Chapter Text
“I never thought I’d say this,” calls Enjolras, shrugging off his jacket to hang on the stand, “but you may have overcommitted yourself.”
An indignant snort sounds from the kitchen, and Grantaire’s head appears at the end of the hallway. “And I never thought I’d see you with so little faith.” Enjolras ignores the dramatic chest-clutch as he passes the man in the doorway, and his roommate retreats to his usual seat atop the counter by the stove. “It wounds me that you doubt me so.”
Pausing mid-raid of the cookie jar, Enjolras turns his head to raise a pointed eyebrow at the man. “The holiday party? Here?” He nods towards their neatly-cluttered-and-decidedly-non-festive living room. “On all none of a budget?”
“I fancied a challenge.” Grantaire makes grabby hands, and Enjolras digs out one of the gingernut cookies that he knows are a favourite, tossing it over.
“You are a challenge.” Taking a bite of his own biscuit - a lemon shortbread that hadn’t been there that morning - Enjolras hums as he hops up to sit beside his flatmate.
They’ve been living together for close to six months now, and what had started as a sure-to-be-doomed shared lease of convenience has turned out better than anyone could have anticipated.
Enjolras sighs, staring out over the view of the city and recalling just how desperate he’d been to live here. Desperate enough to beg Grantaire of all people to split the rent.
He’s pulled from his reverie by a sudden thought, blinking away from the window as he turns to the man beside him. “We don’t even have a tree.”
“Don’t worry your pretty little head, Apollo,” is what he’s pretty sure he hears through a mouthful of gingernut. Grantaire swallows before continuing. “I’ve got plans.”
“What you’ve got is less than two weeks,” Enjolras points out, bumping his knee against the other man’s.
“Pish posh, time isn’t real.” The brunet’s grin turns teasing. “How is Ferre, anyway? Much change in the hour since I saw him? Did you two happen to coordinate highlighter colours again?”
“Rude.” Pushing himself off the bench, Enjolras stretches with a yawn. “You know I need my post-meeting debrief with the Ferre-Bear.”
“Oh my God,” whispers Grantaire, looking like Christmas has come two weeks early, “Is that- Does he know you call him that? Is it like a legit nickname?”
It’s rare that Enjolras can take the upper hand with such little effort and he elects to quit while he’s ahead. Throwing a goodnight over his shoulder, he makes for the question-free safety of his room, Grantaire’s laughter trailing him from the kitchen.