Grantaire is less prompt with his phone answering than Combeferre. After Enjolras’ call rings out to the answering machine four times, he finally hears a click, and a slow shuffling sound.
“Nghh- mhh.. Whaa?”
He is also considerably less articulate than Combeferre, first thing in the morning.
“We’re going out today.” says Enjolras, by way of greeting.
”Oh.” Says Grantaire slowly, “My strange, fanciful dream continues into waking hours. When can I expect your delightful company.”
“In an hour.”
”An hour? That’s not nearly enough time to fix my hair.“ he drawls."You don’t need to make a fuss,” Enjolras snaps. He dislikes speaking on the phone. You can’t read a person nearly as well over the phone, and Grantaire is difficult at the best of times. “It’s just me-” he says, “It’s not like I’m your date.”
As soon as the words tumble out of his mouth, he knows he’s said something wrong. A strange rush of discomfort fills the pit of his stomach. His hands and face feel hot, and he chokes on the end of his sentence.
How embarrassing, he thinks, and hopes to god that Grantaire understands that he was just joking. That he isn’t creepy on purpose.
They must be on a faulty connection, or something, because Grantaire’s voice is strangely hollow on the other end of the line when he laughs,
”I am supremely aware of that.”The line goes dead.
Enjolras really hates talking on the phone.