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Chapter Text

Enjolras would not consider himself any great observer of the city. He loved Paris, for all that it housed him and the ideals he so strove for, but could tell little of its looks. He knew its soul, not its visage, so to speak. That would, in part, be because he did not give much time to looking. Enjolras, on his journey between one place and the other, walked purposefully with a direct gaze. His eyes did not wander to the looming presence of the roofs above, nor did it give much time to the shape of the stones below. Enjolras always moved with a destination in mind, and he was often too preoccupied with thoughts of that for his mind to take much heed of its surroundings.

So it was in this model that he made his way home, walking in as straight a line as the streets permitted. He was returning from a meeting with Combeferre, where he had helped draft what Enjolras was to say at the next meeting. His feet carried him home as his mind meditated on the information. Such a state of absentmindedness would have been dangerous on streets as crowded as these, but Enjolras was often lucky in that people cleared from his way.

Should anyone see Enjolras in passing, they would think he off to some meeting of great importance. Courfeyrac often blamed the severity of his resting face for this luck. He said it had an air of fury about to burst from him at the slightest provocation, which was why he was well left alone by peddlers and gamin searching for coin. Enjolras did not find that entirely negative. He had no desire to seem unapproachable, but he did enjoy being able to make his way home through the streets of Paris undisturbed.

The day was turning late, and his step moved quickly. He was not unaware of those he passed on the street, not pausing for conversation but letting the sights of destitution settle heavy in his heart. That was perhaps another reason he chose not to focus. It was not that he did not wish to face the reality of what Paris was, only that to solve this his mind could not stray from the greater picture. Enjolras could not give them all money, only hope that one day he would ensure they would not need it of him. His step did not falter, knowing he could offer no help now.

Enjolras lived alone. It was not so unusual fact, nor did he find it as lonely as to some it might sound. He was seldom at his rooms, so by what measure should he care that he was alone when he was? It was not strange for a man of his age to reside without perpetual company, despite what Courfeyrac often teased, and Enjolras had never much thought of it.

He lived comfortably in the third floor of an apartment, near the places he often needed to be. Should Enjolras be a more poetic soul, perhaps he would meditate over the idea that he lived so close to the heart of a city that he in turn held close to his chest. Jean Prouvaire, if given the location, would gladly have made the connection. The walk home from these places was solitary, but short. There was not much more to it than that.

The building itself was old, sagging into the medieval street with age. It was one of the many apartment buildings of its kind, he could not say what might set it apart from the others. Enjolras had grown most used to the dark and stuffy nature of the stairwell, and the muted noise of the other tenants. He did not think either of these aspects remarkable.

He had no familiarity with the other tenants. He knew the landlord, a woman worthy of respect though by no means friendly, and he had once run into the family of the floor below him. They had money, though not as much as they seemed to think he believed. They had thought him to be their type as well, though upon this realization Enjolras had told them rather firmly otherwise. Since then they had made no further attempts to socialize with him.

His mind was still absent, focused on arguments and actions rather than the movement of his self, when he reached the stairwell. It was empty, which Enjolras was grateful for. He had no fear of interaction, only that he was greatly exhausted from the efforts of the day and wished to be soon acquainted with his bed.

Only his key halted him, as it often did. The lock and it’s partner were not friends, and many minutes of Enjolras’s time was often victim to their disagreements. Enjolras could not tamper the flare of frustration, wishing as he had many times before that he could simply force the door open by will. It left him cruelly trapped in the dimness of the stairwell, powerless to do anything but create a clattering mess of noise as he tried to force the key into place.

Because of this noise, Enjolras did not immediately recognize the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs above him. He paused, knowing that as he had not yet met the upstairs tenants, he would likely be found rude if he did not turn round. He still made his best attempts with the key, though, only fully turning from it as shoes came into view.

The shoes that did appear were scuffed, and soon followed by a pair of quickly descending legs. His neighbor moved with great haste, as was the source of the loud noises. The person’s face soon followed, though it was not facing Enjolras in any form of greeting and therefore alleviated his need to make polite conversation. Enjolras would have gladly let the man pass without word had the recognizable profile not startled sound from him.

“Grantaire?” He said, surprise perhaps making his voice too loud for the small space. It caught him in his quick descent, causing his foot to slip and nearly send himself to the bottom much faster than intended. Grantaire’s confusion was evident as he righted himself.

“Apollo?” He responded, removing his cap as if Enjolras were a schoolmaster likely to chastise him for it. His mood soured ever so slightly at the moniker. “Whatever has brought you here?”

There was another element to Enjolras’s isolation, and largely the cause for its existence at all, being that none of the members of the Amis knew his location of residence. It was not out of any malice, nor was it greatly intentional, it was only a fact. They did not know because should they need to find him, he was always to be found at the meetings. When he and his two closest compatriots met, it was at Combeferre’s, as his home was the closest between theirs. Enjolras did not think he would lie, should anyone ask him directly, but it was only that no one ever had.

For this reason, it was with a great deal of surprise and distrust that he greeted Grantaire. The man was often a menace in meetings, he did not wish to be faced with it now as he tried to force his door open. It was an occasion to corner him with all the questions that Enjolras could not answer, and he did not have the energy for it. Only by Grantaire’s own signs of confusion did he lower his guard slightly.

“This is where I live.” Enjolras answered honestly. He noticed something under Grantaire’s arm as he shifted his hold on it. It looked to be covered in cloth. Enjolras decided not to inquire.

“You do not.” Grantaire’s response was stated as if fact, despite the untruthfulness of it. Enjolras had no answer prepared for such a statement, and responded after a moment’s hesitation.

“I am quite sure that I do.” Enjolras assured, for lack of anything better to say. This was a strange subject to contest, even for one such as the cynic.

Grantaire stared at the door behind Enjolras as if it would yield its own answer, eyes not resting on Enjolras himself. His stance shifted restlessly, as if his feet would rather flee down the rest of the stairs. Grantaire did not seem inebriated, but his odd behavior would suggest otherwise. As Enjolras could have guessed, the wood offered him no explanation, and Grantaire spoke again.

“You live in that apartment?”

Enjolras was used to resistance from Grantaire, but this repetition was becoming quickly tiresome. It took an energy and preparedness to withstand Grantaire’s questions on most things, and in this instance Enjolras had neither. He did not wish to have to defend his own presence, as he was forced to do with all his thoughts around Grantaire.

“I have said so, haven’t I?” Enjolras said, annoyance slipping into his voice. Grantaire seemed yet unconvinced.

It could be a trick of some kind, an attempt by Grantaire to upset his attentions as it often was. Perhaps he was trying for Enjolras to prove that he lived there by inviting him in? Enjolras couldn’t think what that would possibly achieve, other than giving him more canon fodder to assail him with at meetings. Enjolras would not let himself be fooled so easily, no matter the frustration.

Now he had given his excuse, he expected one from Grantaire as well. Enjolras had reason to be in this stairwell, and until the other man disclosed his Enjolras was mistrustful. He cleared his throat, expecting Grantaire to now justify his own presence. That reply did not come.

“Apologies, I am late to an engagement.” Grantaire announced, straightening with the slight rise in volume his voice took. It had been rough, low with confusion before. Enjolras watched the movement.

Grantaire seemed to think that answer enough for Enjolras’s suggested inquiry. He then took off down the stairs at such a speed that Enjolras would risk to call it fleeing. Enjolras, peering down the stairwell, saw only the end of his coat tails as he disappeared at the bottom. The dramatics of it seemed rather unnecessary, and Enjolras had been left without any of his own answers.

The entirety of the interaction felt unsettled and strange, as if he had dreamed it rather than had any actual experience. That truth would likely come as a relief, should it be proven, as Enjolras did not leap at the thought of how Grantaire may use such information. It was not quite the strangest exchange he had suffered at Grantaire’s hand, but it left Enjolras no less baffled. Just as quickly as he had appeared, Grantaire had vanished again, neither with much explanation.

The door, with a final shove of a now bruised shoulder, unlatched and exposed his rooms. Somehow, that did not offer any amount of relief, as his thoughts had followed Grantaire out the door. His curiosity had caught on the coattails, and he could not pull himself from wondering what the conversation had meant. He did not rush towards the window, but he assumed Grantaire would have already managed to disappear into the crowd. Maybe he truly had somewhere to be, and did not just use it as the poorly disguised excuse it seemed to be.

Regardless, it was no business of Enjolras’s. He had little interest in what brought Grantaire to this building, and littler in what drew him from it. The cynic was not one for silence, so he imagined he’d get explanation enough the next time they should see each other. It would be a later frustration, but for now he could dismiss it.

Chapter Text

Enjolras had been far less successful in ignoring the bizarre interaction than he might have hoped. Grantaire had not offered any explanation in the next meeting, and as far as Enjolras could tell he had told no one of it. Perhaps he too had dismissed their meeting. Paris was a great city, but often felt rather small with the circles he ran in. Those circles did not often include facings with Grantaire, but he supposed the event was inevitable in its probability.

He would not claim to know Grantaire well. They had none of the familiarity for it, and despite the length of drunken musings Enjolras had been privy to, he did not know much of the man’s character. Despite this, he could not assway the feeling that Grantaire was leaving something unsaid on the subject. An impossible feat for him, Enjolras would have thought, but the feeling did not leave him in either of the two meetings that week.

There was little to support his claim. Grantaire acted as he often did, being loud and distracting and undermining all that Enjolras attempted to accomplish. It was only after the first meeting, during a lull in which people had started to depart and they had been left standing close did he say anything. Grantaire asked “Heading home?” in such a way that would have been casual, had Enjolras not been determined to read strangeness into it. Yet even that had yielded nothing. Grantaire had quickly wandered off without answer, leaving his thoughts unexplored.

He half considered asking, on the odd chance that he imagined Grantaire capable of a straight answer. Combeferre would likely chastise him that it was none of his business, and that simply because Enjolras wanted a question answered did not mean he was at immediate liberty to ask it. Enjolras let that imaginary scolding hold his tongue at least, but his curiosity was not so easily quelled.

It would be shameful to admit that after the second meeting he had spent more time in his rooms. He couldn’t say what he was waiting for, only that he had moved a sitting chair near to the door and had pulled it open more than once when footsteps happened to be heard. It was ridiculous, he was not so foolish to be unaware of that. His best justification was that if he could not ask and have his questions answered, perhaps he could discover their resolution himself.

These actions were ridiculous, he thought again as he looked over his station by the door. What good reason did he have for this, other than letting his mind run wild? He had achieved so little else in this time. Enjolras had a great focus, one that lead to a dedication that many men did not seem to share for all that he chose. It’s equal curse was that when something different caught his interest, he had to have it resolved before his mind could easily move on. He would fight his mind on its most recent choice, if he could.

A clattering drew his attention to the door, though he had not heard anything previous to it. Enjolras hesitated, but the cursing that followed the sound in a familiar voice brought him to stand and pull the door open. He found what his imagination well expected, with Grantaire struggling to pick up some wrapped thing from where it hand fallen and hit the stairs.

“Grantaire.” Enjolras said, causing him to jump and drop the object again. His cheeks were stained with the embarrassment of it when he looked up to Enjolras.

“Ah, hallo.”

“What is that?” Enjolras asked, coming out of the door fully, though he did not let it close and lock itself again. He would spare himself the effort if he could.

“A canvas.” Grantaire answered, gathering it back under his arm. He did not look at Enjolras directly, leaning as if to take another step up the stairs. “What can I do for you?”

“For what reason are you here again?”

Enjolras could tell he sounded confrontational, though he had not entirely meant it so. Grantaire got a look, as he so often did when he thought they were nearing an argument. Enjolras knew that look to bring nothing but irrational frustration. He could see it settle in Grantaire’s body, and felt himself prepare similarly.

“You know, some would consider it rude to ask after a man’s personal affairs so directly.” He gave a half sort of smile, though it was not a very pleasant one. “Or shall the arts of tact and propriety be abandoned in your utopia?”

“Have you followed me here?” He asked, tone growing firmer. Enjolras expected more sarcasm and evasive answers, but was instead greeted with surprise. It was the first instance in the conversation that Grantaire met his eyes directly.

“Beg pardon?”

“Is that where you found my home? Did you follow me?” Enjolras could see the sarcasm forming on Grantaire’s lips as soon as the words left him.

“My dear Apollo, don’t let it wound you but I must say that not every aspect of my life is spent blindly following your lead.” He gestured dismissively, though somewhat limited by the canvas in his hands. “My being here has nothing to do with you.”

“A lover, then?”

“Such interest! I am flattered by your attentions.” Grantaire expressed with unnecessary theatricality, moving as if to swoon. The act faded and his expression calmed somewhat before he truly answered. “Hardly, I live in one of the rooms above.”

Now it was for Enjolras to be shocked. The possibility had not occurred to him, though he supposed it well should have. But surely Enjolras would have known before now, seen him on some night walking home to the same location. He could think of nothing else to do but ask a question, though a rather repetitive one.

“You do?” Grantaire nodded, though his eyes had strayed again. Enjolras followed them to where they rested on some flecks of chipping paint over the wood.

“Have done for some time. I apologize if my answer underwhelms you, it seemed you appeared so readily to hear it.”

“I am often near the door.” Enjolras replied quickly, embarrassed that Grantaire might have guessed at his strange strategy for discovering his reasons. He would not admit to having listened. “How have I not known this before?”

“There is seldom a night I am home when I am likely to encounter waking souls in the stairs of this house.”

“Hmm.” The explanation certainly had merit. He was not one to spend great lengths of time in the city nights, it would not surprise him if their schedules overlapped as little as the meetings and nothing else. “Why did you not mention this last time?”

“My surprise was too great for me to be held responsible for clear thought. You know now.”

Enjolras still struggled to decipher which answers were mocking and which were genuine, as his words always seemed to hold both tones. It was an impressive skill, though a rather useless one. Grantaire did not give him time to decide which meaning to respond to.

“This is rather heavy, if you would excuse me.” His shoulder moved as a half gesture. Enjolras was pulled from his thoughts.

“Of course, goodbye then.” He answered, only to then realize his miscalculation.

Enjolras was trapped by Grantaire’s slow ascent. Either he returned to his room, and by extension admit to Grantaire’s suspicion that he had appeared only to pry, or he pretend to be on his way out and let the door close, leaving him to battle with the keys yet again. Grantaire’s smirk at his hesitance made the answer clear enough.

“I will see you at the next meeting.” Enjolras said firmly, letting the door swing closed as his decision. When Combeferre asked why he arrived unannounced without purse or overcoat, he would have no cause to cite but pride. This too Grantaire seemed to see through, only smiling as he left the sight of Enjolras’s standing.

“Until then, Apollo.”

Chapter Text

Enjolras made no attempt to ambush him again. He had little chance for it. There were no sounds of him in the stairwell, which Enjolras was unlikely to hear regardless, having moved his chair back where it belonged. While he was not deaf to the voices from the floor above, they were not clear enough to specify as one person or another. Enjolras’s question had been answered, he had no reason to further pursue it.

Their meetings had passed inconsequentially, with little further evidence to keep Enjolras’s attentions. It should have been easy enough to settle into the knowledge that they lived nearby, and easier still to forget it with time. Perhaps it would have eventually slipped from his mind, a memory of an awkward exchange that held no real importance. A simple enough thing to forget, as two weeks came and went.

Except that it was Enjolras who was next ambushed, though he would not claim to think Grantaire had planned it. Had the action been premeditated, perhaps its staging would have been more graceful. As it was, he had been caught only a few steps from the building, nearly colliding with a hurried Grantaire as he headed for the door. Enjolras was unused to such barriers in his walks, and recognized the hair near his face easily enough.

“It seems now that we have let our paths cross once, they insist on crossing again.” Grantaire said somewhat stiffly as they stood in the street. He looked tired, ill even. “I now wonder how we have evaded each other this long.”

The immediate urge to form some witty rebuttal to his words came, halted only by Enjolras reasoning he had no good reason to argue. It was his natural reaction to Grantaire, a result of training he supposed, though he did his best to quiet his mind’s urge of retaliation. His answer instead was stiff in its attempted casualness.

“I am not surprised, with how differently we choose to spend our time.” He said, thinking of Grantaire’s own explanation from their last meeting. He studied the sight of exhaustion on Grantaire’s face, thinking he had not looked so unwell at the last meeting. “You have no canvas with you?”

“I return from the judgement of a private salon, I only wish they be kinder than those of the Academy.” Enjolras did not pretend to understand most of his meaning, but his mind caught part of Grantaire’s words with a flash of judgement.

“The Academy? I had not thought you a Royalist.” What reasons would Grantaire have, then, for attending the meetings? Enjolras had known him to be a cynic, but he would not stomach a spy.

“I do not have the easy privilege of choosing my patrons, I must eat as much as any man.” It was said with an unpleasant beginnings of a sneer. “Surely even a God such as you must understand the limits of man.”

Grantaire had been drinking. It was noticeable in the way he carried himself, though Enjolras supposed he was often greeted by this state with Grantaire sitting down. His previous thoughts slipped away into disappointment with this realization. Had Grantaire no restraint, to fall into such a state long before the sun had even pulled itself towards the horizon? With no expectation of a rational response, Enjolras could prepare to take none of his words seriously. Where the bottle ended and Grantaire’s mind began was none of Enjolras’s concern. Even his silence seemed to warrant rebuttal.

“Such insightful words, I am blessed by your wisdom.” Yet another sneer, though one that pulled back in on itself. Grantaire’s eyes seemed to clear with it. “Apologies, that was unwarranted.”

That did surprise Enjolras. Grantaire’s demeanor changed quickly, as if he had only let himself fall into that moment of anger and now held himself with the same amount of collection he did when sober. Perhaps it then meant Grantaire was always drunk, instead. He could not be sure.

It occurred to Enjolras to ask if any of Grantaire’s remarks were then warranted, as most seemed to come from similar places of drink and frustration. Only the Combeferre of his mind’s eye succeeded in holding his tongue. He did not wish for conflict, particularly one as unconstructive as this. He would tolerate something that strengthened his own argument, but had no interest in a meaningless fight in the middle of the street.

“To Combeferre’s, then?” Grantaire asked casually, inferring from Enjolras’s state of departure far earlier than he would need to leave for the meeting that night.

“Courfeyrac’s.” Enjolras answered shortly, unsure of which direction this interaction would now take.

“I would wish him well, if you do not mind carrying the message for me.” Enjolras accepted easily enough.

“It is a mere pleasantry.”

Grantaire nodded, looking away as if he too was unsure how to speak to Enjolras outside their usual abrasive nature. Enjolras could at least expect its return later that night at the meeting, when they were both in familiar territory. He was unsure what else to say, and silence filled the air between them despite the bustling activity around.

It was not long before Grantaire tipped his hat in an act of farwell and moved to pass Enjolras. He did so, but Enjolras turned as he did and called out before Grantaire reached the door. Grantaire turned to him, wariness evident.

“The fifth step has come loose, to warn you.” He said. Enjolras had nearly fallen on it, and as they shared that space he thought it only fair to pass on the warning. For all the categories Grantaire was not, not friend, not even an ally, Enjolras could definitively now classify him in one. They were neighbors, and in the context of that relationship he could make himself polite.

“I appreciate the instruction.” Grantaire acknowledged, disappearing into the building.

Enjolras made the rest of the way undisturbed, considering the nature of the exchange. Should they settle their differences and behave cordially so long as they were near their homes, he did not think living so near to Grantaire would be any such trouble. As Grantaire had yet to cause him issue by addressing it in the meetings, and there at least their dynamic remained unchanged. Enjolras settled into thinking that this would easily become a fact of little consequence.

Chapter Text

It was not as if Grantaire were suddenly everywhere. Enjolras did not see him that often, in fact. They led different lives, and their schedules continued to rarely overlap in such clandestine ways as to involve more stairwell meetings. Hardly anything had changed, save that Enjolras was aware of this one new fact. They made passable, neighborly conversation when they should stumble upon each other, and continued much in their usual way once they were among the amis.

Enjolras had seen Grantaire across the street once as well. There was nothing remarkable about the event, save perhaps that Enjolras’s absent gaze had happened to fall on him. It was yet another reminder that their worlds now overlapped more significantly. Enjolras did not call out to him, and a preoccupied Grantaire did not see him pass.

He decided, in his manner, that there would be uses to this development. It was not some great convenience such as Combeferre becoming his housemate, but perhaps it would foster some docility between them, and Grantaire would then contribute more constructively to the meetings. He would claim friendliness with the other Amis, if not friendship, so he believed perhaps greater time spent with Grantaire would ease his criticism.

“Should we make our way home?”

Grantaire looked up at Enjolras with surprise, bottle pausing in its journey towards his mouth. The intensity of his shock was not unwarranted, as Enjolras had not made much habit of coming to he, Joly and Bossuet’s table at the conclusion of meetings. Bossuet and Joly, who’s conversation with Grantaire Enjolras had interrupted, looked on curiously.

“I had intended to stay out longer.” Grantaire replied, eyes moving between his companions and Enjolras. He had inferred as much from the boisterous activity of the table throughout the entire meeting, though Enjolras thought Grantaire could benefit from resisting their invitation. “What reason have I to leave now?”

“The gutters will not miss you resting in them,” Enjolras said, momentarily falling into the harshness of their usual exchange before wincing. He tried again, this time taking care to soften the request. “I should like to speak with you.”

Grantaire held his gaze evenly, a pinch of mistrust between his brows. Enjolras came quickly to the conclusion that he was to be refused, and rather aggressively as well, before Grantaire broke the stare and turned to his fellows. He apologized to them, leaving some money under an empty bottle on the table and standing.

“I forgot I had promised our fearless leader a consultation. Fear, my friends, perhaps I will convince him of something.” Enjolras blinked at the lie, though he did not react to it beyond that. Joly and Bossuet offered their good-natured enthusiasm to tempt Grantaire out regardless, but he waved them of, pulling on his jacket and falling into step with Enjolras.

“Have I forgotten this promise that I now accidentally fill?” Enjolras asked as they left the warmth of the cafe.

“No, of course not.” Grantaire said, as if Enjolras’s words had been strange. It did not explain the lie. “Is there something you did wish to speak with me on?”

“I merely thought it sensical for us to make our way home together. We are both headed in the same direction, after all.”

It had not occurred to him to ask in the times earlier, he would admit, but the reasoning was not too weak. Grantaire nodded in understanding, though with the sort of smile that suggested his was a complete misunderstanding of Enjolras’s intention.

“I see, you have now had time to think of responses for everything I halted you with during the meeting. This is your chance of belated rebuttals.” Enjolras certainly did have things he wished he had thought of earlier in their arguments, though he knew better than to give Grantaire the satisfaction of tearing them to shreds a second time.

“I hardly think it worth the effort, they would be wasted on you.” The words came out on the closer side of fond frustration, which seemed to be the correct reaction. Grantaire offered the edge of a grin on his profile.

“I have yet to see that stop you.” He said, letting the conversation carry on.

Enjolras’s mother had once, when he was just of the age that his voice was permitted to be heard in society, described him as charming. Enjolras would not disagree. It was a trait he saw in himself, as well, though not due to any misplaced egotism. By no mistake was it that while Combeferre was the most eloquent and Courfeyrac the most approachable, it was Enjolras they put before the crowds. Enjolras knew of his gift, and it was not of vanity to acknowledge its existence.

He was, however, unlucky in that it was a limited skill. Enjolras could command a crowd and make them see through his eyes, but he struggled in areas of personal conversation. That was Courfeyrac’s talent, and Enjolras secretly envied it. It was by no shyness or disinterest, only an incompetence in understanding what was correct to say. In his speaking Enjolras was too direct, too invasive, too harsh.

It was with these hindrances that he tried to hold conversation with Grantaire. His companion was a man of many words, who spoke in the spaces where Enjolras did not. It meant Enjolras was not succeeding greatly in his attempts to become better acquainted with Grantaire, as he seemed to take the conversation down every path but that one, and while Enjolras would often be glad for such a chance to retreat into a comfortable amount of conversational contribution it conflicted with his goals.

“Have you any family?” Enjolres asked abruptly, cutting through some spiel of Grantaire’s.

“I live alone.” He responded quickly enough, dispeling his surprise with ease. Enjolras hummed thoughtfully.

“Truly? There is often noise from above me.” That earned him a side glance, a tilt of confusion making it so Grantaire looked at him more directly.

“As there are two appartments over yours, and three above that, I do not find that surprising. I apologize, but you must take your complaints of noise to them.”

Enjolras was taken aback, both by the conversation shifting from where he intended so quickly, and by the meaning of Grantaire’s words. It had to be a lie, for Enjolras could not think himself so oblivious as to not have noticed that.

“Three? But surely there is just as much space on the floor above as I have.”

“Less, I would dare to say. And below you, greater. Were you so unaware of the hierarchies within your own home?” A breathy sort of laugh. “How odd it is, that the poor take the top.” Grantaire’s voice had the intonation of teasing, but when he caught sight of Enjolras’s face it ceased.

“Is it not uncommon, then?” Enjolras’s voice was cool, but with a tremor at the end that gave him away.

“Most apartments of its kind are much the same.” As it very well was, until Haussman’s designs of the city had no further use for this old model. “I am confused over why this worries you so. I will not judge you for lacking omnipotence.”

Enjolras’s mouth tasted bitter. It was in his nature, to react to things strongly, and this was no different. Enjolras was not too literal to see what the strange house hierarchy represented, and what he therefore lived complicit in. He did not enjoy thinking of himself in terms of passivity, not when all of his words to the Amis were against it. Grantaire could see his feelings well in Enjolras’s face.

“Why is this something that earns such anger? It is not you that made them poor.” He asked.

“I did not make myself rich, either. I live in comfort while those so shortly away suffer. Should that not anger me?” Enjolras returned. How frustrating it was to know every step, every action was part of some great system he wished to resist. Grantaire raised his hands at the strength of Enjolras’s tone.

“I am not fool enough to think you ingenuine, yet I do not understand what warrants this energy. You cannot change it.”

“Unlike some, I would endeavor to try.” Grantaire’s cheek twitched, and he lost the guise of attempted comfort.

“Oh, forgive me, I will try to make the rich relatives of all these fellows support them as you are. Perhaps my father will enjoy the irony.” Grantaire scoffed. “It is poverty, Enjolras. There is no easy fix and you cannot blame yourself for its existence.”

Enjolras would hear no word of that sentiment, but what Grantaire had said just before caught his attentions. He had not thought Grantaire poor, he spoke with the eloquence of an educated mind and dressed more neatly than Enjolras himself in most cases. To hear of him cut off now offered clarity, though Enjolras did not mediate on it long. In that respect, at least, he had learned something. He used a hand to halt both their movement, ungentle in its abruptness though not its intent.

“I meant no offense.” Grantaire laughed.

“I suggest you become a better liar if you desire a role in politics.”

“I am not-” Enjolras struggled with his own restraint, doing his best to cool the flash of anger. It warmed his face unpleasantly. “We are arguing again. This is not what I wanted to happen.”

“Ah, but perhaps it was my intention.” Grantaire rocked back slightly, swaying with the words or perhaps with drink, Enjolras could never be sure.

“That would not entirely surprise me, though I do not understand the desire.”

Grantaire gave that look again, where the skin by his eyes pinched tighter and gave way to a considering gaze. Enjolras was being assessed by some measure, though by which he was not sure. Grantaire disclosed none of his conclusions, instead looking back down the way they had come.

“Make your way home, I am expected elsewhere.” It was not said harshly, so anger did not rise in Enjolras’s response. Instead it was dusted in confusion.

“Why then did you agree to come?” He had not considered Grantaire having plans other than with Joly and Bossuet, in fact he had not considered Grantaire knowing persons other than the ones they shared.

“I did not think it an option to refuse.” The words were not clear in their meaning as humor or truth, Enjolras did not bother to respond to either.

“I will see you soon, then.” Grantaire shrugged, already making his movements away into the shadows.

“I imagine so, it has become rather difficult to avoid each other of late.”

He may have inclined his head in farewell before turning, but the dark kept Enjolras from observing him clearly. The sound of footsteps against cobblestones were the greatest indicator of his departure as they echoed off of the enclosed walls of the street. They were soon joined by the faint whistled tune of something Enjolras only barely recognized. Certainly one of the songs Grantaire sometimes sang in his stupor. He did not listen long before continuing on his way.

Chapter Text

It was unclear if the last attempt earned being labeled a disaster or success, but due to this confusion Enjolras had not attempted walk with Grantaire again. It seemed a dangerous game, to bridge both the polite world of their home lives with the ferocity of their arguments inside the Corinthe walls. Yet he did not give up entirely on his goals of better acquaintance, speaking to him within meetings when he could. It always felt stilted under the eyes of their confused companions, despite his best efforts. The shift in their behaviors had garnered attention, and Enjolras knew well enough to realize neither of them enjoyed it.

Grantaire’s own reactions were of little help, looking equally shocked whenever Enjolras made an attempt to ask after his thoughts. After all this time it seemed he had finally stumbled upon a way to silence the cynic, as asking Grantaire to speak revealed itself to be the quickest way to quiet him. After so many opinions given unbidden, a requested one was met with blinking confusion and muttered words claiming to have no thought on the matter.

“For what reason have you directed so much of your attention to Grantaire of late? You do not usually enjoy his contributions.” Combeferre’s voice was soft, as to not be heard by the others as they conversed.

Enjolras looked up from the pages Combeferre had asked him to look over, understanding them now as the ruse that they were. He had wondered why Combeferre had asked him now, not just shown his notes at his later visit as they often did. His friend watched him evenly over the rim of his glasses, with the sort of look that Enjolras knew well he was incapable of escaping.

“I think his thoughts have more merit than his phrasing would make it appear.” Enjolras said, for some reason uncomfortable offering the true reasoning. He imagined Combeferre could see through him easily enough.

“Of that I am well aware, he and I have spoken many times on it.” Enjolras blinked at his friend in surprise, and further at his tone that suggested Combeferre found Enjolras rather slow in the uptake.

“Have you?”

“I thought it odd that any true opposing individual would be friends with such as Joly and Bossuet, it did not take me long to learn how to understand his words as they do. I have brought many of his arguments to you as well, only in clearer words.” Combeferre said, taking the papers from him, likely to make it seem as if they were what was still discussed.

Enjolras mediated on this. Combeferre had always been greatly skilled in understanding the nuances of argument, and had often greatly strengthened Enjolras’s argument by example of opposition. He supposed Grantaire did much the same, though Enjolras with him did not keep such a clear head. Grantaire and Combeferre differed greatly in behavior, but perhaps he should not have been so surprised by an intellectual connection.

“I had not known of your familiarity.” Enjolras would not admit jealousy at the ease in which the others interacted with Grantaire. It was hard not to think he the victim of some personal attack when so much of what Grantaire said to him was so sarcastic and indirect.

“He is one of us.” Combeferre said as if it was simple. Perhaps it was.

They were interrupted then by the subject of their discussion, who had just broken from conversation with Jehan. Grantaire greeted Combeferre with a smile that was easily returned, before moving to lean his hip against the table by Enjolras. Enjolras watched his hand absently trace lines along the wood where it rested, before moving his gaze to the man’s face.

“Enjolras, may I speak with you a moment?”

“I think it too early to make our ways home.” Enjolras responded with hesitance. Combeferre made a sound of enquiry, which brought Enjolras to turn to him. “Grantaire and I are neighbors.”

“I meant a moment only, I do not plan to leave just yet.” Grantaire assured, seeming thoughtful. Enjolras nodded, following him so that they stood just beyond the doors. Grantaire’s arms were crossed as he leaned against the stone. “I must say, I am disquieted by the sudden change in your behavior.” It was abrupt and direct, which Enjolras had no issue with.

“Have I caused offense?” He asked.

“Quite the contrary, you seem all too eager to converse rather than argue.” A curl fell over his forehead. “I’d ask you not offend me now and claim that I am imagining things.”

He made no attempt to try such a thing, instead watching Grantaire. He was unsure what the desired response was, and Grantaire seemed oddly unsettled. It was far from the intended effect.

“What do you mean to ask?” Grantaire had said several statements, yet none had made it clear what he wished Enjolras to say.

“Why. I want to know why. That is the question I mean to ask.”

Despite his own wording, that was the last thing he had hoped for Grantaire to say. As with Combeferre, he did not feel sure enough of his reasons to say them plainly. He had sought to ease Grantaire’s criticism, or to know him better, something of the sort. He struggled to word it properly even in his own mind.

“Since our paths cross more frequently, does it not make sense for me to wish us on better terms?” Grantaire greeted this answer with mistrust, but not anger.

“I will not tell you what you wish to hear, just because you ask me to speak. My thoughts are just as contrary as before.”

Enjolras would not want that, he had no use for someone that simply agreed with whatever he said. He surrounded himself with individuals that were not so thoughtless as that, and had no wish to change now. His friends refuted and expanded on the thoughts of one another, he did not know how Grantaire would think he wanted otherwise.

“That I would know if you had bothered to respond any time I asked.” He said, letting the teasing tone filter in. Grantaire’s hands moved to signal a weak defense. The tension between them seemed to ease.

“Forgive my being caught off guard. It was unexpected.” Enjolras moved to speak but was cut off. “Yes, even after the third time. I think I am far more used to being the one in control of when your attention comes to me.”

The statement settled strangely in Enjolras’s chest. It felt like a confession of some sort, though accidental, and what it revealed felt like cool rain sliding down the back of his neck. Control was a rather particular sort of wording, and Enjolras’s jaw tightened.

“I should think you would prefer discussion, from which we can both benefit, rather than wasting my time.” Enjolras said, shoulders tense. The question of why now too pushed on his lips. He bit the inside of his cheek instead.

Grantaire clearly noted the change of tone, and Enjolras saw his body shift with it. An unpleasant look crossed his face, though Enjolras was sure it was similarly mirrored on his own. Grantaire tugged roughly on his waistcoat to dispel any grime from its time against the wall, straightening to look Enjolras in the eye.

“I will do by best to answer you next time you should ask for my opinion, then we shall see if you are still interested in continuing this experiment when I still say things you do not wish to hear.”

“So long as you speak plainly, rather than being intentionally vague and confusing.” Enjolras responded, matching his tone in is bite. “I think I finally understand it now, how you find no worth in a conversation where you do not feel like the wisest man in the room.” Grantaire’s face distorted into an unkind smile.

“I claim reason, not wisdom.”

“You are bitter, that is neither.” Enjolras felt his fists tightening. It was hotter, messier feeling than righteousness. It was not pleasant. “Is there merit to an interaction you do not control? A conversation you do not steer with complete capability?”

“I think this a strong reaction to one comment.” Grantaire sneered. The belittlement only angered Enjolras further. His nails bit into his hands, and his voice raised, unbidden.

“And yet it was not just one comment, was it Grantaire? In the time that I’ve known you it has been constant. Between your convoluted allusions and sarcastic asides I hardly have an idea if you think I the scum of the earth or God in Heaven.” His hand moved, mostly of its own volition, to forcefully thrust a finger in Grantaire’s chest. “You are frustrating and contradictory, and now you say it as if all that has simply been a game to toy with my reactions? Is my anger, my sadness humorous to you? Am I a bear to poke until I dance or go mad with it and kill?”

Grantaire’s reaction was an unexpected one, eyes widening slightly with Enjolras’s words and body losing the fighting stance it had taken. It was almost pity that formed in his eyes, as Enjolras half-doubted him capable of anything closer to empathy.

“I thought my words insignificant.” He said, quiet instead of raising to match Enjolras’s volume. The swell of energy began to fade.

“Our friends hear them, as do I. Do not think me immune.” This, too, felt like a confession. “What I do is important, and I do not enjoy being distracted for some sort of petty entertainment.”

They were both quiet, enough so that it could be heard how their breathing slowed as they calmed. Enjolras had not planned on his outburst, and was rather shocked at the level of intensity he in fact felt. Not only had he failed in keeping them from arguing, but he had decided to bring back every argument they had ever had in a sweeping rant of frustration. This interaction at least he knew well was disastrous.

“That is never what it was, but I will not claim it to have been mature.” Grantaire said finally. He did not elaborate on his true motives, instead finishing with “I’m sorry to have troubled you.”

It was not what Enjolras had wanted, though he was unsure what that was meant to be. Perhaps an explanation for why Grantaire treated him so callously and with such strange contradiction? He could not have hoped for such clarity from Grantaire of all people. An apology was not the right conclusion, and yet it was not the wrong one.

But of course, it took two to argue as they did, and Enjolras had hardly spared Grantaire the harsher words. He wondered, then, if he too should apologize, and if he did if Grantaire would even understand what Enjolras asked for him to forgive. The words would not come, and Enjolras, in his manner, instead chose to move on and move forward.

“Will you then speak?” He asked, hoping Grantaire understood his question.

It was an extended hand, so to speak, an olive branch. A request to stay, rather than a demand to leave like Grantaire may have expected. Grantaire had never apologized before, so it was possible that if he had told Grantaire to leave the Amis then, might actually have listened.

“Don’t think me so easily quieted.” Grantaire said, with the slightest suggestion of a smile. He looked away as Enjolras matched it. “Joly will worry for me, out in the cold.” He said, nodding towards the door. He paused a moment. “Should we make our way home together?” He asked. Enjolras nodded.

“Yes, let’s.”

Chapter Text

Their confrontation of sorts had been unplanned, but Enjolras could not bring himself to regret its happening. It had fostered change, which was something Enjolras seldom resented. Perhaps had they discussed Enjolras’s feelings frustrations and Grantaire’s feelings of unimportance long before, resolution would have been earlier reached and they would have long been friends.

One conversation did not solve all of their animosity, their habits being long formed and their ideas still far too different. They still fell into argument frequently enough, but on both sides there was more restraint and thought for the opponent. The cruelty of the words lessened, and when they did come they were followed by apologies and softer sentiments. If not in words, as they both struggled in the areas of apology, in looks and gestures that they had both grown to understand. There was an effort, and that was what Enjolras held on to.

He did not think it his imagination that the other Amis seemed pleased by the development. Some that had always been closer to Grantaire than he were more familiar now, as well as the other way around, and Courfeyrac told him the meetings were less frightening to newcomers. They continued to walk together only on occasion, and ran into each other even more rarely in the building, but the shift felt significant. He would even dare to say friendly.

They were not friends, to make that aspect entirely clear. It was with considerable effort on both their parts that they had just moved away from near enemies, and Enjolras hardly knew enough about Grantaire to warrant such a title. They still greeted each other with awkwardness more than anything else, a symptom of their aforementioned restraint, and Enjolras was as ever clueless when it came to filling gaps in conversation with anything but direct questions.

“Are your paintings stored within your rooms?” He asked, as one example.

He had come to find Grantaire in the stairwell for the first time in several weeks, startling them both with its occurrence. Yet another painting was under his arm, which Grantaire had explained shortly before was returning unsold from an exhibition. It was wrapped in canvas, as all the others had been, concealing its appearance from Enjolras’s eyes.

“They are.” Grantaire replied. “I have little else to do with them, they certainly aren’t gracing the walls of any paying patrons.” Enjolras peered at the hidden example, as if his intent would make the coverings slip away.

“May I see them?” He asked, hoping that the words overstepped no bounds.

“I have no objections.” Grantaire said with ease, evidently with expectation for the conversation to move on. Only when the pause continued too long did he speak again with a low hesitance. “Do you mean now?”

“If you aren’t otherwise occupied.” Enjolras suggested, rather than asked. It was firm, but perhaps kinder than stating his true intentions.

He was curious, certainly, as to what Grantaire was always carting about with him. He knew nothing of Grantaire’s art, but perhaps it could enlighten him more on his person. Regardless of this, his primary goal, as Grantaire seemed visibly disheartened, was that perhaps his presence could keep him from drink for a few hours longer. It would make the meeting later that day run smoother, he was sure.

“If you truly want to.” Grantaire said, sounding unconvinced. Enjolras, rather than answering, moved up to follow him to his door. Abruptness seeming to be the best strategy.

Grantaire let himself be corralled up the stairs, making preemptive apologies for the state of disarray he expected the room to be in. Enjolras, though not outwardly, observed that it could not be as bad as Grantaire said. Even in a drunken stupor he always had a neatly tied cravat and unrivaled eloquence. He did not imagine a man such as that being nearly as messy as someone such as Enjolras, who would often go weeks too focused on one thing to think of tidying his rooms. It all faded into the background, regardless.

He was found correct in that assumption, of course, when Grantaire managed to pull the door open. His lock seemed as troublesome as Enjolras’s own. While their was a general clutter caused by the number of canvases and limited space, the remaining space was kept impressively organized. It seemed the only truly messy thing in Grantaire’s life was his hair and perhaps his drinking habits.

Grantaire laid the latest canvas among the others before beginning to pull off coverings to show Enjolras their surfaces. Enjolras would not claim to know much of art, so it was only with provided explanation did he understand any of what he saw. They seemed rougher than those his parents had owned, the brushstrokes evident and the movement looser. He wondered, briefly, if mentioning such an observation would bring offence. Thankfully, Grantaire spoke for him.

“Feel no obligation to pretend they are good. They have been called everything from an unfinished study to mangled chaos, yet harsh words have had little impact on my style.” He observed one closely, some Eastern scene. “I have no taste for their classicism outside its subjects, but they say I should work more closely with models, as to improve my naturalism and sell better.”

Enjolras observed a dying Hyacinth, evident by the flowers around him rather than any clearly distinguishable features. A strange subject to choose, certainly, and stranger yet in this dim palette. The lightests area of the piece was Apollo’s hair, shining in nearly straight white pigment as his face tucked itself away in the neck of his prince, spilling out with the light across his chest. Despite the lack of shown expression, there was a rawness to it that stirred even Enjolras’s artistically uninspired heart.

Grantaire said he had precedents in this style, though ones not well recognized by the Academy. He listed the names of Dutch and Spanish artists, though the names did not stick well in Enjolras’s mind. He assumed their art was much the same, suited to low candlelight and stormy nights rather than parlor walls. Enjolras found the art a mysterious sort of intriguing, much like Grantaire himself, he supposed.

“I offer myself as a model, should you like.” He said in reply, despite the lack of question. Grantaire snorted before seeing the sincere look on Enjolras’s face when he turned to follow the sound. His own expression shifted to one of disbelief.

“Surely you would not sink to such a role. It carries connotations that that you cannot be entirely oblivious to.” His brow furrowed. “Unless you were then offering to sit for a portrait, in which that would make much more sense but I would have to warn of my lack of skill.”

“I meant it however you should need it.” Enjolras clarified. If Grantaire was in need of a figure, Enjolras did not think it too hard to hold some position for a time. He had done as much, sitting still and quiet at his parent’s dinners as a child. “I would not feel fallen below my station, I can assure you.”

Grantaire looked doubtful, still unsure of Enjolras’s offer as he had interpreted it. It was true that Enjolras knew of no one who had ever modeled rather than sat for a portrait, but he had never been a great lover of formal tradition. What did the reputation of the role matter, so long as he and Grantaire both knew themselves as they were. Grantaire must have seen this conviction in his eyes, as his protest faded.

“Your offer shocks me still, but perhaps I will eventually take you up on it.” He said.

“You know where to find me.” Grantaire smiled, small and secretive, as if it were a joke only shared between the two. He supposed it was, in a way.

“You have me at a disadvantage, for I have yet to see past your door.” Enjolras inclined his head. Though shyness was not a familiar experience to him, he felt hesitance at showing the wider expanses of his rooms just then.

“We shall celebrate there, when you have sold whatever I am to be painted as.” Grantaire, fingers tracing the edge of an unfinished canvas, now smiled more broadly.

“Your confidence is very great if you think your face alone able to sell my art.” Enjolras shared in the expression.

“Is it not you that has claimed me to have the face worthy of a God? Michelangelo himself could not have carved my curls, was it?” As much as Enjolras often resented such comments, the shock on Grantaire’s face as he threw them back was greatly satisfying.

“Had I realized it was growing the size of your head to this length,” Grantaire said, quick in his recovery despite his now ruddied cheeks. “I would have kept my mouth closed.”

It felt good, natural even, to tease each other. It was not as careful as many of their interactions had been of late, moving closer to their areas of argument but lacking the same force that made the collisions so fierce. It was as sparring was to a battle, good-natured and lacking the violence and anger that made the alternative so unpleasant. They smiled easily at one another, until Grantaire looked away.

“Will you still be in your rooms come time to go to the meeting?” Grantaire asked, moving to cover the paintings yet again.

“Apologies, but I am to meet Courfeyrac some time before it.” His companion did not look disappointed, instead nodding along as if it were the expected answer.

“I will see you there, then.” Enjolras helped him to cover the last, stepping up beside him to do so. The shifting sounds of the fabric filled the air.

“Certainly, Grantaire.” The hands beside his stopped their movements.

“You may call me R.” Enjolras looked to his side, though Grantaire had not turned to him. He was met with only a flicker of eye contact. “If you like. Most of the others do.”

“It is a clever name.” Enjolras acknowledged. He supposed he should not feel it so significant, to use a name the rest of their companions long had. Yet he could not quite dispel the feeling. “I will see you this evening, R.”

“Until then, Enjolras.”

He made his exit, carrying himself down the stairs as the windows showed a sky just beginning to lose its light. He thought briefly of the Apollo, shining bright in the dim world of the painting, and how the candles upon their first lighting illuminated windows as he passed. It pulled his attention momentarily, though his gaze soon returned to its usual forwardness.

Chapter Text

“You are wrong, education alone does not solve apathy. It is a great deal to ask of school books to create empathy where it was not before.”

It was with a now practiced ease that Grantaire moved from his table to Enjolras’s, weaving amongst their compatriots. Enjolras hardly rewarded the comment with a glance, looking more to the sound of Grantaire’s bottle as it clinked to rest beside his papers. Grantaire himself settled to sit alongside it on the table. Enjolras remained in his chair.

“You always seem to think in terms that if it cannot be entirely fixed, the effort of improvement is worth nothing.” He said calmly, continuing to write in the light of the candle. “Empathy is inherent, it is experiences that teach otherwise.”

“I think some time spent with young children would alter that conviction.” Grantaire said, leaning back onto his left arm. Enjolras, though focused on his work, flicked his eyes up to observe his sleeve’s proximity to the candle.

“Gavroche.” Enjolras countered, eyes returning to the pages in front of him.

“I like to think our little fly unique.” Grantaire insisted, grabbing up his bottle out of the hands of the sneaking gamin in question. In a bout of shared maturity, they stuck their tongues at one another.

Gavroche was a relatively new addition to their group, having followed them back after some protest. While many of them had protested a child’s involvement, Enjolras included, they soon realized they were entirely incapable of ridding themselves of him; Both by their own weakness, and by Gavroche’s force of will. He was an icon of all those they strove to help, as well as a bit of a terror.

Gavroche and Grantaire teased each other for some moments more, though Enjolras ignored their easy distraction. Gavroche had made quick work of endearing himself to all the Amis, though Grantaire seemed to be the chosen favorite. It was only with the final word inked in its place on the page did he return his gaze to them, Grantaire tousling the young boy’s hair and he went off on his way. A softness lingered in his expression that Enjolras hesitated to disrupt.

“You are with Bossuet and Joly tonight, yes?” Enjolras asked, sliding the candle some safer space away. Grantaire took no notice of the movement, head swinging so to look at Enjolras once again.

“Alas, they have abandoned me for their Lady tonight.” He said with a theatrical mournfulness. “I had thought to go out with Bahorel instead, but Jehan has claimed his time already.”

He knew well by now that Grantaire was hardly lacking in drinking companions, and often had little issue accompanying himself along. Despite his excuses, his choices not to spend the night out were very much that, choices. While Enjolras was greatly glad for Grantaire’s seeming newfound sense of control, he also thought it somewhat unfortunate that Grantaire sacrificed time with friends for it.

“I am sorry.” Enjolras offered with sincerity, though Grantaire laughed as if he had said something particularly clever.

“I am not so boring as to be unable to entertain myself,” He said in way of assurance. “I only mean to ask if we should walk together.”

“I have no obligations.” He seldom did, which Grantaire likely knew. “I am finished here, so I can leave at your ready.” Movement to his side caught his attention.

“Gavroche, return Bossuet’s purse to him.”

“He dropped it, Sir, I was only making to return it to him.” Came back the gap-toothed grin of a reply. The boy did as Enjolras instructed, giving a loose salute as he did so. Grantaire had certainly been a bad influence on him.

He turned back to find Grantaire readily prepared, holding out Enjolras’s own coat to him. He took the extended article gladly, pulling it on as he said his goodbye’s to those of the Amis who had not already departed. Despite the rarity of its actual occurrence, Enjolras preferred leaving with Grantaire than how it felt to leave the group alone.

They walked mostly in silence. The weather was cool, and had shortly before experienced a light rain. This meant that Enjolras’s boots slid somewhat on the cobblestones, mud slickening them and necessitating a slower pace than Enjolras’s usual gait. He faced it with slight frustration, as it forced him to be more aware of his surroundings to prevent falling. They did not make it far before Grantaire, perhaps sensing his frustrations, interrupted his motion further.

“Follow me.” He said, already directing his way through a side alley. The change was sudden and unexpected, though Enjolras found himself moving to match.

“This is not the most direct way home.” Enjolras said, already knowing the pointlessness of the remark. Grantaire was seldom a patron of directness.

“Have you no fondness of wandering?” Grantaire asked, rather than answer Enjolras’s unsaid question. “It will not take us too much longer, it is still in direction of our homes.”

He did not particularly enjoy wandering, but Enjolras allowed the diversion. He had already told Grantaire that he had no obligations that night, so he had no excuse to escape this impromptu venture. There was no reason to protest, so he did not.

With Enjolras’s habits already disrupted, he let himself observe the catalyst closely. It was Grantaire’s environment he now observed, rather than the meetings which he considered his own. An ease had settled in the man’s shoulders, and he walked with his eyes up, tracing over the surroundings as they passed. Enjolras wondered what could be worth so much attention in the looming buildings and muddy stones.

“What are you looking at?” He asked, breaking the quiet thrum of the city night and voicing his thoughts. They seemed to catch Grantaire off his guard.

“I’m sorry?” Enjolras’s curiosity hummed in the back of his throat, thinking how best to word it.

“You’re eyes have not settled a moment that we have been walking,” He said. In Enjolras’s general experience, Grantaire either looked directly at him or directly away, and both felt very conscious choices. “I do not think I have ever seen your attentions so restless.” A flush filled Grantaire’s face some unknown implication.

“Would you prefer I only look on you, dear Apollo?” Grantaire retorted, shockingly venomous in tone.

Enjolras knew the remark was more reflexive than intentional, an echo rather than something Grantaire truly meant. Regardless, it pushed some discomfort between them. He felt it in the form of a cold heat behind his face and a heavy weight settling in his stomach, the kind of disquiet that usually preceded an equally venomous retort. How interesting it is, the way unpleasant words settle in the body like their own malaise.

Enjolras wondered if he had by some accident stumbled upon a sensitive subject, though he did not think that the cause. The Combeferre that lived in his mind advised against asking for clarification. He, too, tried not to wonder why that accusation was his response. Grantaire coughed, making attempts to move past the unpleasant diversion.

“Perhaps it is better to say where my gaze does not land, as the answers are uncountable.” He said, perhaps as a sort of apology. “The light on the stones here, a plant making a pot of a chimney there, all the elements of Paris’s enchantment.”

Enjoras followed his hand, though found nothing particularly remarkable in his examples. The city was a whole being to him, not made up of these small items Grantaire spoke of, and he would never think to observe them. He spoke of The People rather than people as individuals, and he imagined Paris in much the same way.

“How differently we see the world.” He observed quietly. He could feel, rather than see his comment be misinterpreted. A growing coldness as the divide caused by Grantaire’s remark grew larger. Enjolras rushed to bridge the gap. “Though for once I would hesitate to say there a right or wrong, R, in this particular dichotomy at least.”

The nickname had the intended effect, lessening the tension between them considerably. Enjolras did not use it often, still overcome with a sense of inexplicable intimacy whenever it left his lips. It felt too personal to say amongst the rest of the Amis, despite how often they all said it. Enjolras was not on the familiarity of nicknames with many people, so perhaps he was simply unused to their utilization.

“I believe those the best odds I have ever had in effort to convince you of something.” Fingers came to pull on Enjolras’s sleeve. He nearly jumped at the contact. “Come, I think I know where we may find compromise.”

“I have done a great deal of following tonight.” Enjolras observed, already letting himself be pulled along.

“Fair turnabout, O’ fearless leader.” Grantaire responded, leading them further astray.

By the time that they reached the bridge, Enjolras thought it fair to say that this certainly had taken them much longer than the walk home often did. He had no objection to it, despite this, finding he rather enjoyed seeing parts of his city that he was not often in. Grantaire was a thorough guide as well, seeming to know at least one thing about every place they passed, and providing them easily as answer to Enjolras’s questions.

He would not have thought the bridge the most interesting location they passed, so he was unsure why this was the chosen stopping place. In fact, Enjolras nearly collided with Grantaire due to how unexpected the halting was. The water was slow and dark, and a faintly unpleasant smell pulled itself from the depths. Enjolras did not care to think of what it contained, though he understood Feuilly’s suggestions of sanitation reform.

“This is the compromise?” He enquired, not yet able to see any significance in it. They both came to stand against the edge, looking outwards.

“I am getting there,” Grantaire promised. “What is it that you find beautiful in this view?”

Enjolras gave him a curious look, doubtful though Grantaire sounded sincere. Enjolras did not think Grantaire was trying to mock him, so he haltingly deliberated the question as he looked ahead. He did not understand Grantaire’s objective, but he would see what would come of it.

“You can see a great deal this way, as if the city stretches on forever.” He answered, confident in that wording at least. Grantaire continued to seem expectant. “Also how the light seems to make land and water one and the same.” He moved a strand of hair from his face, feeling the slight burn of embarrassment. “Apologies, I am not very eloquent in my descriptions. Prouvaire would be ashamed.”

“I understand you well enough.” Grantaire assured, waving off his concerns. “Yet see, my observations would have been the way that boat cuts shapes in the water, making the reflections dance just so. Or the shadows of that cat, seeming more sylph than animal.” If he meant to shame Enjolras by his more artistic observations, he was succeeding. Grantaire continued, unbothered in his energy to explain his hypothesis. “I am drawn to the close, the small, and you the great, the expansive. And yet, despite this, we are enjoying the same view.”

“If only our politics were so easily connected.” Enjolras said, a smile breaking through his words.

“My allegory is weak, I admit, but do you truly think them seperate?” Grantaire looked to him. “I may never believe in a society rallied, or in any great movement of the world, but I have seen individuals that I put my entire belief and being behind in confidence of their abilities.”

“What sort of person do you speak of?” Enjoras asked, as he could think of no positive example when it came to a singular person with such power. “A King? An Emperor? You could just as easily say their power comes from a people, though subjugated.”

“Such strange company that would make.” Grantaire responded cryptically. “Come, we may never understand each other’s philosophies, but perhaps we can enjoy the sights of the Seine.”

Enjolras wanted to push further, to inquire after this glimpse of something he had so seldom seen in Grantaire. The vision of hope, of belief shining in his eyes. Enjolras wondered who, or what it was that brought this emotion from the cynic. He envied it, certainly.

“The stars.” He said, after a time. Grantaire looked to him, confusion evident. “That is another thing I find beautiful here,” He elaborated. “The stars.”

Grantaire’s chin tilted back, exposing whatever of his neck not hidden by the cravat as he too gazed up at them. Enjolras thought it likely, with Grantaire’s inclination towards the classics, that he may be able to name some of the constellations above them. Enjolras, who had never quite seen the shapes they claimed, had long forgotten that lesson.

“How ordered they are.” Grantaire observed.

“How chaotic.” Enjolras returned. The wind shifted, growing colder and penetrating Enjolras’s coat with its bite. “We should turn back.” He caught Grantaire’s sleeve as he stepped away, meaning to thank him.

Grantaire pressed his bicep with a crooked sort of smile before he spoke. The expression was hidden somewhat by the inclining of his head. He pulled away from Enjolras’s hold, steps light as he backed the few paces away towards the end of the bridge. It was an invitation to follow, though a silent one. Enjolras accepted gladly.

Chapter Text

Modern research has pointed towards the conclusion that sleep has not always been the same. It is a difficult document to study, as was seldom recorded save when irregularities occurred, but a conclusion from this meagre findings has been made nonetheless. It is believed that the sleep of yore was far more restless, broken up into two intervals in which an hour of wakefulness took the space between. How odd it is to think of the inconsistencies of man’s most basic functions, how seperate the experience.

There are shared elements as well, though. Sleep of both then and now was restorative, involved some degree of immobility, and frequently gave way to the active mind in shape of dreams. Even the disruptors of sleep have in great deal remained the same. Over the course of a man’s life, he will run into many things that keep him from such respite. Monsters he fears in the dark, work that needs to be finished, a cough that jostles him too greatly. Some suffer from a natural affliction or malady, others from a partner in possession of a disobedient nose. Any of these could be responsible for unrest.

To return relevance to that of this story, Enjolras was currently experiencing the universal frustration of being barred from sleep.

What kept Enjolras awake at these late hours was nothing of his own devising. It was, instead, the unfortunate result of the procreational habits of his neighbors. The voices were almost entirely muffled, which Enjolras was infinitely grateful for, but the sounds of a bed in repetitive motion were unmistakable. The thudding formed a torturous hell, trapping Enjolras in frustrated wakefulness.

He supposed he was not entirely blameless in his sleepless state. Had he succumbed before their practice had begun, he likely would have been in a happy, slumbering oblivion. If only he had been successful in quieting his thoughts earlier that evening. Having an active mind was his original sin, and he now paid for it.

Before his disgust had provided ready distraction, his thoughts had been furiously busy. The last protest the Amis organized ended poorly, descending into a riotous disarray that had earned Bahorel a bandaged arm in his defense of Enjolras, who escaped with only light bruising. The guilt of it plagued him, both at the fact that such reaction.

Courfeyrac assured him that it could have been worse, that they were unlucky in audience that day. Combeferre advised they should avoid that area for the foreseeable future. He had not seen Grantaire sober since its happening.

The noise above crescendoed to completion. Enjolras, though unversed in the art, was impressed by the endurance. He wondered, briefly, if he should have been stirred by the sounds. While he had never been interested in the practical ends when the opportunity had arisen, he was curious about the act conceptually. He had no women with which he would wish to perform it with, and particularly none that he felt comfortable with, as an unasked classmate of his had once advised. Those he held close were his brothers, Combeferre and Courfeyrac, and those such as Grantaire-

Enjolras’s face flushed with such an intensity that even in the vaguest of early morning light it must have been visible. He did his best to reseal that Pandora’s box of unbidden thoughts, blinking them away as best he could. Grantaire was a friend, and did not deserve to be so mistreated by Enjolras’s uncontrollable imagination. He needed yet another distraction, which he found gladly.

In the time since he had discovered their close quarters, Enjolras had become well acquainted with the sound of Grantaire leaving his room. The path of the footsteps was easy enough to track in his practice, and he well assumed that Grantaire was fleeing the lovers sounds. They must have been even clearer to him, and Enjolras did not envy it. He dispelling his mental wanderings, slipping out of bed to perhaps invite Grantaire in to share their forced wakefulness.

His opening of the door was well timed, though startling the man it intercepted. Even in the low light of Enjolras’s candle, it was easy enough to see that Grantaire was not who lurked in in the stairwell. The man was taller than Enjolras, with hair somewhere between blonde and brown. He was dressed poorly, though Enjolras supposed in his half-prepared state he could offer little judgement.

“Apologies, Monsieur.” Enjolras whispered to him, blinking. “I had thought you… Did you come down from Grantaire’s rooms?”

“Who are you to ask?”

The response was confrontational, though still hushed, startling Enjolras enough to pull the candle closer to his chest. Perhaps Grantaire was indebted to someone, or had angered the wrong person with his remarks, as he could think of little other reason for such a late hour of visiting. He worried at the strangers presence, knowing it fit none of the tenants Grantaire had described.

“A friend.” Enjolras answered, disquieted in his concerns over how he need react. His candle’s movement provided its own resolution, as with the illuminated view of his face the man’s expression changed.

“Ah, I recognize that face, you have modeled for him as well,” The man said in realization. He observed Enjolras studiously. “I had thought you perhaps a policeman when you appeared so suddenly.”

Enjolras had posed, once, in the time since offering. It had been in costume, by Grantaire’s adamant insistence, rather than any state of undress. They both shortly found Grantaire was too uncomfortable with Enjolras in such a position regardless, and after the completion of the painting neither had proposed the effort again. Grantaire had refused to elaborate on his reasoning, despite Enjolras’s pursuits of solution. He supposed the painting was how he had recognized him.

“Are your practices illegal?” Enjolras inquired, guard raised yet again by the mention of policemen. He wished to go up and check on Grantaire’s wellbeing, but the man was in the way.

“Do you ask that of God or the law? They will offer you different answers.” Frustration bubbled up quickly in his throat, as Enjolras still could not decipher his meaning or his purpose in Grantaire’s rooms.

“Have you hurt him?” He said, anger causing hs directness to bite everso more sharply. Now it seemed the other man’s turn to be startled, as he shifted as if to hurry down the rest of the stairs.

“Jacques?”

A quiet voice and footsteps from above, followed soon by Grantaire himself in little more but a nightshirt. Enjolras saw well when he noticed his visitor’s companion, as he froze on the stair. Enjolras’s hand tensed where it held his door open, though he imagined his face stayed much the same. A heavy silence weighed down on what Enjolras imaged was all of them. Grantaire took it as opportunity to look to Jacques rather than meet Enjolras’s eyes any longer.

“He is a friend.” Grantaire said, easing some tension in his companion’s stance.

“As he said.” Jacques glanced to him with far friendlier eyes now, though it did not make Enjolras’s trust any greater. Still, it seemed as if Grantaire’s affirmation eased a great burden. Enjolras only wished to share in the experience. “What was it you needed me for?”

“You had forgotten your cravat.” Grantaire said, still avoiding Enjolras’s gaze. Ah, that indeed made sense, as the man had said “as well” on the subject of modeling. He must have provided that service to him, despite the odd hour.

“How shameless of me.” It seemed, when unsurprised, this man had a far more cavalier attitude. It was visible as he settled into it, speaking with a lighter ease.

He stepped up to where Grantaire was moving far closer than politely necessary. As Enjolras watched, Jacques tilted his head back in invitation for Grantaire to tie the cravat rather than taking it from his hand. Enjolras saw Grantaire’s eyes slide quickly to him before completing the action in hasty movements. His hands had not yet left the tie when Jacques grabbed one of them, kissing it before moving away to descend.

“Good morning, Grenier.” He whispered in a teasing tone, not taking long before he disappeared from view. It was now he that Grantaire looked away from.

“One would think he would remember your name.” Enjolras said absently, as his mind was far, far too busy to say much else.

“I highly doubt Jacques was his.” Grantaire replied, not having moved.

The ceiling concealed the top of his head slightly, and he had to duck somewhat to hold Enjolras in his gaze. Enjolras found that now he had difficulty meeting it. He had reached so many conclusions, that of Jacques as a thief, a thug, a model. Yet the casual intimacy of Jacques’s gestures altered each quite thoroughly.

“Enjolras-”

“Allow me to be confused by what I have just seen.” He cut in. There had been far too many unanswered questions, and his mid burned with them. His thoughts moved quickly, putting the pieces together in a way he was sure a Grantaire desperate to make excuses would disrupt.

“I prefer confusion to understanding.” Grantaire said, understanding Enjolras all too well. It seemed that sort of knowing was limited to one side of their friendship.

They waited a moment of silence until Enjolras understood some decision had to be made. Light was beginning to turn the clouds from grey to a pale yellow, and though he was preoccupied, he understood well enough that they could not wait here for it to slow. He stepped back, as to hold the door open widely.

“Come in.” Grantaire hesitated.

“Is that wise?”

“Wiser than discussing such things where they can easily be overheard.” He said. Grantaire, seeing the reason in his words, slipped past quickly. His arm must have hit the edge of the doorframe in his struggle to maintain distance in his passing.

Enjolras’s rooms were sparse, as he had little need for excessive decoration. He did indeed have two chairs for the purpose of company, of a bluish tint, though their potentials had been yet unrealized. It was there they sat across from each other, both thinking of what to say first. Enjolras’s instinctual response was to be direct, to say plainly what Grantaire had been doing. Instead, his words chose another path.

“That is the reputation you warned me of.” Though vague, Grantaire seemed to immediately know of what Enjolras was referencing.

“It is worse for the women, I think, though that is not often my area.” Grantaire said, his humor causing the tone to dance briefly back into familiarity. He sobered with the lack of response. “Perhaps too early, I apologize.”

They lapsed into silence yet again. Enjolras moved to better light the room, though with the new proximity his own candle’s light shone to reveal a decoration of bruises upon Grantaire’s body. revealed by his meagre clothing. Though at first he reacted in anger, a moment of clarity surfaced the memory of a discussion had by a young he and Courfeyrac and his own boastful example. He no longer felt a need for better illumination.

“Is this something you will tell the others?” Grantaire asked, watching hism. Enjolras, feeling unprepared to answer questions, instead followed the line of subject chance and asked one of his own.

“Are there members of the Amis, aside from you, that share your inclination?”

“I will not tell you who.” The answer was firm, and Enjolras believed he heard some degree of anger in it.

“But are there?” Grantaire did not answer, though he supposed that he did not deny it, either. “Are you involved with them?”

It was clear that this was not the expected question, as surprise marked Grantaire’s face rather openly. The anger faded somewhat, likely recognizing Enjolras’s intent as curiosity rather than interrogation. Enjolras tried to limit his own speculation, though he could not bar it completely. Joly and Bossuet, he realized, they too had a relationship of odd definition, though until now Enjolras had not given it much thought. Perhaps that was why Grantaire was so drawn to them.

“Hardly. It is small circles our establishments run in, I know of their preferences by such reasons only.” It made sense, he supposed, that they would have gathering places. Those of like minds often did, despite the best efforts of society. Grantaire again seemed to easily follow the jump Enjolras’s mind had made. “Napoleon decriminalized it.”

“It is not Napoleon who rules now.” Enjolras responded.

“His act stands.” At least now some of what Jacques had said seemed clear.

Enjolras’s mind continued to stir, though it became less frantic in its motions. It was Grantaire had had heard above, he now realized. Enjolras had understood as much before, rationally, but it had not truly settled as reality. Perhaps he had known as much, somehow, and that was cause for the strange deviation of his thoughts. He had accidentally stumbled upon some tangible truth in his wonderings, and his premonition had been the catalyst in this discovery. It sounded like something Combeferre would speculate on, though it was hard for Enjolras to not scoff at his own cerebration.

“I must ask you something.”

Enjolras’s attention returned to Grantaire, meeting a rigidity that had only increased its intensity in Grantaire’s position. It surprised him, somewhat, as he had been so engrossed in thought. There was something distinct in his voice, a tremor, though Enjolras had no chance to respond to it.

“Please, do not tell anyone of this." Grantaire said. "If you considered me a friend in any regard, as you told Jacques, I beg you to keep silent. It may not be a crime, but that halts few in their attempts to execute God’s judgement. I will keep myself away from the Amis, from here, whatever you wish, so long as you do not tell. Please.”

Grantaire was crying.

Never, in their years of animosity, had Enjolras ever made Grantaire weep. They both had exchanged winces and glares plenty, on one occasion nearly fists, but never had he seen such fearful fragility on Grantaire’s face. It was not entirely clear in the low light, but the candle reflected off the tear tracks visibly enough. His eyes were red and his hands trembled, and everything Enjolras had thought to ask fell away from his mind immediately.

“Oh, R.” He moved slowly to take Grantaire’s hand, and when he did not flinch away Enjolras slid from his chair to kneel on the floor between, pulling Grantaire into an embrace.

Grantaire shuddered into it, the tension in his body collapsing into rough, stuttering breaths. It was an awkward position, even with Enjolras’s added height, though neither of them moved from it. Enjolras thought, briefly, wildly, of the painting of Hyacinth and Apollo. Their positions were not similar, not their situation, but the image came to his mind all the same. He hid it with his eyes and he murmured apologies into Grantaire’s nightshirt, arms pressed tight around him as they waited for the shaking to cease.

“You seemed to be following my thoughts so well, forgive me I should have made myself clear.” He said. They so infrequently but apologies into words, but now they came easily and repeatedly, spilling out of him in a quiet rhythm. “I frightened you, I am sorry. It is alright, I am sorry. I have you, I am sorry.”

After some time, Enjolras’s words and Grantaire’s tremors both faded into stillness. Enjolras could feel under his hands as some tension returned to Grantaire's shoulders, though not nearly as severe as before. Grantaire, gently dislodging Enjolras’s arms, straightened back so that his neck no longer hunched painfully. Enjolras, rocking back somewhat, reached to brush the remenants of a tear from his face, though Grantaire turned away from it. Instead, their hands rested close on the arm of the chair.

“Are you alright?” Enjolras asked, looking up at him.

“There have been easier mornings.” Grantaire responded, looking away still. Enjolras, whose heart had ached intensely since the first sight of Grantaire’s tears, pained itself even more greatly.

“I am sorry for causing you distress in my callous curiosity.”

“You need not apologize for my sins.” Enjolras did not think that comment particularly amusing, though Grantaire gave an exhausted and bitter smile as if it should be. “It was a shock to us both, I think we simply misunderstood each other’s reactions.”

“So not all that unusual of us, then.” Enjolras pointed out. That earned him a slightly more genuine twitch of his lips, as well as a hum that his hand was close enough to feel the vibrations of.

“I should leave you.” Grantaire said. “It is early, but I think perhaps the bottle calls stronger than the rooster this morning.”

Enjolras, realizing he had effectively caged Grantaire into the chair, got to his feet and stepped away. Grantaire stood up as well, and Enjolras found himself averting his eyes in embarrassment at the state of undress. Grantaire seemed entirely unbothered by it, though perhaps he was too exhausted to realize.

“You may rest here, if you wish, before returning to your rooms.” Enjolras offered as he watched a slight sway.

“That is not a good idea.” Grantaire stated. Enjolras left his questions unsaid.

A yawn was his most ready companion after Grantaire’s departure, forcing his eyes closed for a blissful moment that informed him how tired they truly were. He looked up to the ceiling, wondering if Grantaire stood in his own room yawning, looking down. They shared in their fatigue at least, though the wood separated them. Oh the universality of sleep, he supposed. Enjolras decided to think on all that he had learned later, as of now he needed rest.

Chapter Text

It was not long since he had seen Grantaire last before Enjolras’s curiosity started to burn again, sleep having provided only temporary distraction. It was the sort that caused a restless sleep and unusual wakening, where even in moments he did not think of himself consciously wondering the thoughts still formed a quiet hum. One question in particular spilled out across his thoughts from the moment he sat awake: How did Grantaire know it was men that took his attentions? How did he know it was anyone at all?

Despite the ferocity of his intrigue, it was necessary that he take the time to devise a gentler way of broaching the subject. He had upset Grantaire the night before, and had little inclination to repeat such an event. He perhaps was not the best example when it came to learning from past mistakes, but he would at least attempt to do better. Enjolras took himself to his desk immediately, deliberating ways in which he could approach his queries with subtlety.

The solution, when it did come, seemed entirely obvious. Enjolras had an opportunity now, he realized, to write down all he wished to ask and cross out what under review seemed insensitive. Much in the way that he and Combeferre reviewed his speeches, he could now refine what he wished to ask of Grantaire before facing him. It should only take a few pages or so, and he could give it to Grantaire to answer at his own discretion. It seemed a rather immaculate strategy, one that if he could use before every interaction with Grantaire, he well imagined they would argue less.

He did not bother to confront why these questions dug at him so severely, assuming he was simply taking advantage of this new insight Grantaire had exposed him to. It was an opportunity to learn, which Enjolras always accepted gladly. For why these questions specifically he could not say why he wished so strongly for an answer, only that having them resolved would make things far clearer.

Despite the impeccability of his own plan, Enjolras did not fully account for the variable of Grantaire. The first two times Enjolras attempted to pass his list along, Grantaire was not in his rooms. Enjolras felt it necessitated more explanation than he could provide in simply sliding papers beneath the door, and he did not think this something for Grantaire to discuss in public. He must remember that subtlety was his goal, even if Grantaire made it so difficult. With his options now limited, Enjolras decided he would have to wait until after one of the Amis meetings.

The first gathering after their late night discussion Grantaire did not attend. Enjolras was troubled by the observation, and had made some passing remark about Grantaire’s dedication to their cause as an impulsive disguise of the emotion. Combeferre had frowned at him, assuring that Grantaire’s reasons were legitimate. Enjolras’s tongue grew sharper at that, an irrational frustration growing over Combeferre’s communication with Grantaire. How was it that he could find him, when Enjolras could not? Combeferre only looked further disappointed, and said nothing more on it.

When Grantaire did finally appear, a week later than when Enjolras had first attempted to reach out, Enjolras had to restrain himself from storming across the room and demanding explanation. A gentle approach, he reminded himself, that was what the situation demanded. He would not be confrontational, despite his frustrations, nor would he disrupt what felt like Grantaire’s very pointed attentions towards Bahorel rather than Enjolras. As they were not yet at the time of revolution, Enjolras did not have the right to let his goals force others into discomfort. This was something he must remember.

Despite the overwhelming distraction it provided, Enjolras forced himself to wait until after the meeting was concluded. Grantaire had been quiet, both with his friends in the corner as well as with his general commentary. There was no chance for Enjolras to plausibly address him, even on general subjects. It seemed an attempt to avoid attention, though Enjolras could attest to the overwhelmingly contrary affect that it had from his perspective. It was convenient that they had nothing of great importance to decide, as Enjolras had never done well in dividing his attention.

“Grantaire.” The man started, evidently not having expected Enjolras’s approach so soon. The meeting had ended early, in part due to Enjolras’s lack of contribution, and he had immediately made his way over to Grantaire’s table.

“Ah, Enjolras.” Grantaire did not smile, though he did look at Enjolras for the first time that evening.

“Will you be in this evening?” Enjolras asked plainly. It was not possible for Grantaire to avoid his own home so completely, and perhaps Enjolras could compel him otherwise even if he said no. Grantaire squinted, as if trying to gauge the right answer rather than his own true one.

“I will.” He said after some hesitation.

“Good.” Enjolras replied, taking out the folded papers. “I have some work I would like you to help review. If it is no trouble to you.” The addendum was said after a pause, filled with Enjolras’s wishes that he was better at encoded communications.

“Right, then.” Grantaire looked nothing but confused, and when he moved to unfold the papers Enjolras spoke up again.

“I think you will find my writing rather demanding of your attention, I would advise you save it until you will be undisturbed.” He did not think Grantaire any closer to understanding him, but the papers were folded back and placed in Grantaire’s jacket with a passive nod.

“These will come back your way when I’m finished with them, though I thought Combeferre better for this sort of thing?” He had already gone back to looking at the floor.

“I think the subject better suited to you.” Enjolras answered ambiguously. Grantaire nodded again without further reply having shown no sign that he found any secretive significance in Enjolras’s gesture. The silence forced Enjolras to eventually step away, as it was clear Grantaire had nothing further to mention. Feuilly welcomed him gladly back into the discussion.

Enjolras would admit to his own impatience. In all fairness, he had waited considerably longer than his plan had originally called for, and he was certain that Grantaire had made his way home before Enjolras did. Joly at least attested as much, so Enjolras hoped it had provided enough time to review his questions. He waited a while at the Corinthe, and yet again in his own rooms. Enjolras let the hour grow late and the sounds of the building still before he made his ascent.

It was a possibility that Grantaire would be long asleep, which Enjolras thought of only after knocking on his door. It was also quite likely that he had not thought to look at the pages at all, or lied that he would be in that night. How quickly the confident mind turned to question after Enjolras had already made the effort of arriving at his rooms. Luckily his concerns were refuted by the prompt opening of the door, revealing a look of suspicious confusion. Grantaire’s expression did not clear upon realizing who it was, instead looking around nervously at the other doors before pulling Enjolras in with him.

“What is it you imagine you are doing?” He berated. “It was dangerous enough for me to leave your rooms as and when I did, and now you come up here at this late hour? We need not tempt fate and gain us both a reputation.”

Enjolras colored slightly at the thought of them together, or at least people imagining them so. While Grantaire’s words were meant to frighten him, he was far too distracted by the reminder of how his own thoughts had wandered that night. He hoped Grantaire could not see them reflected in his eyes now.

“From previous example I thought this the hour of this sort of thing.” Enjolras said in response. He was partly joking.

“It is a great variety of things that you amass under that claim, though I think polite hours well enough suited for the nature of our visits.”

He moved further from Enjolras into the room, slow enough that if Enjolras had not already suspected such a thing he would hesitate to call it fleeing. Enjolras stepped over more than one discarded bottle in his careful pursuit, watching as Grantaire picked up the recognizable pages beside his bed. Enjolras could tell from their number that Grantaire had written no answers.

“I imagine you come inquiring after these.” He brandished the leaflets loosely. “You would make a good Inspector, or perhaps Scientist if your Lady Law does fail you. Are you conducting some study that I was previously unaware of?”

The phrasing of Grantaire’s question, though seeming playful even with the undertone of stress that had not yet left Grantaire’s form, made Enjolras regret the entire plan in a sweeping realization. If only he had Combeferre’s expertise in filtering such foolish impulses, as his own mind was clearly faulty in its practice.

“I should not have treated as if you were a specimen to study.” Enjolras said, his guilt making clear to him that he had done exactly that in its sharp turn of strong emotion. Grantaire had no obligation to answer such an interrogation from him, and Enjolras would not have asked it anyone else. He did not say the apology, though he thought Grantaire could hear it.

“I know you well enough to understand no offense was meant by it.” Grantaire said. His movements were unrefined, suggesting drink though his words were left articulate. “I am not sure I can answer them as thoroughly as you might wish, as I can speak only of my own experiences. My inclination does not make me an authority on all those who share it.”

“It is your responses that I care to hear.” Enjolras said hurriedly, mind catching up only a moment later. Enjolras blushed again, as the words betrayed his claims of a broad perspective interest. He did not know what brought him to say them.

Grantaire was turned away still, so Enjolras did not see his reaction. He watched a hand sift roughly upwards through the curls that always fell in Grantaire’s face before he sat on the floor rather informally. He was positioned with his back to the frame of the bed, and as he sifted through the pages in his hands Enjolras moved to join him. He sat close, enough so that the coolness of the air was somewhat combatted by the warmth radiating off of Grantaire’s body.

“Perhaps it is only a wine loosened tongue that wishes to answer you.” Grantaire released with an exhale, “But so long as I am disclosing information on myself, only, I suppose there is no harm in it.” He gave the papers to Enjolras, replacing them in his hands with a bottle. He did not drink from it, but Enjolras resented its residence there all the same. “Ask away, Apollo.”

Enjolras frowned at the name, though he did look over his words in readiness. He wondered if Grantaire had read them all before, or had placed them away upon realization of their nature. As Grantaire’s sarcastic stumbling towards inebriation made it harder to tell if he had taken offense by it, Enjolras proceeded carefully.

“Have any individuals used this fact to threaten you?” He asked, not thinking ‘the fact’ needed elaboration. In all truth he was still unsure how exactly to say it. Grantaire settled into a more relaxed position against the wood frame, as if this being the first question lessened some of his fears already.

“Meaning as of late or ever?”

“I want to know that you are not in danger.” Enjolras caught a sideways glance from Grantaire, though not one of anger.

“Other than by my affiliation with our group, you mean?” Enjolras could not protest, as he knew the statement’s truth. As they gained notoriety, they also gained enemies. “It is always a danger, though I am not currently under influence of blackmail.” Enjolras nodded in relief and moved on.

“Have you a consistent partner?”

“You met him the other night.” Enjolras did not imagine he had any success in disguising his look of distaste, having thought Jacques rather uninteresting and unkind. Grantaire laughed. “I do not, I think my face better suited to that of nightly practices alone.”

It would be rude to look at Grantaire’s face directly after such a comment, that Enjolras knew, but his confusion he did so anyway. Grantaire, having predicted this development, offered a wry smile to his gaze. Enjolras looked away again quickly, though he still did not understand the meaning. Enjolras was no connoisseur of aesthetics, shown by how little he could appreciate the paintings he now sat amongst, but in his lesser sophistication he could find no great issue with Grantaire’s face. It was a face, they all looked some way or another, and it belonged to Grantaire.

“Have you ever been in love?”

The question had not been next, and Enjolras was sure he had struck it off completely in the first draft. It had risen and burst forth from his lips without hesitation, and he had no possibility of taking it back now. The words were said far more to the floor than anything else, though it was clear that Grantaire heard them. He felt Grantaire stiffen, taking the warmth swiftly away in its movement.

“Yes, we can love.” His response had a vitriolic bite, making it clear that he had been misunderstood. A small panic rose, as he had no wish for Grantaire to disappear for days yet again. Words so often betrayed them both, finding argument where there was none intended. Enjolras touched the hand closest to him to regain Grantaire’s attention, using that language of gestures they had become better acquainted with.

“R, that is not what I meant.” He said, pressing the hand between them. “I have seen you with our friends, with Gavroche, I would not question that you can love.”

It was perhaps a cheap trick, to use both the nickname and Gavroche together, but it worked fast in melting the icy barrier Grantaire had so suddenly projected. He sagged into himself, returning to the same position as before. He did not move his hand from under Enjolras’s, in way of his own apology.

They both gave a moment to companionable silence, letting the brief unrest settle before continuing. Enjolras let his head fall back somewhat, moving his gaze to the ceiling rather than the wall opposite. They looked much the same, in all fairness, so it was no great change of scenery. Grantaire signaled its end by nudging Enjolras’s shoulder with his own. He seemed to have sobered slightly, enough so to find the floor a no longer enjoyable place of rest.

“Should we sit on the bed?” He gestured to the pages, dislodging their connected hands. “You may continue to ask them, if you would like. Only I would prefer to be comfortable as you take apart my secrets.”

Enjolras felt some guilt yet again, though Grantaire still seemed amicable towards the idea. Perhaps it was a relief to him to have a friend in confidence, or perhaps the wine had made him happy regardless.

“I had meant for you to have control over what you chose to answer, and when. The intent was for you to write your responses and return them.” Enjolras said as he stood to shift their position.

He moved so to sit with his back now against the wall. It was slightly kinder to his legs than the floor, though their parallel position meant that his feet hung off the side in a somewhat awkward strain on his knees. Grantaire did not share in this discomfort with his shorter legs, and Enjolras folded up his own to alleviate it. He slipped off his shoes before doing so, to remain polite, and crossed his ankles in some effort to give them warmth.

“Even my school teachers gave me longer to complete such assignments,” Grantaire teased. “You were at my door before I had finished unfolding them.” Enjolras thought that unfair, as he had measured his his patience very carefully.

“I thought it had been time enough.” He said in defense.

“For you, perhaps. Unfortunately, I share neither your focus nor your drive.” Enjolras supposed it did not help that he had thought it legitimate work. His passing them off as documents in need of review had its faults. Grantaire jostled him from his concerns. “Come now, ask away. I see more than two lines there.”

He was right, of course. Even in his attempts at editing, it was a great deal that he had written down to ask. Enjolras read through his other queries, doubtful of any of their merits. Despite their large number, they greatly orbited the same main question. It was that first thought to pull him from sleep, the motivation to even start this bizarre paperwork plan. He could only hope Grantaire would answer him plainly, as he supposed it was the main question he truly wished to ask. Enjolras shifted with discomfort, perhaps already preparing for a negative reaction.

“How did you know?” He said. “That is was men that drew your attention, I mean.” Grantaire shrugged.

“The same way anyone knows, I suppose. The crude parts of our bodies that polite society will never truly tame tell some of it, with their cold heat and indelicate interests. Though the mind is much simpler than that as well, in how it appreciates the faces of strangers and creates its own narratives to include them.”

He explained such things so simply, it tugged at the slightly frayed edges of Enjolras’s understanding. What was he to understand in such contradictions as “cold heat?” It was the narratives he alone understood, as his own mind had been responsible for them. He could remember little else in his reaction to that but shame.

“You mention only the mind and the body, not the heart.” Enjolras observed.

“I will tell my knowledge of the heart if I ever come to understand it.” Grantaire said, inclining his head. Enjolras realized he had never answered if he had been in love, though now he certainly wondered. “It should be no different than how you think of women.”

“And how is that?” Enjolras turned his head, annoyance having sparked at the comment. It was not Grantaire’s fault that he thought it an easy comparison, rather Enjolras’s own that his experiences made it not so. Despite this, it was difficult to restrain his frustration when Grantaire greeted him only with confusion. “I am asking, I do not know.”

“I am not sure I understand your meaning.” Grantaire said, causing Enjoras to twist his mouth.

How could he understand, as Enjolras had not explained it. It was not something Enjolras had explained to anyone before this moment. It had perhaps been suggested by his disinterest in women, something which Courfeyrac had never understood, though it was easily disguised with his intent focus on The Cause. He had no time for any other love, in most of his friend’s eyes, and it had therefore not been greatly questoned.

Yet Grantaire continued to be an exception. He was an exception in capturing Enjolras’s focus so consistently, he was an exception in that he was alone in knowing where Enjolras lived, and Enjolras himself had made some distinction between he and their other friends that night he had allowed such wanderings of his mind. Why was it Grantaire that compelled him to speak on such things, to question an aspect of himself that he had left alone for so much of his life? Why was it Grantaire that made him think differently?

“The novels one can find all speak of love as being a passion, a devotion. Something for which it is worthy and just to die for and something that greatly consumes the mind.” He would speak, he had decided, as Grantaire had already given so much of himself to Enjolras’s ears. His finger absently traced the edge of the page he held. “From this vocabulary, I could assume that what I felt for France must be this emotion. I love my country with the sort of fervor so often described, but that is my only example of it.”

Was it that he loved France too truly to think of others, or rather that he had simply misunderstood the nature of affection enough to not notice it all these years? He had no answer to such questions. What Grantaire spoke of, simply knowing, he was wholly unfamiliar with. He had never been compelled to follow the urges of the flesh, as he had never even given time to consider even having them.

“Have you felt it in no other context?” Grantaire inquired.

“Love for my friends, perhaps. I can think of no example in the ways of attraction.” He hummed thoughtfully, a realization having had made itself clear. “I suppose that is the reasoning behind my questions, though I would not admit it to myself. You provided an excuse for me to explore the side I do not understand.”

“You wish to learn of attraction from example of my perversion?” Enjolras’s glare at such words was fierce enough to cause Grantaire to laugh again. “So fast you have taken a protective stance for me and my fellows, you have hardly known long of our existence.”

“I was not entirely oblivious,” Enjolras insisted. “I was aware of the concept, as I am not so unfamiliar with the classics as you often seem to think. I had given intimate practices about equal thought with both genders, in all fairness.”

“So of courtly romance and private pleasures you are immune?”

There was a peculiar intonation in Grantaire’s voice that left Enjolras disquieted. His hand moved so that the nail of his thumb dug into its closest companion. The gesture was small, yet grounding in the way he imagined Grantaire found such details as uneven stone or a resilient vine. It did not entirely succeed in calming him.

“Does that mean me cold, or inhuman?” He asked, unsure of if he wanted an answer.

Prouvaire often said that it was love that made mankind, and though Enjolras imagined he agreed and understood, perhaps it was by another definition that he was meant to feel it. He wondered if Grantaire had followed these thoughts, as he often encouraged Jehan’s ramblings on such things. Grantaire gave no mention of it, eyes turning to meet Enjolras’s own.

“You, Enjolras, are a fervid inferno who cares more greatly for the world than any other human on its face. Only one who does not know you would call you any such thing.”

Enjolras did not say that Grantaire had, many times in his descriptions of statues and gods and such things in human shape without human mind. Still, Enjolras could not ignore the undisguised earnestness in his words, as it was so rarely heard from Grantaire in any form. It held them a moment in suspencion, eyes holding, before Grantaire broke it, turning away with closed eyes and a smile.

“I only mourn those hearts left broken by your unattainableness.”

Enjolras did not want to return to banter after such vulnerability, but the intense sincerity of Grantaire’s words had shocked them both, and he would not blame Grantaire’s attempt at escape. There was a somewhat uncomfortable pressure in Enjolras’s chest, that did not entirely dispel when their stare was broken. It shifted him off his internal balance, and a balanced Enjolras did not transition so easily between humour and sincerity as Grantaire did. He felt rushed in forming a witty reply as to not let the moment grow uncomfortable.

“And have I broken yours?”

“Dear Apollo,” Grantaire replied, before Enjolras had any time to deeply regret such a joke. “For such a thing to break my heart, I would have had to have thought you attainable before.” He tugged curls from his face with casualness that Enjolras could not gauge the genuineness of. “Now, I am still awake at such an hour and have sobered far too greatly to justify it, so I must banish you down the stairs so that I may get some sleep.”

Enjolras’s years of deeply instilled manners quite actively made him incapable of protesting, so he instead followed Grantaire’s request and gathered himself to leave. Grantaire walked him the short distance to the door, still holding a loose smile. Enjolras supposed their discussion had gone rather well, and they knew much more about the other since having started. By all good reason, he should not hesitate to leave now, and have it end positively.

“I will see you at the next meeting, then?” Enjolras said, stoping the door as he left the room. “Promise you will not hide again now that we hold each other's secrets, I think us beyond that now.”

“I had thought my absence a blessing,” Enjolras did not free the door from his hand. Grantaire surrendered. “Yes, unless reasonably occupied, I will be there. Now goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” Enjolras said, though his voice had already fallen to a faint whisper in the confinement of the stairwell.

Chapter Text

Enjolras was unsure by what measure a single thought, remembered over and over again, became instead worth counting as many different thoughts. Does a memory, when remembered, stay the same, or by that very act of pulling it from its place in the back of the mind has it been torn, reshapen somehow? Do such variations then make it new? In the way than a man in the slowest filling cave would not notice the changing water level until it was up to his neck, Enjolras did not think he could be sure of when and how it had changed, only that it had been enough so that Enjolras did not think he could count it as the same.

His subconscious had been greatest traitor in supplying new material to alter his visions with, as it had plagued him with dreams. Dreams were often uncontrollable, and very frequently showed things that the waking mind had no interest or wish to see, so Enjolras often dismissed them. He did dismiss them as much to say that they did not count as independent thoughts, but by his own reactions, these recent examples were ot so easily dispelled as those of abstract scenes or vague conversations. It was new and frightening, and while the physical reaction was not something Enjolras was entirely a stranger to in the natural course of a waking man’s body, the emotional one was certainly unfamiliar.

The first had worked Enjolras entirely into a panic or mortification and confusion. It was a glad thing that he had not needed to see Grantaire that day or any time soon after, as he was sure he would have turned red as his coat at the reminder his face would bring. The second had shocked him further, as it had proved the first more than a rogue incident. Enjolras did not frighten easily, but this change was something quite nearly capable of scaring him.

Their nature was not entirely untoward, to make some things clear. Some of the dreams had been entirely innocent with only an air of intimacy. As Grantaire was more frequently on Enjolras’s mind as of late, he supposed it not too strange for his sleeping mind to include him. By such arguments, the insinuations of their last conversation and the nature of subjects discussed could also have made their influence, creating the narratives of these visions to suit the connections. It was practical, when viewed thus, and entirely devoid of attachment.

Only that Enjolras’s waking mind was not so dispassionate as this reasoning required. As mentioned, in waking he seemed equally unable to control himself, though it was more constrained to recollection than invention. Grantaire was an interruption in his day, much as he was in meetings, only now he managed it with no words or presence at all. Instead it would be some phrase of a lecturer that brought reminder of him, or the sight of a stranger in possession of familiar curls. Enjolras was unused to such a level of distraction, and he found it entirely unpredictable and distasteful.

Perhaps Grantaire, in his habits as an engrossed observer, would have some solution. Enjolras did not think himself capable of asking, though. Not only for the reason that Grantaire might somehow know it was he whom he wished to ignore, but also in the fear of seeming false. He had so recently disclosed what had then felt like an unchangeable truth, he did not wish to contradict himself such a short time after. He supposed that he had thought on it enough to mention at all had shown his mind’s change already, only he had made it sound so certain then.

Pride seemed an ill suited word to his hesitation, but perhaps that was what it was.

It was not only the conflict of emotions and mind that now troubled Enjolras. The energy he had used to bury the other feelings he could not name had needed a target, and the recent pattern of his relaxing dedication had been it. Great scores of people that suffered in this city alone had far worse ailments than he, and this consistent distraction had kept him from committing the time and effort he often did to helping them. For all the confusion he felt over Grantaire, it was Patria who needed his undivided attention now. The city was beginning to notice them, and he could not afford to have confused priorities.

That was what Enjolras knew, it was what he wanted. Grantaire had plagued him day in and day out and it seemed he functioned as a far more severe distraction when his actual presence joined the one in Enjolras’s mind. He was a puzzle piece that did not fit clearly into the space of comrade or friend, and its disjointment halted Enjolras from easily viewing the greater picture. The words and thoughts he grasped at were grounded haltingly by the sound of Grantaire laughing, or some movement of his. Confusion’s younger, fiercer sibling soon joined it, frustration beginning to rear its head as Enjolras struggled to focus still.

“It is not so.”

Grantaire’s replies were a frequent irritant, but they did not often add such sting to the already open wound of Enjolras’s annoyance. His voice had halted Enjolras already, making him incapable of continuing on his thread. The Grantaire of his mind was a successful enough derailment, he did not need the one of flesh and blood to further push him from his goals.

“What?” He asked, hoping the venom in his tone was enough to hint that he did not want an answer. He had wasted enough time in his distraction, he did not need to lose more now. Grantaire, as inconsistent as ever in his ability to read Enjolras, saw none of these signals to fall silent.

“You say that the people will stop in their practices of oppression simply because the law says it, or that they will treat each other equally. It is not so.” The apologetic spread of Grantaire’s hands was little comfort. Enjolras’s own dug into his palms on the table.

“It was so in the days of the Republic,” He said, hoping for a reasonable conclusion. “Even England has banned it on their soil.”

“So they do it on the soil of others.” Grantaire had caught the hole in Enjolras’s argument, and would now be impossible to shake loose until he had unraveled it. “The law may say, but I see the blood on the waves of the Atlantic clearer than its ink.”

It was times such as this, when Grantaire was eloquent and rational yet still so unhelpful, that frustrated Enjolras the most intensely. When one is arguing with someone who is illogical or rambling, the displeasure of battling ignorance also allows for some level of righteous satisfaction in that you knew better, despite what they might think. It was when the opponent seemed equally aware, and capable of combat but not construction that it became more dangerous. It was then than it damaged Enjolras’s own resolve.

“What then should we do? Allow the slavery of our fellow men to persist simply because there are some that will seek a way around it?” Grantaire shrugged, as if it was something to be taken as lightly as that.

“I only mean to make you aware of the futility.” Enjolras’s lip curled.

“Well I am sure we appreciate your bravery and sacrifice in making such a bold suggestion.” He spat.

Combeferre was attempting to get his attention, having seen the signals where Grantaire had not, but it hardly mattered. Grantaire had succeeded, whether or not the goal was intentional. He had claimed Enjolras’s entire attention. His nihilistic, unhelpful comments than did nothing but cause Enjolras doubt now had his focus, rather than the issues that he believed himself dedicated to. It was infuriating.

“Why are you here?” Enjolras asked, staring him down intently. Here in his thoughts, here with the Amis, providing pointless distraction in both and driving Enjolras to near insanity. Grantaire fingered the lip of a bottle, eyebrow raised.

“I did not think an invitation was necessary.” Grantaire tone had shifted. It was a familiar pattern for them both, though not an enjoyable one.

“You,” Enjolras started, angry and unchecked. The other Amis would not dare interrupt them at this stage. “Are a drunk and a cynic who does nothing but pick holes with no suggestion on how to fill them. Hardly a word comes from your mouth that is worth listening to.” Grantaire laughed, the sound echoing wrong from the wooden walls in its bitterness.

“And you are a mixture of privilege and naive idealism that fancies itself a revolutionary. Tell me, Enjolras, do your parents sponsor these hobbies as well?”

Had Enjolras been standing the entire time? He must have done, as he did not remember moving to his feet, nor when his voice had raised to such volume, His face was hot with all the frustration and anger that was now enjoying a far more responsive target.

“If you think me an ill suited leader, no one demands that you follow me.” Enjolras gestured to the door. “Express your democratic freedom, citizen, and leave us to do our work.”

“I think I shall.” Grantaire said, standing. “Joly, Bossuet, find me when Robespierre’s Terror has ended, will you? I have had enough.”

He kicked his chair roughly back into its place, sweeping out of room without so much as a second glance. They all waited in silence, even some moments after he fully vanished from view. Faintly, the sound of shattering glass was to be heard from the alleyway beyond. Likely the empty bottle he had departed with meeting its end dropped or thrown on the stones.

Enjolras wished to say that as Grantaire stepped from the room his mind cleared, only it had not. Instead, he was just left with the same confusion as before, now tinged with guilt and hurt as well. The silent and watchful eyes of the other Amis surrounded him, and he had a moment to be briefly glad that Gavroche had not been with them that night. The rest had seen them far worse than this.

Yet another moment passed, and he said nothing. He did not force the meeting to continue, as had been the pattern before when such outbursts had been more common from them both. It was hardly the first time Enjolras had told Grantaire to leave, and among several examples of him actually having done it. Back in those times Enjolras had wished it a sign that he truly would stay away, and that they would be spared the drunken ramblings and infuriating disagreements. Enjolras now knew enough to be sure Grantaire would never stay away long.

But now something ached, burned in his chest like he had been shot. Had Grantaire’s insults been that severe? Or was this guilt alone that pinned him so harshly? He had told Grantaire to leave, and he had. It had not hurt this way before, yet another change Enjolras had not asked for. It was a petty argument, one that they would both move on from soon enough, why did it feel as if Enjolras had bruised his own heart in the effort of it.

He took a shaky breath, straightening to look out on the other Amis. They were silent, waiting still. Enjolras hoped that his resting expression’s severity asserted him more firmly than he felt as he shuffled the pages before him and cleared his throat.

“As I was saying,”

Chapter Text

Enjolras would not say that he sunk into one of the back tables when he arrived, though to him it felt a near thing. In reality he was sure his posture barely wavered, despite the heavy exhaustion felt in his shoulders. He had been awake much of the night, thinking over he and Grantaire’s argument, and by this reason had slept very little. It did not alter Enjolras’s determination, though he felt it pull on his bones.

He had sent word to Combeferre and Courfeyrac as soon as the time was reasonable enough to allow it, and had headed to this meeting place with all of his usual directness. Two nights since he and Grantaire’s argument, the first during which he felt only righteous and confused and the second having held calmer deliberation, had led him to some conclusions. Well, perhaps conclusions was the wrong word for such things. He had questions, still, though far more specific ones.

By luck of his life, he supposed, Grantaire was not the only confidant Enjolras held close. While they had once been brought together by artificial family connections, they had long since formed strong and true bonds of their own. Of course there were some things he could not tell them, and likely they he, but beyond that he considered them his closest allies. Combeferre and Courfeyrac were friends, and he hoped that even in the indirect terms any such discussion would require, they could provide comfort and council.

“You wished to speak to us?” Courfeyrac asked as he and Combeferre joined him in the back corner. He sat down, Combeferre did not.

“Or perhaps another outburst will resolve the issue?” Combeferre said, voice and gaze even and unmoving.

Enjolras avoided Combeferre’s eyes, already knowing the disappointment that was held there. Combeferre did not enjoy being ignored, and Enjolras’s dismissal of him during the argument had clearly fostered its own annoyance. Combeferre would not be placated by apology alone, he would want explanation.

“My argument with Grantaire was mostly unrelated.” He said quietly.

Courfeyrac tilted his head curiously, pulling Combeferre down to sit with him as he did so. An interruption to the intimidating facade, as Courfeyrac did not have to use much force on him for Combeferre to fold. Courfeyrac put chin to folded hands and peered at Enjolras imploringly.

“Mostly is not entirely. Have you and Grantaire had some falling out?” Enjolras hummed without answer. “I had thought you quite nearly friends now?”

“Has he done something to upset you?” Combeferre asked, yet unrelenting in his penetrating look.

Combeferre’s specificity of emphasis was far from unintentional, and Enjolras knew his goal by it. His logic and knowing eyes would pick apart any false explanation Enjolras could attempt to construe in his favor, and with his expression alone he could force Enjolras to confront the truth of his actions. Enjolras had already reached the conclusion for himself, knowing that his targeting of Grantaire was unwarranted and overly aggressive. It was only Enjolras’s own mind that had motivated him to escalate it so severely.

“He has not done anything to invoke such anger, it is my own frustrations that I simply used him as an outlet for.” Enjolras admitted easily, surprising his two friends with his recognition.

He looked back up to Combeferre to prove his honesty, and he could see himself be deemed truthful. With this acknowledgement, the hard stone of Combeferre’s face softened somewhat. For all that Combeferre kept Enjolras in check with his judgement, he was always far too kindhearted to exact any sort of long lasting punishment, and Enjolras watched it quickly be replaced by concern.

“What, then, has you so aggravated?” He asked, having gone quickly from persecution to defense.

Enjolras looked down again. For all his directness in arriving here and sending for his friends, he could not help but hesitate now. It would sound trivial, he knew, particularly after the intensity of anger it had aroused. If only he had not made his sense of conflict so public, then perhaps he Enjolras would not seem so petty by his reactions. Though, had he not lashed out, perhaps he would not have forced the realization on himself this soon.

His anger at his lack of dedication he certainly considered legitimate, but that his rage had stemmed from not knowing what he felt towards Grantaire seemed ridiculous with only a days distance. It was an immature overreaction, and Grantaire had not deserved to be the recipient of it, despite his usual instigations. His friends looked on encouragingly, though Enjolras was hardly comforted. His hands moved restlessly as they waited for his explanation, his tongue caught on saying it directly. Instead, he asked.

“How do you know if someone has captured your affections?”

The sound that Courfeyrac released was at best description a triumphant roar, one which brought far too much attention to their small corner of the Cafe. Enjolras was startled by it, enough so to move a hand to his chest in surprise, though he supposed knowing his friend’s passion for courtship and matchmaking he should not have been. Combeferre quieted him with a touch, but Enjolras could see from the quirk on the side of his mouth that he was equally excited by this development.

“Oh how amazed am I!” Courfeyrac said, only having subsided somewhat. “I knew someone would achieve it eventually, why have you not told us before?”

“Trust that you are the first to know.” Enjolras promised appeasingly, hoping they would not ask who it was. “And I am not entirely sure what there is to tell, I mean to ask your help in understanding as much.”

This was entirely true. He had thought laboriously long about why he had responded so emotionally to their disagreement, and how their relationship had changed to spark such a different reaction now, yet he was still not entirely sure of the conclusion. He could lay out the specific details, but was yet unsure of what picture they completed.

“What can you tell us?” Combeferre asked, perhaps understanding Enjolras’s fractured perceptions. Enjolras considered it, answering practically.

“I enjoy their company, and thoughts of us together. Differently than in the way of my friends, I think.”

He could not place the origin of the feeling, only that it had been responsible for the crushing impact he had felt in Grantaire’s departure. Perhaps it had been when they had looked at the stars together, or when he had first started to truly learn Grantaire’s person. It was a feeling that sat differently in his chest than friendship, a pleasant sort of weight that could turn his heart light as air or heavy and pained as cracked stone.

“How chaste and sweet.” Enjolras was pulled back to himself. Combeferre tugged on Courfeyrac’s sleeve admonishingly, to which Courfeyrac expressed defense. “I am not mocking! Can I not be enchanted by the budding of young love?” Combeferre frowned at him.

“He is not a child.” Combeferre said, much the same time that Enjolras exclaimed,

“There have been dreams as well!” They both turned to him in surprise, and Enjolras’s face flushed.

He supposed it was in attempt to be taken seriously that he mentioned them, despite his own embarrassment. He did not think Courfeyrac meant to belittle his experience, but he had thought the emotion more worthy of mention, as they had occurred first. He supposed whenever he fell into unwilling discussion of such things with other men, it was the physical, the sensual that they talked of. Appearances, touches, the like, only Enjolras could not help but feel it out of order some how. It certainly sparked in Courfeyrac’s attention, regardless.

“Oh, ho! So she has captured something of yours for certain.” His entertainment helped boost Enjolras’s good humor slightly, though the lewd implications kept him hesitant still.

“I am not certain of anything. Do the dreams mean I should be?”

It was a genuine question, as he trusted the emotions behind these nighty visions far less. How funny it was, to think that Grantaire had told him of the head and body, but it was Enjolras’s heart that would be the most clear to him. Yet even that was ambiguous at best.

He was glad to see Courfeyrac’s manner grow more genuine, sobering somewhat at his tone. For as excitable as his friend was, Courfeyrac was not careless. He recognized when something needed to be dealt with seriously, and took such moments in stride. He put a comforting hand in Enjolras’s direction on the table.

“It is no guarantee that they are right to pursue, or even that you truly desire them, though I would think it a good indicator that they at least interest you in that way.” He said, teasing having fallen away in all but his grinning expression.

That was a far more significant jump for Enjolras than he was certain Courfeyrac realized, but perhaps not an incorrect one. Grantaire was an exception in so many things, why not this? It would make sense, he supposed, that it would be his power to force Enjolras to rethink his own mind. Combeferre finally spoke up, having been listening closely.

“How do the dreams make you feel?” Combeferre questioned. Courfeyrac, his energy quickly returning, laughed loudly.

“Combeferre! How indecent.” Combeferre shrugged off the arms that came around him teasingly with a fond ‘you know my meaning.’

His words had sent Enjolras deep into thought again, enough so to ignore their bickering. He was yet confident of the answer, and wasn’t sure which words to use. He could be crude, though he did not think that fully expressed his meaning. There was such a great mix of emotions, it was hard to know which he should name.

“They make me feel ashamed, mostly.” It was the truth, though perhaps not for the reasons the church would wish. Rather that playacting these scenes felt dishonest to his true relationship with Grantaire, the decent and indecent ones alike pushing it into a territory that they did not in life have. “Also, when I wake, I suppose I feel that I am missing something.”

They three were silent for some time, considering this answer. What it was that Enjolras was missing he could not say. The touch of a lover, maybe? One dream had involved him waking up to Grantaire in his bed, as if they had settled into a domesticity that not even Enjolras’s parents had possessed. Perhaps that was what he ached for, as unattainable as it was. Or perhaps it truly was the urges of the body alone striving to complete some biological need.

“We cannot decide for you if you care for this person.” Courfeyrac said, having watched his expression as it journeyed through possible solutions. He did not let Enjolras’s hopes fall before speaking again. “But I do have a suggestion in how you may answer it.”

Enjolras looked up eagerly at that, and Combeferre seemed equally intrigued. Courfeyrac tapped a finger against the wood of the table, considering them both with a smile. He did not answer immediately, which Enjolras suspected may have been for the effect of suspense. He wondered if he and Grantaire got on well, he had not seen them interact much.

“Now, before you yell at me for being cruel, let me explain.” Courfeyrac began. “I think you should experiment,” He gave a pointed look at the immediate intake of breath to argue that both men took, “Not by toying with their emotions, but by testing your own. Watch how you react to their presence, their absence, the like.” Enjolras deliberated the suggestion.

“I admire your practicality of method.” Enjolras said.

“Thank you.” Courfeyrac responded, beaming.

Enjolras could have little complaint with such a reasonable plan, as shocked as he was to hear it from Courfeyrac’s more generally devious mind. He wanted to make sense of what he felt, and if Grantaire would not refuse to talk to him, perhaps this would be the quickest way to clarify it all. There was no harm in it, as it was only himself that he was running the tests on.

But what then, would he do with the result? Say it was revealed that he did indeed hold some deeper attachment to Grantaire, was it something he would choose to pursue? Grantaire had already established his disinterest, but Enjolras did not think himself displeasing to look at so perhaps he could be persuaded. But then what if it ended poorly, could he risk the loss of such a friend?

He blinked away these thoughts, returning his attention to his friends. Such wonderings were no matter until he was sure, anyway. It was entirely possible that he had misunderstood it all, and these trials would prove it nothing more than a close friendship. As Courfeyrac had said, it could be entirely meaningless.

“I thank you both for your insight.” He said to them.

“I hope the result is favorable, whichever that conclusion may be.” Combeferre said. Enjolras nodded appreciatively as their other companion sighed thoughtfully.

“How strange it will be, should you take up with someone.” Courfeyrac observed. “Though we know no mortal lover shall ever upstage Patria in your heart, I am glad to think of you with earthly comforts as well.” He leaned forward, so to bracket Enjolras’s face in his hands. “I am happy for you. It can be an exciting thing, to love.”

Enjolras bumped Courfeyrac’s forehead with his own in sign of brotherly affection, smiling. He was glad for both of their support, both as even and steady as Combeferre’s, and as excited and passionate as Courfeyrac’s. They reached a rather masterful balance, and Enjolras was never sure how he made a decision without them.

He thought on Courfeyrac’s statement as they departed, and how easily he had brought love into the conversation. He knew Enjolras’s manner, and perhaps assumed that it was only some great passion that would pull his attentions even momentarily. Enjolras did not think he had been swept up in anything, but he was also not sure that meant Courfeyrac was entirely wrong. Enjolras was still far more confused than anything, but as he had told Grantaire, he at least understood what love was, and what this perhaps could be should he let it.

Chapter Text

The clockwork of he and Grantaire’s relationship had long lulled Enjolras into an assuredness with their behavior. They would fight, passionate and viscous as they both could be, and in only a few days time they would move on as if nothing had happened. This occurred with or without apology, as there had been none in the longer period of this habit’s development. Enjolras often felt better if he at least indicated some remorse before it passed, but he never truly doubted that they would fall back into their pattern soon enough. Neither had ever been successful in chasing the other away, like a spring, the further apart they were pulled often the quicker they returned back together.

So it was with little hesitation that he went up to Grantaire’s door, as it had certainly been long enough for their relatively superficial disagreement to have passed. Enjolras had given it two days since speaking with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, both to get his own thoughts in order and offer time for Grantaire to recover. He was not a patient man, but he thought pushing things too early would perhaps alter the data.

Enjolras was going to ask Grantaire to step out with him, quite literally, to walk about and spend the day together. Grantaire had told him that he enjoyed wandering, for as little as Enjolras understood its practice. Grantaire was also well suited to the role of a guide, and Enjolras would gladly learn from him as he conducted his research. It seemed something that they would both well enjoy, and he thought his plan practical as well as pleasant.

He had not predicted, however, that his knock would go unanswered. The morning was new still, and Grantaire’s hours frequently irregular, but he had been quite sure that Grantaire was home. He thought, briefly with a small modicum of panic, that Grantaire could be ignoring him. They had not fought so severely as that, so he quickly dismissed it and replaced that concern with others for Grantaire’s safety. Perhaps he had passed out drunk, or never come home at all. He knocked again, this time calling out as well.

“Grantaire, are you in?”

He went without response still, and his resolve weakened. Maybe his entire plan had been foolish. Enjolras could not trust the impulses of his friends any more than he could trust his own, it was undignified of him to hover. Enjolras was hardly one to give up easily, but he would also not waste time yelling to a vacant room. He turned to go, but halted when he heard some movement beyond the door. A few moments later it pushed open slowly, revealing squinting eyes.

“Enjolras?” Grantaire rasped, the sound quickly overcoming Enjolras’s gladness at seeing him.

“You look like death.” Enjolras observed plainly, noting the paleness of Grantaire’s skin and the stricken shadows around his eyes. He grimaced. “Was your nightly entertainment so severe as this?” Grantaire laughed, despite Enjolras’s seriousness, though it turned quickly into a harsh cough.

“I hold my wine far better than that.” He said. There was the slightest tinge of guilt that Enjolras had assumed that so readily, though by Grantaire’s lack of annoyance it could not have been too unreasonable a guess. “Some illness has taken temporary hold of me, that is all.”

Enjolras reexamined him, noticing now the glisten of sweat on his brow and the haze of fever in his eyes. Grantaire did not seem entirely focused on where Enjolras stood, rather at a nondescript distance somewhere through Enjolras’s chest. It was concerning, as he had no memory of having seen Grantaire ill before.

“Are you well?” He asked.

“As well as I can be.” Grantaire was nonchalant, it seemed, unworried by his own condition. “I have no wish to pass it on to you, or else I would invite you in.”

The reply was polite and dismissive, clearly meant to send Enjolras away. Had he been anyone else, pure mannerly compulsion would have readily forced him to comply. Unfortunately for Grantaire, Enjolras was not one to follow such social expectations, and he stood firm even as the door was moved as if to close. He spoke quickly.

“I have a strong constitution.” Grantaire stopped, making his best effort to focus now on Enjolras. There was a slight warriness in his expression.

“I believe that of your character, but even you would know the body is not so easily obedient.” Enjolras was unwavering, only looking pointedly past Grantaire’s shoulder into the room.

The stare eventually forced Grantaire to relent, so he simply sighed and stepped aside without questioning Enjolras’s motives or interest. He swayed dangerously with the movement, Enjolras catching him by the arm. He felt hot through the thin layers of his shirt, and Enjolras’s fingers twitched with the realization of it.

“You should return to your bed.” Enjolras said, helping so to guide Grantaire back to it. He seemed grudging in accepting the help, but not enough so to pretend he did not need it.

The room looked much as when Enjolras had last been in it, though now lit with a the greyish light of early morning instead of the golden glow of candles. Most of the paintings he had seen before were still there, though Enjolras did not see the work of Hyacinth. It had been good, in Enjolras’s uneducated opinion, so he would not be surprised if it had sold.

“You must excuse my illness for getting in the way of whatever business you came to pursue.” Grantaire said. Enjolras aided him onto the cot, feeling the feverish shivers under his palm. “What did you need of me?”

Enjolras thought to deny having wanted anything, so that Grantaire would not feel troubled in that he had disrupted Enjolras’s plans, but he doubted Grantaire would ever believe him having visited for the sole purpose of greetings. They knew each other far too well for that. Enjolras supposed he would continue with his earlier prepared excuse, he had little else to do with it now.

“I meant to ask you if you would like to take a walk with me, though I suppose that is no longer an option.” Grantaire turned his head in the vaguest direction of Enjolras, brow furrowed in confusion. It seemed even this was unconvincing.

“We have done no such thing before.” He said. Enjolras quickly contested him.

“We have, even if only in the convenience of our heading other places.” Grantaire made a face, clearly still doubtful. It was not as if Enjolras could provide his true intentions, regardless of his mistrust, so it was better to change the subject.

Enjolras knelt to the side, so not to have to stare awkwardly down to him. Grantaire had not yet laid back, but the fatigue was difficult to disguise on his face. Enjolras hoped it was nothing severe, Grantaire was certainly not treating it as if it was, but he had never been the greatest example in caring for himself.

“I shall bring some of my work up here, so to not miss out on your presence.” He said, letting his tone become teasing in the latter half.

If he was beginning to overstay his welcome uncomfortably, Grantaire did not show it. He seemed too exhausted to care much about where Enjolras chose to be, whether that was in the vicinity or not. He turned unfocused eyes to him briefly with a weak smile, having caught onto the banter if nothing else.

“I think it very likely that I will be sleeping, there is no surety that I will make good company.” He warned. Already he had begun to settle backwards, the conversation having overexerted him. Enjolras’s head tilted, following the movement.

“Who is to say I will not prefer you silent?” Grantaire laughed, which became a cough. He spoke again when his throat cleared.

“Who is to say I do not talk even in sleep?”

Enjolras smiled, not entirely sure if the statement was a lie or not, and watching as Grantaire’s eyes refused to stay open. He could see as his throat worked around its own roughness, discomfort forcing out uneven breaths. Enjolras put a hand to Grantaire’s shoulder, easing him back more fully into a more reposeful position.

“Rest, I believe myself capable of braving whatever grief your resting form may bring upon me.” The assurance seemed to work well enough that Grantaire had begun to relax, or simply he had lost all energy to fight it, but his next words were said with closed eyes.

“You need not stay.”

Grantaire was not wrong. His plans had already become useless, so it would be far more reasonable to simply wait a few more days. There was little tying Enjolras here, other than his discomfort at the idea of leaving Grantaire alone as he was so unwell. Knowing his friend, he was sure that no one was aware save Enjolras, and he did not trust the thinness of the walls enough so to use them as the sole communication should Grantaire need help. He could think of only one other alternative.

“Would you rather I send for Joly?” He asked. The reaction was immediate and firm.

“No, I would not.” Grantaire answered with more assertion than his fatigued behavior had indicated possible. “Joly would fuss too greatly, and I would rather rest.”

“Then do so.” Grantaire hummed contrarily, opening a judgemental eye, but Enjolras could see it was already a won argument. Enjolras simply gave a look of innocence, as if he had said nothing at all, and let Grantaire slip into unconsciousness.

Once Grantaire was lost to the embrace of sleep, Enjolras did go to fetch some papers from his rooms. The Amis did not have plans to meet for some days still, but there would be no fault in starting his thoughts early. It was easy enough to do, by the weak light of the window in Grantaire’s room, and he soon was entirely consumed by his focus on it.

He had long wished to broach the subject of pulling more individuals into their group. If not in close confidence, then at least in building a network that stretched further across the city. Enjolras’s speeches were effective tools, but pulled far too much attention nowadays. It was more difficult to convince the public to side with them when they were chased off by police before finishing their words. Combeferre had suggested flyers and posters about Paris, though Enjolras thought it a worthy inquiry to Courfeyrac if he thought pointed discussion would not serve equally well.

There were many areas where the workers of the city congregated that had to hold tension, though they would need to be careful in who they used as their faces. Enjolras doubted they would respond well to the young, well dressed persons like himself. If anything, he imagined they would suspect him of being a spy from their bosses, meant to see which men to fire should they be too vocal. It was not Enjolras’s place to forge such connections, even if he was skilled in such a way to do so. No, it was a role better suited to Feuilly, or perhaps Grantaire, though Enjolras was unsure he would be the best mouthpiece for their cause.

Enjolras looked up from the papers, blinking as if he had suddenly found himself in a new location. It was very possible that several hours had passed before this break in conversation. The sun had certainly changed position, though where it now stood was impossible to tell. The reminder of Grantaire had brought him back into his body, having accidentally diverted his attentions back into the current moment. Enjolras had been sitting with his back to the bedframe, but he now turned to see how Grantaire was responding.

He was resting still, though it did not seem the fever had fully passed. Grantaire’s cheeks glistened with his body’s effort, and his curls were dampened enough so to press closely to the skin. Enjolras looked around hesitantly for a linen to perhaps wipe it away with, but saw nothing save the rag Grantaire used when working with his paints. As he had no wish to go through Grantaire’s things, Enjolras made a hasty, but generally practical solution.

The cravat he wore was not a nice one, certainly not silk or any patterned fabric such as Courfeyrac often wore. He had not thought Grantaire in need of impressing on their walk, and Enjolras seldom wore anything more complex than a simple color and a less-than-neat knot. It came undone easily enough, and folded in his hand the white material looked little different than any other cloth would.

He moved so to sit on the edge of the bed, leaning over Grantaire and pressing the fabric to his face. The unhealthy warmth that radiated from the body below him was easy enough to feel across the short distance, though occasional shivers still occurred. Grantaire did not stir beyond some small movements of the face and the flickering of his eyes. Enjolras wondered what a cynic had to dream of. He hoped it was pleasant.

Between dabs of the cloth Enjolras used his little finger to brush away some of the curls from the clammy clutches of Grantaire’s forehead. He paused briefly, with that small point of contact moving down to his cheek, reminded of his original goal. How easily he had been distracted, falling into the role of caretaker despite Grantaire’s insistance otherwise. He would do such a thing for any of his friends, he was sure, though Enjolras did not think he would touch their faces so delicately.

His heart jumped in surprise when fingers came around his wrist, pulling the cloth and hand with it away from Grantaire’s face. Their movements were not sudden, but Enjolras had been so distracted by Grantaire’s face that he had not noticed them. Eyes opened at the slightest of slivers, hesitant against the light. Grantaire looked to the fabric, then to Enjolras.

“Is this your cravat?” Enjolras, embarrassed in both how he had woken Grantaire and in his unskilled nursing habits, flushed.

“It is. How are you feeling?” He asked quickly, desperate to move on. Grantaire’s eyes slipped closed again, though as he had not yet released his soft press on Enjolras’s wrist it was clear he was not returning entirely to sleep.

“I am afraid to say I am very likely to survive it.” Grantaire said, rasping slightly. “Pity, I had so hoped to waste away while writing mournful poetry. For Jehan’s sake, you understand.”

“Prouvaire is certainly more appreciative of the living you than any yet unrealized career as a poet.” Enjolras said, as his hand was finally freed. It came into his lap to join the other, they both pulling on each other restlessly. Grantaire used his own to press between his eyes.

“I cannot be so sure.” He said. “Who is to say I would not be a master? He would never forgive me for my health if I am.”

“If nothing else, you have me at least who is glad to know I am not wasting my doctorly efforts.” Enjolras assured. If Grantaire’s drunken ramblings were good enough example, Enjolras would gladly be spared the allusionary imagery his poems would likely bring.

Enjolras shifted his position to a slightly more comfortable one, the movement disrupting some of the pages at his feet. The noise was soft compared to the bustle of the city in the streets below, but not unhearable. Grantaire turned slightly to the sound, then to Enjolras. His eyes, shadowed by sickness, were pensive.

“Do you not tire of it?” He asked. Enjolras blinked at him, confused by this sudden turn of conversation.

“I am unsure of your meaning.” All humour had left Grantaire’s expression so quickly, replaced with an odd edge of desperation.

“Of caring.” Grantaire elaborated, as if it strained him. “You care, so deeply and so openly. First, you spend much of the day thinking how to help all the world, then you give attention to someone as undeserving as I with the same dedication.”

“I-” Enjolras began.

“You are human, Enjolras, but is there any other man alive as tireless as you?” Grantaire’s eyes bore into him. “I have seen so many with fire such as yours burn out, give up, myself included. Yet you continue caring, as if you will never weary of the pain such an open heart brings.”

“I am exhausted by it.” Enjolras admitted quietly. How could he not be, with the endless suffering the world showed him day after day. “But that does not mean I am capable of stopping.”

Grantaire nodded slightly, as if he had expected this answer. Enjolras had not, and he did not know how it had come so readily. He had no right to such exhaustion. What privilege he had, to tire of the suffering of others, to wonder at the peace of oblivion. It was not something Ejolras had ever disclosed before, not even to himself.

“You are not unworthy.” Enjolras said, looking up, having only then processed Grantaire’s earlier words. “Or undeserving, as you said it. I do not want you to think that you are.”

It was clear that his sentiments did not land, as Grantaire was clearly dismissive of them. Whatever change had been brought on by Grantaire’s noticing of the papers, it had sparked a mood he did not seem likely to break from. He did not even blink at the claim, clearly unchanged in his thoughts. Had he not been so weak, Enjolras would have imagined the words paired with an uninterested wave.

“There is no soul that you would deem unworthy of help, Enjolras, save perhaps the King.” Grantaire said. Enjolras did not follow his light tone.

“Do you think I am here only out of a general compassion?” His spine straightened, as it often did when preparing for an argument.

“I think it in your nature to help.” Grantaire said, as if it were obvious. “Do not mistake me, I am grateful for it.”

Enjolras, intent on not letting himself devolve into reactionary anger, took a moment in silence. He folded the cravat tightly in his hands, not looking at Grantaire. It made little difference, as Grantaire had already closed his eyes and turned his face to the wall. It seemed he expected Enjolras to leave as a response, or at least stop the conversation. Perhaps he would have, had Grantaire not been so grossly wrong.

“R, do you know how many hurting and helpless individuals I pass during my day?” Grantaire turned back nervously at his tone, which was measured in such away that showed how much effort was being used in restraining it. “I do not stop to help them all, as much as I may want to. Not because I do not care, but because I know I will help far more in fixing the problem, rather than treating the symptoms.” He nodded in Grantaire’s direction. “Yet here I am at your bedside, can you tell me why?”

Grantaire looked cornered, with an expression that clearly said were he capable of fleeing the question he would. He would have no opportunity to avoid responding, or to talk around it. Enjolras provided him no escape from the interrogative look, waiting for an answer as his target hunched into himself beneath the blanket. Grantaire, confused still, gave one when it became clear that Enjolras would not relent.

“I cannot.” Enjolras folded the cravat again.

“It is because you, Grantaire, are an exception.” He said, watching Grantaire’s reactions closely. His expression did not change from a somewhat frightened bewilderment. “I hold very few people close in my life, and I can say with confidence that each of them are far more difficult for me to view at the same objective separation that I use for the rest of the world. You are important to me, and I would ask that you do not insult me with your ignorance and simply accept it.”

There was no difference should Enjolras be declaring friendship or something more, as he was certain both would require the same sort of aggressive assertion to break through Grantaire’s doubt. How could Grantaire be so oblivious in that he would not think that Enjolras cared about him? It was Grantaire alone that knew his home, Grantaire alone that made him question his disinterest in romance. Enjolras could count on one hand those he would consider knowing him, not just as a leader, but as Enjolras, and he would not have Grantaire so quickly disregard it.

“I am unsure if this is affection or anger that you are expressing.” Grantaire said. He seemed surprised, but not unpleasantly so. The smallest hint of a smile suggested that Enjolras may have had some success in making himself clear. Grantaire used a finger to tap against Enjolras’s arm. “May I use my fever as a shield to escape any foolish things I may have said?”

It was not entirely an apology, nor a similar confirmation of closeness, but in a way it was both. Enjolras grasped the fingers brushing against him loosley, though he did not hold them long. It was hardly contact at all, but Enjolras’s entire arm seemed to burn with it.

“Because you are unwell I will let you have this escape.” He thought back to their conversation by the Seine, which now felt so long back in their history. “Where is our river now, to force compromise upon us.”

Grantaire smiled at the reminder, clearly recognizing what Enjolras referenced by the statement. Enjolras remembered the night vividly, perhaps only since it had demanded so much of his attention in looking at his surroundings. The strange practice had committed them uniquely to memory in complete detail. Should he concentrate, he could conjure the entirety of the scene into his mind.

“Is that why you wished to walk together, to sweep away our disagreement?” He muttered then, far more to himself than to Enjolras. “Perhaps I should paint it, though noone has any great fondness of Parisian scenes when there is the Orient to depict.”

“We seem most consistently civil when walking,” Enjolras observed, ignoring the artistic deviation. “A balance between discussion and disagreement. In the meetings we fight more often than anything.” Grantaire made no effort to disagree. As much as they had decreased their habits, or at least lessened their severity, Grantaire still became drunk and cynical, and Enjolras was still short-tempered and reactionary.

“And here?” He asked instead. Enjolras thought on it.

“Here we tell secrets, I suppose. It is our most common practice behind these doors.”

They both winced with the thoughts of all they had told one another in these rooms. Enjolras, for his part, did not regret it, but such raw, open emotions were never enjoyable to look back on. Grantaire lifted an elbow across his face, to either hide from the light or to cover his expression. His voice showed no hint of embarrassment despite the movement.

“I shall remember that the stairwell is where I am last safe, then.” He said. A curious eye peaked out. “Does it work on that scale, if I am close to here we will get along better, but I will not be so exposed as behind these doors?”

“I think not. Jacques was in the corridor.” Enjolras countered. It took some moment for Grantaire to recall what Enjolras meant, but when he did his face soured.

“Right you are.” He hummed consideringly. “And I suppose it is the stairwell’s fault that our lives collided so unexpectedly” It had been Enjolras’s personal choice to blame the misbehavior of his door, but he supposed the location was the same.

“It has certainly caused a lot of change.” He said.

“I label that the most dangerous, then.” Grantaire declared. “We are trapped instead with secrets.”

“Yes, I suppose we are.” Enjolras said, leaning his head on a shoulder so to observe Grantaire. All that was left uncovered where Grantaire’s lips, which reminded him so intently of a secret he had not yet revealed.

Grantaire was asleep again, Enjolras realized. He fell into it so easily, Enjolras had hardly noticed the change of breathing until he was lost to it, leaving Enjolras alone with his thoughts. He did not entirely mind it, as they were pleasant ones that brought an unbidden smile to his face. He had failed, certainly, in performing any sort of analytical testing, but he believed he had achieved a conclusion regardless. His heart lay resting in the bed before him, what did he care about the confusion of the rest.

Chapter Text

Enjolras was a man of action, by nature. Patience was a virtue he sorely lacked, something that had been evident since a childhood spent restlessly bothering whoever would listen, and this aspect had affected his life in a great many manners. Primarily he would consider the consequences of his manner to positive, as it was because of this he was so motivated in his behavior, but he was also well aware that patience and self-control were closely tied. He was aware of them, certainly, though not very much skilled in execution.

It was not as if he was immature or brattish, his material demands and wants were in fact very easily ignored and he had no compulsion to impulsively obey them. His trouble grew far more from Enjolras’s curiosity and directness. When he wanted something to be said, he would say it. When he wanted to know something, he would ask it. He had little restraint when it came to pursuing clarity, he supposed it could be said. He had no interest in talking around things that would be better addressed directly, and similarly did not care to think for too great a time before letting the words run free.

Yet, directly against his habits, in the matter of how he felt for Grantaire Enjolras was forced to hesitate. Despite his greater impulses, it was something he forced himself to stop and consider before addressing. Were it only the matter of emotions between them, Enjolras knew it would be better to know and would have asked long ago. But it was not without reason that he left things unsaid. Something was coming, and Enjolras was very much planning on being at the center of it. He was not entirely sure Grantaire would be able to forgive him for such an ambition.

There was an edge to the city that there had not been before, or if it had its growth had been so slow as to be nearly unnoticeable. an anticipation that burned through Enjorlas’s blood just as fiercely as it did the streets of Paris. Enjolras was not so self-centered as to think that he or Grantaire were all that mattered in this, in fact they were very nearly insignificant. The earth under their feet was aching to move, they all could feel it, and Enjolras did not want to risk distraction. Perhaps it was a coward’s reasoning, but it kept him silent.

It was unlikely that Grantaire had anything to suspect. Enjolras had come to these conclusions nearly the same day as his realization, so there had been no period of being too revealing in his actions. As it was, there was little time to notice anything off between them regardless. They both had hardly been home, Enjolras due to the laborious efforts of he, Combeferre and Courfeyrac, and Grantaire due to his best efforts to drink away the growing pains of their young Republic in the making.

There was a mutual displeasure from them both to see the other in these pursuits, so their interactions had been minimal in the days since this acceleration. As they had established the night of Grantaire’s illness, the meetings had always been a place of tension for them. Only now they could hardly escape it, with their words and passions being echoed in the streets of Paris. The walks were no longer a place of civility and mediation, instead rather intentional silence.

It was their strange scheduling that eventually brought them back to collision, despite their lack of effort. Enjolras was later even than the new usual that night, he and his companions having stayed to recover time lost by the strange rantings of Courfeyrac’s new friend. Enjolras was fairly certain their extended hours were in part Combeferre’s punishment of Courfeyrac for forcing it on them, but from the yawns and tired eyes it would be safe to say they all faced equal torment by it.

The night was a dark blanket around the building, penetrated only by the candlelight reaching through the glass. Courfeyrac yawned loudly for the fourth time before Combeferre finally halted them. For all that they were behind, Combeferre insisted, it would not serve them well to lose sleep so early in their efforts. Enjolras, though intent to complete their work, did not have enough energy to dispute him.

The silence, when they ceased their talking, was nearly deafening. Enjolras did not think he had ever been in the the Corinthe when it was so vacant as this. The loudest sound was the movement of Combeferre’s coat as he pulled it over his shoulders, and the sound of their footsteps as they stood to move. The sound did not echo, it could not have been loud enough for that.

Had it not been for the complete lack of any other human presence, Enjolras may have missed Grantaire in his exhausted departure. He supposed he should not have been entirely surprised to see Grantaire still in his place at the back, where he had been since the beginning of the meeting, making himself as much a fixture of the room as the furniture slumped and inactive as he was. It was only when Enjolras’s eyes caught on the small movement of a bottle being rocked on its edges that he noticed him, pausing to wave his friends onward.

Grantaire did not notice his approach. He had been particularly nonsensical that evening, boisterously wandering through subjects of vanity and lovers with no clear direction. Only now he seemed melancholy, having been abandoned by his high energy. Grantaire did offer a large smile when Enjolras sat beside him at his table, and Enjolras did his best to restrain the color struggling to rise to his cheeks.

“Have you sobered, then?” Enjolras asked, despite the looseness of Grantaire’s expression indicating otherwise.

“Why?” Grantaire smirked knowingly. “Have you come to appreciate my contribution after seeing such a worse distraction than mine?”

A fully bodied grimace had to be repressed at the reminder, Enjolras would spend no more time on the Bonapartist nonsense than he already had. He never would have believed there someone worse than Grantaire to have in their meetings, but he had been proven entirely wrong. Combeferre was certainly shooting Courfeyrac venomous looks as they made their ways home.

“And what contribution is that?” He asked, causing Grantaire to smile at the pointed avoidance. He placed a hand under his chin in support, twirling the bottle in his hands.

“Juxtaposition, of course. And good humor.” Grantaire bit his lip, as if containing some witty example which Enjolras was quick to bar.

“I think I am not in the mood for humor tonight.” Enjolras warned. Grantaire raised a hand slightly in surrender. “Are you coming home?”

No matter how many times Enjolras had asked now, Grantaire always looked surprised by the question. He glanced around in reflex, as if it were possible that Enjolras was speaking to anyone else in the empty room, before turning back and shrugging apathetically.

“I think it possible to persuade me, I did go out with Joly and Bossuet before.” He ignored Enjolras’s look of disapproval, instead standing in preparation to leave. He held out a hand for assistance, as if he were the one likely to sway with drink. Enjolras’s hand tingled with the brief exchange of contact.

In all truth, Grantaire was spending less and less time sober while in the company of their friends. Enjolras was not so unaware as to not realize that he had grown more severe in recent weeks, but he would not consider himself the whole cause. He had certainly been harsher, not only to Grantaire but to all their fellows. Grantaire too had responded coldly, sometimes with little more than the single word titles that he knew Enjolras so despised. It seemed quite pointed, to treat these meetings as if they were social gatherings and nothing more, an insistance of perhaps all he thought they were meant to be. It was something they both knew they could not discuss without destroying all peace between them.

“I had noticed their distraction, glad as I am that you kept it to your table rather than challenging me tonight.” Grantaire nodded in acknowledgement as they passed the last of the chairs, placed haphazardly in their path. He taped the wood of it absently with his middle finger.

“I do have some restraint, particularly when we have newcomers.” He said, expression difficult to read. Enjolras gave him a side glance, barely visible in the low light. He was not so easy to see, here where more of the candles had been allowed to extinguish themselves than in their alcove. The night was far too clouded to provide the moon’s aid, either.

“Are you meaning to tell me that you help impress prospective members?” Enjolras asked, a pleased surprise hinted in his tone.

He was in part teasing, but also gladdened to think of Grantaire putting any effort towards their cause. Enjolras had long grown used to expecting very little of him in the way of such things, of course, as he made his disagreements with their methods very vocal, but even such an insignificant effort made Enjolras’s heart lighter. The concept was far better than thoughts of him sabotaging them, which seemed a far more common example.

Grantaire, perhaps sensing Enjolras growing too genuine in his emotion, quickly attempted to deflect. What worse thing is there than for a cynic to be caught caring, Enjolras supposed. He laughed and shrugged, moving on with his usual grandiose rhetoric. Enjolras allowed the escape, preferring wherever grantaire wished to take the conversation to silence.

“Only so much as I let them briefly see you in a glory unhindered by my lowly complaints. I do my best to destroy their illusions soon enough.” He said, clear enough that he meant it to be the final remark on the matter.

They exited the warmth of the building, braving the chill of the spring night as it was abandoned behind them. In the open air the sounds seemed louder, clearer as the echo of their footsteps was allowed to travel farther. The streets were not entirely deserted, but those on them had no interest in interaction. Not any interest they would risk with more than one young man, at least. Grantaire and Enjolras were left well enough alone as they chose their way to go.

Enjolras let Grantaire direct them, though he noticed that it was a far less wandering path than usual, only slightly varied from their more direct way home. He thought to comment on it, perhaps suggest they go to the bridge again, but he did not. It was late, and it was perhaps exhaustion that steered Grantaire’s steps home. Enjolras did not wish to tire him further.

They passed the words “Vive la France” crudely carved onto the side of a wall. Grantaire noticed it first, the sudden movement of his head altering Enjolras enough to turn as well. They did not stop, but their pace slowed as they observed it’s harsh lines in the wood, barely above the level of the street. Had it not been for Gavroche’s inability to write, Enjolras would have readily assumed he the cause. It took his breath away to think it could be someone else, anyone else.

“The city is changing.” Grantaire mused as they continued by it, perhaps thinking similarly. “The people seem more hopeful, bold even.”

It was clear these words did not gladden him as they did Enjolras, who he looked to with an unreadable expression. His mood seemed so suddenly different than his banterous cheer and far more like the melancholy Enjolras had interrupted.

“Does it scare you?” Grantaire asked, voice quiet and thoughtful.

“It excites me.” He answered honestly. The public were the true key to revolution, and such signs were only inspiring him in that they were not alone.

“But does it scare you?” Grantaire repeated.

Enjolras looked to him, attempting to see it through Grantaire’s eyes. There seemed an odd level of persistance in the question, one that Enjolras often felt himself, and he knew it would not go unanswered. He thought on Grantaire’s fears of bloodshed, of failure at the price of their lives, of futility. Enjolras dismissed them all, as he would not find truth in any of it. In his belief, Enjolras was fearless.

But it would be untrue to say Enjolras was not frightened of anything. He knew of his precedents, of how quickly those that championed liberty had fallen to the temptations of power. Enjolras did not wish to be made into something different, to become as cruel and cold as some thought he was. He wondered if Grantaire had meant that, too, in his question.

“No, not that part.” He affirmed, though his voice was unconfident.

Grantaire seemed to read his meaning from him easily, nodding though he made no effort to refute it. Enjolras did his best not to read into such things to greatly. He seemed quieted now, which Enjolras may have once considered a welcome adjustment but was now only troubled by. He was compelled to fit his fears into ill-suiting words as best as he could, desperate to not let Grantaire’s mind drift away to unknown things.

“All this change, do you think we will be spared it?” Grantaire gave a bitter sort of laugh.

“You are not so oblivious as to be unaware that we have already been altered.” He said. The words settled heavily in his stomach, and Grantaire noticed the change in demeanor immediately. He moved on quickly to provide distraction, his energy returning. “It seems forever since I have seen you. The meetings hardly count.”

“I saw you when you were ill.” Enjolras pointed out, hesitantly following suit. The sudden tonal shift had jarred him, and he now felt unbalanced. Grantaire hummed questioningly.

“Did you? I’m fairly certain I had thought that a dream.” Enjolras flushed at the implication of that being a common occurrence. “Ah, now I remember. You used your cravat-“

“Yes, yes.” Enjolras cut in, unwilling to deal with further embarrassment. Grantaire laughed, far more genuinely this time. Enjolras found he quite enjoyed the sound, though he did not share the same energetic demeanor. “I do understand your meaning, it is good to talk when we are both entirely present.”

“I am sure my council was sorely missed.”

They were nearing the building now, only a few streets from it in fact, but Enjolras pulled Grantaire to a stop. He wished to speak without the pretense of sarcasm that Grantaire threw in so quickly whenever he found conversation uncomfortable, and he did not think Grantaire would listen if not facing him. He did not have the skill to transition so quickly between seriousness and joviality, so it was with the same earnestness as before that he spoke.

“It was, truly.” He said, having tethered him with a hand that had not quite touched its target. They both looked to it briefly where it was suspended, and Enjolras dropped it back to his side. Grantaire did not seem angry by his failure to return the conversation to lightheartedness, but he maintained a now false seeming smile even in the face of Enjolras’s somberness

“Well I am glad to provide it now.” He said, gesturing with his hands. “What burning question do you have for me to answer?”

At that Enjolras withdrew emotionally as well. In his efforts to convince Grantaire of his importance, a goal he had unknowingly set for himself after nursing his fevered friend, Enjolras has very nearly exposed just how important he meant him to be. It had been too near to a confession, and he still had too many reasons to keep silent, so he turned away.

“It is very late, I would not want to trouble you.” Grantaire gave the most doubtful look he could possibly manage at the concept of Enjolras leaving something unanswered. He jostled Enjolras’s shoulder with his own, restarting their movement.

“Then trouble me until we reach our rooms, it is necessary I be awake as long regardless.”

Enjolras could not contest his argument, so he grudgingly fell into step alongside him. They continued in silence, unsure if he would not or could not find the correct wording. Enjolras knew what he wished for council on, though it was the one thing he had already decided not to speak on. It sparked his ever-ready frustration quickly.

He had his reasons, good ones. It would be fair to no one to confess in a time such as now. It could alienate an ally, should it be taken poorly, and what if it wasn’t? Enjolras could dedicate no time to a lover, he had no wish to make Grantaire think himself only a casual interest, but Enjolras’s commitment to Patria above all else would demand it. That was something he could not compromise on.

Or was this only the sort of logic that fear made to sound clear? They maintained a friendship through such conditions. They had their unspoken language of apology that had spared them from the long lasting damage of arguments, and even when they spent much time without one another they fell back into their behavior within seconds of reuniting. Perhaps Enjolras was underestimating their capabilities.

“You have not asked anything yet.” Grantaire noted after a few moments, forcing the spark of indecisive frustration into a flame. Enjolras resolved it in his most natural way, directly. His lips pinched.

“Very well, I am a coward and a liar both.”

Grantaire paused where he stood, clearly caught off guard by both the words and the harshness of tone behind them, but Enjolras kept walking and he was forced to quickly follow. Now, at least, he looked at Enjolras directly, though it was largely with confusion and concern. Enjolras’ gaze did not waver from directly ahead of them, panic and resolve both warring over their claim to his attention.

“And why is that?” Grantaire asked with trepidation, watching the firm stillness of Enjolras’s expression.

“Do you remember how I spoke to you of not thinking myself able to think of someone in a courtly way?”

Enjolras was surprised by his own choice of starting point, but there was no retracting of the words now. It seemed everything that had troubled him that he had not told Grantaire was now deciding to make itself known. He could see Grantaire’s nervousness even without looking at him, the corner of his eye showed an uncomfortable glance around at their surroundings, looking for anyone who might overhear.

“Yes, I recall.” Grantaire acknowledged, timid still. Enjolras bit the inside of his cheek rather harshly.

“Well it seems I had lied, as I now know that I can.”

“You’re feelings are not required to be the same forever, you were not lying before if they have changed.” Grantaire responded automatically. He only seemed to think on the words after. “But they have changed?” He asked.

“Yes.” Enjolras replied, praying that he would not ask who for. Enjolras was not entirely sure he would be able to stop himself from answering.

Grantaire did not look at him. Enjolras was glad that he did not, as he was certain his face was not well disguised and one glance would expose everything. Luckily, Grantaire stared only at his feet, leaving his expression shadowed. His gait slowed somewhat, attempting to force Enjolras to do the same.

“Then I wish you great luck.” He said, as if that was the end of it. Enjolras very nearly laughed, as he was nowhere close to finished. These words had not wanted to stay back at all, and now that he had released them he was unsure if it would ever stop. Grantaire had invited this, he supposed, and they would both now suffer the consequences.

“That is all well and good,” He said, “But it will have no effect. As I said, I am a coward.”

Grantaire continued to be quiet, nonreactive to Enjolras’s now moderate frenzy. He glanced to the side, and when he spoke his voice even and unhurried. It was not entirely comforting, but perhaps somewhat like Combeferre’s factual reassurances, so it had some effect in slowing his mind. If anything, he felt somewhat less dramatic now.

“I have never known you to be such.” Enjolras shook his head.

“But I am.” Grantaire’s expression stayed unchanged.

“Explain?”

Enjolras was getting dangerously close to saying admitting everything entirely, which was forcing him to address closer still why he couldn’t. The mantra of why he could not faltered as his reasons looked less reasonable under the force of him to speak, to be heard.

“I have yet to confess!” He exclaimed, the reality of it bursting forth. “I make excuses, but in truth I am afraid of whatever change it could bring far more than any of the reasons I have provided.”

“The feeling is familiar, it is a common thing.” Grantaire said, much more to himself than anything else.

The intention was probably nothing of the sort, but this was the most effective in pulling Enjolras back to himself. His intensity was no longer spiraling, like a river having been suddenly altered in course now focusing its full effect on Grantaire himself. He did not think Grantaire noticed this shift, but he looked over to meet his eyes when noticing Enjolras’s sudden extended silence.

“You never did tell me.” He said. Grantaire’s expression pinched unexpectedly, shoulders tensing.

“What?” He asked, sounding as if something had been caught in his throat.

“When I asked if you had ever been in love. You never answered.”

The harsh lines eased back out of Grantaire’s form, though he did not respond. Enjolras looked on, curious and wild as Grantaire maintained his uncharacteristic cool. He thought it very likely that his friend was in truth attempting to restrain something of his own. He could think of no other explanation for his removed manner.

“What would you want me to have said?” He asked. Enjolras frowned at the odd response.

“Whatever is the truth, I imagine.” He said.

It seemed even more evident now that Grantaire’s calm exterior had simply been a front to keep attention from himself during Enjolras’s rant, as he seemed so uncomfortable under his gaze now. They both knew Enjolras was unlikely to leave such a thing alone, and if it was not this question he would ask another. Grantaire could not escape him so easily.

“Love is an old friend of mine.” He answered finally, though Enjolras huffed at its unsatisfactory nature.

“You answer so cryptically.” He complained, stepping up to unlock the front door they had now reached.

“Are you in love?” Grantaire asked suddenly, voice raising in a sudden show of anger. He took Enjolras’s shocked silence as its own answer. “See, it is not easy to say directly.”

Grantaire pushed past him into the building, now leaving Enjolras to trail behind. The stairwell was silent and so dark that they could hardly see one another. Enjolras could see enough though to notice Grantaire’s unhappy expression as he caught up with him. He did not think apologizing would change anything, so he instead answered as honestly as he could.

“I am unsure I could devote myself to someone at a time such as now. The world demands my attention, I would feel selfish in ignoring it.” He said, voice quiet so as to keep them undisturbed by roused neighbors. Grantaire was dismissive.

“Someone who loves you would understand that, surely, as it is so much of who you are.” He said, as if there was no need for further thought on it, as if it was obvious.

The words halted Enjolras completely, rooting him to the landing his own rooms were on. A hand, tight around Grantaire’s arm, stopped him as well on the stair just above. Enjolras did not remember even having reached out, but it now felt like the only real connection in the dark place.

“Would they?” He asked, out of breath in such a way it seemed as if he had just been running.

Grantaire had not turned, not even with the Enjolras’s sudden grip, leaving Enjolras to look only at the curls on the back of his head. Some of the clouds must have moved, as the pale whitish light of the moon curved gentle highlights onto them. Enjolras wished intensely to see his face.

“I think we have reached the end of our path.” Grantaire said, acknowledging nothing else. “We said as far as our rooms, did we not?”

“R, look at me, please.” Enjolras could not be sure if it was the nickname or the pleading way in which he said it, but Grantaire obeyed. With small, shuffling movements, he turned ever so slightly to face Enjolras, expression guarded. He asked again. “Would they?”

There was little illusion now, despite Enjolras’s ambiguity of phrase, to what he was truly asking. Grantaire had to see it, with how well he read everything else from him, and Enjolras no longer cared to hide. He had to know if Grantaire had meant what he had said, and the urgency with which he felt that need replaced all else.

The soft light made Grantaire’s expression impossible to read. The wide eyes studying him gave almost nothing away, though Enjolras knew his own expression could not be anywhere as well disguised. He wondered if it was light enough for Grantaire to see that, or if his position was still too shrouded in shadow.

“Yes.” Grantaire said, so soft that Enjolras nearly missed it. They both exhaled shakily at the solitary word.

“I am a coward then, for keeping silent?” Something was expanding in Enjolras’s chest, a release of warmth at Grantaire’s admission. He wanted to smile, to laugh even, but the stairwell felt too quiet for such a thing. They had understood each other, they understood.

“Maybe.” There was a hint of teasing in Grantaire’s voice, subtle but present. Enjolras’s hand slid from Grantaire’s forearm, taking his fingers in a loose embrace. Grantaire did not shy away from the touch, watching him with wide, shining eyes.

“Help me to be brave, then.”

In the brief moments where Enjolras had allowed himself to imagine this, he had never considered the possibility of Grantaire suddenly having a height advantage. His place on the stair had compensated for his shorter stature, meaning that while Enjolras stepped forward it was he who leaned down, bringing his untethered hand to the side of Enjolras’s face. Enjolras’s pulled around his waist, as if to hold them both there.

There was a desperation in how they clung together, as if now that they had collided they would never allow themselves to be separated again. Grantaire let himself be pulled back down to the landing by the lapels, Enjolras having backed against the wall yet intent not to break from him. Their kisses were chaste, still, though they came in rapid succession. The movement pressed them wholly against each other, and Enjolras had no time to worry on his incompetence while his body sang with the contact. There must have been some discomfort, with how tightly Enjolras embraced him, but Grantaire only pressed closer.

Enjolras laughed then, a small, silent thing against Grantaire lips. Grantaire matched his smile, the very feeling of it more incredible and intimate than anything Enjolras had ever known. There was a giddiness to them both, a disbelief and wonder that this was indeed happening. Enjolras wondered if it had all been simply another dream, and if when his eyes opened they would see only the ceiling above his bed.

“Am I so ugly as that?” Grantaire asked after they had paused, foreheads pressed together and their heartbeats audibly loud. Enjolras, who had not yet opened his eyes, smiled again.

“You are no such thing.” He assured. “It is only that this hardly feels real.”

“I think it should be me saying such things.” Grantaire returned. “I must admit, I am entirely baffled.”

Enjolras did finally look up then, his concern at Grantaire’s tone superceding his almost childish avoidance. Grantaire was before him still, of course, pressed close but looking away. Enjolras kept an army tightly around his waist, for fear of him attempting to suddenly flee.

“Surely you aren’t.” Enjolras said. “Who else in my life could it have been?”

“But this is something you want? With me?” Grantaire persisted, still unsure. “What of your reasons?”

“You were never an aspect of my hesitation.” Enjolras assured, pressing a kiss to the side of his downturned lips. Grantaire’s face softened with the action, as if now incapable to stay unhappy.

It seemed as if this affirmation shifted something in Grantaire, the dispelling of his insecurities resulting in a showering of affection that Enjolras accepted with a near delirious joy. It was dizzying to think of how shortly before Enjolras had been sure that this could never be experienced, yet now he was unsure if he could live without it.

“What strange siren are you,” He marvelled, pressing kisses to all of Enjolras’s face that he could reach. “To pull such devotion from me? I am pious to you and you alone, nothing that the heavens could hold would ever seem worthy of worship after knowing someone such as you. The sun is in your hair, an angelic choir in your voice. What blessing of Aphrodite could compare to your cheek under my hand? I am in awe of your entirety.”

“You fluster me with words I hardly understand,” Enjolras interrupted, blushing furiously. He took Grantaire’s hand to press a kiss against the palm, hiding his face with the movement. “But I would return their sentiments, if I can. I love you.”

Before saying them, Enjolras would not have known the words to be true. Yet as they left his lips no doubt accompanied them. He hid still, face tucked away as Grantaire stilled. After a moment, the hand in his moved so to turn his head back. Grantaire smiled, more bright and open than he had ever seen him.

“I have loved you since I first knew you, first as the cold and distant star I thought you were, and now as the man before me.” Enjolras’s euphoria faded as he fell back to earth.

“Those two are not so different.” He said. “Will you still love me when I must dedicate myself entirely to the cause?”

“Will you still love me when I cannot?”

They were both silent, as they knew they could not answer these questions in complete confidence. Whatever was to come would come, and they could never know how it would change them. They had only the promises of the present, for however long that would last.

“I believe that we will.” Enjolras said.

“I believe you.” Grantaire returned.

It would not be long until the light brought the waking of another day, and as much as they might wish it they could not stay in this moment forever. Grantaire stepped back, allowing Enjolras to leave his place against the wall. Their laced fingers had still not yet separated, and Enjolras used them to pull Grantaire towards his rooms.

“Come,” he said. “Let us sleep so that we can prove we still love each other tomorrow.”

He could see a million protests in Grantaire’s eyes, in how it was dangerous to stay together and the impracticality of using one bed when they had two, but he stayed silent. He smiled, small and tired yes, but hopeful too. There was no need to say aloud what passed between them, only that the grip on his hand tightened and Grantaire stepped to follow.