#er a

Since the day Enjolras had shown up on Grantaire’s doorstep, desperate and clutching a noisy, wriggling lump to his chest inside of an oddly purple sweatshirt, Grantaire can honestly say his life has only improved. Because of the cat, of course.

At any rate, it’s not as though he comes over that often, just when he’s having a bad day. Or a good day. Or a day that he’s been around too many people, or a day that he’s been around no one, or a day that he wants an excuse to stare at his uber-hot neighbor.

Grantaire’s life goes to hell at 5pm on a Saturday evening.

If Grantaire ever had the grace to stay still for one moment Enjolras would pin him down and keep him there, just to prove that he can. He doesn’t know what to do with that particular urge.

“Are you shitting me,” Grantaire says, and rattles the door one more time. He pounds on it, and yells, “Fuck.”

Enjolras feels strangely calm. He sees it all as if from a distance. It really seems impossible that they’re locked in.

Grantaire turns around, blue eyes wide with sheer panic.

“I think we’re locked in.”