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When Grantaire first meets Enjolras, he inevitably wields his bottle like a shield against the idealist’s words, letting the arguments bounce off of the glass and back, tinged with a cold sheen of intoxication. Grantaire’s rebuttals are as bitter as the last drops of absinthe in the corners of his glass. It makes Enjolras wonder just who is speaking in those moments: Grantaire, or the alcohol? Grantaire finishes his speeches in a flourish, wide eyes unfocused and lips parted in surprise as though the words spilled from his mouth unfiltered and he’s only just noticed. Enjolras’ money is on the latter.
But Grantaire hides because Enjolras sharpens his words like glass. It reflects your pain as it cuts through your skin. He hides because Enjolras feels like the soft exterior of dynamite, and Grantaire’s no longer sure what they’ll find under the fortifications he’s built up when even the smallest chips in his walls leave him feeling raw and empty.
Enjolras just wants to know what words lie on Grantaire’s tongue, unbidden and shackled, a prisoner of his own indecent addiction. Enjolras just wants to know what events play behind Grantaire’s eyes, the ones that feed his tongue with cynicism. He just wants to know what Grantaire sees.
It takes him far longer than acceptable to realize that what Grantaire sees is what Grantaire believes.
Grantaire cannot see; therefore, he does not see.
It makes Enjolras more wary of assumption, makes him see the way Grantaire’s eyes never focus on anything, never move with him. Combeferre points out Enjolras’ unbridled glances toward Grantaire every so often.
“I just never noticed before,” is all he says. The omitted “him” hangs in the air, unmentioned. Combeferre drops the subject.
Now that he knows, he sees the small actions that scream how obvious it should have been and how clueless Enjolras is. Little habits like thumbing the mouth of his bottle before bringing it to his lips, or waiting patiently after a chair is scraped back for the person to speak.
Grantaire knows, sometimes, which of his friends is approaching before they speak. Jehan’s approach is soft, zir floral scent washing over him as the poet lowers zirself into the seat. Nothing compared to the raucous Bahorel makes, his sharp musk and cinnamon scent as the brawler slings an arm around Grantaire’s shoulders. Or the clumsy stumbling of Bossuet, his clean scent matching Joly’s, the lingering smell of disinfectant that reminds Grantaire of the airy hospitals Combeferre and Joly frequent. Eponine never greets him, just appears out of thin air, haunting aphrodisiac mixture of smoke and amber that leaves him leaning just to get a little closer. Jehan is too polite to think of startling him, and gives him a low,
“Hello, Grantaire.”
On the other side of the room, somewhere, he hears Combeferre mention his name and perks up a little, listening intently when he registers the replier’s voice as Enjolras’. No other reply comes and after a few minutes Jehan, smoothing a knuckle down his forearm, asks gently,
“Grantaire?”
“Sorry, sorry.” The easy smile finds its way onto his face, and he lets his attention reluctantly drift from Enjolras to Jehan.
“Penny for your thoughts?” The lightness in zir tone is forced, quizzical.
“Is Enjolras looking at us?”
Jehan’s clothing rustles slightly as ze turns to look.
“Yes, he was. Why?” Ze replies knowingly.
Grantaire shakes his head. “Just something Combeferre said.”
A gentle hand is twining their fingers together and he hears Jehan sigh. Grantaire lifts his free hand in the direction of Jehan’s face, and the poet directs his fingers until they brush zir cheek, letting him run a thumb along zir jaw and moving to trace the outline of zir lips, giving zir a small smile when he feels zir kiss his thumb softly.
“When I was younger,” Grantaire starts “I read books like I drink wine. For a small child with no perception of colors and small details, to read words spun into poetry, of which you are so fond of, it was heart wrenching knowing I would never understand this basic part of human nature. Beauty is hardly possible at that age. But I’ve never known anything other than my blindness. I felt descriptions instead of seeing them. I looked without eyes.”
“Oh?” Jehan says curiously. “And what do you see?”
Grantaire hums, sweeping his knuckles around Jehan’s hairline, tucking a stray hair behind zir ear.
“The kindness in the curve of your lips, always ready to gift the next person you see with beautiful words. The creases in your cheek, eroded in your skin from smile after smile. I see the care in your wide eyes. You are stunning, Jehan.”
“What of yourself? Tell me what you see.”
He drops his hand, letting it fall to his side and sits back.
“I take care not to look very often.”
“You are beautiful, you know?” Ze implores, a frown cutting through the words.
“I don’t know at all.” Grantaire replies, drily.
“No, you don’t know what you look like, of course,” Grantaire hears the smile in zir voice, startling slightly when Jehan’s fingertips smooth over his brow. “The color of your skin, or the curve of your neck. You don’t know.” A shiver runs down his spine when ze drops zir fingers to caress the dip between his shoulder and his cupid’s bow, moving them to curl against his nape, thumb resting on his pulse point. “But I do. Do you know, there is beauty beyond the direct physical person?”
“I don’t.”
“Well, you can feel the secrets in a person’s skin like braille, but I have sight. I can see the beauty in your existence, the way you walk in and your presence demands notice, inspires smiles. You don’t see it, how can you? But you make everyone more at ease. The whole room feels a little bit brighter when you’re in it. You radiate contentment and happiness. Not one person is immune to you. You can’t see how your speeches leave everyone awed. Even the cynical ones. You could never comprehend just how much darker, how much blacker we would all be without you.”
The room, Grantaire realizes, has gone silent with Jehan’s words. The room is charged, and Grantaire expects someone to disagree because that can’t be right. It can’t, it doesn’t make sense. Everyone must be looking at him, waiting for something, he’s sure but he doesn’t know, can’t see, can’t tell. A small, choked sob rips from his chest and he tries to pull away from Jehan’s hands, to shake off the fingers at his neck and around his own hand but ze steels zir grip and he’s left trying to cover his face with his one free hand but Jehan is prying it away, pressing zir lips to his cheek and catching a tear, kissing his mouth for a single moment before pulling away.
“You are so, so beautiful.”
*
Enjolras watches Jehan pull up a chair to sit beside Grantaire, pen hovering above the page for a few seconds. Out of his peripheral, Combeferre follows his gaze.
“Is there something you wish to discuss?”
“Not a thing.”
“You’ve been watching Grantaire more frequently.” He comments.
Enjolras’ eyes stay on Grantaire for a few moments before flicking over to Combeferre.
“I just never noticed before.” The reply is even, and when Combeferre sighs and returns to his work, he resumes looking at Grantaire, deliberating the flutter in his chest.
Quietly, Grantaire says something and Jehan turns around to look at Enjolras. Ze catches his eyes, a sweet smile forming on zir face that morphs into a smirk when Enjolras feels himself redden. He attempts to keep working, his eyes steadily trained on the page, only looking up when the usual ruckus of the café dies down and noting the way everyone is watching Jehan.
“—You don’t see it, how can you? But you make everyone more at ease. The whole room feels a little bit brighter when you’re in it.” A few tables away, he catches Bahorel and Bossuet absentmindedly nodding. “You radiate contentment and happiness. Not one person is immune to you. You can’t see how your speeches leave everyone awed. Even the cynical ones.” A majority of the group smiles at the addition, and Enjolras feels inclined to agree. As frustrating as these speeches are, he sometimes feels an overwhelming urge to write them down, study them, like the key to the dark haired man is in his flowery composition of words. “You could never comprehend just how much darker, how much blacker we would all be without you.”
Trying to stifle a sound, Grantaire raises one hand to wipe his eyes, leaving it there until Jehan removes it, revealing his glassy eyes. A tear escapes and Jehan interrupts its path, kissing his cheek and placing a small kiss to his lips.
“You are so, so beautiful.”
All of their friends are watching sadly, but no one interrupts the fragile moment because, although everyone knows the extent of Grantaire’s poor self-image, this is so much more. This is their friend reduced to tears by the validation of his worth and Enjolras suddenly aches because how could he not know how much he means to all of them? It doesn’t matter to what extent he wants to shake Grantaire and tell him how wonderful he is because he’s sniffling and pulling Jehan into a tight hug.
“Please take me home.” The words are mumbled, his face pressed into Jehan’s neck and ze nods, pulling him up by one arm, guiding Grantaire out of the door without another word. The room is silent, no one daring to break the stillness for a few minutes.
“Shit.” Bahorel breathes.
*
The dynamic of the group shifts after that day. While nobody treats Grantaire differently, everyone takes care to make sure he recognizes his value within the group. A gentle pat on the back, an extra bear hug from Bahorel. Enjolras still scolds him for being late, however, this time when Grantaire apologizes dryly, Enjolras accepts it, giving him a simple “Better late than never” before continuing with the meeting.
On the same night, Jehan takes the time to point out that when Grantaire tells Feuilly and Bossuet a joke, the majority of their friends at different tables laugh, including Combeferre.
The next meeting, Grantaire spends twenty minutes destroying Enjolras’ speech about the dangers of capitalism on small businesses, Eponine remembers to lean over and describe, in acute detail, the impressed look on Enjolras’ face as the man turns away.
Jehan writes curling poetry along his wrists and Feuilly patiently teaches him the art of paper airplanes which Grantaire throws in the direction of Joly but ends up hitting Bossuet straight in the head, who in turn tries to shoot it at Musichetta and spends the next five minutes loudly complaining about having worse aim than a blind guy.
Courfeyrac braids his shaggy, uncut hair and later Jehan sighs, loosening the hair from Courfeyrac’s bands.
“Her hair is black as the inmost secret of light in a perfectly cut diamond, a perilous black, a secret light.” Ze quotes, dreamily, and Grantaire has no idea what to make of that so he stays silent.
They have a movie night and somehow Courfeyrac convinces him to go. He ends up at Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta’s house, the only place with enough space for all of them to fit in, squashed between Combeferre and Jehan on the two seater couch while the Lion King plays on the screen. Combeferre leans against his arm, and tells him factoids about lions and Africa as the moment fits (like did you know a lion’s roar can be heard five miles away? And, there's a species of lion and tiger called a liger). Jehan sprawls across his lap and narrates the actions for him because no one could find a movie with an audio narrator.
At some point Jehan bores of the account and starts declaiming the actions in verse until the room descends into chaos, everyone chiming in with words that maybe sort of rhyme with “cliff” and “matata.”
The room boos when Grantaire stands to excuse himself from the party. He tells them to be a little more simba-thetic to his exhaustion and asks Jehan to direct him through the mass cuddle pile. Someone catches his wrist and tugs him back onto the sofa.
“No, seriously, I sho-”
“Enjolras looks especially disappointed you’re leaving.” Combeferre interrupts him, sounding smug.
“You don-”
“Everyone laughed at your joke, though. Except Marius. I don’t think he understood.” And wow, did no one tell Combeferre how impolite it is to interrupt? Probably not, Grantaire thinks, he probably tricked people into forgetting they were even talking with his magical sincerity. The man in question remains silent while Grantaire mulls over exactly how many times Combeferre has gotten away with something because of his charm.
“Tell me,” Grantaire says suddenly, grasping at something to say other than tell me why Enjolras would be disappointed tell me why you told me that. “Is Marius sitting over there mulling it over right now? I bet he is. I bet he asked Cosette.”
True to Grantaire’s prophesy, when Combeferre looks over Marius is leaned back on his beanbag, brows pinched together and lips moving lightly over the word. “He is, actually. How did you know?”
“Oh, I’m not actually blind.”
“Really?” Combeferre sounds amused, if not a little distracted. “And what motivates you to fake it?”
Grantaire feigns deep thought for a moment before nodding decisively. “When I have my cane, I can whack people and they assume it was an accident.”
Combeferre laughs and Grantaire moves to rise again and feels Jehan clasp his hand.
“See you around, Grantaire.”
*
The next week is Grantaire’s birthday. It’s the first one he’ll spend with all of the Amis, so they invade Enjolras and Combeferre’s small apartment to talk about celebrating. “We could all go out to eat.” Marius suggests, looking a little shocked when Joly and Feuilly boo him.
Jehan shakes zir head. “R’s not very comfortable in noisy, unfamiliar places.”
“So, let’s just have a house party!” Courfeyrac says.
“Surprise party!”
“You can’t bring a blind man to a surprise party, Bahorel.”
“Sure you can. Just tell him you’re taking him somewhere else.”
Combeferre levels Bahorel with an incredulous look.
“Just a thought, man!”
“We should just have a small party. Only us, and no surprises.” Eponine glares at Bahorel.
“With music and cake, and a lot of food.” Feuilly says.
“Like a ton of food.” Bossuet adds.
“And presents!” Joly shouts, excitedly.
“That sounds like the best idea.” Enjolras agrees. “If we make a list everyone can bring something.”
They spend the next hour going over who is making what and no, Courfeyrac, we are not getting a banner, he couldn’t even see it. The only thing left to do is get Grantaire to agree.
“What? No surprise party?” Is all he says, when Enjolras brings it up the next day at the Musain expecting Grantaire to put up a fight and fully prepared to refute any objections.
“Told you so!” Bahorel shouts triumphantly and pumps a fist in the air.
Enjolras rolls his eyes, exasperated. “We didn’t want to give you a heart attack. I mean, it is a celebration after all.”
*
The party goes off without a hitch and everyone is able to make it on time. By the time they sit Grantaire in front of his cake, he’s flushed and beaming. It brings out the blue in his eyes and the dimples on his cheeks and Enjolras thinks they could stand to see that smile a little more often.
The cake is chocolate, the icing is layered with jelly beans that spell out “Happy Birthday, R” in braille. Grantaire feels along the beans and snorts when he gets to the “R,” feels the indent in the icing where someone ate a jelly bean, changing the “R” into an exclamation point.
“Oops.” Bossuet says sheepishly. Grantaire laughs and lets Cosette cut the cake. Grantaire somehow ends up with cake on his cheek and when he fails to wipe it off the first time, Musichetta tuts and dabs a napkin at his cheek.
Presents are next, and Combeferre gives him a small package first, explaining the stubs of paper are tickets to a symphony. A pack of vanilla, tangerine and pine scented candles from Jehan, a few books he’s taken an interest in reading in braille from Enjolras and audiobooks from Feuilly. Cosette and Marius give him a fifty dollar gift card to the Musain because coffee. Courfeyrac gives him a few homemade mixed tapes and Eponine buys him three sweaters that feel like they were made by angels. Bossuet, Joly and Musichetta give him a watch that tells the time out loud, the one he’s mentioned to Jehan a few times, and Musichetta tells him it’s so you’ll never be late again and Bahorel buys him what feels like a whole ton of chocolate.
“Thank you guys.” He begins, sincerely. “Again. Seriously, I don’t des-”
“You’re our friend, man, we’d do anything for you.” Bahorel tells him, and Grantaire’s eyes get glassy for a second before he grins, mischievously.
“Anything?” He asks.
“Fuck yeah. Anything.”
Grantaire throws himself off the sofa with more grace than any one person should have and sings,
“Can we dance if we want to? Can we leave everything behind? Cause’ I wanna dance if you don’t dance, well, you’re no friends of mine.”
Bahorel barks out a laugh. “Someone turn up the stereo.” The man commands, and Grantaire hears the couch being pushed out of the way.
Someone brushes by him and he stretches an arm out, catching a slim wrist. He thinks it’s Musichetta, the smell of sweet perfume permeating the air when she steps closer, swaying to the music. She directs him into a fast-paced rhythm with short, jumpy movements, laughing merrily when he takes her wrist and spins her. Regardless of their height different, she retaliates by twirling him around and around until he stumbles back, grinning and giddy. From somewhere behind him, Courfeyrac snorts, but before he has the chance to turn around and ask him to dance Jehan (Grantaire would recognize zir anywhere) slides zir hands onto his shoulders and he grins, letting Jehan lead him into soft, sweeping movement that make him smile fondly against his will. The poet buggers off to find a drink and he continues dancing without inhibition for what could either be minutes or hours. It doesn’t matter. He bumps into someone’s back and they turn, gripping his arm to steady him. He takes their hand—slim, dry around the knuckles—noting the upbeat, calculated movements of his friend as he dances (because it’s definitely not Cosette or Musichetta). He dances until he’s flushed and breathless and happy.
“Scale of one to ten, how ridiculous do I look right now?” Grantaire pants, giggling.
“I don’t think you look ridiculous at all.” It’s Combeferre who replies, and Grantaire is mildly surprised the man joined in, but he thinks he likes this Combeferre. The one who laughs at his dumb jokes and dances with him.
“Scale of one to ten, how ridiculous do you look right now?”
Combeferre’s laugh is full and content, and he replies, “Eleven at the least.”
Grantaire grins. “Take me back to the sofa?” He requests, linking their arms together and letting Combeferre deposit him at the couch that’s been shoved against the far wall.
Plopping down, his knees lightly rub someone else’s and he slumps in the sofa for a minute, exhausted, before leaning his head against their shoulder and trying to catch his breath. They still for a moment before relaxing, shifting so their arm is settled across the back of the sofa and Grantaire is pressed against their side, hair tickling his cheek. He thinks it’s probably Courfeyrac or Feuilly with locks that long, but he doesn’t pay much heed because their hand is rubbing slow circles against his arm and it’s really, really comfortable. Heat radiates from his friend and it feels good so he tucks himself a little more into the space against their side. As comfortable as he is, about ten minutes later his breath is well and truly caught and he wants to dance again so he pushes himself up, however reluctantly.
“Come on, let’s dance.” He says, grabbing their hand and standing up, twisting around to stretch his back.
“I uh, really, really, can’t dance.” Enjolras says.
Grantaire blinks, surprised, and honestly, he’s should have expected Enjolras to be the one sitting quietly on the sidelines. Taking a deep breath, he tries to push down the sudden turning of his stomach.
“Come on, please? For the birthday boy?” Putting on his best pleading face, he grins, victorious, when Enjolras uses Grantaire’s hand to pull himself to his feet. Grantaire lets himself be lead until Enjolras stops them somewhere in the middle of the living room.
“I’m warning you now, this will be bad.” Enjolras admits, sounding a little breathless.
“Good thing I can’t see you then, huh?”
The stereo is playing some incredibly upbeat pop song, and Grantaire can’t help the amused snort that escapes him when he feels Enjolras awkwardly shifting. Grabbing Enjolras’ h and, he twirls him around they both stumble, laughing. Grantaire doesn’t care how silly it looked because it gets Enjolras to loosen up a little until they’re both out of breath and grinning after just a few songs. Grantaire tries to make Enjolras laugh by doing stupid moves and beaming when it actually works. Enjolras’ hands find Grantaire’s hips at some point and the simple touch burns his skin. He’s not sure if Enjolras meant to place his hands there or if he even realizes he has but it doesn’t matter, they’re both panting and moving together so he just loses himself to the music.
Someone switches the music to something a little more mellow when things start to wind down, and from what Grantaire can tell, most of their friends have retreated in exhaustion to the couch or the floor (Enjolras will tell him, later, that everyone had actually stopped dancing but he was loathe to say anything). Head against Enjolras’ chest and hands moving to grasp at his shoulders, he listens to the other man’s rapid heartbeat steady itself while they sway and almost whines when the hands on his hips move, but Enjolras only slides one against the small of his back, the other to his waist. Grantaire can feel the hot breath against his neck and he tightens his hands around Enjolras’ shoulders, memorizing the feel of the man’s body next to his, the hands hot against his skin.
“Jehan was right.” Enjolras whispers, close, so close Grantaire can hear the wonder in his voice.
“’Bout what?” He mumbles.
“About you. You’re beautiful.”
“Wha-”
“And incredible. Wonderful. Perfect—”
“I’m no-”
“Superb. Extraordinary—”
“Enjolras.”
“Brilliant. Resplendent. Magnificent—”
“Enjolras!”
“Yeah?” He asks, breathless.
“I’m going to kiss you now.”
Enjolras doesn’t reply, just crushes their mouths together, angling his head so that their lips fit together just so and Grantaire can marvel at the soft skin beneath his fingers when he releases his hold on Enjolras’ shoulder in favor of cupping the back of his neck. It starts out tentative but soon turns hurried and needy. When Grantaire makes a low noise in the back of his throat, Enjolras takes the opportunity to lick into Grantaire’s mouth. He becomes sharply aware of Enjolras’ hands still resting on his waist, heavy and stationary, but before he can decide what to with that, someone clears their throat insistently and they break apart, giddy and lightheaded. They rest their foreheads together and Grantaire feels the smile tugging at Enjolras’ lips.
“Happy birthday, R.”