"excuse me," grantaire said, "but is there a particular reason you're wearing my shirt?"
Enjolras froze. Grantaire was a sophomore, and he had never spoken to Enjolras beyond a casual hey as they passed on the dorm stairs, usually as Enjolras was leaving for his 8am class and Grantaire was returning from…wherever it was that the art students hung out, leaving a scent of turpentine and clove cigarettes in his wake. Enjolras wouldn’t even know his name if the RA hadn’t made nameplates for all the rooms.
Anyway, it wasn’t like he looked forward to those mostly-chance encounters. Or that his heart beat a little faster at the sight of tangled curls as Grantaire turned a corner in the stairwell.
And now Grantaire was parked in front of him on the third-floor landing, his arms folded across his chest, and Enjolras had no idea what to say.
The shirt in question was green flannel. Enjolras had found it mixed up in his laundry two weeks ago. He’d put up a note in the laundry room for an entire week, but no one had claimed it. It wasn’t really his style, or his color, but it was really soft, and with the sleeves rolled back it was perfect for a cool spring day.
“It was in my laundry,” Enjolras managed at last. “You must have left it in the dryer.”
“And you just decided to make it yours?”
He prickled. “I put up a note! Then I was going to donate it, but I tried it on and it sort of fit, so I just…” He ducked his head. “I’m sorry. I’ll wash it and then I’ll give it back, I promise.”
Grantaire’s glance wandered over Enjolras, catching briefly on the faded rainbow patch sewn to his bag. “Forget it,” he said, and a flicker of a smile crossed his lips. “It looks better on you.”