Chapter Text
Grantaire is quite certain that Enjolras wants to punch him. A normal person would probably worry, but this isn’t particularly unusual for Grantaire. Making football players want to punch him is half of what he does. The other half is making them cry. Two years ago, he’d gotten to interview the Spanish goalkeeper the media adoringly referred to as the “the next Iker Casillas”. Halfway through the interview, the kid had broken down, called his agent and begged to be given a job in Kazakhstan so he’d never have to talk to Grantaire again. The football world never heard from him again.
Now, that had been a fun day.
Which isn’t to say interviewing Enjolras isn’t fun. It is. Just not in the same way. For starters, he looks every inch the French David Beckham, as the press has taken to calling him. Grantaire wants to congratulate him on winning the genetic lottery. He’s got the whole package: hair and eyes and shoulders and an ass clad in pants that are too tight for a footballer as fit as Enjolras to wear with any decency. Not that Grantaire’s noticed. Much.
Grantaire wonders if he’s this annoying in bed. Probably. Also, he resents Enjolras looking at him as if he’s a complete douchebag when he’s actually on his best behavior. Not that he much cares about Enjolras’ delicate sensibilities, but Enjolras is France’s golden boy and Grantaire behaving in his usual way will most likely result in an overwhelming influx of hate letters to the newspaper. Again, not that he much cares, but every time he gets hate mail Cosette is the one who has to go through it and she already threatens to castrate him twice a week. Grantaire would fill out a very angry intern evaluation form, but he’s quite certain Cosette would just replace it with one saying she’s an angel sent from heaven who deserves free chocolate and foot massages as well as a raise, so the whole thing would probably be a waste of time.
The interview had even started off well enough, with hellos and shaken hands, and polite, politically correct, PR-approved answers. They’d talked about the start of Enjolras’ career, how he managed to be in top shape for the World Cup despite a very tiring season, how the team was adapting to the weather and how they were all getting along with each other. Sure, Grantaire had thrown in a drama-baiting question over the accusations that with FIFA having a French president, the national team would be given an unfair advantage but Enjolras had smiled politely and said that he was sure that Monsieur Thénardier would have no problem being a fair and unbiased president. Grantaire even managed not to roll his eyes at that.
But then Grantaire had asked what were Enjolras’ expectations for the World Cup and… well. When Enjolras firmly said he wanted to lift the cup Grantaire had practically fallen out of his chair laughing. It probably wasn’t a very professional thing to do, but really, there is no way France is going to win. Which he is currently trying to explain to Enjolras, who is pacing the room, probably to put some space between himself and Grantaire. “Look, it’s not that I think you all suck - wait, no, it’s exactly that I think you all suck.”
“France has a long history of -”
“- of sucking. France has a long history of sucking.” Grantaire completes for him, offering a lazy smirk.
Grantaire reckons Enjolras is ready to strangle him. He might as well have insulted his mother. “I know you’re the one who’s supposed to be asking the questions, but I have to ask – are you always this much of an asshole?”
He looks outraged. Grantaire finds it hilarious. “Yes. It’s a gift.”
“How can you even say that about France’s history? Just barely more than a decade ago - “
“Just barely more than a decade ago, France somehow made it to the World Cup final.” He rolls his eyes. “Do you want to take a look at what’s happened since? In Euro 2008, France managed to not make it out of the group stage, by having a grand total of one point. Apparently, this was such an impressive achievement, that they felt the need to repeat it in 2010. In Euro 2012, they finally managed to make it out of the group stage but then promptly got spanked in the quarter-final by - ”
This annoys Enjolras even more, “- by the team that would go on to win it.”
“What, like that’s supposed to make the French feel better? But let us go on, shall we? In 2014, you didn’t even bother qualifying - “
“We were only second in the group, we played Portugal in the playoffs - “
“Who then won the Cup, sure. Which wouldn’t be so bad, if this didn’t actually bring us to two years ago, when half the team somehow found a new and spectacular way to crash and burn out of a tournament. Which was by getting into a fist fight. With the other half of the team. During a match.”
Enjolras is practically shouting, “That was different! That was two years ago!”
“What’s supposed to make it so different this time?”
“I’m here now,” is the only reply Grantaire gets. It is, technically speaking, true. He was just a kid in 2014, barely twenty years-old, and played less than twenty minutes the entire tournament. In 2016 he was already one of France’s brightest stars, but a nasty ankle injury in the last league match had put him out of the tournament.
“Well,” Grantaire says slowly, running a hand through his messy curls, “sorry if I don’t think your mere presence is earth-shattering enough to - “
“That’s not what I mean and you know it. All the team needs is a leader. They need someone who can keep them together, someone who can lead by example, someone who can lead the way and inspire them to better themselves every single match for the people of France. I can be that person.”
Grantaire can only snort. “That still doesn’t change anything. But let’s say for a minute that it does. Let us even say that everyone has gotten their anger management classes in this time. It still doesn’t change the fact that for a team that uses such defensive tactics you really can’t defend, that your striker has never met a goal post he didn’t like - “
“Marius has just been extremely unlucky lately. His form is bound to go up, the rest of the team has absolute faith on him.”
Grantaire ignores the interruption, “- it also doesn’t change the fact that your goalkeeper spends more time trying to check the state of his hair in the giant screens than paying attention to the game and it sure as hell doesn’t change the fact that the entire team hates the coach.”
Enjolras looks away and it’s clear that Grantaire’s hit a nerve. “We do not hate Javert - “
“Yes, you do.” Ah, the sweet taste of victory. Grantaire leans back on his chair, “You are very attractive when you’re counting all the ways you can kill someone with a water bottle, has anyone ever told you that?” Which, wow, was really not what Grantaire had intended to say. Really. He fights the urge to knock his head against the table, reminding himself that he is a Very Serious Journalist. He is. He promises he is. He once made a Ballon D’Or winner cry while his mother tried to exorcise him. Again, another fun day. Not the point now, though. He sighs sadly for Enjolras’ benefit and adds, “Do you ever get very depressed because all the hot ones are always so dumb?”
Enjolras ignores both the compliment and the insult. He looks Grantaire straight in the eye. “You’re still wrong.
Grantaire can only snort. “You know, you’re just annoying enough to be an iPhone app. It could be called Delusional Asshole. The English would love you and want to adopt you. They’d feed you all their weird food and let you watch as much Doctor Who as you wanted. You’d never have to work another day again. Hell, you could probably bat your eyelashes at the Queen and she’d adopt you herself. “
Enjolras storms closer to Grantaire. “You’re wrong,” he repeats.
Grantaire scoffs. “So you’ve said. You keep telling yourself that, sweetheart. Please excuse me for not rushing to buy a “France - World Cup 2018 Winners” scarf.”
“We are going to win the competition. I am going to lead the team, they will rise to the challenge and we are going to win every single game until we reach the final, and then we are going to win that too. And you’re going to regret everything you’ve ever written about us and said to me today.”
“Enjolras,” he says patiently, “you really have no chance at all. It’d be better if all of you just packed up your bags and went home. France does not need more humiliation.”
”Oh my god, do you even listen to yourself? Who died and made you Mourinho?” Enjolras snaps at him.
“Going by the way you talk, I’d expect it’s probably the same person who died and made you Maradona.”
By the way Enjolras’ eyes narrow at this, Grantaire guesses this is the angriest he’s ever been at anyone. He is very close to Grantaire now.
The thing about Enjolras is that he has been viciously, furiously, savagely, brutally tackled during football matches. He has always turned the other cheek and walked away. He knows the price for not keeping a tight leash on his temper. He has a captain’s armband to honor. He has a reputation to maintain. He has an example to set. He has teammates to inspire. He has the expectations of an entire country resting on his muscled shoulders.
All of which amount to nothing, really, when his fist connects with Grantaire’s face.