grantairelibere:

Okay just because I’m really weak for this trope: Grantaire and Enjolras who, as children, lived and grew up in two different apartment complexes with balconies that face each other–those ones that are so close together you could hypothetically jump from one to the other if you tried hard enough. 

The first time they saw each other, a 7-year-old Enjolras was just out to water the plants, and spotted 6-year-old Grantaire lying flat on his back on the balcony opposite, staring blankly at the sky. Enjolras thought he was unconscious. He swung the watering can with all that little 7-year-old strength, and splashed water all over him just like he’d seen in the movies. Grantaire, who was actually awake, was ready to be angry but took one look at Enjolras and instead blurted: “Do you want to be friends?” 

Enjolras laughed at him for it. It was the beginning of–well, something.

They talked a lot across the balconies. Enjolras went to some private school across the city. Grantaire went to primary down the road. They’d come home from school and waste time until dinner talking about anything–their friends, their parents, their favourite games. Twice Enjolras brought Courfeyrac and Combeferre up to the balcony to meet Grantaire. Both times, they’d all stayed out so late they almost missed dinner.

When Grantarie was 8, he told Enjolras he’d never been outside Paris. When Enjolras was 9, he told Grantaire how much he loved history. When Grantaire was 10, after endless pestering, he showed Enjolras some stuff he’d drawn. When Enjolras was 11, he confessed to Grantaire he felt like a boy. When Enjolras was 11 and 1 day, Grantaire balled up and threw him three old shirts he’d outgrown. As it turned out, Enjolras looked quite nice in red shirts. 

When Grantaire was 12, he discovered to his horror that he really liked Enjolras.

Enjolras, who, by the age of 13 discovered he really liked Grantaire, started trying to use homework as an excuse to spend more time with him out on the balcony, before it became clear that Grantaire already knew everything. No matter what Enjolras asked, Grantaire had the answer. Not that he’d be serious about it, of course. Grantaire didn’t seem to care what he knew. He just liked knowing. Enjolras stopped using the homework as an excuse.

Grantaire loved to hear Enjolras talk. It’s the reason he never answered Enjolras’ questions seriously. It meant Enjolras would stay out later, that he would talk more. Enjolras sounded so passionate when he spoke, especially when he found something he was interested in. French laws, for example, something so boring to most of the rest of the world. He could go on about them for hours without Grantaire saying a word. Grantaire was content to listen to him do it.

When Enjolras found out that his parents intended to send him to an all-girls private high school, Enjolras came out to them then and there. He was not a girl, he refused to be separated from his friends at school, and he no longer wanted to study in some elite institution. His parents didn’t take it well. They sent him to live with a relative elsewhere in France. Enjolras had no warning the morning his aunt picked him up, and when he ran to the balcony and called out for Grantaire, he didn’t answer. 

Enjolras didn’t have the chance to come back to Paris until a few months later. He went immediately to Grantaire’s building and asked which unit the family lived in. He was told by a neighbour they had moved out. 

The two of them had no way to contact each other. With such a short-distance relationship, they never thought they’d need it. 

It occured to Enjolras, out of nowhere, that he and Grantaire had been literally three meters apart for years, but had never even touched. 

——

Enjolras moved into the new flat with Combeferre when he was 23. They’d just graduated uni, Ferre with accolades and Enjolras with suspension warnings from half of his profs. They were still resolved to lead the ABC, a job made a bit more complicated between looking for meaningful work and finally drafting a proper mission statement. 

They were exhausted after their day of unpacking, and Enjolras had finally taken a moment to rest on the balcony with some well-deserved coffee. Combeferre had just gone back inside for his own second cup. Enjolras observed the new view–a couple levels above the street, across from an identical building to their own. Not nearly reaching distance to the balcony across, he mused. 

He heard the door on the balcony beside him slide open, and his new neighbour take his seat on an overturned bin. Enjolras watched the man out of the corner of his eye–he wore pyjamas, had dark messy hair, and clutched a mug in both hands. The neighbour noticed him staring. Enjolras quickly looked away. 

“Hi,” the neighbour said. “You’re the new one, huh?”

“Yeah, just moved in.” He turned to look at the man. “I’m–R??”

Because that’s who it was, sitting on a bin on the balcony right beside his, sipping whatever was in the mug with raised eyebrows. 

Grantaire looked at him with vague amusement. “That’s a coincidence, I’m R too,” he said.

Oh–of course he wouldn’t recognize him. Stubble and a deeper voice tends to do that to a person. Enjolras felt a bubble rise in his chest.

“Do you mind if we do this in the hallway? It’s easier than yelling outside,” he said. A lie, of course. He did plenty of yelling outside.

“Sure.” Grantaire shrugged. “Meet you in a minute.”

Grantaire stood up and slid inside, and Enjolras all but bolted to the front door, past a startled Combeferre, and into the hallway. Grantaire emerged a moment later. 

He extended a hand. “Grantaire,” he said, and Enjolras felt almost giddy. 

Enjolras took his hand. “Nice to see you again,” he said. “I’m Enjolras.”