Frankly, Grantaire had zero regard for the concept of time.
In his defense, Grantaire would attribute this fault of his to his seven-year-old self, who was adamant in his hatred of numbers.
Adolescent Grantaire was also quite opinionated and believed that the analog clock on his worksheet looked like a head. Which, by default, meant that the clock-man deserved locks of hair. It was only fair that the clock deserved arms and legs as well. The lopsided speech bubble that read 'Hi' was absolutely essential too, of course.
Over a decade later, Grantaire realized passively that that moment had probably been detrimental to his development. Now, it took a lot of glaring and finger counting to deduce what the hands on the clock were trying to convey.
(Once Éponine had caught on, she never let him hear the end of it. On his birthday, she gifted him one of those clock toys meant for children. It laid under his bed collecting dust - cobwebbed, he was sure. It was neon yellow and Grantaire couldn't bear the mere sight.)
Firmly, Grantaire had stuck loyally to his childhood nature and slept resolutely through his five scheduled alarms.
He savored each prolonged second of slumber until he registered how royally fucked he was, noting that campus was huge and that his short legs wouldn't exactly be effective during his hasty journey.
Grantaire blamed Hypnos and his ADHD at age seven and pondered his chances at making it in time for his classical theory class, which, naturally, was in two minutes.
At a young age, Grantaire had also learned to never push his luck.
Perhaps Grantaire owed himself an apology because, by some miraculous stroke of luck, he happened upon Apollo incarnate on his way to class.
"Fuck! My bad, um -" Grantaire blurted idiotically, blinking his muddled eyes wide open at the sculpted configuration of a man in front of him. Ringlets of gold framed an utterly unimpressed face, scowling down at Grantaire. His reaction couldn't have been very elegant, because he vaguely registered his jaw going slack at the sight of such fine marble, when the man had cut Grantaire's ogling short with a curt,
"...Excuse me."
He strode off briskly, leaving Grantaire dazed, reeling from the most humiliating of interactions.
Glancing at his phone, his vision bleary, Grantaire found that he was six minutes late to classical theory instead of four. Oh, and the classics department was still on the other side of campus.
Motherfucker.
Grantaire detested the term 'hallway crush' because it felt infantilizing and catapulted him back to his high school years - memories he tried exceptionally hard to suppress, thank you. Except, that was how Bossuet was referring to his Apollo, which inherently called for Joly to adopt the term. Grantaire distinctly wondered how this was his life and how he had picked up such friends over the years.
(Nothing could beat Éponine's birthday gift, though. That was brutal.)
"I'd like to propose the argument that we can't call it a hallway crush because I didn't meet him in the hallway, I met him in the middle of fucking campus. Jury's out." This was Grantaire's halfhearted retort. He regretted that he wasn't exactly at his most sharp and polished, but when you were dealing with the powerhouse duo that was Joly and Bossuet, well, Grantaire was past resigned.
"'Campus crush' doesn't have the required ring," Joly countered, persistent.
"Nobody says 'campus crush', R," Bossuet supplied, ever the traitor.
"It lacks the ring -"
"The jangle."
Joly snorted at Bossuet, which in turn caused Bossuet to snort at Joly until they both broke out into uncontained hysterics. Grantaire knew a losing battle when he saw one.
"Darling, don't ever say that." Musichetta appeared in a flourish, and Grantaire had never been more grateful. Truthfully, he was always grateful for Musichetta, and the same could typically be said about Joly and Bossuet, although they were on thin ice with him at the moment.
She promptly joined the cuddle pile, as they had officially deemed it one drunken night until it had undeniably stuck.
"Oh, and R? It's a hallway crush." Musichetta then tousled his curls as compensation for being an untimely Judas, followed by Joly and Bossuet whooping in tandem, victorious.
The jury had certainly reached their verdict, and it was not in favor of Grantaire's mental preservation.
Cherry blossoms grew abundantly pink and graced each surface of campus grounds unabashed, indicating the transition into warmer weather.
Courtesy of Bossuet, Grantaire currently had a rose-colored flower tucked behind his ear, plucked daintily from the prospering pink tree.
With the sun abandoning its residence behind winter clouds, blanketing its luminous glow upon shivering skin, Grantaire found himself soaking up sun in the bustling courtyard during lunch. His deprived fingers itched for gentle strokes upon blank canvas, capturing the picturesque quality of the scene, uninterrupted in time.
Grantaire's longing to give the scene a second life on paper almost overpowered the lingering need to cement his Apollo in stone. Almost.
He had not crossed paths with Apollo after the first anecdote. It was now considered a "moment in pop culture" to his friends - Éponine in particular, who never missed an opportunity to give him shit. It was all in good love, she prefaced before proceeding to her incessant mockery.
("That's your guy, isn't it," Indiscreetly pointing at any guy in her line of vision, Éponine indulged herself in a rather twisted rendition of Where's Waldo? while Grantaire grimaced apologetically at passersby on their way to class, happening to be caught in the crossfire.
"Ép, my guy - who isn't my guy, by the way, is probably a good six inches taller than whoever the fuck that is. Apollo's blond, we've been through this."
"I think the biggest problem with this whole ordeal, and there's a generous amount, is that he's blond. Who fucking likes blond guys, R?"
"Discriminatory."
"Factual.")
Grantaire was beginning to believe Apollo had simply been a result of his sleep-addled mind, an insomnia-induced mirage. But despite the surfaces Grantaire's mind had covered throughout the years, he knew his mind wasn't complex enough to conjure up such precisely carved features.
Grantaire opted to tune out Joly and Bossuet's heated debate in favor of people watching - Joly had found hair in his chicken burrito, claiming that said strand was not his. Grantaire doubted that was possible because Joly had made that burrito himself… somehow.
Earlier that morning, he had stolen half of Éponine's blueberry muffin and deemed it a sufficient breakfast, praying it would keep him fueled at least until he returned home. His credit card balance was nearly in the negatives, as Gavroche had stolen his card the previous night to buy online game membership. As a result, he was down a meal and sixty bucks. Oh, joy.
Grantaire knew Joly and Bossuet would be more than willing to share but he didn't want to cause them any trouble, and besides, the thought of a contaminated burrito unsettled his stomach, so it wasn't that much of a loss.
Grantaire's eyes perused the courtyard leisurely, his friends' lighthearted bickering serving as white noise.
Sharply, Grantaire shot up from his slumped position leaning against Bossuet.
"Guys."
"That is not the shade of my hair. Boss, it's got to be yours."
"But I'm… bald."
"Oh. I forgot about that -"
"Guys!"
Joly and Bossuet snapped to attention, brows furrowed in confusion. Clearly, they had more pressing matters to discuss. Like the state of Bossuet's bald head, but at the moment, Grantaire was not intellectually equipped to deal with all those facets.
"It's him, it's fucking him, oh my god, holy fuck -" Grantaire was on the verge of hyperventilating. His last shreds of sanity were officially spent.
Joly and Bossuet babbled nonsensically, puzzled and searching for the criminal culprit of Grantaire's meltdown. Eyes darting at the speed of light, Grantaire put his friends out of their misery, faintly indicating Apollo with a tilt of his chin. In all his years of living, Grantaire had not yet mastered the art of subtlety, though he was certain he had been somewhat discreet.
Lonesome and utterly unbothered by the lively atmosphere, Apollo exhibited a stark contrast; immobile, save for the swift drift of his fingers from key to key, absorbed in the work on his laptop.
(Grantaire wondered dimly if it was too soon to wish he were the laptop.)
"Oh, your type for sure," Joly interjected as plainly as if he were commenting on the state of the weather. Grantaire couldn't even bring himself to dignify that with a response, mouth gaping in utmost disbelief. A simple 'huh?' couldn't even begin to convey the absolute mindfuck he was experiencing. He decidedly took full offense to Bossuet's hum of agreement, following Joly's statement - they were making fun of him.
"I can vaguely sense some kind of dig being made," Grantaire managed finally, barely. "Would you mind elaborating on that or…?" He tore his gaze from Apollo with much difficulty (he could've sworn spots were searing his vision), glimpsing his friends' reactions. Joly and Bossuet held their gazes fixed on Apollo, scrutinizing as if held beneath microscopes. Grantaire hoped he hadn't looked that immersed, but then again, he was the poster child of bearing pathetic fixation.
After several moments of eerily charged silence, Bossuet declared, convicted, "Blond."
Grantaire arched a brow, incredulous, "Very astute."
Joly leaned in, serious, "Mean looking. R, he kind of freaks me out."
"What? Look at him, he's a ray of sunshine!"
Through the eyes of unsuspecting onlookers, the trio might've looked conspiratorial, huddled together, eyes sharp. 'Stalkerish' wouldn't be quite so far-fetched either. Apollo, solitary and prim; blossoms flat and devoid against the harsh fluorescence.
Harsh, not unlike the glare he was currently receiving.
Grantaire had warned he had not yet mastered the art of subtlety - never grasped the concept actually. On a similar note, his volume regulation could be considered rusty. Fuck.
Apollo's face betrayed no emotion, minus a slight narrowing of the eyes that Grantaire might've imagined. His gaze was unblinking - challenging, perhaps. Grantaire felt a creeping sense of isolation, boxed in by the sheer intensity exuded from ultraviolet blue. His slender fingers laid flat, still, and statue-like. It was safe to say Apollo had taken note of his overt ogling.
"So, Joly, the hair…" Grantaire started lamely, off-kilter and cheeks fiery, "...in the burrito." He turned his back to Apollo, willfully ignoring the eyes piercing the back of his skull.
Joly took more than half a beat to respond, his face cloudy with confusion, "Huh?"
"R, he's looking at you!" Bossuet whispered heatedly as if this was the hottest scientific discovery to grace the planet. Grantaire groaned internally - his friends were also seemingly inept at saving the situation at hand. He seriously wondered if his best bet was simply fleeing the scene. When in doubt, Grantaire ran away. He considered himself strategic, but the majority of the population called that cowardly. Tough crowd, Grantaire thought offhandedly.
If the world was unwilling to swallow him whole, then he'd have to take the next best thing. So naturally he got up.
"Where are you going?" Joly asked as Grantaire gracelessly wiped grass off of his ass. His escape plan had already gone awry; he had hoped to appear enigmatic in his departure, but the fates seemed to have a personal vendetta against him. Nothing too out of the ordinary.
To wallow. To off himself in the most gruesome way possible. "To feed the cat. I… forgot. Yeah. It was a pleasure." Grantaire pointedly ignored the bewildered expressions on his friends' faces, eyes darting to Apollo in the distance. His stomach lurched, embarrassingly enough, when Apollo happened to be staring straight back, cold scrutiny and all.
Needless to say, that was Grantaire's cue to bolt. His light tread quickly turned into a speed walk, feeling the need to ease the incessant somersaults in his stomach. He contemplated grabbing a bite to eat until he recalled Gavroche's tendency to impulse buy using his card.
Grantaire had reached the pinnacle of his luck, so it seemed.
He tried to resist the allure that accompanied his newfound spot beneath the cherry tree. Grantaire had always had trouble refusing temptation, and he was not willing to break the cycle this time around. He'd break the cycle another time.
Spring winds wandered, carrying light coolness through Grantaire's fingertips. Campus seemed to bear a vibrant hue - saturated scenery and the smell of lilac tickling sneezing noses. The days grew prolonged and he yearned to blossom.
Like clockwork, Grantaire found himself situated at the same spot. During the same time of day, when he knew he'd get a glimpse of Apollo. Of course, his friends knew this, despite the number of times Grantaire had denied the fact.
"R, why don't we invite him to sit with us?" Jehan suggested because they believed Jane Austen pulled strings behind the scenes of Grantaire's godforsaken life. Grantaire was not going to be the one to break it to them.
"J, respectfully, no."
Jehan responded with a pout, "Why not? Doesn't he sit alone, anyway? You're pleasant company, I promise." He gave Grantaire's arm an emphatic squeeze, light and affectionate. Grantaire felt he was undeserving of numerous things, but he knew he was undeserving of Jehan. And their silky red hair and their honeyed words that eased Grantaire so effortlessly.
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," mused Grantaire, creating an elaborate braid down Jehan's back. "If he even remembers me, we didn't quite meet under ideal circumstances. It's best that I don't rehash his memory."
"And that's why you're sitting out here in hopes of seeing him?"
"Hey, I'll have you know I enjoy the scenery out here, thanks for your input." Grantaire's tongue stuck out in concentration, careful in his craft twisting together auburn locks. He willed his eyes not to wander to Apollo's bench, glaringly vacant and unoccupied. Just one strand after the other…
"R."
"Does it hurt? My bad."
Grantaire realized several beats too late that Jehan was not indicating his handiwork, but Apollo's timely arrival. With some guy.
The image didn't seem quite right and Grantaire expressed that much, "What? I mean, who?"
His fingers stilled haltingly, eyeing the pair from his peripherals. The first thing that stood out about Apollo's companion was his winsome, infectious grin. With his sun-kissed skin and lush waves of brown curls, Grantaire knew he was beat. It was clear the guy had a deliberate sense of style, sporting a white button-down and beige trousers. Grantaire wasn't even aware people dressed up for class, and he stared down at his own sweatpants, worn. He worried his lip, dejected and suddenly self-conscious.
"Oh, he's pretty…" Jehan breathed dreamily.
"Who are you even talking about?" Grantaire asked - for all he knew, it could've been either of them. To hell with the genetically blessed.
(Regardless, Grantaire hoped it wasn't Apollo. The competition had already grown rigorous within the last minute.)
"Applies to both, but the smiley one. Also, you were right; that is Apollo. I thought you were just being dramatic, but his curls kind of do resemble a halo…"
Grantaire gasped theatrically, "J, you think I would lie about such things? These are very pressing matters. I detest being belittled like this!"
Jehan giggled, fond, "R, you know I indulge you anyway. No matter how ridiculous."
Tying the braid with finality, Grantaire wrapped his arms around Jehan's waist, startling surprised laughter out of them. He nearly toppled them face-first onto the wet grass, and he huffed a relieved sigh, "And I owe you the moon and stars for it. But I was thinking: if you successfully seduce Calvin Klein over there, then that leaves me and Apollo alone. It's a win-win. We can go on cutesy double dates. I'm a visionary."
Jehan thrashed in Grantaire's grip, fully shaking with giggles. They reached up to envelope Grantaire in a reciprocated embrace, "No one is seducing anybody! Especially at your rate!"
At last, they fell into the damp grass, prickling their skin as they landed in a pile. Breathless, they laid for a moment, until Grantaire said, "I wouldn't mind going on double dates with you, J. We'd pull it off seamlessly."
"Obviously."
(Jehan and Grantaire failed to realize the two boys watching them, intrigued and rosy-cheeked.)
It was almost as if the guy was trying to give Grantaire an aneurysm.
Because he was getting glances back. And it was driving Grantaire up the fucking wall.
Common courtesy called for an individual to cease eye contact once caught, yet Apollo seemed exempt from this rule. Grantaire recalled holding the gaze for a few awkward moments before yielding, face flushed. On rare occasions, he was gifted with the sight of a slight smile - a curve of the lips that induced rushes of dopamine and sweaty palms.
"Ép, he's not supposed to be looking back! It freaks me out. He's starting to freak me out."
Éponine fixed him with a look over her shoulder. It was her turn to make dinner for the both of them, and she had made the wise decision of choosing boxed macaroni and cheese. Kraft was a real crowd-pleaser in their household - even when it wound up watery. Nevertheless, Grantaire deemed it gourmet cuisine. What wasn't there to love?
"So what I'm hearing is that you're disturbed that this guy you're obsessed with is becoming obsessed with you too?" drawled Éponine, voice dripping with dry incredulity. She adopted this tone with him often, and Grantaire knew she thought he was being idiotic.
"First of all, I'm not obsessed with him. Second of all, how the hell did you deduce that? Just because he's starting to stare back doesn't mean anything. Sometimes I just mentally check out -"
"You're mentally checked out, like, all the time."
"Anyway, what if he zones out looking at my face because I'm boring looking?" sighed Grantaire, the scent of artificial cheese flooding his nostrils. He breathed it in dejectedly.
"R, nothing about you could ever be boring."
"Why, someone's softened their edges, I see."
"- I think the word 'annoying' would suffice to describe you instead," said Éponine, glaring hard at the steaming pot. Her nose scrunched and Grantaire braced himself to counter her banter.
"R, hand me the milk."
Éponine calling for him to abandon his warm residence on the couch was by far worse than any insult she could've conjured.
It was on a rather dull Thursday when everything went to shit.
Thursday. Forgotten Thursday, bridging the gap between Wednesday and Friday. Grantaire often questioned the practicality of Thursdays, before promptly coming to the grand conclusion of there being none.
Grantaire felt wholly content keeping his feelings to himself. In fact, he typically refrained from going after anything he ever wanted, and he considered this an act of self-preservation.
"That's not self-preservation, idiot. That's fear of rejection," reiterated Éponine for about the umpteenth time that week. "Not to be one of those fuckers who go, 'what's the worst that can happen,' but I really don't see what you have to lose in this situation."
Grantaire knew she was raising her brows at him in emphasis of her statement, which was precisely why he was avoiding her stare. Éponine bore the uncanny gaze of someone who could make you feel small with just a fixing of the eye, which Grantaire initially thought was a trait individual to her. She and Apollo were similar in that fashion, and Grantaire wished resolutely to never see them in the same room - that ranked among his top ten nightmare scenarios.
"Hey, look at me when I'm talking to you."
Or not.
Her tone lacked the characteristic bite, which indicated a pep talk. Well, as efficient as a pep talk from Éponine could be. Grantaire appreciated her sincere efforts, but they really did not need to have this talk in public. Nothing made him itch like being the center of attention.
Éponine clicked her tongue, slowing her stride to keep pace with him. Even as she stood five foot three in platform boots, her steps were swift and hasty, as if she had places to be. One of the first things Grantaire had noticed about Éponine was her feline grace with which she carried herself, an invitation to be chased. All Grantaire ever seemed to do was chase, his life an endless pursuit, so they made quite the fine pair.
"Look, you've barely said a word to this guy," Ouch, "But that doesn't mean you can't try. And don't you make a snide comment, Grantaire, but from what I've heard, the guy doesn't seem to mind being stalked."
"You are so embarrassing - we are in public, in case you've conveniently forgotten. Shut up," Grantaire gritted through his teeth, looking around for startled eavesdroppers.
"Hear me out, R - this guy notices you drooling over him, and yet he keeps frequenting the same spot. It's not rocket science. He wants you."
Grantaire sputtered ineloquently, causing Éponine to laugh. "You're funny, Ép. Real funny."
"What can I say - I call it how it is."
"I hate you."
"Sure, princess. Anyway, where are we even going? I feel like we've been aimlessly walking around campus this whole time," Éponine said before Grantaire could berate her for the nickname. It was a new one, and her passion was messing with him, so naturally it had to be run into the ground.
"And don't even think about saying anything about nicknames. I've had to listen to you about Apollo every day for the past week. At least I'm not pretentious about it." He chose to disregard this comment.
Anyway, Grantaire already knew where they were heading, and Éponine had previously stated herself that she had grown accustomed to his bullshit. "The cherry trees look particularly nice in the afternoon," He tried aiming for nonchalance, but who was he kidding?
Éponine snorted, "What, so we can stalk your beautiful blond boyfriend?"
Of course, Grantaire's whole existence was a joke. He praised the fates' comedic timing because his smile was instantly wiped off his face when he glanced up to see Apollo. Apollo, who had clearly overheard their descriptives, given his wide eyes. Grantaire's retort died on his tongue, his stomach dropping; a phenomenon that often led to a loss of appetite for hours on end.
Éponine tugged at his sleeve, pulling him out of his shell-shocked reverie, "R?" She followed the trajectory of his eyes, her grip loosening, "Is that… fuck."
Wasn't that just the cherry on the cake.
Thursday, 11:32 a.m.
[From: Éponine:] R, I'm so fucking sorry.
[From: Éponine:] Like I owe you dinner for the rest of the week sorry.
[To: Éponine:] it's fine LMAOO literally don't even worry abt it
[From: Éponine:] You ran away I HAVE A RIGHT TO FEEL BAD I WAS TOO LOUD OK DON'T ACT LIKE IT WASN'T UNCOOL
[To: Éponine:] u know me, always on the move LOL
[From: Éponine:] I can't w u
[From: Éponine:] Just… don't beat yourself up. I'll… fix it IDK I'LL BRAINWASH HIM IF I HAVE TO. I'M BEING SINCERE.
[From: Éponine:] i LOVE YOU
[To: Éponine:] ily2
Grantaire promptly threw his phone and buried his face in his pillow, willing reality to wash away.
He wasn't angry at Éponine; he knew it had been his fault in the first place. He couldn't resist bothering her, and she had simply indulged him in his delusions. Grantaire hadn't planned to spend his day wallowing in mortification, but that was unfortunately what his life had come to. It always came down to this - himself, alone. His throat parched and longed for something strong, but his limbs laid motionless and unyielding.
Grantaire held notoriety for being an embarrassment, but this was severe. Playing like a film reel etched upon his eyelids, Grantaire would turn over the moment in his mind, taunted for nights to come.
He registered his phone pinging, tangled somewhere in the confines of his sheets. Grantaire groaned, cursing himself for not setting it to silent beforehand.
Thursday, 11:36 a.m.
[From: Éponine:] The brainwashing tactic is officially off the table
[From: Éponine:] I meant it when i said ily. You're the one that owes me dinner now tho. I FIXED IT. AS PROMISED.
[From: Éponine:] I rlly got my steps in….. chasing angelface down. That tall TREE OF A BITCH
[From: Unknown:] Hello.
[From: Unknown:] ;)
[From: Unknown:] :)**
[From: Unknown:] Sorry.
[To: Unknown:] WHO ARE YOU… ANSWER WISELY.
[From: Unknown:] Ah. I apologize for not introducing myself beforehand; I'm Enjolras - soon to be your "blond boyfriend," I hope.
Thursday, 11:38 a.m
[From: Unknown:] I'm sorry if I came on too strong. My intentions were not to make you uncomfortable. I'm not well-versed in these sorts.
[From: MY BLOND BF (soon):] Hello?
[To: Éponine:] i really fucking love you. So much.
Grantaire's eyes almost permitted themselves to slide shut when he felt a faint flutter, a slight rustling of his curls.
He blinked, a soft haze permeating his thoughts, "What are you doing?"
Enjolras remained unfazed, tucking a rosy petal behind Grantaire's ear. He seemed pleased with his handiwork, and Grantaire was just as content. He gazed up at Enjolras, the sun serving as a canvas for the sweet sight. The cloudless sky complemented his light, calming in the serenity of his smile.
The seasons had cycled by, yet they thrived most in spring. Right back where they started from.
"Pink and green are complementary colors, sweetheart."
Grantaire rolled his eyes, fond, "Flatterer." He shifted his head, warm in the comfort of Enjolras' lap.
Enjolras raised his brows, his smile saccharine, "I learned from the best. I must say, I hadn't known stalkers could be so charming until a year ago."
"I did not stalk you! You're acting like you didn't enjoy the attention," Grantaire swatted lightly at his boyfriend, eliciting soft chuckles.
"Look at you! Is it so absurd that I was pleased?"
"I don't like you."
"And yet, here we are," Enjolras leaned down to capture Grantaire's lips in a swift kiss reminiscent of a feather's touch. Grantaire grasped the strings of Enjolras's sweatshirt, easing into the familiarity of his touch.
Green and pink were indeed complementary colors, although when stark white diluted pink, red and green brought each other to completion just as well.