Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The cottage at the end of the lane seemed to sit outside the boundaries of normal life. It was as though the long grass and wildflowers and hedgerows surrounding it kept time from moving within the old stone wall around it, the winding path down to the pastel door - too narrow and overgrown for anything larger than a bicycle - creating a threshold into the unfading warmth of the building’s embrace. Grantaire had spent more long, lazy days and warm, comfortable nights under starry skies in the garden of that cottage than he’d spent settled in any other place in the last few years and every moment he’d lived within the charming, private world his friends had built there had changed him in ways he couldn’t begin to explain. The night was muggy and silent save for the sound of his own footfall on the tarmac and the peaceful buzzing of summer insects drawn to the streetlights. Even the potholes were familiar as he navigated the quiet single lane roads of Auvers-Sur-Oise on the way to the closest place he had left to a permanent home. It made sense, he supposed, that it felt like home; Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta were the closest thing to family he had in left in France.

Years had passed since their small group had been whole but of all of Grantaire’s friends, the three of them were a constant he could always count on to welcome him back with open arms. Not to say that he didn’t miss every member of their old student society. From Courf’s good sense of humour to Combeferre’s deep and life-changing conversations, Jehan’s endless light, Bahorel - the best of drinking buddies - and Feuilly, who’d never once judged the way Grantaire used to be. Even Marius, who’s foolish love sickness that had once driven them all mad had by some miracle culminated in a beautiful wedding to an even more beautiful bride, the two of them had moving out of Paris years before anyone else.

And Enjolras, of course Enjolras.

After everything that had happened between them, after all the pain and the longing, after having to cut and run from the entire city for the sake of his own sanity, Grantaire still missed Enjolras. Even though he’d made himself believe over time that he’d made the right choice, the air had never been cleared. There was so much left unsaid that still stung to think about, weighed him down to carry around with him like a song unsung. He doubted he’d ever say it now.

It was already far past midnight, but Grantaire had a spare key nestled permanently into the coin pocket of his wallet and if the three of them were asleep when he arrived, they’d know he’d was there when they saw the guest room door closed in the morning. Joly had declared it Grantaire’s room over a year ago, a place to store some of the possessions he didn’t want to travel with and a place he could always hide away in when the world got too much to bear.

As it was tonight. As it had been for the last few months.

Grantaire had turned thirty three five weeks ago - he’d passed his birthday quietly, in nobody’s company but his own - and hadn’t seen his friends since two months before his thirty second birthday. Only now he was close did it really hit him what a stretch of time that was; how he’d watched the seasons change but not seen the relief on Joly’s face as winter ebbed away, or how the colour of the fallen leaves matched perfectly with Musichetta’s hair whilst she walked in the park, or heard Bossuet’s laughter as he stretched out like a cat in the late summer sun. Time was like that - every passing year that aged him brought more loneliness and misery. His chest physically ached with every step towards them, a longing for closeness to the people he cared most for that he’d never forgotten, but had tucked away in the back of his mind somewhere along the way.

The last year and a half had been a chaotic whirlwind of opportunities, inconveniences, successes and failures. Grantaire had set out across Europe chasing work, without any real idea of what he was doing: taking photographs and selling them to magazines and websites to make money with hopes of turning it somehow into a career, sleeping in bus stations and hostels when he couldn’t afford anything better. He’d mostly been alone at first. He’d made plenty of friends in passing, but friendships on the road were always fleeting. Ships passing in the night. He’d stayed a while for free in an artists colony, which were the happiest six weeks of all his travelling, surrounded by people that reminded him of his friends from back home. There his days were packed with laughter and philosophy and creativity, and the long nights spent drunk and high, and almost always in someone else’s company. But then he’d almost picked up a paintbrush again, and so he’d moved on quickly before he fell prey to the temptation. And then, of course, there’d been love. Or would-be love, he supposed. Eight whole months of trying to feel something that was never quite there with someone who was only nearly what he wanted. It was symptom of getting older, he supposed: a painful awareness of time that urged him to settled down, to do things the way he thought he was expected to, to ‘find’ himself. Find happiness.

Grantaire rebelled against it as violently as he tried to conform to it, and in that constant internal tug of war he’d found himself more uncertain than ever. The smallest of disagreements blew out of control until the relationship he’d hung all his hopes on had worn thin like butter over too much bread. Like every time something went wrong in his life, Grantaire did what he did best: he ran.

This time, at least, he’d run back the way he came.

Tarmac gave way to gravel underfoot, and gravel became dirt as Grantaire found the turn to the lane, the sign for Bird’s Nest Cottage nearly entirely hidden in the ferns growing along the path. He made a mental note to cut them back for his friends as soon as he found the time. They wouldn’t ask him to but he liked to pull his weight when they let him stay and stored his belongings for free. He was utterly exhausted from the journey. He’d been met with delays and cancellations on almost every public transport service west of Stuttgart, and an already epic day of travelling had become sixteen hours of dull, slow-moving hell all the way from Prague back to France. His stomach was turning with hunger. The ache in his shoulders under the weight of his rucksack, stuffed with everything he’d taken with him on his travels, grew with each step but before long he could make out the squat building: the sloping clay tiles of the roof, the green shutters with paint peeling in a few too many places, the brick work hidden behind a curtain of ivy. A dim light in the kitchen window guided him in like a ship welcomed back to harbour after years at sea.

Grantaire paused on the doorstep to breathe in the warm night time air one last time before he stepped inside. He could hear someone moving around in the kitchen and the muted clattering of crockery and pans was as comforting as a lullaby, knowing he was home.

He imagined it was Bossuet clearing up long after dinner - perhaps Joly and Musichetta had fallen asleep leant against him on the sofa and he hadn’t wanted to move them. Or perhaps Joly had simply been home extremely late from his job at the tiny town’s doctor’s surgery, often held up after hours updating records or doing home visits because he didn’t have the heart to turn any patient down. Musichetta cooked most of the time, not because her boys couldn’t, but because she loved to do it. She was a great cook to boot. Grantaire’s mouth watered a little at the thought of her cooking, and as he knocked on the door - quietly, so as not to disturb anyone already asleep - he found himself hoping there were leftovers in their fridge that he could dig in to.

No answer. He frowned, pausing to listen again. The kitchen was suddenly quieter, but no one was coming to the door. Probably because of the late hour. No one expected a knock on the door at nearly one a.m. But if someone was up, there was a chance that- yes, the door was unlocked. Grantaire pushed it open and revelled in the silence as it swung back. Someone had oiled the hinge after years of creaking.

There it was. With it came all the memories. The front door opened straight into the sitting room, a crowded asymmetrical space that managed to look cosy with its terracotta tiled floor and piled up rugs, mismatched bookshelves and vintage furniture, lit by a few small lamps scattered throughout the space. The room was punctuated by a wooden column supporting the upper floor of the cottage. Grantaire remembered dancing around that column with Bossuet on a spontaneous karaoke night, Musichetta laughing so loud in one of the armchairs that she almost drowned out the music. Every corner of the room was filled with similar memories - enjoying the sunshine by the patio doors, quietly opening up to Joly sat on the staircase in the far corner, moving all the furniture to make room for a giant dining table on a weekend almost all of their friends had managed to make it for Sunday lunch. Grantaire’s despondent heart began to fill again as he reminisced, a smile curling at the corners of his lips; the cottage was already working its magic, threading him back together piece by piece, so gently that it didn’t hurt at all.

“...Grantaire..?”

That wasn’t Bossuet.

Or Joly, or Musichetta.

All the warmth flooded out of Grantaire’s tired body at once as he turned towards the sound, towards the kitchen doorway, towards something he definitely was not ready to deal with.

Enjolras.

There he was in all his golden-haired glory, red shirt hanging off his broad shoulders, bright eyes wide in the low light as he looked Grantaire up and down. In one hand he was holding a box of cereal, the other hand buried inside it.

He was as beautiful as the first day Grantaire had met him.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Grantaire said, snappier than he probably should have been. The hair on the back of his neck prickled up. He was clutching one strap of his backpack, had been about to take it off, but with all his defenses suddenly sky high he found himself squeezing it until his knuckles turned white.

Enjolras looked a little taken aback, but recovered quickly. “I’m staying here,” he said. The cereal box rustled as he extracted his hand, empty.

That was a spanner in Grantaire’s plans. He drew in a sharp breath, mind racing for a solution. He couldn’t stay here with Enjolras. He couldn’t stay here with Enjolras.

“How...long for?”

“I don’t know,” Enjolras answered, with enough hesitance that Grantaire heard ‘indefinitely’ in the subtext. “At least until Bastille Day. Possibly longer.”

It’d been so long since they last saw each other, last spoke, that Grantaire couldn’t even begin to guess at why Enjolras would be staying with friends for the foreseeable future, especially this far outside of Paris. He’d always known Enjolras as a part of Paris, as if he’d grown naturally from the cracks between its paving slabs like the flowers. He belonged there and Grantaire couldn’t imagine him spending too long outside city limits, lest he collapse from the separation. Of the friends he and Enjolras shared, Grantaire would have pinned him as staying with Combeferre, or Courfeyrac, or Feuilly before Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta.

But they didn’t know each other anymore.

Grantaire shifted on his feet. He had no idea what else to say, or what to do. There was definitely nowhere else he could stay this late at night - the town only had one guest house and he couldn’t show up there at one in the morning - and he was exhausted, aching, starving. His legs would likely give out beneath him if he tried to go anywhere else.

“I suppose you’re staying too,” Enjolras said, gesturing to his bag. His words were stilted. It was only be expected, the way they’d left off before. “They hadn’t said.”

“They didn’t know I was coming,” Grantaire rebuked quickly. “I have my own key. I can come and go as I please.”’

“Oh. I see.” This was strange. Enjolras had to be feeling it to. Nearly four years with no contact, they were basically strangers, and yet Grantaire couldn’t escape the surge of feelings creeping up his throat.

Studying him, he found Enjolras’ hair was a little shorter than he remembered, his cascading curls barely brushing his shoulders. His own was a little longer though, he supposed. Besides that he couldn’t see any change in Enjolras’ face, no lines to give away the passage of time like Grantaire was sporting at the corners of his eyes. He looked younger than his years, as he always had done; no older than twenty-three, although after all this time he had to be skirting his thirtieth birthday. Of course he’d be blessed with eternal youth. If anyone was, it’d be Enjolras.

Before Grantaire could think of anything else to say, there was a creak on the staircase. They turned in sync to look over at the corner of the room and found Joly hovering a few steps up, resting on his cane, robe wrapped around himself and pinned in place with an arm folded over his chest. He was barely awake.

“Hello stranger,” Joly said, tired smile breaking out on his face as he realised Grantaire was standing there. He made his way carefully down the last two steps. Grantaire couldn’t help grinning back, finally shedding his heavy pack off his back carelessly, as Joly approached and pulled him in a tight hug.

God, this was what he needed. The dread of seeing Enjolras out of the blue seeped from his body as Joly’s arms enveloped him. He buried his face into his shoulder, wishing he could hide there forever.

“Missed you,” he mumbled into the fabric of Joly’s robe, returning the hug with equal vigour. “It’s been too long.”

“Far too long, my friend. We’ve missed you too. All of us. So, so much.”

Grantaire was distantly aware of Enjolras still stood beside them but he refused to care. This was what he’d come for. If his heart was still beating a little too fast, if he was a little dizzy at their closeness, he’d keep that close and let no one else know.

“Are you just passing through? Or staying a while?” Joly asked once Grantaire finally released him. “Chetta’s asleep but she’ll be made up to see you in the morning. Bossuet’s out until Friday but if you stay, he’ll be over the moon, I’m sure.”

He gave Grantaire a look, too. It was a look filled with silent questions: is everything okay? Do you need anything? Do you need to talk? Only Joly could see through him so easily, but Grantaire schooled his own expression and hoped his easy smile would keep his friend content for the time being.

“I don’t know. Seems you’ve got a full house already,” he shrugged, glancing over at Enjolras.

Enjolras was already staring right at him. Meeting his eyes caught Grantaire off guard and threatened to unnerve him all over again. They were so very blue, and striking against his porcelain complexion; Grantaire knew that already, but he’d shoved the knowledge somewhere deep down inside. They were also…vulnerable, almost. Or at least less guarded than Grantaire remembered.

“There are two beds in the guest room,” Enjolras suggested honestly. “I don’t mind-”

“Or Chetta’s office,” Joly said quickly. Not for the first time, Grantaire was extremely thankful Joly understood him so well. “You can take the pull out, it’s pretty comfortable. And private.”

Enjolras looked slightly put out to be cut off, but he didn’t say anything. Grantaire breathed a silent sigh of relief - the thought of sharing a room with Enjolras struck an unwarranted amount of fear into him.

“That’d be fine, thank you,” Grantaire said. He was already thinking of where else he could go once the morning rolled around - perhaps the guest house in the town, or he could suck it up and move somewhere else entirely. He didn’t have to stay with Joly and the others - not if Enjolras was already taking up their hospitality. He’d overload them and he’d hate himself if he became a burden. Not on the people who cared the most for him.

He climbed the stairs quietly after Joly, Enjolras remaining thankfully downstairs. Grantaire was sure he didn’t stop to take a breath until they were in Musichetta’s office and Joly had showed him how to fold out the spare bed.

“How are you doing really?” Joly asked, a gentle hand coming to rest on his shoulder. “I’m sorry about...I would have warned you, if I’d known you were coming.”

Grantaire leaned into the touch. “I’m alright.” I have to be. “I promise.” He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. “You know what I’m like, last minute decisions and all that. I’ll find somewhere else to stay tomorrow.”

Silent for a long moment, Joly just squeezed his shoulder harder.

“You don’t have to, you know. You’re always welcome here.”

“I don’t want to be a bother-”

“R.”

When he looked up, Joly was staring at him firmly. He trembled a little under the scrutiny - not pity, but real, genuine care and love that even Grantaire couldn’t deny was real. He couldn’t meet Joly’s eyes for long before he had to look away.

“Just that this was...seeing him is-” Fumbling over his words, Grantaire fell silent and rubbed his hands over his face.

How could he put into words how it felt to see the man he’d considered the love of his life after four long years purposefully as far away from him as he could be? After he’d fled from him before the infatuation killed him? How many nights had he spent crying on Joly’s shoulder over his unrequited feelings for Enjolras and his desperate loneliness and the resolute feeling of life not being worth living? And now - now Grantaire would have to explain that despite all that, everything he’d put his friends through and after no more than ten minutes of strained conversation, he still felt the same way he always did. His heart was fluttering. He was light-headed. He thought that he might cry, although the exhaustion may have played a part in that particular pitfall.

He desperately wanted to tell Joly he was sorry, but words failed him.

“I know,” Joly said, patting his shoulder before he let his arm drop back to his side. “Get some sleep, okay? We can talk it out tomorrow.”

Grantaire nodded and tried to swallow the lump in his throat with little success.

Wishing Joly goodnight and stripped down to his underwear and t-shirt, too tired to even dig out his toothbrush. The sofa bed was comfortable enough; he probably would have managed to sleep in a bus stop if he’d had to, he was that worn out. Yet laying there, staring up at the ceiling with a million thoughts turning inside his over-tired brain, Grantaire started to worry he wasn’t going to get to sleep at all.

Especially not when he heard Enjolras coming quietly upstairs and slipping into the guest room. (My room, he thought. The one with the bed he’d come to think of as his own, and now Enjolras was sleeping in it. In the place where he slept.)

He’d get through this, just like everything else. Tomorrow was another day, he told himself, and he would handle it because he had to. He could handle anything where there was no other choice.

Or he’d just run away again. That decision could be made later.

Grantaire fell asleep around three a.m already knowing Enjolras would haunt his dreams, as he had done every night all those years ago, wondering if Enjolras ever dreamt about him too.

Chapter Text

Grantaire opened his door at exactly the same moment Enjolras stepped out of the guest room the following morning.

He’d be hard-pressed to explain why it felt so utterly mortifying - besides the fact he was standing there in front of the most beautiful man in the world, in nothing but a ratty old pair of boxers and a faded t-shirt that pulled a little tight around his gut - but Grantaire still felt the hot flush creeping up his face and neck as their eyes met across the narrow, crooked corridor of the cottage’s second floor. Enjolras looked, as he always did, practically flawless, with his long curls already swept back into a neat bun and a pair of check pyjama bottoms hanging low off his slim hips. He was shirtless, although he had a small selection of clothes held to his chest, obscuring the view of his equally flawless torso. Probably for the best. The sight of him was already rubbing salt in the old wound that had reopened last night.

“Good morning,” Enjolras said politely, although Grantaire was sure he was being judged for the state he was in when Enjolras looked him up and down. “Were you heading to the shower? I can wait.”

The plan had been to get coffee and eat too much breakfast in his underwear, then spend the day wrapped up in a blanket in an armchair, doing nothing in particular and not bothering to get dressed at all unless it became absolutely necessary. That was what he’d usually do when he stayed here, but faced again with Enjolras’ presence Grantaire felt his usual comfort evaporate like a rug pulled out violently from beneath his feet.

“Go ahead,” Grantaire said, wetting his lips and looking anywhere but at the small slither of skin visible between the waistband of Enjolras’ pyjamas and the clothes in his arms. When Enjolras didn’t immediately move, Grantaire gestured towards the bathroom with a sweep of his arm. “Please. I’m...I’ll just-”

He gave up, shooting Enjolras a forced smile instead.

When he’d first woken up, buried to the neck in blankets and cushions on the pull out bed in Musichetta’s office, Grantaire had ambitiously thought this could work, that he could stay here in the cottage with Enjolras in the room across the hall and treat it like nothing was different to normal, and still have a good time. This was his safe place, after all - one spanner in the works shouldn’t have been enough to tear it all down.

The problem was, Enjolras was a pretty sizeable spanner and Grantaire’s inner workings were already a fragile mess, always on the verge of a breakdown.

Ducking back inside the office, Grantaire closed the door and leaned against it as though there was some reason to hold it shut. He could feel the first signs of a panic attack gathering in his chest: electric shocks pulsing in his head, spots in his vision, his chest constricting so tightly it crushed the air out of his lungs. Fighting to stave it off was a practiced art, but not an easy one.

He’d been wrong. This was never going to work.

Folding the sofa bed away felt like finalising his decision. He’d have to go elsewhere. Once the cushions were back in place, Grantaire took a seat on it and looked around at the small office that doubled as a second guest room, taking in the cute, eclectic decor and feeling a twist of sadness at the idea of leaving so soon. The room was a funny shape, a chimney breast sticking out into it with no fireplace, creating two small alcoves on the far wall, and Bossuet had built a custom desk around it - with Feuilly’s help - for Musichetta’s jewellery making and leather work. They’d filled the spaces above it with shelves and filled the shelves with everything and anything. There were Joly’s medical journals, dog-eared and well-thumbed novels - fantasy for Bossuet, travel stories and romances for Musichetta, and Joly’s favourite crime thrillers - and crafting books, ornaments collected from trips around the country and overseas to Musichetta’s family, and colourful flags strung wall to wall. And picture frames - so many picture frames. They were littered between the shelves and hung up on the wall space like a gallery. Most of them were pictures of the three of them and their friends. Grantaire could have spent hours reminiscing over the moments captured in those stills. As it was right now, he didn’t want to look.

Someone knocked lightly on the door.

“R, it’s me,” came Musichetta’s soft, sing-song voice. “Can I come in?”

He tried to reply but found himself having to clear his throat before he could get the words out. “Sure thing.”

The door opened gently, his friend’s loving face poking through the gap.

“Just wanted to say hello.” She lit up with a smile. “It’s been a long old time.”

Grantaire beckoned her in, appreciating how she took the time to close the door after herself before she hugged him. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her even closer, hoisting her into the air as he did so and revelling in the little squeal of excitement she made before he placed her down again.

“How’ve you been?”

“Fine. More than fine,” she replied, sunshine grin still plastered on her face. “I’ve got so much to tell you, I was going to call but I’m so glad you’re here!”

“I can’t wait to hear all about it,” Grantaire said, and he meant it. Unwanted visitor across the hall or not.

“Are you hungry? I think we’ve got eggs still. Bossuet’s not been here to demolish all the groceries before I’ve had a chance to cook anything with them.” She tapped her chin in thought. “Spicy eggs and hash browns? Or I can pop into the village for pastries if you’d rather.”

“Whatever you’ve got in is fine, honestly.”

“Are you sure? It’s no trouble at all.”

“I’m sure,” he chuckled. No one had taken care of him like this since he was last here. Grantaire’s heart ached for it, knowing without a doubt that Musichetta meant her words; he never doubted any of them. They were the most honest people he knew.

More reasonably dressed - that morning was enough embarrassment for one day - Grantaire sat outside in the garden with a full belly, the plate on the table behind him scraped clean of every last morsel of his breakfast. The morning was warm and his head was a little quieter. Eyes slipping closed, he listened to Musichetta chatting idly over the peaceful ambience of the countryside.

“And you know what his luck is like, so by the time Bossuet got down there, the post office was already closed. I ended up having to courier the documents to the solicitor for three times the price.”

Grantaire chuckled, tipping back his head back so he could feel the sun on his face. “Where is he anyway? Joly said he was away until Friday.”

“Oh…he spends the weekdays in Paris now.”

Musichetta instantly shrank a little as she spoke. Grantaire could see a touch of sadness in her expression and feared the worst. His friends had never failed to make their three-way relationship work before, not even in the beginning when they’d been blindly trying to work the whole thing out.

Back then, everyone had been a little unsure, none of them more than Grantaire. Accepting - of course, who was he not to be - but nervous to see any of them hurt, when Joly had first come to him and nervously admitted he’d agreed to share Musichetta with Bossuet, who, whilst being his long term house guest, had not been anything more than Joly’s close friend at the time. Grantaire had strived to understand it and prepared himself to help pick up the pieces when someone got jealous, but they never did until one night, months down the line, Joly wound up in Bossuet’s lap at the Musain and they finally admitted the whole thing had naturally progressed into what it was today. Grantaire had seen their blossoming relationship through every obstacle and every hiccup, navigating the constraints of conventions and expectations with courage and grace; unaccepting parents, close-minded businesses, unbending laws. The world wasn’t built for what they shared, but they made it work without exception and Grantaire could no longer picture one without the other two.

“Why?” He asked carefully, his heart thumping a little harder in his chest. “Is everything okay?”

“Work,” Musichetta said innocently, then noticed Grantaire’s obvious distress. “Oh! Yes, of course. It’s just his new job. We’re fine, I promise.” She laughed at his comical sigh of relief. “He’s working at a legal consultancy in Paris, helping families who can’t afford lawyers. They let him work from home Monday and Tuesday, then he heads to Paris on Tuesday night and he’s back again on Friday afternoon. It’s not ideal, but it’s been really good for him. He loves it.”

“I’m glad. It’s about time he found his calling.”

“You’re telling me.” Musichetta took a sip of tea, smiling into her cup. “Not that I don’t love having him around, but he was driving me crazy in the house all day. We want to make all sorts of improvements here but I don’t want him to be the one doing it.”

If it was up to Grantaire, he’d never change anything about the cottage. It was so perfect as it was; every crack in the stone, every flake of paint peeling off the woodwork, even the stained carpet in the guest room. Still, it wasn’t his home. He’d never been one for home improvements anywhere he’d ever lived. “What did you want to do to it?”

“This garden for starters!” Musichetta gestured out at the space. Grantaire looked over it with a more critical eye. The old flagstone path had disappeared into the lawn, which looked more like wild grassland for how overgrown it had gotten. The string lights in the back bushes were hidden in the leaves and the flowerbeds were being strangled by weeds. “In my wildest dreams we’d have a perfect little garden with foxgloves and roses and a vegetable patch, but I’m useless with plants. I ought to have Jehan out here to teach me someday.” She sighed, staring out at the space for a long moment. “I’d get rid of that old shed and put a pergola up, and maybe we could have a fire pit with seating instead of this old table. Better lighting so we could drink out here when it’s dark. Somewhere we could entertain people with pride! But as it is, everyone’s coming for a barbecue on Bastille Day and I’m going to be ashamed of letting them out here.”

“They are?” Had he been that out of touch, Grantaire wondered, that he’d not been invited?

Musichetta nodded. “You never RSVP’d. Is that not why you’re here?”

He must have missed it. He wasn’t the greatest with emails, or checking his messages. The voicemail icon had sat in the top corner of his phone screen for months.

“I didn’t see the invite.” He laughed at himself, shaking his head. “I’m an idiot, sorry Chetta.”

She feigned hurt, batting him playfully on the arm. “No love lost, you’re here all the same. Everyone is going to be so happy to see you!”

As much as the sudden reemergence of Enjolras had made him panic, the prospect of all of his friends gathered in one place again filled him with joy. He counted in his head; Bastille Day was Sunday, four days away. Four days until he could see everyone together as a group, after four whole years of separation. But it was four days with Enjolras, cooped up together in close quarters, and he wasn’t sure he could handle that.

She looked so excited at the prospect of him sharing the day with them and he couldn’t pretend he didn’t want to. He couldn’t lie to her.

He should have known he needn’t have worried about how to tell her - she could see straight through him.

“You’re not staying.” Her smile dropped. “Grantaire…”

“I don’t know. Maybe, it’s just…seeing him again is strange.”

Musichetta leaned on his shoulder. “Strange is not bad.”

“No.” One of Grantaire’s hands instinctively came up to pet her hair. “I don’t know if it is bad. I just don’t know if I can handle it.”

It was easier to talk to her about his feelings than Joly sometimes. Grantaire hadn’t spent quite so many nights in tears with Musichetta as he had done with the guys, and she had an innate sixth sense with emotions, like some kind of oracle. She probably already understood what he was going through better than he did, without him explaining.

“Just know that whatever you’re feeling, it’s okay. You’re allowed to feel it.” Chetta took her hand from his hair and cradled it in her lap. “Don’t feel like you have to make an effort with him just because you used to be friends. Things happen. People change. You don’t even have to like him anymore.”

“That’s the problem,” Grantaire admitted. “I do still like him. All those feelings, they’re still there.” Musichetta sat up straight, her face lighting up. She kept her expression controlled, but Grantaire could see the excitement in her dark eyes. “I wish they weren’t. Or rather…I wish I could go back and undo everything that happened. It’s all so awkward now.”

The back door rattled open, silencing Grantaire immediately. He glanced around, knowing before he looked what he was going to find.

Enjolras stood in the doorway with a steaming mug in his hand. The sight of him took Grantaire’s breath away. He was dressed now in a pair of dark chino shorts, a grey t-shirt that clung to his slender chest and a denim shirt thrown over the top, rolled at the sleeves. The sunlight glinted off his perfect hair and illuminated his smile and all Grantaire wanted to do was touch him to see if he was real.

Instead, he tensed up and stared at the ground.

“It’s beautiful out here,” Enjolras said, completely oblivious to the conversation he’d interrupted. “Mind if I join you?”

Musichetta glanced at Grantaire, graciously giving him a moment to say no before she smugly slid further down the bench, making space between the two of them for Enjolras to sit. “Not at all. Come, sit.”

It was too late to stop it from happening. Grantaire considered getting up and going inside without a word, but to do so would be making even more of an issue of the tension between them and he thought he might just keel over and die if that happened. Instead, he shifted as far the other way as he could to widen the gap so that him and Enjolras had no chance of touching in any way.

“No cereal straight out of the box this morning?” Old habits died hard, it seemed. He’d have to bite his tongue to keep from getting too insulting if he was going to stay.

Which he wasn’t. Definitely not.

Enjolras sat down and hugged the warm mug of coffee to his chest. “I don’t really eat in the morning.”

“He doesn’t really eat, period.” Musichetta gave Enjolras a knowing glare. “I’m starting to think he hates my cooking. ”

“I don’t hate your cooking,” Enjolras insisted, with the air of someone who’d had that conversation already. “I just don’t need to eat that much. I don’t get hungry.”

“Caffeine is not a substitute for nutrition.”

“You’re starting to sound like Joly,” Grantaire cut in, much to Musichetta’s dismay. “Sorry Chetta, but it’s true.”

Enjolras laughed. Suddenly Grantaire wasn’t so sure the sunlight was coming from the sky. The expression lit his whole face, little crinkles around his eyes giving away at last how he’d aged with the rest of them. Grantaire hadn’t noticed the freckles before, but he could see them now, scattered like stars across Enjolras’ nose and cheeks. They must have come in with the summer. They were absolutely captivating.

“Alright, I don’t need you two teaming up against me,” Chetta grumbled. “I get enough of that with my boys. See if I care about your health ever again.”

The brilliant laugh faded into a contented smile, Enjolras leaning back against the picnic table and taking a sip of his drink. Grantaire remembered acquiring the table with Bossuet years ago, finding it in a pile of garbage where a local park in the next town over was being turned into apartments. It was far too big to fit in any car they had access to, so they’d carried it home to the cottage, just the two of them. It took them nearly three hours and Bossuet had torn his jeans trying to get it over the garden wall. Still, it’d been worth it. They’d fixed it up with new wood and Chetta had painted it a pastel green to match the back door, and it’d been the best feature of the whole garden.

Not so much anymore, he realised. The paint had faded, almost all of the little daisies around the edges worn away with use, and it shrunk into the landscape like it was ashamed to be seen. The garden really did need fixing up.

“Did you hear back from that publisher?” Enjolras asked, resting his mug on his knee.

Grantaire perked up. “Publisher? Is this for your blog?” Musichetta ran a crafting and homemaking blog online that had grown quite rapidly in the last two years. Her unconventional domestic situation brought people to her site out of curiosity, but they stayed for her sense of humour and beautiful words.

Musichetta almost leaped out of her seat. “No! How could I forget? R, I’ve written a book!” She turned to Enjolras excitedly. “They got back to me last night. They love it!”

“Congratulations, Chetta.” The smile hadn’t left Enjolras’ face for even a moment. He hadn’t looked this relaxed in all the time Grantaire had known him - it must have been the magic of the cottage at work. Happiness suited him, Grantaire thought.

“That’s amazing. What kind of book?” He asked.

“It’s a children’s book. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” she explained, biting her lip. “I need an illustrator.” A long pause. Grantaire made no attempt to fill the silence, bracing himself for what he knew was coming. “I was kind of hoping you might do it.”

Musichetta and Enjolras were both looking at him expectantly.

“I don’t do that anymore,” Grantaire said blankly.

“R…”

“I haven’t drawn in years. I doubt I even can anymore.”

Not since he left Paris. Grantaire had barely put a pencil to paper in that time. He was in no position to illustrate a children’s book.

“Please?” Musichetta pleaded. “If I ask really, really nicely?”

If he started, he’d never be able to finish it. Even if he got past his own insecurities and found the motivation, he’d burn out before he was done. He’d let her down, and let himself down. It was what Grantaire did.

“I’ll think about it,” he said, knowing full well he wasn’t going to be able to say no if she kept pushing. Musichetta had always fawned over his doodles as though he had genuine talent. Enjolras had stayed thankfully quiet throughout the exchange; if he’d had something to say on the matter, Grantaire didn’t know how he’d react. Enjolras had never cared for any of Grantaire’s hobbies, least of his art. He’d made that quite clear the last time they spoke. Still, he couldn’t decipher the look on Enjolras’ face. The conversation had passed in a civil manner to this point. It was time to quit whilst he was ahead. “I’m going out for a walk.” He stood up, grabbing his plate and Musichetta’s empty teacup. “Call me if you want me to pick anything up.”

The walk into Auvers-sur-Oise town centre took Grantaire down winding footpaths through the beautiful countryside, past vegetable farms and sprawling wheat fields, and the local cemetery, touting the tomb of Van Gogh. Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta had made their home in the valley of the Impressionists, home and inspiration to so many of the painters Grantaire admired and imitated during his years of studies. He felt an echo of their lives as he passed quietly by places they must have walked, things they must have seen. If he was still an artist, he’d have brought his easel out here in a heartbeat and captured the enchanting scenery on canvas.

But he wasn’t. He didn’t do that. Grantaire had quit painting for photography, a simpler medium that didn’t cause him nearly as much heartache. Photography didn’t require him to turn his soul inside out to create.

If he stayed - which he still wasn’t planning to - he’d come back out here with his digital camera and photograph the landscape and the town. Photographs like that sold well as stock images, even if they didn’t fetch a great price. Enough of them would earn him enough to bolster his savings a while longer. He still couldn’t decide if he was going to keep travelling or find somewhere new to settle down; Grantaire didn’t want to think about it whilst he was at the cottage, especially not if he was leaving that afternoon. Or tomorrow. Monday, at the very latest.

Consisting of just one street, the town centre didn’t offer much for him to do besides enjoy the atmosphere. There were a few small, locally run shops and a handful of wonderful restaurants. The smell of freshly ground coffee poured out onto the street from the town’s only coffee shop, Cafe de la Paix. He stopped for a coffee and sat in the window, staring out into the street. Just down the road was a dingy bar, the only one in the area, where Grantaire had spent many miserable nights. It was open even now, before midday.

What a waste of his life those nights had been. It wasn’t that he didn’t drink anymore. He was still as self-indulgent as he’d ever been, just with more self-control. A glass of wine with dinner. A beer on a warm afternoon, or a single whiskey as a nightcap. He had to regulate his intake; drinking was one of the vices that had nearly killed him.

Enjolras was the other.

It hadn’t been just one thing leading up to Grantaire’s departure from Paris. Instead, the trouble between the two of them had built and built over months, starting with Enjolras catching Grantaire slacking on the first task he’d ever trusted him with for Les Amis, and only escalating from there. It was as much his fault as it was Enjolras’. Grantaire knew he was insufferable. Until those last few months, they’d never argued. Bickered, sure, but never viciously. Grantaire had always enjoyed teasing Enjolras for his optimistic outlook on impractical change, the same way Enjolras had always tolerated him for his sense of humour. Their relationship had been symbiotic for years: Enjolras got the critique he needed on his ideas - granted with more mocking than necessary - and Grantaire got to bask in his presence, living in his orbit without consequence, loving him from just enough distance that Enjolras never figured it out. But their fighting had grown worse every time they spoke until it was unbearable for anyone in their company to listen to. Then Senator Lamarque had died.

In hindsight, Grantaire realised how bad a place it must have put Enjolras in. Lamarque was not just the people’s politician, the one person in the Paris council Les Amis could always rely on, but also a personal idol for their leader in red...but that only explained his anger, it didn’t excuse it. Grantaire had been at his lowest then, drinking most hours of the day, occasionally worse. He was skirting the abyss of self-destruction, dancing back and forth between hurting his friends with cutting jokes and hurting himself, but one night when he’d pushed too far, Enjolras had pushed back hard. Said things none of them had ever voiced, things that cut deeper than anything Grantaire had ever experienced.

They hurt so much because they were true, and they pushed Grantaire right over the edge.

Joly hadn’t let Enjolras see him whilst he recovered, and Grantaire had left Paris as soon as he was out of the hospital.

Grantaire stared out into the street, watching pedestrians idle by, wondering how different things might have been if they’d spoken before he disappeared. He’d never know if Enjolras had intended to apologise or take back what he’d said. Would he have held his tongue if he’d known how Grantaire felt about him? If he’d known how bad Grantaire really was? It’d been years, and those days were nothing more than a shadow in his past, but at the time Grantaire told himself again and again Enjolras would be better off if he hadn’t pulled through. That he’d have been glad about it.

It just wasn’t true. Enjolras was such a good person at his core - maybe the best Grantaire had ever known - and he’d never wish something so terrible of anyone, not even the people he’d spent his life standing up against. He was a miracle to witness, full of vehement passion, a fervour for life and a soul so strong that it went unblemished by the burden of the world that he carried by his own choice. Those were the things that made him so special, the things that made him stand out in any crowd, like a god among mortals. He lit a raging fire inside Grantaire where everyone else had only roused a spark; Enjolras was the only person who’d ever made Grantaire believe there was something in life worth fighting for. That he could be better than he was.

That was what scared him, he realised suddenly.

Four years without him and Grantaire had drifted through life without purpose, comfortable in the mindless flow of his own existence. Not learning. Not improving. Never changing. Never making friends, nor falling in love. Not really feeling anything at all.

Being numb was easy. Being numb with Enjolras in close proximity, impossible.

What scared Grantaire the most was that he wanted that, more than anything: raw, overwhelming emotion. Pain, fear, anger, laughter. Love. Hatred. Madness. Grantaire wanted to feel again. And no more than half a kilometre from where he was sat, back inside the walls of that magical cottage, sat the only person who could make that happen.

He laid his coffee cup down heavily and dug out a phone, tapping out a message to Joly to call him as soon as he could, and found his phone ringing less than a minute later.

“What is it?” Joly asked urgently. “Did something happen?”

“I’m staying,” he said, sounding mad with desperation. “I have to stay.”

A moment of startled silence.

“I’m glad to hear it.” Joly laughed, albeit a little nervously. “Are you sure you’re alright? You sound a little strange.”

Grantaire nodded, wetting his lips, not thinking about the fact Joly couldn’t hear him at the other end of the line. His mind turned over and over, processing the revelation.

“It’s Enjolras,” he said when he realised Joly was still waiting for an answer.

“What about him?”

“I think-” Grantaire stumbled, the words catching in his throat. If he admitted this out loud, he’d be crossing a line he couldn’t come back from. But so be it. “I’m still in love with him.”

Chapter Text

Joly met him for lunch at Le Chemin des Peintres, a cosy and beautiful little restaurant just off the Main Street running through the town. Grantaire surprisingly hadn’t tried it before - recently renovated, Joly told him - but the service was excellent, despite the place being packed with tourists taking in the Painter’s Trail through the village and the walk along the river.

“It’s been exceptionally busy, but that’s nothing new,” Joly explained. He was dressed in his work clothes and due back at the Cabinet Médical within two hours to see more patients. “All the towns around here are experiencing it, but there’s a dire shortage of doctor’s for the local surgeries. I’m trying to see twice as many people in a day as I was seeing a year ago. I’m seeing patients from three towns over.”

“Can you handle that?” Grantaire sipped his glass of rosé, ignoring the way Joly’s eyes slid between him and the bottle to check how much he’d had.

“Of course. I have to, the people need me to.”

Grantaire was so proud of his friend. A few years ago, Joly would have been working himself into a panic over the extra hours and the exertion he was putting himself through. For the most part, he had his hypochondria on a short leash these days. Before he and his partners had left Paris, it’d been bordering on neurosis. They’d never stated it explicitly, but Grantaire knew Joly’s mental - and physical - health played a significant role in them moving to the countryside.

Touching his cane to his lips as he studied the menu, Joly smiled. “The dish of the day sounds good but...I think I’ll have the duck. And the mushrooms to start. They’re always good here.”

“Make that two then. I’ll take your word for it.”

They ordered, chatting idly about Joly’s work until the food came. They were skirting the subject they’d met up to speak about and they both knew it. Grantaire was grateful for the reprise before the conversation got heavy. It wasn’t until their main course that Joly brought it up.

“I don’t want to skirt around it,” he said, pushing a piece of parsnip around his plate. “What you said on the phone, about Enjolras. Are you sure?”

With a quiet laugh, Grantaire glanced around him. He half expected Enjolras to show up mid-conversation again as he had that morning over breakfast. “I don’t know. Yes. I think so.” He put his fork down and reached for the wine again. “It’s not like it used to be. I’m not wonderstruck by him anymore.”

Not so much, at least. Joly didn’t need to know the specifics, how Grantaire’s heart felt like it stopped in his chest just looking at Enjolras in the sunlight, how he felt the urge to put a brush to canvas again in the presence of the man who’d been his muse for so many years of helpless longing.

“But the feelings are all there. They’ve been hibernating,” Grantaire continued, “and I’ve missed him more than I thought possible.”

“That’s something,” Joly agreed. He was quietly contemplative; Grantaire knew him well enough to see on his face that the cogs of his mind were turning rapidly.

After a few beats of silence, the need to fill it started to consume him. “Chetta told me about her book. I’m so happy for her, it’s brilliant news.”

“It is.” Joly looked at him frankly. “Don’t change the subject.”

Grantaire stuffed some food into his mouth so he didn’t have to speak, avoiding eye contact. He smiled all the same. It was amazing how Joly’s ability to see through him never waned, no matter how long they’d been apart.

“I assume you’ve turned up unannounced because you need time. That things haven’t been great for you.”

There was no malice to the statement. Grantaire hated the implication that he wouldn’t visit for any other reason, but there was no point denying it. Joly valued his honesty. “I’m single again. It was messy.”

“I was hoping you’d say that, as awful as it sounds.” Joly shot him a sympathetic smile. “If you’d arrived alone and then announced your undying love for Enjolras whilst you were still in a long term relationship, we were going to have to talk about commitment. I’m sorry to hear it all the same.”

“But?”

Joly looked surprised to be challenged on his sympathy, but he couldn’t contain the amusement from curling onto his lips. “I never liked him anyway.”

“You never met!” His now-ex-boyfriend wasn’t perfect, Grantaire had to agree there, but he hadn’t anticipated flat out disapproval. At least he’d tried to move his love life on.

“You told me plenty about him. He wasn’t good enough for you, not one bit. Just like the guy before him.”

Grantaire laughed in disbelief. “Thank you, dad. Would anyone I dated be good enough to meet your standards? Or am I to spend my life in abject isolation because the kind of men you approve of would never look twice at me? Woe is me, Joly. There is no suitor out there who’d be a fitting partner in the eyes of my overly-critical best friend and keeper.”

“Enjolras would be.”

They both fell silent, taking in the confounding suggestion in their own time. Joly looked as shocked to have made the admission as Grantaire was to hear it, as though he’d let a secret slip that he’d never intended to speak aloud. If Grantaire’s heart beat a little harder at his friend’s unexpected approval of his romantic interests - when he’d only ever expected Joly to view his feelings for Enjolras with malcontent after what happened - Grantaire would pay it no mind. It didn’t bear thinking about.

“You don’t have to say it to be kind,” Grantaire said eventually. He drained his wine glass. Joly’s eyes slid to the bottle again, but Grantaire didn’t reach for it. “Realising my feelings doesn’t mean I hold any hopes something might come of it.

“I don’t want to see you hurt again. I never want to see you the way you were before.” Joly spoke with measured calmness. “But I think, you’re in a better place now. I trust you to know how to better take care of yourself. And I love both of you dearly. Enjolras is…well, let’s just say you’re not the only one who’s come here because you need time.”

It seemed this lunch would be full of staggering admissions. Grantaire went wide-eyed, but he stayed silent. As much as he wanted to push that topic, Joly would not betray Enjolras’ trust so as to share whatever he knew.

“It will do you both good to reconcile things. It is always easier to breathe once the air is cleared.”

Grantaire continued to wander the small town after lunch, once Joly had gone back to work. There was too much on his mind to do anything else, despite having walked most of the streets that made up Auvers-sur-Oise already that morning. He found his way to the town’s only bookstore, tucked into a tiny backstreet behind the supermarket. It was exceptionally unremarkable from the outside - barely more than a hole in the wall of a short brick building beside the train tracks, which once served as the region’s mail sorting office. The inside was a different story entirely. La Caverne aux Livres lived up to its name: a winding cave system stocked floor to ceiling with a menagerie of books new and old, built inside a string of decommissioned postal train carriages. The books were laid out more like the collection of a mad hoarder than of anyone looking to sell, but nonetheless, there was not a single item that wasn’t for sale. Like the cottage, the bookshop lived on the fringes of time and reality. Grantaire could spend hours in there picking through first editions of the classics he could never afford.

That was his intention, milling through the carriages with no real ambition to buy anything, but revelling in the scent of the musty pages and the feel of cracked, well-loved spines beneath his fingertips. He passed a scattering of people amongst the shelves, each lost in their own world as he was.

Musichetta’s book was weighing on his mind. He felt terrible for rebuffing her request so quickly. It had been an instinctive, primal reaction and an unjustified one. It should have been an honour that his friend wanted him to share in her work, and he’d spurned her like it was a personal attack.

Grantaire found his way to the section of the store that held the children’s books and flicked idly through them thoughtfully. They were all different, but all of them held a charm that was irresistible to look at. It wasn’t his usual art style by any stretch. Perhaps that was a good thing. Perhaps it would feel different.

Without asking Musichetta more about the book - another thing he regretted - he couldn’t begin to visualise what he’d illustrate for her. Instead, he satisfied the urge to try by reimagining the art of the books he pulled from the shelves in his own hand. He could draw Le Petit Prince on the moon. He could do wolves, and bears, and cats, and creatures from fantasy stories. He could do this. Like most of the stores in Auvers-sur-Oise, because of the Painter’s Trail, the bookshop sold art supplies. Nothing fancy, certainly not anything professional. Grantaire picked up a sketchbook, some graphite pencils and a watercolour set that didn’t look too low quality. He wasn’t going to jump on it straight away, or agree to the task yet. A few sketches, when he could work himself up to it. Just to see.

On the way to the desk to pay, a book at the end of one of the displays caught his eye, stopping him in his tracks. He didn’t allow himself time to think about it, or so much as look at the cost. He grabbed the book too and paid before he could change his mind.

Grantaire managed to avoid Enjolras for the rest of the day. It was less out of contempt for being in such close quarters, as it had been that morning, and more out of self-preservation - if mere hours in Enjolras’ presence had already turned his burning fear into renewed longing, Grantaire hated to think what a whole day could do to him.

The hours he didn’t spend outside were spent shut in the office on his laptop, editing photographs for a few contracts he hadn’t quite wrapped up yet. Some would go onto stock websites. Some into a travel guide for Prague - there were images of everything from St Vitus Cathedral, the castle and the National Museum, to tourists dining, touts in the streets and the fronts of a dozen hotels and hostels. The money would keep him going a fair while. Grantaire had enjoyed Prague thoroughly, particularly the mid-19th century gothic architecture. It was reminiscent of the architectural Romantic jewels Moscow and made for an excellent photographic subject.

Yet nowhere he went pulled him back like France. No matter how many places he’d travelled, Grantaire’s roots were firmly seated in his home country. At first, the longing for home had been frustrating for him, and he’d berated himself for it, thinking it his own fault; why should he love home so much, when there was nothing there for him? When there was so much more of the world to see? But he’d come to accept it. The heart knew what it wanted.

As it knew what it wanted now. It would be no more easily changed than it could be explained.

He could hear the others picking around the house quietly as he worked. Musichetta hummed a tune as she flitted from room to room doing daily chores. She stuck her head in a couple of times to check if he needed anything, but for the most part, left him to it. Heavier footsteps passed by the door occasionally, and then the door to the guest room opposite would open, or he’d hear the flush and the sink in the bathroom, and the pull of the light being tugged on and off. Grantaire could easily pick out when Joly had arrived home from work, as his movements were accompanied with the tap of his cane, and the low hum of conversation from another room that Grantaire couldn’t make out. It was a comforting soundtrack to an otherwise quiet afternoon. It meant he wasn’t alone.

Sometime after the sun had sunk below the horizon and Grantaire was sat in the dark, bathed nothing but the light of his laptop, he heard Enjolras on the stairs again. The footsteps reached the upstairs hallway and stopped for a moment, then continued. Then stopped again, outside the office door.

Glancing over, Grantaire could see his shadow under the door in the light from the hallway. It was unmoving. He stayed perfectly still, so still that he was aware of the heaving of his chest with every breath. He waited.

He thought he might have heard a sigh, but he couldn’t be sure; his hearing grew ever more sensitive the more he strained to listen. It could have been anything. Enjolras didn’t knock, and the footsteps retreated.

It wasn’t until he heard two sets of feet coming up the stairs and Musichetta’s quiet laughter as they disappeared through a door down the hall, that Grantaire looked at the time. His stomach was complaining for something to eat. He pried himself from the nest of blankets and cushions he’d made at one end of the sofa and went downstairs.

He found Enjolras in a similar position to the one he’d just moved from, curled up on the sofa in the main room.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras said, as though his presence was as unexpected as it had been the night before. He was paused with his phone in one hand, laptop and a pile of paperwork abandoned on the side table.

“Hi.” Grantaire hovered at the bottom of the stairs, forgetting his purpose for coming down. Enjolras was a picture of beauty, always, but now his clothes were rumpled from lounging on the sofa and his hair was falling out of its tie, and he was wearing glasses.

Glasses.

He’d never seen Enjolras in glasses before. They suited him like he was born wearing them. The vintage half-frames were a warm brown colour that stood out beautifully against his golden hair, with rounded glass and brass detailing at the joints. He looked even more intelligent than Grantaire knew him to be, and above all else…he looked vulnerable. As Grantaire examined him, Enjolras reached up to touch them self-consciously.

“I’ve been working,” Enjolras said, some sort of excuse for his wearing them. For a moment Grantaire thought he was going to remove them, but he dropped his hand back to his side. “I didn’t realise how late it was.”

“Me neither.” Grantaire’s stomach growled to remind him aggressively why he’d come downstairs. “I’m going to get something to eat.” Then he added, without thinking, “Are you hungry?”

He thought of what Chetta had said about Enjolras not eating and wondered if he’d eaten anything all day. Now he took a moment to consider it, he was looking slimmer than Grantaire was used to seeing him. It’d been so long that he hadn’t thought it before.

“A little,” Enjolras admitted.

They found themselves in closer quarters than Grantaire would have liked, in the kitchen. It was a very small space, enclosed with countertops on three sides and a sink at the end opposite the door, with a window out to the overgrown lane. The size of the kitchen was probably the saddest thing about the cottage, the only thing that wasn’t perfect; Musichetta loved to cook, so every available space was home to some utensil or pot or cookbook. A spice rack, overfilled, spilled onto the shelves next to it. The room was horribly overcrowded.

“They’ve been talking about redecorating in here.” Enjolras leaned against the sink, giving Grantaire as much space as possible to get out the things he needed to make grilled cheese. “But they can’t think of a way to improve the space that wouldn’t cost too much.”

“It’s a shame,” Grantaire agreed. Conversation was somehow staying civil, despite the thundering of Grantaire’s heart. He focused on chopping an onion without his eyes watering.

“What they really want is an extension. If they knocked out the wall by the stove, they could add a few feet into the garden, maybe have an island in the centre of the room.”

Grantaire couldn’t put into words how strange it was to be here, having this conversation. Talking so casually. They’d never spoken like this in the past. He wondered if Enjolras was feeling the same way, if he was as nervous to share this moment as Grantaire was. Nothing he was saying was charged, yet Grantaire could feel the air grow viscid with everything unspoken between them, a heaviness that could suffocate him if it went on too long. Someone was taking a shovel to the ground and exhuming their past, but no one was mentioning the remains overturned from the soil.

“One day,” he replied. “Hopefully.”

Enjolras nodded in agreement, folding his arms across his chest. He looked down for a pause. “I was thinking I might pay for it for them.”

Grantaire looked over at him in surprise. That was no small commitment - thousands of euros, maybe tens of thousands. It wasn’t that he didn’t think Enjolras had the money, or that he didn’t expect Enjolras to be generous towards his friends. More that he’d forgotten how Enjolras’ generosity always came so unexpectedly, and in such large doses, tidal waves on an otherwise calm ocean. It was as though Enjolras forgot to be generous, then exhausted all of his reserves of generosity in a single act. When Marius and Cosette had married, he’d paid for a honeymoon they’d had no chance of affording alone, without so much as mentioning the arrangements until their send-off at the end of the day. When Feuilly had opened his shop, it was Enjolras who’d pulled strings with his legal contacts and secured the better of the two spaces he’d been looking at, without offering. Every decision seemed impulsive and was carried out without consulting anyone involved, and never made in anticipation of praise.

Which made it even stranger that Grantaire was being told his plans.

“They’d never let you,” he shrugged. He didn’t mean to sound so dismissive, but if it had offended Enjolras, he didn’t show it. “I doubt you could do it without them noticing.”

“Probably not.”

Grantaire had never been the subject of Enjolras’ titanic generosity, but he’d never made himself an easy person to like. He tried to keep in mind what Joly had said: Enjolras needed time. He didn’t know why, and it was hard to imagine Enjolras struggling with anything. Late night cereal-eating habits aside, he’d always seemed so perfectly in control of his life. Too perfectly, like he was not mortal but instead autonomous or divine. Enjolras didn’t struggle. But Grantaire could understand better than anyone how it felt to do so, and if it was somehow true, he knew how to accommodate.

He didn’t speak again until he was frying the onions. There was something tugging at his mind, and he had to know.

“How long have you been staying here?”

Enjolras didn’t answer right away, so Grantaire continued cooking and didn’t push it. He’d filled the bread and flipped the sandwiches in the pan before Enjolras spoke.

“Probably longer than I should have been.”

It was only half an answer. Enjolras’ face said the rest. Grantaire hadn’t seen it coming. There in the corners of Enjolras’ expression he could see a flicker of something unreadable, and whatever it was, it wasn’t happy; it cut deep into Grantaire’s chest, a horrible searing pain that made him at once both angry and fiercely protective. Every fibre of his body ached to throw down what he was doing and take Enjolras tightly in his arms, just to hold him. Hold him and shield him from whatever was hurting him. Hold him forever so nothing could touch him again. Where he’d glowed that morning with laughter, Grantaire could now see only shadows, creeping in and threatening to blot out the light that had always shined within him. He knew that darkness. It was blinding, devastating. It took and it took and it took, and Enjolras didn’t deserve to feel it.

With nowhere to turn his sudden rage, Grantaire withdrew instead. His pulse was quickened, his mind clouded with frustration as he finished cooking and looked about for plates to serve onto. When Enjolras realised what he was looking for, the hint of sadness on his face was wiped away, and he quickly found them and passed them over.

A mask.

What had happened in his absence? Grantaire’s regret tasted bitter. He could have reconciled years ago, and then he’d know. He thought once again that he was looking at a stranger, but this time, he hated himself for it.

“Here.” He passed Enjolras his plate.

“Thank you.”

It lingered between the two of them, Grantaire reluctant to let go. The surge of anger and protectiveness was a lot to swallow. He met Enjolras’ eyes, found him already staring back, and found everything he wanted to say on the tip of his tongue.

No, he couldn’t say it.

“I’m going upstairs.” Grantaire’s voice cracked slightly. If Enjolras responded, he didn’t hear it over the rush of blood in his head. He took his plate and fled from the kitchen to the spare room where he could hide once more.