Chapter Text
Grantaire loves storms.
He lives in the tension between the electricity in the air above and the perfect stillness of the water below. The surface of the ocean is a roiling mass and it sings to him—calls out for Grantaire to let himself be battered by wind and rain, only to slip beneath the waves when he can no longer bear it. A quick respite then up again; his mind goes numb as his body is pulled by the storm.
He doesn’t think. He forgets, for a few blissful hours, the misery of his own existence.
Grantaire loves storms.
Only tonight, it’s different.
He feels the storm coming in his bones. He stays close to the surface, smelling the sharp air and reading the clouds on the horizon before diving back down. It will be gone by morning, but when it comes, it is fierce.
.
Rain stings his face like needles but he leans into it, tilting his head back and grinning madly as he heaves himself backwards and ducks under the waves, his tail creating the water in a perfect arc.
He takes a moment’s reprieve under the waves, then darts back up, but this time, he’s not alone.
He hears the shouts first, just barely audible and so clearly not the sounds of the storm. Then he looks up, and the great wooden hull is upon him.
He twists and dives with agility that surprises him, and berates himself for not noticing it sooner. The storm has thrust the ship upon him, and he almost paid for it. Mermaids are not immortal, and he’s seen enough killed by human hands (accidental and not) that he’s wary of being seen.
Still, storms bring out his recklessness, and he already has so little self-preservation to begin with. He swims a safe enough distance from the ship, which is pitching back and forth, cargo plunging into the water below, and surfaces again, unable to look away from the carnage.
It’s a beautiful ship. Grantaire has seen many, and this is one of the most remarkable he’s ever seen. Sturdy yet elegant, nimble enough that the storm hasn’t just battered it to pieces. The men on board don’t look to be navy but they are clearly disciplined; the shouting is clear and strong- nobody is panicking, or if they are, they aren’t showing it.
He drifts closer, trying to get a better look.
“We’re too heavy! The ship is listing!”
Whoever has shouted, they are right.
The ship is tilted dangerously to one side, and a strong wave could cause it to capsize any second.
One man stands at the bow of the ship, holding on the railing at he surveys the storm. Lightning flashes and for one glorious second Grantaire can see his face. For a moment, Grantaire thinks he must be a god. Hair is plastered to his face by the rain but it does nothing to soften the stern brow, the sharp angles of his face, the fight in his eyes as if he is absorbing everything the storm has to throw at him and he only waits for the right moment to throw it back.
He is the most beautiful man Grantaire has ever seen, and it hurts, it feels like a serrated edge in his chest just to look at him.
Then the sky is dark again and Grantaire realizes he has just seen the course of his life change in the millisecond it took for the lightning to strike.
The following thunder is lost as the reality of their situation sets in.
This storm is a ship-killer, and Grantaire will not let this man be lost to the unforgiving seas.
His attention is stolen for a moment as he hears another order bellowed out.
“Anything that isn’t tied down, shove it off the deck!”
The men hurry to comply, heaving cargo off the starboard side to try and right the angle of the ship. The ship starts to stabilize, then lurches again sharply, and Grantaire sees a few men fall into the water. He doesn’t spare them a second glance.
A sail, Grantaire sees, though he doesn’t know its function, is caught around what looks to be a giant statue lashed near the mainmast. It’s causing the ship’s imbalance, and it must be righted if the ship is to survive the storm.
He’s not the only one who sees the problem.
The man at the bow of the ship sees it and he’s off like a shot, and Grantaire thinks he can see a satisfied grin on his face as he runs for the statue.
Grantaire is mesmerized as he watches the man dart across the ship, letting the rocking of the waves guide his movements rather than trying to fight against it. He reaches the statue and immediately begins sawing at the ropes that are holding it to the mainmast. He slips once and Grantaire’s heart lurches in his chest, but quickly regains his balance and cuts off the last rope.
A cheer goes up amongst the men and they rush forward to help shove the statue off the side of the ship. It teeters, sliding, then catches.
Part of a sail is tangled around the statue, and Grantaire can see a little better as he swims forward: it’s a man in a warrior’s stance, shield kept close to his chest and sword pointed proudly towards the sky. It is the sword that is tangled in the sail and keeping the mainmast in danger of snapping off.
Grantaire’s god acts without hesitation. He hoists himself up the statue with little regard for his own safety, balancing precariously on the shoulder of the statue. Another flash of lightning and Grantaire actually laughs—the statue is of the man, of Grantaire’s god and of course someone has tried to make permanent his visage but it looks nothing like him. The features are the same, but already Grantaire can tell that the posture, the sword, the shield—none of it is right. This man is determination and bravery and righteousness, not pomp and circumstance and self-congratulatory iconography. That much is clear from the glee on the man’s face as he hacks at the sail.
Finally the last fiber snaps and it comes free, and for one perfect second, Grantaire can see the exhilaration and pride on his face, the cheers once again from the men, then—
The ship rights itself with a sharp lurch, and then momentum carries the statue across the deck and right off the port side of the ship.
“ENJOLRAS!”
A scream from the quarterdeck draws Grantaire’s eye.
There are two men standing there, and one tries to run forward to where Enjolras, fuck, Enjolras, has just gone overboard. The other man holds him back but Grantaire has no such obstacles in his way.
He is on the port side already, luckily, and dives, thrusting himself through the water with his tail, and if he had Bahorel or Jehan with him he may have been faster but as it is, Enjolras is sinking fast when Grantaire finally spots him.
The ropes that were tangled around the statue have caught on Enjolras’ ankle, and he must have hit his head because he is unconscious, unaware of the grave he’s being pulled to.
Grantaire’s tail burns with exertion but he pushes himself faster still, reaching Enjolras and scrabbling at the ropes around his ankle, all while they sink further and further down. Grantaire is unaffected but he knows that Enjolras’ human body will not survive if they are too deep by the time Grantaire can get him free.
He has no knife and he’s panicking, but somehow his fingers manage to push off the rope and the statue plummets down without them.
An eerie calm envelopes them.
Enjorlas is suspended in the dark water, his hair flowing around him like a living thing. His features, so harsh in the storm, are softened now, and urgency leaves Grantaire as he inspects his drowning god. He drifts closer to him, afraid to touch, then a few tiny bubbles escape Enjolras’ mouth, and Grantaire is kicked into action again.
He hoists Enjolras over his shoulder and swims to the surface as hard as he can. They’re so, so far from the surface and Grantaire’s tail is burning and he’s never carried anything this long and for a second his arms give out and Enjolras almost slips back down into the deep darkness and—
.
When Grantaire finally manages to drag Enjolras to shore, he’s afraid he might be too late.
He curses his tail as he pulls himself and then Enjolras out of the water and up the beach. He feels ungainly, like an elephant seal.
It’s maybe an hour or so before dawn, the sea calm now, sky cloudy but no longer raining down on them. The soft gray light gives Grantaire just enough light to see by. Grantaire’s heart seizes in his chest.
Enjolras’ lips are blue, his chest not moving. There must be water in his lungs.
“No, no, no,” he mutters to himself, despairing. He rips open Enjolras’ shirt, exposing the skin underneath. He presses his hands to the center of Enjolras’ chest. He must expel the water, he must.
He presses down once, twice.
No response.
He hits Enjolras’ chest again, harder. Again, and again, thumping at his heart. He doesn’t know what to do, he doesn’t understand Enjolras’ body.
Enjolras’ lips part, and Grantaire leans down to listen for breath. There’s nothing, no sound, no rasp of wet lungs. Grantaire must get Enjolras to take just one breath.
He leans forward wildly, impulsively, and presses his lips to Enjolras’ in a facsimile of the kiss he wants more than anything.
Enjolras’ lips are still, cold, and Grantaire exhales forcefully, giving his own air so Enjolras may breathe yet again.
He pulls away for a second, waits, and darts in again, this time cradling the back of Enjolras’ neck to tilt his head back and open his airway wider. He tangles his fingers in the ragged, sandy hair and prays.
Grantaire tastes the seawater before he realizes that Enjolras is coughing it up into his mouth, and he gasps, breaking contact but helping Enjolras sit up and retch, emptying his lungs of the brackish water.
Enjolras’ raspy inhale is music to Grantaire’s ears.
“Are you alright?” Grantaire chances, when Enjolras is breathing evenly. He is still in Grantaire’s arms, and Grantaire can feel him trembling minutely. He resists the urge to gather Enjolras closer.
When Enjolras raises his head, his eyes are bright and unfocused. Grantaire lifts the back of his hand and rests it against Enjolras’ forehead, which is warm to the touch. Enjolras, feverish, lets his eyes flutter closed and nuzzles into Grantaire’s hand.
“Don’t…recognize you from the ship,” Enjolras murmurs.
“You wouldn’t,” he agrees softly, making up a lie on the spot. “I saw you from the shore.”
Enjolras is so pliant in his arms and Grantaire knows already he must have this, knows that his world, already dim, will be unbearably dark if Enjolras is not in it.
“You saved me.”
Grantaire’s throat is tight. He allows himself to wipe the sand from Enjolras’ cheek, lingering when Enjolras again arches into the touch.
“How…” Enjolras struggles. “Repay you?”
Grantaire shakes his head, and looks up and down the beach to see if anyone is approaching. He must make sure Enjolras is found.
“Live, Enjolras, and the sound of your breath will be an eternal lullaby to my ears. That is all the gift I need.”
Grantaire’s antics are rewarded, and Enjolras snorts, drifting off.
“Absurd,” he mumbles, but his mouth is curved in a soft smile.
Grantaire panics for a moment when Enjolras becomes limp in his arms, but his breathing is strong and he seems to just be asleep.
When Grantaire is satisfied that Enjolras’ breathing is steady and he isn’t in immediate danger of succumbing to hypothermia, he lays Enjolras back down in the sand and looks his fill.
Enjolras is lean and tall, arms corded and hands roughened, which means despite his obvious wealth, he’s worked with his hands. Grantaire is impressed. He leans forward, face tilted towards Enjolras’s, and listens to him breathe for a few moments. Enjolras’s lashes are long and golden, his cheeks ruddy, his nose proud. His jaw is sharp and clean-shaven. Grantaire will never see so awe-inspiring a sight again.
He turns to leave, but hesitates, turning back at the last second. He rests his weight on his forearm in the sand to the left of Enjolras and lowers himself gently until he’s pressed against Enjolras’s side, a sad facsimile of two lovers sleeping together in the sand. He closes his eyes for one glorious moment and pretends this is real, then disentangles himself just as gently, presses a kiss to Enjolras’s forehead, and slips in to the water, leaving Enjolras to be found by his kinsmen.
He’s sure he imagines the quick squeeze of fingers at his side when he pulls away.