Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Grantaire woke to a God in his bed.

Enjolras was still asleep, and Grantaire took the moments before he woke to watch him without any abandon. He watched the early morning sun as it kissed the gold of his curls. His greedy eyes traced the hard marble face, serious even in sleep. He wondered what a God dreamed of, what was he creating - or destroying - in that magnificent and terrifying mind?

Here he lay, a God dethroned and devoured, naked under Grantaire’s sheets. He was mythological, marble, untouchable yet touched; impossibly corrupted by the undeserving hands of his worshiper.

Bitterly, Grantaire loved him.

He knew he didn't have long, and already the guilt was teasing itself, making its presence known right there under his collarbone. It would be overwhelming, choking him by the time Enjolras was gone. But it was too easy to give into the satisfaction of seeing him here, of drawing out the inevitable. One more moment, said that weakest part of his mind. He watched the sunlight slowly move across sprawled curls until it almost touched the smooth line of Enjolras’ forehead.

He imagined a world where things were different. Not like before, not like now, just different. If it was ever right, if they would ever work. He would touch where the sunlight is touching now, lightly trace a line down from his temple, down his cheekbone, over his lips.

He'd whisper the words “good morning” into a kiss, he might even put his head back down on Enjolras’ chest and just feel him breath, listen to the sure rhythm of his heartbeat.

It could be so good.

The sunlight kept moving, because time wouldn't stop for this. The morning wouldn't wait for him to linger in fantasy. His moment was well and truely up.

It was not with a great sigh, but with quiet acceptance that Grantaire pulled himself out of the bed and away from his momentary devotion. He pulled on his own shirt and boxers, and didn't have to look that hard to find Enjolras’ clothes around the room.

He took one last look at him, hoping to imprint the memory in his mind. Then he threw the bunched up clothes into Enjolras’ face, waking him up.

Enjolras’ first words were muffled shouts, which was probably for the best. When he finally emerged from the pile, it was with a red face.

“Grantaire!”

It shouldn't make Grantaire feel so electric, how Enjolras made his name sound like a curse. 

“Morning,” Grantaire tried a more charming smile. No dice.

“You're the worst to wake up with,” Enjolras snapped. He was already pulling on his clothes.

Ah, we're having one of those days.

“And you're such a delight in the mornings, truely nothing makes me happier than waking up to your godly head gracing my mortal pillows. You could have left any time in the night, ange,” Grantaire replied dryly.

“You make me wish I had,” Enjolras snapped. He was out of the bed and zipping up his pants already. “But don't worry, I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”

How Grantaire wished these mornings would last longer.

“Don't want to make the same mistake twice?” Grantaire goaded.

“The fact that I’m here proves I’ve made the same mistake many times,” Enjolras spat.

“Fuck off,” Grantaire muttered, without any real venom. “And who says you're getting a next time.”

Enjolras pulled on his jacket. His hand was already on the door. Too fast, these mornings always went too fast.

Enjolras didn't even have the decency to look back. He opened the door, said loudly and clearly, “Please, like I even have to try with you.”

And left.

Grantaire listened until he heard the front door shut. He collapsed back on the bed. 

“Fuck you,” he said to nothing. “I hate when you're right.”

Hours later Enjolras texted him.

So.

Godly head, hey?

It was the closest to an olive branch he would get. Of course Grantaire latched onto it. What else did he expect of himself?

-

Things weren't always like this.

Here's the funny thing, before they were this, (he hesitated to call it friends with benefits, because they weren't really friends and it was more torture than beneficial), and before the “truce” that imploded into this, they actually dated.

They were, admittedly, the worst together. They were young and dumb and jumped into things too fast. Or, Grantaire did. He didn't hesitate to make the intensity of his feelings known, the romantic idiot that he was. And Enjolras…

He didn't feel the same. He confessed to Grantaire somewhere in one of the Long Talks that night of their breakup that he didn't think he was able to feel the same, not ever. Not even just for Grantaire, not for anyone. 

Regardless, it came down to one point, driven home over and over through an excruciating evening (and night and early morning) of talking, and silence, and more talking, and yelling, and begging, and crying, and in the end sitting there side to side as the sun crawled up, one of them having said all there is, the other unable to accept it. Enjolras didn't love him. He just didn't. 

He didn't ever want things to be that intense. That much. He couldn't take it.

The breakup itself was messy, and Grantaire’s fairly sure he's never felt pain like that before. He thought he never would again. He thought it destroyed him. 

But by that point, things were complicated. Their friends' worlds had all merged together, everything around them had settled into stability, bliss, peace. Separately, they promised their friends they wouldn't let what happened destroy the group. So they tried.

It was hard. Too hard. Grantaire couldn't do it. He crashed and he burned, and then saw, in his peripheral, as Enjolras watched it. He enjoyed it, Grantaire knew. He saw it in his eyes. 

Maybe it was because he was smug, because it flattered him to have that much of an effect on someone. Maybe it was because he knew, just like he'd said, how easy Grantaire was for him. How he didn’t even have to try. Didn't have to try to pull him in, didn't have to try to break his heart. 

Maybe he loved seeing Grantaire desperate and messy and empty, for the same reason Grantaire was desperate and messy and empty. Because that meant it was real. 

Maybe that's wishful thinking. 

But he could see it. Because every time Grantaire actually started doing better, Enjolras pushed a little at the bruise. He showed up when he shouldn't have, he provoked him, taunted him, dragged him back in and pushed him back down. 

To be fair, sometimes it didn’t take more than one single look. 

Of course Grantaire noticed.

He knew Enjolras would move on eventually, and would let go of whatever feelings of hatred or rage he had left until he looked at Grantaire one day and had nothing in his eyes. It might not be love that he looked at Grantaire with, but a strange mixture of satisfaction, lust, and hatred. He'd take it. He’d always take it over nothing. 

And, hey, he figured two could play that game.

So when it seemed that Enjolras stopped noticing him as much, he tested the limits. He cleaned up a bit, he bragged about his accomplishments, and he flirted.

Nothing made Enjolras react more than when he went a bit hard flirting with a new face at a meeting or a stranger at the bar. Except the few times he'd brought a hookup to an event on a second or third “date” and hinted that it was something serious.

Eventually, as is their nature, Grantaire pushed too hard while pretending to move on, and Enjolras pushed too hard while drawing him back in. The argument was brutal and vengeful and the delicate balance that was holding them orbiting always just out of arm's reach snapped. They imploded together, that is to say, back together. It was a beautiful night. It was an awful night. They didn't even make it home.

“Never again,” they said.

The next time, in harsh whispers so as to not wake Combeferre in the next room, they said it again. “Never again.”

“Never again,” bitten off into harsh kisses and breathless moans. “Never again,” shouted after the slam of a door. “Never again.” “Never again.” “Never again.” 

“Why do I keep taking you home?” Enjolras groaned once, breath hitched as he rode Grantaire, punctuating his words with the roll of his hips. 

“I don't know. Don't stop,” Grantaire responded, and they both knew the words had a double meaning but neither acknowledged it. 

They kept on saying this was the last time, and it always ensured that the next time they were more desperate, more longing.  Kissing harder, and holding on to each other so tight it bruised, drawing out the silence afterwards longer and longer, holding onto it because they were both sure that this time, this time was the last.

Or maybe it was just Grantaire who was more desperate, but still, he couldn't deny the evidence. The way Enjolras looked at him now, the way he touched him now. The Enjolras from back when they were dating was polar opposite to the way he was when he agreed to stay away from Grantaire. That was a fact. 

Because for both of them, no matter how many times they agreed they'd stay away from each other, it was always a lie.

Grantaire always knew how to push Enjolras’ buttons, but after this thing started (or, started again?), it became almost too easy. He knew exactly when his next comment, or even just a look would send Enjolras over the edge, guarantee a hand bunched in his collar at the end of the night, yanking him out the door, or a text after they've all left, just when Grantaire was about to let himself think it hasn't worked. My place. Now.

If he's being perfectly honest, he never expected Enjolras’ love. He knew how lucky he was just to have his attention. He never really believed it, when he first asked Enjolras out he was just cross faded and optimistic enough to think “you miss 100% of the shots you don't take.” He never expected Enjolras to say yes. He never expected that to last as long as he did. He never expected Enjolras to want him back, (even if he didn't really want Grantaire back, but still, in some way, however baffling it was, Enjolras wanted him.)

Still, Enjolras’ love? He knew it was a long shot, it still hurt when Enjolras confirmed it would never come, but he knew. For a while, having a cruel mix of attention and lust and hatred was enough to fill that hole.

When they started this, Grantaire said it first. “I hate you,” he spat out. And they both know what he meant, but Enjolras just moaned and begged him to say it again. 

Then he said it back, and it was all Grantaire ever wanted to hear. Almost. 

Grantaire asked for it almost every time. “Tell me you hate me, tell me, tell me.” It was selfish, pathetic, and God he knew it. But it was also the closest he'd ever get to being able to tell Enjolras he loved him and hear it back. Enjolras never said it when they were together, and he hated it the few times Grantaire actually said it out loud. But this? This he gave into, this made him speed up and throw his head back and pull Grantaire in with a grip so tight it hurt and repeat back what Grantaire had said and oh it was so good.

For now, he could have this. Right?

He texted back:

i’ll show you godly head.

-

Despite the stellar start to his day, by the time the sun set Grantaire was in a foul mood entirely of his own making.

There were about three commission’s that he’d been paid for, weeks ago, and still missed the deadline for, also weeks ago. In his defence, the descent from summer into autumn into winter had been fast and disorienting, and for some reason his body and fucked up mind was responding to the time of the sunset regressing back three hours over the course of six weeks by making him sleep through most days and stay up most nights. Like some stupid fucked up vampiric vengance he was enacting on his own mental health. The days were blurring together, and the sense of urgency of a missed deadline was gone. Hell, the only reason he’d woken up at a semi-human hour that morning was because he knew Enjolras had an early meeting he had to get to.

Was that a good defense? Who knows. Only a fool would ask Grantaire for legal advice.

The point was, there were about a thousand things Grantaire could have been doing after Enjolras left and his traitor of a body refused to fall back asleep. Productive things. He could have worked on any of the commissions, or at least opened his emails and done the rounds of excuses and apologies and “I swear I’ll get it to you this week,” bullshit. He could have done the dishes or the laundry or paid his overdue bills or done his fucking taxes or done literally anything other than what he did do. Which, let the record reflect your honour, was to sit on the couch watching some ironic cartoon he’d watched a thousand times before while smoking through a dwindling bag of bud and checking his phone every five minutes to see if his least reliable weed man had responded to his latest message.

He owed the most reliable weed man money, so…

He smoked up the last of his supply as the hours went by, rolling joints slimmer and slimmer as the bag dwindled, and still with no response. No response from Enjolras either, but the weed guy was typically more reliable than Enjolras, so no surprises there.

Good God, how long did this guy take to just answer his message, it was his job after all.

His phone pinged, but it was an email. A client, the message preview starting an overly polite but impatient request for an update. Grantaire swiped it away before he could feel guilty. He impulsively went to roll another joint, but the grinder was empty. Straight nicotine it is then. Seriously, could this guy just do his fucking job.

There was a shoddily made DIY easel in the corner with a personal project that the longer, colder nights and constant general shitty mood and self esteem had pulled out of him. 

Grantaire’s various freelancer app profiles and one truly bare minimum linkedin profile labeled him a “multimedia artist”, but Grantaire could be quoted to say that translated directly to “indecisive failure”. What it really meant was he was vaguely into art and active enough to have a few projects going every now and then, but never enough to make a living off of it. Sure, he put an ad up on fiverr or whatever every few months when he either felt a sudden wave of random confidence or had a bill to pay (or owed money to his most reliable weed guy) and his bar wages weren’t cutting it.

The “multimedia” aspect was a nice way to say “jack of all trades, master of none”. He had tried as many styles, mediums, crafts, as he could name, and then gotten bored of it and moved on before he could get even remotely good enough to do something, anything, of note. TikTok psychology would call it “dopamine seeking behaviour”, but who was he to judge, he was the idiot watching Tiktok teenagers explain psychology to him, using the small screen to distract from the big screen that he was using to distract from the art he was supposed to be doing to distract from the mess that was the inside of his head. Huh, maybe it was dopamine seeking behaviour.

His tiny apartment was littered with shit he’d picked up from every trade he jacked off but didn’t master, or however the saying went. Expensive, practically useless shit taking up space that he’d spent his hard (eh) earned money on because he was going to get into screen printing, or sculpting, or, no, metalwork, because that was going to be it. The one thing the he was suddenly magically fucking amazing at, the thing that would make it all make sense. Yes you fucking idiot, spend your paycheck on supplies and then spend a whole weekend doing shrooms and making fucking stained glass windows. That will be your golden ticket, that will be your calling, that will make you rich and talented and good enough.

Keep fucking dreaming, moron.

Grantaire’s medium of choice at the moment was not going to be his golden ticket. The self portrait that stared at him hatefully in the corner would not see the light of day, this was not going to be it. But still, he persisted, because the nights got colder and longer and darker somehow, and the page called him in, and he answered.

And when his medium of choice was ash on paper, he could convince himself that chain smoking alone was necessary. It was all part of the process, after all. 

It was a fucked up self portrait in progress, that looked more like his shadow than his face and made his living room all weird and uncomfortable to be in. Dark and blurry and unsettling, half a face, he’d started at the eyes and moved outward in the frame, always in progress. For weeks, when there had been comissions due that were very much not fucked up ash portraits, Grantaire had been sitting in front of it and chain smoking, joints, rollies, cigarettes, it didn’t matter. He even emptied the remains of the bowl after he ran out of papers and hit the old dirty bong, finger painting what should be a mouth. 

Another email came in, from another less polite, more impatient client, and he ignored it. His work group chat pinged, and he ignored it. The ash portrait glared at him from the corner of the room. He ignored it. The cartoon intro song played again. The sun set. He went to roll another joint, three times, and ran out of tobacco as he compensated. By the time the unreliable weed guy responded, Grantaire was practically vibrating.

There was a vague feeling he was forgetting to do something, but he reasoned that he was very much not doing those things on purpose, so he ignored it.

Two hours later, Grantaire was down $280, up an ounce of bud, and running late to an Amis meeting. That gas bill was still overdue and unpaid, his taxes were still undone (from last year), his rent would be due soon, but the $280 was gone now, so these were problem’s for later Grantaire. 

He’ll deal with it.

The apologetic smile/wince Grantaire threw to Joly as he entered and interrupted him was genuine. The wink he threw to Enjolras was exaggerated for effect, but it landed all the same. Enjolras stumbled a bit on whatever he was typing, backspaced, corrected, and then sent a pointed glare at Grantaire.

Oh, right, that’s what he had been forgetting. Grantaire had been rostered on to take minutes at today's meeting. He’d explicitly agreed, to Enjolras of all people, that he’d be here on time with a laptop or at least a pen and paper. “I do own at least one of those, sweetheart,” he’d said, obnoxious as ever. 

He checked the time. 55 minutes late. 

Would “I had to go with my unreliable weed guy because I owe the reliable guy too much money and he’s always late” work? He knew it wouldn’t. He also knew that he had also been 15 minutes late to the deal too, which - let the record show, your honour - he had knowingly arranged to be at the same time as the meeting. Even to him the excuse was weak. He was fucked.

Unapologetically confident asshole approach it was, then. He threw his jacket on the table carelessly across from Enjolras and reached over to tap the side of his old barely functioning laptop for full effect.

“Careful which program you use to take notes, angel, so many of them are using AI these days. Wouldn’t want to empty an entire bottle of water just to spell check ‘consensus’ now, would we?” Grantaire winked again just to be a little shit.

And, well, that set him off.

-

Free of his minute taking obligations, Grantaire was able to zone out and successfully not take in a single thing they spoke about around him as he emptied glasses and rolled some joints and ciggies for later. 

He sensed the movement around him as everyone packed up, but he did his best to avoid hopeful glances in Enjolras’ direction as he called goodbye to those heading out the door, and because he only “did his best”, he only ended up looking at him three times.

The third time they made eye contact.

Enjolras didn’t even bother to raise an eyebrow, and Grantaire knew what was going to happen.

“Like I even have to try with you.”

Grantaire wanted so bad to prove him wrong. He wanted so badly to defy him, to spite him, to make Enjolras have to try. Make Enjolras prove he wanted this just as bad as he did. But he knew it wouldn’t be tonight. He simply wasn’t strong enough.

He wanted Enjolras more than he wanted to prove Enjolras wrong.

“You look terrible,” Enjolras said when they were alone.

Grantaire sighed. “Your place or mine?”

Might as well skip to the good bit, he figured.

Grantaire delivered on his promise of “godly head”. Enjolras delivered on his promise, to keep in mind that he didn’t have to stay the night in Grantaire’s bed.

Grantaire woke up alone, the memory of a God in his bed.

Bitterly, he hated him. 

Chapter Text

Grantaire sliding down to his knees, looking up through dark clumped lashes with equal parts worship and hatred, whatever clever quip he was about to say gone and replaced with Enjolras’ fingers.

“There you go, put your mouth to better use.”

A cut off moan. The feeling of curls gripped in his fist, a handhold enough to grab and pull. A desperate need to destroy something.

Something below him, begging to be destroyed.

Enjolras needed to focus. 

There were about a thousand things he needed to do, and reliving the last night he spent with Grantaire was not one of them. He was in between two snap meetings, one with some local union groups the Amis allied with to support them for an upcoming snap rally, one with a local radio station to organise speakers and microphones and advertising for said snap rally. There was a fundraising event that evening, and he had about twenty action items that he’d put his hand up for in the last meeting, despite being busy taking minutes because of fucking Grantaire.

Something begging to be destroyed.

Focus.

He started making headway on a few of the action items on the way to the radio station: sent a few emails, started drafting that press release, and replied to Combeferre that yes, he ate today.

And yes, a single granola bar does count.

Fuck, food! He quickly opened the mutual aid group chat and replied to some meal recipients, that yes they could get someone to deliver tonight and yes, before they could ask, it was Bahorel who cooked it, not Enjolras.

They replied with a laughing but relieved emoji.

In and out of another meeting, on and off another tram - a quick break in his email writing to report the ticket inspectors on the community lookout page - some more action items ticked off, and Enjolras got home with just enough time to grab a jacket with enough warmth for the rapidly cooling night before he was back out the door.

“Nothing about us without us” was printed on a banner above a red door, and Enjolras knew with a comforting warmth he was at the right place even before he saw Musichetta just inside the door greeting people and accepting donations. The night was a fundraising event for the sex worker peer support organisation that Musichetta worked for. She’d invited all of their friends to come show support, although many of them were in the community themselves and would have come anyway. Enjolras included.

Inside she kissed his cheek and he bought an entry ticket, she gave him a coloured wrist band to correspond with his preference for being photographed - pink for yes, he was out in his private life and face out in his ads, and it’s not like he could get any more disowned for it.

He ran into three people he knew on the way in, and waved a hello to Jehan and Bahorel, already placing their pledges for the silent art auction, a competitive energy between them that Enjolras was keen not to get in the middle of. They were regarding a piece that stood out to Enjolras, a textiles piece that he hesitated to call a carpet, picturing a glistening thigh high latex boot pressing down on a wet looking lollipop.

Shiny black boots pushing down into the plump skin of Grantaire’s thigh, just enough pressure, just enough of a threat. 

“Are you going to take them off for me?”

“I don’t know, will we get further into the house than the doorway? Are you going to stay long enough for it to matter?”

That look in his eyes as he asked it. The hopelessness, the desperation, the rage, the resignation, the love. The layers of all the questions he was really asking.

Are you going to stay? Are you going to stay?

That choking feeling, the oppressive weight of the stare, the fingers pushed back into the wet heat of his mouth, the boot grinding down further.

The silence of the flat, broken only by Grantaire’s deep breathing, the unknowingly honest sound he made in his sleep when Enjolras started to pull away. The door shutting behind him, locking before he can change his mind.  

He left Jehan and Bahorel to bid over the stupid boot carpet thing.

Looking around, Enjolras knew most of the people running the event and even more guests from varying community organising efforts, allied mutual aid and community groups. It was easy to let the warmth and love he had for the intersecting communities represented fill that aching emptiness (bitterness, resentment, anger, ugly, ugly longing) inside at the thought of…

And there he was. Of course he was. Grantaire.

One look said he hadn’t slept well. (Without him, his mind supplied without his consent. Grantaire hadn’t slept well without him there. Good.) 

But Enjolras did not indulge whatever desire it was to see Grantaire in pain, because he was not that person, and he knew that was a lie but when wasn’t he lying to himself about Grantaire recently. Never again. Just one more time. I don’t want him. I don’t need him. I don’t-

He had more important things to do. More important than himself, more important than Grantaire. 

He spent most of the night talking, shaking hands and kissing cheeks, turning away from one conversation to see someone else he knew, getting pulled from person to person throughout the night. There were a fair few people who were on the working committee for the snap rally Enjolras was helping throw together, so it was a good chance to chase up on a few things while technically outside of business hours.

There were performers every half hour or so doing sensual floor and pole routines, removing their clothes and accepting tips from the paper money that was available to purchase for $20 each upon entry. Enjolras clapped with everyone else, enjoying the show insofar as he could appreciate the artistry and labour of his fellow comrades even if he probably wasn't the target audience as far as arousal went. Only one of the performers was close to masc, and had by far the most memorable set to Enjolras - his interest was piqued when they came out with a swishy and glittery multi-tailed whip as a prop, he wondered if it had metal in it, and if that would hurt more on impact -  but they still weren’t anything close to his type.

The whole time, he had an awareness of Grantaire.

He was enjoying the show, that was, until Grantaire approached the tattooed, mulletted, non-binary dancer who was down to the one remaining garment, and after asking for consent, tucked five of the $20-value paper money tokens into the strap of their black g-string. 

The dancer smiled at Grantaire devilishly and winked. Enjolras couldn't see the expression Grantaire made back, but he did see his blush when he turned back around and eased himself back into the audience. It was the blush that got him the most. The blush meant that it wasn't just a display for attention, the blush meant… something. He just didn't know what, but he knew he didn't like it.

Something in the back of his brain liked how Grantaire blushed for him. Just for him.

He ignored that part. He always ignored it.

It was Combeferre who grounded him, a hand outreached with an offered cigarette. Outside a handful of people had bought their paper cups out and formed a few circles while they smoked and chatted, and Enjolras and Combeferre introduced themselves as they joined them, making it clear they were an independent worker and a civilian ally respectively before anyone shared something they might not want to. They ended up pulled into a lengthy conversation about someone’s workplace, and before long Enjolras had dipped inside and returned with Musichetta, connecting the two so the worker could take advantage of some well deserved peer support that Musichetta or her coworkers could offer.

When he turned to Combeferre, he was watching him with a bemused expression. After a second he laughed and held out a lighter.

Oh, right, the cigarette! Unlit, still between his two fingers where he’d held it passively during the conversation with the workers, so engrossed in the conversation, the problem at hand and the solution he knew could exist if he made the right connection, that he’d forgotten to actually smoke it. Enjolras sheepishly accepted the light, and Combeferre lit his own and smoked alongside him in the calm companionable silence that only he could bring.

“Has today been as long for you as it has for me?” Combeferre asked after a few minutes, when the cigarettes were almost burned out. 

Enjolras let his head fall back to the brick wall behind him on the exhale. It had been a long day. He’d left Grantaire’s place just after 3am, and by the time he got home it was closer to four, and the half assed dinner of muesli and oat milk was more of a breakfast, so he’d just showered and taken his meds and started the day then.

“Today has been a long. Fucking. Day.” Enjolras agreed. 

Combeferre hummed and stubbed out the remains of his cigarette, held his hand out to collect Enjolras’ when he was done and disposed of the two butts in the bin a few steps away.

“Hey Enj,” he said as he returned and Enjolras straightened up to go back inside. “Do me a favour, yeah?”

“Anything,” Enjolras had answered before he could even think.

Combeferre smiled, clapped Enjolras on the shoulder softly. “Do something for yourself. Something nice.”

Enjolras scoffed and bumped his shoulder into Combeferre’s as they reentered the building and caught the tail end of the last performances. Knowing that the night was nearly over and he had a few of the paper money left to hand out, he handed the notes over to the performer as she passed him. Hand to hand, respectful, none of this depositing the money into a g-string business, Grantaire.

The MC invited the crowd to make good use of the makeshift stage the performers had been using as a makeshift dance floor, and Enjolras stayed clear, checking in with the workers he’d referred to Musichetta outside. Enjolras accepted a drink that Combeferre offered him, and was pleasantly surprised to find that it was punch with a considerable amount of fruit pieces floating in it and a toothpick oh so temptingly sticking out of a piece of watermelon. It wasn’t until he was two conversations over and had been idly munching on fruit the whole time that he realised the punch-fruit combo was probably a ploy to get some solid food into him. 

Oh well, his meds were starting to wear off and he was finally getting hungry again. He fished out a strawberry and happily ate it, ignored the guy two tables over who was clearly a client and giving him way too obvious eyes, and considered what Combeferre had said. Requested. 

Do something for yourself. Something nice.

Something… nice.

Something below him, begging to be destroyed.

Nope.

Out of the corner of his eye, because of course it was: Grantaire.

On that makeshift dance floor, body loose and fluid, twirling Musichetta, trying to coax Bossuet in to join them with dark exaggerated come hither eyes and a wicked smile. Fuck him. Fuck him and his joy and his confidence and his fucking feelings and all that fucking love.

Why did Enjolras want him so much right now?

Grantaire didn’t succeed in luring Bossuet onto the dance floor, he made a show of humble defeat as he left Bossuet and Joly to return to Joly’s laughing colleagues from the harm reduction organisation that shared the office with the sex worker peer org. He did seem to catch the eye of someone else, though, and Enjolras watched it like a play as that same fucking tattooed, mulletted, non-binary dancer from before approached him with sultry eyes and confidence, and after an exchange he couldn’t possibly hear, the two of them started to dance together. 

Hip to hip. Chest to chest. The dancer turned around and pressed back against Grantaire’s body. Grantaire was whispering in their ear. 

Enjolras squeezed the flimsy compostable cup he was holding so hard it crumpled in his hand, spilling what was left of his drink over his shirt.

“That's him?” And for fuck’s sake. It was Montparnasse. “That's the guy you used me to fuck out of your system?”

“What are you doing here?” 

“There's an open bar, and I heard there was a fundraiser,” Montparnasse shrugged.

“I didn't take you as one to donate to a community organisation.”

“I'm not. I am one to pinch a little from a certain unlocked box full of cash at the door.” 

Enjolras narrowed his eyes. 

“Relax, princess. I'm here to stalk you, obviously.”

“Well you can fuck off.”

“It all makes sense now. I know why I fucked you-” 

For the record, the reason that Montparnasse had cornered Enjolras one night when he was fresh off the breakup, decidedly not feeling anything about it, and just drunk enough to say yes and regret it, was because Enjolras was, direct quote: “like my twisted, inverted twin,” and Montparnasse was narcissistic enough to be very turned on by that fact. Enjolras could see the surface similarities in their facial features and body types, and to be honest it had put him off when they actually were in bed together. 

However, Montparnasse was polar opposite to Grantaire, physically speaking. Which is why Enjolras texted him again a few weeks later, the day he'd seen Grantaire the first time post breakup, when he, again, was not feeling anything.

“-but I could never figure out why Mr. Holy and Righteous Enjolras would text me at ten to midnight. You treated me like a booty call. What’s worse, I then find out it's because you're rebounding from that guy.”

“I'm not, and have never been ‘rebounding’,” Enjolras hissed out each syllable through his teeth, “because it wasn't a relationship worthy of the term; and you weren’t worth of the term ‘booty call’. If you remember correctly, I texted you at ten to midnight because I knew you'd have cans of spray paint and I was-”

“Yeah, I know how the little ‘I’m a rabble rouser with a cause’ routine goes. It's funny how the night started with ‘Montparnasse please I need red spray paint and I can't tell you why’ and ended with ‘please fuck me harder!’”

“Will you lower your fucking voice?” Enjolras snapped. Ironically, it was his volume on that one that drew attention, from a few of the closest people and, Enjolras’ eyes snapped up to check without his bidding, from Grantaire.

He took in Enjolras and Montparnasse with a questioning scowl, and Enjolras glared back. The last thing he needed was Grantaire to get involved with this.

Grantaire turned back to the dancer.

He turned away from Enjolras.

He didn’t look back. He didn’t walk over. He very much did not get involved.

Why did that make Enjolras angrier?

It was Musichetta who swept in with professional ease, asked with that knowing voice if everything was alright over here, and put a calming hand on the back of Enjolras’ with a squeeze when Montparnasse coolly turned and left without complaint. 

If Enjolras spent the rest of the night pouting in Grantaire’s general direction, watching him take advantage of that open bar, watching him whisper low in the ear of the dancer, watching him glance back in Enjolras’ direction to check if he was still there… well. That was neither here nor there. 

The truth was, Enjolras loved seeing Grantaire crash and burn. He loved to see how messy and desperate and empty he could be, relished in it, because that meant it was real. That Grantaire lost the best thing he ever had.

It would be the worst thing ever if Grantaire was fine. In moments like this, where he looked close to it, close to free, Enjolras wanted to scream.

It was wrong, it was cruel, and he knew with anyone else he wouldn’t be thinking like this, wouldn’t be acting like this. What bitter disgusting ugliness only Grantaire could draw out of him. 

When they were actually “together”, it was a fucking mess. Stupid, reckless, neither of them knew how to love let alone be loved. Enjolras had only said yes to the initial date because he figured it was easier and more convenient to have someone regular and reliable to hook up with outside of work. Here was someone who was attractive enough, trusted by his friends, his type, and asking. And he genuinely didn’t give a shit about Enjolras’ job, so if it meant he didn’t have to run the gauntlet that is dating apps while out as a sex worker, that was a bonus. 

When they’d first gone to bed together, (on the first date because Enjolras was upfront about everything he wanted, and saw no use in wasting time), the sex spoke for itself. Cost-benefit analysis: at first, Grantaire was worth it.

Here’s where the problem lay: Enjolras’ idea of a relationship was a trusted and consistent comrade who met his sexual needs, someone he loved as far as he loved anyone in his community. Someone he’d die for, fight for, be their emergency call. That was how he loved everybody.

But romantic love? He had never felt a need for it and felt no loss without it, so it wasn’t even a consideration. His friends, his most trusted circle, they were his life companions. He didn’t need anything more than them. 

The sex with Grantaire was perfect, even if he came to realise Grantaire was less trustworthy or consistent than he’d first assumed, even as he came to learn that Grantaire believed in nothing, even as Grantaire disappointed him time and time again. He came to regret ever saying yes that night, realised months too long into their time together that he had been setting tests subconsciously and Grantaire was proficient in failure.

But the sex was perfect. It never stopped being perfect.

By the end they were either fucking, or fighting in such cruel agonising thrilling ways that seemed to tear a black hole in Enjolras’ world. In the rare moments of peace, Enjolras got frustrated whenever Grantaire showed too much. Whenever he looked at him with a bit too much love, or obsession. He felt like whatever it was Grantaire was expecting of him, he couldn't match up to it. 

And whatever it was Grantaire felt, he didn't know if he could ever feel it back.

He kept wondering if there could have been a better way to do it, to gently let him down, to keep his distance, to break Grantaire’s heart with at least a little bit of dignity. He didn’t. It had exploded, both of them cruel and biting, so much resentment, so much anger, so much underneath it that Enjolras couldn’t name but ate him alive. 

Grantaire told Enjolras he'd never achieve any of his dreams, and Enjolras told Grantaire he was incapable of having dreams. That maybe Enjolras won't make it, but Grantaire will never amount to anything because he’ll never imagine himself amounting to anything, because he will never have enough of a dream or a goal or a purpose to be anything. 

Of course Enjolras delivered the killing blow. “The best you could ever hope to do with your life is have me, and you never will. Don’t come back.”

But he did. He came back, again and again and again. Just like Enjolras wanted him to, even as he hated them both for it.

And when he didn’t, tried to prove he wouldn’t, Enjolras hated him for it. Hated them both for it.

Enjolras didn’t understand any of it, not what happened, and not what he felt. And no amount of abusing his ADHD meds and overthinking things could make it make sense. He’d tried, one time, and then determined the entire exercise and entire situation a waste of time and energy. Time and energy that could always, always, be better spent.

There were so many great things Enjolras could be doing for his community, for the real love of his life, if he only had the time. Every moment he had to dedicate to them, he did. This, right here, the people around him working to keep each other safe, the people who grieved losses and celebrated wins together in rooms like this, this was what his life’s purpose was, what he’d promised himself to. Anything else was a non-starter in his mind.

By the time things were wrapping up Enjolras was back in motion, namely because he couldn’t help himself from helping the clean up efforts. He put himself at the disposal of Musichetta’s coworkers, packing up chairs and tables. He was even able to swoop in when he overheard a debate over what to do with the leftovers from the free dinner provided, linking them up with Bahorel who was all too eager to take them on behalf of the mutual aid food group.

He had just finished packing the food containers into Bahorel’s car, waving goodbyes to people as they filtered out around them, when one of the organisers caught his eye around a conversation they were having with a community member. 

“Sorry, one second,” she said to the other person, and then to Enjolras, “I think that’s everyone out, I was gonna do a last sweep of bathrooms before I lock up, but…” she indicated back to the conversation she was in.

“I’ve got it,” Enjolras assured her.

Inside most of the lights were out, Enjolras went through the rec room they’d been using for the event, through the long hallway leading to the offices the sex worker peer and harm reduction organisations rented and worked out of, stopped off to briefly let some people washing dishes in the office kitchen that they’d be locking up, but they had their own key.

Inside the bathroom, he noticed that the door to one cubicle was closed with the light inside spilling under the narrow gap of the doorframe. Enjolras knocked on the bathroom door and politely called out that the event was wrapping up and the door would be locking soon. He turned to leave and let whoever it was wash up in peace, but stopped when he heard a sound from inside the cubicle. The hair on the back of his neck stood up.

A low sound. A moan, distant, as if smothered under a hand.

A “shh”. A giggle. Fabric rustling. The door rattling as someone tried to push and pull and then it unlocked and was successfully pushed again. 

Grantaire spilled out of the cubicle, breathless and red faced and shirt buttons half undone, and Enjolras vaguely caught the sight of the mulleted dancer, in a similar state and tucked into Grantaire’s side, but he couldn’t care less about them. 

For the brief second before Grantaire registered him, he looked so alive. So free. Laughing, giddy with the rush of being caught. He was so fucking beautiful.

It was the worst thing in the world.

Grantaire visibly sobered as soon as their eyes met, and Enjolras couldn’t say what his face was doing but knew it wasn’t good. He saw the emotions crossing Grantaire’s face - shock, fear, guilt, anger, resentment, satisfaction. Honest and open as a book, as always.

Oblivious, or maybe entirely tuned in, the dancer apologised for holding him up and started to slide past him, tugging Grantaire with them.

Enjolras’ hand enclosed Grantaire’s wrist as he passed. He looked down at it at the same moment Grantaire did, as if he was just as surprised as Grantaire was by his own movement. He didn't remember deciding to do that. 

“A word?” He heard himself say. He couldn’t imagine words were passing that thing he felt lodged in his throat, but he heard them just the same.

Grantaire’s face was a picture of brutal vulnerability in return.

Grantaire opened his mouth to answer, but just sucked in air. Nothing came out. The dancer said something else, and admittedly, Enjolras may have glared at them. They seemed to receive the message.

The dancer slipped out of Grantaire’s orbit, and Enjolras registered “thanks for the tip” through the ringing in his ears as they turned and stalked off, leaving Grantaire safely enclosed within the ring of his hand.

Enjolras guessed he had about three more minutes of grace before Musichetta’s coworker came in herself to look for stragglers. He selfishly hoped that the peer she was clearly getting the details of to arrange some support work was the type to trauma dump at the first chance they got.  

Grantaire was watching the dancer walk away with a little bit too much disappointment in his eyes. That wouldn’t do. Enjolras needed those eyes on him. 

“What. The. Fuck. Was. That?” Grantaire hissed out. It was only on the last word that those expressive hateful longing eyes landed back on Enjolras.

He didn’t pull his wrist away, but he did hold his chin up with defiance. Enjolras wanted to grab his chin too, hold his face there so he couldn’t look away again, couldn’t chase anyone else with those hungry eyes. But he didn’t.

Honestly, the amount of restraint it took to be around Grantaire. Enjolras deserved a medal for his strength.

He did answer, though, that strange foreign force controlling his voice without his knowing command. 

“What the fuck was that?” He spat back. His hand spasmed, and so did something in Grantaire’s face. Pain, though emotional or physical he couldn't tell. 

Something begging to be destroyed.

“None of your fucking business, which is what you were asking for when you dumped me. You don’t get to burst in here now and be pissed about anything,” Grantaire insisted.

“That is exactly what you want me to do. Why else would you still be here? Why else would have come here to pick up at all?”

Grantaire had a second of looking caught out, before he sneered back: “Like I even have to try with you.”

It was cruel. He had known it when he had thrown those very words like a knife, carelessly over his shoulder while leaving Grantaire’s bed days earlier. It was cruel now when he heard it back, and knew it was just as true.

Enjolras gave in, for a second, and with his free hand he gripped Grantaire hard by the chin. He saw Grantaire’s eyes widen in surprise, anticipation, fear. Just as fast, Enjolras released him, both chin and wrist, and either because Enjolras shoved or because Grantaire wasn’t steady on his feet, he wasn’t sure, but Grantaire stumbled back into the doorframe. 

Enjolras saw himself in his mind, following Grantaire with his body and closing him in that small space so he couldn’t get away. He didn’t. 

Restraint.

“I don’t know why I’m still here,” Enjolras said coolly.

He didn’t move to walk away, but Grantaire grabbed a fistfull of Enjolras’ shirt all the same.

“Yes, you do,” he said. Confident, daring, desperate, hoping, doubting.  

Yes. He did. 

Grantaire barely had to tug before Enjolras was following the pull, grabbing his chin again to pull his head up, biting his way past Grantaire’s lips. Let him replace the taste of anyone else who dared lay claim to Grantaire’s mouth. Let them be chased away, gone, forgotten, nothing in Grantaire’s mind or memory.

Fuck you and your stupid fucking mullet. He’s mine.

His body did as he had imagined, crowded Grantaire up against the hard bumpy panel of the door frame. It must have hurt, Grantaire hissed at the impact against his back. 

Good, let him hurt a little bit more. There was something so delicious about how Grantaire tasted when he hissed in pain. About those sounds he made for Enjolras.

Enjolras bit Grantaire’s lip without thinking. Grantaire groaned. Yes, just like that.

His free hand found Grantaire’s wrist again, pinned it to the wall just to hear what it’d bring out of him. A sharp ah!

Grantaire was hard against him, maybe he already was from whatever he was doing before - no he was hard here, now, against Enjolras. For Enjolras, gasping into his mouth, pulling him in harder, pushing up with his hips.

It would be so easy to give in and finish this here. He could see it, pulling Grantaire back into the very stall he was in, demanding to know what Grantaire had been doing, forcing him into that sweet shame of recreating it with Enjolras. 

But there was something else he wanted more, he realised with clarity. A need that had been building in the pit of his stomach all day, maybe longer. He could see it now, hear it now, and he needed to have enough restraint to actualise it.

Before he had the strength to pull back and ask, the lights above them from both the bathroom and in the hallway went out with a loud click. They pulled apart as if caught, although neither of them really let go, and it was clear there was no one there in the dark with them. The lights must be automatic, or controlled at the other end of the hallway where Musichetta’s coworkers were closing up.

His window of opportunity was fading, so Enjolras didn’t give himself the usual time to think and plan his approach.

“Come home with me,” he whispered. Whispering felt appropriate, here in the dark. 

It was all the better that he couldn’t see whatever Grantaire’s face did in response. But, without his expressions to track, Enjolras felt a sudden fear that he would say no. He pulled Grantaire back in by his chin, kissed him harshly again, and was about to repeat himself when Grantaire finally said yes.

He was pulling back, triumphant and already planning the fastest route home when Grantaire asked: “Combeferre?”

“He’s catching up with some old work friends after this, he won't be home for a few hours.” Enjolras said. 

Grantaire nodded. “Okay,” he said. Solemn.

Outside, Musichetta schooled him with one unimpressed eyebrow when he came out with Grantaire. Secretly, Enjolras wished that it had been her coworker hanging around to lock the doors, but she was nowhere to be seen, and neither was the peer she was talking to. If any of their friends were going to see them emerge together, it could have at least been Bahorel and his car, but he had cleared the place too. 

Grantaire shot Musichetta a look, and murmered his goodbye. He was already pulling a joint and a lighter out of his pocket. They walked around a corner, until they were out of sight of Musichetta and anyone else on the main road, and Enjolras let him smoke while he ordered a ride. It would only be fifteen minutes on the tram, tops, but he was too restless for the wait and the walk home, so he’d pay the extra and cop the eventual criticism for being a hypocrite from Grantaire.

If Grantaire had thoughts about the choice, he didn’t voice them, just hummed quietly to himself and puffed on the joint. The smoke floated over and into Enjolras’ space. Enjolras had to admit, it smelt good, warm, welcoming, but it was always the way Grantaire looked when he smoked that made it so tempting.

Enjolras’ phone pinged, the ride was connected, with a two minute wait. Without Musichetta’s eyes on them, Enjolras had no hesitations in corning Grantaire against the wall he was leaning back on, a hand on either side of his head.

“Want something?” Grantaire teased.

“You know what I want.”

Grantaire took another long drag, grabbed the back of Enjolras head, leaned in, breathed the smoke into Enjolras’ open mouth. Enjolras took a second to breathe it in, then allowed himself the simple pleasure of really kissing Grantaire. It earned him another surprised, satisfied sound. 

He leaned back just enough to blow the now diluted smoke out of his lungs, and then went to lean back in and capture Grantaire’s mouth again. He barely had a moment to enjoy it when his phone buzzed and alerted him of their ride’s arrival.

Not five minutes later they were back at Enjolras and Combeferre’s place, and Enjolras had not wasted a single minute, a hand on Grantaire’s thigh, squeezing gently, his mind racing with all the plans he was hastily putting together. Something to satiate that need clawing itself up inside him.

Something below him, begging to be destroyed.

He had plenty of toys at home, paddles, whips, the riding crop, they’d all known the taste of Grantaire’s skin before. He laid them all out in his mind, wondering how much he could get away with using on Grantaire in such short notice. The answer was a lot, and he knew it. Grantaire would give him as much as he asked for, he would keep giving, and giving, and giving.

Hadn’t that been the problem?

No, not right now. Focus. 

He had something more important to do.

Enjolras let them in and didn’t give Grantaire a second before he was on him again, and it was too easy to push him back across the threshold and fit his hands on his body like they were meant to be there, to taste him and feel the way he responded like Enjolras was everything.

No one had ever kissed him like that. Held him like that. Loved him like-

Nope.

“I hate you so fucking much,” Enjolras said, pulling back just enough to breathe the words into Grantaire’s mouth and he knew it was the right and wrong thing as soon as he did it. From this close, he could see it in Grantaire’s eyes. What was it, he couldn't say, couldn't wrap it up in a single word. Never could, with these things. All he knew is it was the right thing, yet it was wholly wrong, but it got him what he wanted, so he stopped analysing right about there.

What he wanted: Grantaire’s hands on him. His hands on Grantaire. To hold him, to hold him so hard it hurt. 

He stopped analysing right about there.

They stumbled a bit when clothes started coming off, Grantaire tangled in one sleeve, a bitten off laugh in his mouth, Enjolras stopped and grinned and in that moment they both giggled and their foreheads almost touched and it was more intimate than any sex he’d ever had.

Something nice. 

When they got to the bedroom, Grantaire hesitated. He always did, before entering Enjolras’ bedroom, Enjolras noticed when he started hesitating too. Was it because this is where it happened? Was that why Grantaire’s breath hitched and he faltered when he hit the threshold?

Enjolras distracted him with a kiss, brought him back to that fleeting intimacy, let their bodies fall through the doorway without direction from their minds. Let his hands roam and grab the soft curves of Grantaire’s exposed torso, his hips, scratching nails down his back. Further down, pulling away just enough to undo Grantaire’s pants and shove them down along with his boxers so he could grab fistfuls of his ass and squeeze. Grantaire was moaning into his mouth, Enjolras couldn’t say what sounds he was making, but was glad Combeferre wasn’t in the next room to overhear. 

Enjolras wanted to enjoy this.

He pushed Grantaire down onto the bed, crawled over him in seconds, took his time touching and grabbing and kissing and grinding his clothed cock against Grantaire’s, something so hot about having Grantaire laid bare for him while he still had his pants on, his belt still done up even. 

He knew what it was he wanted, what he’d been craving with desperate hunger all day, what would soothe the ache in his chest. But strangely, it was the soft giggling closeness they’d shared moments before that now gave him the courage to ask for it. 

“Grantaire,” he breathed. Grantaire moaned in response, Enjolras caught it in his mouth, then continued. “There’s something I want.”

He expected a quip, about how they wouldn’t be in the bedroom, already out of half their clothes, if Enjolras didn’t want something. Instead Grantaire just breathed out: “anything.”

Enjolras’ heart stuttered over a beat. He had to get this back on track, before it felt too real.

“Traffic light system,” he started, and Grantaire blinked, then smirked in understanding.

“Now we’re talking,” he said. 

So far so good, Enjolras grabbed Grantaire’s chin again, lightly, just enough pressure to suggest pain. 

“Green,” Grantaire breathed, before Enjolras could even ask.

Enjolras let the smallest huff of satisfaction leave his lips. The slightest smile.

“I want to hurt you.” Enjolras stated.

“No shit, assho-” Grantaire started, but Enjolras squeezed his chin harder, pulled his face up the slightest inch, and he shut up. Good. Enjolras let his hand travel further down, a gentle pressure on the sides of his windpipe, but he didn’t push. Yet.

“Green,” Grantaire whispered again. 

“That’s better,” Enjolras said. Grantaire blushed slightly. He’d never been the best with praise.

Pain, he took beautifully.

“I want to hurt you,” he said again, squeezing down just slightly more and feeling Grantaire swallow under his palm. “And I want you to ask me for it.”

Grantaire sucked in a breath, Enjolras could feel the muscles working under his grasp.

“Nicely,” he added, before Grantaire could say something and ruin this.

“You are such a sadist.” Grantaire mused. 

“And you’re such a masochist,” Enjolras said, and then, like some cruel impulse, “that’s why we work-”

“Don’t,” Grantaire cut him off, his face changing in an instant. “You have my permission to hurt me physically, Enjolras. Not like that.”

It was fair to say. They both knew it wasn’t true. 

“Then ask for it.”

Enjolras could see Grantaire’s desire warring with the chasm of hurt he knew was reserved just for him. He held his grip around Grantaire’s throat, and waited.

“Please,” Grantaire choked out.

Enjolras didn’t quite laugh, but suggested it in his scoff. “We both know you can do better than that,” he mocked.

God it felt so good, to get to be so cruel.

“Hurt me, Enjolras. Please, fuck!” He pushed up against Enjolras’ hand and then threw his head back against the bed in frustration. “Beat me, bite me, choke me. Whatever you want to do to me, do it. You know I’m yours to bruise, yours to scar. You know I want it, it’s that what you want me to admit? That I want you to hurt me.”

“You want me to destroy you,” Enjolras growled. 

Grantaire’s breath hitched. “Then destroy me. You know you can. Please, Enjolras, please destroy me.”

Enjolras pulled his hand back, only for a moment, but long enough for Grantaire to whine at the loss. But then Enjolras had let himself fall down onto Grantaire, and bit into the muscle of his shoulder right where it met his neck. 

Grantaire gasped in pain, then made the most beautiful sound for him. Under his teeth, Enjolras could swear something crunched, and he forced his jaw to loosen with a deep regret. He soothed over the marks with his tongue instantly, licking and then sucking on the spot to make more of a mark, since it was already clear his teeth marks were going to be bruised into Grantaire’s skin.

Everyone who saw him would see he was claimed. Good.

“Turn around for me,” Enjolras said, right into Grantaire’s ear, and felt him shudder. He pulled back enough to lean back into a kneel and watch Grantaire do as he was told. For fucking once.

All of those plans, the reason he had suggested they go back to his place, the toys and tools in a box under the bed were all forgotten as he watched Grantaire, seeing more of him exposed as he turned over. It would take him two seconds to pull away, rummage under the bed, find the paddle or whips, but still, he didn’t want his hands off Grantaire for even that long.

His hands found the belt around his waist, and he hurried to undo it. Grantaire was looking over his shoulder with anticipation, his eyes wide as he realised what Enjolras was doing.

“Head down, I don’t want you to see it coming,” Enjolras instructed. Then: “colour?”

“Green.”

It could choke him, how much trust was laid bare in that room. 

He folded the belt over itself, laid it against the curve of Grantaire’s ass so he was always in contact. He didn’t want to leave Grantaire untouched or untethered in anticipation for too long. He considered the feel in his hand, it was a long belt, and thick. He folded it again, held the metal of the buckle in his grasp so it wouldn’t get Grantaire, tested the heft in his hands for a few seconds. Tested the swing, one hand still on Grantaire, a grounding pressure in the small of his back.

“I’m going to give you a few to find a starting pace, and I’m only going to go harder from there, so tell me honestly how hard to start with.” He instructed. 

Grantaire nodded, then lifted his face up enough from the mattress to whisper: “Green.”

Enjolras took one deep grounding breath. In and out.

Everything in the world narrowed down to this. Belt in hand, Grantaire below him, the sweet anticipation.

Nothing else mattered. 

He brought the grounding hand down from the small of Grantaire’s back to squeeze and hold his left asscheek, took a few moments to amuse himself, since Grantaire was there and oh so grabbable. He slapped a few times, short stinging slaps sending a stunning jiggle through the fat of his ass and down his thighs.

The first smack of the leather on Grantaire’s right asscheek was softer than both of them would have liked, he knew even before Grantaire said: “Harder.”

Enjolras smiled, fully and happily and so pleased. 

Five more strokes, gradually increasing the intensity, and Grantaire stopped him. “There, that’s good to start.”

“Good,” Enjolras said. Grantaire shivered.

Enjolras couldn’t help it, he bent over and pressed a small kiss to the middle of Grantaire’s back, as high as he could reach. It was a soft muffled gasp in response, and Grantaire’s face pushed further into the bed.

“Come on,” Grantaire groaned into the sheets. Enjolras pulled back and indulged him, indulged them both. 

One stroke of the belt across the left asscheek, harder than any of the others and clearly more of a shock on the untouched side. But it didn’t quite land how he wanted, Enjolras adjusted his grip, did another practice swing without making contact, and then started in earnest.

Front stroke, backstroke, left cheek, right cheek. Front, back, front stroke, quick like slap slap slap, making Grantaire’s skin dance deliciously. Right cheek, left cheek, left cheek again, right cheek and down to unleash some rapid fire strokes across his thighs.

One small one, barely a hit and more of a whisper, just to the underside of Grantaire’s balls. Grantaire threw his head back and hissed in sharply.

Adjusting the intensity, Enjolras delivered a few more fast ones, stretching Grantaire’s cheeks with his other hand to land the impact along Grantaire’s hole and taint and balls, just light enough to sting without truly causing pain.

“Fuck, ange.”

Enjolras had never had any affinity for music, piano lessons had been wasted on him as a child, but he adored drawing Grantaire out and playing him like an instrument. 

While his cheeks were still spread, and the temptation was too great and there was nothing there to stop him, Enjolras spat on him, aiming it to land in between his cheeks to make his hole glisten under the soft lighting.

He followed the saliva’s movement down with the pad of his thumb, gently massaging against the ring of muscle. Grantaire moaned, pushed back into the pressure, silently asking for more. Enjolras’ hard cock twitched in response. 

Enjolras’ other hand was ready with the belt, he landed four quick strikes that he laid on the outside of his ass, taking Grantaire by surprise and turning those moans into something deeper and more guttural. 

His ass and thighs were starting to welt up, so nice, pretty and red on the pale skin, underneath the thick dark hair. Enjolras drew the nails of his free hand across them, leaving sharp red lines behind. 

The phrase “rubbing salt in the wound” came to his mind.

And then an idea. Yes, if he could hold off and do this right. He pushed his hard cock, straining against his pants, to Grantaire’s ass for some pressure, some needed relief at the thought of what he wanted to do. At the mental image.

But that was getting ahead of himself. He grabbed a handful of Grantaire’s hair and yanked his head up enough for him to speak.

“How much harder can you take?” He asked.

“Try me,” Grantaire challenged, but his voice was already hazy and lacking the usual edge. Enjolras squeezed his grip of hair, gave another yank and then pushed him back down just as hard. 

“No,” he growled. “You’re going to tell me. You're going to tell me the truth. And what you want, you’re going to ask me for it. Nicely. How much harder can you take?” 

He pulled his head back again, space to speak.

Grantaire swallowed, and Enjolras knew he was really thinking about it now so he allowed him the extra time to work it out in the hazy bliss his mind would be by now.

“More. Not… not your hardest. Just more. Please.”

Enjolras nodded. “That’s better, love.”

It slipped out before he could stop it. He could feel every muscle in Grantaire’s body tighten. Hear the air sucked in. 

Fuck. Ruined it. Any second now, Grantaire was going to safeword out, and Enjolras would have to beg him not to leave him here like this.

Something desperate took over him, and he would go over it later and analyse it, knowing no matter how he cut it that he was tap dancing on the edges of both their boundaries. He would hate himself for it. But it happened all the same. 

With his handhold of hair he yanked Grantaire back, dropped the belt from his other hand and wrapped it around to grasp Grantaire’s throat as he held him flush against his body. Not choking, just holding with that sure gentle pressure that he knew would ground him. 

“Don’t,” he whispered, fast and desperate, “don’t leave. I’m sorry, I won’t say it again, I’m sorry. Please, stay.”

And how fast the truth of the situation is revealed, that despite the pretense of the play between them, it was Enjolras who was begging, Grantaire who had the power to destroy it all.

Grantaire’s head fell back into him, he let out a shaky, shuddering breath. Enjolras’ held him for one more unsure second. If this was all he was given, he would take it all.

“You can’t break me that easily,” Grantaire said, voice rough. The air rushed out of Enjolras in relief. That wasn’t “red”, it wasn’t “get off me” or “let me go”.

“We can slow down, we can stop,” Enjolras said, because he knew he had to. A second later he registered that his hand was still around Grantaire’s throat, and went to loosen it.

Lightening fast, Grantaire had lifted his own hand to push Enjolras’ hand back. “Don’t you fucking dare,” he choked out. “You started this, don’t leave me in it now. You want me to say what I want, to ask you for it? Fuck Enjolras, just take it. Push me down into this bed, beat the ever fucking shit out of me until I can’t remember anything but your name, and then I swear to God if you don’t fuck me I will-”

Enjolras slid his grip up to curve his hand around Grantaire’s jaw, grabbed it to turn him to face him, and kissed him hard.

“Good,” Grantaire said when they separated. The praise sparked something in Enjolras. Then: “Don’t fucking say that shit again ange. Not ever.”

Enjolras nodded once. He knew. He knew better than that, and couldn’t say why he’d said it. He wouldn’t slip up again. 

“Good,” Grantaire said again. “Bring me back down.” 

Whether he meant it literally or figuratively, Enjolras wasn’t sure, but was determined to deliver on both. He moved his hand on Grantaire’s face to his shoulder, pushed him back down.

Took another deep breath. Tried to regain his footing, back on solid ground. He could do this. He could do it right. 

“Hard,” Grantaire reminded him. Enjolras caught himself by surprise with the chuckle he let out.

He pushed himself down to grind on the curve of Grantaire’s ass one more time. “Hard,” he agreed, and then pulled back and gathered the belt again. He trailed one hand down Grantaire’s back and over his ass, pressing down firmly, grabbing here and there, bringing them both back to the moment.

Here was what mattered: Grantaire’s skin. Enjolras’ nails. The sweet curve of Grantaire’s body. Enjolras’ hands squeezing him. 

He folded the belt again, trailed it over the red marks he’d created earlier. Grantaire was settling further into his body, the muscles loosening back up under Enjolras’ sure hands.

He allowed the world to narrow down to only this. Grantaire and him. Leather and skin. 

“Gonna make me beg again?” Grantaire lifted his head enough to ask.

Enjolras hummed in consideration. Maybe he really could bring this back, get back to that fleeting idea he’d had earlier. “Tell you what, if you beg nicely, I’ll give you a treat.”

Grantaire laughed, loose and easy. There he is.

“Like I’m your dog?” He asked

“Aren’t you?” Enjolras retorted.

“Fuck,” Grantaire groaned, and pushed his face back down. He nodded a few times into the mattress, gathered himself, and Enjolras let him. Entertained himself with gliding the belt and his free hand and nails over his skin, building the anticipation back up. 

“Enjolras, this is torture.” Grantaire complained. He was close to cracking. “I want you to hurt me, I want you to fuck me up, I want you to mark me up. Please, please! Mark me up, make me-” he cut himself off, pushed his face back down so wherever he said was muffled. 

Enjolras wanted to force his head back up, take whatever it was he was hiding from him, and knew he couldn’t. So he didn’t. Restraint. 

When Grantaire lifted his head back up, he just said “Enjolras.” 

Like a prayer. It was enough. 

Enjolras let it all leave him through his dominant arm, pulling back and unleashing lashing after lashing. Not his hardest, but hard. Exhausting hard. 

From the first stroke Grantaire sang for him, a constant stream of “yes, fuck, harder, more, fuck, Enjolras, ange, God!” Enjolras wanted so badly to give in to the pleas, to go harder, to go as hard as he could, to make him bleed. But this was enough. This was his prayer.

“That’s it R, you sound so fucking good for me,” Enjolras let out, and doubted for a second if that was allowed, but Grantaire only moaned in response. 

Grantaire had let go, Enjolras could feel it. Could hear it in his voice as he lost his words, now just crying out. He had surrendered to the stimulation, to the pain, to Enjolras. He was floating in the bliss that Enjolras gifted him, and Enjolras was determined to hold him through it, to keep him safe in this fleeting heaven that existed just for them. Until Grantaire returned to himself, Enjolras had him.

A few more blows was all his now aching arm would allow, so for those few he gave all his body could give, knowing that this wasn’t his full capacity, but God it felt so good. 

It was release. Everything that had been building inside him, unleashed onto Grantaire, taken eagerly.

“Thank you, thank you,” Grantaire was murmuring around gasping sobs. His face, turned to the side, was gorgeous and wet with tears.

Having given all he could, Enjolras dropped the belt to fall off the bed and splayed both hands on Grantaire’s raw ass, digging in and squeezing the burning hot red marks he’d left behind. 

“Good boy,” Enjolras whispered. Unsure if Grantaire even heard him over his own sobs, but it didn’t matter. That one was for him. He moved enough to reach around with one hand, pulling back the curls that had fallen onto Grantaire’s tear streaked face.

“Green,” Grantaire slurred, before Enjolras could even ask. Enjolras laughed, and Grantaire’s answering smile was brilliant. 

“Good,” Enjolras praised. “Still want more?” He had to bite his tongue to stop from adding a term of endearment, like baby, or sweetheart, or love.

What was wrong with him?

Grantaire blinked up at him, his eyes clearing a fraction as he processed. “What did I say? I swear to God, Enjolras, if you don’t fuck me I will-”

“You know, you never did say what you would do to me,” Enjolras interrupted to muse, but he pressed his hard dick to Grantaire’s ass all the same.

“I will make your life a living hell,” Grantaire said with a crooked grin.

“Promise?” Enjolras asked.

Something flashed over Grantaire’s face, but whatever it was didn’t get through the haze Grantaire’s mind was at peace in. “Promise,” he said.

It meant something. Enjolras didn’t know what.

“Good,” he said anyway. “Like this?” He asked.

“However you want me.”

“Like this.” Enjolras said. “But first,” he pulled Grantaire back up to be flush against him again, pulled his face back to meet him, kissed him again. It was by far the softest kiss they’d shared all night. Soft, and slow, and entirely indulgent. Like they had all the time in the world. Like it would simply stop for them.

If Enjolras willed it, it would.

When he pulled back, Grantaire hummed. A small, satisfied sound. He looked entirely pleased, like he had just been given everything.

They shared a small smile, a tiny moment of closeness as their foreheads rested against each other. Intimacy more consuming than anything he’d ever felt. 

Is this what it was to be known?

Focus.

He had something more important to do right now. More important than himself, than the labyrinth of his mind.

He gently guided Grantaire back down, instructed him to get comfortable, and kept a weighty hand on him as he reached across the bed to the nightstand where he kept the lube. There was no point hiding it, and it was the most obvious and convenient place. He fumbled it, caught it, laughed when Grantaire did. 

“Wait, here,” Enjolras said, and slotted two pillows under Grantaire’s hips. “If your legs are getting tired, let yourself fall and rest on these.” When he was satisfied with how Grantaire was arranged, he coated two fingers in lube.

Again, some strange thing took over his body, and before he could do anything else he had bent over Grantaire to kiss the small of his back. This time, Grantaire sighed, content.

How much trust was laid bare in that room.

Enjolras worked him open with the ease of an established lover, knowing just what speed, what pressure, when to stop and add another finger. He was too impatient now from his own arousal to draw this out and inflict more torture on Grantaire, tempting as it was. It had been easier to put his growing needs on the backburner when inflicting pain, but now it hit him like the hunger did when his meds wore off.

The only sound in the world as Enjolras eased himself in was their breathing. He took as long as he dared, bit by bit despite the screaming urge to bottom out and fuck into Grantaire without abandon. Soon. Now, he took his time, fucking him gently, adding more on each stroke until he was fully seated. Since Grantaire was still holding himself up, Enjolras grabbed him by the hips as he started to pick up the pace, pulled him back onto him as he thrust in, treating Grantaire like a fleshlight.

Grantaire made glorious sounds of pleasure-pain every time Enjolras hit his prostate, every time Enjolras bottomed out, every time his hips smacked into the marks he’d made on the flesh of his ass. It was so fucking hot, to use him like this after unleashing hell on him. To have Grantaire’s body freely given to him. For Grantaire’s pain, for Enjolras’ pleasure, it was one in the same.

“Enjolras, please, I’m - fuck- I’m so close, can I…” Grantaire asked around moans, and Enjolras had to still and grab around the base of his own cock to stop from coming first at the realisation that Grantaire was asking his permission to touch himself. His permission to come.

“Please.”

“Yes, good boy,” Enjolras growled. He pulled back enough for Grantaire to rearrange himself and slot a hand comfortably under him. He would end up coming on the pillow Enjolras offered him, and Enjolras didn’t give a shit about that. The only care he had about Grantaire coming right now was being inside to feel it and holding himself off enough to do as he wanted. To give Grantaire his “treat”.

The momentary pause had pulled them both back from the edge, and Enjolras was able to pick the pace back up and release the grip he had on himself without fear of coming early. One hand gripping hard enough into Grantaire’s waist to leave bruises, he reached the other out to grab a handful of that dark hair and yank it hard. He pulled Grantaire’s head up enough that he could hear him clearly, letting the sounds he made fill every ugly longing chasm inside him. Let it fill him, he wished. Let it stay.

Grantaire was crying again. Crying, moaning, sobbing, and through it all thanking Enjolras for the privilege. For the overstimulation, for the sweet sweet pleasure-pain. One in the same.

“That’s it,” Enjolras praised him, voice soft as he fucked into him harder and harder. “That’s my boy, that’s a good play-thing. Come for me, baby, come for me.”

Grantaire cried out as he came, and Enjolras pushed his face back down, ground it into the mattress hard and fucked Grantaire through it. He could feel Grantaire spasm around him and had just enough strength to push Grantaire past his orgasm and just into overstimulation before he had to pull out.

He stretched himself so he was held up with one arm over Grantaire’s now limp body, used the other hand to wrap around himself, lowered down to grind his hard cock, slippery with lube, against the red angry inflamed ass below him.

“You’ve been so good for me, such a good boy. A good dog.” Enjolras whispered into Grantaire’s ear, and Grantaire moaned again at the words. “You’ve earned your treat, baby. I’m going to come on you, on the lashings I gifted you.”

Grantaire let out a long, low, growled: “Fuuuuuuuuuuuck.”

Enjolras pulled up just enough to grab and squeeze an asscheek in each hand, pooled the fat around his cock, fucked sloppily into the sleeve Grantaire’s abused ass made for him, dug his nails into the skin, drank in the way Grantaire yowled in pain and begged for it. For Enjolras to come on him, to mark him one more time. 

For his treat.

Not five more strokes and Enjolras was coming, pulling back just enough to take himself in hand and cover as much skin as he could. He groaned loudly as he did, and Grantaire thanked him again. After a few seconds of dizzying bliss, when the ringing in his ears had gone and his vision was clear again, Enjolras smacked his softening cock a few times into the white streaks left across red inflamed skin.

There. Rubbing salt in the wound.

There was nothing left to give, so Enjolras let his body fall onto Grantaire’s and hoped it wouldn’t be too smothering. For a while they both caught their breath, the exertion hitting Enjolras body, his lungs burning with each shuddering exhale. Grantaire let out a few involuntary whimpers, and Enjolras placed his non cum covered hand to idly pat his head and whispered affirmations into his ear, kissing the shell of it and his cheekbone and whatever exposed skin he could, while he still could.

“You were brilliant,” Enjolras whispered.

“You’re a fucking God,” Grantaire slurred back. Enjolras laughed into his skin, and Grantaire smiled, a happy lazy smile.

After a few more moments, Enjolras’ cum covered hand proved too much to ignore. He kissed Grantaire’s shoulder again, and asked him if he’d be okay for a moment while Enjolras washed his hands.

“‘m not going anywhere,” Grantaire murmured, his eyes shutting. Enjolras could watch that soft peace on his face for hours. Regrettably, he pulled away, and then dashed to the bathroom in the short hallway between his and Combeferre’s bedrooms. He was once again glad that Combeferre wasn’t home yet, so he didn’t have to worry about covering up. He washed his hands, grabbed a hand towel and ran it under cold water, wringed it out, and then grabbed a bottle of water that he kept in the fridge for moments like this.

When he got back to the room, Grantaire was right where he said he’d be, and Enjolras wished he could take a photo. He was still collapsed on the bed, ass raised by the pillows under his hips, drawing attention to the beautiful tapestry of red skin, welts, scratch marks. It was a stunning contrast against pale skin, dark hair, almost translucent white stretch marks. He was living art, his face turned to the side, eyes closed and then fluttering open when he sensed Enjolras re-entering. He smiled again, and Enjolras smiled back and followed the pull to him.

Hands back on Grantaire as soon as he was within reach, he trailed them up from his ankle, up his calf, thigh, and felt the heat radiating from his ass before his fingertips made contact.

“I brought you something,” he said, and pulled back enough to pop the water on the nightstand and unfold the cold damp towel.

“Another treat?” Grantaire asked. 

Enjolras smiled and laid the towel across the red skin of Grantaire’s ass and thighs. He enjoyed the hiss of relief-pain Grantaire let out. “Tell you what, you keep being good for me and I’ve got some bud in that top drawer over there with your name on it,” he said.

“It’s not a treat if you’re just conning me into rolling a J for you,” Grantaire said, and then, “feels good.”

“Good,” Enjolras said. He pushed down on the wet towel, pushing the cooling weight into him, and Grantaire hummed. He flipped it over, carefully folded it, and used the other side to dab up what was left of his cum. “Can you roll on your side for me?” 

“You got it, boss.” Grantaire took his time to roll over, groaning as he did. “Still good,” he said, reading the question in Enjolras’ face. Enjolras smiled and rubbed his side. When Grantaire was settled, Enjolras threw the cumstained pillow off the bed, a deal with it later situation, and cleaned up Grantaire with the towel. Grantaire hissed again at the towel, now warmed by his skin but still damp and slightly cool, made contact with his spent dick. 

“Can you sit up for me?” Enjolras didn’t say darling. He was doing such a good job at this, despite the strange soft impulsive words that kept bubbling up inside him without his knowledge.

Grantaire did, and Enjolras helped him take small sips from the water bottle, and then guided Grantaire back down to lie on his stomach. Enjolras settled himself up at the head of the bed, pulled Grantaire’s head onto his lap, tucked the blanket around Grantaire’s shoulders, and started to play with Grantaire’s hair. He pulled fingers through and scratched his scalp, and when Grantaire moved or made a sound, Enjolras’ hands were on him, his head or back or shoulders or cheek, a gentle soothing pressure, a reminder he was held. 

They lay like that for a long time, gently breathing and enjoying the afterglow. Grantaire complained that they weren’t at his place with a TV in the corner of the room, so he couldn’t watch a mindless cartoon with his head on Enjolras’ lap, but it had no real merit. He was happy, here, and Enjolras was content to hold him and, for the first time in days, not do anything. Not think about anything. Just be.

He heard the front door unlock and Combeferre let himself in. Grantaire went to roll off Enjolras’ lap, but Enjolras held him still, confused. Was Grantaire really going to get up and leave now, after all that, just because Combeferre got home?

“Relax,” Grantaire pressed his lips to Enjolras’ thigh. “I’m not going to turn into a pumpkin, I just wanna collect on that treat you promised me.”

Although Enjolras was half sure that the reference was incorrect, he was in no state to argue. He knew Combeferre was probably finding Enjolras and Grantaire’s shirts laid out, he should probably go out and show face and apologise for the mess he’d made, but he couldn’t make himself do it. Combeferre could deal tonight, he’d deal with it tomorrow.

Instead Enjolras opened the sliding door at the end of his bed that opened onto the tiny courtyard, let the cool air fill the room, sat back on the bed side to side with Grantaire, passed the joint back and forth. After he heard Combeferre close the bathroom door, Enjolras put some clean boxers on and made a quick trip to collect some snacks that he knew Grantaire liked. They ate them and Grantaire smoked another joint to himself, they laughed way too loud for the time of night and didn’t give a fuck that Combeferre or the close neighbours would hear.

He had a feeling Combeferre would forgive him.

Do something for yourself. Something nice.

Eventually Grantaire looked up at him with a sleepy soft smile, and kissed him once, sure and firm and perfect.

“I still have your morning meds here from a few weeks ago,” Enjolras said. It meant ‘stay the night, stay here in my arms, let me take care of you in every way I know how.’

Grantaire smiled. “You're a good friend, Enjolras.” 

It caught him completely by surprise. His heart lurched, but he didn’t know why. It must have shown on his face, because Grantaire quickly added. “I just, I don't think I’ve ever said it out loud before. I think maybe I’ve said the opposite, even. Which, obviously, wasn’t true. But you are. Of course you have my meds, and have memorised when I need to take them. You carry a backup of everyone’s meds, everyone’s keys, you’re everyone’s emergency contact even though you’re impossible to get a hold of but somehow answer your phone in an actual emergency every time. I don’t know what I’m saying. I just… I see it. I see how you love your friends. You’re good at it.”

Did he mean ‘being loved by you like this is enough. I’ll stay, I’ll take it, I’ll be held by you in the way you hold your friends, your community, the real love of your life. This can be enough’ ?

Enjolras didn’t know, didn’t know why it felt consuming and bittersweet, didn’t know what to say. So he didn’t, he kissed Grantaire and hoped it said enough.

“Anyway, it’s a good thing you have my morning meds, and you just suddenly remembered them for completely no reason at all-” Grantaire drawled, when he pulled back and sprawled out, “because my ass is on fire and there’s no way I’m leaving this bed for the next twelve hours.”

“Good,” is all Enjolras could say.

They settled in together, Enjolras curled around Grantaire’s body, pressed up against the burning flesh from the damage he’d done. He pressed his face flush against the back of Grantaire’s neck, breathed him in, felt him doze off under his touch. Knew he would sleep better tonight, and Enjolras would actually sleep tonight, and they’d both be better for it. 

Grantaire’s hand spasmed and he squeezed Enjolras’ arm that was wrapped around his chest, holding him desperately close even in his sleep. Enjolras kissed the back of his head, a moment of softness for no one else to know about, not even Grantaire.

It felt so good, to get to be so soft.

Unbidden by his conscious mind, released by the endorphins and the afterglow and the weed and the pleasure of taking care of someone, (of Grantaire), Enjolras mind pushed images on him. Fantasies. Daydreams. Unrealistic and unattainable, of him and Grantaire. Of having this closeness and intimacy without the pretense, without the performance, without the pain first.

A world where things were different. Not like before, not like now, just different. If it was ever right, if they would ever work. 

Something he never wanted, until he was too tired to pretend anymore. Until he admitted, in rare moments like this, that he did.

It could be so good. 

Chapter Text

How many drugs did it take to forget the way the word “love” sounded from Enjolras’ mouth?

Grantaire couldn’t tell you, but he was giving it a fucking honest crack at finding out.

Since the morning he’d woken up in Enjolras’ bed, the words ringing in his ears and Enjolras’ hand on his burning hip, he’d been trying to find that magic number. It wasn’t the rest of that (truly abysmally small) baggie of weed that he stole from Enjolras’ top drawer after stealing a wistful glance or two at the still sleeping man, he could tell you that much for free.

He’d smoked through it all that afternoon while he ignored Enjolras obligatory post-scene check in messages. Yes Enjolras, I’m fine, you didn’t kill me, you’re suuuuch a good person for asking me how I feel after beating the shit out of me. 10/10, best Dom around, would recommend. Whatever, he couldn’t deal with that yet. He’d sat himself on an uncomfortable stool in the corner with the weed and the last two beers in his fridge and tried to work on that stupid ugly self portrait, because it felt karmic to draw with the ash from Enjolras’ supply.

But the stool against his burning ass was deliciously painful in a way that brought the night back in brilliant focus, and despite his best efforts to wallow in the emotional hurt, he was still feeling too good riding the high from the beating to hate himself enough for that self portrait project. 

He still wanted to do something with the ash as he smoked, and as he was studying what he could see of his bruised ass after a shower it hit him, and he stood himself in front of the mirror and smoked and sketched out the bruises with ash. He could never bear to photograph himself after a beating, no matter how much he wanted to hold onto the marks and document them as they grow darker and then fade, but recording it like this felt good. 

Enjolras’ weed, turned to ash, memorialising Enjolras’ rage, turned to bruises on Grantaire’s body.

If Grantaire’s body was good for one thing, it was taking Enjolras’ rage. He could take it, even when it hurt.

“That’s better, love.”

Weed and beer wasn’t working alone, he decided. This wasn’t beginner hour, and that combo was essentially breakfast. He fished out a small baggie of ket with barely one bump left in the very bottom, finished it off, and while the high was wearing off he gave in to the rising pit of guilt and sent the perfunctory reassuring text back (3/10, most whatever sub around, would not recommend).

“That’s my boy, that’s a good play-thing.”

Grantaire threw his phone across the room. If he had been aiming for it to hit the already cracked window that separated Grantaire’s bedroom from the busy main road his apartment was on, then one could call it a fucking stellar shot. He had not been aiming for the window, but he watched the phone go through it nonetheless. 

He decided as he watched the darkening sky outside the broken window that if he was going to go out there and look for his phone, he wouldn't come back in. He was going to find out exactly what it took to forget all those soft, possessive, fucked up words in Enjolras’ quiet, too-honest voice.

“Don’t,” whispered and desperate in a way that didn’t, couldn’t line up, “don’t leave. I’m sorry, I won’t say it again, I’m sorry. Please, stay.”

It was just because Enjolras wanted to take out every cruel impulse he couldn’t usually admit to on something willing and disposable. That’s why he sounded so close to begging. That’s why he held Grantaire so close. 

But Enjolras didn’t apologise for the things he said to hurt Grantaire. He said them because he meant them, and even if Grantaire told him to stop he knew he didn’t really mean it because it was something from Enjolras and he could take the pain.

He could take it. He would take it, if it was all Enjolras gave him, he’d keep taking it and asking for more. He just… he needed a break. For a moment, he needed to not be thinking about it. 

Forgetting wasn’t to be found in the night out with Joly and Bossuet - Grantaire had coaxed them out after he fetched his miraculously working but slightly banged up phone out of the mud. 

Foraging in the mud outside his bedroom window for his cracked phone among shards of glass from his smashed up window, Grantaire had two thoughts. One: his landlord would not like this, and two: Enjolras would have fucking loved to see it.

It was like he got off on Grantaire crashing and burning. In a way, Grantaire was scared he was going to get a pavlovian boner from his own failures in anticipation of how crazy it drove Enjolras.

“That’s better, love.”

Forgetting wasn’t to be found in the drinks, on the dancefloor, in the smokers section, in the MDMA. It wasn’t found at the kick-ons Bossuet landed them an invite to, it wasn’t found in the nangs passed around in multicoloured balloons, the metalling ringing sound that the momentary high came with turned into Enjolras’ voice and repeated the word. “Love, love, love, love, lovelovelovelovelovelovelovelovelove-” 

“That’s better, love.”

Forgetting wasn’t found in the lips of a stranger on the dirty floor of said kick-ons. It wasn’t found in the baggie of something white that someone offered him and then chased him up later for money for. It sure as fuck wasn’t found in Joly’s disapointed sigh as he covered for him.

That’s about when Grantaire stopped tracking the bender. Somewhere along the way he saw Jehan, and another time he saw Bahorel and Éponine but couldn’t say if they were together or if it was even the same night. He drank and smoked and took pills and snorted anything offered to him and went through all of his rent money in the process. On what might have been the third day someone said something about it being a long weekend, which made some sense when Grantaire thought about it but he would have been acting the same otherwise. Still, it meant that the bars and clubs had more people in them, and more people meant more distractions. 

More opportunities to forget. 

-

Sometimes, when coming out of that blissful oblivion granted by the high of nitrous or ketamine, Grantaire could swear he time travelled. Well, not travelled, just slipped. Slipped from the present into another place, where he saw his memories through his own eyes, heard them through his ears. Where he would go to answer a friend he realised he hadn’t seen in years, but could have sworn was just next to him. It was great for forgetting Enjolras, until it wasn’t.

Grantaire slipped through time, and he woke up for an everlasting nonsensical second in Enjolras’ arms. There was an echo of rain that wasn’t really there. The cold, that felt real. Enjolras’ warmth was phantom.

“Don’t make me leave this bed,” he heard himself say.

“I have work to do, and so do you.” Enjolras replied, final.

But the past Grantaire was stupid, and always pushed it too far. “It’s raining, and you’re warm. Let’s call in sick! Stay in bed all day with me. Come on, love, when’s the last time you took a day off to just do nothing.”

“I have more important things to do than nothing. And you know I hate when you call me that.” Enjolras had snapped, and pulled away.

And Grantaire opened his eyes and breathed in clear air and Enjolras wasn’t there, because he never was. He was left with only the embarrassing idiocy of his memory self. How many times had he said he loved Enjolras before he accepted he’d never hear it back. How many times had he called him love and Enjolras had brushed it off with little more than discomfort or annoyance.

How many times had he wished to hear the word from Enjolras, just once.

“That’s better, love.”

God bless the honest hard work of late night bakers and drug addicts for banding together and normalising 4am delivery, he was going to need far more nitrous if he was going to get through the night.

-

He fingered a girl in the bathroom of a seedy bar in exchange for some more ketamine. The word love still echoed in his mind. He pressed up against a stranger on a dancefloor, in a room too loud to hear what it was they said in his ear. Enjolras’ voice still rang clear. Somewhere along the way he slept through the sunlight hours in someone else's bed, and it was the most sleep he’d gotten since he woke up in Enjolras’. He gave a perfunctory blowjob as a thankyou. The guy didn’t sound like Enjolras when he came, but his mind presented to him the sound all the same. 

“That’s my boy.”

Enjolras had called him a good boy, his good boy, his good dog. His good play thing.

Had he called Grantaire baby?

What was this new game he was playing?

They’d done scenes like that before, ample enough times to know what the other liked. Enjolras knew how to take him down, how to degrade him perfectly. He had given praise before, sure, and was serious about his aftercare, but the pet names? The claiming? My boy. Mine. Love. This was new and Grantaire didn’t know what to do with it. 

It hurt in such cruel new brilliant ways. 

“Like I’m your dog?” He had asked, stupidly.

“Aren’t you?” Enjolras had retorted.

Walked right into that one. God, how fucked he was that even that sounded romantic to him. Sweet, almost. 

He threw up in the sink of a club and ignored the groan of the cleaner who had just walked in behind him. “I’ll see myself out,” he said before they could threaten him with security.

In the fresh air of the night Grantaire stumbled down an alleyway and tried to track how many days it had been since he’d seen Enjolras. Since he’d touched him. He checked the day on his phone: Tuesday. Only just, it was almost Wednesday. He’d gone home with Enjolras after the fundraiser Friday night. 

He’d also taken Enjolras home the night before that, after their Thursday meeting. And he’d woken up that morning with Enjolras in his bed because they’d run into each other Wednesday night, Grantaire coming home from a late shift, Enjolras dressed all in black with a face mask and keffiyeh covering his hair, but Grantaire had known instantly it was him. No doubt he’d been up to something, either some planned action or something impulsive because he couldn’t sleep, but Grantaire didn’t care and he’d been convinced easily enough to come home with him so that was enough.

Three nights in a row. It had been getting a bit too comfortable, a bit too much like before. Grantaire counted on his hands, it had now been four days since he’d touched Enjolras. A well needed tolerance break, and a shock to the system all the same.

He had a sneaking suspicion this was some subconscious punishment on his part, but he wasn’t sure who he was inflicting it on.

Enjolras hadn’t been in contact with him since his reply to Grantaire’s own subpar post-scene check in reply days ago. Of course he’d been active in several group chats that Grantaire pretended not to have notifications switched on for, sign of life and all that, but… still. If he wanted to see Grantaire, he would have asked by now.

Grantaire ached with how much he missed him. All he had left of him was the bruises across his ass and thighs, turned purple then greyish green then yellow as they faded. And the bite mark on his neck, still somehow angry red. Defiant, like both of them, it lingered on his skin. 

He had spent so many moments lost in random bathrooms in bars and clubs and who knows whose house, staring into a mirror and tracing those imprints of Enjolras’ teeth on his skin. He tracked so many strangers' eyes to his neck, then back to his eyes, questioning his obvious flirting with the even more obvious claim on him. 

He pushed himself up out of the- when had he laid down in a gutter? Come on, up we get asshole, that’s a good fuckwit failure. An upright asshole is better than a horizontal one or whatever.

“Good boy.” “That’s my boy.” “That’s better, love.”

FUCK! He wanted to scream. Maybe he actually did, it echoed in his head or down the empty street, all the same to him. He couldn’t remember the date, the month, when exactly Joly and Bossuet had left him to go home to Musichetta, what it was Bahorel was trying to tell him two days ago, but every single word from Enjolras refused to leave him.

God save any poor bastard stuck in a “haunting the narrative” competition against that man. 

He had to go home. He knew he had to. His phone was dead, no one had invited him to a kick-on or afters or any second location, and he would surely be turned away from even the dodgiest bar. He’d bummed a shower and a fresh shirt from the guy who’d let him stay the night, but that was kind of cancelled out by 24+ hours of sweating, getting drinks spilled on him, throwing up and for some reason having a nap in the gutter. He was wet and wasn’t sure what the exact reason was. He was very much looking and smelling like a four day bender and knew his pickup chances (both in terms of drugs and sex) were down to zero if he couldn’t at least give the illusion of human, instead of ‘walking compost juice’. He was no prize, sure, and he was honest with himself about his chances any day, but at least he could make the smallest of an effort.

Besides, at some point he learned that smelling like a wet ashtray was actually worse than acting like one. He can’t fix his behaviour, lost cause and all that, but he can wash his hair at least once a week.

With the long weekend (for which he’d never learned the reason) washed away, Grantaire was about ready to collapse into his bed with that last little baggie of ket and fade into that dying of the light. The consequences of his own actions were waiting in his bedroom, where it was freezing and the bed and carpet were soaked from the rain over the weekend. The broken window. That he had conveniently forgotten, even when Enjolras’ words wouldn’t leave him.

A useful person would clean the mess, dry the carpet and bed out with towels, email the real estate agent to book in someone to fix the window while claiming it was some freak accident and not at all his fault. Grantaire wasn’t that person. He thought long and hard about how hard it would be to dry out and remake his bed, and then he smoked on the couch until he fell asleep there.

-

He slept for almost 24 hours, and in his own home no less. Grantaire should have felt great.

Instead he woke up furious.

Maybe it was that he fell asleep on a drafty cold night in his boxers on his bumpy couch with something he could hardly call a blanket, maybe it was that he woke up on the floor and the first thing he saw were the sheer amount of cigarette and joint butts and dead vapes and empty baggies that once held drugs all collected with dust under the couch.

Empty cups, empty bottles, empty baggies, an empty bed. Is this all there was of him?

Maybe it was because of the predictable serotonin crash-out he knew would be coming after taking that much MDMA and cocaine and ketamine and nitrous and drinking and smoking and…

Yeah, maybe he should have seen this coming.

But the day didn’t care that Grantaire was suffering the consequences of his own bad choices, the day kept throwing shit at him. Next thing he saw, when he managed to find his phone by pulling at the charging cord he knew it was plugged into, a text from Enjolras. Of course.

It killed him how it got his hopes up.

But he was just asking if Grantaire had sent through those edits he (should have) done for the next zine. By which he meant: I know you haven’t sent them yet, because I know you haven’t done them yet, because I knew you wouldn’t when you took the task, and this is me reminding you without having to remind you.

Also, I hate you.

He didn’t need to say the last part, Grantaire heard it all the same.

“That’s better, love.”

Then an angry text from his manager. He’d missed out on two shifts while on the bender, with no notice. The message read loud and clear: the only reason Grantaire wasn’t fired was because it would cost more to rehire and replace him.

A message from the agency he rented with, asking him to check his email. A message from his reliable weed guy, politely outlining the strains he had that week and slipping in a reminder about that money he owed. 

Bill. Bill. Rent overdue. Follow up from the commission client he was ghosting. Payment reminder, payment reminder, can’t make your payment? Here’s how to access our financial advice.

It was all so suffocating that he barely felt it anymore. Like when something burned so hot it went cold. Here Grantaire was, drowning in his life, barely keeping his head afloat, barely keeping himself alive and housed but managing to keep himself trollied because God forbid he felt a second of it.

And where he should have felt scared, or guilty, or motivated to fucking do something about it, he just felt furious. Furious at himself, at his life, at this stupid cheap ass yet overpriced apartment and his fucking landlord and his boss and most of all at Enjolras.

Fuck him. Fuck him and his words that he hated Grantaire for saying and threw at him now to torture him after the fact. Fuck him and his constant need to rub salt in the wound. Fuck him and his hands and his belt and his command and his authority and all that fucking trust he brought out of Grantaire. Fuck him and those words that sounded so soft it choked the both of them.

As if any of this was his fault. It didn’t matter. Grantaire felt like he was going crazy but he could swear he could feel Enjolras somewhere, knowing how fucked up his life was, enjoying it.

He knew it was all his own doing, but sometimes it made him feel better to imagine Enjolras as some evil trickster God or fucking demon twink with the power and patience to sit there threading his fate into chaos. 

Like that was doing him any good.

Then, as he went through the backlog of notifications, something else. A message among all the others that had come through while he was out and not checking his phone unless it was for a drug deal, but this one from an unknown number the day after the fundraiser:

Shame to be interrupted like that, I was hoping to take you home.

Hope he was worth it.

Right, the dancer he’d tipped at the fundraiser who’d been generous enough to spare him a dance, a bump of coke, and a woefully unfinished quickie in a public bathroom. What was their name? Vixen? Fern?

Fox!

Or was that just their stage name? Eh, who cares.

He’d forgotten he’d even given them his number. They’d been hot enough, if a little thin, and flexible which was a good sign, and they’d had coke, so odds are they’d have some more or at least something else to share. And a quick check of his room assured him his bed was still soaked from the rain (he should really deal with that), so if he played his cards right he could even find a warm bed to spend the night.

Grantaire didn’t reply to Enjolras. He didn’t reply to any of the texts or emails hanging over his head. He sent off the first of many messages he would be sending to Fox:

He wasn’t.

-

“I will make your life a living hell,” he had said.

“Promise?” Enjolras had asked.

Grantaire’s heart had stuttered, something screaming inside him trying to break through the pleasant haze Enjolras had led him to. But it was Enjolras, Enjolras who brought him here, Enjolras who kept him safe here. Enjolras who hurt him just like he asked. Enjolras who he trusted, who he loved, who he hated. So he would give him anything. 

If he wanted hell, he would give him hell.

“Promise,” he had said.

Let him have hell then.

Chapter Text

Enjolras woke to a ghost in his bed.

He knew just how badly he had fucked up before he even opened his eyes. The bed was cold, Grantaire’s warmth long gone with him. And without Grantaire’s warmth, it seemed his body wasn’t able to make any on his own.

He had taken all that bliss and peace with him, too. The laughter, the sleepy high afterglow of the night before was gone in the cold cruel light of day.

For a long time he lay there, shivering and giving in to some persistent hope that Grantaire would come back to him. He didn’t, he knew he wouldn’t, and couldn’t even bring himself to be disappointed in him. 

For once, Grantaire was not the one who failed them. Enjolras had.

He’d pushed too far, he’d slipped up, he’d… Fuck. What was wrong with him? Why had he said that? Any of that? And after… Fuck. What had he done? He’d basically choked Grantaire to stop him from safewording out. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!

His stomach was clenching like he was going to throw up. There was a grating gasping sound that he realised too late was his own frantic breathing, and then sobs, and then he registered that his face was wet, and then Combeferre’s voice. Clear and deep, ringing through the panic.

“Enjolras?” It was clear it wasn’t the first time he had called his name. “I’m coming in.” He said, and Enjolras blinked his stinging eyes open to see him approach and sit on the edge of the bed. There was no shame or embarrassment on Combeferre’s part or his own, not for his own nakedness under the blanket, or his tears, or the cum stained towel and pillow on the floor among his clothes and the belt- the belt.  

“Hey,” gentle and warm, it was that voice that made Enjolras picture Combeferre as a father one day, even when he found himself doubting the future those children would inherit. “Can you take a deep breath for me?”

Enjolras did, one deep guided breath, a second, shuddering on the inhale, but then the wording registered and he heard himself echoing commands to Grantaire - “turn around for me”, “come for me”, “you’ve been so good for me”, and then he gasped again and collapsed into tears.

“Breathe,” Combeferre placed two sure hands on his shoulders, and brought him back to himself with that special ability only he had. 

When Enjolras was breathing to his satisfaction, Combeferre dried his face with the back of his fingers and passed him the bottle of water that Enjolras had fetched for Grantaire the night before. He made Enjolras drink, and then he asked the question Enjolras knew was coming.

“Did he-”

“I hurt him.” Enjolras breathed out, beating him to the punch.

Combeferre thought about that for a second. “I’ll make tea.”

He squeezed Enjolras’ shoulder once, a quick questioning look and then a satisfied nod, and left the door open behind him. Enjolras was left with the privacy of Combeferre being in the kitchen just out of sight, but he could hear him turning on the kettle as he pulled on some soft house clothes. He found he was glad for the cold, because he had this feeling that he needed all his skin to be covered right now. When he was dressed he wrapped a blanket back around him and sat himself on the bed, and Combeferre returned with two mugs and a vape. Courfeyrac’s, probably. 

He didn’t ask at first, just let Enjolras regulate himself with shallow puffs and deep breaths and small sips. Enjolras’ breathing had evened out, but his face was still wet with tears and his eyes were stinging against the slow but unending onslaught.

“Did you mean to hurt him?”

“Yes. No! Not like that. I meant… I… We were…” Enjolras couldn’t find his words.

Combeferre could, he always could. “May I make an assumption?” With relief Enjolras gestured a go ahead, and he continued. “I’m assuming you dommed him last night?”

Enjolras nodded once. No room for shame between them, no room for pretense or lies or ambiguity. They were too old for that, or too young, or too preoccupied, or they simply loved each other too much for it to have ever mattered.

“Is it safe to assume you’re dropping right now?” Combeferre continued.

Huh. That was a very safe assumption. And, on reflection, absolutely correct. Of course Combeferre would know, Enjolras would have eventually gotten to that conclusion on his own, but it was so much easier when Combeferre guided him there. He nodded around a long puff of the vape.

“Okay,” Combeferre said, and Enjolras watched him take mental triage of the situation and prioritise inside his mind. “We’ll talk about this. First, what do you need right now?”

The answering croak was pathetic even to his own ears. “Grantaire.” Voice breaking on the second syllable, he buried his face in the blanket at the sound.

“Grantaire arrived at his apartment half an hour ago,” was Combeferre’s calm reply. He made sure he had location services turned on his phone for each of their friends, and was always acutely aware of where they were, or alerted if any of them turned off location sharing for an action or rally. “I’m sure you could call him, or text him if that would help soothe you right now, but first I need you here with me for a little bit longer. Can you tell me how you hurt him? Was it a part of the scene, or did something else happen?”

Enjolras considered. 

“You have my permission to hurt me physically, Enjolras. Not like that.”

“Both, I think. I hurt him in the scene, physically, consensually, agreed on.” Combeferre nodded, gave him the space to find his words. “But then, I slipped up. I called him… I used this pet name. This stupid thing he always used to call me, when we were… that I hated, and I didn’t even think, I just said it and…”

He choked up as it played out again in his head. 

“What was the name, Enjolras?”

There was no running from it. There were no secrets here.

“Love.”  

Combeferre’s micro-expression would have been indistinguishable to anyone else, bar Courfeyrac. There was the flaring of nostrils on a calculated breath in, the slight tilt of the head back, a miniscule crease on the inner corner of the right eye. There was surprise there, and there was disappointment, and there was sadness, and then the smile. Small, knowing, bittersweet.

Combeferre wanted to say something, it was clear, but he wasn’t going to. 

“Continue,” is what he said instead.

Enjolras took a steadying breath. A puff off the vape, a gulp of tea to starve off a coughing fit when the vape hit the back of his throat wrong. There was no avoiding this.

“I panicked, because I knew… he said I could hurt him physically, not emotionally. I knew that would hurt him, I didn’t say it to hurt him, I didn’t mean to say it, but I knew it would. And I thought he would leave. So I grabbed him.”

He wanted to leave it there. Combeferre didn’t push, just held his eyes and coaxed it out of him all the same. 

“I grabbed him by the throat. I begged him not to leave. I said… I said we could slow down, or stop, but I grabbed him first, and held him like that while I said it.” Enjolras felt fresh tears spill as he admitted to what he’d done. He’d crossed Grantaire’s boundaries, and then assaulted him to stop him from what would have been a rightful ending of the scene.

He was gasping for air again. Combeferre was saying something, Combeferre’s hands were on his, Combeferre was guiding him through it.

“It’s okay, you’re okay, Grantaire’s okay. I am mostly confident that Grantaire isn’t hurt right now.”

“I choked him!” Enjolras sobbed. 

“I am willing to bet you used proper technique. Was his breathing ever restricted, really?”

“Of course not, but-”

“I am also willing to bet that is something that you two had both consented to and enacted earlier,” Combeferre continued, but Enjolras wouldn’t hear it.

“Not then, not like that!”

“I know, I’m not saying it was the right thing to do. Those aren’t excuses, they’re just things I knew would be true. I’m just saying that it’s understandable, when you were in the middle of play, when in that headspace, to do something that was pre-consented to. Even at the wrong time, or for the wrong reason. It is understandable for you to be feeling how you are right now, and to need to see that Grantaire is okay. I- look, I don’t need to know everything that happened, you don’t owe me any more answers, but if you’d humour me. How did Grantaire respond?”

He’d pushed Enjolras’ hand down, the second he’d loosened his grip. Enjolras’ breathing slowed as he recalled. “Don’t you fucking dare. You started this, don’t leave me in it now.” 

“He held my hand there when I went to pull away. He told me not to stop.”

Combeferre nodded. “I think… We need to respect Grantaire’s ability to call what is and isn’t a breach of his boundaries. If he said to continue, then he is to be trusted. Whether or not you should have grabbed him like that in that moment aside, unless something else happened I’m now one hundred percent sure that you didn’t hurt Grantaire. At least, not physically.”

It was harsh, but it was fair. Still, Combeferre’s logic was struggling against the haze of guilt and self hatred that overcame him. Enjolras went over the night again, trying to pick it apart. He’d hurt Grantaire physically, sure, but other than that one moment, (and he knew it was a moment he could never forgive himself for, could never even begin to earn Grantaire’s forgiveness for) other than that one moment it was things they’d agreed to. Things Grantaire asked for.

Hadn’t he gone too hard? Those bruises, the red hot inflamed skin, the places where it welted up so much it looked like it was about to bleed. Grantaire had asked him (nicely, so nicely, so beautifully,) to go hard, not his hardest, but hard. He hadn’t gone his hardest. Or had he, at the end there?

Was he sure that Grantaire had been crying from the pleasure, or the pain? Had it been too much, had he gone too far, too hard. Had he really hurt him?

What was the difference, anyway, between play-hurt and real-hurt? Grantaire’s body would be marked up today, and it would be marked up tomorrow, and all of that pain that left Enjolras wasn’t really gone. He had put it onto Grantaire, into Grantaire.

Had made Grantaire ask for it, made Grantaire take it, made Grantaire thank him for it.

What was the difference between play-care and real-care? Play-love and real-love? How could he claim to be the person he tried to be out in the world, and then hurt someone he said he cared about behind closed doors. Debase him, humiliate him, make him ask for it, revel in the pain. What kind of person did that make him?

A sadist.

“No,” Combeferre said. “Whatever you’re thinking, slow down right now and come back here with me. You’re okay, Grantaire’s okay. He was okay when you fell asleep, wasn’t he? He was okay after the aftercare?”

He had been brilliant afterward, both of them had been. Calm, peaceful, happy. In a world of their own making. Enjolras nodded. 

“I heard you two laughing,” Combeferre said, softer. “I can’t tell you how Grantaire was or is feeling, or what you should be feeling right now, but I can say what I heard. I heard you laughing like I haven’t heard you laugh in a long time. I heard him laughing in a way I’d never heard before. Don’t listen to what the dropping hormones are telling you now, just hold on to that, and text him.”

He squeezed Enjolras’ hand one more time. He just about appeared Enjolras’ phone out of thin air, pushed it into his grasp, and then he hesitated. There was something Combeferre wanted to say, something he could guide Enjolras to or through, but for some reason he was biting his tongue.

“I’m making lunch soon,” he said instead, and he didn’t quite let Enjolras’ door close behind him. A reminder that he was just a call away, Enjolras wouldn’t even have to raise his voice. He would be here. It was how he loved, how Enjolras knew he was loved.

Enjolras typed out a message, deleted it, tried again, deleted it. He gave in to the idea that he was at least taking these early afternoon hours to himself, and rummaged around in his bedside drawers for that baggie of weed for a while. He usually didn’t smoke anything but nicotine in the day time, but hoped that the bud he kept in his drawer for whenever Grantaire was over would bring him back to that afterglow high they’d shared and allow him the vulnerability to ask for what he needed. But it seemed Grantaire had taken it with him. Which… fair, at the end of the day, but still a bit of a blow.

He gave up on the weed search and the vape which had started to make him feel sick, and when he called out to Combeferre he already had a ciggie rolled for him. Enjolras smoked it out his not-window-window, the open sliding door onto the courtyard, wrapped up in his blanket and pretending not to let stray tears fall. He sent the message:

Grantaire, I wanted to check-in with you about last night's scene - if you’re available.

He finished the cigarette with no reply. That was fine, it gave him a bit more time to think about what he really wanted to say to Grantaire when he was ready. He typed out his thoughts, refined them, and then when half an hour had passed, he sent it.

I know I crossed some boundaries there, and I apologise. I meant when I said I wouldn’t do it again. You know how much I appreciate your trust and friendship. Let me know if you’re still feeling alright today.

He ate with Combeferre, and then agreed to sit alongside him on the couch while they “parallel play” - work on their respective tasks alongside each other in relative silence. He kept himself wrapped up, again feeling that need to be covered. His body was heavy and aching, especially his shoulders and arms. Enjolras tried to focus on the admin he had to do, but he found himself opening the messages every few minutes, typing and deleting, typing and deleting, waiting for Grantaire to respond.

Still not even a ‘read’ alert. The anxiety was bubbling up, and underneath it all that guilt and doubt and oh God he’d really hurt him hadn’t he- and Enjolras knew Combeferre could feel it in the air too and he hated how exposed and vulnerable he felt, and how he never felt ashamed for any of that with Combeferre, so it just felt worse to feel the shame in the first place. And so it spiralled.

Enjolras sent another message:

I guess I just want to know if you’re feeling okay, you know aftercare isn’t just in the immediate afterglow. You wouldn’t have been an imposition on my time today, I factored that in when I asked this of you.

Overexplaining himself wasn’t helping. But, just in case Grantaire misinterpreted that:

Of course you were entitled to leave, and to your space today. I suppose I am asking for reassurance for my own self, if I may be selfish and ask one more thing of you?

Another hour later, and Enjolras only realised when Combeferre moved next to him that he’d been staring at the open text messages on his phone while jiggling his leg. The repetitive movement must have been driving Combeferre crazy, but he was a saint and knew when to let someone be. Enjolras had been trying to gather all his power, willing the status to go from ‘delivered ’ to ‘read’, analysing the night in his mind over and over and over again the longer he waited. He had more important things to do than sit here and wallow in guilt and shame and disgust at himself. He had people to help, people to support, people to at the very least reply to. He couldn’t be losing himself to Grantaire like this. 

It was the dom drop, he reminded himself. A physiological response to the high intensity of euphoria and ecstasy he felt during a scene, a fall from the high to a stable resting state, that felt like a dramatic change and sent his body and mind into shock. He was able to recite this to himself, remind himself this was a human response that his human body would have, that it didn’t say anything about him. He just had to refuse to listen to the things the drop told him about himself. 

As hard as it was to admit, he knew that forcing himself to work through it would only lead to (or, let's be honest, worsen the already existing) burnout. He could take today, he could take right now. He wasn’t losing anything to Grantaire, he was giving something to himself.

Not quite something nice, but something.

He sent a last message:

I realise you might have had work, apologies for the spam. Reply when you can, ok?

And only to the last one was there a reply, not fifteen minutes later:

yeah im fine. ur good.

Somewhere in the pit growing inside him, there was just enough anger to rile up at that. 

I’m fine? You’re good? Was that fucking it? Enjolras felt like his world was ending. He had woken up without Grantaire and sobbed in Combeferre’s arms over his absence. And here was Grantaire, the Grantaire who had left him to wake up alone after a scene, after he’d begged him to stay the night. Grantaire who had stolen his weed on his way out. Grantaire who ghosted him all day, didn’t give a shit while Enjolras begged him for a check in response, and then comes in with fucking “I’m fine. You’re good.”

Thank you, he sent back. 

Grantaire didn’t reply. He didn’t check in with Enjolras. Didn’t ask him how he was feeling, if he needed any aftercare, if he needed anything. No, according to Grantaire, Enjolras was good. He was always just good, wasn’t he? Not a person who might be feeling something, a person who might need reassurance after hurting someone on purpose. A person who might hurt.

Grantaire was never going to ask Enjolras how he was the day after a scene, he was never going to send text after text while choking on his own guilt. All that talk, of love, of care, of friendship even. But here it was, clear as day. Where was Grantaire’s love for him now? Friendship? Care? Grantaire didn’t give a fuck about how Enjolras felt, didn’t even consider that to be an option in his sad small empty little world.

Fine. Enjolras was quite happy to pack up all that guilt and anger and resentment and leave it in that empty little world for Grantaire to wallow in alone. 

Because Grantaire was fine. And he was good.

Enjolras put his phone away, pulled out his laptop, took a dexy, and locked the fuck in. He had more important things to be doing.

-

Enjolras hadn’t heard from Grantaire in almost a week. 

It shouldn’t be bothering him like it was. He shouldn’t have even noticed it, shouldn’t have felt the absence. He was single, and for a reason. He didn’t have time for bullshit like this.

He had given himself one day to feel bad about it all. The day, and by the time the sun set that Saturday night he was back. Back to work, to action, to his normal self and his normal life. 

On Sunday he ran into Bossuet and Joly at the community kitchen, both of them bleary eyed and fresh off a night out with Grantaire. Enjolras didn’t care, and he pointedly didn’t ask. Grantaire was fine, and he was good.

On Monday the snap rally he’d been helping to plan went off without a hitch, only about fifteen minutes behind schedule and with minimal cop presence. Grantaire didn’t show. No one expected him to.

Enjolras powered through into a night shift with back to back bookings. But they were privates, and even after he took out the cost for the hotel the money was adding up. This would pay for a few more weeks of mutual aid, of groceries for the meal program, of petrol for lifts people needed to doctor appointments. The money in his hand meant Feuilly, who had no sick leave on his contract, could afford to take a day off work if he wanted, and he’d be covered by the communal kitty jar. This money bought his time, bought his friends time, bought his community resources.

He reminded himself of this when he washed a particularly gross client’s smell off his skin. It was futile, once the smell was in his nose it lived there and it haunted him. But this was all for something. It was worth it. Cost benefit analysis: sex working to fund mutual aid and community organising was the smartest fucking thing he’d ever done.

And Musichetta, and Éponine, and Jehan, and about a thousand other workers who funded the movements that created change through their sex work. It takes a village to raise a child, sure, but it takes a village of sex workers to fund a fucking revolution.

On Tuesday he met up with Bahorel for some lunch (and organising, but he never passed up the opportunity of Bahorel’s cooking). Bahorel mentioned meeting up with Grantaire at a nightclub the day earlier in passing, which here means Bahorel brought it up entirely on purpose and was one hundred percent mining Enjolras’ reaction for gossip.

Enjolras already knew Grantaire hadn’t been home since Saturday night. Combeferre wasn’t the only one who had location services turned on for their friends, he was just the only one who had notifications turned on for every single one of them. Enjolras couldn’t handle that on top of the thousand group chat’s he was in.

There had been nothing stopping him from checking. First on Monday, when Grantaire hadn’t shown up to the rally, Enjolras gave in to the stupid fucking hope he always seemed to have. The hope that Grantaire would be there, would finally come at the last second, would believe, would stand up and be who Enjolras knew he could be. But a quick check of the app said Grantaire had been at some random house near the city since 6am that day. And it was just bars and nightclubs and cafes before and after that. 

So he was on a bender. Nothing new there. Grantaire was fine, and he was good.

Grantaire hadn’t replied to him since the thank you text days ago. Not one drunk or high message or voice mail. It was a fucking absurd thing to be hung up on, was he upset that Grantaire wasn’t disturbing his sleep with a 4am phone call, slurring promises and filth and adoration in the span of seconds? Had he grown so accustomed to waking up to unintelligible sexts from his loser ex that he genuinely missed them? 

Okay. He was worried. There was something sharp gnawing away in his chest, the guilt lingering. If that showed on his face for Bahorel to scoop up for a good bitch sesh, he couldn’t say. 

No, that was unfair, Bahorel was a good friend. A bit of a gossip, sure. Enjolras wasn’t angry at him. He wasn’t even really angry at Grantaire. He kept coming back to how he’d failed him, he’d failed them both. If there was ever a time he needed to be what Grantaire obviously thought he was - cold, perfect, marble, unwavering, in control - it was then. And he couldn’t do it, he brought them to that room and to that place where they played with so much gravity and so little care. He led them there, where he was supposed to be able to hold them both, and he’d dropped Grantaire.

Maybe himself too.

And the only person he could blame for any of this hurt or worry or aching longing was himself. It wasn’t Bahorel, or Grantaire, and he knew he was being a shitty housemate to Combeferre this last week too. There was no one else he could take his resentment out on but himself. It hadn’t really stopped him from being kind of an asshole to be around. People were giving him more grace than he deserved.

By Thursday, Enjolras was sure Grantaire wouldn’t be coming to the meeting. He didn’t bother to check any group chats with unreasonable hope, there was no point and he was on a tight schedule, just getting into the door as Feuilly was saying “do you think we should start?”

“I’m sorry, I’m here, are we just waiting on me or-” Enjolras was saying, dropping his bag and his jacket and getting tangled up in the keffiyeh around his neck. He didn’t have the chance to take in the night's attendance, didn’t get that usual second head start before he was interrupted.

“You’re late,” drawled Grantaire.

Enjolras was glaring before he remembered himself. First glance, and he drank him in. Grantaire looked fucking awful. Exhausted. Messy. Drained. But there was something different. Was it that fucking smirk? That look in his eye - what the fuck was that supposed to mean? He was on one tonight, it was clear.

“I’m sure you survived my absence, as we all would yours.” Enjolras snapped. 

Courfeyrac let out a low “oooohhhhhhhh”, Bahorel whistled, either from appreciation or discomfort, and Combeferre’s eyes were on Enjolras sharper than knives. That look also made Enjolras picture Combeferre as a father. A disappointed one.

“My apologies,” Enjolras said before any more of a ruckus could be made. He had about five urgent action items that he had reports for tonight, and he was keen to jump into business and away from a public brawl with Grantaire.

“Your apologies,” Grantaire scoffed, but it was quiet enough that only Enjolras seemed to hear it. Or care. Either way, things moved on, and Enjolras tried not to watch Grantaire though the rest of the night.

He failed.

Grantaire had the aura of someone whose feet were up on a shared table in public, all the arrogance and confidence and audacity. And that stupid fucking smug smirk. What had him all satisfied with himself over there? Piece of shit.

Enjolras stumbled over his words twice, which was twice more than he usually would. Grantaire didn’t heckle him, but managed to fix him with a look that said a thousand more things than he could with his loud mouth.

He looked like shit, it was there in the bags under his eyes and the way he held his shoulders, Enjolras could see that he was going through it. But he also looked. Different.

Almost… shiny?

His hair, maybe. It wasn’t cut, like he initially guessed. The curls weren’t shorter, they were tighter. Because they were actually styled. 

He’d… He’d followed the curl care advice Enjolras had given him?

His shirt, too. Not a sloppy hoodie or unseasonable t-shirt, but a dark button down. A nice fabric. That was his good brown cord jacket hanging on the chair behind him. 

He’d put in an effort. The more Enjolras found himself stealing glances, the more he appreciated how that fabric moved around his shoulders and thick arms. The more he noticed Grantaire checking periodically to see if he was noticing. 

Grantaire was nervous.

It made Enjolras feel nervous. It made Enjolras feel something else. Anticipation, maybe, but not fear. It was a contagious nervous, but a good nervous, an excited nervous. What was Grantaire up to over there?

After he reported back on the things he had news on, Enjolras found his mind wandering. What was Grantaire going to pull, when they were alone tonight?

Focus, fuck!

Feuilly could be trusted for one thing, when he was facilitating he was a friend to everyone who wanted an early night. He sent them on their way with almost fifteen minutes to spare, which meant he was the only one who took up the invitation while everyone else lounged out with a glass and fell into easy chatter.

It was too early, but Enjorlas was impatient. And he didn’t like how Grantaire kept looking from his phone to the door, like he was considering leaving.

Enjolras shuffled towards the beer garden where they always caught their smoke breaks, he nodded towards Jehan on the way, and then pulled out a lighter as he passed Grantaire’s table. Predictably, Grantaire was playing with an unlit joint, twirling it with his fingers. So far, so good.

“Need a light?” Enjolras said. Easy and casual.

This is when Grantaire should look up with big wet dog eyes and say something witty back.

“I’m good,” Grantaire said, looking down at his phone.

Enjolras blinked down at him. That’s… not right.

“And here I was going to try to trade the use of my lighter for a puff of that joint, too bad.” Enjolras said, and started to move on before anyone started to pay them any attention. If Grantaire had stuck to his part, they’d have snuck outside by now.

“You always did have a shitty idea of an equal trade,” Grantaire replied lazily. But he looked up from his phone. Better.

No, that reminded him too much of… 

“That’s better, love.”

“I think the trade is fair when you remember that you stole my last bag of weed, asshole.” Enjolras snapped.

Grantaire laughed. He was looking up at Enjolras, because he was still in his seat, looking up and laughing an ugly sneering laugh. 

“I’ll pass on whatever you think you’re offering me, love,” Grantaire said, pulling himself up. All the air seemed to leave the room. One of them was choking, Enjolras couldn’t be sure who. Grantaire was still talking, so it wasn’t him. “I’ve got a date.”

For far too many dumbstruck seconds, they stood far too close. Enjolras processed, but no. That wasn’t right. He hadn’t heard right.

Grantaire’s phone made a sound. Someone else made another sound, and someone else shushed them. Enjolras glared so fast he didn’t even manage to take in who he glared at. An amis or meeting newcomer, who knew.

“Fox is here,” Grantaire said simply. He slung his jacket on, pocketed his phone, and then grabbed the lighter from Enjolras’ still outstretched hand. “Actually, I could use this. I’m a little nervous. They’re hot, and not a cunt, so I reckon my chances are brilliant. Wish me luck, love.”

From the corner of his eye Enjolras registered… Fucking Mullet! That fuckass skinny northside queer stripper from the fundraiser, turning the corner from the main cafe, and then waving at Grantaire with one confident regal arm draped in ripped up gloves. Fox, apparently.

Grantaire didn’t turn to wave at his date. For the moment, Enjolras still had him.

For one more moment, Grantaire was still his to break.

“Good luck, love.”

Chapter Text

"You can’t break me that easily,” he had said, head resting back on Enjolras’ strong and solid body, Enjolras’ hand grounding him around his throat, like he was holding the very breath stuck there.

He should have known Enjolras would prove him wrong. Stubborn cruel fuck.

He could have said "is this fun for you? Is this enough for you? Do I have to be bleeding for you to be satisfied?”

He could have said “fuck you Enjolras.”

He could have punched him right in the face. He could’ve shoved him back over the tables and chairs, followed him and sent swinging arms flying, he could’ve landed blow after blow. One for every time Grantaire said love before they broke up. One for every kiss after. He could’ve punched until he broke skin, for every time Enjolras tried to break him. He could really draw out blood, if that’s what Enjolras wanted. If that’s what it took for this to end.

It wouldn’t have done them any good. He brought the lighter up, lit the joint he’d been playing with. Fuck the rules about smoking inside the cafe, he was on his way out anyway. He blew the smoke into Enjolras’ still infuriatingly close face.

“There’s your even trade, cunt.”

-

He had barely a second between literally blowing off Enjolras and turning around and into his “date”.

He’d been sexting Fox since the early hours of the morning, when he woke up and they were coming off a late shift. They were eager enough to meet up that night, having praised Grantaire’s timing for coinciding with a T-shot that had them “terminally horny”, which was promising and exactly what Grantaire needed. And also a much needed win, because Grantaire didn’t want to sleep on his couch (read: floor) again. Hopefully, he wouldn’t need to.

And just to be a little shit, Grantaire couldn’t help but arrange Fox to meet him at the cafe the same time the meeting was scheduled to be wrapping up. He’d wanted Enjolras to see.

Fat load of good that did him. What did he expect?

Fox was fun, though. They were easy to talk to, easy to spend time with. They plucked the joint from his lips and laughed at him for smoking inside before taking a puff themselves, where Enjolras would have glared and called him out. They kissed him hello, once on each cheek and once on the lips, as if it wasn’t the second time they were meeting. Enjolras had rarely ever kissed him in front of people, even their friends. 

Especially their friends.

When they got outside and Grantaire had reclaimed the joint, Fox announced the night too cold, but promised they knew a club with a sweaty dance floor and discounted cocktails on a Thursday night. Perfect. Grantaire didn’t need a quiet place to do boring shit like talk all night. What was this, a date?

They hooked up in a bathroom stall after sharing a baggie. Two for two. 

They didn’t take Grantaire home, though. It checked out. Grantaire was the type of person you let fuck you in a dirty bar stall for four whole unimpressive minutes, not the type of person you take home for your housemate to see the next morning.

So much for his good luck.

His options were: do something about his bed, crawl to Enjolras’ with his tail between his legs, or sleep on the couch.

Who was he kidding? Enjolras wasn’t an option. Bossuet and Joly would take him in before Enjolras ever would.

Couch it was.

-

At some point, Grantaire’s gas was cut. He didn’t notice until after the sun had set Friday night, when the heat was sucked away with it and the night turned scary cold. The heater wouldn’t turn on properly, it was just blowing cold air into his already cold apartment. That’s when he finally checked his texts, and emails, and saw the many warnings they’d been sending him. All that ‘need financial advice?’ shit that he’d been rolling his eyes at and ignoring. Yeah, that was all of his chances to pay the fucking bill, or call and plead his case.

That would explain all those missed calls he’d been waking up at 5pm to find on his phone. He’d never even bothered listening to the voice messages they’d left. 

It was too late in the evening to call them now, and their office wouldn’t be open until Monday morning. He checked his phone’s weather app. Oh, yay. Record breaking lows for this time of year were predicted for the weekend. Thanks, climate change.

If only there were some gorgeous, dedicated, ambitious, ridiculous, brilliant, charming but fucking terrible twink out there trying to single handedly end the systems at play that doomed their planet and hold those responsible to a bloody sword. If only he ever had a chance of making those stupid dreams come true.

If only there wasn’t a hole in his bedroom window. If only he’d dried out his mattress properly, which he was fairly sure would be mouldy by now but was too scared to check. 

If only he’d paid his fucking gas bill.

-

Grantaire came out of his late night shift comfortably buzzed. The perks of working at a seedy bar that didn’t have a certain corner behind the bar on any CCTV, is Grantaire could top up his hip-flask with whatever cheap spirit his manager wouldn’t notice him nicking. 

His manager also didn’t complain that Grantaire took far too frequent smoke breaks and came back smelling like weed, as long as Grantaire didn’t complain about changing over the beer keg. It was honestly a pretty cosy gig, other than it being hell on his feet all night and his eardrums suffering from the constant loud music and shouted drink orders, but that’d be his lot in life regardless. He should really stop doing everything in his power to try to lose the job. Maybe show up on time, give notice when he skipped work to get high at a club two streets over. You know, the bare fucking minimum. 

He wasn’t exactly walking home, just walking in the direction of home with the intention of seeing if any bars looked welcoming down the long main road. Surely one of them would spill warm light and warm air out into the cool night, surely one of them would lure him in with the seductive purr of good music and the ambient buzz of people. He would be easily seduced. 

Courfeyrac’s long cry of “GRAAAAAANTAAAAIIIIIIRE!” was enough. Grantaire spotted him waving from a balcony above, the smokers area of a bar he always dragged their friends back to towards the end of a night out because he’d had a “lucky hookup” there once.

Grantaire found him up on the second level with Bossuet and Bahorel on the same smoker’s balcony, sharing a joint. “Don’t mind if I do,” he said as he squeezed in the tight circle to Bossuet’s left, making himself next in rotation. Bossuet hugged him excitedly and passed him the joint. 

“Careful, I hear this one’s a weed thief,” Bahorel joked.

“Ah, fuck off,” Grantaire answered, and just for that he took an extra long draw on his second inhale.

“There’s your equal trade, asshole!” Bahorel misquoted, and laughed.

“I very specifically said cunt, asshole,” Grantaire snapped, and passed the joint to him. He had about one more Enjolras related dig before he did actually steal it.

“Don’t mind Bahorel, he’s being bitchy tonight,” Courfeyrac said. “Stay, drink, be merry.” 

“Yeah, yeah, merry,” Grantaire rolled his eyes. Sharing the joint was all nice and praxis of them, but Grantaire wasn’t here to fuck spiders. He finished off his flask, and fished out one of the bigger pre-rolled joints he kept in a small cylinder holder in his pocket to get through his shift.

“Oh nice, fat and juicy,” Courfeyrac complimented.

“I have a name,” Grantaire joked. Low hanging fruit, his specialty.

“You’re not wrong. Grantaire, you are one fat and juicy specimen,” Courfeyrac’s voice slipped into that dripping with sex zone, laying it on a bit thick if you asked him, “and that is one fat and juicy joint you’ve got on you. Mind sharing with the class?” He indicated that the joint Bahorel was passing to him was almost out, gave his biggest pleading-est eyes.

Ah, there it is.

“Only if you’re giving out extra credit,” Grantaire flirted as he lit it up.

“The only thing I can guarantee you is a big fat D,” Courfeyrac replied, wicked and witty and lightening fast. Bossuet groaned, and Grantaire laughed it off. But then Courfeyrac had slid his hand in and out of his pocket, and he subtly pressed something into Grantaire’s palm. “Here, fair trade.” His voice wasn’t so low, more real, but still as flirty as he always was. “Come get up on our frequency.” 

Grantaire felt the two capsules in his palm. “Salute,” he said, and dry swallowed them before anyone around could see.

-

It was nicer on Courfeyrac’s frequency, that was for damn sure.

The MD started coming up in his bloodstream as Bossuet and Courfeyrac coaxed Grantaire out of the smokers and into the club. Bahorel stayed behind with the rest of Grantaire’s joint. They ran into Cosette and Éponine at the bar doing shots, and Courfeyrac ordered another round for the five of them. The nice buzz was turning into a pleasant high, and as they chatted and laughed it turned into a growing euphoria. They spilled onto the dancefloor and Musichetta and Joly were there with matching grins, and that euphoria felt like home.

“You’re here! I’ve missed you!” Joly proclaimed, pulling him into a half hug with the arm not holding their cane.

“You saw me on Thursday!” Grantaire yelled over the music.

“You left so fast, you had a da-ate!” Joly sang the last word and Grantaire laughed. “But I’m so glad you came tonight! You didn’t reply to our messages, we weren’t sure you were coming.”

“Right,” Grantaire muttered. Tonight. What was tonight? To him it was a Sunday night, his third night shift in a row because he was trying to kiss ass and save his job. To him it was the ninth day since he’d touched Enjolras. 

He wasn’t counting. 

That was a lie.

He hadn’t checked any of his group chats since the Thursday blow up in the Musain, not even the small one he had with just Joly and Bossuet. It had been a bit too much, too public, and despite it being exactly what he was fucking asking for when he arranged Fox to meet him there, the embarrassment hit him hard after the fact.

It was bad enough that Musichetta had seen him leave that event with Enjolras. It was bad enough that Combeferre had gotten home to Grantaire’s shirt and jacket and shoes strewn out over his living room flaw. He hadn’t been able to look at any of their faces, glad to leave Enjolras to deal with whatever aftermath there was to their display. 

Grantaire couldn’t remember the date, but figured it was probably still May. Was anyone’s birthday towards the end of May? Or early… June? He didn’t think so, but couldn’t be sure. Whatever it was, he had completely fucking forgotten.

Luckily this wasn’t the place for conversation, so Joly accepted his lack of a response with a smile and continued to dance with his girlfriend. 

Now that he was thinking about it, he had seen quite a few of his friends here tonight. Bahorel with Bossuet and Courfeyrac in the smokers section, Cosette and Éponine at the bar doing shots. And Joly and Musichetta here dancing. He recalled how Courfeyrac had called him off the street. Had he been beckoning Grantaire up, or greeting him because he’d assumed Grantaire was already on his way into the club?

Was anyone else here? The crowd moved and there was Jehan dancing with a red haired stranger. Was everyone else here?

There was Feuilly ordering a drink up at the bar, Bahorel laughing at his side while trying way too obviously to slide his card in front of Feuilly’s and pay first. There was Combeferre over on some couches in those cosy alcove booths against the wall. And… No, no, come the fuck on.

Combeferre moved his head back as he laughed and, yes there he was. Golden, shining, as happy as he always looked before he realised Grantaire was in a room. 

Enjolras.

Was it the MDMA, or the weed, or the shots, or was he just that beautiful?

There were two simultaneous thoughts.

One: he couldn’t possibly define Enjolras beauty in terms of his hair or his hands because it was right there in the way the light bent itself to make him shine. To kiss his skin. How it defied physics or chemistry or whatever the study of light was to keep itself dancing on Enjolras, to touch him, to illuminate him. Grantaire would too, if he was light. That wasn’t quite fair, even if Grantaire was blind he would think Enjolras’ beautiful. It was in how the sound bent itself too, made everything else quieter so Enjolras’ voice could be the clearest thing in the room. Enjolras’ beauty wasn't aesthetic, it was so much more than that. It was in everything he was. It was him. 

Two: his hair! His hands!

That fucking angelic smile.

“Anyone got ket?” He asked no one in particular. He needed to be out of this room, before Enjolras saw him and he had to see that smile die. He couldn’t bear it right now, to be the worst thing in Enjolras’ world. To see it.

Plus, he was still kind of mad at him, and at this point of cross faded he couldn’t quite remember why.

Courfeyrac came through.

-

It was impossible to slide into the tiny bathroom stall alongside Courfeyrac, avoiding touching the toilet bowl or walls, and not touch each other. Knee in between knee, a quiet laugh shared as they regained their balance. Courfeyrac was easy to touch, easy to laugh with. 

He pulled out a small baggie, and fished under the top few undone buttons of his shirt for a gold chain with a bump spoon at the end. The long handle of the spoon was fashioned like a sword.

“Do not draw me without reason, do not wield me without valor,” Grantaire quoted.

“Sick idea for a dick tattoo,” Courfeyrac responded. This was why Grantaire liked him so much. “How’s that?” He asked, indicating the scoop of white powder.

“You know just how I like it,” Grantaire replied, and leaned in.

“Nice and big,” Courfeyrac replied, flirty, low, just for the two of them to hear. He held the spoon up between their faces.

It was impossible to snort it without leaning in close to Courfeyrac’s space. Impossible to lean in close and breathe it in without that long moment of eye contact. It was probably possible for Courfeyrac to let him do it without resting a steadying hand on his waist, but that didn’t stop him. 

He watched Courfeyrac take his own bump, watched the dark hair fall into his face and then back. Watched his thick lashes touch the tops of round cheeks when his eyes fluttered shut and then opened again.

He was pretty. He’d always been attractive, always been hot, but Grantaire blinked and saw that Courfeyrac was pretty.

He also smelled nice. Warm. The space was tight, his eyes were suggestive. It wasn’t the first time Grantaire thought that he would have probably tried to fuck him, had he not met and fallen for Enjolras first. 

But now he thought, for the first time, that he maybe still might.

Then, the burn hit. The drip from the nose down the back of the throat. 

“Oh God, that’s bad.” Grantaire complained too loud. “Got anything to wash it down?”

“Ah, so you are a swallower,” was Courfeyrac’s sleazy reply.

Still would, Grantaire thought, and spat the drip into the toilet bowl.

-

Each step felt like floating. But the world underneath him was floating too, so it was a net zero on any actual flying action. Grantaire floated nonetheless, from the bathroom to the bar to the dance floor.

The room spun, and it was safer to move than it was to stand still, so he spun with it. Courfeyrac’s laugh was contagious over the music, so he laughed with him. Everything was nicer on Courfeyrac’s frequency, especially when Courfeyrac’s frequency was fine tuned to his favourite drugs.

He almost forgot what it was he was trying to forget. It was almost nice.

His synapses were lighting up brilliantly. He could write an essay right now, but actually things were kind of blurry so he probably couldn’t. He could dictate an essay right now, and after editing out the bullshit he’s pretty sure he could, like, really solve something. Some big question, that just needed one of the greatest minds of their generation to be just high enough on the perfect cocktail of antidepressants and depressants. He just wasn’t smart enough to think of what that big question would be.

Enjolras would be.

Blonde hair shimmered and moved in his periphery. It made sense to move with it, so he moved with it. Easy, gravitational.

His hand was on Enjolras’ hip before his brain had caught up to it. Enjolras was turning into him, and good God, which is to say good Enjolras, he was so fucking beautiful. In what world could Grantaire think he was entitled to touch him? He did it anyway. His hand was up and floating to that perfect face.

His cheekbones! Grantaire had a wild thought while watching his jaw work, (forming that trademark Just Saw Grantaire frown), that he wanted to fill that crevice caused by devastating sharp cheekbones with tequila and take a shot, to lick the salt from the cheekbones as if from a knives edge. He wondered if that face could cut him like the rest of him could. 

Grantaire stopped floating. Falling, falling instead.

Enjolras had shoved him off. 

Courfeyrac caught him by the elbows before he could stumble into too many people. Grantaire stood dumbstruck for a moment or two while his brain caught up. It was struggling to put two and two together, and he was shit at math.

The haze was too nice, and Enjolras was too nice to look at. Even the light thought so. 

In this light, Enjolras’ hair shone gold.

In this light, it was like champagne. Shimmering. Sparkling. Moving. Alive

Enjolras said something to Grantaire, but Grantaire didn’t hear it, he just stared at him. His hair, it was so…

“Did you put glitter in your hair?” He heard himself say.

Enjolras looked at him for a long time, his face doing something that Grantaire could probably name if he cared to. He didn’t care to. The hair was more captivating now than decoding whatever that scowl meant. 

“You’re high.”

Grantaire scoffed.

“You are,” Enjolras said.

“I am, you got me.” Grantaire said, putting his hands up in surrender, and then letting out a small laugh that turned bitter at Enjolras’ raised eyebrow. Even as he said it, that special effect Enjolras had was sobering him. Either that, or he’d taken that bump about twenty, closer to thirty minutes ago and the high was starting to fade.

They were moving. Well, Enjolras was moving, and Grantaire was orbiting him, shouting to be heard over the music.

“No, no, I just think it's sooo funny how all your radical socialist pro-drug user pro-harm reduction policies go out the window when it's me.”

“Fuck off, Grantaire.” Enjolras shouted back. He led them out onto the smokers balcony, where a passing security guard overheard them and went to check in, but Enjolras waved him off.

He told Grantaire to fuck off, and then shooed the person who came to take Grantaire away. Glared at him for the suggestion. That sparked something inside Grantaire, emboldened him. He followed Enjolras out into the quieter air, and continued.

His synapses were firing beautifully, and Enjolras was here, and he couldn’t help himself.

“No, because it’s all like: ‘Rehab’s are a cult based on christianity, not science or peer reviewed studies into harm reduction, and certainly not based on lived experiences of drug users whether being there is their choice or not.’ But then it’s: ‘Grantaire I told you never to call me when you're on one.’” Grantaire adjusted his voice as he mocked Enjolras’ arguments, and then again to mock Enjolras’ snaps at him. “‘These programs are a part of the carceral system and they serve to keep vulnerable people out of society and in heavily controlled environments where they are denied bodily autonomy with the threat of a jail sentence.’ ‘Go home Grantaire, you're high.’ ‘When you decriminalise sex work and add a caveat that specifically prohibits sex work in exchange for drugs you are in fact still criminalising drug using sex workers, this is believe it or not both a queer and disability justice issue as the intersection of people who are both self medicating with personal drug use and unable to hold regular 9-5’s will be disabled people and visabily queer people, often both.’ ‘Grantaire, don't tell your dealer to come to the Musain, we have standards.’” 

If Grantaire had two skills, they were parroting back argument points he'd heard Enjolras give over the years to piss him off, and memorising every cutting dig Enjolras had made directly to him.

“Is ‘fuck off’ lost on you? I have no doubt you hear it a lot.” Enjolras snapped. He pulled out a lighter. Grantaire pulled out a cigarette.

Enjolras had the audacity to glance at it longingly while he patted down his pockets, turning up nothing. Of course he wasn’t going to have anything, Enjolras rarely bought his own smokes. Everyone was always offering him one of theirs, so he probably didn’t even think about it.

“You know nicotine is a drug, right?” Grantaire goaded. He had the audacity to hold the ciggie up to his lips expectantly, and lean into Enjolras’ space, like he had earlier with Courfeyrac.

Enjolras held his stare. He held up the lighter. He lit Grantaire’s cigarette.

Grantaire took one puff, and then held it out.

Enjolras had the audacity not to take it in his fingers. He leaned in, and his lips almost touched Grantaire’s fingers when he took it into his mouth.

Grantaire let him take it. He couldn’t put it to his own lips again. Not after that.

He pulled out his last joint, and his own lighter because what the fuck was that. He wanted desperately to recreate it, so he wouldn’t.

“I just think it’s funny, how you have a go at me for stealing your weed and then have a go at me for being high. Choose a lane, hypocrite.” Grantaire said. Because he couldn’t help himself.

“And I think it’s funny that you’re too high to hear me say ‘get your fucking hands off of me’ and then suddenly sober and elequent enough to memorise everything I’ve ever said and throw it in my face.” Enjolras hissed back. “Do you think I need some fucking civilian, a fucking client, using my own take on sex worker politics against me as some ‘gotcha’? What the fuck gives you the right?”

And then, before Grantaire could answer, or really think about that one - because, really, what did give him the right?

“You know what, no, you’re worse than a client. At least a client pays. I know exactly what you are. One of those fucking creeps who serial dates sex workers, tries to get everything out of them for free, access to everything because what you’re offered isn’t enough, and then moves on to another worker when you’re bored to try to wring out for everything they’re worth, and the next, and the next.”

And then he smoked more of Grantaire’s cigarette. Choose a fucking lane, hypocrite.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“How was your date?”  

Oh, right. That’s what this was about? Grantaire hadn’t thought about Fox since his “fuck my way into a warm bed” plan went south. He hadn’t even sexted them, and they hadn’t bothered with him. 

There was no reason for Enjolras to know that.

“Jealous?” Grantaire asked.

Enjolras scoffed around Grantaire’s cigarette. It was an ugly sound, but it was still beautiful. Because it was him.

“It went well, thanks for asking. And I didn’t ask them out because of their job, if you really want to know, they asked for my number. I never gave a shit about any of that, I’m not some sex worker chaser, even if picturing that helps you sleep at night. The only thing I was chasing was you.”

“Am I supposed to be impressed? Am I supposed to swoon?” Enjolras mocked.

“Fuck you, Enjolras. Enjoying my cigarette?”

Enjolras glanced at the almost finished cigarette between his fingers. He had the audacity to shrug.

So Grantaire had the audacity to say: “And you say I never pay.”

They sat in that one for a long excruciating second. Moment. Minute. Granaire had the self awareness to note how much of a cunt he was being, and how much strength it must take for Enjolras not to punch him right now. For one of those microseconds that lasted forever, he really thought he would. That this would be the time they finally came to blows. He’d have thoroughly earned it.

Enjolras took one last puff, and stubbed the cigarette out on the brick wall behind him. He reached out, with one hand grabbed Grantaire’s and forced his palm open, with the other he dropped the butt into it. Like Grantaire was an ashtray.

“There’s your change,” he sneered, and was gone.

-

Grantaire couldn’t go back inside after that.

He finished his last joint, and let that and the fresh air cool down his overheating body. Inside him all of the hurt was warring equally with blood boiling anger and unequivocal, overwhelming horniness. 

What the fuck was wrong with him?

Jehan and Combeferre came out mid conversation and started to smoke. Grantaire nodded to them and listened idly to their deep dive into mermaids. Whether they were discussing the mythological creature as an archetype or arguing their legitimate existence, he couldn’t be sure.

Before Grantaire knew it he had joined their rotation. They were good to smoke with. Well, Combeferre was, and Jehan was okay as long as you weren’t prone to anxiety or paranoia. They seemed to have a special talent for convincing people that they were coming, and wouldn’t say who they were, other than the wall people.

Jehan was good people, though. And Combeferre was a saint, always putting up with Grantaire’s bullshit with more patience and humour than he’d deserved. It wasn’t his fault that they weren’t close. It was circumstance, out of their control.

It was unspoken. Enjolras didn’t know why, because it seemed something he would never know. It was in Grantaire’s favour that Enjolras didn’t know, that maybe he was the only one that saw it in how Combeferre looked at him. Maybe Courfeyrac saw it too. 

Another thing that might have been different, if Grantaire hadn’t dated Enjolras. He imagined it would be nice, in that world, but knew he wouldn’t trade this one for anything. Those six months, no matter how they tasted in his mouth now, and all the months of hatred and animosity and closeness since, he wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Even if he knew right now it was over, that he would never touch Enjolras again. Even then, he wouldn’t trade it for a world where he never had the courage or drugs in his system to ask Enjolras out. A world where Enjolras hadn’t looked at him face on and said “come to bed with me,” when Grantaire finished walking him home after their date, simple and straight to the point.

Joly and Bossuet came out to join them, and they were laughing and smoking and everything was wonderful until Jehan toasted their joint. “To Joly! And Bossuet! And most of all to Musichetta! To love!”

Joly and Bossuet held the joint they were sharing up together, laughing at their intertwined fingers, and tapped the lit end to Jehan’s outstretched joint, a toast. Combeferre did the same with his hand rolled ciggie. Grantaire held out his drink, because sure, why not?

“To love,” he proclaimed.

“Happy anniversary, you guys.” Combeferre said to Joly and Bossuet, sincere. 

Fuck. That’s what he was forgetting. Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta’s official anniversary, a day they’d chosen for themselves because between the three of them there were too many firsts to count a start date.

“Yeah, fuck, happy anniversary!” Grantaire said. He wondered if he was fooling any of them. Jehan didn’t seem to care, Joly and Bossuet were too busy kissing to pay him any mind.

But Combeferre. For just a second, it was there. The neutral façade slipped and Combeferre looked at him, dead in the eye, unimpressed. 

Then he looked away and made another face, a private one, to himself. 

Was Combeferre… annoyed at him? He probably deserved it, but damn. He was used to the patient good humoured Combeferre who let his shit slide. 

Joly and Bossuet finished smoking, and Jehan called after them as they were going back inside. “Here, finish this for me,” they said, passing their joint to Grantaire. There was a considerable amount left to smoke. Things were looking up. 

Combeferre was hanging on to the last of his ciggie. He watched the others leave, and didn’t follow them. Okay, maybe things weren’t looking up. Grantaire couldn’t say why, but Combeferre’s energy right now was weird. Different. 

“We didn’t think you were coming,” Combeferre said. It was obvious who “we” was, neither of them had to clarify.

“I had work, so,” is all Grantaire said. No need to admit that he didn’t remember. Combeferre already knew.

“Right.” Combeferre said.

It could have been left there.

“Something up, man?” Grantaire said instead. 

“What would be up, Grantaire?” Combeferre replied, almost innocently. Almost challenging.

Oh yeah, he was definitely pissed at Grantaire. So Grantaire said as much. 

“You seem pissed.”

“What would I have to be pissed about?”

“I don’t know, but I think I could guess.” Enjolras. It was always going to be about him. 

“Then you do know. You know you fucked up.”

Okay, what? The fuck was he talking about?

“Fuck up is my middle name, thought you knew that by now.” Grantaire said with a flourish. Even if he hadn’t caught up, he couldn’t let the asshole façade slip. It was easier this way. It hurt less. 

“And I don’t know why, for some reason I thought you’d know better than to hurt Enjolras.”

Grantaire was gobsmacked.

“Me? Hurt Enjolras? The fuck are you on tonight mate?”

“You have had so many opportunities to be a good person, Grantaire. To be a good friend to the people who care about you. But what were you doing when Joly and Bossuet were texting all weekend begging you to show tonight. Where were you when Enjolras woke up in-” he cut himself off. Stopped himself, took a puff, corrected. “Thats not my place.”

“Yet you have no problem putting your head in the middle of it,” Grantaire snapped. He was pissed now. Or he was still pissed from the thing with Enjolras earlier, he wasn’t sure. Either way, it resulted in this: “What fucking right do you have to have a go about my relationship with my best friends. About my…” he almost said boyfriend. “About Enjolras? What right do you have to be angry with me on behalf of anyone else? You wanna be pissed at me, fine, there’s more than enough reasons, but man up enough to be pissed off for yourself. Fuck.”

Grantaire leaned back against the half height brick wall, caught his breath, puffed the joint. Combeferre leaned back too, considered.

“I’m disappointed in Enjolras too. It’s just, easier to be angry at you, I guess. You don’t know what I saw. You’d hate you too, after that.”

Grantaire had no idea what he was talking about, but it made him feel scared, and then sick, and then angry. The anger wasn’t red hot anymore, it was ice cold. 

“How about you stay the fuck out of my relationship with Enjolras, and I stay the fuck out of yours.” Grantaire snapped.

Combeferre stilled. His face was perfectly expressionless, but he was caught out and they both knew it. Grantaire had said the quiet part out loud, crossed an invisible boundary.

It could have been a good place to stop. It would have sent the message. But Grantaire wasn’t that person. 

“You think you get to judge my relationship with my ex from the outside looking in. Hate me for what you think you know when you’re only hearing his side of the story and we both know how biased you are. Fine, hate me all you want, you would have hated me anyway because I had the fucking courage to ask for what you wanted but never would have had. You would do anything to hold onto him too, if you’d ever been given the chance. The only difference between you and me is he wanted to fuck me.”

That wasn’t true, and Grantaire knew it. There was a world of difference between them. Combeferre was a good person, for one. Enjolras loved Combeferre, for another. 

Combeferre breathed in and out through his nose. Slowly. Once again Grantaire wondered if he was getting hit tonight.

“I’m really fucking disapointed in you, Grantaire.”

“Welcome to the club,” Grantaire said. He stubbed out the rest of Jehan’s joint and pocketed it, not even worrying to find the joint holder. He wasn’t getting left on this balcony after a fight a second time.

For one thing, they weren’t the only people out there. This was the second scene he’d made in front of these humble smokers in the space of 15 minutes. 

Might as well make another one, he figured after going inside and ordering another drink. 

He was still furious, and guilty, and under all that still somehow horny. He had this wild need to do something. He either needed to come, right the fuck now, or finally get punched in the face. He knew which he deserved more, but figured that fate would decide for him.

Fate gave him Courfeyrac. A hand on the fat of Grantaire’s hip, just a hair off grabbing his ass, and a whispered: “want another bump?”

“You know how I like it.” Grantaire said, low and flirty.

Courfeyrac’s answering grin said all there needed to be said.

-

The line to the bathroom was too long for the buzzing in Grantaire’s veins. He grabbed Courfeyrac by the hand, pulled him into the huge disability accessible stall, hastily shut the door behind him. He was too preoccupied to do more than pull it shut. He figured that was enough.

There was too much room in here to have to pretend to force proximity, but they didn’t need the pretense right now. Courfeyrac crowded Grantaire to the wall all the same. He made a show of undoing an extra button before fishing out the ket spoon.  

Courfeyrac was smiling and seductive and hazy eyed and obviously still on that beautiful euphoric high from the MD that had been soured for Grantaire. The double whammy of Enjolras’ fury and Combeferre’s disappointment would do that to a guy.

He was desperate to get back on Courfeyrac’s frequency. That place that made you love everyone, made you fall into touch easily.  

He did a bigger bump this time, and was prepared for the drip, he washed it down with his drink, then offered the drink to Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac hummed in appreciation as the high kicked in. Now free of his scooping duties, he let the spoon fall back into his shirt and placed a hand on the wall beside Grantaire’s head. The other hand found itself at home on Grantaire’s soft waist again. 

“I wish I’d met you first,” Grantaire said, when the high lightened him up enough that they should be leaving the stall, but still neither of them had moved.

“Oh yeah?” Courfeyrac asked. Low, intentional. They both knew what they were doing. “Would you have asked me out?”

“Probably not,” Grantaire admitted. “But I’d have definitely tried to hit it.”

Courfeyrac grinned at the admission.

“You’re single. I’m single. Who says we can’t?”

He was leaning in closer. Anticipating and lust was building with the high of the ketamine to overcome everything that he was trying to leave out on that balcony. This would do. This would satiate the wild need inside him. 

There was a reason he shouldn’t, but it wasn’t loud enough to break through the haze. 

There was no small kiss to break the boundary of what was happening here. No, Grantaire was smashing through boundaries tonight, burning them down and leaving devastation in his wake. It wasn’t so biting or angry or cruel as he was used to, but this wasn’t Enjolras, and wasn’t that the point?

Why weren’t we doing this two years ago? Grantaire thought when Courfeyrac's tongue found its way into his mouth. He could talk the talk, sure, but fuck! It was already apparent that he was skilled. 

There was a thrill to the gamble of kissing someone for the first time. They could be terrible, they could be amazing, they could do that weird tongue thing no one’s ever done before except that one guy. Courfeyrac tongue was clever and enthusiastic, and didn’t do anything weird. They gasped into each other's mouths and ground their hips against each other and it was just sloppy enough to make it a thousand times hotter.

Courfeyrac grabbed every bit of fat he could on Grantaire’s back, his hips, his ass. Grantaire groaned at each pinch and squeeze, he loved hooking up with people who were genuinely into his body. The last hookup he’d had where someone squeezed him like that was… 

Don’t think about him now. Don’t summon him now. Stay focused. 

Grantaire grabbed Courfeyrac’s hips in return, used the hold to flip them and push Courfeyrac back into the wall. He looked up into his eyes once to check in, then dropped to his knees. 

“Fuck.” Courfeyrac groaned. “Are you sure?”

“You wanted to know if I swallow?”

“Fuck.” He said again. Then, “Okay. No. Condom. I’m sorry, as hot as that is… I have to, my work…”

I’m not some sex worker chaser. This was going to end badly anyway. Whatever. Grantaire nodded.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he remembered Enjolras insisting on condoms during their first month or so, for the same reason. Somewhere in the back of his mind he remembered that they hadn’t even considered using one in a long time. Both before the breakup, and after. It meant something.

He’d been using one with every other hookup he’s had since. He used one with Fox. That meant something too.

“Sure, you got one?” He asked. He probably had one in his wallet still, but couldn’t guarantee it would fit Courfeyrac yet. 

“You know I do,” Courfeyrac said, pulling one out from the same pocket he kept the ket baggie in. 

“You’ve made about three promises tonight that you’re packing, so you better blow my mind,” Grantaire joked. 

“The pleasure will be mine,” Courfeyrac said, already undoing his pants. He slid them down with his underwear, and he was hard, and. Yeah. Alright. He had promised a fat dick, and he sure delivered.

Not as long as… others. But thick. Good, it would stretch his mouth but wouldn’t be too hard to deep throat. He regretted that this was happening here and he wouldn’t be fucked, because he knew the stretch would be brilliant. 

“Do not draw me without reason, do not wield me without valor,” Grantaire said again. “Good sir, you have valor aplenty.”

Courfeyrac grinned down at him and then busied himself tearing the condom package open, but Grantaire reached for it. “Allow me,” he said, and then opened the packet, checked which way it rolled, and placed it in his mouth. With the tip of his tongue he pressed the tip of the condom to the roof of his mouth to push out any air trapped in it.

He took Courfeyrac in hand, lined himself up, looked up into his eyes, and in one quick motion he slid Courfeyrac into the condom in his mouth, using his hand and lips to unroll it up the length without his lips touching skin. It was a cheap party trick, and one Courfeyrac had no doubt used himself, but he groaned his appreciation nonetheless.

He took him in all the way on the first stroke, and just to show off he took him down into his throat and swallowed so it would clench around him.

“Fuck! I always knew you’d be good with your mouth,” Courfeyrac praised. 

Grantaire was good with his mouth. He was good with his hands too, a speed and consistency his hips couldn’t match that meant a lot of the time he fell back on fingering instead of fucking, but he was best with his mouth. Because he was good at taking, better than he was at giving. 

He was going to prove it. He was going to give the best blowjob of his life, right here to his ex-boyfriend’s best friend, on his knees in a dirty bathroom stall. And because he was pathetic, he was going to stick his hand in his own pants, wrap it around himself, and jerk off to the sweet shame and humiliation of it all.

Courfeyrac moaned again, and whispered more praise, and his hands found their way into Grantaire’s hair. His hips were making the suggestion of movement, but he was holding himself back from fucking Grantaire’s face. Grantaire wished he wouldn’t.

Enjolras wouldn’t have. 

Fucking. Focus.

If he could do this right, he could get them both off and they could chase it down with another bump before anyone noticed they were gone. He could do this right. He choked Courfeyrac down again, as deep down as he could without putting his lips flush to Courfeyrac’s skin. If it weren’t for the condom thing he could be sloppier, maybe pull off and suck Courfeyrac’s balls into his mouth, but he knew why it was needed and respected that. 

As long as he could remind Courfeyrac later not to judge his skills solely on this. He could do better, if he’d had free reign. As it is he pulled Courfeyrac out and bounced the thick head of his cock onto his outstretched tongue and lips a few times. 

Courfeyrac moaned a bit louder at that than maybe he should have. Grantaire moaned too, mouth free to make the sound, and eagerly sucked him back into his mouth.

The door opened.

What a picture they must have made. Courfeyrac against a wall, pants around his knees, Grantaire on his knees in front of him, mouth full of cock. They were definitely getting kicked out of this club.

He pulled his mouth free and turned around enough to yell: “This is the disabled stall, asshole!”

As if that would be the best approach. Like the asshole wasn’t the one taking up space in the one accessible stall to give a shameful blowjob. It didn’t matter. It wouldn’t have mattered what they’d said.

It was Enjolras.

Two for two for Enjolras catching him in the middle of a shame filled public bathroom hookup. One look and he knew this one wouldn’t be ending like last time.

Enjolras had never looked at him like that before.

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” His voice was barely above a whisper. He looked up at Courfeyrac as he said it. Like Grantaire was so beneath him, he wasn’t even worth acknowledgement.

Grantaire was still beneath him. He was frozen in place on the floor, unable to move enough to even wipe the saliva from around his lips. He knew how he would look right now. Pathetic. Disgusting. 

There was the sound of Courfeyrac pulling his pants up. He said something, it might have been Enjolras’ name.

“Of course you,” Enjolras spat that word, eyes flicking down to Grantaire for one eternal hate filled second, “would do this. But you.” Softer, rawer, aimed at Courfeyrac. Even now he didn’t have all that hate in his voice as when he’d spat the same word down at Grantaire, the worm beneath his feet. 

“You should know better. You do know better. You know.”

Courfeyrac said Enjolras’ name again. It was clear this had sobered him, whatever drug fuelled haze had made him think it was a good idea to receive a sloppy blowjob from Grantaire in a disabled bathroom had vanished to Enjolras’ sobering aura. They were both left in the clear knowledge that they had fucked up.

Enjolras made a sound that didn’t make any sense, and he turned, and he left them to sit in it. 

-

Courfeyrac was gone. He’d followed Enjolras faster than Grantaire could pull his hand out of his pants and wipe his face dry. Grantaire stayed on the ground and let his head collapse against the wall. If anyone really needed to piss that bad, they could go around him.

He knew he was being all kinds of an asshole, but that didn’t seem to stop him.

Because underneath it all, when the freeze response that only Enjolras could cause faded, he was still furious. More furious, somehow. The fury plus the shame, was like fire. He needed to burn. He needed to hurt. 

He still had that feeling, where he thought he either had to come or be punched. Coming wasn’t happening right now, he knew that much to be clear. He needed more than to be punched. He needed to bleed.

He pulled himself off the floor and sped through the club, seeking out Enjolras. Seeking out the fight. 

Chapter Text

Enjolras knew what he was going to find.

He knew when he saw Grantaire shoving his way back in from the smokers section, when he saw Courfeyrac watch him do it. Enjolras was distracted from his conversation with Feuilly and Marius by the obvious way Courfeyrac was eyeing Grantaire. He had seen that look a million times, and rolled his eyes while Courfeyrac eyed off his next conquest. He wasn’t rolling his eyes now.

He knew when he saw how Courfeyrac groped Grantaire at the bar before leaning in and whispering something in his ear. He knew when he saw that look on Grantaire’s face as he replied.

He knew when his guilty eyes followed them from the bar into the direction of the bathrooms, where Grantaire grabbed Courfeyrac’s hand and skipped the line, dragging him through the one open door to the side that no one was waiting for.

“Good for him,” someone said. It wasn’t Feuilly, and it wasn’t Marius. It was a voice that made the hair on the back of Enjolras’ neck stand up.

It was Montparnasse.

“No.” Is all Enjolras said.

Where had Feuilly and Marius gone? How long had Enjolras been ignoring them to watch Grantaire flirt with his best friend? It was just Montparnasse here now. Enjolras ignored him, looked back at that closed door.

They were just snorting something, or taking pills. Or maybe Grantaire was throwing up from the drugs and drinks and the guilt of what he’d said to Enjolras, Courfeyrac holding back his hair.

He knew that wasn’t true. Grantaire wouldn’t feel guilty for that dig about paying him. He would never know just how much that one had hurt. And from him, of all people. 

He thought Grantaire knew just how significant the sex they had was to Enjolras. How it was nothing but his own needs and desires, for once not catering his entire self to a client's fantasy, just reveling in the truth that who he was was exactly what Grantaire wanted. How much he needed it, to reclaim his own sexual desire after only having sex for work for so long, to be one hundred percent himself and in his body when making…

What the fuck?

He’d almost thought… 

Where did that come from?

They fucked. They had sex. They didn’t do anything else. They weren’t making anything. They weren’t even making like.

“Forget about him, gorgeous,” Montparnasse said. He was winding fingers through Enjolras’ curls, brushing it behind his ear, making Enjolras’ neck curl in on himself with a disgusted shiver. “Let’s find a corner of our own, I’ll chase all those thoughts of trash like him out of that pretty little head.”

Where was Musichetta now, to put a calming hand on Enjolras’ and shoo Montparnasse away? That wasn’t fair, she was dancing with the loves of her life, because this was her anniversary, and she deserved to, and Enjolras wasn’t going to wish her here to outsource his emotional regulation and boundary setting.

It would have made less of a scene, if she had been.

Enjolras shoved Montparnasse off. Harder than he’d shoved Grantaie, earlier, and Montparnasse didn’t just stumble but fall to the floor. Enjolras was getting really fucking sick of being touched and grabbed. Maybe if he’d taken the MDMA Courfeyrac offered him, he would have leaned into it. Probably not, though.

Grantaire and Courfeyrac still hadn’t emerged from that… Was that the accessible bathroom they were in?

Fucking. Asshole.

His body was moving without his mind saying so. He was striding, parting the people like the sea in front of him. No one who saw him dared to stand in his way.

He knew what he was going to find. He knew, but he still pushed himself forward. He still grabbed the door and it was unlocked and it opened and he knew what he would see.

It didn’t stop the hurt. The drop in his stomach. The disgust. The rage.

He couldn’t look at Grantaire right now. That one glance had shown enough. On his knees, mouth full of Enjolras’ best friend, pulling off to turn and yell at him. He pulled his eyes up to meet Courfeyrac’s. He couldn’t say what his face was doing, what it was telling them both.

The truth.

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” 

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac replied. His voice was already apologetic, already begging. He had already pulled back - already pulled his dick out of Enjolras’ ex-boyfriends mouth - was zipping up his pants. There was nothing he could say right now. Nothing could fix this.

“Of course you,” Enjolras couldn’t stop the venom that came out at that word, couldn’t stop his eyes flicking down to Grantaire. On his knees, lips still shiny wet, looking up at him with devotion and devastation in his eyes, “would do this. But you?” and he couldn’t stop the heartbreak from slipping into his voice, couldn’t stop it making its way into his eyes when he looked back up at Courfeyrac. “You should know better. You do know better. You know.”

Courfeyrac said Enjolras’ name again. Enjolras wouldn’t hear it. He feared if he stayed in this room, if Courfeyrac approached him right now and reached out with hands that had just been in Grantaire’s hair, that he would swing.

Some feral sound made its way out of his throat. Enjolras’ body moved again, because he couldn’t breathe this air for one more second.

Grantaire hadn’t said anything yet. He couldn’t be here when he did.

He stormed through the hot room in search of cold air. He needed to breathe something in that wasn't the fire he was choking on now. That wasn’t Courfeyrac and Grantaire. The room was spinning, Enjolras wasn’t sure how he made it out. His shaking legs took him through and back out into the smokers balcony. It made sense, this was the fastest route to outside.

“Enjolras?” It was Combeferre. Enjolras sped past him and into the very corner, where he let himself collapse onto the floor, leaning his head back hard against the cold brick. He brought in a gasping breath.

“Enjolras!” That one was Courfeyrac. He had probably been calling his name inside as well, but now here he was coming into vision in front of him. Stopping, just far enough that Enjolras couldn’t touch him, and standing above him. “Just wait for one second,” he was begging.

“Fuck you!” Enjolras yelled back.

Some people around them murmured to each other, and Combeferre was in motion before they could get kicked out, kneeling in front of Enjolras and grabbing the closest part of him he could, which was a hand on both knees.

“Enjolras, woah, that’s not on. What's going on?”

“Ask him!” Enjolras hissed, and glared at Courfeyrac. He kept his voice lowered, though. In the back of his mind he remembered that they were in public, and they were out for their friend’s anniversary, and he wasn’t going to be the one to ruin it.

Courfeyrac came down to his level too, but still out of reach. Smart.

“Courfeyrac?” Combeferre asked, voice low.

“I hooked up with Grantaire.”

They sat in the tangled silence of that confession while Combeferre processed. Then, unexpectedly, he snapped. “For fuck’s sake! What is it about fucking-”

“Enjolras!” It was Grantaire. Enjolras found that when his eyes fell on him, he couldn’t pull them away.

All the anger in the world seemed to fill him and hone in on this. On Grantaire. Enjolras was on his feet, stepping over Courfeyrac. Grantaire was closing in, and he was still shouting, and he was magnificent and terrible when he was like this, and Enjolras wished so badly that this was all some awful nightmare.

“How many fucking times do I need to say it?” Grantaire shouted in his face. “You dumped me. You didn’t want me. You don’t love me. You don’t get to play jealous boyfriend every time I find someone else.”

“Someone else? My best friend! What, was Combeferre unavailable? Was there no one else you could think of to try to hurt me?”

Grantaire actually laughed. Enjolras was very close to punching him.

“Like I could ever hurt you.” And then he laughed again, a different laugh. “Like he ever would. Like he has eyes for anyone but-”

“Grantaire!” Combeferre didn’t have to yell, his voice gave him the command he needed. He was in between them, pushing Grantaire away with one hand on the chest. “You’ve done enough.”

Grantaire stumbled back, still laughing cruelly. “Have I?” He asked, all the audacity and assholery in the world laced in his voice. In that twisted ugly look on his face.

Enjolras hated him so much.

“I wish I’d never fucking met you.” He said. Low, and slow, and the way Grantaire’s stupid asshole face still twisted in hurt was all he needed.

If he’d never met Grantaire, he probably wouldn’t be here tonight to celebrate three brilliant people who he loved, who he wouldn’t have in his life otherwise. If he’d never met Grantaire, he wouldn’t have to be furious at one of his best friends right now. He wasn’t sure if he meant it, or which he’d prefer, but he said it all the same.

“And I wish I’d let Courfeyrac fuck me first, his dick’s bigger than yours.” Grantaire threw back, and it was weak, and pathetic. Someone watching them laughed, loudly and suddenly, and Enjoras remembered where he was.

He wasn’t doing this right now.

“Combeferre,” is all he said. Combeferre used the hand on Grantaire’s chest to push him one more time, clearing the way for Enjolras to walk past him. He didn’t have to look back to see Combeferre follow him out, he knew that he would.

Even now, when two of the people he loved the most in the world had betrayed him, Combeferre had his back. Combeferre would be there. He would survive this night, with him.

“Go on then, run away!” Grantaire was still yelling, his voice following them as he always did. Like a stubborn moon orbiting him, he was always there, just out of reach. Courfeyrac called something too, but whether he was calling for Enjolras or fighting with Grantaire, he couldn’t tell.

He almost made it to the top of the stairs and down, but of course Grantaire wouldn’t let him. He never could let things like this just be. Couldn’t let anything end, unless he was the one walking away from it.

“You are such a fucking hypocrite. Like you’re the fucking victim, right? Like you haven’t been leading me on this whole time, making it your mission to twist the knife. Why couldn’t you have just broken my heart in one go the first time? Huh?”

“Back off,” Combeferre was saying.

“Enjolras, just wait,” Courfeyrac was begging.

“What’s going on, hold on, Grantaire! Slow down!” Bossuet was grabbing Grantaire as he passed.

Enjolras turned around with enough time to see it happen. Grantaire, still ranting at him, shoved Bossuet off him hard. Bossuet fell back into Joly, and Musichetta desperately tried to catch them both. The three of them went down in a mess of limbs and one cane.

Everything seemed to stop. It was ridiculous for it to all be so still, with all that breath held collectively, while the lights flashed different colours and the music played loud over the speakers. An upbeat song, one Enjolras recognised. One about love. One about friendship.

Bahorel slogged Grantaire in the face. One clean punch, high on his cheek, and Grantaire staggered back. He took it, and didn’t even seem inclined to swing back, when all signs pointed to it being his first response. His desperate eyes didn’t leave Enjolras once.

“We’re done.” Enjolras said, loud and clear above the music. Grantaire didn’t seem able to get a cutting last word in over that. Enjolras saw the moment the fight died inside him.

Combeferre touched his back, and guided him down the stairs and out into the night air.

-

“Enjolras, we need to talk about this.”

“No.”

“Just leave it, Courfeyrac.”

“Enjolras! You’re allowed to be angry at me but you have to admit he’s got a fucking point!”

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Enjolras hissed once again as he spun on his heels. Combeferre had put himself between himself and Courfeyrac again, stopping him from being able to reach out and slap him.

He’d never wanted to hit a friend before. What ugliness Grantaire could create in him.

“You broke up with him!” Courfeyrac said.

“Is that really your approach right now? Does that make it okay? Come the fuck on, you know better than that!” Enjolras spat back.

“Fucking! Stop it!” Combeferre all but yelled. “We are too fucking old for this, cut it the fuck out.” 

They both stopped to stare at him. Combeferre was usually so much more patient, able to mediate with ease without losing it or getting upset himself. Something was off with him too, Enjolras could see now. He’d just been too selfish to notice before. 

“Enjolras, I am so fucking sorry for what I did, so sorry that you saw that. You’re right, I should have known better. I wasn’t thinking about what you feel for him, I wasn’t thinking.”

“‘What I feel for him’?” Enjolras repeated, incredulous.

“Oh my God!” Courfeyrac groaned, throwing his head back. Combeferre sighed heavily too, and turned away from them to go sit himself against someone's fence, pull out his tobacco pouch, and roll a cigarette.

“Can you two absolute children hold back from a literal punch on for long enough for me to roll. I need a ciggie to get through your bullshit,” Combeferre asked.

“Yes, Dad,” Courfeyrac replied.

Enjolras glared at Courfeyrac, but agreed. 

He sat himself down beside Combeferre. Breathed in the silence, the cool air. Before he could ask, Combeferre had passed him the first rollie, and went to roll another for himself.

He lit the cigarette. If he breathed in fire, maybe it would cancel out the fire in his lungs. Maybe it could burn every trace of Grantaire in him. Maybe he could breathe out all the smoke and expel it all.

It didn’t. All it did was remind him of leaning in, putting his mouth to Grantaire’s fingers to take the cigarette held there. How even when he was pissed at Grantaire for grabbing him and being a sleaze and for the fucking politics he threw at Enjolras, he had wanted to flirt with him. Wanted to see the look in his eyes when his lips almost brushed his fingers. Wanted to see that he would still let him take it from him. Take anything from him.

What he felt for Grantaire?

What right did Courfeyrac have to dictate his feelings for Grantaire? What feelings? He didn’t have any fucking feelings for Grantaire.

Beyond rage. Hatred. Betrayal. Hurt.

He felt humiliated, he realised. Exposed. Raw. There was a knot in his throat, building and building and by the time he was close to finishing the cigarette Enjolras found he couldn’t speak past it. 

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac said. It was Courfeyrac, his most honest voice, his most honest friend. He couldn’t make that make sense with the betrayal, with what he’d seen. “I’m so sorry.”

Enjolras tried to glare. He knew his eyes were too wet for it to have the effect he needed. Courfeyrac didn’t look scared, he looked sad. Guilty. Sorry. Ashamed. He was telling the truth, and that didn’t make it stop hurting.

“Oh, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac said, and he came down to their level and his hand was there, drying the tear that had just escaped. Enjolras wanted so badly to hate him, to push him off, to want to push him off, to recoil from his touch. But he couldn’t. He loved Courfeyrac too much.

He let himself cry, and he didn’t know what he was crying for. But Courfeyrac seemed to, and Combeferre did, and they held him through it. He was still angry, so so angry, but right now something else was taking over, and all he could do was let it.

-

It was hard to be angry at Courfeyrac.

Enjolras still was, of course. And he was furious with Grantaire, unable to think of him or hear his name without seeing red. But it was harder to stay angry at Courfeyrac.

For one thing, Combeferre wouldn’t let him. He’d mediated them through the night, after leading them home and rolling himself a joint, claiming he needed something calmer than nicotine to get them through this. 

And again the next morning, through excruciating conversations where Courfeyrac was simultaneously apologetic for his own actions, and defensive of Grantaire’s. And that drove Enjolras crazy.

At some point he felt like they were just talking in circles. Like Courfeyrac was testing him on something, trying to pull some answer out of him but he couldn’t say what. It was infuriating.

“I don’t understand why it matters that I was the one who broke up with him,” Enjolras complained once. He knew he was getting hung up on the wrong details, defending himself from facts that felt like attacks. That didn’t stop his brain from doing it.

“It doesn’t, just that you are still broken up. He didn’t actually betray a relationship or exclusivity with you, because that isn’t owed to you as a casual fuckbuddy. You don’t get to also be angry at him for the moments he’s not yours, when that’s what you asked for when you dumped him and then kept fucking him.” Courfeyrac replied, frustrated. 

Combeferre gave Courfeyrac a warning eyebrow. Courfeyrac grumbled something around his vape.

“I’m not angry that he’s not mine, I don’t own him. But that doesn’t make it okay for my best friend to get a blowjob from my ex while I’m in the fucking building.”

And that’s about when Combeferre would step in. “No one’s saying it’s okay. Enjolras.”

And Courfeyrac would apologise again. And something inside Enjolras’ heart would clench. And he would lash out. And they would argue again. And Combeferre would step in again.

Eventually he had to accept the apology. Accept that Courfeyrac was sorry. Accept that it had happened. That Courfeyrac and Grantaire probably would have gotten together at least once or twice anyway, that it only hurt so much because of the mess that he and Grantaire had made of their relationship. Accept that maybe it would have been okay, had he never said yes to Grantaire first. In that world, he knew he wouldn’t have cared. He couldn’t say why things were so different in this world, why he still cared so much.

“I’m still mad at you,” he said, and hugged Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac laughed and cried into his chest. It was a shaky sound, a relieved sound. “You’re allowed to be,” he said. “Just, please don’t stop being my best friend.”

Enjolras cried too, at that. At how Courfeyrac’s voice broke, the genuine sobs. He couldn’t help but cry, and hold him, and promise he wouldn’t. Nothing could stop them from loving each other, not even this.

Not even Grantaire.

-

Enjolras sent a message to Musichetta, offering his most sincere apologies for causing a scene at her anniversary.

Musichetta replied:

Not your fault love xx

The word made Enjolras want to scream. That wasn’t her fault.

-

Life went back to normal. Because Enjolras had things to do, and time wouldn’t stop for Grantaire.

He didn’t hear from him, he didn’t see him. Grantaire skipped meetings. The weeks went on.

Enjolras kept moving.

-

It was 4:20am, and Enjolras was ignoring a joke Courfeyrac was making about the time. 

They were en route to the location of the pre-briefing scheduled before a high risk action. The action was scheduled for sunrise, if they could get in and lock-on to the gates they could shut down production of a weapons making facility. They were supposed to be meeting at 4:30am. At this rate, they were going to be late, and Enjolras was stressing. 

From the driver's seat of the van, Courfeyrac was also stressing. But his stress was concentrated on the road, to getting them there on time and without speeding, and to singing along to the Queen song playing. He said it helped him drive.

In the passenger seat, Enjolras’ stress was concentrated on his phone. He flipped between about seven encrypted signal chats, keeping ties on his own friends, the groups that were organising this specific action, and other chats he had set up tracking police movements. He also had several 1:1 chats with strangers who were attending without a buddy and needed to communicate with someone to ensure safe arrival.

He was tired. No, exhausted. He didn't sleep the night before and couldn’t remember a time in the last month when he had gotten more than a few hours. He didn't eat before he left like he should have, and his ADHD medication hadn’t kicked in yet. He’d also spilled coffee on himself because Courfeyrac could drive well enough, but he took corners like a maniac. Enjolras was exhausted, overstimulated, and overwhelmed.

And still kind of mad at Courfeyrac. They were working it out. Case in point, driving together. Proving to everyone (to Combeferre) that they could.

Not that they were alone. Combeferre was in the back of the van, their supervisor. 

Enjolras was really trying. He still felt that burn in his chest, and sometimes when he was about to fall asleep he got so angry he felt he had to hit something or someone, but he wasn’t even really that angry at Courfeyrac, anymore. If he fantasised more about some of the more sadistic scenes he’d played out with Grantaire, well. That was nobody's business.

If he’d gone shopping for sex toys for work, and lingered over a multi-tailed whip with metal glittering threads among the leather, if he’d recalled how he’d seen a performer with one and pictured himself using it on Grantaire, no one needed to know. 

Everyone was active in the group chat, replying they were en route and on time, except those who were actually driving. And Bahorel and Jehan, who should be responding by now. And Grantaire, who was never active, and shouldn’t be a consideration. 

Grantaire wasn’t active in any of the Amis group chats anymore, not personal nor for organising. He hadn’t even been added to the one they’d made specifically for the upcoming action. His was the only tiny contact image coming up on their shared map, everyone else had turned off location sharing for the day. His little icon wasn’t at home, and Enjolras’ didn’t have the time to stare and wonder where he was at this time of night, what he was doing, who he was with. He didn’t have the time, and he didn’t care. And as Courfeyrac had reminded him, he had no right to be jealous.

He wasn’t. For the record.

Right now, Bahorel and Jehan were his main concern. They'd been sent to scout the factory before everyone else arrived, to send back the details on the best entrance to come in through and keep an eye out for early employees clocking in. They hadn't replied to any messages in the group chat or 1:1, and they were due to be there already.

Enjolras sent them both messages. No reply.

They were about to turn onto the street of the pre-briefing location, and before they could even turn they saw the lights from cop cars, blinking out of that street. 

Courfeyrac passed the street without turning. They looked down, and the entire street was cut off. This was the street that they intended to continue down to the factory. 

Fuck.

“We can find another way around,” Enjolras was already saying.

“We turn around,” Combeferre said.

“The others might have got through already, we need to check where everyone is,” Courfyerac said, still focused on the road, glancing at the map on the screen and clearly trying to brain out a route.

“We agreed, we voted. Any cops, we turn around.” Combeferre said. 

“Courfeyrac, keep driving,” Enjolras ordered. “Try to find us a way around that’s not blocked off. Any lights, you turn around.”

“Got it.”

“Combeferre,” Enjolras started, and then looked down to the ping on his phone. Combeferre had already sent the warning through to the main group chat. “Good, tell them it’s more than last time, try to find out if anyone has already gotten past. I’m messaging Amis chat, if no one has passed yet and we can’t find a way in, we go back to Meeting Place One, like we planned.”

They both typed for a few frantic seconds. Courfeyrac kept driving, but every road he turned onto didn’t link back to the one they needed. Replies started coming through, Combeferre started reporting them back, noting that only Cosette and Marius had gotten there and been pulled over just before he’d texted, but they didn’t say anything and didn’t have any of the glue or chains that were in the back of the van with Combeferre, so they were just told to turn around and find an alternate route by an officer who assumed they were a wife dropping her husband to work.

Courfeyrac pulled over, and when the car was safely stopped checked the map properly. “There’s no other way around, Enjolras.”

“Then we turn back. Jehan and Bahorel still aren’t responding,” Enjolras said. He started to call Bahorel. It rang through. “Combeferre, keep calling them for me, I need to message these people I was supposed to meet directly and make sure they got the warning message and know to stay back.”

Combeferre held the phone up to his ear as it rang, but kept speaking. “I sent them the number for the lawyers, and they both said they wrote them on their bodies. They know what to do if they get caught, it’s going to be okay.”

“I should have never let Jehan volunteer to scout. I sent another sex worker in to engage with police in my place. I should have-” Enjolras was cut off by his phone ringing.

It was an unknown number, but it could be Jehan or Bahorel, so he answered.  

“You’re everyone’s emergency contact even though you’re impossible to get a hold of, but somehow answer your phone in an actual emergency every time. I don’t know what I’m saying. I just… I see it. I see how you love your friends. You’re good at it.”

“Hello?” He answered.

A breath, and he knew already. Grantaire spoke, and he spoke fast.

“Enjolras, thank fuck, you answered, I couldn’t remember anyone else’s number. Look I’m-”

“I don’t want to hear it, Grantaire,” Enjolras snapped. He felt Courfeyrac straighten up next to him. He wasn’t doing this right now. Not with Grantaire. Not with Courfeyrac next to him. Not today. Jehan and Bahorel were his priorities now. 

“Fuck ange! Wait! I got arrested last night, I really need you to-” Grantaire rushed it out, but then Enjolras had already pulled the phone away and hung up.

“Enjolras?” Combeferre asked. And then his phone started ringing. “It’s Jehan!”

Just like that, Grantaire was forgotten.

-

Jehan and Bahorel were okay. They were able to coordinate and swing by and pick them up outside the police barricade, and they debriefed in the car on the way back to Meeting Place One.

Meeting Place One was Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta’s shared home, but that was less of a mouthful and was always the group's preferred place to hang out. It was big enough for all of them, for one thing. It was gorgeously decorated and cosy as fuck, for another.

Jehan and Bahorel had met up and arrived before the police had barricaded the street. They had successfully started their scouting, but then security caught them and they said the lights just came out of nowhere. They’d both been smart enough to make their phones inaccessible using biometric data, and turned off any push notifications that could reveal the group chat, and they didn’t have anything suspicious on them, other than the fact that they were wearing all black and Jehan had a keffiyeh on around their hair. They’d been held for a while, but didn’t answer any questions other than the bare minimum they were required to give, and were let go. While they were careful not to let anyone have access to their phones, Bahorel did manage to get some videos and photos of the whole thing.

“Really good work, you both did amazing,” Enjolras praised. He reached back and grabbed Jehan’s hand. “I'm so glad you’re both okay. We’ll drop you off at Meeting Place One, and then we’ll head back.”

“Enjolras, wait, that’s a decision we need to vote on,” Combeferre said.

“The sun hasn’t risen yet, and we know this isn’t the only factory making ammunition or weapon parts or special computers for a fucking drone that’s going to level a families home. We also know that a significant part of today’s resources have been put into guarding that one particular factory. This is an opportunity,” Enjolras said, eager and determined, his voice rising with each word.

“Yeah!” Cheered Courfeyrac. Enjolras grinned at him before he remembered not to.

“That’s it! The only problem with that is the leaving us behind part, the fuck?” Bahorel said.

“It’s a good idea, but we regroup first,” Combeferre said. 

“Wait, check the organising chat,” Jehan said. They all did, Courfeyrac expectantly waiting for someone to say what it said. 

“There’s someone here saying another group has organised something at a different factory, set for sunrise as well. I’m messaging the Amis chat, we vote now.” Enjolras said.

“I’m in, just put the address in for me,” Courfeyrac said

“Yes,” is all Combeferre said. 

Everyone else vocalised their support, and sent their vote into the chat too. When they were counted, as well as the votes of the drivers relayed by passengers, it was unanimous. 

Enjolras and Combeferre spent the drive coordinating with everyone from the called off action, cross coordinating with the other group to get those from the first action who haven't dropped off yet to join the other backup action, coordinating with the volunteers from the mutual aid kitchen who were going to serve breakfast to hold off until they know where they're going. 

Enjolras didn’t think of Grantaire again. There wasn’t time.

There was a brief argument about whether Jehan and Bahorel should come with them or not, as there was more risk now that their names had already been recorded. But they argued that they knew that risk going in, had agreed to it and more. And besides, it would be faster this way.

The second action started well, no flashing lights, no police barricade. Courfeyrac parked them a safe distance away, and he clasped Enjolras’ hand once before they left the car. 

They were able to get in and put themselves to the organisers disposal, and were set up by the time the others arrived. They already knew their roles, everyone setting up as either a “lock-on bunny” or helper, assisting those who were chained to the gates and entrances. The objective here was the same as the other factory, shut down production for as long as possible. Enjolras had been to lock-ons that had lasted days, and had been to some that had been shut down within the hour. He was prepared either way. He was prepared to put his body on the line, prepared to block roads if he needed to.

Prepared to do so much more than that.

Courfeyrac was beside him as he tied the chain around his waist, securing himself to the gate so no trucks could leave the facility. It was vulnerable, chaining himself and giving the key to Courfeyrac. Putting himself stuck here with Courfeyrac as his tether to the world, to anything he may need. Knowing at any moment some rogue truck driver could ignore him and drive forward, and that Courfeyrac was all that could untie him. It was vulnerable, it was intimate, and it relied on all the trust and love that they still had. That had never gone away. 

Courfeyrac held his gaze. “I’m here. We’re good,” he said.

“Hey,” Enjolras said, and put his hand out as much as he could. Courfeyrac grabbed it and held on. “We’re good.” He repeated. They both knew how he meant it.

When everyone was locked on, they got to watch the sun rise. Combeferre was relaying between groups, organising their breakfast from the mutual aid kitchen. Bahorel was already complaining that he needed to piss. In a moment filled with crisp morning air and his friends' laughter causing fog against the cold, Enjolras felt so in love. He wouldn’t have it any other way. Wouldn’t be chained here, risking his body and life for what he believed in, with any other people over these people who put themselves at his side. His family.

And then he wished Grantaire had come.

And then the cops arrived, and Enjolras was glad that he hadn’t. And then, there was too much, and he couldn’t waste any time thinking about Grantaire anymore.

-

Enjolras had tried to hold out the longest. Even when he was screaming at Jehan to unlock Bahorel so the two of them could run, he was telling Courfeyrac to leave his own chain alone, to go with them and leave him here.

There was so much noise. The sirens left on the cop cars to disorient them, the horns from the trucks lined up, threatening to go through them. The yelling. The quiet serenity and joy of the early morning was gone, given up to the chaos. Enjolras couldn’t even say how much time had passed, all he knew was this moment, now.

“Okay, no, I’m not leaving you here,” Courfeyrac yelled, and even as Enjolras tried to push him off, he unlocked him. Courfeyrac grabbed him by the hand, shouted “we need to move, now!” And the two of them ran on the heels of Jehan and Bahorel, away from the flashing lights and yelling, towards the van.

It was lucky they had parked so far away, out of reach but within sight. And in the other direction as the cops had chosen to block the street, so their exit was still clear. It was lucky Joly had stayed behind, in the car waiting, Enjolras could see him driving off already with his partners and Éponine in the car with him.

“Everyone’s already gone, come on,” shouted Combeferre from the driver's seat of the van. Enjolras waited at the last second, pushing Courfeyrac in before him and turning to see if there was anyone left behind. Everyone at the factory entrance was scattering in different directions. The cops had kettled one group off onto a footpath, and there was a big group of them detaining someone about a hundred metres away.

“We need to-” he started, but was pulled back into the van by Courfeyrac, who slammed the door shut behind them. Combeferre started driving immediately.

“I’m in the chat with the organisers, they’ve got legal observers on site recording the arrests right now.” Said Feuilly. Enjolras was so relieved to see that he’d made it to the van too. “There’s nothing else we can do for them now, we have to get you and Bahorel out of here.”

It made sense, if only for Bahorel's sake. Enjolras didn’t want to risk his arrest, even if he was ready to run back and throw himself into that swarm of pigs surrounding that person. But Feuilly was right, nothing Enjolras could do now would make it any better for them. All he could do now was offer support to them after the fact.

He was already thinking of how he could use some money from his last bookings towards their bail fund, and any legal costs they might accrue. He was already pulling out his phone to check in with the kitchen volunteers, making sure they had made it out safely. 

They arrived back at Meeting Place One, where Joly and Cosette had already pulled in with their carloads full of people. Everyone was just getting out of the cars when Combeferre pulled in, and they jumped out and joined in the relieved hugs. Musichetta ruffled Enjolras’ hair, and he let her, grabbed her hand when she pulled away and squeezed, hoping she would receive his appreciation. His affection. His admiration.

Joly and Bossuet really were lucky men.

Inside they curled on chairs, debriefing. Feuilly had rolled his ankle running, Joly already had it raised, compressed, and with an ice pack. He made them all tea, looked everyone in the eye and asked how they were. Joly was good like that.

Combeferre was sending follow up messages to the main chat, and Enjolras was confirming everyone who didn’t have a buddy had made it out safely too. 

“We can offer whoever was arrested today financial support for a bail fund and any legal costs, I’ve got some more money I can add to the kitty, if everyone agrees?” He asked. Everyone did. 

“Great, Courfeyrac, did you get the list of everyone who was arrested?” Courfeyrac nodded. “Great, if you can get in touch with the lawyer, we can find out where they’re being detained, and, fuck! That reminds me, Bahorel. Grantaire’s been arrested.”

He delivered that in the same cadence as his other questions and orders, and it took everyone a second to process what he’d said. 

“What?” Bahorel cried. A few other people did too, Joly and Bossuet among them.

“I was fucking busy, okay? He called just before Jehan did, it’s not like I’ve had a moment since then.”

“Where is he?” Bahorel asked.

“I don't know, just figure it out,” Enjolras snapped. Not kindly, but Bahorel took it like a champ. 

“Enjolras, Bahorel can’t just walk into a cop shop right now. They took his details this morning,” Courfeyrac interjected.

Enjolras knew he was right. He’d given out assignments to everyone else, and looked around the room for a second, considering what to do. 

“I’ve got him,” said Bossuet.

“I’ll drive,” said Joly.

Enjolras nodded, and let them take it from there. He still had too many things to do, too many people to reply to. Grantaire was safe, Grantaire was fine. Joly and Bossuet would get him, they would take care of him, they would bring him home and bring him back to joy.

He wasn’t Enjolras’ problem anymore.

Chapter Text

If you asked him, Grantaire was doing a fucking great job at ruining his own life. 

Let’s recap, shall we? In the space of… What? 3 hours or so? Grantaire had successfully pushed pretty much everyone he loved away. More than that, he’d pissed them the fuck off. He’d obliterated his relationships with Enjolras’ two closest friends. He’d ruined his own oldest friend's anniversary celebration, a night out he’d very much known about but forgotten in the haze of his own bullshit.

He’d pushed Bossuet. He’d heard, more than he’d seen, Bossuet go down with Joly. He’d learned later that Musichetta had gone down too. He’d hurt them. More than physically.

He’d thoroughly earned the punch that Bahorel delivered him.

And… Enjolras.

He’d never seen him like that before. It broke his heart. It made him furious at the same time, because what fucking nerve did he have looking at him like that up through wet brown eyes, looking like he might cry.

Had he ever seen Enjolras cry before? Yes, he’s sure he had, because there was enough in the world to cry about, and Enjolras was one to bear witness to it, one to care. But never for something so personal. So petty. Never for Grantaire. Not once.

“We’re done.” 

He’d thought it had hurt the most the first time. He’d thought that was the worst pain he’d ever felt in his life.

He had been so fucking stupid.

He watched Enjolras walk away, hand to his aching face.

Combeferre was gracious enough not to look smug as he guided the man they both loved away from him. Because Combeferre was a good person, and he deserved more than the shit Grantaire had put him through.

Courfeyrac spared Grantaire one broken look before he rushed after them. Courfeyrac deserved better, too.

Grantaire took in the mess he’d made. Feuilly and a stranger were helping Joly and Musichetta up. Bossuet was already on his feet, and he didn’t even glare at Grantaire like he deserved. He was too good, and his look was all hurt and open and questioning.

He was reaching for Grantaire. Even now, he was reaching for Grantaire, all soft and comforting like he was calming down a wild cornered animal.

Grantaire couldn’t bear it. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. He wanted to reach back, to help Joly up, check if Musichetta was hurt, collapse his head into Bossuet’s chest and beg his forgiveness. He ran instead.

-

He met some sleaze a few bars later. He was pretty, and he looked familiar, and Grantaire realised a few drinks and a bump of cocaine in that it was because he looked so similar to Enjolras. But his hair was darker, his skin paler, his smile was sharp, and he was generous with his coke. And he could have probably taken anyone home, but he was here, entertaining the idea of a slob like Grantaire.

So Grantaire let himself be led to the stranger's home. To his bed. Grantaire let him push his head down into the mattress as he was fucked. Just like Enjolras would have. If he just closed his eyes…

The guy didn’t use a condom. What was the point, now?

-

“I wish I’d never fucking met you.”

Join the club.

-

Courfeyrac texted him, all apologies and “it’s not as bad as you think” and “it’ll be okay”, as if anything had been his fault. As if the forgiveness that Enjolras would no doubt give him would ever extend to Grantaire. Grantaire ignored the message.

-

When Grantaire started avoiding Enjolras, he finally realised how much of his life was catered to the off chance that he would run into him.

He started driving himself to and from work. Why had he used public transport and walked home from all those late nights? Because on all those main roads between the bar and his house, lay the Musain and Enjolras’ place. And all those bars and clubs the triumvirate frequented after an action when they still had steam to blow off. 

Why had he said no to Thursday shifts? It was a good night, and for a lot of people it was payday so it guaranteed better tips. But Grantaire had prioritised Enjolras’ fucking save the world circle jerk. Had prioritised the burning moments of eye contact, the chance to rile him up, the surety that they’d be going home together.

If he never had to hear the word concensus again, it would be too soon.

-

Éponine was the only one who could put up with him. She said as much.

“You really fucking stepped in it,” she said, and passed him the bong. They’d run out of rolling papers hours ago, and it was too late to go buy some now.

“I know,” he said. He butchered the pull, coughed up for a few disgusting minutes.

Éponine laughed. “I should have filmed that. So many people deserve to see you in pain right now.”

It was fair. Grantaire still flipped her off.

“Jokes on them,” he coughed out. “I get off on that shit.”

She threw a pillow at him in mock disgust. Grantaire didn’t say it, but he was so glad she was there. He needed to not be alone right now.

-

The weeks pulled him along, further into winter. Fully nocturnal now, Grantaire hadn’t seen the sun in close to a month. He hadn’t seen Enjolras either.

Grantaire had never hurt so much in his life. And that was fucking saying something.

The ache was physical. It was like a bad come down from a fantastic high. It was like detoxing cold turkey. It found him curled in on himself on the shower floor, gasping out noiseless sobs and hoping he would just drown from the downpour into his mouth. But nothing wanted to kill him, and he wasn’t committed enough to that bit. His dopamine seeking brain wouldn’t let him.

With every chance he got as drunk as he could, so high that he could swear Enjolras’ arms were closing in around him. He’d come home, he was crawling into bed with Grantaire. He was pulling back his hair and whispering in his ear that it would all be alright.

He was saying “I’ve got you, love. I’m here.”

He wasn’t. Grantaire woke up alone. He always woke up alone.

With just the memory of a God in his bed.

-

“Open up, asshole!” Bahorel shouted from his door.

“I’m sick,” Grantaire lied. “Flu season is a real bitch this year, come back next year.” 

A gave a bad fake cough to sell the bit. 

“I’ve got Italian beer,” was Bahorel’s seductive call. Grantaire opened the door.

Bahorel had shoved his way in before Grantaire could peak out and slam it shut. He pushed Grantaire back by the shoulder once more, for good measure.

“Watch it,” was Grantaire’s half hearted reply.

“You deserve so much worse than that,” Bahorel said, and then he put down the clinking box of beer bottles and pulled Grantaire into a hard hug.

Grantaire didn’t cry in his arms, but it was a close call.

“Now come on, you’ve missed too many weeks of boxing. You gotta earn these bad boys. Plus, I need to punch you again, and I have a good feeling getting hit right now would do you some fucking good.”

He was right. He was a good friend. It was why he’d punched Grantaire, then. It was why he was here, now.

-

Bahorel slogged the shit out of him. It was exactly what he needed. Where he’d usually be shouting encouragement, or egging him on with “hit me back, asshole,” he just grunted and laid it all out with his fists. At the end he spat out his mouthguard, and pulled Grantaire up by a fistful of his hair.

“You made my boy Joly cry.” He said. Grantaire gulped down the shame.

“I know,” he said. He hadn’t, actually. But he knew he’d fucked up, he knew he’d ruined Joly’s night, he knew he’d probably really hurt him. He deserved to hear it now.

“Their bad knee took the fall, did you know that?” Bahorel asked.

“No,” Grantaire admitted. He had guessed, but he’d been too scared to check. He hadn’t wanted to know for sure.

“You are so fucking lucky that we love you,” Bahorel said. He let go of his fistful of hair and let Grantaire fall to the mat below them. Bahorel stretched dramatically, groaned and collapsed next to him, while Grantaire caught his breath.

“I don’t deserve it,” Grantaire said. His body curled in, and Bahorel mirrored him, and reached out to shove Grantaire’s shoulder again, and then scruff up his hair. Grantaire heaved out a dry sob, and was glad that the gym they used wasn’t too crowded at this time of night.

What kind of weird display of masculinity this was. Two men punching on and wrestling each other, just so they could feel safe enough to talk about their fucking feelings and cry about it. He knew it was pathetic. He knew it was pathetic to think of himself as pathetic.

“Well fuck you, because you got it anyway. Now come over here and love me back, sweaty loser.”

It was a sweaty hug. Grantaire was able to pretend that was the reason his face was wet. It descended into more wrestling.

Bahorel scolded him that he hadn’t quite earned the Italian beer, but split the 6 pack with him anyway.

-

Grantaire bought Joly flowers.

It was a stupid thing to do, a cheap way to apologise, and he second guessed himself about five times while doing it.

He still delivered them, arms full of the bunch and a bottle of Musichetta’s favourite wine, along with three tickets to that musical Bossuet had been talking about. He owed them an anniversary gift, at the very fucking least.

“I’m so sorry,” he said as soon as Joly opened the door. 

“Fucking finally!” Bossuet called, and barreled down the hall to wrap Grantaire up in a giant hug.

“The wine! The wine! Watch the wine!” Grantaire shouted.

His apologies were well received. Joly loved the flowers, but didn’t get to them until they’d spent 45 minutes hugging Grantaire, a mess of arms and legs and tears and whispered apologies and murmured reassurances. The three of them swooned at the tickets, and for once Grantaire felt like he’d made the right call.

But, really, they would have taken his apologies and forgiven him anyway. They’d just been waiting for Grantaire to show, to say it. He couldn’t imagine what he’d done in this or any life to deserve them. He couldn’t imagine who he’d be without their love. 

Grantaire did end up having to buy Musichetta another bottle of wine. As far as casualties went, he’d seen worse. 

-

Grantaire crashed his car, driving on the way back home from work.

It was a blessing and a curse that there were no other drivers involved. A blessing, because he couldn’t deal with the headache. A curse, because there was no one else's insurance to pin this on. 

Just Grantaire, his car, and that one pole that was, to be honest, fucking asking for it.

It was more than a blessing that Grantaire wasn’t hurt, but in his current state he didn’t care. Still, in the back of his mind he had a moment to ponder the existence of a guardian angel, but that word reminded him too much of…

He tried to drive himself home, because he couldn’t be fucked dealing with this right now. But it was obvious the car was undrivable, and even though he’d teased the idea of calling Joly or Bahorel, he couldn’t do it just yet. The guilt was too raw. 

So he walked home. He walked past the club where it had all happened, and it hurt.

He walked past the Musain, and it hurt. 

If he took this left up ahead, it would be two minutes to Enjolras and Combeferre’s apartment. He sped passed without looking down the street. As if Enjolras would be there.

It fucking hurt.

The next day he caught the tram back to pick his car up. It had either been towed, or stolen.

Grantaire figured that either way, it would cost more than it was worth to try to get back. He went back to walking to work. The nights kept getting colder, somehow. Just to get back at him, probably.

-

It was a thought that followed him no matter where he went.

Waking up: Enjolras.

Stabbing him in the gut as he tried to chase the thought down with a drink, a smoke, a pill: Enjolras.

He couldn’t unsee that look in his eyes. He couldn’t make it make sense. He couldn’t talk to anyone about it, either, because could you imagine?  

He wanted to capture it. So he didn’t. He couldn’t, couldn’t even torture himself enough to try. There was no medium in the world that could ever do Enjolras’ eyes justice. No colour that could find how that brown could shine honeycomb, amber, gold, but then seemed to blink and glow red. Not red. Burned umber.

He was avoiding the temptation to draw him, paint him, carve him into the fucking wall. Anything, just to see him again and know the image in his mind was real. In his avoidance, he was actually getting shit done. He powered through an all-nighter into an all-dayer and completed all of the commissions hanging over his head. It was amazing what he could do with the power of abusing ADHD meds that he wasn’t prescribed, but probably should be. 

But he didn’t have the energy or money to chase up a diagnosis, and he kept straight up forgetting, which, yeah, the irony there wasn’t lost on him. So he did what he had to do. As it was, he had skimmed the dexies from the top of the bottle on Enjolras’ bedside table weeks ago.

Maybe he shouldn’t be trusted with that dexamphetamine script, come to think of it.

He really was a terrible fucking boyfriend, wasn’t he? Ex-boyfriend. Occasional fuckbuddy - although that was over now, wasn’t it?

Had it already been over when Grantaire had found Enjolras on the balcony, for a moment curled in on himself and teary eyes and then upright and advancing into Grantaire’s rage? Had it been over when Grantaire had dragged Courfeyrac into that bathroom and dropped onto his knees? Had it been over earlier, when Grantaire had made the dig about paying? 

God, why had he said that? Why would he ever say that, why would he ever throw Enjolras’ job back in his face like that? 

He had never thought any differently of Enjolras, or any of their friends, for their work. Never felt anything but natural curiosity at first, sure, and then eventually boredom when apart from a few stories most of the job was just… mundane. Admin, waiting, and then customer service but without clothes in the way, is what he gathered. Most of the problems they seemed to face had to do with lawmaking and politics, and that got so fucking boring to him that he’d regretted asking.

He’d never cared that other men paid to be with Enjolras, and Enjolras chose to fuck him for free. He’d been fucking flattered, and amazed, because really? Of all the people in the world, him?

At the end of the day, it was just a job. The only thing that made it different was the stigma. The idea that having sex for money somehow cheapened the act, or took something away from the individual. It was like someone saying that the personal art he made was corrupted from doing art commissions, that the paid art took something from him or his talent. Not that he had much talent, but, you know. It was fucking stupid, but it was hurtful. It was an idea that had been used to hurt countless people. It was an idea that led to arrests, deportations, deaths. He knew that. It was that idea that he’d been using to hurt Enjolras.

He hated himself so fucking much.

He recalled how Enjolras had forced his hand open to accept the end of his cigarette, all but putting it out on him. He recalled moments earley, Enjolras’ mouth closing on the same cigarette between Grantaire’s fingers. Had it been over then? Enjolras had still wanted him, he wasn’t making that up. He’d felt it, beyond his own insane overwhelming fucking distracting horniness at the touch, the eye contact. Even though the hatred, and the hurt, and the betrayal was clear in his eyes, he’d still wanted him.

Betrayal.

That was it. That was that look that he’d had in his eyes, when Grantaire had made the comment about paying, and the same look when he’d found Grantaire on the floor kneeling at Courfeyrac’s feet.

Grantaire didn’t know what to do with that.

Had he betrayed Enjolras? They weren’t dating, but he knew he was crossing a line with Courfeyrac. It was messy, in any circumstance, to fuck your ex-boyfriend/current fuckbuddy’s best friend. With him in the building, too. 

He couldn’t math it out. Had it just been a betrayal because of the Courfeyrac of it all? Had it been fair, what he’d yelled at Enjolras after the fact. “You don’t get to play jealous boyfriend.” Had that been what Enjolras was doing? Play acting at jealousy?

No, he wasn’t. It had all hurt so much because of how real the devastation on Enjolras’ face had been. Whatever it was he was feeling then, it was completely honest.

There was probably no amount of abusing stimulants that could make this make sense. 

Well, maybe depressants would help.

-

Depressants did not help.

How could alcohol ever betray him like this? When had he ever done anything bad to alcohol?

One drink became two, became the rest of the six-pack in his fridge. The last drink convinced him that it would be a good idea to go out. Find a bar he didn’t have a memory of Enjolras in, because surely he could think clearly there. He’d figure it out, if only he didn’t look up and see Enjolras in his mind, leaning over the kitchen counter, sprawled on his back on his bed, cornering him in his shower. He needed to find somewhere untouched by Enjolras, so he could think. So he could breathe. 

This wasn’t easy. For a mostly sober asshole, that man sure did manage to leave his ghost in a lot of Grantaire’s favourite establishments.

Because Grantaire had led him there.

The place he found sucked. The music sucked. The lighting sucked. The drinks were overpriced and still tasted cheap as shit. There was some asshole propped at the bar running his mouth, slurring his words, twisting nonsensical arguments around and pissing everyone off. Someone ought to punch him, or throw him out.

Someone did. And, wow, ouch, okay. That fucking hurt, asshole. Grantaire was figuring shit out over here.  

He felt like, for a second, he had it. Like it finally fucking made sense. That look in Enjolras’ eye, from this distance, from this angle, when the stars fucking lined up just right, it almost looked like…

And then he was punched again, and it was gone. He swung back, and it all went downhill from there.

-

“Don’t I get a phone call?” He slurred as he was shoved into the back of the van.

“What do you think this is, Law And Order?” Replied the cop who’d just arrested him.

“Pig!” Grantaire shouted, kicking his legs into the slamming car door.

That earned him a few laps around the city in the back of the van before getting to the station for processing. By the time he’d been herded inside and into a pen, he desperately needed to piss.

He figured that wasn’t happening anytime soon.

-

Turns out a lot about being arrested was boring. It was far more bureaucracy than a colonial carceral system had any right to be, but that actually made perfect sense when he thought about it.

And he had ample time to think about it, and nothing else to do with it. Nothing to distract him, nothing to smoke, no phone to scroll on. Just waiting, and processing, and waiting, and paperwork, and waiting, and thinking you know what? Enjolras was fucking right.

Let these systems burn. Let every cop shop burn down. Let the prisons burn down. Let the whole fucking colony fall, let those who uphold the laws with the violence of a private army fall to Enjolras’ bloody sword.

Good God, or sweet universe, or just Enjolras, because who else was he praying to if not Enjolras, let Grantaire be at his side when it happened. Let Grantaire watch Enjolras prove him wrong. Let Grantaire live to see Enjolras win.

And if he shouldn't, let Grantaire still be with him. Let Grantaire die by his side, because he knew there was no world in which Enjolras would lose and wouldn’t fall as well. It was the only way he’d ever stop.

Let me be at his side. Let him take me back. Let him take me with him. And if I can’t die at his side, let me die at his feet.

“Oi, phone call.”

Grantaire didn’t know where his phone was at this point. They’d confiscated everything in his pockets - goodbye to those joints forever, enjoy your free weed assholes. He didn’t know what time it was, it had been night when he’d been put in the van, and he was half sure the sun hadn’t risen yet, but there were no windows and the analogue clock was blurry every time he tried to read it, so he didn’t know.

He racked his brain for a phone number, surely he knew Joly’s? Or Bossuet’s, or Bahorel’s? At this point, he wasn’t sure if he could even remember his own. Hadn’t he recited it to the cops earlier? Was it 228 or 882?

It was an old, retro phone, all hooked up to the wall and everything. Grantaire’s mind went blank, and he dialed in the numbers from muscle memory.

For a second he wasn’t sure it connected. He could only wait.

“Hello?” Enjolras answered. It was his urgent voice, his getting shit done voice. 

Grantaire couldn’t help that relieved sigh. Fuck, even now, his heart felt better and worse just for hearing Enjolras’ voice. Just one word, and the reassurance that he was there breathing on the other end of the line.

“Enjolras, thank fuck, you answered, I couldn’t remember anyone else’s number. Look I’m-”

“I don’t want to hear it, Grantaire,” Enjolras cut him off. He was pissed, and probably busy, clearly wide awake despite the time of night or morning it must have been.

“Fuck ange! Wait! I got arrested last night, I really need you to-” Grantaire rushed it out, but then he was cut off by an off-tone ringing.

The line was dead. Enjolras had hung up on him.

“Fuck, mate,” said the cop who had escorted him to the phone. “Your girlfriends a bitch.”

Grantaire saw himself swing in his mind. He wasn’t cuffed, the only thing that held him back was how he couldn’t process what had just happened. He was frozen in place. 

“Let me call again,” Grantaire said. His own voice sounded dumb to his ears.

“That’s it, tough.”

“No,” Grantaire said, even as he was forced to let go of the phone, even when he was being herded away and back to the cage. His dumb stupid wasted brain wasn’t catching up, wasn’t understanding. “No, he didn’t. He wouldn’t. It lost connection. Let me call again. Let me call again!”

“Give up asshole, you’ve gotten in enough trouble tonight. You do not want to make this any worse right now,” said the cop, manhandling Grantaire back to his little corner and dropping him down.

The fight collapsed out of Grantaire, but only because he heard Combeferre in his mind. “You’ve done enough.”

He’d done enough. Enjolras was finally done with him. Really done, fully done.

A memory stirred. From that night. He could almost feel the walls of Enjolras’ bedroom closing in on him.

“I still care about you, Grantaire. Even if I’m not romantically in love with you, even if I don’t feel the same way you do. I will always be here for you. I’ll always be your one call.”

He’d been so sure, back when he’d said it. Grantaire had been sure, too.

He’d been stupid enough to believe him.

He was stupid enough to be surprised now.

-

Enjolras hadn’t hung up on him. He hadn’t. He just hadn’t.

Enjolras hadn’t left him here.

He wouldn’t do that. Not to anyone, not even Grantaire

He would never do that. He couldn’t have done that. 

He hadn’t, because he wouldn’t.

He would come.

- 

He didn’t come.

-

What’s worse, detoxing in the drunk pen, or finally realising that he’d lost Enjolras?

Grantaire will kindly get back to you on that one.

-

How many hours had it been? He was hungry. 

Didn’t they fucking feed people in jail?

He’d been allowed to piss, but only because he’d threatened to just aim out the bars and for that one guy's desk.

He kept thinking that if only he hadn’t left his home, tried to find a place that wasn’t haunted by Enjolras’ ghost. If only he hadn’t pushed Bossuet, maybe Enjolras wouldn’t have looked at him like that and said “we’re done”. If only he hadn’t followed Enjolras out, seeking the fight. If only he hadn’t hooked up with Courfeyrac. If only he hadn’t thrown Combeferre’s carefully hidden feelings in his face. If only.. If only…

Would Enjolras be here now, if he hadn’t?

-

It was Bossuet who came through for him.

“I should have memorised your number instead,” Grantaire grumbled, after the bail had been paid and the paperwork (more fucking paperwork) filled out, when they were joining Joly in the car. 

“He didn’t mean to leave you, as soon as he remembered he sent us,” Bossuet tried to comfort him.

It had the opposite effect. 

As soon as he remembered? He forgot?

He hadn’t just hung up on Grantaire less than a second after he said he’d been arrested. He hadn’t just left him there. He forgot.

“Where is he,” Grantaire surprised himself by saying.

“Everyone’s back at our place,” Joly said, slowly.

“Take me to him,” Grantaire said. 

Joly made a face, and looked at Bossuet like they were asking a question.

“No,” said Bossuet. “We’re going to get you some food, and then we’re taking you home. You can come to ours once everyone has gone home, or you can seek Enjolras out yourself later, that’s your choice. But the rest of us are not putting up with the two of you and your drama. Not today, not after everything we’ve been through.”

Grantaire looked at him, really taking him in. Taking them both in. They both looked shaken up, he realised. Joly was twitchy, stimming his hands. They were both wearing all black, nondescript clothing. He’d just been, once again, too caught up in his own bullshit to notice.

Oh no.

“What the fuck did you guys do?”

They both stared at him. “The… Grantaire, the lock-on?” Joly gently started. “We asked if you would come, remember?”

Grantaire felt like something had pushed him back into his seat. “Is he-”

“He’s fine. Everyone’s fine, Feuilly rolled his ankle but it’s not sprained.” Joly said.

“Fuck. Fuck! You guys could have been arrested today-” Grantaire started.

“Bahorel almost was, again,” interjected Bossuet, almost laughing, but Joly hushed him.

“Grantaire was!” They cried. 

“-and you two still came here to get me. I am such an asshole. Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

For their troubles, Grantaire didn’t even complain that Bossuet played the soundtrack of the musical Grantaire had sent them to on the drive. Or that he spoke over every song to give context that would have been given if Grantaire could just hear the lyrics. For their troubles, Grantaire shouted them dinner, and he let them drop him at his apartment alone. 

-

He lay in his now long-dry but still dodgy-at-best bed. Joly had asked if he would be okay, alone. He’d lied and said yes. The two of them deserved a break from his and Enjolras’ drama.

Inside him two moments kept playing out. 

One: the line going dead, Enjolras hanging up on him, leaving him. The disbelief, the fury, the rage.

Two: Joly looking at him and saying “the lock-on”. The realisation. The sobering fear.

Both had the same consequence. He needed to see Enjolras. He needed to touch him. He needed to yell at him. He needed to see he was okay.

He pulled out his cracked phone, opened that one location sharing app he always forgot about. 

Enjolras’ little icon was moving, in between Joly’s place and his own. Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s icons were stationary, still at Joly’s with everyone else.

Grantaire reached for his keys, before he remembered his car was gone. When he opened the rideshare app, Enjolras’ address was the first suggestion.

“Yeah, you got me,” Grantaire grumbled, and ordered the ride.

-

Somehow, Grantaire’s ride got him to Enjolras’ place before Enjolras did. Grantaire was sitting on his front doorstep smoking a joint when he finally pulled in and parked Courfeyrac’s van.

Through the van’s windscreen, they stared at each other. 

Even Grantaire didn’t know what he was going to do. Grantaire’s body knew what it was doing, pulling him up and to his feet, but his mind couldn’t say. All he could do was drink in the sight of Enjolras. He looked beautiful. Exhausted, and angry, and fucking stunning.

Looking at him, Grantaire felt so much anger. So much relief. So much heartbreak. So much guilt. And love, consuming love, dizzying love. His stupid stuttering heart didn’t know what to focus on, so he watched him approach and left it to Enjolras to set the tone. 

“Why are you here, Grantaire?” He sounded tired more than anything.

“Because I knew you would be,” was Grantaire’s honest reply. 

Enjolras sighed. “It’s cold,” he said, and unlocked the front door.

He left it open behind him. Grantaire followed him in from the night, like a stray.

“You wanna smoke?” Grantaire asked as soon as the door was shut behind him.

“What are we doing, Grantaire?” Was Enjolras’ tired reply. 

It caught Grantaire completely off guard. What were they doing? Why was Grantaire here, shuffling in off the street, hanging onto Enjolras’ heels? What did he think was going to happen, when he gave into the desperate impulse to see Enjolras? 

“Well we’re not having a smoke, but we could be,” Grantaire joked, pulling Enjolras’ favourite brand of cigarettes out of his pocket. The thin, elegant ones. Enjolras’ eyes narrowed. “Look, I don’t know. You left me in jail all day, how about we start there?” He snapped.

Enjolras snapped too. “You fucked Courfeyrac. How about we fucking start there!”

Oh, Grantaire had missed this. Electricity, all the fire in the world right there in Enjolras’ eyes, concentrated on him. Burnt umber.

Enjolras shoved him back, two hands on Grantaire’s chest. The pack of cigarettes fell. “Don’t fucking look at me like that!” He yelled.

“Like what?” Grantaire found himself yelling back. They had barely made it out of the entranceway. The last time Grantaire was here, he was getting tangled in the shirt Enjolras was ripping over his head. They had shared breath and laughter in the dark as their foreheads had touched and Grantaire had thought I love you so much.

“Like that! Like that!” Enjolras yelled again, voice high and frantic. He shoved Grantaire’s shoulder again, even though it was futile, he had already been pushed into the wall, so at this point Enjolras was just slamming his open palms onto Grantaire's chest. Grantaire grabbed Enjolras’ wrists, held them there. Lightly, Enjolras could still pull back if he really wanted to. He wasn’t scared that Enjolras would hurt him, he was scared that Enjolras would think back on this later and worry that he had.

Enjolras kept shouting, screaming into Grantaire’s face, and Grantaire let him. He couldn’t do anything but take it.

“It's oppressive! It's suffocating! The weight of your obsession. I can feel you putting me on this pedestal and it doesn't feel good, Grantaire! It feels unstable. It feels rocky and shaky and like any second I can fall. I will fall. All this love you think you have for me. It's not me you like or love or whatever you call it, it's an idea that you've attached to me. I know that as soon as I fail the expectation you've imagined in your head: and I will,” he pulled his enclosed hands up and slammed them down again, but with less force this time, more emotion. “I will fail because I'm a human and I'm not what you imagine me to be, and when I do then I will fall off that pedestal, or you'll rip it out from under me, and I will face your hatred and scorn and resentment. And what will you do then? How will you try to hurt me then? How dare you look at me like that when on your knees for my best friend!”

Grantaire knew his face looked broken at that. He couldn’t argue with this, could he? No, he just held Enjolras by the wrists and took it.

“I know,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“Neither side of this feels good, Grantaire. When I have your obsession, your idealisation, it's dehumanising! It's not me you're seeing, it's not me at all. It's what you want me to be, it's a fantasy you've put my face on in your head. I know I'm not a human to you, I can't have flaws or faults or an off day, I can't be anything less than what you want me to be, I can't fail you and I sure as fuck can't ask you for support. And when I do, when I fall from the platform you put me on, it fucking hurts. It hurts. The way you look at me, the way I feel so fucking hated by you, the way I know nothing was permanent, every piece of affection, of overwhelming fucking attention and praise and momentary understanding and love was conditional, wasn't for me but was for the character you think I am. That character is just an extension of yourself, and I'm sick of being an unwilling actor in your narcissistic fucking play where you're always the victim and if I'm not the hero then I have to be the villain, so you can have an external punching bag for your own goddamn self hatred, because God forbid I'm allowed to be fucking human too!”

On the last his hands, held in fists inside Grantaire’s own, fell back onto Grantaire’s chest, like all the fight had left him, and Enjolras’ seemed to collapse until his forehead rested there with it. His body shook, and Grantaire realised he was crying.

A month ago he thought he’d never had the power to make Enjolras cry. Now he’d seen it happen twice. Grantaire let go of Enjolras’ wrists, wrapped his arms around him, and pulled him in tight. He wanted to hold him so close they would merge into one person. Maybe then he would finally understand everything going on in Enjolras’ mind. Maybe then Enjolras would understand how wrong he was.

“Enjolras, no, no no no, please. Listen to me. It’s you. I don’t love an idea. I love you, just you, only you. I love everything about you.” Grantaire whispered, petting his hair, touching any part of him he could. Frantically soothing him. He didn’t know how to comfort a crying Enjolras. He pulled back enough to grab his face, a hand on each wet cheek. He knew Enjolras hated to see the love in his eyes, always had. But he needed him to hear this now, to see it now. To see it wasn't an obsession, it wasn’t the pedestal, it wasn’t a projection. If this was the end, and he was going to walk away and leave them behind, he needed them both to understand this one thing.

“I love you, Enjolras. No conditions, no pedestal, none of that. I never deserved anything you gave me, I never deserved your love, I know I won’t ever get it. But if you believe in anything, believe that I love you. If you ever believed me capable of anything, believe me capable of loving you without hurting you. Believe that I see you. I might not ever understand you, but even when you baffle me you have never disappointed me. You never could. That isn’t possible, love, that isn’t in you.”

Enjolras’ face looked broken. His hands were still bunched up in between them, clinging to Grantaire’s shirt. 

“I will, Grantaire, I have. You’re not listening. I’m not perfect, I’m not what you think I am.” 

“You never were, sweetheart. You didn’t fool me just because I love you.” Grantaire said, and Enjolras surprised him with a shaky laugh. Grantaire wiped away a fresh tear that had been trailing over his perfect cheek. “Oh, pretty boy,” he murmured, reverential, unable to stop it from coming out. It should have ruined everything, but instead Enjolras drew in a shaky breath, and Grantaire saw it there in his eyes. Grantaire’s thumb moved of its own accord, under the pretense of chasing a tear, until it rested on Enjolras’ lower lip. 

It was a long moment filled with only their breathing. Enjolras’ gasping and shallow, Grantaire’s deep and sure.

Enjolras opened his mouth.

And Grantaire's thumb slipped in.

And there was no going back after that. 

Enjolras sucked Grantaire’s thumb into the wet heat of his mouth, and the way it changed his face. The way he turned into the picture of innocence and desire when he looked at him longingly with those wet soft brown eyes. He was so beautiful, and Grantaire wanted to keep him like this, just look at him forever, but he wanted him more.

And in the back of his mind, louder than it had been since their first kiss after the breakup, was that thought: this is the last time.

Grantaire was desperate to give Enjolras everything. He pushed his thumb further in, used the fingers now curled around Enjolras chin to pull his face up to his, and replaced his thumb with his mouth, kissing him hard. If this was their last kiss, then he needed Enjolras to know. Enjolras could leave him, could make him leave, and he would, but he needed to know that he was loved. That it wasn’t either of their imagination, it wasn’t projection, it wasn’t obsession. It was love. Even when Enjolras would never love him back, he didn’t need to. He was freely given Grantaire’s love, his heart, everything he had. 

Enjolras whimpered into the kiss. His hands were still fisted in Grantaire’s shirt, clinging to him. Grantaire’s were still cradling his face.

As far as last kisses went, this one would have been perfect.

“Don’t go,” Enjolras whispered, barely pulling away. “Take me to bed, Grantaire, please.”

Was Grantaire ever going to say no?

-

Grantaire hesitated before crossing the boundary into Enjolras’ room. He always did, always stuttered, always felt that clutch in his heart.

But he couldn’t let himself be sucked into that pain right now. Enjolras needed him. Probably not for the first time ever, he realised, but maybe the first time Grantaire saw it. Admitted it. Right now, at this moment, for as long as they were in it, Enjolras needed him. And he was here. Whatever Enjolras needed, he would give it.

Enjolras was holding his hand. It was a ridiculous thing to focus on, but from the moment Grantaire had offered it out and Enjolras had taken it and allowed Grantaire to lead him to his own bed, Grantaire had been unable to think of anything else. All the nerve endings in his body flooded to his one hand, to every bit of his palm that was pressed to Enjolras’.

“Kiss me,” Enjolras said. But it wasn’t an order, it was borderline begging. Grantaire didn’t need any convincing. He kissed Enjolras, cupping his beautiful face again. He backed him to the bed, took his time as he lowered him down and let his body cover him. They didn’t stop those long lingering slow kisses for more than a second while they settled together. 

This wasn’t playing by their usual rules, their usual roles. That’s why, when Grantaire pulled back, he finally felt like it wasn’t ruining everything when he held Enjolras’ face again and whispered, “I love you.”

And then, because it might just be the last time: “I’m so fucking sorry.” It was for everything. He knew it wasn’t enough. 

Now Enjolras wrapped his hands around Grantaire’s wrists, just to hold him where they were. His eyes said a thousand things that his lips didn’t.

“Grantaire,” he breathed.

“I’ve got you,” Grantaire replied.

Enjolras nodded. “Don’t leave,” he said. It was ridiculous, it was nonsensical. Enjolras was crying again.

“I’ll never fucking leave you, ange.” 

Enjolras nodded again, but he hiccupped over a small sob and his face did something complicated. Grantaire was about to ask, was pulling Enjolras’ face up by his grip on his cheeks to read his eyes better, but Enjolras surged up into him and kissed him again. How was the kiss both harder and softer than any Enjolras had ever given him before?

“Will you fuck me?” Enjolras whispered, and any questions Grantaire was going to ask were gone to the bluescreen in his brain.

This wasn’t a new request. It wasn’t a frequent one, but it wasn’t new either. Grantaire still felt his stomach do flips whenever Enjolras asked. 

Enjolras pretty much bottomed exclusively for work, so it had made sense that for the sex with Grantaire in his personal life he’d preferred to top more. Every time he’d asked for this it had felt significant. There was a gravity to this, and Grantaire knew it. Flips had nothing on what his stomach was doing right now. 

“I’ll give you anything, angel. Of course I’ll fuck you.” 

Enjolras nodded again. Grantaire let his forehead fall onto Enjolras’, let them rest there against each other, while they both closed their eyes and breathed in the moment.

He wasn’t going to say it again. He’d said it enough tonight, and wouldn’t push his luck. He was going to prove it. He was going to show it.

He kissed Enjolras again, and took his time. Kissing him, petting him, soothing him. Running his hands from his face, through his hair, the curls he usually didn’t dare run his fingers through and mess up, down his neck. Bringing him into the moment, into his body. Feeling Enjolras relax and soften underneath him, and then being more daring. A nip of his teeth, gentle over Enjolras’ bottom lip, then harder. Enjolras’ didn’t like pain as much as he did, he wasn’t a masochist like him, but he liked the thrill. The danger. The sting.

Enjolras opened more to him, and the kiss became messier, hotter. More tongue, more teeth, more urgency. Enjolras was giving the sweetest little breathy moans into Grantaire’s mouth, it was enough to drive him crazy.

He was so fucking hard, because Good. Fucking. God. A desperate, needy, breathy, whimpering Enjolras underneath him, begging to be fucked by Grantaire. It was a miracle he hadn’t already come in his pants. But he was going to focus. He needed to give everything to Enjolras, and he needed it to be perfect. 

Enjolras’ hands were always in motion, running up the span of Grantaire’s back, grasping in his hair, squeezing the muscles in his arm, gripping the fat of his ass to grind Grantaire down while he drove his own hips up against him. Grantaire knew when Enjolras started grabbing at the fabric of Grantaire’s shirt that he was ready. Enjolras never was shy about what he wanted.

Grantaire kissed Enjolras lips, the tip of his nose, his forehead, each tear stained cheek. He kissed down from Enjolras’ cheek to the shell of his ear, down his neck, back up to that sweet spot right behind his ear that made him squirm and whine. Lower, and he licked over Enjolras collarbone to hear him sigh.

Enjolras’ busy hands had almost pulled Grantaire’s shirt off. “Not fair,” Grantaire whispered into his neck, but he pulled back enough to help Enjolras pull it over his head. He quickly divested Enjolras of his own shirt too, to even the playing field, and then his hungry mouth was back on Enjolras’ skin. 

He sucked some skin into his mouth, low enough that it wouldn’t leave a visible mark. Lower, he took one pierced nipple into his mouth, played with it on his tongue, savoured that metal taste and the sounds Enjolras made for him.

He couldn’t stay away from Enjolras’ lips for too long. He’d thought himself addicted to alcohol, weed, dopamine, but it was really Enjolras. It had always been Enjolras. Those other things were just placeholders, distractions.

“The lube’s on the bedside table,” Enjolras reminded him. Grantaire laughed into his mouth. 

“Impatient,” he scolded, and tapped Enjolras on the tip of the nose with his finger. 

“Grantaire,” Enjolras whined, and slipped a leg up around Grantaire’s hip, grinding up against him. 

Yep, that got the point across. Grantaire was almost lost to the feeling, the friction.

“Fuck, ange,” he breathed. There were a few more seconds of desperate kissing, because neither of them seemed able to stop, and then he pulled back enough to say: “okay, okay. Bedside table. Lube. Pants.” 

The last one was directed at Enjolras, who eagerly pulled off his black pants and the boxer shorts underneath. Even as Grantaire pulled away to reach for the lube, Enjolras was trying to undo his top button and zipper, trying to get Grantaire’s pants off too. 

“Patience, love,” Grantaire said, and Enjolras made a face at the name. Shit, he’d gotten too swept up in all this indulgence of his own feelings, he’d forgotten how much Enjolras hated to be called love.

But that face was more open, less annoyed, far more complex, and whatever it was Grantaire couldn’t name it. Guilt? Whatever it was, Enjolras just pulled Grantaire back into him, kissed him again.

Grantaire was being spoiled tonight. He didn’t know what to do with all these soft urgent intimate kisses. He surely didn’t deserve them.

But Enjolras did, and at least for right now he wanted this. Needed this. 

Grantaire was going to spoil Enjolras back. 

Again Grantaire kissed down from his lips, down his chest, diverting a little bit from his course to take the other pierced nipple into his mouth because it was there and so perky and pierced and Grantaire had always had something of an oral fixation. 

“Fuck, Grantaire,” Enjolras moaned. Was there any drug that felt like Enjolras moaning Grantaire’s name? None had ever come close. 

He was getting so impatient, so needy, Grantaire gave in, licked a hand and wrapped it around him, held it there and let Enjolras buck up into him. He kissed further down and let his mouth follow his hand wrapped around Enjolras’ cock, because, you know, oral fixation.

But he wasn’t putting his all into this blowjob, because he knew he could get lost in the act and had a mission here. He pulled off and kissed Enjolras’ perfect hip. “Turn around for me, baby,” he whispered.

“Take your pants off first,” Enjolras ordered. Grantaire laughed, his heart swelling with love and disbelief for this ridiculous man, and he obeyed. Only after an appreciative leer did Enjolras comply with Grantaire’s request.

“You’re unbelievable,” Grantaire said, still laughing. He kissed Enjolras’ back, one of dimples right there before the gorgeous swell of his ass. “You’re wonderful.” And he kissed the twin dimple on the other side.

Enjolras hummed happily. “You’re biased,” he said.

There was a content sigh as he said it. Like he was so happy in the surety of Grantaire’s love for him. Like he wanted Grantaire to love him. Grantaire’s love wasn’t faced with hatred, scorn, disdain, resentment, disappointment. Not right now. It was accepted. It was wanted. Right now, Enjolras was content in Grantaire’s love.

And it might not be love he was giving Grantaire back, but it was trust. Understanding. Acceptance.

Maybe, for the first time ever, they were on the same page. Feeling the same thing. In the wake of Enjolras accepting Grantaire’s love for him, Grantaire felt something in his heart settle too. 

Enjolras would never love him back, Grantaire accepted. He didn’t need it. All he needed was this, was to give Enjolras his love and have it be accepted. Freely given, freely taken. This was more than he could have dreamed of. This was more than enough. 

Enjolras was never going to love him, and Grantaire was for once completely okay with that.

“I sure am,” Grantaire said.

And then, before he could say something too real and ruin it, he put his mouth to better use.

Oral fixation.

He put his all into it, working up the pressure and pace of his tongue, taking in every cue from Enjolras. Every sigh, every breathy moan, that fucking adorable way he pushed his ass further up, pushing into the pleasure, silently asking for more. With Enjolras distracted and indulged, Grantaire was able to lube up a few fingers and warm them up, so when he did pull away his mouth he was already easing one in.

“Fucking finally,” Enjolras sighed. He was already fucking himself back on Grantaire’s one finger.

“Eager, baby?” Grantaire teased, and worked another in.

“Eager for you,” Enjolras countered, and he didn’t even sound sarcastic. Grantaire dropped his head against the gorgeous expanse of back splayed in front of him and moaned into his skin, like he was the one being taken apart right now. 

A brief pause for some more lube, another finger, and God Enjolras was making the sweetest fucking sounds for him. For him. Because he was eager for him. Insane, ridiculous.

Something really fucked up must have happened at that action today, he realised. That could be the only explanation for this, any of this. A crying Enjolras, collapsing into Grantaire’s arms, begging to be held, to be fucked. To be loved. Something must have gone terribly wrong, and underneath all that control and poise Enjolras must have been scared. 

And Grantaire was a fucking monster for taking advantage of it now, but there was no stopping this.

“Grantaire, fuck, come on!” Enjolras demanded, bringing Grantaire back to the here and now. “Are you going to take all night?”

Grantaire chuckled, and used his free hand to squeeze the curve of Enjolras’ ass. “Don’t tempt me.”

But he obeyed, pulling his fingers out and gently guiding Enjolras to lie on his back again, getting him set up on a pillow for better access. 

He squirted another dollop of lube into his hand, went to slick himself up, and then something stopped him. A responsible part of his brain that Grantaire thought he’d killed off. 

In the back of his mind, he remembered that one sleaze who took him home. They hadn’t used a condom. Grantaire had thought there was no point.

“Wait, condom?”

Enjolras looked up at him, blank. Confused. His eyebrows drew together. “What?” He asked. He hadn’t even considered it an option. “No. I want you. I want to feel you.”

And fuck, there was no way responsible brain was winning out against the way horny brain took that and ran with it.

Grantaire slicked himself up, and was lining up when Enjolras, impatient as ever, grabbed Grantaire by the shoulders and wrapped his long legs around his body, drawing him in (and in, and in, and in).

“That’s it, fuck,” Enjolras groaned, rewarding him like the tight heat around him wasn’t all the reward in the world. Grantaire let out a broken groan, counted his shallow breaths to try to bring himself back together so he didn’t lose it and come immediately.

Enjolras wasn’t waiting for him to gather himself though, already moving his hips up, digging his heels into Grantaire’s back to push him even further in. If it wasn’t for the sensation Grantaire would laugh at this perfect impatient bossy man of his dreams. How lucky he was, to be allowed to love him. Even just for right now.

Instinct took over, and they moved as one. All Grantaire could do was chase the feeling, driving himself into Enjolras again and again while they panted into each other's open mouths. Enjolras was murmuring words of encouragement still, and Grantaire couldn't track what he was groaning back, telling Enjolras how good he felt, how tight and hot and how well he was taking it.

Enjolras scratched nails down his back, gripped a hand tight in his hair hard enough to hurt, that perfect grounding pain. Even now, Enjolras was the one in control, controlling their pace, controlling Grantaire, yanking his hand hold of hair to pull him up like a puppet. He used the vantage to bite Grantaire’s neck, then suck a mark there, and then just gasp into his skin when Grantaire hit that right spot at that right speed.

“Fuck, fuck, Grantaire, R, fuck!” He was mewling, almost into Grantaire’s ear. He used his handhold of hair to pull Grantaire’s face to him, kissed him open mouthed and messy. It was fucking perfect.

Grantaire knew he wasn’t going to last much longer, knew Enjolras was going to do something to push him over the edge, so he desperately put a hand between them to where Enjolras’ dick had been rubbing against his stomach, wrapped it around him and began to jerk him off in time to their movements. Enjolras’ low groan into his mouth was all the reward in the world. He tasted so fucking sweet like this, and Grantaire pulled back to tell him so. 

“Grantaire, oh, fuck, Grantaire,” Enjolras moaned. “Tell me, fuck, tell me again.”

Grantaire went to repeat himself, but Enjolras shook his head fast. The look in his eyes was wild, desperate. He didn’t speak above a whisper when he asked again.

“No, not that. Tell me again, just this once, tell me you love me,” Enjolras begged. 

Grantaire’s heart clenched, his hips stuttered, and he couldn’t say what his face did but Enjolras saw it and squeezed his eyes closed, shaking his head already, and he was going to take it back, Grantaire could see it. He put the one hand that he’d been using to hold himself up to Enjolras’ cheek again.

“I love you,” he breathed out. Enjolras gasped something between a sob and a moan.

He dropped his forehead to touch Enjolras’ so they were looking into each other's eyes. And he saw it there again. Enjolras believed him.

Acceptance. 

“I’m close, Grantaire, keep going,” Enjolras urged, fucking himself up onto Grantaire’s cock and into his hand. Right, he had a goal here.

“That’s it, baby,” Grantaire said, and kissed his way down to breathe the words into Enjolras’ ear. “I want to feel it when you come for me, come on my sweet boy, that’s it, you feel so fucking good around me. Come for me pretty baby, that’s it, let go for me darling. I’ve got you.”

Enjolras’ threw his head back and arched himself up off the bed as it shook through him, and Grantaire felt him twitch in his hand the second before he came between their stomachs. The sensation of him squeezing and pulsing around Grantaire was incredible, the broken sobbing moans he made in Grantaire’s ear were so delicious, all he could do was let the sensation take him over the edge. He bit down as he came, and a few seconds (or longer) later he came to with his mouth loose and drooling into Enjolras’ neck.

Enjolras arms came back around Grantaire’s neck, and his legs were still wrapped around his waist, and for a long time he just held him there tight while they both gasped and caught their breath. Grantaire used the hand not trapped between them (and covered in cum) to pet Enjolras’ hair and face, tracing a finger down the like of his forehead and nose, over his cheekbones, around his lips.

“I don’t want you to take this the wrong way,” Grantaire started, and Enjolras turned his head so they could be eye to eye again. “But you’re fucking perfect.”

Enjolras laughed, and it was light and clear and beautiful. Grantaire loved him so fucking much. 

“Don’t leave in the morning,” is all Enjolras said. “Don’t leave before I wake up.” There was something complicated in his eye as he said it.

“I won’t leave until you do,” Grantaire promised. 

Enjolras kissed him soundly on the mouth. “Good. Go get me a towel.”

Grantaire laughed into Enjolras’ mouth, and he tasted it when Enjolras laughed back. 

-

Grantaire woke up in an angel's bed.

Enjolras was still sleeping, holy and glowing in the early light. Grantaire had promised he wouldn’t leave, so he wouldn’t. He would stay, and he would face whatever Enjolras gave him when he woke. His smite, his wrath, his acceptance, his deliverance, his forgiveness. Whatever it was this angel offered him, he would take it and know he was blessed just by the touch. 

Desperately, Grantaire loved him.

Chapter Text

When Enjolras woke up, Grantaire was there.

He said he would be, he said he’d stay, but still Enjolras had doubted him. He couldn’t say why he’d needed Grantaire to stay so much, why he’d needed Grantaire to fuck him, to hold him close, why he’d needed to hear him say the words he’d always hated. All he knew was that he needed these things, there was no why. Just the desperate need.

It had felt the same way he had when he’d been dropping. That desperate, helpless, all consuming sadness that he knew only Grantaire could soothe. It sat in his body the same way the dom drop had, that had been how he’d identified it. He reasoned that his body had probably done the same thing in the comedown from the lock-on, all those hormones and chemicals falling rather than settling from the high intensity of the day, plus the guilt from leaving Grantaire to face who knows what while detained, and when he’d seen Grantaire his mind had latched onto him as the thing he’d needed the last time this happened, so he was just what he needed this time to. That made sense. That was logical.

“Whatever you’re trying to brain out, it’s too early,” Grantaire said. “I can practically hear you thinking over there, it’s making my head hurt.”

Enjolras turned to face him, put a hand on his face. “Thank you, for last night,” he started, but Grantaire just shook his head. 

“You don’t have to,” Grantaire said. Then he smiled, wicked. “Let me,” and Enjolras opened his mouth to ask, but then Grantaire’s hand had wrapped around him, and the question was lost to a wordless groan.

Enjolras didn’t last long, Grantaire’s sure, rough hand was able to take him apart in no time. As far as mornings went, it was the best one he’d had in months. After a few seconds of catching his breath, Enjolras reached down to swat Grantaire’s hand away from where he was jerking himself off, and shimmied himself down the bed to take Grantaire into his mouth, giving him a proper thank you.

“Fuck,” Grantaire groaned after he came in Enjolras’ mouth. “Godly head indeed.”

They lay in the afterglow for a little while, just breathing. There was a lingering nagging guilt in the back of his mind, but right now Enjolras felt too good, too content to let it take over. So he didn’t. Grantaire was playing with his hair with his clean hand, and it felt so nice.

Eventually Grantaire broke the silence. “I need to say something,” he said. His voice was serious. Enjolras looked up at him. “I know I crossed a line with Courfeyrac. I know I risked your friendship just because I was being selfish. I’m so sorry, ange. You need to know I genuinely wasn’t trying to hurt you. I know that isn’t a good excuse, I’m not trying to excuse it. I’m just sorry.”

“Courfeyrac said you did have a point, that I was the one who broke up with you,” Enjolras admitted. Grantaire made a face at that, vulnerable, and then shook his head.

“That doesn’t make it okay, we both know that,” he sighed. “There’s something else. That comment I made, earlier that night, about paying, that was really fucked of me to say. You have to know how sorry I am. If this is really the end, I just need you to know that.”

Enjoras’ stomach dropped at that. He sat up, out of Grantaire’s arms. “If this is… why would this be the end?” He asked. Grantaire was still lying down, but his eyebrows were drawn together.

“Why? Enjolras, it’s not like you ever leave me with a guarantee that there’ll be a next time. I’m not complaining, either, I’m not owed that, or anything. I just, I just had to say that.”

Grantaire was coaxing Enjolras to lie back down. Enjolras let himself be coaxed, soothed by Grantaire’s petting hands. Why had he felt so distressed by Grantaire implying it was the end? They weren’t together, Enjolras had broken up with him, as many people had reminded him. Why did it matter? Why was it something that he needed soothing over?

“Thank you,” he said, instead of any of the things going through his head. “For apologising.”

“Yeah, word, anytime,” Grantaire said. There was a lingering question in his voice and eyes, but he didn’t ask, and Enjolras felt grateful, because he wouldn’t have had an answer if he did.

-

The rest of the morning was uncharacteristically pleasant. 

Grantaire had asked him what he had to do that morning, and when Enjolras said he only had one meeting he was attending via video call, Grantaire offered to stay and make him breakfast. Enjolras let him, and Grantaire busied himself in the kitchen for the time Enjolras sat in the courtyard outside his bedroom and smoked while dialing into the meeting. 

The courtyard outside Enjolras’ bedroom was visible from a window into the kitchen, so Enjolras could look in and see Grantaire’s sure presence as he went back and forth between the stove and the fridge. He couldn’t say why it felt so nice, so reassuring to look up and know he was there, but it did.

It was just like the dom drop, he remembered. No need to analyse more than that. 

By the time the meeting was wrapping up - just waiting for the current issue of whether they should work alongside law enforcement to be voted on - Enjolras looked in and witnessed what looked like an awkward exchange between Combeferre and Grantaire. 

Combeferre had emerged from his room into the kitchen, and stopped at the sight of Grantaire. He said something, and when Grantaire said something back he picked something off the counter in between them - it was the pack of cigarettes Enjolras had pilfered from before his meeting started. The ones Grantaire had offered him the night before. 

Grantaire looked uncomfortable, rubbing the back of his neck, looking down, Enjolras couldn’t see his face but knew from his body language. But then, Combeferre said something else, and Grantaire barked out a laugh that Enjolras could hear through the closed window, and Combeferre gave a small smile too.

Enjolras was desperate to know what they were talking about. He put his vote forward - that as always he was against collaboration with police or any state force but would follow the lead of those who were at most risk, in this case those who were at risk of deportation should anything go wrong - and finished his second cigarette as they signed off. He used the door into his bedroom, and then, something stopped him, and he lingered before going from his bedroom into the kitchen. The door was ajar, he could hear them talking if he listened in.

He had never had the impulse to eavesdrop before. He couldn’t say what stalled him now, only what he heard.

“-but I can whip some up for you just as easily, it won’t even take more time,” Grantaire was saying.

“Grantaire, you’re fine. Enjolras obviously wants you here, that’s enough for me. As far as I’m concerned, you’re welcome here.” Combeferre replied, placating.

“Yeah, alright…” Grantaire drawled. There was a beat where Enjolras thought that was it, his hand was on the door handle when Grantaire spoke up softly. “I’m sorry. For everything I said that night. It was a dick move, I know, to throw that shit in your face. You didn’t deserve it.”

For what he said? Enjolras wasn’t sure what Grantaire was talking about.

“I already forgave you, Grantaire, but I appreciate the apology.” Combeferre said. Then: “I never hated you. I shouldn’t have said it.”

“You’d be well within your right to, I reckon. But, thanks. It actually weirdly means a lot to me that you don’t.” Grantaire sounded uncomfortable, but sincere. Enjolras was frozen in place. He wasn’t sure why this sounded so significant, why it felt significant for him to hear it too. On some level, he wanted Combeferre’s approval in everything, and he even wanted it to extend to Grantaire.

“Can I,” Grantaire started, and then cut himself off, and Enjolras pressed himself closer to the door to hear. Combeferre made a go on sound. “Can I ask, what you said, how I would have hated me too if I’d seen what you’d seen that morning. I have no fucking idea what you were talking about.”

Neither did Enjolras. If Grantaire had seen what Combeferre had seen, “that morning”. Could it have been the morning Enjolras dropped, and cried to Combeferre about it?

“It really wasn’t my place, and I am sorry I didn’t have a better handle on my words. But…” there was silence for a few seconds, and then, lower: “ask him.”

Enjolras heard the door to Combeferre’s room close again. He waited, nothing else. 

Enjolras waited a few seconds, so he wouldn’t be caught snooping, but then Grantaire called “order up” and Enjolras realised he already knew he was there. 

“Want to sit in the courtyard? It’s nice in the sun,” Enjolras offered when he opened the door and Grantaire was there with two plates. It also meant Combeferre wouldn’t overhear them, which wasn’t fair, but since Enjolras had the heads up Grantaire was about to ask him about something, he got to choose the home advantage.

“Sure, I could use some sunlight,” Grantaire said.

They set up at the small round table and Enjolras started eating, Grantaire made two trips to top up Enjolras’ coffee mug and grab his own, and then he kicked them off. “Rude to eavesdrop, you know. And what if you had overheard us discussing our long standing secret passionate love affair with one another? Try to leave us a little mystery,” but he was smiling. 

Enjolras snorted. Then, because he was already caught out. “What were you talking about?”

“Our longstanding secret passionate love affair.” Grantaire deadpanned. Enjolras raised his eyebrows, but knew the quirk of his mouth was giving away the smile that wanted to escape. “Nah, you’re not the only one I owed an apology to. I said some shit to him, that night, I really was fucking on one. And if he wants to tell you about it, that's his prerogative, but it would kinda lessen my apology if I blabbed about it now, so…” 

Enjolras nodded, even though he was desperately curious, he respected Combeferre’s privacy. And it wasn’t lost on him that Grantaire was doing such a good job respecting Combeferre’s privacy, which, yeah, was making him feel some kinda way. A good way.

Almost proud.

“But there was this one thing he said, that I wanted to ask you about,” Grantaire started. He sounded so unsure of himself. Then he smirked and added: “which you know, because you were listening.”

Enjolras dropped his head down, focused on putting some food on his fork to cover how he blushed at being caught out. Grantaire’s low chuckle made his face feel hotter, and he kicked him under the table when he heard Grantaire mutter “adorable”.

“Well ask then,” Enjolras urged. 

“Okay okay. He said,” Grantaire took a deep breath. “He said that he was disappointed in you ‘too’, and that there was something he’d seen, ‘that morning’ that if I’d seen it too… I’d hate me too. Do you know what morning he was talking about?”

Enjolras took a sip of his coffee to stall. He nodded. “I think I do. I think he was talking about the morning after the fundraiser for ‘Chetta’s work. You know, when we,” he cleared his throat, waved a hand, hoping it would be enough to imply that night, the scene. 

“Yeah,” Grantaire urged.

Enjolras took a slow breath in. He considered fetching another one of the cigarettes from the kitchen counter. “When you… When I woke up, and you were gone, and we’d done the scene the night before, and, and it hadn’t gone… well I…” he cleared his throat. “I dropped.” He said simply.

Grantaire looked at him for a long moment. “You… dropped?” He said slowly, mouth moving around the words like he wasn’t quite sure of them. 

“Yes.” Said Enjolras. He hoped that would be enough but Grantaire clearly wasn’t getting it, his face just showed confusion. 

“Like…?” Grantaire started to ask.

“Like dom drop. Top drop.” Enjolras said plainly. Grantaire blinked. “Like sub drop, but the dom version.”

“That’s. Has that happened before?” Grantaire asked.

“Not every time, but sometimes. If I’m alone for too long the next day, or I wake up alone. Or, in this case, if something happened during the scene. If I don’t get to give, or receive, adequate aftercare, even in the next day. Or even if I don’t hear from you the next day.” Enjolras said. He distracted himself from how pale Grantaire’s face was going by eating some more of his food. It was really good. He made a mental note to tell him, later, when they weren’t talking about this.

“I didn’t reply to you. For hours,” Grantaire said. “I left before you woke up. I. That’s not the first time it’s happened with me, is it?” 

Enjolras shook his head.

“Okay. Okay. Um. Fuck. Okay, so like sub drop, but for doms. Um, can I ask what that looks like, for you?” Grantaire asked.

“I suppose,” Enjolras considered. Finished the last of his food. “I suppose it looks a lot like last night,” he finally said. 

“Last. Night.” Grantaire whispered. “Last night? Like… you were crying!” 

Enjolras nodded. He was resolutely staring at his own hand on the table, and saw when Grantaire’s covered his. 

“You were crying? That’s what Combeferre saw? You woke up and I wasn’t there and you… you cried?” 

“Yes.”

“Fuck. What the fuck? Fuck. No wonder he thought I hurt you, fuck,” Grantaire was saying. Enjolras turned the hand Grantaire was holding around, so he could hold Grantaire’s back.

“No, you didn’t hurt me. I dropped because I hurt you, because I felt so bad about how I’d hurt you!”

“But, ange, I wanted you to hurt me! I asked you to, I very enthusiastically said yes! You didn’t do anything wrong. I should’ve been better about aftercare, you’ve told me before that you need it as a dom, I was way too flippant, I don’t know what I was thinking. I didn’t really ever think about dom’s dropping, I know that’s not a good excuse. Fuck, really am getting my thousand hours in for apologising, aren’t I…” 

“But I did do something wrong!” Enjolras interrupted to say. “I said… I called you… you know. And then, to stop you from being able to safeword, I choked you out! I hurt you twice!”

“What? No, fuck, you didn’t choke me out! Listen to me, fuck, I should have stayed that morning so I could have told you this then. The hand on my neck, that’s something I agreed to, it’s something I need in moments like that. It’s grounding, it feels safe with you, and you’ve never done it the wrong way and hurt me or actually cut off my breathing. Besides, next to me you’re a twig, and I know how to get out of a chokehold. I taught you how to do that, remember?”

He had. He’d taught Enjolras some self defence moves when he’d heard how a particularly bad ex-client had reached for Enjolras’ throat during a booking, a near miss that had actually really scared him at the time. He and Bahorel had done demonstrations for all their sex working friends, and then he’d made Enjolras practice on him until he was satisfied with the result.

“I know,” Enjolras said. “Still,” but Grantaire was shaking his head, squeezing where he was holding his hand.

“I wish I’d stayed that morning. I wish I’d answered you properly when you texted to check in, I had no idea you were feeling this way. You’ve never hurt me, you’ve never done anything that wasn’t begged for and taken with fucking gratitude. I didn’t safeword out, not because you stopped me, but because I didn’t want to. I’m so sorry I left that morning, I’m so sorry I didn’t stay.” And then his forehead creased. “Last night, is that, was that why you needed me to stay last night? Was that…”

Was he asking if Enjolras was in dom drop last night from sex with someone else? “Last night wasn't dom drop, but I think it was similar. From the lock-on, the adrenaline of the day. And the guilt, from leaving you in jail, felt so similar to the guilt from failing you as your dom.” Grantaire blushed when Enjolras called himself his dom. It was a pretty colour on him, it almost distracted him. “When you called, we thought Jehan and Bahorel had been arrested, we were frantically trying to find them, and then everything happened so fast, I barely had a moment to think, and-”

“Hey, it’s okay. You still managed to get me out, I’m just glad you weren’t arrested,” and Grantaire had grabbed Enjolras’ other hand, squeezing them both. It was nice, it was warm. In a moment of sunlight on what should be a cold winter morning, Enjolras felt warm. 

“Fuck. I am so sorry, ange. I haven’t been doing a really good job of loving you at all. I want you to tell me what else you need from me if you’re dropping, I want to know how I can help, okay? If… If you do ever want to do a scene like that with me again, which you know I would love, but you know…” he was rambling. Enjolras couldn’t help it, he leaned forward over the table and kissed him.

It was the nicest way to shut him up, but that wasn’t his sole goal. Mainly, he just wanted to kiss him, because there was something so nice and attractive about him wanting to know how to give the right aftercare, stumbling over his words trying to assure Enjolras he wanted to do it again, while trying not to seem like it was assumed that Enjolras would. So he kissed him, and Grantaire hummed happily, and kissed him back, and he let Grantaire finish his meal and dutifully answered his questions about aftercare, and it was nice. It was warm.

It was a winter morning, with their hot breath fogging the air even in the sunlight, and it was warm. As far as mornings went, this was the best one he’d had in some time.

-

Things with Grantaire had been good since then. Nice.

He called a goodbye to Combeferre when he left that day, and Combeferre smiled back, and it felt like a step forward for both of them. 

He walked Enjolras to the tram stop, kissed him goodbye, and it felt right. 

He came to the next meeting, drank with Joly and Bossuet in the empty seat they’d been leaving for him, and everything felt good. Right. In place. 

When the meeting ended, they didn’t bother with the pretence of a fight, Grantaire waited, and Enjolras took him home, and in the morning Grantaire was still there, like he said he would be.

-

“I’m doing a shop today, so update the list now or forever hold your peace,” Combeferre called.

“I’m good,” Enjolras called back. He was only sitting at the kitchen table, Combeferre busy cleaning the lounge room behind him, so it wasn’t too much of a yell.

“You’ll want me to get those chocolate cupcakes R likes, but you won’t remember until after I’ve done the shop.” Combeferre replied. “Add them to the list.”

Enjolras looked down to hide the blush, and then complied. He looked through the fridge and pantry to be sure, and wrote down the ice-cream he liked to share with Grantaire sometimes, and the tea Grantaire liked for when he was smoking out the window of the apartment on a particularly cold night. Combeferre was right, he would want these things when Grantaire was next over, and he wouldn’t have thought about it otherwise.

“Done, thanks,” Enjolras muttered, and went back to the admin work he was doing on the laptop.

“I was glad to see him the other day, it had been a while,” Combeferre said. Conversational. Innocent. 

“Yeah,” Enjolras replied. He finished typing out the sentence he was writing, then added, “things have been… good… with Grantaire lately.”

Combeferre moved into his field of vision before his hand landed on Enjolras’ shoulder. “I’m glad to see it,” he said. They shared a smile, and then Combeferre went back to tidying, and Enjolras went back to answering emails, and he thought that was the end of it. Then: “I’m hoping he talked to you about this, because I strongly recommended he did, but I, uh, I may have said something to him about you dropping, while we were out for Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta’s anniversary. I wasn’t sober, and I didn’t have a good handle on my words, and it wasn’t my place, and I’m sorry. It’s a little bit fuzzy, I have to admit, but I may have done the typical ‘don’t hurt him’ spiel, or something to that tune.” 

Enjolras snorted. “He did talk to me, and we spoke about the drop. I actually appreciate that you gave us the nudge to talk about it out loud, because we should have earlier, I should have taken responsibility for it and been honest with him about it earlier. That was my responsibility, and I hope you don’t hold it against him.”

“I don’t, I… for what it’s worth, I actually think Grantaire is really good for you. That’s why, since I’ve already done it once as your friend, I’m going to bite the bullet and do it again as his. Enjolras,” and Enjolras looked up, giving Combeferre his full attention. “Grantaire is a good person, he’s a good friend and he’s a good partner to you, in whatever way the two of you define your relationship. He loves you, a lot, and I don’t want to see his heart broken by you. I can’t tell you what to do, I actually don’t think I need to, I have faith in you to figure it out. But, as far as you can control, I’m asking you now. Don’t hurt him.”

Enjolras squared his shoulders. Some part of his mind took offence, wanted to argue, but he knew that had nothing to do with what Combeferre was saying now, and more to do with how he reacted to being told what to do. He took a deep breath, processed what Combeferre was saying, and nodded. Combeferre nodded too, and went back to the cleaning. He knew he didn’t have to find the right words for this, that was enough for Combeferre.

“There’s still time to add food you like to the shopping list, you know,” Combeferre reminded him. Enjolras smiled at his laptop. Combeferre was a good partner, too, in whatever way they and Courfeyrac were to each other. He hoped one day Combeferre would find someone to be a good partner to him, too.

-

The text came through a week later, but Enjolras ignored it because he was at work, and it was from Montparnasse, and there was no message preview, so he’d just assumed it was a mis-send, or a dick pic. 

He was coming home from a particularly gruelling day (and evening) of private bookings. How was it that all the worst, slimiest, handsiest guys all seemed to book on the same day? It had been a day of slapping hands that had just touched a dick away from his curls just in time to save them from the hair wash he didn’t want to waste his night on. His patience was at resting zero. Irritation: fucking high. “I don’t want to open a text from fucking Montparnasse” kind of high.

He was sitting in the driver's seat of the van he shared with Combeferre and Courfeyrac (and the rest of the Amis, as they used the van for any action as well as if someone was moving house, so it was really there for anyone's use). He’d already pulled into the driveway, but felt like he didn’t have the energy to pull himself out of the van and into the house. So he was wasting time, going through the group chats on his phone for messages that he’d missed while in bookings.

He opened the text only when he was done with everything else, and only because the little red dot alerting him there was an unread message was driving him mad.

It was a video message. Enjolras couldn’t make sense of what the preview was, at first he thought maybe it really was a dick pic, but then he clicked and it started playing at full screen and Enjolras felt his blood go cold.

It was Grantaire. That was Grantaire’s back, Grantaire’s shoulder tattoos, the back of Grantaire’s head, his dark curls held in a pale fist. Enjolras’ own hand was making a fist already, his nails digging into his palm. 

The angle the video was shooting from moved back, and Enjolras knew what he’d see before it was on screen. How many times had he fucked Grantaire, looking down at him from this angle? But the hips driving into Grantaire were too sharp, too pale, not his.

Those were Montparnasse’s knife tattoos on those prominent hip bones. 

In the video Montparnasse ground Grantaire’s face hard into the bed, just like Enjolras would have. Enjolras wanted to kill him. He couldn’t stop watching.

Montparnasse pulled out, slapped his dick against the hole he’d been fucking, teasing Grantaire before he spat on him and then drove back in. 

He wasn’t wearing a condom. 

There was text over the video. It just said “this your boy?” 

Enjolras was going to kill him. 

He was moving before he’d made the conscious choice, throwing the phone into the passenger seat, turning the keys in the van and pulling out of the driveway faster than he maybe should have. He knew Montparnasse didn’t live far away, barely a suburb over, and he was able to get the van there before the rage had a moment to settle. He mounted the curb outside Montparnasse’s place, threw the van into park, barely managed to turn the lights off, pocket his phone and pull the keys out before he’d thrown himself out, across the lawn, and was banging on the front door with his forearms.

“Open up asshole!” He was shouting. He could hear movement inside, and he pulled back just as the door swung open.

“Was starting to wonder if you got my messa-” Montparnasse was starting, all snarky confidence and venom in his voice. Enjolras wasn’t going to hear a fucking bar of it. He swung first, closed fist, thumb on the outside, a clean jab with his right fist to the left of Montparnasse’s face. 

Just like Grantaire taught him.

Montparnasse obviously wasn’t expecting this, so Enjolras got two more punches in before he reacted. Enjolras ducked the wild fist Montparnasse sent out and used his left hand to grab him by the collar of his shirt and push him back over the threshold of his own door. 

He punched him once more, in the jaw, for good measure, and then used both hands to shove Montparnasse hard. Montparnasse stumbled back, and Enjolras was ready to go down with him. He landed straddling Montparnasse’ chest, leaning forward with one forearm across his neck so he could reach into his pocket and pull out his phone.

It was still open to the video.

“What the fuck is this?” He screamed. Montparnasse struggled, trying to buck him off, so Enjolras threw another punch with the hand still holding the phone. Montparnasse spat up in his face, and distantly Enjolras registered that he’d spat out blood. He didn’t care, he punched again and then followed that punch through with his elbow, feeling the moment it connected to Montparnasse’s nose with a crunch.

Montparnasse got one hand free, swinging it out, alternating closed fist punches and scratches with surprisingly sharp nails. Enjolras grabbed the hand and forced it to the floor above Montparnasse’s head, and then, when it brought them face to face, threw his head forward impulsively. His forehead hit Montparnasse’s nose, and if it hadn’t broken earlier, it sure as fuck did now. 

Montparnasse screamed, genuinely screamed in pain. 

“That nose was fucking expensive, you bitch!” He cried.

“Fuck you!” Enjolras yelled back. He grabbed Montparnasse by the hair, pulled it hard enough that it could have ripped out, pulled his head up and slammed it back down onto the hardwood floor beneath them. He went to do it again, but was yanked off and held back by someone bigger than him, who pretty effectively held him in a choke hold, one arm around his neck. Whoever it was didn’t pull him back fast enough, so Enjolras was able to send one more kick and get the side of Montparnasse’s face.

“God!” Montparnasse yelled, allowing his body to go in the direction the kick had sent him. He spat more blood on the ground. Enjolras kept yelling obscenities at him. “I fucking get it, chill you fucking demon twink!” Montparnasse yelled back.

“What do I do with him?” Said whoever was holding him. 

Montparnasse looked up, sent a chilling smile his way, made all the more terrible by the blood gushing from his nose and coating his teeth. “Not the face. I like his face.” He said.

Enjolras felt something in his stomach drop in fear.

He didn’t wait to find out what the bigger man had in store for him. Grantaire taught him how to get out of choke holds when they were dating, drilled it into him time and time again. Enjolras brought both hands to his chest, palm inwards. He felt the ghost of Grantaire’s hands over his own, guiding them to where they needed to be. He slid them up under the man's arm where it made contact with his neck, and then used fast upward force to shove the man's arm up and away while driving his head back. The combined motion freed him, and he ducked and spun before the man could grab him again, turning in time to see him pull something silver out of his pocket and flick it open.

He grabbed the man's hand, trying to remember the move Bahorel had demonstrated to disarm someone, successfully got him to drop the knife. For a second he, Montparnasse, and the bigger man watched it fall, and then they all dove for it, but Enjolras got it first. He closed it so the blade was away, then dodged out of the bigger man's grasp, panicking and biting his hand when it almost closed on his neck again.  

“Get him, get him, get the knife!” Montparnasse was yelling. But Enjolras was faster, and he straddled Montparnasse again, this time with his arms secure under his legs as well, grabbed another fistful of hair, and flicked out the blade to hold the knife to Montparnasse’s throat. He threw his head back and glared at the man, who was smart enough to stay fucking still where he was.

“Sit in the corner,” Enjolras demanded. The man listened, even as Montparnasse screamed at him not to. “Shut up.” Enjolras said, pushing the knife further in, and Montparnasse stopped struggling. 

They all breathed heavily for a few seconds. Enjolras’ brain didn’t stop whirring, planning the next steps.

“Where’s your phone?” He demanded of Montparnasse. 

“Couch,” Montparnasse answered. Enjolras glanced up. Sure enough, it was there. 

“Pass it to me,” he commanded the man. He reached for the phone. “On the floor, between us,” Enjolras instructed, before he could get too close. He did. Enjolras nodded back to the corner, and the man went back there. He sat facing the wall, and everything.

The power made everything feel crystal clear. Like when his ADHD meds started working just right, and he could hear his thoughts without that ringing in his head clouding everything. Like time slowed down, and he was still running at the perfect speed. Just like that.

He picked up Montparnasse’s phone. The idiot had face ID on, so it unlocked as soon as Enjolras turned it to face him. He opened the messaging app first, deleted the message Montparnasse had sent him. 

“Did you send it to anyone else?” He asked. 

“You think anyone would want to see that? Not even my dick could make that look good,” Montparnasse answered. Enjolras flexed the hand holding the knife, just a bit.

“How’s your nose feeling?” He asked.

“Broken.”

“Good. Did you send it to anyone else?”

“No.”

“Better,” Enjolras said. He opened the photo app, deleted the video, went into the deleted folder, deleted it again. He took his time going through the camera roll, the folders, to see if there were any other copies. There were plenty of dick pics, and plenty of videos of matching quality and angles of other men and women alike. Enjolras deleted them too, without bothering to ask if they were consented to or not. It didn’t feel like Montparnasse’s first time sending revenge porn.  “Did you open it in any other app to edit it?” He asked. 

“I just used Instagram to put text on it,” Montparnasse answered with an eye roll. He looked bored. 

Enjolras opened the app, opened the drafts folder, the stories feature, and looked through it all for good measure. There was no more trace of Grantaire, good. 

He pulled the knife back, pressed the tip to Montparnasse’ cheek. He felt Montparnasse stop breathing beneath him, and remembered what he’d said. Not the face. 

“If you ever,” he pushed the tip in just a fraction harder, to punctuate, “touch him again, I will kill you. I never want to see you again. Is that understood?”

“Perfectly,” Montparnasse answered. 

“Good.” Enjolras said. The phone in his hand was still open to the “story” feature of Instagram, camera open to show Montparnasse’s bloody face beneath the knife.

“Just in case it wasn’t,” he added, and drove the knife into the floor next to Montparnasse’s head as hard as he could. Montparnasse flinched, and Enjolras took the photo, hit the button in the corner that sent it off for all of Montparnasse’s followers to see the bloody, flinching, tear streaked, broken mess he’d made of him. 

He dropped the phone next to the knife, fetched his own that he’d dropped in the fight, and was on his feet and out the door before Montparnasse could yell “cunt!” after him. 

-

He drove to Grantaire’s place. His aching tired body moved on its own, up the path to Grantaire’s door. He knocked, and then just stared at it until it opened. He felt like he had pins and needles all over.

“Jesus fuck, ange!” 

Grantaire had two hands on his shoulders, pulling him in over the threshold. He stood back, just enough to look Enjolras over, and Enjolras knew he was looking for injuries. He had no idea what he looked like right now. Grantaire squeezed his hands down his arms, reading his face for a reaction of pain, picked up Enjolras’ shirt without any care, ran his hands over his abdomen and hips.

“I’m okay,” Enjolras heard himself say. His voice sounded strange to his ears. They were ringing, he realised.

“You're covered in blood!” Grantaire hissed.

“I don’t think any of it’s mine,” Enjolras replied.

Grantaire stopped. He grabbed Enjolras’ shoulders again. “What did you do?” He said urgently.

Enjolras opened his phone. It was still open to the video, somehow, maybe his phone hadn’t refreshed since Montparnasse deleted the message, maybe that had just deleted it from Montparnasse’s send history but not his phone. He put it in Grantaire’s hand, passed him into the apartment, let himself into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water.

Grantaire was quiet for a long time. Enjolras was leaning on the kitchen counter, looking at where the window to the dark outside made a sort of mirror, and he could see his own blood spattered face and hair. He looked wild.

“I don’t understand,” Grantaire said. Enjolras turned to face him. He was holding the phone up, the video still playing the same 15 or so seconds on a loop. 

“This is me?” Grantaire eventually asked, when Enjolras hadn’t said anything.

“Yes,” Enjolras said. His voice sounded very far away to him. 

“How? Who?” 

“Montparnasse.” Enjolras growled.

Grantaire just blinked at him.

“Who?” He asked.

Enjolras stared back. He looked between Grantaire and the phone. “Are you fucking kidding me?” He asked, deadpan.

Grantaire looked at the video for a few more loops. “No?” He asked, unsure. 

“Montparnasse!” Enjolras said again. “You’ve been to several parties with him there, he was there the night of the fundraiser?” When Grantaire didn’t show any recognition, he continued. “The guy who Éponine introduced us to because he was willing to sell supplies that would be risky to buy on the record? The guy fucking you in that video?”

“The fuck are you yelling at me for?” Grantaire yelled back. He looked back at the video in his hand, then closed the screen and put it on the kitchen counter between them. “When was that even taken?”

“I don’t know! I was hoping you’d know, or was he not the only guy you let fuck you without a condom?” Enjolras spat, and suddenly he was blindly enraged again, and Grantaire was frozen and pale in front of him.

“Fuck. I knew that guy looked familiar, fuck! Okay, that was just one time,” Grantaire said.

“Sure,” Enjolras drawled.

“I swear, fuck, it was the night of Joly and Bossuet and ‘Chetta’s anniversary, and you had just told me it was over, like for real, and I was so fucked up, like so many drugs in my system, I wasn’t exactly thinking. I had no idea he was even fucking filming me, Jesus, and you’re worried about a condom-”

“I let you fuck me without one days ago! Because I trusted you, because you promised me you were using one with everyone else and I believed you! You had the chance to tell me, you even suggested it. Fuck, I’m so stupid! I thought it was weird you’d say that. When I said no, that was when you tell me! That would have been informed consent Grantaire! Instead you let me say no without knowing, knowing that I trusted you to use one with everyone else. Knowing that I trusted you! You are the only person I have ever trusted enough to take that risk for! Ever! And this is how my trust is met,” Enjolras picked up the phone again, threw it back down on the counter between them. They both watched as it bounced onto the floor. 

“I know, I know I fucked up. Maybe we can talk about that when we get through the whole fucking revenge porn aspect of this?” Grantaire asked, sounding about fifty percent sincere and fifty percent irritated.

“I’ve already dealt with that,” Enjolras snapped. 

“You… dealt with it.” Grantaire repeated, slowly. “May I ask what that means?”

“I’d say check Montparnasse’s Instagram account, but I’m assuming you’re not a follower, and I’m also assuming it’s been taken down by now.” Enjolras answered, unable to help the sneer in his voice at naming the social media app. Grantaire looked confused. Good, let him try to figure that one out.

“Okay, filing that away to ask Éponine later,” Grantaire muttered.

When he didn’t say anything else, Enjolras exploded.

“You risked my health! You risked my career! How many people am I able to support through my job? How many of your friends have a fund for sick leave or a mental health day because I fund it with my work! You risked their livelihoods, you risked my livelihood, my ability to continue the community organising work I can do because of my job! Because I am able to use my body for work! I won’t know for months if I’ve now got a potentially life altering or career ending infection, because the incubation period for most things isn’t instant, Grantaire! You won’t know for months! If we’re lucky it’s nothing, if we’re lucky it’s something that shows on tests or something that has available treatment! You risked everything I have, everything I am, every bit of trust I gave you because of what you mean to me, and for what? For someone whose name you don’t even remember!” 

“I know, fuck. I know I could have given you an STD and ruined your life,” Grantaire started, but Enjolras interrupted him.

“‘I’” Enjolras said.

“What?”

“I, STI. You said STD, you meant STI,” Enjolras explained. 

“Does it make a difference?” Grantaire asked, stupidly.

“Yes! It makes a difference! One means disease, an outdated and stigmatised term that isn’t entirely accurate, and one means infection, which can lead to a disease and can just as easily be treated.”

“AIDs is a disease, right?”

There were times when, without a conscious command, Enjolras would imagine himself hitting Grantaire. Or maybe not Grantaire, maybe himself, like in an old cartoon, because Grantaire was just so infuriating. This was one of those times. 

“AIDs is a disease that you get from late state HIV, an infection that you’re lucky is preventable through PReP, which you’re fucking lucky I’m already taking. You live in one of the few places in the world with semi-comprehensive sex education and you are a sexually active adult, you're both too old and too smart not to know this Grantaire!” 

“Okay, you’re right. You’re right. I know better. I know I should have told you, you’re right, I did think of it, and then I let myself forget again, I don’t take your trust for granted, Enjolras,” Grantaire said. 

“Yes you do! You did! That is exactly what you did, Grantaire!” Enjolras all but screamed back. 

“Okay, okay. You’re right. I know you’re right, you know you’re right. I really, really fucked up, and I can’t begin to say how sorry I am. Can we just. Fuck. Can I just smoke and catch up to where you’re at right now? Because I get you’re pissed at me, and you totally have every right to be, and I know it’s probably annoying that I’m not mentally where you are yet, but I just learned that this video exists, I think I get a little bit of buffer time over here?” 

Enjolras huffed, frustrated. Grantaire was right, he knew he deserved the time to process the video, and to know what had happened to the original. But that didn’t stop the rage inside him. Enjolras stomped over to Grantaire’s couch, plopped himself down, pulled his legs up to wrap his arms around them and angrily held himself. “Go on, roll your joint,” he said when Grantaire hadn’t moved yet. 

Grantaire gathered his stuff, sat next to Enjolras on the couch, not too close, not touching. Enjolras realised that he’d been sitting at the easel in the corner before he’d arrived, working on that godawful unsettling “self-portrait” he was drawing with the ash end of whatever he was smoking. Enjolras glared at the portrait while Grantaire rolled. 

“You want tobacco in yours?” Grantaire asked. Enjolras cast him a suspicious side eye, and nodded. 

“I forget you smoke tobacco inside too,” Enjolras said, to stop himself from continuing the fight.

“I haven’t won myself any points with my landlord so far, I’m not gonna start now,” Grantaire replied. He lit Enjolras’ joint for him, a true 50/50 spliff, and then lit his own considerably fatter blunt. 

“Okay. So. Can you at least tell me what ‘dealt with it’ means?” Grantaire asked after a few moments of silent smoking. He indicated an empty oyster shell on the side table next to Enjolras when he was visibly looking for an ashtray. 

“Yes, I suppose that’s fair,” Enjolras replied. He took another puff, closed his eyes as the scene came back to him. “Montparnasse sent the video to me earlier this evening. I drove to his place, and…” he took a deep breath. “When he opened the door I punched him. A few times. I, uh…” he tried to remember the order of events. Had he broken his nose first? Or slammed his head into the ground? “This is his blood, I broke his nose.” 

He spared a glance sideways. Grantaire’s eyebrows were up beneath his curls, his eyes wide. “Jesus. Nah, fuck Jesus, fucking Ares, Zeus, Hades, I don’t even know who. Apollo.” He said the last reverential, looking at Enjolras in that particularly worshipful way he hated. “You broke his nose?! For me?”

“You saw the video!” Enjolras asked, incredulous.

“Yeah, I wish I hadn’t, there’s no drug that will ever make me unsee myself from that angle,” Grantaire said, making a face of disgust.

“Fucking hell, why is that - not that it’s the point here but you looked fucking hot from that angle as you always do -” and that made Grantaire stop dead, pull his shoulders back, look at Enjolras like he was insane. “But the point is, that video was a threat, Grantaire. I know clearly enough exactly what that threat entails, I have done peer support for so many workers who have had their lives and careers and relationships destroyed by revenge porn. That was a threat, that was someone who is actually really fucking scary threatening you because he knew how much I care about you.”

“How much you care about me?” Grantaire repeated. He was staring at Enjolras, face white, blunt forgotten and still burning down in between his finger tips. Enjolras threw his head back in frustration. He may have made a high pitched sound, but that was neither here nor there.

“Of course I care about you! I broke his nose for sending that video, I threatened…” he stopped himself. Grantaire didn’t need to know that he’d threatened Montparnasse’s life if he ever touched Grantaire again. “Grantaire, if you don’t know how significant a part of my life you are, then you are fucking stupid. He knew that, he was jealous of that, he was prepared to hurt you over it. And you didn’t even know it was him when you let him fuck you! What if he’d done something, drugged you, we wouldn’t even know!”

“I- okay. Wow. Ignoring the double whammy of ‘a significant part of your life’ and ‘fucking stupid’, who the fuck is this guy? Who is he to you, Enjolras? Why is he jealous of me?”

“He’s no one, he’s just some asshole I sometimes use to buy self defence weapons, and spray paint.” Enjolras said. Then, because he knew it was what Grantaire was really asking: “we hooked up once. Twice.”

“So is he ‘no one’, or is he someone you ‘hooked up’ with?” Grantaire asked.

“It was just after we broke up, and long before we… whatever this is now. Before we started this.” Enjolras said.

“So, okay, give me a second for mental math here, we both know it’s not my strong suit, but you hooked up with this guy twice in the six months before we… started fucking again… Enjolras, that would be like, over a year ago.”

“Was it?” Enjolras asked. Had they been… not back together, but whatever this was, had they been doing it for a full year? 

“Are you for fucking real?” Grantaire asked. He sounded incredulous, annoyed. “Yeah, asshole, as of, what, I don’t know, three weeks from now we will have been fucking around for two fucking years, if you count the six months that we weren’t fucking and you were apparantly hooking up with fucking what’s his name.”

“Montparnasse, who I only hooked up with twice, which is twice as many times as you fucked him, so maybe you can cut the fucking attitude,” Enjolras snapped. 

“So what the fuck does he want with me?” Grantaire asked, but it was almost yelled.

“He’s pissed, he’s jealous, he thinks I was using him to rebound from you or something, I don’t know, he’s fucking crazy. He had a goon with a knife and he said ‘not the face’ when the goon asked what to do with me, this isn’t exactly someone who thinks like normal people here!”

“Woah, what the fuck? Fucking hell Enjolras, what the fuck did you get involved in tonight?”  

“I’m fine, I used that move you showed me,” Enjolras said, recreating how he’d used his hands to free himself.

“You were in a chokehold? Fucking hell!” Grantaire slumped back, then pulled himself up and to the fridge. “I need a fucking drink,” he was muttering. Enjolras let him, waited for him to come sit back down. 

“I’m fine, I was fine. I got hold of the knife, I used the disarming move Bahorel showed us. I actually did a really good job, considering the circumstances.” He said, trying for reassuring.

“You, oh, okay, you got a hold of the knife.” Grantaire said. “The knife! Enjolras! You could have died! Actually fucking died, not for anything, not for any cause or reason or anything that would have been worth it, for a fucking video of me getting drunk backshots. That is so not fucking worth it! If this guy is so jealous of something he thinks I have from you that he is willing to threaten you with a knife, it’s not worth it. I am not worth that.”

“Of course you are, you’re -” He couldn’t find his words. He moved his hand, as if that would encompass all of it. Explain it. “Of all the people I’ve… of all the people who have felt… the way you feel about me, you’re. I don’t know. You’re the most important to me.”

Grantaire looked at him for a long time. Enjolras couldn’t say what he was looking for, why his forehead was creasing like that while he searched Enjolras’ eyes. Eventually he just nodded. “Okay,” he said, softer. “Okay. If I’m…” he took a deep breath, and a heavy sigh on the exhale. “If I’m the most important, then I need you to promise me something.” He reached out, and after a moment's hesitation rested his hand on the back of Enjolras’. “Promise me you will never put yourself in a situation like that again, not unless I’m there with you. Okay?”

Enjolras felt a muscle in his jaw work. It wasn’t a definite ban, it was a compromise. As if Grantaire had the right to call the shots on his actions, but still. It was a request. A request for trust.

How could he trust that if he needed Grantaire, he would be there? How could he know that he could promise now, and rely on Grantaire to have his back in the moment he needed? He didn’t, he couldn’t.

Wasn’t that the point? Wasn’t that trust? Grantaire was the most important person who had ever loved him, he had just admitted that. He was the one he cared about the most, the one he wanted to rely on the most, the one he wanted to trust. When he’d spent his entire life thinking feelings like romance were beneath him, unnecessary, Grantaire was the only one he’d ever found himself wanting to… 

“I promise,” he said. 

Grantaire nodded. He took a drink from his bottle of soju, offered it to Enjolras. Enjolras went to say no, but then thought better of it, and accepted the bottle. It tasted better than most alcohol, if strong, Grantaire hadn’t mixed it with anything. But it was fruity, sweet. And he could probably use it, after the night he’d had.

“Okay,” Grantaire said when he passed the bottle back. “So, you broke his nose, you disarmed someone with a knife, you got out of a choke hold, and then what?”

“I got his phone, deleted the video, made sure he didn’t have any other copies. I told you, I handled it. You don’t need to worry, there are no more copies other than the one on my phone. And…” he stood and went to where his phone had landed on the floor, ignoring the crack in the protective glass cover, and deleted the message from his phone, opened the photo app so Grantaire would see it wasn’t downloaded. “There. As far as I can tell, the video shouldn’t exist anymore. And just in case there are more copies, I think I got my point across. He won’t use it against you, against either of us.”  

Grantaire lit his blunt back up. “Salute,” he said, and held it in Enjolras’ direction. Enjolras fell back into his seat. He still felt electric all over, ready for the fight. His hand still felt warm from where Grantaire had been holding it.

“Okay,” Grantaire said after a few puffs. He offered the blunt Enjolras’ way, and he accepted it. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he’d already decided he wouldn’t be driving home tonight. “Okay, you answered my questions, you get to be angry at me now. I know I fucked up so much, I know I broke your trust. Give it to me, I know you’ve got more to say.”

Enjolras took a deep breath. Another puff of the blunt. “I’m keeping this,” he started, and Grantaire struggled to suppress a grin. “What would you have done if I had gotten sick?” Enjolras started, and it spilled out of him. “Really sick? If I had to take time off work, or stop completely. Who would pay for the things I pay for then? Who would pay for me then? Are you going to pay my rent, Grantaire? Are you going to financially support me if I can’t support myself, let alone our friends and community? Are you prepared for the consequences of the risk you just had me take, without giving me the chance to make a truly informed decision?”

“I wasn’t, you’re right. I wasn’t thinking about any of that.” He was rolling himself another joint already. “And just so you know, it was just the one time, I used one with everyone else, I swear. Even the stupid thing with Courfeyrac, he had one on. I know it doesn’t make much of a difference, but…”

Enjolras wasn’t going to tug at that thread right now, because even though he’d forgiven them both, it still hurt and he couldn’t say why. But he did believe Grantaire was telling the truth.

“Roll me a straight ciggie?” Enjolras asked. Grantaire was gracious enough, or knew he had fucked up badly enough, that he didn’t call him out on the hypocrisy of demanding he roll him one while having a go at him.

“For the record,” Grantaire said, “I don’t have a lot of money, but I’d give it all to you in a heartbeat. I would take extra shifts to cover your rent, get a second job, start actually advertising commissions or make a website or something, charge double as much just to make enough for you. I know it sounds like bullshit for me to say now, after the fact, but if you do get sick, even if it’s not my fault, even if you get hurt at an action… All you have to do is ask, and what’s mine is yours.”

“That’s very praxis of you,” Enjolras teased. But it was softer.

“Nah, I just love you,” Grantaire said, too honest. But after the night he’d had, the things they’d said, the way Enjolras could vividly remember the way he’d begged Grantaire to say those very words, Enjolras found he didn’t mind. In fact, if one were to inspect close enough, they might have found he was smiling. Just a little bit. But enough. Grantaire noticed, too.

“Is that…” he stopped, sighed, and passed Enjolras the cigarette he rolled. “Is that okay? To say, now. I don’t… I’m not really sure where we stand, and I know we don’t usually talk about this shit out loud but, hey, when in Rome.”

Enjolras lit the cigarette, took a puff. He let himself actually think about it. He thought about the night of the lock-on, how he’d fought Grantaire over it, over the way he looked at him, the way his love had always made him feel. How Grantaire had argued back, had held him and begged him if he believed anything to believe that Grantaire actually loved him. No pedestal, no conditions, no projections, just Grantaire’s love. How, if he looked close enough, he did believe him. 

How he’d begged to hear it again. How he’d held onto the truth that Grantaire’s love was real. 

“Is it okay that I’m not going to say it back?” He asked, too honest.

Maybe, some small, quiet, almost not there part of him protested, not honest enough.

“That’s okay with me,” Grantaire said. “Green, and all that.”

“Then that’s okay with me.”

There was silence for a long time. Enjolras’ ears were ringing again. Grantaire watched him carefully, took a puff of his joint, nodded. “Okay. Yeah. Alright. Fuck. Um… I guess. I love you.” And then he smiled, and Enjolras forgot he was angry for a second. There was still a heaviness to his chest, a ringing in his ears, his eyes felt like they were stinging, there was this background thought that “everything is right but everything is so wrong” but he wouldn’t let it choke him.

“I… um. I want to kiss you, but I’m aware there’s blood on my face. And, um,” Enjolras said. 

Grantaire laughed, like he couldn’t believe himself. He held out his hand, and Enjolras took it, and he let him lead him to the bathroom. He squeezed while they walked, and Grantaire squeezed back, and it felt warm.

-

“I’m still mad at you,” Enjolras said, stepping into the shower.

“You wouldn’t be you if you weren’t,” Grantaire replied, he bunched up Enjolras’ blood stained clothes, disappeared for a minute, and came back with a fresh towel and a small pile of spare clothes. “Be careful washing your face, it looks like you got a bit scratched up there. I’ve got some antiseptic stuff here, but there’s a high chance his blood got in there already, because, and I say this without hyperbole, you were fucking covered in blood ange. Avenging angel indeed. No, Achilles, covered in the blood of an entire army. Like, enough blood to run the rivers red kind of covered in blood. I’m almost surprised you didn’t drag Montparnasse’s body through the streets all the way here just to spite the Gods. Although, no, forget that one...”

Enjolras washed himself using the products in Grantaire’s shower and let Grantaire ramble on about Greek mythology, letting the sound of his voice carry him to a familiar state of calm that sometimes only Grantaire could bring. 

Combeferre or Courfeyrac could too, but Grantaire had his own particular way. He could talk his way in loops, but if you were patient and listened him out he would usually actually find a point, one you forgot he was even leading you to. And he had a certain intelligence, a certain humour. Enjolras had always been attracted to people who were smarter than him, and he often found himself learning something new when Grantaire spoke, from all his tidbits and references and just random facts he knew. He was also attracted to the way Grantaire could surprise him by making him laugh, the way he seemed to get his hands into his brain while he spoke, and massage out all the worries, and before Enjolras knew it he was biting back a genuine smile. Grantaire just had a way, like that.

He noticed that Grantaire had bought the curl products Enjolras had recommended, so washing his hair wasn’t that much more of an annoyance than it usually was. Grantaire was waiting to pass him a hair towel when he opened the shower door, and then a body towel, and then the loose t-shirt and boxers that Enjolras swam in, but they were warm from the dryer and soft from wear and it felt nice. He sat Enjolras on the closed toilet lid, dutifully cleaning up the scratches on his face and neck with the antiseptic. When he was done, Enjolras raised his eyebrows expectantly. 

“Yes?” Grantaire asked.

“I want you to kiss me.” Enjolras replied. 

Grantaire smiled, beautifully, and pulled Enjolras up to stand face to face with him. “I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of hearing that,” he said, and obliged him.

-

It was cold in Grantaire’s room.

“Sorry,” Grantaire said, and busied himself closing the curtains, where Enjolras could see one panel of the window was covered up with cardboard instead of glass. Enjolras settled himself on the bed as Grantaire turned on a rickety looking portable heater. The sheets were warm, fresh, they must have been in the dryer too with the clothes Grantaire had given him. Grantaire joined him as the four panels on the heater started glowing orange, then red, as it warmed up. 

“Retro,” Enjolras commented. 

“If it ain’t broke,” Grantaire replied. “It very much is broken, though, can’t leave it plugged in for longer than two hours or the whole place will burn down, but what are you gonna do?”

“Fix it?” Enjolras suggested. Grantaire laughed.

“Top of my list, kid,” he said. He tapped a finger to the tip of Enjolras’ nose, making him scrunch up his face. He couldn’t ignore the way something deep inside his stomach clenched in arousal at Grantaire flippantly calling him kid. Enjolras pulled Grantaire onto the bed with him and captured his lips again.

“You’ll just have to keep me warm tonight, then,” he said, pressing the words against them.

“Now that I can do.”

“I’m still mad at you,” Enjolras reminded him, after a particular biting kiss. He still pulled Grantaire, let them fall back so Grantaire was bracketing his body, covering him.

“I’m kind of getting mixed signals here,” Grantaire said. Enjolras bit his lip in retaliation. “Okay, okay, yes, you’re allowed to be mad at me.” Grantaire pulled back, ignoring Enjolras’ slight whine of protest to lean up on his elbows. “For real, ange, I know I fucked up, and I am so, so fucking sorry. And I’m so grateful that you’re still here, that you’re still letting me love you after I’ve done such a shit job. I’m not taking you for granted, and I’m so sorry that I did. You’re allowed to be angry, for as long as you are.”

Enjolras huffed. “Good, you can kiss me again.” 

Grantaire was decent enough not to laugh out loud, and did as he was told.

Grantaire kissed down Enjolras’ body, pushing his borrowed shirt up to give him access to his chest, and then getting himself distracted for a while by his pierced nipples. 

It was good, Enjolras didn’t let clients put their mouth on his nipples since he gave in and got them pierced, a body modification he’d been craving that felt gender affirming in a way he couldn’t quite explain, and wasn’t ready to look at just yet. It was enough to have them, to feel like his body was right and his, and to have something that he only allowed Grantaire to touch. 

At first it had been just because he didn’t want a client’s mouth to cause infection on the healing piercings, but then enough time passed that he had to admit to himself that he just liked it when Grantaire did it, and had enough privilege in his work that he could get away with reserving it just for him.

“Mmm, tastes like house keys,” Grantaire said, and Enjolras laughed. Grantaire laughed too, and went to lavish the other nipple with his tongue. “That’s how I know I’m home.”

It was lame, and silly, and ridiculous, and something in Enjolras’ heart swelled when they both laughed again. Grantaire dropped his head into Enjolras’ stomach, and then he kissed there, and Enjolras looked down at him, and smiled, and everything felt right.

Grantaire is a good partner to you, in whatever way the two of you define your relationship.

Grantaire was good for him. A good partner. And, for the first time, Enjolras realised that Grantaire was the only person he wanted, in so many ways. He’d thought he was content, with Combeferre and Courfeyrac and his friends and his community, but there was something missing. It was Grantaire.

It was how he knew he was home.

“Kiss me again,” he demanded, before he did something ridiculous like cry. He couldn’t say why, just that suddenly everything felt too much, too choking, the ringing in his ears… But Grantaire kissed him, and held his face, and seemed to know exactly how to bring him back to himself.

“Hey, remember the night of the lock-on?” Grantaire asked. Enjolras frowned at him, but nodded. “Hang on, I might be having like my one smart thought of the year over here. But remember you said that the adrenaline come-down had felt a lot like the dom drop?”  

Enjolras nodded again.

“On a totally unrelated note, how is your body feeling right now?” Grantaire asked.

Enjolras closed his eyes, let himself feel his body. “My ears are ringing,” he started. “My heart is still beating pretty fast, I feel… my breathing feels shallow. There’s a lump in my throat.” When he opened his eyes, a rogue tear slipped out. Grantaire caught it with his thumb, dried the dampness left in its wake. 

“Yeah, I think I might be onto something over here,” Grantaire said. “I really wanna keep going with what I was selfishly hoping would lead to some mindblowing apology sex, and then some more forgiveness sex, but I’m gonna make you something to eat first, okay? Won’t even take too long, I know you like avocado toast and I’ve got one just sitting there that wasn’t ripe enough this morning and any bet will be overripe by breakfast.”

Enjolras smiled. Grantaire had remembered the aftercare stuff they’d talked about. He was a good partner, in whatever way he was. 

“Yeah, avocado toast sounds good,” he said.

-

After Enjolras had eaten and drank some juice and felt his body relax and settle under the weight of Grantaire’s doona, the warmth of the fresh sheets, the smell of Grantaire around him, only then did Grantaire get back to kissing him. 

He took no time removing the shirt he’d only pushed up before, then the shorts, and then he’d positioned himself halfway down the bed, mouth around his dick. 

They did have a quick detour when Grantaire stopped before taking him into his mouth, when Grantaire asked, “condom?” And Enjolras had to admit that even when he did have all the information, his answer was still no. It meant something, but neither of them commented on it.

Besides, the point wasn’t that Enjolras had said no, it was that he knew.

“You look good like that,” Enjolras said, and Grantaire moaned around his mouthful, and Enjolras let his head fall back and let himself moan too, allowing himself a few minutes of rutting his hips up and fucking Grantaire’s mouth and throat. 

“I’m serious, don’t think I’ve forgotten what you said before about seeing yourself from that angle. I happen to like what I see, from every angle.”

Grantaire pulled off to reply, “aw shucks,” with an exaggerated eye roll. “You just like how I look with your dick in my mouth.”

“True, you do look good with your mouth full of me, I’ll give you that,” Enjolras said, and guided him back down. “But the point is, I like what I see, and I don’t appreciate you insulting something I like so much.” He let Grantaire busy himself for a little longer, then pulled him off before he could let himself go to Grantaire’s mouth. Grantaire was too good with his mouth, and Enjolras desperately wanted to fuck him.

“And just so we’re clear, I’m the thing you like so much?” Grantaire asked, and wiped some saliva from his lips. He was stunning, like this, and Enjolras was resolute that he would show him that.

“You know you are.” Enjolras said, and guided Grantaire to remove his own clothing, and then to lie down for him. 

“Lube’s on the bedside table,” Grantaire reminded him. 

“I think I want you to apologise first,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire’s face changed, and Enjolras realised he needed to clarify. “For insulting the thing I like so much.”

“Not gonna lie, the whole ‘thing’ thing is kind of turning me on,” Grantaire said, and went to wrap a hand around himself, but Enjolras slapped it away.

“Me too, and I really want to fuck you about it, but not until you be good and apologise,” Enjolras said, but he grabbed Grantaire’s hand and squeezed it twice, a non-verbal check in they’d long ago established for play. 

“Green as fuck, but you’re not going to get it that easy,” Grantaire replied.

“Brat,” Enjolras smirked as he said it.

“You love it,” Grantaire replied, and then when he made a face and went to backtrack, Enjolras stopped him by wrapping a hand around him.

“I do,” he admitted. 

Something inside of him screamed. He resolutely ignored it, and lowered himself to take Grantaire in his mouth. 

“Jesus fuck, Apollo, you’re killing me,” Grantaire groaned. Apparently this Apollo thing was sticking. Enjolras hummed around his mouthful, and Grantaire dropped his head back. “Fuck, okay, I’m sorry! Please, fuck, I need something inside me, now!”

“Good boy,” Enjolras purred as he pulled back, and enjoyed the way Grantaire shuddered underneath him. He reached for the lube, and Grantaire eagerly positioned himself, legs spread for him. When he had one finger lined up and ready to push in, he stalled. “You know, you still haven’t said what you’re sorry for…” he pointed out. 

“You’re such a fucking- ah!” Grantaire started, cut off by the finger pushing in. Enjolras took his time, torturously slow the way he knew Grantaire hated.

“You want to try that again?” Enjolras asked, voice sugar sweet. Grantaire groaned and covered his face with his arm.

“Okay, fuck, what do you want from me? You want to fuck me, right? Come the fuck on, Apollo, ah! Fuck!” Grantaire stopped and descended into moans when Enjolras crooked his finger the right way.

“Of course I want to fuck you,” Enjolras said, almost a growl, and then gave in to the impulse to press a kiss to Grantaire’s hip. He followed it with a bite. “I told you, you're my favourite play-thing. I think it’s time you start treating yourself like you’re my favourite. Now, what are you sorry for, Grantaire?”

Grantaire blushed the prettiest colour for him, and Enjolras almost cooed. “You look especially pretty like that,” he let himself say, just to see Grantaire blush deeper.

“You really are trying to kill me,” Grantaire breathed. Enjolras picked up the pace, added another finger, and stared him down. “Okay, fuck, first of all you’re fucking terrifying and it’s so fucking hot, God, please can I touch myself,” he was already reaching a hand, which Enjolras slapped away again. 

“No. Apologise,” he ordered.

“I’m sorry, fuck, I’m your… fuck ange you’re killing me, okay… I’m your favourite play-thing.” They both ignored the tear that slipped out as he said it, the desperate whine of his voice. If Enjolras sped up his pace, leaned in with a hungry face like he was drinking in every moment and sound, that was no one’s business.

“Good boy,” Enjolras praised, and added some more lube, another finger. “Keep going,” he urged when Grantaire decentes into whines underneath him.

“I’m sorry! Fuck, I’m sorry, I don’t even remember what I said now. That no one would want to see me from that angle? That I would need to, fuck, that I don’t know what drug could make me forget that, is that it? I’m sorry, fuck.”

Enjolras pulled back enough to slick himself up, but then stopped before he could push himself in. There, in the corner of the room, was a full body mirror angled just away from the bed. “Stay here,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire whined when he pulled away, went to wrap a hand around himself again.

“Uh-uh, no, be good now pretty boy,” Enjolras said, and busied himself repositioning the mirror to be facing the bed. 

“Pretty boy? Jesus, did you get a concussion tonight?” Grantaire teased.

“Turn around, on all fours for me,” is all Enjolras replied. An order. Grantaire was quick to comply, and then his face went white when faced with himself in the mirror.

“Enjolras,” he started, a question, a warning.

Enjolras put himself on his knees in front of Grantaire, perched on the end of the bed, cutting off his view of the mirror so all Grantaire could see was him.

“I want to fuck you, I want to… look, you get to say no, that’s okay.”

“Tell me what you want, ange,” Grantaire interrupted.

“I want to see you, from the angle the video was. I know it’s wrong, to want to recreate it, I don’t know why, I just… I need to see myself fucking you, exactly as it was in that video.”

“Who would have known you were so possessive?” Grantaire mused, but he didn’t sound upset. “Yeah, done, that’s ridiculously fucking hot. What else?” And he nodded at the mirror dubiously.

“I want to see all of you. I want to see the faces you make for me, I want to see exactly how pretty and gorgeous and fucking hot you look for me,” Enjolras said. Grantaire blushed red from his hairline down to his chest, and went to duck his head, but Enjolras caught his chin so he couldn’t look away. “You are my favourite play-thing, my favourite toy, my favourite pet. You’re fucking gorgeous, Grantaire, and you better believe that because I,” he squeezed down on Grantaire’s chin, “have taste. And I won’t have my pretty boy be insulted, not by anyone. Got it?” 

Grantaire shuddered again. “Terrifying,” he said again, but he nodded as soon as he said it. “Got it.”

“Good,” Enjolras said, and kissed Grantaire hard. He had the urge to grab his face and say mine, but he knew he had been pushing the boundaries of Grantaire’s emotions all night, and genuinely didn’t want to hurt him like that. He remembered what Combeferre said, about breaking Grantaire’s heart. I won’t, he thought resolutely. His heart is safe with me. His love is safe with me. I will take it, I will take everything he gives me, and I’ll be grateful for it. I want his heart, I want his love, I want everything he will give me.

His eyes were threatening tears again when they pulled back, but he shook his head and whispered “green,” when Grantaire went to ask. Grantaire nodded, kissed him again. 

“Okay,” Grantaire said. And then, as if he could read Enjolras’ mind: “I’m all yours, ange, however you want me.”

Enjolras smiled around a sigh. Content.

And then got up to position himself behind Grantaire, and was effectively distracted by the beautiful sight of his back, hips, waist, the curve of his ass and the fat of his thighs, the tattoos, the dark hair on pale skin. Enjolras could spend forever here, admiring the view.

Grantaire was watching him in the reflection, resolutely not looking at himself. Even with them like this, Enjolras felt like he was the one exposed, knowing that the adoration and reverence was showing on his face as he admired Grantaire. Grantaire looked enraptured with whatever it was he saw in Enjolras’ face.

“Need more prep?” Enjolras asked, slipping a few fingers back in to test the resistance. 

Grantaire shook his head, “I’m ready,” he assured.

“Good,” Enjolras said, and eased himself in. He couldn’t help the low groan at the heat, the tight ring of muscle, the sound Grantaire made as he dropped his face into the mattress. “Fuck, that’s it, you feel so fucking good for me. God, Grantaire, you look so fucking good like this, fucking yourself back on my cock.” And at that Grantaire moaned, started to really move and fuck himself back with more energy, and Enjolras lost his words for a moment to the sensation.

“Fuck, ange, God, Apollo, Enjolras, fuck!” He was chanting, praying. Enjolras grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked back so he could see Grantaire’s face while he prayed to him. Beautiful, and he said as much. Grantaire blushed deeper, maroon, and tried to pull against Enjolras’ handhold to hide his face again,

“No, you’re going to let me see you, all of you. Because you’re fucking gorgeous, because you’re mine, and I like to appreciate what’s mine,” Enjolras growled, and Grantaire moaned, or sobbed, but either way he let Enjolras yank his head back, opened his eyes to watch Enjolras back. “That’s it, that’s my boy, let me see you, let me have you.”

“‘Mm yours, ‘m yours,” Grantaire slurred, and his eyes were bright but already glassy, wet with tears.

“You’re my pretty boy, go on, say it for me,” Enjolras commanded. “My pretty play-thing.”

“Fuck, fuck ange, mmm,” Grantaire said, and then shook his head, face screwed up. “I can’t, fuck, fuck, please just let me…” he was reaching a hand to touch himself again. Enjolras shoved his face back down to the mattress, both to use the pain to punish and to ground him, and to give him a break from seeing himself before he could say “yellow” or “red”.

“Not until you say it for me, go on R, you know you can be good for me,” Enjolras encouraged. He squeezed Grantaire’s ass with his free hand, kept fucking him through it until finally Grantaire gave.

“Okay! Fuck! I’m yours, I’m whatever you want me to be ange, I’m your pet, your dog, your favourite toy, I’m your pretty play-thing. I - oh, fuck!” He cut himself off with muffled curses as Enjolras reached around and wrapped a hand around him. 

“That’s it, good boy, here, give me your hand, that’s it pretty boy, fuck into your hand for me baby, that’s it,” Enjolras guided him, and then when he had a hand free it was immediately busy grabbing and slapping the fat of Grantaire’s ass. “Fuck, I love your ass, your hips, your thighs, your tattoos, you look so fucking good taking it like this R, so good for me. I knew it was you as soon as I opened the video, how many times have I looked at you from that angle and fantasised about filming you, taking a photo, anything so I can hold onto the image and watch you again later.”

Grantaire was moaning wildly beneath him. “You can, fuck, you can, whatever you want ange,” he cried.

Enjolras shook his head, but Grantaire had put his face down and didn’t see him, so he slowed his pace and leaned forward to speak in his ear, “I want to, fuck, I want to, but not now. We’ll talk about it, okay? But let me see you, please, let me see your face.”

Grantaire nodded, looked up. His eyes were wet. “Okay, good call,” he whispered back. Then “don’t stop, for the love of-”

Enjolras sped back up, and Grantaire lost his words to moans. He kept his head up, kept watching Enjolras in the mirror, let him see his face, how his mouth was thrown open, how his eyes looked dazed and drunk. Cock drunk, Enjolras thought. Enjolras drunk.

Enjolras had never considered letting anyone film him during sex, had actively stopped clients from doing it. Even though he was face-out as a worker he knew the risks that came with making a sex tape, and wasn’t ready to take them unless he was ready to make porn and really commit to it. But he realised he would, with Grantaire. Without hesitation, he would.

Even now, after everything that had happened, he trusted Grantaire enough that he would.

“God, you’re taking it so well, you feel so good for me, you look so good being fucked like that, perfect, fucking perfect, that’s it, you take it like you’re made for me,” Enjolras was losing track of his words as he chased his orgasm, but Grantaire didn’t seem to mind, if the sounds he was making were any indication. The face he was making in the mirror was stunning, he was stunning, and because he could, Enjolras told him so.

It surprised them both when Enjolras came first, hips stuttering to a stop as he groaned and emptied inside Grantaire. Grantaire’s face was worth everything in the world, Enjolras was so glad to get to fuck him like this and still see his face when he felt Enjolras come inside him.

Enjolras pulled himself and Grantaire up, let his softening dick slide out and press up against Grantaire’s ass, held Grantaire up flush against his body with one hand to his throat. In the way that he knew Grantaire liked, needed, that grounding pressure that brought him back down to Enjolras when he threatened to float away into himself. With the other hand Enjolras guided Grantaire’s, wrapped around himself. He spoke in Grantaire’s ear, told him how pretty he looked, how good he’d taken it, how he wanted to keep him here like this, such a perfect play-thing, so perfect for him. He watched them in the mirror, saw all of Grantaire, his face, neck, chest, stomach, cock covered with his own and Enjolras’ hands moving in unison, all the pale skin and dark hair and mismatched tattoos and fuck he was so fucking hot and Enjolras was allowed, so he said so, in every way that he could, in every word that would come to his touch drunk brain. 

Grantaire drunk. 

Grantaire let his head fall back onto Enjolras’ shoulder as he came over their hands. For a long time Enjolras just held him, petting his face and hair with the hand that wasn’t wrapped around his throat anymore, whispering anything that came to his mind. “You’re so good, that was amazing, fuck, you’re gorgeous, I’m so lucky you let me have you like this, fuck, that was amazing, you’re amazing, you’re incredible…” and so on and so on until eventually Grantaire dissolved into laughter and pulled Enjolras down with him.

“I need to wash my hands,” Enjolras said, before they could get too comfortable.

“I know, I know, you never let a guy just sit in the afterglow do you?” Grantaire teased with no venom.

“You can have all the afterglow you want, sweetheart. But first I’m washing my hands, and you’re coming with me and washing yours. And then I’m getting you some juice,” Enjolras instructed.

Grantaire went with him, to the bathroom, then to the kitchen, he didn’t stop touching Enjolras for a second, pressed against his back while Enjolras poured them both juice, hand pressed into his as they walked back to the bedroom. He held Enjolras when the lay back down, told him in no uncertain terms that the sex had been amazing, that he hadn’t gone too far, that he hadn’t hurt him, that he’d wanted all of it.

He’d remembered the aftercare stuff they’d talked about. He was putting it into action.

Enjolras fell asleep curled around Grantaire’s body. There was a quick pause in the peace when, fifteen minutes later, Grantaire yelled “fuck!” And rushed to turn off the broken heater, but then he crawled back into the bed and into Enjolras’ arms. He was still there when they woke up.

“Good morning, love.”

Chapter Text

Grantaire had no idea what was going on with him and Enjolras now. 

Or, he did, but the more he knew, the more confusing it became. 

He was allowed to say “I love you” now. That was allowed. Enjolras said so. 

He also said he wouldn’t say it back.

He was in love with Enjolras and they both knew it, both accepted it. He was allowed to give Enjolras his love, allowed to show him in his actions and tell him with his words, and it didn’t annoy Enjolras anymore. Piss him off. Make him uncomfortable. He wanted Grantaire’s love.

But he didn’t want to give his back.

It was okay. He said so, and Enjolras said so, and they were both okay with it, and in a way, it was the most stable their relationship had ever been. It still didn’t make sense to him, and no amount of uppers or downers made it make sense, which was par for the course.

“I love ketamine,” Joly said into his skin, where he was pressing his face into Grantaire’s arm. “It’s like having a POTS fainting episode, but on purpose, and way more fun! Plus it just makes everything feel so nice! I love everything, my hands feel so nice! I love you, Grantaire. Hands. Hands are love, right Grantaire?”

“Sure, sure, hands are love,” Grantaire said, and snorted his own line, bringing him up to that fuzzy, floaty place Joly was at. It hit right, instantly and, yeah. Yeah. Hands are love. And his hands were feeling tingly, warm, and Joly was wrapping his fingers around Grantaire’s, and it felt warm, and nice, and grounding, and Joly was right, hands are love.

“No, like, listen,” Joly slurred. “Like, hands. Hands are the first thing that touch you when you leave the womb. You use them to hold your children, hold your parents hand when crossing the road, caress the face of lovers, and, well, you can do a lot more with lovers and hands,” Joly said, a smirk slipping into their voice.

“Haha, yeah, sex,” Grantaire chuckled. “Nice.”

Joly laughed too, then continued. “But, like, I was thinking how many safety gift bags I pack at work, how many bottles of naloxone and drug testing strips, how I use my hands to give them to people so they can safely get high, and not die, and then they get to be filled with love, and feel their hands! That’s love. It’s human. Like. Like how the earliest recorded art is handprints, and like how AI can’t do hands properly. Because hands are human. And human… is love. Hands are love. Right? I feel like I’m onto something here.”

Maybe because the ketamine was hitting just right, and allowing Grantaire to tune into the same mental radio station Joly was currently on, but it made sense to him. “You’re onto something, champ,” Grantaire said, and kissed Joly’s forehead.

Yeah, Joly was onto something. Hands are love.

Enjolras’ hands broke someone’s nose for him, his mind unhelpfully supplied. 

He’d seen the photo, because Éponine had screenshotted it as soon as she’d opened Montparnasse’s Instagram story. “There’s nothing like seeing your first all covered in blood and afraid,” she’d said, with something like affection in her voice.

It was bad. That nose was broken alright, all crooked and bloody and bruised across the bridge and under the eyes, blood gushing down and coating the bottom half of Montparnasse’s once pretty face. In the photo he was flinching, afraid, and Grantaire knew that it was Enjolras he was flinching from.

He didn’t know what to do with that. Enjolras used his hands to break the face of someone who threatened Grantaire. Was that love?

Enjolras had told him, point blank, that he didn’t love Grantaire. Not in the way Grantaire loved him. He’d said he would never say it back, and in that it was unsaid that he’d never feel it back. They’d agreed. Grantaire had to hold onto that fact, because he felt like he’d go crazy otherwise.

Because sometimes, especially lately, he found himself watching Enjolras’ face and imagining there was something else there, hidden in his eyes. He knew it was his imagination, he knew it wasn’t real, but still. He felt like he could see it, sometimes. Like he could hear it in Enjolras’ voice, just under the surface.

But Enjolras did love him, he reasoned. In the same way he loved Joly, and Combeferre, and all of his friends and community. Grantaire could just as easily see Enjolras murderously enraged, defending the honour and consent of Cosette, or Feuilly, or any of their friends, had he been sent a video of any of them instead of Grantaire. He loved Grantaire, because Enjolras loved all his friends, he loved with everything he was. Everything Enjolras did, at its core, was an act of love. And whether he argued with it or not, Grantaire had found himself within that inner circle with a claim on Enjolras’ heart.

He loved Grantaire. He just wasn’t in love with Grantaire. Because maybe he would never be in love with anyone, and that was okay. Grantaire could live with that.

He could. He would. 

“Hey, I said save a line for me!” Bossuet cried as he joined them. He’d been in the kitchen of the house he shared with his partners, setting up drinks and snacks for the house party they were hosting for Courfeyrac’s birthday. House parties at the JBM house always slapped, for one thing because they had an actual house. Like a family home, three bedrooms, big living area, an honest to god backyard, so many soft surfaces one could collapse into, and enough seating for their large group of friends. 

Grantaire and Joly had claimed they were helping set up, too, but in the sense that Joly laid out all the drugs they’d bought for the night in the living room and tested them - “for nasties” - with the testing strips he had from work. And then Grantaire had plopped down next to him, and offered to help “test” them too, although his approach was far more hands-on. 

Besides, how could they know which bag had the best stuff, if they didn’t try it? Yeah, it made sense, it was a logical and helpful way to get ready for the night. Grantaire was being so helpful.

“I guess we’ll just have to do another line, que sera sera,” Grantaire said, and went to filter out three more lines on the mirror laid out on the table before them, one for him, one for Joly, and because he was a good friend, a line double the size for Bossuet. He offered Bossuet his own paper straw. “There, so you can catch up!”

“Woah, damn, that’s good stuff. Wow, does it go down faster when it’s crushed up finer? Or is it the straw? Damn!” Bossuet said, sniffing and wiping his nose after his line. Grantaire and Joly followed suit. 

Then, after a few minutes of enjoying the sensation, Bossuet said. “Wow. I can feel my hands. Hands. Hands are weird, right?”

“Hands are love,” Grantaire and Joly said in unison.

-

“Enjolras is going to be here tonight,” Bossuet said conversationally. 

“It’s his best friend's birthday party, I kind of assumed he would be,” Grantaire replied with a roll of his eyes. 

“You two have been hanging out a lot lately, haven’t you?” Musichetta asked, from where she was now slumped in an armchair. Her voice was sweet, but probing. 

“Yeah, yeah, alright, you gossipy bitches. I’m rolling myself a joint, and you get until I light it to grill me. Choose your questions wisely,” Grantaire said.

“Is Courfeyrac’s dick really bigger than Enjolras’?” Was Bossuet’s first question. Grantaire threw him an exasperated glare, and ‘Chetta reached over and slapped him lightly in the middle of his chest.

“How did you even hear about that?” Grantaire asked.

“Everyone heard about that, are you kidding me?” Musichetta replied, half laughing. “But, okay, real question, are you two dating again?”

Grantaire considered as he ground the bud. The high from the ketamine was wearing off, enough that he could think clearly, or maybe he wasn’t thinking clearly enough. 

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. They’d broken up because Enjolras hated being loved by Grantaire, and didn’t love him back. Now, almost exactly a year and a half later, Enjolras wanted to be loved by Grantaire, allowed him to give his love, took it eagerly, helped teach him how to love him with his actions, taught him what it took for him to feel loved. But he still didn’t love him back, and that was okay. They were both okay with that. They’d said so. They’d agreed. It was okay. It was fine. 

They were more or less exclusive now. Grantaire hadn’t hooked up with anyone but Enjolras in… Wow, how long had it been? It was late July now, and his last hookup that wasn’t Enjolras was Montparnasse, and that had been, what? Almost two months ago now? It had been weeks since Montparnasse had sent the video to Enjolras, and Enjolras had… done all that. Then they’d talked about it, and Enjolras said it was okay to say “I love you” now. And Grantaire said it was okay for Enjolras not to say it back. And as far as he knew, Enjolras wasn’t fucking anyone else in his personal life but Grantaire, and the sex he had for work didn’t count to either of them, so. 

Were they dating again? They weren’t exactly “just fucking” anymore. It definitely wasn’t “hate sex” anymore. They were hanging out a lot more, that was true, lingering in each other's apartments even after the sex was done and the afterglow had worn off, sleeping there, waking up together, walking (or driving, in Enjolras’ case) each other to work, going home together after meetings. 

Enjolras had asked Grantaire to go flyering with him a few nights ago, and Grantaire had gone, and helped him put up his anti-fascist-propaganda propaganda, and they’d only argued about the definition of propaganda, and it was only a playful one at that. They’d held hands as they walked between the walls they used for prime flyer locations along the main roads, and they’d kissed after Enjolras held up the paper and Grantaire painted on the wheat paste mixture, and Grantaire had said “I love you” about fifteen times, and Enjolras had hummed happily and touched some part of him each time. They didn’t even fuck that night. 

That was happening a lot, too. That didn’t even happen when they were dating, hanging out without fucking or fighting. Just being, and being together.

“Kind of?” He offered, and emptied the contents of his grinder into a paper. He picked up a cardboard tip, started to fold and roll it. “Almost out of time,” he reminded them.

“Come on, what does ‘kind of’ mean? Give us the dirty details!” Joly demanded.

“I don’t know, we’re hanging out, we’re not fighting, you know, normal stuff,” Grantaire said. He dropped the tip into the paper, started to roll the joint. “But it’s not-normal, because it’s with him.” He sighed, stopped to lick the paper and seal it. “He said I can tell him I love him, so, yeah,” he unhelpfully finished, and then lit the joint.

“No, you can’t just leave us with that! Overtime, ref, I demand overtime!” Bossuet said.

“Overtime granted,” Musichetta replied.

“You’re not the ref!” Grantaire argued.

“Yes I am,” she said, at the same time Joly and Bossuet said “yes she is.”

Fucking polycule, they always outnumbered him. It wasn’t fair, and he grumbled as much around the joint. 

“My roof, my rules,” Musichetta said, which shut him up. “I’m serious, though, what do you mean he said you can tell him you love him? As in, he’s finally said it back?”

“No, as in, he’s never going to say it back, and we’re both okay with that,” Grantaire replied.

“Are you, though?” Asked Joly, putting a hand on Grantaire’s knee, and then, because they were Joly, reaching for Grantaire’s joint. Grantaire let them take it, because it was their roof too, and he was gracious enough to let Grantaire smoke under it. 

“Yeah, it’s fine. It’s like, I always knew he wasn’t going to love me back, and that’s… whatever. It’s fine. He’s probably aromantic, and like, what kind of person would I be if I had a problem with that, you know? But now, he’s letting me love him, letting me show him and say so, and it’s nice, you know, because he deserves to be loved, and he’s admitted it’s something he wants, and I’m allowed to be the person to give it to him.”

“But, Grantaire, you deserve to be loved too,” said Joly.

“I am, though, you guys love me, and he does too, in his way.” Grantaire assured, and it was genuine. “And I’m literally getting everything I ever wanted, and yeah, it’s confusing at the best of times, but it’s actually good. I think, for the first time in our whole relationship, it’s actually good now.”

Joly obviously wanted to say something else, but Musichetta plucked the joint from him. “If you say it’s feeling good to you, that’s all that matters, babe,” she said.

“Then can I ask if we’ve burned through our overtime, ref?” Grantaire asked, and Musichetta let him change the subject, and they smoked some more, and tried some more of the drugs Joly had for the night, and Grantaire ignored the worried looks they all gave him.

Things were fine. Things were good. He’d said so, and he’d meant it.

When Joly and Musichetta left to get changed for the party, Bossuet lingered behind. He raised an eyebrow. “You know what I’m going to ask,” he said.

“Okay, okay. It was thicker, but Enjolras is longer, so, you know,” Grantaire said.

“Huh,” Bossuet considered. “Courfeyrac always brags about having a fat dick, so I just kinda assumed he was lying.”

-

You are formally invited to Courfeyrac’s 29th Birthday Party.

Category is: Leo Season Stunners!

Read: dress your hottest and sluttiest.

(The location has heating, and I’m paying them to keep it on all night, don’t worry pookie. To quote a great woman, a hoe never gets cold.)

Best dressed awarded at 11:11pm.

(Drugs and drinks provided, but BYO anyway, the more the merrier.)

+1 allowed, but only if they’re HOT!! 

RSVP for address.

-

“Grantaire, that’s not slutty enough!” Joly scolded. 

“I can undo a few buttons?” Grantaire offered, indicating the dark grey button up he was wearing. It was one of his nicest shirts. The one he wore for first dates. 

Joly was wearing a cropped singlet with writing on it that Grantaire couldn’t read right now, a skintight long sleeve cropped shirt underneath for warmth, and shorts, short shorts. They had swapped out their cane for the orange one with fire stickers all over it, to match their orange shorts. “For leo season realness,” he said, as if that was a real thing, or made sense. But because Grantaire had once had a hyperfixation on astrology, it actually did kind of make sense to him.

“No, come on, we’re pilfering through Bossuet’s wardrobe, he’s got some stuff from the last few kink events we all went to,” Joly said, and dragged Grantaire down the hall to the spare bedroom that also housed Bossuet’s clothes. They were three people, after all, between them they had enough clothes to fill many a wardrobe. 

“I don’t know if Bossuet’s stuff will fit me,” Grantaire complained. 

Bossuet was in the room, considering his own appearance, and spoke up immediately, “I’ve got some ‘one size fits all’ shit in there, help yourself,” he said.

“Damn, you look good,” Grantaire told him, because it was true. Joly was already distracted, rushing up to Bossuet to put their free hand on his exposed chest and kiss him. 

“Yeah?” Bossuet asked, self conscious. He was wearing a long sleeve shirt, although shirt wasn’t the right word, since it covered only his arms with black mesh almost see through fabric, and then cut off just above his torso, leaving the expanse of chest and stomach and surprisingly defined abs exposed. He was wearing a skirt, too, or, a kilt? And had sheer ripped tights underneath, and it was indeed giving ‘hot’ and ‘slutty’. 

“Yeah, damn, I really do need to up my game, okay,” Grantaire conceded.

The shirt Grantaire ended up in was more one size fits most, but it technically fit him, and Joly and Bossuet assured him the way it was slightly tight across his biceps and chest was a good thing. This too was barely a shirt, more just a red fishnet thing in the shape of a t-shirt. Joly got out some scissors and cut it under his chest, so it was cropped like their own, and then nodded at their handiwork. 

“Okay, that with the black pants works, but if you want to really get points you’ll undo the top button of the pants, and let us put some mascara on you,” Joly said.

“Is that really necessary?” Grantaire asked.

“Yes,” came Musichetta’s excited voice from the hallway. “It’s necessary.”

-

Technically, Grantaire had been commissioned for the night, so he was on the clock.

He set up a station in the corner of the dining area, all sanitary up to Joly’s standards, with cling wrap covering every surface around. He’d already prepared the stencils to save time, a few dozen flash designs that he’d thrown together for the night. Courfeyrac had tried to pay him, but Grantaire had bargained him down, saying that offering his stick and poke tattoo services was a birthday gift in itself. Courfeyrac still sent him money for the ink and needles, which was much appreciated. Courfeyrac was good like that.

The deal was, Grantaire would do as many tattoos as he could, until he got either drunk or high enough that he couldn’t anymore. So far, so good, by the time the party really got going, Grantaire was busy tattooing a small rubber duck onto Bahorel’s bicep. He almost didn’t notice when Enjolras walked into the room. 

Almost.

For one thing, holy shit, he was wearing a dress. A short, black, skin tight dress, with a deep plunging neckline that went all the way down to his belly button. And thigh high boots, leaving just enough golden skin exposed on his thigh between the top of the boots and the hemline. 

It wasn’t the first time Enjolras had worn a dress or skirt, Grantaire’s mind rushed back to Halloween the year before, and how he had felt similarly floored by the instant boner it gave him. Like, magnitude ten earthquake level kind of boner over here, because damn! 

“Ow!” Bahorel complained, when Grantaire got distracted and pushed in slightly too deep with the needle. 

“Whoosie, here,” Grantaire cleaned up with a tissue, and then pulled back. “Have yourself a little ket break, mate, it’ll make it hurt less, and while you do…” Grantaire was turning back around to wave a hi to Enjolras, but he turned and he was there, bending over to greet Grantaire with a kiss.

“Hi, you,” Enjolras said, when he pulled back. He smiled brilliantly, and then greeted Bahorel, as if this was all perfectly normal. Grantaire supposed it was, in a way.

“Hey, you,” Grantaire said back. Enjolras plopped himself in a seat on Grantaire’s other side, ignoring that there were people hanging around and loosely lining up to get their free tattoo. “You look, fuck. You look fucking gorgeous, ange,” Grantaire said. 

Enjolras blushed prettily, preened a little, straightening up as if to show more of his torso, the neckline, the gold layered necklaces that complimented his skin tone oh so well. Then he gave an all too obvious leer to Grantaire’s exposed torso. “You don’t look too bad yourself,” he replied, flirty. 

“If you two are going to fuck in front of me, you can at least get back to stabbing me first,” Bahorel complained. 

Grantaire snorted, but Enjolras blushed deeper, and Grantaire had to get back to the tattoo before he read too deep into that. “I’ll be set up here stabbing people for a while, love, so feel free to grab yourself a drink and go see your people, I’ll be here when you get back,” he said to Enjolras. Enjolras smiled slightly when he said love, because he did that, now.

“I already saw Courfeyrac and everyone on my way in, I was just looking for you,” Enjolras replied. Grantaire smiled and stilled his hands for a microsecond, then picked back up. This stick and poke was not going to be his best work, but, hey, it was free. “But I will grab myself a drink, what’ll you have?” 

Like it was a given that when Enjolras got himself a drink, he’d get Grantaire one too. Grantaire nodded to his empty bottle, so as to not break his focus again, and Enjolras disappeared, and reappeared about five minutes later as Grantaire was finishing Bahorel’s duck.

“All done, lemme slap some Bepanthan on that, no smoking, drinking, drugs, ah who am I kidding, just don’t let anyone touch it, don’t submerse it in water, shower’s fine, put on more Bepanthan at home, don’t do anything gross, wear sunscreen, respect your elders, and you’re done!” Grantaire said, and took off his gloves so he could slap Bahorel’s ass as he got up. 

“Aw yeah, check it out Enjolras, look how tough I look,” Bahorel boasted, flexing his muscles to show it off.

“Very tough,” Enjolras commented. “Definately the rubber ducky that makes you seem tough, and not the bulging bicep it’s tattooed onto.”

“Careful, don’t want to make your boyfriend jealous,” Bahorel joked.

And Grantaire started to say “I’m not his boyfriend.”

And Enjolras started to say “he knows I like his arms more.”

And they both stopped, and looked at each other, and Grantaire blushed, and Enjolras backtracked, and changed the subject, and when Bahorel left them and no one had filled his place to receive a tattoo, Enjolras sat in the seat he left empty, and passed Grantaire his drink.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras said, but he was frowning, like he wasn’t sure if he should be sorry or not, or he wasn’t sure if he was sorry or not.

“You’re fine,” Grantaire said, and took a drink, before they could do something like talk about it. “You want a stick and poke?” He asked, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Enjolras surprised him by saying, “yeah, okay.”

“Hey, I was supposed to be next,” someone cried from behind them, having lost focus in the conversation they were in and realised Enjolras had skipped the line. 

“Alright, fair’s fair, ange. Here, you look through the designs, and by the time I’m done with these fine people, I’m all yours,” Grantaire said. He cringed internally at the all yours, but Enjolras just smiled slightly and busied himself looking through Grantaire’s folders of flash designs.

“These are really good,” Enjolras said after a few minutes, when Grantaire was set up and had already lined up the stencil on the girl’s arm. 

“Well thanks, you know I did a few months of an apprenticeship, back in the day, but, eh, not committed enough to try to get hired at a studio, and definitely not committed enough to be freelance or start my own studio, so here we are. On call stick and pokes for parties, that’s a Grantaire specialty.” Grantaire rambled. “There we go, go check how that looks in the mirror, and I can move it if you want, so be honest.” Grantaire added, and sent the partygoer on her way.

“Well, you’re good at this, so you could,” Enjolras said, simply. Like he entirely believed it.

The girl came back, excited with the placement, and Grantaire got to work. Enjolras looked through the entire book, front to back, only getting distracted for a little bit when Bossuet came in for refreshments and Enjolras called him over for a chat. By the time Grantaire was done with the girl and her friend’s tattoos, Enjolras had just been quietly watching him for a little while. 

“You’re up, kid,” Grantaire said, only to see the way it made Enjolras blush.

“I can’t decide,” Enjolras said. Grantaire was busy for a second disposing of the gloves and needles, sanitising shit, and then he gave Enjolras his full attention. 

“First time?” Grantaire asked. He was pretty sure Enjolras didn’t have any tattoos, he would know. He had the opportunity to study and worship Enjolras’ entire body, and had done a fucking good job of it. He’d wasted his brain on studying any other thing in school and university and the few TAFE courses he’d started but not finished, but studying Enjolras, Grantaire could have a PHD. Write a thesis and everything. 

“Yeah, I’ve thought about it, but never got around to it. And never liked a design enough. I like all of yours, though.” Enjolras assured. 

“Okay, well we’re onto a good start, do you like anything on that page more than the other stuff?” Grantaire asked, and scooted his seat over to look at the page Enjolras had open in front of him. 

“I like the sun,” Enjolras said, and pointed to the sun with curved arms and a smirking face. “It reminds me of something, I don’t know what, something from when I was a kid.”

“Heh, yeah, that’s one of my retro throwback ones I threw together when I was feeling nostalgic. In the 90s, my parents had this bedsheet set, it had that sun on it, and the moon, that one there, and stars, all golden on this navy blue sheet set.”

“I think my grandma had the same one,” Enjolras said, and smiled warmly. Enjolras didn’t talk about his family much, as far as Grantaire knew he’d been disowned by his parents for a healthy mix of being a queer sex working socialist/communist/marxist/anti-fascist (depending on how he defined himself that day) community organiser with a talent for finding himself in the middle of very public, very destructive actions against, like, fascism, and The State, and like, The Man and stuff. Which, yeah, fascism sucks, and Enjolras’ parents also suck for disowning him. 

But he seemed to like whatever the memory of his grandma brought up for him now, so Grantaire asked, “are you close?”

Enjolras’ eyes snapped up. They’d never really talked like this. “Yeah, she’s the best,” he said, and it was sincere, “we have a scheduled phone call once a week, because she’s been isolating since the pandemic started, and it’s good to keep in touch and make sure she still has social time. And also to just, you know, hear her perspective on the world, her thoughts, her memories. She divorced my granddad in the 70s, basically one of the first in the wave of first women to actually get divorced and like, her own bank account and stuff, she raised my dad all on her own. I’ll tell her about stuff like sex worker politics, and she laughs and goes ‘didn’t we work this out when we were fighting this same fight in the 70s’ and like, it’s so refreshing to have someone her age just get it. That’s why I can’t believe my dad turned out to be such an asshole, because it’s like, your mother is the best, how did you become the worst?”

Grantaire laughed. “I know, right! Kinda the same with my gran, her husband was a deadbeat, and she’s like the sweetest woman in the world, and did all the work to raise my dad, and he’s just… urgh!” Grantaire shuddered theatrically. 

Enjolras smiled, gave a small exhale which was like his version of a laugh. “Dads, right,” he said.

They shared a smile, like it was something only they understood.

“That settles it,” Enjolras said, and pointed to the sun. “It reminds me of my grandma, of warmth, safety, and it’s designed by you. I know tattoos don’t have to mean anything, but, I don’t know. I like that meaning. Can I have that one?”

Grantaire didn’t know what to do with that, so he just nodded. 

“Alright,” Grantaire said to ground himself, he had a process. “Alright, can do, where do you want it?”

Enjolras considered. He took another sip of his drink, so Grantaire did too, while his hands were free. The ketamine high had worn off hours ago, and he still had a long way to go before he was too fucked up to tattoo anymore. Let alone to tattoo someone as important as Enjolras.  

“Where do you think?” Enjolras asked.

Grantaire took him in, took the time to really just look at him and appreciate the dress and red lips and - wait, was he wearing lipstick? Hot - and all that exposed beautiful satiny skin. “Maybe, your shoulder?” He asked, since the dress was a halterneck and his shoulders were exposed and gorgeous. “It kinda makes sense, the highest point on your torso, touched by the sun, all that,” he offered. 

Enjolras smiled. “The shoulder sounds great,” he said.

“Okay, you go into the bathroom connected to the lovebirds bedroom, not the one in the hallway. There’s some disposable razors there, some towels and shit, clean and shave the area, and come back for your fitting, sweetheart.”

“Or…” Enjolras supplied. “You could come to the bathroom, and show me where it is. So I don’t get lost…”

Grantaire smirked. “Yeah, babe, let me make sure you don’t get lost,” he said, low and flirty, and let Enjolras lead him there.

-

“I hear you give good bathroom blowjobs,” Enjolras muttered.

“Ha,” Grantaire said. “You’re not wrong though, I’ve been known to rock a few worlds.”

Enjolras crushed his lips into Grantaire’s, kissed him hard. Grantaire moaned into his mouth, and for a moment it was just them, just this. Then Grantaire’s hands, as if they had a mind of their own, had made their way up Enjolras’ skirt, and were grabbing his ass, palming at his hard dick through his boxer shorts. 

“The dress,” Grantaire pulled back to say. “Big fucking fan, over here.”

Enjolras beamed. “Yeah?” He said, and even sounded uncertain. 

“Yeah, so fucking hot. And, also,” and he took his hand off Enjolras’ ass to say it, cupped his cheek, “still so you.”

He wasn’t sure what he meant, just that he could see that Enjolras’ had been experimenting more within the confines of gendered presentation, wearing things like skirts and dresses to events more, even without the excuse of a costume, and that it was okay with him. That he saw it, that he was still Enjolras, somehow, more Enjolras. More himself, or more comfortable in himself, he wasn’t sure. But he didn’t know how to say any of that, or even if it was something Enjolras was ready to talk about yet, so instead he just said that, and hoped Enjolras understood.

“Yeah?” Enjolras said again, and it was a bit shakier. A bit breathier. 

“Yeah,” Grantaire said, and it seemed that Enjolras did get what he was saying, because he nodded, and swallowed down what looked like almost-tears, and kissed Grantaire again.

“Also, great thing about skirts,” Grantaire said, dropping to his knees for effect. “Fantastic for blowjobs.”

-

“Glad I didn’t give you the waterproof mascara,” Musichetta commented when they emerged from the ensuite into her bedroom, where she was sitting on the bed, changing her shoes.

Enjolras had a moment of looking caught out, clearing his throat awkwardly, but Grantaire just gave a theatrical bow and led Enjolras back out to the tattooing station. They had actually cleaned and shaved his shoulder while they were in there, because Grantaire was a professional. 

Kinda. Kinda not really, at all. But whatever.

“Okay, grab yourself another drink, sweetheart, get whatever you need to be comfortable. A cushion, something to stim with, oh, do you want to move to the couch? Because I can, no problem.” Grantaire said, and Enjolras kissed him to shut him up.

“Here’s perfect, let me get us both another drink,” he said, and left Grantaire to set up his station, get the stencil out of the folder, double check everything was changed over and sanitised. The party was in full swing around them now, music buzzing in from the living room, partygoers coming up to him, curious about the stick and poke station. He told them to come back in a little while and they could get theirs, because he wanted the time to focus on Enjolras’. 

“I’ve got a slightly bigger stencil here, than the flash ones I was offering, it’ll take a little longer but I think it’ll look better for the shoulder,” Grantaire said when Enjolras returned. 

“I don’t mind, I was just going to hang out with you all night anyway,” Enjolras replied.

It took no time at all to get the stencil placed out, and transfer it to Enjolras’ skin with a damp towel. “Go check that in the mirror for me angel, and don’t get distracted by any blowjobs on the way,” Grantaire instructed, and Enjolras scoffed lightly as he obeyed.

“Perfect, I love it,” Enjolras said when he returned, and something in Grantaire’s chest clenched painfully. Enjolras already had that gorgeous tipsy blush to his cheeks that he would get after two whole drinks, was already slightly looser. 

“Yeah, you’re one hundred percent sure you want this?” Grantaire asked, and Enjolras stopped him with a hand on his face and a soft kiss.

“I’m one hundred percent sure, Grantaire, I want this.” Enjolras said, and there he was, fierce Enjolras, serious Enjolras, and oh, hearing those words said in that voice made Grantaire want to throw up.

“Alright,” Grantaire said instead. Focus, Grantaire, you have a process. “Here’s the good news, you’ve got pierced nipples, and I can guarantee you that this will not hurt as much as that must have.” 

“That did hurt a lot,” Enjolras said, serious and somber.

“Here’s more good news, ketamine is a legitimate anesthetic, and oh, would you look at that,” he indicated the little baggie and mirror on the table, all wiped down since the last use and everything, “we happen to be in the one house that will guarantee you both the best quality and most thoroughly tested ketamine in all the land. What a time to be alive!” 

Enjolras considered the offer. “Courfeyrac gave me these,” he said, which was not what Grantaire expected. Enjolras pulled a small holographic baggie out of his pocket, which, wow, that dress had pockets? Where did he fit pockets on that thing? 

Grantaire accepted the bag, inspected the pills inside. Two of them, see through gelatin capsules, with what looked like brown rock salt inside. “MD?” He asked, and Enjolras nodded. 

“Have you eaten recently?” Grantaire asked.

“I had dinner before we left, about an hour and a half ago, maybe,” Enjolras said. Grantaire nodded. 

“Okay, salute,” he said, and tipped the capsules out, one for him, one for Enjolras. “Taken them before?” He checked.

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “You’ve met my friends, of course I have,” he said, and swallowed his capsule with a big gulp of his drink. Then, “not, like, often, though.”

“Good enough,” Grantaire replied, swallowing his own. “Okay, this should take about half an hour to start kicking in, maybe fourty-five minutes, which is good, it’ll start coming up as I finish your sun. If you still want to have some ket, I’ll give you a half dose to start, it’ll help with the tattoo, and it’ll also wear off just as the MD starts to come up, so that should go well, I reckon.”

“You’re so smart,” Enjolras said. It was like a sigh. One could call it almost dreamy. Grantaire would not, but maybe someone who was a bit more subjective, or less, would.

“Huh, damn, who knew it would take rambling about drugs to get that reaction,” Grantaire mused.

“For real, you know just as much as Joly about harm reduction, and it’s their job!” Enjolras said.

“I only know that shit because I take so many drugs, and also because of smarter people than me, like Joly,” Grantaire argued.

Enjolras just huffed, but he was still smiling. “You’re smart, Grantaire. You know things, useful things, interesting things, sometimes random things. It’s one of the things I’ve always found so sexy about you,” he said.

Grantaire felt himself blush, felt it go all the way down his exposed chest. He distracted himself by getting his gloves on, getting a new needle and ink ready. “Let me start stabbing you already, if you’re not gonna take the ket,” he said, to change the subject.

He got about three pokes in before Enjolras spoke up. “I might need that ketamine.”

-

There is something incredibly intimate about tattooing someone. 

Grantaire was close, close enough to see the texture of Enjolras’ skin. Each breath was full of his smell. He was attuned to Enjolras, a hand on his shoulder, holding the skin taught where he needed him. He felt his warmth even through the glove. Felt his chest slightly rise and fall with each breath. When a stick went in slightly deeper than the last, and Enjolras flinched just slightly, Grantaire felt it, and his eyes flicked up, to read his face. And Enjolras smiled, and nodded at him to keep going.

There was something intimate about the trust, the pain, the permanence of this one moment. Grantaire was changing Enjolras, he realised. He was changing him, forever. He was helping Enjolras feel more himself, become more himself, and Grantaire’s art was a part of that.

To be loved is to be changed.

His art was going to be on Enjolras’ shoulder for the rest of his life, unless he forked out for laser removal.

Grantaire couldn’t think about that for too long. 

“How’s it feeling?” He asked, when he’d done the outline of the circle. 

“Mmm, good,” Enjolras said, almost a hum. His eyes kept closing slowly, like a cat slow-blinking to show it trusts you. “My body feels good, from the ketamine, and my shoulder also feels good. It’s sharp, but it feels… nice. Relaxing. Kind of like how I imagine acupuncture would be.”  

“Good, perfect,” Grantaire said, and Enjolras hummed happily again at the praise. “At the stage you’re at, your body starts to release endorphins naturally to ease the pain, adrenaline and stuff. The same thing would have happened when you got your piercings. I’m starting up again, you good?”

“I’m good. It did, with the piercings, I got them both in the same day. The first one felt kind of good, up until a point, it actually made me think of you…” Enjolras said.

“Oh?” Grantaire probed.

“Mhm, like, in that moment, I understood how you must feel when I hurt you. Like, the consensual hurting, like… the dom stuff…”

“I know, love, you’re good,” Grantaire said with a chuckle. “So, you got what it was like to be a masochist, huh?”

“Yeah, for a second. And then it got to a point, probably about half way, and it was like ‘Oh my God, this person is actually stabbing me, through the nipple. Like I am actually getting fully stabbed right now, oh my God, ow ow ow ow!’ and then I almost kicked her, and Courfeyrac had to hold my legs down.”

Grantaire stopped for long enough so he could really laugh and not mess up his line. When he picked back up, Enjolras started talking again.

“Then it was through, and I felt like I was going to pass out, or like I had already died, and the piercer gave me a little break, you know, drink some water, all that, and then she goes ‘hey if you want to get the left one done today too, we should do it now, while the adrenaline is peaking, otherwise you’ll never come back for it, trust me’, and I was like, okay, wow, I came all this way and I’m half way here, and I’ve wanted this for so long, so you’re stabbing my other nipple, let’s do this.”

“And?” Grantaire asked.

“The second one actually wasn’t as bad as the first, it seemed to go faster, she was right about the adrenaline. And you’re right, too. Because you’re smart.” Enjolras said, and smiled down at him.

“Don’t distract me now, unless you want a wonky sun,” Grantaire teased.

“I’d love it anyway, because it’s yours,” Enjolras replied, and closed his eyes again, humming in that content way. 

Focus on the line. Focus on the line. He’s just like this because of the drugs. Like Joly was before. All I love you and hands are love.

Grantaire was using his hands to alter Enjolras’ body forever.

Hands are love.

-

Enjolras started coming up around the time when Grantaire was finishing up the tattoo. Grantaire put the Bepanthen on it, took off his gloves, and held up a mirror for Enjolras rather than making him walk to the bathroom. 

“It’s so good!” Enjolras said, louder than maybe he usually would.

“Woah, Enj got tatted!” Called Courfeyrac, and he and Combeferre came over to appreciate Grantaire’s handiwork. They both gave their kudos and congratulations, and it was nice. 

Grantaire was really fucking grateful that he hadn’t ruined his relationship with either of them, because Enjolras’ best friends were good people, and Grantaire loved them a lot. 

“I’m starting to feel a little bit weird,” Enjolras said. 

“That’s okay, love, that’ll be the MD starting to come up. Do you feel dizzy, or sick?” Grantaire asked. He saw Combeferre smile, from the corner of his eye. 

“No, just fuzzy, and a little bit hot,” Enjolras said.

“Hey, are you still doing tattoos?” Some guy asked. Grantaire turned to dismiss him, but Courfeyrac replied before he could.

“If you wanna keep tatting, R, I can get our boy some water and fresh air?” He asked.

“I reckon I got another half hour in me ‘til I get to this one’s level,” Grantaire admitted, then turned back to Enjolras, “so, if you don’t mind?”

“Of course not, see you soon. I love the tattoo!” Enjolras said, and kissed Grantaire goodbye, and let his friends lead him to water and fresh air. 

Grantaire got four more itty bitty small stick and pokes done before he had to call it, and when a few people made a disappointed sound that they hadn’t gotten theirs, he had his one big brain thought of the night, and gave them his social media with a promise that they could message him for a tattoo or any art commission any time. Courfeyrac smiled approvingly when he saw, and Grantaire realised this may have been his plan the whole time.

“Your boy’s outside, my love,” Courfeyrac said. “Let me pack up here, it’s the least I can do. And I still wanna cash in the tattoo you owe me, when we have time and I can get a dope multicolour one! But not tonight, yeah?”

“Anytime,” Grantaire said, “and hey, don’t forget about that sick dick tattoo idea you had.” And Courfeyrac laughed, and Grantaire grinned and left him to grab another drink, a pre-rolled joint, and go find Enjolras. 

His boy, Courfeyrac had said.

Finding Enjolras was easy, because he was a lot louder when crossfaded than he was sober. “Grantaire!” He called, as soon as Grantaire made his way into the backyard. 

There were two areas with outdoor furniture, one with a bonfire and one with one of those outdoor fire lamps, a stunning garden that Joly genuinely grew food and herbs in, and fairy lights decking out the whole yard, around the fence and up one of the trees. Grantaire joined Enjolras at the seating area with the real fire, where he was talking with Combeferre and Feuilly and a few people Grantaire vaguely recognised from those big meetings the Amis sometimes had with other blocs and factions and other random independent groups and all that. 

“I was just showing everyone my sun, look how good it is!” Enjolras gushed, as if Grantaire hadn’t been the one staring at it as he poked it into Enjolras’ skin.

“I’m glad you like it,” Grantaire said, and nodded his hello to the others. He found himself a seat on the bench next to Enjolras, who immediately curled into Grantaire’s side.

“You cold, love?” 

“My body still feels warm, and the cool air is nice, and the fire is nice,” Enjolras said, and then pushed his face into Grantaire’s arm, like Joly had earlier. “And you feel nice,” he added.

Grantaire chuckled. His body also felt warm, he’d thought it was just from the heater blasting inside, but now he was out and the cold air was nice on his skin he realised it was also him. And his body felt nice, too, and his mind felt nice, and Enjolras felt nice.

“Come here, kid,” Grantaire said, using the arm Enjolras was curling into to untangle them for a moment and then wrap it around Enjolras’ shoulder. Enjolras curled back into him happily, and Combeferre smiled down at the fire, and the girl they were talking to said something like “aww.” And because it all felt so nice, and because he was allowed, Grantaire gave in and pressed a kiss to the top of Enjolras head, on the golden curls that only he was allowed to touch like that. 

“Y'all mind if I smoke?” Grantaire asked, indicating his unlit joint. Everyone gave their go ahead, and one of the guys whose name Grantaire didn’t know asked if he could steal a cheeky puff, and Grantaire told him that his policy was if anyone was brave enough to ask, he’d give ‘em one. And then told them all the story of how some guy had come up to Grantaire in the parking lot of the grocery store, back when Grantaire had a car and would sit in the the drivers seat blazing up before he did his shopping, and this guy had the guts to come up and ask for a hit, and Grantaire was like “shit man you’ve earned the rest of it, go on and take it.” And everyone laughed, and Enjolras made a comment like “praxis” under his breath, and they naturally formed a smoking circle, passing Grantaire’s joint around.

When it got to Enjolras, he took it and held it up to Grantaire’s mouth, and then followed it with his lips, shot-gunning the hit from Grantaire’s lungs. “Hot,” Grantaire muttered, and watched appreciatively as Enjolras leaned back to breathe out the smoke. 

A few people left to go inside, a few more came out, they smoked someone else’s joint, and after a while Grantaire felt the MDMA high peaking in his body. He turned his face, and Enjolras turned his, and they were kissing before Grantaire really knew it was happening. 

“Hmm,” Grantaire said when they pulled back. “This is nice.”

“It is, are you sure you’re not cold though?” Enjolras asked. 

“Wasn’t I the one asking you if you were cold? I feel great,” Grantaire said, and he did. His body felt great, a bit on the hot side actually, but maybe that was the fire. “Are you cold?”

Enjolras brought his hands up to his exposed arms, and there were goosebumps there. “I think I am,” he said. 

“Then let’s get you back inside, pookie, and if we come out again I’ve got a jacket you can borrow.” Grantaire said, and went to stand up, but Enjolras stopped him.

“Wait, before we go in, while they’re not around… That guy before, who made the joke about ‘Steven Universe Queers’ and everyone laughed… What's a ‘Steven Universe Queer’?” 

And he sounded so genuine, and so lost, and so concerned, that Grantaire had to laugh and kiss him. 

“Okay, okay, so, it’s an internet thing. Have you heard the saying ‘Ketamine Queer vs Steven Universe Queer’?” Grantaire started. Enjolras shook his head.

“I mean, I’ve done ketamine, and I think I’ve seen the show with Courfeyrac,” he said.

This was going to take a while, Grantaire realised. “Okay, let me get my jacket for you first, and you look at these memes in the meantime, that will catch you up, and I’ll give you all the context in the world when I get back.” 

He did, and Enjolras happily burrowed into Grantaire’s jacket as he explained the reference to him. They had a quick debate about the politicised terms and societal understood meanings of “queer” vs “gay”, and in the end they came to an agreement. That inside everyone was two wolves, one a Ketamine Queer, and one a Steven Universe Queer, and on that note, should we go inside and do some more ketamine?

Enjolras smiled. “Sure.”

-

They got back inside just as Courfeyrac was calling the start of the “Leo Season Realness Ball”, and wiggled his eyebrows at Enjolras.

“Come on, don’t make me beg,” Courfeyrac called. 

“You should walk the runway, babe, you’re the hottest one here, and I heard Courfeyrac is giving out legit prizes,” Grantaire said. 

Enjolras blushed and squeezed his hand, which he was holding. No big deal. They were just holding hands. In front of their friends. “Not this time,” he said, and there was something in his eyes when he said “it’s enough that I’m wearing it.” 

Grantaire smiled, kissed his lips and then the tip of his nose. “It’s enough, love. Then sit with me, we’ll do another line and help CO2 judge.”

“Perfect,” Enjolras said, and kissed Grantaire again. 

He kissed him, in front of his friends. Grantaire smiled and felt almost dizzy from happiness. Euphoria.

Grantaire grabbed a beer for himself, a juice for Enjolras, and a bottle of water for the both of them, and led them to the “runway”. 

They wandered into the deep living room, where the walls were lined with couches and bean bags and there was a long carpet that would serve as the runway. The best part of this living room, the one with all the couches but no TV, was that it also hosted the pole, right there in the middle of the room, to the end of the runway, bolted into the floor and ceiling, where Musichetta practiced her pole technique and the rest of them stimmed on at parties.

A pole, especially when it’s a rotating pole, is for adults very similar to how monkey bars are for kids. Irresistible. Fun. And stimulating in such a full body addictive way. Yes, if you know what you’re doing like Musichetta and Jehan do, sexy. But when you just grab it with both hands and spin around as fast as you can and then jump and see how long you can spin until you drop, fun as fuck. You don’t even care about being sexy, because it’s so freeing, like playing on the playground at snack time. Try it some time. 

Combeferre patted a seat next to him on one of the smaller couches when they approached, and even though there were other options, and even though months earlier Grantaire would have given into insecurity or jealousy and pretended not to notice, Grantaire guided Enjolras to sit by his side. It was a tight fit, the three of them there, but they did fit, and Enjolras leaned back against Combeferre’s tall shoulder by his side, and put his legs up on Grantaire’s lap.

“My two favourite people!” Enjolras said, open and loving. “Where’s Courfeyrac, my three favourite people?”

“He’s rounding up all the hotties, but hey, did you still want that other line, because,” and Grantaire leaned forward, pinched the tray he and Bossuet and Joly had been using earlier, along with three new straws from the bag on the table in front of them. “Would you look at that! Combeferre?” He offered, half unsure of himself.

“Sure, might help me judge,” Combeferre said, and took the straw and did the first line when Grantaire had cut them up and offered the mirror. 

“Enjolras?” Combeferre offered, after sniffing and making a face and clearing his throat. 

Enjolras accepted, took his line in three parts with a break to make a face between each one, then passed the mirror to Grantaire, who finished it off. The three of them relaxed into the high, a gentle compliment to the MD peak Grantaire and Enjolras were now riding. 

Courfeyrac came in and took his seat on an armchair that had been set up at the end of the runway like a throne. Marius, Cosette, and Joly took their seats on the couch on Courfeyrac’s other side, and everyone else filtered in and found a seat or lingered in the wide doorway. The already dim overhead lights lowered, Musichetta’s doing in the corner, and then she turned on warm orange and red and pink sunset lamps, throwing the room into a beautiful haze. 

“Let the ball begin!” Courfeyrac announced. “Sluts, impress me, and may the hottest whore here win my favour and a mystery gift card!” 

Everyone oohed and ahhed, Grantaire laughed, and Enjolras wrapped his hand around Grantaire’s in the almost dark. Hands, touching, holding, squeezing, changing, breaking, hurting, comforting. A thumb running back and forth as if without thought across his skin.

Hands are love. 

-

MDMA makes you feel so much love. Some studies say this is because it makes your brain produce more oxytocin, making you feel more sociable and bonded to those around you. Some say that there’s no tangible evidence of an increase in oxytocin, and suggest instead that the MDMA itself is interpreted similarly to oxytocin, and that’s why it gives your brain and body the same effects.

MDMA + Ketamine? Lots of oxytocin, or something like it. 

It was kind of like when that one friend got drunk the first time, when you were like 16 or something, and she was all “oh my God guys, no, seriously, I Love You all soooo much,” and she was genuinely crying because, like, she really did love you all soooo much. 

Grantaire was feeling it, when he laughed and cheered for his gorgeous friends and a few gorgeous strangers, walking the runway, vogueing, dancing, trying to win Courfeyrac’s attention and the prize. He felt it when he looked around the room and thought I love everyone. He felt it where his hand was in Enjolras’ and when he looked over at him and saw his beautiful shining smile, he knew Enjolras was feeling it too. 

“This is so nice,” Enjolras shout-whispered over the music and cheers. “I love this.” He said, and Grantaire knew he had to stop him, before his high oxytocin laced brain said something he didn’t mean. Enjolras was still talking, and Grantaire wasn’t sure how to stop him, because his brain was also high, and slow. “I love everyone,” Enjolras said. No, no, he had to stop this. Enjolras looked around, like he was taking in the whole room. “I love our friends. I love you, Combeferre,” he leaned his head back on Combeferre’s shoulder, and Grantaire saw the shadow of hurt in Combeferre’s smile. He couldn’t do it, couldn’t bear it with grace like Combeferre could. Enjolras turned to Grantaire, still talking. “I- mmhhffmm!” 

He was cut off by Grantaire unceremoniously tipping some water into his mouth. “Gotta stay hydrated on MD, ange, 250mls every hour!” Grantaire said, panicking.

Combeferre laughed a little bit, and then swallowed it down with a guilty smile when Grantaire shot him a look. 

“He’s right, Enj, 250mls every hour,” he said. 

Enjolras wiped his face dry. “Well I barely managed to swallow any of that, give me a warning next time.”

“That’s what she said,” Combeferre said, before Grantaire could make the joke himself. Grantaire laughed, and thought, damn, I actually really like Combeferre. I wish I’d given him a chance, before.

Oxytocin. Or something like it. 

-

Bahorel won, sporting a hot pink bikini set, the string of the bottoms peaking out above the tight ripped short denim shorts (jorts, the man won in jorts). To be fair, he really did work that runway, and he also really worked that hot pink bikini set.

The man could do a death drop unlike any other. And when he incorporated the pole in his walk, even Musichetta had conceded to him. Although Grantaire suspected she was letting him have this.

The prize, when awarded, was a $100 gift card to a sex toy shop. Musichetta’s runner up prize was $50, cash. She rolled it up to snort a line of ketamine. 

Grantaire stayed on the couch with Enjolras and Combeferre, content to sit with them in the low multicoloured light and take in the chatter around them.

“Thank you,” Enjolras said, he stretched and pulled himself more onto Grantaire’s lap, still leaning back against Combeferre.

“For what?” Grantaire asked, and Combeferre cocked his head quizzingly too.

“For explaining the reference to me, the Steven Universe/Ketamine thing.” He said. “Sometimes I feel like there are just things people know, and I’m out of the loop, out of place in the conversation. Like, sometimes I pre-come up with-” he was cut off when Grantaire snickered, and Combeferre stifled a laugh as well. “What?” Enjolras asked, looking between them.

“No, nothing, nothing, you say your thing,” Grantaire said. 

“Not laughing at you, you’re okay. Keep going,” said Combeferre

Enjolras looked between them again. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Anyway, I was just saying, I’ve researched references I didn’t understand and then pre-come up with things, you know, funny responses to them, so I can feel prepared if the conversation comes up again.”

“That’s really smart, Enj,” Combeferre said, and looked down at him affectionately. Grantaire felt something clench in him pleasantly. Where the jealousy should be, but wasn’t. Like a happy kind of jealous, that wasn’t jealous at all, but his dumb high brain couldn’t name it. 

“You’re gonna make it after all, kid,” Grantaire said. And booped Enjolras’ nose as he loved to do. 

“Okay, what was your thing?” Enjolras asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Oh, I was just laughing at ‘pre-come’.” Grantaire admitted. 

Enjolras looked at him for a beat, then at Combeferre. 

“Oh, yeah, me too,” Combeferre said. 

The three of them laughed. It was nice. 

“Okay, well, pre-come aside, It’s good to understand the references, at least.” Enjolras said after they’d eased up, clutching their aching bellies from laughing too hard. 

“Well, happy to help, consider me your pop culture encyclopaedia. Besides, your beautiful mind is busy saving the world, gotta save all your brain cells for that,” Grantaire said.

“I’m never gonna save the world all by myself, Grantaire,” Enjolras said, “we’re going to all save each other, I’m just a part of the village.” 

“Yeah, yeah, the village. Well count me a part of it, too,” Grantaire said. 

Combeferre smiled approvingly. Enjolras hummed, that surprised happy hum, and sat up more to kiss Grantaire. 

They settled back in as Courfeyrac stood up from his conversation with Marius and Cosette, and loudly called attention to himself.

“Ladies, gentlepeople, the few token men who maybe haven’t figured out their gender yet, we have an announcement to make!” Courfeyrac called.

“I take offence to that,” Grantaire heckled. Combeferre lightly shoved his shoulder in scolding. He put his arm around Enjolras to do it, and Grantaire expected him to leave it there, but he pulled back immediately. 

“Well, uh, we have an announcement to make,” clarified Marius. 

Cosette giggled excitedly. “Marius and I got engaged! Last night!” She said, holding up her left hand and well would you look at that, a shiny new ring.

Everyone cheered or applauded or gasped, Grantaire clapped and whooped and Enjolras said “congratulations!” As earnestly as he could in his current state. Combeferre eased himself out from where Enjolras was using him as a backrest and went to embrace the happy couple along with a few other people.

“Wow, engaged!” Grantaire said, for a lack of anything better to say. “Damn, can you imagine?”

And then he immediately wished he hadn’t. 

Enjolras and him looked at each other. Grantaire wished Combeferre was still here, to ease his way in and diffuse the tension. 

“I never have,” Enjolras said, honestly. Grantaire nodded, because, yeah, duh, of course he never had. “But I respect the intention, the commitment, even if I don’t necessarily subscribe to the institution of marriage.”

“Yeah, checks out,” Grantaire said, to say something, “too bad you’re already married to your ideals,” he said, aiming for joking. 

Enjolras hummed, thoughtful. “I guess I am, in a way.” He said. Then he said, “Combeferre said we’re partners, in whatever way we are.”

“Well yeah, I thought you two were together, when we met,” Grantaire said, again aiming for joking, but missing by more of a margin.

“What?” Enjolras asked.

“What?” Grantaire asked back.

“You thought who two were together?” 

“You and Combeferre?”

Enjolras stared at him. “What, no, no, Combeferre said we’re partners. You and me,” he clarified, and oh.

“Huh,” is all Grantaire said. It was more of a sound. “Do you agree with that assessment?” He asked, half not wanting to, half because he couldn’t stop himself.

“In whatever way we are,” is all Enjolras said. 

Grantaire wasn’t high enough for this. Or Enjolras was too high for this. Or maybe it brought them to a perfect balance, where it was okay, where they were even, where they could talk like this. Maybe not, though. 

“You should offer your congratulations, to the bride and groom,” Grantaire said, a cheap distraction. “I’ll grab us some more drinks.”

Enjolras didn’t call him on it, though, he went and took Cosette’s hand, congratulated her, got swept into her conversation. Grantaire watched it happen, and then escaped. He needed a minute. Just one, to himself.

-

He had two minutes to himself, splashing water on his face in the bathroom, before remembering how he’d sucked Enjolras off from under his skirt, and promptly escaped.

He had three minutes with Joly in the kitchen, grabbing himself another drink and another one of those pre-rolled joints. 

He had five minutes outside with Jehan and Bossuet, sharing the joint, until some random guy pulled out an acoustic guitar and started playing a song Grantaire genuinely thought was from Steven Universe, and Grantaire had to head back inside before he made a rude joke.

He had seven minutes around the table that was his stick and poke station, doing another line of ket and chatting with the people he’d given tattoos to. He even managed to remember to take some photos, for his portfolio, and asked them to send some more when they’d healed.

By the time Enjolras joined him, he was back in the kitchen with Joly and Feuilly and a few other people, where he’d stopped to get another drink, ranting about rehabs because when he was with Joly, one of them ended up ranting about rehab.

“Why twelve steps anyway? Because twelve apostles? So dumb! Couldn’t they have chosen any other number from the Bible and ran with it the way they did twelve? Seven deadly sins? Since we’re going with the whole shame route? Or Ten Commandments, there’s a good one. Or threes, there are heaps of threes in the bible. The three Mary’s, three crosses, three times Peter denied Christ. That would have worked way better, I mean. It’s way simpler to have three steps, boom boom boom, let’s go. And humans love threes, really, if you think about it, oh, hi love,” he stopped when Enjolras slid his way into Grantaire’s side, putting his arm around his shoulders. “Anyway, threes! We flock towards threes because one isn’t enough but two feels too… restrictive. We love us a nice ‘three’. So many three’s in our cultures, in folklore, superstitions. And you can’t forget the best thing to come of threes. You know I once had this threesome that-”

“Hey, no, don’t get distracted, jingle jingle,” Feuilly injected, pretending to jingle keys in front of Grantaire to catch his attention.

“Aww, I wanted to hear about the threesome,” Joly complained. A few people laughed.

Grantaire picked right back up, stage whispering “it was a man, and a woman. A couple . Scandalous I know, up until that moment they were - and this is their own words, a straight couple. Lots of firsts that night. His first time with a guy, her first time with a guy batting way out of his league and coming with league worthy moves to make up for it, if you know what I mean,” he threw a suggestive wink at Enjolras, who scrunched up his nose back at him in mock disapproval, but it was soft, and there was a smile on his lips. “And my first time going home with a couple who had a Roomba. One of them robot vacuums, you know? I was trying to make a gentleman’s exit but found myself memorised watching this thing try to get itself unstuck in its little corner. I’ve never believed much in all your unionising shit, I mean yeah works in theory but God that’s a lot of work, and I’m a bit busy doing, you know, work, but watching that little guy I thought damn, someone get these little fucks the right to strike because it’s not right what we’ve done to them. Humanity is a curse on this planet man, infecting everything we touch. Who wants to torture a little guy like that? The guy who made that bleeding robot art piece that scoops its own guts out, that’s who! Just like that sick fucking blood robot claw guy, the Roomba doesn’t know why he’s in that corner, bumping into wall after wall after wall back and forth and back and forth. Man I’ve never related to a vacuum more, and I suck a lot of… What were we talking about?”

A few people laughed nervously, and Feuilly pretend punched Grantaire in the shoulder not covered in Enjolras. “You made it weird, bro,” he said, which, yeah, fair, he may have made it weird.

“I don’t know,” Enjolras said. “Kind of inspiring, in a way.”

“Of course that worked on you,” Joly scoffed. “Meant to be, you two.”

Joly wasn’t trying to be mean. The opposite, even. But it wasn’t their fault that it hurt to hear. 

“I think I need some fresh air,” Enjolras said, quietly.

“Let me grab another joint, and I’m right with you,” Grantaire said, but the pre-rolled joints were all gone. “Okay, new plan, I’ll go roll another joint, and I’ll meet you out there?” 

“See you out there,” Enjolras said, and kissed him. In front of their friends, because he did that now.

Because they were partners, in whatever way they were.

On second, thought, new new plan. A new line of ket, and then roll a joint, and then join Enjolras outside.

-

There was an episode of BoJack Horseman, a stupid cartoon, but bear with Grantaire here - wait is it bare with or bear with, who’s the bear? Wait, BoJack Horseman. There was an episode that felt exactly like it felt to take ketamine. 

Like, good ketamine, like the crushed up and snorted through a straw, fine powder, make you feel like you’ve unlocked some memory you’re not sure is even yours of being a finance Wall Street bro in the 80s kinda ketamine. Come to think of it, how could that be your memory, you weren’t a finance bro in the 80s, were you Grantaire? 

It felt like the episode of BoJack Horseman, where he was underwater, and everyone went to speak but it was just blubbering glugs of air and sound, because, you know, underwater, and there was jazz music playing in the background, and he was floating, his limbs were floating, he was so weightless, and everything in the world was kind of in italics like he was in italics like everything was the leaning tower of Pisa - is it Pisa or pizza am I falling over right now whoops over extended there yep I’m going down.

“Woah, woah, here we go, down here boy, into this convenient pile of bean bags, there we go,” Bahorel was guiding Grantaire down to lie down. “Here, lemme get your man…” he said, and disappeared, leaving Grantaire to marvel at that one. His man?

“Here we go, one beautiful blonde, one high as fuck asshole, a match made in heaven, here he is,” Bahorel said, and he deposited something in Grantaire’s lap. Someone.

Enjolras.

“Are you my man?” Grantaire asked, confused.

Enjolras beamed at him. “Grantaire!” He yelled, like he he was happy just to see him, like he’d just realised Grantaire was the thing underneath him, the arms around him, and he was thrilled by the fact. “I had another joint, outside, you never came back but Jehan had one!”

Yep, he was pleasantly crossfaded, at that perfect lovey-dovey happy dopey high from before. And Grantaire was right there with him, because of the ketamine, and he wasn’t floating anymore because Enjolras had grounded him, held him down. No, it wasn’t like underwater anymore, it was like… How he imagined plants must feel about the earth.

He tightened where his arms were wrapped around Enjolras. His man. 

“Cute,” someone called. Musichetta, standing above them with one of her boyfriends. “Here, give me your phone,” she said.

Grantaire could not tell you where his phone was if you paid him. Enjolras squirmed a bit in his lap, in a way that could be nice if he kept doing it, and then presented his phone from a pocket. 

Again, Grantaire thought that dress has pockets? How? Where?

“Here, okay, look at each other and think whatever you were just thinking!” Musichetta directed.

Grantaire looked back at Enjolras. What had he been thinking? That Enjolras was his man, that having him here made him feel like a plant must feel for the earth that held it, nurtured it. He looked into rich brown eyes and thought this would be what a seedling sees, when it first sees sunlight filtered through those last remaining granules of soil separating the leaves from the air. What a beautiful sight. Light. Life.

“There, perfect,” Musichetta said, and dropped the phone back into Enjolras’ hand, and moved on with Bossuet in tow. 

“Oh, it’s actually really nice.” Enjolras said. “I don’t usually like photos of myself, but,” and he turned the screen so Grantaire could see.

It was what he expected, yet it wasn’t. It was him, on the beanbag, Enjolras in his lap, multicoloured light casting colours over their bodies, orange into purple into pink, and oh, is that how he looked when he looked at Enjolras? So in love, it was clear, it was all over his face, adoration.

And Enjolras. He’d been looking right at him, right in his eye, how had he not seen the expression on his face. From this angle, in this light, it looked like…

“I love it!” Enjolras said, and something in Grantaire clenched painfully. “I’m going to print it out, put it on my photo wall.”

He closed his phone. It showed the time, well past midnight. It showed the date. The day after Courfeyrac’s birthday.

Grantaire knew what this day was.

He didn’t mean to say it out loud. But he did. 

“Oh hey, look at that!” Grantaire said, and pointed at the date.

“Yes?” Enjolras asked.

He shouldn’t say it. He could stop now, say something about the time. He could say anything else.

“The date. Today…” he could stop. He could not say it. He should not say it. “Today would have been our anniversary. If we were still together, from the first time, today would mark two years together.”

Enjolras looked back at him, processed. Grantaire couldn’t read his face from here. He wondered, if Musichetta took a photo, would he be able to read it then? 

“Doesn’t it, still?” Enjolras asked.

Grantaire shrugged. “In a way, I guess.” He said. It echoed Enjolras, in whatever way we are. “Happy anniversary, ange.” He aimed for joking, and missed by miles.

Enjolras smiled. The way he did when Grantaire said “I love you”, recently. “Happy anniversary, Grantaire.” He said, and he sounded entirely sincere.

Grantaire took a sharp breath in, a stuttering one. 

Enjolras’ hand found his cheek. “I think…” he said, and then shook his head. “Tomorrow, when I’m not feeling so floaty, can I ask you something?”

“Oh, yeah, because I’m great at waiting for shit,” Grantaire joked.

Enjolras just made a face. “I don’t have good words, right now, because of the drugs. Tomorrow, okay?”

That could mean anything, so Grantaire wasn’t going to ask.

“Sure, tomorrow.”

Enjolras hummed, and then looked off into the distance while he considered. “That makes this my longest relationship. I mean, you were already, from the six months we were together. But, damn. Two years. How did it go by so fast?” He said.

Grantaire chuckled. “Oh, you know, time flies when you’re in hate with someone.” 

He aimed for joking, and at this point he should just stop trying. 

Enjolras smirked, and he didn’t say anything, just kissed him. And kissed him, and kissed him, and after a while Grantaire had to remind him that half their friends were in this room, and he could not keep moving in his lap like that.

-

“Can I ask you something?” Enjolras whispered a little while later. The party was descending around them into cuddle piles and nangs and a few people making out on beanbags like they had been.

“I thought we were waiting for tomorrow?” Grantaire whispered back.

“No, not that. Is… Is Courfeyrac’s dick really bigger?”

Grantaire laughed as softly as he could. “Don’t worry about that, pookie, we all have our strengths.” He said.

Enjolras pouted. Grantaire gave in, because he knew if Enjolras wasn’t high, he’d never give in himself and ask this.

“Okay, his was thicker, yours is longer. But if you want to give me something fatter, that can be arranged, I’ve got a knotted dildo at home that’s thicker than his even is-”

Enjolras sat up a little, made a small shocked noise. “And you haven’t let me use it on you yet?” He said, almost too loud.

“Volume, beloved,” Grantaire whispered, but he didn’t care that much. It did draw Courfeyrac’s attention, and Grantaire threw his balloon back over with a request for another “double shot” nang. Then he leaned back in and whispered “when we’re not so high, and aren’t around all our friends, you can knot me as much as you want, ange,” and Enjolras stuttered and blushed hard, and it was worth it.

-

Combeferre came by as he was saying his goodbyes, and offered to share his ride home with Enjolras and Grantaire. Like it was assumed he would be going home with them. Grantaire had vague plans of collapsing on one of the polycule’s spare beds, but sleeping next to Enjolras beat that any day. The three of them left together, Enjolras wrapped up in Grantaire’s jacket, Grantaire back in his nice shirt. The one he wore for first dates. 

“I always liked that shirt,” Enjolras commented, as they were getting out of the ride.

Grantaire didn’t want to point out that he probably liked it because Grantaire had worn it on all their best dates. Or, maybe it became his “date shirt” because Enjolras liked it. Either way, they held hands as they walked down the long driveway to Enjolras and Combeferre’s place.

Combeferre offered the first use of the bathroom to them, and Enjolras made a suggestive face when he said they could consolidate time by sharing a shower. How he managed to make a word like consolidate sound sexy was beyond Grantaire. It was working on him, and he felt so bad for Combeferre right now. He was definitely going to need to play some music, put some noise cancelling headphones on, something. He threw him an apologetic look, but Combeferre just waved him off in good nature.

“Take your time, I’ve got a nice wind down routine of smoking a joint and playing Animal Crossing to get to, goodnight friends,” he said, smiling at them both, and excused himself to his gaming desk in his bedroom. Lofi started playing on the speaker almost immediately, calming beats seeping through the wall and from under the closed door.

Honestly, that whole smoking a joint and playing Animal Crossing thing sounded good. Grantaire thought that one of these days, he should ask to join in on that. As it was, Enjolras’ wind down routine of a cheeky handjob in the shower was far more appealing right now.

-

As they lay in bed, naked in the warm room, soaking in the afterglow, Enjolras spoke up in the dark. “I think I fucked up tonight.” He whispered.

“How?” Grantaire asked, already ready to reassure him that he hadn’t gone too far, hadn’t hurt him, hadn’t done anything wrong or said the wrong thing.

“When I went outside, and you know, everyone inside was dancing and taking turns on the pole and doing ket at the table, and the music was so loud, and I came outside and it was like. Quiet and dark and there was that one group with the guy playing the guitar. Like this really nice peaceful melody, you know?” Enjolras explained.

Grantaire laughed, suspecting where this was going, “oh no…” he whispered.

“And I walked out there, and I just kind of blurted out “wow I just walked out of the Ketamine Queers and into Steven Universe Queers.’ And none of them said anything. And I was thinking like ‘oh no that might sound rude’ so I followed it up with ‘that’s not an insult, it’s just an observation.’”

Grantaire was already crying laughing, long done with whispering when he repeated “it’s just an observation.”

Enjolras groaned, but he was laughing softly too. “And then the guy playing the guitar was like, really quietly and contemplating, ‘Steven Universe Queer. I’ll take it I guess.’”

Grantaire laughed louder. Enjolras was laughing in earnest now, struggling to finish the story.

“To which I couldn’t think of anything to reply but: ‘I’m sorry, I’m high on ketamine’.” He finished.

They both laughed for a long time, hard, both in tears and clutching their sides and swearing off cigarettes because their lungs shouldn’t feel this fucked by the end.

“You’re so lucky you’re pretty,” Grantaire said.

“I, what?” Enjolras asked.

“Nothing, you just came out and said ‘hey Steven Universe Queers! Oh no, that’s not an insult by the way, just an observation!’” And then he laughed again, and Enjolras did too.

Grantaire rolled onto his back, stretched out his arms, and Enjolras rolled into them. They laughed together, and then Grantaire kissed the top of Enjolras’ head. Enjolras was going to ask him something, tomorrow. If he remembered, that was.

The thought was too scary to focus on, so of course that’s all he did as he fell asleep.

-

Grantaire woke in a martyr's bed.

He just didn’t know it yet. You never know when you’re moments from the killing blow. You look back on it later and say I knew it was coming, but you didn’t. Grantaire woke up, in a bed that would later hold the last of them, and he didn’t know it yet, so there was nothing to fear, nothing to sense. 

Still, the end was coming. Because Enjolras couldn’t be satisfied with what they’d had. Hadn’t it all been perfect, the night before? Hadn’t it been perfect, just what he wanted? Them together in front of all of their friends, holding hands, kissing, everyone acting like they were together. Hadn’t it been perfect? Of course Enjolras would ruin it. Of course he would wait until that moment, and then twist the knife. One last time.

The end was coming, but Grantaire didn’t know. 

Grantaire woke in a martyr's bed. He didn’t know it yet, so he still saw an angel. 

Hopelessly, Grantaire loved him.

Chapter Text

Enjolras

Enjolras knew what he was going to do today.

It was their anniversary. Almost, it would be, it kind of was. 

Two years ago, at Courfeyrac’s 27th birthday party - a night out at a few clubs that fell on the weekend, a few days shy of Courfeyrac’s actual birthday - Grantaire had been brave.

He’d danced with Enjolras, a hand on the small of his back, guiding him. They’d flirted, and Enjolras had felt it. Chemistry. And then Grantaire asked him out, and Enjolras looked at him, and thought, sure, why not?

He was angry at his past self for being so flippant. He hadn’t known then how precious Grantaire would become to him. 

Today was the anniversary of their first date, their first night together. Grantaire had said so, because he knew these things. Grantaire had said it would have marked two years. 

And Enjolras had asked, “doesn’t it, still?”

And Grantaire had shrugged, and said “in a way, I guess.” 

And Enjolras had thought in whatever way we are.

And then his brain threw so many things at him he couldn’t think through the haze. He heard his friend’s voices echoing from moments earlier in the night. 

“Careful, don’t want to make your boyfriend jealous”, “I’m not his boyfriend.” “I can get our boy some water and fresh air?” “Meant to be, you two.” “Oi, your man needs ya,” “match made in heaven,” “are you my man?”

“Yeah, yeah, the village. Well count me a part of it, too.”

“Happy anniversary, ange.” Grantaire had said, and Enjolras smiled, a helpless instinctive smile, and said it back, and thought. Oh.

There was no grand thought or epiphany, just: oh.

The final piece clicked into place. 

But his brain was not working at it’s best, he didn’t have the right words, he needed to plan this right. Grantaire would wait, he’d be patient. He’d waited this long for Enjolras to get here. He would wait one more day. 

Enjolras knew what he wanted. He wanted this to be real. And this time, he was going to be the one to be brave. He was going to ask Grantaire, ask him out, ask him to be with him for real, tell him what he wanted, and today could be their anniversary again. 

He had a plan, and it was going to be perfect.

-

They got distracted by morning sex. 

His intention was this: coax Grantaire out of the house and to his favourite café up on the main road, treat him to some brunch. To hold hands while they walk, enjoy the unseasonable warmth and sunshine that had been promised, maybe share a joint on the way, to ease him into the conversation as they ate, so that by the end they would be out loud what they were quietly.

Together. Dating. A couple. Boyfriends? Partners.

But he let himself get a bit distracted first. And as far as distractions go, this was by far Enjolras’ favourite.

How nice it was to be distracted by Grantaire’s hands on his skin, and to remember something Grantaire had slurred when coming out of a nitrous high the night before. “Hands are love.” It hadn’t made any sense, but Enjolras heard it as he felt Grantaire’s hands touch his face. When he used his to nudge Grantaire to where he wanted him, to hold him down underneath him, to pull his hair like a puppeteer. 

How nice it was to kiss Grantaire’s skin, his lips, his cheeks and nose and forehead and Grantaire scrunched up his face and laughed and Enjolras laughed too. His heart was singing inside his chest. How nice it was to kiss further down his belly, follow the trail of dark hair, take him in his mouth while he lubed up a few fingers, ease them in and work Grantaire almost to the edge before pulling back on both counts.

“Torture! You’re trying to kill me!” Grantaire cried, and laughed again. His laugh was infectious. His laugh was like a remedy to some ache he didn’t know he had been harboring. 

“Hmm, you need something to ease your suffering?” Enjolras cooed. He pulled back so Grantaire could see him take himself in hand, and Grantaire’s eyes hungrily followed the movement.

“Yes, yes, your magical dick will ease all my suffering,” Grantaire said, sarcastic. Still he didn’t take his eyes from Enjolras’ hand and its movements. “Like you’re not the cause of most of it,” he joked.

It was fair, but it still hurt, just a bit. Not anymore, he thought. Today, I’m going to fix it. 

First, give Grantaire an amazing start of the day. “Then let me be the one to make it better,” he said, and meant it in more ways than one. But that could wait, for now.

He eased three back fingers in, and after only a few seconds Grantaire was panting and begging, “okay, okay, please, please fuck me, ange!” And Enjolras gave in, and gave them both what they wanted.

It was the perfect distraction. It should have been the perfect start to the day. But Enjolras ruined it.

He’d had a plan! He was going to ease Grantaire there first. He knew he’d need to lead him, argue him down, make him see it, make him believe. He’d been prepared to do it. 

Not yet, not like this. 

But he wasn’t thinking, not thinking beyond he’s so beautiful like this, beyond he’s perfect, like he was made for me, mine. Maybe he said these things out loud, Grantaire moaned and wrapped his arms around Enjolras’ shoulders, pulled him down to cover him. He tried to hide his face in Enjolras’ neck, and Enjolras let him, for now.

“Tell me, tell me you hate me,” Grantaire asked, a sob. 

No. Not that. Not today. 

Never again.

Why had he ever said it, ever allowed it to poison them? He shook his head, spoke into Grantaire’s hair. “No, I can’t, Grantaire, don't ask this of me, not…” He didn’t want to ruin it now, he pulled back enough to grab Grantaire and kiss him. He couldn’t say it now, but he could put it into the kiss. They both gasped into each others mouths as Enjolras fucked into Grantaire harder and faster, and Grantaire slipped a hand around himself and Enjolras covered it with his own, guided him.

“That’s it, that’s my boy,” Enjolras breathed when they pulled back enough to breathe. He knew Grantaire was close, but he still wasn’t looking back at Enjolras, and Enjolras needed those eyes on his. He trapped Grantaire’s face in one hand, breathed his name, and Grantaire opened his eyes and looked at him for one moment, said his name back, or maybe he said “ange”. 

Grantaire came, eyes fluttering shut and mouth open and oh he was so beautiful, he didn’t mean to say it, but Enjolras let gravity carry him down to press his lips to Grantaire’s open mouth and the thought came to him fully formed in those words for the very first time and he opened his mouth and they spilled out.

A plea, a whisper, a gasp, a prayer. The truth.

“I love you.”

For one amazing second, everything was perfect. 

He knew as soon as he said it that he meant it, and his heart soared at the knowledge that it was true. That was it, the final piece of the puzzle had clicked into place but only now had he pulled back enough to see the whole picture. He loved Grantaire. He was in love with Grantaire.

Relief flooded his body, some part of him screamed finally. His face was probably doing something stupid and adoring, like he had been in that photo Musichetta took the night before, and oh of course! That had been what he was feeling, when he’d been staring into hazel green eyes thinking “just like the late autumn sunlight filtering through branching leaves of a treetop canopy” and felt that same ease and safety of afternoons lying on his back, watching sunlight dance through leaves in the safety of his grandma's backyard. Love. It had always been love.

He was about to say it again, when he saw Grantaire’s face contort into a brutal pain he'd never seen on him before. Not when he’d hurt him, as his Dom, not when he’d hurt him, careless with his heart, not when he’d reel him in to see if he still could, not even when they broke up.

Grantaire’s eyes opened and they were no longer sunlight filtered through leaves, it was that same tree on fire. He shoved Enjolras’ shoulders, hard. He was strong, that always had been a fact, and with the surprise it didn’t take any more than that one hard push, combined with a frantic kick of his legs, for Enjolras to be dislodged and pushed back, off the bed and falling onto the floor.

Grantaire was moving, and Enjolras was stunned.

More accurately, Grantaire was moving and shouting, and Enjolras was shocked and naked, watching him from his back on the floor. 

“Don't you dare,” Grantaire shouted. “Don't you ever- I told you, never- you selfish fucking- you motherfucking- you don't get to-” he kept starting and cutting himself off, too angry or hurt or wild to form a coherent thought. He was pacing the room, finding all of his clothes and pulling them on. “Fucking hell, Enj-no!” This was bad. He was so angry he wouldn't even say Enjolras’ name. “Fucking- you- fuck you!”

Enjolras knew his face was doing complicated and vulnerable things, his eyes were wet, he felt like he was frozen and choking. But he couldn’t think of what to say.

Enjolras had never had the freeze response in the face of conflict or danger. It felt very much like the few times he had gone truly nonverbal, amidst some bad shut downs. 

Grantaire pointed a finger at him. “I'm done. You can't- I won't- I’m done. You don't get to do this to me.” His eyes were fierce amidst tears, Enjolras had never seen him like this. 

“You don't get to keep drawing me back in, opening the wound and pushing on it and doing anything to make me hurt, making sure I'll never move on. You're so fucking selfish, you- ugh!” He practically screamed when he couldn't think of the right insult to throw. He never struggled when it was a mocking taunt or term of endearment. “I thought you were actually done! I’m so stupid! I thought we were good, that you could be- but no. Is it not enough to know I'll always be heartbroken over you, you have to just keep pulling at the stitches every time I think I'm putting myself back together. And I let you, I do,” there were tears running down Grantaire’s face, he furiously blinked them away and kept yelling, but they had made their way into the waiver of his voice. “I let you, because I'm selfish too. But I'm done. Don't text me, don't invite me over, don't fucking show up at my door, don't expect to see me in meetings, don't even fucking look at me. Don’t follow me. I don't want to see you again.”

He turned and was gone, slamming Enjolras’ bedroom door behind him. As soon as it touched the wall, and it registered that Grantaire was gone, Enjolras found his words.

“Grantaire!” he shouted. He frantically reached around for something, anything to cover himself with, and stumbled into a pair of boxers from the laundry pile. Blinking through tears, unable to see in his hazy vision, he ran from the room. “Grantaire! Wait! Let me explain, Grantaire, please, stop! Wait! I’m so-” he reached the lounge room in time to see dark curls disappear behind a slamming door.

Enjolras blinked a few times, trying to see past the tears but they just spilled down his face. He felt like he was swallowing ash, like he was moving through water when he took a stumbling step towards the front door. 

“Don't.” Combeferre said, firmly. Enjolras hadn’t even registered that he was in the room. “Don't follow him. Let him go.”

Enjolras stared, helpless, at the door, for a long time, trying and failing to swallow down the lump growing in his throat, ignoring the rushing behind his eyes that wasn’t cured by the freeflowing tears. Eventually he registered that his knees hurt, and it was because he'd collapsed to them.

“I’m brewing some tea,” said Combeferre. His voice was closer than before. “Enjolras, I’m going to touch you now, I’m going to help you up onto the couch.” He said, gentle. Enjolras wanted to fight him off, chase after Grantaire, hold him here and make him listen. But he was numb. Combeferre draped a soft blanket around Enjolras’ shoulders, so that he wasn’t touching his skin when he helped him up. He guided Enjolras up and to the couch, and came back a few moments later with two cups of tea.

“I’m going to keep building my island,” Combeferre said, indicating the game he had on the TV. “You can tell me, or you can drink your tea and talk to Courfeyrac later, but you are going to talk about what just happened.” He said. Gentle, but stern.

What just happened?

-

Combeferre didn’t probe. He let Enjolras sit under the blanket and stare down at his tea, and silently cry. He played his game, looking at the TV so Enjolras didn’t feel watched.

“Do you want me to call Courfeyrac?” He asked, conversational, after a while of silence, after the tea had cooled enough that Enjolras had started to sip it.

Enjolras didn’t know what to say. Where to start. He finished the rest of his tea, while it was still hot enough to burn a little bit, maybe that would melt the thing in his throat.

“It’s…” he started. He didn’t even know what he was going to say. “It’s our anniversary. It would be, it should be, I had-” he hiccuped and broke down into frantic sobs again. “I had a plan!” The last was pathetic, barely more than a whine.

Combeferre took the cup from him, put a hand on his shoulder as he got up, returned with the cup filled up and steaming again. “What was your plan?” He asked, after Enjolras had the time to calm his breathing a bit. 

“I was going to ask him… I was going to tell him… I said it too early- said it in the wrong way, I need to. Fuck. I need to follow him, I need to-”

“Not like this, Enjolras, no, stop!”

Enjolras jumped up, spilled his tea, started towards the door again. Combeferre went to stand in front of him. “Wait, wait,” he said, putting a hand out and not quite stopping Enjolras. “You’re in boxers and a blanket for one thing. Courfeyrac has the van, for another. And I heard what Grantaire said, before he left. Let me, just- Sit down, please. Let me call Courfeyrac, he can come here, and I’ll drive you to Grantaire myself if you still want to after you’ve calmed down and talked it out, okay?” 

Enjolras let himself be ushered back. Combeferre cleaned up and got him a new cup of tea, then called Courfeyrac.

“Okay,” Combeferre said. “I heard Grantaire tell you not to follow him, so right now I’m going to need you to stay here and tell me why he’d say that. Why he looked so…”

Combeferre was kind enough not to say. Heartbroken. Devastated. He didn’t need to say any of these things. 

“What did you say too early?” Combeferre asked.

“That I’m in love with him,” Enjolras said. His eyes filled with tears again, so he only got a second to see Combeferre’s face do something complicated before he couldn’t see anything and the rushing behind his eyes was too great and he collapsed into choking sobs.

“Courfeyrac will be here soon,” is all Combeferre said. And then he sat back next to Enjolras, put an arm around him, around the blanket, and loosely held him and guided him to drink his tea and calm his breathing. “Hopefully he brings his vape,” he added.

-

“I’m proud of you for admitting how you feel, I really am,” Courfeyrac said, after Enjolras had stumbled through a hiccup and sob interrupted retelling of what happened. “But maaaaybe you should have found a better way to tell him.”

“I’ve gathered that much,” Enjolras snapped. 

“Not helpful,” Combeferre scolded. On the screen, his small avatar smacked Courfeyrac’s with a bug-catching net over the head. 

“Foul play!” Courfeyrac cried. He then kept talking, still not looking at Enjolras. Them having this conversation with the two of them playing Animal Crossing on the TV and Enjolras bundled up on the couch wrapped in a blanket was easier than the alternative: eye contact.

“So here’s the thing: I think he really thinks you're fucking him because you get off on torturing him, and he's going to believe that this is just another way of doing that.” Courfeyrac said.

Enjolras made a distressed sound. He knew it was fair, hadn’t that been what he was doing, for a while there? He thought about Grantaire’s words, “Is it not enough to know I'll always be heartbroken over you?” and bowed his head. 

Still, through the shame, the guilt, the knowledge that Courfeyrac was right, was the urge to fight. 

“How can he say he loves me, if he thinks i'm a monster?”

“It’s not that he thinks you're a monster,” Combeferre answered him gently. “It’s that he thinks he deserves the worst and thinks that's all he'll get from you. And, to be fair, what have you given him? I mean, I know it’s been good lately, and I’m not saying that Grantaire can't also be a bit of a dick-”

Courfeyrac’s scoff cut him off, “a lot of a dick.”

“-but you haven't been the kindest in this game that you've played, either. You knew what the stakes were for him. You had to know you were hurting him.”

Enjolras did, he knew. He just figured, since he was hurting too, since they were both hurting about the same thing… No. That’s not true either. He knew it wasn't the same for Grantaire. 

While Enjolras had been giving into the temptation, having Grantaire for just a little bit because it made the emptiness feel whole, made the pain feel less, Grantaire had been taking it as some kind of sadistic punishment. Because of course he had. He'd accepted that Enjolras was hurting him, and took more because he would have taken anything Enjolras gave him.

Except the truth.

He had been so stupid, thinking he could lead Grantaire there. Believing their own pretense that things were good lately, almost normal. He’d been stupid, lulled by the false hope, and thought that it would somehow be easy.

“You’re right. He was right. I’m selfish, fuck, I fucked up. I need to, I know he said, but he needs to know I’m sorry. He needs to know I meant it-”

“Enjolras, no.” said Combeferre. “I know you want to fix this, but the only thing we can do right now is give him what he explicitly asked for.” 

“Fuck you, don’t say we like you’re a part of this relationship,” Enjolras snapped. “What right do you have to stop me from following him, to stop me from seeing him now?”

He knew immediately he’d fucked up, even without Courfeyrac’s head snapping around as hey said “hey!” In a surprisingly stern and not at all Courfeyrac-like voice. From where he peaked out the corner of his eye to face them, Enjolras noticed that Combeferre’s carefully schooled face hadn’t looked away from the game, even as his avatar stood motionless like himself. 

“That’s not fucking on,” Courfeyrac said. “I know you’re mad, but not like that.” 

“I know. I’m sorry,” Enjolras said. He watched Combeferre nod, close his eyes and swallow. He was delicately processing something. 

Eventually Combeferre’s avatar started moving again, and he said evenly, “I’m not a part of your relationship, that’s fair. I am your friend, both of you, and I care about you both very much. Especially but not limited to when I hear one of my friends shouting at another to not text, not call, not even fucking look to him again.” 

It hurt, to hear those words again from Combeferre now. Was it fair, after what he’d said, for Combeferre to repeat them so accurately with a fabricated detached tone? Enjolras felt his body wanting to cry, wanting to throw up. He looked down at the blanket in his lap instead, ashamed 

Combeferre softened his tone, eased back into what he’d been saying before. “No one can tell you what to do, but if you love Grantaire, which I know you do, then you need to respect the things he asked of you. If he contacts you, then fine-”

“I can’t just not check in on him! I know what he said, but he doesn’t know the full story yet, he doesn’t know that I meant it! I can make him believe it!” Enjolras argued.

“You can’t make him anything,” Courfeyrac reminded him.

“I had a plan!” 

“The plan, I know, the plan,” Courfeyrac said.

This was getting annoying, so Enjolras snapped. “The fact that you’re even here-”

“Is not wasted on me, Enjolras.” Courfeyrac said, genuine. On the screen his avatar was trying to shake apples out of trees, but disturbed a hornets nest instead. “Oh come on!” He cried.

“You deserved that,” Enjolras sniped.

“Watch it,” Combeferre scolded, and in game he gave Courfeyrac some medicine for his swollen face. 

“Enjolras, I want you to be with him,” Courfeyrac said. “I’ve always wanted you two to end up together, for you to realise you love him, and I’m so, so proud of you. I want you to be together - wait, is it too soon to say not exclusively but also a little bit because I know how skilled he is at blowjobs?”

Enjolras turned to glare. Courfeyrac very delicately did not turn to see it. “Yes, it’s too soon.” Enjolras said.

“Got it, got it, forget I ever suggested it.” 

Enjolras watched them play for a little while and pondered. It was nice, a soothing game, with soothing music. Combeferre had curated a gorgeous island, even if Enjolras didn’t quite get the game. He’d tried to play it, but then the raccoon asked him to pay rent and he’d rage quit. 

But it was raining on the island, and that felt appropriate, even though the day was still unseasonably warm and sunny. He had planned to walk and enjoy the cloudless skies with Grantaire, hand in hand, finally together. 

“I want to be with him, too,” he said after a while. It sounded small. “And he wants to be with me. Why can’t this just be easy?”

Why couldn’t it just… happen. He’d had a plan!

Why did Grantaire have to ruin everything?

Why did Enjolras?

Grantaire

It had been, or would have been, one of those orgasms that you can draw out for a few minutes.

Shaking through the whole body, like every cell inside was having its own orgasm at the same time. Seeing stars, or more correctly black and white spots in his vision, and there in the centre the sun. His sun.

Enjolras looked so fucking beautiful like this. Mythological, unreal, spectral, like a real angel shining in the light, and that look in his eyes, the smile, the blush to his cheeks, the slight bit of sweat on his forehead to remind Grantaire he was human.

He was perfect in the morning sunlight, the only thing in Grantaire’s vision as black and white spots danced around the edges… stars. 

Enjolras dropped in closer so he was all Grantaire could see, pressed a kiss to his open mouth, and it was perfect. 

And then he’d said it. 

-

Grantaire moved down half the street before he felt his body, and realised his shoes were undone, and he was opening crying, and gasping on air. 

And the air was nice. Soft, warm, the sun was shining. It was a beautiful fucking day.

Grantaire broke down, collapsed in broad daylight into choking sobs and thought let me die here.

Let me die, now, still touched by the sun.

He knew he needed to get up, try to walk the rest of the way home, maybe catch a tram, maybe stop off at one of those bars on the main road just around the corner. Why not?

They wouldn’t be open, for one, and he looked like a fucking mess, for another. Hair an insane mess, shirt buttons half done up, mismatched button to hole so half of his stomach was visible. Stomach, cum still drying over his dark hair, because he had just come all over himself when it happened. Jesus, the humiliation, why was Enjolras like this?

“There you are!” 

The voice was wrong, not Enjolras, but still Grantaire panicked when he felt a hand come too close to his shoulder. He threw himself up and staggered away, screaming “don’t touch me!”

“It’s me, calm down! Stop it!” Joly cried, and in the panic hit Grantaire with their cane. Not hard, they had just held it out instinctively to put something between themselves and Grantaire, and Grantaire hadn’t known which way to flee and kind of swung his body into it.

“Ow!”

“I’m sorry! Fuck! I’m sorry, here, come sit,” and Joly and someone else - Grantaire looked around, Bossuet - guided him into their car. Bossuet put a lit joint in Grantaire’s hand, and then put himself in the backseat behind him.

“Are you guys kidnapping me?” Grantaire asked, confused.

“Combeferre texted,” is all Joly said from the driver's seat. “I’m so sorry I hit you, are you okay?”

Grantaire puffed on the joint, wound down his window so he wouldn’t hotbox them. Joly was already driving, taking them back to Grantaire’s place. 

“I’m fine,” he grumbled. It was pathetic. “You didn’t hurt me. I’m sorry I scared you, I thought it was…”

“Enjolras.” Bossuet said. Because while Joly was tuned in enough to leave it, Bossuet did not have that same social grace. 

“Ding ding ding!” Grantaire said, but he was crying. Like really openly sobbing messy ugly crying. It was bad.

The rest of the drive was just Grantaire crying, and apologising for how gross he was in Joly’s car, and Joly assuring him it was fine, and slowly turning the music up by increments. 

When they got to Grantaire’s, Joly and Bossuet went to go inside with him, and Grantaire didn’t have it in him to argue yet. He had half a mind to lock himself in his room once they were inside. Most of his good drugs were in there, right out in the open, on his bedside table. There was still some ket on a plate from the other day, crushed up and everything, just waiting for him inside.

They got to the door and all stared at it dumbly when it was unlocked. Grantaire slowly reached for the handle, more confused than anything, and then the door opened itself. No, it didn’t.

Some guy in a navy blue suit with shiny pointy shoes and a clipboard let himself out of his front door. He looked up, unimpressed, and Grantaire knew instantly who he was.

“I take it you’re Mr…” he looked down at the clipboard in front of him. “Grantaire?” 

Grantaire nodded. He wondered how he looked right now, pathetic, red faced and puffy eyed and clearly in last night's clothes, buttons not done up right, shoes undone. 

But that wouldn’t compare to how his place had looked. He’d left it a mess before Courfeyrac’s party, the dishes in the sink, the broken sink in the bathroom filled with water (a deal with it later situation), the broken window in the bedroom covered in cardboard (another deal with it later situation) the old gross unwashed bong next to the couch, the copious amounts of weed and ash trays all over his “no smoking” apartment. Or the pills and baggies and dead vapes on the unswept floor and the disturbing ash portrait in the corner and that plate of ket by the bed that had been waiting for him.

And the email, from about a week ago, maybe two. Something something routine inspection, that Grantaire had never replied to. The two months unpaid rent. He was fucked.

Oh no. 

“You never replied to our emails, or answered any of our calls, so I used our key.” The real estate agent said. “You’ll be getting your eviction notice on Monday.”

Grantaire had nothing left to give, so he just laughed. Ugly and hysterical, until the agent left, suitably unsettled. 

-

Grantaire expected Enjolras to tell him he'd never have him. That broke his heart, but he expected it.

He'd expected it when Enjolras drew him back in. He expected it when he'd been thrilled to say he hated him. He expected it when he kept saying “never again.” He expected it when they both broke that promise.

He’d expected it most when Enjolras had said “is it okay that I’m not going to say it back?” He had felt almost safe in that assurance. Enjolras would never love him, but even that was one boundary he had that he wouldn’t cross. One way he even found too sacred or unworthy or pitiful or holy that he wouldn’t use it to hurt Grantaire. There was safety in that. 

Through it all, there were two things he knew. One, Enjolras would never love him. That is the one belief that Grantaire had that he could never falter on.

Two, Enjolras wasn’t cruel enough to use that as a weapon. He was cruel, he was terrible, but he was not that terrible.

But apparently, he was. 

Grantaire knew he couldn’t survive this. He felt more than his heart break. It was his mind. Because Enjolras wouldn’t do this, but he had. Enjolras didn’t love him, but he’d said it. Enjolras didn’t lie, but he had. Enjolras wouldn’t use that word to hurt him, but he did. 

No, his heart wasn’t what was breaking. His mind, his world, his belief. Grantaire felt something inside of him crumble and knew he wouldn’t survive this. He stumbled in through the door and it felt empty, foreign. Someone else's home, maybe, but not his. 

Joly and Bossuet were busy planning around him, guiding Grantaire in and urging him to sit down, but Grantaire just stumbled unhelpfully in the direction and didn’t sit. Why sit? He knew he wasn’t staying here.

“We can help you find another place...”

“It’ll be okay, you can stay with us...”

“No.” Grantaire said. His voice sounded very far away. They kept talking, busy around him helping themselves to things: the kettle, a beer from his fridge, rummaging for one clean mug somewhere. 

“We’ll lodge a complaint, we’ll appeal, mental health grounds…” 

“They probably can’t even actually evict you, we’ll have 60 days, we can figure this out, here,” Bossuet put a beer in Grantaire’s hand, Joly gave up on the search for a clean mug and started looking for Grantaire’s weed.

“No. I’m leaving.” Grantaire said. 

“We can contact the renters union, they might know a lawyer…”

“No.”

“We can fight back, with the Amis behind you!”

“I’m leaving.” 

“Enjolras will-”

“NO!” Grantaire screamed. Throwing the word from his lungs like he could throw away everything choking him. 

“Don’t yell!” Joly screamed back, slamming the cupboard door. “You know I hate it!” They did, always had, ever since they were kids together. Their voice was high now, like it would have been when they had a meltdown and screamed back at someone who was yelling at them. “Yelling! Yelling! Always the yelling and the violence with you two! Enough! I hate it! And I hate my voice like this!” 

No one said anything. Joly sighed heavily and came to sit down on Grantaire’s couch. They had gathered a bag of weed and some papers in their foraging. “Where’s your grinder?” They asked. Grantaire pointed to the tray of supplies on the coffee table, and then sat down sheepishly next to Joly. Bossuet watched them carefully and pulled an armchair over.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you, Grantaire,” Joly said. Their voice was leading, almost patronising, but Grantaire let him have this.

“I’m also sorry for yelling, Joly,” Grantaire repeated. “Let me roll for you,” he offered, and Joly passed over the stuff with a small smile. 

“Is it time to talk about it?” Bossuet asked.

“I don’t think so,” Grantaire said. He rolled a joint for himself, and one for Joly, and then raised his eyebrows at Bossuet who shook his head. 

After a few minutes, when the air was full of smoke, Joly spoke up. “Grantaire, I’m scared. You said you were good. You said yesterday that you guys were good. And this morning Combeferre texts saying you were screaming at Enjolras not to follow you, saying we had to come find you right now. I love you so much,” and at that Grantaire felt the tears threatening to come up, the knot in his throat. “And I am getting more and more scared every day that you’re going to go so far in this mess the two of you have made, and I won’t be there to find you in time.” 

Grantaire took a deep breath in, a stuttering, choking one. Guilt, shame, humiliation. He followed it with smoke. Air. Guilt. Smoke. Air. Shame. Smoke. Air. Humiliation. Smoke.

He’d said they were good. He’d believed it. He’d believed a lot of things.

For a moment there, when Enjolras said it, It it, he’d almost believed him. But it was a lie, and to believe it would be a part of the lie.

He was Enjolras. Enjolras didn’t lie. But Enjolras didn’t love him. 

Which could he believe? Enjolras would never lie. Enjolras would never love him. 

“He promised he would never say it back,” he said, and it was a small pathetic sob that opened the floorgates. He knew it would make no sense to them.

But Joly was too smart, too tuned into Grantaire. “‘As in, he’s never going to say it back’, that’s what you said yesterday.” He said. Grantaire nodded and hid his face in his shirt. “He promised you he’d never say it back? He promised that?”

Grantaire nodded.

“Why would he do that?” Bossuet said, incredulous. Joly held out a hand, like telling him to hold back a bit, or to tune it down a bit maybe, Grantaire wasn’t sure. Or maybe just saying “I’ve got this, I speak Grantaire”. 

“Did he do that? Did he promise that? Or did he do something else and you turned it into this in your head?” Joly asked. 

“I’m not doing this,” Grantaire argued. 

“No, you’re doing this,” Joly snapped back, voice still even and soft but a warning there. “Now we can either smoke and figure out the Enjolras thing, or we can smoke and figure out the eviction thing, but either way I am not letting you drink yourself to death because you are my best friend, you fucking got that?” 

Air. Shame. Smoke. Air. Guilt. Smoke.

“I got it. And I vote the eviction thing,” Grantaire said. 

“Fine, then the eviction thing. We’re coming up with a plan, now. Roll me another joint. Please?” The last was gentle, to follow the uncharacteristic firmness of his crack down.

“Coming right up. And I don't need a plan. I told you. I'm leaving.”

Enjolras

Courfeyrac and Combeferre talked Enjolras out of texting Grantaire three more times. They talked him out of calling him four times, and talked him out of driving to Grantaire six times, until eventually Enjolras threatened to drive himself and Courfeyrac hid the keys.

“I just need to know he’s okay,” he argued.

“He’s at his place. I texted Joly when he left, they’re with him now. They said he doesn’t want to see you, Enjolras,” Combeferre said, gently.

It hurt. So fucking much. The guilt consumed him and he cried so hard he thought he’d throw up, until the two of them gave up on the pretense of the game and made him puff on the vape and sip on tea, calming his breathing.

Over the next few hours it went in circles. He thought himself back to the edge, and they walked him back off it. They eventually coaxed him to shower and when he came out Combeferre said “Joly texted. Grantaire’s asleep. You should sleep too, and we’ll… you can try tomorrow.”

He didn’t say “don’t text him”, but it was implied.

Well, Grantaire had said it. And Combeferre had repeated it plenty of times. 

He did give Enjolras a joint, which, yeah, he’d take. It couldn’t hurt.

But it tasted like Grantaire. Like every joint he’d pulled from Grantaire’s lips, like every breath he’d shotgunned from his lungs. 

He’d kissed Grantaire, right before he said it. He’d practically breathed the words into his open mouth. 

Had that been their last kiss? Was it really over now?

It came to him right before he fell asleep. Grantaire’s voice, rough and low and heart wrenchingly honest. “I’ll never fucking leave you, ange.” 

Liar. 

He thought he couldn’t cry anymore. He’d been wrong. 

-

No word, the next day. 

He had a few hours of dwelling on it, alone in his bedroom. He didn’t want to go out and see if Combeferre was there, hear anything he had to say, or apologise for his own behaviour like he knew he needed to. He would, eventually he did, but first he took a few hours alone in his bed. 

He felt like he was going crazy with nothing to do, and he very much had things to do, but this was too consuming. He needed to take action, but couldn’t do anything but look at the little dot on his phone that confirmed Grantaire was at his place. Alone, for now, although Joly had been by briefly that morning. But alone, now. Enjolras could go there, he entertained the thought, but knew better.

Instead he pulled out his laptop, opened a blank document, and typed out every fact he could about what had happened, about their relationship to date, trying to make sense. If he could lay it all out, get everything straight, then when Grantaire called he’d be ready. Yes. This would work.

Grantaire didn’t call, though.

He didn’t text. His little icon stayed at home, a small comfort, but there was no guarantee as to what Grantaire was doing there. Would he be working on the ash portrait Enjolras hated? At least if he was smoking in the corner he was upright, semi-coherent. Or had he taken something else, drunk himself to sleep and forgotten the death trap of a heater was on in his bedroom…

Eventually Éponine’s little icon joined his, and Enjolras was relieved, and then more upset. Because Grantaire didn’t need a babysitter, shouldn’t need a babysitter. He shouldn’t be afraid that left alone Grantaire will drink or drug himself into a death-like sleep or a sleep-like death. 

And it would be because of him.

Because he’d finally said how he felt, and Grantaire wouldn’t accept it. He’d rather die than accept Enjolras’ love. Was that it? Was this what they were?

Again he thought, is it over now?

He didn’t have days to waste and wallow in the heartbreak, no matter how consuming it threatened to be. Grantaire had someone with him, and Enjolras had things to do. He may have failed Grantaire, but he wouldn’t fail his community. 

The real love of his life, he’d once thought. Almost laughable, now. His friends, his community, his village. 

No. It was Grantaire.

Grantaire

It had been a hard sell. Almost impossible. Eventually Joly relented on a compromise: that Grantaire wasn’t leaving, he was taking a break. A holiday. 

There were conditions. First, the condition that Grantaire would return. They promised to host most of Grantaire’s shit, his useless expensive art supplies and shit like that, for a month. “One month, Grantaire. And then you come back, and you either move in with us, or you move out and take it with you. I’m not holding it forever, and I’m not holding onto it as a shrine to you if you kill yourself out there.”

Brutal, but fair.

“One month,” Grantaire agreed. “I’ll be back in time for spring. I just need… I just need to escape this winter, because if I stay here now it might actually kill me. I need to find the warmth, the sun. I need to find a different sun.”

It didn’t make sense, looking outside into the bright warmth of the day. The fools spring so common in late July and August could have seduced him into fools security. What would have happened, in that world. If he had bought into the fools spring, the fools dream. The fabricated stability of their fake bliss. What would have happened, if he’d let himself believe it, knowing it was a lie.

“I love you.” Enjolras had said.

And then what? What if Grantaire had smiled? What if he had pulled him in closer, kissed the words back into his open mouth, allowed him to keep fucking him. Would he have said it again? Should Grantaire have moaned, thrown his head back and dug his heels in and said, begged “say it again, say it again,” like he had with the truth. Why couldn’t he have just said that he hated him instead? 

What then? What was the punchline? Or had he just not expected Grantaire to react like that, wanted to hurt him just to get off, needed a new knife. Something sharper, unused, to cut a deeper wound. 

A true fucking sadist. 

“Condition two,” Joly said, pulling him out of his spiral. “Éponine is leaving to go tour up north in a week. You don’t have to go with her, but it would make me feel a lot better if you did. As long as you don’t make her pay for your ass she’d probably like the company. But you gotta ask her yourself.”

-

Éponine agreed easily enough. She came by the next morning on his request, and he pitched the idea while she smoked his weed and helped him box his art supplies. 

“I’m not paying for shit,” she said instantly. “But sure, I could use the company. I’ve got my own sorrows to drown, heartbreak to nurse. You think you’re so fucking special. What did he do this time?”

“Oh no, we are not doing that until I have conned some hot Meanjin-siders out of some free drugs.” He said. 

“Whatever it was, is it better or worse than being fucking engaged?” She snapped.

Fair. 

“Fair.”

“I’m leaving Friday, you can try to get on my flight or find your own way there, I’ll send you the hotel I’m staying at but I’m working from it too, so we’re not sharing a room sweetie. How are you paying for this?” 

“I haven’t paid rent in two months, and I’m sure as fuck not paying it now. I actually have a half assed savings put together, I was hoping to get enough to move from this shit hole before they evicted me, but eh, what can you do?” Grantaire said, and taped up his box, wrote paint and shit on the top, then on the side when he realised it might be stacked and no one would see his great labelling skills.

“You could have paid your rent. Or fixed your broken window, or cleaned up your shit, or not-”

“Yes, yes, there’s a lot of shit I could have done, whatever. What’s not done is not done. You reckon I could sell these?” He held up some denim jackets he’d fucked around with once, painting fucked up drug induced scenescapes on the back.

“I’d buy it. And is your actual job just going to give you leave with no notice?”

“It’ll be fine. I’ll text them now.”

It wasn’t fine. When he opened the app to text his manager requesting the next few weeks off, there were a few unread messages. One was a video of Grantaire in the corner of the bar that shouldn’t have CCTV. He was clearly stealing that whiskey. 

“Nevermind, I’m fired.” He said.

“You never cease to amaze,” she said with something close to awe in her voice.

Enjolras

Grantaire didn't come to the next meeting. 

Enjolras expected this, and didn't comment, or wait for him to start, and no one else did either. But the atmosphere was weird. Everyone knew then, on some level, just how much he fucked up. 

Or maybe not just how much, just that he had. It seemed only Combeferre and Courfeyrac knew what he'd said, how Grantaire had responded. They had been kind but they had also both been honest, that even though they knew he meant it when he said he loved Grantaire, he couldn't be surprised at Grantaire's reaction.

Could he, though? Should he have fought back, argued, grabbed him to stop him from leaving him.

“I’ll never fucking leave you, ange.” 

Should he have chased him out of the house, fought Combeferre off, made Grantaire just fucking wait and listen. Should he have said “it’s true, I love you, I mean it, I always have, it’s true, just listen, just listen, just fucking listen.” 

It wouldn’t have helped.

Would it? Could he have contained Grantaire’s rage, held him like Grantaire had when he’d broken down about… God, about Grantaire’s love. How he had denied Grantaire’s love was real. 

Did he deserve this, now? Could it be undone, could it have been done differently, what if his path had been written a different way. But it wasn’t. This is the story, this is how it goes.

Grantaire loved Enjolras, and Enjolras denied it. Resented it, rejected it, refused it.

Enjolras hurt Grantaire, again and again and again because he knew he could. Because… why? He couldn’t make sense of it now, only knew that the rage he felt then felt so like the love he felt now. It had always been love. How was his love so fucking cursed, despicable, poison, ugly? What was broken inside him that made his love broken? Made him use his love to break the one he should have been holding closest.

Enjolras loved Grantaire, and Grantaire denied it. Rejected it, refused it. Would rather be hated by Enjolras, would rather not have each other at all, than reckon with the fact that Enjolras’ love was real.

If he thought about that for too long, he felt like he would die. No hyperbole, the pain was such a physical, visceral sensation that it made him feel ill, weak, exhausted. 

So, of course, to avoid it he worked himself to his very limit. It felt like every night when he collapsed into bed and stole a few hours before the sun rose, his body and mind screaming from overwork and burnout and the pain and the grief the grief the grief the grief, it was proof that he was human.

You see, Grantaire. Do you see?

Did you know grief could be like that? Enjolras hadn’t, but then again maybe he did. Maybe he had just been repressing it, but it all came up now so real and raw. How did missing Grantaire make the shame that he’d denied for so long at disappointing his father feel so… there? He couldn’t describe it, just there. Drowning. Choking. 

Why did hurting Grantaire with his love remind him so much of his mother… God. Nope, that’s not a thread to pull on. Still he heard her voice at some coming out, he couldn’t remember which now. 

“You’ve always been my son, and you still will be. If we pretend you never told me that.”

Pain. Grief. Heartbreak. These are physical things. Physical, consuming, drowning. Dying.

As long as he moved, he wasn’t dying. So he moved. Pulled himself out of bed and it hurt and thought: see Grantaire.

Do you see?

He had spent the days writing letters to politicians, the nights postering around the neighbourhood to counteract a recent rise in Zionist graffiti. He spent the day connecting peers he helped through Les Amis to emergency resources, accomodation, legal resources. He spent the night cooking meals for the mutual aid group he volunteered for. He worked, he volunteered, he attended meetings with allied groups, he saw his friends when he could. He felt like a cartoon zombie, by the time he pulled himself into the first Amis meeting after it happened. 

And Grantaire wasn’t there. He said he wouldn’t be, and no one was surprised, least of all Enjolras. He cleared his throat before he drew their attention to something he was reporting back from an allied group. He had to swallow past the lump, the threat of tears.

Still human. 

Do you see?

-

That night, Éponine showed up at his door. She hadn’t been at the meeting, her little icon had been with Grantaire’s at his place.

For a moment Enjolras was hopeful, looking behind her to see if Grantaire would be in tow. She just laughed, and placed a reusable grocery bag in his hand. 

“What?” Enjolras said, looking down. He opened the bag, and recognised some of his things inside. His socks, his boxers, his shirt, his red keffiyeh. “What is this?” 

“Be fucking for real,” Éponine said. “This is every trace of you we could find in his life. Here you go, enjoy, because he doesn’t fucking want it.”

Ouch. What had Grantaire said to make her so mad at him. 

The truth, probably. 

“Is he..” Enjolras started to ask, because he couldn’t not ask.

He was cut off when Éponine barked out one more dark humorless laugh. “You don't get to ask that. Don't ask after him, don't show up where you know he'll be, and I swear to all I love if you crawl back to his door I'll make what you did to ‘Parnasse look like the child's play it was." She spoke low and fast, then looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Combeferre! How's my emotional support ex? I had to see you before I leave tomorrow.” Then she left him standing in the doorway, clutching his bag. Every trace of him they could find, that Grantaire didn’t fucking want.

So. This was it. Grantaire wanted the pain, the heartbreak, the dismissal. He wanted Enjolras’ refusal, his scorn, he begged for his hatred. But he didn’t fucking want his love.

Éponine stayed and chatted to Combeferre for a while, but Enjolras excused himself to his bedroom. Well, he didn’t exactly excuse himself. He stood in the doorway, looking down at the bag, the last of him from Grantaire’s life. Then Éponine called out “you’re letting the cold in!” And Enjolras glared at the back of her head and Combeferre pouring them both tea, and stormed to his room.

It was impulsive, like reaching for another cigarette, how he opened the app to check that Grantaire was back at his apartment. He didn’t even think to do it, of course he would be, Éponine had literally just given him proof of life, the bag he put at the foot of his bed and was ignoring right now. 

Grantaire’s dot wasn’t where it should be on the map, where Enjolras was used to it being if it wasn’t with his. It wasn’t anywhere on the map, he noticed when he zoomed out enough for it to include all of his friends' homes and workplaces, all the saved locations. He wasn’t… he wasn’t anywhere.

Grantaire wasn’t on the app at all. 

“Where is he?” He yelled, his voice carrying out to the living room before his feet could carry him there.

“Be a bit more fucking for real!” Éponine yelled back, rising to her feet. Combeferre stood too, but didn’t make any move to touch her or intervene. “What fucking part of ‘he doesn’t want to see you’ makes you think tracking him with your little app is okay?”

“This is ridiculous,” he cried, and stormed back to his bedroom. Éponine yelled something after him, but he didn’t want to hear it right now. He went to grab his jacket so he could go back out and find Grantaire, but knew Éponine had stayed so she could stop him from doing just that.

And because she and Combeferre genuinely did love each other. They were good, a shining example of what ex-partners could be. Fuck them both.

He paced his bedroom and fumed. He opened up the door to his courtyard, smoked a cigarette. He could go out right now, tell Éponine and Combeferre to fuck off, they couldn’t stop him. They would, though, Éponine had meant that threat. 

He could go out and say he’s going for a walk, or to pick up dinner. No, Éponine didn’t know him well enough, or maybe would be too distracted by whatever she was talking to Combeferre about, but Combeferre would see through it.

There was no way through them. If he went out there, no matter what he did, they’d stop him. 

He looked at the app again. Grantaire’s icon was gone, but all of his friends were there, and none were at Grantaire’s place.

Éponine was deep in conversation with Combeferre out on the couch. They were on their second round of tea. Éponine had said she was leaving tomorrow, to go tour he knew, so she could be here for a while having her debrief time with Combeferre.

There was a good chance Grantaire was at home right now. There was a good chance he was alone. 

He could just go by. See that he’s there. See he’s okay. Maybe… maybe talk to him. Maybe make him listen. 

When had that ever worked?

He had to try, didn’t he? Because he loved Grantaire, and he didn’t love idly. He had to try, because to try was to love.

This wasn’t going to be easy.

-

First, he knew he couldn’t take his phone. He couldn’t turn off his location sharing, or Combeferre would know.

Lucky, he had a second phone for work. Problem solved, he wouldn’t be stuck without, could call a ride and be able to call Combeferre in an emergency. 

Next problem was a bit harder. He couldn’t just walk past Éponine and Combeferre out there. He did have the door to the courtyard, still open from when he’d been smoking out it. If he ducked under the window to the kitchen they wouldn’t see him, and then he could…

Climb the fence. There was no way out without climbing the fence. 

The things you do, he thought as he dangled from the top of the fence, struggling on the third try to get his long legs over the top, and successfully getting it, almost losing his hold, and then doing something like a barrel roll into the recycling bin. 

Bad, but could have been worse. Combeferre and Éponine didn’t seem to hear, even if a neighbouring dog did.

And, well, that was the easy part. Next he had to go to Grantaire.

Grantaire

From the moment he made up his mind, it took five whole days to pack up his shit. Like whole days, waking up at sunrise, popping the last few dexies he had, powering through the day, and not falling asleep until about three or four am the next day. Up at sunrise, powering through, fall asleep on top of his bed, pants still on, unlit joint in mouth at 3:57am. Up at sunrise. 

Five days was pushing it fine, and only because Éponine had given him the deadline. It was good, he needed it. The drive, something to do, a goal. Pack up his shit, hand in the keys, flee this fucking city, leave Enjolras behind. 

He did have some time during those five days to marvel at the power of his friends. Community. Found family. The village. Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta made room in their spare rooms and garage for Grantaire’s supplies and the few pieces of furniture he didn’t want to part with. Bahorel helped him do all the heavy lifting, and on the third day he showed up with Courfeyrac’s van and Courfeyrac. 

“He doesn’t know I’m here. I’m not even here. I’m just extra hands,” Courfeyrac said, and got to work. He was good, like that. The van made it easier, meant they got the furniture and big pieces moved in one day. 

The days went by fast, and with all the chatter and the movement and the exhaustion deep in his bones, he didn’t really feel it. Late at night, when he was packing boxes full of clothes or plates or shit to donate, he was alone with it. 

Can you run from a pain like that? Can you cry it out, drink it out, smoke it out? Can it be screamed into pillows, can it be smashed like the white plates he threw across the room one night, when he gave up on stacking them carefully, and looked up into the mirror the window created and saw Enjolras’ bloodstained reflection staring back, from that night, Apollo, Achilles, his God, his angel, the martyr he made of both of them. White pieces of ceramic or what the fuck ever smashing on the laminate tiles of his shitty kitchen, for all the love Enjolras pulled from him. White plates smashing against the dark glass of the window for every time Enjolras rejected his love, every time he took it, every time he spoiled it, until one of them hit the right point and the entire window shattered. Fuck this, he wasn’t getting his bond back anyway. White plates smashing against walls, against cupboards, against the TV he’d promised to Bahorel “while he was away” (sorry about that definitely for sure cracked screen mate) until eventually Grantaire’s tired body gave way and he’d screamed himself hoarse and what was it all for?

He knew with perfect clarity one thing. One thing he had to hold onto. It is over now. 

Éponine had taken every thing of Enjolras’ that they found while packing, and she’d taken it when she left on the last night. “I’m seeing ‘Ferre. I’ll do what needs to be done. Be at the airport tomorrow, or don’t, I’m not the one who paid for your ticket.” And then she went to leave, but stopped.

“Two more things. One: delete the fucking app. You don’t need him tracking you while you’re gone, you don’t need to haunt yourself watching him run around the northside while you fall asleep.”

“And two?”

“I’m glad you’re coming with me. I need this.”

And then she was gone, because she was like him and couldn’t linger in the vulnerability.

Everything was ready. He had his meagre bag of shit packed, enough to be carry-on and not have to fork out for checked luggage. He had his ticket, he had moved the last of the boxes of his shit, the stuff ready to donate was a mountain just by the front door, ready for Bahorel to pick up tomorrow in the van just before he left. All that was left was his mattress on the floor, because it was too water-damaged and fucked to store at Joly’s place. Tomorrow morning Joly and Bossuet would pick him up, drive him past the real estate agent to leave his keys and one last “fuck you”, and then drop him off at the airport to follow Éponine up to the sun. 

So of course, Enjolras had to ruin it. 

Honestly, Grantaire was surprised it had taken him this long.

He knew it was Enjolras from the banging on the door. Sharp, incessant. Éponine was supposed to contain him. She said she’d stay there all night if she had to. Of course she hadn’t, couldn’t contain him. Nothing could.

“Fuck right off,” he shouted at the closed door. He wouldn’t open it. He wouldn’t.

“Grantaire.”

Fuck him. Fuck him saying Grantaire’s name like that. Like it was something holy. 

“Fuck! Right! Off!” Grantaire shouted. He kicked the door once to punctuate each word. 

“Grantaire!” 

Ha. There he is. Shouting his name like a command. Like a curse.

“No!” He wouldn’t open the door. “Fuck off!” He wasn’t going to open the fucking door. 

“Grantaire please!” 

“Fuck you!”

His stupid dumb ass opened the door to scream it. Enjolras’ hands were on him before he could take him in, pushing Grantaire in over the threshold with a graspful of his shirt. 

Grantaire swung before he decided to. It just… happened. It was always going to happen. This is the story, this is how it was always going to go. He swung with his left arm, and later wondered if it was a conscious choice to not use his dominant fist, or if it was just because of how Enjolras was holding him.

Grantaire swung, it made contact. To Enjolras perfect fucking beautiful dynamic face, the one that was screaming at him some string of nonsensical words like “please, just listen to me, fucking listen, let me explain, I meant-”

It made contact, and Enjolras’ body moved with the force of it, staggering back just enough to let go. They looked at each other for a still second, both breathing hard.

“Okay.” Enjolras said, and Grantaire knew he’d fucked up before Enjolras swung back. An open hand slap, to the side of Grantaire’s face. Sharp, stinging. “Is this what you want?” Enjolras hissed. “Is this what you’ll take from me?”

“I don’t fucking want anything from you, get out,” Grantaire growled back, and he tried to push Enjolras back out of the open door, but Enjolras held where his hands made contact to his shirt. He held Grantaire’s hands there, like Grantaire had held his to his chest, and he didn’t budge, but maybe Grantaire didn’t try all that hard. 

“So that’s it. Every trace of me you could find, dropped off by Éponine because you don’t fucking want it. Look at me right now and tell me you don’t want me!” Enjolras shouted.

“Get out!” Grantaire shouted back. He pushed harder.

“Look at me right now and tell me you don’t love me back!” Enjolras shouted, and Grantaire screamed. 

No words, nothing intelligible, just screaming in his face. Closing his eyes like he could block him out. He didn’t have any words, so was also surprised when it turned into this:

“You don’t fucking love me!” 

He was pushing again, and Enjolras was stumbling back over the doorstep. Almost there, one more shove and he could slam the door back in Enjolras’ face, a barrier so he didn’t hit him again.

“I do, Grantaire, stop! I do!”

And then Enjolras surprised Grantaire, because Grantaire genuinely didn’t think he had it in him. He grabbed Grantaire’s arm, his right arm, and before Grantaire had caught up and named the movement he’d used the force Grantaire was using to push him, twisted them in just the right way, (like he had each time they practiced the move Grantaire taught him), and had Grantaire pinned to face the wall, arm twisted and held behind his back.

And because Grantaire was a piece of shit, but a consistent piece of shit, the moment his body made contact with the wall and Enjolras twisted just right on the arm and slammed his body against Grantaire’s. Well. Grantaire moaned.

Consistent, at least.

Enjolras had enough dignity to ignore it. 

“Fucking listen to me,” Enjolras growled into his ear. 

“Get off me,” Grantaire said, as if he hadn’t just fucking moaned.  

“Only if you’ll stay.”

Oh. Fuck him. 

Grantaire wasn’t his fucking good dog anymore. He was feral. Unclaimed, untrained, unwanted.

He threw his head back into Enjolras’ face, struggling to try to get free, but even though he yelled in surprise Enjolras didn’t budge. Somehow he twisted again on his arm, over-twisting without the knowledge that Grantaire had to stop, the arm doesn’t bend like that, and then he pulled a leg up and drove his foot down into the back of Grantaire’s knees and Grantaire fell down to them. 

Enjolras came down with him, fluid in his motion. Fuck him, he shouldn’t be able to actually overpower Grantaire. Grantaire had been letting him do it, right?

Right?

“Stop it,” Enjolras said into the skin of Grantaire’s neck, like he wasn’t the one holding and twisting and kicking. Asshole. Grantaire tried to struggle again, and then it should have been no surprise when Enjolras twisted and maneuvered them and Grantaire was pushed down on his stomach, Enjolras pressing him into the floor, still twisting that arm.

“Fuck, red! Fuck, do you want to actually break my arm?” Grantaire cried, and Enjolras let go of his arm like it was fire, pulled back enough to ease it back to where it should be, and it was underhanded now but Grantaire threw back an arm, the back of his hand made contact with skin, Enjolras fell off him with the force.

And they struggled again. By the time Grantaire had gotten himself onto his back, Enjolras was back on top of him, again trying to contain Grantaire’s arms that he was throwing out to grab Enjolras, or push him off, or hit him, something. Enjolras got a hand on each wrist and he held them to the floor above his head and the movement brought him up, lodged them just right and… well.

Of course Grantaire was hard. Are you kidding? Not even a question, the man was hard. And Enjolras brought his wrists up to pin them to the floor and it brought them face to face, and crotch to crotch and Enjolras’ legs were spread on either side of Grantaire’s hips and… well. He was hard too.

He couldn’t say who leaned in. Just this. Gravity. 

For a few moments of harsh intent kissing, it was fucking perfect. 

Yes. Yes. No!

Grantaire bit Enjolras’ lip, hard, and didn’t let go with his teeth until Enjolras was gasping into his mouth, and then he dragged them along his lip until there was nothing left to drag on, rather than just letting go. Enjolras let go of one of his wrists, grabbed Grantaire’s chin to hold him where he wanted him. Like that was still his right.

“You said you’d never fucking leave me!” Enjolras spat at him when they pulled back. His lip was bloody where Grantaire had bitten it. 

Okay, great, still very much fighting then.

“And you said you’d never fucking say it!” Grantaire grunted back, and with his free hand he reached up and wrapped it around Enjolras’ throat the moment Enjolras’ hand slid down to his. 

A stalemate. They stayed like that for a few half seconds of frantic breathing, pulses running wild against each other's palms, proof their hearts were still beating for each other.

“I lied,” Enjolras said.

There it is.

“I know you did,” Grantaire pushed himself up into Enjolras’ hand as he said it. Let him really choke him, let him cut off his breathing and end this. Finally, end this.

“Fuck, no!” Enjolras let go, grabbed Grantaire’s shirt to pull him up enough that they were eye to eye. Grantaire let his hand fall from Enjolras’ throat, tried to grab his wrists and yank him off. “Listen to me!” Enjolras commanded. “I lied every time I said I would never feel it, every time I said I would never fall in love. Stop, stop!” Still Grantaire struggled, and Enjolras struggled to hold him still and get the words out. “Stop! I love you! I’m in love with you! Stop it! Just listen, just hear me, believe me. Grantaire just believe in me, please, come on I know you can- Fuck!” 

Grantaire finally dislodged him. Because he couldn’t look into those fierce eyes and hear those words and not fight him off. There was a brilliant moment of friction as he bucked him off where his body sang and he thought I could let this happen, fall into old habits. I could do as he asked. Believe him.

And then what? What was the punchline? What would Enjolras do after Grantaire let him fuck him? No. He wouldn’t let it happen, wouldn’t let himself know.

Grantaire got the upper hand, bucked him off, rolled so that when Enjolras reached for him he slipped through his grasp. He got up on his feet and grabbed Enjolras’ shirt, dragged him across the floor. 

“Get off of me, fuck, you’re fucking impossible!” Enjolras screamed, thrashing his arms and legs to try to get free again. Grantaire let him, let go and staggered back and into the wall to catch his breath while Enjolras rolled over, ready to jump up, propped up on his forearms glaring daggers at Grantaire.

“Get out, or I’m breaking your perfect nose,” Grantaire said, a fabricated calm to his voice.

“Grantaire, don’t do this. Just listen to me, fuck!” 

“I listened. I don’t believe you. Get out, now.”

Enjolras’ face dropped at that. Fuck him for looking so perfectly fake-heartbroken. Fuck him for this new game he was playing. What was the fucking end goal here, did he want Grantaire to die? Was that it? 

“Grantaire,” Enjolras gasped, and Grantaire had to close his eyes because he knew now that voice meant tears.

“Get out, or I’m breaking your perfect fucking nose and calling Éponine.”

Enjolras swallowed audibly. There was the sound of movement. Then: “what, what is this?”

Grantaire opened his eyes. Enjolras was looking at the pile of boxes, the empty apartment behind them. 

“You’re moving?”

“Get out.”

“Where are you going?” 

“Get out.”

“Grantaire, talk to me!” Enjolras screamed. He was pulling himself to his feet.

“No!” Grantaire yelled back. “You don’t get to order me around, you don’t get to tell me what to do. You don’t get to command me, you don’t get to force me to stab myself for you, you don’t get to beg me to believe your bullshit. You fucked up, you pulled the wrong thread, I’m calling your bluff. I do not believe you. I do not believe in you.” 

Enjolras reached for him. Grantaire waited for the right moment, when he was mid step, reached back, grabbed Enjolras’ arm and used the motion of his movement to practically fling him out the open door. 

He slammed it. It was the type to lock automatically. 

The door rattled and Enjolras screamed through it. Grantaire stared at it for a few broken seconds feeling like he was choking on glass. His eyes were filling with tears, the backflow filling his nose, the back of his mouth even. It tasted like blood.

He pulled himself to the mattress on the floor. Ignoring Enjolras screaming through the door a room away. He called Combeferre, because he hoped Éponine had gone home by now and didn’t want to disturb her.

“Come get your boy.” He said, and hung up before he had to hear Combeferre’s voice reply. 

Eventually the screaming and banging on the door stopped. Either because Combeferre had collected Enjolras, or he’d tired himself out and gone away. It didn’t matter which. Tomorrow he would catch a plane, leave this city behind, find a new sun. Éponine needed him to go with her, she needed this. So did he. 

Enjolras wasn’t his problem anymore.