granxaire:

( Two Enjolrases and Grantaire might actually cry. )

                He startled to attention when Enjolras spoke up,
                his hand falling back into his lap. Jesus. His eyes
                flickered to the clock in the corner before Grantaire
                slammed the laptop shut, not bothering to minimize
                the window or anything.

                It should have spoken volumes that Grantaire, the
                least narcissistic of the Amis, didn’t say a word of
                argument over the fact. Just muttered a “yeah, like
                you can talk,” and got up from the couch.

                "Five minutes,” he said, climbing quickly up to his
                room. Already in jeans and a tee, Grantaire dug out
                a pair of socks, pulled on his boots, and grabbed his
                own bag of tricks from near the door as he tugged his
                usual charcoal hoodie on. None of his clothes were
                tailored, because really, Apollo, only you could be that
                vain of a murderer, but they fit him well all the same.

                He was back and at his side well before the five minute
                marker, but it was fun to get Enjolras whining about his
                punctuality. "Okay, okay, let’s go.” 

:: { ℑ⋅ℇ } ─ ─ ─ ::

          Five minutes is more than enough
      time to ascertain they have absolutely
      nothing to eat in their fridge and this is
      exactly why they shouldn’t be left to
      housesit, Feuilly would be disappointed.

         Picking a granola bar, he’s just about
      done scarfing it down when Grantaire
      reappears. Mouth full, Enjolras doesn’t
      speak (it’s rude!) but nods, leading them
      out of their building and towards their
      usual ride. It’s simple routines up to 
      this point and the silence between them
      is  c o m f o r t a b l e, if not FAMILIAR.

        It’s only once they’ve pulled into the
      Parisian traffic does he glance over, the
      shrewd look returning to steel blues.
      ”Your shoulder giving you trouble?“