2: At my worst, I worry you’ll realize you deserve better. At my best, I worry you won’t. (I’ve never been better.)
Modern AU motherfuckers. Behold, I have written fluff. And thank you so much, I’m so glad you’re liking ‘things we lost in the fire,’ <3
Grantaire tugged at the cuff of his blazer, trying to resist the urge to pick at his outfit with nervous fingers. Eponine and Bahorel had selected it for him, and although Bahorel wasn’t particularly menacing, Eponine had a key to Grantaire’s apartment, a Sharpie, a switchblade, and even odds on using either one—he wasn’t in a rush to disobey her. So, nice jeans, a graphic t-shirt, and a blazer it was. It didn’t mask the fact that he still looked semi-exhausted, but Cosette had informed him, in her sweetest and most anxiety-reducing tone, that as long as he wore a thin layer of stubble, he looked much more the lovelorn artist than the over-caffeinated grad student.
He was pretty sure she’d only said it to make him stop hyperventilating, but it was a nice sentiment.
“R!” Enjolras shouted from down the hall. “You’re going to be late!”
“Fashionably late is a thing that exists, Apollo,” Grantaire said, giving one more nervous tug to the blazer before he stepped away from the mirror. “How do I look?” he asked Enjolras, holding out his arms and trying to look Enjolras in the eye instead of letting his gaze wander to a safe corner of the ceiling. “Ridiculous?”
“Shut up, you look incredible,” Enjolras said. “And fashionably late may be a thing that exists, but not when you’re going to your own thing.”
“Sure it is,” Grantaire said, dragging his eyes away from the ceiling with difficulty and flicking a glance at Enjolras. “You really don’t have to come, it’s not a big deal.”
Enjolras shot him a Look and knocked one foot against the floor, not quite a stomp, but enough to make the sole of his shot thud loudly as he plucked pointedly at the lapel of his red coat. “It’s your first gallery opening. If you think I’m not going, you have another one coming.”
“It’s not really, Cosette’s father–”
“Don’t care!” Enjolras interrupted, sharp and bright and grinning. He stepped over and pressed a kiss to the corner of Grantaire’s mouth. “R, love, it’s going to be fine,” he murmured, taking Grantaire’s hand. “You didn’t get this because Valjean knows the gallery owner, you got this because your paintings are incredible, and you’re going to go let a bunch of people with a lot of money tell you so.”
“Yeah,” Grantaire breathed, and offered Enjolras a shaky smile. “I don’t deserve you.”
“I strongly disagree.”
“I know. I hope you never realize you’re wrong,” Grantaire said, and his smile was more earnest this time.
“Are you ready?”
“Never better, Apollo,” Grantaire said, breathless, and let Enjolras steer him out the door.