Chapter Text
It was Enjolras' fourth day here without Combeferre, and Grantaire refused to leave his room.
“Look,” he said from where he was sitting on the floor with a book in his lap, leaning against Enjolras' bed, “I get that you're desperate to get rid of me and everything, but I have to share a twelve-square-meter hostel room with the most obnoxiously affectionate Danish couple in the world, and a sixty year old man from Portugal. I'm not claiming to be a good person, but not even you can think I'm awful enough to deserve that.”
Enjolras knew that tone too well to think correcting him would make a difference. “Why would you be at the hostel right now, anyway?” he said instead. “It's broad daylight, don't you have pictures to take? This is your vacation, isn't it?”
“It was,” Grantaire said. “There's really not as much to photograph in your temporary home of choice as I'd hoped. Honestly, I'm bored with it.”
“That can't be true.” Enjolras could think of no one as skilled at entertaining himself as Grantaire. And, granted, there were very likely more exciting places in the world than Bergen, Norway – it wasn't a particularly large city, if it could be called a city at all, and while it was charming and Enjolras never regretted his decision to come here, it didn't seem like the kind of place Grantaire would typically be drawn to. It lacked vibrancy for that, and possibly danger. But Grantaire had chosen to spend money and time on staying here nonetheless, so there was really no version of events where he genuinely tired of a city after having spent two days there – someone less adventurous, maybe, but not Grantaire.
That aside, this was Norway, and Grantaire had come here at least with the pretence of wanting to take pictures. Surely if there was anything Norway wasn't lacking, it was subjects for photographs.
“I'm afraid it is,” Grantaire said. “I did say I could make myself useful. Offer still stands, you know.”
“Your offer to help with my thesis?” Enjolras hoped that his frown managed to be conveyed in his tone of voice – yes, it was petty not to turn around to face Grantaire, but he lacked the energy to care. Earlier today, he had genuinely seen stars dancing before his eyes for a second before he'd thought of sitting down and drinking some water. He couldn't recall the last time he'd been this overworked. “I think I'm good.”
“Are you sure? I've been told I can offer pretty unique perspectives on...” Enjolras could hear him scramble to his feet and come up behind him to peer at Enjolras' laptop over his shoulder. “'Diverse Societies and International Migration.' Yeah, one of my special interests, that.”
“I'm sure your insight would be invaluable,” Enjolras murmured, and he didn't mean for it to come out in a harsh way, but Grantaire drummed his fingers against the backrest of his chair and straightened abruptly.
“Right.” He had a way of making a single syllable sound agonised; Enjolras was never going to get used to it. “I'll just, uh. Leave you to further your erudition, then. Wouldn't want to drain this room of creative energy.”
“Grantaire,” Enjolras suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. “It's not a problem for me to have you here, you know it's not. I just honestly can't imagine that being holed up in here when summer's right outside is what you want – you're on holiday, you're supposed to enjoy it.”
Grantaire was halfway to the door, and seemed unsure where to look. He opened his mouth, and was cut off by a shrill ringing sound.
Enjolras tore his gaze away. The ringing came from the Skype window that had suddenly popped up – a godsend, really.
“Grantaire?” Enjolras turned to look at him again. “It's Combeferre. You can – I mean, please stay. I think he'd like to see you.”
Grantaire hesitated for a moment, his hand still hovering over the doorhandle. Then, he walked back to the desk, and, without saying a word, leaned over to click “answer” on the screen.
Combeferre didn't look good. He was clutching a mug, and Enjolras knew him well enough to be sure that it contained three espresso shots, no milk, no sugar. Especially without his glasses, he looked incredibly tired. At least they were in the same boat, then, Enjolras thought bitterly.
“Hey,” Combeferre said, making some effort not to betray his exhaustion. “Oh, it's good to see you. Grantaire,” he added with a sincere smile when he noticed Grantaire standing behind Enjolras. “Keeping Enjolras on his toes, I hope?”
“Well, you know me,” Grantaire deadpanned. “Always happy to help.”
“I'm glad someone's keeping an eye on him,” Combeferre said, and Enjolras decided not to mention that whatever Grantaire's intentions were in hanging around Enjolras' room, keeping an eye on him was unlikely to be among them.
“How are you?” he said instead. “Did you settle in all right?”
“Haven't had time to,” Combeferre said and seemed to be lifting his laptop, shifting the angle of the webcam to reveal two still-packed bags and a mess of discarded clothes on the ground behind him. “It's been...” He paused. “It's been what it's been.”
“Not exactly philanthropic of them to not even pay you if you're going to fly across Europe on a day's notice,” Grantaire said, frowning. “What kind of clinic asks that from a volunteer?”
“A severely underfunded one,” Combeferre said. He was still smiling, but it looked hollow. “They're doing the best they can, it's just not a very good situation. For anyone. And I did have a choice, I don't blame them.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” Grantaire said. Enjolras stayed quiet, wondering when he started agreeing with Grantaire on this. It was difficult not to support Combeferre's commitment to volunteering, impossible not to admire it, even, but being committed to the point where Combeferre was prepared to leave the last two weeks of his semester abroad behind on the base of one phonecall from the clinic was selfless to the point of being self-destructive. It had left them both in an organisational mess that Enjolras had had no time to try and clean up yet, and neither, of course, had Combeferre.
“How's your holiday, Grantaire?” Combeferre asked, in a very transparent attempt at changing the subject. “Have you been to the university museum yet? I meant to tell you before I left; they have this exhibition on ecclesiastical art you might enjoy.”
“Shame on you for not mentioning that,” Grantaire said with mock-indignation. “When you know perfectly well what a huge fan of all things ecclesiastical I am.”
Combeferre actually laughed a little. “Well, now you know. It really is worth it, and you can get in for free if you pass yourself off as a student.”
“Oh, I doubt that's going to work,” Grantaire said, smiling wryly. “People are going to smell illiteracy on me; I flaunt it without even noticing. Thanks, though. I'll be just as happy as a paying customer.”
Enjolras was lucky the knot he suddenly felt in his stomach didn't have time to coil any tighter, because just then, Grantaire jumped as his phone chimed loudly.
“For everything's sake,” he murmured, and Enjolras didn't miss his tortured expression, even though that sardonic grin slid back on his face after only a second. “So sorry to deprive you both of my company,” he said, holding up his phone. “This probably won't take long.”
He slipped out of the room before Enjolras or Combeferre could say anything more.
“Right,” Combeferre said, his voice tinny through the speakers. “Has he been around a lot?”
“Every day since you went back.” Enjolras ran a hand through his hair – a nervous habit, as Combeferre well knew, and his pixelated image on the screen looked sympathetic. “No, it's not – it doesn't bother me that he sticks around, I just don't really understand it. Why hang around here when the world's out there? It's unlike him, don't you think?”
“Maybe,” Combeferre said, in that tone he tended to use when he was conceding something he didn't actually agree with. Enjolras couldn't blame him – he had been surprised, too, over the last few days, at how little he minded the company. “Listen, I was going to suggest something to you, concerning him – and the car.”
“Oh.” Enjolras could think of nothing else to say. Along with all the administration trouble Enjolras had to sort out in Combeferre's stead, the car was their biggest problem. In fact, the problem the car caused just by being here was so big that Enjolras had put some determination into ignoring it over the last few days, because he couldn't use a difficulty that insurmountable right now.
“Yes, it's... I have a feeling you're not going to like this suggestion a lot, so promise me you'll hear me out first.”
Enjolras felt the crease between his eyebrows. “You're going to make me promise? We're adults.”
“And I'm kindly asking you to act like one. Just say you're going to let me finish before cutting me off with the inevitable 'no.'”
“Of course I am.”
“All right,” Combeferre said, and took a deep breath. “So we were talking about having the car transferred back here, remember? And I looked up some contractors for that, and it just – it overall doesn't look like we're going to find anyone who's trustworthy and affordable. I don't want us to have a random car theft in another country on our hands, on top of everything else.”
Enjolras chewed on his bottom lip, patiently waiting for the suggested solution. He had a vague idea of where this might be going, and if his hunch was correct, then Combeferre was right. He did not like it.
“Now, I thought that since you're out of the question as driver, and Grantaire is currently there and has to get back to Paris, too, the obvious solution would be—”
“Don't say it.”
Combeferre, admirably, made an attempt at concealing his frustration. “Enjolras. What was that about us being adults? I thought maybe Grantaire could—”
“I suddenly can't hear you,” Enjolras said flatly, half to indulge Combeferre, half because he was genuinely feeling childish enough to refuse to listen to this. This week was going terribly as it was – his essay was nowhere near finished, finals had been incredibly stressful and barely left time to eat, there was a bureaucratic hailstorm waiting to be conquered before he could go back home, and he didn't deserve to deal with all of this at once.
It really was lucky that Combeferre was among the few people who knew how immature Enjolras could get under stress. He had only ever let it show around Combeferre – not that this precaution necessarily meant escaping judgement.
Combeferre sighed. “I know it's not ideal, but you have to admit that it's reasonable. You both have to go to Paris, the car has to go to Paris; it's the simplest solution we have.”
“He'll say no,” Enjolras said. He wasn't sure where the conviction he said it with came from; he didn't feel it.
“You don't give him enough credit,” Combeferre said, with mild reproach to his tone.
“Fine, he'll probably agree, but he shouldn't. It's too much to ask of him.”
“Don't you think you should let him be the judge of that?”
Enjolras couldn't come up with a retort. A vague sense of guilt echoed faintly through him at his attempt to wind himself out of this; there was no legal reason he couldn't drive, and Combeferre did everything he could so he wouldn't have to ask it of him. He was well aware that most people wouldn't be half as understanding. “I'll ask,” he said. After a few moments of silence, he added, “But you're not completely right. It's the most reasonable solution, yes, but the simplest?” He wasn't even entirely sure what part of him it was that rebelled so much at making this trip with Grantaire. The most petty, childish one, that was so easily antagonised – or some other part, one that he hesitated to put a name to because he could never seem to figure it out.
“Maybe not,” Combeferre agreed, and then he smiled a little, in that way that Enjolras had come to fear over the years because it usually meant that he knew something Enjolras didn't. “Or maybe you'll be surprised.”
It took Grantaire another ten minutes to come back inside, so by the time he did, Combeferre had already gone back to getting his life in Paris in order, and Enjolras had used the little window he'd had to try and scramble the right words together. He hadn't succeeded in that; Grantaire came through the door, dishevelled and with an irritated frown, and Enjolras' mind went blank.
“What's wrong?” he asked. “Who was it?” He forced himself not to get up and move towards him; something was urging him to walk over and at least make an attempt to smooth out the furrows on Grantaire's brow.
“What?” Grantaire blinked at him, surprised, and then shook his head. “No one. That was...” He waved his phone vaguely. “Doesn't matter. Has Ferre gone to bed already? I was going to ask him if he could ask around if there's any takers for picking me up from the airport, which I know is technically my job – the asking, I mean – but I'm having some trouble communicating these days. Well, with anyone other than the oafs that think it's okay to call when I'm three countries away, at least.”
At least he now had an opportunity for a smooth transition, Enjolras thought, bitter at the less than small mercy this offered. “About that,” he said. There was no way around it; he'd have to dive in at the deep end. “Listen, I – there's something I need to ask.”
Grantaire stumbled out of Enjolras' dorm building about an hour later, already deep in denial of everything that had just happened. He stood on the pavement before the front door for a good minute, hoping some fresh air would clear his head, but it was mid-June, and he was standing on a stuffed street, and the air wasn't fresh, it was thick and uncomfortably warm and, if anything, made him feel more cluttered.
He was always going to say yes, really. It had been clear before Enjolras had asked, before he'd even gotten a chance to consider it. “I need a favour,” Enjolras had said, and Grantaire had replied, “Sure, anything” without thinking. It was an instinctive reaction, an immediate reflex, and a few years ago, that might have terrified him, but that sort of anxiety had gotten too exhausting to maintain long ago.
It was a big favour, Enjolras had gone on to say, and then elaborated on how Combeferre had driven to Bergen in his car and they had planned to go back in it together, only now that Combeferre had had to fly home early because of the emergency at the clinic, they were left without a driver because Enjolras, as anyone remotely familiar with him knew, did not drive. Grantaire hadn't pointed out that no one really seemed to know why Enjolras didn't drive, because he did have his licence – Courfeyrac had shown it around at a meeting once to tease Enjolras about the time before he had started wearing contacts. Grantaire remembered that picture well; Enjolras with large, black-framed glasses and a stern look on his face, terribly serious for a seventeen-year-old.
After Enjolras had finished his long and drawn-out talk on all the difficulties and complications of the situation, Grantaire's answer remained the same. “Yeah, sure, I'll do it.” He'd even added a shrug for emphasis. “Why wouldn't I?” The nonchalance had almost been sincere; it wasn't an insurmountable task. Well, not really, anyway, unless he was being dramatic. Which, granted, he had a tendency to be.
They had decided to meet again tomorrow to talk specifics – come up with a route, somehow try to settle on a budget, start making the first arrangements for accommodation. They had checked a vague route online already, and according to Google Maps, it would take them a minimum of 24 hours of driving to make it from Bergen to Paris. Grantaire had insisted that he wouldn't need more than one overnight stay for that, and Enjolras had declared him delusional.
Grantaire turned around to blink at the house once more. Norwegian student housing, from what he'd seen of it, was a lot nicer than the French variant. Enjolras' dorm was in a large, white town house with red shutters at the windows, the kind that, in Paris, would cost a monthly rent of Grantaire's yearly income.
The good thing – possibly the best thing – about the dorm was, right now, that the sea was nearby. Grantaire could smell it from where he was standing, the salty tinge of it carried over by the breeze. After almost a week here, Grantaire knew his way around quite well; there wasn't a lot to know. Bergen wasn't exactly a megacity. Not that he was complaining, after all, he had originally intended to come here for the scenery. The bitter irony of the fact that all his equipment remained buried at the very bottom of his duffel bag even after this almost-week didn't escape him, but he tried not to dwell on it. It wasn't like he didn't have enough other things to be bitter about now.
Eager to avoid the hostel and not really drawn in by any of the bars and cafés he came across, Grantaire made for the harbour. There was something reassuring about watching freighters come in, watching people hurry to help with the docking, seeing different cargo boats take off to who-knew-where. Grantaire sat at the edge of the water and smoked, watching the port and waiting for his mind to settle, but after a long while and far too many cigarettes, he accepted that it wasn't going to happen.
He couldn't tell why he made such a big deal out of it, really. It wasn't. The whole thing was pretty straightforward: Grantaire would cancel his flight, originally set for two days from now, then he'd move into Combeferre's now-empty dorm room to bridge the time between the end of his hostel reservation and the day they'd leave, and Enjolras would wrap up his (and Combeferre's, seeing as he wasn't there to do it himself) semester abroad at breakneck speed, and then they'd drive for maybe three days and be back in Paris. He told himself that it would probably be over in a wink, no funny business, no surprises, no complications. Definitely no Enjolras'-proximity-related meltdowns on his part.
His mood was terrible now. He thought the sea might help, and he was reasonably certain that he was better off with the company of several cargo ships than with whatever was expecting him back at the hostel, but still, he was suddenly feeling melancholic. Instinctively, he wanted to text Bossuet, to see if he could get a joke or an anecdote out of him, but he remembered the fees on texting abroad and how Bossuet could probably afford them less than him, and decided against it. He wondered, now, what had made him think it would be a good idea to travel alone like this, because being away from the others wasn't doing him much good so far. It had still been okay while Combeferre had been here, Combeferre with his clever eyes, Combeferre who always knew to slip him a cough drop or some gum at the right moment. Feeling edgy around him was only possible when you'd gotten on his bad side, which Grantaire avoided with some expertise these days.
He only left for the hostel once the sun had set completely, and the air had become too chilly for him to linger in just a t-shirt and cargo shorts. That was what the hostel was, sort of a last resort when literally every other option had been exhausted. Grantaire was reminded of why when he got back to the four-bed-room, because the couple was already there, sharing the lower bunk of their bed, and the Portuguese senior citizen gave Grantaire a sympathetic look over the edge of his bed when he walked in.
Enjolras had suggested Grantaire move into Combeferre's room earlier to spare himself the trouble – “Today, if you'd like, I don't know why we didn't think of it earlier” – but Grantaire was going to have to pay for the hostel room anyway, and he didn't admit that part to Enjolras, but as long as it was possible, he wanted to keep what distance he could.
They met up the next day, and Grantaire thought that all things considered (“all things,” in this case, meaning his inability to deal with this situation and Enjolras' rather obvious complete exhaustion), they managed to come up with a route quite quickly. From Bergen, they'd make their way south-east down to the border, where they'd take a ferry to Hirtshals, Denmark, then continue south and cross the border to Germany, pass Cologne, cross into Belgium, and finally make it to France. If they managed to drive nine or ten hours a day, they'd need two overnight stays, and for those, they tentatively settled on one in Denmark and one in Germany, close to the Belgian border. In Grantaire's experience, those plans never worked out anyway – there'd be a traffic jam or an unscheduled irregularity with the ferries and they'd be held up, or maybe, by some miracle, they might hit every single green light and make it further than planned on the first day. The whims of traffic had a tendency to laugh at any attempt at planning overnight stays, and Grantaire knew that pretty much rendered them useless. Enjolras seemed happier with pinning them down, though, so he didn't object.
It was one of the things Enjolras did to feel at ease, Grantaire noticed, being overly fastidious about planning ahead. Thinking about it now, it probably made a lot of sense, and Grantaire couldn't tell why he found it so frustrating to see. Enjolras was always intense, but in the last few days, since Combeferre had left, he'd been so tense and strained Grantaire worried he might snap in half. His presence probably hadn't helped with that, but it had also felt wrong not to stick around, annoyed at his attempts at being helpful as Enjolras might have been. Partly, he was glad to have found a way of being helpful after all, even if Enjolras had probably spent a considerable amount of time arguing with Combeferre about this solution before submitting to Combeferre's pragmatism. At least Enjolras had one less thing to worry about now, and for Grantaire, it didn't seem like a particularly big sacrifice.
But then, as Joly had once informed him, he was a “shitty judge of proportion,” so there was that.
He moved into Combeferre's room the day after that, in sort of a cloak-and-dagger-operation, because leaving your dorm room to a random friend who happened to be rolling through town after you'd fled the country on emergency notice was apparently not allowed, and Grantaire couldn't help but find it hilarious that he now had to serve as a shitty placeholder for Combeferre to the point of impersonating him. Enjolras, as far as Grantaire could tell, was doing the same, handing in papers that Combeferre e-mailed him, and even taking one of his exams in his stead. (Enjolras said the class was similar to one he'd taken before, so it wasn't a big deal, and Grantaire had to bite back an immediate sarcastic comment on Enjolras' more godlike qualities. It would have been a terrible attempt at masking his genuine amazement at the stunts Enjolras' brain seemed to be able to pull.)
The afternoon before they were supposed to leave, Enjolras barged into Grantaire's – well, Combeferre's – room after knocking energetically and not waiting for a response. “We've had a parcel.”
Grantaire, sitting on the bed and flicking through Norwegian news channels on the ancient tube TV next to the dresser, frowned. “Sorry – we?”
“It's addressed to both of us, three guesses who it's from.”
Grantaire didn't get to guess, because Enjolras dropped the parcel on the mattress in front of him and frowned down at Grantaire like he might be part of some dubious, parcel-related plot against him.
The package was wrapped in brown paper, and Grantaire recognised Cosette's handwriting instantly. No one looped the L quite like her.
“You didn't open it,” Grantaire noted.
“Should I have?”
“Uh. I don't know? Do you think it's likely to explode in our face?”
“It's from Cosette,” Enjolras said, as if Cosette wasn't arguably the most mischievous one among their friends.
“Then let's do this.” Grantaire tugged the parcel closer and slid a finger underneath the fold of the paper, pulling to undo the tape that held it together. Enjolras unfolded the paper once he could, revealing what must have been an abnormally large shoe box before it was recycled like this. The lid had been painted over with white, and then provided with swirly blue lettering that read Road Trip Essentials. Grantaire bit his lip to conceal a smile. Of course she would.
None of them dared move to lift the lid for a few seconds, then Enjolras reached out and took it off, his expression tortured. They had to remove a layer of crumpled newspaper, and Grantaire almost gasped out loud.
“No way,” he said, reaching inside the box. “I can't believe they dug this thing up. They broke into my fucking flat; I'm never giving out a key again.”
“One of your cameras?” Enjolras assumed, and Grantaire shook his head in disbelief. He had buried that thing so deep – on purpose, because it was a flea market impulse buy (those were never good), and the entire concept of it was a downer.
“It's a polaroid camera,” he said, turning it in his hands, the cool metal edges feeling unfamiliar. “I bought it on a whim and fixed it up, but it's still trash. The pictures come out and look great, so you think you've won, and two months later, they're pretty much completely faded. It's like an instrument of torture; I mean, who wants a constant omnia vanitas looming over their work?”
“Jehan,” Enjolras said, eyeing the camera not without suspicion. “That sounds exactly like something Jehan would love.”
“But I didn't even realise he knew I had this. I don't remember telling him, the others wouldn't have had a way of knowing. Unless...” Grantaire glanced inside the box, and his suspicions were confirmed: two packets of films were nestled between more newspaper, and the films were the next reason Grantaire had left this camera to gather dust. For this particular model, they were incredibly hard to track down, and so expensive it would be hilarious if it wasn't downright depressing. The only one who would know both that these films were needed and where to get them was Feuilly. “I think we're looking at a group project here.”
“I was about to say the same thing,” Enjolras said, holding up a pink plastic pocket with several CDs in it. He tapped his finger against the writing on the transparency. “Courfeyrac's Jam for the Road,” he read, in a tone that had Grantaire clench his jaw to avoid cracking up.
Carefully unpacking item after item, they found that the box also held a glue stick, some masking tape, and a notebook (the pretty, expensive kind – it must have been a donation from Cosette; she was known for never messing around when it came to office supplies) with a letter tucked between the pages. The furrow on Enjolras' brow stayed there as he read.
“We're supposed to scrapbook the trip,” he said, still reading. Grantaire shrugged, because, well, duh. The parcel was pretty much a scrapbooking starter kit. “They've...” Enjolras trailed off, slowly shaking his head. “What do they think this is, some cross-European road trip adventure?”
“Well, it definitely has the potential to be,” Grantaire said. He was suddenly all kinds of charmed with the idea – if this wasn't a business-like, red-eye, three-espressos-for-breakfast-thing, it would be a lot less intimidating. Maybe he'd even be able to stop watching his own step like a hawk around Enjolras, and the creative slump he'd been in might be eased by getting back into that leisurely road trip feeling he still remembered from travelling with Feuilly.
Enjolras was looking at him as if he'd suggested going back to Paris by jet pack. “Grantaire,” he said. It was really all he needed to say.
“Hey, I'm not the one who brought it up,” Grantaire said, waving his hand like he hadn't only just temporarily clutched onto his friends' idea like a lifeline. “We don't have to make it an adventure. In fact, we still have time to send this thoughtful, sweetly put-together gift right back to our friends so it doesn't, y'know. Weigh us down on the drive.”
“You're twisting my words.” Enjolras looked tired, his fingers tangled in his hair as he propped himself up on his elbow. It was a constant back-and-forth for Grantaire, talking to him – he was so aware he was screwing up, and he acted like an asshole anyway. To say that he was helpless to prevent it was a cheap excuse, but he really did feel subject to his own big mouth a lot of the time. “I'm not trying to ruin anything, I just...” He closed his eyes and exhaled. “I want to get home.”
Grantaire wanted to smack himself. “Shit,” he said, because having messed up made him eloquent. “Look, we're going to be back in no time, yeah? And we can take pictures for the others whenever we stop to get gas or happen to pass through a town or something. It doesn't have to be, like, Little Miss Sunshine, Reprise. I was being a dick.” He shrugged helplessly when Enjolras frowned at him. “You know, as I do.”
“I don't want to be a buzzkill,” Enjolras said. “I know I'm already the personified opposite of fun to you, probably, but this is just – things have been really stressful, and I'm tired of exciting things. Of any kind. At least for now.”
“Yeah,” Grantaire nodded. “I get it. Honestly, it's fine. We can even make it a deal, if you like – no detours, just straight home. Shake hands on it.”
Enjolras eyed him sceptically. Grantaire felt like he never really stopped frowning these days. “All right,” he said finally and extended a hand. “Straight home, no detours.”
Grantaire cracked a smile, taking the hand that was offered. “A gentlemen's agreement.”
Combeferre's car was ridiculous. Grantaire had found it ridiculous for as long as he'd known Combeferre, not because it was in itself ridiculous, but because Combeferre looked completely comical when he was anywhere near it. The first time Grantaire had happened to be there to see Combeferre getting into the small, silver New Beetle and drive off with it, he'd been half-sure that he'd just witnessed a car theft, because the car was so profoundly wrong for him. It was a convertible, too – exactly the kind of car that Cosette or Courfeyrac might sell their souls for, and that Bahorel wouldn't be caught dead in.
As Grantaire and Enjolras tried to load everything that had to come along to France into the tiny space of the backseat and the trunk, Grantaire mainly found the car ridiculous because it was definitely unsuited for crossing long distances with a lot of baggage, which was exactly what they intended. They had to improvise to get everything packed, which was how Enjolras ended up with a suitcase in his footwell, and why Grantaire wouldn't be able to turn and check the blind spot before changing lanes, because the back window was completely obstructed by heaps of luggage.
“Right,” Grantaire said once they were both in their seats and Enjolras had triple-checked everything on his list. “Ready to say goodbye to your five-months-home?”
“I was ready two weeks ago,” Enjolras murmured, although Grantaire thought he caught him sneak one last, almost sentimental glance at the dorm building. “Let's get going.”
“Got it.” Grantaire twisted the key. “Here's to the most boring cross-European road trip ever. No detours.”
“Straight home,” Enjolras echoed, and Grantaire allowed his look to linger on him for a second as Enjolras leaned against the window and closed his eyes. Then, he pulled off the curb, trying desperately not to think of anything but keeping his eyes on the road.