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"E, it’s your turn," Jehan piped up with a nudge. Enjolras lifted his head from his hands, fighting sleep.
"Is it," he drawled, at last. "I choose truth."
The room vibrated with vague interest. Jehan nibbled his lip, and finally, with a flutter of long lashes: “In love?”
Enjolras took a moment to stretch, adjusted his glasses, and said, “Yes.”
Jehan reacted with a hum of curiosity. In an attempt not to look surprised, Combeferre shifted his focus to the unlucky Grantaire, who was grinning along with the crowd. Jehan then twirled the bottle with his thin fingers. It ended up squarely towards Marius.
"Pontmercy," Enjolras murmured tiredly. "Truth or-"
"Truth!" Marius squeaked, and the room dissolved into laughter.
Grantaire looked down at his fingernails, picking at them and scratching at stray streaks of paint. Enjolras was in love, of course. It was one of those things that was bound to happen- it was nature, for beauty to find beauty, for love to find a lover. Enjolras was one of those unstoppable forces of nature, like a waterfall, and when he had someone to feel passion for, nobody else would ever get a word in edgewise.
Grantaire looked over at Enjolras, who was pushing his red glasses up his nose and nearly giggling. It was like a moment out of a film- the room blurred at the edges while Enjolras radiated light. Grantaire took a moment to dwell in it all, knowing the empty pangs in his chest. There was nothing to mourn for, and yet it took every ounce of his energy to plaster a smile on his face. Enjolras expanded and Grantaire deflated more.
"R!"
Grantaire proudly did not flinch. Instead, he grinned and raised his flask to Courf's shit-eating grin.
“Truth or dare?” Courfeyrac said, leaning into the circle.
Grantaire maintained his façade. “Either,” he said with a glint of audacity. He could reschedule the bouts of self-loathing for a slightly later time; say, perhaps, five minutes from now, when there were no eyes on him.
"Have you ever brought someone back here?" Courf asked after brief deliberation, rather genuinely. Others mumbled. It had almost become a competition in the apartment of who could keep quiet when bringing home significant others or one-night stands- when anyone made a sound or slept too late, come morning they were likely to be serenaded by Joly’s Early Morning Karaoke (tm) and wooed with Combeferre’s best studying coffee, a sure embarrassment of ABC hospitality.
Grantaire’s whiskey splashed on his shirt.
He closed his eyes and tried to smile, his shoulders caving downwards. “What do you think,” he wanted to hiss, but he finally settled for a polite “Nope.” He wiped his face.
Courf drew back slowly, cocking his eyebrows in slight surprise, and Enjolras chimed in with a soft “Really?”.
“Yes, really,” Grantaire returned too quickly, his voice a hint sour. “We aren’t all beautiful.”
Enjolras’ brow furrowed and he seemed very ready to assert the words “social construct,” but Combeferre hissed at him and the room fell to a hush.
"R," said Musichetta, who was also unfairly gorgeous. He glared at the delicate turn of her ankles as she spoke words of faint praise, circling but never touching on the unfortunate matter of his face or his mind or his-
"Don’t worry about it," Combeferre said, and the room swelled again, the excitement only slightly strained.
When Grantaire found a moment to escape quietly, he did.
The balcony was better- there were fewer people to snap at and unintentionally wound, for one, and there were fewer blonde bespectacled gods to pine over. He fumbled for a light before he realized he forgot his cigarettes altogether, and then he slumped against the rail and mused over giving up. He wished for rain to block out the comfortable chaos of sounds inside.
"Grantaire," came a voice.
One of the sounds had been the sliding door, he realized belatedly.
“What,” he said, and his own voice sounded far too rough compared to the sweet comfort that approached him.
Enjolras made his way to the rail, leaning on it as Grantaire did. He moved tentatively, fingers tapping an irregular rhythm on the metal of the fire escape. “I didn’t mean to offend you, if I did.”
Grantaire scoffed.
"No-," Enjolras continued, eyebrows drawing up in passionate concern. "I swear, I’m not really myself right now. I’m sorry if whatever I- I mean, I’m sorry." Quietly, then, he ventured, "What’s wrong?"
"You," Grantaire wanted to say, and he closed his eyes tightly against the imaginary rain. It was dark outside, but Enjolras’ curls caught the light from inside and they looked aflame. Grantaire finally said, "It’s nothing. I’m stressed."
"Exams are over," Enjolras said almost to himself, because that had been the purpose of the celebration in the first place.
At that, Grantaire turned to face Enjolras and managed to forget himself. “You fell in love,” he snarled, recoiling from his own words immediately. “Shit, sorry.”
"I’m sorry, R," Enjolras had already managed to say. "I didn’t know- I mean, I’m sure it’s weird, what with unrequited-"
A passing flock of pigeons brought a gust of wind.
"You’re sure, not that you’ve experienced it," Grantaire murmured softly and thankfully without malice.
The taller of the two fell quiet, then. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “You know, I thought love was supposed to be a good thing. It shouldn’t be a burden. I apologize.”
Grantaire blinked. “Are you apologizing to me for me being a burden?”
"I’m apologizing for loving you!" Enjolras growled, looking at his feet and blushing red.
"Wait, what?" Grantaire felt his heart stutter with disbelief. "I- what?"
"Isn’t that what we were talking about?" Enjolras raised his bright blue eyes to Grantaire’s. Grantaire felt a jab of electricity.
"Not- not really!" he managed. There was no room for façades now- his mind had crumbled. "I- I loveyou,” he said weakly, after another moment. “It’s not supposed to be- you’re not supposed to- Enjolras, you’re the world.”
Enjolras furrowed his brow at that. “I’m just a man!” He took a step closer to Grantaire, his face softening somewhat. “And you’re my sweetest dream. I not ashamed of loving you, Grantaire, and I’m not sure why you think that I should be.”
Grantaire floundered. “I failed my History final.”
"We haven’t gotten our grades back," Enjolras shot back.
"But I know I failed!" insisted Grantaire, retreating a step. "I’m not a success, Enjolras. I’m not going to change the world. I’m not going to make a splash with- with the big fish. You and Combeferre- Jehan, oh my god- even Pontmercy- you’re all up to something. You’re independent and wild and you certainly didn’t fail your exams. You’re intelligent. If I had even an eighth of your brains, I’d-. Look, you’re, you’re a god among men, and you’ve seen my face, my zits, the way my hair grows, and I’m just-” he stopped to take a shuddering breath, his cheeks warming indelicately. “How can I be the person of your dreams if I’m the one dreaming about you?”
Enjolras had a moment of flames in his eyes- that spark of revolutionary fervor that stirred cities. He took Grantaire by the shoulder and leaned dangerously close. His eyes fluttered to the other man’s, seeking, and said, “May I?” He titled his head and parted his lips.
Grantaire froze and without thought nodded almost imperceptibly, and suddenly Enjolras’ lips were on his.
Neither of them were particularly well-versed in such matters and Grantaire was honestly wondering whether or not it was a fever dream but by the end of the moment they were both laughing into the kiss.
The fire escape creaked and the world seemed brighter than anything.
Grantaire wanted to cry.
"I love you because you’re you," Enjolras said in his caress of a voice, leaning into Grantaire’s stubbly jaw and nearly purring.
"I love you," Grantaire echoed lamely, choked up with emotion, pulling Enjolras into a tight hug and beaming at the slide of red glasses against his cheek.