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When Enjolras pushes into him, Grantaire clutches the sheets and grits his teeth, eyes slipping shut so that he won't have to see the bed before him. So that he can imagine that this isn't the only way Enjolras will have him, face down and silent.
"Come on, that's all you've got?" he asks, mostly because he knows that Enjolras hates it when Grantaire runs his mouth. He's right, of course he is.
“Be serious,” Enjolras hisses, breath grazing Grantaire's ear. Even in bed, he does not tolerate Grantaire's levity.
“I am wild,” Grantaire replies. He knows what happens next. Enjolras starts pounding into him, so hard Grantaire's breath is knocked out of him. He throws his head back and smiles at the ceiling.
**
He takes a minute to catch his breath as he lies right on the wet spot, where he came earlier. It's a little gross, but then again Grantaire has never been a neat freak like Joly is. He can deal. His body feels sore and bleached, as if he's just spent one hour in a washing machine. As if he's been creased and wrung out until there is nothing left. No stains, no bitterness, no feelings. His chest aches, too, but it always does in this moment. Enjolras doesn't ask him to leave.
(He never does. He simply waits, eyes closed, for Grantaire to slip out of his flat.)
These are strange moments. They just exist silently next to each other, and it is like a pause in Grantaire's universe.
Carefully, he turns his head, hoping to catch Enjolras unaware. He always does, when he thinks he can get away with it. And usually, he can. Usually, Enjolras pretends to fall asleep after they fuck, so he won't have to actually look at Grantaire.
He doesn't expect to find Enjolras already staring at him. His gaze is intent, almost thoughtful. Grantaire squishes what feels like a stupid burst of hope , because for a minute Enjolras doesn't look so far away anymore. He looks accessible.It is a dangerous thought.
And Grantaire doesn't know how to deal with that. He just turns away and fumbles for his clothes. He still has his shirt on, and he does a quick job of getting dressed. He can't stay here. He just can't.
“Well, it has been a pleasure, as always, Apollo. See you.”
He's halfway to the door when Enjolras speaks.
“R, wait.”
Grantaire has half a mind to just ignore him, pretend he didn't hear him. He freezes nonetheless, because he will never be able to ignore Enjolras. It's just how it is, and maybe it's fucked up, but it's true. And Enjolras only ever calls him Grantaire , with his smart Parisian accent that slices through the air like a whip. None of the musical lilt of the Southern accent, no rolled r's. He doesn't turn around, and Enjolras stays silent. Grantaire just shrugs and gets the fuck out of here.
Paris is hot and sweaty, strangely empty under the unrelenting August heat.
Grantaire shoves his hands in his pockets and starts walking.
**
Bahorel and Jehan are sprawled on the sofa when he comes home, and he greets them with a grunt, trying to ignore the beers they're holding so that they won't feel like they have to hide them (Bahorel still locks them in his bedroom, and Grantaire can't help feeling grateful for that). He'd like to say that he's stronger than that, but he knows it's not true. He still craves it, every day, even if it's been almost a year since he's had a drop of alcohol. He wonders if it will ever go away, this sensation of constantly being on the edge of a cliff. Probably not.
He knows it wouldn't take a lot for him to fall.
Instead, he opens the kitchen window and lights a cigarette. Pick your poison, he thinks, and barks out a laugh.
“Where were you?” Jehan asks, and Grantaire startles. He almost drops his cigarette, and hisses through his teeth when he catches it by the lit end.
“Jesus Ch...fucking Jehan, make some noise, would you?”
Jehan doesn't look apologetic at all, propping hirself on the counter and arching an eyebrow.
“Well?” When Grantaire doesn't answer, ze frowns. “You've been spending more and more nights out lately, R. Should we be worried?”
Grantaire wants to snap at hir to mind hirs own business, to stop nagging him like he's a child, but he knows it won't do any good. Instead, he forces a smile and takes a long drag of his cigarette.
“No,” he says around a cloud of grey smoke. “Nothing to worry about.”
It's not entirely true, but well. Grantaire has always been awfully good at lying to himself.
**
He almost doesn't go to the next meeting. His shift ended barely ten minutes ago, and he feels more worn-out than usual. The sky is heavy, and there is no wind to soothe his damp skin. He hates summer more than anything in the world.
For a second, stuck between a sweaty man and a crying baby in the metro, he toys with the idea of heading back to Montpelier. Surely, the temperatures must be higher there, but at least he could see his sister. At least, there would be space. He could take his car and just drive. He could breathe.
Grantaire feels as if he hasn't breathed in years.
But he has his job, and his friends. And he can't see his parents, won't see his parents, no matter how much he longs to see Aurélie.
So he pushes open the door of the Musain and smiles when Musichetta blows him a kiss over the counter. There are good things, here, even if he tends to forget it.
“Grantaire, my man!”
Grantaire's smile widens, and he lets Courfeyrac kiss his cheeks and ruffle his hair. Combeferre, shakes his hand with a small smile before letting himself be dragged away by his boyfriend with a long-suffering expression. Bahorel gestures toward the empty seat next to his. He still doesn't know what he did to deserve them.
He sits between Bahorel and Éponine, and thanks Musichetta when she brings his coffee. He feels almost self-conscious as he starts drinking it. He knows that everybody around this table knows exactly why he drinks coffee instead of beer. They usually make a point of ignoring it as loudly as possible, but it does nothing to quell the shame that sets heavily on his stomach.
Somehow, he knows that Enjolras is looking at him. He has always been able to tell. It is like a physical weight on him, both exciting and terrible. Like everything Enjolras does.
Grantaire doesn't meet his eyes. Instead, he strikes up a conversation with Bahorel about their latest boxing competition, until everyone is here and Enjolras starts speaking.
He doesn't say anything for most of the debate. He knows that the others find this strange. They have been shooting them odd looks lately, but he doesn't feel the need to antagonize Enjolras so much, now. Not since they have started fucking on a regular basis.
He doesn't even say anything when Enjolras starts going on a tangent about how successful the last rally to support same-sex marriage was. At least, he tries not to, but when Enjolras starts talking about how their work is going to push society forwards, he can't help but snort.
The fight that ensues is more heated than usual. Maybe it is because Grantaire is frustrated from the weird moment they shared the day before, maybe it's because he wants to ruffle Enjolras, to make him look like he cares about him for half a second. Maybe it's because he's pissed off, and he's had a bad day and he's using Enjolras as an outlet for his pent-up anger at the world. He knows he's going too far. Usually, his attacks are carefully thought-out to destroy every one of Enjolras' argument. Today, he digs too deep, his comments are snider. He doesn't really know the moment the argument turns personal, but one minute they're glaring at each other and talking politics, and the next they're standing up and shouting offence at each other across the table, while everyone watches uncomfortably, probably wondering if they should intervene before it comes to blows.
“Excuse me, O mighty leader, for not taking a pretty rich white boy seriously when it comes to societal issues,” Grantaire spits out. For the first time, he wants his words to hurt. He is tired of Enjolras' impassive expression, tired of his indifference.“Easy to be gay when one looks like you do, isn't it? And after all, if something goes wrong, Daddy can always bail you out, can't he? ” He knows even as he says it that it is uncalled for. If there is something Grantaire has learned early on about Enjolras, it is that he has close to no relationship with his parents.
Still, it is something that has always bothered him, to see Enjolras talk about the people as if he is not a part, however unwilling, of a privileged class. Enjolras' name sounds as French as they come. Grantaire's mother got turned off to countless of interviews because of her Iranian name, and Grantaire would probably have the same problem if she hadn't married his shithead of a father. Maybe it makes him a little bitter, because Enjolras is their leader, the golden boy of their movement, with his long blond hair and his sky-blue eyes. And Grantaire, well, Grantaire sometimes thinks how convenient.
Still, the words have the impact Grantaire aimed for, and Enjolras almost physically recoils, hands tightening into fists and eyes blazing.
He looks so cold, this way, so unattainable, that it's easy to forget that he was panting down Grantaire's neck not twenty-four hours ago.
“Well, at least I at least had the courage to come out, which is more than can be said for you, Grantaire,” he snaps, and the silence that follows is almost enough to make Grantaire turn on his heels and flee from this damned place at once. He can feel everyone's gaze on him, but his doesn't leave Enjolras' face. The sound of his own heartbeat is so loud, so panicked, that he suddenly wonders how it is possible that Enjolras doesn't hear it.
He can tell that Enjolras didn't mean to say it. He can tell that Enjolras would like to tug back the words into his mouth and make them disappear. His skin has turned ashen, his eyes are wide and horrified.
“Fuck you,” Grantaire says, and his voice is a little hoarse, his heart a little broken.
He ignores the way everyone is still fucking staring as he leaves.
**
Thank god, Grantaire thinks, that he knows his way around Paris. He'd say the old city has no secrets for him, but he knows it's not true. No matter how many catacombs you visit, how many pre-Haussmann tortuous street you pass out drunk in, there will always be secrets locked into old stone and skeletal tunnels.
It's something he has learned to love.
Tonight, as he lights his joint, he's sitting in a quiet street and the hard cobblestone hurt his arse. The memory of Enjolras' words hurts his heart.
“Fuck,” he mutters, taking a deep, burning drag. The taste is almost blissful, sweet and acrid and oh so liberating.
Pot is probably the only reason he hasn't drunk himself into a stupor tonight.
Pick your poison, he thinks again, but this time, it doesn't make him laugh.
When Bahorel sits next to him, Grantaire closes his eyes and exhales slowly.
“How come you always find me?”
He thinks he hears Bahorel shrug, the slight squeaking of his leather jacket. Bahorel likes to make himself look tough, even if he can be as sweet as Jehan. And as terrifying, too, when he sets his mind to it. Grantaire's friends sure are a strange lot.
“I showed you this haunt in the first place, remember?”
It's true, but Grantaire doesn't acknowledge it. Instead, he passes the joint, squinting against the glare of the street lamp.
“Nice stuff,” Bahorel comments when he's tried it, and Grantaire can't help his smirk. Of course he has the nice stuff. It's the only thing that dulls his alcoholic frenzy.
He risks a glance Bahorel's way, observes the shape of his Mohawk and the outline of his nose, dented from one fight too many.
“I tried to kick this self-righteous bastard's arse,” Bahorel offers out of the blue, “but Jehan beat me to it.”
Of course Jehan did. Grantaire winces slightly in sympathy.
“He isn't dead, is he?”
Bahorel chuckles and shakes his head slightly. Grantaire feels himself relax. Of course, he didn't reallythink Jehan would have killed Enjolras. Jehan was Enjolras' friend before being Grantaire's. Ze knows how he can be.
“I don't care, you know.”
Bahorel is looking at him, unusually earnest, without the hint of a laugh on his face. He's frowning. “I mean, I thought it would be obvious, what with Jehan being my best mate, and Bossuet and Joly and Musichetta, and Enjolras, and me, kinda, and...well, everyone, you know what I mean. I don't mind that you're...whatever you are. Nobody does.”
Grantaire snorts softly and shakes his head. He'd kill for a glass of wine.
“I know,” he says. I mind, he doesn't say. When he met Les Amis a few years ago, it didn't take him long to adapt to the variety of gender and sexual orientations present in the group, but it's harder to go against everything you've ever been taught when it comes to yourself. He's known for a long time that the bullshit his stepdad spouted at him for most of his childhood was, well, bullshit. But there's still this little voice in him that says I don't want to be like that. I don't want to deal with that. He hates that voice, but he can't seem to escape it. Maybe that makes him a coward, but then again, Grantaire has never been known to be a brave man.
All his life, he slept with girls and ignored the way his heart beat faster around some men, too.
Until Enjolras.
“How did E even know, though?” Bahorel asks casually. Or, well, as casually as Bahorel can manage, which is about as subtle as a sack of brick.
“We've been fucking,” Grantaire says. There's something viciously satisfying in outing Enjolras the same way Enjolras outed him. Not that Enjolras isn't out, but it's one thing to be gay and another to bang the fucked up ex alcoholic that hangs around at his meetings.
Bahorel just nods.
“Yeah, I'd figured it was something like that.”
Grantaire's eyebrows climb up, because Bahorel has a lot of qualities, but perceptive isn't one of them. There's a snort, and the thick scent of another puffed-out cloud of smoke.
“I'm not actually stupid, Grantaire. I was here for your fight. I know that Enjolras isn't the kind of guy to lose it like he did today. I also know there aren't many ways he could have known you were...” another vague hand-gesture. “Queer.” A pause, and Grantaire ducks his head. “Looking back, really, doesn't take a lot to understand that you're in love with him. I don't know why it took me so long to realize it.”
Grantaire's head snaps up, and he stares at his friend. He has always thought Bahorel to be keener to spout insults than to talk about feelings, and it is a strange thing than to be hearing him speak such words so freely. Bahorel, however, must mistake his gobsmacked silence for a question. Eyes rolling skyward, he huffs.
“Come on, lad. You worship the ground he walks on. Every week, you come to the meetings and hear him babble on and on about a cause you don't believe in. Every week, you argue with him for the sake of it, until he shoots you down or throws you out.”
Grantaire swallows around a strange lump in his throat, a half-formed mass of denial, and nods briskly.
“I know,” he says, and his usual eloquence has been torn to shred. Shame makes his eyes prickle with tears, and he is grateful that Bahorel pretends not to see it. The joint, almost finished, is passed back at him. He ends it with two sharp drags, and throws it away. The butt, still alight with red ash, draws a perfect curve in the air. Grantaire's gaze follows it, and stares at the glowing stain on the ground, fading quickly to be replaced by a last whiff of smoke.
Around them, Paris falls asleep. For the first time in years, the silence doesn't feel soothing.
**
When he and Bahorel finally head back home, just after one in the morning, the apartment is silent. Jehan is asleep, or maybe locked in hirs bedroom in one of these poetic frenzies that leave hir sleepless and feverish for days. Bahorel, as he is a better friend than Grantaire deserves, simply bids him good night and disappears into his own room.
Left alone in the dark lounge, Grantaire finds the courage to turn his mobile on. It swiftly informs him that he has six missed calls and twelve unread text messages.
He deletes them all, and goes to bed.
**
There is someone pounding at the door, and Grantaire startles awake with a gasp, forehead drenched in sweat. In his small bedroom, the heat is stifling. His covers have been pushed on the floor at some point during the night.
The pounding picks up in earnest, and Grantaire swears under his breath. Both Jehan and Bahorel are widely known to sleep like the dead, which leaves him the task of answering this unfortunate late-night visit. A glance at his alarm clock informs him that it is three in the morning, which seems ungodly at best.
He takes his time, both out of annoyance and reluctance to face the person who is standing on the other side of the door. He has no doubt as to who it is. He splashes cold water in his face, washing away sweat and lassitude.
It is no surprise to find Enjolras staring back at him when he opens the door. What is surprising, however, is the expression on his face. It is one Grantaire knows too well. He has seen it during Enjolras' speeches, this hard determination that sharpens his beautiful face, transforms it into an arrow.
This expression has never been directed at him, and it freezes him on the spot. He is aware of what he must look like, clad in his boxers, hair wild and skin clammy. He pushes the thought away. He has never been handsome, not really. Now is not the time to be vain.
“I'm sorry,” Enjolras says.
Grantaire gapes. These aren't words he expected to hear from Enjolras, not ever. Enjolras is proud and fierce and beautiful. Enjolras is a deity, and Grantaire is but a poor excuse for a human being. Enjolras' brow furrows. There is a bruise on his cheekbone, Grantaire notices, and Bahorel's words come back to him. Jehan. Lovely, terrifying Jehan.
“What I said was out of line, I shouldn't – I had no right to –” Enjolras stammers a little, and Grantaire feels every scrap of his anger ebb away. He shrugs, rubs the back of his neck.
“It's not a big deal. You probably spared me the humiliation of having to do it myself.”
Enjolras shoots him a look, like he knows it's rubbish. Grantaire is simply incapable of holding a grudge against him. It's how it's always been, and he doesn't see it changing any time soon.
He isn't sure he wants it to change.
His body moves of its own accord, and he steps aside, gesturing for Enjolras to come in.
It isn't the first time that Enjolras has come here, not by a long shot. But it is the first time he has done so with the obvious intent of visiting Grantaire. It shouldn't send his heartbeat racing, but it does. It is the middle of the night, and Grantaire turns on the reading lamp next to the couch, casting a regretful glance at the mess. He hovers a little while Enjolras peers at everything with the same level of concentration, as if trying to make sense of what he sees.
It hits him here, how different they are. Because Grantaire is coarse and Enjolras is smooth, full of moral and ideals. Because Grantaire is dark and Enjolras is light, and his eyes look towards a future and see something bright. Grantaire looks around him and sees only misery. His mind is a hellscape he can't run away from.
He knows that Enjolras doesn't love him. And how could, he? It takes energy to love a broken man, and Enjolras' energy is spent trying to make the world a better place. There is no place for Grantaire here. There never has been.
“Apollo,” he says. It's almost a sigh, but Enjolras' head snaps up as if Grantaire had yelled it, pale eyes narrowing.“Enjolras,” Grantaire amends.
“Grantaire.” It is cautious, strangely so. In the dim light, Grantaire watches as the expression on his face turns guarded.
“We should...” we should stop. I'm not strong enough. I can't do this. “We should go to bed.”
As if Enjolras heard the words Grantaire didn't say, his mouth opens slightly, and his lip catches the edge of his teeth. His hand, when it comes up to smooth his hair, is trembling slightly.
Grantaire doesn't know what to do with that. He looks away.
“Yes,” Enjolras says, and his voice is even. “Yes, of course.”
They never kissed, not even the first time they fucked. Their first time had been rough and angry, the aftermath of a heated argument, and Grantaire had revelled in the way Enjolras' eyes had flashed just before climax, something dark and stormy in their depth.
They don't kiss this night, either, but Enjolras is more careful in his caresses, and he lets Grantaire look at him.
When he comes, Enjolras presses his mouth against Grantaire's shoulder to muffle a gasp, and Grantaire's skin tingles with the ghost of his lips.
They fall asleep together for the first time, but when morning comes, Grantaire opens his eyes to an empty bed.
**
He doesn't stop going to the meetings. Of course he doesn't. For one, it's not like he has anything better to do. He's never been the kind of person to seek a purpose in life, some grand ideal that he should follow. In fact, he's always been pretty good at avoiding those. But Les Amis are, well, his amis, and he isn't ready to leave them behind. Grantaire has always had a dependant personality.
But he doesn't argue anymore. Éponine ensures continuity on that, though she does it much more sensibly. She's the one who calls Enjolras on his rubbish and tells him to check his privilege. She's the one who yells at him until he cowers when he starts patronizing Cosette, the head of a new feminist organization and Marius' girlfriend. Grantaire just sits back and watches, smirks a little, and goes out for drinks with them when the meetings are over.
Sometimes, he catches Enjolras' gaze on him. He avoids it as much as he can, because he knows that he couldn't resist if Enjolras tried something. But Enjolras never does. He just watches Grantaire, expression unreadable.
“You should talk to him,” Combeferre says after a meeting. They're at the Corinthe, and Grantaire is sipping his coca-cola and trying to convince himself that he doesn't envy Courfeyrac his pint. He looks up, and Combeferre is gazing at him carefully, dark eyes hidden behind thick-rimmed glasses. Next to him, Courfeyrac pretends not to be listening, his hand linked with Combeferre's.
“Who?” Grantaire asks, even if he already knows the answer to this question. Combeferre's look tells him that he knows exactly what Grantaire is doing. Which is stalling. Grantaire is stalling.
“Enjolras. You should talk to him,” Combeferre repeats patiently “You used to be friends.”
Grantaire snorts and stares at his glass. The bubbles of soda are bursting at the surface. When he was a child, he used to watch them for hours, until his drink was flat and disgusting.
“We were never friends, Combeferre. I was a pain in his arse on the good days.”
Combeferre shoots him one more strange look, but doesn't insist.
A few hours later, Grantaire is in his bed, tossing and turning. The conversation doesn't want to leave him alone.
He swears and heads to the balcony for a smoke. Damn Jehan and hirs dainty lungs.
**
“Will you help me?”
Around them, everybody is silent. Grantaire can't look away. It's the first time Enjolras has addressed him directly since their last night. It was two months ago, and his breath catches in his throat. Will you help me, Enjolras has said. Me, not us.
“Anything for you, Enjolras.”
It is meant to sound sarcastic, caustic maybe. But there is too much truth into it, probably, and Enjolras' expression wavers for half a second. Grantaire looks away.
He hasn't touched his camera in years. Not since he dropped out of the Gobelins and gave up on his dreams of art.
But Enjolras' usual contact can't free herself for the protest, and Enjolras needs official photos to supply their website and facebook page.
Grantaire sighs, and digs into his wardrobe for his charger.
**
“Est-ce qu'on va les laisser gagner?” Enjolras exhorts. The crowd shouts back in anger, a deafening “Non”, and Enjolras speaks of the people who walked these streets to deny other people their rights, speaks of liberty and equality. Grantaire snaps a shoot of the crowd, alive with Enjolras' voice, and turns his attention back to Enjolras. Apollo has never been more fitting, with the way the light plays in his hair. He looks like a bonfire, eyes brimming with revolt and rage. He is never more beautiful than in these moments, Grantaire thinks. Click, goes his camera, pointed towards the sun. Click, click.
Enjolras leaves his place to an elected member, and for a second their eyes meet.
Enjolras smiles, and Grantaire's heart feels like it might burst.
The protest, surprisingly, is undisturbed. There are a few altercations, but those are rapidly contained. Grantaire supposes the police can be useful when they feel so inclined. The weather is exceptional for October, he muses idly. It is good, for the protest and for his photos. Once the speeches are done with, people start to scatter, heading for the nearest metro station, and Grantaire thumbs through the previews. There are a few good ones.
“How are you, Grantaire?”
Grantaire's camera would have crashed on the ground if it weren't for its strap. Enjolras' voice is close –too close for comfort, dangerous. He turns, takes one step back so he won't be tempted to do something ridiculous.
“I am...” he licks his lips and lets his eyes slip shut for a split-second, trying to gather some semblance of calm. “I'm well, I suppose.”
Enjolras gazes at him, serious, as if trying to find the truth on Grantaire's face. He seems satisfied with whatever he finds, because he gives a curt nod.
“I'm glad,” he says. “Will you come to the post-protest meeting?”
Grantaire nods back. “Of course. I wouldn't miss it for the world.”
There he goes, being earnest again. He really has to work on that.
Enjolras assesses him once more, from head to toe, and seems to come to a decision.
“The van is full and I don't feel like taking the metro. Will you walk with me?”
It is a command disguised as a question, and Grantaire complies willingly. Heart hammering, he follows Enjolras' lead as he always does. The Musain is not far from Bastille, less than a half hour by foot, and the temperatures are clement enough for it to be enjoyable. For the first ten minutes, not a word is exchanged, which is perfectly fine by Grantaire. He has no idea what Enjolras wants, why he would seek his company this way. Grantaire hates feeling uncertain. When he glances sideways, though, Enjolras' face reveals nothing.
“You intrigue me, Grantaire,” Enjolras says abruptly, and it is so unexpected Grantaire has to stop walking. They are standing in the middle of the Pont Sully; the cars rumble past them, unnoticed. He arches an eyebrow, careful to keep his face blank and emotionless, although he fears it is a lost battle.
“Do I, now?”
Enjolras nods. “You do.”
When Grantaire realizes that nothing else is forthcoming, his eyebrow climbs even higher.
“Well, do enlighten me. I'm curious.”
Enjolras is quiet for a moment, shifting from foot to foot. It takes Grantaire some time to work out that the strange look on his face is embarrassment. It is priceless, and more than a little unsettling. Grantaire starts walking again, and they exit the bridge at a more leisurely pace.
“You stopped talking to me,” Enjolras states slowly, and there isn't a lot Grantaire can say to that. he just hums, and waits for Enjolras to come up with something a little less obvious.
“You just –stopped talking to me, arguing with me, looking at me, and I suppose it took that for me to realize how frequently these things occurred before.”
Grantaire feels himself grow pale, and locks his jaw determinedly.
“Ah,” is all he adds.
They stop talking for a while, until they reach the Rue Saint-Jacques. It is an exhausting street, long and sloping, and of course, it is as they are climbing it that Enjolras chooses to strike again.
“There was a time when I thought that your silence would be a great improvement of your character.”
Grantaire's chest turns cold as ice, and he has to work his mouth open a few times before managing to utter a word.
“Don't be cruel, Enjolras.”
Enjolras' hand seizes Grantaire's arm. It burns, even through his shirt, the imprint of Enjolras' fingers around him. Grantaire stops, and dares meeting his gaze. There is something almost desperate in the way Enjolras is looking at him.
“You misunderstand me. This is what I thought would happen, a long time ago, but.” Enjolras pauses, licks his lips. Grantaire's eyes, traitors, follow the movement avidly. “It didn't. I realized that I missed it. I realized that miss you.”
Grantaire can't help it. He laughs. He laughs until there are tears running down his cheeks, and then he laughs again, bent in half in the middle of the pavement. He wants to run away, to punch Enjolras in the face, to kiss him until he shuts the fuck up.
“If this is a joke, E, I'm afraid I don't find it funny.” But he is laughing, still. It is not a happy laughter. It hurts his chest, feels like sobbing. Enjolras' hands pry Grantaire's from his face, the gesture soft and careful.
“Please, R.” he implores. “Hear me out.”
“I always do,” Grantaire says. “I always do, but I'm asking you, Enjolras, if you care even a little about me, don't say these things.” He feels defeated, tired. Where he was laughing before, he can't muster a smile. Enjolras' look of incomprehension angers him. “Why do you say such things? You must know, by now, the way I feel about you. If you haven't found out on your own, then Combeferre will have explained it to you. I was fine with the –” he waves a hand again, and fears he is turning into Bahorel. “the arrangement we had, because I had no hope of it being anything else than plain old fucking. You don't care about me, you never have. You couldn't even look at me. You couldn't even talk to me normally outside of the bedroom, nor inside.”
Enjolras looks stricken, and Grantaire turns to walk towards the Musain. Their friends must be waiting. He can't continue this conversation.
“You.” Enjolras says, and the rage in his voice is enough to make Grantaire spin around. Enjolras is scowling, actually scowling. He looks furious, red spots high on his cheekbones. “You were the one who always left. You were the one – you never talked to me, you just...left, like it didn't matter. Don't you –don't you know?” He shakes his head. “I can't believe it.”
Enjolras stalks inside the Musain, shaking with rage, and Grantaire is left looking at his retreating back, mouth halfway open.
“What,” he whispers. The empty street has no response to offer.
Grantaire wants to punch a wall, but he knows that the comfort it would offer would not be worth the pain. Instead, he lights a cigarette and leans against the door of the Musain.
**
Grantaire slips inside the café. The lights of the main room aren't on, Musichetta having closed the place for the day to be able to go to the protest, but he knows his way around. He crosses the dark room silently, heading in the direction of the laughter and stumbles into the back room.
“What the fuck did you do?” Éponine hisses when he flops down on the seat next to hers. “I don't think I've ever seen Enjolras look so angry.”
Grantaire follows her gaze to where Enjolras is sitting, pale and silent, face drawn tight.
“I have no idea, Éponine,” he says. His voice is too rough, and he knows that his eyes must be rimmed with red. What a pathetic thing he is. “I just don't understand him.”
Éponine snorts and shakes his head. “Well, that's hardly new, is it?” Grantaire's distress must show, because her voice softens. “Fix this, R. It's long past time you two to sort this out.”
Grantaire nods. She is right. Their relationship is an open wound, and it has been festering for so long he wonders if it is salvageable. He wonders if it has ever been.
The meeting passes in a daze. He would be unable to repeat a single word that is said that night. He thinks he hear Enjolras congratulate them on their work, and they talk numbers, they talk media covering, and Grantaire just stares into the distance until Éponine elbows him sharply in the ribs. Grantaire swears this woman has knives in lieu of bones. His head snaps up, and yes. Everybody is looking at him expectantly.
“Are we disturbing you, Grantaire?” Enjolras says coldly, and it is the kind of passive-aggressive remark that would send him reeling any other day. Enjolras knows this perfectly well, if his hard stare is any indication. It is a taunt. He wants to start a fight, but Grantaire does not indulge him. Instead, he straightens. “I'm sorry. I wasn't paying attention.”
Enjolras frowns slightly, surprised enough to forget his anger. Around the table, everyone relaxes in unison. Grantaire wonders with a pang of guilt for how long their friends have been suffering from this situation. “I asked when you would have the photos ready.”
Grantaire mulls it over for a second. “Give me two days to select the best and retouch them and they'll be yours.”
Enjolras nods slowly, fiddling with his papers. When his eyes finally meet Grantaire's, they are devoid of their usual coldness.
“Thank you for doing this, Grantaire. You were helpful beyond expectations.”
It occurs to Grantaire that it is the first time Enjolras has paid him a direct compliment, left-handed though it is. He is not the only one to notice, either. Around the table, their friends are silent, following their exchange avidly. Musichetta, sitting on Bossuet's lap, is looking between them with a dawning look of comprehension. He thinks he hears Feuilly mutter for fuck's sake, Enjolras.
Grantaire tips his head and grins. “Well, you know me. There's nothing I like more than to prove you wrong.”
He thinks he sees the hint of a smile on Enjolras' –beautiful, kissable –lips, a slight tug upward.
“Well,” Courfeyrac says brightly, ever the ice-breaker. “I think this concludes brilliantly this meeting. What a day, my friends! Success all over. May I suggest that we take this somewhere else? I, for one, am in the mood for dancing.”
Bahorel hoots enthusiastically, and even Combeferre seems tempted. Enjolras is still looking at him.
“I'm afraid you will have to go without me,” he says, aiming for rueful but only managing tired. “I have other plans.” These plans include getting spectacularly high and trying to figure out what the fuck to do with Enjolras, but nobody has to know that. The piercing look Jehan shoots him says otherwise, but Grantaire ignores his friends' protests and leaves the Musain.
The metro is almost empty, save for a few party-goers and an old man sleeping soundly. Grantaire closes his eyes, lets himself relax.
What a day, indeed.
**
The changes are not immediate, nor are they immense. In the month that follows the protest, things are busy. Grantaire goes to work, to the meetings. Enjolras has taken to asking his opinion. It is a concession, and in turn, Grantaire quells his pessimist rants.
It is tentative, but it is something of a truce, and Grantaire's heart flutters with every glance Enjolras sends his way.
I love you , he wants to say. I hate that I love you.
Enjolras attempts to talk to him several times, but Grantaire ducks and pretends, avoids being left alone with him. He is not sure he wants to have this particular conversation.
Finally, the day of the vote comes. For once, they are all gathered in the main room of the Musain. Others patrons are waiting with them, and the air is thick with tension. Enjolras keeps reloading the page until Éponine explodes.
“For God's sake, Enjolras, you don't need to refresh it, it's a direct broadcast,” she yelps, and her voice is higher than usual. She tugs a dumbstruck Enjolras away from his chair firmly and plops down in his place. When the news of the intrusion in the parliament by the partisans of the Manif pour Tous comes, Enjolras' face contorts with rage and Bahorel cracks his knuckles menacingly.
The outcome of the vote is almost certain, but still, everyone looks out of their mind with apprehension. Courfeyrac, uncharacteristically silent, is holding Combeferre's hand and biting his lip. Feuilly, Jehan and Bahorel are sitting together at their usual spots, but their conversation is idle. Musichetta has left the counter to her niece Margot, standing anxiously between her boyfriends. Joly looks on the verge of passing out. Grantaire feels almost as frenzied as the rest of them, staring at the screen of Enjolras' laptop like it holds the secrets of the universe. He is fidgeting with his sleeve and considering going out for a smoke when Éponine lets out a earth-shattering shriek.
“It passed. Oh my god, it passed!”
There's a beat of silence. Everybody stares at her. Grantaire feels lightheaded, pulse racing and hands shaking. He takes a deep breath.
He doesn't know who starts cheering. Probably Bahorel. But soon, the noise in the café is deafening and Grantaire joins in readily. Even Enjolras is laughing, and he hugs back Éponine enthusiastically.
“Combeferre, marry me.”
The cheers stop at once. Even the others patrons have stopped to watch the scene. Combeferre lets out a breathless laugh, but his smile slips when he catches sight of his boyfriend. Courfeyrac's cheeks are red, his gaze intent. More importantly, he is not smiling. In fact, he looks more serious than Grantaire has ever seen him.
“Did you –did you mean that?” Combeferre asks, and the hope in his voice is so obvious even Grantaire catches on it, and he has never been the best at reading social clues.
Courfeyrac nods jerkily. “Yes. Yes, of course. I wanted to save it for when we were alone, but it just, ah, slipped. If you don't want to, it's not –” he is stammering, face flushed and eyes wide.
“Courf, stop.” Courfeyrac's mouth snap shut and he takes a step back, face falling. How someone so outgoing can be so clueless is a mystery for the ages. Even Enjolras looks mortified on his behalf. “Yes. Yes, oh my god. Of course I'll marry you, are you kidding me?”
Courfeyrac makes a low, surprised sound in the back of his throat, and the kiss that ensues is so enthusiastic Grantaire feels the need to avert his gaze. Around them, the cheering has picked up in earnest. He is drunk on it, chest tight with joy. It is a new sensation, and he has to close his eyes for a second.
“I have to admit that I did not expect that.”
Grantaire smiles and opens his eyes. Enjolras' shoulder nudges his. It is strange, he muses, that they were never this comfortable, not even when they slept together. It seems so far away, now.
“It must be tough,” he answers with a smirk. Enjolras does not take the bait.
“R, I think we should talk.”
Nobody is paying them much heed, and Grantaire is thankful for that, because he is certain he just went pale.
“Do you really want to do this now?”
Enjolras shrugs, a strangely careless gesture. “You can't escape me.”
It makes laughter bubble up Grantaire's throat. It sounds desperate even to his own ears. “Now, you just sound like a serial-killer.”
A flash of irritation. “Quit stalling,” Enjolras snaps, before taking a deep breath and schooling his features into something calmer.
“I'm listening,” Grantaire says, because he may no other choice than to endure it, but he will not willingly offer Enjolras ammunitions.
Enjolras' next words take him by surprise.
“In the many years you have known me, how many people have you seen me date, Grantaire?”
Grantaire blinks slowly. “What does this have to do with –”
“Answer me.”
“None, but –”
Enjolras seems determined not to let Grantaire finish his sentences.
“And how many people did I go home with after parties?”
“None that I know of, but –”
“That's because I don't.”
Grantaire closes his mouth. Opens it again. Frowns.
“What.” His legendary wit has taken a blow.
Enjolras crosses his arms, looking embarrassed.
“I just –I had very few relationships in my life, Grantaire, and even fewer, ah, carnal relationships.”
“Do me a favour and never use the word carnal to refer to sex,” Grantaire says weakly. He swallows around the lump in his throat. “I just –I don't understand. You did –well, you slept with me.”
Enjolras nods firmly.
“I did.”
“Is that –” Grantaire's voice breaks. He would find it mortifying if he wasn't busy trying to hold back a panic attack. “Is that your very convoluted way of telling me that youhad feelings for me?”
Another nod. Grantaire pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling hysterical.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
A look of discomfort flashes over Enjolras' face.
“I didn't think you reciprocated. You always left, afterwards. You antagonized me.”
“You didn't – for God's sake.” He is horrified. All this time they have spent hurting each other makes him nauseous. “I left because I thought you – I just wanted you to pay attention –” No. It sounds even more pathetic out loud. “I'm in love with you, you clueless twit! I've been in love with you for years!”
It is only when he notices that everybody has fallen silent around them that he realizes that he shouted the last part.
“Have you?”
He thinks he can hear someone facepalm. Feuilly or Éponine, if he has to take a guess.
“Yes.” His cheeks are burning, with frustration and embarrassment, but Enjolras is smiling, and it is all he ever needed, to see this smile directed at him. He takes a step, forgets the gazes on him. Behind Enjolras' eyes, there are universes. They are wild and terrifying; Grantaire wants to explore every one of them.
“Good,” Enjolras says. He nods, once, as if to emphasise his point. “That's good.”
Grantaire feels faint. He reasons with himself that it is not Enjolras' type, but he can't shake the feeling that any moment now, Enjolras is going to laugh and shake his head, mock him for being so gullible.
“May I kiss you?” Enjolras inquires politely, and Grantaire can't help the nervous giggle that shakes his chest. How embarrassing.
“Yes,” he says, and nods for emphasis. He takes a step forward at the same time Enjolras does.
Enjolras' lips are warm and clumsy on his. His arm, when Grantaire's hand wraps around it, is stiff. Grantaire might have stumbled upon the only domain in life where Enjolras is not his usually confident self. It is the best kiss in Grantaire's life. They have never been so close, he realizes, his body flush against Enjolras'. The thought scares him more than he is willing to admit.
When they part, his heart is hammering and his stomach feels tight and fuzzy.
“This is a bad idea,” he whispers, because it is. They are so different, and Enjolras' life is filled to the brim with his Causes and his grand ideals, whereas Grantaire has no other ambition than to follow him. To death, if it is what it comes to.
“We'll see,” Enjolras says. There is a hidden smile, a slight quirk of his lips that makes Grantaire want to kiss him again until he is breathing him in, until oxygen makes itself sparse.
He doesn't. He has never been one for public demonstrations of affection, and he is willing to bet that Enjolras isn't either. Their friends are making a very loud point of not paying attention to them, but he can feel the glances they sneak their way.
Instead, he lets a smile of his own blossom on his face, cautious. Enjolras' gaze, far from its usual icy sharpness, is a blue flame; the warmest.
“We'll see,” he repeats quietly.
Hope is spreading into his veins like a wildfire.
Grantaire lets it.
Fin.