Chapter Text
The One Page More new and used bookstore is a cramped, unassuming brick building in the heart of a downtown shopping district, which against all odds is now regularly frequented by a number of friendly faces.
And that is exactly how Grantaire likes it.
It’s a Friday, at the very beginning of June, and one of the most beloved of said friendly faces is due at any minute. A fact which nearly makes the fact that summer has reared its ugly head early bearable.
Grantaire is sitting, as usual, on his stool by the register, leaning in time to follow the flimsy stream of cool air coming from a small fan on the counter.
The One Page More does have a little air conditioning. It’s a necessary expense to keep the books in good shape. But, unfortunately, Grantaire would rather die of heat stroke than wear shorts to work. Black jeans may not be good summer attire, but they’re what he’s got to work with, and by now, he’s more or less resigned himself to suffering for two to three months.
Eponine (whose outfits are always dark, no matter the season) has taken to hanging out with him by the register whenever she can as the heat picks up. She’s leaning beside him now, pressing a plastic to-go cup full of ice to her neck and cheeks, and boiling alive for the very worthy cause of looking hot and goth all summer long.
She’s been humoring him for half an hour, playing Exquisite Corpse on the backs of discarded flyers for the One Page More’s summer reading program.
There’s a little pile of monstrosities sitting in between their elbows, extra monstrous today since when it’s only adults playing, Eponine doesn’t have to hold back on making her halves as cosmically horrific as possible.
She pushes away their most recent abomination (a stork-legged jumble of what looks like nothing but a mish mash of eyes and teeth) and holds out her hand for another sheet. Grantaire dutifully hands her a pre-folded paper.
“Do your worst, ‘Ponine,” he says, twirling his own pen between his fingers. Eponine raises an eyebrow at him, challenging.
“I’m gonna draw a dick, then,” Eponine replies, deadpan, taking the page from him, “The hottest schlong you’ve ever seen.”
“No dicks,” Grantaire replies, “Too easy. Everyone and their grandma can draw a dick and call it a day. It’s probably the most-drawn thing per-capita in the entire fucking world.”
“What, is that in the rule book?” she asks, but starts drawing anyway, hiding her work with her arm.
“It’s an unspoken rule,” Grantaire says, turning his attention to his own page.
“Maybe someone should have spoken it then,” Eponine replies airily, her pen moving in a long, suspiciously phallic line over the paper behind her arm.
“I just did,” Grantaire says, trying and failing to keep a serious expression.
“Too late, R. It’s already in motion.”
Grantaire snorts, and puts his own pen to paper.
A couple of minutes later, Grantaire’s attention is yanked away from drawing the lower half of Eponine’s probable dick abomination by the bell on the front door of the shop jingling. He immediately perks up, dropping his pen in the process.
Enjolras walks through the door, right on time, as usual, hooking a pair of sunglasses on the collar of his light short-sleeved button up.
Golden summer sun is pouring through the front windows of the bookshop, bathing him in light, and raising pink high on his cheekbones. Enjolras’ face splits into a warm smile when his eyes meet Grantaire’s, which in turn makes the butterflies that have taken up permanent residence in Grantaire’s stomach take flight.
It’s been just over six months since he and Enjolras started dating, and sometimes Grantaire still can’t believe it’s real.
Something cold suddenly touches the back of his neck, snapping him out of his trance.
Grantaire yelps, and smacks the affected spot, only to see Eponine pulling her ice cup away with a smirk.
“Oops,” she deadpans, “I slipped.”
Grantaire was already slightly flushed from the heat. Now, he feels that flush deepen with embarrassment at the noise that just came out of him.
“How’s it going Mr. Enjolras J.D. Esquire?” Eponine asks, expertly lifting and swerving the cup away from Grantaire when he tries to swipe it away from her.
Today was Enjolras’ final class.
Him passing every one of them is a foregone conclusion at this point. And with no intention of going to the actual graduation ceremony, (with all of its ‘literal pomp and circumstance’, as Enjolras put it), he, and all of their friends are considering him graduated already. It’s really just a matter of when he can pick up his diploma.
“Technically, only the ‘Juris Doctor’ addition is applicable,” Enjolras corrects, making his way to the counter in only a few long strides, “‘Esquire’ is an optional addition after passing the bar exam.”
“Well hurry it up,” Eponine says, “‘Esquire’ will really lock in the pretentious vibe.”
Enjolras wrinkles his nose at that, probably considering not taking the bar at all just to avoid giving Eponine that ammunition. A beat later, though, he turns his attention again to Grantaire, who’s still trying in vain to grab Eponine’s ice cup.
"Hi, R," he says, and immediately Grantaire’s attention is pulled back to him, as it always is, with irresistible magnetic force. Grantaire had thought that maybe it’d dampen once they’d been dating a while. But, he supposes if it hadn’t after a fucking decade, it isn’t liable to do so any time soon.
Grantaire stops flailing for the cup, and looks instead at his boyfriend.
"Hello to you t—" he starts to say, cut off almost immediately as Enjolras ducks in, and kisses him, slow and sweet. The end of his sentence peters out into nothing, falling away in time with his eyes falling shut.
Every time he’s kissed, Grantaire’s heart still feels like it’s bursting, whether it’s a quick peck to say hello, or deep, unhurried kisses the morning after a sleepover. Every time, every single goddamn time, he feels like he’s melting from the inside out.
It’s too much. It’s perfect. He will never get enough of it.
Eponine makes a gagging sound beside them.
“God, it’s like you don’t even care about the sign,” she says, once Enjolras pulls away.
She gestures to the sign in question, a simple piece of printer paper covered in deliberate, thick strokes of a Sharpie that read ‘ABSOLUTELY NO PDA’.
Javert put it up a few months back, directed at literally no one besides Grantaire and Enjolras.
A couple weeks after he and Enjolras had started dating, Enjolras had come in as usual for lunch, and seemed to finally notice that the politics and religious books sections are mixed. He’d asked about it, and Grantaire, giddy with the opportunity to try his luck with this joke again after it hadn’t landed with Javert all those years ago, had sighed melodramatically, and said,
“People really just don’t give enough of a fuck about the separation of church and state. It’s a goddamn travesty.”
Enjolras had stared for a moment, and then proceeded to grab Grantaire by the front of his apron, shove him against one of the shelves in question, and kiss him so thoroughly he saw stars.
Grantaire had learned two things that day:
1. Enjolras really, really likes it when he makes blatantly political jokes, and
2. Javert does not take kindly to finding his employees engaging in, quote, ‘a flagrant display of casual blasphemy,’ by making out against approximately twenty five copies of the bible.
Javert probably would have taken it better if they’d been against the political books instead, but he thinks Enjolras might actually combust if he found out they’d been kissing on top of ‘An American Life’, the Ronald Reagan autobiography.
“‘Unjust laws are meant to be broken’, and all that jazz,” Grantaire says, which makes Enjolras look like he very badly wants to pull Grantaire to the nearest shelf and have a repeat incident.
Eponine just sighs.
“Can’t you two ever just flirt like normal people?” she asks.
“I dunno, ‘Ponine," Grantaire says, a grin tugging at his mouth. He jerks his thumb towards Enjolras, "Let me consult with my lawyer."
He’s been fucking dying to be able to use this bit. For months. And frankly he thinks he deserves an award for being able to wait until Enjolras actually finished classes to do so.
It earns him another sigh from Eponine, and an eye roll from Enjolras. Though it’s accompanied by the barest hint of a smile.
Grantaire stands on his toes, leaning over the counter, ignoring the eyeroll Enjolras still has in progress, and murmurs into his ear, “Habeus corpus, mens rea, something, something, legal jargon.”
Enjolras nods as if he’s taking in crucial information, the corners of his mouth twitching with a barely withheld smile. After, he turns, apparently willing to play along, much to Grantaire’s delight, and leans to whisper something back into his ear.
He expects a similar string of nonsense. Maybe some legal terms that Grantaire doesn’t know, but instead, Enjolras just murmurs,
“You look gorgeous today.”
Grantaire feels himself flush from his neck to the very tips of his ears. He pulls back, heartbeat stuttering, and when he catches the cheeky, pleased smile Enjolras is giving him, he rests his elbows on the counter, and buries his burning face in his hands.
It still takes practice for Grantaire to not respond to compliments like that with self-deprecation. But, much to Grantaire's chagrin, Enjolras has made it his mission to give him many, many opportunities to get said practice.
He still struggles to believe that Enjolras actually means what he says, in that regard. A sticky kind of doubt still hangs on every time he's called any variation of handsome, or beautiful, or…all of the types of things Grantaire thinks about Enjolras all the time. Because, frankly, the idea that they’re even close to a level playing field in the looks department is asinine.
But…Enjolras is never lying when he says things like that. Never. A fact which baffles Grantaire as much as it makes his heart squeeze.
“You can’t just do that,” he mumbles weakly, speaking to nothing but a day-old swipe of paint on his palm, "It's illegal. Fucking illegal."
"What was that about unjust laws?" Enjolras replies, voice still low and now with an edge of satisfaction to it, which only makes Grantaire dissolve even deeper into a pile of curly haired, somewhat paint-stained mush, muttering indistinct oaths under his breath.
Enjolras is already turning again to Eponine, not even missing a beat.
“I’ve advised my client not to speak,” he says, through a very good impression of his serious face.
“Jesus fucking christ,” Eponine groans, “Disgusting. The both of you.”
Despite her words, when Grantaire is finally able to show his face again, he can see that she's smiling. It's small, but it's there. She pushes off of the counter a moment later, setting her ice cup down and going to clock out for her lunch.
Once Grantaire has marginally recovered from being a pile of goo, he does the same, only taking a moment to glare (read: stare, lovingly) back at Enjolras before he does, still completely red-faced.
When he gets back, Eponine is gone, and Enjolras is waiting for him. He’s looking over the little pile of exquisite corpse drawings.
“I see you two have been keeping busy,” he says, eyeing the many, many repurposed summer reading flyers with a small smile.
“It’s too damn hot to work,” Grantaire says, “Do you expect me to touch books right now? I’d just sweat all over them. No one wants a sweaty book.”
Enjolras hums, and picks up the topmost paper, unfolding it fully.
“Might want to hide this one,” he says, “I don’t think Javert would approve.”
On the bottom, Grantaire’s half-finished drawing of a pair of skinny legs with very knobbly knees. On top, of course, Eponine’s best rendition of a dick. As threatened.
It’s gloriously detailed, and just as eldritch styled as any of the other drawings Eponine did today. Honestly, it’s pretty fucking impressive, horrifying as it is.
Grantaire takes the abomination out of Enjolras’ hand, folds it, and stuffs it into his apron pocket, making a mental note to put it in Eponine’s station before she gets back from lunch.
“Nice catch,” he says, “Thanks.”
“Any time,” Enjolras replies, the corners of his mouth twitching with a barely repressed smile.
Grantaire takes the opportunity to reach out and take Enjolras’ hand, pulling him towards what has been cemented permanently in his mind as ‘their spot’ in the cafe.
“Ready for Sunday?” he asks as they walk.
Sundays are still reserved for book club. It’s going strong—Grantaire’s bookshelf has literally never seen this much action, nor variety—but this week, the regular book club discussion has been waived in favor of a party.
They have two big reasons to celebrate. One being Enjolras’ graduation, obviously, and the other being Bea’s eighth birthday.
Technically, her birthday isn’t until Monday, the 6th. But Grantaire already has plans with Eponine and Gavroche for her actual birthday. They have their own traditions, solidified years before their return to the ABC. And besides, Enjolras’ graduation needs celebrating too. So, a joint celebration on Sunday, the 5th, had been decided upon instead.
“I am,” Enjolras replies. He allows himself to be pulled by Grantaire, eyes on their clasped hands, “I still don’t think we need to make any fuss about my graduation, though. I’m more than happy to let it just be about Bea.”
“You’re graduating from fucking law school, Enj,” Grantaire pushes back, “That’s a big deal. Not many people can say they’ve done that.”
Enjolras pauses, lips pressed into a thin line.
“It usually doesn't take people an extra two years, though,” he says eventually.
There’s an element of barely disguised shame in his tone, covered almost entirely by the seriousness with which he says it. It’s not enough to hide it from Grantaire, who in the past six months has become intimately familiar with Enjolras’ expressions and tones. More so now than ever before, now that he’s actively encouraged to ask what they mean when he isn’t sure.
For someone so obsessed with making meaningful change, Enjolras is not actually that good at giving himself credit when it’s due. Or, knowing when what he’s done is enough, for that matter.
Grantaire knows for a fact that he’s already started reaching out to union contacts to see if anyone needs representation. If Enjolras had his way, he probably would actually get away with no celebration at all.
Even in high school, the few times one of the ABC’s projects had borne any kind of fruit, he’d never take credit himself, always deflecting it to the group as a whole, and then moving onto the next thing.
No matter how much Enjolras does, he will never be satisfied. Not until the entire, literal Earth is free, probably. He’s always on to the next project. The next cause. He’s always trying to do more.
It’s an admirable impulse. But it’s also exactly why Enjolras’ burnout is able to fester and grow like it has in the past. He seems to have been getting better as the end of classes drew close, but there’s nothing to say it won’t get worse again.
Getting worse, Grantaire knows, is much, much easier than getting better.
Grantaire stops, just shy of their usual table, and turns to face Enjolras again.
“It’s a big accomplishment,” he says, firm and sure, “You’re allowed—nay, fucking required—to be proud of your work.”
Enjolras gives him a look that’s a perfect blend of embarrassment and indignation, and tries to argue, but Grantaire interrupts him by stepping forward and leaning up to kiss him again, insistent.
“Just once,” he says, once they part, “Fucking once, Enj, Take a breath, and let yourself be proud of what you did.”
Enjolras’ cheeks are pink, brows still pinched. But a beat later, he relents.
“Alright,” he says, squeezing Grantaire’s hand tight, “I will.”
Grantaire smiles, relieved.
“Say it for me all together,” he prompts, his grin going a little more shit-eating. Enjolras rolls his eyes at him, the tips of his ears going pinker.
“It’s a big accomplishment,” he says, “And I should be proud.”
“You are proud,” Grantaire corrects.
“I am proud,” Enjolras says softly, his voice having gone much more vulnerable than it was moments ago.
“Good,” Grantaire says. He squeezes Enjolras’ hand one more time, and then pulls them the rest of the way to their usual table.
“Now, before I praise you some more, because you deserve it, I squirreled away some of Montparnasse’s batch of cold brew,” he says, nudging Enjolras to sit, “Want some?”
Enjolras sits, settling his bag down at his feet, and looking up at Grantaire with such open affection he feels scalded.
Six months. Six fucking months, and Enjolras is still absolutely blinding.
“I’d love some,” he says, finally relaxing into his chair, “Thank you.”
Grantaire turns on his heel to get it, not even trying to hide the ridiculous, dopey grin taking up most of his face.
~~
“Dad, come on,” Bea pleads. She’s bouncing on the balls of her feet, shoes already tied and ready to go out the door, “You’re so slow, we need to go!”
They do not, in fact, need to go. Not right this instant.
Grantaire is not dressed yet, having stayed in his pajamas as long as he possibly could this fine Sunday morning.
“I’m getting there, bug,” he says, padding from the kitchen, past his frantically bouncing daughter, to his bedroom, “I promise, I’m going as fast as I can.”
He steps to his dresser, yanking open drawers, and starting to pull out clothes. His muscles complain as he bends down, but he smiles at the ache.
Saturdays are his self care day by necessity. Sometimes that means an extended session with his therapist, Jeanne. Sometimes it means painting for a few hours, and forcing himself not to care about if what he makes is any good.
Yesterday, it meant boxing with Bahorel for three hours, earning himself a litany of bruises, and some very, very sore muscles.
He winces as he pulls on a t-shirt over some older marks, and some new, tender spots that haven’t quite darkened yet.
His room is in many ways transformed from how it was only half a year ago; formerly sparse, and fairly impersonal, it’s slowly become a carefully curated mess.
Boxing gloves hang from his desk chair. Newly bought prints, some of Bea’s artwork, of course, and now, even some of his own work, fills an increasing amount of real estate on his walls.
He’s run out of sticky tack, which is just about the only thing keeping any space open.
Grantaire finishes pulling on his clothes (black jeans, and his World’s Greatest Dad Bod tee, today) and stretches, popping his back with a groan before finally heading back out to the living room where his daughter is waiting.
“Finally,” she says, as if they aren’t still running early.
Grantaire raises an eyebrow at her, and just to be a shit, slows his walk to the shoe rack to a snail’s pace. It earns him a frustrated cry from Bea, who promptly rushes up behind him and starts actually pushing him to the door. Grantaire lets her, laughing, and only stopping to grab his keys and slide his shoes on.
Bea alternates between pushing and pulling him all the way out the apartment and into the car, When they get in, Grantaire manages to sneak a text to Enjolras to let him know they’ll be a few minutes early before Bea loses patience and just hops into the driver’s seat herself.
Because Enjolras is amazing, he’s waiting by the curb when they show up. Smart on his part; Grantaire’s pretty sure Bea wouldn’t be above frog-marching him to the car herself if she had to.
Enjolras is at the door before the car has even fully stopped, and slides into the passenger seat like he always does: like he belongs there.
The moment he’s buckled and the usual greetings are exchanged, Enjolras leans over and presses a quick kiss to Grantaire’s lips, which leaves him fighting a stupid love-struck grin, and leaves Bea feigning a gag in the back seat. (A mannerism Grantaire is fairly certain she picked up from Eponine sometime a few months ago.)
Enjolras takes the sound as his cue to break the kiss, smiling as he turns back to Bea, and suddenly produces a little gift bag from his messenger bag.
“Happy birthday, Bea,” he says, extending his peace offering. Bea immediately drops her disgusted face and perks up, grabbing the bag and pulling it into her lap. In an instant, the sound of tearing tissue paper takes over the car.
“Wanted to get ahead of the crowd, huh?” Grantaire teases, pulling them away from the curb again and back onto the familiar roads to Jehan and Courfeyrac’s house, “Aiming to improve your standing in the Bea’s Bestie Bracket?”
Enjolras huffs a laugh beside him, which is decidedly not a denial.
From the back seat, Bea squeals with delight, finally extricating her gifts from the bag. Glancing in the rear view mirror, Grantaire sees she’s holding a clip on reading light, and a small stack of what look like stickers. When she shifts her hand, he can see that they’re meant to be the planets, Saturn's rings sticking out from the stack.
Those are about to be stuck all over their apartment. And possibly Jehan’s house. Grantaire can already feel it.
Bea thanks him gleefully without need of a reminder, and promptly buries herself in admiring her new treasures.
“Word of advice,” Grantaire says to Enjolras, glancing at him wryly, “You’ll have a lot of parents coming after you with pitchforks if you give their kids stickers.”
“What?” Enjolras says, “Why?”
In answer, Grantaire just nods to the backseat, where Bea has just finished peeling up Mercury, and smacking it directly onto the car door beside her.
“...Oh.” says Enjolras.
Grantaire laughs. This car has seen a lot worse than some planet stickers, so he really couldn’t care less, but he’s not one to miss a chance to make fun of his boyfriend. Enjolras looks a little sheepish when he glances over next.
He’s adorable.
It’s a crime Grantaire can’t kiss him right now.
Instead, he drops his right hand from the steering wheel and takes Enjolras’ hand, giving it a squeeze. Enjolras returns the pressure without an ounce of hesitation.
It’s jarring, even now, just how routine it’s become to do so. How easily Enjolras fit directly into this space, once Grantaire was able to leave it open.
Enjolras’ grip is firm and steady, as it always is. His thumb brushes along Grantaire’s slightly bruised knuckles every so often, an absentminded motion kept up even as they all chat.
He keeps Grantaire’s hand in his for the whole drive.
~~
Once parked in front of Jehan’s, they all clamber out of the car. Grantaire is about to move to take Enjolras’ hand again, but Bea beats him to it. As soon as she’s scrambled out onto concrete, she’s at Enjolras’ side, and holding her arms up, making insistent grabby hands.
The first time she’d done it, Enjolras hadn’t known what to do. But by now, he knows it’s a request—or, more accurately, a demand—to be picked up. A demand which he readily gives in to, bending down and scooping her up with nothing but a soft grunt.
Bea wraps her arms around his neck, and rests her chin on his shoulder. As soon as she’s settled, she shoots Grantaire a look that can only be described as smug.
Grantaire raises an eyebrow, smiling at his daughter.
Sometimes, he thinks she must have a genetic predisposition to be a little shit. And that, he knows he can’t blame on anyone but himself.
“You’re gonna be too big to do that soon,” he says.
It’s true enough; Grantaire is stronger than Enjolras is, and even he struggles sometimes. Although, his renewed practice of boxing might extend his abilities a little longer.
“You’re being a defeatist, R,” Enjolras says, even as he has to heft her to a better position so they don’t topple over. Bea laughs, squeezing her arms tighter around Enjolras’ neck.
“Yeah, a defeatist, dad,” she parrots.
“Do you even know what that word means?” Grantaire asks, shoving his hands in his pockets. Bea doesn’t even hesitate before nodding.
“A grump,” she says, with the confidence of someone who hasn’t even considered they might be wrong. But honestly, as far as a child’s definition goes, it’s not as far off as it could be.
“Very close,” Enjolras says, apparently thinking the same thing Grantaire is. He proceeds to give her the correct definition, and use it in a sentence so she can use it as accurately as possible.
Once he’d become aware that she actually uses vocabulary she hears from him, Grantaire is fairly certain that it became Enjolras’ mission to teach her as much as possible. It’s a mission that has borne a lot of fucking fruit, in the sense that his daughter is now a little ball energy with an absolute wealth of political words and phrases to use whenever she sees fit.
He’s given up on trying to explain to Bea’s teachers when they ask why she’s at recess spouting off about ‘class solidarity’ from the top of the jungle gym, or prodding her classmates to share the fancy scented markers with everyone to achieve ‘an equitable distribution of wealth’.
Maybe someday Enjolras will want to come with him to those parent teacher meetings, too. Then he can explain for himself.
The thought makes him smile. It also makes his stomach swoop with an odd mixture of anxiety and hope, the latter of which he does his best not to tamp down.
He thinks he’s getting better at that. Slowly, sure, but still.
Since Enjolras’ arms are full of Bea, Grantaire is the one to open the door. He does so with as much flourish as he can manage, waving a hand out to usher them in and giving a mock bow. Enjolras scoffs, and the tips of his ears go pink.
“Is that really necessary?” he asks as Bea giggles against his shoulder.
“Um, yes,” Grantaire says, grinning, “You’re the guests of honor today.”
It earns him an eye roll, and Enjolras opens his mouth to argue, only to shut it again the moment he actually looks inside the house. Grantaire catches the exact moment he realizes exactly how big of a deal their friends are going to make out of today. Enjolras’ eyes go wide, and the pink at the tips of his ears spreads down to his neck.
Grantaire’s grin grows, and he uses his boyfriend’s moment of shock to let go of the door, and gently push him the rest of the way inside.
The entryway is somehow even more colorful than it usually is. There are long rainbow streamers tacked up amidst the paper butterflies on the ceiling now, balloons are in every corner, music is blasting from a stereo somewhere in the apartment. And right at the end of the entryway, just above the stolen gender neutral kitchen door, la pièce de résistance: a banner reading “CONGRADU-8-TIONS” in big, glittery bubble letters.
Courfeyrac had been particularly proud of that little bit of word fuckery. The banner’s contents had been hotly debated in the private party planning text groups, with inclusivity of both milestones being of key importance.
Speak of the devil—the moment the door closes, Courfeyrac pops his head out from the kitchen door, and when he sees Enjolras and Bea, grins a Cheshire grin and shouts, “They’re here!” back into the kitchen.
Excited voices pour out of the kitchen, and soon their friends follow suit. Courf is the first to step out, immediately coming right up to Enjolras and Bea.
“You’ve made this very easy for me, thank you,” he says, and before the ‘what’ that’s forming on Enjolras’ lips can escape, Courf has surged forward and tugged him (and by extension Bea) into a smothering hug. Enjolras makes a little strangled noise of surprise, at the same moment Bea makes a soft ‘oof!’.
“Careful, Courfeyrac, you’re crushing Bea!” Cosette calls, having just stepped out into the entryway with, of course, Marius close behind.
“I’m okay!” Bea calls back from the crush of curls, words broken by little giggles.
“See, she’s fine!” Courf says, rocking all three of them side to side slightly, and Cosette’s face does soften.
Cosette looks about ready to pop; her baby is due within the next couple of months, and she’s taken to motherhood with an excitement that’s infectious. Grantaire has seen her when she sits alone, one hand pressed to the front of her stomach waiting for a kick, and cooing gently to it.
Or rather, to her. Little Fantine, as was revealed officially a couple of months ago.
Grantaire already has her and Marius loaded up with hand-me-down shit. He regrets not keeping more, but in his defense, his apartment isn’t huge, and cribs definitely are. Luckily, it doesn’t matter all that much. According to Cosette, her dad is both fucking loaded and apparently determined to bankrupt himself making her and her baby comfortable.
Right now, she’s got one hand for support on the small of her back, and the other resting protectively on her stomach.
“Well let her go soon,” she says, looking to be almost pouting, “I want to be the first to give her a gift.”
Grantaire hisses sympathetically through his teeth.
“Enj beat you to it already,” he says. Technically, Grantaire had beaten all of them to it; he’d given Bea her gift—a little shopping spree through the One Page More—the week before. But he doesn’t think saying so will help right now. Cosette already looks devastated at the news.
Enjolras smiles at her, looking sheepish but not in the least apologetic as Courf finally lets go and steps back, readjusting Bea in his arms.
“Well, better second than last I guess,” Cosette pouts. She turns her attention to Bea after, brightening again as she says, “It’s in the living room when you’re ready, Bea.”
Bea, grinning with excitement, turns to Enjolras and starts to wriggle, giving a meaningful look at the ground. He, thankfully, gets the hint, and begins to bend at the knees to set Bea down gently onto the hardwood floor. Even once she’s flat on her feet and settled, though, she doesn’t let go, holding on just a moment longer to hug Enjolras around the neck. They are a muddle of curls, Enjolras’ head like a sun peeking over dark clouds.
She holds on for a couple of seconds, and then says something to him quietly, which from where Grantaire’s standing a couple of feet away, sounds an awful lot like, “Thanks, dad.”
Bea is bounding off toward the living room a split second later, her gifts from Enjolras still clutched in small fingers, and for a moment Grantaire isn’t sure if he misheard her.
Judging by the fact that when Grantaire turns to look at him again, Enjolras’ face is doing its best impression of a very flustered tomato, he didn’t.
A beat passes, and suddenly Enjolras’ eyes dart to him, wide and hesitant, but—
Hopeful.
His expression seems to be asking in equal measure, ‘Did you hear that?’ and ‘Is this okay?’ And any worry Grantaire might have felt is swept away in an instant.
He finds himself smiling, giddy relief flooding his senses. He holds out a hand to help Enjolras back up, and as soon as he’s standing, tugs him closer and presses a kiss to his cheek, trying to convey silently,
‘I’m okay if you’re okay.’
They’ll have to talk about it properly. Just to be safe. But for now, Grantaire just savors the way Enjolras smiles, soft and excited, like having Grantaire’s kid call him dad is the best gift he could receive.
“I hate to interrupt,” says Courf, “but Bea isn’t the only one getting gifts today.”
That gets Enjolras’ attention.
“Courf,” he starts, sounding equal parts exasperated and embarrassed, “I told you not to–”
“When have I literally ever listened to you when you say you don’t want gifts?” Courf interrupts, waving a dismissive hand in between them. He darts that same hand out and grabs Enjolras’ wrist (before he can try to run, presumably), and then turns to Grantaire.
“I’ll bring him back soon,” he says, but Grantaire just laughs, waving them off.
“No, no, take your time,” he says, “Spoil him as much as you want.”
Courf beams at him, and proceeds to tug Enjolras towards the dining room.
Enjolras casts a look back at him that screams, ‘Traitor’. Grantaire just blows him a kiss that turns his ears pink, and watches him and Courf until they disappear into the other room.
Once he’s alone, he sets to making himself busy. He admires all the decorations, stops into the kitchen where Bahorel, Joly and Bossuet are not-so-subtly stealing swipes of frosting out of a mixing bowl—Joly promises they washed their hands—and finally finds himself in the living room, a paper cup full of too-sweet soda clasped in one hand.
Bea is still there; having already opened her gift from Cosette—bright green dino feet slippers, apparently, which are already on her feet—she’s just turned her sights to where Combeferre is sitting with Eponine. She’s babbling away before she’s even reached them, shoving the Mars planet sticker from her new sticker pack directly into Combeferre’s hands once she’s close enough.
Combeferre grins and takes it, appearing to take his time admiring the little sticker, and then pointing to a spot on the planet and starting to talk to her.
Ever since Combeferre gave Bea a huge book of space facts for the holidays, the two have become much, much closer. Once Bea realized that she had a veritable encyclopedia of science facts literally right there, and Combeferre realized that he had the most willing little scientist to impart that knowledge to, the two started spending a lot more time talking to each other at meetings.
Combeferre has also warmed up to Grantaire significantly since he and Enjolras figured everything out. A fact which has led to Grantaire understanding even more clearly Enjolras' side of the story.
He'd given Grantaire a similar speech to the one Eponine had given Enjolras: a simple reminder to treat his best friend right, with an additional caveat.
Combeferre had pulled him aside at the tail end of the meeting, the same day he and Enjolras had finally gotten together. He’d been gentle, but serious.
“I think he was about a week out from discovering Taylor Swift's discography,” Combeferre had said, both of them watching Enjolras and Bea talking together over their respective cartons of Chinese food, “He really, really likes you. Do him the courtesy of not doubting that. Please.”
Grantaire is trying his best to respect that. To respect Enjolras, and to trust him, even though the idea of Enjolras pining over him still feels ridiculous.
He does still have moments of doubt, sometimes. Moments where he can’t help but get lost, suddenly aware of every second that’s passing, and wondering if they’re just ticking towards an ending that he’s forcing himself not to prepare for.
On days when he starts to think like that, when doubt seeps in, and bad ends start to feel like inevitabilities, he digs through his night stand and pulls out four ruled note cards, crowded front and back with Enjolras’ cramped handwriting.
He’s read each one many times, with their litany of bullet points, and painstakingly crafted arguments, complete with citations.
Fucking citations. Grantaire somehow landed the biggest, most amazing nerd on the planet.
But no matter how many times he reads them, it still makes his chest feel full enough to burst, when he gets to the last card. It’s the only one not completely covered in text, and reads simply:
Closing argument:
I believe in you. I believe in us.
I hope you can too.
And usually, it's enough to push that doubt away.
He’s broken from his reverie by Jehan, who taps his shoulder with one painted finger to get his attention. Grantaire turns to look at them, and grins. Today, they’ve chosen to wear a rather poofy white skirt with bright pink trim, a matching poofy sleeved top, and dangling earrings in the shape of candles. The ensemble gives the impression that Jehan is a walking, talking cake.
Grantaire is fairly certain they have actual sprinkles in their hair.
“You really have something for everything, don’t you,” Grantaire says, hoping he sounds as impressed as he feels.
“Everything but business casual,” they say, giving a little twirl.
“Fuck that oxymoronic standard of dress,” Grantaire says, nodding sagely, and Jehan beams at him.
He notices the little Earth sticker poking out of one of the pockets of Jehan’s frilly pinafore. Bea got to them too, apparently. She’s not going to have any stickers left by the end of the day.
“Enjolras is in the kitchen with Courf last I checked, if you need to give him a gift,” he says, nodding his head towards the kitchen, assuming that they didn’t listen to the gift ban either. None of their friends are likely to.
Grantaire hadn’t listened either, but his gift is one better given in private later tonight. And he won’t say as much in polite company.
“I’ll catch him later,” Jehan chirps, confirming Grantaire’s theory, which makes him smile into his cup as he takes another sip.
The song playing changes to something with a stronger beat. It makes Grantaire’s foot tap on instinct, and hum idly into his cup.
At that moment, Jehan seems struck with inspiration; they perk up, looking at Grantaire’s tapping foot, and suddenly they’re in front of him, bouncing on the balls of their feet and holding their hands out to him.
Grantaire looks down at the proffered hands and raises his eyebrows.
Jehan huffs.
“I remember winter formal, I know you can dance,” they say, beckoning with their hands to emphasize their point. A slow smile creeps onto Grantaire’s face.
“Gotta make up for missing prom sometime, I guess,” he offers, setting his paper cup down on the nearest coaster.
“Damn right you do!” Jehan replies, and then swings him to the center of the living room with so much gusto that sprinkles go flying.
From then on, Grantaire lets himself get lost in the fun of it all.
Music thumps, friends dance, games are played. At some point, someone (Courf, he thinks?) put a little green cone-shaped party hat on him, and Grantaire hasn’t bothered to remove it. Every now and again, someone approaches Bea with an offering and she tears into wrapping paper with all the joy and vigor it deserves.
Enjolras gets more gifts too (as expected, everyone seems to have unanimously ignored his insistence he didn’t need any, as they should) but he’s a lot more subtle about it, choosing to go off and sit with each person in turn and offer his quiet thanks. At this rate, his face is going to be stained pink, Grantaire is sure of it.
After a couple of hours, Jehan breaks the cacophony of conversations and music by clapping their hands, and calling everyone together in the dining room for cake. His friends dutifully shuffle in, Bea and Gavroche leading the charge towards dessert.
Grantaire, not as tempted by the siren’s song of sugar, watches from the far side of the dining room as Jehan cuts into the cake, and starts handing out slices over the fae-monopoly-board-monstrosity table. Bea was given the first slice, and has already eaten a good amount of it, even with how quickly she’s chattering to Jehan and Eponine in between bites.
He’s not in a rush for cake himself. He’s having just as much fun just watching his daughter, surrounded by his friends and a myriad of opened gifts.
Up until now, birthdays have had to be a pretty small affair.
There had been years, especially when Bea was very young, that he couldn’t really afford to get her anything at all. Let alone have an actual party.
If he could, he’d give her the world. He still can’t do that, so for now he’ll settle for watching her look over her gifts like a dragon’s hoard, surrounded by friends, and shoveling cake into her mouth.
There’s a soft shifting beside him, an arm brushing his, and he looks over, to find Enjolras sliding up to lean against the wall right beside him.
“She’s having fun,” he says, gently. Grantaire hums in agreement, scooting a little closer so that their shoulders are fully pressed together. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Enjolras smile, and then feels him relax into the touch of shoulders.
“She’s gonna get so fucking spoiled,” Grantaire murmurs to him with a smile.
“Is that a bad thing?” Enjolras asks, raising an eyebrow.
“No,” Grantaire replies, “It’s good.”
It’s really, really good.
Enjolras hums his agreement. They stand like that, pressed together as cake is passed around, until Enjolras breaks the easy silence again.
“Are you going to get some cake?”
Grantaire glances up at him, smiling wryly.
“Trying to get rid of me, are you?”
“Never,” Enjolras says, with the usual ease and certainty that still sometimes surprises Grantaire, and then adds, “I just don’t want you to miss out. I think Bea is going back for seconds already.”
One quick glance at the table proves he’s right. Shit. Grantaire’s gonna have to cut her off soon. The last thing this party needs is a sugar rush followed by a sugar crash.
“I don’t see you going for any, either,” he says, deciding that slice number two is a lost cause already. He’ll stop her before she starts on number three. For now, he just bumps Enjolras’ elbow and continues, “It’s partially your cake too, you know. You should be over there getting some, not being a wallflower.”
Enjolras huffs indignantly.
“Don’t act like you wouldn’t be doing the same thing,” he says, then pauses, and adds, “In fact, you literally are doing the same thing.”
“Ah, see, but I’m allowed to be a wallflower,” Grantaire says, “I don’t have anything big to celebrate.”
“I think you have plenty,” Enjolras replies, and oh god, Enjolras suddenly looks like he’s having ideas. Kind ideas. The type of ideas that usually end with Grantaire blushing and feeling like his heart is oozing out of his body.
“Don’t change the subject,” Grantaire says, hoping to divert his boyfriend’s attention before he can start being far too sweet for his own good.
“This is important, though,” Enjolras presses, and oh, this is dangerous. He already looks determined. That’s no good. He looks about three seconds away from making a comprehensive list of Grantaire’s accomplishments, and Grantaire may be working on accepting compliments, but if Enjolras tries that he thinks he might burst into flames.
“Not today,” Grantaire says, hoping it doesn’t sound too much like he’s pleading.
“Why not?” Enjolras presses, “And if not now, when would be the right time?”
That, Grantaire doesn’t answer. Whatever answer he gives, he’s sure Enjolras will hold him to it. So he just looks away, and wonders if pleading the fifth would work right now.
Sensing his reluctance, and never one to back down from a challenge, Enjolras leans back into his field of view.
“I think it’s important that you appreciate how far you’ve come,” he says, with a small, determined smile on his face, “In fact, I think you’re required to be proud of it.”
Grantaire looks at him, his chest doing those funny flips that never seem to stop, and his stomach clenching around the slowly lessening instinct towards self-deprecation.
Grantaire still struggles with self-perception, but even for him it’s hard to deny the shift that he’s gone through over the last decade.
He remembers how he was. How determined he’d been to believe he was beyond repair. That addicting ease nihilism offers seeping its way into every corner of his life, and keeping him stuck, completely fucking convinced that nothing would, or could, ever change.
But even Grantaire, a master of not seeing the forest for the trees, can see that he’s not the same anymore. He’s not.
He’s better.
Not fully, not always. But it’s enough. Because for once, finally, he thinks he might actually stay that way.
Enjolras is still looking at him, though, and Grantaire’s skin is starting to itch, so he grumbles, feeling his neck flush, the traitorous blush quickly creeping towards his face the longer his boyfriend stares.
“I should be proud,” he mutters, forcing the words out.
“You are proud,” Enjolras corrects, with a semi-smug, affectionate look.
This fucker.
Grantaire gasps, placing a hand over his heart in mock offense.
“Are you really using my own pep talk against me right now?” he asks.
“I am,” Enjolras replies, knocking his elbow with Grantaire’s, “And you would do well to listen to yourself. I think you knew what you were talking about.”
Grantaire snorts. When his following silence only gains him a stern stare, he sighs and relents.
“I am proud,” he mumbles. Enjolras gives him another nudge with his elbow, carefully avoiding a fresh bruise on his upper arm.
“I couldn’t hear you.”
“I’m proud! Jesus!” Grantaire repeats, this time in a much clearer, closer approximation of a normal voice. He doubts anyone heard over the general din of the party, but his cheeks get ruddy with embarrassment anyway.
Enjolras—the bastard—is smiling, warm and pleased. Grantaire lifts a hand, scrubbing it over his face, trying and failing to hide the worst of his embarrassment.
“You’re ridiculous, you know that?” he mumbles, peeking past his palm.
“So are you,” Enjolras replies, sounding much too satisfied with himself.
“Yeah,” Grantaire says, “but you like me anyway.”
He was aiming for flippant, but his tone lands somewhere just a little too earnest. Grantaire glances at his boyfriend, nerves getting the better of him, but Enjolras’ face is warm, a pleased smile on his lips. There’s no censure in his tone as he corrects,
“I love you.”
It’s not the first time Enjolras has said so. That had been a few months ago, during the holidays. But Grantaire has yet to experience a diminishing return on its impact.
There was a point in time where his gut instinct would be to doubt he means it. He’s not afraid to admit he’d had a flutter of fear the first time, knee-jerk and icy. But like so many things, Enjolras means it. He means it, and he says it with all the confidence he gives to any one of his causes.
So, Grantaire does the one thing he knows is always the right decision:
He believes him.
He snakes his hand down between them and clasps Enjolras’ tightly, threading their fingers in the way that is against all odds, not just normal, but comfortable.
“I know,” he says, “I love you too.”