Okay, well I'm kind of shocked anyone actually read this (don't know why else I published it, but still). Thank you to everyone who reviewed it!
Basically, I don't have a proper long-term plan for this story, it's just my headcanon written down, so I'm sorry if it seems a bit rambly.
Chapter Two
Grantaire's not even drained his third bottle of beer by the time Combeferre returns from teaching his second-year biochem students. His sketchbook rests on his lap, displaying high foreheads and strong jawlines that Grantaire can barely remember drawing. He flips the cover swiftly when Combeferre plonks himself down next to him.
"So, how does it feel having a real job for once?"
"I would hardly call art sub a job, Combeferre. It literally involves no effort other than saying 'draw me a thing' then going round telling them all that they're doing great (well, nothing more the way he teaches it, at least.) It has to be the easiest thing ever."
Combeferre wrinkles his nose in amusement at this. "Yeah, well, just wait until you have to start fending off complaints from students saying you're not being fair, you're not helping them at all."
He bristles slightly at this (why? It's a perfectly sensible statement.) "Excuse you, but I have already agreed to take on a student for private tutoring. Not helping them at all, indeed. It would hardly do for me to let them all fail, would it?" (Because that's the only reason he's giving up his time. No ulterior motives at all. Nope. None.) Grantaire takes a long swig of beer. "How was your day?"
Combeferre here launches into a complete description of every single class he had taught and all the petty dramas he had encountered, while Grantaire sinks back into the cushions and closes his eyes. He can still feel that headache from earlier playing around his periphery (not nearly drunk enough) but he doesn't think there was any more alcohol in the house- he strongly suspects Combeferre has taken to pouring his stash down the sink whenever he's out of the house. He doesn't move from his position until his friend inevitably tails off, announcing his need to finish marking some essay or other, whereupon he decides to stretch his legs (about as far as the nearest pub, to be precise.) He grabs his coat, hat, keys and wallet from where they are strewn on the floor and slips out.
The late afternoon is a bit nippy, and he pulls his hat down over his ears, hands buried in his pockets as he makes his way towards his favourite pub (and by favourite, he means he gets half-price drinks because he's mates with the owners' daughter). It's in a less than salubrious area of Paris, and Grantaire is inclined to keep his head down and walk quickly past the prostitutes and gangs that litter the street corners before he reaches the door. Pushing inside, he is greeted by a comforting warmth and the sour tang of spilt beer and something else he probably doesn't want to dwell on. His feet stick to the ancient carpet, just as his pint glass sticks to the corner table at which he ensconces himself to watch the varied and various drunkards come and go. Some of the regulars recognise him, either turning their faces away or coming over to slap a friendly hand on his back and look at what he's doodling on beermats and serviettes. He wishes he'd had the forethought to bring his sketchbook so he didn't have to contend with rips down his drawings (no. That would only encourage him to draw Enjolras all the more. At least the shitty paper distorts his lines so he can plausibly deny any inspiration for them. And he'd only leave it on the table, anyway.) After a time, youngsters start coming over to him with requests (they should definitely be at home,) and he passes the time sketching princesses, dragons, and one Edward Scissorhands for a particularly shy girl. By the time all the children have been taken home, and Grantaire's run out of things to draw on, it's reached that time when the city's twenty-somethings start to filter into the pub in preparation for a night out.
The door to the bar bangs open and a group of students bustle in. Grantaire watches idly as they make their way to the bar- there are five of them, and he recognises most of them from around the university, he even thinks that blonde girl might have been in his class earlier (oh. She's the soppy-looking one who knocked over her water pot. And is that the guy with the flower in his hair? Jehan?) He sinks back into his seat as the group go to sit down, cap pulled down ridiculously low (why do people think this will conceal them? Nobody identifies others by their foreheads. If anything, it makes him more conspicuous: it's hard not to stare at that weirdo wearing his hat as an eyebrow-warmer,) but continues to watch (pervert.) After about two minutes, one of the group looks up at the door, face lighting as he hails two men over. The dippy blonde leaps to her feet to embrace the shorter of the two, and the other turns away. As he does so, the dim bar light catches on his face and (oh fuck. Abort. Abort,) Grantaire recognises the blond mop of hair above delicate features hardened by austerity. He can't escape, and he does not want to be recognised by any of his students (especially not that student) while he's this inebriated. When the newcomers are purchasing their drinks, Jehan gets up and (oh for the love of fuck, he doesn't believe in God, but he could swear Loki's toying with him now) comes over to his table.
"Pardon me, m'sieur, but would it be possible to take these two chairs?" Grantaire almost thinks he hasn't been recognised, but then "R?" (Bollocks.)
A quick weigh-up of the situation tells Grantaire that, however tempting the idea may be, there really is no point trying to deny anything. "Jehan, right? Fancy running into you here." (Yep, he's slurring.) The younger man doesn't appear to notice.
"Why don't you come over and join us?"
"I was just about to leave, as it happens. My flatmate will be starting to worry about me." (Like fuck, he will. Probably went to bed at eight, like a good boy.) Without waiting for a response, Grantaire hauls himself up and tries to exit the pub. To his credit, not many men, when under the influence of at least three pints, half a bottle of absinthe and the beers he drank before heading out, could accomplish the six feet Grantaire manages before he faceplants. When he comes round, he's lying on one of the poorly upholstered benches, breathing in the smell of stale fags.
"Someone should call him a taxi."
"Well someone'll have to go with him. We can't leave him in this state."
"Look, I'll ride back with him, then carry on home." Grantaire really hopes he doesn't recognise that voice.
"Enjolras, you only just got here!" (Bugger.)
"And I'm only here in the first place because you made me come. I have work to do."
"You're always working, Enj. The world will continue turning if you take a step back for one evening, you know. The debased can stand to wait another day for salvation."
Grantaire tunes out here (too much effort to follow the conversation.). He's not really quite as drunk as they think he is, but he hit his head pretty hard on the way down, and now everything's swimming. Before long, he's being shaken by the arm.
"R, there's a taxi waiting outside. Do you think you can stand?" Groggily, he nods in the affirmative and makes to get up. He's barely made it two steps before he falls sidelong into the wall and feels Enjolras grip his waist, hoisting the drunkard's arm over his shoulders to drag him out into the soberingly cold night air.
"What's your address?"
"434, Rue Denfert-Rochereau, 14th Arrondissement." Enjolras relays this information to the cabbie, and Grantaire can feel the student's muscles flex as he keeps his teacher vertical, before he manoeuvres the two of them into the back seat.
"'M sorry. Not a great way to spend an evening, taking care of your tutor, eh?" Grantaire has always been proud of his ability to maintain eloquence when drunk. Enjolras doesn't answer. The rest of the journey to Grantaire's flat passes somewhat awkwardly, and Grantaire is very glad when they pull up outside his building. Less glad when he sees Combeferre waiting for him on the steps.
"I got his number off your phone when you were passed out," Enjolras informs him. He sounds pissed off (well, who wouldn't in this situation?) but there's another element hidden behind the severity. Not quite sheepishness, but there's definitely (maybe) something timid about it. Grantaire doesn't have time to dwell on it before the door is pulled open and he's being hauled out unceremoniously by his sleep-deprived flatmate and into his bed. Not bothering to change, Grantaire rolls himself up into the duvet and tries to get to sleep. He's almost managed it when,
Ding
He gets his mobile out of his back pocket (that must have taken some getting to when he was out of it) and sees that he has one text.
you didnt pay for the taxi. dont forget to bring money to class tomorrow. enjolras
Sneaky little shit.