There's no simple way to phrase this. Grantaire has a stalker. Grantaire.
Grantaire knows he should be fearing for his life or whatever, but he finds the ordeal mildly entertaining. If he's being honest, he wishes he could tell the guy to have an ounce of decorum. Self-respect - get some.
He tries to think of a more inadequate target, but his mind draws up blank. Grantaire's daily routine consists of waking up, going out (if he can grant himself the energy to do so), going home, and sleeping. He isn't exactly the ideal candidate for this hobby. At least his stalker has a hobby, even if it is stalking. Grantaire certainly isn't in a position to judge.
And it's not as if he's exciting to follow - he's sure the guy isn't on some epic pursuit to track him down; after all, he's often occupying a little mundane café. His civic duty as a model citizen is terrorizing the ABC (or Enjolras individually. Grantaire refrains from discussing it unless sweet liquor has loosened his tongue. Or he wants to bug Éponine. It's always either one or the other.)
Grantaire thinks of himself as the group's persistent little cousin. You can't quite tell them to go away, so your only resort is reluctant toleration. He just lingers eerily, like one of those whack-a-mole games. Or a menstrual cycle - which doesn't sound right. Metaphors are Jehan's forte for a reason.
The Instagram message he receives is vague. It still makes Grantaire scratch his head theatrically, nonetheless. If anything, the formality of the message is an obvious indicator that the guy needs psychological help. Who uses proper grammar while texting, and, god forbid, comas?
[User1832]:
Hello, Grantaire. This may be abrupt, and I apologize if this unsettles you. I've had this on my mind for a while and I've realized that while I cannot directly inform you of my feelings, I can communicate them anonymously. For my sake, and yours. Always yours.
I see you every day, and I've desired many, many things but never in the manner of which I feel for you.
I'm afraid I can't effectively articulate these emotions, but just know that someone appreciates you in your beauty, unparalleled.
You see, I'm out of my element here. No matter. The next time my eyes glimpse yours, I will be inspired again.
Sorry.
Well, shit.
Grantaire almost wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all. And the sign-off apology, which is what ultimately does the trick. His first instinct is to scour the guy's profile, and he proceeds thoroughly to no avail. His stalker has left no traces for Grantaire to track. His handle is "user," followed by a whole-ass keyboard smash.
Grantaire entertains the thought of those fraudulent sugar daddy scams. It's a simple solution, and it's a common occurrence on social media. However, the message doesn't mention claiming an Amazon gift card. It also doesn't contain a barrage of heart-eye emojis.
(Grantaire knows what to look for. He won't elaborate, but he'll never fall for an Instagram scam again. No matter how appealing the sugar baby prospect is. Never again.)
He checks the user's profile many times, willing for the emergence of any identification. The same empty account glares at him mockingly. The seventh time, though, his eyes bulge. He may have overlooked this detail. He isn't sure.
Accompanying the blank display name is a set of 'he/him' pronouns.
Grantaire has never claimed to be Sherlock Holmes, but he doesn't believe he's made a very efficient case.
He hasn't told anyone, and Grantaire knows that it is valid to feel a range of emotions - fear, dread, anxiety. But because Grantaire is adamant to differ, or just downright pathetic, he is embarrassed. It's definitely one way to view the situation, but he's sure he's the first person in the history of ever to feel embarrassed about being stalked. He should be in the Guinness Book.
The notion of someone watching his every move and tracking his tendencies irks him for all the wrong reasons. It's not something he'd like to dwell on, but the universe conspires against him, naturally.
Grantaire is well aware of the block feature, but among his mind's cluttered chaos, he also feels intrigued. In the movies, it's a common trope resulting in tragedy (death), except Grantaire has an ever-present death wish, so maybe the cards are stacked in his favor. He can't help thinking about the utter poetry of it all.
He's never been a guy of good judgment, so against the blaring sirens in his head, he responds. Grantaire keeps it curt yet concise. He thinks Combeferre would approve.
[R]:
Thanks!
He snorts at himself. The exclamation point really sells it, he thinks.
"You good? You looked like you just had an out-of-body experience, man."
Bahorel greets Grantaire with the customary clap on the back, and it's safe to say he nearly elbows his friend in the face. He's been jumpy lately, and he's been doing a shitty job at concealing it.
Initially, Grantaire had assumed recent events have concluded, but he receives a message within a short span of an hour. There are twenty-four hours in a day, and some faceless entity strives to make Grantaire a priority. Is it inappropriate to be flattered? Maybe he's developed Stockholm syndrome.
Except the dread has begun to trickle in. It was bound to come sooner or later, and Grantaire's encouragement of the situation has escalated matters. The enabler that he is. God, he thinks.
His phone flashing the text notification burns a hole through his pocket, and he may be on the brink of insanity.
"God knows how much caffeine I had this morning. My bad," Grantaire attempts to amend, though it comes out a hint sheepish.
He could be imagining things, but he swears Bahorel's eyes narrow a fraction. After a seemingly long moment, he breaks the silence, "Whatever you say. Get some sleep, so the demons don't come out to play at noon."
Grantaire snorts, "Baz, you are the demons."
"R, you know I prefer to play at night."
"Boys, what am I hearing right now," someone exclaims from across the room, sounding mildly outraged. Grantaire thinks it's Musichetta and he smiles wide.
He lowers himself into a seat while the rest of the ABC mill about, waiting for Enjolras to arrive. It's strange, considering he is typically among the first at the Musain. Grantaire whips out his phone, forgetting the fucking ambush attack waiting on his cracked screen. It's only a preview of the message, but the sight of it disturbs him, nonetheless.
[User 1832]:
Of course. I wasn't certain you'd respond, so thank you for taking time out of your day to do so.
I can't wait to see you today :-).
Jesus fuck, Grantaire thinks. He didn't think the irony of his response would have warranted gratitude. Here this guy is, thanking him for responding. If this isn't a sign his stalker needs to work on himself, then Grantaire doesn't know what is. Maybe he shouldn't have used an exclamation point. He glares down at the glow of his screen, as if some explanation will materialize out of the zagged fractures. He makes a mental note to get his phone fixed - Courfeyrac never fails to give him shit for it.
For a moment, he glosses over the most crucial fact of all: he is being actively stalked. Right now. Grantaire's head shoots up, and he pushes inky curls out of groggy eyes, suddenly aware. His eyes flicker over his friends as he'd imagine Enjolras addressing the masses, somehow leveling all of them with one steely look and - does he have to incorporate Enjolras into every waking thought? He resists the urge to shake himself.
Oh fuck. There's an individual currently obsessed with him, and the love of his life is uncharacteristically late to his own meeting. He may just hyperventilate on the spot -
"Hello, Grantaire," Enjolras breezes past him, as if that's a perfectly sane thing to do. He almost jumps out of his skin, and he believes his precious twenty-two years flash before his eyes. His mouth drops open and closed like an idiotic fish, though Enjolras is halfway across the room before he can even attempt a response.
Grantaire allows himself to relax when Enjolras calls the room to attention. His shoulders begin to ease gradually, and he lets the fervor of Enjolras' voice cascade over him, calming in its familiarity.
He doesn't speak much for the rest of the meeting.
"Grantaire."
For seemingly the umpteenth time today, Grantaire starts, only to realize the voice addressing him. Or rather, the solemn face of whom it belongs to, frowning down at him. He composes himself.
"To what do I owe the honor, chief," Grantaire says, blithe. He blinks himself fast out of his stupor. He hopes Enjolras doesn't think he's batting his lashes at him or something. How stupid could this day get.
To his surprise, Enjolras pulls aside the chair adjacent and sits. Grantaire has to resist resuming his rapid blinking. This feels oddly like a confrontation of some sort, and he instantly feels the urge to flee. He plans his exit strategies accordingly, as he is undoubtedly about to be ambushed by Enjolras' patronization.
He waits for the ball to drop.
"You were awfully quiet today. It threw me off. Is there something bothering you? I'm here if you need to talk," says Enjolras, his speech hasty. He sounds tentative, and Grantaire is equally as thrown off. Enjolras seems, dare he say it, nervous. Grantaire notices his fidgeting, and it's almost as if he's seeing a mirrored image. He looks down, and what the fuck, he's doing the same thing. He quickly folds his hands in his lap, willing them to still obediently.
"Oh, just pondering all the injustices of the world, don't mind me," Grantaire drawls, practiced. He doesn't engage in heated debate with Enjolras for nothing. Daily. At this point, his swift remarks are muscle memory. Enjolras rolls his eyes, and Grantaire feels at ease. Clearly, Enjolras is conditioned as well, he can't help but think fondly.
Except Enjolras fixes him with a soft look, which makes Grantaire's hands spasm of their own accord. Enjolras and 'soft' are antonyms, so something's not quite right with the picture. He thinks a golden curl's out of place, or there's been a trick of the light. Grantaire really wants to leave, but he also wants to stay pinned by the intensity of that gaze for eternity. God, he's terrible. He doesn't really know if he's referring to himself or Enjolras.
"Grantaire."
"Enjolras." Grantaire discards the nicknames in an attempt to catch him off guard. He hates the way Enjolras' name rolls off his tongue, and he's careful not to sound completely smitten.
"Can we just talk? Like - like one civil exchange that doesn't involve you -"
"I'm not doing anything!"
Enjolras pinches the bridge of his nose, exasperated, and Grantaire has to withstand the impulse to swoon like a nineteenth-century maiden. He takes measured breaths before speaking,
"R."
The wry smile on Grantaire's lips fades instantly. He's glad Enjolras is rubbing his eyes, and therefore isn't there to see it. It seems Enjolras has worked out his agenda. He doesn't think he's ever heard that name slip from Enjolras' lips, and he files the melody away in the confines of his mind.
He lets Enjolras speak.
"Look, I'm - I'm not good at this. I'm aware that we're not the closest of the group, and I'm trying to remedy that." The thundering of Grantaire's heart reverberates through his ears. It joins the ricocheting string of thoughts, trying to make sense of Enjolras' words.
Enjolras continues, "I just don't know how - I don't know how to talk to you."
There's a stretch of silence, and he thinks that this is precisely why he's avoided Enjolras outside of their usual discourse. He doesn't know how to talk to Enjolras either. It had never struck Grantaire that it might bother him too.
He doesn't much like to dwell on Enjolras' perception of him.
Grantaire registers vaguely that Enjolras is still speaking, "- And I don't even know why I'm still talking. I guess - just, if you ever need anything - anything at all, I want you to know that we're friends and I'm here."
Grantaire's certain the current tint of his cheeks rival Enjolras' Chuck Taylors, which are scuffed and creased, and he can't seem to bring his gaze up from the floor. His mouth forms fragmented syllables, yet they cling to his tied tongue.
For all of Enjolras' grand speeches and impassioned ideologies, this is the one time he's managed to render Grantaire speechless.
Maybe he should just go home. They're both clearly uncomfortable, and Grantaire has messed things up before he's even begun because he's gone suitably mute. Somewhere among the fumbling of his thoughts, he recalls what had brought on this conversation in the first place.
Shit.
His - his fan (Grantaire doesn't even know what to call him) had indirectly threatened him. He doesn't exactly know what constitutes a threat, per se, though the following smiley face seemed pretty menacing. It had a nose. All jokes aside, Grantaire doesn't know how he'll get home. He certainly doesn't have a bodyguard, and he hasn't informed any of his friends, which, now that he thinks about it -
Grantaire's eyes scour the room, panicked.
All his friends are gone. Since when did that happen? Fucking Enjolras, and his Chuck Taylors and his savior complex, and his - his desire to be friends with Grantaire. Who does he think he is -
"Right. I'm just going to, um," Enjolras indicates the door with an awkward tilt of his chin.
Grantaire knows this is for the best. But when has he ever wanted Enjolras to leave? He doesn't want Enjolras to leave. And he's truthfully kind of - scared. The faceless entity may be excited to see him, but he can't exactly say he returns the sentiment -
Alright. Grantaire's a little freaked.
"Wait!" Grantaire yelps, like he's in one of those corny chick flicks Éponine secretly loves. Except Enjolras rises at the same time, and he winces because, oh, Grantaire is stepping on him. He's wearing his Doc Martens, so he can't imagine Enjolras is feeling very pleased, but then he realizes Enjolras' face is a hair's breadth away, and if he just looks up - oh. There it is.
"Sorry - sorry, ah," Enjolras sputters, and he sounds a bit mortified, but he doesn't step away either.
At the same time, Grantaire says, "Don't leave. Please." He sounds sickeningly earnest, and he scrunches his nose up in a grimace. That comes out embarrassing. He's so embarrassed.
Only, something shifts in Enjolras' face and he reacts, "Uh." Grantaire doesn't think he's ever seen Enjolras blush. Maybe Combeferre installed a new software update or something.
Grantaire takes pity on both of them and exclaims, "Can you walk me home?"
If this whole interaction had been virtual, Grantaire would've thrown his phone across the room long ago. He treasures his screen's numerous cracks like trophies. And he knows that none of this would make sense in that context, but he's really fucking scared -
"Of - of course."
And that's that, Grantaire thinks.
That's that.
Grantaire doesn't exactly specify the reason for his request. Hell, if he hasn't even told Éponine, he'd be crazy to tell Enjolras. Theoretically, Enjolras would be the worst person to tell. He'd hire actual security for Grantaire - or he'd do Grantaire the honor of being his own personal bodyguard. Which, now that Grantaire mulls it over, doesn't sound that bad. It's kind of ideal, but he digresses.
Grantaire should probably dignify Enjolras with more-than-one-word responses first, though. He's getting ahead of himself. Literally.
He glances over his shoulder and spies Enjolras struggling to keep pace, which is strange, because of the whole height advantage thing. Grantaire slows self-consciously.
(He imagines their whole conversation goes as follows:
"Grantaire, slow down!"
"Mhm," Grantaire hums absently, proceeding to scamper ten miles per hour on foot. At least he's getting his steps in.)
"Will you - slow down a little bit?" Enjolras huffs and Grantaire thinks he might be a prophet.
"On it," Grantaire mutters, and he keeps his promise.
They're only a block away from Grantaire's apartment, and he grumbles internally when he realizes he should've savored his time in Enjolras' presence. It's not too late yet, he concedes.
"So, like, thanks for walking me home. You didn't have to, and sorry for stepping on you at the café," Grantaire amends, though he'd be lying if he said the sincerity in his voice doesn't make him cringe. It sounds disingenuous to his own ears, but he's trying.
Enjolras waves it off like it's no problem, but Grantaire can't shake the feeling that he would much rather be anywhere else. "It's not like I had any plans after the meeting, anyway," he says, and well, that's all the confirmation Grantaire needs.
Because Enjolras makes a point to be contrary, even to Grantaire's inner turmoil, he says, "But it's really no trouble. I don't think I've ever seen your apartment before." His tone lilts towards the end like he's - he's interested in seeing the disarrayed state of Grantaire's apartment. He wishes he could tell Enjolras he doesn't have to make an effort, but every one of Enjolras' exertions yields the same vigor. It's not like he's making some grand exception for Grantaire, so he doesn't challenge it.
"Trust me, it'd be better if you didn't."
When they inevitably reach Grantaire's apartment, they loiter in the hall. Grantaire finds he doesn't quite know what to do with his hands, so he shoves them into his sweatpants pockets. Out of sight, out of mind.
"Thanks again," Grantaire starts, feeling supremely awkward. He's capable of breathing unsweet nothings into the ears of faceless strangers at hole-in-the-wall clubs, but with Enjolras, it's always a losing battle.
"You asked, I was happy to oblige," Enjolras says, using that tone that indicates he's attempting to be pleasant. He's always pleasant, though, and Grantaire wishes he'd drop it. He can only be so charmed.
There's another lull of silence, and Grantaire regards the strangled look on Enjolras' face. Grantaire thinks he's about to do something cute like try to shake Grantaire's hand, like they're forming a truce. Or an alliance. He eagerly anticipates Enjolras' next move, as if he's watching a video of a baby animal. A very tall, blond baby animal.
"So, I was wondering if we could, ah, exchange numbers."
It takes Grantaire a long, long moment. He's pretty sure his fingers are grasping the interiors of his pockets, like some sort of lifeline. Grantaire breathes, shallowly, once, twice, and tries to compose an at most decent answer. Hell, even a yes! Yes, let's have kids next would suffice, except Enjolras would probably argue that child-bearing is a social construct -
"Sorry! Sorry! That came out - wrong. Just so we could communicate - as friends.." Because they'll never be anything otherwise. Way to crush Grantaire's hopes and dreams.
Grantaire can't help but dwell on the way Enjolras' words come out sort of - lame. If Grantaire were literally anyone else, this would absolutely sound like some poor flirting endeavor. This helps Grantaire regain his footing, and his lips curve subconsciously.
"Shush," Grantaire laughs, and Enjolras' mouth clamps instantaneously. He's wide-eyed now, and Grantaire just wants to put him at ease, by leaning up and kissing him softly or something. Knowing Grantaire, he probably wouldn't keep good on that promise, and it'd turn aggressive very quickly. He's always bitten off more than he can chew.
"I get it," He continues and permits the smile across his lips, "Be easy."
Grantaire completely misses the stunned look on Enjolras' face when he whips out his phone, pulling up his contacts. He hands it to Enjolras, "If you wouldn't mind sharing your digits, good sir."
Enjolras stares at him for a moment - a look that is utterly foreign to Grantaire, and he thinks maybe he's done something wrong. It's definitely on-brand for him -
Enjolras takes his phone and his lips twitch. He grins, and Grantaire firmly believes it's sunspot-inducing. In return, Enjolras trades him his phone, and he can't quite wrap his head around the fact that he is holding Enjolras' phone. It's as if he's holding some elusive artifact. Grantaire wonders if Enjolras would mind if he donated it to the Louvre. Or placed it at the center of his shrine.
Probably.
Also, he's kidding; he doesn't have a shrine, contrary to popular belief.
They punch their numbers into the other's phone accordingly, and Grantaire feels so stupidly giddy. He has to remind himself he's a fully functioning adult and a semi-functioning member of society. He needs to - fight his demons, or whatever Bahorel said.
After the exchange, Grantaire pockets his phone, and through these moments, he's willing for the spell not to break. For once, Grantaire treads lightly.
He parts his lips to speak, though he grapples for something that isn't another 'thank you.' He's thrown too many of those out into the world today, and he prays he hasn't grown soft. What an alternate reality that'd be.
Thankfully, Enjolras beats him to the punch, "So, see you tomorrow?" And there's something on his face that resembles something akin to - hope. As if Grantaire may not cross the Musain's threshold tomorrow. He wants to do something stupid - like smile again. He'll need to mentally cleanse after this entire interaction concludes.
"Duh. You think I'm not loyal to the cause?" To you? he pointedly doesn't say.
Enjolras rolls his eyes, "It's your turn to shush, I believe," and then he hesitates, "I meant tomorrow, as in after the meeting."
Oh.
Enjolras thinks this - whatever this is, is to become a regular occurrence. Grantaire doesn't know whether to burst out in hysterics or leap for joy like a fucking cartoon.
Before he has a chance to do either of those things, his apartment door swings open and Grantaire almost yells.
Gavroche looks up at the pair of them, and there's a look of plain disinterest on his face. Grantaire thinks his eyes linger suspiciously on Enjolras for a second before the kid gives him a fucking once-over. Of disdain.
Gavroche slams the door promptly.
Grantaire doesn't even know what to say. This whole sequence of events has only grown increasingly bizarre with the tick of the hours. He gapes at the shut door. The expression on his face is probably comical.
"...Hello?" Enjolras says, sounding puzzled and even the slightest bit offended. Grantaire wants to cuddle up to him grossly. He whips around to face Grantaire, serious, "What was that."
"What, you've never seen a middle schooler before? Those little guys are brutal," Grantaire tries to laugh, but it comes out terribly strained.
On the other side of the wall, a prepubescent voice is agonizingly clear, "That Apollo guy is here!"
Grantaire bites the inside of his cheek. He thinks this is compensation for one of his many, many sins, and he can't contain his wince. He only realizes how corny it sounds out of someone else's mouth. Jesus, he must be insufferable.
Grantaire hears a muffled choke, and he whirls around to see Enjolras laughing. When he notices Grantaire's blatant look conveying what-the-fuck, he schools a chuckle into an unconvincing cough.
For once, Grantaire is the one bemused. He opens his mouth, but Enjolras doesn't let him speak,
"If the next thing out of your mouth is a 'thank you' or anything followed by 'Apollo,' you owe me money."
Grantaire's eyes widen, unbelieving, and Enjolras shrugs, "What? It'll go towards a charity of your choice."
A peal of laughter is startled out of Grantaire and he smothers an idiotic beam with shaky fingers. God, he's smiling so hard, it's borderline humiliating. He may be imagining this particular detail, but Enjolras' expression looks slightly smug. Hell, he may as well be imagining this whole exchange.
"I'm gonna call security on you. You're freaking me out," he manages, though it doesn't sound threatening by any means.
Narrowing his eyes, Enjolras says, "Learn to say 'thank you,' Grantaire."
The warmth of his grin mirrors Grantaire's.
If Grantaire walks through that door with a dopey look, he will allow anyone to sock him in the face. Hard.
"What the fuck!" Grantaire yelps, glaring down at the couch pillow that had straight up assaulted him. His furniture is flying - what's new? Stranger things have happened, or whatever.
Of course, his reaction is only an invitation for another one to come. He sputters, "What even -"
"Traitor. You almost let an intruder into our home," Gavroche snarls, or attempts to, from where he's standing on the coffee table. He doesn't even bother to tell him to get down. Grantaire knows a lost cause when he sees one. He's surrounded by them on a day-to-day basis.
"Do you pay rent?" Grantaire mutters to deflect, throwing the two cushions onto the couch where they belong, not even caring if they flop sadly to the ground.
"Let him give you shit. That's the least you could do after you got his Roblox account banned, you freak," Éponine grumbles from where she's seated at the kitchen island. She pops a red grape into her mouth daintily, and it emphasizes her lipstick shade. She's also giving him a focused look of scrutiny.
Grantaire barely remembers to defend himself, but Gavroche huffs, "I don't play Roblox anymore." He spits the word 'Roblox' venomously and Grantaire can't stifle his snort.
"The account was practically his, anyways. He logs on when he's tipsy."
"Ew."
"It's funny as hell in the moment. I don't want to hear it," Grantaire says, collapsing onto the couch. He stretches a leg to kick lightly at Gavroche because he is the (second) easiest individual to provoke. And he needs to stall.
Éponine isn't done, "I've seen you. You just reset your avatar repeatedly and cackle like a nutjob -"
"Precisely," Grantaire confirms.
"You probably give little kids nightmares -"
"What's that Taylor Swift song again? Something about being - uh, a nightmare? But a daydream too?"
Azelma parrots the correct lyric at him, and he hadn't even noticed her upon entering the room. She's perched on the single armchair, not even glancing up from her phone. Her newfound penchant for eyeliner heightens her resemblance to her sister. It's little epiphanies like these that make Grantaire proud to feel part of a family.
He throws Azelma a thumbs-up that she does not see.
Casually, Éponine says, "So, R, are we going to discuss your fairytale moment with Prince Charming?"
"No," Grantaire decides, firm. He's already occupied as it is; it's tough maintaining his residence on the couch while fending off Gavroche, who has devious plans for his beloved beanie.
Éponine considers this, "I mean, the walls aren't exactly soundproof, so we basically heard the whole thing."
Grantaire's movements halt, which gives Gavroche an instant edge. He seriously considers revoking Éponine's title of his best friend; his twin flame; his metaphorical evil stepsister -
"Dude, I was giving you an opportunity to testify, but I guess we can just fill in the blanks ourselves. What, you need your own personal escort now, from a café?" Éponine snorts, and her tone is pure mocking, though she picks up on his silence quite swiftly.
"You got yourself into shit, didn't you." She doesn't pose it as a question. It's an imperious demand for him to start talking.
"Damn right he has," Gavroche interjects, holding Grantaire's green cap up in triumph.
Azelma's eyes find his, and he feels the weight of their calculation. She's set her phone aside.
The fuckers.
[User 1832]:
Grantaire,
I've seen a new side of you today that I've come to realize I've been missing out on. Sorely.
Hearing the rise and fall of your laugh - genuine and lacking in derision. The apples of your cheeks glowing crimson. The way you glide through the city with the agility of a dancer. All of this I store in my mind so fondly.
The effect you have on me and you don't even know it. It pains me, R. Everything about you is so difficult. Why?
I'm an outsider hoarding this knowledge privately, greedily. You'd laugh and turn me away. I know you gravitate towards the flame of the party. On misty nights, you find yourself enveloped in the arms of some lovely man or woman. They take you home, but they are makeshift. Why? There's no doubt in my mind that they are just as taken with you at first glance as I am with you every day.
I hate this, but I could never bring myself to hate you.
Sorry.
Grantaire stares at a meaningless patch of wall, resolute. The paint is peeling, and his fingers itch for a brush. He thinks it's been in a state of limbo for a while now; half cream, half nothing. It almost strikes a chord with him, except he must have some ounce of dignity left because his gaze shifts.
They're in his room now, and Grantaire's back is flat on the floor while his feet are kicked up, resting lazily on the wall. He peers at Éponine sideways, her legs bunched up to her chest; her back to plaster, cracked like chapped lips.
Éponine has his phone inches from her face, eyes squinted. Her lips form silent syllables as her eyes drift from one line to another. She's always the first to scrutinize, yet she hates to be the subject of it. When Grantaire senses the threat of her imminent stare, he looks away.
After what seems like an interval of eternity, Éponine addresses him, "Grantaire." Not even a split second later, she adds as an afterthought, "Dude."
"Fucking right? Maybe this is a sign I'm moving up in the world. Having a stalker - shit's, like, obscure."
Abruptly, his phone slips from her grip gracelessly to the floor. It's only a three-inch drop, but he isn't willing to test the odds. Clumsily, Grantaire reaches for it through the dim light,
"Whoa, watch it. My phone's practically on life support, you heathen."
"You said you had a what? A stalker? You think you're in Pretty Little Liars? You think that's A texting you?"
"I am the pretty little liar - what's wrong with you?" Grantaire shrieks when she begins to hit him with the godforsaken device. He chances a look at her, and the expression on her face is incredulous. Grantaire gets the underlying feeling he is missing something.
"Grantaire," Éponine implores. Her eyes are tiny slits now, and they seem to be searching his face for something.
"What," he treads. His phone lies forgotten on the ground now, claimed only by the throes of rough carpet. Grantaire feels like a child under interrogation; Éponine has that startling effect. He thinks Gav and Zelma are immune, but he sure as hell isn't.
"You think you have a stalker."
"Uh, yeah? And frankly, I'm a bit hurt you're showing zero signs of worry -"
"And you have - no clue who this person is."
Grantaire feels like he's walking on eggshells. He's getting the impression that all of his answers are wrong, but he can't identify the implications.
"No?"
An air of defeat punctuates the singular word.
Éponine rubs furiously at her eyes, and she groans. When her tired eyes resurface from the confines of her fingers, her makeup is smudged. She regards him wearily and says, "Okay. You know, with the way this guy types, I'd imagine him like - making speeches or some shit."
"So like Enjolras, but instead of social justice, it's declarations of love? Or I guess psychotic obsession in this case."
Éponine nods her head, slow like she's an ominous bobblehead. She looks mildly unhinged, with her barely-there liner and the crazed look in her eyes. Oh man, if looks could kill, he thinks.
"Okay," Éponine rises, "Okay."
She leaves the room.
[R]:
cool ig
Enjolras and Grantaire have found a middle ground. Or something in resemblance to it, Grantaire supposes. The whole ordeal still holds an uncanny air; he's convinced he hallucinated it. It isn't completely far-fetched, considering how Enjolras frequents his dreams on a nightly basis.
Grantaire wonders if Enjolras even has a nagging feeling he's won multiple Oscars in the plane of his subconscious.
When Grantaire arrives at the Musain, his nerves are twisted. The three blocks had been a blur, bombarded by thoughts of Enjolras and Instagram gate. He much prefers to dwell on the former, though his focus darts. Éponine hadn't been much help, and he finds no point in telling anyone else. He is thrown off as it is without all the fuss.
(He still can't wrap his mind around it. Who in their right mind could like him that much? Grantaire is a pessimist, and he drinks, and he is an eyesore. Despite any warped perception, this was factual. He makes up for the beauty he lacks through his art; his painting, his dancing, his boxing. Who would he be otherwise?
Someday, that person will stop writing him and realize.)
When the meeting concludes, he steals glances at Enjolras, eager. He tamps down his hopes. It's fine if Enjolras forgets. It's not as if he owes Grantaire anything, considering how generous he was to oblige the first time.
Jesus, he's craving a drink.
When his friends have made their respective departures, finally, Grantaire spies Enjolras making his way over.
Fuck.
Grantaire looks down at his phone to appear occupied. Except his phone is dead, and his assault of the power button doesn't make this any less true.
Shit.
In the meantime, he is stuck staring at his reflection like he's Narcissus. On the other hand, the caught-in-headlights look does not flatter him. Enjolras definitely thinks he's weird as fuck. But he's still willing to walk Grantaire home, and that makes his stomach churn delightfully.
He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning.
When he looks up, Enjolras is hovering over his table, looking troubled. What ultimately unsettles Grantaire is his refusal to meet his gaze, and that's when he feels his body tense.
"Hi," Enjolras begins, his lips pursed. Grantaire doesn't know if it's intended to be a smile, but the sinking in his stomach indicates the odds are not in his favor.
"Apollo," Grantaire replies, maintaining nonchalance.
Frowning, Enjolras meets his eyes finally, "So I know we had an - arrangement, but I've had something come up." He looks apologetic, but it doesn't soothe the disappointment blooming in Grantaire's chest. Enjolras is bailing on him in the span of a day. This has to be a new track record.
"I apologize - I should've told you before the meeting, but my mind has been places." Grantaire takes note of the distance in Enjolras' voice, how his eyes are glazed over. He's not mentally present, and Grantaire feels himself flush, embarrassed. Of course, he'd taken care of Grantaire yesterday the way he'd treat a charity case. Enjolras pitied him, and Grantaire had put him in an uncomfortable position, joking with him as he'd joke with Courfeyrac. Joly. Bahorel.
Grantaire had forgotten that he and Enjolras weren't friends. They share the same orbit, but they were not friends.
He needed a drink.
"Oh, that - that's okay. It's whatever," Grantaire tries for lightheartedness, though his voice sounds small. "Whatever," he clarifies, not believing himself. He waits for Enjolras to acknowledge him, but he doesn't.
Grantaire shoots Enjolras a bitter smile that he does not see, and says, "Good luck with whatever is bothering you."
He leaves, and he blinks fast.
(Enjolras catches sight of his retreating figure, the café door swallowing him whole. He puts his head in his hands, and sighs hard.)
The words swim in his vision, and they're never in one place for a given moment.
Grantaire has the apartment to himself; Èponine is out, and he knows best not to ask after her. He wishes for her presence like a clingy child.
These days, he's regulated his drinking, but tonight he needs something to slow the dregs of his mind. To prevent Enjolras from slipping into his thoughts unbidden. To put an end to the confessions.
He reaches for the full bottle, and he hesitates, but he settles for a smaller glass. A year ago, this would've been a herculean feat, but he's better now.
Grantaire allows himself to smile a little.
There's a nagging feeling at the back of his mind, an itch that can't be scratched. It could just be the wine-induced fog, but it irks Grantaire incessantly.
His eyes blur in and out of focus, and they burn lightly at the glow of his screen. He's clutching his phone loosely, and he has his Instagram messages pulled up. Grantaire's either been reading the texts for five minutes or an hour; he isn't equipped to tell.
The little snippets he comprehends are enough to make him titter. It's safe to say he isn't as good at holding his liquor as he once was.
Pouring your heart out to a stranger on social media is already absurd as it is, but to follow up with an apology? Grantaire is laughing now.
His fingers flick leisurely over the chat, and he scrolls up only to scroll back down. This becomes a continuous loop, and he's not sure how long this goes on. He's only faintly aware of his eyes growing half-lidded, drooping, and is he still laughing? It's a nice sense of euphoria, fuzzy. He can't remember the last time he described being drunk as "fuzzy," but it sounds juvenile. He giggles some more. Just for good measure.
"Grantaire?"
A voice calls, and Grantaire doesn't even jolt. It sounds far away, tunnel-like. Grantaire feels a hint of irritation at being disrupted, and he voices his feelings assertively,
"Fuck you. Go away.."
"Uh, you're the one that called me - are you alright?"
Grantaire called him? He does not take too kindly to such accusations being made, "No..?" He burrows his face into his covers, and he appreciates their contribution to his fuzziness.
"You're drunk, aren't you." If the voice wasn't accusatory before, it certainly is now. The nagging feeling returns and Grantaire loathes its relentless temperament. He cracks an eye open with much force and is met with the image of a ceiling fan on his phone. It appears that a video call was in fact made. Interesting, that.
It seems the man on the phone wishes to stay anonymous. Grantaire's not sober enough to care.
Grantaire ignores the mysterious voice, and clicks blindly. The chat log reappears when he realizes who he must be speaking to.
"Fuuuuuck…" He drones in slurred astonishment.
"Grantaire? What's wrong?" His stalker sounds truly concerned, and Grantaire is struck by an odd sense of endearment. Gross.
"You're my stalker.." Grantaire whispers into the speaker, unbelieving that he is having this conversation. This could be another of his strange dreams, though it's a shame Enjolras is absent. He misses Enjolras. He could be drooling currently - who knows.
Grantaire interprets the ensuing silence as an invitation to continue. "I don't know you are, dude, but this whole charade must've taken a whole lot of dedication… Those are some Renaissance-level love letters, let me tell you. The modern social media twist would be tacky, if it weren't for the impeccable quality. Are you sure you don't want to put those skills to other use? My best friend said you'd be great at writing speeches, and I'd be inclined to agree."
At least that's what he thinks he says. He definitely stumbled somewhere around 'Renaissance.' There was also a generous amount of 'b' sounds in 'impeccable.'
Grantaire concludes his drunken rant, "I think I have Stockholm Syndrome." He begins to hiccup. He's convinced the line has gone dead, when the voice goes, almost shrill,
"What the fuck."
Something is strange. The way the expletive sounds through the phone, in that voice. It's unfamiliar, yet the voice is supposed to be unfamiliar, so why does it fill Grantaire with a sense of comfort? That one word though, rubs him the wrong way. Maybe he's opposed to dirty words now. His mouth forms the word 'fuck,' and alas, it is agreeable to his own lips.
He thinks he's missing something.
The call disconnects, and his curiosity subsides as his eyes droop to oblivion.
When he resurfaces from the fog, he is tucked in.
Grantaire grasps his sheets tightly, blocking the impending doom that is sunlight through dense shades. He groans nonsensically and reaches blindly for a pillow. A very solid pillow, to be precise. Shaped suspiciously like a human torso.
"Hello."
Grantaire's arm recoils as if scalded and his head shoots up from under the covers. He's sure he's got a severe case of bedhead but nothing can undermine the sight of Enjolras. It's Enjolras. Sitting on his bed, reading - God knows whatever he plucked off Grantaire's dusty bookshelf.
In response to Enjolras' greeting, he promptly flings the novel across the room, not even chancing a look at the cover, "Hello to you too, Enjolras - why the fuck are you in my bed are you like perverted now I know damn well I did not let you into the apartment -"
It's all just filterless nonsense, really.
Enjolras, to Grantaire's immense delight, looks properly chastised and he sputters, rising from the bed. "I - I was reading that - that was uncalled for," he indicates the abandoned paperback, "I promise you, we did not do anything, I only came here to check up on you. You were pretty out of it last night…"
Enjolras looks sheepish and Grantaire almost regrets freaking out on him. Almost. He isn't quite done, "How did you even get in - shit." He massages his temple in an attempt to soothe the persistent throbs.
When Grantaire looks up, Enjolras proffers a glass of water, prepared as ever. "Your door was unlocked," Enjolras chides, and they seem to be back to their routine dynamic.
Grantaire eyes the glass cautiously, feeling like it's a trap of sorts. He takes quick sips before placing it on the nightstand, gazing up at Enjolras.
"What makes you think I wasn't waiting for you, Apollo?" Grantaire says, trying to slip under the covers as covertly as possible. His bedhead is not ready for its world debut.
Grantaire notes the way Enjolras looks hilariously out of place, lingering at the side of the bed awkwardly. He kicks himself for the eviction.
"Well, the fact that you started screaming the moment you woke up," Enjolras mutters, "It was quite the experience being on the other end." Given the strange look Enjolras shoots him, his plans to obscure himself from view aren't too successful.
I'd scream for you whenever, just name the place and time, Grantaire thinks pleasantly.
He halts, "Wait. You said something about last night… how did you know I was -"
"Well, you called me, presumably by accident, but I picked up nonetheless." Enjolras looks embarrassed now, and Grantaire is struck by an odd sense of whiplash. His brows are furrowed, and he seems to be avoiding Grantaire's gaze. Again, he gets the feeling he is missing something. This whole week feels like a prolonged game of trivia, littered with questions that are supposed to prove that Grantaire is smarter than a fifth grader. Except he is just as lost as he was on Monday.
Grantaire racks his brain for clues; Enjolras is right - he was out of it last night, and it hurts to think that far back. He blocks out Enjolras' speech, which most likely has something to do with locking his doors at all times, but Grantaire will figure this out on his own, damn it.
"So I got tipsy, and I emailed Roblox to get Gavroche's account unbanned…" He mutters to himself, recounting the night's events, and Enjolras looks incredulous. "I cried a little bit.." Enjolras looks worried, "Uh, I reread the stalker texts, I think, or was that before Roblox?"
Enjolras buries his head in his hands and groans. Grantaire is slightly aroused, but he powers through, "It was after… and then I - shit, I called the Instagram stalker!" He gapes at his newfound revelation, while Enjolras paces.
Grantaire realizes that Enjolras is probably worried about him, creating mental PowerPoint presentations. He imagines 'The Grantaire Protection Program,' decked out in a fancy font with visuals.
"Oh, it's a lot to explain, but basically this Instagram account has been professing his love to me over text. And I only know it's a he because he has his pronouns on his profile, so don't get all up in arms -"
"Grantaire."
"But there are no, like, threats, they're chunky paragraphs detailing my sunshine-shitting smile or my bell-sounding laugh -"
"Grantaire."
"But they're… sweet, somehow? I mean, I'm freaked out obviously, but I'm flattered? I know that's deranged, and maybe I'm showing symptoms of st -"
"If you say 'Stockholm syndrome,' I'm walking out of this room, Grantaire," Enjolras grits through his teeth, and he sounds immensely frustrated. Maybe this is the worst possible time to describe anything as swoon-worthy, but Grantaire's moral compass resides in another continent.
"If you're making fun of me, then I would really appreciate it if we could just - put this behind us?" Enjolras' eyes are screwed shut, and he rakes slender fingers through spun gold.
"Please?" Enjolras says, and he sounds tired and - upset, Grantaire notes. He raises his brows,
"No offense, dude, but like, how does this correlate to you at all?"
Enjolras huffs, exasperated, "You can't be serious -"
Grantaire's eyes dart around the room in response, fixated on the lone paperback with its yellowed pages. He feels oddly akin to it, and he thinks that he and Enjolras are having two separate conversations - not on the same page.
"Would you just tell me what's going on before freaking out on me? Like, explain this to me like I'm five years old…"
In three short strides, Enjolras is eye level with Grantaire, gripping him by the shoulders. Grantaire's breath hitches, and he makes a noise because his body is constantly working against him.
"You don't have a stalker! You never did, okay? It was - it was me. I don't know if you're being dense on purpose, you can - you pick apart my speeches with ease, yet you can't grasp simple context clues, what made you think - fuck." Enjolras releases his grip on Grantaire and pinches the bridge of his nose.
(He faintly mourns the contact.)
Grantaire is sitting up now, mussed curls on full display, because who gives a fuck at this point? "Excuse me? I mean - pardon?" He clutches the feather-light sheets, vicelike. He's scared his sanity will slip away with it.
"I suppose it's my fault for not conveying this efficiently, but I didn't - I couldn't say it to your face, but I assumed I might've gotten the point across. I mean, I wrote to you before and after every interaction because I couldn't bring myself to say it to you in the moment. Grantaire, can you really blame me when you get all close and plead for me to walk you home? I assumed you knew and took pity on me, but then you'd respond sounding disinterested, and then you call me drunk on the phone that you have a stalker. What am I supposed to think, Grantaire - don't look at me like that!"
Grantaire's expression remains the same, and he's not quite sure what he's doing to cause the strain in Enjolras' voice. He blinks once, his eyes the size of saucers.
What the fuck.
Grantaire's lips part, but no sound comes. Maybe bursting out in hysteria would be an appropriate response. Who can even say at this point?
There's much to unpack here. Grantaire doesn't even think he's capable of unpacking this shitload.
"You don't have to say anything. I'll see myself out -"
"Cool."
"What."
Grantaire tugs at Enjolras' sleeve and blinks up at him, "Come down here."
Wordlessly, Enjolras sits.
Grantaire snorts, "No way that works," and crashes their lips together.
Amid the collision, Grantaire is reminded of his perpetual headache, but who gives a flying fuck. Enjolras kisses like he's satiating a hunger, or world hunger itself, shit, and Grantaire's stomach is in knots, and Jesus Christ, Enjolras is stronger than he looks -
They're a tangle of limbs, and Grantaire's bedhead has never been worse, courtesy of the golden boy himself. Enjolras nips harshly at his bottom lip, and he isn't sure if it's the headache or the high that renders Grantaire dizzy.
He yanks at Enjolras' hoodie strings and pulls away for his sanity's sake. Enjolras looks as fucked up as Grantaire has ever seen him, and he firmly believes it's a sight to be set in stone. He's almost taken aback by the mirrored look in Enjolras' eyes. Suddenly, he's struck by the thought that he probably doesn't look much better.
Bitten lips, tousled curls, aroused as fuck - Grantaire would say they complement each other pretty well. He eyes the rather prominent tent in Enjolras' pants and blurts the first thing that comes to mind,
"Cool."
Enjolras rolls out of bed.
"I was kidding - you know I was kidding!"
Limbs laze beneath bed sheets once more; it's inevitable. The room smells faintly of sweat, and a steady silence engulfs Grantaire.
Always one to disrupt the peace, Grantaire muses,
"Apollo, pro tip, if you plan to win someone over, you shouldn't say things like 'I can't wait to see you today.' It's creepy as shit, especially if you follow it with a smiley face - with a nose. Have some decency."
Enjolras arches a brow, and it hides beneath a mane of blond. His curls are matted to his forehead, and he looks down at Grantaire from where he leans against the headboard.
"It worked on you, did it not?"
Wryly, Grantaire laughs, "Not before anything dire was assumed, of course." He nuzzles into the warmth of Enjolras' chest, though the look on his boyfriend's face is pinched.
"In my defense, I didn't know who to ask, so I - ah, recalled the things Marius would say about Cosette -"
"Shut the fuck - you did what?" Grantaire sputters. At the sight of Enjolras' reddening cheeks, he promptly bursts into hysterics. His boyfriend's brows furrow in exasperation and growing concern when Grantaire begins hitting the mattress.
"You - oh my shit, you're saying you - fuck, channeled your inner Marius? The blond hair dye is seeping into your brain -"
"I'm a natural blond, R, you know this, and it's really not that funny." Enjolras' lips threaten to quirk upwards, contrary to his statement.
"Aw, sweetheart, are you embarrassed?" Grantaire coos, and his eyes remain misty from fits of laughter.
"I'm breaking up with you."
"Be my guest. Sucks for you that I have User1832 on speed dial."
"Shush," Enjolras chuckles, pressing a kiss to Grantaire's forehead.
As with all things, Enjolras has plans to effectively achieve this.