Chapter Text
The urge was unlike anything else.
It was like an unscratched itch, one that would persist for days and refused to go away, no matter how much he tried not to think of it. Enjolras dealt with it everyday for as long as he could remember, and he liked to believe he knew all the tricks to ignoring it.
On good days, it was like he could pretend he was the perfect and flawless student he was perceived to be. The handsome law student with exemplary grades, and a passionate drive for doing the right thing; some would assume he was an example, what with starting his own activist group and spirited personality. He came from a rich family, knew how to behave, and yet they couldn't be so wrong.
On the worse days, there were times when he almost pulled his hair out fighting against the urge. It seemed the older he got, the more unbearable it had become. The more pressing the itch. All he could think about was the heat and smoke and fire, his fingers twitching occasionally in aborted movements to reach for a lighter he no longer had.
He'd sit in class, idly staring at nothing, trying and failing to pay attention when his thoughts were on anything else but education.
On those days, sometimes it was best for him to not get out of bed. Courfeyrac would call Jehan over, and they'd make tea and talk to him, even when Enjolras wanted to scream that he wasn't depressed, he was a growing pyromaniac, getting worse every day.
It even followed him into his dreams. Huge fires surrounding him, the smell of smoke and ash scorching his lungs, making him cough in agony and pleasure. Sometimes the fire took place in forests, other times in buildings, establishments. It was horrible.
The worse part was that those were the nights he slept best.
He'd wake up, ashamed and disgusted and so sickeningly satisfied at the images of fire in his head, the smell of smoke not leaving his nose until hours after he'd woken up.
Few of his friends knew the problem he was facing, his 'depression'. Combeferre, Jehan and Courfeyrac were the only ones who were around him enough to notice the changes in his behavior when the itch was present. Enjolras was more subdued on those days, keeping his thoughts to himself and his actions limited.
The thought of hurting someone because of his obsession was unbearable.
They assumed he was depressed, his fiery personality suddenly turning to quiet and expressionless apathy. It was a reasonable assumption, and they'd tried to convince him to get help for it on several occasions.
It was a bad day, and Enjolras had yet to get out of bed. Instead, he stared morosely at the ceiling after sending away Jehan and his offer of tea. Enjolras scrubbed a hand down his face, staring at the ceiling with the same listless look. He wanted to get up, be useful somehow.
He knew better.
Enjolras didn't like feeling this helpless, this trapped by his own dangerous obsession. He wished he could just forget it, like it was some passing fancy that he no longer needed to acknowledge.
He rolled over to stare at the wall, his phone chiming with a text message from Courfeyrac that was just a ":)". Enjolras hated worrying his friends more than anything, because he knew it was stupid. If they knew, they wouldn't be so quick to feel sorry for him.
Enjolras almost wished it was depression, because then it would be treatable. Then he could tell his friends, finally admit to it, and take up their offers to find people to help him.
There wasn't very much known about what caused a pyromaniac to be obsessed with fire, or if it was even a mental illness. Enjolras felt like it was, but it wasn't like he could go out and offer himself up to study and risk being deemed too unsafe to be allowed in the outside world. He could handle this.
There was a distant roaring in his ears, and that's when Enjolras knew he needed to do something about himself. He needed someone to watch him, check in with him daily to make sure he didn't do anything stupid. It was getting worse, and he no longer trusted himself like he used to.
What he needed was someone who would understand, and yet have no pity. Someone loyal, someone Enjolras could trust with his personal well being. It would be a hard decision, because while Enjolras trusted all of his friends with his life, he knew that certain things could only go so far. He didn't want to burden anybody, but it seemed like a necessary evil if he wanted to make sure he could get through this.
There was only one person who could know, Enjolras thought with a sickening realization.
He hoped Grantaire would take him seriously, for once.
*****
Enjolras didn't feel it today, the urge, more like a distant hum in the back of his mind that was manageable, easy to ignore. He wished it could be like this all the time, especially on days when they had meetings. He needed to focus on his cause, but it was so hard when all he wanted to see was everything burning.
After the meeting, Enjolras lingered. He didn't usually do so, finding he had more pressing and useful ways to spend his time than drinking with his friends, but something made him stay.
Grantaire was in the back, throwing back another sip of his cheap beer and lazily smiling at something Bossuet said. They laughed raucously when Grantaire said something back, the pale column of his neck exposed as his shoulders shook.
A borderline alcoholic, Grantaire knew the urge, the itch like none of their friends would. If there was a person among their friends who would understand, who would have no pity and yet be sympathetic, it would be Grantaire.
But they were different. Grantaire indulged himself in his desires. Enjolras couldn't bear the thought of even flicking on a lighter, a trick he'd done in high school to get through the long hours of class. He'd always gone to restroom when he was most stressed, flick on the lighter and watch the flame duly.
Until he almost set the paper towel dispenser on fire. To this day, Enjolras still couldn't remember if it had been an accident or not, but it was senior year anyways, and the lighter trick was no longer helpful, but dangerous.
It was hard at first, avoiding fire and the mention of it at all costs, but now Enjolras was almost used to it. Now it was just a desire and obsession that he refused to let himself have.
Enjolras didn't realize he'd been staring at Grantaire for so long until the dark haired man's eyes were on his, an inquisitive eyebrow raised. Instead of looking away as fast as he could, Enjolras merely blinked, an academic interest on his face.
Perhaps they were different, but that didn't rule out the possibility of Grantaire's companionship. Enjolras had no false hopes about him overcoming his obsession. He knew that for as long as he lived, he'd always feel it, the obsession with fire.
That's what made it all the more necessary to have someone who would watch him, like a loyal dog to a master. Enjolras knew about Grantaire's feelings for him, going on two years now. Anyone who could claim to be in love for that long would never betray him, making him all the more the best candidate for what Enjolras needed.
Abruptly, Enjolras stood. He walked towards Grantaire's table, Bossuet giving him an oblivious smile and gesturing to a chair.
"Here to join the cool table? There's no initiation," The bald man said welcomingly.
But Enjolras shook his head, forever stoic. He leaned down, enough so that his lips were nearly on Grantaire's ear, and he could feel the man shiver beneath him at the sudden proximity. "Grantaire, can I speak to you outside?" His voice was a faint whisper.
"Uh, yeah, just let me," Grantaire began, reaching for his half-full bottle with plans to finish it off. Enjolras sighed in frustration, grabbed the damned thing and gulped it down in three quick sips, wincing at the bitter taste.
"Now," Enjolras demanded, all business. He set the bottle down onto the wooden table with perhaps a little more force than necessary.
Bossuet and Grantaire were staring at him with both admiration and incredulity. "Holy fuck. All right, now."
When they were finally outside, Enjolras rolling his eyes at the mouthed 'help me' directed at Courfeyrac that Grantaire thought he wouldn't see, they were standing in front of the Musain, where any passerby might fancy to eavesdrop on them.
It was raining slightly, an almost imperceptible drizzle that was more of a nuisance than anything else. The sky overhead was grey and dreary, accenting the bags under Grantaire's eyes and the tired glaze there. It wasn't the first time Enjolras wanted to ask what was wrong, and if he could help. Enjolras shook his head against those thoughts. He couldn't even help himself.
Enjolras frowned, his expression pinched. "Not here. Someone might overhear."
"Are you a government spy? Since when did you care about what people think?" Grantaire was staring at him like he'd grown two heads.
"Since it might get me into a psychiatric hospital," Enjolras replied, briefly assessing his surroundings. There was an alley between the Musain and the building next to it, making the perfect place to have a private conversation without prying ears. Grantaire stared at him, mouth gaping. "Come on."
"And now we're going into suspicious dark alleys. I'm just waiting for you to grow antennae right now," Grantaire said, incapable of going two minutes without making a sarcastic joke or jibe.
Enjolras gave him a flat look, pulling him by the wrist into the dark alley and looking around warily. No windows, no people, and the acoustics were terrible. "This should do."
"You do realize you're being weird as fuck, right? Is this how you usually make friends?"
"We're not friends," Enjolras said, pursing his lips and shaking his head. Grantaire's eyes were on his a moment ago, but at that they slid down to the floor.
Grantaire leaned against the alley wall, the brick undoubtedly cold, but he didn't look uncomfortable. "All right, so you've dragged me into a shady alley, mentioned mental illness, and downed about half my bottle of beer. What have you done with the real Enjolras?"
"There is no real Enjolras," Enjolras snapped, then took a deep calming breath. "Well, there is. But nobody would know."
Grantaire's hazel eyes were on him again at that, snapping up like they were summoned. The color of his eyes weren't the same, one was noticeably darker than the other, more brown compared to the other's greenish hue. Enjolras both admired and envied them, though he knew Grantaire hated his eyes.
He looked interested, and perhaps a little aroused. But that expression wasn't anything new to Enjolras, he'd seen on Grantaire's face thousands of time, directed at him while he was giving a fiery speech or in the middle of one of their long debates. Enjolras knew how much Grantaire wanted him.
To his credit though, Grantaire didn't seem very intent on giving his lust attention at that moment. "Are you... okay? You're being weird as hell right now."
"No," Enjolras breathed, but refused to show weakness and look away.
"I can get Courfeyrac, or Combeferre. Jehan would probably be pretty good at, uh, making you feel okay, I don't know. If you're sick, Joly should still be in, uh — "
"I'm not sick. And they can't know," Enjolras couldn't help the way his shoulders sagged, an almost distraught expression on his face.
"Right, okay. Okay, uh. There are like, hotlines and prevention lines for like, — "
Abruptly, Enjolras's eyes were fiery and pinpointed on Grantaire. "I'm not suicidal. Or depressed." Why did everyone seem to think that?
The silence after that was long and uncomfortable, Grantaire shifting around and crossing his arms, then uncrossing them again. He wouldn't meet Enjolras' eyes, and Enjolras refused to say anything else. Eventually, Grantaire broke the silence. His voice was almost hopeful, concerned. " ... Can I help?"
"No," Enjolras said flatly, and watched as Grantaire's expression crumpled back into cynicism. Enjolras let out a frustrated puff of air, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You can't help the — the problem."
"The problem?" Grantaire asked hesitantly.
Without realizing it, Enjolras averted his eyes, staring at the faded brick wall and the coarse pattern it created. He was never a coward, but he would never be able to look someone in the eyes while admitting weakness, especially one like this. "I, ah. I need a favor."
"A favor," Grantaire echoed.
"Yes. A favor, one that only you can do."
"I have got to be dreaming. You want a favor from me?"
Enjolras pursed his lips. "I said you were the only one who could do it, and I meant it. I trust you with this, but if you'd rather stand there and gape helplessly — "
"No, no, I'll. Uh, I'll do it. I'd do anything you asked of me," Grantaire said, wincing at his own words. Enjolras chose to ignore them too, hating how they comforted him nonetheless.
"You can't tell anybody about what I'm going to tell you. Nobody knows, and it's going to stay like that."
"You're telling me something that you haven't even told Combeferre. Okay, all right. Uh, that's. Are you sure?" Grantaire asked, sounding completely at a loss.
The fact that he was asking if Enjolras was sure was both infuriating and touching. Like he always did, Enjolras took the safer route and ignored his feelings. "Of course I am. I wouldn't have dragged you out here just to mention something and then not tell you."
"Right, yeah, of course. You're probably like, incapable of having second thoughts," Grantaire muttered, more to himself. Enjolras couldn't help but marvel at how wrong the dark haired man was. Did he really seem that way?
It seemed like for the past couple of weeks, Enjolras had done nothing but have second thoughts. Of course, he was as determined as a person could get, but when it came to his pyromaniac tenancies, even he wasn't immune to concern and worry.
A fake facade could truly go far.
Grantaire was looking at Enjolras, as if prompting him to explain, to begin, and Enjolras couldn't even find the words. He'd thought about doing this for long weeks, but it had never occurred to him just what he would say to Grantaire in explanation. Considering for a moment, Enjolras took a deep breath and began.
"When I was younger, four or five at most, I nearly burned my house down playing with the gas stove. I was too young to understand the concept of fire, but at that age I only thought it was pretty and didn't understand how dangerous it is to play with," Enjolras began, pausing to gauge Grantaire's reaction.
The man only looked confused, probably to why Enjolras was retelling a story so insignificant, something any child would do. " ... And you burned yourself?"
"No," Enjolras shook his head. "I never wanted to touch it. I don't know why, I just didn't."
Enjolras took a deep breath before continuing, at Grantaire's prompting expression.
"In the end, my nanny caught me just before I was about to set one of my music books on fire. I was scolded, and she told my parents, who grounded me for a week."
Grantaire was giving a small smile, and instead of infuriating Enjolras, it made him feel slightly better. "You had a nanny?"
"Yes, she was an immigrant. It's why I can speak conversational Spanish," Enjolras replied offhandedly. "She was very kind and nice. But."
"But?" Grantaire prompted.
"That wasn't the first time I tried to catch things on fire. I found one of the cleaning ladies lighters, and I set one of my stuffed toys on fire when I was seven. She always came just in time before I could do any actual damage, but soon she began to look at me oddly. I always used to wonder why, because to me, there wasn't anything unusual about what I was doing. When I was thirteen, I stumbled across a term."
"Pyromaniac," Grantaire finished, eyes wide on Enjolras.
Enjolras gave a tight lipped smile. "Yes. Some days, I'd just set a lighter just to stare at the flame. I don't know ... I don't if I actually am. I've never gone to get professional help, I wouldn't even know where to go. But it's never gone away. The obsession."
Grantaire wasn't leaning against the wall anymore, his eyes wide and shocked. It must be very shocking, Enjolras thought, to learn about the perfect man you'd been in love with for two years was so flawed, so dangerous. "And you're worried. You're worried you might do something stupid."
Enjolras felt relieved he didn't have to say it. Grantaire was clever and smart, so quick to catch on. "It's getting worse. It's — It's an urge, an itch that begs to be scratched. It wiggles into my mind, and sometimes it's all I think of. That's why I chose you, Grantaire. You'd understand."
"Holy fuck," Grantaire breathed, shaking his head. "Enjolras, there's a difference between alcoholics and pyromaniacs. The worst things I have to worry about is liver damage at age thirty, and making sure I never get the opportunity to drive a car. But fuck."
It took a moment for Enjolras to steady his breathing, to calm himself down enough to process Grantaire's words. Judgement, confusion, bewilderment. Enjolras was wrong in assuming that Grantaire's blind loyalty to him could be good for something. It could only go so far, it seemed.
The humiliation of it was the worse part, and Enjolras' shoulders began to tense up in shame.
"I know," Enjolras spat, feeling foolish and scared for even thinking to tell Grantaire this. "Don't you think I know that? God, I should have never trusted you."
Grantaire flinched, his expression crumpling. "That's not what I meant, Christ. Look at me," He said, reaching over and grabbing Enjolras' face so their eyes met. Enjolras wasn't even aware he'd looked away, staring at the ground in humiliation. Giving a disdainful look at the hand Grantaire had on him, he chose not to voice any complaints.
"You can forget all of this if you must," Enjolras bit out. "But you still can't tell — "
"I don't want to," Grantaire said, his voice soft and face kind. Sympathy. "It must be horrible, fuck. I can't even imagine it. Most people wouldn't even bother to suppress the obsession, but you would. And, shit, I probably couldn't even do that. But you trusted me with this, and even though I'm probably the least reliable person in the world, uh. I'll still do that favor, I don't care what it is."
Enjolras hadn't realized he wasn't breathing until his lungs ached, and he took in a sudden and abrupt breath that almost startled Grantaire. They were so close, and Grantaire seemed unnaturally warm. "I need you to keep an eye on me."
Grantaire gave a bitter smile. "Already do that, chief."
Barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Enjolras shook his head instead. "No, not romantically," He said, pretending to not notice the way Grantaire's breath hitched as his feelings were brought to light. "I need you to check in on me, daily if you can. If I act suspiciously, if I miss a meeting or Courfeyrac mentions something out of place," Enjolras' voice dropped, "I need you to find me."
"Enjolras — "
"I can't be sure how long I can keep this up, Grantaire. It gets worse everyday. And ... If it gets to the point where I could endanger someone, I need you to make sure the authorities know. It's ... It's not a matter of making sure I don't. It's a matter of making sure I can be stopped when — when I do."
Enjolras hated the way his voice sounded small, so broken. He was the picture of defeat, his shoulders slumped and brows furrowed in wary exhaustion. Grantaire wasn't saying anything.
"Can you do that for me?"
For a long while, Grantaire stared at him, eyebrows furrowed and face unbearably torn with conflicting emotions. It looked like he wanted to say no, his mouth open but forming no words, but his loyalty to Enjolras wouldn't let him say it. And then a steely reluctance spread across his face.
"Yes," Grantaire breathed eventually, didn't argue or deny and Enjolras was so infinitely grateful. "I promise you. But you have to promise me something."
"It's only fair," Enjolras agreed, still wary.
"Whenever you get ... the itch, text me. You have my number. I'll talk you through it, and if that doesn't work I'll come over and watch you. That's all I need. Just tell me everything. No — no lying," Grantaire said, reasonable.
Enjolras stared at him, eyebrows furrowed. "I promise," He said despite his confusion, and Grantaire looked relieved. "Thank you for doing this. I know you won't fail me."
"Well, that makes one of us," Grantaire muttered bitterly, shaking his head against his cynical thoughts. "No, I won't. I won't fail you."
The air outside was cold, and Enjolras was already shivering slightly from it. It would snow soon, and winter would grasp the city and make everyone miserable and cold. Enjolras nodded back towards the front of the alley, more than ready to dismiss all of this and pretend like everything was normal once more. "Let's go back inside. It's cold. Pretend like this conversation never happened."
Grantaire nodded. He walked next to Enjolras, grinning suddenly, if albeit awkwardly. "So, you never said you could chug beer like that."
"I was kind of determined to get you outside before I lost my nerve," Enjolras sighed, wry. "Who knows how long you would have taken to finish that to avoid confrontation."
"You, losing your nerve? No way," Grantaire laughed, the same raucous laugh as before. It felt good to pretend like they were just friends, and not watching out for Enjolras' pyromaniac behavior.
Enjolras didn't say anything else, but held open the door to the Musain for Grantaire when they finally reached it. It was unnerving to note that everyone's eyes were on them, eagerly watching their return. Even more unnerving were the disappointed faces that greeted them.
They must have been hoping that he and Grantaire were making out. Enjolras sent the ceiling a long suffering look as he sat down next to Courfeyrac and Combeferre.
Courfeyrac was grinning, despite the disappointment. "Lost your nerve?"
A small smile graced Enjolras' lips, as he took a sip of his bottle of water. "I wouldn't say that."
Courfeyrac's eyes were wide and shocked. "Hey, what's that supposed to mean? What did you two do out there?" He cried, as his hand, clasped around a beer bottle, smacked the table in protest.
"Courfeyrac isn't wrong, you know. You don't have to tell us if you don't want to, but I'm also curious about what you two would talk about privately," Combeferre spoke up, gaze intent on Enjolras.
Enjolras pretended not to care, dismissing them both. "You'll find out one day," He said lowly, trying not to let the remorse into his tone. They stared at each other for a second in worried confusion, but chose not to say anything else.
It was for the better. They didn't deserve to worry about him like that.
Just let them enjoy his company while they could.
*****
Enjolras knew he was dreaming, could almost feel himself fitfully twisting and turning in his bed, soaked in sweat. But the heat of the fire almost singed his skin, bringing a pleasant warmth that almost burned him, consumed him. It seemed to eat away at his worries, and he relaxed into it.
He wasn't in a distinct place, just the fire around him burning gracefully, and the feeling of peace. It felt amazing, a true guilty pleasure.
Grantaire was there, expression twisting as he watched Enjolras, bathed in flames and effervescent.
For the first time, Enjolras shot awake from one of those dreams, his curls plastered to his sweaty forehead and his breathing harsh and fast. The room was dark, save for the fading light outside. It was around six, and he looked around his room, disoriented at first.
He must have fallen asleep, he thought with pursed lips, as he took in the sight of the book next to him sprawled across his bed. Enjolras stripped himself of his clothes, keeping on his shirt and boxers, to try and stave off the unbearable heat he felt.
The feeling of shame that always came with those dreams was all too present.
Like a shrill punishment, his phone was abruptly screeching his ringtone of an incoming call. That must have been what woke him up in the first place, he thought with his expression twisting.
When Enjolras finally fumbled for his phone, his eyebrows furrowed at the number. Why was Grantaire calling him?
And then he remembered.
Fuck.
He slid the answer button, and Grantaire's hurried breathing stopped for a second before his voice was gasping out from the other line. "Fuck, fuck, Enjolras, I'm on my way — "
"What?" Enjolras managed out.
"Your phone," Grantaire panted. "You weren't answering any of my texts, and then I tried to call you and you didn't pick up. Shit, this is probably my fault somehow, I can't believe I already fucked up, please don't tell me you — "
"I was asleep," Enjolras stated, calm and clear. The other line was strangely silent.
"You were asleep," Grantaire breathed, a sound suspiciously like he was slapping himself in the forehead coming from across the line. "Fuck. I freaked out, I thought you were, y'know."
Enjolras wanted to feel angry, he wanted to say Grantaire was worrying uselessly and push his concerns to the side, but he couldn't find it in himself. The other man's worry about him was strangely touching, the fact that he would freak out this much over something like that stirring something inside Enjolras.
"I'm fine," Enjolras murmured, not understanding why he was being soft and gentle. "I shouldn't have fallen asleep. You were right to worry like that, I could have been, well. Thank you, Grantaire. You said you were coming over?"
Grantaire sounded a little strangled for some reason other than sprinting across the city. "Right. Okay, you're welcome? Uh. Yeah, I'm like in front of your building."
"How fast did you run?" Enjolras asked incredulously.
"I thought you were hurting yourself," Grantaire said quietly, like the thought was unbearable. "I had a bunch of these images in my mind. I freaked out, like I said. I'll head home now."
"No, don't do that. Courfeyrac is out, and I can at least offer you coffee or tea for doing that for me," Enjolras replied, perfectly reasonable.
"You don't have to."
"I want to."
"Okay, I'll uh. Buzz me in?"
Enjolras looked down at himself, stripped down to his boxers and a T shirt. It would be cruel to appear in this state of dress, but he'd already made Grantaire sprint halfway across the city, and not letting him in immediately seemed ungrateful.
Enjolras gave a brisk affirmative, getting up and giving Grantaire entry. He walked into the kitchen, not knowing what Grantaire would prefer, but Enjolras felt like making tea, so he set the kettle on. He was just turning the stove on when the knock sounded.
Of course Grantaire would knock, Enjolras thought, rolling his eyes.
He opened the door, pretending to not feel indecent at the way he was dressed. Immediately, Grantaire's eyes were on him, widening as he followed to lines of Enjolras' exposed legs.
Grantaire looked half wild, his dark frizzy curls a mess, dampened slightly with sweat, and his breathing was still a little faster than normal. But Enjolras knew he couldn't look much better, his own sweat cooling on his skin from his dream.
"I would have put on clothes, but I assumed it would be ungrateful to not greet you at least, after worrying that much about me," Enjolras explained, maintaining a perfectly stoic expression even as his heart sped up. Why was that happening?
"No, it's," Grantaire paused, forcefully dragging his eyes up from Enjolras' legs. "It's fine."
His gaze was clouded with lust and arousal, and the knowledge that if he asked to have sex with Grantaire, he could, was strange. Enjolras moved away from the doorway, letting Grantaire inside. "The tea shouldn't be too long, if you'd want any."
Grantaire gave a hysterical laugh. "I think I could go for some tea right now," He said, voice strangled.
Enjolras didn't bother trying to interpret what his problem was, assuming it was his arousal at seeing him in boxers. He led Grantaire to the kitchen, where a small table was set up. Enjolras went to go put on some pants, and maybe a hoodie, especially after the way Grantaire's eyes had lingered on his forearms.
Grantaire was in the kitchen still, sitting at the table and idly twiddling his thumbs. He almost startled when Enjolras entered again, looking so relieved to see him dressed appropriately.
"You, uh. You look kind of sick," Grantaire said, wincing at his own wording.
Enjolras remembered his own appearance, probably not much better than Grantaire's at the moment. He always woke up overheated and burning from those dreams, and he'd hate it if he didn't love it so much.
"I dream about it, sometimes. The fire," Enjolras clarified, crossing his arms and leaning against the counter.
Looking tentative, Grantaire met his eyes from his spot at the table. "Are they bad dreams?"
Enjolras wanted to say yes. He wanted to lie and say that they were sick dreams, where forests and buildings and on some more disgusting occasions, cities were burning with them. By all means, they should be bad dreams, should be horrible dreams. But that side of Enjolras reveled in them, looked forwards to the nights where they would consume him.
But he promised Grantaire he wouldn't lie to him about anything. Enjolras reluctantly tore his gaze away. "No."
"Oh," Grantaire said, eyebrows furrowed as he stared at his hands. "They don't bother you that much, then?"
He wished Grantaire would stop asking, but it was important that he know. "They do. I hate them, I hate the way I sometimes look forwards to them. I don't want to like them. I used to try and not sleep at all," Enjolras paused, as Grantaire's head shot up in alarm. "But Courfeyrac said he'd force me to a doctor if I didn't sleep."
Grantaire swallowed a breath of air, face wrinkling. "I thought you said nobody knew."
"They don't," Enjolras assured him. "They think I'm depressed. Jehan, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac."
"Are they ... right?"
"No," Enjolras said, shaking his head. It wasn't denial, just a fact. "The only reason I don't get out of bed some days is so that I don't do anything stupid."
"That sounds terrible."
"It's like being trapped without the cage. I've told Courfeyrac to call you on those days."
"Did he ask why?"
"I told him you make me feel better," Enjolras murmured, the truth of it almost too much to bear.
"That's, uh. Good thinking," Grantaire managed out at last.
The kettle startled Grantaire, but not Enjolras. He poured them both a cup and then he leaned back against the counter, uncertainly sloshing it in his cup. Grantaire seemed to be relishing in tea made from Enjolras for who knew why, drinking it reverently.
Or maybe he was just that much of a tea enthusiast. Who knew.
"Thank you again for doing that, Grantaire. I knew I was right with trusting you," Enjolras settled on finally, after some consideration on breaking the silence.
Grantaire flushed and tried to hide it behind taking a sip of his tea. "I made a promise."
"This is different," Enjolras said, shaking his head.
When there was no response, Enjolras looked up and saw that Grantaire was looking at something with a peculiar stare. Following his gaze, Enjolras felt his lips quirk when he came to the stove.
"Is that — "
"Electric," Enjolras cut in, feeling vaguely amused.
"Oh," Grantaire said, sounding relieved.
"One of the only things I asked for when Courfeyrac said we were going to be roommates. I said it was because the gas in gas stoves are dangerous for ... for something, I can't quite remember what I'd said."
Grantaire was smiling, hesitantly but genuine. "I didn't know you could lie."
"I try not to," Enjolras shrugged, setting his cup of tea down. "It seemed like a harmless enough lie."
"For a good cause, too," Grantaire chimed in.
"I'd say," Enjolras said, wry.
Grantaire was staring at the cup in his hands, eyebrows furrowed. "Do you ever ... think about burning in it? The fire, I mean. Hurting yourself?"
Enjolras thought about it. Despite all of the times he'd set things on fire, played with lighters and stared at flames, he'd never burned himself anymore than what was just an accident. He waited until Grantaire's eyes met his before answering, trying to put some of his worries to rest. "Never. I've never wanted to touch it. It seems like I'd taint it, somehow."
"So you wouldn't hurt or burn yourself?" Grantaire stared at him, as if he were holding his breath.
"No. That's not something you'll need to concern yourself about. That I can assure you, at least," Enjolras murmured.
They settled into a silence, neither uncomfortable but not exactly comfortable either. Courfeyrac would be home soon, but Enjolras didn't know how to tell Grantaire he should probably leave when the man was still looking at Enjolras with that wild, concerned look, like he was going to catch on fire any second.
Just as Enjolras was taking a sip of tea, Courfeyrac burst through the door and started in on one of his ridiculous stories, not noticing Grantaire.
"Enj, you will not BELIEVE what happened at Combeferre's place, his neighbor was — "
Courfeyrac cut himself off, eyes widening as he took in the sight of Grantaire, face still flushed from exertion and still slightly sweaty from running here. He then turned to Enjolras, gasping in a breath when he saw Enjolras was similarly affected.
"I knew it!" He all but shouted.
Enjolras squared off his expression and stared at him flatly. "You're going to get us another complaint."
"When did this secret relationship start? How could I have been this blind? I've seen you look at him, Enj, don't think I haven't," Courfeyrac said, accusing.
"We're not dating," Grantaire cut in, perhaps a bit too bitterly.
Courfeyrac stared at him for a second, his eyes closing at some realization. "So it's ... that kind of thing?"
"Grantaire, I think you should leave. I'll handle this," Enjolras said, turning to Courfeyrac. Looking a little wounded, Grantaire gathered himself up and went for the door, and Enjolras watched him go with a strange look. Courferyac had his eyes narrowed on Enjolras.
"That's a crappy thing to do to someone," Courfeyrac said eventually.
Enjolras was physically taken aback, staring at Courfeyrac in confusion. He'd never heard Courfeyrac talk like that before. "What is?"
"You know he has feelings for you. And you're just going to use him like that?"
Enjolras, quite literally, sputtered. "What?!"
Courfeyrac finally looked a little less vehement, and more confused. "It's not like that?"
"No!" Enjolras exclaimed, taking a deep breath and lowering his voice when he remembered the threat of their neighbors complaining. "I wouldn't do that to him. I've never had sex with him, nor do I ever plan on it."
"Oh," Courfeyrac said, beginning to grin sheepishly. "I might have taken things wrong."
Enjolras rolled his eyes. "Yes. He's doing me a favor."
"A favor?"
"I can't say what it is, but it's not sexual, for God's sake."
Courfeyrac frowned, but nodded nonetheless. "If you don't want to say, you don't have to."
"Thank you," Enjolras said, relieved, but feeling guilty.
"Is that tea?" Courfeyrac asked, smiling happily and obliviously like he hadn't been frowning a moment before.
Enjolras sighed, smiling slightly as he poured him a cup.
*****
It was about a week after that when Enjolras felt the urge, worse than ever.
Grantaire texted him everyday, like the loyal dog Enjolras had thought he would be. It sounded offensive, but to Enjolras it was a compliment. Grantaire was far more trustworthy than he would have originally thought, attentive and responsible. He held his end of the promise so well that Enjolras felt guilty for having nothing to give back.
Combeferre was over one day, commenting on how Enjolras was less tense than he usually was. Perhaps it was because of how much it eased him, knowing Grantaire would stop him before he did anything brash. It was more comforting than Enjolras would have liked to admit.
He still felt the urge, but like before, it was more of a distant hum in the back of his mind. And when he saw a wildfire coverage story on the TV, he called Grantaire and the dark haired man talked him through it like he'd said, telling Enjolras to turn off the TV and sit down. Grantaire had volunteered to come over immediately, but Enjolras refused, not wanting to be more of a burden than he already was.
It was strange, but it was helping.
But on the first bad day since he'd asked Grantaire of the favor, he wanted to stay in bed, hide under the duvet and pretend like he wasn't an absolutely deplorable person who got sick pleasure out of destruction and ash. He knew he should text Grantaire.
He didn't.
Instead, he reluctantly got out of bed.
Sometimes he made bad decisions.
He didn't remember much from what he did, he could only remember the burning of the flames as they grew more and more out of control, the way everything smelled of fire and ash. His lungs hurt so painfully, and yet he heaved in every breath like it was a rare delicacy.
The adrenaline flowing through his veins made him feel more alive than he ever had, something like fear and pleasure mixing together. The old human instinct to draw back at fire, and Enjolras's own fucked up obsession with drawing closer battling together as if they were enemies.
Enjolras remembered falling to his knees as the flames spread around him, the building murky with smoke and heat. His eyes were watering viciously as he coughed and hacked, and it was so wrong. He didn't remember pulling out his phone, texting Grantaire to meet him in the alley by the Musain. He told him to light a fire, and to not ask questions.
The flames were getting out of control.
*****
Grantaire was leaning against the brick wall, the trashcan next to him burning with fire. His lip was split and bleeding for whatever reason, and Enjolras didn't know if he wanted to rip it open further or kiss the blood away. Before he was even aware of what he was doing, Enjolras was moving forwards and grabbing Grantaire's face in his hands.
Grantaire's eyes were wide on him, an impossible shade of hazel that reflected green in the light of the fire. The orange glow cast shapes onto his face, illuminating his expression into something so much more.
Enjolras was trying to speak, his mouth working but forming no words. Everything about that moment was incoherent, unintelligible, but Grantaire wasn't. A hand reached up, the cracked nail polish on his fingers reflected in the firelight, and it tangled in Enjolras' curls.
The fingers clutched hard, pulling Enjolras into reality, away from the heat of the fire. His mind was burning. "Enjolras," Grantaire breathed, the stubble on his face prickling Enjolras's fingers. "What did you do?"
And like that, Enjolras remembered the smudges of ash on his face, the smell of smoke and fire clinging to his body, the way the ends of his hair were singed slightly.
Enjolras remembered.
The fire was everywhere and spreading fast, so fast, and great plumes of smoke cascaded around him. There were sirens ringing in the distance, and his lungs heaved with breath. He needed to run — he needed to move, and yet he wanted to stay in the flames forever and never face reality again. They were so beautiful, rising up with flawless danger, so bright that his eyes watered and his head began to pound with the over-stimulation of it all.
Enjolras had never seen anything so amazing. So single-handedly fantastic.
Grantaire was staring at him imploringly, everything about him distraught.
"Hold me," Enjolras said, almost a whine.
Without a word, Grantaire obeyed silently and held him close. Grantaire's arm circled around him, the hand gripping Enjolras' hair pressing his face against his neck. Enjolras breathed Grantaire in, a shuddering breath coming out as he buried his face against fabric.
He smelled clean, like cheap soap and laundry detergent and the smell of winter air, as if he'd been wandering the streets aimlessly all night.
With a sickening realization, Enjolras knew it was probably true. He hadn't answered any of Grantaire's calls or texts, and the dark haired man must have been worried sick and looking for him for quite some time.
The guilt of what he'd done was unbearable, but coupled with making Grantaire go through this with him was even worse.
Enjolras turned his face to the side, and watched with the fire in the trashcan, controlled, and hardly dangerous. Grantaire had yet to let him go, and Enjolras soaked in his heat and watched the fire as it began to burn out.
It wouldn't be long, he realized, before he burned out too.