Chapter Text
Enjolras is too perfect. With his blond curly hair, his huge blue eyes, his massive brains, his shit-load of money (fine, his parent's money, and they don't talk, but it still counts) and his perfect GPA. He's too perfect, which must obviously mean there's something wrong with him. And that's why Feuilly doesn't trust him.
Now, don't get him wrong. He likes the fact that he can hold a decent conversation, which is a nice change of pace from the nonsensical ones he's used to having with his friends (especially with Grantaire and Bahorel, who he sometimes think shouldn't be allowed to talk to each other). What he really doesn't trust Enjolras with, is Grantaire.
--
When Feuilly walks in the house he shares with Bahorel, he's not exactly shocked to be on the receiving end of a thrown pillow.
"Have I done something to upset you, Bahorel?" he says as he picks the pillow from the floor and drops it on his roommate sprawled on the couch.
"You little twat."
"Lovely. I ask again: have I done something to upset you, Bahorel?"
"I talked to R. He mentioned you being a little twat with Enjolras. His words."
Feuilly just scoffs and goes to the kitchen to make himself some tea.
"I highly doubt those were his exact words," he shouts once the kettle is on.
"You don't have to shout, I'm right here," says Bahorel in his ear. Feuilly would be embarrassed to admit he was startled, alas he was, so what's the point of denying it? He, however, didn't blush. At all.
He turns around to a serious looking Bahorel, which is, in itself, a strange occurrence. However, he takes in all in stride and is about to offer him some tea as well when Bahorel interrupts him.
"Are you in love with Grantaire?"
Feuilly's eyes go comically wide, and if things were different, Bahorel would laugh.
"What?"
"Let me rephrase. Are you in love with Grantaire, still?"
At this, Feuilly can do nothing but laugh. Loud.
"Are you this drunk already?"
Bahorel scowls, but Feuilly can't see from the tears of laughter forming of his eyes.
"I'm serious, you jackass," he waits for Feuilly to stop laughing, which he eventually does. "I wouldn't judge you if you were. I mean, Grantaire's hot - not my type, mind you - but hot."
And Feuilly's laugh starts again, louder this time.
"Oh my god, Bahorel" he manages to say while trying to gasp for air, "I was never in love with Grantaire!"
"Then why do you treat Enjolras like crap?"
That little question makes him sober up.
"I'm not in love with Grantaire. I do love him, he's my best and oldest friend, but I'm not in love with Grantaire."
Bahorel seems to heave a relieved sigh. He waits for Feuilly to answer his actual question, but the red-headed boy just makes his tea and moves to the living room.
Bahorel goes to sit with him, and waits with uncharacteristic patience.
Feuilly finally gives in with a world-weary sigh.
"I don't treat Enjolras like crap; I'm just slightly cold to him." Bahorel tries to interrupt (Feuilly thinks he was going to say 'Same difference' but he could be wrong), but he doesn't let him. He was getting ready for this question. He didn't know when it would come, or who would ask it (he did hope it wouldn't come to the point where Grantaire himself would ask) but he had sorted out his feelings just to be properly articulate them when the time came. "It's just. Grantaire is not as strong as he wants us to believe. I know you know this," he says before Bahorel tries to interrupt again, "but I'm serious. He's never been as good as he is now. I mean, eighteen months sober," (Grantaire would hate that, 'A year and a half' he'd say), "eighteen months! That's an awful lot. I should know," he misses Bahorel's flinch, "And sometimes I just feel Enjolras could mess with that."
Bahorel waits but Feuilly is done talking. His hands have started shaking but neither of them cares about some tea on the carpet right now.
"Enjolras had nothing to do with Grantaire getting sober;" Bahorel says, slowly taking the tea cup from Feuilly's hands; "that was before they met."
"I know! But -"
Bahorel lifts his hands and Feuilly obediently shuts up.
"And I'm not going to pretend this sobriety thing couldn't go to hell, damn, this is not even the first time he tries. But you cannot possibly tell me you don't realise how good they are together? How good Enjolras actually is to R."
"I know, Bahorel, I know."
Bahorel puts a hand in his hair and ruffles it a bit, which is something Feuilly usually hates but now makes him feel kind of better. Kind of.
"Did Grantaire really say I was a twat to Enjolras?"
"Technically, those were Éponine's words; R defended you."
"That actually makes me feel worse, thank you."
Bahorel laugh and ruffles his hair a bit more.
"You're adorable," he says ignoring the glare he receives. "Don't worry, though, You're R's best and oldest fiend, he knows you take time to warm up to people, but if you do then it means they're worth it."
Feuilly stays in the couch thinking while Bahorel turns on the TV and drinks Feuilly's tea. Suddenly he remembers something Bahorel said what seems like hours ago.
"You said Grantaire's not your type, right?"
Bahorel hums in agreement without taking his eyes of the TV.
"I just mean...who is? Your type. Who's your type?"
A huge grins takes over Bahorel face while he says, with his eyes still trained forward "Gingers."
Feuilly blushes to the tip of his ears and flees to his room. Unfortunately, from there he can still hear Bahorel's booming laugh.