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“This is no place for a child.”
Enjolras’ beautiful face glowers down at him, sharp jaw clenched, poised for a fight. It’s a fight Grantaire had not anticipated for once, too distracted by new gay company at the bar of the Musain to notice the meeting in the backroom coming to an end.
The fellows at the bar were unrelated to les Amis and thus had drawn Grantaire into conversation about other matters, specifically a match-up of singlestick they’d like to see him participate in with their larger friend. At Enjolras’ attention though, Grantaire’s interest in making a few francs off another man’s misplaced hubris loses its appeal immediately, like a wash of paint on canvas.
Grantaire heaves a sigh, more for show than any real irritation. Having Enjolras’ attention, even in the negative, is always a thrill. The sour stench of wine on his breath wafts back up to his nose, and Grantaire leans back, lest Enjolras be subjected to it as well. “Are you calling me a child, Enjolras? What a novel condemnation from you. Am I not the elder here, if not by some months?” They had in fact started college at the same time, although Grantaire had long ago ceased going to his classes.
Enjolras scoffs, ”Not you.” He gestures to the corner of the bar, where little Gavroche has created a makeshift game for himself with the spare broom propped against the wall.
It’s unclear how the game works. From what Grantaire can tell, Gavroche must jump over the broom in a precise manner that abides by the rules of his own unspoken making. Enjolras continues, “The boy. It’s careless enough behavior to bring him here, but then to ignore your child? I have held my tongue for too long, Grantaire. I cannot abide–”
“My child?” Grantaire interrupts, struggling to catch up with the quarrel Enjolras is already deeply enthralled in, with little help from Grantaire for once.
”Yes, your responsibility!”
”That is not my child, and I did not bring him here.” Grantaire says, still in some disbelief.
Enjolras falters, “Whose child is he then?”
“I don’t know. He is a child of Paris and he goes where he pleases. If you wish for him to leave, you’ll have to kick the cherub out yourself.”
“He’s not yours? Really?” Enjolras asks. He shifts uncomfortably on his feet, and then– with great surprise, makes an uncharacteristic move to join Grantaire at the bar.
Grantaire startles, and pushes his former companions’ food and drink aside to make room. His neighbors at the bar are unbothered, focused instead on their own conversation after it became clear Enjolras and Grantaire would not actually come to physical blows.
He offers up his mostly empty bottle of wine to Enjolras, and Enjolras grimaces at the dregs. Grantaire asks in amusement, “Have you thought the boy was my child this whole time? How did you not know? Surely Combeffere or perhaps Feuilly must have set you right?” He should be more upset at Enjolras for assuming the worst of him, but most of the time, Enjolras would be correct in his false conclusions.
Enjolras flushes a startling red– is that shame? Or perhaps just embarrassment? “It is clear I was mistaken. I did not think to ask.”
”You think so little of me, do you, Enjolras?” Grantaire says. He intends to sound teasing, but the still quiet of Enjolras at the accusation crashes back at Grantaire with a harsh, sharp edge. The blade of the insult angles every which way, to hurt Grantaire, Enjolras, the both of them.
Enjolras’ fingers trace the rough path of the bar-top. Musichetta eyes them with a frown from across the counter, Grantaire raises a placating hand, recognizing her irritation for what it is. They are wasting space at the bar, they ought to order something. Grantaire can drink for the both of them.
“How did you come to meet the boy, then?” Enjolras asks, thoughts still on the child, who continues to play alone obliviously. For once, Gavroche is keeping to himself, entertained with his own little world at hand, uninterested in the matters of adults.
”Gavroche.” Grantaire corrects him.
“I know his name.” Enjolras snips back. So forceful that Grantaire finds himself doubting Enjolras did in fact know Gavroche was his name after all.
Grantaire smiles, and then waves Musichetta over, “Another carafe, Mademoiselle!” She grimaces good-naturedly at him and fetches them more wine. He explains to Enjolras, “She’ll not allow us to continue taking space here, if we’re not emptying our pockets. You do not have to drink, though.”
”No, I’ll drink.” Enjolras counters. He seems to do it for the sake of disagreeing with Grantaire more than anything, but Grantaire doesn’t fight him on it.
Instead, he watches amused as Enjolras pulls out a few francs, uncertain of just how much he owes. For how long Enjolras has been holding his meetings here, he rarely partakes in what the Musain offers outside of food. And even that, Grantaire has noticed Enjolras abstaining from the simple pleasures of a charcuterie as well, as if doing so might be contagious. It’s as if Enjolras fears that if he indulges in cheese and bread, it will only be a matter of time before he loses sight of the republic.
Grantaire picks out how much Enjolras owes for the both of them. He’s not one to fight for the bill, if anything he’s known to get out of paying for his drinks regularly. Grantaire chuckles, “If I had known all it took to get you to have a drink with me was telling you I have fathered no children, I would’ve done as much far sooner.”
Enjolras laughs at that, it sparks a discomfiting pleasure in Grantaire’s stomach. He’s been so used to the uncomplicated satisfaction he gets in irritating Enjolras, he never considered what it might feel like to actually please the man. Enjolras speaks, “But I asked you a question, Grantaire. How did you meet the boy— Gavroche?”
Grantaire hums to himself thinking back. It is a tough question, when he knows Gavroche entered his life in some capacity, but not when or how. Suddenly he was there. As if he’d never not been there before. Gavroche was intrinsic to the streets of Paris, same as the mice that escaped underfoot when one took too brisk of a step or the ever-present smell of horse shit when indulging in a rare omnibus ride.
Gavroche was the city, the streets, the animals all around. “I did not find him…” Grantaire muses to Enjolras, “But he found me, the way everything in Paris finds you. I can’t recall when he joined my life as I’m sure you can’t recall when he started coming to your meetings. He just is.”
As if he can hear them talking about him, Gavroche approaches them, broom in hand. Rationally, Grantaire knows Gavroche could not have heard them, their voices have been soft and quiet in a way that’s unusual for the two of them. A soft guilt still shudders through him. “I have some business to attend to.” Gavroche says to Grantaire, a goodbye if he’s ever heard one.
Grantaire salutes him with a smile, “Business with the broom then?”
”Yes. The barmaid told me I could take it for the night, I have things to hit with it.”
”Ah right, of course. Have fun, then.”
”It’s not fun, it’s serious.”
Grantaire stifles a smile, ”Carry on with your business, then.”
”Be safe, Gavroche.” Enjolras cuts in, his voice is sincere, but Gavroche laughs at him, nonetheless. He leaves with a little flourish.
Enjolras asks Grantaire, “What does he mean, hit things with the broom?”
Grantaire shrugs, “I can’t imagine. He has his own business around the city. It’s a mystery to me.”
”And do you know where he sleeps?”
Grantaire smiles, this will get under Enjolras’ skin just so. “Why in our fair Napoleon’s pride and joy, of course: the Elephant of the Bastille.”
Enjolras wrinkles his nose, ”You can sleep in there?”
”Me and you? Perhaps not. But it’s the perfect size for a child to wriggle his way into.”
”I assumed he stayed with you.”
Grantaire shrugs, “Sometimes he does. If the weather is bad, or he wants company. I do think there are moments he gets scared out on the streets.”
”Why can’t he stay with you all the time?”
”He does not want to. And if I attempted to tell him what to do— well, you saw how your counsel to be safe went with him. He would laugh in my face and still do what he wishes.”
Enjolras sighs thoughtfully down at his drink and takes a long swig, “This is the fault of the system we’ve allowed to prosper and fester—“
”Yes, yes. I agree with you, Enjolras. It’s not right. But also…”
”What is it?” Enjolras leans in close to Grantaire, with a curiosity and interest Grantaire is so unused to getting from him. He’s close enough, he can make out his pale blond eyelashes blinking at him, waiting.
”But also… you and I, we will never know what it’s like for a child like that. We both grew up sheltered and cared for.”
”It’s a matter of our actions now, and not who we were then.”
”Yes.” Grantaire says, tracing the base of his glass. He doesn’t know why he feels compelled to sort through his complex thoughts on this with Enjolras of all people. A man known to be mostly interested in questions where the answers are black or white. Enjolras wants to be called to action, not forced to sit and pontificate on muddled half-formed hypotheticals. Grantaire continues, still, “But I would hold my judgement on the whys or hows for a child like Gavroche. Should I tell him to stay with me always, yes, he might laugh in my face. But also, he may no longer see me as a safe home to seek refuge in. There is a delicate balance.”
”You are right.” Enjolras says, surprisingly.
This is the first time Enjolras has made such a concession. Grantaire can’t even manage to gloat, he’s so off-kilter over the magnitude of it. “And your own apartment…” Enjolras continues, his lips stained a dark red from the wine, “Do they have enough space for another person?”
“Not quite. Enough space for a child maybe. Gavroche built a small bird’s nest of blankets up in the corner of my room. It’s precarious, made of canvas and spare materials that already existed there before him.”
”I’d like to see it.” Enjolras says with finality.
Grantaire startles back in surprise, “My apartment?” He must be mistaken.
Enjolras nods, and gets up from his stool. His drink is half-finished, and Grantaire’s drink, for once, is barely touched. He’d been so enraptured in Enjolras at the bar, taking up so much space as he’s wont to do, Grantaire hadn’t had a moment for his usual distractions.
“Will you?” Enjolras asks. His voice wavers, but he is not drunk.
Grantaire’s brain struggles to catch up to this turn of events. From Enjolras accusing him, to joining him for a drink, and now requesting an impromptu visit to his apartment. “If you wish…” Grantaire says, slowly getting up and following him.
Most of les Amis haven’t even seen Grantaire’s apartment. Supposedly once, Bahorel visited his rooms, while assisting a drunk Grantaire home. He’d been told he’d been too drunk to even take himself to bed and Bahorel had played minder to him and settled him in. His memory of the event was hazy at best, the state of his rooms had not been in discussion.
And then of course Gavroche had seen his apartment, although he wasn’t a Friend of the ABC. Although, even as Grantaire thought of Gavroche as not being a member, he knew he was wrong. There wasn’t anything in Paris that Gavroche did not belong to if he did not believe himself to belong there.
They leave their wine half drunk, and Grantaire only has a moment to grieve it, before he’s swept up with Enjolras en route to his apartment. It is not unusual for Enjolras to ask for what he wants, and he always either gets what he wants or forms a plan of action that will lead to his desire. It’s just so rare for Enjolras to want something that directly has to do with Grantaire. Perhaps this is the first time. Grantaire is nothing if not eager to oblige still, and he pushes forward to lead Enjolras through the streets.
Grantaire can’t stop from speaking still, “So you wish to see where the flâneur rests for the night, then?”
“I wish to see how the man who opens his home to a street urchin lives, yes.”
So it was still about Gavroche, then. Grantaire didn’t think there was anything particularly remarkable about his relationship with the boy. Perhaps most would step over him like another cobblestone on the dirty streets of Paris, but not most in les Amis. Grantaire wasn’t so different from the rest of the group to that effect. They all considered themselves friends of the abaissés and in need. It may have been a footnote in dismantling the monarchy, but elevating the poor and downtrodden was a note nonetheless.
Enjolras is quiet and thoughtful, sneaking all too obvious glances at Grantaire as they walk. Grantaire is only aware because he makes no attempt to hide his own stares back. His cheeks feel warm. It’s a bad idea to leave like this with Enjolras when Enjolras wants nothing to do with Grantaire, and Grantaire wants too much to do with him.
Grantaire lives in the attic of a building owned by a man who’s so old, he can barely recognize his tenants on a good day. That and the sporadically asked for low rent have proven his home to be an oasis in all things. Grantaire can have whoever he wants come and go as he pleases with little attention given from his landlord. By all accounts it’s a perfect apartment, to Grantaire at least.
Enjolras grimaces as they walk up the stairs of the building though. The price of a senile landlord does mean an unkempt and uncared for front entrance. It doesn’t matter, it surely can’t affect Enjolras’ already relatively poor view of Grantaire anyway. This moment of truce between them is an anomaly to the status quo, he mustn’t get too used to their ceasefire. They sidestep a woman who Grantaire’s unsure is his neighbor or just a whore who visits his actual neighbor regularly. He does not question it, and neither does Enjolras.
Inside his apartment, it’s much cleaner. Grantaire’s not one to enjoy the domestic work of cleaning, but he is just one man. And when inclined, he doesn’t leave much behind that points to him having been there.
“Up there.” Grantaire says, pointing up to a quilt and pile of abandoned linens he never bothers to move, perched upon a pile of canvases on a heavy armoire Grantaire also does not touch. Once Gavroche annexed this corner of his room for himself, all of Grantaire’s intentions to one day paint over the abandoned canvases divested from him.
The makeshift bed is unsteady, but Gavroche is a small boy and he built his little nest himself, up high. Grantaire recognizes it for what it is— a grasp for the upper hand that the boy has learned he must create for himself. This is a choice not meant for Grantaire’s input, so he doesn’t give it. A rare act from Grantaire, but he does know how to hold his tongue on occasion.
At Enjolras’ silence taking in the room, Grantaire asks, “Do you approve of the temporary housing I afford our child of the ABC?”
“Of course.” Enjolras says, although he’s no longer looking at the makeshift bed.
His eyes are trained on Grantaire’s own bed, his mind suddenly elsewhere. Enjolras makes a move as if he wants to sit on Grantaire’s bed but does not follow through, instead he gestures to the other canvases in the room, taking up most of the space in Grantaire’s small apartment. Some of the works to Grantaire’s great shame, are commissions he never finished, but took money for all the same. He’s lucky that his reputation has not suffered more for his fickle business practices.
Enjolras runs his fingers over a painting of some bourgeois regaled in grecian robes as if he were Socrates himself. Grantaire reassures hurriedly, “A commission. Not of my own imagination.”
”Oh.” Enjolras says. His voice is unreadable. It’s foolish to worry over Enjolras recognizing him as flawed artistically. He knows Enjolras’ artistic tastes, they are functionally nonexistent. If Grantaire told him a painting was well-done, Enjolras would be more likely to murmur in vague, unconcerned agreement than question Grantaire.
Enjolras keeps looking at the painting, Grantaire’s flaws and ineptitudes are on full display, even if Enjolras can’t see it. “Aristotle?” Enjolras asks.
”No, the intention was Socrates. But I took little care at specifics.”
“The Greeks…” Enjolras trails off. His eyes don’t leave the clumsily done painting. Surely, it can’t be that interesting. The work is incomplete and streaked with turpentine Grantaire had been careless with. “The Greeks…” Enjolras repeats, “And how is it said, the Greeks did it?”
Enjolras’ question sits in heavy silence between them. It is inconceivable. Grantaire must be misunderstanding Enjolras. Or perhaps this is some sort of test of Grantaire’s fervency for their cause? Or an excuse to create reason for Enjolras to ban Grantaire from meetings of the ABC once and for all? The ground has come out beneath the both of them, and Grantaire is suspended in the fall.
“The Greeks?” Grantaire manages to repeat faintly back to Enjolras.
Enjolras turns from the painting, eyes now firmly on Grantaire. His mouth turns down in such a severe slope, it’s as if he’s upset with him, but for once Grantaire hasn’t done or said anything that warrants such a reaction. “Yes.” Enjoras says.
“Enjolras…” Grantaire says, steadying himself in the cool dark blues of Enjolras’ eyes. He steps forward, bridging the gap a little. Proximity eases the questions plaguing Grantaire— Enjolras makes no attempt to move away from him.
He hesitantly presses the pad of his index finger to Enjolras’ forearm, moving so slowly, Enjolras can push him away easily if he desires. The fabric of his shirt is soft, worn down and thin, Grantaire knows Enjolras can afford a new one, and holds back the admonishment that’s on the tip of his tongue. You do not have to dress like a pauper to speak for the rights of paupers. Instead he asks, imbuing his tone with as much meaning as he can manage, “Do I err?”
Enjolras shakes his head with the barest twitch of his head, only the slight movement of his tawny hair gives him away. He does not move forward, but he does not pull back either. He licks his lips, the soft pink of his tongue wetting his bottom lip is an answer to the question that hangs unspoken between them.
Grantaire closes the distance. His lips against Enjolras is a destination, a culmination of something that has been brewing between the two of them that Grantaire hadn’t even been aware of. Or rather, he had recognized it as a sole sick fascination of his own that was meant to be handled away from the object of his attentions.
”You wish to know?” Grantaire asks. His lips still touch Enjolras’ just barely, he can feel Enjolras breathing against him. His breath smells like the wine they’d been drinking, Grantaire’s sure his own must smell worse, but Enjolras stays close leaning into Grantaire’s open mouth although making no attempt to kiss him again. Instead, he nods against Grantaire and reaches a hand up to the back of Grantaire’s head.
He does not hold him. Instead, his fingers comb through the tangles at the back of his skull, where Grantaire rested his head too roughly against the wall of the Musain earlier. An act Grantaire often does that messes his hair, and has been dubbed by Feuilly the home of the greatest rats in Paris. It’s a jape amongst the group, one returned to regularly when Grantaire inevitably shows up to meetings, the back of his head a mess. Enjolras continues to comb long careful fingers through the tangle of Grantaire’s hair, it’s soothing.
Perhaps it’s not Enjolras’ exact intention when he’d asked about the Greeks, but the feel of Enjolra’s fingers in his hair spurns Grantaire forward and he guides Enjolras backwards. His hand is gentler than any of his attempts at dry-touching the canvases they leave behind them.
Enjolras moves easily, as if Grantaire is manhandling him with a firm and forceful grip and not the gentle push of his hand. He pushes Enjolras down onto his unmade bed. The bed stinks of smoke and sweat, although Enjolras shows no reaction to it. He just sits back, hands still curled through the hair on the back of Grantaire’s head. It’s the easiest thing in the world then, for Grantaire to sink down to his knees between Enjolras’ legs.
Enjolras still doesn’t say anything and Grantaire doesn’t ask. If he speaks, this spell they are under, cast by Enjolras, will break and he will have to contend with reality. There is no version of reality that could feel as good as this fantasy. He undoes Enjolras’ trousers. He wants to reach up and touch his stomach and ribs; feel the man before him as human. One who can touch and wants to be touched. Grantaire doesn’t take his liberties there though, it somehow feels more intimate than the task requested from Enjolras at hand. He moves for Enjolras’ prick instead.
Enjolras’ cock is that of any man’s. Hard and pink. There’s a beauty to it that is difficult to place. It is not so intrinsically different to that of most other men. Perhaps the beauty is just that it belongs to a man like Enjolras. This person in front of him is mortal and wanting and somehow the wanting has swung in the favor of Grantaire.
Greedily, Grantaire takes him into his mouth, but he falters and adjusts his pace, slow and shallow. He must put on a show of uncertainty in his movements. If he moves with more surety, Enjolras will know that this is not a new experience for Grantaire, perhaps he’ll be disgusted. Although, surely Enjolras did not assume Grantaire a blushing virgin when he asked him of the Greeks in the first place. Grantaire is a man of some ill-repute, and it would not be difficult to believe that that would extend into how he found his pleasures. Feigning ignorance would be a futile attempt to rise in the esteem of Enjolras.
All pretenses of uncertainty leave Grantaire. He swallows Enjolras all the way down. Taking him so deep, he can feel each wiry hair encompassing his prick. It’s dirty and Grantaire soaks up the pleasure in being the one to dirty Enjolras. Enjolras arches against him. Grantaire wishes there were two of him. One to bring Enjolras to the peak like this and one to take a step back and watch from afar with a pencil in hand so he may sketch out the arc of Enjolras’ throat flexing in pleasure.
The pleasure is one thing, the want to see the man before him come undone is something else entirely. He wonders if it would perhaps be even better if he was just some bystander watching another man take Enjolras apart like this. Then he may be free to rearrange the part-myth part-man in front of him into a semblance of something that he may understand, at last.
The slowly tightening pressure of Enjolras’s fingers curled into Grantaire’s hair suddenly loosens and then lets go completely, releasing Grantaire from Enjolras’ hold. Frantically, Grantaire grabs Enjolras’ wrists and forces his hands back into his hair.
Enjolras protests, “But Grantaire, I will—“
Grantaire’s fingers tighten around Enjolras’ wrists and keeps him there, holding Grantaire flush against his body. He knows what Enjolras will do, clearer than Enjolras himself knows. He wants to tell Enjolras, make him sit in the knowledge that he will dirty Grantaire just as Grantaire has done to Enjolras. They will have to share in their abasements of each other.
Enjolras finishes inside Grantaire’s mouth, and Grantaire swallows him down greedily. He is worse than the whores of the docks who spit and grumble and wipe their mouths, but Grantaire can’t help it, he’s hungry for it. He relishes the salt on his tongue. It is Enjolras in his mouth, in his body, a part of him inside Grantaire, if not only for a short moment.
He hides in the sanctuary of Enjolras’ open legs, breathing in against the crease of his thigh, resting heavily against the warmth of the man in front of him. Enjolras’ fingers continue to comb through his hair, as if scared to let go after Grantaire so needily held his hands against his head.
Eventually, he recognizes that he has sheltered against Enjolras too long, and finally pulls back, face hot. His knees ache as he gets up. He can’t look at Enjolras. A hand snakes around his waist, pulling him down onto the bed.
“Grantaire,” Enjolras says. Grantaire’s ears are ringing, he doesn’t want to face the distaste surely on his face now. Grantaire gave too easily to Enjolras, he was stupid not to savor the moment and drag it out for as long as possible. This had likely been his only chance at the opportunity.
“Grantaire.” Enjolras says again, impatiently. Grantaire is underwater, muddled by his own conflicting feelings of shame and desire and guilt, Enjolras pulls him to shore.
Enjolras is touching him. For a moment Grantaire thinks he’s looking for something, an item Grantaire might’ve stolen away on his person. But his hands move with purpose, strong and capable fingers journey down his chest and stomach. He untucks Grantaire’s shirt and slips his hand inside his trousers.
This is debasing for Enjolras, it’s not right. It’s one thing for Grantaire to dirty Enjolras with his own actions, but to have Enjolras as an equal participant? Nervous guilt runs through Grantaire like sludge.
He pushes Enjolras’ hand away, just as the warm palm wraps around Grantaire’s still hard and aching prick. “You don’t?” Enjolras asks, softly. More vulnerable than when Grantaire’s mouth had been around his cock.
Enjolras’ mouth is only a few inches away from him. He’s weak. Weak, and reckless, and willing to ruin everything for a brief respite like this. “I do.” He says and kisses Enjolras, grabbing his wrist and moving his palm back to his cock. A mirror to how he shoved Enjolras’ fingers back into his hair moments ago.
Enjolras touches him quickly and impatiently. It can only be the way that Enjolras touches himself. The thought brings Grantaire to a crest far too soon for something so rushed. He is an extension of Enjolras being stroked this way, a piece of the untouchable man. Enjolras’ touch lingers on Grantaire's skin even after his orgasm. His eyes are sharp on Grantaire’s softened cock, and his hand stays unmoving.
Grantaire kisses him again, and Enjolras kisses back half-heartedly, his eyes still down on Grantaire’s lap thoughtfully. Grantaire moves to his neck, and Enjolras allows it, his hand does not move away from Grantaire’s skin. Enjolras’ hand moves against his skin though, spreading Grantaire’s seed around up to his belly, down his thighs. Grantaire doesn’t question it.
They simply enjoy each other’s touch, no longer chasing a climax. They sit like that, half dressed, kissing and touching lazily, longer than the actual act took place. So long even that Enjolras hardens again, and Grantaire is allowed to touch him once more, this time with his own hand.
Enjolras is incapable of letting others take the lead though, and he grabs at Grantaire’s wrist and pushes and pulls, attempting to set the tempo. It’s irritating and so like Enjolras, that Grantaire can’t help but resist him. He keeps his touch steady and slow, and he wrings an orgasm out of Enjolras the way he wants to handle it.
Enjolras leaves him with a hungrier kiss than any he’d given thus far, he bites and licks his way into Grantaire’s mouth and Grantaire opens for him, always so easy. He had feared this would be his only opportunity to ever have Enjolras this way, but the kiss goodbye feels more like a promise than any bid to forget their evening together.
It’s as if a rusty old faucet has finally been turned on, and the water runs hard and fast for Enjolras’ desire. Grantaire has always known want, Enjolras seems to be learning want for the first time.
Enjolras starts finding him after meetings. It’s Enjolras who decides when they return to Grantaire’s apartment and do as the Greeks do. As fervor against the monarchy heats up in the streets of Paris, Enjolras’ want for Grantaire grows more and more. He comes to Grantaire so often, Grantaire no longer thinks of his role in les Amis as something in name only. He has a purpose in the group finally, and the purpose is to provide Enjolras with a little piece of selfish pleasure that he has otherwise sacrificed for his Patria.
With the frequency of visits, it happens all too soon for them to be caught out outside of Grantaire’s apartment. “Apollo.” Gavroche says from Grantaire’s steps. He stands and salutes Enjolras. It’s unclear if Gavroche does it as jest, but the sober set to the little boy’s face along with Enjolras’ own grave nod back turns it serious.
Grantaire is suddenly faced with two expectant faces, and only one apartment to be offered up. He turns to Enjolras, the decision is plain, “We’ll finish our conversation tomorrow, yes Enjolras?” Sitting in wait on Grantaire’s steps like that is the most Gavroche will ever appeal for shelter, and Grantaire would never turn the child away.
Enjolras nods in dawning understanding, “Yes, of course. Goodnight, Grantaire. Gavroche.” If he’s disappointed it’s not obvious, instead he turns away with nods to the both of them. Enjolras’ own home is back in the direction of the Musain, but he goes in the other direction of the apartment. Grantaire bites down his amusement and Enjolras’ care in which not to be found out, even by their gamin.
At Enjolras’ exit, Gavroche exclaims to Grantaire, “Enjolras knows my name! I have only ever heard him call me ‘the boy’ before.”
“Yes, well…” Grantaire says, leading Gavroche inside the apartment, “You have come up once or twice in conversation.”
“You talk about my businesses?”
“Yes, all the work you do.”
Gavroche harumphs at him, and steals a hunk of bread Grantaire had not finished for breakfast that morning. “I’ve seen Enjolras come to your home many nights.”
“Oh.” Grantaire says faintly, surely none of it was clear to Gavroche from his vantage point. He did love to spy on unbeknownst people on the street, but the boy could not see inside a home. As much a part of Paris he was, even he had his limitations. “You have?” Grantaire asks.
“You are becoming more important to the cause.” Gavroche says sagely, “You need me to protect you.”
Grantaire smiles, “I do?”
“Yes.” Gavroche positions himself up high on his perch of canvas and quilts. “I will have a good view of intruders. In case any bourgeois come to even their score against les Amis.”
“You will have a good view, so you may see the intruders attack me?”
“Yes, they will attack you, but then I will save you.”
Gavroche’s face is so solemn, Grantaire’s amusement melts swiftly to tenderness. “Yes, Gavroche, I believe you will protect me.”
He pulls out a washbasin for Gavroche, and sets out some more bread that had been tucked away. Should Gavroche still be hungry, he may help himself to Grantaire’s limited supply. Grantaire’s role in les Amis has turned out varied and many; this too, is his duty. Enjolras– the rest of the republic will wait.