Chapter Four
The next morning, Enjolras woke to a knock on his window.
Groaning, he rolled out of bed. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and mussed his hair. What time was it? He stumbled over to the window, and opened it with a yawn.
"Good morning, sleepyhead," came an amused voice.
And suddenly, Enjolras wasn't so tired anymore.
Grantaire.
"G-good morning to you too." Enjolras cringed at his stutter, but Grantaire only smiled wider.
There was no reason for him to be nervous around this boy. For God's sake, he had kissed him last night—
Oh.
Right. That was what had ended their night; Enjolras and Grantaire had kissed. Suddenly, all of Combeferre's advice, all of Courfeyrac's knowing smiles came back to him, because they had known. Somehow, before he himself had known, they had figured out who he was.
No.
A rush of emotions as strong as a wave surged through Enjolras. Confusion, disgust, happiness? No, this was ridiculous. Enjolras wasn't—he wasn't gay. Maybe this was one of those phases that teenagers went through, and this was Enjolras's newest, subconscious way of rebelling. If anything, he might be bi-curious. Maybe.
But then, he didn't think kissing a boy would've felt that good if he wasn't at least a little bit gay.
Ugh.
It was too early to think about this, he decided. And besides, he had school. Or, rather, they had school. Because now Grantaire was coming back to school.
Right.
"Grantaire?" He asked him.
"Mm?"
"I just wanted to kind of prepare you for something, before we get back to school."
He laughed. "I know, Enjolras. They think I planted a bomb, or tried to run, or that we're lovers, right?" He shrugged it off lightly, but then grinned. "Actually, that last one—"
Enjolras cut him off, and tried to ignore the way his heart sped up at his comment. "No, it's not that. I told a couple of my friends about you, you know, when we first met."
"So, less than a week ago," he smiled.
"Yeah," Enjolras continued, feeling a flush creep up his neck. "And some of them are really excited to meet you."
Grantaire nodded. "Will I get to meet them?"
"Oh of course, if you want to!" He said. "That's not what I meant, though. My friends can be very… enthusiastic—passionate, even— at times." He paused, searching for the right words. "I just don't want them to scare you away."
The boy laughed, and its heartiness was contagious. "Enjolras, I met you on my first day of school in the men's washroom, because you wanted to fight me for underage drinking. I'm used to passionate."
He ran a hand through his blonde curls, sheepishly. "I suppose. Don't say I didn't warn you, though, 'New Kid.'"
They both laughed a bit at that. Was it really only days ago that that was all Grantaire had been to Enjolras—a nickname?
He began to slide back through his window. "I'd better get ready," he told him, preparing to shut the window.
"Mm, me too," Grantaire agreed.
Neither of them moved, though.
Grantaire let out a sort of embarrassed-sounding laugh, and tousled his hair. Was he picking up Enjolras's own nervous tics?
"God damn—Enjolras, can I kiss you again?"
He was sure his eyes widened a million times their normal size, but quickly stammered out, "Yeah—yes! Yes you can. Actually, please—"
Grantaire closed the distance between them, putting one hand on Enjolras's cheek as he kissed him.
Though their situation was similar to the last night's, their kiss couldn't have been more different. Last time, it had been hard and rough—pure, unchecked passion. This time, it was sweet and syrupy—and God, he hoped and prayed that every time he kissed someone it would feel this nice.
When they broke apart, this time, neither of them could keep their wide smiles off their faces.
"Alright," Grantaire smiled, "we probably should go."
Enjolras was fairly certain he had never gotten ready for school that quickly in his entire academic career—and that included the time his sister had threatened to take France's Got Talent off the DVR if he wasn't out of the shower in four minutes.
He pulled on jeans, a gray t-shirt, a jacket and his sneakers, sure he had put on at least one of his items of clothing on inside out. He grabbed a breakfast bar, and a piece of his sister's toast, ignoring her cry of protest, and kissed both she and their father quickly on the cheek before running out the door without so much as an "à ce soir!"
It wasn't until he was halfway out the door before he remembered he was supposed to be mad at them.
When he burst out of the front door, breathless and still trying to stuff his foot in his left sneaker, Grantaire was already sitting on his porch, calmly eating a banana and regarding him with an air of amusement.
He didn't want to think about his family right now. He just wanted to think about this—about now. About Grantaire.
About his… boyfriend?
"Excited?" Grantaire quirked, pushing himself off the stairs.
Letting the thoughts of everything else slide from his mind, Enjolras let out a half laugh, and they were off.
He'd spent some time considering this last night after Grantaire had left. Late in the night, his heart pounded hard as he'd gazed up at his ceiling, unable to wipe the ridiculous grin off his face.
And then he'd realized (with an actual, audible laugh,) the amount of time he'd be spending with Grantaire. Assuming he'd walk to school as well as from school, that was almost forty minutes everyday, twice a day. On top of the other time they were going to be together during the actual school time, and the time they would be together after school.
So yes, Enjolras was excited.
And yet… whispered a small, traitorous voice in his ear.
Even through all his happiness, all his giddiness at just the sheer thought of being with this boy, he still had that ever persistent nagging voice in the back of his head. The one that knotted his stomach and ran a shaking hand through his hair and made his voice tremble and break in front of crowds.
Enjolras knew that they were going to be spending a lot of time together. And it made his voice wonder… Because, of everything they had spoken about, they still hadn't talked about the reason they had met.
They still hadn't talked about the booze in the boy's washroom. And Enjolras really, really didn't know how to feel about that.
Because, on the one hand, why should he even care about what Grantaire did? It wasn't his business, and really, he could do what he wanted. But on the other, despite anything and everything he felt for this boy—Enjolras refused to give in on his stance of drinking. Especially underage drinking.
Enjolras felt this overwhelming thing take over him whenever he thought of Grantaire drinking. Maybe it was because he had tried so hard for so long to keep Patron-Minette under control. Maybe it was because he was unwilling to see the school his little sister would be attending filled with leering, drunken teenagers wide smirks and sour breath; with money shoved into palms and mandatory locker searches from tired teachers and principals.
Or maybe it terrified Enjolras to think about Grantaire as one of the he saw around town. He had only been here less than a month now, so he just didn't know. He couldn't.
He didn't see how the kids who got mixed up with the wrong crowd in high school were treated after graduation. He didn't know that almost five girls dropped out of school yearly because of teen pregnancy. He didn't see the drunkards, the poor, the homeless—the people denied opportunities for ridiculous nothings, for stupid mistakes they'd made as teenagers.
He didn't see how everyone came into this town, but no one came out. Not unless you made a certain amount of money, anyway, and lived there because you appreciated the aesthetic of rolling hills and quiet, if quaint, suburbs. Like his adopted father, for example.
And he would never, ever see the way addiction could tear a family apart—leaving its child beaten and bloody and at some point, removed. Like him, for example.
That was what had happened to his biological family, apparently. His father was a drunk, his mother a heroin addict. Mix that with old French conservative values, and you get one unwanted child you can beat up whenever you want—free of charge!
He was taken away, his mother was sent to a rehab, and his father was sent to jail. That was his happily ever after.
The thought of Grantaire as one of them, as another one of the miserable men sitting on battered old seats at bars and pubs, increasing their tabs as they motioned for one more, or the sunken eyes of the drug addicts who'd sold everything they had to afford another hit… The list went on.
The thought of Grantaire's eyes, blank, devoid of that sparkle, because of this town.
He couldn't stand it.
That was why Enjolras, in that moment, stopped them both, jerking Grantaire to a halt as he grabbed him by his schoolbag.
"What are you—" Grantaire asked, eyes wide, but smiling.
Enjolras pulled them both behind the relative security of a tree on the side of the road, into the long shadow its lanky branches cast. He hoped it would be away from the prying eyes of the nosy inhabitants of the suburban houses lining the street who were, in all likelihood, checking the streets for any trace of the New Kid Who Got Himself Suspended On The First Day—just as everyone else around here who had heard the gossip would be.
Small towns, right?
He leaned against the tree as he tried as quickly as possible to choose his words, hoping to appear calm to the now clearly alarmed Grantaire—despite the anxiety coursing through him.
"Enjolras—" Grantaire tried to say.
"No, Grantaire, listen," he interrupted, looking up to meet the taller boy's eyes. "I want to clear something up."
Though looking apprehensive, and a tad bit worried, he nodded.
"Do you plan to drink at school, still? Or—or at all?"
Grantaire cast his gaze downwards. His dark curls spilled across his face, and Enjolras had to restrain himself from pushing them from his eyes.
"It's just…" Enjolras ran a hand through his hair, "you know how I feel about it, and I don't want to force you to do anything, or not do anything, because it makes me uncomfortable, but—"
Suddenly, Grantaire's head shot up. What if he's offended? What if he'd never, ever give up drinkin? Why am I such a loser? What if— "Enjolras, if something makes you uncomfortable, I'll stop. Simple as that."
He tried to read the curly haired boy's reaction, but couldn't make out what that set expression meant. "It's really not my place though…" and you hardly even know me, he finished mentally.
"E," Grantaire said, holding eye contact, "it matters to me, if it matters to you. And if my drinking bothers you, I can give it up."
It stirred something inside of him, because it all seemed a bit too easy. (Also, because no one had ever called him "E" before, and he kind of liked it.) Why had Grantaire even turned to alcohol in the first place? How had he known to go to Patron-Minette that first day, anyway? But Enjolras pushed those thoughts down—and he couldn't help the smile that crept up on his face.
"Really?"
Grantaire laughed. "Of course. And besides," he added, leaning forwards a bit, "I think I'd rather have you than alcohol."
Enjolras cocked his head. Rather have me?' What's that supposed to mea—
But he didn't even have time to finish his thought before Grantaire was upon him. His strong arms wrapped themselves around Enjolras's back, pulling him closer, as the boy's lips gently pressed down on his own.
He froze immediately—and then he laughed.
Laughed from his stomach, letting his audible happiness bubble in his throat and fly out to meet this boy's lips. Pretty and light and carefree—synonyms that had never been used anywhere near Enjolras before.
Quickly recovering from the shock, Enjolras smiled into the kiss, and he could feel Grantaire do the same back. It was sweet and slow—all Enjolras could see in his mind's eye was honey, dripping thickly from a jar. Closer to this morning's kiss, than the night before's.
(Enjolras didn't know when he had turned into a kind of person to have enough experience in kissing to be able to compare two, but he couldn't say he minded it.)
But after a moment of that honey-sweet kissing, he decided to try something, just because he could. If his mind could smile, in that moment would've had a vicious little smirk on its figurative face.
Enjolras pushed into the other boy, allowing himself some of the ferocity that he would use for a Chopin Étude, instead of this Debussy suite. He shoved himself into him, shaping his body to press further against Grantaire's.
And apparently, Grantaire liked that.
The boy's response was immediate—he pushed back harder, and slid his arms just the slightest bit lower. In between short gasps for air, Enjolras could feel Grantaire smirk against his own lips.
Enjolras knew he didn't have much experience with stuff like this. No, not much—he had no experience with this, with girls or boys. None. But he had a vague idea on what to do, thanks to prime time tv and the occasional romance novel he picked up. And if Grantaire had liked when Enjolras had so roughly shoved him moments before…
Just to see what he'd do, Enjolras pushed forwards and ground himself lightly against the boy's taller frame, letting a soft sound he was sure sounded ridiculous escape his lips.
Mid kiss, Grantaire paused, his breathing ragged. And a feeling a dread began to seep into Enjolras, wondering immediately if he had done something horribly wrong.
"God, I'm sor—"
And then, all at once, Grantaire flew into motion. "Don't you dare."
Grantaire's arms tightened around Enjolras's hips, fingers grasping at any bits of clothing he could find to just pull him closer. He shoved their entangled bodies into the tree, Enjolras's back hitting the trunk roughly. He gasped, and a sort of a growl rippled out from Grantaire's throat.
Grantaire's kissing became more intense—and, God, biting—all the while pulling back to ask if this was okay, if he was comfortable with that, if he could try something. Enjolras, to his own genuine surprise, couldn't have loved it more. In fact, when Grantaire moved his fervent ministrations from his surely swollen lips down to his jaw, planting tiny kisses along there as he worked his way further and further up, Enjolras even threw back his head.
And right then, right there, his eyes closed, mouth opened in a small "o," and his head tilted back in nothing short of ecstasy while a beautiful boy with curly hair and a purple beanie kissed him like it was the last time they'd ever get to kiss in the world, Enjolras wondered how he had never known before just how perfectly queer he was.
God help him, he truly couldn't contain the loud, undiluted moan that fell from his lips as that same boy gently tugged on his earlobe with his teeth.
They both slowly untangled themselves, breathing heavily. Grantaire laughed playfully at Enjolras, assessing approvingly as he looked him up and down.
"Damn," he grinned, in a smile that reminded him so much like the one Courfeyrac wore when he finally got a rise out of Combeferre.
Enjolras smiled back, flushed and slightly embarrassed. "Sorry. I'm not very…"
"No—God, don't apologize. That was... " Grantaire trailed off, leaving Enjolras to wonder exactly what that experience had been.
They regarded each other a moment longer before Enjolras pushed off the tree, picking up his schoolbag from when it had slid off his shoulders. "Alright?"
He smirked. "Yeah, it was alright." He paused as they began to walk again. "I am curious though. Have you ever done anything like that before?"
"You mean…" They shielded their eyes from the sudden sun after the dark of the tree.
"With another guy, yeah," he said, peering down at him.
Enjolras thought about how to answer his question. "No," he shook his head.
Grantaire nodded, and he continued.
"I actually didn't know I was… Well, whatever I am, until really recently. So, no one knows. Except for you, of course."
"Wait—how recently?" Grantaire asked, a curious glint in his smiling eyes.
Enjolras could feel that flush creep higher up his neck. "About—about a week ago, really."
"So wait," he smirked. "Are you saying I made you question your sexuality?"
"Oh, shut up," Enjolras shoved him, his face reflecting the other's anyway..
Grantaire deftly sidestepped his hands. "E, I hope you know; that's hot as hell."
Enjolras ducked his head and fixed his hair, but grinned the rest of the walk to school.
They weren't quite as late as Enjolras had expected them to be, considering the whole tree-makeout fiasco, but they were still much too tardy for his liking.
"So, we'll need to see Mr. Louis-Phillipe first, to get the work we've missed, then I guess we're off to class."
Grantaire laughed—though, Enjolras noted, a distinctly different laugh from the ones he was used to hearing bounce off his bedroom's walls.
"I mean, I couldn't have missed too much. I've been to all of two classes, anyway."
"Oh," Enjolras stammered, "right. Well, I guess I'll see you at lunch, then? You, me, Courf and Combeferre have the same lunch period. Oh, and don't forget, there's the—"
"Debate club meeting today after school, where I'll be meeting your friends for the first time. I'll remember, E."
There was that E again. "Well, you'll be meeting the worst of them before the rest, so it won't be too bad. Or," he frowned, "it shouldn't be."
Grantaire laughed again, sounding more familiar than its predecessor. "I'm sure I'll be fine. See you at lunch."
"Right," he said. "See you at lunch."
To his great surprise, Enjolras's school morning had passed with little incident. He attended science first period, followed by a double block of French—which normally would have made him ecstatic, as they were two of his favourite classes, but he just couldn't shake that feeling of anticipation.
The kind of feeling that followed him whenever anything would pop up, whether it be a presentation in class, a debate club meeting, or just knowing he had to call someone on the phone later that day. He hated it—hated the way it would fill his fingers with the longing to stretch across his piano but had to settle for uselessly running through his curls, the way his voice would crumble and break when he spoke his thoughts aloud—but he knew he couldn't change it. It was a part of him, now, and he had accepted it. As long as he talked to people about it, as long as he didn't let those kinds of feelings eat him from the inside out, he was fine.
Except, he usually did let them eat him from the inside out.
Well, with the exception of the past little while. (Read: since he had met Grantaire.) Because, honestly? He didn't look at him with a barely contained exasperated sigh when he talked to him, like his father had, and he didn't smirk at or roll his eyes like his sister did, and he didn't offer advice applicable only to those with tiny problems in big lives, like Courf.
How had someone he had met a mere week ago already altered his life so irreversibly, so irrevocably? So intensely?
Maybe it was because of Enjolras; maybe it was because he was pathetic, clingy, willing to latching onto the very first person who showed any emotions (whether they be positive or negative) towards him.
And while all that might be true, he didn't think it was the reason for… For whatever they were.
And as the bell signaling the end of class rang, Enjolras reflected just how important Grantaire must be to him for him to smile as he rushed out of French class.
Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.
Lunch tray in hand, Enjolras surveyed the bustling cafeteria. He's told Grantaire he'd meet him here, hadn't he?
He thought he did. He was pretty sure he did.
Suddenly, and with no shortage of drama, the large double doors connecting the cafeteria to the rest of the school flew open. They swung loudly against the walls, but it only added to the din of the congregation of hungry students.
Enjolras turned hopefully to the source—was it Grantaire?—but found Courfeyrac, instead. The boy strode into the cafeteria with his usual swagger, an enormous grin stretching from one ear to the other.
"Enjy!" he called gleefully to a mortified Enjolras across the room. "I was promised a cute American boy, and I fully intend to collect."
Enjolras rushed over to his friend, a bright red blush blooming across his neck and face. "Would it kill you to be discreet, Courfeyrac?" he hissed.
He looked up at the ceiling and pretended to think about the rhetorical question. "Yeah, probably."
Enjolras rolled his eyes. "Vous allez me tuer. Peut-être même avant lui."
They walked together to their regular table. "Enjolras, tu connais que je connais le Français, aussi. C'est n'est pas que toi, non plus."
Enjolras sighed as they sat down. "Est-ce que c'était jamais?"
Courfeyrac just smirked. "Vous savez que c'était—et pour beaucoup trops long. Okay, English again. I'm trying to get better, you know." He picked up his food, which Enjolras regarded with a disapproving glance—it was almost certainly not up to Combeferre's health standards.
"Right. How's that going, anyway?"
"It's going good—Ferre's a great teacher, you know, and I'm learning lots. You know, things like how to conjugate in past-tense how to tell the difference between 'their,' 'they're,' and 'there,' and how to tell when someone's trying to change the subject."
Enjolras gave a defeated smile. "You picked up on that?"
"Well, it's not like you were being discreet," he mimicked.
They laughed, even as Enjolras made to shove him. "Whatever."
"But, speaking of," he said, checking his phone, "where is he? And Grantaire, too."
"Oooh, Enjy," he teased, "missing your cute boyfriend?"
Enjolras started to protest, when the doors swung open—for the second notable time that day.
The expression that spread over Courf's face then was almost comical. Enjolras probably would've laughed at him, if he hadn't done the same thing when he turned to see what he was gawking at.
There were the two missing boys, Combeferre and Grantaire entering the cafeteria side by side. And okay, the way the light was hitting Grantaire's hair might have taken Enjolras's breath away, and he might have wanted nothing more than to find some dark and undisturbed corner and—
No. No, Enjolras, get a grip. He was not about to be that kid—the one who couldn't keep his hands off his boyfriend friend mere days after they had met.
That didn't make Grantaire any less gorgeous, though, he realized with a grimace.
As the two made it way over to their table, Enjolras realized with a start that this was the part he was supposed to be nervous about. The meeting of his friends. But now that it was here, he wasn't anything but ready. Of course he wanted these people to meet; they were some of the most important people in his life.
This was what he had been stressing about all day?
The boys sat down—Grantaire sliding into the seat next to him easily, Combeferre across the table with a bit more shuffling and maneuvering, thanks to the small mountain of textbooks he carried in his arms.
They greeted each other in a chorus of jumbled "hey!"s and "how are you?"s and "God I'm so tired"s. Or maybe that last one was just Courfeyrac.
"Combeferre, Courfeyrac, I think you guys may have met, but this is Grantaire," Enjolras introduced. Though he was eager for his friends to meet, he still cast his gaze down, still mumbles his words.
Courfeyrac quirked his eyebrows in greeting, and Combeferre smiled warmly, pushing up his glasses. "Yeah, we take English with Mr. Hugo together." Then, addressing Grantaire, "I'm 'Ferre."
Grantaire nodded. "I'm Grantaire—or, maybe better known as the American Kid?"
"They've got you pegged already?" Courf asked. "It took them almost a full week before we started calling Enjolras 'Revolution.'"
Grantaire raised a brow. "'Revolution?'" he mouthed.
Enjolras narrowed his eyes playfully and mouthed back "shut up."
The four of them laughed amiably, and with the tension now broken, they opened up their lunches to eat. Eating and chatting easily, like old friends already, Courfeyrac and Combeferre talked to Grantaire about what he should expect from their school; about which teachers to suck up to and which to be more casual with. Although Courf's English was admittedly fairly impressive for someone who had only been studying it for a couple months, Combeferre stopped occasionally to translate for him.
Beneath the table, Grantaire grabbed his hand and smoothed small circles on his palm. They looked at each other, and through his peripheral vision he could see his two friends exchange knowing smiles.
Vous allez me tuer. Peut-etre meme avant lui = You're going to kill me. Maybe even before him.
Enjolras, tu connais que je connais le Français, aussi. C'est n'est pas que toi, non plus. = Enjolras, you know that I know French, too. It isn't just you anymore.
Est-ce que c'était j'amais? = Was it ever?
Vous savez que c'etait, et pour beaucoup trops long = You know that it was, and for much too long, too.
Wow wow wow, I haven't updated in twelve years. So sorry! Life's been incredible lately, between things happening at school, my sport, at home, and writing other projects, I've sort of forgotten about this! I'm back to regular updates now, though, (i.e at least the first week of every month!) Much love to everyone who's stuck around through all this, I so appreciate your patience.
Happy reading, friends!
- B