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“I will strangle every single one of you with my bare hands,” Enjolras calmly informs the locked door in front of him.
“That’s not very pacifistic of you,” Courf calls from the other side, making a tsking sound. “Besides, think how much work you’d have to do if you killed all your employees. That’s just poor management.”
“Is pacifistic a word?” Enjolras hears Jehan ask thoughtfully, from further down the stairs.
“It is, it definitely is,” Joly’s voice chimes in, and Courfeyrac informs him kindly that premed students should stick to poking frogs with sticks and not pretend to know things about words.
Joly asks him in a put-upon sort of way if he has any conception of what it is Joly actually does in his classes, and Courf shushes him.
Enjolras rattles the doorknob again, trying very hard not to lose his shit entirely. He doesn’t even know how they’ve managed to do this, because the press only locks from the inside and none of them has a key. “Courfeyrac, I swear to God—”
“Oh, good, Eponine, did you tell Bahorel to bring another chair?” Courf says as new footsteps are audible in the stairwell. “What? No, Enjolras is fine, he’s just being testy.”
Everyone falls silent for a moment, and there’s a sound of scraping and heavy things being moved on the other side.
“Did you barricade this door shut?” Enjolras asks in a tone of slow, furious disbelief as he jerks on the doorknob again. It doesn’t budge.
The only other person in the office is Grantaire—of course it is, because that’s how they’d planned it, the bastards—who is lounging at his desk with his feet up, flipping through a magazine and aggressively ignoring Enjolras.
He doesn’t say a single word, and he’s acting like he hasn’t even realized that their friends have locked them inside the office, which is so ridiculous (it’s not like there’s any way he couldn’t have noticed) that under normal circumstances Enjolras might laugh.
“Really, it’s hurtful that you didn’t congratulate us on our ingenuity until now,” Courf says through the door, adopting a wounded air. “Do you know how much planning this took?”
“And tape,” Bossuet adds.
“And tape,” Courf agrees.
Enjolras slams a fist against the wood, and he sees Grantaire flinch from the corner of his eye. “Do you think this is funny?”
“Is that a serious question?” Bahorel asks distantly. “Because I’m laughing so hard I hurt my ribs.”
“You might want to get that checked on,” Joly volunteers, sounding suddenly worried.
Then Eponine’s voice comes from the other side, cutting off Joly before he can embark into a discussion of the many dangers of broken ribs and punctured lungs.
“Sorry, chief,” the copy-editor says, not sounding very sorry at all. Her voice is clear; she must be right at the top of the stairs. “You’re stuck in there until you two work this out, because we the people are really tired of this bullshit. Make up, kill each other, we don’t really care, as long as when we come into work tomorrow he’s not sulking around the office and you’re not snapping at everything that breathes.”
“I am an adult, Eponine,” Enjolras tells her stiffly. “I can take care of my own problems, thank you.”
“You have had three days to take care of your own problems,” she retorts, “and instead, you are being the king of all assholes.”
“So, we took matters into our own hands,” comes a different female voice, bright and unapologetic, and Enjolras closes his eyes. “Don’t tell me they dragged you into this as well, Cosette.”
“Oh, please,” Eponine replies, and he can actually hear her smirking. “This whole thing was her idea.”
“You will pay for this, Fauchelevent,” Enjolras promises.
“What’re you going to do, frown sternly at me?” Cosette asks blithely. “I’m quaking in my boots, honest.”
“We’re going to the Musain,” Combeferre’s peaceable voice cuts in. “Text us when you’ve resolved things.”
Enjolras is too preoccupied with the depths of this betrayal, and with trying to think of something better to threaten Courfeyrac with than ‘I will kick you repeatedly until you cry,’ to answer.
He slams his hand flat against the door again, but he can hear footsteps receding down the stairs.
And then they’re gone, and Enjolras is locked in the office with the man he yelled at and forcibly threw out of it four days ago.
***
“He’s going to be so mad at us,” says Marius anxiously once they’ve commandeered an obnoxiously-large cluster of squishy armchairs at the Musain and other customers are giving them evil looks because there’s nowhere for anyone else to sit.
(This is pretty much what happens wherever they go, honestly—they’re infamous at the Pho restaurant around the corner and they have a collective lifelong ban from the Gaumont Opera movie theater. Most of the neighborhood locals know by now to leave an establishment whenever the A.B.C. employees come into it, because really, it’s just easier.)
“So mad,” Marius says again, even more emphatically, in case they hadn’t gotten it yet. Eponine flicks a straw wrapper at him.
Marius was against this plan from the beginning but it’s really hard to argue with Eponine, just like it’s really hard to argue with Courfeyrac, just like it’s really really hard to argue with Cosette. The idea of going against all three of them at once had been far more than Marius’ nerves could handle.
Cosette, who’s sitting on the arm of his chair blowing steam from her cappuccino, rolls her eyes at him. “Because he’s such a ball of sunshine most other days.”
“Do we want to take bets on whether one of them kills the other?” Courf asks brightly as he returns with two coffees and wedges himself into the armchair Jehan’s already occupying. “Because R is the obvious choice, but I bet Enjolras would be a hair-puller.”
“What if this doesn’t help?” Jehan speaks up as he makes a small huffing sound of exasperation at being sat upon and wriggles so that he can sit on Courf’s lap instead, leaning against his boyfriend and accepting one of the coffees (the one with so much milk it’s nearly beige and so much sugar a spoon would stand up in it).
His brown eyes are earnest as a crease forms between his eyebrows. “What if we just made it worse?”
“Did you hear Enjolras on Monday?” Bahorel asks, snorting and shaking his head as he rips off a piece of his blueberry muffin to stuff into his mouth. “How could it possibly get worse than that?”
Eponine groans at the memory and slouches in her chair.
“Was it really that bad?” Cosette asks with a slight frown, idly playing with one of the curls at the back of Marius’ neck even though (or perhaps because) it’s making him turn a rather fetching shade of pink. She’s on her lunch break from the Musée du Cluny a few Metro stops away.
“Really that bad doesn’t even begin to cover it,” Joly tells her glumly. He’s drinking tea with honey because his throat is scratchy, and Bossuet pats him comfortingly on the knee.
It’s easy to forget, when you’re around Bossuet and Joly and Jehan and Courfeyrac all day every day, that not all people function that way. That not everyone is that easy with one another.
Enjolras isn’t a bad person at heart, really he’s not. They wouldn’t love him if he was. But he is uncompromising, and stubborn as hell, and sometimes he needs a little push.
And, other times, he needs to be barricaded into his own press office.
“What if Grantaire doesn’t forgive him?” Marius asks, accepting a broken-off piece of pumpkin bread from Cosette.
“I wouldn’t blame him, frankly,” Combeferre speaks up. He’s drinking green tea, sitting in lotus position in his chair. His voice is quiet, as ever, but there’s an edge to it. A hint that maybe Combeferre is madder at Enjolras than any of them, even if he shows it the least.
Feuilly sighs and cups his hands around his coffee and says what they’re all thinking. “R will forgive him anything. We all know that.”
And Eponine pulls the plastic lid off of her mocha and mutters, “Enjolras better not fuck this up.”
***
Enjolras doesn’t say anything for a solid minute and a half after the others leave, just stands in front of the door willing it to open of its own accord until he hears a dark chuckle from behind him.
“Oh good, pretending I’m not here, this is my favorite game,” Grantaire says, turning the page in his magazine. “Ranks right after ‘Angry Glaring’ and ‘What Is This Drunkard Doing In My Press?’”
It’s the first thing he’s said to Enjolras in three days. They haven’t exchanged a single word, not since Grantaire called him inhuman and Enjolras told him to leave.
Enjolras turns to him now, but the other man avoids his gaze. He slaps the magazine down on the desk and swings his feet to the floor, pushing out of his chair and moving to unlatch the window. “Righto. Five to one they forgot to guard the fire escape.”
Enjolras blinks at him. “Grantaire—”
“Look, I don’t feel like having the awkward talk, okay?” Grantaire cuts him, still not looking back. He shoves the sash of the window up and the cool breeze outside lifts a few brown curls away from his forehead. “Don’t worry about it. You can text Combeferre in twenty minutes and tell him we’re just peachy.”
The blonde man doesn’t really know what to do with the realization that Grantaire, who usually objects loudly to moving in general, is ready to climb down a rickety fire escape in order to avoid talking to Enjolras.
After a second, Enjolras follows Grantaire out the window and onto the platform of the fire escape, where the other man is already kneeling at the edge pulling at the rusty ladder.
“How does Eponine do this all the time?” he mutters, pushing his hair out of his eyes.
“Does she?” Enjolras asks, his brow furrowing. He regrets speaking as soon as the words are out, but Grantaire only tugs again on the uncooperative metal struts and answers shortly without looking up, “Not here. At her place.”
Enjolras pauses, and then tries again, “Grantaire…”
“Don’t,” Grantaire says, bites the word out, and he jerks hard on the ladder. This time it gives way and slams down, coming to a stop with enough force to make the whole structure shudder. It still doesn’t reach all the way to the ground of the alleyway below.
He leans out to peer over the edge of the fire escape, calculating the distance, and Enjolras stands against the opposite railing with his arms folded and watches him. The movement of his shoulder blades beneath the soft cotton of his t-shirt, the line of his throat in profile, the curl of his fingers on the edge of the platform.
“You don’t seem to want me to apologize,” Enjolras observes.
Grantaire makes a sound of derision low in his throat. “What I don’t want is for you to apologize because you were told to. This isn’t fucking kindergarten.”
“I am sorry,” the editor says quietly. “I tried to tell you sooner.”
“I’ve been five feet away from you for three days,” is the flat response. “How hard did you try?”
Enjolras rubs the back of his neck with one hand, tugging at his blonde hair agitatedly, trying to think of the right words to explain that he didn’t mean it, and even if he’d meant it he shouldn’t have said it, and my God he’s sorry.
He’s never found explaining himself difficult before.
He isn’t an idiot—he knows he made a mistake. He’d known as soon as he’d done it, as soon as the hateful words were out of his mouth.
Guilt is an unfamiliar feeling to him, and he finds he doesn’t like it very much at all.
Grantaire his head and looks away again, straightening up and wiping his hands off on his paint-stained jeans (they’re the ones he wore when he and Eponine repainted his studio apartment without permission from the manager, and had to spend two days painting it back again).
Enjolras is still attempting to form a coherent apology when he’s interrupted by Grantaire.
“Do you even like me?” he asks, seemingly out of nowhere. He’s turned back to face Enjolras at last.
“Do I—?” Enjolras is nonplussed, and then appalled at the implication. “Of course I like you.”
Grantaire exhales through his teeth, and Enjolras notices for the hundredth time in three days how tired he looks. There’s five o’clock shadow on his chin and dark shadows like bruises under his eyes. Enjolras wants to kiss them away.
“I can’t do this every week, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, and his eyes meet the blonde man’s for the first time all day.
“I know.” Enjolras’ voice is quiet. “I can’t either.”
There’s another pause, and then, “Are you sorry about what you said?”
Enjolras meets his gaze. “Yes,” he says. “I am.”
“You are what?” Grantaire asks mockingly, but there’s a glint of mischief in his eyes now, a quirk at the corners of his mouth.
“I’m sorry,” Enjolras says, giving him a look (but not a very hard one). “I’m sorry for what I said to you.”
“Did you mean it?” Grantaire’s tone suggests this is a throwaway question of no importance, but his shoulders are set as if in anticipation of a physical blow.
“No,” Enjolras says, and his voice softens. “Admittedly you bringing it up in the middle of the office wasn’t my favorite thing in the world, but I’m not ashamed of being with you.”
Grantaire inclines his head in acknowledgment, picking at the peeling white paint of the metal railing. He doesn’t say anything, but it’s clear some of the tension has eased out of his lanky frame.
Then, “Why should I forgive you?” Grantaire asks, bracing his hands on the rail behind him and leaning back, looking at Enjolras levelly.
He doesn’t make it sound like an accusation. It’s like he really wants an answer.
And this question, this one’s harder. Enjolras doesn’t drop his gaze. “Maybe you shouldn’t.”
“Nope,” Grantaire says, shaking his head. “You don’t get to be the martyr today, Apollo. You tell me right now why you should get to put your hands down my pants ever again, or you might not get the chance.”
“Might?” Enjolras asks, with the beginnings of amusement, and Grantaire shrugs. “I don’t have that much integrity.”
Enjolras thinks about his answer for a moment. He looks over at Grantaire, eyes mapping the familiar details of his mouth and throat and hands. The dark-haired man is infuriating, really. He drives Enjolras half-insane on a daily basis but still, Enjolras wants him more than he can remember ever wanting anything.
“I can’t…” Enjolras uncrosses his arms, runs nervous fingers through his blonde hair. He’s visibly struggling to find the right words, and in the end comes out with, “I haven’t been able to sleep, without you there.”
And it’s such a simple thing to say, and Enjolras thinks it sounds so inadequate but Grantaire is looking at him like it’s monumental.
Grantaire clears his throat. “You managed to sleep for twenty-three years without me there,” he says, in a very-nearly convincing display of nonchalance. “Anything else?”
“I don’t ever want you to look at me the way you did on Monday again.”
“Not bad,” Grantaire says, cocking his head to one side as he regards Enjolras. His eyes are brighter and warmer than they have been in days. “So you still want to be with me?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re sorry.”
Enjolras huffs an impatient sigh. “I said I was.”
“Do you love me?”
“Yes,” Enjolras says before he even realizes the word is out.
A deafening silence follows. It’s clear from Grantaire’s stunned expression that he’d just been messing with him, that he wasn’t expecting the ready answer, not at all.
Then, “You tricked me,” Enjolras says. “You love me?” Grantaire asks at the same time.
“No,” Enjolras says at once, but now Grantaire is grinning at him (the wonderful, no-holds-barred smile devoid of mocking or bitterness that Enjolras hardly ever gets to see him use), and Enjolras clears his throat and asks, “Did you get the ladder sorted?”
“You love me,” Grantaire says again, with the smuggest smile Enjolras has ever seen on anyone, and Enjolras groans and covers his eyes with one hand because Grantaire is going to be absolutely insufferable now.
“Can we please get off this fire escape?” Enjolras asks. “Please?”
“If you insist, darling,” Grantaire says in what is very nearly a sing-song, and slides down so he can test the top rung with one foot.
“You might say it back, you know,” Enjolras says after a moment, and Grantaire gives him a sardonic look.
“I’ve said it every day since I’ve known you, but nice try.”
Enjolras mutters something which sounds a lot like “the principle of the thing.”
Grantaire stops on the second rung, reaches up to grab Enjolras’ shirt collar so that the blonde man has to look down at him from where he’s kneeling at the top of the ladder.
“I am letting you off easy,” Grantaire warns him, “because that was a fair apology and guilt looks good on you. And because I love you,” he adds, with deliberate emphasis that makes the corners of Enjolras’ mouth twitch up.
“But seriously?” His dark eyes run over Enjolras’ face and he shakes his head ever so slightly. “If nothing changes, even I won’t stick around forever.”
“Duly noted,” Enjolras says with a faint smile, and takes advantage of their position to slide his fingers through Grantaire’s impossible hair and kiss him thoroughly, the blonde man knelt on the fire escape platform and the other standing on the ladder.
Grantaire goes up on his toes to cup the back of Enjolras’ neck with one hand and curl his fingers into Enjolras’ shirt-front with the other, holding onto him like there’s no ladder and no fire escape, like Enjolras is the only thing keeping him aloft at all.
***
“It’s been half an hour,” Eponine says, checking her cell phone. “Do we think they’re dead?”
“I think we are,” Feuilly squeaks, going pale.
“Oh, shit,” Courfeyrac says a second later, his eyes fixed on the café entrance just like Feuilly’s, and Eponine looks up from a confusing text from Grantaire (reading only RUN. NOW.) to see a livid-looking Enjolras walking through the swinging door like an avenging angel in a red button-down.
His narrowed eyes scan the place only briefly before zeroing in on where they’re sat in the corner.
Marius promptly spills half his coffee on himself and Bossuet shrieks, “He’s escaped!”
“Every man for himself!” Courf yells so loudly that everyone in the café turns to stare, and Enjolras starts forward, and all of them grab their possessions and scatter with an expertise that only comes from good self-preservational instincts and a lot of practice.