"Courf, how did you know you liked Jehan?"
Coufeyrac, taken by surprise, leapt up like an indignant salmon. "Good Lord, hello. Where did you come from?"
Grantaire sat heavily down next to him, half-heartedly trying to read his book over his shoulder. "Just answer me."
"Oh God, I don't know." He took off his reading glasses and folded them in his lap. "How can't you like him though? Really? He's just so… I don't know. He's all, 'Hey I'm Jehan, I spell my name with a random 'h' because why the fuck not and I walk around barefoot and tie ribbons round my ankles and if you mess with me I'll claw your face off'. I need that in my life, you know?"
Grantaire thought that he might just a bit know. "No offence, but you used to sleep with everyone."
"Dude, seriously, I don't take that as offence."
"Yeah, I know, but now you're like…. yeah."
Courfeyrac looked at him. "I could swear you write essays for a living. I was looking for someone. I found them."
"You're completely lovesick, you know."
"I know."
They sat in silence for a while.
"I think you should get back. You'll miss Enjolras."
"Yeah, well."
Courfeyrac put his book down ('Genome - autobiography of a species', how fucking thrilling) and managed to compact a very long look into a very short amount of time. "What's going on with you two?"
"Nothing's going on with us two. We're both wankers who make life difficult for each other."
"You're forces of nature, both of you."
"You've been hanging out with Jehan too long."
"If I'd been hanging out with Jehan too long I'd say it was interesting that you were referring to yourself and Enj in terms of a sexual verb, but I'm not, am I? You've been on your own too long. You've changed. No, no, not in a bad way," he said, pre-emptively well quelling some sort fo spout of indignation. "You've just … changed. You used to paint all the time, remember?"
"There's more to life than daubing wretched little pictures, Courf."
Courfeyrac carried on regardless. "But you don't any more. Remember when I was freaking out and about to drop out of school, and you were the one that persuaded me not to? And now I'm here, and it's all because of you. You always used to believe in other people, but that's easy. Sooner or later, you have to believe in yourself, too. Because that's what growing up is. It's becoming who you want to be. You have to try."
"… you did fucking not just quote The Muppets at me."
"Listen to me. Listen to you. No, listen to me again. I had the time of my fucking life trying to get His Nibs to agree to apologise about flipping out about you yesterday, and if you're not in your room when I told him you'd be in your room he might shout at me and I don't want that because it's fucking terrifying."
"We've got the best friends, haven't we?"
"And the weird-ass fucking names to prove it. Who the shit calls a kid Marius. Now go."
Grantaire's breath caught.
Now.
"Courfeyrac. I-"
He'd gone back to his book. "I know where you sleep, you mardy twat."
"…okay."
He folded himself back up and walked back towards the Castle.
Enjolras was there. In his room.
Looking at things.
He picked up a packet of Rizlas and gave them a meaningful stare. "You don't want to use these."
"Oh, what the fuck is wrong with them?"
"The lack of perforations for aeration makes inhalation more irritating."
Grantaire put a hand on his hip. "You can geek the fuck out about anything, can't you?"
Enjolras looked up. "Courf said you'd be here."
"Well, I wasn't."
"I know that."
His jumper was hitched and showing his a biteable shoulder; there was some stray hair that Grantaire longed to touch back. Let me, let me, let me.
"Courfeyrac says you were… upset by my conduct." He glanced up, catching Grantaire's eye, looking thoroughly Greek. Then he lifted his head, jutted his jaw and recited by heart; "I'd like you to know that I acted irrationally and without thought, motivated by the selfish desire to justify my own mistakes to myself. It was wrong of me and I'm sorry you got hurt. "
Grantaire leaned against his doorframe. "You forgot the bit about wandering in here and criticising stuff."
Enjolras looked down and coloured. "Your door was open."
"That wasn't really an invitation to come the fuck in."
"I'm sorry." He looked up again. "I hope this makes things okay between us. I wouldn't very much like to think that you were cross with me."
"Yeah, whatever." Grantaire crossed the room to his bookcase. "Drink?"
"It's four o'clock in the afternoon!"
"We're students."
Enjolras tentatively stood behind him, not quite sure what to do with his hands. "What is that?"
"Blueberry vodka."
"It's not blue."
"Well duh. It's vodka."
"Well I don't know if it's meant to be blue or not" said Enjolras hotly. "I don't think I will. Is it okay if I smoke, though?"
Grantaire turned around with a lid in one hand, an open bottle in the other and a face that fould be texted as wtf.
"I didn't have you down as a smoker."
"It's all natural."
"I didn't have you down as a druggie."
"I'm not." He fished a small packet out of his jeans and held it out to Grantaire, showing a light, cat clean papercut on his wrist. He never took care of himself. "Tea leaves, lavender and orange peel."
"Oh."
He smiled gently, took out rolling paper and turned away. Grantaire caught the soft gleam of his tongue, running along the edge. Some of his filling caught on it and he scraped it off on his bottom teeth, thinking no-one could see.
Grantaire put his bottle down and moved to the window.
"…can I have one of your Communist cigarettes?"
Enjolras turned. There were freckles on his face that he'd never been close enough to see before; dusted across, like chocolate powder. He looked soft, he looked gentle, he looked nuzzleable. There was something inside Grantaire like a tightly wound spring; touch him, touch him, touch him. He'd be so soft. But instead he tensed and waited for the rebuttal.
When there was none, not even the cutting explanatory remark about the difference between being a Marxist and being a social justicesar, he looked over. Instead, there was a delicately extended hand with strokeable knuckles.
"Share mine."
He took it gently. It was warm and slightly damp from his mouth.
His mouth has been here.
His mouth has been here.
His mouth has been here.