Grantaire knows who the voice belongs to without looking. He doesn’t turn around, just takes another drag of his cigarette, watching the smoke paint the air a filmy silver.
“Grantaire!” the voice repeats. Sharp on the G, light on the aire. He knows, he knows.
“Hi, Apollo,” he says. “Did you get tired of dancing?”
“Something like that,” Enjolras says. He shuts the backdoor of the bar carefully. His back hits the brick wall next to Grantaire’s. Grantaire can feel the heat of his shoulder through his flannel. “Smoking kills, y’know.”
“Why do you think I’m smoking?” Grantaire asks, and laughs when Enjolras makes an indignant noise deep in his throat. “Sorry. I can hear a speech trying to force its way out of your mouth right now. You’re doing a good job not saying anything.”
Enjolras is quiet. Grantaire is quiet. And then, what the fuck. Enjolras drops his curly head onto Grantaire’s shoulder and breathes hot onto his neck. His chest rises and falls evenly, almost as if he’s asleep already.
“Are you sleepy?” Grantaire says softly. A puff of smoke curls out with the s.
“I,” Enjolras begins. “Am really, really drunk.”
Grantaire huffs out a surprised laugh. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Enjolras mumbles. “I’m, like, seventy-five percent whiskey, fifteen percent tequila, and ten percent French patriotism.”
“Pretty good math from a drunk person,” Grantaire says. Enjolras nuzzles his curly head deeper into Grantaire's neck. Grantaire keeps very still, as if making noise won’t just wake Enj up, it’ll make him disperse into the cloud of ambiguously gendered stardust he truly is at heart.
“You know, I think you’re, like, waaaay cute,” Enjolras announces.
Grantaire breathes shallowly so he doesn’t choke on his cigarette like a fucking high schooler. In, out, in, out, he’s drunk, you misheard.
“We should kiss,” Enjolras says.
Grantaire, despite his best efforts, chokes. Oh, shit. “I think you’re very pretty, and very drunk, Apollo, and assholes like me, assholes though we may be, don’t take advantage of very pretty people when they’re also very drunk.”
“Haaaa,” Enjolras trills. “You rhymed.”
“I did,” Grantaire says. He’s drunk, too, he’s dimly aware of that much, but his liver is a fortress. He’s sober enough to know that Enjolras is not sober enough, and probably needs some greasy breakfast food and an Uber home. He digs his phone out of his pocket and texts Musichetta.
Grantaire: waddup my dude
Grantaire: enj is very drunk and very handsy
Musichetta: ojoOHOHOH HSHIST WADUSP U DAT BOI
Grantaire: chetta pls
Musichetta: aRE EHYFOU GOING IOTGO TGO HOEOEM WITH IM
Grantaire: no? he’s drunk im not going home with him
Musichetta: nonINDFOINSNO NO I MENANT LIKE AR EHYH YOU GAING TO MKE SUREE HE GEGS HOMEE SAF?
Grantaire: OH YEAH of course i’ll make sure he gets home alright im gonna get him an uber we’ll be fine
Musichetta: yoU HAVE 2 GAO HOAME WIT HIM AND MKNKE SURE HE CAN GTET IN HIS ARPREMTNET OTHERWISE U ARE GOINNGNTO HELL
Grantaire: chetta how drunk are you
Musichetta: IM 3 DRUNK
Grantaire: ASKDJFOISJFI OK
Grantaire: IS EPONINE WITH YOU
Musichetta: IS ANYUN WIHT ME? AM I REAL
Grantaire: ok slow down there voltaire
Grantaire: have a good night angel i’ll make sure enjolras gets home safe ily
Musichetta: fufCK YE I LOVE YOU
Grantaire texts Eponine after to make sure someone besides Bossuet and Joly (who were high off their asses, the last he checked) is looking after ‘Chetta. Enjolras stays quiet the whole time, making peaceful little snuffling noises into Grantaire's flannel.
“Apollo,” Grantaire says finally. The Greek god in question snorts loudly, waking with a start. “Hi again.”
“Hi again, sweetheart,” Enjolras says delightedly.
“Ha, okay,” Grantaire says. “Wanna go home, dude?”
“With you?” Enjolras says, strangely plaintive. Grantaire sucks furiously on his cigarette, which is fizzling into nonexistence in his fingers.
“To your home,” Grantaire says. “Like, I take you to your home.”
“And you stay?” Enjolras asks. He presses close against Grantaire’s side, soft and terribly, terribly inviting.
Grantaire is a good person. He is. He’s not going to cuddle with the love of his life just because the aforementioned thinks he wants that. He’s better than this. Right? Right.
“On the couch, maybe,” Grantaire says. Right! He’s better than this for sure.
“Cool,” Enjolras mumbles. “Lez go.”
Grantaire hoists the man up, wrapping an arm securely around his shoulder and the other halfway around his waist. The Uber is a minute away, supposedly. Can Enjolras make it another minute without puking? Who knows? Certainly, definitely not Grantaire. Grantaire does an awkward, hopping sort of dance with his large burden out to the street. Enjolras makes drunk-person-noises into his flannel again while Grantaire digs out his wallet and tries to see if he can afford an Uber all the way back to Enj’s apartment. He has twenty-five dollars and a Chuck-E-Cheeze token. Granted, that's more than he has usually. Maybe they'll take the Uber as far as twenty-five dollars and a token goes, and have a sobering walk the rest of the way, which is broke ass speak for “If I buy this now, I'm eating ramen for the next week and a half, so let's take a shortcut out of it and pretend that we're enjoying ourselves.”
Èponine: o shit waddup
Grantaire: arent u drunk
Èponine: ARENT U
Grantaire: no? it takes more than 7 jägerbombs to get me drunk lol 7 jägerbombs is what i have in lieu of orange juice w/ breakfast my business is drinking dude
Èponine: OBVIOUSLY SINCE UR SOBER EBIYGH RO SAY IN LUEUI
Grantaire: im taking enjolras hoem
Èponine: yeah? Like to FUCK
Grantaire: no he drunk im just gonna tuck him in
Èponine: i will get parnasse to send u his uber code
Grantaire: i changed my mind abt apollo ep u r the love of my life,,, an angel,,, my fucking wife,,,, i will never leave u,,, i love u
Èponine: yeah ok
Grantaire heaves Enjolras into the car, and ends up forking over his cash at the end of the ride even though he has a coupon, because Apollo, despite being a beautiful and flawless human, threw up all over the side of the car.
Grantaire: he puked
Grantaire: he's so lucky i love him
Èponine: HELL NEVER EBEVN KNOW HAHAHAHSHS IRONY
Grantaire: goodnight eponine
Èponine: NIGHT NIGHT BABY BOY
Grantaire drags Enjolras up ten flights of steps, huffing and puffing like a steam engine.
“Hi,” Grantaire says, when they reach Enjolras's apartment. “Are you alive,”
“Whassup,” Enjolras says. His eyes are shut tight. His eyelids have pink and purple veins in them, fragile and pastel like a spring sunrise. Grantaire is sooo fucked.
“Can you--dude, you got a house key, or no?”
“Pants,” Enjolras says. Grantaire swallows tightly. He's wearing very tight, very leather pants, and Grantaire doesn’t particularly want to go digging.
“Can you grab them?”
“Why? You ‘fraid that if you touch my ass, I'm gonna turn you gay,” Enjolras asks, and then laughs uproariously.
“You have so much nerve for someone who just puked on me,” Grantaire snaps. He jams his hand into Enj’s back pocket and snags the keyring. The ass in question is very, very nice, and Grantaire wants death to come soon. He fights with the door and gets it open, not without some struggle. He flicks the light on, and then flicks it off when Enjolras makes a weak screaming noise. “Hush,”
“It is bright,” Enjolras says. “Did you turn the sun out for me?”
“No, dumbass, I touched a light switch.”
“Fuck you, you trick ass hoe,” Enjolras says, with surprising eloquence. Grantaire gapes at him. “Get off, I gotta pee.”
“Apollo,” Grantaire says furiously. “You are so lucky I'm in love with you.”
“You wanna what?” Enjolras yells from inside the bathroom.
“I said I'm gonna get you a glass of water!” Grantaire lies cheerfully. He crashes into the kitchen and finds a cup; it's plastic, and it's got two tiny goldfish swimming on the sides. He puts ice and water into it, rummages around for ibuprofen, almost drops the cup and screams when he turns to see Enjolras staring at him from the kitchen doorway. “Did you pee,” Grantaire says, for lack of something better.
“Yes,” Enjolras says, with the frankness of someone too inebriated to hide anything. “For me?”
“Yeah, dude,” Grantaire says.
Enjolras chugs the water and pops the ibuprofen, and then he shuffles right up to Grantaire. He's taller than Grantaire by, like, three or four inches. Grantaire is sweating. Enjolras extends his long arms and wraps them tight around Grantaire, pressing in for a boa constrictor hug.
Enjolras’s arms are corded with muscle and he appears to be running a temperature. His chest burns hot against Grantaire’s through his shirt. He smells...well, he smells nice. When Grantaire was thirteen, he read a lot of fanfiction for the TV show Friends. He became very accustomed to inaccurate depictions of how real human men smell. Enjolras smells like the fanfiction descriptions sound: citrus and cinnamon and something like a mountain breeze. Grantaire is at peace in his arms.
After a moment, he elects to shuffle Enjolras backwards to his bedroom, loathe to disentangle himself from the other man's arms. Enjolras thuds into his bed like a felled tree. Grantaire pulls his shoes off, and his socks, and hesitates at the pants. He decides that friends don't let friends sleep in leather anything, and peels the pants off. Apollo’s boxers have smiling bulldogs on them. Grantaire averts his eyes and yanks at his jacket sleeves.
“Whassup,” Enjolras says softly. He keeps drifting in and out of consciousness; Grantaire would be worried if he didn’t know that the dude was a total lightweight.
“Hey,” Grantaire says. “I’m just gonna find you some pajamas, okay?”
“OKAY,” Enjolras says, suddenly and mysteriously choosing to be incredibly loud. Grantaire’s headache suddenly and mysteriously chooses that moment to present itself.
“Dude. Volume control,” Grantaire whispers.
Enjolras replies with a muffled snore. Lightweights, Grantaire thinks grumpily.
Grantaire tugs Enj’s shirt off and replaces it with a relatively clean T-shirt from the floor. He goes back to the kitchen, puts more water in the goldfish cup, and grabs the bottle of ibuprofen.
“Okay. Goodnight, Apollo,” Grantaire says, feeling very responsible. Maybe he'll bring some food by tomorrow. Enjolras might be dead tomorrow. His headache is gonna be killer.
“Hey, hey,” Enjolras says.
“Hi,” Grantaire replies. He’ll have to find a new salutation before the night is over. This is getting ridiculous.
“C’mere, dude,” Enjolras says, a lilting mockery of Grantaire’s own nervous endearment. The blond catches his wrist, yanking him towards the bed.
“What's up? Do you want some more water before I--”
And then Enjolras is kissing him. Enjolras is kissing him. Well, not quite, he's kind of biting and sighing, and Grantaire tastes blood. He feels like he just got punched in the face with Enjolras's mouth. Grantaire's own alcohol addled mind takes a second to realize exactly what is transpiring, and then he chokes, and falls backwards off the bed.
“Ooookay, bedtime for Apollo,” Grantaire scrambles backwards on the floor.
“Chemtrails,” Enjolras says inarticulately. “The chemtrails made me do it.” After a second, he passes back out of consciousness.
“Me too,” Grantaire agrees. He hops up, ignoring the heady feeling in his chest, and heads for the door. His lip is definitely bleeding. He needs that walk home, and he needs it bad.
His phone buzzes with a text from Eponine, right on cue.
Eponine: U COMIFN HOEM?
Grantaire: enjolras punched me in the face with his mouth
Eponine: ...I repet, U COMIFN HOEME?
Eponine: k. rest in peace u r gay
His phone buzzes again. Somehow, he's missed three calls from Enjolras in the span of a minute. Typical.
Grantaire wanders home by the light of the moon, seeing Enjolras's face haloed in every golden streetlight.