Enjolras checked his watch, blowing on its face to dispel its coating of flour. It was nearing nine, so close to the end of his shift. The bakery was empty and quiet, chairs flipped on tables and the floor freshly slick from a mopping. The counters were wiped down, most of the cakes put away, and the only sound the humming of the industrial fridge in the back room.

It wasn't that he didn't like his job, not at all. In fact, he truly enjoyed it most of the time- he loved the precision involved in backing and decorating cupcake after cupcake, the sugary scent of the baking desserts, the sudden puff of flour added to a mixing bowl. He valued his time there, mixing and whipping and icing in the hot back room.
What he didn't like was having to deal with so many people. Sure, for the most part they were nice, but it was exhausting to try and match faces to names and orders, to laugh at their bad jokes and ring them up with a pun of his own. Having to talk to that many people on a daily basis frankly made him uncomfortable.

This would be a perfect job from Grantaire, he mused. Grantaire would find some ridiculous, "high fashion" way of wearing his apron and prance around confidently in it. He would remember the name and preference of every customer ever to enter the bakery. He would actually be amused by their bad jokes, would flirt with every pretty girl- and guy- who walked through the door. He would get enough flour in his dark hair to turn it grey, and he would always save aside a cupcake for Enjolras at the end of the day.

The bell on the top of the door jangled merrily as it heralded the arrival of someone new. There was a stomping of snow-covered boots on the black and white tile floor, a huff of frozen breath, as the scraping, hideous sound of a chair being dragged across linoleum.
"We're closed," Enjolras called, without bothering to look up and see whom he was addressing. He observed the second hand of his watch make its revolution, counting down until nine. Two minutes, two excruciating minutes, and then he could clock out and go home for a shower. As long as this customer was expedient, an end was in sight.

"Please, good sir," replied a voice with a hint of a teasing French accent. "I just want your company on this cold evening."
Enjolras looked up, grinning at the young man he saw. There he was, Grantaire, with his dark hair, his green eyes sparkling over the scarf tied around the lower half of his face. There were snowflakes stuck to his long eyelashes, and what was visible of his cheeks was flushed a giddy pink. "Alright, you goof. How are you?"

Grantaire slid his scarf down and began to blow on his hands- his gloves, black, knitted, and threadbare, were fingerless. "Cold. Starving."
"When's the last time you ate?" Enjolras was already bustling around, pulling out two cupcakes and ingredients for a sandwich.
"Um..." Grantaire thought, drumming his fingers on his knees. "I ate breakfast- no, wait, that was just orange juice and two cigarettes."

Enjolras stopped what he was doing and gave Grantaire a reproachful look. "Did you eat anything today?" He raised one blond eyebrow.
Grantaire pretended to examine his long, pale fingers as he searched for an excuse. "I forgot..." he whispered.
"Grantaire, you need to stop doing that!" Enjolras snapped, exasperated. "That's not healthy." He pushed the sandwich plate and one of the cupcakes across the counter. "Eat all of it."
The dark haired young man took an infinitesimal bite of the sandwich, head lowered. "It's going to make me sick to eat all of it."

Enjolras leaned across the counter, leaving a light dusting of flour on the black marble. "Then start slow. I'm worried about you, R."
Grantaire complied, pushing down the wrapper of the cupcake and nibbling it. He didn't seem particularly passionate about consuming the food, but as he ate, Enjolras could see color returning to his cheeks, which before had been touched with an almost corpse-like grey pallor.
Enjolras bit into his own cupcake, enjoying the much-needed rush of sugar that it delivered. He sighed and put one hand over his friend's. "I'm sorry, mon cher. I know you must be tired of me forcing you to eat."
"It's alright." Grantaire gave him a half smile, one of acquiescence. "I know it's for the best. A labor of love."

Both of the young men gazed at one another, neither denying that 'a labor of love' was exactly this. R squeezed Enjolras's hand, then brought it to his lips. Enjolras leaned as far across the counter as he could, cupping Grantaire's still-snowy face in his hands. As they kissed, Enjolras was more than glad that he'd stayed past closing time.