It becomes a regular thing, and that in itself makes Enjolras look skeptically, hopelessly, at his own obviously pitiable judgment.
It happens every week like clockwork, after he admits late one night – and perhaps more tipsy than he'd meant to be, at least in public – that he is not the angelic, infinite pillar of justice and fairness and damnable goodness that everyone thinks.
Grantaire, with his shit-eating grin and his shot glass raised mockingly in a toast, doesn't seem too disturbed.
He supposes that if anyone were to find out about his faults, he'd want it to be Grantaire. Combeferre has always known about him – his impatience, his subtle prejudices that he just can't be rid of, or can't be assed to try hard enough to be rid of. Grantaire understands what it is to disappoint. To fear disappointment. He may want everyone to think otherwise, but Enjolras knows.
Grantaire doesn't try because he fears failure. Enjolras tries because he fears the disappointment of the people who will look at him if he doesn't, shaking their heads.
They understand each other that way, and that's that.
So, somehow – somehow, he's still not entirely sure what had possessed him, although he's obscenely glad that it had – he ends up inviting Grantaire back to his apartment on New Years Eve.
He wants to be away from the noise and from everyone he knows. From the celebration. Enjolras has always had trouble celebrating this particular holiday, mostly because of the uncomfortable, insidious expectation that came with it – resolutions. Enjolras couldn't make a good enough resolution to save his life. No matter what he did, what he accomplished, he would still at the end of the year feel that he could have done it better, or more, or...
And then Grantaire would interrupt his hopeless rambling with a snort, and chuck a balled up piece of paper from the floor at his "insufferable, blond" head.
That was another thing he liked about having Grantaire around. He never hesitated to call him out when he was being… what did he call it? Ridiculous, self-pitying, sullen, privileged –
The list went on.
He wonders what the hell he finds charming about being insulted, and then wonders that he just called R charming, even if it was in his head.
So now, every Saturday night, instead of studying or planning or writing a speech, Enjolras opens his door and lets R in with a six pack and a grin, and they sprawl across his living room together and…
Well, talk shit, basically.
It starts out with some thoughtless comment. "Courf needs a fucking attitude check." He goes bright red, when he realizes he's said it out loud, but Grantaire has choked on his beer and there's no going back.
As it turns out, though, Grantaire has plenty of dirty secrets of his own.
Apparently sharing does have some appeal.
And that's how it starts. It ranges from things as petty and pathetic as "I cheated on my calculus final" to "I used to have a humongous crush on Combeferre", and Grantaire watches him with huge, dark eyes, as if he's seeing something amazing – unfathomable – the crumbling of some ancient statue that Enjolras never wanted to be, anyways.
"I didn't come to the beach last week because of my scars," he offers suddenly, knocking Enjolras straight out of his reverie. He blinks, narrowing his eyes, but doesn't argue.
Scars can only refer to one thing. He doesn't know how to feel.
"No one would have said anything," he tells him, although when he thinks about it, Jehan probably would have. "You know none of us would judge you for that, Grantaire."
"And risk a party of you coming to my house in the middle of the night to steal all of my pointy objects?" He snorts and clinks their bottles together, and Enjolras is hard pressed to contain a smile. This doesn't seem like a smiling occasion – but then again, it doesn't seem like something that should be an occasion in the first place, and it is. "No thanks. I need my kitchen knives, you know. How else am I supposed to cook for you?"
There was another of Grantaire's hidden talents. Enjolras regrets, the first time he bites into one of R's cookies, never bothering to get to know him like this before.
He's going to fix that.
He does seem to have fixed that by now, though. It's New Year's Eve, and probably Grantaire's fiftieth visit, and he knows his favorite color and his favorite drink and which of his professors he stares dreamily at in class when he bothers to show up.
And Grantaire knows all of that about him.
And he doesn't know what the hell this feeling is in the pit of his stomach but he doesn't know if he ever wants it to end.
They're tipsy, but not too much. The drink of choice tonight is champagne and they haven't really gotten into it yet, just waiting for the ball to drop. The t.v. is on mute, but the celebration in Times Square looks as crowded and extravagant as ever.
"Bahorel knows, and he's never stolen your utensils," he points out, instead of acknowledging the fluttering tremor in his throat. It's easier. Grantaire is watching him oddly now, not in a bad way, but…
"He wouldn't. He knows I could kick his ass. We used to box," he says without even a smirk. Forever refusing to be proud of his own accomplishments. Enjolras tries to contain a frown, but from the curious look on R's face, he's not entirely successful.
He chooses that moment to slip off of the couch cushion that he's been perched on all evening and fall gracelessly to the floor, half in Grantaire's lap. The flush he can feel climbing his neck is worth the way Grantaire's hand comes to rest at the small of his back.
"Sorry," he manages, but he doesn't try to pull away. The discussion is already fleeing his mind in favor of all of those pleasant, trembly little signals. "Um."
The countdown flashes on the screen, but neither of them pay any attention.
Grantaire is looking at him, in that way he used to sometimes catch him doing at the café. Except this time it's more human, and he understands it without really understanding it, and their faces are incredibly, uncomfortably close.
He swallows, wide-eyed, wondering if he should pull back.
"Don't you dare," R breathes, and his eyes are just as wide, and Enjolras leans in that extra inch and a half and their lips are nearly brushing now.
Grantaire shifts slightly as if to make room in his lap, and the t.v. suddenly bursts into sound. "Damn it!" he curses, fumbling for the remote under his ass. Enjolras can't stop laughing, almost hysterical, and it doesn't even cross his mind that the moment might be ruined.
Even if it were, there was always next week. The week after that.
"Where were we," Grantaire mutters, half-smiling sheepishly when he's managed to find the mute button again. Enjolras reaches up and hooks his arms around his neck, smiling lazily the way he only ever dares to in Grantaire's company.
He could definitely get used to this – this – having a best friend thing, or whatever it was.
In fact, he already has.