Chapter Three: Say Something Pleasing

It's late when they leave the coffee shop and Enjolras is worried about the work he needs to do. He lets Grantaire walk him to his room, but kisses him at the door and sends him on his way. He watches, just a few seconds that he knows he really cannot spare but does anyway, the dark haired boy walk to the stairs, and he's thankful for Grantaire.

He turns and goes into his room. Combeferre is still awake at his desk, taking notes and staring at a large biology book. He doesn't speak, and Enjolras doesn't interrupt his studies. He goes to his own desk, symmetrically located at the end of his own bed, and turns on his laptop before kicking off his shoes and taking a seat

His books are there, open already, and he's been formulating his response for three days. He knows his stance, his points, and his quotes; he also knows how the professor will react to the extreme view he's taking (a view which he believes in without reservation) and he's looking forward to some discussion. Dr. Sorrel might now allow him to debate at length during class (an annoyance, he thinks) but she's not above calling him into her office. Last time he was there for almost two hours and came away with some new books.

Enjolras begins and falls into focus. He forgets Grantaire and everything else as he searches for the right word, the right phrase, the right, erudite allusion that might impress the professor and get his point across. Because though he does want to impress her, a bit, he's more focused on expressing himself.

It's hours later when he looks up, thinking to have Combeferre read over what he's done. The overhead light is off, and the other boy is in bed. Enjolras has no idea when this happened and is not sure if his friend even tried to tell him goodnight. He shrugs, turns on his desk lamp, and goes back to work.

"That's not good for you," Combeferre tells him for the billionth time as he takes a seat across the table and eyes the coffee Enjolras is adding a multitude of sugar packets to. "Tell me you already ate something?"

Enjolras shakes his head, stirs his coffee, and then goes back to the newspaper he's holding. He has a political science class in thirty minutes, and he likes to be up to date.

"When did you go to bed?" Combeferre continues as he steals one of the two unused sugars and adds it to his oatmeal.

"Late. Midnight, I guess?"

"I went to bed at one, and you were still up."

"Oh," Enjolras replies. He hadn't checked the time. "Are you going this weekend?"

"Yes, if nothing else to make sure you don't starve while defending the rights of man."

"Great," Enjolras deftly ignores the comment about himself, "Is Courf in?"

"Yes, and, before you ask, he said he can't drive."

"Who else has a car?"

"Marius has the Rio and Grantaire has the van."

"Think we'd fit in the Rio?" Enjolras questions, imagining six or seven of them crammed in the tiny car.

"Doubtful. Eponine wants to come too. Just ask him, he'll come," Combeferre assures.

Enjolras asks, and Grantaire finds the whole situation way too funny.

"So you want me to pack you and your hippy, fresher friends into my crap wagon and drive three and a half hours so you can yell at some people?" he asks.

"There will also be signs," Enjolras defends, refusing to give in and smile like the other. "I'll pay for the gas."

"It's the weekend though."

"And food. I'll buy all your food."

"Even snacks?"

Enjolras isn't happy about this, and he feels a little like he's being exploited. Actually, he feels a lot like he's being exploited; he thinks that if he'd just said pretty please Grantaire would have caved, gas and snacks notwithstanding. Enjolras does not say pretty please. The please was hard enough.

"Yes, even snacks. No Funyuns, though, they're gross."

"What do you have against Funyuns? Okay, I'll drive on one more condition," Grantaire continues to bargain. "I want one random pit stop of my choosing, and you will not harass me about wasted time for the duration thereof."

"But there's a time schedule—"

"On the way back."

Enjolras thinks it through, debates all the ways in which a random pit stop could go horribly, horribly wrong. Courfeyrac could fall in love with a truck stop waitress. Joly could come into contact with a rare form of bathroom-living bacteria. Grantaire could make them stare at the world's largest ball of twine.

"Come on, you've got no ride without me," he points out. Still, Enjolras hesitates, thinking. "Look, it's either this or you have to run back to daddy and tell him you've reconsidered and you really do want that pretty Prius for your birthday."

"Taire," he warns, not liking this at all and really on the verge of walking away. Maybe they could take the bus; he's pretty sure his allowance would cover the tickets.

"Okay, okay," the other relents.

"One stop, one hour," Enjolras offers.

"And gas and snacks. Real snacks, not Trader Joe's granola bullshit."

"Yes."

"Congratulations, sir, you've just acquired the services of the world's worst chauffeur and the world's most questionable vehicle."

He seals the deal with a kiss, but Enjolras is stiff and not quite ready to forgive him.

"Shotgun!" Courfeyrac calls, and Grantaire wants to hit him.

"No," Combeferre steps in, "Enjolras rides up front. Do you want another Richmond Incident?"

Courfeyrac hastily concedes that he does not, and Grantaire raises a questioning eyebrow in Enjolras's direction.

"We're not talking about that," he says with a hint of pink in the cheeks.

Grantaire sighs and picks up several of the glittery posters to cram in the back of his van. It's huge and old and painted (by him) to resemble the mystery machine; it may have been a dare and he may have been a little too drunk to remember it very clearly, but his paint job is fantastic and, besides, he's much too lazy to fix it. He catches Courfeyrac at the back doors, out of sight of his boyfriend, and asks about the incident because anything that can make Enjolras blush is worth asking about. He expects a story about arguing, about radio control, about competitive navigation. He does not expect Courfeyrac to shake his head and tell a terrible story about Enjolras throwing up in a plastic bag. Gross.

"I did not need to hear that," he decides.

"You asked," Courfeyrac returns. "Now, though, he always gets shotgun. I think it was a ploy."

"Really?"

"No. It was kind of sad. He took a Dramamine afterwards and slept all the way home lying in 'Ferre's lap."

Okay, that was cute.

"And no," Courfeyrac sees fit to add as he closes the left door, "it is not a good idea to drug your boyfriend."

"I didn't—"

"Bad, R. Bad. I'm really very disappointed in you."

"Shut up and get in the van."

~tbc~