Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Grantaire likes being at sea.

When you were a merchant's son who wanted nothing more than to escape your tyrannical father and the future he had planned for you, running away to sea was simply the done thing, so he considers himself lucky that the sailor's life has proved to suit him so well. The only part of it that he had ever disliked was all the people barking orders at you, but in recent years he'd found that a good way around that was to take the small inheritance that your father begrudgingly left you and buy a boat all of your own, and then you were the one giving the orders.

His boat is his pride and his home, but he does step back onto dry land every now and again. The beer is better there, and any tavern will always have a few starry-eyed souls willing to swap a drink for a sailor's yarn. Thinking it would be a shame to deprive such folks of his tales, he's carved out a place for himself in a little town on the shore of a rocky island. He has a room in town above the baker's shop which he rarely sleeps in, but everyone knows that it's his room and thus he is accepted as a local. And the best part of it all is that, as it turns out, in such a town a boat is all you need to be useful, and thus be in possession of employment. The people are always in need of supplies from the mainland, and Grantaire has proven himself reliable and trustworthy enough to be the one to fetch them, and his prices are fair. He makes sure not to cultivate this honest reputation too much, though. He wouldn't want to lose the custom of the less reputable characters who also sometimes need goods moved from place to place. He isn't opposed to a bit of smuggling, provided he gets paid. The town doctor, Combeferre, though a very respectable fellow, has employed Grantaire for such underhanded services before, having him pick up presumably stolen medical supplies from his contacts across the sea, because their town can’t afford enough to go around and Combeferre isn’t going to let a little thing like that get in the way of him helping his poor and ailing patients. Combeferre says Grantaire is a good man for risking the wrath of the law to get those supplies to the people. Grantaire laughs as he pockets Combeferre’s coin and says that if he was really a good man, he’d be doing it for free.

So Grantaire isn’t surprised when Combeferre approaches him at the docks one day. But he’s a little surprised to see that he isn’t alone – he’s trailed by another man, with a face that is handsome but pale and sickly-looking, and wild golden hair barely contained by a thin black ribbon, and wary eyes the colour of the sea on the clearest and most perfect days. Grantaire doesn’t recognise him. And that’s strange, because Grantaire knows everyone in their town.

Combeferre tells him that this is Enjolras, and that Enjolras needs to get across the sea, swiftly and discreetly. Grantaire reminds him that he doesn’t take passengers. Combeferre pleads with him to make an exception, and offers him twice what he’d normally pay for his services. Grantaire doesn’t like it – he doesn’t like Combeferre’s desperation, or the fact that Enjolras hasn’t said a word. He thinks Enjolras must have done something pretty bad to need to disappear this urgently, and the punishment for smuggling goods is severe but pales in comparison to the punishment for harbouring a fugitive. He knows he should say no. But he likes the shine of those coins, and he likes Combeferre. He sometimes wishes he could be the good man Combeferre thinks he is. So he relents.

They depart at dawn the next day. The nearest mainland port is about two days' journey away, but Enjolras needs to go farther than that, according to Combeferre – their destination therefore is the most distant port that Grantaire ever sails to, and it's going to be a long journey. Luckily, there are many goods he can pick up over there and bring back that folks in town will be only too happy to pay for, which makes him feel better about embarking with only a passenger on board.

Combeferre sees Enjolras off at the docks. When they part, Enjolras comes on board slowly, an inscrutable expression on his face but tension clear in every line of his body. Grantaire wonders, with a dose of irritation, if this will be Enjolras's maiden voyage, and if he is going to be saddled with the task of nursing him through bouts of seasickness throughout the coming weeks.

“Is this your first time on a boat?” Grantaire asks him.

Enjolras gives him a look that burns like acid. He shakes his head.

“Have you been at sea before?” Grantaire persists.

Enjolras's lip curls in something like contempt. He nods once, sharply, then strides off to the prow without looking back. Grantaire gets the impression that he might have touched a nerve. He notices a few members of the crew gawking, having obviously just witnessed the odd exchange, and he raises an eyebrow at them, as if asking why they aren't busy preparing to cast off.

It's a fine day for it. The sky is blue, the few clouds are white and pillowy and unthreatening, and the breeze is strong. They get underway in good time. Grantaire, at the helm, smiles. Regardless of their journey's purpose, it feels good to be sailing again.

Grantaire had planned to have Enjolras share the crew’s sleeping quarters, but is quick to change his mind and offer to let Enjolras share his cabin instead – because immediately he can tell his crew are a little scared by him. Grantaire doesn’t blame them. From the outset Enjolras is strange and silent and cold, rebuffing any attempts at conversation and seeming to make a conscious effort to set himself apart from every other person on the boat, like some creature retreating into its shell. Grantaire, though, is no stranger to difficult characters, and he's sure he can handle one odd, moody passenger sharing his space.

However, it turns out not to matter where Enjolras is told to sleep. He barely sets foot in the cabin, and seems loathe to go below deck for any reason. He spends almost all his time out on deck, sometimes pacing aimlessly, sometimes leaning dangerously far over the boat’s rail to watch the sea go by with a restless, hungry look on his face. Grantaire finds him like that during his final check of the boat before bed on the first night of the voyage.

“Come inside,” Grantaire tells him. “You’ll freeze out here.”

Enjolras gives a faint snort, as if that’s a ridiculous idea, but he follows Grantaire to the cabin and lies down on his make-shift bunk. When Grantaire wakes up early the next morning, he’s already gone. First mate Bossuet tells him he found their passenger asleep on deck when he came up for his shift on watch. Strange, but Grantaire figures that if Enjolras wants to freeze to death, that’s up to him, and he says no more about it.

Enjolras doesn’t freeze to death, though.

In fact, the farther they get from land, the happier and heartier he slowly starts to seem. He gets some colour in his face, and a little tension seems to leave him. As the days go by, he takes to going barefoot and gives up on tying up his hair and leaves the top few buttons of his shirt undone. He looks almost like a common sailor, and Grantaire wryly thinks that it suits him. He seems livelier, too, and much more interested in the crew and their work. Though still strange and silent – at first Grantaire had thought him just haughty, but now he suspects he may actually be mute – his obvious curiosity and softer demeanour help the crew warm to him, and soon he’s running errands for them and helping with their duties. He seems to like it when the crew sing – the first time Grantaire sees him smile is during one of their bawdy, merry songs. He has a beautiful smile. It’s a fact Grantaire tries very hard to ignore – especially since Enjolras seems to be warming up to him much more slowly than he is to the rest of the crew. Grantaire doesn't know why, exactly, but he doesn't push.

Despite Enjolras’s clear improvement in health and temperament, Grantaire thinks he’d recover faster from whatever was ailing him if he ate more. At mealtimes he picks listlessly at bread, gives away his serving of porridge to whichever lucky crew member is closest, screws up his nose at the very suggestion of coffee. The only thing Grantaire ever sees him eat properly is the portion of salted fish they each get with their evening meal.

“Do you only like to eat fish?” Grantaire asks him one night when he has deigned to actually be in the cabin for a little while. Enjolras is sitting on the floor examining Grantaire’s compass like he’s never seen one before. He shrugs in response to the question.

“You’ll get sick if you don’t eat other things, too,” Grantaire says. He gets another shrug.

“You must be hungry,” Grantaire says. Enjolras sighs softly and hands him back his compass. He stands up and turns as if to leave.

“Wait.” Grantaire also stands. He thinks for a moment about what he’s about to do, then reminds himself that he’s captain and can do what he wants. “Come with me.”

He leads Enjolras out of the cabin and through the galley, to where the food is stored. He levers open one of the tightly-sealed barrels and digs out a few portions’ worth of salted fish.

“You need to start eating the rest of your meals,” he warns Enjolras. “I know ship’s food isn’t the best, but we can’t afford to be picky.” Nonetheless, he dumps the fish in a rough-hewn bowl and hands it to Enjolras. “But I don’t want you to go hungry, so have this for now.”

Enjolras stares first at him, then at the food, as if unsure if this is a cruel joke. Then he sets about eating so ravenously that Grantaire feels a stab of guilt.

“You should have let me know if you were starving,” he says accusingly, really meaning I should have noticed sooner.

He instructs Bahorel, the cook, to give Enjolras an extra serving of fish with his evening meal from now on.

The next morning at breakfast, he sees Enjolras take a tiny and apprehensive spoonful of porridge. He pushes it around his mouth for a comically long time before deeming it safe to swallow. He doesn’t look terribly impressed, but he does take another spoonful, and another. Grantaire looks on in amusement and relief. He wonders where exactly Enjolras came from, that a meal of oats and water is so clearly strange to him.

Giving Enjolras food had in no way been intended as an act of bribery, but Grantaire is pleasantly surprised when, in the days following, Enjolras seems to decide that he can, in fact, be trusted, and the two of them can be friends. He starts sleeping in the cabin more often. He runs around with the crew in the daytime, but in the evenings, when the crew are below deck playing cards or dozing, he stays on deck with Grantaire while he mans the helm. Grantaire is used to long stretches of time alone at the helm, and he's learned not to mind it, but it's nice to have company for a change. Enjolras is quiet, of course, but he still finds ways to be an active conversation partner. He's certainly expressive enough for Grantaire to know his opinion about anything he talks about. He makes Grantaire laugh when he wrinkles his nose and shakes his head furiously whenever Grantaire says something he disagrees with. And when Grantaire says something that makes him smile- well. It's getting harder and harder for Grantaire to ignore how beautiful that smile is.

It's often just the two of them from the slow setting of the sun until the first crew member comes up for their shift on night watch. That time – their time – is starting to become Grantaire's favourite part of the day.

They’re two weeks into the voyage when the storm hits – the kind of storm that makes the very act of stepping on a boat and leaving dry land seem the height of idiotic hubris. It’s the middle of the night when Grantaire is woken by the pitching of the boat and the warning shout from above. He rolls out of bed and into his boots and just before he hauls the cabin door open, he notices with a jolt of dread that Enjolras isn’t in his bunk.

The wind hits him like a physical blow when he steps outside. The darkness and the lashing rain and the sea spray make it impossible to see anything but the vaguest impression of the crew frantically trying to secure the rigging and wrestle the billowing sails under control. Grantaire runs to lend his assistance and, perhaps more importantly, his body weight to the endeavour.

“Have you seen Enjolras?” he bellows at the top of his lungs to Bahorel, who is closest and has the best chance of hearing him over the wind.

“Last I saw, he was at the prow,” Bahorel yells back. Grantaire curses.

“Go and get him below deck, now,” he orders, tightening his grip on the rope in his hands to prepare for the loss of Bahorel’s not inconsiderable strength. It doesn’t come.

“We tried,” Bahorel shouts. “He won’t budge.”

Grantaire curses again, more obscenely this time.

When the rope is finally tied up, Grantaire strides through the chaos to the front of the boat, where he finds Bossuet struggling vainly with the helm and, sure enough, their lone passenger perched on the railing at the prow, as if this were a pleasure cruise on a lazy river. Grantaire grabs his arm and hauls him down. Enjolras turns to him, and he’s smiling and his blue-green eyes are glittering with something that looks like excitement. It only makes Grantaire angrier.

“Do you think this is a game?” he barks. “Unless you’re secretly an able seaman, get yourself below deck until this is over. That’s an order.”

Enjolras’s smile becomes sardonic, as if the idea of taking orders from Grantaire is highly amusing to him. Grantaire is just debating whether to drag him down to the brig by force or leave him at the mercy of the storm, when the boat lurches violently, threatening to throw all of them into the dark, churning water. Grantaire manages to grab onto the railing and ride it out, but Bossuet is less lucky; he loses his grip on the helm and is sent flying and, though he mercifully doesn’t fall overboard, he cracks his head against the side of the boat and falls still on the deck. Grantaire runs to his side, knowing he should be manning the helm but also knowing Musichetta back in town would never forgive him if he didn’t bring Bossuet back safely to her. His head is bleeding but he’s alive, thank God. Grantaire screams against the wind for someone to come and take him below, and someone does and he isn’t even sure who.

He struggles to his feet and turns towards the helm, expecting to see it spinning freely as the boat is tossed around at the sea's whim, but a flash of lightning provides him with a dazzling image of Enjolras standing there, feet firmly planted as if he doesn't even notice the wild tilting of the deck beneath him, steering the boat like he'd been born to it.

“Give her to me,” Grantaire says through the water running into his eyes and mouth. Enjolras ignores him. Grantaire tries to push him away, but Enjolras holds him off with one arm while continuing to steer with the other. The shock of his strength makes Grantaire falter a moment, and Enjolras, who does not speak, gives him a look that is earnest and reassuring, a look that seems to say trust me.

Grantaire doesn't try to push him away again. The boat plunges madly onward, and Enjolras steers them through the tempest, and not for one moment does he look afraid or unsure. It's as if he knows exactly when the next rolling wave will come, and how best to ride each one out. Grantaire watches, awestruck, as they skim over waves that should have swallowed them, and avoid rocks that even he would never have seen coming. He looks back at Enjolras to find him grinning, lips moving as if in a song.

Finally they're back in calm waters, off-course and worse for wear, but not a soul was lost and the damage to the boat is surprisingly light. Grantaire wants to do a lot of things, like peel off his drenched clothes and go back to bed, or wrap his numbed fingers around a tin cup of hot coffee, but he's the captain, so such things have to wait. He checks on Bossuet and finds him conscious and being fussed over by Joly, who is the closest thing they have to a ship's doctor. He inspects the mast, the sails, the rigging and makes note of many small repairs that will be needed over the next few days, but deems them sea-worthy for now. He orders the crew to get a hot drink and some rest. Then he returns to the helm, which Enjolras surrenders to him easily now. Grantaire runs his hand over the polished wood slowly, trying to make sense of what had happened.

“How did you do that?” he asks. “Who are you?”

Enjolras smiles and shrugs, and Grantaire feels stupid for expecting anything different.

“I think you might have saved all of us,” he says instead of wasting his breath with the hundred questions clamouring in his mind. “Thank you.”

Enjolras looks pleased with himself. As Grantaire starts to gently steer them back on-course, Enjolras returns to his spot at the prow, and Grantaire watches him watch the sun rise.

Grantaire doesn't say anything to anyone about what happened, but somehow word still spreads through the entire crew, and by the time the repairs are done and they're underway once again, all of them are looking at Enjolras just a little differently than they did before. Bahorel calls him a lucky charm and asks if they can keep him. Enjolras laughs soundlessly, and Grantaire can understand why he would. Enjolras doesn't strike him as the type to be kept by anyone.

A few more days pass without incident, and then they're coming up on the most dangerous part of the voyage. The crew starts to become tense as the boat glides heedlessly onward. They're quieter and more subdued, but also on-edge which makes them irritable, and small squabbles break out frequently over nothing; a shoddily tied knot, a spot missed with the mop. Mealtimes, normally raucous and cheerful, become dismal. Enjolras watches them all with increasing worry and confusion.

“They're afraid,” Grantaire tells him. He points to the map he has unfurled before him, traces their route with his finger. “In a few days we'll be passing through this area. It's merfolk territory.”

Enjolras looks at him blankly, as if not understanding why that should frighten the crew, which Grantaire takes to mean that he has somehow, impossibly, never head of the merfolk.

“They're monsters that live in the sea,” he explains. “Awful creatures. They look human enough from the waist up, but that's a trick. They don't think or feel like humans do. They're savage and they love nothing more than to drag sailors down into the depths. Whole ships sometimes, if there are enough of them, or so the stories go. Some people say they eat the people the take, others say they just drown them. Doesn't matter much, if you ask me. The end result is the same.”

Enjolras looks horrified now, and Grantaire hastens to reassure him.

“But don't worry; I've sailed this route back and forth for years, and I've never lost a crew-member to the merfolk,” he says, not without a touch of pride. “I've listened to all the stories, so I know all their tricks. We're safe so long as we don't get too close to any that we see. They lure you in with their songs – their voices have some power. So we tear up rags and plug our ears until we're out of their waters. If you're worried, you can stay below deck until one of us gives the all-clear.” He gives a conspiratorial smile. “And anyway, if any of them get any ideas, Bahorel is very handy with a harpoon gun.”

Enjolras doesn't seem at all comforted by any of this. He looks pale and stricken, and when Grantaire reaches out to put a gentle hand on his shoulder he slips out of his reach. He avoids all of them for the rest of the day, as he hasn't done since the start of the journey. Grantaire regrets telling him about the merfolk. It had been nice to have at least one person on board in a good mood.

Enjolras isn't in the cabin when Grantaire goes to retire that night. This isn't terribly unusual, but on this occasion Grantaire goes back out to search for him. He doesn't want to spook Enjolras any further, but they really are too close to merfolk territory for him to be out in the open, alone, at night. All it would take would be for one of the creatures to have swam a little further out in search of prey, and the crew would never see their lucky charm again.

Grantaire finds him at the front of the boat, tucked into the nook of the prow with his knees to his chest. He doesn't look afraid – just miserable.

“Come inside,” Grantaire says to him. “You really shouldn't sleep out of doors, you know.”

Enjolras's only response is to curl in smaller on himself, as if trying to fit more snugly within the narrow angle of the prow. Grantaire sighs and sits down next to him.

“I'm sorry if I frightened you earlier,” he says. “It's important that you know what's out there. But you don't need to be scared. I won't let anything happen to you. I'll keep you safe.”

Enjolras looks up and meets his eyes, and his gaze seems to reflect the full weight of Grantaire's words back at him. He feels a blush creep hotly up his neck.

“We all will, I mean. The crew. You're our responsibility,” he amends lamely.

Enjolras gives a sigh. His looks is indiscernible; imploring, sad, desperate, and a hundred other things that Grantaire can't make sense of in the gulf of silence between them.

“I so wish you could talk to me,” he finds himself saying softly.

Enjolras's brow creases and his lips part, as if on the cusp of forming a word, but nothing comes. He clenches his hands into fists and lowers his head, his cascade of golden hair hiding his too-bright eyes.

“Hey, it's okay,” Grantaire says. He reaches out and lays a hand on the bare skin of Enjolras's ankle. “It's okay. I'm sorry.”

Enjolras lets out a shuddering breath.

“Come on,” Grantaire says, getting to his feet and offering a hand. “Let's go inside. Please. It's not safe out here.”

Enjolras looks despondent but he takes the proffered hand and obeys.

Once they're ensconced in the cabin, Grantaire rummages through his various trunks and drawers until he finds a small ornate dagger in its leather sheath. He'd won it in a game of cards over a year ago, but he already has his own larger and much more practical knife strapped at his hip.

“Here,” he says, holding the dagger out to Enjolras. “No harm's going to come to you, but it doesn't hurt to be prepared. You should be able to defend yourself with this in a pinch.”

Enjolras takes the dagger and unsheathes it curiously. He tests the point of it with his finger.

“It's sharp,” Grantaire yelps, and sure enough a few drops of blood well up at Enjolras's fingertip. Enjolras just grins, appearing delighted with the gift. He re-sheathes it and grasps Grantaire's hand tightly, beaming at him, as if trying to communicate his gratitude through touch and thought alone. Grantaire smiles back at him and squeezes his hand to show he understands.

“You're welcome,” he says.

The ship appears the next morning.

It starts as a dark speck on the horizon, but it cuts through the water at great speed and by mid-afternoon it's almost upon them; a sleek, black vessel that far out-sizes and out-classes their own. Grantaire thinks little of it as he observes it getting closer throughout the day; this is hardly the least-frequented shipping route in these waters, despite its dangers. Enjolras, however, is more perturbed. As soon as the ship is near enough to be seen with any sort of clarity, he turns milky-pale and seizes Grantaire's arm in a painful grip.

“What? What is it?” Grantaire asks in alarm, but of course, Enjolras can't explain. All he can do is point at the approaching ship, the distress clear on his face.

“What, that? I don't know who that is. Probably a merchant ship,” Grantaire says. When Enjolras only points more insistently, at the ship and at himself, Grantaire feels a wave of cold apprehension as he remembers the circumstances under which Enjolras came to be on his boat. “Do you know who it is?”

Enjolras nods urgently.

“And, what? Do you think they're looking for you?” Grantaire asks. He gets another nod, and an expression of abject terror and hatred such as he's has never seen. He swears under his breath.

“God, Enjolras, what did you do?” he asks, despite knowing there will be no answer. Enjolras shakes his head furiously, as if to insist he did nothing, but regardless of his guilt or innocence, trouble now appears to be bearing down on Grantaire, his boat and his crew.

“Hide,” Grantaire tells him. “Stay out of sight until one of us comes to fetch you.”

Enjolras nods quickly and disappears down below deck with none of his usual reluctance. Grantaire gathers the crew and informs them that, if anyone asks, Enjolras is not on board and he never was.

The larger ship gets nearer and nearer and finally comes alongside them. Grantaire's heart sinks as he realises that he does, in fact, know it; it belongs to a group who call themselves Patron Minette – a group whose criminal activities make Grantaire's occasionally legally dubious dealings seem like utter child's play. Grantaire has reluctantly run smuggling trips for them twice before, only because everyone knows that the price of refusing them a service is steep. They'd never told him what he was transporting for them and he'd never asked. He sleeps better not knowing.

Now their ship is looming over his, and their leader, Claquesous, is leering down at him from over the side of the larger vessel.

“Why, it's Grantaire,” Claquesous exclaims with indolent surprise. “Well met, sir.”

“Well met,” Grantaire agrees.

“But then again, perhaps not so well,” Claquesous says. “Word has it you've got some cargo of mine on that little boat of yours.”

Grantaire relaxes a fraction – they're looking for goods, not Enjolras. And they've been misinformed, clearly – the only cargo Grantaire is carrying currently is a few bolts of linen he's been instructed to sell on behalf of a weaver back in town.

“I know better than to steal anything of yours, Claquesous,” he replies. “You know me. We've done business before.”

“Yes, you've proved reliable in the past, it's true,” Claquesous says with a sympathetic nod that looks anything but genuine. “And I really do wish I could take your word for it, but I'm afraid this particular piece of merchandise is very important to me. It's my retirement, you see.”

“There's nothing of that kind of value on my boat,” Grantaire says.

“You surely won't object to a search, then?” Claquesous says smilingly. “Just to put my mind at rest.”

Grantaire hesitates; he has nothing to hide, but he greatly dislikes the idea of Claquesous poking into every corner of his boat – his home. But refusing will arouse suspicion – and, he thinks in defeat, Patron Minette aren't the sort to take no for an answer in any case. They'll search his boat either way, if that's what they want to do; his cooperation might only mean they'll do it without bloodshed. Irritably, he orders the crew to lower a ladder. Claquesous gives a satisfied and thoroughly detestable smile before disappearing from view.

When the boarding party arrives in a row boat, there are only four of them, which is much less of an obnoxious show of strength than Grantaire would have expected. However, he scowls when they climb aboard and he recognises one of them.

“Not him,” he says, pointing at the black-haired youth, who looks back at him with affected innocence. “Get him off my boat.”

This young man is Montparnasse and, despite cutting a slight figure and possessing a cherubic face, he is the most feared and despised member of Patron Minette. Because while he may be lacking in the physical strength that other members of the gang rely upon, it's no secret that he dabbles in the kind of dark, otherworldly shit that mortals should run screaming from, and that gives him the power to inflict much worse than black eyes or broken bones on those who incur his ire. There are always whispers that he's actually faerie, or a demon that Patron Minette have invoked to help them at the cost of their souls. Grantaire doesn't know about that, but he knows that being around Montparnasse reviles him. The very air around him seems oily and tainted. The crew, lined up on deck, look horrified by his presence, a few of them muttering a prayer.

“Don't tell me what to do,” Claquesous says almost absently, abandoning all pretence of respect. He snaps his fingers at Montparnasse and the other two, who are threatening-looking in the more traditional, muscle-bound, thuggish way. “Find it.”

“I'm telling you, there's nothing of yours on this boat,” Grantaire says as the three of them head below deck to ransack his home. “I don't steal cargo.”

“I never said you stole it,” Claquesous says mildly. “In fact, I doubt you even know what you have on board. You've been played for quite the fool, my friend.”

Grantaire frowns and opens his mouth to question him, but just then the sounds of a scuffle erupt from below. The men re-emerge a moment later, Montparnasse leading the way, followed by the other two, who are dragging Enjolras between them. His mouth is bleeding and he's thrashing in their grip; Grantaire, remembering Enjolras's astonishing strength from the night of the storm, doesn't think they'll be able to hold him, but then Montparnasse rolls his eyes and says something to him quietly, and Enjolras goes limp. Montparnasse smiles and pats his cheek with one gloved hand.

“There, that's a good little thing,” he says.

Grantaire can sense his crew is about to mount a violent protest. They were already bristling at Claquesous's lack of respect for their boat and their captain, but they can't abide this; Enjolras is more than just a passenger to them, and even if Montparnasse were the devil himself they wouldn't stand idly by while he abused one of their own. Grantaire, though equally incensed, shoots them a warning look and signals for them to stay put.

“That doesn't look like cargo to me, Claquesous,” he says as calmly as he can.

“Perhaps not right now. I'll admit the disguise is most convincing,” Claquesous drawls. He strolls across the deck to where Enjolras is hanging in his cronies' arms and seizes his face with one hand. The look of hatred Enjolras fixes him with is no less fearsome for his apparent helplessness. “That was quite a good trick you pulled. It certainly took us by surprise. You thought you got away clean, didn't you? But someone always sees, and someone always talks.”

“Claquesous,” Grantaire says through gritted teeth.

“Oh, don't sound so put-out. You should be thanking me. You all should!” Claquesous gestures broadly to the crew, whose faces remain stony. “You don't know what you've been harbouring among you. Montparnasse, show them.”

Before Montparnasse can show them anything, however, there is a howl of pain from one of Enjolras's captors; all heads whip around to see that Enjolras has stuck the man in the leg with the dagger Grantaire gifted him. While the wounded man staggers back, Enjolras wrenches himself free from the stunned grip of his other guard and, before anyone can even think to stop him, runs and leaps off the side of the boat and into the sea below.

Grantaire lets out a shout and runs to the spot Enjolras jumped from, leaning over the railing and searching the water below for him. Can Enjolras even swim? And even if he can, where does he think he's going to swim to? The whole crew joins him at the railing, just as flummoxed and distressed. Enjolras has not resurfaced.

“Shit.” Grantaire shrugs hurriedly out of his coat and toes off his boots. “I'm going in after him. Get a lifeboat ready.”

He hears Bossuet start to protest, but he's already jumped.

The cold of the water is a full-bodied shock, and it leaves him dazed for a moment, trying to remember how to think and move. He forces himself to adjust, not wanting to waste precious time, and starts searching for Enjolras through the gloom. At first he can see no sign of him or anything else, but then he notices something drifting a little further down; swimming towards it, he finds it to be a piece of torn cloth. It's oddly familiar, but he can't place it, and it isn't Enjolras so he disregards it.

That's when he feels something brush against his foot. He looks down, and catches a glimpse of a long, sleek red tail, too large and brightly-coloured to belong to any fish in these waters. He almost inhales a mouthful of seawater; he'd thought the water was cold, but it's nothing compared to the icy panic that seizes him as he realises he's swimming with one of the merfolk.

He starts to kick towards the surface, even though he knows he has no chance of out-swimming it, but then he falters because- Enjolras. Did the thing already get him, did it drag him down and tear him apart-?

He feels a disturbance in the water at his back and he knows it's behind him. He's seized by a dark fury as he thinks of that scrap of fabric, of Enjolras's failure to resurface; he knows he can't hope to emerge the victor from a fight with one of the merpeople, but he hopes he can at least leave this one with an ugly scar. He turns in the water, drawing his knife and slashing blindly. He feels a spike of satisfaction as the blade makes contact with something, but then he looks at the thing he's turned to face and, through the shafts of light coming from above and the sting of the salt, he's looking into a pair of blue-green eyes, the colour of the sea on the clearest and most perfect days, and- oh.

A thousand little details from the last few weeks, Claquesous's bewildering talk, they all crash together in his mind to make possible this new reality before him.

Enjolras is looking at him mournfully – Grantaire's knife caught him on the shining red tail that has inexplicably replaced his legs, and he is holding a hand – a webbed hand – to the wound. It looks shallow, but blood is blooming from it in a hazy cloud – unthinkingly, Grantaire reaches out to inspect it, but Enjolras flinches back from his touch. I'm sorry, Grantaire wants to say, because it's Enjolras, and he's not some mindless monster, he's...he's-

Grantaire needs air.

The last of his held breath leaves his mouth in a stream of bubbles, his need for oxygen finally making itself known over the clamour in his mind. He kicks weakly, but then Enjolras seizes him by the arm, and before he even has time to think about being afraid, a single powerful flick of Enjolras's tail has them shooting upwards. Grantaire breaks the surface with a gasp, lungs burning. Enjolras, again, doesn't surface, and his grip on Grantaire's arm is gone. Grantaire begins treading water and tries to get his bearings. When he looks up, he sees his crew looking worriedly down at him from over the edge of his boat. And to his right, Claquesous and the others, already back in their row boat and watching him with amusement.

“I'm astounded it didn't kill you,” Claquesous says, sounding entirely unbothered by the idea. “Too concerned with making a getaway, I suppose. No matter.” He signals to Montparnasse. “Get it back here.”

Montparnasse touches his fingers to something hanging on a cord around his neck – squinting, Grantaire sees that it's just a tiny glass bottle, but something is swirling and glowing silvery-blue inside it.

“Come back to us, Enjolras,” Montparnasse calls, and Grantaire feels some inexplicable terror grip his heart, because that is Montparnasse's voice, but it's also not – the sound of it surrounds him like a physical thing, and he has no trouble believing that Enjolras can hear it beneath the waves. “Come along, now.”

“What are you doing?” Grantaire demands. “Why would he-?”

But then Enjolras's golden head emerges from under the water, and all eyes are on him. His expression is one of pain, and Grantaire doesn't think it's because of the superficial wound he inflicted on him.

“There you are,” Montparnasse coos mockingly. He crooks a finger. “Now, come here.”

And Enjolras does. He looks like he's fighting his own body the whole way, but he obeys. When he reaches the boat, Claquesous's two thugs haul him onboard without ceremony, and Grantaire hears the collective gasp of shock from his crew.

“What did I tell you? You see what you've let live among you?” Claquesous says in triumph. “What do you think would have happened if we hadn't caught up to you before you got into merfolk territory proper? This thing would have fetched its friends and they'd have made a meal of the whole lot of you.”

Enjolras is shaking his head from side to side, and he looks between Grantaire and the crew, as if searching for a shred of mercy. Grantaire tries not to fixate too hard on the tail or the webbed, clawed fingers or the fluttering gills at his throat, or the instinctual fear those things stir up in him. He thinks of Enjolras saving them all from the storm, and cheerfully running barefoot back and forth along the deck, fetching buckets and mops and cups of coffee for the crew, and the sweet, bright smile he gave when Grantaire gifted him the dagger. He's still holding the dagger now.

“Drop it,” Montparnasse says in that strange, weighted voice. Enjolras obeys helplessly, and Montparnasse pockets his gift after giving it an appraising look.

“So what happens now?” Grantaire asks. He's still bobbing in the water, arms and legs tiring, but everyone seems too preoccupied to think of throwing him a rope or a ladder. “What do you want with him?”

“I told you, it's my retirement,” Claquesous says. He pats Enjolras's tail fondly, frowning when he notices the cut from Grantaire's knife. “And I'll thank you not to damage the merchandise.”

“You have a buyer? For a merman?”

“Oh Grantaire, you really do just live on that pathetic little rock and that pathetic little boat and never pay attention to anything bigger, don't you?” Claquesous says. He sounds irritated that Grantaire is spoiling his moment of victory with questions that show he clearly doesn't know why it's such a victory. “The king, you idiot. The king himself has offered a hundred thousand gold pieces to anyone who can bring him a live specimen from among the merfolk. And I'm quite confident we'll be the only ones lining up to claim the prize. Other people don't have our advantages in an undertaking like this.” This last with a pointed glance towards Montparnasse.

“What does the king want with Enjolras?” comes a voice from above Grantaire's head; it sounds like Joly, and he's very glad that someone else is just as confused as he is.

“What do kings want with anything? Who cares?” Claquesous is clearly losing patience.

“I heard he thinks that eating its flesh will make him young and strong again,” one of his thugs offers. It's the one Enjolras stabbed, and he clearly enjoys voicing the idea. It's met by a cacophony of protest from Grantaire's crew. Enjolras, who had fallen to staring listlessly at the water just beyond the row boat, looks up in surprise.

“Oh, what is this? Has the thing managed to bewitch you all even without its voice?” Claquesous sounds dangerously annoyed now, and Grantaire knows he's not the sort of man one should push to that point. Still, his mind catches on his words and what exactly they mean.

“You can't just give him over to be killed!” Bahorel yells, and the rest of the crew choruses in agreement.

“Who's going to stop me?” Claquesous asks, his voice flat and cold. The crew looks ready to fly into battle right there and then, but at the last moment they seem to remember that they do, in fact, have a captain floating in the water below them, and they look to Grantaire.

Grantaire looks back at them. Then he looks at Enjolras. Then he looks at Claquesous, perhaps the most dangerous man he knows, and Montparnasse, who is capable of things he can't even imagine, and the two thugs, who he knows are but a small sample of the manpower at Claquesous's disposal on his ship. And he looks at the ship itself; huge and daunting and armed. Grantaire's boat only has one real weapon on board, and its name is Bahorel, and Grantaire doesn't think even he could stand up to the might of Patron Minette.

“I already told you, Claquesous,” Grantaire says finally. “I don't steal cargo.”

The tension breaks; Claquesous's face breaks into a smug smile.

“A wise choice,” he says. He signals to his men to start rowing back to their ship. “I look forward to doing business with you again sometime.”

Enjolras only looks at Grantaire for a moment after he has sealed his fate, but it's a look that will be branded onto Grantaire's soul for all time.

There is silence from the crew above. When Grantaire looks up at them again, each face he sees is shocked, angry, disgusted, or all three.

“Throw me a ladder,” he orders.

For a long, painful moment, he thinks they aren't going to do it. Then the ladder falls, and he climbs up to face them. Their silence continues, and it's grim. He can feel their accusation and judgement – how could you, you coward, you boot-licker, you murderer – and he's more than a little offended. He rolls his eyes.

“Relax,” he tells them. “I've got a plan.”

Chapter Text

Enjolras had often wondered what the inside of a boat looked like. He'd never imagined he'd find out like this.

It's dark in the ship's hold, and it smells of stagnant water and worse things, and he can hear the squeak and scurrying of rats. He can hear a lot of things. He puts his hands over his ears, despite knowing by now that it's a vain effort. It's so loud out of the water.

And he's been out of the water for too long. His scales and the webbing between his fingers are starting to feel tight as he slowly dries out. It's desperately uncomfortable, and he knows he needs to change forms, but not yet. He needs to save that.

A door opens and light floods in, making his eyes smart. A man walks in holding a bucket. It's the humans' leader – or, at least, the one who gives all the orders. Not the one who took Enjolras's voice. His fins flare in fury at the mere thought of it.

“Hello, my beauty,” the man says. He often says things like that, like Enjolras is a pretty shell or piece of coral. He reaches into the bucket and pulls out a dead fish, which he dangles in front of Enjolras's face. “Look what we caught fresh, just for you.”

Enjolras looks at the fish but doesn't move. He knows he must be starving by now, but the idea of eating – and especially eating anything the humans give him – seems absurd. He lies very still with half-closed eyes and makes a show of flexing his gills. He wonders if the humans will put him back in the sea, if they think he's dying.

The man sighs, exasperated, and leaves. He comes back a moment later, and his bucket looks heavier this time. He upends it, and a flood of water hits Enjolras in the face, making him gasp.

“Try not to die before we get you to shore,” the man says. “He might pay less for a dead merman.”

And then he's gone again.

Enjolras lies there, his upper body wet now but his tail still stiff and dry. He supposes he was stupid to expect any mercy from a human. At least now he knows what he needs to do.

He waits until nightfall to change. He can't see outside – can't see the sea, and that had been the most terrifying thing at first – but he always knows when it's night because the ship is comparatively quiet when most of its crew is asleep, and it's always such a relief.

When the changing is done, he runs his strange, human hands over his strange, human legs and tries to get used to them. He can't afford to be clumsy. He looks at the small, blunt nails at his fingertips and gives a huff of distaste. He doesn't know how humans manage anything. He's disgusted with himself for letting such creatures catch him.

But they cheated, he reminds himself. Magic was cheating.

He stands up. He's done this a few times before, but it never stops feeling strange. He does a few practice laps of his prison. He thinks about what he's going to do. What he wants to do is find the human that took his voice, rip his throat out and take it back. But he doesn't think he can do that, not alone. Not when that vile human had figured out how to use his own power against him. But if he can get away, if he can get back to the others, if he had help...

His only obstacle is the door leading out of the hold, and it's hardly an obstacle at all. He forces it open, feeling the wood splinter, and runs up the stairs he remembers being dragged down and he breathes his first gulp of fresh air in days. The sea is choppy and wild tonight, as if in sympathy with him, and the ship rocks from side to side. Enjolras's heart sings just to see the water; he can almost feel its cold embrace closing around him, and he runs to the side of the ship. He feels a swoop of fear in his stomach as he looks over the edge; it's such a long way down. But then he hears a shout from somewhere above him – of course, there are always a few humans on watch, even at night, and he knows they've spotted him because he can hear them hollering for someone to fetch their captain. He can't let them catch him again, he thinks, panicked. He can't waste this chance. He jumps.

He's never hit the water from a height before. Maybe if he was feeling stronger, it would have been okay. But he's weak from hunger and days upon days of distress, and from the energy it took to change forms, and when he hits the water at an awkward angle it's like hitting solid rock, and everything goes black.

He wakes to a voice. For a moment he dares to dream that it's one of his friends, or at least one of his kin, but he knows in his heart that it isn't. He can feel wind on his skin and solid earth beneath him. He isn't home.

“Can you hear me? You moved a little just now. Are you coming around?”

Enjolras opens his eyes with some difficulty – everything feels clogged by sand; his eyelids, his nostrils, his mouth. He sees a pair of brown eyes looking back at him, and though they look kindly, they are behind a set of round frames, which makes them undeniably human eyes. Terror floods him and snaps him fully awake, and he tries to scramble away, but all at once he becomes aware that his entire body hurts and he collapses back onto the ground with a cry that he can't give any voice to.

“No, please, don't move, you're injured!” the man is saying, as if Enjolras could fail to notice. He puts his hands on Enjolras's shoulders as if to prevent any further movement, and Enjolras shudders at the touch. “Please, don't be afraid. You're safe now; I won't hurt you. My name is Combeferre. I'm a doctor. Let me help you.”

Enjolras, as he takes stock of his body and its myriad aches and pains, doesn't think he has much choice. He can smell blood and feel it dried and tacky on his head, his chest, his right leg. He thinks that the sea, not knowing him as one of its own in this form, must have dashed him against the rocks before tossing him out on shore. The thought hurts almost as much as his injuries.

“Here.” Combeferre shrugs out of his outermost garment and drapes it over Enjolras. Humans have a strange preoccupation with covering their bodies, Enjolras has noticed. And, he realises, Combeferre must think that he is human. The idea isn't exactly pleasing to him, but it could mean safety until he recovers.

“My house isn't far. Do you think you can walk? No, what am I saying, of course you can't-”

Enjolras pushes himself slowly to his feet. The pain is bad, but it is no longer a shock, and he can push through it. Just because he looks human doesn't mean he has to be weak like one. Combeferre gapes for a moment before also jumping to his feet. He rearranges the heavy garment around Enjolras's shoulders, helps him with the parts he calls sleeves. Enjolras feels ridiculous. He hates the feel of it, too; it's thick and warm and restrictive, all of which are foreign sensations to him. Still, he's sure it's something a human would be grateful for, so he doesn't resist when Combeferre fastens it up the front and then lends him a supporting arm around his waist as they make their slow way up the beach.

Enjolras has seen human dwellings from afar, clusters of them speckling the shores he never got too close to, but he'd never even imagined what they might be like up-close, never mind inside. As such, the inside of Combeferre's house is a bizarre new world to him, and he tries not to stare or gawk too obviously. He's ushered into a small room and made to sit, and Combeferre sets about cleaning his wounds, which Enjolras supposes humans must have to do since they don't have the sea to do it for them.

“Can you tell me your name?” Combeferre asks as he begins wrapping the worst injuries in thick white cloth. Enjolras has given up on trying to understand the humans' methods of healing.

Of course, he can't tell Combeferre his name. He can't tell Combeferre anything. His voice is in a bottle on a ship somewhere, and hopelessness threatens to swallow him whole at the thought that he might never get it back.

Once Combeferre understands that he can't speak, he asks if he can write, and holds up a thin sliver of wood with a shining tip, but he must see Enjolras's incredulity, and he sighs in defeat. He brings Enjolras water and urges him to drink it. Enjolras takes a sip and nearly chokes, because it's like no water he's ever tasted; there isn't a trace of salt in it. He does his best to force it down. He draws the line at the strange food Combeferre offers him, though.

“It's good bread, and fresh,” Combeferre says encouragingly as Enjolras frowns at the unfamiliar brown slab. There's something else he can recognise as meat, and he picks at it. Combeferre calls it beef. Enjolras wonders what kind of animal a beef is.

After giving up on getting him to eat more, Combeferre gives him a set of loose human garments which, luckily, he manages to figure out correctly based on their shapes. Then Combeferre gets him to lie down on a soft, flat thing he calls a bed and nearly smothers him with large squares of cloth that cover him from his feet all the way to his chin.

“It's a miracle you don't have hypothermia, but a few extra blankets won't hurt just in case,” Combeferre says, and Enjolras tries to look like he knows what any of that means. “Get some sleep. You've had a bad time.”

He leaves the room. Enjolras lies there, almost immobilised by the blankets. He's very warm and very dry and, to a human, that must be the ideal of comfort. Perhaps if he had taken on a human form by choice, he would find it easier to learn to enjoy it. As things are, it all feels terribly wrong and alien, and he yearns for the comforting cold of the deep sea, and sleeping anchored in a kelp forest with his friends. His eyes burn and, to his surprise, droplets of water escape them. He catches one on his tongue and finds it salty. He thinks the human body might be just about the strangest thing in the world.

It takes him a long time to fall into a restless, miserable sleep.

He's made to stay mostly in the bed for the next few days. Combeferre scolds him if he catches him out of it.

“I know that you can walk, by some miracle of strength or stubbornness, but you most definitely shouldn't,” he says, ushering him back beneath the blankets. “You need rest. Doctors orders.”

Enjolras supposes Combeferre, as a healer of sorts, must know best what the human body needs and so he tries to obey, but he gets fidgety and bored and wretched when left alone with nothing to do besides contemplate his situation. Combeferre, when he isn't busy helping other sick or injured humans, sits in the room with him and talks to him, and Enjolras is grateful for the company, even though he can't reply or even make sense of a lot of what Combeferre says. One day Combeferre shows him a thing he calls a map – once Enjolras understands how it works, he feels a surge of despair when Combeferre points to where they are. This island he's washed up on is impossibly far from home, so far that he can't even imagine how many days he'd have to swim to get back there. When Combeferre asks him where he came from, he points to the land nearest his home, and even Combeferre remarks on how far away he is. Enjolras can feel his eyes starting to fill with salty water again.

“It's alright,” Combeferre says, patting him on the shoulder sympathetically. “I'm sure we'll be able to find a boat to take you home once you've recovered.”

A boat. The very thought of ever being on a boat again fills Enjolras with dread.

When Combeferre deems him well enough to leave bed, he gives him a full set of clothes to wear. Enjolras is utterly confounded by the many layers and the intricate ties and fastenings. Luckily, Combeferre lends him a hand, though he thinks he's doing so because it's still difficult for Enjolras to move much, not because Enjolras can't figure out what half of the garments are for. Underclothes. Shirt. Waistcoat. Jacket. Trousers. Stockings. Shoes. Enjolras dislikes the shoes most of all. They pinch and constrict the feet he's only just getting used to having.

When he is dressed and his hair pulled back and restrained by a length of ribbon, Combeferre asks if he'd like to see the mirror, which turns out to be a flat, shining thing that shows his reflection as clearly as a still pool on a sunny day. It seems a marvellous thing, and Enjolras is quite impressed by it, though he is less impressed by what he sees in it. He hardly recognises himself.

“There, I think you look quite respectable,” Combeferre says with a laugh.

One day, Combeferre comes home in a strange mood. Enjolras smiles at him as he comes into the house, but Combeferre doesn't smile back. His brow is creased, like he's thinking something over very hard. Enjolras goes to make him a cup of tea. He doesn't understand the appeal himself, but the drink seems to please Combeferre, and so Enjolras had watched his process of preparing it closely until he could do it by himself. He likes to help in what little ways he can.

Combeferre sits down at the table. Enjolras places the steaming cup carefully in front of him.

“Thank you,” Combeferre says. A pause, and then, “Enjolras.”

Enjolras startles so badly at the sound of his name that he knocks the table and spills the tea he just made. Combeferre gives a grim nod.

“I was afraid of that,” he says.

He isn't looking at Enjolras, and he isn't explaining. Enjolras goes to his knees in front of him, tapping urgently at Combeferre's hand with his own, trying to catch his eye, trying to ask how, how, how?

“There's talk from the docks,” Combeferre says finally. “People are looking for you. Bad people. They're offering a lot of money to anyone with information. They've got everyone on the look-out for a fair-haired man who doesn't talk but answers to Enjolras.”

Enjolras feels like he can't breathe. He should have known it wasn't over. He should have known they'd hunt him down.

“How did you get mixed up with people like that?” Combeferre asks, and for the first time he's looking at Enjolras with distrust. “What did you do to make them angry?”

Nothing, Enjolras wants to scream, I didn't do anything but try to get away from them!

He gets to his feet and tugs on Combeferre's hand until he stands too. Then he leads him out of the house and down towards not the docks but the beach where Combeferre found him.

“Where are we going?” Combeferre asks him suspiciously and Enjolras rolls his eyes because they both know he can't answer.

The sun is half-set at the horizon and the two of them cast long, purple shadows on the sand. Enjolras sits down and starts to unlace his shoes, wiggling his toes in relief when they're gone. He's not back to full strength yet – far from it – but if there's a chance those men might find him here, then it's time for him to go. He doesn't know how he's going to get back home from here, but being lost in the sea still sounds much better than being forced into a dank ship's hold again.

And he wants Combeferre to see, before he goes. Combeferre has been kind to him, and Enjolras has grown fond of him. Even if Combeferre will despise him when he learns the truth, Enjolras thinks he deserves to know it, and he'd still prefer that to Combeferre thinking he is the same sort of man as the ones pursuing him.

“What on earth are you doing?” Combeferre asks, looking first puzzled and then scandalised as Enjolras strips out of his borrowed clothes. “Enjolras, stop that!”

Ignoring Combeferre's strange human modesty, Enjolras strips bare and walks to the water's edge. The smell and sounds of the sea are a delight. He wades out into the water, glorying in its bracing cold. When the water is above his knees, he turns back to face Combeferre, and he changes.

It feels wonderful; he feels all at once like himself again. He flicks his tail, testing its strength, and smiles at the spray of water droplets it sends into the air. The relief is so great that, for a moment, he forgets all about what Combeferre's reaction might be. Only for a moment, though. Reality crashes back in, and he chances a look back towards the beach.

Combeferre is staring, stupefied. Then, suddenly, he's running into the surf, apparently heedless of the seawater soaking his shoes and trousers. Enjolras swims out a little way, cautious.

“No, don't, please,” Combeferre gasps as he nears, throwing up his hands. “Please, don't go. Oh, my God. Oh my God.”

Enjolras stops but watches him warily. He hadn't been sure exactly what to expect, but this particular reaction had never crossed his mind.

“Incredible. I never imagined...I can't believe...” Combeferre says. He's still staring. Then he gives a giddy laugh. “But it explains so much! No wonder so many things seemed strange to you-” He laughs harder, almost hysterically. “My God, I tried to feed you bread!”

He wades out further, close enough to touch. Enjolras holds himself with great tension, ready to flee should the need arise. Combeferre must see, because some of his excitement fades.

“It's alright,” he says. He takes another step closer. “It's alright, isn't it? I already told you I won't hurt you. That won't ever change.” He smiles, and it only looks a tiny bit uncertain. “And I don't think you want to hurt me.”

Enjolras shakes his head. Combeferre's smile widens.

“Can I?” he asks, extending one hand. Enjolras nods, and Combeferre's fingers brush along his tail. The last time Enjolras let a human get this close to him in this form, it hadn't ended particularly well for him. But Combeferre's touch is gentle and reverent; his hand is shaking a little and he looks awe-struck. Then his expression grows sombre.

“I understand, I think,” he says. “Why Patron Minette is after you. It's that bounty offered by the king, isn't it? They want to sell you.”

Enjolras just shrugs helplessly. His captors had never bothered explaining their intentions to him.

“You can't just swim away, though,” Combeferre goes on, brow knitting in deep, troubled thought once again. “I know where the merfolk's waters are. It's too far. You'd never make it, especially not in your condition.”

Enjolras splashes with his tail, offended.

“Come back to the house,” Combeferre implores. “I'll take you to the docks tomorrow. There's a man I know, a sailor. I trust him. He'll be able to take you home.”

Enjolras hesitates. He doesn't want to leave the water and put on legs again, and he doesn't want to go on a boat. Most of all he doesn't want to be at the mercy of humans, because of all the humans he's come into contact with since his capture, Combeferre has been the only kind one. But Combeferre is right; his home, his friends, everything is so far away. Even in this form, he can still feel his body's lingering twinges and aches that haven't finished healing. And without his voice, to sing down a storm or escape from any other humans with ideas of catching him, he feels defenceless.

He sighs, defeated. He changes back.

At the docks the next morning, Combeferre is quick to track down the man he spoke of, and he points him out to Enjolras from a distance. The man is shorter than Combeferre but broader, his clothes coarser and sturdier-looking. He stands quiet among the hubbub, looking out to sea like he can't wait to leave dry land behind. Enjolras thinks the two of them have that in common.

“I'll tell him your name,” Combeferre murmurs. “If he's heard it before, he'll tell us so. If not, then so much the better.”

Up close, Enjolras takes in the man's unruly black curls and unshaven cheeks and pale blue eyes. Combeferre calls him Grantaire. He doesn't react to Enjolras's name, though he does give Enjolras a suspicious once-over when Combeferre tells him what they need.

“I don't take passengers,” he says. “You know that, doctor.”

Combeferre pleads, and presses a fistful of shiny, clinking disks into Grantaire's hand. Enjolras watches this transaction without really understanding its significance. As far as he can tell, exchanging shiny trinkets like these is just another thing humans are oddly preoccupied with, along with wearing layers and layers of clothing.

Grantaire agrees to take him, and Enjolras is both relieved and dismayed.

They depart at dawn the next day. Combeferre sees him to the docks, a steadying hand between his shoulder blades.

“Don't let them know what you are,” Combeferre murmurs to him as they stand before the boat. Grantaire stands at the top of the gangplank, looking down at them. “They're sailors. They fear your kind like nothing else. They won't understand.”

Enjolras nods. He hadn't been planning on showing the boat's crew or her captain his true self. He's already surmised that, as far as humans go, Combeferre is the exception rather than the rule in most things. And he knows sailors. Fear and fury wage war inside him as he remembers them dragging him from the water, jeering at him and his defeat, while the one who stole his voice watched with a sly, triumphant smile.

“Good luck,” Combeferre says, bringing him back to the here and now, to this boat and this crew, who are different but probably not different enough. “Remember, wait until the boat is deep in your waters before you go. Don't take any risk that Patron Minette might find you alone out there. If you can get back to your own kind, I think you'll be safe.” He startles Enjolras by pulling him into a brief, tight embrace. “And remember you'll always have a friend here.”

Enjolras is suddenly aware of how intensely grateful he is for Combeferre. He wants to tell him thank you, wants to explain how much his help means to him, but he can't say a word of it. Instead he quickly and gingerly returns the embrace before pulling away and forcing himself to walk up the gangplank. His apprehension must show, because when he reaches the deck Grantaire is watching him with raised eyebrows.

“Is this your first time on a boat?” Grantaire asks. Enjolras can hear the scorn in his voice. He levels Grantaire with a scornful look of his own and shakes his head. He already dislikes Grantaire, because Grantaire is the captain of this vessel, and as far as Enjolras can tell a human becomes captain by being the cruelest among their companions.

“Have you been at sea before?” Grantaire asks, as if Enjolras might not have understood the first question. Enjolras has to restrain himself from lunging forward and seizing him by the throat for his ignorance. The sea is his home, and Grantaire and all his kind are only trespassers upon it. He restricts himself to sneering and then walking away before he loses his already frayed temper.

He goes to the front of the boat and waits there for them to be underway, watching the waves lap gently and wishing to be beneath them instead of floating unnaturally above. He can see the crew watching him curiously as they go about their work, and he glowers at any that get too close.

Later, once they are moving, Grantaire tries to get him to go beneath the deck, first into a large, dark space hung with what Enjolras thinks are strange-looking beds, then into a smaller, cramped room which at least has a window to the outside world. He suffers the small room for a short time the first night, because he is supposed to be trying to appear human, and humans apparently hide away from the cold and darkness of night. But in the dark it feels too much like being back in the ship's hold, and he steals his way back up into the open. He takes a deep breath. The air smells better here than it did in town. Fresher, saltier. It eases the ache of homesickness in his chest just a little.

As on the other ship, there is a crew member on watch during the night, but he does not bother Enjolras as he sits down on the deck and leans his head back against the railing. Enjolras rather thinks the crew is afraid of him. The thought makes him snort before he drifts off into a better sleep than he ever had in Combeferre's bed.

It quickly transpires that things are not as Enjolras thought on this boat.

On his captors' ship, the crew had been rough and barbaric, but they had scuttled in fear before their captain, the most barbaric of them all. More than once during Enjolras's imprisonment, a crew member who had committed some misdemeanour had been thrown in the hold with him, flogged almost to death. From his place below, he had been able to hear every fall of the whip, every scream, every cruel laugh from the rest of the crew who were relieved it wasn't their turn today.

Here, it's different. This crew isn't like that, and neither, apparently, is their captain.

As the days go by, he watches Grantaire and his crew curiously. They squabble and shout sometimes, but it seems good-natured. They all help each other with their tasks. Mealtimes are jovial and full of laughter. They play games together in the evenings. Grantaire gives orders and they are obeyed but not, it seems, out of fear. When a crew member stumbles and spills a bucket of water over Grantaire one day, Enjolras shrinks back, expecting bellowing and swift punishment, but there's no screaming, no flogging. Grantaire just grumbles a bit, tells them to be more careful, and goes to change into dry clothes.

They're all friends, Enjolras realises with a start. They care about each other.

This realisation makes his self-imposed isolation difficult. They start to remind him of his own friends. And he is desperately lonely.

One evening he finds one of the crew members, Bossuet, alone on the deck, sitting down with his legs hidden under a huge swathe of cloth. Enjolras observes him, first from a distance and then inching closer. The crew always seem to be busy doing something, but he can rarely figure out the purpose of their tasks, and this is definitely the oddest one so far. Bossuet jumps a little when he notices him so close by.

“Oh, hello,” he says with a wary smile. Enjolras nods back at him.

“Did you need something?” Bossuet asks. Enjolras hesitates a moment, then reaches out and touches the enormous piece of cloth and looks at Bossuet with a questioning frown.

“Oh, uh, this? It's some of our spare sail cloth,” Bossuet says. When Enjolras's frown only deepens, he points upwards uncertainly. “You know, the sails? We carry spare in case they get damaged and we need to do repairs.”

Enjolras looks up at the boat's sails, bowed and taut with the wind, then back at the cloth in Bossuet's lap.

“And it's my job to inspect the spares and make sure they're in good condition,” Bossuet continues, and he is indeed pushing the cloth around, trying to see every part of it. “Because if we find ourselves needing them, and then they're damaged too...” He gives a small shudder, but he's smiling. “Well, we'd be in trouble.”

Enjolras nods solemnly like he understands perfectly. He wonders what the trouble would be. Would the boat be stuck, unmoving, in the sea without its sails? He supposes for humans that would be rather bad.

“It's an important job, but not one I exactly relish after a long day's work,” Bossuet confesses, rubbing his eyes with one hand and yawning widely. “God, what I wouldn't give for a coffee.”

Coffee. As far as Enjolras can gather, it's somewhat similar to Combeferre's tea – a hot, brown-coloured drink that humans seem to enjoy. Only, coffee has a much stronger and stranger smell.

Going down below deck still frightens him, but it gets a little easier each time, and he reminds himself over and over that it's not a scary place to be when you're not trapped there. And so it's without too much difficulty that he gets himself down the stairs, into the room where they usually eat, and beyond into the smaller room where the food is kept and prepared. The man who seems to be in charge of all things food-related, whom Enjolras has heard called Bahorel, is there and he looks surprised to see Enjolras standing uncertainly in the doorway.

“Hello. Don't see you down here much,” he says. He is an uncommonly tall and broad human, and he seems far too big for the small space he's in. “You need something?”

Enjolras hesitates. Everything is so difficult without his voice. He casts his eyes around and finally finds one of the small, dented containers that they drink from at meal times. He picks it up and taps it with his finger.

“Okay,” Bahorel says with a raised eyebrow. “Just the mug or did you want something in it?”

Enjolras has no idea how to mime coffee. He barely knows what it is. He presses his lips tightly together in frustration.

“You really can't talk, can you?” Bahorel says, looking at him curiously. “Some of the others thought maybe you just didn't want to talk to us lowly sailors.”

Enjolras shakes his head, eyes downcast.

“It's fine, we'll figure it out,” Bahorel says with a wave of his hand. “This is an easy one; there aren't so many things here for you to put in a mug. You want water?” Enjolras shakes his head. “No, okay. Beer? No. Coffee?” He laughs at Enjolras's enthusiastic nod. “See? Told you we could do it.”

Bahorel prepares the coffee for him, and Enjolras watches and tries to memorise the process. When it's ready he gives Bahorel a quick smile in lieu of a thank you and darts off, carrying the mug carefully. He'd spilled tea on his hands once at Combeferre's house and never wants to do it again. The idea of water so hot it hurts to touch still makes his head spin.

“Oh, you're back,” Bossuet says with a laugh when he reemerges on the deck. “Where did you run off to?”

In answer, Enjolras places the steaming mug next to him, then retreats a little. He suddenly feels self-conscious and a little foolish, unsure if the gesture would be considered nice or just strange. Bossuet looks at him and then at the coffee and then back again.

“For me?” he asks. Enjolras does his best not to roll his eyes as he nods – the idea of him drinking the stuff is absurd.

“Oh.” Bossuet blinks a few times, then smiles. “Well, thank you. That was kind of you.”

Enjolras smiles back at him, which seems to surprise him even more than the coffee.

Shortly after, another crew member appears on deck. Joly, Enjolras thinks. He's been trying to learn names to help him keep the humans straight in his head, even if he can't speak any of them out loud.

“I was going to ask if you were in need of a coffee, but I see you already helped yourself,” Joly laughs, taking a seat very close to Bossuet's side. Enjolras is no expert on human behaviour or courtships, but if he had to make a guess based on what he's observed on this journey so far, he'd say these two are lovers.

“Enjolras fetched it for me, actually,” Bossuet tells him.

“Oh?” Joly looks at Enjolras with his head cocked to one side. “Did you two make friends?”

Enjolras feels his face grow hot and ducks his head, unsure if he's being made fun of, until Bossuet answers.

“I think we're on our way,” he says, and Enjolras looks up to see him smiling. Joly looks thoughtful.

“Why don't you come and help us check this, Enjolras?” he says after a moment. “It'll be done much quicker with three of us.”

“You can't put him to work, he's a passenger!” Bossuet protests, but Enjolras has already claimed a corner of the sail cloth and is eagerly awaiting instruction. Joly tells him what to look for and the three of them get to it, Bossuet and Joly talking and laughing the whole while. Enjolras can't join in, but he feels part of it, sort of. It's nice.

Very quickly after that, the whole crew seems to stop being scared of him. Enjolras supposes Joly and Bossuet told everyone about the coffee. He'd had no idea making friends with humans was so simple.

He finds himself starting to feel happier. It's a strange thing, to be happy on a boat, among humans. But it's hard not to enjoy their talk and their jokes, and helping them with their tasks helps keep his mind off his homesickness and the men still hunting for him. His strength is returning, too; as the days pass and they get further out to sea, he can feel the last dull aches fading from his body. He wonders if he'd be strong enough to swim home now, but he remembers Combeferre's warning to wait. And it's not so hard to do so, when the crew are laughing together and singing. It almost feels like home.

He remains wary of Grantaire alone. Though he doesn't seem to be a brute like the captain on his captors' ship, Enjolras still keeps his distance, just in case. If he could, he would ask the crew how a human becomes captain of a boat, and how Grantaire became captain of this one. Did he fight for it, did he kill? Should I be afraid of him?

He can't ask, so he can't know for sure. So he's cautious. That is, until the night with the fish.

His biggest lingering problem on the boat is hunger. The food is strange to him for the most part, and he's reluctant to eat anything he doesn't recognise. Unfortunately, all that he does recognise is the fish that comes with the evening meal. It's drier and saltier than he's used to, but it's not bad. There's just never very much of it, and though the crew keep him distracted through the days, his nights are long, miserable and hungry.

Grantaire starts asking questions about it one night. Enjolras tries to shrug him off, unwilling to admit weakness to the person he trusts least on this boat. But Grantaire persists. And finally Grantaire takes him to the room where the food is kept, and offers him enough salty fish for a whole meal.

“You need to start eating the rest of your meals,” Grantaire tells him firmly. “I know ship’s food isn’t the best, but we can’t afford to be picky. But I don’t want you to go hungry, so have this for now.”

Enjolras stares between Grantaire and the food he is offering him. Part of him wonders if this is some test, and if accepting the food would be revealing his weakness, his suffering, and if perhaps Grantaire would then try to bend him to his will through starvation. But most of him is just hungry. He takes the fish and he eats it so fast that his stomach hurts even as it rejoices.

“You should have let me know if you were starving,” Grantaire says. Enjolras risks a glance up at him, and sees that he doesn't look like he's about to snatch the food away and hold it to ransom. He just looks upset.

Oh, Enjolras thinks as it finally clicks into place. You're kind. I see.

He thinks deep down he already knew. He sees Grantaire with the crew every day. If Enjolras wasn't haunted by the deeds of the last ship's captain he'd known, he's sure he would have realised it sooner.

He's usually lonely in the evenings; the crew often go below deck to sleep or play games that he doesn't understand, and though his terror of the boat's dark insides is lessening, it still isn't his favourite place to be. He's happier out on the deck, so that's where he stays. Grantaire is always there in the evenings too, controlling the large wheel that steers the boat. Enjolras wonders if he gets lonely too. He decides to find out, and approaches him instead of lurking at the opposite side of the boat.

It turns out to be a good decision, in many ways. Grantaire seems happy to see him, and they talk. Well, Grantaire talks. Enjolras nods and shakes his head and makes faces to indicate his responses. It's frustrating, of course, but Grantaire is good at understanding him, and that helps. Enjolras likes their conversation, so he comes back again the next evening. And the next, and the next. It becomes routine. It becomes something to look forward to.

And that's why it was also a bad decision, to start this. Grantaire makes him laugh, or makes him indignant which makes Grantaire laugh, and he tells Enjolras all sorts of interesting things, like the names humans have for the stars, and how he met his crew. One evening Enjolras turns to look at him and, without thinking at all, thinks how handsome he is, and immediately wants to hurl himself overboard.

Stop it, he tells himself firmly. When he'd got on this boat, he'd never imagined that he might end up reluctant to leave it again.

He knows he should stop going to Grantaire in the evenings. But he doesn't.

Then the storm comes. It's glorious.

The crew try to get him to go downstairs, but he refuses. He loves storms; loves it when the sea is wild and untethered. He positions himself at the front of the boat, leaning as far over the railing as he dares, and listens to the crash of the waves, the howl of the wind. He mouths the song he and the others would sing along with it as they swam and danced through the maelstrom.

He's jolted from his enjoyment of it when someone grabs his arm and pulls him down from the railing; turning, he sees that it's Grantaire, his dark curls flattened to his head by the rain and spray. Enjolras grins at him. He wants to say, isn't it wonderful? Isn't it beautiful? But Grantaire isn't smiling.

“Do you think this is a game?” he shouts. He looks angry. “Unless you’re secretly an able seaman, get yourself below deck until this is over. That’s an order.”

It takes Enjolras a moment to understand, and then- oh. He looks around, sees the chaos on the boat as the rest of the crew run and slip and slide back and forth, trying to keep the boat under control. He can't suppress an amused and slightly pitying smile. Of course, these are humans. They don't love storms. They trespass upon the sea but they fear it. Humans can drown.

A particularly strong wave rocks the boat, and Grantaire has to let go of Enjolras to grab the railing and steady himself. Enjolras thinks that's quite funny, too – until he sees the same wave knock Bossuet loose from the boat's wheel and send him careening across the deck. For a panicked moment Enjolras thinks he'll be swept right off the boat and into the sea, and he really will drown, but instead he hits the railing head-first, and then lies very still.

Enjolras's amusement dies. He looks back at the crew and sees the terror on every face. They really are afraid that this will kill them, and they're so fragile that it really might. He sets his mouth in a grim line and goes and takes the wheel. He might love the sea and her storms, but he won't let either of them hurt the humans on this boat. Because they're- well. They're his humans, now.

He starts to steer the boat through it. He can feel the waves before they come; he knows the sea and her rhythms. Nothing can surprise him here. After a few moments, Grantaire appears at his side.

“Give her to me,” Grantaire says, trying to take the wheel. Enjolras ignores him, focusing wholly on the storm and the tiny splinter of a boat he wants to see through it. Grantaire – who doesn't understand because how could he? – tries to push him away. Enjolras holds him off with one arm and continues to steer with the other. He looks at Grantaire and with that single look tries to tell him, let me do this. I won't let the sea have you. Trust me.

Grantaire relents. And Enjolras guides them through the sea's wild dance and silently mouths the song he'd give anything to sing again.

He's disappointed when it's over, though he knows he's the only one. The crew look exhausted and are shivering in their wet clothes. Grantaire sends them below deck to rest, but Grantaire himself stays. Enjolras lets him have the wheel back, and Grantaire runs his hand over it slowly, thoughtfully.

“How did you do that?” he asks finally. “Who are you?”

Enjolras smiles and shrugs. He can't answer, they both know that. And perhaps, for once, that's best. Even if he could speak, he doesn't know if he would want to tell the truth.

“I think you might have saved all of us,” Grantaire says. He looks at Enjolras with a tired but awed expression. “Thank you.”

Enjolras feels a warm glow in his chest that he tries very hard to ignore. Still, he's helpless to stop the smile that curls his mouth as he makes himself turn away from Grantaire and watch the sunrise instead.

The crew knows what he did, and they too are grateful. Bahorel calls him a lucky charm and asks if they can keep him, and Enjolras laughs, but he aches too. He knows he's been foolish, to get so close to the humans. He's become too comfortable with the lie he's living. He needs a reminder of what he is and what they are and the way things are between them. It comes soon enough.

He notices the crew beginning to act strangely; they are all quieter than usual, and their silence has an uncomfortable, tense air to it. They argue with each other over things they would have laughed at only days before. They stop singing. They stop laughing. Enjolras wonders anxiously if they are all coming down with some horrible human disease. Grantaire must see his worry, because he takes it upon himself to explain.

“They're afraid,” Grantaire says. He has a map unrolled before him and he points to the part of it that Enjolras recognises as home. “In a few days we'll be passing through this area. It's merfolk territory.”

Enjolras looks at him expectantly, awaiting an explanation as to why proximity to his home has afflicted the crew so. Part of him sparks with excitement at being so close to his goal – a few more days and he'll be there. But it wars with the part of himself that has grown fond of this boat and her humans, and the part that is worried for them.

“They're monsters that live in the sea. Awful creatures,” Grantaire says. It takes Enjolras a moment to realise that he's talking about the merfolk, and he goes very still, a sick sour feeling spreading in his stomach. “They look human enough from the waist up, but that's a trick. They don't think or feel like humans do. They're savage and they love nothing more than to drag sailors down into the depths. Whole ships sometimes, if there are enough of them, or so the stories go. Some people say they eat the people the take, others say they just drown them. Doesn't matter much, if you ask me. The end result is the same.”

Enjolras can feel that his expression has become one of fixed horror and he's powerless to try and hide it. A snide yet sensible voice in his head that he's been ignoring for the last while makes itself heard: Hah, and you really thought you could be friends with these creatures? Look what they think of you. Silly monster, silly awful creature.

“But don't worry; I've sailed this route back and forth for years, and I've never lost a crew-member to the merfolk,” Grantaire is saying. He sounds like he might actually be trying to reassure him, but for entirely the wrong reasons. “I've listened to all the stories, so I know all their tricks. We're safe so long as we don't get too close to any that we see. They lure you in with their songs – their voices have some power. So we tear up rags and plug our ears until we're out of their waters. If you're worried, you can stay below deck until one of us gives the all-clear.” He leans closer and smiles. “And anyway, if any of them get any ideas, Bahorel is very handy with a harpoon gun.”

Enjolras feels ill. He's struck by an image of hulking Bahorel, his usual easy grin replaced by a bared-teeth snarl, spearing him or one of his friends on a harpoon as he's seen sailors do to whales. He imagines Grantaire and the crew watching it happen and being glad.

When Grantaire reaches out to touch his shoulder, he dodges out of reach and darts away. He gets as far away from him as he can within the narrow confines of the boat. He thinks about leaving now and swimming the rest of the way home. But they're still days away, it's too far, it's too far.

He avoids all of the crew for the rest of the day, which isn't so hard when they're already in too poor spirits to talk much.

It's night and he's tucked himself into the narrow angle of the front of the boat when Grantaire comes and finds him.

“Come inside,” Grantaire says. “You really shouldn't sleep out of doors, you know.”

Enjolras pulls his knees tighter to his chest and doesn't look at him. He hears Grantaire sigh, and then a rustle of movement and he sits next to him.

“I'm sorry if I frightened you earlier. It's important that you know what's out there,” Grantaire says. “But you don't need to be scared. I won't let anything happen to you. I'll keep you safe.”

Enjolras finally looks up at him. Even after everything Grantaire said earlier, some stupid part of him still feels giddy with delight that Grantaire would want to protect him from harm. The feeling is punctured somewhat by the fact that he is the very thing that Grantaire thinks he needs to protect him from. Grantaire goes slightly red under his gaze.

“We all will, I mean. The crew. You're our responsibility,” he says awkwardly.

Enjolras sighs sadly, softly. He wishes things could be easy and honest between them. He wishes he could make Grantaire understand. Grantaire must feel similarly.

“I so wish you could talk to me,” he says suddenly.

Something clenches hard in Enjolras's chest. You don't know what I'd give to talk to you, he thinks hopelessly. His mouth opens on some foolish instinct, but he has no words, no voice. He drops his head, feeling salt water welling up in his eyes once more.

“Hey, it's okay.” Grantaire's voice is gentle. Enjolras starts then settles again when he feels a warm hand rest on his ankle. “It's okay. I'm sorry.”

Enjolras lets out a shuddering breath. Grantaire stands up – his hand leaves Enjolras's ankle cold, but then the same hand is offered to him.

“Come on,” Grantaire says. “Let's go inside. Please. It's not safe out here.”

Enjolras obeys. Maybe he just wants to take Grantaire's hand. Maybe he just wants to pretend for these last few days that things could be different from what they are.

Grantaire takes him to his cabin. Instead of going straight to bed, he starts going around the room, pulling things out and rifling through them as if searching for something. Enjolras watches until he seems to find what he's seeking. Grantaire holds it out to him.

“Here,” he says. “No harm's going to come to you, but it doesn't hurt to be prepared. You should be able to defend yourself with this in a pinch.”

Enjolras takes the object cautiously and examines it. It's long and thin and mostly wrapped in a thick, supple sheath. He pulls it out and his eyes widen; it's unmistakably a weapon, sleek and gleaming and dangerous-looking. He knows weapons, has fashioned many of his own, but he's never seen one as fine as this. He touches his finger to the tip of it.

“It's sharp,” Grantaire cries out. And it is, it's just as sharp as it looks, and Enjolras grins as it draws blood. He thinks it's wonderful. He returns it to its sheath carefully and looks back to Grantaire. How can he show his gratitude without words? He does his best. He grabs Grantaire's hand and presses it tightly and smiles at him, and he tries to push the words he wants to say through that smile. As usual, Grantaire seems to understand.

“You're welcome,” he says with a smile of his own. Enjolras likes Grantaire's smile more than he should. If things were different, Enjolras thinks he might have reached out to him then, and they could have spent the night doing something other than sleeping in their separate beds. But things are what they are, and in a few days Enjolras will leave, and he will never see Grantaire again. He puts that out of his mind. He thinks he can at least spend the final few days on the boat enjoying the fantasy of what could have been between them.

He's wrong. It all ends the next morning, when the ship appears.

Enjolras recognises it from a distance. How could he fail to? He feels terror grip his heart, his mind, every part of him. He goes to Grantaire and seizes him urgently by the arm.

“What? What is it?” Grantaire asks, looking startled. Enjolras points at the approaching ship, at his approaching doom.

“What, that? I don't know who that is. Probably a merchant ship,” Grantaire says. But then something crosses his face, like a horrible thought just occurred to him. “Do you know who it is?”

Enjolras can only nod, which seems agonisingly insufficient.

“And, what? Do you think they're looking for you?” Grantaire asks. Enjolras nods again. Grantaire clenches his fists and mutters what Enjolras has recently learned is a curse word.

“God, Enjolras, what did you do?” he asks. Enjolras shakes his head indignantly, because he didn't do anything wrong, but Grantaire seems too distracted by practicalities to pay it much mind. “Hide. Stay out of sight until one of us comes to fetch you.”

Enjolras runs down the stairs and huddles in the smallest nook he can find below deck. Funny how going down here used to frighten him. Now it feels like the only halfway safe place in the world.

He waits. There is silence from above, and then there are voices. His blood runs cold when he thinks he hears the voice of the ship's captain, that dreadful captain, but he tells himself to stay calm. Grantaire wouldn't let them come here. He's safe, he's safe.

He's wrong.

He hears heavy footsteps coming down the steps. Part of him wants to believe it's some of the crew members coming to fetch him, to tell him the danger has passed, but he knows what each of their footsteps sound like. He knows these ones too. He tries to shrink in on himself, tries to disappear.

“Come out, Enjolras.”

He'd scream if he could. He feels the power of his own voice, dirtied and distorted by the human who stole it from him, and his body betrays him, obeying the order and bringing him out of hiding. The human – Montparnasse, Enjolras reminds himself, the horrid creature's name was Montparnasse – smiles sweetly at him while two other burly men move in to grab each of his arms. Montparnasse looks him up and down critically.

“So you really do have legs. I certainly hope you can get the tail back, or you'll be worse than useless to us.” Without warning, he strikes Enjolras across the mouth with the back of his hand. He feels blood spurt warmly from his lip. “That's for making us come all this way.”

They drag him back up the stairs. Enjolras, once again in control of his body, struggles in their hold, but Montparnasse turns and simply says “stop it”, and he has no choice but to stop. Montparnasse smiles and pats his cheek.

“There, that's a good little thing,” he says. Enjolras closes his eyes and imagines killing him.

“That doesn't look like cargo to me, Claquesous.”

Enjolras dares to look up again when he hears Grantaire's voice. He looks around and sees that Grantaire and the crew are all here and all alive, and he's glad that at least they weren't harmed in the other humans' vicious quest to get to him. They all look nervous and angry and confused. Enjolras wonders how they would look if they knew why Montparnasse and the others were here, if they knew why they want him.

“Perhaps not right now. I'll admit the disguise is most convincing,” the captain, Claquesous, says. He approaches Enjolras and his captors at an indolent pace and takes Enjolras's face in one hand and forces him to look up at him. Enjolras does so, and gives him the most poisonous look he can muster. Claquesous seems only mildly amused. “That was quite a good trick you pulled. It certainly took us by surprise. You thought you got away clean, didn't you? But someone always sees, and someone always talks.”

“Claquesous,” Grantaire says angrily. Claquesous looks away from Enjolras, and Enjolras uses the opportunity to delicately extract the weapon Grantaire gifted him from the pocket of his trousers. He knows he only has one chance, and he makes the most of it; in one quick motion he slides the blade free and jams it into the leg of the human on his right. The man yells in pain and lets go of him, and the distraction is enough to cause his other captor to loosen his grip. In that split second Enjolras wrenches himself free of them and, without a backward glance, runs and jumps right off of the boat.

Grantaire's boat is not nearly as high as Claquesous's ship, so hitting the water doesn't hurt this time. It might just be the best thing he's ever felt. The sharp cold seems to awaken him, from every inch of his skin right to his core. He wastes no time changing forms, feeling his borrowed trousers shredded to pieces as he does so. He wishes he could have said goodbye. He wishes-

There's a heavy splash from above, a disturbance in the water. He flits further into the depths, looking up with suspicious eyes. Claquesous or one of his brutes? It would be a difficult choice to make, whether to flee now or kill them first. He rises a little, blade clutched in one hand, and- oh.

Grantaire is in the water.

Enjolras doesn't know what to do. This could be his only chance to say any sort of farewell, but....but.

Quickly, an urgent voice in his mind hisses at him, whatever you're going to do, you have to be quick!

He hesitates behind Grantaire, a hand half-extended towards him. He tries to rally himself, tries to think of how Combeferre reacted to the revelation, tries to remind himself that it's Grantaire, who said that he'd keep him safe. He tries to tell himself it'll be alright.

But then Grantaire turns suddenly in the water, and there's burning pain. Enjolras looks down, startled, and sees blood and a shallow but stinging wound on his tail. His eyes travel upwards and find first the blade in Grantaire's hand, and then Grantaire's wide, staring eyes.

Down here, neither of them can speak. For a long moment Grantaire just stares, and while it's hard to tell what he's thinking by his expression, the slash across Enjolras's tail is telling. Grantaire reaches towards the wound, looking lost and torn, and Enjolras jerks away before he can touch him.

A stream of bubbles escapes Grantaire's mouth, and a faint look of panic enters his eyes. Enjolras remembers all over again that humans can drown. He doesn't even need to think about it; he takes Grantaire by the arm and takes him to the surface. Maybe it's a thank you for his kindness these past weeks, even if Grantaire is now wishing he could take it back.

He doesn't surface, doesn't wait to hear what Grantaire might have to say. He dives deep and starts to swim as fast as he can. It's not fast enough.

“Come back to us, Enjolras. Come along, now.”

The warped power of his voice reaches him even beneath the waves, and he's forced back to the surface.

“There you are,” Montparnasse coos when he emerges from the water. He's in a small boat now along with Claquesous and the others, and he crooks a finger at Enjolras. “Now, come here.”

He does, of course. He has no choice. They drag him from the water again, only this time, he hears gasps and murmurs from above him. He looks up and feels his heart sink when he sees Grantaire's crew, leaning over the railing of the boat and looking right at him. They all know now.

“What did I tell you? You see what you've let live among you?” Claquesous is saying. “What do you think would have happened if we hadn't caught up to you before you got into merfolk territory proper? This thing would have fetched its friends and they'd have made a meal of the whole lot of you.”

Enjolras shakes his head desperately. He would never hurt them. Never, never, never. He clenches his fists tightly, and only then remembers that he's still holding his blade.

“Drop it,” Montparnasse says, and then Montparnasse steals that from him too.

“So what happens now? What do you want with him?” That's Grantaire's voice, but Enjolras doesn't dare look at him. He fixes his gaze on the surface of the water and remembers what it felt like to be beneath it. He wonders if he'll ever feel it again.

The humans talk back and forth, and Enjolras ignores them. What does it matter what Claquesous wants with him? There's no escaping it now. They won't be careless enough to let him get away a second time. He vaguely hears one of Claquesous's men say something about a king wanting to eat him. The grisly suggestion surprises him less than the cries of protest it draws from Grantaire's crew. He looks up at them, startled.

“Oh, what is this? Has the thing managed to bewitch you all even without its voice?” Claquesous sneers.

“You can't just give him over to be killed!” Bahorel yells, and the rest of the crew choruses in agreement. They look ready to go into battle for him, and Enjolras can only stare, disbelieving.

“Who's going to stop me?” Claquesous asks coldly.

The crew look to Grantaire. And Grantaire looks at Enjolras, and at Claquesous and his men, considering.

“I already told you, Claquesous,” he says finally. “I don't steal cargo.”

The tiny spark of hope that had dared to come to life in Enjolras's heart dies. Monster. Awful creature. Cargo.

When they take him back to their ship and lead him beneath the deck, he doesn't fight. Where's the sense in fighting? As long as Montparnasse has his voice, he's doomed.

“Well, that was quite a detour you led us on,” Claquesous remarks as they deposit him back in his old prison. “I'm ever so glad we can get back on course again.”

He shuts the door and bolts it, and Enjolras is alone.

Chapter Text

“When you said you had a plan,” Bossuet says, voice strained, “I was expecting something a little less foolhardy.”

“Well, that's why I'm going alone,” Grantaire says as he readies one of the lifeboats. “I'm not going to risk any of you with my foolhardiness.”

“Captain.” Bossuet rarely calls him that, and it makes him give his full attention. “You know they could kill you.”

Grantaire sighs heavily, because he does know that, but he'd been trying very hard not to think too much about it, thank you very much.

“Enjolras had the chance, and he didn't,” he says, clambering into the boat. “Let's hope his kin are as merciful.”

Bossuet looks no less troubled, but Grantaire doesn't have time to reassure him. Every minute they waste is another minute that Enjolras is in Patron Minette's clutches.

“Remember what I told you,” Grantaire says. “Take the boat and get out of sight. Don't come back for me for at least an hour. If I need you, I'll send up a flare.”

“Be careful,” Bossuet says.

Grantaire doesn't think it particularly matters how careful or otherwise he is, in a rowboat alone in the middle of the merfolk's waters. But he nods, then gives the order to cast him off. Once in the water, he begins to row, and the boat begins to pull away. After a time it fades to a dot on the horizon, and he is alone.

He pulls the oars into the boat with him, and he waits. He isn't sure exactly how to attract one of the merfolk besides by making himself an obvious and easy target. Of course, if Enjolras is a typical example of his kind, and they aren't really murderous creatures that prey on lone sailors, then that probably isn't going to work.

He remembers how much Enjolras seemed to like it when the crew sang. Feeling like a royal fool, he wets his lips, opens his mouth, and starts to sing, his voice carrying far over the flat water.

He's almost run out of sea shanties when he hears the soft splash.

“You aren't a terribly good singer,” says a voice.

Grantaire turns, and he feels cold sweat bead on his forehead when he sees a merman floating a terrifyingly short distance from his boat.

“Sorry,” Grantaire manages to say. His voice comes out hoarse, and not just from all the singing. “I haven't practiced much lately.”

“Hmm.” The merman begins to slowly circle the boat in a wide arc. His hair is long, like Enjolras's, and coppery-red, and his tail gleams deep purple and black. “Humans don't even like to pass through these waters in their big ships. Yet here you are in a tiny boat. That seems foolish.”

“Does it?” Grantaire asks. He tries very hard not to track the merman's movements, tries to look relaxed. “Why? Do I look like a good meal?”

“Not to me,” the merman says, and Grantaire almost sags in relief. “But to some, maybe. You should leave.”

“I can't do that,” Grantaire says.

His heart nearly leaps into his mouth when the merman swims right up to his boat, curling clawed fingers around its wooden side and peering at him balefully.

“I think this is some human trick,” he says darkly. “You're sitting out here trying to look helpless, which means you want one of us to try to help you or try to hurt you. Why? Do you want to catch me? Kill me? You can't. I could break you with one hand. I could make you walk off that boat and drown yourself just by telling you to do it.”

“With the power of your voice. I know,” Grantaire says with a nod. “It's no trick. I came to talk.”

“So talk, human.”

“My name is Grantaire,” he says. “And I need your help.”

The merman scoffs.

“I need your help to save one of your kind,” Grantaire says, and the merman sobers.

“It is a trick, then,” he says with narrowed eyes. “A human would never want to save one of us.”

“Please,” Grantaire says. “He's in a lot of trouble. My crew and I, we...He's our friend. I don't know if it's his real name but we call him Enjolras.”

The merman gives a violent start. His hands go white-knuckled on the edge of the boat.

“You know him,” Grantaire says in amazement.

It's so fast that he doesn't even see it happen. All he knows is that the merman is suddenly practically in the boat with him, pinning him down by the throat with one hand, claws pricking his skin. His face hovers over Grantaire's, furious.

“You're lying,” he hisses. “You're not his friend. You humans stole him.”

“No,” Grantaire manages to gasp out.

“Tell the truth,” the merman says, and this time his voice is weighty and powerful. It's not horrifying and wrong like when Montparnasse did it, but it's the same feeling, the same power, and Grantaire knows he would do anything that voice asked.

“I am,” he says.

The hand at his throat vanishes, and he wheezes for breath. The merman slips back into the water, looking contrite and bewildered.

“You're really his friend?” the merman asks. He looks quite perturbed. “Enjolras has human friends?”

“He does now,” Grantaire confirms, sitting up and rubbing at his throat. “But you're right, humans did steal him. And they stole him from us, too. I think he'll be killed, if they have their way. And I don't think we can save him without your help.”

“Wait here,” the merman tells him, and then he vanishes beneath the water.

Grantaire waits in the newfound silence, broken only by the wild pounding of his heart. He's bleeding a little from his neck, but he's alive. He gives a slightly giddy laugh.

Soon the merman returns, and he isn't alone. There's another of his kind by his side, dark-haired and golden-tailed and, to Grantaire's slight terror, many more of them floating nearby, watching him with their faces half-submerged.

“You know where Enjolras is?” the new merman demands.

“I think I can help you find him,” Grantaire says with a nod.

“So do it.”

Grantaire nods again, and then he fires his flare into the sky and calls his boat back.

The crew is going to love this, he thinks wryly as he looks around at the small army of merfolk he seems to have summoned.

By the time the boat arrives, some introductions have been made. Grantaire calls out to his crew, who look predictably stricken.

“Everyone, this is Jehan and Courfeyrac,” he says, gesturing to the red-headed and dark-haired mermen respectively. “They're also friends with Enjolras, so we all have something in common.”

There is heavy silence from both parties, though Joly, bless him, raises a hand in awkward greeting.

“Well? Don't just stand there. Let us on board,” Grantaire says. He doesn't miss his crew's visible shock that the mermen will be coming onto the boat, and he wants to exasperatedly remind them that they've unknowingly had one on board the entire voyage without incident.

He's soon climbing back onto his boat, and when the two mermen follow him, they appear on deck with a pair of legs each instead of their tails and fins, confirming Grantaire's suspicion that the transformation was an ability they all possessed. The crew dig out some spare clothes for them, mainly for the sake of their own modesty, since the mermen themselves seem unbothered by the cold wind or the awkwardly averted eyes of the humans. Courfeyrac accepts a pair of breeches with a disdainful roll of his eyes, but Jehan seems quite fascinated with the assorted garments and tries on various things while they discuss their next move.

“Alright.” Grantaire unrolls his map. “They're delivering Enjolras to the king. The port nearest the palace is here, so that must be where they're headed. This is the most direct route from where they left us to there, so they'll be somewhere along that path.”

“That's all well and good, but how are we going to catch up to them?” Bahorel asks, folding his arms. “Their ship is faster than ours, and they have a head start.”

“They won't be able to out-run us,” Courfeyrac says with a snort. He takes the helm like it belongs to him. “We'll get you there in good time.”

He fixes his gaze on the horizon, then he opens his mouth and begins to sing. Soft and low at first, then rising and rising. There are no words to the song; not in any language Grantaire knows, anyway. Just sounds, in clear, ringing notes that seem to swirl in the air around them. Grantaire thinks it might be the most beautiful thing he's ever heard. He can understand why Jehan had been unimpressed by his singing earlier.

Jehan joins in, and then so do the rest of the merfolk still in the water. The effect is dizzying; so much sound that is too glorious and ethereal to be anything but magic.

The sky above darkens. First comes the wind – a stiff breeze that buffets and builds into a gale – and then the rain and the lightning. The sea turns steel-grey and churns ominously. Courfeyrac looks at Grantaire expectantly.

“Well?” he says. It's jarring to hear him speak normally after hearing the song. “I can steer us through. But you need to get the boat going.”

Grantaire, not without apprehension, gives the order to set the sails. The tempest catches them instantly, and the boat moves off at a frankly terrifying pace.

They brought this, Grantaire thinks, incredulous, as his boat rockets across the waves, propelled by the dangerously high winds. They sang up a storm.

“They're going to sink us,” one of the crew moans – Grantaire can't even tell who it is over the howling wind and pelting rain.

“Don't be silly. If we wanted to sink this little thing, we'd have done it by now,” Courfeyrac says with a grin as he guides the boat between swirling eddies and waves as tall as houses. The rest of the merfolk in the water are still singing and keeping pace with them.

“How sweet of you to reassure us,” Grantaire says.

“I've not been in a terribly reassuring mood ever since humans stole my best friend,” Courfeyrac replies, and Grantaire supposes that's only fair.

“And now we're going to steal him back,” Jehan says cheerily. He's settled on an ensemble of clothing that would be considered heinously absurd in polite society, but everyone is currently too busy holding on for dear life to pay it much notice. “Don't be scared. This is just helping us get to Enjolras as fast as possible.”

“It's wrecking my boat, is what it's doing,” Grantaire grumbles, casting a worried glance up at the mast.

“By the way,” Courfeyrac says, grin fading, “I hope you're not expecting us to show any mercy when we catch up to these humans.”

“That's alright,” Grantaire says grimly. “I don't think there'll be much mercy waiting for us there, either.”

The rain and the spray are so thick that, when they come upon Patron Minette's ship, it's almost a surprise. It suddenly looms up before them like a spectre in the mist, and Grantaire wishes he could have had a little more time to prepare, to try and feel a little more brave and heroic. The merfolk below stop singing, and the wind drops and the rain softens to drizzle.

“Where are they keeping Enjolras?” Courfeyrac asks as they get close.

Grantaire remembers the early days of their voyage, and Enjolras's visible horror at being told to go below deck.

“In the hold,” he says with unpleasant surety. “Under the deck, far down in the dark.”

He catches a glimpse of something like a snarl on Courfeyrac's face.

“How are we going to get on board?” Grantaire wonders aloud. “Somehow I don't think they're going to throw us a rope.”

“A rope,” Courfeyrac repeats with a snigger. He leaps over the side of the boat; below, his brethren sing out a note, and a wave rises up beneath him and carries him up, up and onto Patron Minette's ship.

“Come on,” Jehan says smilingly, holding out a hand to Grantaire – the same hand he'd nearly ripped Grantaire's throat out with earlier that same day. “You want to come save him too, don't you?”

Grantaire is feeling extremely unheroic and just about ready to be sick with fear, but some mad part of him makes him reach out and take Jehan's hand, and a moment later the merfolk sing out their note again and with a rushing sound another wave rises up, and though Grantaire is flailing and sputtering the whole way, the two of them ride it up onto the ship and join Courfeyrac on the deck. Grantaire falls to his knees, gasping, and finds himself nearly face to face with a member of Patron Minette that Courfeyrac has evidently already dispatched.

“I think they've noticed us,” Courfeyrac remarks as shouts go up from all over the ship.

“We need to get to Enjolras,” Grantaire says, stumbling back to his feet. He knows Claquesous just well enough to know how he works. “Once they figure out what's happening, they'll use him as leverage. They'll hurt him to make us stop.”

“So lead the way,” Courfeyrac orders him.

Grantaire hasn't been on this ship before, but it doesn't take him long to locate the dark stairway leading down below the deck. A crew member blocks their way before they can descend, wielding a wicked-looking curved knife and a sneer.

“Drop that,” Courfeyrac says, and the man does, looking surprised about it even as his fingers loosen their grip and let his weapon clatter to the floor. In the next moment Courfeyrac has him by the throat, holding him up with one hand so that his feet dangle inches off the deck.

“We'll just go on ahead,” Jehan says, sidestepping the confrontation delicately and leading Grantaire down the stairs. “I'm sorry about him. He's normally very sweet, but he does have a temper.”

At the lowest level of the ship, there's a door, and another man standing guard outside it. Grantaire supposes Claquesous didn't want to take any chances that Enjolras might escape a second time. However, his precautions are all for naught.

“Sleep,” Jehan says, and the guard falls down snoring. Grantaire crouches next to him and starts rummaging in his pockets for the keys to the door, but while he is doing so Jehan simply puts his deceptively slim shoulder to the door and gives a shove that has the bolt of the lock tearing clean out of the frame. Grantaire stands up again, wondering why they even brought him along.

“Enjolras!” Jehan gasps, dashing into the dark room. Grantaire watches from the doorframe and sees Enjolras raise his head in disbelief at the sound of his friend's voice. His tail is gone again and his legs are bare, but he still has his shirt, and as he kneels up its hem falls to the top of his thighs, and something about that image has Grantaire swallowing hard and fighting off thoughts that it is definitely not the time for. Jehan grabs Enjolras in a tight embrace and Enjolras returns it just as fervently, still looking stunned. Jehan is talking to him fast and low in a language Grantaire does not understand, but he hears his own name come up a few times, and that's when Enjolras's eyes find him over Jehan's shoulder. Grantaire wants to cringe away from his gaze – he can't imagine how wounded and betrayed Enjolras must have felt when Grantaire let Patron Minette take him, and he doesn't know how much even this rescue will make up for that. He forces himself to meet Enjolras's eyes and accept his judgement, but his expression is unreadable.

Jehan's voice starts to sound questioning, and then distressed. He pulls back from the long embrace and takes Enjolras's face in his hands, tilting his head back and forth as if searching for injury.

“Why doesn't he talk to me?” he asks, switching back to Grantaire's language and looking at him with wide eyes. “What's wrong with him?”

Grantaire had neglected to mention Enjolras's muteness to his friends, because for all he knew, maybe Enjolras had never been able to speak. But he'd had his suspicions, and he looks to Enjolras now to confirm them.

“Montparnasse?” he says. Enjolras narrows his eyes and gives one sharp, definite nod. Yes.

“What's that?” Jehan asks, looking between the two of them, confused.

“He's a human who's worse than most when it comes to meddling with things that ought not to be meddled in,” Grantaire says darkly. “I don't know how, but I think he has Enjolras's voice.”

“Has it where?” Jehan asks with a dangerous look in his eye.

“As far as I can tell?” Grantaire says. “In a bottle he wears around his neck.”

“Then I'll break his neck,” Jehan snarls. He gets to his feet and Enjolras follows suit. “How dare he, how dare-”

“I know,” Grantaire says, gesturing them out of the hold. “So let's go find him.”

Jehan storms out of the room and up the stairs; Enjolras, surprisingly, follows at a more sober pace. He stops when he reaches Grantaire and fixes him with a questioning look.

“Later,” Grantaire promises him. He lays a reassuring hand on Enjolras's shoulder and feels an absurd surge of pleasure when it isn't avoided or batted away. “First, let's show these bastards that they never should have taken you from the water.”

Enjolras gives a grim smile and follows Jehan up the stairs, Grantaire at his heels.

They emerge onto the deck and into chaos. The merfolk are singing again, and waves are rearing up with precision and swiping members of Patron Minette clear off the ship and into the sea. Some of them have assumed their human forms and are on deck doing battle with the remaining humans – somehow, some of Grantaire's crew are there too, lending a hand. Many of the Patron Minette members aren't even fighting back – they've lost all trace of the smirking bravado Grantaire is used to seeing from them and some are on their knees screaming for mercy but, as Courfeyrac had warned, there is little mercy to be found.

Only Montparnasse is posing a challenge to the merfolk's power, because he's taken some of their power for himself. He's standing on the upper deck, fighting off anyone who comes near him, merfolk and humans alike. He wields as his weapons the two things he stole from Enjolras, the dagger and the bottled voice, and something about that makes Grantaire run at him, drawing his knife even though he has a bad feeling it won't do him much good. Montparnasse whirls towards him as he approaches, his pretty face made ugly by his ferocious sneer.

“I didn't think you really had it in you to make a move against us, Grantaire,” he spits. “You play the role of a spineless coward so well.”

Grantaire doesn't answer, just lunges at him, knife drawn. Montparnasse dodges the thrust, but only just. The reality is that Montparnasse is not a fighter in the physical sense, and Grantaire is stronger and faster than him. But the reality is also that strength and speed don't matter much against a creature like Montparnasse.

“Don't move,” Montparnasse orders with a brief touch to the bottle at his neck, and Grantaire feels every muscle in his body go slack, no longer his to command. He doesn't fall down, but stands like a posed statue, able only to move his eyes. Montparnasse smiles and saunters up to him until they are nearly nose to nose.

“I'm going to make you pay for this,” he says, indicating to the pandemonium unfolding all around them. “We were going to be rich. Why couldn't you just let us have the thing?”

“He isn't a thing,” Grantaire grits out from behind a closed jaw he's powerless to open. Montparnasse ignores him.

“I'm going to kill you and I'm going to make sure it hurts,” he goes on. He traces the tip of his stolen dagger down the side of Grantaire's face and down to his throat. Then, without warning, he jams it to the hilt into the meat of Grantaire's shoulder. He howls in pain between clenched teeth.

“Now, now. No screaming,” Montparnasse says and Grantaire is forced to quiet even as the blade is drawn back out of him with agonising slowness. “I'll cut you up bit by bit and keep the pieces for spells. Your eyes, your tongue, your heart. I'll make sure you feel every moment of it.”

“You won't,” Grantaire tells him even as his shoulder throbs and pours blood. Montparnasse's face twists.

“Why won't I?” he asks. Grantaire feels him release a little control over his jaw to let him answer, and he delivers his reply with great satisfaction.

“Because you like talking too much,” he says.

Montparnasse's brow creases in confusion, and in the same moment Enjolras, behind him, snatches at the cord around his neck and snaps it with one tug. The bottle tumbles through empty air, and Montparnasse's horrified eyes follow it. He makes a grab for it, but it evades his grasp like a slippery, silvery fish, and it strikes the deck and shatters.

“No,” Montparnasse says, almost a whisper, as its swirling contents escape and flow away from him and towards Enjolras. Immediately Grantaire feels Montparnasse's hold on him vanish; unfortunately, it appears to have been the only thing keeping him upright, and he slumps to his knees on the deck, holding a hand to the knife wound at his shoulder.

Enjolras, restored, advances on Montparnasse. He doesn't use his voice against him; he doesn't need to. Whatever Montparnasse had used to subdue Enjolras and steal his voice in the first place, it's clear that he doesn't have it to hand now. He retreats, cringing. Enjolras grabs him by the wrist in a grip so tight that Grantaire hears bone pop and crack. Montparnasse gives a small wail and his hand relinquishes the dagger, which Enjolras catches neatly.

“It wasn't my idea,” Montparnasse is bubbling piteously. “I didn't want to, Claquesous made me. I can help you, I'll help you kill him! Just, don't hurt me, don't-”

Enjolras is visibly unmoved by the performance. He doesn't even wait for Montparnasse to finish grovelling before he brings the dagger in a flashing arc across his throat. Grantaire is mildly surprised when Montparnasse's blood spurts red and not black; he's more surprised when, instead of lying down and dying like any other person, Montparnasse clamps a hand to the wound and, with a murderous look, runs away and vanishes below deck. Enjolras lets him go, which is perhaps the most surprising thing of all. Instead of giving chase, he gets on his knees.

“Grantaire,” he says. His eyes are flicking worriedly between Grantaire's face and his wound, which is bleeding freely through his fingers. It seems unimportant at the moment, though. All Grantaire can think is that this is the first time Enjolras has been able to speak in many long weeks, and the first thing Enjolras chose to say was his name.

“Oh, hello. You have a lovely voice,” Grantaire tells him.

“You're hurt,” Enjolras says, wide-eyed.

“I've had worse,” Grantaire lies.

“You need a doctor,” Enjolras says. He looks frustrated. “Combeferre could fix you. He fixed me when I was hurt.”

“It's so good to hear you,” Grantaire says, because apparently the blood loss is making him far too honest as well as light-headed. Then: “You let Montparnasse live.”

Enjolras shrugs.

“He might live, he might die,” he says. “But if he does live, I don't think he'll talk anymore.”

Grantaire gives a grim nod. That seems fair, in its own brutal way.

“Enjolras, I-” he starts, but that's when the gunshot rings out, and the bullet hits the deck between the two of them, sending up a shower of splinters. Grantaire looks up, ears ringing.

“I'm starting to think this entire venture is far more trouble than it's worth,” Claquesous says as he comes towards them, pistol raised. His tone is light and conversational, but every line of his face is etched with rage. “Perhaps it's best if I put the whole thing to bed.”

Enjolras stands up slowly. Claquesous raises an eyebrow.

“Are you volunteering to be first?” he asks. He levels the gun first at Enjolras, then at Grantaire. “It's a tough choice. I really don't know whose brains I want to see splattered across my ship more.”

Grantaire realises all at once what is going to happen. Because Claquesous must not have seen Montparnasse scurry off, defeated. Claquesous doesn't know.

“Give me that,” Enjolras says. Grantaire feels the power of his voice even though it isn't directed at him; part of him yearns to obey, wishes for a gun just so he could give it to him. He sees all the colour leave Claquesous's face as he realises his mistake. But it's too late; his body marches him forward against his will and hands the pistol over to Enjolras.

“Hold still,” Enjolras tells him as he examines it. He crouches down again and shows it to Grantaire.

“Grantaire,” he says. “What do I do?”

Grantaire looks at him, woozy. His vision is a little blurred at the edges.

“What do you want to do?” he asks in reply.

“Kill him,” Enjolras replies simply. Grantaire has never killed someone before, nor helped someone else do it. It's with terrible finality that he looks at the gun, sees that it's cocked and loaded, and points to the trigger.

“Just point and shoot,” he says. Enjolras nods and returns to his feet. He turns back to Claquesous, still holding still and looking so terrified that his eyes seem like they might bulge right out of his head.

“Apologise,” Enjolras tells him. There's no power behind it, but Claquesous obeys nonetheless.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “I'm so sorry, I-”

“Beg,” Enjolras says as he raises the pistol.

“Please,” Claquesous says, voice high-pitched and hysterical. “Please, spare me, please.”

“No.”

“I'll give you anything you want, oh God, please!”

“No.”

“I beg you, please-!”

The gunshot rings out just as Grantaire finally passes out.

When he next wakes, he's on his own boat, in his own cabin, and Joly is bandaging his shoulder. It feels like another world. Luckily, Joly is more than eager to bring him up to speed.

“Enjolras brought you back to us,” he says. “And you'll never believe it but he can talk now! It took us all by surprise. Oh, you already knew that? Well, fine. He said we had to take the boat and get away, because the merfolk were going to sing and bring a storm big enough to drag Patron Minette's whole ship to the bottom of the sea. They did it, too. We got as far away as we could but we still saw the whole thing.”

“And Enjolras?” Grantaire asks, not much caring about the fate of the Patron Minette crew.

“Oh, he seemed fine. He didn't look hurt. And I imagine he and his friends will be well on their way back to their own waters by now.” Something must show on Grantaire's face, because Joly pauses, then continues in a gentler tone. “We saved him, and now he's back with his own kind. That's what we wanted, isn't it?”

“Of course,” Grantaire says.

“Oh, he left this, too. I think it's yours.”

Joly lays the dagger in his lap.

~

Rowing out alone into merfolk waters is much less scary the second time around, Grantaire finds. He whistles a merry tune to himself as he lets the lifeboat glide to a stop and settles down to wait. The sea is very still all around him.

“I'm not singing again,” he calls out finally.

“Yes,” says a voice, as he'd expected one might. “Perhaps that's for the best.”

Jehan pops up near the prow of the boat, smiling faintly.

“Is there a reason you're always the one to find me?” Grantaire asks him.

“I suppose I make it my business to know when a foolish human has wandered into our waters,” Jehan replies. Grantaire can see his long tail undulating beneath the surface, keeping him afloat, and he's interested to note that the sight strikes him with fascination rather than terror. “There really are some of our kind who would love to kill you, you know.”

“I hope I can count on you to protect me, then.”

“You are safer here than most humans, though,” Jehan concedes. “A lot of the merfolk around here know who you are, and what you did.”

“Ah, yes. Speaking of that,” Grantaire says. “I'm glad to see you're alright, after everything.”

“Same to you,” Jehan says with a nod. “Though I heard you didn't fare so well in the battle. Enjolras was quite worried.”

“He was?” Grantaire says a little too quickly. “I mean, is he alright too?”

“Oh, yes, he's quite well. It's wonderful to have him home. And with his voice restored, especially. It really was quite unnerving, a quiet Enjolras.”

“I, ah, wondered-” Grantaire coughs awkwardly and starts again. “I wondered if, perhaps, you could fetch him here for me?”

“Oh?” Jehan gives another smile, wider this time. “What for?”

“I'd like to talk to him.”

“What do you want to talk to him about?” Jehan asks.

“That's between me and him, I think,” Grantaire says a trifle haughtily, his face warming under the interrogation. Jehan gives an impish little laugh.

“Yes,” he says, and Grantaire suddenly realises that Jehan isn't looking at him, but rather past him. “I suppose it is.”

And then Jehan dives beneath the water and vanishes from sight, and Grantaire turns to look over his shoulder.

“Hello,” he says.

“Hello, Grantaire,” Enjolras replies from where he is floating just behind the boat. It continues to be a delight, hearing Enjolras say his name. He swims closer, his golden hair fanning out around him in the water, the damp skin of his face and shoulders glistening in the sunlight. “What are you doing here?”

Very to the point. It makes Grantaire's face go hot again.

“I wanted to make sure you made it home safely,” he says. It sounds much lamer out loud than it had in his head.

“Oh.” Enjolras blinks. “I did. Thanks to you.”

“I think Jehan and Courfeyrac and your kin did most of the work,” Grantaire says with an awkward laugh. Enjolras shakes his head solemnly.

“They never would have found me without you,” he says. “You went and got them. You must have been very frightened, calling on- my kind.”

He puts a strange emphasis on the last words and Grantaire winces.

“I'm sorry for the things I said. About your people,” he says. Enjolras looks away from him. “And I'm sorry I hurt you, when we were in the water.”

“You were afraid,” Enjolras says with a shrug.

“You must have been afraid the entire time you were on the boat with us,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras shrugs again.

“And- you must have been so afraid when I let Claquesous take you,” Grantaire says. It's been eating him alive. The words pour out in an agonising rush. “You must have- I'm so sorry. I knew I couldn't beat them then. I wasn't brave enough to try. I never planned to let them have you but- God, if my plan had failed I would have as good as killed you-”

“Grantaire.” Enjolras comes right up to the boat, holding onto the side of it. “I understand. They would have killed you, and your crew, and me. You did the only thing you could. And you came back for me, even though you didn't have to. I'm- grateful.”

He reaches out as if to touch Grantaire's hand, but stops short, looking between his own hand with its webbing and short but wicked-looking claws and Grantaire's very human one. It's Grantaire who closes the distance, grasping Enjolras's hand with none of the fear he had once felt. Enjolras's skin is cool from the water, but Grantaire can feel warmth seeping through from underneath. They look at each other and for a moment- but no. Enjolras tugs his hand away with a small sigh. Grantaire lets him.

“I, um,” Grantaire fumbles in the boat, grateful for something to do to power through the awkwardness that is threatening to settle over them. “I brought you something.”

He holds up the dagger in its sheath. Enjolras's eyes catch on it and widen a fraction.

“Had it cleaned up and sharpened for you,” Grantaire says, holding it out to him. “You didn't need to give it back, you know. I gave it to you. And you seem to like it.”

“I like it very much,” Enjolras says. He reaches out and takes it hesitantly. “It's a good weapon, and beautiful.”

“Then why did you leave it behind?” Grantaire asks. He sees Enjolras swallow.

“You thought you were giving it to a human,” he says finally. “I didn't know if you would want me to have it.”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says. He wants to hold his hand again, to reassure him. “You- I mean. It doesn't change anything, this. The crew, me, all of us, we...we like you. I know you had to hide some of yourself from us but- not all of yourself, right? We got to know you, didn't we?”

“As well as you could,” Enjolras says. A faint smile appears on his face. “I'm not normally so quiet.”

Grantaire allows himself a small laugh. Enjolras unsheathes the dagger and admires its freshly polished gleam.

“Among my kind,” he says suddenly, “something as fine as this would be given as a courting gift.”

Grantaire almost chokes on nothing. Enjolras's eyes flick up to look at him and his undoubtedly strangled expression, then back down to the dagger.

“I imagine it's different for humans,” he says.

“I brought something else, too,” Grantaire blurts out for lack of anything else to say. He holds up his other gift and doesn't miss Enjolras's mystified frown. “Joly helped me make it. We were thinking, well, you definitely don't have pockets or a belt to attach that sheath to, so we...we improvised.”

Enjolras runs his fingers over the thin strip of well-oiled leather.

“You don't have to wear it,” Grantaire says lamely.

“Show me how I'm supposed to wear it,” Enjolras says, looking a little amused. “Then I'll decide.”

They'd designed it to loop around Enjolras's waist and then up across his chest and over one shoulder before being secured by a buckle. It allowed the dagger to sit at his hip, and the shoulder strap would hopefully prevent it from moving around too much. Enjolras looks quite pleased with it.

“It's strange,” he says with a laugh, tugging at it. “But I like it.”

“I'm glad,” Grantaire says. He hopes his sagging relief isn't too obvious. He reaches out to adjust a part where the strap has twisted, then lets his hand linger. “We protected it as well as we could but...after some time in the water, it might weaken. If that happens, you- you could bring it back to us. We'd fix it for you. We'd be happy to.” He makes himself hold Enjolras's gaze. “We'd be happy to see you.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says. He sounds sad. Grantaire had thought it would be easier for them to understand each other, now that Enjolras has his voice back. It feels just as difficult as ever.

“I understand if you never want to set foot on a boat again, but the crew miss you,” Grantaire tells him. Then, “I miss you.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says again. He looks like he's struggling with something inside himself.

“I'm sorry,” Grantaire says quickly. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't-”

“You can't keep me,” Enjolras says, shaking his head. “I won't- I can't be a human for you. This is who I am. This is my home.”

“I'd never ask you to give that up,” Grantaire says.

“Sometimes it's easier to let something go than to only have part of it,” Enjolras says quietly.

“There would be nothing easy about letting you go,” Grantaire confesses. Enjolras stares at him, wide-eyed, for what feels like a long time. The moment is broken by a sound in the distance; they both turn and see Grantaire's boat coming back for him.

“Is this goodbye, Enjolras?” Grantaire asks.

“I don't know,” Enjolras says in a small voice. Grantaire smiles at him.

“No matter what, you're always welcome on my boat,” he says. He takes up his oars. “The rest I'll leave up to you. I'm sure you've had more than your fill of humans deciding things for you.”

Enjolras squeezes his hand one last time before vanishing beneath the waves.

~

It's two full days later, and Grantaire is in his cabin and definitely not moping, when the warning bell sounds.

He frowns, because the sun is shining and the sea is calm, so the bell isn't signalling a storm. What else could be threatening them? He has a sudden horrible image of an entourage of miraculously survived Patron Minette thugs bearing down on them in a stolen ship, and he hurries out the door.

When he emerges on deck, there is no panic or obvious problem. The whole crew is there, and they are all grinning. Bossuet gestures him towards the railing; Grantaire frowns and goes to it. He looks down and, in the water below, sees a head of golden hair and a long, shining red tail. He feels his heart lighten.

“Man overboard,” he says with a smile he can't fight down.

“Permission to come aboard, captain?” Enjolras calls up to him. He's smiling, too.

“Permission granted,” Grantaire says. He leans further over the railing. “Would you like a ladder or...?”

Then he hears Enjolras sing for the first time. It's so beautiful that it makes something in him ache. A gentle wave rises up and carries Enjolras with it, until they are face to face.

Grantaire reaches out and toys with the leather strap running across Enjolras's torso.

“This doesn't seem in need of repair,” he remarks.

“No,” Enjolras agrees.

“No?” Grantaire repeats, smile widening.

“I brought you a gift,” Enjolras says. He holds out something carefully wrapped in what looks like a long piece of kelp. Grantaire unwraps it and stares at the biggest pearl he's ever seen, sitting in his palm.

“Do you like it?” Enjolras asks. He sounds a little nervous. Grantaire gives a disbelieving laugh.

“Something this fine seems like it could be a courting gift,” he says, catching Enjolras's gaze and holding it.

“It could be,” Enjolras replies.

“Mmm.” Grantaire lets his own gaze wander slowly from Enjolras's eyes downward. “And what happens after the successful exchange of courting gifts?”

“If you don't know that, then maybe humans and merfolk really are too different,” Enjolras says. His smile becomes just a touch sly and he leans closer. “I think you do know, though.”

Grantaire takes the dare; he closes the last distance between them and presses his lips softly to Enjolras's. He tastes salt and feels Enjolras's smile against his mouth. He feels teeth sharper than his own nipping at his lip, and the kiss deepens, and for a moment they're lost in each other. It's perfect. Even with the crew whooping and cheering behind him.

“Get back to work,” Grantaire yells at them after breaking away, and they disperse somewhat, still sniggering to themselves.

Enjolras laughs and lets the wave carry him the rest of the way over the railing, his tail dissolving into legs as he comes to stand on the deck. It's funny, how quickly it's become strange to see him like this.

“You don't need to do that,” Grantaire tells him. Enjolras slips his arms around his neck and presses close.

“I want to be with you like this, sometimes,” he says. He hesitates. “But other times...”

“You'll want to go.” Grantaire nods, rests his hands delicately on Enjolras's hips, hardly able to believe he's allowed. “I understand. I'll never stop you.” He presses a quick kiss to his mouth, unable to help himself. “I'll have you in any form, for any amount of time you want to give.”

Enjolras's answering smile is blindingly beautiful.

“Jehan and Courfeyrac scolded me, you know,” he says. “They said I was being stupid.”

“For wanting to be with a human?” Grantaire asks. Enjolras laughs.

“They were maybe a little surprised by that,” he concedes. “But they said I was being stupid for thinking I had to choose. They said if I tried, I could have both things I want. You, and my home. My freedom.”

“Your friends are very clever,” Grantaire says.

“They said that, as humans go, I could have picked worse than you.”

“I'm flattered,” Grantaire says with raised eyebrows. He gestures broadly to the crew, who have the appearance of going about their duties but who are definitely still watching them. “I think you already know what this lot think.”

Another cheer goes up, though this one is interrupted by Bahorel booming at Grantaire to get Enjolras some clothes, for God's sake.

“We really should get you some clothes,” Grantaire says, freshly aware of Enjolras's lack thereof.

“I don't know if I'm ever going to get used to clothes,” Enjolras says, rolling his eyes.

“Well.” Grantaire grins. “You don't have to wear them all the time.”

~

It's some weeks later – and what wonderful weeks they have been – before Grantaire's rocky little island comes into view on the horizon. Bossuet has the helm, and Grantaire leans contentedly on the railing at the prow and watches his preferred spot of dry land grow and take on details as it gets closer.

There's a sudden sound, a single note of song, and a precisely aimed stream of water hits him in the face, pulling him spluttering from his reverie. He blinks water from his eyes and looks down over the railing, though it's hardly any mystery who the culprit is. Enjolras, who had gone off swimming a few days ago, is floating on his back alongside the boat and laughing at him.

“I'm sure it's a way of showing affection where he comes from,” Bossuet offers with obvious amusement. Grantaire pulls a face at him.

Enjolras comes on board a moment later. Some changes have been made since he started to become a frequent visitor, most notably the new lidded wooden box on the deck, always kept supplied with fresh towels and clothes. Enjolras starts rooting around in it.

“Hello, Grantaire,” he says cheerfully as he dries himself off. “Hello, Bossuet.”

“Enjolras,” Bossuet returns with a nod, a smile still playing on his face.

“Welcome back,” Grantaire says once Enjolras has tugged on a loose-fitting shirt and pair of trousers, which seems to be the most amount of clothing he's willing to tolerate most of the time. Grantaire keeps his spot at the prow and watches Enjolras approach and pretends very hard like every part of him isn't itching to snatch him up in his arms. The crew have done nothing but poke fun at him for being a lovesick fool the last few weeks, and he has no wish to give Bossuet any more ammunition.

“I missed you,” Enjolras says when he reaches him because Enjolras is, as Grantaire previously observed, very to the point, and not in the habit of hiding his emotions or desires. It makes Grantaire's quest to save face even more difficult. His tenuous willpower breaks when Enjolras unhesitatingly leans up to kiss him in greeting; no amount of teasing could stop him from kissing him back in that moment, or putting his hands to his waist to pull him close.

“You two are going to have to tone that down when we make landfall and are back in polite society,” Bossuet remarks with fond exasperation.

Enjolras startles slightly; he turns and seems to notice for the first time how close the island is getting.

“You know you don't need to come with us on land,” Grantaire says softly. “We won't be staying there long, I'm sure.”

Enjolras purses his lips and looks thoughtful.

“No, I want to,” he says finally. “There's somebody I want to see.”

He looks nervous and jittery when they come into the harbour, but he remains resolute. He even agrees to put on shoes for the sake of not attracting any undue attention, and Grantaire knows that's a big effort on his part. Enjolras has told him in great detail about how much he hates wearing shoes.

The boat is tied up in a dock, the gangplank falls, and they come ashore. It feels strange, Grantaire thinks as he looks around at the bustling crowds, to know that nothing has changed here, when so much has happened to him and his crew since they last left.

The crew split off from them gradually, Joly and Bossuet to see Musichetta, others to see family or check on their lodgings, Bahorel and the remaining stragglers to the tavern. Grantaire and Enjolras continue on alone. Enjolras has a gleam in his eye and he picks up the pace with obvious impatience. Grantaire chuckles and half-jogs to catch up with him.

When they reach Combeferre's house, Grantaire knocks on the door. When Combeferre answers, his face goes slack with dumbfounded surprise at the sight of the two of them there. He reaches up slowly and removes his spectacles, as if he suspects they might be playing a trick on him.

“Grantaire? Enjolras?” he says. He sounds lost, and a little concerned. “What are you both...?”

He trails off. Grantaire gives a dry smile and leans one shoulder lazily against the doorframe.

“Well, I'm here to lodge a complaint. I was not paid nearly enough for the amount of trouble I've just gone through,” he says very seriously. He jerks his head in Enjolras's direction. “I think this one is here for a different reason, though.”

Enjolras reaches out and clasps both of Combeferre's hands in his, smiling widely.

“Combeferre,” he says, and Grantaire can't help but laugh when Combeferre's jaw drops. “Combeferre, thank you. That's what I came back to say.”

Combeferre gapes at him, then at Grantaire.

“He- he talks!” he gasps out at last. “Enjolras! You-”

“I talk, yes,” Enjolras agrees. He's laughing too. “And I'm never going to be quiet again.”

“It's true,” Grantaire says. He puts a hand on Enjolras's shoulder, and that's a new thing for Combeferre to stare at. “I fear I may never know peace again. Fortunately, I couldn't be happier.”

“But how? I mean...” Poor Combeferre shakes his head helplessly. “What happened?”

“Perhaps if you let us in, we could sit down and tell you the whole story,” Grantaire says.

“Oh!” Combeferre seems to realise all over again that they are standing on his doorstep. He steps aside sheepishly. “Of course, please. Come in.”

“I'll make some tea,” Enjolras says cheerily as they go inside.