Chapter Text
In retrospect, Grantaire should’ve realised that he’d pushed Enjolras too far, should’ve recognised the signs - because if you spent almost two entire years obsessing worshipping being in love with paying very close attention to someone, you were bound to notice these things.
But Grantaire, for once, doesn’t notice. Or rather, is helpless to stop it even when he does notice.
Which shouldn’t come as a surprise, really, because Grantaire has yet to find a way to actually make himself stop when it comes to Enjolras. Because all he’s done ever since he first saw him, is more rather than less. More staring, more obsessing, more of tracing the lines of Enjolras’ face onto paper and canvas, more fantasising, more pining - just more. Because Grantaire is forever caught in the greedy fingers of darkness and Enjolras is the light that he runs towards and never quite manages to reach. Because even as Grantaire can feel himself falling apart under the strain, he still keeps on going, keeps on staring at the sun even as it makes his eyes water and his skin burn. He keeps on wanting and never getting, and he knows that’s the way it’s supposed to be.
*
Joly looks up when Grantaire falls into the only remaining chair next to him and his nose immediately scrunches in that way that it always does when he’s concerned. Grantaire ignores it, his world swaying gently as though he’s standing on a boat and not solid ground, the familiarity enough to take the edge off the darkness that has been gnawing at him all day.
He hadn’t bothered with a jacket, simply thrown on his hoodie when he’d realised that he was late for the meeting and stumbled his way to the Musain. It’s already dark out, autumn having come on hard and fast with a chilling wind that went straight through Grantaire’s clothes and to his skin. But Grantaire likes the bite, likes the way it clears his mind and makes him feel alive, even if it’s just a little bit and not for very long.
But of course there’s a miserable, drizzling rain falling outside now and Grantaire is damp with it and has to rub his hands together to get some warmth back into them. He isn’t surprised, though, not really, because it’s one of those days. Days where Grantaire simply wants to close his eyes again as soon as he’s opened them, where he wants to hide under the covers and simply lie there and wait until it’s over. Days when all he can do is to get so blindingly drunk that he can forget the world, because the world has forgotten him - or rather, has never known he was there at all.
“Are you alright?” Joly asks in an undertone, but even so it makes Enjolras pause pointedly and shoot both of them a sharp look from his position at the front of the room.
Grantaire bares his teeth in what’s supposed to be a grin, but most likely merely looks deranged. Joly must think so, too, because the scrunched up nose is joined by a small furrow of his eyebrows.
“Just peachy,” Grantaire says casually, waving a hand in an unmarked gesture. He nods towards Enjolras, who’s given up on waiting for them to be silent and launched back into whatever rant he’s currently on. “What’d I miss?”
“The commission for film classifications wants to give an animation a higher rating because it features a gay kiss,” Joly says, still looking at Grantaire as if he’s waiting for him to break down and spill all his sorrows right there and then. “You really don’t look so good, ‘Aire. Are you sure you’re alright? Have you eaten anything? Drunk anything that wasn’t alcohol?”
Grantaire rolls his eyes. “I had a coffee this morning.” With a shot of whiskey - or two.
Joly sighs. “Your blood sugar must be shot to hell. I’ll go ask Musichetta for a chocolate bar or something.”
Grantaire scoffs, but knows better than to go against Joly in mother-hen mode, simply shifts his legs to let him pass as he squeezes through the small gap left between Grantaire’s chair and the table. He ignores Bossuet and Jehan’s concerned looks, instead choosing to focus on Enjolras. He’s immediately drawn in - of course he is - but after barely ten minutes his desperation for attention has flooded his mouth with bitterness that’s fighting to spill over his lips.
“Are you serious?” Grantaire cuts in sharply, his words not as slurred as they could be, but definitely not as clear either. He regrets not having picked up another bottle before sitting down. “You want to write to them? Really?”
And it’s all it takes to make the full force of Enjolras’ attention crash down on him as he fixes Grantaire with a fierce glare.
“I don’t expect them to listen on the first try,” Enjolras says irritably. “It’s just standard procedure. A way to get their attention.”
Grantaire snorts, a sneer tugging at his lips. “You keep believing that.”
Enjolras opens his mouth, already looking geared up to give Grantaire one of his famous tongue-lashings, but Combeferre slips smoothly into the conversation.
“We thought it a good first step,” he says mildly, doing his best to smooth out metaphorical feathers. “We won’t get a permit for another protest for at least two weeks and even if we did, Enjolras can’t afford another arrest this month.”
As tactics go, it’s a good one, momentarily diverting Enjolras’ ire away from Grantaire. It makes Grantaire’s mouth turn down unhappily, makes him want to stand on unsteady feet and yank Enjolras’ attention back, wants to claw it close and never let it go again and fuck all the rest.
“I wouldn’t get arrested,” Enjolras says, rising his chin in defiance the way he always does when he feels chided, uncertain or in any way cornered. It’s petulant and beautiful and displays his neck in a way that makes Grantaire bite his lip, for the fear of biting Enjolras’ soft skin instead. “They didn’t even put down my name last time.”
It’s the perfect opportunity to insert himself into the conversation once more and Grantaire takes it without hesitation.
“Yeah, as if that makes a difference,” he says, not trying to hide the sardonic smile twisting his lips. “They know your face better than their own, at this point. And you know the only reason you didn’t get put on record was because Valjean took pity on you and sweet-talked them out of it when he bailed you out.”
Enjolras’ eyes flashed back to him and Grantaire cheered inside.
“He bailed you out, too,” Enjolras reminds him sharply.
Valjean had bailed him out. Because of course Grantaire had been right there with Enjolras, as he always is, sharing his holding cell and staining the frayed sleeve of his hoodie a dark red were he’d dabbed it against the cut on Enjolras’ cheek. And Enjolras had let him, had almost looked as though he was about to say something that wasn’t a reprimand. His eyes and lips had looked soft and Grantaire likes to imagine that his voice would’ve been the same, had Valjean’s arrival not interrupted them. Grantaire likes the man, but seriously, in that moment he’d wanted to murder him.
If it had been for Grantaire, they could’ve stayed in that cell all night. Hell, Grantaire had wanted them to stay there. At least this way Enjolras had no choice but to spend time with him and Grantaire wouldn’t have been able to follow his frequent impulse and bolt for one reason or another, trapped as he’d been with bars on either side.
“Writing to them can’t hurt, can it?” Courfeyrac jumped in diplomatically, smiling charmingly in an effort to disarm the situation. “We can always think about a different course of action when they don’t respond, right?”
Combeferre nods and the others quickly hasten to agree, all of them no doubt wary of Enjolras and Grantaire having their millionth, explosive argument. Grantaire feels himself slipping a bit deeper despite the still steady buzz of alcohol in his blood, feels the darkness pulling at him and immediately glues his eyes to Enjolras - not that that isn’t where they usually are anyway. He desperately wishes for them to be back in that cell, locked away from the world.
It should probably end there, only that it doesn’t.
Because Grantaire is unable to stop provoking Enjolras, his usually sarcastic quips and often teasing prodding turning into vicious jabs dripping with poison and by the time the evening is coming to a close, Grantaire is already well on his way to being bitterly sober once more. Even so, he doesn’t even know what they’re arguing about anymore.
They go through their usual repertoire involving Enjolras’ naivety, Grantaire’s cynicism, Enjolras’ too narrow views and, of course, Grantaire’s drinking. When Grantaire pointedly grabs a bottle, partly to be contrary but mostly because he needs it to keep going, their friends start filing out, tired of listening to them and probably going off to complain about it all somewhere far away from them. Grantaire hardly notices them go and, he notes with satisfaction, Enjolras doesn’t seem to either.
“Why do you always do this?” Enjolras says and his words are as sharp as ever, but it doesn’t merely sound like anger anymore. “Why do you have to be like this?”
Grantaire laughs, mocking and without humour. “Be like this? Like what, exactly?” He waves the bottle in his hand in a sweeping gesture. “Why don’t you tell me what I’m like, then, Apollo?”
It’s an easy shot, one that never fails to make Enjolras’ eyes flash dangerously.
“That,” Enjolras snaps, pointing an accusing finger at him. “That’s exactly what I mean. This isn’t you, Grantaire.”
Grantaire fights to keep it all inside, fights to keep the darkness from spreading far enough to spill through his eyes.
He looks at Enjolras. “Isn’t it?” His voice is low, more vulnerable now, and he hates that Enjolras always breaks him down like this. Hates it and wants it like nothing else, wants it like he wants all of Enjolras, even the bits that destroy him.
“No,” Enjolras says, his tone infused with all the conviction usually reserved for his causes and when he moves, it’s sudden, almost jerky.
Grantaire steps back and bumps into the table behind him, the chairs around it rattling alongside it. It’s a natural reflex at the way in which Enjolras closes the distance between them in all his golden glory, his presence so strong that he needs no physical touch to command people. He never does.
Enjolras yanks the bottle from his fingers.
“This,” he says, all but shoving it in Grantaire’s face as he holds it up for emphasis. “This is what makes you act this way. And you don’t need it, Grantaire.”
Grantaire knows that the blood has drained from his face. Because they don’t talk about it, not like this. Not beyond Enjolras’ complaints that he drinks too much and that he should make himself scarce if he doesn’t have anything to contribute other than drunken ramblings. But not like this, never like this.
“You don’t know me, Enjolras,” Grantaire says and it comes out quiet and hoarse. “You don’t know jack shit about what I need.”
“I know you well enough to see when you’re deliberately making yourself out to be worse than you are! And it’s fucking driving me insane!” Enjolras’s grip on the whiskey is white-knuckled. “Because I know that you’re so much better than this! Grantaire, you are so much more than just this!”
The liquid sloshes around in the bottle as Enjolras gives it an insistent shake, but Grantaire hardly registers it over the panic rising within him, clawing its way up through his chest and leaving deep, gaping wounds in its wake. Because Enjolras is wrong, he’s so wrong, Jesus fucking Christ, because Grantaire isn’t better than this. He isn’t better, he’s worse. So, so much worse and he’s always thought that Enjolras knew that.
But of course, of course Enjolras wouldn’t see it this way. Not amazing, righteous Enjolras who believes so strongly in everything and most of all the good he thinks is in every single individual, no matter how deeply buried. But Grantaire isn’t good, he isn’t right, because he isn’t anything most of the time. There is a deep, dark hole in his centre that sucks it all up, sucks him dry and, worst of all, sucks the people around him dry as well. It’s greedy and it knows only how to take and not to give, because there isn’t anything to give.
The only thing he does have is his love for Enjolras and it’s the only thing he doesn’t allow himself to be selfish over. Which is also the reason why he can’t let Enjolras believe what he’s saying, can’t let him believe in Grantaire.
He inhales deeply and it makes his throat burn, his chest ache. Fuck, this is going to hurt.
“I’m not one of your fucking causes, Enjolras!” Grantaire says harshly, every word like a knife to his heart. “You can’t just shout and glare at me until I’m fixed, because you can’t fix me! You’re just as naive in this as everything else, for fuck’s sake! You can play the saviour of the world all you want, but in the end the world isn’t going to give a shit and continue the way it’s always done. In the span of things, our lives don’t matter fuck-all and what we do with them matters even less! The truth is, Enjolras, that you’re not doing this for the world, you’re doing it for yourself, because you’re human. You’re human and that’s what humans are, they’re selfish bastards whose very nature has been wired to put themselves first and it’s just as true for you as it’s for the rest of us. You help people because it makes you feel needed, you stage protests because you think you’re making a difference and it makes you feel important, and you go around thinking you can fix it all because it’s what makes you feel most alive!”
The silence that follows Grantaire’s outburst is suffocating, squeezing the last remaining air from Grantaire’s lungs, even though he’s already breathing raggedly. He feels like he’s bleeding and there’s no way to make it stop.
Enjolras is staring at him, completely motionless for once. His soft lips are a tight, bloodless line and there’s something in his gaze that makes Grantaire want to fall to his knees and beg forgiveness.
Shout at me, Grantaire begs silently. Please, start yelling at me. Insult me, rip me apart, tell me how wrong I am. You have to tell me I’m wrong, because I never, ever want to be right.
But Enjolras, for once, doesn’t yell, doesn’t even raise his voice and when his next words come out low and strained, they’re like punches to Grantaire’s gut.
“Is that really what you think of me?”
Grantaire feels like he’s breaking, but that’s not possible, because no one is as broken as Grantaire already is. It doesn’t make it hurt any less.
“Enjolras,” is all he can say, and he’s definitely begging now.
Something flashes in Enjolras’ eyes and Grantaire knows enough to know that it’s bad, but he only realises how bad when Enjolras has already brought the bottle in his hands to his lips and tipped it along with his head. He visibly shudders as the alcohol goes down and Grantaire is frozen in shock for a horrifying moment, before he lurches forward and lunges for the bottle, wrenching it away.
Despite his panic, he’s careful not to hurt Enjolras, careful not to knock the bottle into his teeth as he jerks it away. Even so, the whiskey spills over Enjolras’ chin and drenches the front of his t-shirt as well as Grantaire’s hoodie - not that he hadn’t been smelling like a brewery anyway.
“What the fuck, Enjolras!” And it’s Grantaire who’s yelling now. “Are you insane? You could’ve poisoned yourself!”
Enjolras doesn’t even flinch. For someone who doesn’t drink, chugging down a whole round of shots worth of whiskey in one go is bound to have an effect and he looks a little less steady now, his eyes bright with an additional light that looks hazy rather than sharp. He looks absolutely wild, as terrifying as he is beautiful.
“Not so nice from the other side, is it?” Enjolras hisses, the flush across his cheeks darker than Grantaire has ever seen it and there is sweat building on his brow now, plastering a few stray golden curls to his skin.
Grantaire’s chest is so tight he can hardly breathe, the desperation and anger so intense he can feel his eyes burning with it. Because of course, of course he’s going to cry, because nothing is ever easy, is it? He’s going to end up bawling his eyes out in front of Enjolras, because he’s weak and needy and spilling tears might even get him some comfort, right? Maybe even a hug? Enjolras is good that way, he might give him a hug - if he doesn’t murder Grantaire first.
He pushes these thoughts down and takes a deep breath, makes a valiant effort to swallow down the sob rising in his throat. His voice, when it finally comes out, is scratchy and unsteady.
“Why can’t you just leave it the fuck alone?”
“Because you can’t keep doing this to yourself! You can be so much more than this!” And finally, finally Enjolras is yelling again, but it brings Grantaire no comfort, because it’s a shout of desperation, rather than anger. As if he can plead the alcohol out of Grantaire’s system, plead to keep it away.
And it’s too much. The last bit of control snaps like a thread already frayed and worn thin, and Grantaire can feel the heat in his eyes become unbearable, can feel the sudden wetness on his face.
“No, I can’t!” he’s shouting again, but it’s choked, the words torn out of him. He’s shouting because it hurts. “I fucking can’t, alright? I’ll never be more and I’ll never be good, I’m just me and I’m not enough! I’m not you, Enjolras, I’m not perfect and amazing, I’m not anything! I’m useless and broken and I don’t deserve-”
Enjolras’ hands shoot out and for a moment Grantaire almost thinks he’d going to punch him, but then they curl around his jaw and yank him closer and the force and unexpectedness of the movement makes them both stumble.
They crash into the table mere seconds before Enjolras smashes their mouths together.
The edge digs sharply into Grantaire’s lower back and makes the table screech across the floor until it hits the wall with a dull thud. Enjolras takes a step closer, his leg easily slotting into the place between Grantaire’s thighs, and he pushes Grantaire against the table, hard. The pain is enough to tear through Grantaire’s shock, enough to make his hands scramble reflexively against the wooden surface to keep himself from ending up sprawled across the top. The edge digs in deeper and it hurts, but Grantaire doesn’t give a fuck.
He’d like to call it a kiss, but it feels more like war, like Enjolras is still fighting only that Grantaire doesn’t know what he’s fighting - if it’s Grantaire, or something else entirely. But the fact remains that Enjolras’ lips are actually touching his own and that alone is so completely, utter unbelievably amazing that everything else just falls away. The world has officially stopped turning - or Grantaire has finally managed to drink himself so far into oblivion that he’s emerged on the inside of his own head. If so, he wants to stay there forever.
Enjolras bites down on his lip and the noise that tears from Grantaire’s throat sounds as though he’s dying, his back arching and his lips parting greedily, already begging for more. The tongue that pushes in a moment later is harsh and unskilled, but it’s also wet and hot and Enjolras and Grantaire is so hard so fast that it sends his mind spinning wildly, more than any drink ever could.
The thought brings with it the sudden realisation that the sharp taste of whiskey is still lingering on Enjolras’ tongue and Grantaire pushes in without thinking, licking the sharp tang from Enjolras’ lips, then tilting his head into a better angle to lick deeper, straight into Enjolras’ mouth, wanting to banish the taste and never, ever have it taint Enjolras ever again.
Enjolras yields, so easily, so naturally that it catches Grantaire so much off guard that he stills for a moment. Enjolras makes an impatient noise that borders on desperate and his lips catch Grantaire’s tongue without warning, sucking it into his mouth in what has to be an instinctual gesture to get Grantaire deeper. It makes Grantaire groan, makes his knees buckle and his cock jerk in the confines of his jeans, pressing against the inside of his fly in a way that’s almost painful.
Enjolras catches him, his hands slipping from Grantaire’s jaw and dropping to his waist, clutching convulsively at his hips and pressing into him, plastering their bodies together without a single bit of space left between them. Grantaire spreads his legs and takes one hand from the table, instead curling it around the back of Enjolras’ neck and dragging him deeper into the kiss. Enjolras takes the invitation instantly, pressing in close into the space Grantaire has made for him and bending his head, parting his lips wider on a moan and letting Grantaire lick across the back of his teeth, the roof of his mouth. He tangles their tongues together and the sound Enjolras makes leaves Grantaire scrambling for his sanity.
He nips at Enjolras’ plush, lower lip and it’s so soft, even softer than Grantaire thought it would be. He sucks it into his mouth impulsively and Enjolras surges against him, their hips colliding sharply and fuck Christ god Enjolras is as hard as he is, his cock pressing against Grantaire’s own painful hardness and Grantaire wonders how the fuck he’s missed it.
Enjolras’ fingers dig deeply into his hips, as though Grantaire would simply disappear if he doesn’t hold on tightly enough, and Grantaire hopes that there’ll be bruises. He wants the marks, needs them. Needs to know that this really happened, wants to trace them again tomorrow and think about this. Enjolras makes a sound that can only be described as a whimper and Grantaire is so in love with him he might actually die from it.
Grantaire kisses him deeply, pouring two years of pent-up emotions straight into Enjolras’ mouth and Enjolras clutches at him, his hips seeking friction and rubbing against Grantaire in an uncoordinated, clumsy movement. Grantaire moans anyway, because it still makes heat explode in his stomach, but the way that Enjolras trembles against him is enough to make him scrape at least enough brain cells together to realise that this is Enjolras. Enjolras who he’s never seen interested in anything but the cause before. He can’t be doing this a lot - and the thought that he’s done it at all, with anyone but Grantaire leaves a sharp, bitter taste in his mouth - especially not judging by the way his movements are so uncharacteristically clumsy, or how he yields so easily whenever Grantaire takes over.
He’s shaking and desperate and clearly doesn’t know how to go about this and Grantaire’s protective instinct flares to life, sudden and bright. Grantaire’s chest clenches and he instinctively softens their kiss, forces his hand to unclench from Enjolras’ curls and instead lets his fingers sink deeper into his hair and draw a few, soothing circles. He tilts his head to the side and up, bridging their height difference as he kisses him softly, catching Enjolras’ lips with his own and only barely brushing his tongue against the seam. Enjolras shudders against him and carefully starts to follow Grantaire’s lead, copying his movements. Grantaire dares to lean further into Enjolras, letting go of the table and wrapping his free arm around him, his fingers tracing a gentle line against his spine and Enjolras instantly wraps his own arms around him, holding him securely and stopping Grantaire from tipping backwards on the table.
Somewhere in the back of Grantaire’s mind it registers that they’re actually still in public - or in semi-public at the very least. The back room of the Musain is removed from the rest, yes, but that doesn’t mean that it’s not still a café where anyone could walk in at any given time. It’s a good thing that Musichetta is the one closing tonight, so at least she knows not to get involved when Enjolras and Grantaire get into an argument. The thought of drawing back and stopping doesn’t even last a split second, especially not when Enjolras sighs against his lips and presses close in a way that makes Grantaire feel as though he wants to crawl into him.
For a moment, all Grantaire wants is to bury his face in Enjolras long, beautiful neck and breathe him in, to hold him and never let go again. The thought lasts until their hips press together once more, an accidental brush that has their hard cocks rubbing together, searingly hot even through several layers of clothes. And nothing in the world could’ve stopped Grantaire from pushing into the movement, and just like that, the desperation is back.
One of Enjolras’ hands returns to Grantaire’s jaw, curving around it as he licks back into Grantaire’s mouth, just as deeply but rather more skilful than before, swallowing Grantaire’s breathless moan. Grantaire doesn’t think, simply lets himself rest more heavily against the table once more and kisses back. His hand on Enjolras’ back strokes further down, down all the way to the perfect curve of his arse and he gently curves his palm around the closest cheek and presses lightly. Enjolras gasps and pushes into the touch, making Grantaire curl his fingers a little deeper as he guides Enjolras, mumbling “Like this” against his lips, controlling the movement as his own hips roll against Enjolras’ in a slow, deliberate grind that presses them together just so and ends with both of them groaning into each other’s mouths.
And Grantaire wishes they were somewhere, anywhere else than here. Somewhere where there’s at least a bed - or fuck, a couch. Because Enjolras deserves a bed, he deserves so much more than the back room of a café, he deserves- Enjolras rolls his hips again and it’s so perfect, so good, fuck. Grantaire’s head tips back of his own accord and he might have repeated the curse out loud, but he can’t be sure because his head is spinning wildly. There’s not enough air and his chest his burning, everything is burning and he wants so much he might actually go insane with it.
Enjolras leans in and on the next roll of his hips, he sinks his teeth into Grantaire’s neck and it’s sudden and it hurts and it’s the best thing Grantaire’s ever felt. His fingers clench in Enjolras’ hair, tugging sharply and Enjolras moans into his neck, jerks against him and drives their hips together so hard that the table bumps loudly into the wall. Grantaire doesn’t give a fuck, his back is arching against Enjolras and he’s baring his neck and thrusting back and oh my god he’s actually going to come in his jeans and Jesus fucking Christ, judging by the sounds Enjolras is so desperately trying to stifle in Grantaire’s skin and the way he’s trembling and pushing against him like a man possessed, so is Enjolras.
Grantaire tuns his head, dislodging Enjolras form his throat and catches his lips in a harsh kiss, because if he doesn’t get Enjolras’ tongue back into his mouth right the fuck now, he’s going to die. Enjolras comes easily, willingly, falling into the kiss and it’s messy and there’s too much teeth and too much tongue and Grantaire never wants it to stop, ever.
In a sudden burst of creativity, Grantaire wraps one of his trembling legs around Enjolras’ slim hips and the hand that had been clawing at Grantaire’s back moves to clutch Grantaire’s thigh, raking it up just a tiny bit higher and changing the angle of their thrusts in a way that has Grantaire see stars. Enjolras is making desperate, little noises against his lips that go straight to Grantaire’s leaking cock and Grantaire can feel the tingling in his spine, can feel the tight knot of heat in his stomach grow taunt and he’s so close.
Enjolras whimpers something into his mouth and Grantaire wants to hear it, never wants to hear anything but Enjolras like this ever again and he wants to see him. He draws back, panting harshly, and feels Enjolras’ own hot breaths wash over his lips, but Enjolras ducks his head before Grantaire can focus properly and hides his face back in Grantaire’s neck. But with his lips now freed, the next, breathless whimper-moan is clear enough for Grantaire to hear and it’s that single, desperate word gasped straight against the throbbing bite-mark from before that sends Grantaire over the edge so hard so quickly that it’s almost painful.
“Grantaire,” Enjolras moans again, louder this time and if it were possible for Grantaire to come again while still coming he fucking would.
He knows he’s saying something, moaning it straight into Enjolras’ ear, but he doesn’t know what it is, only that it’s far too loud for the back room of a café and that he couldn’t have made himself care even if an entire army had walked into the room, because Enjolras is clawing at him and shuddering alongside him, flying apart in his arms and moaning Grantaire’s name again, as if it’s the only thing he can say anymore and Grantaire is pretty sure he’s actually sobbing, as though his body has suddenly remembered that he’d been on the verge of crying before and has now picked up directly where it left off earlier.
When Grantaire’s brain finally decides to come online again, he has no idea how he’s ended up flat on the table, only that he’s staring up at the stained ceiling through tear-blurred eyes and that Enjolras is still there, all but lying on top of him and that his lips are on Grantaire’s face, moving gently over his cheek. It takes Grantaire a moment to realise what it means and when he realises that Enjolras is actually kissing his tears away, it only makes his eyes burn more and new ones spill over. Fuck, he hates himself so fucking much.
Enjolras shushes him gently, and it’s so soft and so sweet, just like his lips pressing to the corner of one of Grantaire’s leaking eyes as a delicate hand curves around Grantaire’s jaw, cradling him close. And Grantaire can do nothing but clutch at him, nothing but take it all like the greedy, selfish bastard he is, take it and keep it, even as he feels as though he’s being torn open and still bleeding. His chest feels so tight he doesn’t even know how he’s still breathing and there’s a lingering rushing in his ears from the intensity of his orgasm only moments before. Enjolras mumbles something against his temple, brushing dark wiry curls from his wet face, but Grantaire doesn’t catch it, still completely out of it.
Which is probably also the reason why, when Enjolras suddenly bolts upright, it takes Grantaire a moment - a horrifying, cold, painful moment - to realise that there’s footsteps coming their way. Grantaire scrambles upright and it takes him an embarrassingly long time, so that when he’s finally upright it’s to find Enjolras almost clear across the room, looking almost as destroyed as Grantaire feels, and Combeferre already staring at them from the doorway.
Grantaire’s vision is still blurry and he has to blink a few times, hastily rubbing at his face with the frayed ends of his sleeves. The silence in the room is stifling and when Grantaire looks back at Combeferre, he finds his brow furrowed and a severe look on his face. It’s not quite a glare, because Combeferre rarely ever glares, but to Grantaire’s utter shock it’s directed not at him, but at Enjolras.
Grantaire expects him to tilt his chin up, to stare Combeferre down, but instead he ducks his head and flushes all the way from his neck to his cheeks. He’s also swaying slightly on the spot and it takes Grantaire a moment to remember that Enjolras is drunk, Jesus fuck, how had he forgotten about that? Combeferre must’ve already come to the same conclusion and his look only grows darker, his eyes wandering over the broken bottle of whiskey, over Grantaire’s dishevelled appearance, before coming to rest on Enjolras once more.
“I’ll wait outside,” is all he says and there is a sharpness to his tone that makes Enjolras look even more miserable.
Looking from one to the other, Grantaire’s eyes linger on Enjolras and he’s sure that if it weren’t for the blush, Enjolras would be white as a sheet. One of his delicate hands has a white-knuckled grip on the closest wall and he looks ready to be sick, or collapse or both. Grantaire has to dig his fingers into his own thigh to keep from crossing over to him, to close this sudden, cold distance between them and wrap him back into his arms, to be the one to give comfort this time. Because Grantaire wants to be the one to take Enjolras home, wants to take care of him and tuck him into bed and curl up with him and sleep for a week. And after that, when they wake up together, he wants to do this properly, wants it in a bed and with the sunlight spilling in across Enjolras’ golden curls and with the knowledge that he can take his time and make it good for Enjolras.
But he has no right. No right at all, because this was all one big, horrible mistake and Grantaire probably never hated himself more than in this very moment.
Because he’s provoked Enjolras all evening, he’d hurt him and then Enjolras had lost it and gotten drunk and Grantaire should’ve taken responsibility, should’ve stopped this insanity before it could’ve gotten this far. But of course Grantaire hadn’t done that, because he’s weak and despicable and even now can’t bring himself to regret that it happened.
Fuck, he needs to get out of here. He needs to be gone right now and find the closest bottle to drown in.
Grantaire feels bile at the back of his throat. He’s utterly disgusted with himself.
“No need,” he hears himself say, unable to look at either of them. He wants to say more, wants to at least look back at Enjolras, to make sure he’s alright - but he can’t. If he looks back now, he’ll see that Enjolras is certainly not alright and then he won’t be able to make himself leave.
So Grantaire doesn’t look and doesn’t say anything else, simply slides from the table and strides from the room on still shaking legs. His eyes are burning - again, still, it doesn’t matter.
He’s already digging around his pockets for some stray euro-notes and manages to extract a few crumpled tens and twenties. He doesn’t look how much it is, simply drops it by the till and grabs the first bottle off the bar that looks still full and makes his way towards the exit. He passes Musichetta, who looks like she’s burning to say something, but then doesn’t and Grantaire is grateful for it.
Grantaire wonders if there’s a way for him to drink until he forgets all about himself, but still be able to remember Enjolras. To remember how he was that night, all his passion for once focused solely on Grantaire and Grantaire alone. He wants to remember Enjolras’ kisses, but forget the taste of whiskey and he wants to remember the sounds he made, the way he’d said Grantaire’s name, but forget all about a shattered bottle on the floor and sudden, cold distance between them.
Grantaire wants to take these parts that he wants to remember and burn them so deeply into his mind that they stay there forever, because he’s so, so sure he’ll never be able to have this again - have Enjolras again. He’s bone-deep, heart-shatteringly certain.
Until it happens again.