Hey!

Back again, with the third chapter. More author's notes at the end, but all I'll say is that this was definitely one of the more fun chapters to write.

Thanks for reading!

B

Chapter Three

It was lunch time, which meant there were only three hours left of school. Enjolras didn't really care about that, but he did care that it meant there were only eight hours until he could see Grantaire

He sighed.

Today was Tuesday. It had been two days since the first window-climbing meeting—since the first "Guy Date," Enjolras thought with a cringe.

Last night, Monday night, Enjolras had spent pacing anxiously in his room until Grantaire had finally arrived. Thoughts of worry and self-doubt had flooded his mind—

What if he only said yes to be nice?

Maybe it was all some kind of cruel joke arranged by Patron-Minette?

If not, did he just scare him off himself?

Until finally eight o'clock came, and, seven minutes later, so did Grantaire.

Enjolras had watched as Grantaire had thrown open his curtains, saw how he smiled when he saw Enjolras waiting for him. He had lifted up the thick glass, and called out cheerfully, "So, a good day, or should I bring my paints?"

His breath caught in his throat—Grantaire actually wanted to see him—but that constant anxious knot in his stomach loosened. Enjolras loved the way his nerves burned away like kindling in a fire when Grantaire was around.

"The paints may be worthwhile, we're still causing some tsunami sized waves over there."

He saw Grantaire disappear for a moment, then reappear and he tossed an easel, a set of watercolours, and brushes through their open windows. They landed at Enjolras' feet with a thud.

The boy clambered in, face flushed pink with colour at the cold outside, curls falling in his face.

It was easy, he had decided, to forget it was winter when he felt like summer inside.

He chalked this new sappiness up to the power of new friends.

"Don't tell me they're so desperate for gossip that we're still the biggest story over there," Grantaire mock pleaded as he plunked down on the floor to set up his paints.

"I think we'll be the biggest gossip for a while yet. Montparnasse—he's the one that sold you the booze—" he filled in, "has been milking this for all it's worth. So far I've been asked if I was disarming a bomb you had on you, if you and I were fighting over a girl, and last but not least, if we were online lovers finally met."

Enjolras blushed a bit at that last one—he hadn't planned on telling him that—but Grantaire seemed to find the whole thing absolutely hilarious.

They had talked for so long—about who Enjolras was, about who Grantaire was, about their school and Grantaire's old ones, about the differences between America and France, about their art. And when they finally exhausted all that, they drew and they played.

This time was so much easier than the first time; he knew it was silly, but he felt as though he already knew this boy better. It seemed so needless, his nerves the other night. Grantaire was just so easy to talk to, that everything he was thinking would slip out of his mouth, filterless. Enjolras didn't even care. He knew he wouldn't be judged.

Right before Grantaire left that night, bordering on eleven o'clock, Enjolras asked if he could see what he had drawn. He complied, passing over the easel.

As Enjolras studied the painting, he could feel Grantaire's eyes on him—gauging his reaction?

Again, what this boy had created was beautiful. The colours were dark and intense, light and mild, their contrast strong and sure. This time, it wasn't of much at all—where last time his drawing had been of Enjolras' feet, this time it seemed to be the open lid of Patrie. Her open lid, and the window behind it.

When he was finally done, he handed the painting back over to it's artist.

"I really can't believe you're self-taught, it's just so…" He trailed off.

"Yeah, well, you're not too bad yourself," Grantaire said, nodding towards the piano. He had seemed embarrassed at the compliment, though. His cheeks and ears were tinged with pink, and he ducked his head, curls falling in his face.

He was smiling at the memory, and he could feel a faint flush creeping up from underneath his collar. Probably, he reasoned, from how hot this damned cafeteria was.

Suddenly, from across the overcrowded room, he heard an angry:

"Enjolras, you piece of sh—"

"Language, Courf," cut off a second, calmer voice.

Enjolras' head snapped up at the sound of his name. It was Courfeyrac and Combeferre, the former storming over to him, cafeteria food tray in hand, while the latter was tugging on his shirt, in a vain attempt to slow him down.

Combeferre smiled apologetically at him, while trying to balance a salad and apple on his tray.

Courfeyrac stormed over, almost slamming his food on Enjolras' table, Combeferre wincing at the outburst. Everytime he saw these two, he was reminded how true the saying "opposites attract" really was. Courf was always like this: big and loud and dramatic, holding the attention of all. Ferre, on the other hand, was mild and quiet, the cool water to douse Courf's fiery tempers.

But even Ferre couldn't stop Courf when he got like this; when he was directing his inferno of a - on someone.

And right now, that "someone" was Enjolras.

"'Yeah Courf, don't worry,'" Courf mimicked. "'I'll keep you updated on news about the cute new American boy I've just been suspended with.'''

Enjolras groaned as he remembered his broken promise. "God, I'm really sorry, I completely forgot." He saw his friend's glowering face and tried to add, "Time got away from me?"

"Enjy, you were on an out of school suspension! You had nothing but time, don't give me that bull."

"Oh," he smiled sheepishly. "Right. Sorry?"

"It's fine." He said, his scowl softening slightly. "You can make it up to me by giving us," he wrapped an arm around a food-engrossed Combeferre, "the full story. Nothing omitted."

Enjolras picked up an apple from his tray, and munched on it as he filled them in on what happened: from the cringe-worthy walk back, to the heated fight from their windows, to finding Grantaire in his room.

When he got to the part where he had suggested a "Guy Date," even Combeferre shook his head sadly.

"Oh my God Enjy, you can't take a hint, can you?" Cringed Courfeyrac.

Enjolras looked at them, bewildered and indignant. "What's that supposed to mean?!" Courf shrugged, and Ferre seemed suddenly quite interested in his salad.

At the end of his story, Courfeyrac had stood up.

"Enjolras, you may be the most clueless, dense genius I've ever met. Unfortunately though, I have a history test to study for, and can't hyper-analyze this situation just yet—but don't worry, cause that's gonna happen. Combeferre, coming?"

"Yeah, I'll be there. Start without me, I'll only be a second," his boyfriend murmured. A look passed between the two, one Enjolras couldn't interpret.

"Alright, I'll get the flashcards ready." Then he turned and mocked-whispered to Enjolras, "What fun!"

Combeferre chuckled softly as he watched Courfeyrac saunter out of the cafeteria. He closed his empty salad container and turned back to Enjolras.

"Enj," he started, gently, as though not to scare him off. "I just want you to know, based upon what you've told us today, I think this guy might be into you."

It took Enjolras a moment to digest what that meant. "You mean like…"

Combeferre nodded solemnly.

"W-What would have given you that impression?" He asked, a bit shocked.

Combeferre gave a sort of sigh. "I mean, the way he talks to you, the way he forgave you, and, God Enjy, you guys meet in secret at night."

"Okay, twice."

"You're planning on doing it again, aren't you? Besides, he thought you were asking him out on a date. A date, Enjolras."

"That's hardly feasible—"

"All I'm saying, Enjolras, is I want you to be aware. I don't want you to accidentally lead him on—being straight, you know."

Enjolras struggled for words. "Yeah, I'm straight. Of course. But I think you're wrong, Ferre. We're just two platonically interested guys. There's nothing—nothing…"

"Gay?"

"...Yeah," he finished lamely.

"Alright, Enjolras. Just wanted to let you know." He stood up, throwing out his trash in the nearest bin. "I've got to go help Courf study. Text me later?"

"Yeah, I'll message you," he said, not realizing he was already alone again.

It was 7:34.

If Enjolras was buzzing at lunch time, he was practically vibrating with excitement by the time supper rolled around. His family, judging by Cosette's exasperated sighs and his father's deepening frown, was less than amused.

His father was at the head of the table, his sister on his left, and his own spot was on his right. Before him sat an almost untouched plate of spaghetti. His father had cooked it, so he knew it would be good, but he had too much nervous energy inside to be hungry.

He was bouncing his knee, rapping his knuckles on the table, humming some made up tune, and thinking. Those traitorous, anxious thoughts from earlier were back.

What if Grantaire won't show up tonight?

What if he bored him?

What if he was late to their meeting?

What if—

"Le bon Dieu Enjolras, Cosette growled, slamming his hands against the table with the flat of her fork." I swear I'm going to tranquilize you."

He looked up in surprise. "What?" His sister did not frustrate easily, especially when she was still trying to butter him up to get Pontmercy's number.

His father shook his head. "Me donner la patience," he prayed, closing his eyes and tilting his head up. Looking back down at his son, he snapped out, "'What?' What do you mean, 'what?!'"

"Papa," his sister tried to interject.

"Non, Cosette. You were suspended, Enjolras. For punching someone. I will always support you, you know this. But this…" He trailed off. "I don't understand it."

Enjolras stared down at his soup.

"I didn't raise a son like this. Not someone who hurts others, who's disrespectful to his professors or classmates or family. I honestly don't know what it is I've done to anger you so, but…" His brow furrowed as he regarded Enjolras with an indescribable look—anger, hurt, resentment, or maybe disappointment?

"This isn't you, Enjolras."

Angrily, he looked up at the both of them. Their concerned, patronizing frowns only served to enrage him further. Why did they think they had the right to ask these sorts of things?

They didn't care about him; not really. They didn't know about his life. As far as they were concerned, Enjolras was still the popular boy at school. They didn't know about anything—not Les Amis or Patron-Minette, not Troye and Simon, and certainly not about the boy next door.

Not about Grantaire.

But yeah, the one time he messes up they decide to care.

"How would you even know who I am?" He asked, his hands clenched tightly by his sides.

"Enjolras," his father warned, but he ignored him. His sister opened her mouth, but he cut her off without a second thought.

He laughed bitterly. "Neither of you know me at all."

He pushed back his chair, looking at them with scorn, with contempt. He hoped they would understand what he meant—hoped they'd finally be looking. He turned to storm out of the room.

As he thundered up the stairs, he heard his sister call, "You're such un connard, Enjy!"

When he got up to his room, he slammed the door behind him. Sliding down it to sit down on the floor, he ran a hand through his hair.

He gave himself time to cool off. He knew he was like this—get him angry, and he'd explode without disregard for who was getting caught in the blast.

His temper subdued, and he worked on massaging his hands out of the tight fists he'd pressed them into. Now that his more passionate emotions were dying off again, he could feel that familiar, normal knot return back to his stomach, the stutter come back to his tongue—his anxiety.

Sometimes, he just wished he could be angry more often; it was better than always being so damn anxious. Because, wasn't it such a joke? He was a leader—or, in his mind, a revolutionary—who couldn't argue with his own family without scaring himself.

He didn't really mean what he had said—he knew everything his father did for him and Cosette, and what she did for him, too. He was being an ingrate, an entitled grazer, a—

And then he saw Grantaire.

Sitting on his windowsill, one leg in the room, the other dangling out in the cold night air. His purple beanie that normally sat just far enough down to control his wild curls was now pulled to cover his now presumably cold ears.

And he was watching Enjolras.

"Bad day?" His mouth quirked up, but he could hear the genuine concern in his voice, could see the way his eyes had widened when he saw the state he was in.

Enjolras scrambled up, and cleared his throat hastily. "Uh, yeah. I guess. Fight with the family." He realized how awkward he was, raising his voice so Grantaire could hear him across the long room.

He closed the distance between them, offering his hand to Grantaire. He looked up at him, and clasped his hand in his. Arching an eyebrow, he swung his legs into the room.

Quickly, Enjolras dropped his hand. He was excited to see him again—to finally see him again—but Combeferre's words from earlier echoed in his mind.

It's not that he would particularly care if Grantaire was gay, but… He almost felt he should know.

And maybe that was homophobia—some deep, dark, conditioned part of him he had desperately tried to teach himself to unlearn—that was still there.

But now that he thought of it, had he really tried to unlearn?

Of course, when Courfeyrac had come out to him, he had been thrilled. After all, his best friend had found someone he loved so much that he was willing to come out to his all friends, schoolmates, and family for—how could he not be happy for him?

And then when he had branched out and met more of Les Amis, he had been perfectly happy to hear of their diverse sexualities and genders as well. Musichetta, Bossuet, Joly, Feuilly, Jehan, Azelma and Éponine...

So why was this different?

It's because it's affecting you for the first time, a little voice in the back of his mind whispered. Because you're seeing yourself as queer for the first time.

Not that he himself was. He was fairly sure he wasn't. It was just… There was the idea that someone potentially queer had a crush on him. The idea that he was being seen as not straight. That was what was different, what made him uncomfortable.

If that made any sense.

He was certain, though, there would be only one way to figure this out.

He had to ask Grantaire himself.

It so wasn't any of his business, and he would be completely within his rights to not tell him, but… He was quite sure that was the only way to keep this awkwardness from getting between them—to have everything out there. Nothing secret.

Grantaire was probably straight, anyway. He was probably reading way too much into this, and he probably thought Enjolras was just being terribly rude.

"Grantaire," he began, carefully. He played with his hands as he spoke, twisting and looping and folding. "I just had a question for you—"

"God I'm such an idiot!" The boy suddenly chastised himself, dramatically rolling his eyes.

Enjolras blinked. "You are?"

"Of course!" He said, making his way back out the window. "Where are my supplies, right?"

"Uh…" Enjolras trailed off.

"I'll just be one second."

A few moments later, Grantaire was scrambling back in the window, looking a bit out of breath.

"I was thinking pastels tonight, if you don't mind."

"Well actually…"

Grantaire stopped and looked up in confusion. "No pastels?"

Enjolras shook his head. "No, no the pastels are fine. I just had a question for you."

Finally noticing Enjolras's somber mood, Grantaire put down his art supplies. He sat down on the sill, crossed his legs, and fixed his beanie a bit. He looked at Enjolras for a long while, almost as if to judge the gravity of the situation, but the scrutiny in his gaze made Enjolras squirm uncomfortably.

"Alright then," he finally said, "what is it you want to ask me?"

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

"I mean—well, I just wanted to know," he fumbled.

Rap rap rap.

Three sharp knocks on the door, followed by a shrill voice he knew his sister only used when she was very cross with someone.

"Enjolras, open the goddamn door!"

His eyes widened, and he could see Grantaire's do the same.

"You mean your family's still here?" He hissed.

"Yours isn't?" Enjolras asked defensively. "You've gotta hide!"

He turned to the window, but Enjolras grabbed his wrist. "No time!"

"Enjolras!" His sister warned.

He motioned wildly for Grantaire to hide behind the bed. Shooting one last look at Enjolras, he dove behind it.

The door flew open just a second late, and Enjolras blew out an inward sigh of relief.

There, in the doorframe, stood Cosette, in all her fluffy, pink, highheeled glory. She took two steps forward, and shut the door firmly behind her.

"You, dear brother, have been a complete—."

In that moment, Enjolras was glad Grantaire couldn't understand French.

"What do you want, Cosette?" He asked, eyes flicking down to where Grantaire was hidden.

She laughed. "Please, Enjolras. 'How would either of you know who I am'?! How about: because we're your family!"

He looked down, but couldn't meet Grantaire's gaze.

"Yeah, that's right," she said. "Literally your only family. You think Papa deserves that Deserves what you said to him down there?"

"I didn't mean—" He mumbled.

"Yeah, you did. You might regret it now, but I know you meant every word you said."

She took a few more steps towards him, and he was struck again by how confidently and sure she was, how she seemed so beyond her young years. "I know we aren't the closest family, Enjy. But we're both here for you."

"You obviously are going through some tough times right now, and I guess I can understand that. It's why I've been trying to give you a bit more space lately."

He looked up at her, eyes hardening again. "And Papa?"

She thought about it, then carefully said, "You know Papa has a hard time with… things, Enjolras. You can't blame him for that."

He did know. He knew that, in those years before his adoption, Jean had become fiercely protective of Cosette. So much so that when Enjolras was introduced to their family, he's had a very difficult time adjusting to his presence.

Neither of them spoke of what had happened back then; all he knew was that Cosette was the reason their father had gone back to school to become a social worker in child services.

Maybe that was why Enjolras had always felt so detached from his family—he loved them, and he knew he was loved, but it would never be as much. It was Cosette, Jean and Enjolras, as an afterthought.

"Of course not," he muttered.

Cosette and their father and Combeferre and Courfeyrac and Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta and and and. This list went on.

Sure, he might be the leader, the guide. But he was leading people who already lead each other. As much as it hurt to admit it, none of them needed him as much as he needed them.

Least of all Jean and Cosette.

"Hey," his sister said. "I know what you're thinking, and that's not what I meant."

He just looked away.

She searched his face for a recognizable emotion, but found nothing as she turned on her heel. "Whatever. Sulk all you like. You do owe him an apology, though Enjy."

She was almost at the door when he saw her bend down to pick something up.

"I guess we really don't know anything about you, E. How long have you been doing art?" She asked, flipping a page.

Merde.

It was Grantaire's sketchbook. And Cosette was looking through it.

"This is actually really good. Damn," she whistled.

A frantic sounding bump came from underneath the bed.

"Don't look—that's not yours, I mean—just stop—" he stuttered out.

She turned back to him, and he saw her eyes soften a bit. "Yeah, sorry. You're right. It's, pretty good though." She blew some hair out of her face. "A bit self-obsessed, but still good."

He snatched it from her hands, and she backed off.

"Don't forget that apology, Enjolras," she called to him, already gone.

Enjolras checked the hallway and closed the door, but still they waited a moment before emerging—listening until the click of Cosette's shoes were all but gone.

Grantaire stood up, brushing off his pants, and held out his hand.

"My sketchbook," he said, not meeting his eyes.

"R-right," he stammered, shoving the book into his arms with just a bit more force than necessary.

They both sort of stood there—Enjolras hating the way awkwardness and unsure words were slowly seeping back into their conversation.

"Listen," Grantaire sighed, finally matching his gaze again. "Tonight was a just a bit… I'll just need a bit of time, okay?"

Enjolras nodded his head vigorously, hoping desperately he didn't look as pathetic as he felt.

"You don't want to stay to paint, or play?" He asked, though already knowing the answer. To his embarrassment, he could feel his voice thickening.

Grantaire shook his head, looking back at the window. Silent,

"Yeah, that's fine—that's cool." He tried to say, as cheerfully as he could. "I'll see you tomorrow at school, then?"

Grantaire smiled a bit at that. "Yeah. See you tomorrow, Enjolras."

He made his way to the window again, for the fourth time that night. In his hands he clutched that sketchbook, and Enjolras assumed the pastels were still strewn somewhere in his room. He didn't tell him that, though.

Enjolras followed him to the sil, hands preparing to close the window behind Grantaire's lanky body.

But then they were face to face again, this time with the cold outside air between them. Grantaire's arms mimicked his own when he dropped them at his sides. They were silent for a moment—just studying each other in a rare moment of complete motionlessness.

Enjolras didn't know why they were just staying here like this—Grantaire said he'd wanted to go, and Enjolras still had this humiliating lump in his throat, and damn it was cold…

Finally, Grantaire seemed to give up. He tilted his head back and murmured something with closed eyes that Enjolras couldn't hear, before he was leaning a bit farther out the window. He braced himself on his forearms, and he couldn't help but study the muscle, the length of which was dotted with flecks of paint and charcoal.

"What was it you wanted to ask me, Enjolras?" Grantaire asked, softly. Neither of them could face the other squarely.

Enjolras's heart sped up. He couldn't tell him the truth now, could he?

"It was—it was nothing," he mumbled looking away quickly.

"Enjolras."

"I wanted—" he shoved the window farther up. "I just wanted to know if you…"

He nodded.

"If you were... gay."

At last, Grantaire looked at him. And looked at him. And looked at him. And Enjolras regretted ever opening his mouth.

Maybe it was hours, maybe minutes, maybe mere seconds, of silence. And then,

"Enjolras," Grantaire whispered.

He couldn't even meet his eyes. How had he ever thought asking him something like that was okay? It was none of his business, he had no right. And now Grantaire probably thought he was horrible and homophobic and he probably never wanted to talk to him again and hated his guts and—

Grantaire's hand reached out and caught Enjolras's chin, meeting his gaze with equal parts determination and exasperation in his dark brown eyes. His ever present hint of a smile was gone now, replaced with a kind of somberness Enjolras had never seen.

Grantaire's thumb grazed down the side of his head until both hands reached his collar, their faces drifting oh-so dangerously closer together. Enjolras was perfectly still, feeling as though he couldn't breath.

Grantaire looked him steadily in his eyes, pulling him ever closer by his collar. His heart hammered wildly in his chest.

What was happening?!

Their lips danced just outside of each other's, teasing the other with their labored breathes. "Yes?" Grantaire asked him, gruffly.

Enjolras knew exactly what he wanted to know. It took a moment for him to form the thought—to remember how to speak. Finally,

"Yes," Enjolras breathed.

As soon as the words left his lips, Grantaire's mouth crashed down on his. His lips were hot and warm, but his skin was cold, and the way he was pulling Enjolras against the windowsill hurt, but he didn't care.

Because Grantaire was kissing him.

And he was kissing Grantaire back.

Enjolras had never kissed anyone before, but the way his head tilted and shifted, the way his hands traveled to lose themselves in the boy's curls and across the expanse of his strong shoulders, the way Grantaire kept pulling them closer and closer together, as if afraid of ever letting him go—it felt natural. It felt right.

Grantaire let out a sound that sounded like a mixture of a relieved laugh and a soft moan, and Enjolras gripped his hair tighter in return.

Enjolras could feel the energy of the kiss in the same way he could feel the emotions of his piano—in the way his whole body seemed to sing in harmony, how his heart beat faster, how the rest of the world simply seemed to melt away, because nothing—nothing—had ever been this important.

He had never felt more alive in his life.

This was what people write novels and plays; what inspired thousands upon thousands of poems and songs. This.

He could feel it, just under his skin. The wild thoughts, the hundreds of beats and strokes and notes—an entire composition lay just beneath the surface.

This was what Enjolras could compose. Something impossible to define by words, something both so simple and infinitely intricate.

This.

Alrightly, there was chapter three! The kiss was honestly so much fun the write, (shoutout to the 2006 OBC of Spring Awakening for making my playlist way more relevant.)

Oh, thanks too to some people I know in the /real world/ for the hypermotivation. (Read: "is it updated?") You know who you are.

See you soon!

- B