Work Text:
The boys get back on the road within ten minutes and Grantaire and Jehan take the cab again. Jehan knows right away that whatever Grantaire had referred to earlier as 'trouble' is still bothering him, and doesn't prod. He repeats the directions that Combeferre relays him and realizes within the hour that they're completely bypassing Washing DC. He can't argue; that place is probably drowning in zombies.
Grantaire doesn't offer his opinion on it, though he grunts in acknowledgement when Jehan mentions it to him. He understands that R is never very talkative when he's in a bad mood, and all the signs are there; he's tracing doodles on the back of the steering wheel cover and when they're going slow, he anxiously rubs the hundreds of scars crowding his forearm.
Jehan pulls out a poetry book and reads until it's dark, then sticks the anthology under his thigh when he's squinting to read it by moonlight. Courfeyrac and Enjolras are asleep in the back, having asked Grantaire an hour ago if he wanted someone else to drive. All he'd done was look straight ahead and said politely, "No thanks."
Jehan falls asleep not long after to the soft sound of the cool night air, and finally wakes at dawn. Grantaire, driving as silently as he had when Jehan dozed off, looks over when his eyes flutter open with a smile. "You sleep well?" He asks.
His Dragunov rifle is leaning against his shoulder and playfully Jehan toes it to make Grantaire look at him again. "I slept fine," he answers and then waits, stretching the silence for so long that Grantaire finally laughs. This is a game of theirs, to see who can last the longest without laughing, and affectionately Jehan nudges Grantaire before leaning forward and kissing him on the cheek.
"Tell me what's wrong," he says softly, and this time Grantaire does.
He tells Jehan that he has feelings for Enjolras, and he doesn't need to spell it out for Jehan to understand why it causes him such turmoil. Hope kills faster than zombies--both men know this intimately well, and both live by it. But the heart has a tendency to cheat one's beliefs, and Grantaire dreads how quickly he's beginning to respect and enjoy the blonde's company.
"What do you think I should do?" He asks, looking askance at Jehan. It is only to the poet he would pose such crucial questions and Jehan takes a moment to consider it, setting his teeth to the swell of his bottom lip.
"If you're desperate, we could leave." He's calm when he suggests it despite how attached he's grown to these boys. Grantaire nods shortly. Neither are surprised that Jehan has included himself in their theoretical departure; they've never been apart from one another since the shit hit the fan and they sure as hell aren't going to start separating now.
He hums then says, "Honestly I would say follow your heart but I know you're not going to do that so, as much as it pains me to say this, maybe you could learn to ignore it."
Jehan was born a romantic, swaddled in poetry and melodies and growing up with two happy parents who loved each other so greatly that it was obvious to whoever met them. But he also knows that Grantaire came from a broken home and to him love is a disease to be avoided at all costs, especially now. Anyone else and he would push to confess their feelings and see what could be done--with Grantaire he begrudgingly accepts that the alcoholic will tolerate nothing but the advice to put it away and light it afire.
Grantaire nods again, his fingers tightening instinctively on the steering wheel. "Yeah," he says finally. "That's good advice, Jehan." He grins at him in the dark and Jehan can see the stress in his shoulders bleed out, a slouch easing his anxiety. "Jesus Christ, ignore it. Why the hell didn't I think of that?"
"'Cause you're a drama queen," Jehan teases him, turning in his seat so he can snuggle into Grantaire's side. He sighs into his shoulder and wishes there was some way he could push them together rather than help Grantaire pry them further apart.
+++++
Eventually Jehan falls asleep again, listening to the muffled sound of Grantaire's heartbeat and the noise of the road passing underneath their tires. He sleeps until Grantaire pulls over and says softly, "Jehan, we're stopping to stretch our legs."
Jehan wakes slowly because there's no panic in Grantaire's voice and leans back to allow the sniper to get out. He stretches out across the seats in Grantaire's absence, his toes bumping the far door with a happy sigh. He's guessing he's slept for a few hours because the sunlight warming him is concentrated now and the last time he was awake the sun had barely breached the horizon.
He decides to doze for a bit longer and listens vaguely to the sound of the boys moving around the trucks. Both engines are off and it appears someone has broken into one of their food boxes; he can hear quiet laughter and the crinkle of wrappers shed from energy bars. The windows are open and a breeze drifts in, ruffling his hair, and Jehan cannot remember a time when he was more relaxed than this.
He hears Courfeyrac shout gleefully for everyone to, "Watch this!" and chuckles into the seat. He's barely dozed off again when he's torn from sleep by a throaty growl and a surge of adrenaline and he rolls onto his back at the same time a rotten hand reaches in through the window and grabs his collar.
"Zombie!" He shouts, bucking to get away from the face leering at the window. The undead seems somewhat confused as to how to get at him and while it tries to problem-solve keeps the hand at his throat. He digs at the fingers, his breath being methodically squeezed out of him, and manages to wheeze again, "Zombie!"
Suddenly Enjolras is at the window brandishing a knife and a waterfall of gore cascades onto Jehan. Those fingers twitch and his vision blackens; narrowly he can see Enjolras hacking the zombie to pieces and trying desperately to get to the hand that, although no longer manned, is still killing him.
The fingers grapple at his neck as Enjolras pulls back and there's another shout behind him, followed rapidly by a gunshot. He doesn't even spare a moment to check that someone has his back; he leans in through the window and grabs the zombie's hand, pulling each finger back individually until they break. He frees Jehan finally and drops the arm, opening the door and asking Jehan rapidly, "Are you alright?"
He's dizzy and his whole throat aches but he manages a nod and a wheezing, "Fine."
Enjolras nods and says, "Stay here," pushing the knife he'd been using on the zombie into Jehan's lap. He closes the door again and Jehan wipes blood out of his eyes, seeing that the group has formed a ragged circle around the truck. There's a few zombies ambling towards them and more dead bodies on the grass at their feet and Jehan wonders how they fuck they managed to be caught unawares by a whole herd.
Grantaire suddenly appears in front of him, loosely holding a borrowed machete in one hand and smiling behind a face streaked with gore. "Jehan," he says, obviously relieved, and kisses his forehead despite the blood. "You're alright?"
"Yeah," he says, using his thumbs to wipe blood away from Grantaire's eyes. "Are you?"
"Sure." Grantaire looks back at another gunshot but the boys are starting to lose formation now; there's only two zombies left and Combeferre and Bahorel go to dispatch them. Jehan looks back at Grantaire and can hear the wet thunk of knives bisecting skulls. "We were talking too loud," he tells Jehan, pushing his hair back with a wayward hand. It's thick with blood and looks far darker than usual, clinging to his scalp. "None of us even noticed them until you yelled."
"How many were there?" Jehan asks, tentatively touching his throat. He cringes but he's glad at least he can swallow; his windpipe wasn't crushed and that's something he can be thankful for, bruises or not.
Grantaire shrugs, leaning against the truck. The adrenaline that always spikes in these situations is beginning to fade; he looks like the tired youth he is, the dark smudges under his eyes standing out against the red of the carnage. "Ten or fifteen," he answers, looking with a frown at Jehan's throat. "You sure you're okay?"
He nods again and Grantaire sighs, dropping his eyes. "I shouldn't have left you alone," he says and there's that old self-disgust in his voice again; he blames himself for this and to Jehan it's as clear as day. "It was fucking stupid of me. I even left the fucking windows down!"
"Grantaire," Jehan says softly, "It's fine." He waits until Grantaire looks at him and then he smiles and adds almost playfully, "You should thank Enjolras, you know."
Grantaire allows a smile and shakes his head. "You play dirty, Prouvaire," he tells him and stands up. "I'll be right back." Ruffling Jehan's hair and ignoring his laugh Grantaire turns to find Enjolras, picking over a few downed bodies to get to where the blonde is standing in the middle of the field. He's armed with a long hunting knife that's painted with blood and he turns when he hears Grantaire approaching, smiling a little.
"Is Jehan alright?" He asks, and Grantaire appreciates him for it. He nods and Enjolras' smile broadens; clearly he had still been worried about how the poet had fared. He appraises the blood splattered across Grantaire's shirt and adds with a lifted eyebrow, "Are you?"
"Yeah," he says. He plays with the hilt of his knife, running his calloused fingertips over the ridges and finally heaves a long sigh.
"I came to say thank you," he says, turning to face Enjolras. The blonde considers him silently and Grantaire, awkward whenever Enjolras gives him his full attention like this, tacks on, "For helping Jehan."
Enjolras smiles. "It's not a problem," he tells him, looking back at the field. Grantaire relaxes once his focus is elsewhere, loosening the death grip he had on his blade. "You would've done the same for any of us."
"Sure," Grantaire allows. "But you still deserved thanks."
"It's alright." Enjolras sets his free hand on Grantaire's shoulder and squeezes it and it's such a friendly gesture that Grantaire's somewhat surprised. "I'm just glad Jehan isn't hurt too badly."
The distance between them has evaporated again, as it seems to have a tendency to do; Enjolras is so close that Grantaire can see speckles of color in his eyes. He watches the blonde lick his lips and it seems like it's in slow-motion.
"Enjolras," he says, and his own voice sounds somewhat far-off to him. He's not sure of whatever he might have said next because he kisses Enjolras instead, putting an open hand to the small of his back and dragging him closer. Enjolras doesn't struggle and Grantaire kisses him fiercely, kisses him like he's the only cure left in this rotten world.
They separate when they hear Combeferre's innocent inquiry of, "Did you find anymore, Enjolras?" and Grantaire fumbles to readjust his grip on his knife so he looks as focused as he should be. The distance and the shadows have allowed their friends to misunderstand their closeness simply for talking and Grantaire is more than relieved that nobody has eyes as sharp as his.
Enjolras calls back calmly, "No, Combeferre--it looks like we got them all." Courfeyrac is approaching them, bouncing across the field in long, easy strides, and Enjolras looks down at Grantaire with an unreadable expression and a smile that appears to be somewhat amused.
"I, uh, didn't mean for that to happen," Grantaire tells him, swallowing his nervousness in order to complete the lie. "I've... been drinking."
Enjolras blinks at him, his smile fading. "You're drinking and driving?" He asks incredulously, and Grantaire belatedly remembers that yes, he had been driving. He hadn't actually been drinking but it's not like he can go back on that now so he shrugs a little, unsure of how to get out of this. Enjolras' frown deepens. "That's rather dangerous," he tells him gravely.
Grantaire can't know why Enjolras isn't mentioning the kiss but he rolls with it and accepts the blame for something he hasn't actually done. "I know," he answers, glancing at where Courfeyrac has stopped to check one of the fallen zombies. "I'll have Jehan drive."
"No," he says, drawing Grantaire's attention again. "I'll drive. You can sit up front with me."
Courfeyrac makes it to them finally, winded from his sprint but obviously in high spirits. Everyone had escaped the zombie attack, after all, and he was especially glad that Jehan was okay (in desperate need of a shower, but virtually unscathed).
"Hey guys," he greets, dampening his smile when he notices how somber they both are. "You two okay?"
"Yes," Enjolras answers with another smile. "We're just discussing driving arrangements. I'm going to take over for Grantaire for a while and he'll sit up in the cab with me."
"Oh, great," Courfeyrac says happily. "I can sit with Jehan in the back."
Enjolras nods and looks to Grantaire with something of a grim smile. "Yes, it'll be lovely. I'm sure you will have as much to talk about as we will." He touches Grantaire's shoulder as he walks past and tells him, "I'll see you in the truck."
Grantaire heaves a long sigh as he watches Enjolras return to the group and Courfeyrac shoots him a curious glance. "Are you sure you're good?" He asks. "We all noticed how close you guys were talking a minute ago and no offense but you look a bit worse for wear from the encounter."
Grantaire shakes his head. "I'm fine," he tells Courfeyrac, starting to walk back to the trucks. "I definitely still feel good enough to kick your ass if you do anything to Jehan."
Courfeyrac laughs, falling into step beside him. "I'll be perfectly gentlemanly," he promises. "I swear on my momma's grave."
"Good," Grantaire answers, glad to have something to joke about to keep his mind off the knowledge that Enjolras is waiting for him. "Just keep your hands to yourself and you'll be fine."