us' Grantaire thinks about when he imagines Enjolras in a relationship.
Suddenly he feels the urge to know—so strong that he cannot contain it anymore. He tries to look as nonchalant as possible when he asks: "So how long have you two been together?"
"Together?" she repeats sweetly. "Oh dear, we're not together." It would be a huge understatement to say that he is flooded by relief. Grantaire can't explain why exactly hearing this makes him so happy—it's not like it makes his chances on the mutual attraction front more realistic—but it does. "Although I can see why you'd think so. When I first met him, I was certainly open to anything less... platonic." Grantaire's heart sinks again. Enough with this roller-coaster already! Don't people know that artists have very fragile souls? "That's it, however," she adds, lowering her voice so much that Grantaire has to lean towards her to hear the rest of the sentence, "I realised we're not cut from the same cloth, he and I. Do I like him? Yes. Am I attracted to him? I mean, who isn't? But I'm not very deep in it and I will never act on it, especially now that I've met you."
Yet another spasm.
"What do you mean?"
She means that everyone can smell your desperation from a thousand kilometres, you loon.
"Don't worry, it's not my secret to tell. I just want you to believe me when I say this. Enjolras and I are just friends, okay?"
Unable to form an audible sentence, Grantaire nods.
"Oh, I should warn you, though—" Cosette begins, but is interrupted by Enjolras who chooses this very moment to enter the scene again.
"If you need more bookshelves, you'll find some in the attic. I overestimated just how cluttered my bedroom can get," he says with a shrug. "Where's the rest of your luggage anyway?"
"I didn't bring anything else," Grantaire admits. "Not getting my hopes up, remember? Ép will take the rest the next time she's in town to visit Azelma and Gavroche."
Enjolras casts a quick glance at the bag that Cosette is still holding for Grantaire. "If you need anything, just ask. And, you know...," he hesitates for a second, "...make yourself at home."
You're home to me.
Grantaire smiles. That he will.
Cosette hands him a set of keys, explains that if he needs her, he'll find her upstairs, and then pushes Enjolras out and closes the door behind them. Grantaire is left alone. "To unpack", she said, but what he truly needs is a minute to collect his thoughts.
He briefly considers calling someone, Bahorel maybe, since he's the only one of his friends who wouldn't make it sound like a big deal, but cannot force himself to share this just yet.
The last hour has been a constant high–pitched sound in his ears, now getting less obtrusive by a minute. Grantaire is finally able to analyse his situation—and that's not exactly ideal, either, because Grantaire has never been famous for his cold–assessment skills.
He unlocks his phone. There's a network called 'Red and black', but it's password–protected. He tries a few offensive combinations just to be spiteful—'lepenforpresident', 'climatechangeisalie', 'makefrancegreatagain'—and then simply connects to some free city wi–fi with shitty signal. Cancelling his hotel booking seems mundane enough, so he won't be too stuck on—
Enjolras.
He's going to live with Enjolras.
(Who is not at all in a relationship with a stunning blonde named Cosette, but does it really matter?)
(Yes. Yes, it does.)
Enjolras who stupidly admitted that he missed Grantaire—which meant nothing, as he didn't even blink, or blush, or look away, but Grantaire keeps coming back to those words constantly, unable to calm his heart.
The phone in Grantaire's hand buzzes violently, which makes him shoot up and drop it.
It buzzes again several times, dancing all over the floor, before Grantaire finally leans down and picks it up.
It seems that he's been texted by most of his friends—turns out news travels fast.
Courfeyrac, 6:05 PM
omg you're efficient! go fetch him, you dog!
Courfeyrac, 6:05 PM
who's a good boy?
Courfeyrac, 6:05 PM
no but in all seriousness-how the hell did that happen?!
Éponine, 6:06 PM
explain
Joly, 6:06 PM
Congratulations on finding a flat! Didn't know E was looking for a flatmate. B says hi! We miss you! :(((
Grantaire decides to ignore Courfeyrac, and he's too scared of Éponine to deal with her message now, so he hits 'reply' under Joly's text.
You, 6:07 PM
you know that it was me who came by in the morning to borrow your bag, right?
You, 6:07 PM
hi Bossuet!
Joly, 6:08 PM
So what, we're not allowed to miss you after only several hours? Maybe we want to do it in advance, we won't see you in an awfully long time :)
You, 6:08 PM
no no, by all means, miss away! btw how did you find out?
Joly, 6:09 PM
E called Ferre to express his disappointment that there are secrets between them. We're hanging out at C&C's, drama drama
Oh great, now Enjolras is angry with Combeferre, all because of Grantaire. Well, not 'angry' maybe, but everyone knows what it means when Enjolras, wearing his flagship expression, says: "I'm disappointed in you."
It means that the confronted individual will never experience joy again, that they've been marked as unworthy by a deity itself. Or at least this is how Grantaire used to feel every time Enjolras so much as looked at him funny.
He deliberates for a minute before texting Combeferre.
You, 6:12 PM
sorry I caused you trouble
Not five minutes pass before he gets a reply.
Combeferre, 6:17 PM
You didn't. Enjolras knows perfectly well that being his friend doesn't automatically oblige me to spill other people's secrets. He wouldn't respect me any other way. You surprised him, that's all. I'm of course very happy that everything worked out fine for you accommodation–wise. We were worried. Take care, okay?
Ah, whatever they would do without Combeferre's collected self?
Grantaire feels he should change his clothes, maybe even take a shower before facing Enjolras again, but he also needs a cigarette. Badly.
He swithers as to whether he should try and slip past Enjolras' bedroom unnoticed, and after a few minutes of nervously walking back and forth the room he eventually decides to do just that. Enjolras' door is closed, so Grantaire congratulates himself on an easy victory. Needless to say—prematurely.
"It's a non–smoking building," Enjolras grunts from the living–room floor where he is sitting surrounded by piles of documents, looking at the pack of cigarettes in Grantaire's hand with a raised eyebrow.
God, he always sounds so righteous when he says shit like that.
"Well, I'm a yes–smoking person, how do we overcome this stalemate?"
Enjolras sighs—a sound that makes unimaginable damage to Grantaire's abdomen.
"There's an alcove just outside the building to the left. I don't think the smoke will bother anyone there."
And he goes back to paging through the thickest book Grantaire has ever seen in his life, hardcover edition of 'War and Peace' included.
It's already pitch–black outside—damn you, December—and the only source of light in the living room is a small lamp over Enjolras' head. He looks so delicate right now, almost childlike. Grantaire huffs in irritation and puts his cigarettes back into his pocket.
He crosses the room in three long steps and takes a seat on the floor in front of Enjolras who scowls at him.
"Can I help you with anything?"
Grantaire smiles, unfazed. If he's going to do this, he's going to do this right. There will be no ignoring each other politely from day one. Wasn't Enjolras the one to invite Grantaire to stay?
"What's up with you, Enjolras? I haven't seen you in over a month."
Enjolras shrugs.
"Not much," he says, pointing at the piled up files. "Snowed under, as usual."
"Any new causes worth dying for?"
"Nothing is worth dying for," Enjolras answers gravely and Grantaire raises a brow. "Well, not in a civilised world anyway." Grantaire just keeps looking at him doubtfully until Enjolras finally surrenders. "Many causes worth getting arrested for, though," he admits with a small smile.
"That's the Enjolras I know and—" love. He almost says love.
Grantaire can feel his face heating up, but Enjolras doesn't seem to have noticed the uncomfortable pause, only partly engaged in his conversation with Grantaire.
All the papers around him are full of legal jargon, but when Grantaire leans closer, he can see that it's not yet another work file open on Enjolras' laptop, as Grantaire previously presumed. It's Netflix.
"Hey, you're watching 'Friends'!" he cries. "You're human after all!"
Enjolras' head snaps up, as he tries to focus his attention back on Grantaire.
"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure about that. I promised someone I'd give the show another chance."
"And?"
"I hate it."
Grantaire goggles at him, astonished.
"How can you hate "Friends'?! Are you ill or something? Do you hate puppies, too?"
"I don't hate puppies," Enjolras sighs and rolls his eyes. "But I do hate this show. It's sexist, slightly homophobic, and more than a little dense at times."
"Enjolras," Grantaire says gently, "it's a sitcom from the nineties. Of course it's sexist and homophobic, this is not why people love it."
"I take it you're one of those people then."
Grantaire raises both hands.
"Guilty as charged. No, seriously, what's wrong with you?"
"What's wrong with humanity? I mean a good half of the jokes are based on how feminine or how gay someone acts, as if these two words were the most offensive insults."
"Again, a sitcom from the nineties. And yet what you get is a clear image of three strong, independent women and three guys, neither of them conventionally manly, whatever the hell that means."
"It's not the general image that bothers me. It's everything in–between."
"Enjolras, it's a show about the importance of friendship. Hence the title. Are you like... opposed to it on principle or something?"
Enjolras groans and closes the book he's been holding.
"No, I simply don't like it. Am I not allowed to have opinions on television shows now?"
"Am I not allowed to disagree?" Grantaire counters.
They look at each other, breathing hard, and then Enjolras jumps to his feet.
"I think I'm running late to a meeting," he says, collecting the documents from the floor. "There isn't much food in the fridge, I'm afraid, but there are a few great takeaway places in the area. You'll find their menus pinned to a wall up there."
And then he disappears in the bathroom for a good half an hour.
When Grantaire begins to suspect that this supposed 'meeting' was just a lie fashioned to brush him off, there's knocking at the door.
Enjolras is still in the bathroom, so Grantaire gets up and opens it.
"Hi," a man says, smiling at him tentatively. "Is Enjolras home?"
He's tall, with light–brown hair and a beard—handsome, if one's into the 'sexy librarian' type. Grantaire flinches. Is Enjolras into the 'sexy librarian' type? He fights the need to close the door in the guy's face, instead he smiles and invites him in.
"He's still in the shower. Or dead, you know, because it's been like an hour," he offers. "Is he expecting you?"
"God, I hope so, as he is the one who invited me to this thing." What thing? "And you must be his new flatmate. Grantaire, is it? I'm Victor."
The guy—Victor—stretches out his hand and Grantaire shakes it reluctantly. How the hell did he find out about him so quickly? Did Enjolras send a mass text to all of his contacts?
"Ah, Victor," Enjolras says, clean–shaven and obviously not dead, getting out of the bathroom. "Let me grab my jacket and I'm ready to go."
Grantaire wouldn't bet his life on it, but he's almost certain he can smell Enjolras' cologne.
"It was nice to meet you, Grantaire," Victor says, retreating towards the door.
"We're going out," Enjolras informs Grantaire matter–of–factly and grabs his keys from the kitchen table. "If you encounter any problems settling in, Cosette should be home tonight."
And with that—he's gone.
Grantaire just sits there and blinks for a solid minute. Who the hell was that? What did Enjolras mean by his 'we're going out' declaration? Was he talking about the literal motion of leaving the flat, or was it like "we're dating' thing? Is this what Cosette wanted to warn him about before Enjolras barged in?
"Fuck it, I need a drink," he mutters, suddenly very lonely in the dark flat.
He goes back to the Musain and orders a double shot of whisky, first of... who knows how many.
His vision is a little blurred by the time his phone buzzes.
Courfeyrac, 9:49 PM
why does no one ever reply to my texts
Courfeyrac, 9:49 PM
i'm lovable. am i not lovable, r?
Courfeyrac, 9:50 PM
r
Courfeyrac, 9:51 PM
R!
And that's it, he cannot take it any longer—he has to know. Whatever the answer, he has to know.
You, 9:52 PM
does Enjolras have a byofriend?
The reply doesn't come for another three minutes, and Grantaire is holding his breath almost the whole time. When his phone finally buzzes again, he jumps up and nearly throws it into his drink.
Courfeyrac, 9:55 PM
we're not really sure
He can almost hear Courf's concerned voice.
Courfeyrac, 9:56 PM
you wanna talk? i can call you
You, 9:57 PM
nah thats ok. tired anwyay. jst wanted to knwo
Grantaire turns off his phone and orders another whisky.
