Grantaire

Grantaire was waiting in a queue to enter the SECC precinct and couldn't ever remember being this nervous. Not even for his first boxing fight, back when he was 14. Nope, this was wayyyy scarier. More terrifying even, than having Enjolras come and see him box yesterday evening. That he could handle, he was doing something he was good at, probably the only thing he was any good at-apart from drinking although he'd had to quit since he went serious about boxing- so yeah, boxing was about the only Grantaire was good at. And really, he hadn't thought much about Enjolras last night anyway, he'd been focused on the task at hand, which had been punching the crap out of his opponent. He couldn't afford to be thinking about very attractive guys watching him; Feuilly wouldn't let him for one thing. Grantaire told Feuilly everything and whilst he hadn't mentioned that Enjolras had been in the audience, he had told his trainer why he'd been so late off his warm-up run the other day. Feuilly had then told him in no uncertain terms that if he was going to let his head get turned by someone- be it a hot girl or hot boy then Grantaire could throw in the towel there and then. There was no room for 'squishiness' in Feuilly's boxing ring as he called it. Grantaire respected his trainer's rules, he really did, only he didn't respect them enough to stay away from Enjolras. Enjolras was like a sun, burning hot and bright and Grantaire was a comet, a crude, cold lump of metal and rock that was drawn into orbit around him. In short, nothing was going to keep Grantaire away from the gymnastics hall that evening, but it did mean his nerves were shot.

He didn't know what he was anxious about really, it was partly the anticipation of seeing Enjolras, seeing him compete and then a bit of worry about how good Enjolras was. Because, thought Grantaire, if he's any good then I probably won't be able to handle it and it might be the death of me.

'Relax mate you're too wound up, I can see the tension in your shoulders through your hoodie.' Bahorel was stood behind him in the queue; Grantaire didn't know why he'd brought him along. Oh yeah, because I might just die tonight, and I'll need someone to heft my corpse out of the building, thought Grantaire.

They flashed their athlete passes to the door stewards and were waved through into the gymnastic arena. It was a large space with high ceilings and a complex looking layout where all the different apparatus were laid out in the middle of the hall. It was a far cry from the dark, close, boxing hall.

'Woah' exclaimed Bahorel at Grantaire's side, 'Look at this set up! It's fucking huge. Where are we supposed to sit?'

Grantaire fumbled for his phone in his hoodie pocket before drawing it out. He quickly brought up the message he'd received from Courfeyrac earlier. 'We can either sit by the pommel horse or by the floor section' he said to Bahorel 'as those are where the team put in strong performances.'

'Cool' nodded Bahorel, 'Only what the fuck is a pommel horse?'

'I think it's that thing over there' pointed Grantaire. Bahorel looked very sceptical, but the two of them meandered their way down to a pair of seats near to the funny-looking bench thing with handles.

'So this Courfeyrac bloke' started Bahorel once they'd settled in their seats, 'how do you know him again?'

'I told you, I ran into him whilst I was doing my warm-ups days before yesterday' replied Grantaire, 'him and his teammates were all doing their warm-ups and we just got talking.'

'Is Courfeyrac the one you like?' asked Bahorel.

'No' said Grantaire.

'Ah, so is he fair game then?'

'I suppose...' answered Grantaire.

'Can you ask him if he's single?'

'What?! No! exclaimed Grantaire, 'besides, they're on in 15 minutes'

'Awww come on mate' whined Bahorel. Grantaire hated it when Bahorel whined, it meant he had to do whatever Bahorel wanted because the next stage after whining was threatening…with fists. And although Grantaire was a pretty decent boxer, Bahorel was a heavyweight and could literally crush his skull between his hands.

'Fine but you won't get an answer' he grumbled, sending off a quick text to Courfeyrac.

G: Bahorel wants to know if you're single

He showed his text to Bahorel then hit send. He put his phone in his pocket because he wasn't expecting a reply as Courfeyrac was probably doing warm-ups or stretches or whatever it was the gymnasts did to prepare for their event Grantaire usually listened to music to get him revved up. Oh God, Enjolras is probably stretching right now, fuck, why did I have to think about that? Grantaire was now getting flashbacks from the other morning, seeing Enjolras's muscles ripple as he went through move by move. Oh Christ.

Grantaire was startled from his daydreaming by his phone buzzing in his pocket. It was less than half a minute since he'd sent that text to Courfeyrac and here was the reply already?….or replies as it seemed.

C: Why does he want to know?

C: I am by the way

C: ;)

'Ugh… right, here you go' said Grantaire thrusting his phone at Bahorel. Bahorel read the messages and grinned. 'Get in' he said. Grantaire just rolled his eyes.

'Can you just take his number from my phone so I don't have to read all the inevitable sordid texts between you two?'

'Yeah hang on, give me a sec' said Bahorel, his bulky fingers skimming across the screen as he typed out replies.

'What are you saying?' said Grantaire leaning over to try and read his own phone screen.

'I'm asking him what he looks like.' Bahorel showed Grantaire his message.

G: Heyyy, this is Bahorel, on R's phone, what do you look like? ;)

'The fuck?'

'Hey they all came and saw us last night, right? So he's seen me but I don't know what he looks like, I really hope he's not a bum.'

'He's alright.' shrugged Grantaire, 'all three of them were pretty ripped.'

'But you liked what'shisname right?'

'Enjolras,'

'Yeah him…hah look!' Bahorel laughed a deep booming laugh and showed Grantaire Courfeyrac's message on the screen.

C: I'm so fit, if I were someone else I'd probably want to fuck me

'Jesus Christ' swore Grantaire as he snatched the phone back from his sparring partner. 'I'm texting you his number, do not contaminate my phone any further please.'

'I like him' announced Bahorel.

'Well I'm glad for you,' said Grantaire, 'Wish I could say the same for Enjolras'

'But I thought you fancied him?'

Just then Grantaire's phone buzzed. A message had come through from Courfeyrac, only, when Grantaire opened it- with Bahorel leaning over to peek- it read:

C: This is Enjolras, I am confiscating Courfeyrac's phone, he needs to focus. Tell your friend to stop flirting with my teammate, he is not available for the duration of the competition.

'Fucking hell' breathed Bahorel, 'Why do you fancy him? Sounds like a wanker'

'He is a bit' said Grantaire screwing up his face, 'But he's so fucking attractive like you wouldn't believe.'

'He's just got a shit personality' Bahorel nodded knowingly, 'Mate I've been there, only thing to do is sleep with 'em and move on' he said matter-of-factly.

'I don't have a fucking chance in hell' groaned Grantaire, 'Did I tell you he doesn't think boxing is a real sport?'

'You did mate, several times' said Bahorel, 'That's why we're here isn't it? Part of the deal right? He comes and sees you compete, you go see him compete.'

'Yes, well, I'm probably going to get a lot more out of seeing Enjolras than him seeing me.'

'What do you mean?'

'Mate, have you seen what gymnasts do? And wear?'

'Nope' said Bahorel smirking, 'But I cannot wait.'

It was at that moment that all of the gymnastics teams competing in the 2014 Glasgow Commonwealth Games walked out into the arena. Everyone in the crowd cheered and clapped as the Scottish team entered the hall alongside the various commonwealth nations. There was going to be fierce competition between the Scottish and English teams and the partisan spectators wanted to make their views known.

After the team announcements the groups of gymnasts all moved around to the various sections of the hall where they would be starting their bids for medals on different apparatus.

The English team would be starting on the vault which was diagonally across from where Grantaire and Bahorel were sitting. It wasn't the best view but Grantaire was able to point out Courfeyrac for Bahorel, whose smile just got wider and wider the more he stared. And then Grantaire pointed to Enjolras and Bahorel just whistled, 'Phew mate, you don't aim low do you?'

'Thanks for that, thanks a lot' said Grantaire sarcastically. He knew very well that Enjolras was way out of his league, but he didn't need people to say it out loud.

Enjolras was first up. He stood at the end of the runway in a tight vest and shorts. Short shorts, the sort of shorts athletes used to wear in the 80's. The ones that rode up at the sides when you did any sort of movement; the ones which showed an illegal amount of thigh on a man.

'Oh fuck' groaned Grantaire, hands over his face but fingers splayed so he could still see; he couldn't look away. 'Fucking, fuck, fuck, fuck.'

'Good use of vocab' said Bahorel smirking and elbowing Grantaire in the ribs.

'Shut the fuck up. I'm trying to watch.'

Enjolras began his run. He ran at full pelt down the runway, jumped onto the springboard, planted his hands firmly onto the vault and launched into the air. He twisted, somersaulted and flipped into the air before landing, perfect on the line, on two feet, stretched up and presented his arms high. Triumphant. A fantastic opening.

'He's good' said Bahorel stating the obvious.

'Oh god this is unbearable.' said Grantaire, 'Why am I even here, he's so brilliant, I must look like an absolute sack of spuds in comparison.'

'Hey don't sell yourself short' protested Bahorel, 'You're an alright-looking, foul mouthed sack of spuds that can swing an almighty left hook.' He threw his head back and laughed at his own joke. This resulted in some hisses and shushes from fellow spectators, but Grantaire's best friend didn't care, and who was going to tell him to shut up? A braver man than me, thought Grantaire.

Next up was Combeferre, he ran and executed an almost equally impressive vault as Enjolras, his finish precise and calm. Finally, the third member of the English gymnastics team, Courfeyrac ran and only just managed to complete a flourishing vault, landing on both feet but having to take a large step back. He raised his arms with a sweep however and grinned to the audience and waved as he stepped down from the platform. It was clear that the English team were setting out to dominate the Commonwealth gymnastics team finals.

There was a bit of a break as the other teams attempted the vault, the Scottish guys looking the most threatening putting in strong performances. Then there was an interlude as the teams all marched around the hall to the next piece of apparatus. Bahorel and Grantaire looked on in amazement.

'This is hilarious' said Bahorel 'they're practically prancing around the hall in formation. Christ, imagine if we did that'

'Feuilly'd have an aneurism' stated Grantaire watching Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac strut across to the rings.

The rings were a brutal piece of apparatus. Two hoops suspended on ropes from which the guys hung and had to use all upper body strength to perform complicated swings and holds. Even Bahorel was impressed as the three English men performed routines which looked easy but in reality were almost impossible to achieve. Combeferre achieved the highest score out of everyone, securing England's place in the lead. Grantaire had been too nervous watching Enjolras during the rings to think about how attracted he was to him. Despite his teasing to Enjolras a few days ago when he'd said that gymnastics was poncy posturing, it had all gone out of the window now and Grantaire could only watch Enjolras's muscles tense and strain during the rings and hope that his core strength and determination didn't give way- it was a long drop down. Enjolras was nothing but not determined and so he had completed the routine and landed solidly but it was without and flourish or finesse; it was clearly a taxing apparatus. Courfeyrac was the weakest of the three and performed a safer, simpler routine and managed to land it fairly well, a step to the side was all.

'Mate, I don't think I'd even be able to just hang from those rings, let alone do tricks on them' stated Bahorel.

'Yeah, I'm impressed' agreed Grantaire. The gymnasts were now all moving onto their next rotation of apparatus and this time it was the pommel horse; directly in front of where they were sitting. Courfeyrac looked up into the stands and spotted them, he waved enthusiastically, nudging Combeferre and Enjolras. Combeferre waved and gave a thumbs up to them, Enjolras merely glanced up, met Grantaire's eyes then looked away; aloof.

'What a wanker' whispered Bahorel who at the same time was gesturing 'call me' with his hands to Courfeyrac.

'He's a beautiful wanker though' sighed Grantaire. He was so fucked. Enjolras had changed into a pair of gym trousers which were loose and tight all at the same time. The ends hooked over his feet and when he pointed his toes the material went taught over all of the right, but so very wrong places.

'Oh fuck'

'You've just noticed the leggings?' asked Bahorel. 'They were all wearing them during the rings!'

'Well I had other things on my mind then' hissed Grantaire, 'Mainly praying that Enjolras wasn't going to fall and go splat on the floor, besides, they were all the way across the hall then. Now I'm front row to a very attractive man wearing very tight clothing, doing some sort of routine on a bench… with handles.'

'That sounds so wrong' pointed out his best friend. Grantaire could only groan.

Combeferre was up first for the English team and put in a solid performance, despite a couple of wobbles. Courfeyrac went second with a high complexity routine performed with what Grantaire could now see was his signature flair, he finished well and raised his hands high in the air to finish, then blew a kiss to Bahorel, who metaphorically snatched it out of the air and rubbed it onto his crotch.

'Jesus Bahorel!' yelped Grantaire 'You do know this event is being filmed on the BBC? You can't do stuff like that pre-watershed!'

'Oh stop it, you're too wound up, look your loverboy's up next' said Bahorel successfully distracting Grantaire who's head spun around so fast he thought he'd cricked something.

Enjolras stepped up onto the platform and hopped up next to the pommel horse. He grasped the two handles carefully, then his grip tightened as he swept himself up into the routine. Grantaire tried not to think of those hands grasping other things as he slowly became mesmerised by Enjolras's routine. It was quite hypnotic how he swung his legs up high, weaving over the pommel then sweeping low down the sides, never touching the apparatus. His hands beat out a rhythm on the leather as he travelled up and down the length of the pommel. He rotated around and around, intertwining figures of eight with 360 degree turns of his body, sometimes his legs followed him, sometimes they countered him. Sometimes his feet were glued together, other times they were wide, wide apart as his thighs stretched opposite to one another. Grantaire gulped, he needed to look away, this was too arousing, but he couldn't do anything but stare, transfixed. Too soon Enjolras was winding it up, legs swinging high into the air and he landed with a solid thud. Perfect landing, perfect performance and he knew it. His golden head lifted high as he stretch his arms high in the air to finish. Courfeyrac was wooping, Combeferre was clapping, even Bahorel was hollering next to him. Grantaire was aware that he had become quite uncomfortable in his jeans but that didn't stop him bringing his right hand up and, when Enjolras looked up into the stands directly at him, Grantaire saluted in response.

Enjolras looked shocked for a moment until Courfeyrac practically jumped on his shoulders in a tight embrace. Then a small smile, clearly only reserved for his friends broke out on that marble face.

'I don't even know why that was good, but that looked amazing!' cried Bahorel, clapping Grantaire on the back. 'You alright mate?'

'I'm great' said Grantaire through gritted teeth.

'Not sitting very comfortably I bet' Bahorel laughed, grabbing Grantaire's shoulders and shaking him.

'Oh fuck off' said Grantaire huffily as he extricated himself from Bahorel's gorilla arms. The teams were now moving onto their next rotation. It was the parallel bars, which was further around the hall from where Grantaire and his sparring partner were sitting. They didn't have a very good view of this piece; the angle was wrong to see the moves correctly. Grantaire didn't mind, this gave him an opportunity to calm down- to calm certain parts of him down. Fuck. Breathe. This idea of Combeferre's was such a bad, bad idea, he thought. He should just get up and go, but he couldn't. He could only sit and endure the parallel bars, followed by the high bar; England running so far ahead with points that they couldn't possibly lose the gold medal now, and they were ending on the floor apparatus, one of their collectively strongest pieces.

Combeferre put in quite a conservative but well executed performance, Grantaire could now recognise each of the team members style. Combeferre was cool, calm and collected, precise as could be. Courfeyrac was flamboyant, enthusiastic, his routines were always greeted with cheers. Enjolras was aggressive, determined, and made a statement with everything he did, challenging those before or after him. He held his head high, daring the judges to mark him down.

He cut a striking figure on the floor, running and tumbling, twisting and leaping, a beautiful athletic Adonis. Where the vault was an instant, the rings were strength, the pommel consistency, the parallel bars symmetry, the high bar rotation; the floor was the chance for the athletes to show their personality, their creativity. Enjolras's personality shone through, he was uncompromising, tackling moves with high difficulty effortlessly, he was unwavering, he was fierce, he was magnificent.

Grantaire was so, so screwed.

As Enjolras landed his triple half twist with only a minor hop back the crowd cheered, and they wouldn't stop cheering until the gold medal was hung around the entire England team's necks. All three guys couldn't stop smiling. Combeferre wiped a little tear from his eye as Jerusalem rang out across the hall and the English flag raised in the air, followed by Scotland's and Canada's flags. Enjolras stood proud, Courfeyrac beamed.

After the medal ceremony the SECC crowd started to disperse; it was getting on for 10pm. Grantaire and Bahorel had to be heading off too; they had quarter-final bouts tomorrow evening and needed the rest. But when Bahorel suggested going down to speak to the guys, Grantaire could only nod numbly and traipse along behind him.

Enjolras's performance had left Grantaire shocked. He'd not been sure what to expect, he'd been nervous, nervous for both Enjolras and himself. But Enjolras had won the gold medal! And Grantaire had got to see him compete! Only thing was, he could feel himself moving away from pure physical attraction and edging closer and closer towards something else which was much more frightening. He'd been rooting for Enjolras the whole evening, but when he'd been nervous for the guy when he was on the rings and then when he'd been aroused by his performance on the pommel horse Grantaire had realised that his feelings were getting all muddled up. He didn't know what to think anymore; all he knew was that he needed to tread carefully so as not to end up caring for Enjolras or anything. Physical attraction was all it was; he could just about handle that.

He and Bahorel waited by the staff doors for about 20 minutes before the athletes began trickling out. It was another 5 minutes before the English team emerge from their changing rooms. By this time Grantaire was itching to forget the whole thing and just leave, he was pacing up and down, nervous to see the guys. Bahorel ordered him to chill, but Grantaire was struggling, he simultaneously wanted to see Enjolras but also didn't. Time was ticking on and Feuilly was going to have his balls for breakfast if he didn't get back soon. But then Courfeyrac's shout interrupted his thoughts and he was pulled into a hug.

'Grantaire! How are you? We haven't seen you since we met the other day, well we've seen you, cos we came to see you box, but we haven't spoken to you in agggeesss!'

'Hi Courfeyrac nice to see you too' gasped Grantaire under Courfeyrac's not very light weight.

'How are you from last night?' asked Combeferre coming to stand next to Courfeyrac who had finally released Grantaire from his hug.

'Not too bad, he didn't really get me to be honest, probably looked worse than it was. The bloke couldn't land a punch for liquorice' said Grantaire a hand going to run through his hair, it was a nervous habit of his and it was because he had just spotted a golden head of hair emerging from the athlete's-only door. Enjolras's curls were dripping onto his England t-shirt, he'd clearly just had a shower. Do not think about him naked. Do not think about him….shitting fuck. Grantaire blinked hard and tried to shake those thoughts from his head.

To distract himself he introduced everybody. 'Guys this is my mate Bahorel, Bahorel this is Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Enjolras'. Bahorel shook hands with them all, adding a wink to his lingering handshake with Courfeyrac.

Enjolras made a noise of disgust when he glanced over at Courfeyrac and Bahorel who'd started up an innuendo ridden conversation.

'Best just to leave them to it' said Grantaire as he put his hands in his hoodie pockets and started to move away from the pair and towards the athletes village with Combeferre and Enjolras.

'Mate do not be late or Feuilly will murder you' he called over his shoulder; Bahorel merely waved half-heartedly back, his attention focused elsewhere.

'Enjolras don't' said Combeferre as Enjolras opened his mouth to complain. 'Courfeyrac worked hard tonight, you know he's not competing in the all-arounds, only the individuals so leave him be.'

'What's that?' asked Grantaire.

'Ah,' said Combeferre, 'Well in two nights time we have the all-around finals, then two nights after that we have the individual apparatus finals. Enjolras is the only one competing in all three, I'm just in the team all around and the individual all-around finals and Courf is only in the team and in the individual solo apparatus finals, you see?'

'Sort of' replied Grantaire, 'Well done on your medals tonight by the way guys, I was really, really impressed'

'Were you?' said Enjolras sharply. He'd been walking back towards the athlete's village with Combeferre and Grantaire but had been a step or two behind them. He now drew level with Grantaire, looking at him straight and said 'Because I got the impression that you were mocking the entire thing'

'What?' said Grantaire confused 'How'd you get to that one?'

'You're stupid little salute' said Enjolras 'If it was not intended to mock then-'

'Hey' interrupted Grantaire 'I was saying well done okay?'

'Well it certainly did not come across that way' argued Enjolras.

'Jesus! It was just a way of saying well done! Well done, congrats, you were great. How explicit do you want me to say it?'

'I-' began Enjolras.

'No, I get it' carried on Grantaire, 'You thought I wouldn't be impressed by your sport, you clearly thought I would behave like you and hate it. Well I don't give a fuck what you think Apollo, I came here tonight with an open mind and wanting you to prove me wrong, well you did it, well done. I was wrong gymnastics is a sport that requires strength and finesse. And you were brilliant. I only wish you could be so open-minded that you might try to see boxing as something worth doing. But clearly me and my sport just aren't good enough for you' Grantaire finished; breathless from his rant.

Enjolras just stared at him, but then he opened his mouth, to retaliate most likely.

'Save it Apollo' hissed Grantaire and with that he stalked off on another route back to his flat in the athletes village, resolutely trying not to feel hurt by what had just happened.