Chapter Text
The first time Grantaire meets Eponine Thenardier, she tries to seduce him.
His lap full of drunk girl and about one beer away from joining her, Grantaire leans back in his chair and sighs deeply, letting the air out of his lungs like a popped balloon. She’s wearing some sort of lace confection of a shirt, tight leather pants, and sky-high stilettos. Emotional drunk, judging from her red-rimmed eyes.
A quick introduction was all Grantaire had gotten before she had straddled him, grinding down a little as she climbed into his lap. Her breath smells like tequila, and her fingernails are claws against his forearms. He zeroes in on the full lips, accentuated by bright red lipstick, that are trying to attack his own. Her shirt rucks up, and his hands meet skin when they snake around her, trying to push her away.
The bass of the music pounds through his head, and the alcohol in his system spins his thoughts in ten different directions. He is dizzy with the haze of the beer and the atmosphere. The glint of her lip rings, pierced snakebite style, is all he can see.
Her mouth brushes the shell of his ear, her breath warm against his skin. “You’re delectable.”
“Um,” Grantaire stammers out, his throat dry. “Shouldn’t we, uh, talk first?”
Eponine sucks her bottom lip in between her teeth, a mix of seduction and hesitation. While not fundamentally opposed to beautiful women, the running flashbacks of the Greek god whose schedule Grantaire had inadvertently memorized in his aimless trips around the city kills the mood somewhat.
It had started with morbid fascination, the kind of game he likes to play with unattainable people. Spot sex personified on the subway, running fifteen minutes late to class. Casually redirect his routes and time his comings and goings to fit their schedule. Sketch said person. Throw away the sketches when he convinces himself of their utter mediocrity. Cry silently when he realizes the person had been unattainable for a reason.
The blond guy, though, with his phone constantly pressed against his ear and his permanent expression of disdain for anyone who tries to cross his path, was on a whole other level. In the past three weeks, Grantaire had filled up at least two sketchbooks, which was nice productivity-wise but did nothing but fuel his unhealthy obsession.
“Makes sense that out of all the pretty people you’ve drawn, you want into this guy’s pants the most,” Cosette had said, after she’d found the sketchbook he kept underneath his pillow, where few cared to look. He’d kept it there for a reason, but Cosette had never been one to follow the rules of logical reasoning. “You know what people call this? Masochism.”
Grantaire slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her giggles, but she twisted her way out of his grip. “I call it perfectly harmless appreciation of beauty.”
Letting out a disbelieving snort, Cosette just tucked the sketchbook back underneath his pillow and winked.
What had started out as a mild aesthetics-based crush exploded into full-on obsession when he’d finally heard the guy speak. He had a voice. Gruff, but not raspy. Honeyed, but not cloyingly sweet. His mouth formed words like art, and even a mere “I’ll pick up the groceries” sounded pants-droppingly obscene.
The voice and the image of the man worm their way into Grantaire’s brain at inconvenient moments like this, and if Grantaire ever works up the courage to approach him, he’d be caught between kissing him and punching him in the throat for taking over his mind.
“You’re drunk,” Grantaire tries to tell Eponine now, but the finger pressed over his lips silences him. Assertive, he likes that. They would probably be good friends, once she, you know, stopped trying to have clothed sex with him.
“No, I’m not,” she slurs. “Perfectly,” she kisses him full on the mouth and then disconnects with a loud pop, “sober.”
“Look, as pretty as you are, you’ll probably regret this in the morning. And, you look sad.” Grantaire gently slides her hands off his shoulders and captures them at her sides.
He has a conscience sometimes, fuck you.
She blinks in surprise, and there’s a moment there, a spark of recognition and sobriety underneath the haze of inebriation. “Is that what you say to all the girls?”
Before he can answer, a large, meaty hand plants itself on his forearm. The hand is connected to a tattooed arm, and that arm, in turn, is connected to a man with a buzz cut and a mouth twisted into something ugly.
Eponine may be drunk, but she’s not stupid, so she scurries off Grantaire as fast as she can.
“What the fuck are you doing with my girlfriend?” The guy towers over Grantaire, and the muscles of his arms strain against his black shirt. He snuffs out the cigarette in his mouth, his fingers dig even further into flesh. Buzz Cut’s breath smells of vodka.
Grantaire has never been so glad that he’s been a fighter all his life. Buzz Cut isn’t used to resistance, so when Grantaire throws his weight to the side, he rips his arm from the man’s grasp. His fingernails leave marks.
“Swear to God, I’m not looking for a fight, man—“
Buzz Cut grins, baring his teeth. He has nice teeth for a complete asshole. “Lucky for you, I am looking for a fight.”
Angry mountainous hulk vs. drunker-than-expected scrawny layabout who had given up boxing years ago. Grantaire has his money on the mountainous hulk himself, but who knows, this could be a Disney movie where the underdog pulls off a victory.
The alcohol dampens Grantaire’s coordination, but the leap out of the chair isn’t half bad. He raises his arms up, palms out, and angles his body away from Buzz Cut. Keeping his legs spread apart, he bends his knees.
Buzz Cut grunts and flexes his biceps. The stereotypical skull and crossbones tattoo on his arm ripples. “Fuck you.”
Now is probably a shit time to point out that Grantaire had been trying to discourage Eponine.
Out of nowhere, a fist swings at Grantaire’s head. He dodges it, ducking under, but he must have had more drinks than he remembered. His reaction time is slow. The right hook clips the top of his head.
In no state to pack a powerful punch, Grantaire dances on the balls of his feet, leaping out of the way whenever Buzz Cut makes a move at him. He occasionally strikes out, aiming for the nose and lips, but his attempts never come to fruition, and anyway, his limbs feel like they’re moving through molasses, and his entire body sags under an invisible weight. Alcohol hasn’t affected him so strongly in a while.
As Grantaire tries to figure out how to send signals to his arm that will actually arrive on time, Buzz Cut manages to land a punch to Grantaire’s stomach. Instinct tells him to tighten his muscles, but instinct kicks in a second too late, so he flies back against the chair he’d been sitting on, winded. He sucks in deep breaths, but his lungs refuse to cooperate.
Smirking, Buzz Cut takes his time ambling over to Grantaire before putting him in a headlock. His arm presses against Grantaire’s throat, not quite hard enough to cut off his air supply, but close.
Rolling her eyes, Eponine hooks her arm through Buzz Cut’s, subtly pulling him away. “Oh come on, Bahorel, isn’t this enough for a grand display of masculinity?”
“Not until the little twerp understands that he can’t hit on my girlfriend.”
“You’re a dick. I don’t even know why I put up with you.”
Security shoves its way through the crowd that had gathered at the scene of the fight without Grantaire noticing. Grantaire’s not quite sure whether he’s relieved for the intervention or disappointed to be deprived of his chance to kick Bahorel’s ass, but they’re kicked to the curb before he can decide.
“Don’t come back!” the manager calls out behind them, but Grantaire is a rover, he doesn’t mind. He knows the best places for everything, and he can find a new venue to drink his troubles away with the snap of his fingers and the click of his ruby red slippers.
The move to his car is one part semi-dignified walk but mostly many parts uncoordinated stumbling. Grantaire’s world spins as he himself spins towards the sidewalk, throwing his arms out to catch himself before he can face-plant against the cement. It sends a jolt through his body.
“Shit,” he says. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Usually it takes more than a couple of beers to get me like this.”
He’s not quite sure who he’s talking to, and Eponine and Bahorel must have left by now, but two strong arms haul him up by his armpits and pull him upright. His legs threaten to buckle again, but he finds himself leaning against Bahorel. The fuck, wasn’t the guy trying to kill him not five minutes ago? Nice 180-degree turn, he should really stick to his goals better.
“Have you called Enjolras?” Eponine’s voice rings clear in the silent night, her tone brisk and professional, nothing like the coquettish flirtations she’d used before. The slur has disappeared from her words. Well, if Grantaire can get drunk this quickly, it isn’t surprising Eponine can get un-drunk just as fast, haha, un-drunk’s a funny word isn’t it, Grantaire should totally make a bank of funny words—
Grantaire’s eyes drift shut, and he feels himself nodding off, pillowed on Bahorel. The thoughts in his mind go flying. The bruise on his stomach should be throbbing by now, but everything is numb.
“If you haven’t noticed, dear Eponine,” Bahorel shoots back. “I’m a little bit too busy dealing with a politician’s spoiled brat to call anyone, much less our fearless leader.”
“Did you have to punch him that hard?”
Bahorel shrugs. “He looks like he can take it.” He nudges Grantaire, who gives no response. “Hey, you can take it, right? Probably shouldn’t have punched you, but fighting. Fun.”
Eponine wraps her arms around Grantaire’s shoulders, and it’s kind of nice, in a strange sort of way. “Sorry about this. We had to find a way to get you out of there without arousing suspicion, and as you’re a very suspicious person, we couldn’t just, like, ask you to leave, so you know. The ends justify the means.”
Before Grantaire can ask what her ends are exactly, his brain shuts down as he drifts off against Bahorel’s chest. It is a disappointment of a pillow, a disgrace to pillows everywhere, but the offended huff Bahorel lets out almost makes it worth it.
When he was six, Grantaire discovered his knack for drawing.
He blazes through the large, impersonal mansion like a fireball, fingers glued to every writing implement he could reach. It started with printer paper, then sketchbooks, then his mother bought him canvases and paint and that was that, he had reached the point of no return.
His father had tolerated it at first, like he’d tolerated so many of Grantaire’s antics. With indulgent smiles and imperceptible little shakes of his head, he withstood it, all the while complaining to his wife and friends about his wayward son. But only when his son expressed hopes of pursuing this for the rest of his life did Senator Grantaire speak up.
“It’s a waste of time.” Grantaire cringed when his father slammed the canvas against the table. He hadn’t had time to apply fixative to it yet, and the color smudged on his father’s fingers. “You could be pursuing something useful. Business. Politics. We’ve given you every opportunity you could ever want, and you choose to repay us with this?”
The Senator’s eyes softened then, and he bent down on one knee to ensnare Grantaire’s right hand between his palms. His voice soothed.
“Listen to me, forget about this. I’ll be running for the national seats soon. I can’t have a son pursuing such a frivolous activity.”
He smiled, and it was the grin that had captured millions of heart, reassuring the public that he would lead them to better lives and brighter futures. He had access to all the answers they could want. Even Grantaire wasn’t immune to wanting to please him at whatever cost.
“Okay,” he’d said that day.
Ten years old and already making life-altering decisions he would later regret. At least Grantaire is consistent in screwing himself over.
And “okay” had remained Grantaire’s answer, save for little experimental forays, until he picked up a spray can in his freshman year of college and set out to simultaneously destroy and create.
When he began to reach wider and wider audiences, a legend without a name who refused to be commercialized, the thought of his oblivious father always niggled at the back of his mind. Grantaire had never been the son his father wished for, no matter how hard he had tried to rectify this with school clubs, and nights spent poring over textbooks, and public events. His passions were useless, and he would never impact the world like his father, with his successful law firm and subsequent political career.
Maybe Grantaire had only been trying to prove the man who had all the answers wrong.
Grantaire wakes to binds holding his hands in place behind his back, a blindfold over his eyes, and what seems to be an argument over whose job it is to visit the store. He lunges forward in the chair experimentally, but can’t move more than a few inches before his shoulders begin burning with the effort. His back feels sore, held rigidly against the chair with plastic handcuffs. Something rumbles in his stomach, and he would have thrown up by now had he eaten recently.
Grantaire’s pockets have been turned inside out and emptied. They’ve even made away with his new pack of Camel Lights.
The chair he’s seated on is hard, and the rickety thing squeaks softly when he shifts his weight. Someone here probably has the job of finding the most uncomfortable seating arrangement possible for any hostages they happen to pick up in bars.
“I’m not buying your tampons,” a male voice insists wearily. Grantaire can hear footsteps pacing back and forth. “It’s your turn.”
Eponine—the female voice is Eponine, he can tell from the distinctive roughness. “Well, I’m not buying your condoms. Size XXL, really? I’ve seen your dick, and it is not that big.”
“But you’re the only one of the few people who knows all the fair trade stuff Enjolras wants. Our only other option is nerding out over the joys of modern medicine. And moths. Again.”
The contrast between the inanity of the discussion and the ridiculous situation he’s in has Grantaire chortling, little gasps that turn into full-blown guffaws.
He must have been out for a while—his throat feels dry and he’s already beginning to crave. God, his kidnappers must have expected some sort of coddled rich kid, not a raging alcoholic with no filter and a knack for pissing people off. It’s a gift.
He learned long ago that he adds up to less than the sum of his parts. On him, hands made for crafting refuse to paint and draw the way he wants them to. A brain made for thinking refuses to lie still and absorb the information his father had always wanted him to learn. A mouth that can be put to so many uses debauches itself with a substance that will shorten his lifespan.
Eponine is the first to notice Grantaire’s laughter. “Oh, you’re awake.” When Grantaire’s head lolls forward, Eponine supports it, resting it against the back of the chair again.
“Don’t sound so disappointed. How long was I out?”
“Almost a day,” the man says apologetically. “Rohypnol knocks you out even more when you’ve been drinking.”
“So you kidnapped me with roofies.”
“Yeah, nothing personal. We can’t choose our fathers.”
Right. Grantaire should have known it had something to do with him. He really, really needs a drink, and that isn’t just the withdrawal speaking.
“So you’re, what, going to kill me to get back at my father? Torture me for information about the next bill he’s trying to pass? Make me your personal slave? Because, let me tell you, I don’t have the legs for a maid outfit. Or the waist. I could probably pull off heels though, don’t know, never tried.”
A door swings open, and someone says, in a voice more cheerful than a situation like this warrants, “No, we’re just going to use you to blackmail your father.”
Shit. Holy fucking shitcakes. Holy fucking shitcakes with extra frosting and outlined with strawberries.
It’s him. The blonde with the voice.
Grantaire fights to keep his own voice calm. “What for?”
“You can’t possibly not know—“ Eponine begins, but the blonde butts in.
“Your father has a history of taking bribes, especially from Patron-Minette, and they’ve gotten him to cover up for their money laundering scheme for years, in addition to adding to his own coffers through public funds. The only reason we know anything is because we’ve heard firsthand accounts, but the claims are so nebulous that we can’t get anything concrete. If his own family refuses to speak up, it’s our prerogative to take drastic measures.”
He states the facts like Grantaire needs to be educated, but Grantaire has known, he’s known for almost two years now. In Enjolras’s eyes, he may be complicit to crime, but when smackdown of a villain will only cause another to take his place, what’s the point?
For the second time, Grantaire leans back his head and laughs so goddamn long his lungs feel close to bursting. He laughs until he’s wheezing, and every breath of air he takes to replenish his lungs burns as it flows down his trachea. So they’re movers and pushers, kids who want to change the world. He’s been kidnapped by fucking social justice warriors.
Strangely enough, that calms him.
“Dear old Daddy hates me. You forgot to check the most basic fact: whether he even thinks my life is worth it. Guess what, newsflash, it isn’t.”
There’d been a time when Grantaire wouldn’t even entertain the idea of his father’s lack of love for him, but he knows. Now.
Blondie sighs. “From what we can tell, you and your father are close. You rarely miss public appearances with him. It will do you no good to lie. You can take off his blindfold now.”
A hand rips the rag from his eyes, and he blinks, trying to acclimate to the light. The room spins once, twice, before he can regain his bearings.
Pink covers every inch of the room, neon, puke-inducing pink, the type one expects to find in Dolores Umbridge’s office. Other than the truly uninspired iron bars in the window, the room seems normal. Writing desk tucked away in a corner. Bed to his right side, covered in a Justin Bieber bedspread. A dilapidated couch stands next to the—is that steel?—door, where Eponine sits, staring at him with wary eyes.
“Lovely room, is this how you’re torturing me?”
“Sorry about the decor,” Eponine tells him. “We think...uh, our friend did it ironically.” She hesitates, glancing at the man standing next to Blondie out of the corner of her eye.
The brunette sniffs haughtily, but the wide grin after ruins the effect. “If you must address me by something, ‘Uh’ is simply not adequate. Try ‘Sex on Legs’ or ‘His Royal Majesty’ or, if it’s not too much of a mouthful, ‘The Guy Who Will Totally Fuck Shit Up But Will Do So Smiling and Looking Fabulous’. I’m not picky.”
Eponine is not impressed. “Enjolras, please inform our dear friend of his idiocy.”
But Grantaire has already stopped paying attention.
“Enjolras.” He tests the name in his mouth, not realizing he had spoken aloud before the blonde glares at him sharply. His eyes are blue of the piercing variety.
A red hoodie, ripped skinny jeans, and Converse seem inadequate attire for an avenging angel, but that’s what he is, all sharp lines and burning passion. While Eponine and the other man avoid Grantaire’s eyes, Enjolras meets them head-on, not a hint of guilt coloring his expression. A handgun rests in its holster against his leg, because Grantaire’s so dangerous, weaponless and tied up.
No one has ever claimed that Grantaire’s romantic whims would be good for him. Because he doesn’t just want to sleep with Enjolras, no, though he wouldn’t refuse. He wants to wine and dine him and figure out exactly what makes him tick.
“Ooh, possible extremist political group leader has a name! What’s next? Is he going to tell me his favorite color, favorite Power Ranger, how the hell he found out enough information to follow me these past few weeks?”
Enjolras winces, but he doesn’t deny the accusation.
Of all the dazzlingly romantic locales in the world, fate had chosen a hostage situation in Middle of Nowhere, America as the place Grantaire would meet the future love of his life. He had never believed in the One myth, but fuck it, those delicate features, that hair, that voice, hell, even his graceful gait ruins every other man on earth for him.
“Oh come on,” he drawls. Grantaire scoots as close to the edge of the chair as he can. “You know everything about me. My class schedule, the routes I take, my public relationship with my father. Wouldn’t be surprised if you knew my masturbatory habits too. I would give them to you, you know. In great detail, if you ask really nicely. We could be that kind of couple, Blondie.”
His voice holds too much hope, so the joke doesn’t quite come through.
The set of Enjolras’s shoulders is tense. “I have a name.”
“And should you really be telling me that name?”
Enjolras shrugs, a full-bodied motion that has Grantaire memorizing how his muscles move together, information to be stored away until he has access to a sketchpad and pencils. “Les Amis will probably go public soon, so why not?”
Well, add another strawberry to that shitcake because fucking Les Amis. He’s heard the rumors, has even come close to meeting them face-to-face, of course he has. Underground extremist group, passive-aggressive hacktivists, inspirational blog posts whose source no one could ever track down. Bunch of whiny rich kids with too much time on their hands, if you ask Grantaire. No one ever does, but if they had bothered, he could write treatises on idealistic kids who think they can change the world one small step at a time, only to give up when they grow exhausted of the neverending cycle or public opinion sways against them. Been there, done that.
And since that phase of his life ended in in disillusionment and alcohol poisoning, he’s pretty sure faith in humanity is just not his thing.
Plus, Les Amis have reason to either worship or hate Grantaire, and because he's not sure which, he's keeping his mouth shut.
“Hate to be the harbinger of bad news, but I assume this is your first kidnapping operation?” Enjolras colors slightly, and Grantaire takes it as a sign to plough forward. “You can’t change the world by blackmailing one politician. What are you going to do anyway, torture me and send a tape to Daddy?”
Enjolras’s eye twitches. “We’re not going to torture you, just hang the threat of your imminent murder over your father’s head. Your father loves you.”
The look on Enjolras’s face is so trusting that Grantaire has to wonder how long he’s been at this, chipping away at the government bit by bit. He should understand layers and secrets by now, that a public act can be stripped away to reveal the cold, hard truth hidden underneath.
On the bright side, at least Grantaire’s acting abilities are better than he thought they were. First step, one very hot, misguided blonde, next step, the Academy.
“The police will track me down,” Grantaire says weakly, but even he knows that’s an empty threat. They seem like smart people, they would have taken precautions. It’s not like his father will give this his best shot anyway.
Enjolras just shrugs and smiles knowingly.
That night, when Les Amis finally decide to untie him, he sleeps on the bed, tucked under the face of a pop star. The bed is warm and comfortable but the conspicuous cameras constantly trained on him ruin the mood completely.
On the second day, Les Amis find out Grantaire is not as clean-cut as his Urban Dictionary definition makes him out to be.
Of course he’d checked. He’s a prominent politician’s son. The press scrutinizes him too, searching for faults that would reflect badly on his father. For the record, he’d never gotten straight A’s in school, ever, no matter how his father wanted to lie. Also, he does have great arms, thanks for noticing, side effect of fencing.
It’s only when his brain threatens to burst through his skull and his twitching becomes unbearable does he ask for alcohol. Begs for it, even. When a confused Enjolras refused to grant his request, Grantaire shoves his shaking hands into the other man’s face until he succumbs with a sigh. Les Amis have some St. Ides lying around, and Grantaire drinks it in a rush, the liquor burning as it races down his throat.
“You’re an alcoholic,” Enjolras says. “That wasn’t in the file.”
Grantaire can see the gears turning in Enjolras’s head, can see the blonde judging and finding him lacking. What settles in his stomach isn’t shame exactly, more of a desire for Enjolras to look at him like he did before, when he’d been another snotty rich kid and not a screwup of immense proportions.
“I’m complex as hell, files can’t capture me.” Grantaire shrugs. “And before you ask, I was never a good student, or on the academic decathlon team, or any of the shit my father says to hide how big of a disappointment I am.”
The words come nonchalantly, but Enjolras’s eyes sear him with their inquisitiveness. “Is this because of your father?”
“Screw you, I’m fucked up independently of my father, it’s totally my choice to lead a meaningless life.”
Enjolras’s eyebrows rise. “That wasn’t in your file either.”
On the third day, they try sodium pentothal, to ask him what he knows about his father’s schemes.
“…and that was how I had a threesome with a clown and a lion tamer in Saigon,” Grantaire finds himself saying when he’s self-aware again.
They don’t try truth serum again.
On the fourth day, Grantaire almost decides to throw the towel in when it comes to his crush on Enjolras.
One thing Grantaire had learned from nearly stalking Enjolras these past few weeks is that he simply does not go by the rules of social conduct. He glares at women who flirt with him, engages unsuspecting passerby in political debates they want no part of, and plots to take hostage of innocent victims.
So when Grantaire derails Enjolras’s questioning with only half-hidden sexual innuendoes, he really should not be surprised the man somehow turns the conversation to fellow social justice fighters.
“R,” Grantaire repeats, a bitter twist to his whisper. “You’re one of those people who idolize R.”
He should have known, should have known this like he should have known his father would get him kidnapped one day by well-meaning but crazy revolutionaries. Back when he’d been painting graffiti on government buildings in that idealistic phase of his, when he’d still looked up to his father and believed mankind was inherently good, he probably should have considered the ramifications of his actions. But who was to know it would come back to bite him in the ass now?
Enjolras’s eyes go a little wild, and it’s kind of sweet, even if Grantaire is acutely aware Enjolras only ever treats him like a person when they disagree like this. “He’s a legend. No politician or shitty policy was ever exempt from his touch, and he was everywhere. He could have cashed in on his fame, but he didn’t, and—“
“No one’s heard from him in years. He’s probably an asshole who decided to have some fun fucking around for a while, and when things got too serious, oops, bye-bye.”
Enjolras huffs and splutters. “Some higher-up probably threatened him, made him stop. His word had gotten too powerful.”
The last time Grantaire had opened a can of spray paint in the dark of the night, Cosette had said the same. They’d leaned against the wall, him rummaging through his backpack for the sketches of the conflict in Israel he’d stuffed in there somewhere and her looking out for the police—unnecessarily it seemed. This was to be a quick job on the wall of an abandoned office building.
She’d taken his hands in hers and led him toward a lamppost covered in notices. These had been cropping up more and more recently, taped-up pieces of paper with one question written on them, the only differences the handwriting and the people who had written them. Everyone seemed to want in on the search.
Who’s R?
Right, like he’d actually come out and say it.
“I bet you even read his blog,” Grantaire says. “I bet you checked it every night, shit, you were one of those people who reblogged all his posts on Tumblr, weren’t you? You were a fanboy.”
“It was a good blog.” Enjolras flushes.
“You don’t even know who he is.”
“I know that he’s passionate, and he wants to change the world, and he was all about educating the people. How long has the public been lied to? He believed the people would rise as soon as the facts were presented to them, and his art inspired them to have courage.” His face hardens. “If I could meet him, I would thank him for all that he’s done.”
R would have liked him, Grantaire thinks. But then again, against all reason, Grantaire does too, so maybe Grantaire would have been screwed either way.
Grantaire may not believe in humanity, not anymore, but he could believe in certain humans.
There is so much Grantaire wants to say, but he settles on, “His art wasn’t even that great.”
Enjolras ignores him.
The dude with the debatable sexual skills hands him a box of colored pencils and a sketchpad on the fifth day and says, “I thought you might want these, you could draw something?”
“How do you know that wasn’t a lie too, like everything else my father has said to the press?”
The man hesitates for a moment, and the hand holding the box shakes a little. He’s hardly spoken to Grantaire since the first day, and anyone can see how the arrangement unsettles him. “Enjolras said he saw you sketching him. You know, when he was following you around.”
The drawing begins as simple lines with no direction but ends up as Enjolras, burning fiery bright on the paper. When the blonde sees it, he starts in surprise.
“I didn’t know you were capable of this.”
It’s tactless but it’s honest, and when Enjolras refuses to apologize for being blunt, Grantaire thinks they may be building a rapport, which is disgustingly sweet, and he will have none of it.
Never mind, he loves it.
On the sixth day, Enjolras wears very tight pants.
On the seventh day, his father finally returns Les Amis’ call.
“He said—“ Enjolras clears his throat. “He said we could kill you if we wanted to. He doesn’t care.”
Grantaire knew, but he had never known until now. He’d thought predicting the end of the story would ease the blow somewhat, but it doesn’t, not at all.
“I told you so.”