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“This,” Grantaire observes, “is not what I ordered.”
“No," Enjolras agrees, “it is not.”
Grantaire shifts on his barstool, sliding the offending glass a very important two inches away from him. “Well,” he says, leaning back with crossed arms, “it would appear that you make a very bad bartender.”
Enjolras seems to consider this for a second as he grabs a wet glass, drying it with a towel that hangs from the waistband of his pants. “Perhaps.” He sets the clean glass away. “But I am a good friend.”
Grantaire snorts at this, with no little amount of surprise. “Friend? Yeah, okay.” He sets his gaze back on the rum-and-coke-sans-rum in front of him. Really, it’s just another disappointment in a long-running line of let-downs from the past few weeks. He can’t seem to do much correctly, and life is a passive-aggressive bitch who likes to throw that right back in his face. Any effort he’s put into anything freezes, dwindles, and fails. He’s not expecting the conversation to go much differently.
Seemingly bent on throwing him some sort of social curveball, Enjolras leans forward on the counter, eyebrows furrowed. “What do you mean, ‘yeah, okay?’” he says. “Of course we’re friends, Grantaire. Why wouldn’t we be?”
Grantaire sighs, sober and impatient for it. He hefts his body forward, leaning right back. They’ve both taken similar positions: folded arms like little barricades, forearms stacked and fingers curled around elbows. Grantaire faintly notices how much stronger than him Enjolras is. The insulting coca-cola is trapped helplessly between them.
“Look, you don’t have to do this,” Grantaire starts, gesturing vaguely with his hands before returning them to the countertop. “Really, not to me. We aren’t – I mean, it’s fine, whatever, but we – it’s just not – you know –“
“Hey, woah, back up,” Enjolras says, and his eyes are so focused that it’s uncomfortable. “What aren’t we, Grantaire?”
“Well, I mean, it’s just that,” Grantaire is flustered, feels his face heat up. He wants to stand his ground, to show Enjolras that he can be just as stubborn and strong. But right now, he can feel how warm the bartender’s breath is, can smell his cologne, and his instincts scream white flag.
“Okay, so we’re just,” Enjolras cuts in. “We are simply just.” He sounds resolute.
“I don’t mean –“ Grantaire’s sinking into his jacket, wants to fade back.
“We’re just.” His voice is lighter, firm and sure. “We are exactly just.”
Now Grantaire’s feeling confused. He’s not drunk, words should be making sense, but they’re not. “I lost you.”
Enjolras pulls himself up, hands flat on the counter, looking down and leaning towards Grantaire, making him feel small and controlled.
“Grantaire, we are just stuck in this fucking limbo aren’t we. We are just strangers, just acquaintances, just this and just that.” The man thrums his fingers down on the countertop with each title. “And then we’re not. Not whatever the hell we want to be, which is downright frustrating, because we totally could be.”
And now Grantaire’s heart is beating faster because this is not going the way it’s supposed to. First of all, he should be pleasantly buzzed right now; second, he should not be having serious conversations about serious topics and feelings. Instead, Enjolras should be throwing banter at him, and then throwing him out of his bar. Instead, the man is looking at him like he’s a revelation, and that’s just downright frightening.
“Damn it, Grantaire, don’t look at me like that, just listen to me,” Enjolras says sharply, thumping a hand down on the bar. “Here we are in the prime of our life, making decisions to affect our future, and I have to sit here and watch you drown your potential away every fucking weekend.”
“Hey, that’s not—“
“Yes, it is true, and it’s also going to change. Because we’re going to change. I’m sick of being in these middle stages, Courfeyrac’s sick of waiting to win his bet, and I’m pretty sure you must be sick of getting sick behind this building every Friday.” Enjolras leans forward a little bit, in Grantaire’s face with a crooked little smirk on his lips and an inspired little glint in his eye. “So how about this. We’re not friends. We’re not acquaintances. We’re just. And we’re just gonna go out for dinner tomorrow night.”
Grantaire’s mouth is dry and his voice is gone. This never happens to him, never should happen to him. He doesn't know what to do, not with Enjolras throwing out emotions like they're old hat when for Grantaire they are most certainly not. Emotions are difficult, talking is impossible, this man is looking at him like he's beautiful, like he's captured something fanatstic when all he's really got on his hands is some wash-up college drunk who fancies himself an artist every other Tuesday. And now this man wants to drag his sorry skinny ass to dinner, maybe wants to kiss him and, wow, slow down there a second.
He's talking again, and Grantaire is looking for reassurance, for reality.
“Alright?” Enjolras prompts him.
It's real.
Grantaire grabs the nearly-forgotten coca-cola, now finally useful, and takes an uncomfortably fizzy gulp to clear out his throat.
“Alright," he breathes.
The edge of bar digs into his hips when Enjolras pulls him forward and kisses him on his lips and it is wonderful.