Work Text:
Grantaire was pretty okay at a lot of things. Carpentry, for one (but note that cleaning wood clippings off of his living room floor was not included on the list). Binge-watching reality television. Drawing art for strangers on the internet, which earned enough to cover almost half his rent. Staying inside his apartment and never venturing beyond the trash can pickup on the street– honestly, that was his greatest skill.
Talking to people had never been high on that list, forget flirting with people. (His last dalliance had led to him getting ghosted mid cyber-sex, which was probably a sign he needed to get outside more often. But these days, what wasn’t a sign he needed to get outside his house?) So it wasn’t too surprising that when he saw his stunningly attractive new neighbor, sitting at the picnic table outside their duplex, he put his foot in his mouth.
“Come here often?”
“I live here,” Hot Neighbor snapped. His head was buried in some textbook, and he didn’t even need to look up to be snarky.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Grantaire said, sliding into the bench across from him. “Grantaire. This is my picnic table.”
“Oh– sorry, I figured it went with the apartment.”
Grantaire shook his head. “Amazon, baby. You can order anything nowadays.” Hot neighbor scowled. “You gonna tell me your name, or should I start looking through your mail?” Looking through your mail ? Who said that?
“That’s a felony,” Hot Neighbor said, finally looking up from his book and pushing his glasses to the top of his head.
“I won’t open your mail,” Grantaire said. “Just, you know, look for the name on the envelope.”
“I’m still getting mail from the person who lived here before me.”
Oh, the person who lived here before Hot Bespectacled Blonde. He hadn't been bad, per se, but he'd smoked too much pot in their shared yard, and that was saying something coming from Grantaire. Because yes, Grantaire loved a good wake-and-bake as much as the next guy, but every day? At eight am on the dot? Come on. (The secondhand smoke had been convenient for about a week after his dealer moved to a different part of the city and stopped making house calls to Grantaire’s neighborhood. After that, it was a pain in the ass again.)
“I know his name. Gonna put my world-class deduction skills to use, process of elimination this bitch.”
A frustrated sigh, then: “I’m Enjolras.” Fuck, even his name matched his ungodly level of attractiveness. Secretly, Grantaire had hoped it would have been something ugly, Steve or Bob or Javert or something. A name that he would never be able to fantasize about, a name he would never want to whisper while he came. But nope, nothing in life came easy to Grantaire, why would not lusting over his neighbor be any different?
“Grantaire.”
“I know. You, err, already told me.”
Well this was going well.
“I’m going back inside,” Grantaire said. Enjolras stared blankly, like why are you telling this to me ?
“You weren’t going out?”
Grantaire shook his head. “Just came out for some fresh air.” And because I saw you sitting out there, he didn’t say.
“Nice meeting you,” Grantaire waved, heading back towards his front door.
Enjolras nodded, his head back in the book.
Grantaire was screwed.
“I don’t hate this idea!” Joly exclaimed the next day, sitting cross-legged on Grantaire’s carpet– ten dollars on Craigslist, although the seller had been very confused on Grantaire’s insistence that they bring it to his apartment. Sometimes, Grantaire just wanted to put a sign outside saying I SWEAR THIS ISN’T A MURDER NEST, I JUST DON’T GO OUTSIDE, LEAVE IT ON THE STOOP IF YOU’RE THAT WORRIED. (Maybe he could get Cosette to cross-stitch it for him, if he asked nicely.) “You should go for it!”
Joly’s relentless positivity was going to be the death of Grantaire. “Yes, because everyone wants to go out with their neighbor. Especially when their neighbor isn’t all there in the head.”
Musichetta frowned from her perch on the couch. “Stop being self-deprecating.”
“I would never.”
“Fine, but stop being self-deprecating about your anxiety.”
Joly and Bossuet nodded in agreement, and Grantaire felt like an asshole. “Just because my brain’s too fucked-up to be loved doesn’t mean y’all’s are.”
“Grantaire,” Bossuet said, disapprovingly.
“Don’t try and date your neighbor,” Eponine chimed in, emerging from Grantaire’s kitchen with a new bottle of wine. “Bad idea. Can confirm.”
Musichetta rolled his eyes. “Just because you and Marius Pontmercy didn’t pan out doesn’t mean everyone else is doomed.”
Eponine practically flinched at Marius’s name. “Let’s talk about something else now.”
“I’m with Joly,” Bossuet said. “You don’t leave your apartment. A cute guy shows up at your apartment. It’s fate.”
“I’m pretty sure I’ve seen that movie,” Eponine joked. “Was he delivering a pizza, or here to fix your faucets?”
“He didn’t show up at my apartment,” Grantaire corrected. “Just the other unit.”
“Close enough,” Bossuet shrugged, and then burst out in giggles. “Get it? Because the other unit is physically close?”
“I’m not sure that counts as a pun, babe,” Musichetta patted his head.
“But the effort was appreciated!” said Joly, grinning.
Somehow, Joly could have the same sort of clinical anxiety issues as Grantaire, and he had not one but two amazing and supportive partners. Like he lived in one of those It Gets Better! videos. Only Joly, you know, wasn’t stuck in his apartment. But he was prone to panic attacks too– the two of them had been on the same medications for a while, even. So what was Grantaire’s excuse?
“It’s okay,” Grantaire poured himself more wine. “I’ll just sit outside, pining over Enjolras–”
“Do you like him because you like him based on one interaction, or because you literally haven’t seen another human man in who knows how long?” Eponine asked.
“Wait, what was his name?” Joly interrupted.
“Enjolras,” Grantaire said. Fuck, that was a good name.
Joly looked up at Musichetta. “Think there’s more than one Enjolras?”
She pulled out her phone. “There’s no fuckin’ way.”
Eponine pointed out the window. “That him?”
Musichetta smirked, and held her hands out to double-high five her boyfriends. “Gotta love sending ominous go outside texts.”
“You know him?” Grantaire gasped.
“Everyone knows him,” Eponine said. “He went to law school with Marius–”
Fucking Pontmercy. “Last time Marius was here, he asked about the empty unit,” said Grantaire, blinking. He assumed Marius had just been asking for the sake of being weird, because no sane person would want to move next door to their weird agoraphobic friend.
Of course, unless they were asking for someone else.
“Enjolras!” Bossuet hollered.
“He can’t hear you from outside,” Grantaire said.
“Enjolras! ”
Somehow, Bossuet’s raised voice made it through the shut windows, and Enjolras looked directly inside Grantaire’s apartment.
“Come in! ”
“You can’t invite people into my home,” Grantaire said.
“It’s not like he needs to be invited in the first place; he’s not a vampire,” Joly joked. “Unless–”
“Hello.”
There was Enjolras, standing in his doorway.
“Enjolras, have I ever seen you in the daytime?” Joly asked.
“How do you feel about garlic?” Bossuet added.
“You know each other?” Enjolras asked, staring directly at Grantaire.
Grantaire nodded. “Yup.”
“It’s Bad Movie Night! C’mon, take some wine,” Joly exclaimed.
“I can’t stay,” Enjolras said, because of course he couldn’t stay, why would anyone want to spend time with Grantaire?
“Next time,” Musichetta chimed in.
“Next time,” Enjolras repeated.
Grantaire just stood there, slightly shocked and definitely speechless. No one seemed to notice.
“Come here often?” There he was, putting his foot in his mouth again.
The corner of Enjolras’s mouth perked up into something that someone might call a smile. (Not Grantaire, though.) “Do you need the picnic table for something?”
Honestly, Grantaire did need it. “Not really,” he lied. “Just getting outside.”
“It’s your table,” Enjolras said, shoving the pile of papers threatening to overtake the whole thing off to one side.
Well, fuck it. Grantaire plopped his sketchbook down on the other half, and slid onto one of the uncomfortable benches. “I hear you went to law school with Marius,” Grantaire tried, because awkward small talk would always be there for him.
Enjolras nodded, and resumed looking over whatever papers were more interesting than Grantaire.
“We have Bad Movie Night every week.” Grantaire wasn’t capable of shutting his mouth, apparently. “It’s Sharknado 4: The 4th Awakens next.”
“I haven’t seen the first three.”
“Oh, neither have we. I mean, I think Bahorel– if you know Bahorel– has.”
“You know Bahorel?” Enjolras raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah, and he better be there, it’s his movie pick.”
Enjolras reshuffled the pile of papers he was looking at. “I’m surprised I haven’t seen you around before.”
Grantaire shrugged. He knew where this was going.
“There’s a protest on Sunday, over by the new development on eleventh–”
“Thanks, but I don’t get out much.”
Enjolras frowned. “So I hear.' Grantaire gripped the edges of his sketchbook. “It’s a good cause, and–“
“I don’t get out at all,” Grantaire interrupted. “Have you seen me venture beyond our front yard?”
“No, but–”
“Enjolras. I don’t care about how much of a difference you think you’re going to make this weekend. I can’t go.”
“What do you mean, think– oh.You’re Bahorel’s recluse friend,” he said, clearly without thinking, and immediately slapped his hand over his mouth.
Grantaire winced. “Is that how people describe me?” People talked about him? That was new. And weird. Then again, having a weird recluse friend was probably a good bit of gossip.
“Just Bahorel.” That made sense, at least. Grantaire loved him, but that boy had no filter. “I’m glad I finally met you.”
“There’s no way that’s true,” Grantaire snorted. He wasn’t the kind of person people were usually ‘glad’ to have anything to do with.
“Feuilly mentioned you’re a graphic designer?” Oh, Enjolras must have wanted some free designing done. That was why he was talking to Grantaire.
“Sometimes,” Grantaire said, because it sounded a lot better than “graphic designer, artist, whatever fuckin’ pays the bills– I just finished up a rather lucrative commission too, would show you but it’s sorta kinda just furry pornography.”
“I was wondering,” Enjolras started. “Or, we were wondering,” he corrected, “if you would be willing to redo–”
“My rates are on my website,” Grantaire interrupted, because yes his neighbor was cute, but you had to do a lot more than be cute to get free labor from him. “You can get the link from Marius.” There, that would guarantee Enjolras would never get it.
“Can you not just send it to me?”
“Internet’s down,” Grantaire lied.
“It’s the building’s internet. I’m on the network right now,” Enjolras held up his phone, and Grantaire remembered that he knew Marius from law school. Unsurprisingly, most lawyers were not as dense as Pontmercy. “If you don’t want to–”
“No, it’s okay.” If Enjolras asked him to dye his hair blue and streak naked through the front yard whilst playing the banjo, he would. Hell, he would say he'd leave his apartment if Enjolras asked. (He wouldn’t actually do it, but he sure would say he would, and that would still be a big step, okay?) “I, um–“ Grantaire stammered, sliding his phone out of his pocket and pulling up his webpage. “Airdrop good?”
Enjolras shrugged. “Sure.”
Good: he didn’t need Enjolras’s phone number on his contacts list, tempting him. Grantaire selected Enjolras’s iPhone from the airdrop options. “Damn, open to everyone.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your airdrop settings? You can get things from anyone.”
Enjolras stared blankly. “…okay?”
“That’s how you end up with a stranger’s dick on your phone on the subway.”
“Excuse me ?”
Grantaire lowered his voice, trying for a subpar Viola Davis impression. “Why is your penis on a dead girl’s phone,” he growled. Another blank stare from Enjolras. “You know, from How To Get Away With Murder ? C’mon, you’re a lawyer, that’s where all my law knowledge comes from, please tell me you’ve seen it.”
“I don’t watch TV,” Enjolras said, and Grantaire practically recoiled in shock. “Do you have something to say about that?”
“Television’s my life,” Grantaire said in the most serious tone he could muster.
“Maybe you should get out more,” Enjolras said, then blanched. “Sorry, that was uncalled for.”
“Nah, gotta live vicariously.” Enjolras didn’t mean that. He couldn’t have– he was just seemingly absent of any sort of filter, to which Grantaire could relate. Still. “I’m gonna get back to television now, actually.”
“You don’t have work to do outside?” Enjolras asked, gesturing to Grantaire’s sketchbook.
“Nah, Law & Order is more important. Catch ya later,” he said, heading back into the safety of his apartment.
And if Enjolras was looking at him as he walked away, that was nobody’s business but Grantaire’s.
“Hmm,” Fantine’s pixelated voice came out of Grantaire’s shitty laptop speakers. “How are you feeling about that?”
“Really fuckin’ bad, doc.” Ah, therapy over Skype. Fantine was the only person Grantaire knew still using Skype, but hey, he would take the brain-fixing in any format. (Well, any digital format.)
“Have you told him this?”
Grantaire sighed. “Have I told Hot Neighbor that he’s too hot for me to live next to, and that whatever snarky side comments his friends think are hilarious are hitting too deep, and that I’m in desperate need of jumping his bones even though my brain’s too fucked up for bone jumping?”
“Grantaire.”
Ugh. “I am worthy of love. My brain is not too fucked up for bone jumping,” Grantaire recited.
“Does he sound like anyone you know?”
“Enjolras?”
“‘Snarky side comments’ that are hitting too deep.”
Grantaire pointed to himself. “Moi ? Doc, are you coming onto me, because I’m flattered, but–“ Honestly, it was a small miracle that Fantine hadn’t gotten sick of him and passed him off to another shrink by now.
“Grantaire.” Her patience for his bullshit was wearing thinner by the second. “Something to think about, okay?”
“Yup. Something to think about. You know, for all the thinking time that I have when I can’t get out of bed in the morning. I do all my best thinking when I’m paralyzed by life.”
“Grantaire.”
“I am not my anxiety,” he recited. “I am strong and capable and like a fucking bolt of lightning carried by a baby lion or whatever weird metaphor was in that self-help book you made me read.”
“Joking about your anxiety isn’t going to stop it,” Fantine said.
Well, ouch. Even if it was true.
Enjolras had his email, Grantaire realized.
Well, his work email– his real work email, not the burner one used for all the fucking furry porn commissions. Through the contact box on his website, which got sent to his spam folder half the time.
Grantaire should be asleep. At least, he'd taken half a melatonin gummy half an hour ago, but melatonin was no match for the mere thought of Enjolras. (Or no match for anything really, he had been sitting up in bed playing Solitaire on his phone before he thought of the boy next door.) He paused his game and switched into his email app, holding his breath–
Nope, no new emails. Nothing in spam either. Fuck. Not that he was expecting an undying confession of love or anything, but at least whatever work Enjolras apparently had for him would be nice.
Welp. Back to Solitaire. Unless…
Grantaire pulled up his photos, clicked share on the latest one– a way-too-burnt pan of tempeh bacon, captured for all posterity so Eponine could make fun of his lack of cooking skills later. Sure enough, Enjolras’s iPhone showed up on his airdrop menu. Meaning Enjolras was awake, and on his phone, and Grantaire had a way of contacting him (other than, you know, pounding on their shared bedroom wall, or going outside and ringing the bell to his apartment, or anything logical).
“Why the fuck are you calling me,” Eponine said, picking up on the first ring.
“So you can stop me from making a bad decision.'
“R. I love you. I can’t stop you from doing anything.”
It was amazing, really, the extent of bad decisions Grantaire could make without leaving his house. Sure, most of them were just questionable online shopping purchases or taking too many edibles and spending entire weekends just staring at his wall, but still.
“Can you try?”
“Okay fine,” Eponine sighed. “Don’t do whatever you’re about to do.”
“Love ya,” Grantaire smiled. “Am I still babysitting tomorrow?”
“Bright and early, so actually don’t do whatever bullshit you’re up to.”
“I’m sorry Eponine, I have to,” Grantaire said, in the best fake-serious tone he could muster.
“You do you, man.”
“Why are you awake, anyway?”
“Because you fucking called me,” Eponine hissed. “Also, you know. Life.”
Grantaire did in fact, you know, life.
“Eponine, I swear to fuck if you’re sitting up in bed three weeks deep into Cosette’s instagram…”
“…four?” Eponine muttered. “She went to Montreal, and I, err, really care about, uh–”
“You can’t think of a single thing Montreal is known for?”
“Bagels. I really care about Montreal-style bagels.”
“Seriously, ‘Ponine?”
“Come here and stop me.”
Grantaire sighed. “I want to. You know I want to.”
“Go the fuck to sleep, R,” Eponine said.
“You too.”
He hung up, and fuck it. Notes app, you’re up late, screenshot, share, airdrop, Enjolras’s iPhone.
And now, waiting. Fuck, this was a terrible idea. Why hadn’t he let Eponine talk him out of it?
Accept airdrop from Enjolras’s iPhone?
Holy shit. Grantaire clicked accept and held his breath. So are you. And then, a phone number. Holy shit.
“Hello,” Enjolras answered on the first ring. “Enjolras speaking.”
“Hi,” Grantaire whispered.
“Why are you airdropping me at three in the morning?”
“You’re the one who just gave me his number,” Grantaire said. “Could have pretended to be asleep.”
“Sleep is for the wealthy,” Enjolras said. Grantaire genuinely could not tell if he was joking or not. “Why are you awake?”
“Can’t sleep,” Grantaire explained, leaving out and you might be part of the reason why? “You?”
“Work.”
Grantaire had no semblance of a work schedule, and he was a bit iffy on what a normal work-life balance was supposed to look like, but envisioned it didn’t involve being up at three am on a weeknight. “Big– law thing? Judging?”
“Case.”
“Oh, so you have a big case?” Grantaire said. Fuck, did that come off as flirting? Did Grantaire want it to come off as flirting?
“Just redoing some paperwork for this organization,” Enjolras said, either missing or blithely ignoring the innuendo. “Executive director has no idea what he wants, it’s a disaster– sorry, you probably don’t want to hear about the ups and downs of nonprofit law right now, do you?”
“No, keep talking, this will put me right to sleep,” Grantaire joked. “Please tell me you deal with tax codes? I could stand to be completely knocked out right now.”
“Do you really want me to go over the intricacies of nonprofit law in the middle of the night?”
Grantaire would be happy to hear about whatever boring topic, as long as it was Enjolras explaining it.
“Have you tried melatonin?” Enjolras asked unexpectedly.
“Think I’ve built up an immunity.”
“Me too.”
“Something in common. “Damn.”
“What do you mean damn ?”
Oops, he said that last part out loud. “You’re– you’re you, and I’m, well, you’ve met me.”
“I’m me ?”
“Stunning avenging archangel of a person? Probably really brainy and determined and fighting for whatever bullshit–“
“–it’s not bullshit–“
“–fighting for whatever not-bullshit like there’s no tomorrow.”
“You’ve really built me up in your head.'
“You’re hot and have a job,” Grantaire admitted. “Believe me when I say I don't meet many people. The bar is below ground.”
“I think that was a compliment?”
There was something about sitting in the dark and not being able to see Enjolras that made Grantaire able to tell him anything. What was he doing?
“Your art is good,” Enjolras said, after a surprisingly non-awkward silence.
“You went to my website?”
“You sent it to me, remember?” Another comfortable pause. “Can I ask you something?”
Grantaire grimaced, bracing himself for what was coming next. “It’s– it’s just your average case of agoraphobia, go skim the Wikipedia page if you’re really that curious–”
“I was going to ask–“
“Oh, the other thing. On and off for two years. Infer whatever you want.”
“Grantaire.'
“Yeah?”
“That’s not what I was going to ask.” Fuck, so he really did just tell Enjolras to google his mental illness for absolutely no reason. “I– I was wondering about the carpentry?”
Oh. Wow, okay. “Yeah?”
“The buzzing that I can hear coming from your living room?”
Grantaire burst out laughing. “Yes, that’s a saw, no I don’t have all the proper safety things– what did you think ?”
Enjolras was silent, and if Grantaire hadn't known better, he would have sworn he could hear Enjolras blushing. (Except, you know, that wasn't how blushing worked.)
“ Really ?”
“I could hear it, and before I had met you– I told my friend Courfeyrac, he has a wild imagination, I’m so sorry–“
“So I’m not just a recluse, I’m a kinky recluse,” Grantaire smirked. “Like, vibrators at full volume at two thirty in the afternoon, fuck going to the dentist, two thirty’s clearly the best orgy time.”
“I never said that!”
“Courfeyrac did,” Grantaire corrected. “The fuck kind of vibrators is Courfeyrac using where you can hear them in the next apartment, our walls are thin but not that thin,” he laughed.
“I would ask him, but I’m afraid of the answer.”
“I’m not. Find out and report back, I gotta live vicariously. Even though there’s a 95% chance he’s just fucking with you, because what ?”
Enjolras laughed. Grantaire would do just about anything to hear Enjolras laugh again. “Design our fliers and then maybe.”
“Deal.”
“That– that was a joke, I don’t seriously mean you should design us fliers for free–”
“Right, you have the money, Mr. Nonprofit Law.”
Enjolras smiled. Grantaire pictured him lying in bed on the other side of the wall, work laptop open on the bed next to him, perfect hair pulled back–
There he was, building Enjolras up in his mind again. He was gonna have to talk with Fantine about that at some point, but what didn’t he have to talk with Fantine about?
“I think you’re overestimating how much lawyers make.”
“Okay yeah, you live here.” The duplex wasn’t in the nicest part of town, and while it was cozy, it was also falling the fuck apart.
“It’s nice here,” Enjolras protested.
“You’re telling me. I haven’t left in years.”
Maybe the rest of the world really had gone to shit in the past few months since Grantaire had ventured all the way out to Eponine’s, or the grocery store– fuck, he missed the grocery store– not actually going, of course, because panic attacks in the checkout line are no joke, but being able to pick out his own produce. You could only give so many instructions for online grocery delivery.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Enjolras asked.
“You’re not my fucking therapist,” Grantaire snapped, and then bit his tongue. “Sorry, that was–”
“I meant as a friend,” Enjolras said. “If you want.”
“Oh, so we’re friends?” Flirty tone most definitely intended there.
“Why not?”
Grantaire had a whole list of reasons why he and Enjolras weren’t friends, but for once, he could leave it in the file cabinet full of insecurities in the back of his brain. “Okay, friend.”
So he told him, even though Enjolras probably wouldn’t want to talk to him after, because it was almost easier to just talk on the phone in the middle of the night than not talk. Besides, he couldn’t see Enjolras’s reaction like this. For all he knew, Enjolras had abandoned his phone and fled to Canada.
He talked about the panic attacks, the feeling of being tied to his bed some days and not being able to get up at all. Quitting his job– well, he'd called it quitting, the company had called it being let go – when he'd realized that hey, if you have a real adult job, you need to be a real adult person who can get out of bed every day. How some days were better than others– it wasn’t all-or-nothing, he had been known to walk around the block a few times in the past month. Fantine, and the countless hours he had spent on the phone with the mail-order pharmacy. “So, um.”
“Yeah?”
Maybe Enjolras hadn’t fled to Canada after all.
“Since you asked, there it is.”
“Thanks for telling me,” Enjolras said.
“Like, sorry that my brain is just broken, I guess?”
“Don’t apologize.”
This was dumb. It was– fuck, it was almost four in the morning, they had been talking nearly an hour. Enjolras had barely said anything, because Grantaire was in fact whatever sort of freak he was only befriending as a charity case.
“Your brain’s not broken.”
Enjolras’s voice snapped Grantaire out of whatever panic spiral he was about to embark on.
“Yeah, that’s not how this works, it is–”
“I have ADHD. Is my brain broken?”
Doing work at three in the morning? Yeah, Grantaire could have called that one. But also, fuck, of course he was putting his foot in his mouth again. Who would Grantaire be if he didn’t fuck everything up?
“Nope.”
“There you go,” Enjolras said. Lawyered.
“You’re not my fucking therapist,” Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Sorry– I.”
“Sorry,” Enjolras repeated.
“Think that melatonin is finally kicking in,” Grantaire lied. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Grantaire.”
He still couldn’t sleep.
“Why are you here?” Grantaire narrowed his eyes at Gavroche.
“Teacher work day,” Gavroche shrugged, dumping his backpack on Grantaire’s floor and sprawling out on the couch like he owned the place. “Eponine won’t let me stay home alone.”
Eponine had a point. Gavroche was a very precocious ten, but still ten nonetheless. “Fuckin’ nine to fives,” Grantaire murmured.
“‘Ponine says I’m not allowed to say fuck.”
This fucking kid. “I’m gonna take a nap,” Grantaire said. He had gotten about an hour of sleep the night before. “The switch is under–”
“Already got it,” Gavroche looked up from Grantaire’s Nintendo. Of course.
“Wake me up if something’s on fire.”
“You’re not a very good babysitter.'
“You’re the one who wanted to stay home alone.”
Gavroche huffed in agreement, forgetting Grantaire entirely to focus on Mario Kart.
Still, Grantaire’s nap was short-lived, Gav poking him awake after what felt like five minutes. “Is something on fire?”
“Your doorbell was ringing.”
More Amazon packages, probably. Grantaire scuffled out of bed, threw on a sweatshirt, and came face-to-face with Enjolras in his living room.
“You said the doorbell was ringing,” Grantaire glared at Gavroche.
“It was. And then I let him in, and now it’s not.”
The logic was all there, but that didn’t mean Grantaire liked it. “Do you not have work?”
“Teacher work day,” Enjolras said.
“You’re a fu– you’re a nonprofit lawyer.”
“You’re not me, you can just say fuck,” Gavroche commented.
“Lots of parents in the firm, they gave us the day off.” Grantaire was sure he was in for a long-winded speech about the importance of childcare and equality or whatever for working parents. “Can we talk?”
Gavroche plopped himself back on the couch, watching the scene play out. Evidently, Grantaire was more interesting than Mario Kart. Maybe he should have taken that as a compliment, but all he wanted to do right now was melt into the floor to never be seen again.
“I’m babysitting,” Grantaire said.
“He spent the last three hours asleep,” Gavroche informed Enjolras. “I’m fine alone.”
This fucking kid.
“Outside?” Grantaire gestured to the door. He didn’t need the image of Enjolras awkwardly standing in his living room, looking like a deer in headlights at the sight of a kid and a mess of what was supposed to be a chair.
“Sorry,” Enjolras said. “I thought you would be alone.”
“Teacher work day,” Grantaire shrugged, because apparently that was the only explanation that anyone needed today. “Eponine’s brother. Take-your-sibling-to-work day isn't really an option at the bank.”
“And you're here.'
“I’m always here.”Grantaire swung his leg around the picnic table bench and sat down. “What do you want, Enjolras?”
“I don’t think you’re crazy, or broken–”
“Sure, fine, whatever, but what are you doing here ?”
“I live here,” Enjolras said, and Grantaire couldn’t help but let out a laugh at that. “And, err, wanted to make sure we were…” it was like he was reading off of a pre-written speech on the palm of his hand, damn– “cool?”
“We’re positively refrigerated.”
Enjolras smiled. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay.” He turned to leave, but– “you know I’m not talking to you out of some sort of social justice kindness duty, right?”
Grantaire did not in fact know this, nor did he believe it. “Okay.”
“I’m serious.”
“I’m not,” Grantaire said, because he would never let a witty remark be left unsaid. (Or a not-so-witty remark, as the case may be.)
“Courfeyrac says I come off like I don't have real emotions.”
“…okay?”
“So I’m just making sure–”
“Jesus fucking Christ, I get it,” Grantaire said. “You’re a real boy and not some android–”
“– androids have emotions!” Gavroche called out. Shit, had he been listening this whole time? “Does Data mean nothing to you?”
“Data?” Enjolras scrunched his nose.
“Star Trek,” Grantaire explained. “Gav, go back inside!”
Gavroche ignored him, because of course he did.
If Grantaire hated himself just a little more, he could have asked why the fuck Enjolras would actually want to talk to him. Fantine’s voice echoed in his mind. So did Eponine’s, with one of her trademark eye rolls: stop fishing for compliments.
“I’m gonna get back to babysitting,” he said.
“You do that.”
Okay, what the fuck?
“Is he your boyfriend?” Gavroche asked, once they were back inside.
“He’s my annoying neighbor,” Grantaire said. “Annoying neighbor friend.”
Grantaire hadn’t thought Enjolras would ignore him, because it didn’t seem like Enjolras to never talk to someone again. Still, he was surprised when his neighbor showed up at his door the next night, pizza in hand. “I ordered too much.”
“A likely story,” Grantaire said. “Picnic table?”
He was just eating dinner outside, that’s all. He did this– not every day, because humidity was on a mission to kill him, but often enough. Hell, it was his picnic table, this definitely wasn’t anything, anything to worry about or read too much into or–
“This executive director,” Enjolras started. “Just– why would you choose to run a nonprofit if you hate humanity…”
Enjolras could talk about his work, and Grantaire could chew his atrociously vegetable-covered pizza (because of course Enjolras would buy veggie pizza), and it would be okay.
Enjolras had seen approximately no television from the last decade, or from the one before that, or from any decade. “If I was dragged into your life just to teach you about cringe comedy, then okay,” Grantaire said, standing at Enjolras’s doorstep with a Curb Your Enthusiasm box set. “Please tell me you own a tv?”
“You– you want to come in?” Enjolras asked, and wait. Fuck, he hadn’t thought this through. When was the last time he had been in someone’s apartment–?
Deep breaths. It was just Enjolras. And hopefully Larry David, making an ass of himself. “If you own any way to play a DVD, then yeah.” Fantine would be proud. Even if he had to run back next door with a panic attack, he could still brag about this to his therapist.
Grantaire wasn’t going to think too closely about doing things just so he could brag about them to his therapist. He wasn’t going to think too closely about other reasons he might be doing this, either.
“Enjolras is here!” Joly exclaimed.
It was the biggest Bad Movie Night in a while, everyone crowded into Grantaire’s disaster zone of a living room.
“You hyped the movie up so much, I had to be,” Enjolras said. “Can I– is that seat taken?” He gestured to a sliver of open couch between Grantaire and Bossuet.
“Go for it,” Grantaire said. Enjolras definitely just wanted couch to sit on. Grantaire being near had nothing to do with this. Right?
Bossuet fell off the couch halfway through the movie and joined his partners on the floor. “We all knew it was gonna happen,” Musichetta joked.
Enjolras could have spread out into his space, but he wasn’t doing so, and it was taking everything Grantaire had to avoid reading into that.
“I thought I was halving the recipe, but I can’t do math and cooking for one is really hard.”
“You can do math, Jesus Christ, you have a calculator on your phone,” Grantaire rolled his eyes. “‘Not being able to do math’ is just some fucking gatekeeping invented by like, Big Mathematics– what?” Enjolras was looking at him funny. “I had a real job, once upon a time. Drawing furry porn truly was just a hobby–”
“I don’t know what to say to that,” Enjolras said. “But, um, do you want some pasta or not?”
“I’m a freak– oh fuck, wipe that expression off your face, that’s not what I meant.” Grantaire shoved a DVD case at Enjolras. “You’re a geek. Hence, we’re watching.”
“Didn’t this show get cancelled?”
“Shut up, Freaks and Geeks is a cinematic masterpiece, and you’re about to find out why.”
They were falling into a routine.
“You like routines,” said Fantine.
“He came to the last Bad Movie Night, doc.” And much like Sharknado 4: The 4th Awakens, Grantaire had it bad.
“What do you want to come from this?”
That was a good question. “Me, I guess.” Fantine put her head in her hands. “C’mon, you set me up for that one.”
“Grantaire.”
“I went for a walk yesterday, did I tell you that?” Yes, distracting his therapist! Because that was a tool that always worked!
“Where?” Fantine asked.
“Around the block, to the bodega down the street– I didn’t go in, obviously, but I made it all the way there? And the sky didn’t fall down or anything, so um. That’s nice.”
“ Obviously ?” Fantine’s disappointed look was back, and damn, Grantaire really needed to find better methods of distraction.
“Not-obviously?” Grantaire guessed.
“Grantaire–”
“I need to have a positive mindset and believe! That! I! Can! Do! Anything!” He recited.
“Grantaire.”
He never felt great after therapy, because therapy was exhausting and took a lot out of you. But damn, he did not feel good today.
It was noon on a weekday, and he was curled up on his couch with a Klondike bar (what would he do for a Klondike bar? Put it in his online grocery cart, and not much else). Enjolras was probably at his office, thinking he was changing the world or whatever optimistic bullshit he was always spewing. Grantaire shouldn’t text him.
One day, he would become the kind of person who left Yelp reviews for therapy. He imagined Fantine leaving a Yelp review right back for him: fucking stubborn disaster mess, bad at accepting the help he’s literally paying for.
“Okay, who sent you on a mission to feed me? Because, I swear, I may not know how to do much, but I know how to reheat a TV dinner.”
“No mission,” Enjolras said. “I swear. I just, err, have too much lentil soup and last time I made a batch this big it ended up going bad in my fridge.”
“You can freeze soup, you know.” As if he would ever say no to lentils (or Enjolras, for that matter).
“I refuse to accept a version of reality where you haven’t seen Living Single.”
“I have a work thing–”
“That you’re totally gonna be doing at two in the morning anyway.”
Enjolras grinned. “Okay, okay, come on come in.”
The doorbell was ringing. Of course the doorbell was ringing, it was dinnertime– well, it was bedtime for a normal person, but he wasn’t on any sort of schedule and Enjolras probably wanted justice for, like, non-traditional meal times.
Grantaire was in bed. He had gotten up earlier, for coffee. And then again for a granola bar, and then two more cups of coffee before he remembered that drinking too much caffeine on an empty stomach when he was already anxious was never helpful.
His tablet was lying somewhere within arm's reach, a sketch open– a sketch from last week that he couldn’t bring himself to work on, because he couldn’t bring himself to do much of anything, except lie sideways and leave Frasier playing on his laptop.
Another doorbell ring. “I’m not home,” he said.
“ R !”
That wasn’t Enjolras.
“R, I’m coming in.” Eponine’s voice rang through his apartment, then the sound of a key in a lock.
“The fuck are you doing here?” He sat up.
“You weren’t responding to texts.”
Grantaire rubbed his eyes. “I haven’t texted back in what, two days?”
“Three.”
“Three days, and you’re barging in?”
Eponine rolled her eyes and sat on the edge of the bed. “You didn’t like my ostrich photo.”
“I didn’t what ?”
Eponine sighed, as if having to explain whatever basic Grantaire-care system she had going on was the hardest thing in the world. “I send you a photo of an ostrich every day and your liking it is proof of existence?”
“Proof of existence ?”
“You’re not the only one with three-quarters of a math degree they’re not using.”
“Excuse you, I have an entire degree I’m not using.”
“Proof of life sounded too morbid,” Eponine said. “Just– you okay?”
“I’ll be fine,” Grantaire waved it off. “You know how it is.” Eponine gave him a disapproving look, like her and Fantine had been practicing them together. “What, am I not allowed to have an off day?”
“Move over,” she said, moving to the top of the bed and lying down. “Is this season five?”
Grantaire glanced over at his laptop, still playing. “Where’s Gav?”
“Playing Mario Kart on your couch, because I’m a fucking good friend but a fucking better parent-slash-guardian.”
“I don’t deserve you.”
Eponine flicked his arm. “Shut the fuck up, yes you do.”
“Are you okay?”
It was the next day, and Enjolras was at his doorstep again. Grantaire had actually gotten out of bed and finished the sketch. Eaten real food. Put on real clothes- well, Eponine had thrown them at him the night before: “c’mon, you gotta at least look like a person, fake it ’til you make it, what do you think I’ve been doing at every PTA meeting?”
“Loaded question,” Grantaire said.
“Sorry.”
“S’okay,” he shrugged. “Wanna come in?” His apartment was a mess, but when was it not?
Enjolras looked out of place sitting cross-legged on Grantaire’s couch. “Are any of us really okay?”
“That’s a concerning thing to say,” Grantaire said, as if he was one to talk.
“Bad day at work,” Enjolras explained. “My firm just wants to fucking work with this guy–”
“You had a bad day, so you came here?” Grantaire was confused.
“Yes?” Enjolras said hesitantly. “Yes– is that, should I not have–”
Grantaire squeezed on the couch next to Enjolras. “It’s okay.”
“Do you have some questionable and outdated sitcom to show me?” Enjolras asked.
“Sure.” Not like he had been compiling a list of the best episodes from every show in the past century to show Enjolras. “Scale of one to Patrick Stewart on Frasier, how much camp do you want?”
“Surprise me.”
He didn’t get up to sort through the box sets of DVDs strewn all over the side of his living room– building a shelf for them had been one of his first carpentry projects, and it was successful up until the point where he, you know, put weight on it.
“Combeferre made me write a pros/cons list earlier,” Enjolras said.
“...okay?”
“And I’m sure you have years of television as evidence as to why you shouldn’t get involved with your neighbor.”
“I’m not going to make you watch How I Met Your Mother.”
“Thank fuck,” Enjolras muttered.
“Wait–” Grantaire nearly fell off the couch, Enjolras grabbing his arm and pulling him back. “I have cons. I have so many cons, my therapist could give you a fucking list, what is going on?” Maybe this was a stress dream, it had been a while since he had one of those. Nothing like waking up mid-panic attack to remind you why you’re incapable of being loved by the hot neighbor.
Enjolras raised an eyebrow. “I can judge that myself.”
“Right. Because you’re a lawyer. And lawyers judge things.” Wait, that was wrong.
His heart was racing. Enjolras’s hand was still on his arm. Had he brushed his teeth today? Was Enjolras wearing shoes? He could have definitely gotten a splinter walking through the minefield of Grantaire’s living room– wait, that was ridiculous, of course he was– but if not, Grantaire didn’t know where his tweezers were to remove splinters, if he even knew how anymore.
Had Eponine put Enjolras up to this, somehow? It made no sense, but Eponine worked in mysterious ways: see, ostrich photo check-ins.
“I– I have to go,” Grantaire stammered.
“Fuck,” Enjolras muttered. “Is there anything I can do–”
“Wait. I live here. You have to go, I think.” Ha, thinking. Could he still do that?
Enjolras was probably never going to talk to him after this, having a panic attack while someone was trying to come onto you was ridiculous– although unsurprising, because Grantaire. Of course he would find a way to fuck it up.
“Will you be okay?” Enjolras had let go of his arm, Grantaire thought. He wasn’t entirely sure.
“Yeah– just. I’ll see you later.” Or not, more likely.
His in-case-of-emergency-break-childproof-cap meds were in a wooden box underneath his bed. Ignoring Enjolras, Grantaire managed to make it to his room. He managed to swallow a pill and crawl into bed. Nap it off.
He awoke to pouring rain crashing against his window, because the universe either hated him or was really good at practical jokes. He would have to ask Musichetta to ask her tarot deck (“R, you know that’s not how anything works, right?”) which it was, because damn.
“I can’t go over, it’s raining,” he said, when Eponine picked up.
“That sounds like a you problem.”
“It is, by definition, a me problem.” Sometimes, Eponine was insufferable.
“What do you want to happen?” Eponine asked. “Because like, we could keep shooting the shit and I could tell you about a disaster child I had to deal with at work–”
“You work at a bank."
“Yeah, and this motherfucker took too many lollipops, and my manager blamed me. Anyway. You like him, he likes you–”
“Not anymore, probably.”
Eponine sighed. “You had a panic attack, it fucking happens. Enjolras isn’t dumb, he knew that was a possibility.”
“In his cons column.”
“His– did he make a pros and cons list?”
“I think so?”
“Jesus Christ, go over to his place already.”
“Are you not listening–”
“Grantaire,” Eponine snapped. “You’re the one not listening, and we’re all just trying to fucking help you, so.”
It was quite possible that he was stretching the boundaries of Eponine’s patience very thin. He had probably been for a while, now.
“Okay,” he said.
“Okay what ?”
“Okay, I’m– I’m gonna go talk to him.”
“Damn right you are.”
But there was a difference between telling Eponine he was going to do something and actually doing it, and actually doing it required finding some sort of waterproof shoes and raincoat and–
Deep breaths. His flip-flops were next to the door, and well, Grantaire wasn’t sure he even owned a raincoat.
He could do this. His stomach was in all sorts of knots– worst-case scenario, he would anxiety-puke on Enjolras, and then he would have to move out, except how the fuck would he be able to do that, and–
He rang the doorbell.
“Hi,” Enjolras said.
“Hi,” Grantaire said. “Can we, um, can we talk?”
Enjolras gestured to the inside of his apartment, and yes, that would be the logical thing to do. Grantaire just shook his head. “Out here?”
“Sure.” Enjolras being completely unfazed by that request was probably a good sign.
“Sorry I had a panic attack earlier.”
“Don’t apologize.”
“What were you saying earlier?”
“Hmm?”
“On my couch, about the pros/cons list–”
“Oh, err, nothing. You can forget it.”
“I– I don’t think I want to forget it,” Grantaire stammered. “You like me.”
“I may have said something to indicate that, yes.”
Fucking lawyers. “Can you say it again?”
Enjolras raised an eyebrow.
“I’m not going to have another panic attack, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Well, no guarantees, but Enjolras didn’t need to know that.
“I like you,” Enjolras repeated.
The knots in Grantaire’s stomach started to untangle, and fuck it. He settled his hand on the back of Enjolras’s rain-soaked head. “I’m gonna kiss you, if that’s okay–”
“More than okay,” Enjolras murmured, and then his lips were crashing down on Grantaire’s.
They were kissing in the rain. Eponine was going to lose her shit later, when he told her. Fantine, too. Enjolras’s lips were soft and strong, pressing into Grantaire, fluttering over his lips, his skin, the corner of his mouth. Grantaire thought he might lose it right then.
“Inside?” Grantaire whispered.
“Are you sure?” Enjolras asked.
“Yeah,” Grantaire smiled against Enjolras’s mouth. “I’m sure.”
Enjolras’s hand interlaced with his, and guided him inside. The two of them were barely in when Grantaire pressed a hand underneath Enjolras’s shirt, revelling in the feel of soft skin.
“We don’t have to– anything,” Enjolras said. “If you’re not comfortable, or if you’re panicking–“
“Yeah, you have a panic attack during sex three times, you know the signs,” Grantaire moved back, hand still glued to Enjolras’s bare torso. “Trust me, I’m not doing that again.”
“Three times?”
“Fool me once, shame on me. Fool me twice, shame on my fucked up brain. Fool me three times, shame on hookup apps in general.”
Enjolras scrunched his face. “Is your brain the one fooling you in this scenario?”
“Fuck if I know,” Grantaire gave Enjolras a quick kiss. “Take this off.”
Enjolras nodded, reaching for the neck of his shirt and pulling it off in one fell swoop, glasses falling to the floor in a tangle of fabric.
“Leave them, they were too fogged up to see out.” Enjolras pulled Grantaire’s hand off his body and squeezed. “You coming?”
“Jesus Christ, it’s been ages but not– oh.”
“Unless you prefer muddy welcome mats–”
“Shut up,” Grantaire said, kissing him again, backing Enjolras into the door.
“Bedroom,” Enjolras panted, Grantaire’s lips on his neck.
For all the TV watching he had done in Enjolras’s apartment, Grantaire had never been in his bedroom. If you added piles of dirty clothes and art supplies, it would be the mirror image of his, down to the threatening-to-cave-in-ceiling. Enjolras hesitantly sat on the edge of the bed.
“You have no idea how much I’ve fantasized about this,” Grantaire admitted, stripping off his shirt and placing his arms on Enjolras’s shoulders.
“Oh?”
“I have a lot of free time,“ – kiss – “and don’t meet many people,” – kiss – “and it’s embarrassing how much I want this,” – kiss – “so I’m just gonna…” he dropped his mouth down to Enjolras’s chest, sucking and licking, until he reached a trail of blonde hair and fell to his knees. “S’okay?”
“More than okay,” Enjolras choked as Grantaire began to unbutton his pants.
“Once upon a time, I used to be able to do that with my teeth.”
Enjolras laughed. “Really?”
Grantaire pressed a kiss to Enjolras’s upper thigh. “No, but you believed me for a second.” Was laughing during sex a good thing, or a weird thing, or–
Enjolras was straining through his red boxer-briefs, and the sight of his cock twitching at Grantaire’s touch short-circuited Grantaire’s brain.
“Should I take these off, or...” Grantaire teased, pressing the heel of his palm into Enjolras’s erection.
Enjolras gasped, and Grantaire hooked his thumbs under the waistband to pull them down.
“Fuck, R–” He whined as Grantaire licked a line from his thigh to the underside of his cock, before swirling his tongue around the tip. Grantaire might be pretty okay at a lot of things, but he was pretty fantastic at this, taking Enjolras in his mouth. Years and years of swallowing various sizes and shapes of SSRIs had wrecked his gag reflex beyond repair, or maybe he just didn’t have much of one to begin with.
Enjolras’s hands tangled into Grantaire’s hair as he moaned, and just hearing Enjolras react like this to him was almost enough to make Grantaire come right then and there, in his pants with Enjolras’s cock in his mouth. It was a small miracle that Grantaire’s tented jeans hadn’t been ripped in half by the sheer force of his hardness already.
Eventually, Enjolras’s grip on Grantaire’s head tightened and his breaths shortened until there was only Grantaire, sucking and licking while Enjolras shattered over him. “Not too bad for a shut-in, huh?”
Enjolras had collapsed on the bed. “Come here,” he said, extending a hand down to Grantaire and hoisting him up to pull him into a long, languid kiss. “Off.”
“I’m tired, do it for me.” Grantaire kicked at his jeans.
Enjolras sat bolt upright. “If you’re tired, we can stop–”
“Trying to be flirty here,” Grantaire said, laughing as he tugged his pants and boxers down, throwing them to the floor.
“Oh.” Enjolras rasped, throwing a leg over Grantaire and leaning down to kiss him again.
Grantaire could get lost like this, hands roaming over Enjolras’s skin, Enjolras inching towards Grantaire’s straining cock.
“I, err, don’t have any condoms.”
“That’s okay,” Grantaire murmured. Enjolras sat up again. “Don’t give me a lecture on STDs or whatever you’re about to do, I just meant that you can fuck me some other time."
Enjolras’s face lightened. “Okay.” He pinned Grantaire back to the bed. “Still gonna do this.”
He was rolling around on a bed with Enjolras– physically rolling around, hips pressed together, like a couple of horny teenagers, cock jutting into Enjolras’s stomach. If this is what getting out of his apartment, at least a little, was like– he could get used to it.
“Fuck,” Enjolras muttered, holding his arm out.
“Yeah?”
“You were about to fall off,” he said, eyes alarmed, and then Grantaire was completely cracking up.
“Local recluse dies in sex accident,” he laughed.
“Shut up,” Enjolras growled, pulling Grantaire closer, hands moving down to stroke him.
Fuck, Grantaire was close. It would have been embarrassing how quickly he came, his climax ripping through his whole body as he cried out Enjolras’s name. But Grantaire had a feeling he didn’t need to be embarrassed anymore where Enjolras was concerned.
They cleaned up– (“your sheets are way too nice to be stained with my cum, come on– get it?”) and Grantaire hesitated near Enjolras’s front door.
“I’m gonna head back,” he said. “Not that– this was great, and um, we should do it again sometime. Soon.”
“But it’s a lot?”
“It’s a lot.”
Enjolras kissed his forehead and Grantaire almost died on the spot, before giving Enjolras one last toe-curling kiss pressed up against the door frame.
“I’m proud of you,” Fantine said.
Grantaire rolled his eyes, because your therapist saying that she was proud of you was even more clichéd than kissing in the rain.
Still. Clichéd or not, Grantaire was doing pretty well for himself– take that, anxiety. “Thanks, doc.”
He was pretty proud of himself too.