The first time Enjolras came to him complaining of a mysterious ailment, Joly did what any self-respecting med student would do.
"Brain cancer," said Joly. "Definitely sounds like brain cancer to me."
Enjolras sighed. "I haven't even told you my symptoms yet."

Enjolras swallowed. "I didn't know he had tattoos on his back."
"Yeah," said Joly, shrugging. "I mean, he lives with me and before about noon, he's allergic to shirts—"
"Why—" said Enjolras weakly.
"I always figured he had a bad shirt experience," Joly offered. "Shirts killed his family, or his first dog got hit by a truck full of shirts."
Enjolras shook his head. His face was a little flushed.
"Ooh, are you experiencing symptoms?" said Joly, brightening. "What's your pulse doing? Are you breathing normally? How do your glands feel?"
“My glands are fine,” said Enjolras, although clearly something was off, since his voice was slightly higher than normal. “Would it have killed you to at least mention the tattoos?”
Joly hunted around for the thermometer. “Sorry I don’t keep you updated on the state of R’s naked body, dude.” He snickered.
“Um,” said Enjolras.
Joly froze. Something was beginning to click into place. He grabbed for his notebook, flipping through the pages. Most of Enjolras’s recorded symptoms, and all of the most dramatic ones, had occurred at Courfeyrac’s party. From this pool of data, the main commonality was Grantaire's presence. Fully half of them had happened while Grantaire was eating ice cream.

Grantaire was still talking. Joly scrambled to attention. “—seriously,” he was saying, “unreal. Unreal in the most literal definition of the word. He looks like a stained glass window, which is generally not something that gets me going, you know? But he starts talking—” Grantaire sighed. “He opens his mouth, and your hair stands on end. Your blood fizzes. It’s the opposite of ‘dreamy.’ It’s ‘awake’ on an impossible magnitude. The air crackles. You can feel the electricity in your bones—”
Probably Joly should have been taking notes. He hastily turned to a new page and wrote, ‘R really likes metaphors. A lot.’ And then underneath that, ‘May be sexually attracted to lightning?’
Was there a word for that? There had to be, right? Something-philic. Joly’s Greek maybe wasn't as good as he thought. He frowned.
“–and okay, don’t get me wrong,” said Grantaire, “I still think the way he talks about insurrection with no irony whatsoever is scary as hell. But he’s so smart and direct and brave, and he just cares so much, you know?” He scrubbed his hand over his face. “Honestly, it’s fucking amazing. And I’m angry at him for being so himself, and I’m angry at me for being somebody he could never even tolerate, and I’m angry at the universe for plunking us down within shouting distance of each other.”
“But you enjoy arguing with him," said Joly.
Grantaire hid his eyes in the crook of his elbow. "I do," he said, "I really, really do."
Joly took a deep breath. "So," he said, picking up his pen again. "Would you, uh, say you like-like him?"
Grantaire's response was three minutes of increasingly desperate laughter.
Joly patted his shoulder. "Hey, want to go mix some baking soda and vinegar? Pretty sure we can make a small explosion. I can't guarantee it's not a little dangerous, but—"
Grantaire gasped and wiped his eyes. "You had me at 'explosion.’”

“Um,” said Grantaire.
“Um,” said Enjolras.
“Um,” said Joly, due to sheer peer pressure.
“I was just looking for you,” said Enjolras, a little nonsensically since he hadn’t made any steps to leave the room and Grantaire clearly hadn’t been hiding behind the curtains or under the bed or anything.

Grantaire’s eyes were huge. Cartoon-character-huge.

(然后格朗泰尔也道歉了,大R式的道歉,说完他就逃出了房间【And with that, Grantaire fled the room.】)
“How’s the chest pains?” said Joly.
“Better,” said Enjolras carefully. “But also worse? But—in a better way. But worse.”
Joly gave into temptation and let himself bury his face in his hands. There was no algorithm in the world for this.


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