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Chapter Text

“No, it’s got to be tighter. That’s why it’s called a tight rope, yeah?” Eponine called from across the tent. She stood, feet buried in the sand and hands snuggly on her hips as she watched Marius adjust the rope.

“It won’t go any tighter, ‘Ponine,” he groaned, fumbling with the harness.

The girl rolled her eyes and hopped onto the ladder beside her. She tugged at the rope coolly, her mouth turned into a calculating line, before yelling “If I fall and die, I’ll haunt you for the rest of your life!”

“I’m willing to take that chance!” Marius grinned and watched as Eponine placed a tentative foot on the rope. “It’s good, see?”

She didn’t reply, but instead continued toward the middle of the line. Eventually, she leaned over, grasped the rope with her hands and hoisted her legs into the air. Marius couldn’t help but stare for a moment, though he had seen her do it a hundred times before. The gracefulness that seemed to emanate from her as she balanced was extraordinary.

“Starting without me?” a sweet voice called up from the ground. Both looked down to find a smiling blonde dressed in a white leotard. She dropped the large feathered fan she was holding to her side and started her way up the ladder.

“I was only checking this one’s handiwork,” Eponine said lightly as she returned to her feet.

“What’s the verdict?”

“It’ll do,” she smiled as Cosette slid onto the rope.

Just then, another voice drifted up from the ground. The three elevated friends looked down to find a tall, fair skinned man who looked to be about 20, a folded piece of colored paper clutched tightly in his hand.

“Excuse me?” he called.

Eponine peered over the platform to see if the young man was with anyone. He was too young to be a businessman and not dressed nearly well enough. “What do you want?” she yelled down.

“Ep, you don’t need to be so harsh. He looks sweet,” Cosette muttered.

The man turned a rosy pink as he glanced down and held up the paper in his hand. “I got your flyer,”

“The show doesn’t open for another week, kid,”

“I know,” he replied, shifting from foot to foot. “I want to join the circus,”

The three shared a weary look. There had been many a college-dropout who had wandered into their midst, intent on joining the band of performers as some act of post-teen rebellion. At first, they had been kind and accepted anyone who needed a place to go, as that was how they had gotten here as well. Eventually, though, the few who stayed grew scarcer and scarcer until there was no point in allowing them in at all. They simply threw off the dynamic of the group and left, often without saying goodbye.

Marius started his way down the ladder, followed by the two women.

“Look, kid, I’m sure your parents would be wonderfully shocked to hear your escape story and all, but we really don’t have room in the act for anyone else,” Eponine said. Now that she was down on the ground, she could see that the man was rough around the edges. His hair was unkempt and his jaw was slightly offset, as if it had been broken one too many times.

The man furrowed his brow slightly, but quickly shook off the irritated grimace. “I’m not looking to rebel, I’m looking to get a job. I don’t have anything to add to the act, anyway. But I can make your flyers and paint your sets, do any of the behind the scenes stuff you need. I’m a quick learner and you don’t even need to pay me, just give me a place to sleep and enough food to get by,”

He stood waiting, running his gaze over each of the three in front of him. Eponine crossed her arms and evaluated him with speculation.

“I’m sorry, lovely, it’s just that we don’t really need anyone right now,” Cosette chimed, her huge eyes portraying some amount of sincerity.

“Who’s this?” Yet another voice entered the tent, and all four turned to find its owner. A man stood in the entrance, his hands in the pockets of a deep red tuxedo jacket. He was tall and muscular, but not in the way that made him appear large. A shock of blonde curls ran wild about his head and a seemingly permanent glint found itself in his eyes.

“This is—“

“Grantaire,” the brunette cut Eponine off before she could remember that he had never actually introduced himself. “And you are?”

Instead of answering, the blonde stalked slowly towards the group, the twilight shadows following his steps. He stopped directly in front of the newcomer, looking down at him through piercing blue eyes. Grantaire sucked in a breath. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this intimidated.

“We don’t need you here,” the man said quietly. “Run home, boy,”

Just as the suited man was pulling away and turning to Marius, Grantaire’s scowl emerged. He grabbed his arm and pulled him back with a force he wasn’t expecting to possess.

“You don’t know that. You don’t know anything about me, I could be exactly what you need. And really, I can’t be more than three of four years younger than any of you, so why does everyone keep referring to me as a child?”

The man froze and returned his stare to Grantaire’s suddenly nervous form. “How old are you?” he demanded.

Grantaire stuck out his chin. “Nineteen,”

The edge of his lip curled, but it wasn’t so much a smile as a wicked smirk. Grantaire felt something run down his spine.

“A child,”

Grantaire folded his arms. “How old are you, then?”

“I’m twenty six. I’ve spent half my life in this business and that is far more than enough to give me grounds to dismiss you as too naïve for my circus. You may think your intentions are pure, but you’ll spend a week with this crowd and want out. I’m not interested in playing hospitality for stray mutts like yourself, and I’m certainly not interested in any of your ‘handiwork’. Go find somewhere else to run away to,”

With that, the man spun on his heel and moved toward the exit opposite the one he had come in from. “Marius, a word,” he muttered, then vanished behind the tent flap.

 

It wasn’t until a week later that Grantaire discovered his name. The brunette sat in the furthest seat of the crowded tent, his eyes focused on the short freckled man he had met in his previous encounter. Marius was tending the stands, making sure everything was clean and ready for the show to begin.

Finally, after everything was perfect, the lights went down and music began to play. The stage entrance opened dramatically and a tall silhouette strode in to the sound of immense applause from the audience. Grantaire, taking cues from the others, put his hands together for the man whose step seemed vaguely familiar. When the lights came up, he sucked in a breath and held it there.

“Good evening, ladies and gents,” The blonde boomed from the center of the ring. “Welcome to L’ABC, your very own cast of clowns and carnies, acrobats and lion tamers, magicians and trapeze artists! We’ve traveled far and wide to join you here, today. So please, sit back, relax, and let us entertain you!”

The crowd roared around him, and Grantaire noted how different the man sounded onstage than he did off.

“My name is Enjolras, your Ring Master. And now, I have the pleasure of introducing a brave young man who has taken on the ultimate task,” Enjolras bent his knees and leaned forward, black cane in hand and eyes bright with anticipation. “He has tamed a beast so ferocious, it could kill him at any given second. All the way from Morocco, welcome Monsieur Combeferre!”

Enjolras held out his hand as another man stepped into the circle, waving to the audience. He was dark and intense looking, but possessed a certain level of calm Grantaire figured must be needed in order to tame any animal. Enjolras stepped off of the platform and gave the other center stage, allowing him to turn and beckon towards the opening. Immediately, the crowds grew silent. Tension was thick as they waited, until a giant feline leapt from the gap. A collective gasp erupted in the stands as Combeferre held up his hands. Suddenly, the lion fell from its predatory stance and settled on all fours, bowing just as the man was doing to it.

Grantaire pulled his sketch pad from his bag and began outlining Combeferre’s form. As the people around him vigorously oo-ed, ah-ed and made tiny noises of fear and excitement, Grantaire worked on a depiction of the man and the beast. Throughout the next several acts (Courfeyrac, the magician, Feuilly and Jehan, the trapeze artists, and Bahorel the acrobat), R captured the performers on paper.

When Eponine and Cosette made their debut, the crowd went positively wild. They smiled and waved before stepping out onto the tightrope. Grantaire knew they were making it look more difficult than it was for them, as he had seen how easily they danced across the line during rehearsal. It made for a good show, though, and created the element of surprise when they advanced on to more rigorous movements. He decided to sketch them side by side, bent halfway into a handstand. The picture captured the curves of their backs rather nicely, he thought.

Finally, when the show was drawing to a close, Grantaire turned to a fresh page. He stared at Enjolras as he spoke, all big arm movements and wild eyes, and attempted to put pencil to paper. He scribbled and erased and shaded, but by the end, he still could not quite get him right. He didn’t look real, just a sad outline of a great man. He scrutinized over the piece until everyone had left the tent.

When the lights turned off, R stepped carefully down the stands and walked across the ring in which L’ABC had performed. He reached out to brush a hand over the stage entrance, finally deciding to take the chance. He pulled it back ever so slightly and peered around the corner.

“How do you think it went?” Cosette asked Bahorel excitedly as she took the glittering pins from her hair.

“Eh, we’ve had better,” As soon as the girl began to frown quizzically, the man grinned and placed a hand on her shoulder. “You were lovely as always, mon Cherie,” She grinned and planted a light kiss on his cheek.

“Merci, Bahorel,”

“Back so soon, kid?” Grantaire jumped at the sound of a voice behind him. He turned to find Eponine smirking at him with her arms crossed. She was leaning against one of the support poles, her head resting to the side.

“I, uh…I saw the show,”

“Yeah?” she pushed herself off the pole and took a step towards him. “What’d you think?”

“Oh, you were all wonderful,” Grantaire rushed. “I mean, the lighting could have been a bit more focused and Courfeyrac’s mirror trick was completely transparent, but other than that, it was superb,”

Eponine quirked an eyebrow at him. “Transparent, huh?”

R averted his gaze sheepishly. “Well, yeah…you could totally tell where the mirror was to make the hoop look like that,”

The girl scoffed and let her arms fall to her sides. “Well don’t tell Courf that, he’s been perfecting that one for a month,” Grantaire looked down at his feet. “What are you doing, kid?” the brunette sighed.

R startled and met Eponine’s chocolate eyes. “I want to work here,”

“So you’ve said,”

“I’m not just another runaway. I’m of legal age and I’ve got a good education. There’s no reason for you not to hire me,” he stated matter-of-factly.

“There is one reason,” Eponine chimed, wrapping her arm around the pole and swinging lazily. She pulled herself around and released just in time to land right in front of Grantaire, leaning in uncomfortably close so that her lips were brushing against his ear. “I don’t believe you,” she whispered.

“What are you doing here?” that unmistakable voice cut into their exchange. Grantaire looked over at Enjolras, not quite as surprised as he had been a minute earlier, but his stomach still twisting into knots. The ring master was all but terrifying in the way that he walked, glared and spoke. “Intimidating” was an understatement.

Grantaire squared his shoulders and faced him head on. “I’d like a job,” he repeated.

“I said no,”

“Yes, but I’m still here,” The two made devilish eye contact and it was all R could do not to look away.

“I don’t have time for this,” Enjolras growled. “Get off my grounds,”

“Not until you give me a chance,”

The blonde clenched his hands into fists, his breath nearly visible as he exhaled silent rage.

“Come on, Enjolras,” Eponine murmured. “Just give him a chance,” He shot her a horrifying glance, but she remained unmoving. She tilted her head with a meaningful look in her eye, as if urging him on.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Enjolras sighed and returned his boring gaze on Grantaire, who was trying not to tremble as he clutched his bag and sketchbook to his chest.

“One night. You can stay one night. But if I’m not convinced by the end of tomorrow’s performance that you’re worth my time, I will not hesitate to throw you off my crew. Do you understand?”

Grantaire nodded quickly.

“Right. Courfeyrac, stop eavesdropping and show Grantaire to your tent,” The magician poked his head around the striped fabric and grinned.

“I get to room with hot new guy?”

R blushed and tightened his grip on his things.

“Shut up, you’re making him nervous,” Eponine threw her ballet flat at the smiling man. He laughed and threw it back, beckoning for Grantaire to follow him.

“Alright, fine. Don’t worry, Hot New Guy. I don’t bite. Unless you’re into that,”

“Courf!”

“Alright, alright! Sorry. Let’s start over. Hi, I’m Courfeyrac,”

 

By the end of the night, Grantaire had met everyone in the crew. It was a relatively small number, for such a large show. Most of the tech work was done by the performers themselves, though, which accounted for most of the small cast. Marius and Joly were the stage hands, Bossuet the media director and Musichetta the cook. R got the impression that she also played the part of mother to them all, as she swatted Feuilly with a rag and demanded that he finish doing his own laundry. Though there was no age difference between the two, Musichetta didn’t seem to mind the role.

After learning how to man the lighting board and lock the lion’s cage properly, Eponine dragged him towards the circle of friends, who were all centered around a crackling campfire and munching on hamburgers.

“Take a seat,” she offered as Musichetta shoved a plate in front of him. He nodded in thanks and began eating immediately. It had been nearly two days since he had put anything in his stomach but wine, and it was beginning to get to him.

It took R a moment to realize everybody was staring at him, at which point he dropped his burger and glanced around nervously.

“Er…was I supposed to wait?”

Courfeyrac burst out laughing, slamming Grantaire on the back as he pulled up a chair beside him. “I like you,” he grinned. “Everybody, if you have not been formally introduced, this is Grantaire. He’s the hot new guy. Hot New Guy, this is everybody,”

R was learning not to let the color rush to his cheeks so quickly, but it still came, nonetheless. He nodded meekly and smiled. “I think I’ve met all of you at one point today,”

“I am now formally and officially calling dibs,” Courf boomed as he sat straight up in his chair and raised his hand in declaration.

“Courfeyrac,” Musichetta scolded, eyeing him angrily. “Do you even know if he’s gay? Or comfortable with you saying such stupidly gay things?”

The magician shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. If he’s straight, he won’t be by morning,”

Bahorel managed a sharp laugh and offered Courfeyrac a champion’s high five. Grantaire shrank further into his chair.

“Look, you’re scaring him,” Cosette cooed, reaching over to pat him on the shoulder. “It’s okay, he’s only kidding, I promise,”

“If you want to sleep in my tent tonight, you’re welcome to,” Jehan offered with a small smile.

Grantaire couldn’t help but laugh. The whole conversation was so ridiculous, it had him grinning and burying his head in his hands. It had been so long since he was with people who actually knew how to laugh, the entire experience was a bit overwhelming.

“Thanks Jehan, but I’ve got a much better chance of getting laid in Courfeyrac’s tent,” he managed.

The whole group seemed to let out a breath at once, as if they were all waiting to see if Grantaire was the type of person they might be able to get on with, and the joke had proven such. Courfeyrac howled and slapped an arm around Grantaire’s shoulder vigorously.

“I knew I liked you! Didn’t I say I liked him? I like him,”

A bubble of chatter erupted throughout the group, with Grantaire at the center of it. They talked on until it must have been nearing two o’clock, and Joly finally took the initiative to go to bed. The rest trickled out, until it was just the artist, Eponine and Courfeyrac.

Eponine lay with her head in Courf’s lap, idly lacing her fingers through the sequined shawl she wore in the show. There was silence for a long time, save for the dying crackle of the fire and the steady thump of Grantaire’s heart as he felt himself grow tired.

“Is there a reason Enjolras doesn’t join you for dinner?” he asked suddenly. Eponine blew out an exaggerated breath and Courfeyrac, a sharp laugh.

“He’s not much for company,” the girl said.

Grantaire leaned back against the chair. “He sounds so friendly during the act,” he pondered. “I don’t understand how he can be two completely different people,”

Eponine rolled over so that she was on her stomach, her chin resting in her hands. Courfeyrac reached down to thread his fingers through her hair.

“He isn’t. Not really. Enjolras is…a businessman. He’s good at the part he plays, and but that’s all it is to him; a part. He leaves the socializing for onstage,” Eponine explained.

“He used to eat with us,” muttered Courfeyrac, staring at the fire.

The girl chuckled softly. “That was a long time ago,”

Grantaire tilted his head. “What happened?”

Courfeyrac shifted slightly in his seat and curled closer to Eponine as a nippy breeze wafted past. He gave half a shrug. “I think his heart was broken,”

“That’s one theory,” Eponine scoffed. “I say he’s just a prick,”

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes. “There was this boy. He came to us, a lot like you did, like all of us came at one point, asking for work. Enjolras originally started this circus to get people like us off the streets, so he welcomed the kid. Well, I guess he wasn’t really a kid. Nineteen, I think. But at the time, Enjolras was only twenty, so it was kind of natural for them to get close to one another. He never said anything to us, but anyone could tell that they loved each other,”

“Enjolras is gay?” Grantaire interrupted.

“Yeah, something like that,” Courfeyrac waved off the question and continued with his story. “Anyway, one day, the kid just up and leaves. Doesn’t even say goodbye to the rest of us, just tells Enjolras that he couldn’t be a part of the circus forever and goes home. I think it really threw him off guard,”

Grantaire tried to wrap his head around the leader loving someone. All of his interactions with him seemed so stoic and intimidating, the idea of him actually expressing some sort of kindness, of him kissing someone…it was off. He couldn’t quite see it.

“Ever since then, the guy’s been all business. Nobody new, nobody close. He and Combeferre are friends, but even they don’t talk that much,”

“Just try to stay out of his way,” Eponine advised. “He’s not cruel, just strict. But you have to admit, he runs a good show,”

Grantaire shrugged and chewed over the information. So Enjolras was a mystery to everyone.

“Right,” Courfeyrac heaved, getting up from his perch. “Ready for the best sex of your life?” he held out his hand to R, who grinned and allowed himself to be pulled up.

“Oh, definitely,”

“If you make even one fake sex noise, I swear I will collapse your tent,” the girl growled, tossing the blanket they had been sharing at the man. He laughed and caught it easily.

“No promises,” he said, wagging his eyebrows as he dragged Grantaire towards a nearby tent.

“Shoot me.”

Chapter Text

Courfeyrac was still asleep when Grantaire woke up. He stretched and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, then surveyed his surroundings. The magician lay curled up on the opposite end of the space, his wild curls mapped out against his face. Grantaire had been pleasantly surprised to find out that Courfeyrac was all talk. After tying the canvas shut the previous night, Courfeyrac set up a pile of blankets and pillows and asked Grantaire if he needed anything. There was no movement, no attempt to turn the arrangement into something more. The man was flirtatious and kind, but hardly presumptuous. They fell asleep facing each other.

It was brighter than R expected. It couldn’t be six o’clock yet, but the sun still imposed itself on his morning. The only other movement was the fire coughing up its last few embers.

He figured it would behoove him to make himself useful. Grantaire found the coffee machine and made a pot, more for himself than for the others. After downing two cups, he took to feeding Combeferre’s lion and setting the places for rehearsal. It was when he was tightening the performance rope that he realized he wasn’t alone.

“Trying to steal my job, I see,” Marius said, not unkindly, from the ground. Grantaire startled.

“More like make one for myself,” Grantaire mumbled. The freckled boy lifted his hand, revealing a white mug in toast.

“If you make coffee every morning, I can assure you, you’ve got one,”

The two stood in mutual silence for a while as Grantaire fiddled with the ropes. It only took him a few tries to figure out how to stretch them securely. He checked them by pulling on the twine, and when he was satisfied, he made his way down to the ground.

“Are the others up?” he asked.

Marius shook his head. “I’m usually the first,”

“Sorry if I cut into your alone time, then,”

The man waved him off, taking a long sip of his coffee. “I don’t do it for the alone time. I just can’t sleep past the sun,”

The artist nodded in understanding. “Right, then. What do I need to know before tonight?”

Marius’ face lit up. Being a stagehand was a tiring business. He wasn’t often approached about his work, though it was just as rigorous as the performer’s. He rarely got to talk about the process with anyone. Having Grantaire as a mentee provided a small respite from the solitary job, and he indulged in it fully. They spent the better part of the day going through the fixings he needed to know about in order to run the show. He soon found out that Grantaire was good with his hands. It only took him minimal attempts to do the things it had taken Marius weeks to master, and he even fixed the unicycle that had been broken since they were stationed in London.

After the sun had reached its zenith and continued to sink lower in the weary sky, Marius furrowed his brow. “Where did you learn to do all these things?”

Grantaire shrugged and fiddled with the lighting board. “Around,”

“Very descriptive,” Marius teased.

“I wasn’t aware you were looking for a novel,”

Grantaire almost felt bad when the brunette’s eyes widened and he took on the resemblance of a hurt puppy. He was so surprised by the biting remark that he simply clamped his lips together and pointed to another switch on the board. Grantaire pressed it, an apology sitting on the edge of his tongue. It never made an appearance, though.

Dinner came without the accompaniment of the ringmaster. Grantaire settled into a chair with a plate full of food, intent on filling his stomach to the brim.

“How’s your first day been going?” Cosette asked, perching on a seat beside him. Grantaire glanced up.

“Alright,” he grunted.

“He’s amazing,” Marius interjected. “Learned everything twice as quickly as I did,”

Cosette grinned. “Yeah? That’s awesome,”

Grantaire simply nodded and finished his dinner. He had to remind himself that he wasn’t here to make friends. These people were lovely and kinder to him than anyone had been for a very long time, but those were the kinds of people he had to be weary of. He cleared his plate and left the group.

 

“It’s ridiculous,” Enjolras snarled. He was standing at the window of the trailer that became the group’s makeshift home when they were on the road and his makeshift office when they weren’t. He watched the new boy sitting amongst his crew, talking and eating like he’d been there forever. “He has no place here,”

Combeferre sat on the low sofa, leaning his head back against the wall. “Why’s that?” he asked calmly.

“He’s a child,”

“The same age as you, when you ran away,”

“That was different. I had no idea what I was getting myself into. And now he thinks that just because he was annoying enough to come back more than once, he’s earned our complete respect,” Enjolras spun around and collapsed into his chair.

“You think he’s entitled?” Combeferre pressed. He always found ways to urge more information from people, no matter the situation. Enjolras was perhaps the most difficult, but the guide was able, all the same.

“I know he’s entitled. Look at him,” Combeferre did not move. “He thinks this is something he can just tack on to his list of idiotic childhood exploits,”

Enjolras curled his fist around the table. “And if he doesn’t? If he is truly like the rest of us, in need of a means to survive?”

The blonde narrowed his eyes. “No one is like the rest of us. We are a dying breed,”

“Enjolras,” Combeferre stood. Under normal conditions, his height may have been intimidating, matched with his striking features. It was the way he always wore them in a soothing expression that made it not so. He stepped towards the other. “Come, surely we were not the last impoverished teenagers,”

“I don’t want to talk about this,”

“I think you do,” the darker man refuted. Enjolras had been steaming since Grantaire had shown up here. He knew that nothing good could come of pent up frustration, so he extended his hand to rest against the table.

Enjolras’ eyes narrowed. “You are not to tell me what I do and do not want,”

Combeferre gazed at him stubbornly.

“I have to organize the tickets for tonight,” It was clearly a dismissal, but Combeferre did not move. Enjolras looked up, surprised that he had not been obeyed. “If you’ll excuse me,”

“And what of the boy?” he asked, leaning forward.

“What of him?”

“Will he stay?”

“Whether he does or doesn’t does not concern you. I gave him until the performance tonight, and that’s when I’ll decide,” He shuffled the papers on the table.

“I think you’ve already decided,”

Enjolras slammed the stack down onto the table and stood, just matching Combeferre’s height. He was lankier, less built, but a hundred times as terrifying. His eyes narrowed into icy slits as he growled. “You have not earned the right to defy me. Go prepare for the show,”

They held each other’s stares for a thick moment, until the lion tamer gave in and moved to the door. He paused, one hand on the frame as he watched Enjolras curl his fists around a pile of tickets. “One day, you must realize who is an employee and who is a friend,”

Enjolras’ lips thinned into a pursed line. “You are all my employees. Go prepare,”

The look that Combeferre gave him was more pitying than hurt, but he left the man to his tickets and his unreasonable emotions. Even the guide was not fit to reckon with a force like that.

 

The show was more crowded than Grantaire was expecting. He had thought the previous night was a hit, but this…this was insane. People squeezed into every possible crevice of the tent, sitting on laps and standing in the back row. The chatter reached concert-like volumes. Grantaire wasn’t sure whether to attribute it to the Friday evening or word of mouth. Either way, he tried not to get overwhelmed as he climbed up to the lighting booth to sit beside Joly.

“Ah, Grantaire!” the man greeted brightly. “Everything set?”

“I haven’t spoken to Enjolras, but everyone else is in place,”

Joly furrowed his brow. “I usually wait for the okay from him,” He peered over the edge of the lighting board, as if the blonde would be waiting onstage to give him a thumbs-up.

“Is it usually this crowded?” R asked, matching his movements.

“Yeah, for a Friday. Crazy, isn’t it?”

Grantaire could only nod and survey the space as Joly fiddled with the headset, trying to get a hold of the ring master.

“Do you want me to go down to check?” he asked warily, watching as the other frowned down at the electric box in his hand. Relief flooded Joly’s face.

“Would you? I can’t get this thing to work,”

Grantaire nodded and descended from his perch. He might have said he had been making a conscious effort to stay out of the blonde leader’s way this past day, but it wouldn’t have been entirely true. There was no effort involved, as Enjolras had not made an appearance the entire time. Grantaire briefly wondered what he could possibly be doing in that trailer of his for so long, but the thought drifted off to mingle with other things he knew he shouldn’t worry about. He slipped out of the stage entrance and looked around. Eponine smiled at him from where she and Cosette were stretching.

“You look lost,” she stated, bringing her leg up behind her head.

“I’m looking for Enjolras,”

Eponine tilted her head inquisitively. “And why’s that?”

He rolled his eyes. “Well, we’ve got to start the show, haven’t we?”

“Christ, you don’t have to be an ass about it,”

“Have you seen him?” Grantaire was growing impatient. His eyes shifted over all of the performers, who were in various stages of preparation. They landed on Combeferre, who was cooing softly at his lion from just outside the cage. If anyone would know where he was, ‘Ferre would.

“No, I haven’t. And even if I had—“

She never got to finish her sentence, though, because Grantaire walked away before she could make her poor excuse for a threat. Unused to anyone having more gall than her, she was considerably put off.

“Combeferre, have you seen Enjolras?” Grantaire asked once he had stepped close enough to the man. Combeferre did not turn, didn’t even move his caressing eyes from the enormous cat, as if he’d been expecting Grantaire this whole time. It wouldn’t have surprised him, really. He got the feeling the darker man was much wiser than he let on.

“He’s in the trailer,”

“Of course he is,” Grantaire muttered, stalking towards the vehicle. When wasn’t he in that stupid trailer?

“He might not want you to go in there,” Combeferre called softly.

“Well he should have thought of that before he was five minutes late for his own show,” Grantaire rapped loudly on the door. If Enjolras wanted to stay holed up in his trailer all day, so be it. But even a terrifying man can be punctual. Receiving no answer, he pounded harder.

Finally, the door was flung open, revealing a scowling blonde in an astonishingly red tuxedo jacket. He glared down at Grantaire.

“What?” he snarled.

“We were scheduled to start five minutes ago. Joly’s waiting on you,”

“We’ll start whenever I am ready,” Enjolras leered, already beginning to slam the door shut. Without thinking, Grantaire intersected it with a firm hand. The blonde froze, peering down at him. R could swear the air dropped ten degrees.

“The headset isn’t working. Joly needs me to tell him you’re ready to go,” he said, trying to be as firm as possible. It wasn’t easy, when the clearest yet darkest eyes he had ever seen were slit into narrowed daggers, directed at him. He swallowed unsteadily as Enjolras descended the steps in an agonizing, slow rhythm. He stood a good head taller than Grantaire, arms crossed behind him and jaw set.

“You’re walking on thin ice, Grantaire,” he said quietly.

“I was only trying to—“

“If I say that I am not ready, I am not ready,” When R began to explain that he was only doing what Joly had instructed, Enjolras cut him off. “I’m a busy man, Grantaire. I have things to attend to. If I must begin late, then we will begin late,”

“But they’re waiting,”

“They’ll survive. Now, if you must return to Joly with the cue to begin the show, then wait here. I’ll be ready in a moment,”

“Fixing your makeup, then?” The remark left Grantaire’s lips before he could think better of it and earned him a venomous glare. Enjolras made a throaty sound that wasn’t quite a growl and wasn’t quite a groan, but was clearly nothing good. He spun on his heels and vanished into the trailer, slamming the door loudly behind him. Grantaire let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding and leaned against the white vehicle. What to do with a man like that?

Enjolras reemerged a few minutes later, hat and cane in hand. He stalked past Grantaire. “Alert Joly,” was all he said. R scowled but made no remark and returned to the lighting booth to inform the other.

“Is he usually such a diva?” he muttered after climbing the ladder. Joly just blinked at him with wide eyes.

“Enjolras?”

“Who else?”

The man seemed to clam up, turning to begin dimming the lights. “We, ah…we don’t really say things like that about him,”

“Christ, are you all terrified of him?” Grantaire scoffed. He flopped down in the seat beside him and pressed the button Joly pointed to.

“Are you not?”

“I mean, he puts on a good show, but I’ve never seen him actually do anything frightening.”

Joly was quiet for a while. R wasn’t sure if he was making a point of not looking at him or if he was just too busy with the board to do anything of the sort. Eventually, just as the music was getting loud, signaling the imminent entrance of the ring master, Joly spoke.

“I pray you don’t,”

 

After the show, Grantaire found he was not so graciously welcomed into the circle of friends. He knew this would happen. It always did. People liked him at first, when he didn’t talk much. But as he grew more comfortable with people, let his guard down and revealed his snarky cynicism, they tended to drift. And who could blame them, really?

He took a seat beside Courfeyrac, who he deemed the safest of the crew, and ate his soup silently as the others laughed and joked around him. Even without being engaged in conversation, he still preferred being around these bright spirits than the company he had previously held.

And then everyone was silent. Grantaire didn’t notice it at first, just continued keeping his eyes downcast into his bowl as he ate. When he realized something was off, he looked up to find each face staring at him with wide eyes.

“Wha—“ But the word was cut off when he found their stares not directed at him, but behind him. He turned around.

“Grantaire, a word,” Enjolras was standing a few feet away, his back straight as a pin and his face pressed into its ever present scowl. His stomach dropped.

“Right,” Grantaire muttered, placing his bowl on a nearby table and standing. He refused to acknowledge the slight shake in his legs as he followed Enjolras towards his trailer.

“Your time is up,” Enjolras said bluntly as soon as the door had shut behind them. Grantaire blinked.

“Excuse me?”

“I gave you until the performance tonight to prove yourself to me. The performance has ended,”

Grantaire waited, but Enjolras made no move to continue his evaluation.

“So…what have you decided?”

The blonde took a deep breath, clearly put out by the question. He sat at his desk, hands folded in front of him and back straight against the chair. He had made Grantaire sit, too. He wondered if it had something to do with not wanting him on a higher level.

“You’re rude,” the leader spat. “You’re insensitive, ungrateful, and naïve. You talk back, you disrespect me and you don’t listen when the crew tells you to do otherwise,”

“How did you—“

“Shut up,” Grantaire was taken aback. He clamped his lips together, confused by the way his insides seemed both sinking and alight. “You do not belong here,” Enjolras added, leaning forward slightly. Grantaire didn’t dare open his mouth during the silence that ensued. It was thick and heavy and full of the defiant glares that both men provided. Then, after a small sigh, Enjolras amended, “But you’re a quick learner. And we’re short one stage hand,”

Grantaire gaped. “Does that mean…?”

“Christ, and I thought you were clever,” Enjolras hissed. The artist tried not to bubble over at the half compliment.

“I’m staying?”

“You may stay until we change locations in two weeks, at which time I will reevaluate you,”

Grantaire nodded vigorously. “Yes. Yes, of course. Thank you, Enjolras,”

“Monsieur will do just fine, thank you,” It was a warning.

“Thank you, monsieur,”

Grantaire stood, nearly knocking over his chair as he did so.

“I did not say you could leave,” Enjolras tilted his head from his perch. A strange shiver ran down Grantaire’s spine as he turned.

“I’m sorry, I—“

“When I reevaluate you, I will be taking into account your character. I suggest you lose whatever delusions you have of being able to do as you please, because I can assure you that will not be tolerated. Everyone is your superior here. You will follow their orders, and they’ll follow mine. I don’t want to hear your back talk, your sarcasm, or anything else you might think you are entitled to. And I will hear, if you so much as whisper it. Do you understand me?”

Grantaire nodded mutely. The blonde stepped towards him, still decked out in his red tuxedo, which the artist couldn’t help but notice was tailored exactly to his sleek form. This close, he had to look up to meet the ring master’s eyes.

“And if I so much as appear as if I want something done, you will do it,” he snarled. “No matter what it is. Tell me you understand,”

Grantaire was shrinking in on himself. He gave a curt nod.

“I said tell me,”

“Yes, monsieur,” he stammered. His voice did not sound like his voice. He frowned at his own foreignness.

Enjolras held his gaze for a long moment before turning and taking his place behind his desk. “Alright. You may go,”

Grantaire said nothing as he stumbled out of the trailer, stunned and entirely shaken.

 

“So what happened?” Courfeyrac asked as they spread their blankets out for the night. He was grinning conspiratorially and offering him a pillow. The brunette took it and fluffed it between his hands. After his encounter with Enjolras, he had tried to go back to the circle of friends, but found he could not take their curious stares. Instead, he continued on, muttering something about using the bathroom and taking his sketch book into the performance tent, where he sat for an hour, drawing Combeferre’s lion.

After that, he snuck back into the tent, where he had found Courfeyrac waiting for him.

“I can stay,” Grantaire said simply, giving a slight shrug.

“Just like that?”

“Just like that,” He tucked his book under the pillow when Courfeyrac wasn’t looking.

“But Enjolras never lets anyone stay,” The magician flopped down onto his spread of blankets and carded fingers through his hair as he looked up at the tent’s ceiling, as if monumentally confused by this whole ordeal. Grantaire tried to ignore the swell of pride that rooted in his stomach.

“He said the only reason is because you’re short a stage hand,” he supplied.

Courfeyrac furrowed his brow. “He said that?”

Grantaire nodded. “Yeah, why?”

Courf propped himself up on one elbow and looked at his tent-mate with something that resembled concern.

“We’ve been overstaffed since Joly joined. Enjolras keeps him on because he considers him one of the originals, but we all knew that he only hired him because he was starving when we found him,”

Grantaire didn’t know what to do with that information.

“Oh,” was all he could manage.

“Oh,” Courfeyrac agreed.

They slept in shared silence and shared confusion, though Grantaire’s heart beat was just a little bit too loud.

Chapter Text

“Grantaire! Come play cards with us!”

Grantaire dragged his eyes up from his sketchbook to find Bahorel with his head turned over one shoulder, one hand raised in welcome. For a moment, he considered the walk from his tree stump to where Bahorel, Feuilly and Joly were buoyed on their foldable seats, huddled around a table.

Then he shook his head.

“Oh come on, what happened to that R we met the first day you were here?”

He never existed. Grantaire frowned and buried his head back in his sketchbook, only to be snapped back up again when the paper was plucked from his grasp.

“What are you always drawing, anyway?”

“Bahorel, don’t,” Grantaire hissed, standing immediately. He reached for the book, but the other man only turned and scrutinized over the drawing. “I’m serious, Bahorel,”

He only held a hand up to silence the artist, looking at him with a quirked brow.

“This is really good,”

Grantaire flushed. “Thank you. Now if you could please just give it back—“

And then, as if portraying the embodiment of Grantaire’s worst nightmare, Bahorel turned the page.

“NO!” Grantaire lunged, tackling the man and wrestling the sketchbook into his own grasp. He was stronger than he looked, but hardly a match for the acrobat, whose muscles were more rock than tissue. The two ended up in a heap on the grass, tugging at each other in a maddened frenzy. Eventually, Grantaire had successfully managed to hide the book from the other by laying on top of it, but he was, in turn, being pinned down by the shoulders. A red flush bled across his cheeks.

“What the fuck?” Bahorel growled.

“I told you not to,” Grantaire’s breath was heavy and uneven. He flattened himself against the ground, mimicking the paper he was protecting.

“What have you got in there, nudes? Christ, R, they were good,”

Grantaire shifted his eyes, his shoulders hunching up in a half-hearted shrug. “I just don’t like when people look at my drawings,”

“What the hell?” Both men looked over at the looming figure who boasted two hands on her reasonably curvy hips, a scowl more frightening than it should have been about her face. “Bahorel, are you terrorizing Grantaire?”

“Why do you assume it was me?”

Musichetta raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “You’re on top of him,”

As if he hadn’t realized it, Bahorel looked down in surprise and quickly rolled off of the artist. He stood, offering a hand to help him up. Musichetta crossed her arms.

“What happened?”

“I just wanted to see what R was drawing, and he freaked out on me,”

“You grabbed it from my hands!”

“And that’s enough to warrant an attack?”

“Boys,” the woman snapped, stepping in between them. “Must I remind you how old we are?”

“You might want to remind him,” Bahorel grunted and jutted a thumb towards Grantaire. “Kid needs to remember who his elders are,”

“Because you’re so much older than me. What are you, 20? 21?” Grantaire rolled his eyes.

“24, thank you,”

“I’m not going to bow to your every whim because of a five year age gap,”

Suddenly, there was an extra body in their small circle, one that instantly demanded the attention of everyone there. Grantaire felt uneasy in his own skin.

Enjolras’ eyes found each of them individually. He held their stares, as if engaging in silent conversation. Grantaire was beginning to think he had just come there to glare at them when he said sternly, “Bahorel, you shouldn’t take things that aren’t yours,”

R felt the beginnings of a smile creep onto his lips as the other man nodded, sullen. The distinct feeling of being right warmed his stomach, a new feeling that he made a mental note to remember. He would not be able to return to it often, he was sure.

“And Grantaire,” Suddenly, Enjolras’ full attention was on him and only him and it was a bit dizzying. He shrank back. “You should have given it to him when he asked to see it,”

Alright, so it was short lived.

“I don’t let anyone look at my sketchbook,” Grantaire argued.

“I don’t care what idle secrets you fancy yourself the keeper of. Bahorel is your superior and when he asks for something, you’re to provide him with it,”

“But I—“

“Are you sure you want to argue with me on this, Grantaire?”

The artist bit his tongue, only able to pay attention to the bitter crunch of his name on Enjolras’ lips. He said it like it was an insult.

“I don’t see why I should have to obey an order like that,” he said quietly.

Enjolras took a step forward and everyone present seemed to hold the same breath.

“You do not have the right to question anyone’s authority,” he said evenly. “I don’t care if he asked you to sing him a song to help him sleep, if I hear that you disobeyed him or anyone else again, you will not make it to our last performance. Am I clear?”

Grantaire couldn’t find the words to agree, so he merely nodded. When Enjolras didn’t leave, he added a nearly inaudible “Yes, sir,” and then watched as the leader spun on his heels and retreated to his trailer.

Bahorel shuffled over to him. When Grantaire didn’t meet his eyes, the acrobat punched his arm lightly.

“Hey, I’m sorry about all that,” he admitted, his voice an entirely different shade than before. It was soft and tentative. “I shouldn’t have grabbed your book,”

A sharp laugh cut through Grantaire’s throat. “Didn’t you hear him? I owed it to you,” Grantaire, in turn, was bitter and rough and spoke like he was carving the words out of himself by knife.

“No, you didn’t,” he leaned in, wrapping an arm around Grantaire’s shoulder. “I don’t care what he says. I may be your ‘superior’ technically, but I’m only going to use that to teach you about how to get on here. I wouldn’t abuse it, no one here would. Except Enjolras. He’ll definitely abuse it,” Bahorel managed to crack a smile and Grantaire humored him with one of his own.

“I’ve noticed,”

“Now, come play cards,”

Grantaire agreed, though he knew he shouldn’t.

 

Courfeyrac and Eponine were the only ones who genuinely loved Grantaire. He wasn’t sure how he had managed it, especially after his recent affinity for holing himself away from everyone and not participating in their leisurely socializing. Yet somehow, they still sought him out during their free time. And sometimes, he would let them.

“Where did you even come from?” Eponine asked one day, laying with her head resting in his lap. Grantaire was leaning against the pole of their rehearsal tent, mending a tear in the girl’s costume.

“Well, when a man and a woman love each other very much—“

Eponine reached up and smacked him playfully. “You know what I mean,”

“Yeah, you never really explained yourself,” Courfeyrac chimed in. He was fiddling with the mirrors he used in his trick, which Grantaire had promptly pointed out the flaws in. Every so often he stood back, evaluated the position of the string and the glass, scrunched his nose and resumed adjusting.

Grantaire shrugged. “There’s no great story,”

“I don’t believe you,” Eponine grinned.

“Well I’m sorry to disappoint,”

“What if I ordered you to tell me, as your superior?” Now it was Grantaire’s turn to smack her.

“You wouldn’t dare,”

“Wouldn’t I?” she teased, scrambling out of his lap before he could do any serious damage.

“You forget that I have the power to seriously fuck up this costume,” Grantaire warned, holding up the white fabric. Eponine hid behind Courfeyrac, giggling.

“And if you do, it’ll only look bad on you, my dear,”

Grantaire huffed but went back to his mending. He realized he never would have thought to find himself here, sewing up a circus costume in a tent big enough to cover his entire house. Well, what used to be his house.

“Come on, you must have some background,” Courfeyrac whined.

Grantaire sighed and rested his hands in his lap, looking warily at the two.

“I was born in Montebello, California. My mom was an author and my dad was a grade-school teacher,” he offered.

Eponine and Courfeyrac looked at him inquisitively. When he did not supply any more information, Eponine asked “Were?” And the word came out gently, like she was expecting a hurricane. She received a drizzle.

“Still are, I suppose. I don’t really know,”

“You don’t know?” Courfeyrac blinked. “You mean you don’t talk to them anymore?”

Grantaire shook his head.

The magician and the tight-rope artist shared a worried glance before returning their attention to Grantaire.

“Oh, don’t give me that. It’s not a sob story, we just aren’t in contact,”

“For no reason?”

“Essentially,” He plucked a stray thread from the costume. Then, feeling generous, he added, “I did something bad and I couldn’t fix it, so I left,”

A thick silence plummeted over the tent. R could have touched it, if he reached far enough. Instead, he endured it, pressed against the pole and curling his toes into his shoes to ground him.

“R?” Eponine asked, stepping close to him.

“No, don’t pity me. For god’s sake, it was my fault,” he ran a hand through his hair, tugging lightly. He hated that look—that ‘Oh, dear. It’s going to be okay’ look. It was most often cut and pasted onto people’s faces the moment they found out a small tidbit about his past, which was why he kept it carefully tucked away and untouchable. It was worth it, if it saved him from seeing beautiful faces like Eponine’s twisted into a lesser form of sympathy. Decidedly done with the topic, he stood up and held the costume against the woman’s shoulders. “It should be good now,”

“Thank you,” Eponine murmured, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. Grantaire was not sure if it was thanks for the costume or for the information. He decided not to ask.

 

Bahorel insisted that Grantaire’s drawings were spectacular.

“That’s nice,” Feuilly hummed as he poured his friend a cup of coffee. It was noon and they only had a short time before they were due for rehearsal, but they enjoyed these moments of respite to themselves.

“No, I mean they’re really good,” Bahorel claimed. “The one he was working on while we were playing cards, it was of us. And like, I swear it could have been a photograph,”

Feuilly only nodded.

“And I didn’t really get to see the next one, but it looked like Combeferre, and if I could tell who it was just by that fraction of a second, it had to have been amazing, right?”

“I suppose,” the redhead sipped at his coffee.

“I don’t know, man. I just think he should do something with that talent, you know? I can respect that he wants to keep his sketchbook to himself—“ at this, Feuilly scoffed. “Okay, I’m learning to respect that. But I think he should be putting it to use. Like designing posters or some shit,”

Feuilly shrugged.

Bahorel frowned and put his mug down on the collapsible table they were sharing. “Why are you being so quiet?”

“I’m not being quiet,”

“You are,”

The trapeze artist pressed his lips into a thin line. Feuilly was not a tense man. He was one of the older performers, rounding off at a good 27, but he was also one of the most jovial. Though his parents had been killed long before he had found the Amis and his childhood was littered with dangerous people and bad foster homes, he somehow had a perpetual smile and a good word for everyone. Which was why this behavior was so strange. Bahorel nudged him.

“What’s going on?” he prompted.

Feuilly seemed to consider his answer for a while. “I just don’t think there’s anything that great about Grantaire,”

“What?” Bahorel blinked at him. “I’m sure you don’t mean tha—“

“He’s rude. He’s guarded and he’s sarcastic. Which would be fine, if it weren’t so biting. I’m sure he’s a great artist, but I don’t see why we should be exalting him the first moment he shows any sign of talent. I don’t even know why he’s here,”

Bahorel was at a loss for words. “This isn’t like you…” he murmured.

That only seemed to anger Feuilly, however, and he clenched his hands around his coffee cup. “I don’t have to love every person I meet,” he spat.

“No, I’m not saying you do. I’m just saying, you’re making him seem a lot worse than he is,”

“Just because I’m not all hung up over him like everyone else is—“

“Woah, woah, woah, what do you mean?” Bahorel inclined his head towards his friend. “Who’s hung up on him?”

“You are! You never shut up about him! And you’re always inviting him to hang out with us now. I’m surprised he isn’t here with us,”

Bahorel shook his head, scoffing in disbelief. “You’re being ridiculous,”

“Oh I am, am I?”

“Yes! You are! Grantaire takes a bit of getting used to, sure, but that doesn’t mean he’s a bad person, and I can still appreciate his art,”

Feuilly just pushed his chair out and stood, draining the last of his coffee. “I’ve got to get to rehearsal,” he shot.

“Give him a chance,” Bahorel matched his actions, but reached out to grab Feuilly’s elbow. He ripped it away from his touch.

“I already did,”

Bahorel was left with an empty mug in his hands and the strangest feeling of unrest in his stomach.

 

The performances ran more smoothly than ever before and, despite Courfeyrac’s previous insight into their overstaffing, no one could deny that it helped to have Grantaire around. He was quick to carry messages and he fixed things without being asked. He was deemed the King of Odds and Ends, with no other official job title to turn to. More than anything, Grantaire felt useful, which was a better gift than he could have asked for. During the shows, he became the person everyone turned to with technical difficulties, which might have irked the stagehands with more experience if Grantaire weren’t so rapid with his work. If Cosette lost one of her shoes, Grantaire had already grabbed another from the dressing tent. If Joly’s headsets weren’t working, Grantaire had the information he needed within minutes. If Coufeyrac was stressing over his new tricks, Grantaire was waiting with a cup of his favorite tea (non-caffeinated, to ebb the nerves) and a reassuring word. Once, even Enjolras needed him, and that was a strange occurrence.

“Grantaire,” The artist had learned to respond to this particular call of his name more quickly than anything else. There was something very distinct about the way it landed on the leader’s lips which sometimes made Grantaire’s lips run dry. He hurried over to where Enjolras was frowning down at the small microphone he usually taped to the side of his cheek. “It’s not working,” he explained.

“Let me see,” He held out his hand, taking the device and examining it carefully. Nothing seemed to be wrong with it, but he more than anyone knew that appearances could be deceiving. He tried to keep his hands steady, despite the fact that Enjolras was very obviously staring at him.

“Is it broken?”

“I don’t think so. Can I see the pack?” Enjolras sighed and shrugged out of his jacket, carefully laying it over one arm before reaching into the waistline of his pants.

“The cord is running through my shirt,” he said, once he had discovered that he couldn’t get it out that way. Grantaire swallowed.

“Um…then take it off?”

Enjolras looked at him like he’d grown a third head and Grantaire’s cheeks rouged into a lovely shade of cherry. He mentally kicked himself for suggesting something so stupid. Of course he wouldn’t take his shirt off in front of Grantaire, that would run the risk of exposing his porcelain skin.

“Er…it’s just that I can’t really fix it if I don’t have the pack. I can turn around if you want—“

Enjolras scoffed. “You think I’m too embarrassed to take my shirt off in front of you?”

“Well, maybe not embarrassed…”

“I’m not embarrassed,” Enjolras was raising a stubborn brow. Grantaire felt like he was being challenged, though he didn’t know what the challenge was or how he could win. He was beginning to get the feeling that he could not. Not with Enjolras.

“Okay, so…” he prompted, risking a glance at Enjolras’ black button-up shirt. On cue, the ring master flicked his fingers over the buttons and pulled the fabric open, and dear god Grantaire could see why he’d wanted to hide it—just looking at Enjolras’ torso was enough to send anyone into a dizzy spout. It was sculpted and smooth, almost unnaturally so. He had the strongest urge to reach out and test the theory that his skin had a similar texture to glass when he glanced up to find Enjolras staring down at him. Was that smirk…amused?

Grantaire flushed and held his hand out for the pack, which Enjolras quickly deposited. He fiddled with it, trying to keep his hands steady, knowing there was a blonde god in front of him.

“Your battery’s dead,” he managed weakly, pulling two fresh ones from his pocket. He exchanged them, then handed the pack back to Enjolras.

“Alright,” The blonde looked down at the device in his hands like he didn’t know what to do with it. R stood, waiting for him to tell him he could go, but was only met with uncomfortable silence and a frozen Enjolras.

“Um…do you need help?”

Enjolras looked up like he had forgotten Grantaire was there. He assessed the battery pack in his hands once more before nodding curtly and handing it back to the artist without explanation. He turned, and Christ Grantaire had never appreciated back muscles until this exact moment.

With tentative movements, he tugged Enjolras’ pants away from his body and slipped the pack inside, clipping it against the fabric. He was almost sorry to instruct the man to put his shirt back on, but the show was in four minutes and he really didn’t have time to admire. He held the cord up and pulled it through his collar, then moved around to his front as he donned his jacket.

“Here,” Grantaire pulled out a roll of mic tape (he was nothing if not prepared) and began fitting the cord behind Enjolras’ ear. It struck him that this was the closest he had ever been to the ring master—hands brushing against his cheek and face close enough to see the tiny blonde scruff that was filling in already from what he presumed was that morning’s shave. R indulged in a few extra moments of fiddling, memorizing what it felt like to touch the man’s face before backing away. His hands felt tainted in the best kind of way.

“You should be good,” he said, though he wasn’t sure the words were going to make it out.

Enjolras nodded, fingers coming up to ghost over the cord on his face.

“You may go,”

Grantaire turned to leave. He had ten different things he should be attending to, none of which seemed quite as important now that he had the headiness of seeing Enjolras half-dressed and feeling his skin beneath him. Just as he was about to head back up to the lights booth with Joly, a quiet but stern voice stopped him.

“Thank you,” Enjolras said. And Grantaire could do nothing but nod in reply, because he knew if he had tried to speak in that moment, the words would have gotten caught in his throat like they were hooked there. No one asked him why he couldn’t quite focus for the rest of the evening.

Chapter Text

It only took Courfeyrac three weeks to find out.

“And you decided to keep this from us?”

Grantaire shrugged, his eyes suddenly drawn to the grass beneath his feet. Courfeyrac flopped back in his foldable chair, as if the entire world were conspiring against him.

“Keep what from us?” Jehan asked curiously as he wandered into the circle. The fire was already going, despite the sun still taunting them from the sky. He took a seat next to Courfeyrac, who turned raptly towards him.

“Grantaire knows how to read palms,” he explained.

“Oh?”

“He’s had the power to tell me which of the many attractive men who want me I’m going to marry, and he’s chosen to withhold that information,”

“Actually, it’s really not that simple—“

“I could have met him!” Courfeyrac exclaimed, his hands coming up in an exasperated cry. Grantaire shook his head.

“I have no idea who you’re going to marry,” He suppressed a small smile. “Or if you’re going to marry,”

Courfeyrac’s mouth fell open and his eyes rounded into full moons.

“Tell me you didn’t mean that,”

Grantaire shrugged. The magician leaned over and swatted him ruthlessly, until Grantaire was bent over with his hands raised in defeat.

“Calm down, calm down! I haven’t even read your palm yet. I have no way of knowing anything about you,”

That sparked something in Courfeyrac’s eye and he seemed to sit up a bit straighter. “So you’re going to?”

Grantaire tensed. “I don’t know…”

“Oh, come on. Why not?”

“I don’t…do that anymore,” he said, his hand coming up to clench his other arm tightly. He wasn’t even sure how this had come up. One moment, Courfeyrac had been studying his own hand and trying to decide if a particular knife incident had left that pink line there or if it was just the result of holding his plate too tightly, and the next he was swooning over the idea of Grantaire reading into his skin. He knew he should learn to keep his mouth shut. It was proving much more difficult than he’d imagined.

“But you can start! I mean, you can’t really forget, right? It’s like riding a bike,” Courfeyrac seemed very pleased by this idea and scooted closer to Grantaire, who sighed with the same quiet regard that one might use with a small child.

“I don’t think that’s entirely accurate…”

“Come on, can’t you just try? What’s the harm?” He stuck out his hand eagerly, palm up and fingers wagging. Grantaire looked from the digits to his face, which was morphed into an expression of excitement and hopefulness. He let out an enormous breath. There really wasn’t a way he was going to escape this, not with a man like Courfeyrac goading him. He tentatively took the other’s hand in his. It struck him that it had been weeks since he had touched someone, maybe longer. It felt strange, like he was doing something he wasn’t allowed to.

Grantaire rubbed a thumb across Courfeyrac’s palm and looked down at it. He had a whole slew of memories to draw from in order to make this convincing, just as he had every other time. Somehow this wasn’t the same.

“Okay, so um,” he began, making sure to spread Courfeyrac’s fingers wide. “This one means that you’re content with life,” Stop sounding so unsure. “And this shows that you have a tendency towards shorter relationships,” Good. Better. Try again. “Oh, and this one means you’re creative,” Now finish strong. “Huh, that’s interesting,”

Courfeyac’s head snapped up. “What? What is?”

Grantaire furrowed his brow, leaning in close to inspect the skin. He traced a finger over one of the wrinkles in it, as if deep in thought.

“What is it?” Courfeyac repeated, leaning in as well, as though there were something new and blatant on his hand that was attracting the other’s attention.

“Nothing, it’s just that you have one that shows that you have to make an important decision soon,”

“What?” Courfeyrac took his hand back, scrutinizing over it for some time before looking back at Grantaire helplessly. “What kind of decision?”

The artist shrugged. “Can’t tell,”

“Should I be worried?”

“I don’t know,”

“Would you read mine, Grantaire?” Jehan asked, pushing forward in his seat. Grantaire eyed him warily.

“Hell no, he isn’t done with me yet. I need to know more about this big decision,” Courfeyrac urged, waving the acrobat off with haste. Grantaire shrugged.

“There’s nothing else to read,” He stood up, dusting off his jeans. “I think I’m going to go lie down,”

“Grantaire, you can’t just—“

Jehan quieted him with a soft hand to the arm, accompanied with a stern look. “Let him go, Courf,”

Grantaire had never been so grateful for the man. He made a note to thank him later.

 

It turned out that once Courfeyrac knew something of vague interest, it immediately spread like wildfire. Grantaire wouldn’t have even been aware of this fact, due to his being holed up in their tent and attempting a nap for the next two hours, had Eponine not come tumbling through the canvas entryway with the whole ordeal spewing from her lips.

“The fuck is this about you and palm reading?”

Grantaire looked up from where he was laying with wary disinterest. “What do you mean?”

A pillow came flying, hitting him square in the face. He growled and threw it off, but not before she could flop down beside him.

“Everyone’s been talking about it. They all want you to read their palms,”

Something sank in the pit of Grantaire’s stomach. Everyone knew already? He sighed.

“I don’t get why it’s such a big deal,”

“Neither do I. It’s not that exciting,” Eponine agreed. Her arms were crossed over her stomach and her mouth was curved into a smile that seemed to exude more cunningness than warmth. “So is it true?”

Grantaire didn’t quite know how to answer that question. He weighed the options in his head before shrugging. “I guess?”

“You guess? As in you do or don’t?”

“I do,” He decided. It was better to play it safe, stick to the act he knew how to play and save divergence for later. Or never. “I just don’t practice it anymore,”

“Is that even something you can forget?” Eponine asked, propping herself up on one elbow.

“That’s what Courfeyrac said,” he grimaced. “It’s not some superpower that I was born with. You have to learn it. So yeah, you can forget,”

“Oh,” This seemed to puzzle Eponine, but she never let herself be still long enough to concede to the confusion. She sat up, eyes bright. “Will you read mine, then?”

Grantaire groaned. “No,”

This pulled a frown out from the girl’s features, making the artist feel the slightest hint of guilt. He pointedly ignored it. “I don’t want to start reading palms again. I didn’t even want to do Courfeyrac’s, but you know how he is,”

“It’s just something fun, why is it such a big deal?”

“If it doesn’t have to be a big deal, then why are you so insistent that I do it?”

Eponine scowled, getting to her feet. She made to leave, but turned around with her foot halfway out the tent. “I don’t understand you,” she said bitterly. Grantaire smiled.

“I’m an enigma,”

Eponine rolled her eyes and left with a belligerent “Don’t flatter yourself,” thrown over her shoulder.

 

At around ten o’clock, Grantaire realized he wasn’t going to be able to sleep. After Eponine had left, he’d tried all manners of laying down, all positions he could possibly put himself in. Still, sleep fled from him. He waited a half hour more, then resigned from trying and left his tent.

The air was frigid, almost surprising at this point in the summer. The breeze bit at his exposed skin as he glanced over at the ring of friends situated around the fire. They were always there, it seemed. It must be nice, to have something like that. Like a family, except everyone liked each other.

Grantaire wasn’t quite ready to join them, though. He knew he would only be met with a barrage of waiting hands, or just unwelcome in general. Instead, he silently found his way around the performance tent and stopped in front of it. It was the side that the audience members saw when they first pulled up to the circus, grand and impossible, just the way Enjolras wanted it.

Sometimes people left ridiculous amounts of cigarettes tossed carelessly on the ground here. He squatted down, scanning the grass for a stray fag when a voice startled him.

“Lose something?”

Grantaire’s head snapped around. A figure was standing only a few yards away, a familiar glow resting between his fingers.

“Christ, Bahorel, you scared me,”

The man laughed and stepped forward. He offered a hand to the artist, who ignored it and stood up on his own. He eyed the cigarette hungrily.

“You want one?” Bahorel asked, holding out the pack.

“Where did you get these?”

He shrugged, taking another drag. “I stock up. And it’s not like we’re prisoners, we’re allowed to leave the grounds. You do realize that, right?”

Grantaire had realized it, but never really considered it. Part of him was convinced that if he were to leave, he would return to an empty field. Besides, there was nowhere for him to go. He had no money, no family, at least not anymore. His life, however feeble of one it was, was here now.

Bahorel waved the box a little and Grantaire gave in, gratefully snagging one of the sticks. He stuck it between his teeth, about to ask how he had lit his when the other man pulled a lighter from his pocket and held it to the end of his cigarette. The first drag sent something warm all down his spine. He wasn’t used to going this long between smokes, but it made each time that much more valuable.

Bahorel grinned. “You miss this, don’t you?”

Grantaire tried to shrug, but the blissful look on his face must have given him away. “Who wouldn’t?”

The other man nodded and leaned against the heavy canvas. “Yeah, I’ve never been good at quitting. Clearly,” He waved his cigarette carelessly. “I’m still not supposed to. Enjolras says we should take better care of our bodies, so we can perform well and everything. Although sometimes,” he leaned over conspiratorially, “I like to pretend that it’s because he’s secretly worried about our wellbeing, not just the show,”

Grantaire scoffed. “Not likely,”

“That’s why I said ‘pretend’,”

The two hung their smiles in the dark, letting the silence fall over their shared tobacco. It was nights like these that Grantaire appreciated living outside. Though the air was cold and the grass was colder beneath his feet, it still reminded him that he was alive.

“So how’d you get here?” he asked after a comfortable quietude.

“Same as everybody else. I needed a place to go, Enjolras was getting together his band of merry men, I hopped on board,”

“Why’d you need a place to go?”

“My, aren’t we the nosy one tonight? I thought your whole deal was keeping to yourself, being secretive and whatnot,”

Grantaire quirked a brow. “Is that how you see me?”

“That’s how everyone sees you,” Bahorel said, as if it were obvious. He supposed it made sense. He hadn’t exactly given them anything else to go off of. Still, ‘secretive’ and ‘aloof’ weren’t the words he would use to describe himself.

When he didn’t answer, Bahorel sighed and sucked on his cigarette. The smoke curled from his lips like ribbon. “I was in a gang in Chicago. I got shot when I was 17, Enjolras found me. He knew I couldn’t be taken to a hospital, so he told me he had someone who could fix me up,” he said, not meeting Grantaire’s eyes. He told the story to the stars.

“Oh,” Grantaire said.

“I’d been wanting out since I was 12. I would have done anything to get out of there. I just never thought that “anything” would involve juggling,” Bahorel laughed and so did Grantaire, because there was nothing else to do in the face of such serious matters. He finished off his cigarette.

“I’m glad he found you,” Grantaire said quietly, once the laughter had turned into silence.

“Me too,”

“Am I interrupting?” Both men turned to find Feuilly standing at the entrance to the tent. He looked rigid and extremely out of place, which even Grantaire found strange. Feuilly was an easy man to be around. Not for him, specifically, as no one seemed to want to be around him much. But he had seen him with the others—he was lively and fun. This just seemed wrong.

“Not at all,” Bahorel said coolly. “Want a smoke?”

Feuilly pursed his lips. “No. I was just looking for you,”

“You found me,” There was something forced in the way he said it, and Grantaire suddenly wished he weren’t standing between the two.

“Right. Well. Chetta made cake, if you want any,”

 

“I’ll be right there,” Bahorel didn’t look at his friend as he finished off the last of his cigarette.

“You really shouldn’t be smoking. Enjolras will have your head—“

“Feuilly, I said I’ll be right there. Go,”

The trapeze artist shrank back against the tent, his brow knitting together and his face twisting into one of a kicked puppy. Grantaire wanted to reach out to him and hug him, unsure where the harsh words had come from. It wasn’t like either of them to be cruel, but their conversation was laced with ill intent. Grantaire let the last of his cigarette burn out before stepping on it.

“I’ll see you there then,” Feuilly said quietly, disappearing behind the fabric.

Grantaire didn’t ask Bahorel about it. Not when they stood stonily beside each other for another minute, not when he sighed and began moving back around the tent, and not when they settled into the only open seats around the fire. If he had wanted Grantaire to know, he would have told him. Besides, it wasn’t as if any of them were particularly close. What Bahorel had going on with his best friend was his business, and the artist wouldn’t interfere, no matter how curious he was.

“So R,” Musichetta said cheerfully as she placed a plate in his hands. He looked down at the cake, mouth watering. “I hear you read palms,”

“Christ,” he muttered.

It was no use. The group of friends was far too excited by the idea of something new and fun to let it go, despite the constant assurances that he was done with the practice, that he hardly remembered how to do it. And that was how he became the center of attention, with everyone’s eyes raptly glued to whoever’s palm was spread before him. They were so attentive, he was surprised they hadn’t formed a line.

It was strange, reading palms again. Before, it had been a means of survival. After he had discovered that he could make a convincing fortune teller, people were willing to deposit all kinds of money into his hand, so long as they got what they wanted to hear. And that, more than anything, was his gift. Grantaire was brilliant at detecting exactly what people were waiting for. They didn’t want to hear that they were harsh or close minded, they wanted to hear that they were going to meet someone soon who would make them happy, or that they were going to live a long and content life. Palm reading was a way to console themselves. The truth would only hurt.

It felt odd doing it to people that he knew, though. He wasn’t accepting money for it, of course. But that had been the point all along. Without the money, he was only doing it to assuage their boredom. That, he reasoned, was precisely why he shouldn’t feel guilty for lying about it.

Combeferre was the last to ask him. Frankly, Grantaire wasn’t expecting him to. The man was quiet and did not often participate in their group endeavors or discussions. More often than not, he could be seen coming in and out of Enjolras’ trailer. That would have put Grantaire at unease, had the others not assured him that Combeferre was just as much a part of their circle as anyone else.

Grantaire took his hand tentatively, spreading his fingers out before him.

“You’ve got long lifelines,” he began, tracing a digit over the dark skin. He pretended to study it a bit more. “It shows that you’re a problem solver. That you’re often faced with conflict. And…” he paused, trying to think of something that might excite him. It was hard, when he hadn’t ever seen the man excited. “And…you’re going to rise to a position of power soon,”

Power seduced everyone, didn’t it?

“Is he?” Everyone turned at the voice. If it were possible, Enjolras looked even more terrifying in the flickering light of the fire. The shadows danced over his face like they were waltzing with danger. Grantaire dropped Combeferre’s hand immediately.

“Enjolras,” he breathed.

“What’s this?” the leader demanded, taking a step closer.

“Nothing, it’s nothing,”

“Tell me the truth,”

Grantaire was silent, his mouth hung slightly in desperation. His eyes found the ground.

“Grantaire knows how to read palms,” Combeferre explained coolly, as if it were matter-of-fact. “He was just entertaining us,”

“Is that true, Grantaire?” Enjolras asked, stepping closer still. Grantaire’s cheeks burned brightly. He knew there was a reason he didn’t want everyone to find out about it.

There was nothing he could do but nod. Enjolras evaluated him wordlessly, crossing his arms as he cocked his head.

“Where did you learn to read palms?”

“I picked it up in L.A, sir,” he murmured. This was a question he had been asked often enough when he was practicing it before, and the answer was still ingrained in his mind. Another long stretch of silence ensued. Grantaire hated that. He hated how Enjolras artfully used the quiet to make him feel even more uneasy, to make him shift in his seat. It was deafening and came at him all at once, like he was drowning in it. And he was sure Enjolras knew exactly what he was doing. Everything the man did was deliberate.

“Read my palm, then,” Grantaire’s eyes snapped up. It was Enjolras’ voice that said it, it was his expectant face that portrayed it, but it couldn’t have been him. Grantaire must be imagining things. Never in a hundred years would he have expected Enjolras to—

“Now, Grantaire,” Combeferre got up from his seat across from the artist and Enjolras filled it swiftly. He sat there, motionless until Grantaire mumbled feebly.

“I’ll need your hand,” And dear god he gave it to him.

Grantaire turned it so that his palm was facing up. He did not think about the fact that he was, in all technical senses of the phrase, holding the leader’s hand. He did not think about how feathery soft it was for such a rough man. He only looked down at it, scared to move a muscle and disrupt the odd situation he was in.

“Well?” Enjolras prompted, one eyebrow raised. He was watching Grantaire like he was hiding something.

The artist swallowed, bending over. “There’s strength,” he said weakly. “And…intelligence,” He hated how small his voice sounded. He had always been so good at this, and now it was failing him. He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to hurt. “And…I see….you’ve experienced trauma,”

One could hear a pin drop. Grantaire didn’t know what else to say. He had been searching for something, anything he could use that he hadn’t already given to someone else. His mind had wandered to the first night he was here, when Courfeyrac and Eponine briefed him on Enjolras’ past. It was an ugly thing to bring up, but it was something, and now it was out. He looked up at Enjolras reluctantly, his eyes dragging themselves towards the other’s.

Enjolras stood still. Then, after one of his artistic silences, he leaned over. Grantaire’s breath hitched in his throat as the leader’s lips brushed his ear. He wondered idly if he was too young to die, or if he had lived enough of his unimpressive life to call it quits. This would be a good way to go.

“I don’t believe you,” Enjolras sneered. Grantaire could swear he let his mouth linger a moment too long against his ear before pulling back. He stood, brushed himself off and looked about the crew. “You’ve had your fun. Get to bed. We leave tomorrow, and I don’t need any of you groggy in the morning,”

“What?” Grantaire’s question was lost in the rustle of people moving, folding up their chairs and putting away their plates. He repeated it, but no one seemed to notice.

Grantaire stood, grabbing onto Enjolras’ sleeve as he was turning to go. The blonde looked back at him with disdain. “What?” he hissed.

“We’re leaving tomorrow? You didn’t tell me—“

“We are leaving tomorrow,” Enjolras corrected, motioning to the bustling crew. “I don’t recall ever saying anything about you,”

Grantaire blinked at him, stunned. “But you said—“

“I said I would reevaluate you once the time had come. The time has come, and you’ve done nothing except disobey me and argue with the others. The few times you’ve gotten along with them, you’ve caused more trouble than you’re worth. I don’t see any reason to keep you on when we move to London. It’s one more plane ticket I don’t need to buy,”

Grantaire was trying to form coherent thoughts. It wasn’t working very well.

“Enjolras, I need this,”

“No, you don’t. You need a real job,”

“This is closest thing to a real job I’ve ever had!”

Enjolras’ eyes narrowed. Grantaire tried not to shrink beneath his stare.

“You have until tomorrow afternoon,” he said, voice thick with boredom. “If you somehow prove to me that you’re worth my time and money, I may change my mind. But I’m warning you now, I am not easily swayed,”

Enjolras was gone before Grantaire could manage a response. It didn’t make much difference either way. How was he supposed to respond to that?

This was very, very bad.

Chapter Text

Sleep avoided Grantaire like the plague. He lay on his back, staring intently at the peak of the tent as if it might say something to him. This would be his last night sleeping here. Or not sleeping, if one wanted to be technical about it.

“Christ, stop thinking so loudly,” Courfeyrac muttered from his side of the tent. Grantaire glanced over at him.

“Sorry,”

A rustle. A sigh. And then the man was a good deal closer and his wide, chocolate eyes were staring into Grantaire’s. “It’s okay,” he allowed. “I’m thinking, too,”

“About?”

Grantaire could hear Courfeyrac’s breath curling into the air. “I don’t want you to leave,”

R felt his stomach clench and his cheeks burn. He had been so long a friendless man, and here was someone offering him the smallest bit of appreciation. It was, of course, too late.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “Truly,”

Courfeyrac leaned over and punched him lightly. “It’s nothing you have to thank me for, it’s just how it is,”

There were lots of things that just were, and Grantaire had grown tired of them. He was constantly thirsty. He was always tired. And he was never wanted. And that’s just the way it was. More recently, he wasn’t wanted here, at least by the only person whose opinion counted. And that was wearing on him. He admitted this to Courfeyrac.

“But he said you might convince him to let you stay,”

“But what on earth would make him believe I’m worth anything?” he grumbled, pressing his face into his elbow.

And then the plan formed.

 

Morning came without much sleep to accompany it, but Grantaire didn’t mind a bit. He forewent coffee in favor of adrenaline, and stood resolutely in front of Enjolras’ trailer. The sun had barely peeked above the horizon, his blinds were shut, and there was no sound coming from within the vehicle. He knocked anyway.

“What?” Enjolras spat upon opening the door. His eyes narrowed when he saw who was standing in front of him, just as Grantaire’s widened at the sight of Enjolras in a tight T-shirt and boxers. He had never imagined what Enjolras slept in, but if he had, it wasn’t that.

“I need to speak to you,” Grantaire said, making his voice as definite as he could. Enjolras began to close the door.

“You may speak to me at a more reasonable hour,”

“No, it has to be now,”

Grantaire was a dead man already. He repeated this to himself so that he could gain courage from it. Nothing he did could make his situation worse.

Enjolras evaluated him stonily, but eventually stepped aside to let him in. He was silent.

Grantaire had been inside the trailer before, but he had never considered it as Enjolras’ home. Now, the bed was pulled down from the wall and the sheets were unmade. There was a cup of coffee resting on the table instead of its usual papers, and a plate of toast sat beside it. The space looked lived in, and Grantaire felt like he was intruding.

“What is it?” Enjolras demanded, arms crossed as he waited. Grantaire swallowed and used all of his energy to keep from trailing his eyes over the man’s half clothed body.

“Don’t you want to put some pants on?”

Enjolras glanced down, as if he hadn’t realized he wasn’t wearing any. Instead of blushing, which Grantaire would have assumed the appropriate response was, he simply looked back up and shrugged.

“Am I bothering you?” It was a challenge. Grantaire swallowed.

“No,” Enjolras won.

“Then proceed,”

Grantaire took a deep breath and focused on a stray curl that intruded on Enjolras’ forehead.

“I can’t really read palms,” he admitted. At this, the leader scoffed and rolled his eyes. He looked ridiculously superior.

“I’m aware,”

“Yes, but only you are aware,” R pressed on. “I managed to convince your entire crew that I could, and I held their attention for hours,”

“My crew is talented, that doesn’t make them observant,”

“You misunderstand me. They were enthralled, and I wasn’t even trying to convince them. In fact, I really didn’t want them to know about that, but then they did and there was nothing I could do about it. Imagine what it would be like if I had been trying,”

Enjolras was unimpressed. His back was rigid and jaw was set. Grantaire was discouraged, but forced himself to continue.

“I can do this for you. I can charge money for the palm reading outside of your tent, or as a publicity stunt. People will be in the mood to do it, and it’ll only profit you in the long run. People will pay, I promise you,”

“Who would pay for someone to feed them lies?” he spat.

“They’re not paying for lies,” Grantaire corrected. “They’re just…suspending their belief for a little while. Enjoying the mystery of it. And besides, isn’t that exactly what you’re charging money for? People pay to watch you and pretend that you’re the most important thing in the world, that people are as beautiful as Eponine and Cosette and that Combeferre has some cosmic power that allows him to speak to lions. They know it isn’t real, but they choose to believe it. And you offer them that choice,”

Enjolras scowled, and Grantaire tried to decipher whether that meant that he didn’t agree with Grantaire or he did. He waited, out of breath but lungs ablaze with promise. He felt like a man about to jump out of an airplane.

Eventually, Enjolras uncrossed his arms and dragged his eyes up along Grantaire’s body. A small part of him grumbled internally about how unfair it was that Enjolras was allowed such indulgences and he was not, but the rest of him grew rigid under the scrutiny. He shifted from foot to foot.

“What makes you able to do this job and not someone I already have?” Enjolras demanded.

“I have experience,”

At this, Enjolras merely lifted his eyebrows. He opened his mouth, and Grantaire thought he might ask him about his past. He quickly shut it, however, and pressed his lips into a thin line. Perhaps Grantaire’s history was too familiar of a subject. He wouldn’t want to lower himself to that level, of course.

“And if you don’t make me any money?”

“Then you’ll have lost nothing. It’s a service, not a good, and you don’t need to put any money down on it,”

“Except for the price of your plane ticket and having you around when I don’t want you here,”

Grantaire felt the blood drain from his cheeks. He was balancing on a thin rope, the difference between staying and leaving was almost tangible, and he knew that everything he did was being studied and evaluated by the ring master. But that comment sent him reeling.

“Why do you hate me so much?” he asked, harsher than expected.

“I believe I’ve made that clear,”

“Your reasons are invalid!” he cried. “I may be an antisocial, sarcastic asshole, but I do good work. I get things done. I helped you,”

Enjolras shifted his eyes to his hand, which he inspected in a magnificent show of indifference.

“I would hardly call you antisocial. You’ve been distracting my crew long enough,”

“Distracting? Is that what this is about? Do you not want me to talk to them? I can do that. I can stay holed up in my tent and only come out when you need me to,”

Enjolras’ lips curled up into a devious smile, one that Grantaire might have found disgruntling, had he not been so hyped up on desperation.

“You would exist in my circus for me alone?” he asked, more of a test than an inquiry. Grantaire tilted to the side.

“Isn’t that what everyone does already?”

The blonde let out a sharp laugh. His legs bent beneath him and he sat on the edge of his mussed bed, patting the space beside him. R looked at it warily, but did as he was told. He had never felt so distinctly uneasy in another man’s bed, especially one who he had never had any relations with.

“My crew is a family,” Enjolras started. “And I am their founder. I let them do as they please. There are limits, of course, but for the most part, they exist without me. They are the whole reason people enjoy this circus, whether they are watching or behind the scenes. And they are, I assume, the reason you want to stay,”

“I—“ Grantaire started, but Enjolras held up a hand to silence him.

“They are good people. I would not have chosen them otherwise. And they are good to you, as I expected they would be. But you are willing to give up all of that in order to stay here. Why?”

Grantaire stuttered over his words. He hadn’t thought this deeply into the answer, and now he was grasping for something to say. Enjolras looked terrifying in a softer way.

“I guess I…I guess I’m just willing to take what I can get,” he offered, giving a helpless shrug.

“You’re smart,”

It was the first compliment Grantaire could remember receiving from the leader, and he clung to it like it was priceless. He turned the words over in his head and watched Enjolras’ mouth even as they had left it.

“I’m not bothered by your relations with my crew, or by whatever it is you’ve established with Eponine—“

Grantaire stopped him. “What do you mean, what I’ve established with Eponine?”

Enjolras waved his hand. “I may keep my distance, but don’t think I am not aware of what goes on. I have eyes and I have sources, and I know how much time the two of you spend together,”

“By ‘sources’, you mean Combeferre, right?”

Enjolras frowned and scrunched his hand in the sheet. “It doesn’t matter who,”

“So Combeferre,” A sloppy grin fell over Grantaire’s face and he almost wanted to nudge Enjolras out of instinct. He didn’t.

The other man just let out an exasperated sigh. “You really must learn your place, if you’re to stay,”

Grantaire’s eyes widened. “Does that mean—“

“Don’t make me regret this, Grantaire,”

Without thinking, R laughed exuberantly and threw himself on the leader, his arms snaking around his neck and his head falling over his shoulder. He stayed there a moment, thanking him breathlessly before he realized that this was Enjolras and he was hugging him. He pulled back sheepishly. Correction: This was Enjolras, he was hugging him, and Enjolras wasn’t wearing pants. Grantaire stood up and the blonde’s eyes followed him.

“I’m sorry,” he stammered.

Enjolras nodded, something unreadable on his face. Grantaire didn’t know what to do after that, so he bit his lip and tugged at his shirt.

“May I go, sir?” he asked awkwardly. Enjolras paused, then nodded.

Grantaire wasted no time in spinning on his heels and reaching for the door. At the last moment, he turned and found Enjolras with his eyes.

“I’m not getting on with Eponine, if that’s what you were implying. We’re just friends,” He didn’t know why he said it.

Enjolras tilted his head. “I’d prefer it if you didn’t lie to me,”

“I have no reason to lie about Eponine,” Grantaire stilled in the doorway, one foot on the metal step toward solid ground, one still in this odd space in which he existed only as a skittish man. He often wondered why he preferred the latter, when it was so far from his usual air.

“Very well,” Enjolras said, and Grantaire knew it was the end of the conversation.

 

“I can’t believe you traded tickets,” Bahorel fumed, waving a small piece of paper in front of his friend’s face. “Am I really so awful that you can’t bear to sit next to me for a few hours?”

Feuilly blushed and avoided Bahorel’s eyes. He was tucking his sweater into his carryon, having already grown hot in the stuffy airport as they waited to board.

“I just figured you’d rather sit with someone else,” he said calmly.

“Why would I rather sit by Joly than you? I’ll be stuck between him and Musichetta. I’ll be lucky if they don’t start making out right next to me,”

“You just haven’t seemed very interested in my company lately,” he muttered. Bahorel rolled his eyes and flopped into the seat beside him.

“I’m always interested in your company,” he sighed. “You’re my best friend,”

For some reason, this only seemed to make Feuilly more rigid. He fiddled with the clasp of his bag and flitted his eyes across the terminal, where each of the crew was wasting time in their various ways. He took to watching Eponine trying to braid Grantaire’s hair. Enjolras was doing the same, though no one had noticed.

“It hasn’t felt like it,”

Bahorel tilted his head forward, trying to get Feuilly to look at him. “Hey,” he said. “You know Grantaire could never hold a match to you, right?”

This seemed to accomplish his goal. The trapeze artist turned his head and searched Bahorel’s eyes for something he already knew wasn’t there.

“You don’t have to lie, ‘Rel. You’re allowed to be friends with Grantaire,”

“I know,” the acrobat shrugged. “And I am. But you’ll always be my best mate,” He squeezed his shoulder and Feuilly’s eyes drifted to where they touched. “Get your ticket back, alright?”

For a moment, Feuilly could have agreed. He could have accepted the proposition, forgiven Bahorel and pretended that this frigidity was extinct. But it wasn’t, and he didn’t.

Feuilly stood, shaking his head. “It’s just a plane ride. You’ll endure it,”

 

Eponine laughed as her fingers threaded through Grantaire’s curls.

“This is impossible,” she exclaimed gleefully. Grantaire had long since stopped trying to push her off.

“You’re correct. So maybe you should stop trying,”

“Never,”

Courfeyrac laughed and draped himself across Grantaire’s lap, looking up at him happily. When Grantaire had come back with the news, he had attacked him with the tightest hug and the loudest shout, and Grantaire had felt happier than when he first received the news himself. Now, they enjoyed each other’s friendship less dramatically, but the knowing was still there, and Grantaire wanted to drown in it.

“So how’d you manage to get in with us?” Courf asked, swatting at a stray curl.

“My powers of seduction,” R replied, and Courfeyrac’s hand quickly tugged at the piece of hair.

“Seriously,”

Grantaire shrugged. “I traded with Combeferre,”

“Who were you sitting next to before?”

“No idea. I didn’t check,”

 

When they’d finally all boarded the plane, Enjolras tucked himself up against the window, as he always did. He liked to keep it open for as long as possible before the attendants made him shut it to allow the others to sleep. He himself was incapable of sleeping on planes, and preferred the reminder that they were suspended in air. It was the impossible made possible.

He barely noticed when someone pushed their luggage into the overhead container and took his seat beside him, not until a voice that he wasn’t expecting interrupted his staring contest with the orange cone outside.

“It’s not too cramped this time,” Combeferre mentioned, stretching his legs out in front of him. There wasn’t a generous amount of room, especially for someone of Combeferre’s height, but it was better than plane rides in the past.

“Combeferre,” Enjolras greeted, something tentative in his voice.

The darker man looked at him carefully.

“You were expecting Grantaire,”

“I noticed his ticket was next to mine,”

“You distributed the tickets,”

There was a standstill, and Enjolras despised the feeling of not knowing what to say. Combeferre challenged his authority in ways he was not able to brush aside, and sometimes he wanted to punish him for it. Others, he wanted to thank him.

“Why did you choose to sit by Grantaire?” he asked calmly. Enjolras returned his eyes to the window and decided this was one of the punishing times. But they were on a crowded plane, and he was tired and had no desire to argue with the man.

“It just happened that way. I did not choose anything,”

“You’re lying,”

“Don’t tell me when I am or am not lying,” he snapped, though less harshly than he had in the past. An attendant began the safety presentation they had heard a million times. He switched to a whisper. “And even if I was lying, you have no authority to question it. I’m allowed to lie if I want,”

Combeferre sighed. He leaned his head back against the seat and shut his eyes. “I can always switch back, if you want me to,”

Enjolras was silent, and the lion tamer cracked one eyelid to look at him. “Do you want me to?”

“No, don’t be ridiculous,” he said quickly. “I don’t care who I sit by. I’ll just sleep the whole time, anyway,”

Combeferre closed his eye again and shifted so that he was comfortable.

“There you go again, lying,”

 

It was a nine hour flight. About six hours in, the windows were all shut and the majority of the plane’s inhabitants had traded their books for blankets. Grantaire had one a cutthroat game of rock paper scissors in order to have the aisle seat, but that didn’t stop the former from sprawling across him like the artist was some sort of portable mattress. Grantaire could never sleep on planes.

Carefully, he extricated himself from the tangle of limbs (Courfeyrac promptly relocated to Eponine’s lap), and made his way to the back of the plane, in search of the bathroom. Really, he just wanted to stretch his legs, but this was as good excuse as any.

“Grantaire,” It was a loud whisper, and it caught him off guard. He snapped his head around. In the dark, he could only make out silhouettes of people, but there was only one that looked upright and conscious. He leaned over the empty aisle seat (which had originally been taken by a plump man who had nothing to do with their crew, but who had relocated to a first class seat once he’d realized how cramped it was).

“Enjolras?” he asked, unsure.

“Yes,”

There was an awkward silence, and Grantaire glanced over his shoulder to see if he was blocking anybody’s path.

“Sit down,” Even in whisper, Enjolras’ voice demanded everything from him, and Grantaire was willing to give it. He obeyed, eyes flicking to the sleeping figure between them.

“Who’s this?” he asked, matching the leader’s pitch.

Enjolras told him, and silent realization dawned on Grantaire’s face. Enjolras, of course, was unaware of this, and continued on. “What are you doing?”

He could hear Grantaire raising his eyebrows. “Well I was going to the bathroom, but now I’m sitting next to you,”

There was silence, then, “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“I don’t sleep on planes. Why aren’t you?”

“Thinking,”

Grantaire didn’t know if he had permission to ask what about, but he did anyway.

“London. The circus,”

“Don’t you ever take a break?”

Enjolras blinked into the darkness. “No,”

Grantaire let out a breathy little laugh, and Enjolras shifted closer to him in his seat.

“Maybe you should,” Grantaire advised.

“Don’t tell—“

“Yes, sir,” R cut him off, the response silly and not thought through, but Grantaire couldn’t bring himself to regret it. Perhaps it felt like darkness muted everything. Enjolras pursed his lips.

“Why did you switch your ticket with Combeferre?” he asked crisply.

Grantaire looked at the sleeping man. “I wanted to sit by Courfeyrac and Eponine,”

There was a palpable rigidness in the air.

“I guess it worked out for you, though. You’ve made it pretty clear how you feel about me, I doubt you would have wanted my company for nine hours,”

Enjolras made a noncommittal noise and turned his head towards the window, even though it was closed. Grantaire’s eyes had grown used to the dark, at least enough to notice the movement. He fiddled with his hands.

“Should I…go?”

“If you like,”

And Grantaire didn’t really know what to do with that. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to want to leave or stay, or why he was there in the first place. And then Combeferre shifted and he found himself trapped under the man’s relaxed head, which leaned artfully on his shoulder. Grantaire peered down at him.

“I don’t really…know…what to do,” he admitted.

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Well you might as well stay now,” he said. “No need to wake Combeferre,”

Grantaire nodded, still feeling strange and unsure. Somehow, the blonde seemed to sense this.

“Stay,” he said, his voice more commanding than before, and Grantaire was surprised to find that the demand put him at ease. He settled back in the seat.

“Alright,”

Enjolras didn’t say much more after that, and neither did Grantaire, but by the time the flight attendants turned on the lights and started coming around with little plastic wrapped trays of breakfast, he could see that the leader’s eyes were still open, as were his own. They looked at each other only briefly, and then Combeferre yawned, sitting up.

“Grantaire?”

“Morning, sunshine,” he said, smiling weakly.

Combeferre only turned to Enjolras and looked at him pointedly, then got up under the pretense of going to the bathroom. He didn’t come back for the rest of the flight.

Chapter Text

“Don’t you think we should head back?” Grantaire asked, clutching his pack of cigarettes to his chest.

Courfeyrac scoffed as he scanned the various storefronts. “We don’t have rehearsal tonight, there’s no reason for us to go home early,”

Grantaire looked wistfully down the length of the street. Everything in London was gray—the buildings, the pavement, the sky. Sometimes even the people were gray, but mostly they were nice and cooed at Grantaire’s accent. Of course, that may be on account of Courfeyrac, who was born here, and was always throwing his arm around Grantaire and yelling “Meet my American!” into crowded rooms.

“Oh come on, have a little fun,” he tried, wrapping his arm around R’s waist.

“I just feel like we should go back,” he repeated, a bit quietly. Bahorel had asked the artist if he might pick up a pack of cigarettes for him, seeing as he was busy with a new acrobatic routine, and had bribed him with the promise of sharing. Unsure of what the procedures were, Grantaire had knocked sheepishly at Enjolras’ door. He explained to him the situation (albeit replacing “cigarettes” with razors so as not to upset him) and asked if it would be alright if he left the grounds for a bit. Enjolras offered him a small, quirked smile, then agreed on the condition that he took someone with him (“I’ll not have you wandering off and getting lost in one of the largest cities in the UK.”).

Of course, Courfeyrac may not have been the smartest choice in companion.

“Why do you want to go back so badly? Running home to Enjolras?”

Grantaire’s cheeks burned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Courfeyrac only shrugged as he pulled them toward a window and stared happily down at all the books inside. “Combeferre might like one of these, wouldn’t he?”

“Courf, why did you say that about Enjolras?”

The man glanced over at R, a smile creeping over his mouth. “Oh, come of it, I’m only teasing. You just talk to him a lot,”

“He asks to see me,”

Courf shrugged and kept walking, leading them further down the street. “I’m only saying that you tend to him more than the rest of us do,”

“Do not,” R grumbled, stuffing the pack of cigarettes into his pocket. Courfeyrac threw his head back and laughed, cupping the artist’s cheek in his palm.

“Oh, you are adorable, aren’t you?” Grantaire glared at him. “Example: You asked Enjolras permission if you could leave,”

“I didn’t know we don’t have to!”

“Hey, don’t get so worked up over it, love. I’m just poking fun,”

Grantaire grumbled and focused on a hat shop across the street, if only for something to look at.

“Now come on, we’re going to treat ourselves,”

At that, R looked back toward his friend, who was now pulling him towards a door that was a few shops down. Once in front of it, he could see that it was a pub. He recoiled.

“Courf, no,”

“Why not?” he pouted, bringing R’s hand up to clasp tightly over his heart. “Please? I haven’t been drunk in so long,”

Neither have I, Grantaire thought.

“I…don’t have any money,”

The man waved him off. “I’ll pay,”

“I can’t let you do that,”

“It’s been ages since anyone was willing to drink with me, we’ve all been so busy. I’m not doing this for you, let me buy you a few drinks. It will make me so happy,” He bounced up and down on the balls of his feet, and Grantaire wished he hadn’t grown such a soft spot for Courfeyrac.

“I don’t think it’s the best idea,”

Courf rolled his eyes theatrically and pulled him inside. “Don’t be such a stick in the mud. Come have fun,”

R sucked in a breath and glanced hurriedly around the crowded bar. There were people everywhere, laughing and drinking and playing cards. Immediately, he remembered this. It was like not a day had passed since he’d stepped foot in a pub, and this was him wandering in with every intention of drinking himself into a stupor. He clung to Courfeyrac’s hand tightly.

“Just one drink,” he conceded eventually, after they had taken seats at the bar. Courfeyrac grinned.

“That’s what they all say,”

That night, Grantaire discovered that Courfeyrac was a happy drunk. If he were being honest, it didn’t surprise him in the least, but it was still amusing to watch. He draped himself over everyone (but mostly Grantaire), stroking their hair and cooing little compliments into their ears. More than once, Grantaire had to fend off some rather frightening looking men from lacing their arms around him.

“Let’s see what else those pretty lips of yours can do,” one said, and Grantaire immediately tugged Courfeyrac back into his protective hold.

“Please don’t touch my boyfriend,” he spat, using the only trick he knew how to. Otherwise, this would end in a brawl, and Grantaire really didn’t want to go through that right now.

Courfeyrac giggled and snaked arms around his neck. “Ooo, your boyfriend? That’s new,” he laughed, leaning over to plant a sloppy kiss on his cheek.

And okay, so Grantaire hadn’t stuck to his “one drink” policy, but even after all this time, he could still hold his alcohol better than half the people at the bar. He was beginning to feel the effects after his third. By the fifth, he was grinning wildly at everything, and laughing harder than certain things called for.

“Your boyfriend was flirting with me,” the man said, and Grantaire glared at him.

“That doesn’t give you the right to be a horny asshole,”

The man, who was all muscle and tattoos, seethed and balled his hands up into fists. “The fuck did you just say to me?”

“Don’t fight!” Courfeyrac yelled. He buried his head in the crook of Grantaire’s neck, and the artist tried to ignore the little kisses he was pressing there.

“No, we’re not going to fight,” Grantaire assured.

“We’re not?”

“No, you’re not,” the bartender piped up, eyeing them warily. “Not on my watch. Either break it up, or take this somewhere else,”

Grantaire let out a tremendous laugh at that, and the tattooed man glared daggers at him.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” Grantaire said, attempting to stand with a very clingy Courfeyrac attached to him. “We were just leaving,”

Scowling, the man held out a hand to stop him. R looked down at it for a long time, as if unsure if it were really there. When he looked back up again, he was much closer than anticipated.

“How about a gentleman’s wager?”

R swallowed. “What?”

“Do you play cards?”

At this, Grantaire stilled and clenched his grip tighter around Courfeyrac’s waist. “No,” he snarled, making to go around the man. He was stopped again,

“Oh come on, not even a little? You seem like a gambling man. Where are you from, anyway? You sound foreign,”

“My little American,” Courfeyrac slurred proudly, and R grimaced at the exchange.

“Of course you’re from America,” he said happily. “Come on, then, just a quick game,”

“I don’t play cards,”

“I’ll even make it interesting for you,” he offered, stepping closer. Grantaire felt his heart quicken as he tried to maneuver Courfeyrac behind him. “If I win, you let me have a round with your fake boyfriend,”

“Absolutely not,” he said with finality.

“—But if you win, I’ll give you all the money in my wallet,”

Grantaire scoffed. “Even if there were a chance of me agreeing to those terms, which there isn’t, I doubt you have much more than a couple of pounds. I’m sure you’ve drunk all your money away,”

The man smirked and reached into his back pocket, then opened his wallet up to show the two of them what was inside. Grantaire’s eyes rounded out.

“Still,” he swallowed. “I wouldn’t sell him out for any amount of money,”

“That’s stupid,” Courfeyrac mumbled, a silly smile splayed over his mouth. He threaded his fingers in Grantaire’s hair. “You should do it, R. You’re sooo good at cards,”

“No,”

“If you don’t, then I will,” he demanded. Grantaire narrowed his eyes and turned his friend away from their opponent.

“Courfeyrac, don’t you dare,”

“That’s so much money!”

“I wouldn’t let you do this for all the money in the world,” he hissed.

“Well that’s too bad,” the magician stuck his chin out defiantly. “You have no authority over me. I’m older than you,”

“Do not use that against me right now. I’m doing this as your friend,”

Courfeyrac broke out into a giddy grin. “How sweet,” he mentioned, before pushing past Grantaire and looking the larger man bravely in the eye. “I’ll play cards with you,”

“Fuck,” R muttered, grabbing Courfeyrac by the hand and tugging him back. “Fuck, no, fine. I’ll play,”

“Yeah?” the man said, brows raised and smile dark. Grantaire hated him. “Wonderful. The name’s Thomas, by the way. And you are?”

“R,”

“Just R?”

“Just R,”

They held each other’s stares for a moment before Thomas nodded toward a table. “Alright, let’s play,”

“Why wouldn’t you let meeee do it?” Courfeyrac whined, draping his arms around Grantaire’s neck.

“Because you’re lousy at cards,” he muttered. “You would have gotten yourself raped,”

Courf scowled, but said nothing more, and Grantaire sat down to do what he promised himself he never would again.

 

When he was sixteen, Grantaire learned how to play. It was his uncle who taught him. He was a small man, hardly claiming 5’5, but still the most terrifying person R had ever met. He smoked more than a pack a day, drank like whiskey was water, and swore like a sailor. Once, he got into a brawl with a professional wrestler outside of a bar and won. Grantaire wanted to be him.

It only took him a few months to realize that, not only could he play cards, but he was good. In games that appeared to consist entirely of chance, Grantaire was winning every time. His uncle seemed to notice this too, and spent more and more time stealing R away to play cards with him and his friends. Grantaire loved that. He loved being a part of something that wasn’t the daunting hallways of high school, something that was above the idiots who still thought that “gay” was an insult. Maybe it was. It still hurt like one.

They played all sorts of games. They rarely bet actual money, but when they did, Grantaire was usually the winner of it. Instead of being disgruntled by this, his uncle’s friends would laugh and clap him on the back, offering him another glass of bourbon. He would take it, because that’s what being an adult meant.

Eventually, his uncle picked him up from school, as he often did, and turned the radio down in the car.

“How do you feel about playing cards with some new people?” he asked.

R shrugged. He was sporting a myriad of purpling bruises under his shirt, the product of a brutal run-in with another homophobic asshole, and the discomfort set him on edge. He said nothing, though. His uncle had once told him that ‘real men didn’t lose fights’. He wondered if it was still losing if he never put up a fight in the first place.

“I want to take you to a casino,”

At that, Grantaire blinked at him. “I won’t be able to get in,”

He waved him off. “I can get you in. I think you could make a lot of cash, kid,”

Grantaire shifted in his seat. “I don’t know, I don’t really play like that…it’s just fun,”

“Come on, kid, I need the money. We can split it fifty-fifty,”

R weighed his options, but caved after a good deal of convincing from his uncle. And so the frequent basement card games became flashy, late night gambles at all of the prestigious casinos in the city. They even drove out to LA a couple of times in order to really make it big.

And it worked.

Grantaire won more often than he lost, a master of blank faces and idle conversation that distracted people from what was actually going on. He grew to love it. Not just the games, but the feeling of winning, of taking the money from the counter and tucking it safely into his pocket. He was richer than he ever thought he would be, and high school started to seem like a pointless ritual. After a while, Grantaire realized that this, what he could do, was important, and he was tired of sharing his earnings with a drunken man who barely put any effort into the game.

He started going by himself. He had an unbreakable fake I.D, and most of the casinos knew who he was anyway. He went on school nights, when his uncle was busy elsewhere, and reaped the rewards of his own skill. It was wonderful.

Until it wasn’t.

What they don’t tell you about money is that it strangles you. R had more money than he knew what to do with, but he continued his never-ending quest for more until he was a slave to the deck. He began betting ridiculous amounts, just so he could turn ridiculous profits. The only problem was that he had been nursing his addiction to gambling with alcohol, and now that was catching up to him, too. He was rather good at staying sober enough to play, even after handfuls of drinks, but soon handfuls weren’t enough. The more he drank, the less careful he was. And he lost.

Grantaire bet himself all the way from nothing to everything, then back to nothing again. But by that point, he was too far gone to quit. So he bet himself past nothing. His parents’ savings. His father’s watch collection. His mother’s wedding ring.

After they found out, he couldn’t stay there anymore.

“How the fuck do you explain this?”

“You useless faggot, get out of my house.”

“How can you live with yourself, knowing how much you’ve hurt your mother?”

“Don’t come back.”

So he didn’t.

 

“What the hell were you thinking?”

Grantaire sat across from Enjolras, eyes cast down and hands clenching the edges of his seat. His cheeks were red, more from drink than embarrassment, and he could hear the grinding of his own teeth.

“We were just trying to have a good time,” R murmured.

The leader stood, kicking his chair back and stalking around to the other side of his desk, where he stared imperiously down at him. He grabbed his chin and wrenched it up, forcing him to meet his eyes.

“You lied to me,”

“I didn’t lie—“

“You told me you were going out to get Bahorel some razors. What am I supposed to think when you don’t come back for six hours? You could have been lying in a ditch!”

“Aw, were you worried about me, Enjolras?” Had Grantaire been sober, he would have been mortified at letting that slip through his careful composure. But he wasn’t, and all he could do was grin stupidly up at that beautiful face, all mischief and loose cannons.

Enjolras glared at him, and before R could see it coming, he brought a hand up to strike across his cheek. Grantaire touched the red spot delicately, as if trying to make sure it was really there.

“What have I told you about that?” he demanded.

“Oh, sorry. Were you worried about me, sir?”

Enjolras hissed and bent down in front of him, icy eyes drilling holes into the other’s. Grantaire mused at how easy it would be to just press forward and kiss him, make a mortal out of this mythical being. Even under inebriation, though, he could tell that would only reign disaster. Instead, he pressed against the back of his chair and attempted to create distance between them, distance that Enjolras didn’t allow.

“You ungrateful little fuck,” And Grantaire would be damned if he didn’t squirm hotly at the sound of that word cutting across Enjolras’ lips. He let out a shaky breath. “I was so close to not letting you come with us. I invested in your plane ticket. I kept you on, out of the kindness of my heart. And how do you repay me? You endanger my crew, make an ass out of yourself and come home drunk and stupid. I thought you were better than this,”

By then, Grantaire was sure the chair might tip over if he leaned back anymore. Enjolras’ breath was almost visible, curling out of his lips and onto the artist’s. He hated that he was thinking about that now. He should be listening, nodding and showing he understood, but instead he was focusing on the singular sensation of the air still thick from Enjolras’ mouth hot against his skin.

“Tell me you won’t get drunk again,” he spat.

Grantaire’s reaction was immediate.

“I won’t get drunk again,”

At that, Enjolras stood up straight, slow and deliberate. He eyed Grantaire darkly.

“Tell me you’re sorry,”

Grantaire did.

The leader’s lips tugged up at the corner. It was the same smile he used when he was performing, only something about it turned in Grantaire’s stomach. It was predatory.

Enjolras began pacing in front of the artist. He walked so slowly, it was almost painful, and Grantaire’s pounding head could barely handle the sharp click of his boots on the wood floor.

“Get up,” Enjolras demanded, and R was on his feet before he even realized he was doing it.

“You would do anything I told you to, wouldn’t you?”

Grantaire nodded hesitantly.

“Say it,”

R swallowed. “I would do anything you told me to, sir,” He could feel his palms begin to sweat. Something had changed here. The air was charged with a new sensation, and R had the strangest feeling that he should be trying to leave. But he didn’t want to.

Enjolras smiled and evaluated him coldly. He took a step forward, and Grantaire struggled to hold his ground.

“Are you going to talk back to me anymore, Grantaire?”

He had never loved his name so much as when it sat on Enjolras’ tongue.

“No, sir,”

Enjolras reached out and gripped him by the jaw. “Don’t lie to me,” he warned.

Grantaire was silent. He tried to focus on his own labored breathing, but the sound was drowned out by the rushing of his blood. He stared into Enjolras’ eyes. It was like staring into the sun, burning and dangerous, but so mesmerizing, he couldn’t bear to stop.

“You’re so obedient,” he mused, and he said it like it was delightful and guilty at the same time. He tilted Grantaire’s jaw up more. “You just need to remember that everything you do here, every decision you make, is for me. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” the words got caught in his throat.

“I don’t think you do,”

Enjolras let go, and Grantaire felt the floors shift. He reached forward, grasping the desk as support. The blonde chuckled.

“If the others ask you if you want to go out, you’re to see if I need anything first. If you make yourself a cup of coffee, you’ll make one for me, as well. If you so much as look at any amount of alcohol, you turn around and walk the other way because I want you sober. Tell me you understand,”

Grantaire looked up at him slowly.

“I understand,” The words were quiet.

“And if I need anything, anything at all, you’re to give it to me without question or thought,”

As if I don’t already do that, Grantaire thought. But he simply nodded, eyes cast down.

Enjolras laughed again and stepped closer. “Are you going to give me what I want, R?”

“Yes, sir,” he whispered.

“You idiot,” At that, Grantaire looked up. As far as he could tell, he had done everything right. He agreed when Enjolras wanted him to agree, he nodded and spoke when he was told to do so, he would probably walk into moving traffic if Enjolras had expressed interest. The leader crossed his arms and smirked down at the man. “Only a fool would pledge himself away so easily,”

Grantaire didn’t know what to say to that.

“What if I told you to do something dangerous?” he demanded. R’s lips fell open, eyes rounding out to surprised circles.

“You wouldn’t,” he murmured.

“How can you be sure?”

Grantaire took a deep breath. “I just am,”

Enjolras was an enigma. First, he sent Grantaire’s blood reeling with his demands and his need for order, then he drew it all back and reprimanded him for it. He wondered if there would ever be a way to satisfy him, and hoped desperately that, if there was, he could find it.

“Would you do it, even if it were?”

Grantaire paused.

“Yes,”

Enjolras watched him carefully. “Fool,” he seethed.

“Yes,” Grantaire agreed.

They held each other’s gaze for longer than comfortable, and the silence ate away at their throats.

“And if I told you to do something reckless?”

“I would do it,”

Grantaire could no longer read the emotions on Enjolras’ face. It was somewhere between proud and greedy and careful, a mix he had previously thought unmanageable. Enjolras was an impossible man.

“If I told you to—“

“I would do it,” Grantaire interrupted. He clamped his mouth shut, shaking his head slightly. “I’ll do it,” It was quieter this time.

Enjolras squared his shoulders and stood tall, and Grantaire tried not to shrink in on himself.

“Kiss me,” he said.

Grantaire knew he had misheard. He stared at Enjolras in all of his radiant glory, sure that it was the alcohol still coursing through his veins that was making the beautiful man speak such hysterical things. He stood, gaping slightly.

“What?”

Enjolras drew taller still and stepped forward so that they shared the same space, the same heat, the same air.

“You said you would do anything. I want you to kiss me. So do it,”

And Grantaire did it. It felt wrong—deliciously wrong—to be pressing Enjolras’ lips on his own, swallowing his godlike glory and tasting him on his tongue. Enjolras kissed like he spoke—demanding, greedy, protective. He pushed Grantaire up against the desk and grasped his face tightly in his hand. Grantaire spread his legs and the leader settled between them, pressing him farther against the wood. But all of it, the harshness of the desk, the heat of the trailer, the intoxicating aroma of sweat and saliva, couldn’t hold a match to the burning in his chest as he touched more of Enjolras than he even allowed himself to in his dreams. His hands ran the length of his shoulders, his chest. They didn’t dare go lower, and neither did the leader’s, though he could feel himself growing painfully hard.

When Enjolras finally pulled away, he was still holding Grantaire’s face and breathing into his mouth.

“Fool,” he whispered.

“Yes,” Grantaire agreed.

And then Enjolras was backing up, straightening his jacket and resuming his normal air of superiority, and Grantaire might have been able to believe that the outburst had never really happened. There was no evidence of it on his face, only the pounding of Grantaire’s heart and the position he held against the desk.

“You may go,” Enjolras said. R stood up slowly.

“Just like that?” he asked weakly. He could still taste him in his mouth.

The blonde glared. “Are you questioning me?”

The artist paused, shook his head, then made for the door. He fought the urge to turn around again before leaving. If he had, he would have seen Enjolras’ eyes following him all the way into the blackness of the night. He would have seen him lick his lips.

Chapter Text

Sometimes, Grantaire just watched.

“Good evening, ladies and gents!”

He was radiant. Enshrouded in light, standing tall on the platform, Enjolras looked mythical.

“Welcome to L’ABC, your very own cast of clowns and carnies, acrobats and lion tamers, magicians and trapeze artists!”

His hair haloed his head, the feathery gold of fairy tales, and Grantaire could tellit was softer than anything he had ever felt.

“We’ve traveled far and wide to join you here today. So please, sit back, relax, and let us entertain you!”

More than anything, Grantaire watched because it was the only time he could study the leader without being blatant about it. And it wasn’t just his otherworldly appearance, either. Grantaire studied the way he bent and engaged the audience, how he swept his cane across the room, how he smiled with one side of his mouth. Enjolras demanded everyone’s rapt attention and Grantaire could not be happier to give it to him.

He felt a nudge.

“Drooling much?”

R blushed as Marius grinned at him, then turned to something on his clipboard. It wasn’t as if Marius could blame him. He was only one set of stolen eyes among thousands, and he hadn’t had as much time to get used to the spectacle of a man as everyone else had.

And still, he could touch the places Enjolras had touched.

In London, they spent less time outdoors. Instead of gathering around the fire, they would huddle together at the center of the rehearsal tent and listen to the pitter-patter of the rain against the canvas. Bahorel would try to smoke while Feuilly purposely didn’t watch. Cosette always ended up plucking the thing from his fingers and stamping it out with her foot, insisting that he was going to kill them all by trapping the smoke indoors. Grantaire sprawled where he could, half the time taking comfort in the warmth of Eponine’s lap as she carded lazy fingers through his hair. The other half, he stole away to a corner and sketched. The rest knew to keep their distance when he did.

The first night Grantaire sat behind his sign, painted brightly by his own hand and promising all the wonders of the future, he was expecting to feel like he finally belonged to the circus. Instead, he felt more segregated, more alone. He took people’s money and told them things that would make them happy, or things that would make them think. He missed the beginning and the end of every show. He didn’t get to make sure his friends were ready to go on.

He was comfortable calling them friends now. It was something he realized during the bleak days that dragged across their first week in London. As they all existed together, he found himself happy just to be with them. It didn’t matter that he was thousands of miles from where he had grown up, or that solitude was an inescapable desire that often pulled him away. He felt warmer here, despite the colder weather, and he knew that he had to stay.

Life did change, however, after The Incident. Grantaire had taken to referring to it as such in his head, making it vaguer and more easily brushed aside. He found that if he thought too long on the matter, his heart started to pound and his limbs grew stiff. Instead, he kept it hidden behind a false name, and went about his life the way Enjolras wanted him to. He left cups of coffee on his desk in the morning, laid his things out before the shows, hardly ever forgot to address him in the appropriate way. After a while, he was beginning to feel more like a servant than a worker, but he couldn’t find it in himself to dislike it. If he wasn’t making Enjolras happy, at least he was pacifying him. There hadn’t been an encounter since The Incident, and though that left Grantaire with a certain longing, he knew it meant that he was doing what he was supposed to.

“Where are you sneaking off to?” Eponine demanded, arms crossed. Grantaire froze. He was clutching a cup of coffee in one hand, his legs poised to run on instinct. He glanced from her to the tent he could have sworn she was just practicing in.

“Nowhere. I’m just getting coffee,”

“Uh huh,” She stepped closer to him. “Coffee for who?”

“For me. Jesus, why’re you interrogating me?”

Eponine sighed. “I don’t know,” she snapped, tearing a cup off of the stack, nearly knocking the pot over as she did it. She poured herself some coffee, then shoved it back into place.

“You shouldn’t be drinking caffeine before practicing,” Grantaire warned.

“Oh, don’t give me fucking training advice,”

Grantaire stood, startled by Eponine’s harsh attitude. She had always been sassy, but never malicious. He waited a few seconds, watching her burn her tongue on the coffee and toss it into the garbage can.

“Are you okay?” he asked quietly.

“Fine,”

“It doesn’t exactly seem like it,”

“Pity,” she hissed, then slipped back into the practice tent. Grantaire stood there a moment longer, watching the space she had just occupied, as if she might reappear and have that conversation over again, perhaps making a bit more sense. When she didn’t, he carried his cup of coffee over to Enjolras’ trailer.

He always knocked to see if Enjolras was inside. He usually wasn’t, in which case Grantaire would let himself in and leave the cup on his desk, then slip out as if nothing had happened. Today, there was no answer, so he opened the door and stepped inside.

“Grantaire,”

He jumped, nearly dropping the coffee on the floor. It took a second to locate Enjolras, as he wasn’t in his usual spot behind the desk. Today, he was sprawled out on the bed, long limbs stretched out and arms pillowed beneath his head. One leg was bent at the knee. He looked like he was chiseled from stone.

“Oh, I didn’t hear an answer,” Grantaire explained. “I’m sorry,”

“It’s alright. I was just closing my eyes for a moment,” Enjolras returned. He eyed him steadily, the sort of gaze that can’t be matched.

“I’ll just leave this, then,” he decided, moving to place the cup on the desk.

Enjolras sat up and his muscles tensed as he put more weight on them. Grantaire swallowed his appreciation for the sight, thinking that no amount of charcoal or paint could capture that kind of form.

“Come here,” Enjolras murmured. When Grantaire obeyed, he patted the seat beside him on the bed, like it was perfectly normal for a leader such as himself to invite the man he barely liked to share his mattress. Grantaire sat carefully. “You’re stiff,” Enjolras accused, and he reached a hand out to push on the small of Grantaire’s back. The movement only put him more on edge, however, and he felt his shoulders tighten. A crease appeared between Enjolras’ brow and it looked out of place—too human for a man of his demeanor. Grantaire thought about reaching up to smooth out the line, allow his hand to linger on his skin, trail down to his cheek, his lips. He realized he was staring only after Enjolras’ mouth twisted up into a bemused smirk.

“Do I make you uncomfortable, Grantaire?” Enjolras asked, and Grantaire felt his fingers press harder into the small of his back. They were like five hot dimes straightening his spine. He licked his lips.

“No, sir,”

“Hm,” Enjolras hummed, tilting his head in that sweet way which will make a person frightened and seduced at the same time. He allowed one finger to drag up along Grantaire’s back, stopping just below his neck. Grantaire shivered. “I’m glad,”

It was hard for Grantaire to concentrate on much of anything except for the singular pressure he could feel but could not see. Enjolras’ words settled in his ears but never made it to his brain, too enraptured by the hand doing simple evils to his backside. Enjolras’ mouth came disastrously close to Grantaire’s ear, his hand wrapping around his side to tug him closer.

“I wouldn’t want you to be tense around me,” he whispered, his voice the rich flavor of honey. His teeth closed around Grantaire’s earlobe and tugged lightly. There was a small flick of his tongue and the bite of cool air against Grantaire’s skin as Enjolras’ fingers pushed the corner of his shirt up. Grantaire placed his hand over Enjolras’ and turned his head so that he could find his lips with his own. There was a moment of contact, and then, so abruptly, Enjolras pulled away.

“Eager,” Enjolras noted. Grantaire couldn’t tell if he was scolding him or praising him. He brushed his thumb over Grantaire’s wanton lip, then got up from the bed. He wandered to the desk and picked up the coffee Grantaire had put there only minutes prior. “Your sales are decent. People seem to like your lies,”

The mixture of being abandoned and the slight at his work twisted Grantaire’s tongue into its usual sharpness. “Same to you,” he said.

Enjolras looked at him, seeming to evaluate the worth of reprimanding him and deciding against it. He took a long sip from the cup and looked out the window of the trailer.

“You haven’t told anyone,” he said to the window. It wasn’t a question.

“No,” Grantaire agreed.

“Not even your girlfriend,”

“She isn’t my girlfriend,” Grantaire quipped. She didn’t even seem to like him right now, so she might not even be his friend, for all he knew. The thought depressed him more than he expected.

“Alright,”

“I hate when you do that,” Grantaire mumbled.

Enjolras turned, raising his brow. “Excuse me?”

Grantaire jut his chin out, determined to remain confident in his opinion, no matter how beautiful and demanding Enjolras was. “I hate when you discredit what I say. It’s condescending and disrespectful. I’ve told you that I have no relations with Eponine, and you should believe me,”

“Do you think I care whether you have a girlfriend or not?”

“No, but whether you care or not is beside the point. I’m telling you that I don’t have one,” Grantaire held Enjolras’ gaze fiercely. He wasn’t entirely sure why this was so important, but it was making him feel like less of a helpless victim of Enjolras’ persuasion and more like his equal, so he continued to press his lips into a thin line and square his shoulders.

“I thought you were done talking back to me,” Enjolras stepped forward, his face eerily composed.

“I’m not mindless,” Grantaire argued.

“Oh no, I’m painfully aware of that,”

Grantaire’s blood boiled. He got to his feet. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what I said,”

“You’d prefer me silent and willing and nothing but an empty shell?” he snarled. When Enjolras didn’t say anything, he stalked to the door. “Fuck a corpse, Enjolras,”

Enjolras’ eyes narrowed. “Who said anything about fucking?”

The door slammed.

 

“Those bastards,” Courfeyrac swore, hurling one of his knives at the target board on the far side of the tent. Grantaire slipped inside at the most opportune moment, just missing the flying blade. Courfeyrac grunted as he tossed another, which hit the center of the target with alarming accuracy.

“Which bastards?” Grantaire asked, dropping the heavy mats he had been carrying over his shoulder onto the ground. He began spreading them out, preparing the tent for Cosette and Eponine’s rehearsal.

“Them,” Courfeyrac growled, as if this explained everything, and sent another knife flying. He reached to his belt for another, and frowned when he came up with nothing. He stormed over to the board and began tugging the knives out ruthlessly. “Shit,” he hissed, dropping one of them onto the grass. Grantaire got up and approached him.

“I guess you’re not so magic after all,” he said lightly, holding Courfeyrac’s bloody palm in his hand. “You bleed, just like the rest of us,”

Courfeyrac only rolled his eyes and tried to take his hand back, but Grantaire would hear none of it.

“Come on, let me wrap this up,”

“I’m fine—“ he tried.

“You’re stubborn, not fine,” Grantaire pulled off his t-shirt and wrapped it around his friend’s palm, then told him to keep it there while he went to find some sort of anti-bacterial cream.

“Wait,” Courfeyrac said, bringing Grantaire to a halt. He turned and searched the man’s face for what he needed. Instead of voicing his concern, Courfeyrac just stood there and stared at him like he had forgotten what he was going to say.

“What is it?” Grantaire asked.

“Oh, nothing,” Courfeyrac grinned. “I just wanted to enjoy the view,”

Grantaire suppressed a laugh. He hit Courfeyrac lightly, then left in search of cream. When he returned, Courfeyrac was peeking under the balled up shirt and grimacing at what he saw.

“Alright, give it here,”

“You found another shirt,” Courfeyrac noted, his bottom lip sticking out childishly.

“So I did,” Grantaire tossed the dirty one to the floor, then dipped Courfeyrac’s hand in the basin of water he had brought with him. As he gently washed the dried blood from his hand, a short silence overtook them, only to be broken by Grantaire.

“So are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

Courfeyrac’s brow furrowed, as if he had forgotten that he was angry before the whole knife debacle. He stared intently at Grantaire’s hands fixing his own.

“Benjamin and Leila,” he mumbled. The names didn’t ring a bell, but Grantaire wondered if he had met them and simply forgotten. He waited for Courfeyrac to continue. “They’re perfect,”

Grantaire removed Courfeyrac’s hand from the water and began drying with a towel. When he was finished, he laid the towel over his shoulder and uncapped the anti-bacterial cream.

“You’re going to have to fill me in a little here,”

“They’re the magicians in Charlie’s Circus,”

“What’s Charlie’s Circus?”

Courfeyrac looked at Grantaire like he was daft, sighing loudly to alert him of the pains he was going through in order to fill him in. Grantaire stuck a wide band-aide on the cut.

“They’re our rivals. They almost always book the same cities that we do, but they’re bigger, more commercial. Enjolras loathes them,”

Grantaire frowned. “What’s the good in booking the same cities? It wouldn’t help them, either,”

“They’re trying to put us out of business. Doesn’t matter that Enjolras is actually a decent human being and trying to make the best for us, they just see a circus that’s making money that could be theirs. Bastards,” He inspected his palm, poking at the fabric of the band-aide. Grantaire swatted his finger away.

“They’re in London?” he asked.

“Of course they’re in London. Where else would they be?” Courfeyrac thought on the subject for a while, then added, “I went to see their show tonight,”

“Oh yeah?” Grantaire asked, busying himself with packing up the supplies he had brought in. He placed the basin by the opening of the tent.

Courfeyrac nodded and sunk down to the ground dramatically. “They’re brilliant. Absolutely brilliant,”

“Come on, they can’t be that good,”

“Yes they can. Benjamin and fucking Leila. They did that trick I’ve been trying to get for weeks. The one with the baskets,”

“No,” Grantaire said appreciatively. He finished with the things and went to join his friend on the ground, where he bumped shoulders with him good naturedly. “I bet it looked tacky,”

Courfeyrac shook his head, appearing distinctly like a disappointed toddler. It was heartbreaking. Grantaire put his arm around him and pulled him close, tenting their heads together.

“You’ll think of a hundred more tricks than them, and everyone will be swarming over here, asking for the Great Courfeyrac,”

“I can’t even get one, Grantaire,”

He let a quietude wrap around them, a comforting lapse in reassurances and self-deprecation. They were only two friends sharing a moment when nothing was good or bad, it just was. Grantaire wondered if this was how life was meant to be—just a string of moments that never made it to the right side of morality. They just clung to each other and hoped for the best.

“You know what would make this better?” Grantaire asked.

“If you took your shirt off again?”

Grantaire swatted him again, laughing and pushing his head away. “You’re sick,”

“No, I’m artistic. I like to look at pretty things,” Courfeyrac grinned his most triumphant grin, and Grantaire just rolled his eyes in response.

“I was going to say sabotage,”

Courfeyrac tilted his head. “This intrigues me. Say more,”

As Grantaire leaned in to relay the inner workings of his mind, he felt dangerous and risky. Ideas dripped off of his tongue, and he felt himself drawing from the cache of secrets and tricks he had used as a conman. It was exciting and wrong, but it was useful. Grantaire needed to feel useful.

Chapter Text

Grantaire stared at the mug in front of him. It was an ordinary mug—a mug that shouldn’t cause any sort of alarm. But there it was, and there Grantaire was—very, very alarmed. He turned the note over in his hands, as if it would read something different this time.

Grantaire—I’m sorry. Come to my trailer when you wake up.
--E

He had found it tucked under the coffee cup, which was filled to the brim. Grantaire tried not to think about how it got there or how its giver had known exactly how he liked his coffee.

Bearing the offending object, Grantaire knocked on the door to Enjolras’ trailer. He had half convinced himself that the whole thing was a trap, that it was Courfeyrac who had placed the coffee there and written the note, when the door opened.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras said curtly, stepping aside to let him in. He shuffled past, still clutching the mug like it was anchoring him to reality. After Enjolras shut the door and turned to him, they watched each other silently. Grantaire waited only a few moments before speaking.

“You left a note.”

“I did, yes.” Enjolras looked as if he wasn’t going to say more about the subject, which was so completely uncalled for after the minor existential crisis the note had put Grantaire through only minutes prior.

So Grantaire pushed. “I never thought I’d hear you apologize for anything. You’ve got that whole ‘avenging god’ vibe going on.”

“You think I’m godlike?”

“So not the point, Enjolras.” Grantaire caught the flash of scrutiny on his face and sighed, amending. “Sir.”

“No, it’s not that—I mean, it’s alright. Do you want to sit down?”

Grantaire looked between Enjolras and the offered chair, unsure how to fit himself into this new dynamic. The man who had previously seemed angry, powerful, and demanding was now ringing his hands together in front of him. It was subtle—Grantaire might not have noticed it if he hadn’t clocked the strange stutter in Enjolras’ voice. The question instead of the command. He sat slowly, carefully, never letting his eyes leave Enjolras’.

“You brought me coffee,” Grantaire tried, seeing that the conversation wasn’t going anywhere.

“Don’t get used to it,” Enjolras snapped. Grantaire couldn’t help but slump a little in relief at the familiarity of it. “I just thought we should talk.”

“I’m all ears, sir.”

Enjolras’ face twisted a bit, but he nodded. He didn’t make any move to sit, leaving Grantaire to look up at him as he searched for the right words.

“Last week, you were completely out of line. You snapped at me, you pushed me, and you left without my permission.”

“This doesn’t sound so much like an apology,”

“Shut up,” Enjolras seemed to catch himself, letting his mouth crease into a thin line. He glared at Grantaire, but it felt arbitrary and not as cold as it usually did. He started again. “I mean to say that none of those things are acceptable, but I’m afraid I may have upset you. And I’d like for you to talk to me about it instead of lashing out.”

“Oh,” Grantaire quipped, leaning forward a bit in his chair. And this was good—this was too good, really. He hung a sly smile on his lips. “You’re worried that you upset me,”

“I’ve said as much,” Enjolras returned, irritated.

“After you told me in so many words that you would prefer it if I was a mindless sack of meat.”

“That’s vulgar—“

“That’s true. And it’s all right. Really, I don’t need you to like me.” Grantaire felt the lie thick on his tongue, but pushed forward. There was a glint in his eye as he spoke. “But don’t take what you want from me, silencing me every chance you get, and then ask me to talk to you about my feelings.”

“You agreed to this. You begged me for a job and I gave you one. These were my terms, and if you weren’t willing to agree to them, you shouldn’t have come with us to London.” Enjolras took a step closer to Grantaire, regaining a bit of his usual height.

“Fine, then. What would you like from me today? A kiss?” he leered.

Enjolras glared down at him. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, no longer worrying around each other.

“I’m trying to apologize,” he spat through gritted teeth.

Grantaire got up quickly. Before he lost his nerve, he closed the gap between them, slotting his lips against Enjolras’. He had thought of this often enough—ever since The Incident, and likely even before, he often found his thoughts wandering to Enjolras’ mouth, and Enjolras’ tongue, and Enjolras’ everything. It was a plague of the mind, really. But this was different. There was no hot desire, no charged air between them. This was Grantaire trying to prove a point.

He only felt the soft warmth of Enjolras’ lips a moment before he was pushed away with a growl.

“What are you doing?”

“Giving you what you want,” Grantaire replied evenly. He met Enjolras’ eyes with all the confidence he could muster. “I won’t say a word.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You can kiss me. You can touch me. You can fuck me, if you want.” Grantaire started pulling at his own shirt, tugging it over his head.

Enjolras startled, shoving it back down. “Grantaire, stop.”

He looked up at him, wordless and breathing hard. Grantaire’s cheeks were rosy in the rush of it all. Enjolras appraised him with a softness that felt completely foreign, and it made Grantaire squirm before him. Slowly, Enjolras reached out a hand and brushed a thumb across Grantaire’s jaw.

“I thought that you wanted it before. If I was wrong…”

Grantaire’s stomach flipped. Enjolras had kissed him exactly three weeks ago. Since then, Grantaire had carefully avoided conversation about the subject, carefully avoided anything that might put that incident into the realm of reality. But this felt dangerously close to a Discussion. And what could he possibly say? That he had been following the lines of Enjolras’ body for weeks? That the low timber of his voice was enough to make him shiver? That, for all his pushing and mouthing off, Enjolras’ demands were enough to make him practically salivate? All of it was better situated in the silences between them, where Grantaire could artfully pretend that none of it was true.

“Don’t,” he said softly.

“Grantaire.” Enjolras dropped his hand. “I know this is different than getting me coffee or asking my permission to leave. I only want to take what you’re willing to give.”

Grantaire found Enjolras’ eyes and saw a gentleness in them. It made him angry. To be so affected by the demands and the power was one thing—passable as a kink that Enjolras happened to perform well—but the tug that Grantaire felt in his stomach at this softness in him was completely unacceptable. Suddenly, his feelings were taking shape, finding names. And he wasn’t ready to hear them.

“I’m not going to tell you when I’m angry,” he muttered. “Or when there’s something on my mind. I don’t want to be your friend just because you’re feeling touch starved and guilty about it.”

Enjolras paused, but then said, “okay,” and Grantaire tried not to feed the twist of his stomach that had wanted Enjolras to tell him he was wrong. He shook it off and continued.

“I did want it.”

“Truly?”

“Would you like me to beg?”

Enjolras’ lips quirked up at that. “I wouldn’t mind that.”

Grantaire’s cheeks rouged but he kept a straight face, trying to maintain his composure. “Then tell me to. And I will.”

“Fool,” Enjolras said, but it was soft and sweet, almost as if he were doting on a pet with fondness.

“Yes,” Grantaire sighed.

Enjolras straightened himself, adjusting the hem of his shirt. He went to the door and opened it, a dismissal.

Grantaire was on his way out when Enjolras caught him by the waist and tugged him forward. Their chests met just as Grantaire’s breath was knocked from his lungs. He glanced up at Enjolras.

“You’ll sleep here tonight,” he said, low and hot. Grantaire’s eyes betrayed his surprise, but he swallowed quickly and nodded. “Tell me you understand.”

“Yes, sir.”

After Enjolras released his waist and left him to stumble down the trailer steps, Grantaire mentally kicked himself. Here he had damned himself, pushing Enjolras into the most unreachable place he could, but still found a hot comfort in the familiar words. He knew what to do with them, knew how to bend them to get that smirk to appear on Enjolras’ face. He could ‘yes, sir’ his way into making Enjolras satisfied, and that seemed like a goal worth focusing on.

At least it meant he wouldn’t have to focus on anything else, like that gentleness that had ghosted through Enjolras’ eyes and landed directly in Grantaire’s own heart.