Chapter Text
Enjolras needs to get about nine hours of paper-writing done in the next four hours, and his whole apartment building is suffering an extremely ill-timed power outage. He would possibly be less irritated with the situation if the power hadn't cut out in the middle of his shower, leaving him to wash the conditioner out of his hair and grope around for a towel completely blind.
He has work to do, and something as petty as a power outage isn't going to stop him. But no power means no wi-fi, no way to charge the battery in his ailing laptop, and perhaps worst of all--no coffee-maker. His best options, as he sees it, are the library or the coffee shop, and the library won't provide him with the caffeine he needs to make it to the afternoon.
But the morning's interruptions have thrown him well off his usual schedule, and by the time he gets to the coffee shop, there's a line twenty people deep. He glances at the chalkboard on the counter, wondering if it's someone new, and does a silent double-take.
The little chalkboard that's intended to have the barista's name and the daily special written on it has a stick-figure and a message instead.
TODAY YOUR BARISTA IS:
1. Hella fucking gay.
2. Desperately single.
FOR YOUR DRINK TODAY I RECOMMEND:
You give me your number.
Enjolras has never once taken the advice of the little chalkboard sign, but that doesn't mean he appreciates someone making a mockery of it. Not that he doesn't support civil disobedience--he certainly does, but there has to be a point to it. This is one step above scribbling for a good time call: on the wall of a bathroom.
He looks up towards the counter, past the heads of the twelve customers still in front of him, but all he can make out is an unruly mop of dark curls and a sleeve of bright tattoos as the barista hands a paper cup across the counter. Enjolras sighs and fishes his phone out of his laptop bag, checking the news as he slowly shuffles towards glorious caffeination.
"What can I get you?"
Enjolras looks up into a pair of absolutely shocking blue eyes. The shadows beneath them only make them seem brighter, and the first unwelcome thought that crosses Enjolras' mind is how in the hell is this man actually single? He looks like someone who likes his coffee well-whiskeyed, someone who's more accustomed to the night-shift. Someone who was apparently dragged out of bed this morning long before his accustomed hour, if the stubble lining his jaw is any indication.
All right, so he's not exactly hard to look at, but if the sign is anything to go by, his attitude leaves something to be desired.
"That's not exactly professional," Enjolras says flatly.
"Sorry?"
"The sign."
"Oh, yeah." He grins, sharp and bright. "Worth a try, right?"
"Not really."
"Ooh, someone's grumpy this morning. Are you going to order, or just whine about my lack of professionalism?"
He is not grumpy, but it's impossible to protest a point like that without proving it in the process. Enjolras settles for rolling his eyes. "Triple-shot latte, please."
The barista raises an eyebrow. "Not fucking around today, are we?"
And now he's swearing in front of the customers. It's like a customer-service trainwreck. "No, I'm not," Enjolras says.
"Okay, then. Triple-shot latte coming up."
The thing is, Enjolras doesn't care about the barista's name--he's never seen this guy before, and he probably never will again. But the fact that it isn't on the sign annoys him. The barista is measuring out the second shot when Enjolras' curiosity finally gets the better of him.
"What is your name, anyway?"
He glances up, eyes shadowed by impossibly long lashes. "If I tell you, will you promise to scream it for me later?"
"This is sexual harassment," Enjolras complains mildly.
"Is it? I thought it was flirting. Damn. I'm really bad at this."
"Possibly that's why you're still single."
The barista flashes a grin. "Yes, but the day is young! There's still plenty of time for the sign to work its magic."
"So it hasn't yet."
"The day," he repeats significantly, "is young. Four-fifty, by the way."
Enjolras hands over the money, and the barista makes change quickly, turning back to layer milk foam over the latte.
"Here you go," he says at last. "One heart-stoppingly-caffeinated beverage, just for you. Careful, you're hot."
"What?"
"It's hot. The coffee."
Enjolras wraps his hand around the paper cup, but the barista doesn't let go. Enjolras looks up, frowning, and meets a warm, disconcerting smile.
"My name is Grantaire," the barista says, finally letting his hand slide away from the cup. "Have a good day."
Enjolras tucks himself away at a corner table and gets to work. He takes a sip of his latte, accepting that he's going to burn his mouth because he never has the patience to wait for it to cool.
But he doesn't. The latte is the perfect temperature, and it's good. Impossibly good. Laced-with-cocaine good. Jehan would write sonnets to this coffee. Bahorel would put Grantaire in a headlock and demand to know how he made it. Feuilly might actually weep, if he was in the midst of an all-nighter. It's the Platonic ideal of a latte, and Enjolras would be lying if he said that he wasn't impressed.
The coffee is gone too soon--it's too good to pace himself. But the caffeine kicks in, and he gets eight pages written in three hours, complete with properly-formatted footnotes and citations. He has a class to attend, but first he thinks he deserves another magnificent latte, after all that work. He shuts down the laptop and slings the bag over his shoulder before approaching the counter again.
By now, there's no line at all, and Grantaire is wiping down the counter, nodding his head to the beat of the quiet electronica that's playing on the sound system. Now Enjolras can see that his tattoos are abstract swirls of color, shifting with every flex and twist of his forearms.
Enjolras is not staring, he's just waiting for Grantaire to look up and notice him standing at the counter. It's pretty awful, from a customer service standpoint, but Enjolras can't find it in him to mind.
Finally Grantaire looks up, dropping the rag with a muttered curse. "Shit, sorry, didn't see you there."
"That's all right," Enjolras says magnanimously. "Can I get another, to go?"
"Another triple-shot?" Grantaire asks, wide-eyed, and Enjolras is almost flattered that he remembered.
"Please."
He shakes his head. "No way. Dude, you'd be twitching all afternoon. I can maybe justify giving you a double, but that's it."
"Excuse me? We are not bargaining here."
"Bargaining would imply that I could be swayed. My offer is a double-shot--take it or leave it."
"But that's not what I ordered." Enjolras has never been thwarted in his pursuit of caffeine, and he's not about to let it happen now.
"Sorry, I'm making an executive decision to cut you off before you start having palpitations."
Enjolras can hear his own teeth grinding. "I asked you for a triple-shot latte."
"Double."
"Triple."
"Give me your number."
"Trip--what?"
Grantaire shrugs. "That's my trade. Give me your number and I'll give you the triple-shot."
"So we've moved from bargaining to extortion."
"Yeah. You'd better hurry up and agree, because I don't know where this is going next, but I'm pretty sure it's all downhill from here."
This is ridiculous and unprofessional and if it goes on any longer, Enjolras is going to be late for class. He does not have time to be flirting with a ridiculously attractive smartass barista--
Jesus Christ. He's flirting with the barista. He closes his eyes and rakes a hand through his hair.
"So what'll it be?" Grantaire asks. "How desperate are you for that extra shot?"
Enjolras levels his best glare at him, to no discernible effect. "All right," he says at last.
Grantaire blinks, and his mouth goes round and soft in a way that does not make Enjolras want to lean across the counter and kiss him. It's clear that he didn't expect to win the argument. "I--you--really? Okay, hang on..."
He turns around to make the latte, and Enjolras dutifully scribbles his number on a scrap of notebook paper. He slides it across the counter along with his money and waits.
Grantaire stares at the piece of paper while he makes change. "So, um, is this real? Because I'm telling you right now, if it turns out to be the number of a pizza joint in Penobscot or something, I'm going to be heartbroken."
It's possible that this coffee is even better than the last one. Enjolras sips it rapturously and smiles at Grantaire. "Call it and find out," he says, and he walks out the door.
He's just sitting down in the lecture hall when his phone buzzes. Enjolras pulls it out to see a text from an unfamiliar number.
Unknown: You never told me your name.
Enjolras grins and adds the number to his contacts. If Grantaire thinks he's the only one who can tease, he's going to learn otherwise very quickly.
To Grantaire: If I tell you, will you promise to scream it for me later?