Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Rule #9
Courfeyrac is always on music, always. Regardless of the occasion, a normal catch-up, an extravagant party, or a hesitant road trip, Courfeyrac is the only one in the group who possesses enough of an open mind to be put in charge of such a fundamental aspect of all social events. (His words.)

Rule #3
When drinking, Jehan must hand their phone over to Grantaire or Bahorel, who must put it in a safe space where it cannot be found by Drunk Jehan throughout the rest of the night. Drunk Jehan cannot be trusted not to text Montparnasse.

Rule #1
Don't touch Enjolras.

Combeferre loves his friends. He really does.

When he enters the building, the sight of his friends alone is enough to fill his heart with admiration and joy, more than enough to drown out the ever-growing ache in his skull that often presents itself. And they all have their special quirks, his friends. Things that make them who they are, things that make them drastically individual, and that is something Combeferre can recognise and appreciate. However, sometimes, it's their individual needs that happen to put a strain on the group. And that wasn’t to say that any of his friends were ever too hard to deal with, not at all. It's just that sometimes, amongst the protests and the celebrations and the cohesive nature of these individuals coming together to form the Les Amis De l'ABC, they forget how to look after themselves and each other as true individuals. God knows the dependency they all have on each other is, whilst healthy, quite alarming.

Combeferre thinks of this, and in his mind, he sees Éponine and Grantaire, a pair rarely separated, never at their dwellings, hardly spending more than one day away from the bar at the Musain. Sometimes Combeferre wonders if this is because Musichetta gives them such great deals on drinks, or whether it’s because neither wants to be the first to leave. He sees Feuilly working at the bar, too, lovingly teasing Musichetta for always getting so distracted by her boyfriends. He sees said boyfriends, Joly and Bossuet, joined at the hip, stumbling over themselves to make Musichetta smile.

And, of course, he sees Enjolras. Antsy, sleep-deprived, Enjolras, skipping his dinner due to whatever current project demands his full attention. Combeferre sees him stuck in his work, writing the speech, organising the interview with local journalists, planning the next meeting. No hobbies, no connection to the immediate world around him. And this, Combeferre knows, is because Enjolras is the face of his cause, he is the group functioning smoothly, he is the vessel used solely for revolution.

Enjolras was not born to be an individual.

Maybe that is an unfair observation, Combeferre thinks. He's known Enjolras since the pair were in the eighth grade, way back when Combeferre's family had uprooted their lives and left behind their small community in the southwestern suburbs of the country and relocated to the big city. It was quite funny in hindsight, how he had spent the long, anxious night before his first day at his new school in anticipation, worried that this school would be just like the last one. Scared to be the new kid at a wealthy, prestigious private school, with no one in his corner.

It was a decade ago, but Combeferre remembers the first time he met Enjolras like it happened yesterday.

Combeferre had arrived at his elected debate class on time that morning and found his assigned seat amongst the rows of twin desks, all labelled with students’ names. The names of students he didn't know, he couldn't help but remind himself. He could recall how he had sat there with his hands fidgeting in his lap as the class bell rang, and the teacher began to speak, welcoming the students back to her class. She droned on and on for ten or fifteen minutes about the class expectations, the importance of showing up on time, completing homework, and effective time management, the same things that Combeferre had heard a million different times from a million different authoritative figures.

"Take a look at the person sitting next to you.” She had said. “This will be your assigned debate partner for the remainder of the school year."

Combeferre looked to his left. The seat was unclaimed.

If given enough time to spiral, he probably would have, but he didn’t. As the teacher began to go over the criteria for passing the class, the door to the classroom swung open mercilessly and revealed a dishevelled and out of breath young boy.

He was straight-faced and glaring, this boy, his head full of blonde curls dampened lightly from the downpour outside, and he did not look happy.

"Enjolras, you're late." The teacher had said, accompanied by a kind of malice that Combeferre had thought was a bit much for the poor boy.

"That's hardly my fault." The boy - Enjolras – had replied monotonously without missing a beat, and he started making his way to the only empty seat in the room, the seat beside Combeferre. Enjolras huffed as he took his seat, raising his hand to the back of his neck in a dramatic attempt to flatten the tag on his shirt collar.

"What are you doing?” The teacher had said, incredulously eyeing the boy. “You're late. You know that is unacceptable. Go see the principal and don't come back without a late slip. Now."

Enjolras ignored the way she pointed to the door as he slumped heavily into his chair. He paid no attention to the eyes that fell on him, or the students snickering amongst themselves. Combeferre attempted to ignore the awkwardness in the room and smiled kindly as Enjolras glanced over at him. Enjolras just frowned, tilted his head to the side, and then turned back to the front of the room.

Perhaps this boy has a reputation for being the class slacker, Combeferre had thought. After all, it was the first day of the second year, and Enjolras had already shown up late and disinterested. He had his school tie balled up in his hand, identical to the one Combeferre was wearing, and he did not look like he was in any rush to follow the teacher’s orders.

"That's ridiculous." Enjolras muttered under his breath, the ghost of a scowl on his face.

"Enjolras, we're not having this discussion again-"

"No, what you're saying, Miss, is that being in class on time is crucial. Right?” Enjolras argued. He got no response, just looks of annoyance and disapproval. “So crucial that missing even ten minutes of introduction requires a punishment?”

The teacher didn’t look angry, more so unimpressed, but she did not give him any ammunition. Not that he needed any.

"So, how is it fair that the punishment should be to make the student miss even more of this crucial learning time?" Enjolras debated.

"Oh my God, shut up." A girl at the back of the room groaned out, receiving a chorus of laughs around the class.

"Enjolras, please remove yourself from the classroom." The teacher said, thoroughly impatient. "And put your tie on right now or we will be having this discussion in detention."

"What discussion?” Enjolras continued, eyes fierce and challenging. “Do you mean the discussion about how the use of school uniforms is merely another way for capitalism to benefit from the hundreds of dollars parents spend a year on new shirts and sweaters as their children grow out of them? The school board has literally no evidence to support the use of school uniforms being anything other than a straightforward way to discipline students who are lower or middle-class. Not to mention the fact that our uniforms clearly were not designed to fit all body types and sizes-"

"Enjolras. Outside, now."

“I mean, what about the students with sensory issues? What about-“ Enjolras rambled on. Combeferre quickly realised something. If this is his assigned debate partner, he would absolutely be failing this class.

“Enjolras.” The teacher warned again.

"Miss, he's got a point." A voice echoed.

Combeferre had to take a few seconds to look around to attempt to locate who in the class had dared to speak in on the situation unfolding beside him, just for him to realise that it was he who had said those few words out loud, only acknowledging his mistake when all eyes turned to him, including Enjolras'. The teacher narrowed her eyes toward Combeferre, now leaning against her desk with her arms folded. Combeferre nervously adjusted his glasses in response.

"What is your name?" She asked blankly.

"Combeferre." He replied hesitantly. She nodded.

"Enjolras," The teacher began, though her eye contact with Combeferre didn't falter. "You may escort Mr. Combeferre to detention with you."

Combeferre still vividly remembers standing from his seat, the awkward shuffle to the door, Enjolras still arguing his point with the teacher, yet confidently marching across the room and gesturing for Combeferre to follow him. He remembers the teacher loudly shutting the door behind them, the sound echoing down the brightly lit hallway, and Enjolras' pace a lot faster than Combeferre's own.

"This way." The blonde boy stated in a huff.

Combeferre tried his best to keep up with Enjolras, whose bold demeanour intrigued him. He wasn’t the class slacker, Combeferre discovered, no slacker cares that much about trivial regulations, but he clearly wasn't the teacher's pet either. And the way he walked toward the front office of the building so briskly yet with such disinterest suggested that he had been sent to detention many, many times. One of Combeferre's first and long-lasting observations of Enjolras was that he seemed to carry a rage inside himself, though it was diluted with some kind of righteousness.

Combeferre was out of breath once they arrived at the front office building, where he gave a puzzled expression as Enjolras triumphantly took a seat in the area directly across from a door with a golden plated engraving of the name of the principal.

"Didn't the teacher say to go to detention?" Combeferre had asked, looking around. He hesitantly took a seat beside Enjolras, who turned to watch Combeferre, a somewhat disapproving frown on his face.

"By all means, feel free." He said, carefree yet somehow intimidatingly.

"Won't you get in trouble for disobeying her order?" Combeferre asked.

"I'm already in trouble, aren't I?”

Combeferre nodded slowly, unsure if he really wanted to stay alongside Enjolras in his fight to avoid detention, (or whatever his fight was for), but he decided to stay put. He was the new kid; he could always plead ignorance. He studied Enjolras' body language for a while. The openness of his frame suggested a fearlessness of a kind, but he had his arms folded over his chest to close himself off. His chin was upturned, which would have led Combeferre to believe that Enjolras was smug, a proud person, but his knee was bouncing, and his eyes were too focused and direct for him to be assuming the best. Enjolras was an enigma if Combeferre had ever seen one, and it intrigued him.

When Combeferre realised he had been staring, he cleared his throat.

"So, we didn't get a chance to properly meet." Combeferre smiled, somewhat timid, and extended his hand for Enjolras to shake. "I'm Combeferre."

Enjolras looked at Combeferre with a vague sort of curiosity, before letting his eyes flicker down to Combeferre's hand. He did not reciprocate the nicety by offering his own hand, merely stared at Combeferre's palm as if it were contaminated and looked back up to meet his gaze.

"Why did you say that?" Enjolras queried after a few moments of intense silence.

"Say what?" Combeferre asked, slowly returning his hand to his lap.

"That I had a point?"

"Because you had a point."

Enjolras eyed Combeferre for a long moment, his arms still folded and his face sporting an unreadable expression. Combeferre had wondered if he had done or said something wrong to be earning this look. But soon enough, a bold smirk grew on Enjolras' face.

"I'm keeping you." He spoke. Combeferre chuckled a response.

"I'm not some kind of injured bird."

"No, you're not. You're an individual." Enjolras added without missing a beat, matter-of-factly, pointing a strong finger in Combeferre's direction whilst keeping the other arm crossed over his chest.

"What do you mean by that?" Combeferre queried, to which Enjolras shrugged.

"You're going to help me. We’re fixing this place." He said as if it were obvious.

"What do you mean by that?"

"You're the new kid, right?” Enjolras stated more than asked, and Combeferre nodded. “That means you haven't been brainwashed into blindly following orders yet."

Combeferre did not reply, but the look he was giving Enjolras must've been enough to encourage him to continue his thought process with a huff and a roll of his eyes.

"This school's administration is too concerned with its reputation and academic ranking, that it fails to properly meet the needs of those who are struggling and bringing that ranking down. You know, like, students with physical or learning disabilities, the lower-class, students affected by family violence, that sort of thing. The school needs more resources in place to help those kinds of students succeed, instead of just punishing them for failing. Especially if it's the school’s fault they're still failing."

"And you're going to change that?" Combeferre asked, but not in an attempt to judge or discourage, tilting his head to the side in curiosity. "You plan on changing the school?"

The look on Enjolras' face was unlike many Combeferre had ever seen. His eyes became focused once again, his nostrils flared as he took a deep breath and grinned. Combeferre found that once he was looking, it became increasingly difficult to look away. Leaning in closer to Combeferre, almost conspirative, Enjolras spoke.

"I plan on changing the world."

Combeferre felt a chill across his skin, suddenly aware of just how severe Enjolras' mind was. Combeferre wasn't sure if it was his own stellar ability to read people, or if it was because of Enjolras' straightforwardness, but he could already see that flame in his eyes, and it was roaring, sure to make ash of anything that was in his way. He felt lively in that moment, so sure that he would never meet anyone else whose mere presence granted such wild feelings in his own mind and body.

Until,

"Enjolras! Fancy seeing you here! Hey, listen, can you, like, change the world later? Because I need to see the principal ASAP, okay? ASAP. For some reason he put me with the fucking Patron-Minette boys to oversee the welcome back assembly later and I desperately need to tell him that they're not cooperating. I mean, they can't agree with me on anything for the entrance music, and seriously, who can't agree on ABBA? Everyone loves ABBA! It’s a joke! Fucking seniors.”

Combeferre looked away from Enjolras to find that a freckled young boy with a head of lopsided, brown curls was now looming over them where they sat. He had his hands on his hips, leaning his weight heavily on one leg, and dramatically staring Enjolras down. Enjolras rolled his eyes.

"Combeferre, this is Courfeyrac." He said, gesturing to him with his hand. "Courfeyrac, Combeferre.”

Combeferre hadn't known back then what he would be getting himself into, but if he had, he wouldn't have changed a thing, because fast forward four years, and the three boys had become each other's closest companions and confidants. At the end of their senior year, they created Les Amis De l'ABC, an activist group dedicated to speaking for the people, to bring attention to the corruption in society, or as Enjolras had so effortlessly put it when he was fourteen, to change the world.

They hadn't accomplished much at the ripe age of eighteen, not until Courfeyrac had independently branched out to other people in the community, to hear what others wanted to see happening around them. Fast forward another four years and their group had more than tripled, and in those four years, they had recruited their now closest friends, people who have taught them more about the world and different communities than ever thought possible.

They were Feuilly, a working-class immigrant; Bahorel, a law student dropout who grew up in the foster care system; Joly, a medical student with a mild to moderate case of obsessive-compulsive disorder; Bossuet, a man of colour in a polyamorous relationship; Jehan, a person existing outside of the gender binary; And Grantaire.

Fucking Grantaire.

Now, let the record show that Combeferre has nothing against Grantaire, not even close. He loves Grantaire, as most of the group does. It's almost impossible not to love Grantaire, to be completely transparent. He's welcoming, charismatic, intelligent - even when he's hiding it - and he loves. God, he loves. He loves with all of himself.

Combeferre and Grantaire had hit it off two or so years ago, back when Joly had stumbled into the Musain with Grantaire in tow. At the time, they were thought to be an unlikely pairing of friends. The rambunctious, drunkard Grantaire and the level-headed, calculated Combeferre. But he'd just had such an infectious laugh, that first day, boozy and wide, and he grew to be someone the Combeferre couldn't remember living without. So, no, Combeferre doesn't have anything against Grantaire. The issue is far more complex than that.

Enjolras is Combeferre’s best, most dearest friend. He has always thought of him like the brother he never had, and he loves him like one. But Enjolras is a hard person to understand from afar, he's meticulous in the most chaotic fashion and lacks the self-control that someone in his position should probably possess.
Though, this isn't to say that Enjolras is a bad person, or cruel, or unkind, or uninviting. Enjolras was none of those things, especially not to the people he had grown so comfortable around. It's more so the fact that the man has always struggled to find room in the ABC for boisterous personalities or unnecessary distractions. Enjolras is an optimist, regardless of how displeased about everything he may come across as. Though Grantaire, the cynical borderline-alcoholic, he calls Enjolras an idealist.

Combeferre has witnessed enough petty arguments between the two to last a lifetime, so many that he has long since decided to stop attempting to break them up. Everyone else around them pays it no mind anymore, used to the childish ways of Grantaire riling Enjolras up just to see him grow flustered and stuttering. To bask in the glow of Enjolras' passion-fuelled fire. So, amongst this group of young men, there were certain guidelines, rules, if you will, that Combeferre had mindlessly applied to his everyday life to allow their meetings and overall lives to run smoothly. Because ideals and goals aside, Combeferre is a realist, and with him being the ultimate role model to all their friends, these rules did not go unnoticed.

And so, with Enjolras absent one night, a drunken discussion emerged.

Simple rules were somewhat unofficially decided on, such as 'rule number 7, if Joly says you need a check-up, you need a check-up' and 'rule number 12, no one is allowed to call Marius a pissy little cracker boy anymore.' But the most important rule to follow was the first one Combeferre had learnt.

No one touches Enjolras.

From that first moment, outside of the principal's office all those years ago, Combeferre made an observation. Enjolras hadn't shaken his hand. And at first, Combeferre had assumed the most logical of explanations, that Enjolras didn't know him and therefore didn't feel comfortable shaking his hand. Fine, no problem. No offence taken.

But then, over came Courfeyrac, who had extended his hand graciously to Combeferre, and had even patted him on the back a few as he left. So, okay, Courfeyrac is comfortable with physical attention from strangers, and Enjolras is not. Understandable.

Though, after seven or eight months of sharing their maths class together, eating lunch with his two new friends, examining the way Courfeyrac was so open to hugs and arms slung around shoulders while Enjolras dodged incoming contact and pretended not to notice high-fives left hanging, Combeferre began to worry he'd done something wrong. He worried for a month that he just wasn't gelling with Enjolras, which would have been a shame since he and Courfeyrac had become as close as he'd ever been with someone. Combeferre hated the thought that he might be imposing on Enjolras' life and friendship and thought to take a step back.

Until he examined how Enjolras interacted with Courfeyrac. He never touched him either.

In fact, Combeferre had thought back over that past year that they'd met and realised that he'd never actually seen Enjolras touch anyone. Or more accurately, never let anyone touch him, not even Courfeyrac.

So Combeferre made a prominent mental note to watch Enjolras throughout the day, and suddenly he was noticing a lot of evidence to support his theory. The way Enjolras would place his cash on the counter, as opposed to handing it straight to the cashier. How he was agile and quick on his feet, often moving far out of the way of oncoming foot traffic. Small things kept appearing in his everyday life, and he made it look so second nature that Combeferre decided Enjolras must have been avoiding contact with anyone for a long time.

Combeferre never questioned him about it, unwilling to make Enjolras uncomfortable, and simply followed suit.

He tried to come up with his own reasoning, trying to decipher what had happened in Enjolras’ life to create such an intense dislike of physical contact, but he was always drawing blanks. At first, he wondered if it was a germaphobia thing, but he wasn't convinced, not with the way he would often fall asleep at the kitchen table or on the floor during their high school exam periods, or forget to shower on some long and stressful days. This is when Combeferre began to worry over the cause being some kind of assault, but nothing Enjolras had ever said about his family was suspicious. He didn't talk about his family too often, and his relationship with his dad was always rocky and a little problematic, but there was never any hint of violence or foul play.

Combeferre concluded that it was just who Enjolras was, and that that was okay.

Combeferre watched each of their friends come to the same realisation at different paces over the years, even helped avoid a few close calls (an attempted drunk bro-hug from Bahorel, a stumble from Bossuet, an almost pat on the back from Marius) and dealt with Enjolras' irritability and agitation after a couple of inevitable collisions. (A pat on the back from Marius, a hug from Marius, honestly, Marius was just a lot less clued on than the others, but he tries.) And after seeing the reaction that touching Enjolras brought on - because honestly, calming down an angry revolutionary without being able to move into their space or touch them is genuinely quite a hard feat - he decided to inform everyone during that discussion that no one is to touch Enjolras. Ever. Just to be clear, just to be safe.

And thus, the rule system was accidentally born, with the rest of the gang wanting to add their own rules. And this rule system was functioning well, as neurotic and controlling as it might seem to outsiders. Though most of the rules the group would come up with were silly, with most of them just humouring each other, everyone benefited in one way or another. Courfeyrac introduced the group to an array of vastly different music, Jehan eventually moved on from Montparnasse, and most rewarding of all, Enjolras appeared to feel more comfortable being a part of the crowded room, no need to flinch or duck or lean away from anyone. The agreed-upon rules remained unbroken for the entirety of the time they'd been put in place.

And naturally, Grantaire was the first to fuck it up.

It was a Friday evening, three weeks ago, rain rapping loudly on the windows, and the small, electric heater in the corner was on full blast. The group of nine, plus a few unofficial members - Marius, Éponine, and Cosette - were occupying the top floor of the Café Musain, the room they specifically booked out on Fridays for the ABC's meetings. The group was sitting around a long table, which was really just three regular tables pushed together, with Enjolras and Combeferre at the head of the table, and an empty seat beside Enjolras where Courfeyrac was supposed to be sitting but had now - unsurprisingly - run off to gossip with Marius and Jehan at the other end of the table.

Across from the three chit-chatters sat Bahorel and Feuilly, losing themselves in a senseless debate about whose dad would win in a fistfight. ("My dad is literally the strongest man alive!" - "You've never met your dad." - "Well, you've never met my dad either, so how would you know?") Beside Jehan sat Joly and Bossuet, trying to subtly organise an anniversary gift for their girlfriend, Musichetta, who was working the bar behind them and could absolutely hear every word they were saying, giggling to herself as she worked. Across from Joly and Bossuet was Éponine distractedly tearing up the paper wrapper of a straw into tiny little pieces. Her eyes were glued to someone on the other side of the table. And beside her, sketching away on a receipt that he had found in his pocket, was Grantaire.

Fucking Grantaire.

Enjolras was already in a bad mood, Combeferre could tell. The meeting had technically ended twenty minutes ago, but he still hadn't fully ironed out one important detail of the group’s upcoming protest, and once Courfeyrac had gotten distracted, everyone else had begun to divide into their own conversations, irrelevant to the topic of the meeting. So Combeferre sat patiently, attentively listening to Enjolras, who was going over the protest they had planned for the month following. Again.

"And that's all been sorted, I sent Bahorel and Joly to organise it last week, but we still need to organise the permit, Combeferre." Enjolras said, a hint of restlessness in his tone, his knee bouncing.

"Well, the application has already been filled out, has it not?" Combeferre asked.

"It has."

"And all of the necessary forms are attached and ready to go?"

"Yes."

"Brilliant." Combeferre smiled. "So, we send Courfeyrac down to the headquarters on Monday to drop it in. Nothing to keep stressed about."

"The protest is in eight and a half weeks."

"That's plenty of time, Enjolras."

"They require an eight-week notice."

Combeferre sighed, looking down at the splintered wood of the table in front of him as Enjolras went off on a tangent about appearing cooperative to avoid being seen as a threat to the police. Combeferre mindlessly scratched at a chipping of paint just to the right of his glass of water, and suddenly became distracted by the sound of Grantaire's pencil on paper. He took a peek.
Beside him, Grantaire was roughly sketching a figure, unmistakably Enjolras, with his uncontrollable curls, his brow furrowed and his arms crossed over his body. Combeferre chuckled under his breath and mentally rolled his eyes.

Plain obvious Grantaire and painfully oblivious Enjolras.

Combeferre and Enjolras had had their fair share of new recruits, meeting and greeting everyone who now sat with them at this occupied table, all memorable moments. But something stood out to Combeferre about the moment Enjolras and Grantaire had become acquainted. He recalled the moment they first laid eyes on each other, opposing forces standing across the room from one another in the very same room they sat in now. It was nothing overly different to Enjolras becoming acquainted with the rest of the group, but Combeferre felt as if something in their lives shifted the night Grantaire made himself known.

It was a few years ago, a regular Saturday night, and the breeze was flowing soothingly through the window Combeferre had been standing in front of, chatting idly to Courfeyrac - if his memory serves him well, it was something about talking Courfeyrac out of buying a cat - when Joly walked in. He was directing someone unfamiliar at the time - now known as Grantaire - over to the side of the room where Combeferre stood.

"Combeferre, you have to meet this guy, he's the best!" A drunk Joly had instructed.

The four men had spoken for only a short while, maybe ten minutes or so, before Joly dragged him away to sit beside Éponine, who had spent the night drinking at the bar. Combeferre had watched the two men saunter over, where Joly introduced Éponine, who welcomed him with drunk, open arms. It wasn't an official meeting day, but most of the group tended to hang around the Musain on the weekends anyway, drinking and socialising and inevitably being reeled into some kind of speech from Enjolras.
But that day, Enjolras had nothing to say. He was distracted, overwhelmed due to his lack of sleep and piece of shit manager. For a good half hour, Enjolras' didn't even notice the new addition to the room. Perhaps he wouldn't have noticed at all that night if Combeferre hadn't said anything, but with the way the universe worked, he doubted it. God himself probably couldn't keep Grantaire and Enjolras from their collision.

"Enjolras?" Combeferre had approached lightly.

"Hm?" He replied, not looking away from his phone, where he was furiously emailing someone.

"Enjolras." Combeferre tried again.

With a soft huff this time, Enjolras pried his eyes away from his phone and looked to Combeferre, who he hadn't noticed was standing over him.

"Have you introduced yourself to our newest member yet?" Combeferre asked, sure that would get a reaction out of him.

"What?" Enjolras said, before turning to look around the room, trying to discern who was the unfamiliar face amongst the crowd, though the room was filled with locals, as it usually was whenever they hadn't booked the room out. It turns out that Saturdays were for more than revolution, much to Enjolras' dismay.

"Next to Joly." Combeferre pointed to the bar, and Enjolras turned his head. "Joly said he wants him to come along to next week's meeting. New guy hasn't declined the offer."

Enjolras was staring at the back of Grantaire's head, the mess of black curls bouncing aimlessly as he was playing (and losing) an arm-wrestling match to Éponine. And then, when Grantaire finally turned around, Combeferre swears on his life that time stopped moving for just a brief second. He saw Grantaire's back to the bar as he spun on his stool, a green glass bottle lifted partway to his lips as he side-eyed Joly with a grin. He remembers the way Grantaire's smile twitched and faltered ever so slightly and his eyes widened in wonder the moment he made eye contact with Enjolras.

Enjolras, whose brow bone smoothed itself out and chest raised heavily, before he pushed out a short, shaky exhale.

"Enjolras?" Combeferre asked, curious to see this kind of reaction from his best friend. A small grin made its way onto Combeferre’s face, and he allowed himself to be amused by the way Enjolras cleared his throat with a sort of nervousness that he didn't usually possess.

"I'll introduce myself later. I'm busy at the moment." Enjolras said, blinking harshly as he turned back to his phone, reverting to his usual self. Combeferre made a mental note to hold him to it. He liked this Grantaire, and even more than that, if Enjolras' reaction was anything to go off, Combeferre would say that Enjolras probably liked him too—or at least the sight of him.
Combeferre chuckled to himself, eyeing Enjolras all night long, often catching him distractedly looking in Grantaire's direction.

At the end of the night, when Musichetta had to physically remove Bahorel and Bossuet for getting too drunk and breaking a chair, when Jehan had disappeared with Montparnasse, and the rest of the room had quieted down, Combeferre noticed Enjolras approaching him at the bar with Joly, Éponine, and the newcomer.

"Enjolras! Just the man I wanted to see!" Joly's tipsy voice boomed as he too saw the blonde approaching. "Come here!"

"I'm coming." Enjolras muttered.

"Enjolras, Enjolras. This," Joly spoke, slinging an arm around Grantaire's shoulder and giving him a gentle shake, "is Grantaire."

Combeferre watched Grantaire give him a fierce smile, nodding his head and holding his hand out for Enjolras to shake. Combeferre was about to gently push Grantaire's hand away, as he usually would, but then he saw Enjolras' expression. Enjolras' lips were pursed, his eyes soft and wide in a childlike curiosity. And to Combeferre's surprise (and Joly's, and Éponine's, though no one mentioned it) Enjolras' hand began to move, just slightly and too slowly, but as if he were about to shake this stranger's hand. Though, the hand eventually fell back at his side.

"Enjolras." He introduced himself.

Grantaire let his unshaken hand fall back into his lap, no hint of offence in his body language.

"Ah." Grantaire said. "So, you're the fearless leader I've been hearing so much about."

Enjolras' brow became downturned once again as he tilted his head.

"There is no leader of the ABC. We all work alongside each other."

Grantaire chuckled at this, turning to Joly and raising his eyebrows. Joly returned the laugh.

"Whatever you say, chief." Joly told Enjolras. "God knows Courfeyrac doesn't do anything."

Combeferre could see a rebuttal forming on Enjolras' lips, and not wanting him to scare off a potential member of their group, he chimed in.

"So Grantaire, will you be joining us for our next meeting? We get together every Friday, and some Mondays."

Grantaire seemed to ponder over this question, seemingly undecided. From what he had said to Combeferre when Joly first introduced him earlier in the night, he didn't seem to uphold the same beliefs and optimistic worldview as the rest of them. Combeferre was almost certain he would decline the offer, but instead, Grantaire turned to face a suspiciously quiet Enjolras, and said with an innocent grin,

"If you will allow it."

Enjolras breathed heavily.

"Of course. Anyone is welcome to attend."

Grantaire nodded, placing his almost empty beer on the bar behind him, and eventually broke his gaze with the man in front of him. He stood after a few moments.

"Then I'll be there." He smiled; his eyes hazy but his smile sweeter than one he'd ever offer to Enjolras these days. "Now, gents, if you'll excuse me, I've got to be going. My sorry excuse for a manager will have my head if I don't get to this gig on time."

"Oh, you're a musician?" Éponine beamed curiously, watching Grantaire collecting his belongings and removing himself from the line of stools.

"Amongst other things." He spoke. "I'll see you all next week, I suppose."

Combeferre and Joly said their goodbyes, Éponine patting Grantaire so hard on the back as he walked past that he almost stumbled into her, both laughing easily. Grantaire continued to make his leave, but not before turning his head a fraction to face Enjolras as he said,

"See you later, Apollo."

Enjolras frowned.

"Apollo?"

The question earned him one last good look at Grantaire as he spun on his heels and looked Enjolras up and down with the smirk of a tease on his face. He continued to walk backwards as he said,

"Blindingly."

That was possibly the reddest in the face Combeferre had ever seen Enjolras. Until right now.

"Combeferre! Are you even listening to me?" Enjolras' voice snapped Combeferre out of his reminiscence and drew his attention away from Grantaire's drawing, back to reality.

"Sorry, I'm listening. Go ahead." Combeferre offered. He watched Enjolras slump back in his seat at the head of the table.

"I was saying," Enjolras droned in frustration, "that we need this application to be approved and I'm not so sure that sending Courfeyrac to hand it in is the wisest idea."

"Hey, Courfeyrac is completely capable of-"

"I know, I know, I'm not saying he isn't, I'm just saying-" Enjolras let out a sigh. "I would just feel a lot more comfortable if you could do it.”

Combeferre sighed. He knew Enjolras was being pedantic. He also knew, however, that doing what he could to keep Enjolras from getting too overwhelmed was in everyone’s best interest. But before Combeferre could agree to any demands, something small and white was flying a short distance through the air, colliding painlessly with Enjolras' forehead, and then falling onto the table.
Enjolras flinched as the object made contact, though his look of shock turned into frustration as his attention was directed to the scrunched-up ball of paper now in front of him, and then to the direction it came from.

Grantaire was leaning back in his chair, a pencil shoved carelessly into his thick mop of hair, a cheeky grin across his face.

"What the fuck is the actual matter with you?" Enjolras asked seriously, as if he genuinely wanted to know the answer.

"Open it." Grantaire chuckled.

Heeeeere we go, Combeferre thought.

He watched Enjolras unfold the piece of receipt viciously and roll his eyes at the contents of the drawing. Since Combeferre had looked away, Grantaire had written 'I'm a little crybaby' in a speech bubble coming from the mouth of the (although rushed, insanely detailed) drawing of Enjolras. Combeferre turned to give Grantaire somewhat of a disapproving glare, but he felt his expression betray him as a subtly amused smile crossed his face.

But truthfully, it didn't matter what kind of look Combeferre gave Grantaire at that moment, because the latter was distracted deep in Enjolras' eyes, his chin resting in hand with a wonderous smile on his lips, watching Enjolras pensively as the blonde scolded him. Sometimes, in moments like these, Combeferre wishes they would just fuck already.
But as we have discussed, it was a complex situation.

You see, Combeferre has known Enjolras for a long time. He knows probably all there is to possibly know about someone. He can tell when Enjolras is feeling open and relaxed, or each different kind of overwhelmed, or when something is just slightly bothering him. He knows how Enjolras prefers to go about his day, knows his routine, having lived with him for half the time they've known each other. And Combeferre really thought there was nothing else to learn after so long. But watching Enjolras meet Grantaire two years ago, watching the insufferable duo work each other up to the point of screaming at each other, watching Enjolras get angrier and more flustered than Combeferre had ever seen him, he quickly realised something he'd never thought he'd come across.

Enjolras has a thing for Grantaire.

'A thing' is really the only way to describe it, because anything that their friends know about love or sex definitely does not apply to Enjolras.
To Grantaire, absolutely. It is more than safe to say that Grantaire is in love with Enjolras, and everyone knows it. He has been more than obvious about his feelings towards the leader for as long as he has been a part of the group. Combeferre looks at Grantaire and sees a child, pulling on a little girl’s pigtails to get her attention.

The way that Grantaire loves Enjolras is more than any display of love that Combeferre has ever seen. Grantaire has made abundantly clear that he will never participate in organising anything regarding protests or rallies because he doesn't believe that the world around them will ever be a better place. He believes in hardly anything, but still, he never misses a meeting. Sure, he pulls at Enjolras' metaphorical pigtails as much as he can, and loves to watch Enjolras stumble over his words and make frustrated, whiny sounds, but the petty rivalry is not as menacing as it may seem.
And it's not all entirely on Grantaire, either.

These two have been doing this dance for years now, ever since that first meeting Grantaire came to. Everyone else could spot it a mile away, the physical tension in the form of the back and forth, the bickering, the intense arguments and insults meant to sting, meant to cut deep. And that had never changed throughout the ABC’s time. But then, when Grantaire has left the bar halfway through a meeting, Combeferre watches Enjolras become a pouty mess, as if he doesn't know how to continue without the driving force that is Grantaire. It wasn't too long after that first meeting with Grantaire that Combeferre noticed Enjolras putting longer than usual pauses throughout his speeches and revisions. Pauses left there to give Grantaire time to refute, which he does every single time without a second thought. The rest of the world may think that the two men just have their differences, an incompatible pairing, but Combeferre knows that that's just the way they work. Neither of the two will ever do anything about their feelings, so they will continue to communicate in the only way that they know works, the only way they know they’ll never lose each other. By arguing. Stubborn assholes.

And then, you see the way they look at each other, and you finally see the whole picture. Grantaire stares so longingly, reeking of adoration and veneration. Behind every taunting smirk are the eyes of someone mesmerised, someone bargaining with themselves over how someone like Enjolras could even be here, in front of him. A blessing, an angel disguised. There's almost a hint of self-depreciation in the eyes he has for Enjolras.
And Enjolras, staring back, with that careless curiosity seeping through the cracks of that mask of frustration and hatred. If it weren't for the way he was always frowning, perhaps you would see just how smitten he was. Enjolras gives Grantaire his full attention every single time, even if it's negative attention. You couldn't turn his attention away if you tried. And Combeferre has tried. It's futile.

Enjolras is distanced, sure, but- God, Combeferre has never seen him more passionate than when he's debating something impossibly trivial with Grantaire, scolding Grantaire just to talk to him. He gets high on the fight, all heated and flustered and then, when it’s over, he goes back to convincing himself that he doesn't like him or care for him at all. It's like 'emotional fucking edging', as Courfeyrac had once put it. He wasn't wrong.

And sure, everyone loves Grantaire, he's a treasured friend and a close one at that. He's practically family. But Enjolras? He's the first one to advocate for Grantaire, to tell him he could be more than what he is now, to tell him he has potential. Even if the way he goes about telling him that is a little harsh and skewed, Enjolras is the one who doesn’t want Grantaire to give up on himself. And Enjolras is the reason that he hasn't.

The problem is that Enjolras doesn't know that Grantaire is in love with him, and Grantaire doesn't know that Enjolras feels the same. Hell, even Enjolras doesn't know that Enjolras feels the same. Some real, intricate soul-searching could do this man a world of wonders. But for now, Combeferre could do no more than sit back and watch as Enjolras scrunched the piece of paper back into a ball, his eyes staring daggers into Grantaire's.

"We're actually trying to have a conversation here, Grantaire, so maybe you could just act your age for once?" Enjolras spat.

"Terribly sorry, you just look so gorgeous when you're cranky." Grantaire teased.

Combeferre shook his head and sighed to himself as Enjolras clenched his jaw, shutting his eyes tight as he prepared himself to move on and continue to speak to Combeferre.

"Anyways, as I was asking before I was rudely interrupted, would you have time to hand the application in on Monday?" He asked Combeferre.

"I could probably sort something out. I have work Monday morning, but I can do it in the afternoon before they close." Combeferre nodded.

"Great. You're a lifesaver." Enjolras heaved.

"It'll be fine, Enjolras, seriously. Don't stress over it too much." Combeferre said, in an attempt to cool Enjolras down.

"Yeah, don't sweat it, man. That's not even the thing you should be worried about." Grantaire said innocently, though the obvious attempt at pissing Enjolras off was not hidden by his virtuous tone.

Both Enjolras and Combeferre turned their heads to face Grantaire, who was now taking a swig of straight bourbon from the bottle in his right hand, mindlessly playing with the bottle cap in his left.

"What are you talking about?" Enjolras asked impatiently.

Grantaire took a large gulp of the burning liquid, inhaling harshly as he set the bottle down and propped himself up straight.

"You do realise that the protest is going to become a total shitshow, right?" He asked, a funny look on his face.

Enjolras narrowed his eyes, and Combeferre wondered whether Grantaire was attempting to provoke him, or whether there may be some hint of truth behind his statement. By the looks, Enjolras was wondering the same. Grantaire continued.

"So, basically, and correct me if I'm wrong here, you plan to march your cute little butts down to the police headquarters, say, 'Hey! My friends and I want to start a riot protesting some of the fucked up shit that your besties have done, and we want to invite you! Here's our application, hope you can make it!'" Grantaire mocked, before taking another swig of his beverage. "You don't think any of that sounds like, I don't know, an insane fucking idea?"

Combeferre watched Enjolras take a deep breath, never losing eye contact with Grantaire. Not for a second.

"Obviously having the police at our protest isn't the ideal situation, Grantaire, but it beats having them show up unexpectedly.” Enjolras began to explain as if he hadn’t already been over this a thousand times. “If we hold this protest illegally, all it takes is for one person to make a phone call and before you know it, the police will be showing up anyways and then nothing will be in place to stop them from making arrests or resulting to the use of unnecessary brutality." Enjolras rambled, seemingly ignoring the way Grantaire's eyes flickered down to watch the words fall out of Enjolras' mouth.

"That's cute. Really is." Grantaire smirked around the mouth of his bottle, "But what I'm having trouble understanding is why you're all of a sudden placing so much trust in the police."

Enjolras groaned then, throwing his head back dramatically before straightening himself in his chair and then leaning across the table.

"I don't trust them, you know that. I'm just saying that- At least if we have permission to hold the protest in the first place, there's a reduced risk of the whole thing getting violent." He said, blankness in his tone, composing himself. "I mean, do you really think that officers that are going to be on the books as attending a peaceful protest will risk their badges or risk dealing with the consequences? I mean, especially in this political environment. You know they have to be careful right now. The police are being watched so closely. They won't attack us. Not yet."

Grantaire nodded, his face morphing into an impressed expression, before retreating further back into his seat.

"I think you're right. But there's still something you're not worrying about." He shrugged.

"And what's that?" Enjolras said as he looked at him with impatience.

"What about the undercover officers, hm? The ones off the books?" Grantaire asked with a sly smirk. "What if they send officers posed as anti-protesters to throw the first punch? That sure would give the uniformed police a pretty good reason to start making arrests and using now justifiable force."

Combeferre turned to examine Enjolras’ reaction to this. His face was visibly hot and flushed, his mouth drawn into a straight line. It was rare to see Enjolras so speechless. He subconsciously flared his nostrils on a sharp exhale as he kept his furrowed gaze on Grantaire.

"Enjolras," Combeferre quickly grabbed his attention. "He's got a point."

There were a few seconds where Enjolras just sat there, silent, his gaze darting back and forth between a smug-looking Grantaire and a reasoning Combeferre, but Enjolras remained stubborn.

"We're going with the permit. End of discussion." He told Combeferre.

"Okay, you're the boss." Grantaire teased. "But don't say I didn't warn you." He sing-songed as he continued to drink his bourbon.

"Oh, I won't, don't worry." Enjolras snapped, petulant and dismissive.

"Oh, I won't, don't worry." Grantaire mocked provocatively, and Combeferre could see the argument brewing.

"What do you contribute to this group again?” Enjolras asked. “Fuck all, was it?”

"You're saying that, but all I'm hearing is 'Grantaire, I wish you would come to my little protests more often, I really want you there'." Grantaire teased, raising his voice an octave to feign the voice of a lovestruck high schooler asking her crush to prom.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're obnoxious when you drink?" Enjolras mocked, crossing his arms over his body and leaning in closer to where Grantaire was sitting.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're a raging bitch when I drink?" Grantaire countered.

"I'm cutting you off." Enjolras spat, quickly turning his head to the bar and following with, "Musichetta! Grantaire's cut off! Stop giving him discounts-"

"My tab is still open!"

"Close it."

"No, Musichetta-"

Combeferre just sat solemnly, listening to two of his closest friends arguing like schoolchildren. He genuinely couldn't help lulling his head and letting out a tired sigh, a soft smile on his lips as he rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"Let me guess, you were raised this way? Bit of whiskey before bed to help you sleep?" Enjolras said, crossing a line and entering personal territory.

"Oh, you'd love that to be the case, wouldn't you?” Grantaire teased. “Would you turn me into your little charity case? Make me your infant alcohol syndrome poster boy or something?" Grantaire chuckled, so careless about pushing Enjolras' buttons.

"Your parents must be really proud of you, with the whole full-time alcoholic thing.” Enjolras said sarcastically, faking interest as if this was a genuine conversation. Grantaire gave him the time of day and made a face as if he were pondering the statement. Finally, he shrugged.

"Hm. Not sure. If they ever stop being dead, I’ll ask them." Grantaire said, leaning his head in his hand as he smiled as if he were answering a question regarding the weather. Enjolras' eyes widened.

"God, give me strength." Combeferre mumbled to himself, throwing his head back and looking towards the ceiling.

"Do you take after your parents? With the whole drama queen thing?" Grantaire asked, his hand gesturing wildly to Enjolras' person. Enjolras' mouth fell wide open, his eyebrows raised in a mixture of shock and disgust.

"I am not a drama queen!" He scoffed.

"Oh, no, of course not. A queen suggests a Monarchy and- Wait a minute, how do you feel about the Monarchy again? You’ve only told me one thousand times-"

"Alright, that is enough." Enjolras said through gritted teeth, severely unimpressed.

There was the sound of Enjolras' chair scraping across the wooden floorboard, then footsteps moving behind and around Combeferre in his place at the table, before Enjolras appeared between him and Grantaire. Combeferre watched as the blonde snatched the bottle of bourbon from where it rested on the table and began to storm off with it.

"Hey! I haven't paid for that yet!" Grantaire called after him, chuckling softly as he stood up from his seat and followed after Enjolras.

Combeferre took a moment to just really thank God and all his might for the chance to have such a loving group of friends, and people to call a family, and then immediately cursed the same God for making them all so terribly explosive. He stood from his seat and followed the two men through a door to the left of the bar. It led him to the washroom, where the waitstaff had abandoned empty glasses and dirty dishes. When he entered, he saw Enjolras with his hand wrapped tightly around the neck of the bottle, and Grantaire's hand cupped around the base. They looked ridiculous like this, like greedy teenagers playing tug-of-war with a bottle of vodka they found in their parent’s liquor cabinet. Enjolras' face was curved into a frown of severe ferocity, his lips pursed and struggling against the obvious strength disadvantage. Grantaire simply laughed as he watched Enjolras struggle, it was seemingly a game to him, and the prize was that fiery look in Enjolras' eyes.

"Let go!" Enjolras heaved.

"No way! It's mine!"

"You're gonna spill it everywhere-"

"Just- Fucking give it back-"

"Grantaire, you are a fucking child."

"I'm not even drunk yet, dude."

"Let go!"

"Apollo, just stop-"

"Stop calling me that!"

Grantaire laughed.

"Let go!"

Combeferre could just picture it, these idiots splashing fucking bourbon all over the walls and the floor, and Combeferre didn't particularly feel like finding the owner of the Musain and saying 'hey, sorry we kind of trashed your kitchen, my friends are stubborn assholes that can't be in the same room without breaking something, metaphorically usually, but in this exact instance-'

Combeferre intervened.

"Enjolras, come on." He sighed.

And at the sound of his name, Enjolras stopped struggling and turned to face Combeferre. The latter wondered if the former ever got headaches from that fucking frown that was so often possessing him. Enjolras' lips were already moving, no doubt to make some nonsense rebuttal on why it was Grantaire being the immature one. But as Enjolras turned away from him, Grantaire had seen the perfect opportunity to reclaim his bottle so he could go back to his evening of drinking himself half into a coma. So, without any further thought, Grantaire released his grip on the base of the bottle and replaced it around the neck, his hand fully encompassing Enjolras'.

By the time he'd realised his mistake, it was already way too late.

With a sharp gasp, Enjolras startled backwards and pulled his hand away with such haste that Grantaire too lost contact with the bottle, which was then instantly sent hurtling towards the floor. All three men present jumped at the sound of the bottle smashing against the tile, tiny, brown glass shards sent flying at their feet.

For a second, nothing happened. It felt as if time literally paused. Enjolras stood silently, wide eyes staring at his knuckles, knuckles that were shaking ever so slightly, almost unnoticeably. Combeferre and Grantaire both waited in nervous anticipation for Enjolras' reaction, but it never came, so Grantaire broke the silence.

"Enjolras, dude, I am- Shit, I'm sorry. I- You- I didn't think about-" Grantaire clambered for the right thing to say, drawing up blanks at every turn.

Enjolras said nothing. Did nothing.

"Enjolras?" Combeferre tried, approaching timidly as if Enjolras was presently ticking and counting down, and Combeferre was waiting for the bomb to explode. As much as he knew Enjolras, his rage was the kind of bomb that Combeferre never quite mastered defusing.

Enjolras finally tore his eyes away from his knuckles and let his gaze fall upon Grantaire's face, who was sporting a look of horror.

"Enjolras, I didn't mean to- Uhm-"

Enjolras looked down at the pile of glass scattered around his feet. There was a crunch beneath his shoe as he took a clumsy step backward.

"Br- Uhm, Broom." He whispered, shaking his head as if snapping himself back into reality.

"What?" Combeferre asked, taking a step forward.

"What?" Enjolras asked, taking a step back.

Combeferre could feel Grantaire's eyes on him. Neither of the two really knew what to do, or how to handle the situation unfolding before them. Grantaire had never made this mistake before, never witnessed this before, and Combeferre had never witnessed this before.

It was inevitable, really, that there would be a handful of times in Enjolras' life when a stranger could brush against him in passing, when one of their friends would forget and pat him on the shoulder, or when a protest would go south, and he'd end up with a black eye or a bruised lip. And in each of those instances, Combeferre would be there to attempt to cool him off until Enjolras eventually cooled himself off. This kind of physical contact would usually send Enjolras into a fit of rage. Slamming his fist into the table, verbally assaulting the apologetic culprit, a few minutes of overwhelming emotions followed by an evening of sensory overload and irritability, jumpiness, that sort of thing.

But for some reason unknown to Combeferre, right now, Enjolras was practically silent.

"Sorry. Sorry, uhm-" Grantaire muttered when the silence became too loud for him, placing as much distance between himself and Enjolras as he could until his back made contact with the swinging door. He looked to Combeferre. "Sorry."

Grantaire left the room.

Combeferre focused back onto Enjolras' still frame, studying his face and his body language in a subtle confusion.

"Hey, Enjolras?" He asked.

"What?" Enjolras mumbled, now looking back at his knuckles.

"You okay?"

"You're- Can you just- Can you find me a broom? And a towel or something?" Enjolras asked, not looking at him.

Combeferre frowned, hesitating to reply, unsure if - or when - the explosion would occur.

"Combeferre. Broom. Towel" Enjolras asked again, rushed and louder this time. He hastily knelt, bare hands beginning to carefully sweep the bigger pieces of glass into a pile, hardly noticing the small cuts attaching themselves to his fingers.

"Yeah," Combeferre replied, attempting to remain cool, speaking as if nothing had happened. "Yeah, okay. Just- Why don't you sit down, and I'll get it."

"I got it, it's fine."

"Enjolras."

"'Ferre, just find me a fucking broom and a towel." Enjolras said, the reactive anger somewhat recognisable, but the words were barely above a whisper as he said them.

That was three weeks ago, and Combeferre has since been keeping a close eye on his friend, still convinced the explosion might occur and destroy everything in its vicinity. He will just have to cross that bridge when he gets to it.

Chapter Text

Stupid fucking Grantaire and his loud, obnoxious mouth and his warm fucking hands and his stupid, stupid existence and-

Enjolras needed a break.

It was Friday evening, and Enjolras could be found seated where he would normally be on a Friday evening; the seat at the very end of the makeshift meeting table on the top floor of the Musain. The weekly ABC meeting had just ended, the protest they were planning looming just over a month away, and Enjolras had been called on by the city council to go downtown on the Monday coming and talk through the plans of the protest.

Enjolras was spiralling. There was no time for a break.

Usually, that wouldn't have been such an issue. Ever since he could remember, Enjolras had always had this innate perseverance, as if there were a switch in his mind that he could flip whenever there was something that demanded his immediate attention. He rarely had trouble focusing, often easily ignoring hunger cues or sleep deprivation or physical pain in order to complete the task in front of him. It got him through high school, through exams and conflict and awkward conversations, and for this, he thought himself lucky. But right now, that magic trick was going to be the fucking death of him.

He really, really ought to be making dot points of all the questions they would potentially think of asking him at this meeting. He already knew he would be bringing Bahorel along as somewhat of a scare tactic, because, well, look at the guy, but Enjolras needed to come up with concrete counterarguments for any little thing the council could try to spring at him. He needed to do anything he could think of to avoid the application for the permit being rejected. But for some reason, that was not where his mind went when he tried to focus.

The protest in question was to speak out against the recent allegations of sexual harassment and the mistreatment of women in the government forces. Just months ago, a local politician had taken her own life due to a supposed assault against her, and she had been thought to have gone through months of psychological torment about keeping her mouth shut. The note she left behind suggested that she couldn't take it anymore. The story had made headlines almost immediately, understandably. Women all around the city were outraged, but not surprised, and that is what had stuck with Enjolras the most. To think that the unthinkable was happening amidst the community, being swept under the rug, and no one was even shocked when it became known. It was the reality of women all around him. That woman was not just a mother, not just a daughter, sister, or friend, but a human fucking being, and being treated like a piece of meat, solely for the gratification of disgusting, corrupt men in shiny suits and sports cars who sat on top of piles of money so high that they could get away with whatever they wanted.

When he thought about the situation for too long, he started to see just how fucked up the world was. If he didn't do something about it, he worried he wouldn't be able to handle the thoughts. So, he tried to flip that metaphorical switch, to ignore the gnawing feeling in his stomach and the burning rage building in his chest, to try and focus on finishing this god-forsaken speech, and to come up with something worthy enough of preaching to his audience of angry wives and lovers and friends. But when he flipped the switch this time, he began to lose his train of thought instantly and laser-focus on something else.

Or rather, someone else.

On the loveseat by the window, overlooking the city and its current foggy landscape, was Grantaire. He was lying horizontally, and on his chest sat Éponine with her half-drunken smile prominently displayed, pinning him down playfully on the seat beneath them. Enjolras watched as Grantaire struggled to push her off.

"Anyone seen Grantaire?" She asked solemnly, eyebrows furrowing, and arms crossed as she was looking tentatively around the room. Enjolras couldn't help but watch Grantaire, his muffled, breathless attempts at getting her attention washed away by the laughter leaving him in stitches.

"Get off me, you rat!" He called through bouts of heavily breathed chuckles. His face was red, visibly exhausted from all the roughhousing. Enjolras thought he looked warm.

He wondered how warm his hands were today.

He looked away.

Alright. He could do this. Enough fucking around. Enjolras could finish this speech. He practically lived to write, it was what he was good at, and it was what was needed of him. Nothing else was more demanding right in this moment than finding the exact words that the people of the city needed to hear. He needed to focus.

He stared at the page on his laptop screen for a moment, and began to read carefully through the same paragraph he'd been washing his eyes over for two hours now, scanning his mind for something to conclude with. He typed a few sentences, deleted them, typed a few more, rearranged the words, typed a few more, and deleted the whole section of text.

He slammed his laptop shut.

He looked at Grantaire.

He looked away.

Enjolras rested his elbows on the hard wooden surface in front of him and rubbed at his eyes until the backs of his eyelids were displaying a kaleidoscope of colours and swirls. Why was he so distracted? Enjolras asked himself. The protest was important, and not just for himself and the success of the ABC, but for all the women out there who had been silenced, hurt, attacked, used, killed simply for existing. Women who had been shamed for speaking out, women who were begging their brothers to use their privilege to amplify their angry voices. Enjolras needed to be that person. The world was asking for him and he needed to answer.

His mind began to race, suddenly bringing forward memory after memory of his dear friends facing such discrimination firsthand. The confrontation between Musichetta and an older man she didn't recognise. How the man had walked into the bar, stayed until closing, and attempted to follow her to her car. To talk, he'd said, to get to know each other, as if she owed him that. The man didn't leave after she expressed her disinterest, didn't respect her wishes for him to leave her alone until he saw her boyfriends in the car, waiting for her.

He remembered Marius leaving a meeting early one night after receiving a phone call from a distressed Cosette, rushing to pick her up from her house. She'd been sobbing on the phone, you could hear it through the speaker, scared for her life as a man was knocking, banging on her door. When Marius showed up, she had locked herself in the bathroom, no man in sight, and a parcel left on the doorstep. It made Enjolras shudder to think that there was someone out there who had hurt her so badly that she would be in hysterics, thinking that the postal delivery man was that man from her past, coming back to get her.

God, he couldn't imagine it. He didn't want to imagine it, but he knew that ignorance was evil.

After all, he felt like he somewhat understood that feeling of anxiousness. Don't get him wrong, he knew that he would never experience the extent of what his sisters had to go through, but he felt that he was personally able to relate to the narrative of not being the one in control. Years of his life he had spent shying away from most people. It was just easier to be alone, than to have to explain that he didn't want to shake your hand, or he didn't want to hug you, or you're too close to me, I can't breathe, you're smothering me. Sure, things had changed when he met Courfeyrac, and then Combeferre, and then the rest of his friends, but he never stopped feeling on edge around them, let alone strangers in the dark or unfamiliar men in bars who wanted to buy him a drink. It was hard to explain, even harder to wrap his own head around. All he could work out was that whenever his skin had made contact with someone else’s, he felt this threatening shiver run down his spine, felt the hairs in his arms and neck stand up, and it made him feel vulnerable.

It's not that Enjolras didn't like the feeling of physical touch, but rather that he was so unused to the sensation that it created such a strong response in his body, and it was just much easier to avoid it at all costs. He wondered how so many people did it, the physical contact. His friends, strangers, everyone. Why do they not feel what he feels? Why do they pay it no mind? Do they crave it as much as he does?

Enjolras looked around the room and saw endless examples of normal human interaction, the kind of physical contact that most people wouldn't think twice about. He saw Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta, sitting side by side by side at the bar, heads on shoulders and sweet kisses pecked against cheeks, fingers intertwined loosely as they talked. He saw Courfeyrac sitting on the table ahead of him, playfully balancing both Marius and Cosette in his lap, the three laughing in amusement. He saw Feuilly and Jehan discussing the book that sat between the two of them, mindlessly playing footsies beneath the table.

He saw Éponine on the sofa, her eyes shut tight and her tongue hanging out of her mouth, playing dead. She was trying and failing to contain a smile as Grantaire straddled her and theatrically pretended to give her CPR.

"No!" Grantaire cried, as he began to violently shake her by her shoulders. "'Ponine, you're too cool and sexy to die!"

Éponine giggled, but Grantaire ignored it.

"Who's going to smoke all of her weed now?" He called dramatically. Éponine sat up faster than Enjolras had ever seen anyone move.

"Don't even think about it." She warned light-heartedly, grabbing his shirt by the collar and pointing a finger in his face. They laughed again.

They were happy. They were comfortable. Enjolras wasn't comfortable.

He felt a bubbling frustration begin to swarm his insides. How do they do it? What was so fundamentally wrong with him that he had to banish himself to the back corner all the time? More importantly, why did it bother him so much more lately? He'd never thought it was such a big deal before, he'd honestly preferred to have his own space and stay in the shadow of his friend's intimacy. Enjolras had a system and it worked, plain and simple. Keep to himself, dodge the affection, organise the protest, stay on the sidelines and out of harm’s way until he was needed to speak, retreat to the background, repeat. He never thought twice about it.

But over the last few weeks, Enjolras had been finding himself lost in thought over that pesky feeling in his knuckles, the phantom ache of his fingers being stuck between a whiskey bottle and the hand of someone else. If he imagined hard enough, he could still feel the way the hairs on his knuckles had reacted to the physical stimulus, and it made his skin feel funny. He looked down at his knuckles, placed his other hand over them, and breathed heavily. That switch in his mind had been flipped, sure, but he wasn't focused on what he ought to be.

He looked at Grantaire.

He looked away.

He looked at Grantaire.

Éponine had now vanished to the bar, presumably ordering two more of whatever they were drinking before, leaving her best friend solo on that seat beneath the window. The setting of the sun allowed a subtle illumination over Grantaire's olive skin, his arms thrown carelessly over the arm of the chair as he rested his head upward to admire the sky through the window behind him. He looked nice, Enjolras thought.

Enjolras sighed.

He didn't actually hate Grantaire, regardless of what the others might think. He knows that it might appear as such, what with the way they’ve always bickered and opposed each other, but he really couldn't imagine the group without him. Grantaire is smart, Enjolras had realised early on, he is a challenge. He’s affluent in wit, a professional in finding cracks in Enjolras' arguments and poking at them until they were sinkholes, and as much as it pissed Enjolras off, it made those arguments more concrete evidently. Grantaire was always playing devil’s advocate, Enjolras knew that, but it was less than unwelcome. To tell the truth, though he’d never admit it, Enjolras needed Grantaire's input more than anyone else’s, and he never really knew why that was the case. Grantaire was a royal fucking pain in the ass, often, and certainly on purpose. Enjolras should have shrugged him off during the first meeting Grantaire attended. He should've thrown him out, along with his hazy eyes and his taunting smile, smelling of gin and cigarettes and wielding his impossibly infuriating confidence like a sword.

Should've thrown him out. Didn't. Couldn't.

Enjolras couldn't've thrown him out, he knew deep down, not when he'd been so heavy on his mind since that night they'd met. The thing that frustrated Enjolras the most was that he just didn't know what it was about Grantaire that made him curious. Enjolras knew Grantaire's type, the bold yet empty, a man with charm but nothing but apathy for the world around him. Grantaire didn't belong with the rest of them, not for the ABC's sake anyway, and Enjolras had previously had no issue with turning people of similar concerns away. But for some reason, Grantaire had been an exception.

"You're staring." Combeferre's voice appeared out of thin air. Enjolras jumped in his seat, head snapping away to look at his best friend, who was now occupying the seat on his right.

"No, I wasn't." Enjolras countered, briskly opening his laptop once more, searching for a reason not to be caught by Combeferre's knowing eyes.

"Are you alright?" Combeferre asked.

"Yeah." Enjolras stated blankly.

"You're sure?"

Enjolras huffed and turned to face Combeferre, with an impatient and irritable look on his face.

"I'm fine, Combeferre." He whined.

"Okay. Good." Combeferre smiled after a beat, and then directed his attention to the laptop in front of them. "What are you working on?"

"Nothing." Enjolras mumbled as he attempted to type.

"Is that- Enjolras, you better not be editing that bloody speech." Combeferre warned, though not unkindly.

"It just needs a bit of fixing-"

Combeferre carefully pushed the top of the laptop closed.

"Nope. It's perfectly fine as it is, and you know it."

"But I just-"

"I don't want to hear it. Stop before you burn yourself out." Combeferre said, his calm demeanour so powerful when he needed it to be.

Enjolras was going to refute, but instead he just sighed, slumping down in his chair further.

"You know what you need?" Combeferre asked him, adjusting his glasses.

"Hm?" Enjolras replied, non-committal.

"A break." Combeferre said, subconsciously pushing Enjolras' laptop further away from him. "Come out to the Corinthe with us."

Enjolras found his friend's eyes, his own wide and eyebrows raised in confusion. He scoffed.

"I don't think so."

"Come on, Enjolras. When was the last time you did something non-revolution related?" Combeferre chuckled. A dramatic groan made its way up Enjolras' throat, as he threw his head back for a few seconds.

Combeferre was right, Enjolras knew that. Combeferre is always right. At times it scared Enjolras just how much Combeferre knew about him, how accurately the man could read him, it often felt as if Combeferre knew him better than Enjolras knew himself. But right now, Enjolras couldn't imagine anything less enjoyable than sitting around in a semi-lit, sweat-soaked bar, surrounded by people he didn't know and didn't want to know. He wanted to sit here, in this seat until Musichetta told him he had to leave, at which point he would go home and finish his speech.

But as Enjolras investigated Combeferre's trying gaze, he felt himself being psychoanalysed yet again by his wickedly intelligent and possibly superhuman friend. And with a solid huff, just to let Combeferre know he wasn't happy about it, he agreed. Because at the end of the day, Combeferre is just always fucking right.

They'd all arrived at the Corinthe just as the sun had disappeared from the now deep blue sky. Enjolras couldn't help but appreciate how beautiful of a night it was outside and felt contempt for the way his friends insisted on spending such a night inside, drinking away the view. When they'd arrived, Enjolras took one look at Combeferre, in an attempt to give him his please don't make me do this look, hoping his friend would feel the discomfort he felt. But unfortunately, Combeferre was already giving him his stop being so dramatic and ease up for once in your goddamned life look, and that look stayed in his mind for the first two hours of being at the Corinthe.

Enjolras decided to stop being so dramatic and ease up for once in his goddamned life.

He hadn't planned on drinking, he wasn't even interested in the first drink he'd had, but Courfeyrac was one persuasive son of a bitch. Enjolras' first drink went as follows.

"Come on, Enj, it's just a little alcohol! It can't hurt you!" Courfeyrac sing-songed, gently waving a short glass of some gingery-scented liquid in his face. "You'll have more fun being here if you get a little something-something into your system!"

"This is peer pressure." Enjolras said over the noise of the bar, a scolding expression on his face.

"Oh, what are we, fifteen? Seriously, I bought you a good-tasting one! None of that vile stuff Combeferre drinks." Courfeyrac replied, giving Combeferre a lethal side-eye.

"Hey! Mead is thought to be the drink of the Gods!" Combeferre argued innocently. "If it's so bad then why do they still make it? Hm? It's one of the oldest known forms of alcohol-"

"You lot are a bunch of freaking nerds. I'm going to find my cooler friends." Courfeyrac said, violently smacking the drink down onto the table in front of Enjolras. He pointed to the drink, and then to Enjolras. "This glass better be empty by the time I return."

Enjolras rolled his eyes, and reluctantly picked up the drink as he watched Courfeyrac bounce away to the dancefloor, inspecting it through the side of the glass. He placed it under his nose, inhaling the sweet scent of cinnamon. He had no idea what kind of drink this was, but he had to admit, it did smell good. Not before a quick glance at Combeferre, and a resigning shrug, he took a sip. It tasted surprisingly good. He took another sip. It tasted slightly less good. He took another sip. It tasted bad.

"Good?" Combeferre asked, an easy smile on his face and the glassiness of his eye suggesting he was already feeling the effects of his own drink.

"I guess." Enjolras said, before giving the drink another try, taking a rather generous sip as he noticed Bahorel join them out of the corner of his eye.

"Whoa, tiger. That's a cocktail you got there. You're supposed to sip on it." Bahorel laughed. He was holding two small glasses containing a clear liquid, one in either hand. Enjolras set his glass down on the table.

"You have it then." Enjolras sulked.

“What the fuck? Why are you giving away free alcohol, maniac?”

It wasn't that Enjolras didn't enjoy being tipsy, or even drunk. He'd ended up wasted on a handful of occasions, and other than the splitting headache he'd wake up with the next morning, he'd rather enjoyed himself while drunk. It was the drinking part he hated. It was too tedious, the pacing yourself, the need to pee every five seconds, it was like an algorithm he couldn't work out. And he told Bahorel as much.

"Tell you what, I’ll take this,” Bahorel grinned, setting his shot down, and taking Enjolras’ drink. He looked at Enjolras with a sly smirk and pushed the shot towards him. “If you take this.”

Enjolras frowned. He looked at the glass in front of him. He did ponder it for a short while, already knowing that he didn't really want it, but Combeferre was giving him that ease-up look again, and as much as he hated to admit it, a break was exactly what he needed.
Without a word, or much of a second thought, he picked up the shot glass, closed his eyes, and threw the clear liquid back. The discomfort soon settled on his tongue, his face turning sour and his throat feeling hot and numb.

"Jesus Christ, that's horrible." Enjolras said, but he noticed that as soon as the words came out, he felt a warmness spreading over his body. A warmness similar to the one that he had felt on his knuckles three weeks ago. But he wasn't thinking about that. He definitely wasn't thinking about that.

"Woo!" Bahorel laughed. "Here, have another!"

Enjolras opened his eyes, and found they were just a tad less focused than before he squeezed them shut. There was still the other shot on the table.

Absolutely not. No way. That is a foolish idea, especially when his laptop is waiting for him at home, the page still open on the speech he was writing, an unfinished, interrupted sentence needing to be concluded, and his head already hurt and his hands were already shaky with anticipation and-

"Yeah, okay. Fuck it." Enjolras croaked, the burning in his throat taking its time before settling into his stomach. He had the second shot.

That was two hours ago, and in that time, Enjolras had consumed the following.

Three sips of a ginger and cinnamon cocktail-thing (Combeferre had told him the name of it, but he had forgotten. Or maybe he wasn't listening. Or maybe Combeferre hadn't told him, he didn't know anymore); two shots of vodka, back-to-back, courtesy of Bahorel; a sip of Combeferre's - disgusting - honey mead; another shot of vodka; half an apple cider that Cosette didn't want anymore; and two more shots of vodka. And then one more.

Understandably, Enjolras’ head was spinning. His ears were ringing, his skin was buzzing, yet still, all he could focus on were his knuckles. It felt as if a group of tiny bugs were burrowed beneath the skin there, crawling around and making a home. And even if his headache was close to splitting, and his stomach felt heavy, he continued to let Bahorel and Courfeyrac feed him shots of vodka. He just wanted to feel warm all over his body. He wanted someone to make him feel warm again.

And, because the universe is a non-subtle bastard, a familiar figure appeared in front of him. Like clockwork.

"Jehan, 'Ferre, how are my favourite boys doing on this fine evening?" Grantaire's voice boomed around the three men sitting at the back of the bar.

"Grantaire!" Jehan called, rising from their seat and throwing their arms around Grantaire, who placed his hands on the small of their back. Enjolras looked away.

"What are you drinking, handsome?" Jehan asked with a smile as they pulled away from Grantaire, hands still on either side of Grantaire's shoulders. "I'll get you a refill."

Grantaire shrugged.

"Nah, just the one beer for me tonight. Can't stay too long, early morning tomorrow. Gotta go help Éponine get some of her shit out of her parent's place and into Bahorel's."

"You mean that Éponine?" Jehan giggled, pointing to their dear friend, who was drunkenly draped over Courfeyrac's lap and lip-syncing along to some R'n'B hit that was playing, whilst Courfeyrac mimed throwing cash at her.

"Yeah. That'll be fun to deal with in the morning." Grantaire said sarcastically, even though he was looking at Éponine with such admiration.

"Awe," Jehan whined, drunken and dramatic. "Well, I'm glad you're here now. It's so, so good to see you!"

"Jehan, I live with you."

"So? It's still good to see you!"

"It's good to see you too." Grantaire said humorously. He turned to the rest of the men at the spot in the back, and smirked when his eyes finally landed on Enjolras.

"And you, Apollo. Didn't expect to see you here." Grantaire nodded towards him, raising his can of beer to his lips, slowly. Enjolras furrowed his brow.

"And why wouldn't I be?" Enjolras crossed his arms, pouting. His eyes wouldn't focus correctly on any one thing, so his attempt at a threatening glare at Grantaire was more of a squinty-eyed glance in his general direction. Grantaire narrowed his eyes at this, a confused grin on his face as he tilted his head.

"You feeling okay?"

"Yeah, I'm feeling great, actually." Enjolras spat defensively, though he couldn't remember why. Maybe it was just a reflex. He could feel his own words slurring.

Grantaire's narrowed eyes opened, his smile turning into an amused gape.

"Have you been- Are you drunk, Enjolras?!"

"No." Enjolras lied.

"Oh my God, you're fucking drunk." Grantaire said slowly and accusatorily.

"I've only had, like, a few of those little ones."

"Six." Combeferre confirmed.

"You've had six shots?" Grantaire asked incredulously.

"They're only small!" Enjolras bargained.

Grantaire scoffed light-heartedly, ostensibly entertained. He was giving Enjolras a look that he couldn't quite name, one like the look he gives Éponine or Jehan when they do something stupid. Enjolras didn't know whether or not to take offence to this.

"I think they'd better cut you off." Grantaire teased.

"Very funny." Enjolras replied sarcastically.

"Do you want another one?" Grantaire asked, his amused smile morphed into a devilish smirk.

Enjolras' blurred eyes closed to squint at Grantaire, as if to say what fucking part of me looks like I need another drink right now, but for some reason unbeknownst to himself,possibly due to the craving of that warmth in his gut that the alcohol was providing, he simply smiled a drunken, mindless smile and said,

"Maybe."

An hour or two, two shots of vodka and a sip of Grantaire's "absolutely foul" beer later, Enjolras had found himself at the back of the bar once again, but this time he had only Grantaire for company. A bowl of peanuts sat on the table between them, alongside two glasses of water and an unclaimed sweater, though Enjolras couldn't remember when any of the above had gotten there. Combeferre was missing in action (and coincidentally, so was Courfeyrac), Joly and Bossuet had gone home, Jehan was outside smoking a cigarette and no doubt trying to come up with good reasons for Bahorel to give them their phone back, and Cosette and Éponine were having a shit-talking session in the corner.

And so that left Enjolras in the company of one sober and coherent Grantaire, unsupervised in a booth seat at the end of some heated debate. The debate, even though not anything related to politics or revolution, was of course won by Enjolras.

“Alright, alright. I admit defeat.” Grantaire said jokingly. “You’re right, I’m wrong.”

“You don’t even believe that. You just want me to shut up.” Enjolras sulked, words slurring. Grantaire laughed.

“As if I could ever shut you up.” Grantaire said, to which Enjolras rolled his eyes and folded his arms.

There was silence for a few moments, but it was not uncomfortable, at least on Enjolras' part. It felt warm. He felt warm, here, like this. He made a mental note to thank Combeferre for dragging him out with him.

"Enjolras?" Grantaire asked, breaking the silence after a few moments. He was not looking at Enjolras directly anymore, he seemed to be more interested in the way the water swirled around in his glass.

"What?" Enjolras replied, hearing the faux crankiness in his tone. When Grantaire didn't reply straight away, he turned to face him, an eyebrow raised.
Grantaire met his gaze, his eyes flickering from one of Enjolras' eyes to the other.

"Are you okay?"

The question threw Enjolras off for a second, earning a frown and a twitch of his neck. He was not expecting this question.

"I'm- Yes?" He tried.

"Apollo." Grantaire droned with a disbelieving look.

"What?" Enjolras asked, maybe a little too defensively.

"Are you sure?"

Enjolras took a deep breath.

See, the worst part of this question was that for some reason, Enjolras wasn't sure. He had had a good night, that was for sure, but he knew that once the buzz wore off, when he wakes up tomorrow with his head feeling tight and his stomach feeling like hot lava, when he has to revert back to his neurotic, uptight self, he would go back to feeling like he was in some kind of cruel limbo that he couldn't make his way out of. The thoughts of how his body was betraying him, of longing and craving and wishing to be someone else would return, and he would feel icy cold once again. He couldn't say that, though, now could he?

"Didn't I tell you to stop calling me that?" He said instead.

"Since when have I ever done anything you've told me to do?" Grantaire asked jokingly, though his look revealed a sincere concern. He was staring into Enjolras’ eyes as he so often did, silver blue meeting earthy hazel, and for a moment Enjolras was afraid that Grantaire could see right through him. He wouldn’t be surprised if Grantaire was capable of such a thing.

Grantaire eventually turned away, and bowed his head a moment, before saying,

"Look, I just wanted to say that I'm sorry."

Enjolras' eyes squinted in confusion, so sure he misheard him.

"You're sorry?"

"For once." Grantaire gave a weak laugh as he shrugged.

"For what?" Enjolras asked, shaking his head.

"For the whole- You know, the bottle thing."

Oh yeah! That thing! We’re bringing that thing up! Perfect!

Enjolras felt a drop in his stomach, suddenly all too aware of how close Grantaire was sitting next to him in that moment, as well as the feeling of skin against his knuckles, and glass shards flying at his feet and the hairs on his body sticking up in defence, and-

"Oh." Enjolras turned away. "Yeah, it's- It's fine."

"Yeah?" Grantaire asked.

"Grantaire." Enjolras warned. Please, God, don't press it.

"Okay, okay. Just know that I am. Sorry, I mean."

"Are you feeling okay?" Enjolras asked, a perplexed expression on his face.

"What do you mean?" Grantaire looked at him, just as perplexed as Enjolras looked.

"Well, you're apologising for something."

"Is that so unheard of?" Grantaire asked, taking a handful of peanuts from the little dish on the table.

"Yes." Enjolras scoffed after a beat.

"Okay. Well, whatever, I meant it."

"Well, I forgive you then." Enjolras added, though it came out a lot more rushed than he had intended. And a lot more hammered.

And then, Grantaire was giving him that look again. The soft smile hidden by his stubborn demeanour, a pensive look in his eyes, his eyebrows raised ever so slightly in a disbelieving fashion. Enjolras couldn't understand what it meant. He was also too drunk to care too much.

Grantaire cleared his throat and his face reverted to the usual, cheeky, carelessness that Enjolras was so used to. He threw a peanut up into the air and caught it in his mouth.

Enjolras looked away.

“So, what were you tirelessly working on earlier?’ Grantaire asked, though it didn’t really sound like he cared what the answer would be.

"Hm? Oh, just the- The speech for the, uhm, that thing on Monday."

"The... protest?" Grantaire raised an eyebrow, seemingly having no trouble keeping himself entertained by the sight of the clear-spoken Enjolras, now stumbling over his words.

"No. Not the protest, the-." Enjolras said. "The meeting."

"We have a meeting on Monday?" Grantaire asked. Enjolras knew that Grantaire knew what he was talking about, but Enjolras also knew that there was only one thing Grantaire loved more than pissing off Enjolras, and that would be pissing off drunk Enjolras.

"No, idiot, the council meeting."

"Can I come?"

"Absolutely not."

"Ah, I see." Grantaire smirked. "You're just scared I'd do such a good job and I'd replace you as the leader of the ABC."

"I'm not- Shut up!" Enjolras defended. "Anyways, it’s just some meeting regarding the protest and blah blah blah, bunch of boring stuff. Barely thinking about it."

"So, what's gotten you so riled up these last few weeks then?"

Enjolras frowned once again, fixing Grantaire with a stern look. Grantaire’s eyes were testing, giving the illusion that he knew the answer, and it made Enjolras feel uneasy. He ignored the way his stomach seemed to churn at the question, he could blame that on the alcohol and the lack of food. What he couldn't blame the alcohol for was the way his heart began to clammer rapidly in his chest.

"What? I'm not-"

"Because I bet I know."

Enjolras' eyes widened as he watched Grantaire smirk, and lean in closer.

"I bet you're scared because deep, deep down, you know I'm right about the permit." Grantaire concluded with an innocent smile, only inches from Enjolras’ ear. Luckily Grantaire’s statement was so wrong it was funny, because the scoff Enjolras let out was more than enough to hide the way he all of a sudden needed to clear his throat.

"Yeah, right.” Enjolras said. “Whatever you want to tell yourself."

Grantaire laughed, lightly.

"I see someone's feeling optimistic."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"I just mean-" Grantaire began, then shrugged. "You know me. I think that holding these marches, protests, whatever you're calling them, it's never a good idea. But you're drawing attention to women's rights movement here? In this city?" He chuckled mockingly and shook his head as he looked down. "You're digging yourself a grave."

Enjolras frowned. "I disagree-"

"Of course you do." Grantaire muttered under his breath.

"-We're trying to stir the people to vote for change. The fact that this town is so conservative shouldn’t put us off. That should be exactly the reason we do things like this. Who cares if we make some rich, old, white dudes angry? Behind every one of them is a wife, or sister, or daughter, and we need to reach them."

Grantaire scoffed helplessly.

"Yeah, well, those rich, old, white dudes are dangerous, and holding a 'peaceful protest' for women only months away from an election is putting them all at risk. Women are nothing but objects to these men. Prey."

"Well, obviously. That's why we need people to hear us. That's why the protest has to be big. If they can't make a voice for themselves then we need to stand up and let them speak through us." Enjolras said. Even wasted, he sounded as if he were reading from a script.

"But you know it will get violent, right?" Grantaire said as he leaned closer, his body now facing him and his eyes staring deep into Enjolras'. "You have to know that there is no way this protest will stay peaceful. Men are horrible. Especially the ones you're attracting."

Enjolras almost missed the way Grantaire's body tensed, glancing off to the wall beside him and taking a small but shuddering breath. If he was more drunk, he'd have missed it. If he was less drunk, he'd have paid it no mind, the slip in Grantaire's disguise.

"You can call it a peaceful protest all you want, what you're leading is a riot." Grantaire finished.

"What do you suggest then? Sit around and do nothing?" Enjolras said, beginning to grow frustrated. He could see how this conversation would end. The same way it always did.

"That is exactly what I suggest." Grantaire nodded.

"Well, that's easy for you to fucking say, you're not a woman. You will never know the extent of the violence they face. You will never feel the fear that they feel."

"You don't know anything." Grantaire shook his head with a warning tone.

"I know it's dangerous for you to be sitting so comfortably in your privilege."

"You're the most privileged fucking white boy I've ever met, Enjolras!"

"Exactly! I am privileged and I have a voice and there's something I can do for the-"

"There's nothing you can do!" Grantaire snapped.

The way the words slipped from his mouth, frantic, more rigid than his typical sarcastic tone, made Enjolras feel the need to back off for once. Grantaire was sporting a pained expression across his face, it was masked by all that smugness, sure, but Enjolras could see it.

Enjolras shook his head, his eyebrows raised in a soft concern.

"Why don't you have any hope?" He asked Grantaire, his voice hushed. Grantaire resigned slightly, his tensed shoulders loosening. His face fell a sad mixture of fear and acceptance.

"How am I supposed to, Enjolras? Look around."

Enjolras did not look around. Instead, he remained staring directly into Grantaire's eyes, investigating the defeatist demeanour that was somehow still so new to him. It wasn't until Grantaire gave him a soft smile, an almost friendly roll of his eyes, that Enjolras let himself turn away. He reached over the table to take a handful of peanuts, in search of something to do and an excuse not to look at Grantaire so close beside him. Grantaire's silence was excruciating. The cynic always managed to fill the room with his booming voice and his crude jokes and his carefree demeanour, but right now it appeared as if he was just the shell of who he usually was. Enjolras wondered if Grantaire was just as scared of the future as he was. He wondered how Grantaire could just sit back and do nothing, if that were the case.

"Do you want to know why I hate my father?" Enjolras blurted in a typical drunken fashion, earning a subtle laugh from Grantaire.

"Jesus, Apollo, at least take me out to dinner first." Grantaire teased, a bit of his usual personality coming back. Enjolras ignored the obvious attempt at changing the tone of the conversation and continued without an answer.

"You know my parents don't stand for the same morals and values that I do, right, they're politicians. They're assholes. They have no morals." Grantaire nodded. Enjolras sighed. "Right after we started the ABC, they wanted nothing to do with me. Threw me out, cut me off. Haven’t seen them in years." He sighed. "Whatever, anyways, in our first year as a proper group, we threw this protest in support of LGBT plus youth, so, already a touchy subject. And it was one of our first protests that really went to shit. I wasn't even supposed to be anywhere near the crowd. I was only there to speak, you know, stay out of the way.

“But I saw Courfeyrac being dragged away to a police car, and-“ Enjolras trailed off, shaking his head at the memory. “And I just panicked. And I wasn't thinking, because I never am, and I went after them. But I was stopped by some police officer, and he grabbed me by the wrist to shove me out of the way, and I just lost it. I was- I was yelling and angry and uncomfortable and I felt like my skin was fucking crawling so I just-" Enjolras cringed at the memory. "I punched him so hard in the jaw that I knocked him out."

Grantaire's face was that of shock, yet it was mixed with that unseriousness that he carried in his smile, a man entertained. Enjolras chose to ignore it.

"So then I was handcuffed, thrown in the back of a cop car, I'm shouting at them, I didn't know where 'Ferre was, I'd seen Marius' being thrown around by police too and I was just so, so angry.” Enjolras said, before he quickly softened. “And then, when I got to the station, they just let me go."

"They let you go?"

"And do you want to know why?" Enjolras asked, though it was evident that it wasn't really a question made for an answer. "My fucking father."

Grantaire tilted his head, confused. Enjolras didn't even notice, just returned to his intoxicated babble, whilst dramatically gesticulating.

"He's this big, important politician, he makes all of these anonymous donations to the board of education, and the department of justice and he's just so precious in the government sector. So when they see the name Enjolras on an arrest report, they turn a blind eye."

"And that's a... bad thing?" Grantaire asked, almost hesitant to assume.

"Yes!" Enjolras said, maybe a bit too loud. "I did a bad thing, Grantaire! I could've killed the guy for fuck’s sake, but no! No consequences for me! Can you imagine if I was actually an evil person? I could use that to my advantage so easily. I could get away with whatever I wanted to. And it happens all the time! I mean, that is the point of the whole fucking protest! Those useless politicians sitting behind their fancy titles and their money and-" Enjolras stopped to breathe, red in the face and uncollected. He shut his eyes for a moment, before turning to give Grantaire that vicious stare he did whenever he wanted to win an argument. "They let those men get away with torturing that woman for months, and now she's dead. And they killed her. So, if you want to sit around and watch the world burn, go ahead, but I can't. I won't."

Enjolras took a deep, heavy breath after his award-winning monologue, and eventually found that Grantaire's gaze was once again attentive, not mocking like it usually would be in these instances. Grantaire smirked, flicking his eyes down Enjolras' face for the briefest of moments before looking back up to his eye. He all but whispered,

"I'll be there. You know I always am."

In that moment, Enjolras felt as if he was getting drunker. Something about the way Grantaire was acting tonight made him feel like there was a the lack of oxygen in his brain from the way his chest was rising and falling at a quickened pace, and he could feel the pout growing on his face as he frowned and looked away. He was smitten with embarrassment when he heard Grantaire chuckling beside him.

"Did you rile yourself up too much again?" Grantaire asked with a wide smile. Enjolras took a second to wonder if Grantaire's smile always looked like this, or if he was smiling genuinely today. He didn't know which answer he preferred.

"Shut up." Enjolras muttered, ignoring the rest of Grantaire's taunting laughs.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Grantaire said, still smiling but mostly contained. "Tell me more about your asshole father."

Enjolras sighed.

"I don't know, I'm just mad. I'm always just- Just so mad. Like, how is it that my father can cut me off and not speak to me once in four years, yet he's still responsible for-" Enjolras said, and then groaned. "This is why I want legal permission to have the protest. I don't want to be seen as some little white boy who isn't scared to cause trouble because daddy will bail me out."

"For the record, I don't see you like that." Grantaire said.

Grantaire seemed to be listening carefully, and Enjolras remembered then the fact that Grantaire had only had one drink. He wasn’t drunk. He quickly realised that this was probably the closest to sober that he had ever seen Grantaire. And how fitting it was that he himself was fucking wasted.

"I know you don't." Enjolras gave a frustrated huff. "But I mean, others. You know, people that actually matter."

And as soon as the words escaped his stupid, stupid mouth, Enjolras had realised his mistake. He watched the way in which Grantaire recoiled, trying to hide the obvious stab to the gut with one of those careless smirks and the removal of eye contact, but Enjolras could see the hurt his words caused.

"No, I didn't mean that in-" Enjolras began, a hand over his mouth and his eyes wide in remorse.

"I know you didn't." Grantaire cut him off, smiling.

"I meant it like-"

"I know what you meant." Grantaire laughed, nothing in his expression unkind. Enjolras felt a pang of guilt racking through his body, but he slowly let himself resign.

He fiddled with the peanuts still in his palm and leant back against the wall behind him with a sulk, to show Grantaire that he wasn't happy about giving up his apology. Grantaire followed suit, bring his knees to his chest and turning his head to the ceiling as he found his place against the wall. He sighed.

"And besides, you're not wrong." Grantaire said.

"What?" Enjolras turned his head to look at Grantaire.

"I don't matter. Not really." Grantaire mumbled. "Not to your cause, or to- To anything."

"What?" Enjolras asked again, though this time he was just as mad as confused. He watched Grantaire as he only offered a shrug, a playful grin on his face as if he hadn't just said one of the most heartbreaking things Enjolras had ever heard him say.

"Don't say that." Enjolras told him. "Take it back."

Grantaire rolled his eyes, which Enjolras found incredibly frustrating and unsettling. And if he was being honest, he wasn't really thinking much through this night. He'd had a lot of alcohol, eight shots of vodka worth plus more, to be precise, so he cannot truly be blamed for the events that unfolded next. An act of abuse that he would never have dreamed he would ever inflict upon another.

"Did you just throw a fucking peanut at me?" Grantaire asked after a beat, his face reading disbelief and maybe even a hint of amusement.

"I said take it back." Enjolras spat, a malicious scowl on his face.

"What?"

"You do matter, and you know it. So say it."

"What? No-"

Enjolras threw another peanut, his scowl not faltering despite Grantaire's slowly shifting expression. It hit Grantaire just above his jawbone.

"Bro, what the fuck?" Grantaire laughed, less at the humour of the situation and more at the ridiculousness of it.

"You heard me." Enjolras snapped.

"Oh my God, what the hell is wrong with you-"

Grantaire was unfortunately cut off by a peanut to the shoulder.

"Ow, dude!"

"I'm so serious right now." Enjolras asked with a solemn kind of anger.

"Stop it." Grantaire warned, so unconvincingly. Enjolras threw another.

"Right." Grantaire snapped, taking an entire handful of peanuts.

It should have been fucking humiliating, really. Here were two mostly grown men, both of whom lived independently. They both had jobs, they both were relatively well respected in their fields and amongst their friends, and they both knew how to behave in public. Usually. Yet here they were, resulting to the pettiest form of violence one could manage whilst shouting at each other. What was even more ridiculous was the fact that Enjolras was actually shouting nice things at Grantaire. Looking back, Enjolras blames Combeferre for leaving them unsupervised together.

Enjolras was too drunk to remember at exactly which point it was that his attempt at being commanding had failed, as now he was just trying not laugh and to remain in his angered appearance, still yelling for Grantaire to stop being a fuckhead. But Grantaire had that smile on his face and his eyes were small from raised cheeks and his laugh sounded like pure gold in Enjolras' ears and he was so, so drunk that he couldn't even bring himself to find a reason to be mad with Grantaire. He almost didn't want to do their typical back and forth right now, he just wanted to see Grantaire laughing, like this.

A woman's voice distracted his thoughts.

"Oi! You two!" The unfamiliar voice called out to them.

The two men turned their heads in synchronicity, Enjolras' hand frozen in the air from where it was raised to send the whole plastic dish Grantaire's way, Grantaire frozen in place as he was attempting to shield himself. The voice belonged to the security guard, the one who had let them in earlier in the night, and she was making her way over to them from where she stood at the bar.
With wide eyes, Grantaire turned to face Enjolras and said,

"Make a run for it?"

"Works for me." Enjolras nodded, and the two culprits exited the bar as quickly as the night had become the early morning.

Enjolras wasn't entirely sure if they had been followed out of the Corinthe or not, though he could distantly hear the woman shouting over the absolutely-too-loud music. Closer than that, he could hear Grantaire's maniacal laughing, and his footsteps beating against the cobblestone street beneath them. Whenever they felt that they were far enough away from the threat of trouble, which was what felt like miles and miles but was realistically only a block or two away, they stopped running. Enjolras' heart was still racing, and when he realised how much his legs felt like jelly, he collapsed suddenly atop a bank of grass on the side of the street. He'd realised by then that they'd managed to reach the park, and he laughed to himself as he watched Grantaire lethargically take a seat next to him.

Enjolras felt himself drifting. He knew what he must have looked like, all mussed curls and boozy grins, shirt unbuttoned and eyes unfocused. He let himself stay like that, ungrounded and messy, for a moment more, before he pulled on the mask.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Enjolras asked, as he pulled himself into a sitting position, frowning as usual.

"What's wrong with me?" Grantaire smiled in shock, pointing to himself as he asked. "That was entirely your fault!"

"You started it!" Enjolras shouted.

"I fucking did not!"

"Yes, you did, by being an idiot." Enjolras said.

Grantaire was watching him closely, still giving him that look of disbelief meets amusement, but it was fonder than Enjolras was used to seeing. Or maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was the same look he'd been receiving from the cynic for years, that one that made him feel so frustrated, so at a loss for coherent words. Grantaire had a funny way of doing that, lighting fires in Enjolras' mind until they were roaring and out of control, and then effortlessly blowing them all out with one swift move. Enjolras wanted to feel that burn.

"Enjolras?" Grantaire asked, snapping his fingers in front of Enjolras' face.

"Hm?" Enjolras shook himself back into the moment, attempting to ground himself. "What?"

"You zoned out for a minute there." Grantaire smiled. "Where'd you go?"

"Oh, I'm here. Hello."

Grantaire's smile only grew wider, and Enjolras only felt warmer.

"Hello." Grantaire teased.

It was entirely too late in the night, Enjolras was cold, his stomach felt like static, and he could hardly force himself to remain upright, so he didn't. He let himself fall back onto the dewy grass beneath him and let his gaze wash over the empty sky. It was a clear night, yet only five or six bright stars were in his view.

"Where the fuck are all the stars?" He asked, grumpily. He could hear Grantaire following suit and resting himself on the grass beside Enjolras, maybe a meter of distance between the two of them.

"That's light pollution for ya." Grantaire joked.

"That's so fucked up."

Grantaire chuckled. "There's still a few up there."

"One, two, three," Enjolras began, “four, five. There’s five.”

"What fucking sky are you looking at?" Grantaire asked.

"That one?"

"Okay, Apollo, I think it's time we get you home." He chuckled.

"No." Enjolras said.

"Why not?" Grantaire smiled at him quizzically. “You sound like you need some sleep.”

"Let me sleep here." Enjolras said as he felt himself sink further into the grass, still watching the empty sky. The closer he looked, the more he could make out smaller, duller stars, drowned out by the brighter ones.

"God, I thought I was a difficult drunk." Grantaire huffed.

"Oh, you are." Enjolras replied.

"Come on." Grantaire droned out, rising to his feet and now looming above Enjolras, blocking the view of the night. "Don't make me drag you."

And without quite thinking about it, Enjolras let his eyes fall closed, and said,

"Go on then."

With his eyes closed comfortably, Enjolras didn't see the way Grantaire's cheeky grin fell, the way his eyebrows brought themselves together. He didn't see the man above him scanning his face for any hint of bluff. He didn’t see Grantaire shake his head.

"What- What was that?"

"You heard me." Enjolras said blankly, opening his eyes, locking his gaze with Grantaire's. The man above him stared down on him and tried to hide his confusion with a nervous smirk and a cautious laugh instead.

"I- Hah. I don't think you want that."

But Enjolras didn't reply. He simply raised himself from where he was lying on the grass, the faintest patch of dew settling on the back of his shirt. He took a few seconds, waiting for the world around him to stop spinning so much, and pulled himself to his feet. And stood in front of a bewildered Grantaire, he offered his hand.

"Enjolras." Grantaire warned, uncertain about whether or not Enjolras was too drunk to remember a certain life-altering fact about himself.

Enjolras held a focused look on his face, not daring to allow Grantaire to see how badly he wanted to feel the latter's hands on his knuckles once again. He kept himself composed, regardless of how loudly his chest was banging. And just before Enjolras had the opportunity to change his mind - not that he had wanted to, but rather that he felt that he should- Grantaire slowly, slowly, held his hand in front of himself and hesitantly moved closer to the blonde. And after an eternity, Grantaire's fingers softly attached themselves to Enjolras' cold, unsteady hand.

Enjolras took a deep breath, feeling himself floating away from the rest of the world. All that was racing in his mind was how his knuckles felt. How they were burning, the contrast of the chill in the air meeting Grantaire's warm skin sent a shiver down his spine. Instinctively, he thought to pull away, and he almost did, until he wondered what would happen if he just let it be. If he allowed himself to adjust to the sensation, would it become bearable?

Grantaire was watching him with a settled sort of fear, of unnerving wait, as if he were expecting Enjolras to retract his hand, to yell at him and send him on his way. But Enjolras didn't do any of that, and so Grantaire started walking, dragging Enjolras along with him through the silent streets of the early morning. And Enjolras let him. He let Grantaire navigate the streets, streets that Enjolras usually knew like the back of his hand, now repetitious and unfamiliar to him in his inebriated state. He let Grantaire babble as he so often did to fill any weird silence, not paying attention to what Grantaire was saying. He let Grantaire walk him home, side by side, hands clasped softly as they made their way down a somewhat recognisable alleyway and through the gates of Enjolras' apartment complex, where the stairs loomed intimidatingly. He just let him.

When they'd managed the short flight up to Enjolras' level and found the door belonging to his apartment, Grantaire dropped his grip on Enjolras' hand. Enjolras did not feel disappointed. He did not.

He doesn't quite remember how he got into bed that night, barely remembers Grantaire searching his porch for the spare key, after Enjolras had proved to be absolutely no help at all. He doesn't quite remember the last few moments that led to his head hitting his pillow, and as soon as he got into his bed, he felt his eyelids growing heavier and heavier. How the fuck did Grantaire drink every day? He'd thought to ask him then why someone would want to feel like this every time they go to sleep, and he'd only shut his eyes for a minute or so, he swears it, but when his eyes peeled themselves open, Grantaire was nowhere to be seen.

He sighed a heavy breath, hearing a commotion in the bathroom directly across the hallways from his bedroom. After a short few minutes, Grantaire had returned, and placed something down loudly on the wooden table at his bedside.

"Sorry." Grantaire's voice sounded through the next-to-silent room. Enjolras' hand felt funny.

"You're still here?" He asked, raising his head from his pillow, and leaning on his elbows as he attempted to turn over to face Grantaire. On the bedside table, there was now a glass of water, and a sheet of some pills that Enjolras had never seen before.

"Yeah, I just got you some water and some," Grantaire began, taking hold of the medicine and examining it, squinting to read the labelling. "Whatever the fuck this is? Found it in Combeferre's room, don't tell him."

"Don't baby me." Enjolras said, pouting, relieving the strain on his weakened muscles as he fell back into the mattress beneath him. The roof above him was spinning, so he closed his eyes.

"I'm not babying you, idiot." Grantaire said in a mocking tone. "I'm taking care of you because you are my friend and God knows you won't do it yourself. And also, Combeferre will yell at me if I don't."

Enjolras let his eyes open back up gradually, and turned his head to face Grantaire, who was preoccupied with the task of popping two pills from the packaging and settling them safely in the middle of the bedside table. His hands wrapped carefully around the glass of water, pushed it slightly further away from the edge of the table, and then resided back to his sides. Enjolras watched them, the way he cracked his knuckles almost instinctively, how they were shaking ever so slightly.

"And you'll be glad these are here in the morning, thank you very much." Grantaire finished, kneeling and balancing in a squatting position, placing one hand on the bed beside Enjolras to steady himself. It drew Enjolras' attention for a fleeting second, before he found Grantaire's eyes again.

"I am?" Enjolras asked, just above a whisper.

"You are what?" Grantaire asked.

"Your friend?"

"Well, yeah." Grantaire replied, as if it were obvious.

Enjolras' pouty expression softened, and he gave Grantaire a look of surprise, maybe a little more on the side of reassured than sober-Enjolras would have gone for. It made Grantaire frown, but not unkindly.

"Don't give me that look." Grantaire said.

So Enjolras looked away, set once again in his grumpy expression. Out of his peripheral, he could see Grantaire watching him, studying his face with a concerned appearance on his own. Enjolras felt vulnerable, but he found that he didn't mind it.

"Grantaire?" Enjolras asked.

"Yeah?"

Enjolras sighed and rolled onto his side, facing Grantaire fully, wrapped up in a tangle of blankets.

"Do you genuinely think that the protest is a bad idea?" He asked Grantaire, unsure of if he wanted to know the answer. Unsure of why Grantaire's answer mattered so much. Grantaire gave a sort of sympathetic grimace, adjusting himself so that he was sitting more comfortably on the ground beside Enjolras' bed.

"Yeah, I do." Grantaire replied, looking away. "I think that you're putting way too much trust into laws that are way too flimsy, and you're putting yourselves in danger." Grantaire shrugged and ran his hand smoothly through his hair. He watched Enjolras' hopeful expression resign, watched him turn away, before continuing, "But, as stupid of an idea as it is, I think you'll figure it out. You always seem to."

"Bullshit, you don't think that." Enjolras said, eyes feeling heavy.

"I do. Seriously." He spoke. "And who knows, maybe you'll genuinely change some minds. Progress, or whatever."

"I thought you didn't believe in progress." Enjolras mumbled, letting his eyes fall shut for the final time that night.

"Yeah, but," Grantaire began, fiddling with his fingers in his lap. "I believe in you, though. You know that."

It shouldn't have meant anything, really, hearing those words fall from Grantaire's lips. He knew the guy had no faith in the future of the world, he didn't believe that change was possible, but to hear him say that did something to Enjolras’ core. Even if it wasn’t true, to entertain the thought that Grantaire, the most pessimistic of the cynics, had even a sliver of faith in what Enjolras knew he could achieve, well that felt like a win in itself. Enjolras never really understood why Grantaire even bothered showing up. Why would someone spend two and a half years attending meetings about topics they don't believe in, listening to someone they don't even like speak? When he'd asked Combeferre as much, his answer was "they wouldn't."

Enjolras knows that Grantaire doesn't hate him, he figured that out long ago, back when it used to bother him that Grantaire only ever seemed to pick on him. Enjolras had originally thought he'd done something wrong, something to offend Grantaire upon meeting him, but after a while, Enjolras realised that that was just how he and Grantaire worked. And Enjolras soon found that he would take almost anything Grantaire wanted to dish out to him, even if they were just insults or arguments. Grantaire made him feel as if the world wasn't falling from the sky. They were sun and moon, yin and yang, they balanced each other out.

And in his last act of drunken stupidity, Enjolras took a deep breath, and laid out his hand on the bed beside himself, palm facing up.

"Need something?" Grantaire asked.

Enjolras felt all too exposed, so he didn't say anything. His face grew impatient, masking his desperation with frustration, and moved his fingers in a grabby, give it here kind of way. His eyes were still squeezed shut, and the room was practically silent besides the sounds of their breathing and the clock on the wall, ticking away.

And then, there were fingers interlocking, a hand taking hold of his own, and a spark in his skin that drew a shaky exhale out of himself. God, he felt pathetic.

"Grantaire." Enjolras whispered, not daring to open his eyes, though it was mostly because he felt that he couldn't.

"Yeah?" Grantaire said, clearing his throat when it came out hoarse and shaky.

"I was serious, earlier." Enjolras said, just a fraction louder. He gave Grantaire's hand a gentle squeeze, feeling himself lulling closer and closer to sleep.

"About what?" Grantaire whispered, loosening his grip on Enjolras hand. Enjolras only felt the disappointed for a moment, until he felt Grantaire bring his other hand up to cup his knuckles, closing Enjolras' fist beneath his hand and placing the other to rest on top.

"About what I said." Enjolras said, as composed as he could manage. It mustn't have been composed enough though, because he could hear Grantaire huff a short laugh.

"Hm? And what was that?" Grantaire asked, daring to trace slow, small circles on the inside of Enjolras' wrist. He sounded pleased with himself. Asshole.

"You do matter." Enjolras stated.

That was when Grantaire's fingers halted, his hand tensed beneath Enjolras', and he slowly guided them away from the man on the bed. He cleared his throat again and made to stand up.

"Go to sleep, Apollo." Grantaire said.

"Don't tell me what to do." Enjolras replied with a pout.

Enjolras fell asleep.

Chapter Text

Which of the following could we use to best describe our current Monday morning, post-cafe shift Grantaire?

A.) Drunk
B.) Hungover
C.) Thinking about a certain blonde revolutionary
D.) All of the above

Take some time to think over your answer, I'll catch you up to the present.

It was sunny that morning, and Grantaire appreciated it. He loved the sunlight. Most people took him for the typical winter lover, what with the bundles of layered clothing and all the time he spent indoors, though considering he was brought up on the equator, he enjoyed nothing more than to bask in the warmth of the daylight. Summer was slowly fading away with each day, but the sun was forgiving this year, even if every morning was a touch cooler than the last. It didn't get very hot here too often, even in the summer, but the brightness was a nice reminder of home, and he let himself linger in that state of bittersweet nostalgia for maybe a little longer than his heart would have liked.

He was stuck inside today, though, having just finished up an unorthodox shift at the café Musain. It was a quiet morning, relatively, with only a few recognisable customers paying the shop a visit, ordering their coffee or waiting for breakfast, and by the time lunch had rolled by, the café was next to empty, with the only exception being Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Feuilly. The latter of the three men had arrived just as Grantaire was hanging up Musichetta's apron in its place on the rack, and he had ordered three coffees. One black, one with a truly ungodly amount of sugar and cream, and one with an extra shot of espresso. Grantaire realised that he could do with a coffee of his own. He made it Irish.

That was two Irish coffees and a beer ago.

He wasn't quite sure why he'd decided to hang around. It was passed noon now, and the room had become shadowy and dull. There was nothing too inviting about an empty back room, and the endless talks of revolution and picket-signs at the other end of the table were only a few minutes off sending him into a spiral of alcohol abuse. But Courfeyrac had been so excited to see him, what with himself being so distracted as of late with law school and with the protest that Grantaire had actually been keen on hanging around for an hour or so, to catch up with his friend.

Eventually, Courfeyrac had become distracted with the discussion that Grantaire could overhear Combeferre and Feuilly participating in. Some talks of the council, assumingly relevant to the oh-so-important meeting that Enjolras and Bahorel were currently stuck in. He found himself wondering how long it would be until the two found themselves back at the Musain, wondering if they had been successful in their attempt to gain legal permission for the protest. He wondered how Enjolras would take his coffee. He figured it would be an abomination of caffeine and sugar, a disgrace to all coffee lovers everywhere. Probably iced, dark, and undrinkable if you had any respect for your nervous system.

Then again, Grantaire drank his own coffee with a shot of whiskey in it, so who was he to judge?

After he had finished his beer, and ordered a second, he saw a familiar face walking through the door, stomping her way to where he sat at one of the tables closest to the entrance.

"You're here early." Éponine said judgementally, all but throwing herself into the seat across from Grantaire. Her satchel fell mercilessly onto the floor, thudding.

"Hello to you too." Grantaire said in response. He watched as Éponine relaxed into her chair. "Yeah, just finished covering Musichetta's shift."

Éponine frowned in confusion.

"But you don't work here?" She said, phrased like a question.

"What can I say? Owner loves me. Probably because I make better coffees than 'Chetta." Grantaire grinned innocently, crossing his fingers around the base of the newer bottle of beer.

"No, she loves you because you spend enough money at the bar to keep the whole shop open." Éponine said, nodding towards the two empty beer bottles on the table ahead of him. Éponine was not one to judge Grantaire's drinking habits, she was hardly any better herself, but Grantaire was all too aware of the way his friend was always observant of his total daily tally.

"Precisely. No one knows their way around the bar better than me." Grantaire said with a cheesy smile.

"Feuilly busy?" Éponine asked, her arms crossing over her body.

"Over there." Grantaire said, nodding to the table three spaces away that held Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Feuilly.

"Ah, I see." Éponine nodded in understanding. "Cool kids club. Invite only."

Grantaire rolled his eyes.

"Well, what are you doing now?" Éponine asked suddenly, sitting up straighter in her chair and tapping her fingers on the space of the table between them.

"Sitting here, drinking, talking to you." Grantaire listed off. Éponine smacked his hand playfully.

"I mean after you sit and drink and talk to me. I need to do something, my parents are driving me crazy, and I don't even live there anymore." She groaned, appearing a little dismissive but antsy all the same. "And I haven't seen you in ages."

"I saw you yesterday."

"Ages!" She reinforced. Grantaire chuckled. "Also,"

Éponine narrowed her gaze toward Grantaire, enough to make him feel nervous.

"You never ended up telling me where you disappeared to on Saturday night, mister!"

Right.

Grantaire hadn't told her about the happenings of leading a drunk Enjolras home that night, mostly because he didn't want to think about it any more than he already had. Which was a lot. Enjolras had been as drunk as Grantaire had ever seen him, and to think about the fact that he had placed a hand in his felt like he had stepped over some weird kind of line that he could never uncross.

But that is exactly what he had done, hadn't he? Even if Enjolras was the instigator of said line crossing, that didn’t make it feel less invasive. Had he taken advantage of a drunk friend? Why did that sentence sound so horrible? All he had done was hold his hand a few times. It's not like Grantaire had acted on his stupid, half-lifelong crush and kissed the poor guy. Not that Grantaire would've objected if Enjolras had tried that instead, because God, he was so far gone that he wouldn't have even cared if it had ruined their friendship. If you could call it that.

Stop. Stop. Back to Éponine.

"Well, you're never going to fucking believe this, but I was with Enjolras."

Éponine’s jaw hit the floor faster than Grantaire would've liked.

"You little whore!" She spoke.

"No, God, it wasn't like that. Jesus." He huffed. "He got fucking wasted so I walked him home."

"You walked him home." Éponine repeated, wiggling her eyebrows tauntingly.

Grantaire thought to tell her that it was a joke, to shift the tone of the conversation, but he was lucky to find that he didn't have to. The phone in Éponine's bomber jacket pocket began to ring loudly, cutting Grantaire off from saying anything and startling them both. Éponine groaned dramatically as she pulled her phone out and checked the caller I.D. She scowled.

"Oh, for fuck's sake." She muttered, before putting on her delightful customer-service voice and answering the phone. "Hello, Éponine speaking."

Grantaire watched his friend chatting away to whoever was on the other side of the phone. He admired her as she mindlessly fiddled with a long strand of hair that almost blocked her view, and noted just how pretty she looked in the cooled lighting of the afternoon. He spent a minute or so studying her, trying to work out which medium he would use to capture her beauty on a canvas. Charcoal? Or maybe oil paints. He'd have to figure that out later.

Eventually, she ended the call and placed her phone face down against the table, along with her forehead.

"Fucking Gavroche, man." She said, voice muffled by the table.

"What's he done this time?" Grantaire laughed, relieved for the change of subject.

"God knows, but I'm about to find out." She replied, slowly creeping out of her spot and snatching her phone away. "I have to go get him from the school. My parents aren't answering their phones."

"Go on then, go save your little rat of a brother." Grantaire teased with a light-hearted smile. He received a sigh in return.

"I'll see you later, yeah?" She asked, eyebrow raised.

"Yeah." Grantaire replied.

Éponine made her way across the short space between them to give Grantaire a quick and tight squeeze, placing a rushed kiss atop his messy head as she did. She muttered a quick goodbye in his ear and made her way to the staircase. Grantaire was often in awe of his best friend, always watching her closely as if to ensure she was really there. Heaven knows how he managed to deserve someone like her in his life. He didn't really feel like he had ever earned a kind of love from someone as lovely and strong and caring and independent as Éponine. He watched her leave, missing the company already, her dark strands of hair sticking out in complete disorder and bouncing as she stomped towards to stairs.

Which is when he saw it.

"Whoa, what happened to you?" Éponine asked the man coming up the stairs from the bottom room.

"Shut up." Enjolras barked at her, his voice raspy and cruel.

Enjolras and Bahorel made themselves visible to the room, with all eyes now turned towards them. Grantaire's eyes widened at the sight of them, more specifically Enjolras, who's lip was split down the middle, threatening to spill blood. He had a bruise beginning to appear on the left side of his face, the red of his cheeks contrasting against the half-clotted gash lining the left side of his jaw, just below his ear, and dried blood on his skin and in his hair. Bahorel didn't look as bad, Grantaire noted his bruised and cracked knuckles and his arms covered in scratches, but it was Enjolras that looked rather concerning. He looked like shit.

He was still the most beautiful person Grantaire had ever seen.

"Someone's moody. Do you need a hug." Éponine teased broodingly, pretending to get close to Enjolras with her arms open in anticipation.

"Get away from me or I tell Marius you're in love with him." Enjolras snapped monotonously, very clearly not fucking around.

"Jesus." Éponine laughed. "Combeferre, deal with him, would ya?"

She held up a finger gun towards Combeferre, before turning on the spot and disappearing down the staircase. For an excruciating few seconds, the room was silent. Bahorel walked into the room, limping ever so slightly, with Enjolras following a good few feet behind him.

"What in the hell happened?" Combeferre asked finally, grimacing at the state of the two men.

"Our permit got accepted." Enjolras said blankly without missing a beat, throwing his jacket down onto the table beside Grantaire's and beginning to pace.

"Fuck yeah it did!" Bahorel laughed.

"The permit- No, Enjolras, I'm talking about-" Combeferre said, gesturing at the two clearly injured men in front of him.

"What does it look like, Combeferre?" Enjolras snapped again, stopping in his tracks and balling his hands into weak fists at his sides.

"Like you got punched in the face." Courfeyrac said daringly from across the table.

"Bravo, genius, a kindergartener could have figured that one out!" Enjolras shouted as he faced Courfeyrac. Grantaire was surprised there wasn't steam coming from his ears.

"Enjolras." Combeferre said, watching him retreat to the table where his jacket was now strewn.

"What!?" He yelled.

"Just, take a breath. It's all good." Combeferre said, taking a brave step towards Enjolras, his hands out in front of him as if he were trying to coax a timid animal out of a hiding place.

"Don't!" Enjolras shouted sharply as he jolted, stumbling backwards into the table behind him. "Don't touch me." He warned.

"I won't. I wouldn't." Combeferre shook his head, immediately dropping his hands to his sides and ensuring to keep his voice calmed.

Grantaire felt like he was witnessing something he shouldn't. Enjolras seemed so vulnerable like this, so human and breakable. It almost made him feel claustrophobic just watching Enjolras be so desperate for space. Everyone else fell silent, watching the moment unfold before them. Courfeyrac looked unphased, as if this was nothing new to him. Feuilly looked somewhat concerned, but Grantaire figured that had more to do with the thick blood on the side of his neck.

Combeferre looked focused.

"How are you feeling? Pain wise?" Combeferre asked, taking the smallest step forward, barely a shuffle.

"Fine." Enjolras replied, straining to sound composed, but his body language was giving him away. He had his trademark frown across his face, breathing heavily through flared nostrils. The look he was giving Combeferre appeared to be some kind of warning glare, but Grantaire could see that Combeferre wasn't having it. Grantaire always found it rather unsettling, the way these two could have entire conversations, could read each other perfectly, just by using their facial expressions.

Eventually, Enjolras huffed a very displeased groan, and opened his eyes dramatically wide, and on cue Combeferre pulled out his phone’s flashlight and studied Enjolras pupils. He seemed to be happy with the look of them after a few moments. Grantaire watched the way Enjolras blinked repeatedly after the light had been removed, adjusting to the regular light of the room. He looked even more angry than before.

Still beautiful, Grantaire thought again.

"So, what happened then?” Combeferre asked, looking between both Enjolras and Bahorel as well, who had at some point slipped into the seat across from Grantaire without him noticing. Combeferre took a step away from Enjolras, giving him the space he needed to somewhat relax into the seat at the table. He had his back to the wall behind Grantaire, who could see the way he squeezed his eyes shut tightly and brought a hand to his right temple, rubbing self-soothing circles against the skin there. Enjolras sighed heavily and opened his eyes. He made a short pause, accidentally finding Grantaire's gaze before looking away to stare at the cracked wallpaper ahead of him.

"Well,” Enjolras sighed, though his restlessness was still evident. “After the meeting, which went exactly as planned, if anyone cares, we got stopped by these assholes outside the council building. Anti-protesters."

“We kicked their asses.” Bahorel grinned.

"And now we’re here. I'm fine, Bahorel's fine, and-"

"You're bleeding." Combeferre reminded him.

"Do you think I'm not aware of that?" Enjolras spat, though his voice was not so much malicious as it was impoverished. "I'm fine. Okay? All that matters now is that we have legal permission for the protest to go ahead, so can we just forget-"

Grantaire did not mean to laugh, truly. The intrusive sound that Grantaire let out, cutting Enjolras off mid-sentence, was rather startling to even himself. He hadn't made a conscious decision to interrupt, but he was dumbfounded. He couldn't believe that Enjolras could be sitting there, overstimulated, bleeding and bruised, and still only caring about the fucking protest. Or rather, he could believe it, he just thought it was ridiculous. All eyes turned to Grantaire, including Enjolras' impatient ones.

"You're kidding, right?" Grantaire asked.

"What?" Enjolras hissed. Grantaire shook his head in disbelief, throwing his hands up to gesture something along the lines of isn't it obvious?

"You just got jumped by a bunch of misogynists who were waiting outside the council building for you, and you're still going to have the protest?"

Enjolras was looking at him as if he had told him the grass was blue.

"Are you stupid?" Enjolras asked, slowly, with as much ridicule and drama in his tone as he could muster.

"Enjolras-" Combeferre attempted to intervene. His efforts were met with failure.

"Are you actually stupid? Obviously we're still having the fucking protest, Grantaire!" Enjolras said, rising to his feet, the chair beneath him thrown backwards abruptly.

"You just got attacked, you're literally fucking bleeding-" Grantaire said, gesturing to the state of the man yelling at him.

"I'm not a coward, Grantaire." Enjolras shouted, mindlessly making his way through the couple of meters that separated them. "I'm not going to be thrown off by a group of-"

Contrary to what other people may think, Grantaire had no problem admitting when he was wrong. He wasn't one of those people who always had to be right, he could see when he needed to back off. Right now was not one of those moments.

"If they're willing to attack you outside of the literal courthouse, they're absolutely going to attack you at the protest, you realise that right?" Grantaire snapped, still seated in his chair, gripping the edge of the table so hard that his knuckles were white.

"So what?" Enjolras shouted after a few moments.

"So, look at you!" Grantaire shouted back, laughing in an uncut stupefaction. "You can't even handle one person touching you. Imagine all the hands on your body when they're trying to resuscitate you in the back of an ambulance."

"Guys." Feuilly tried, seeing as Combeferre was now holding his head in his hands, shaking his head in resignation. Poor Combeferre, he's seen this all before. He knows this would not end how he'd like it to.

"I'm not- They- I won't be in an ambulance-" Enjolras stuttered, uncomfortable at the topic of his own haphephobia, as Joly calls it.

"Okay, say by some miracle you get through the protest unscathed, what about, I don't know, literally everyone else?" Grantaire barked back. Enjolras did nothing but roll his eyes, and retreat to the seat at the table next to Grantaire once again. "You're going to put your friends' lives and the people of the city's lives at risk just because you're too stubborn to know when to back down?"

"Guys!" Feuilly called again, louder and firmer this time.

"What!?" Grantaire and Enjolras both said in unison, turning to face Feuilly with their respective looks of frustration or anger.

"You're really bleeding." Feuilly said, pointing to Enjolras.

Grantaire turned his head to look, watching Enjolras carefully as he looked down at the table in front of him, slowly realising his shirt was now capturing an even flow of blood droplets. He raised a shaky finger to his wound. The clot that was holding the gash together had drifted to reveal what was only a surface-level injury, but God, was it spitting blood. Enjolras moved his finger back down to see it was now soaked red, which made Grantaire's stomach turn.

"Shit." Enjolras muttered shakily under his breath.

"Enjolras." Combeferre said. There was something cautious about the way he said his name, Grantaire thought, and apparently, Enjolras heard it too.

"No." Enjolras whispered.

"Show me." Combeferre said, taking a few steps closer to him, quickly.

"No." Enjolras warned, rising to his feet again and backing himself flush against the wall behind him. Grantaire was only a few meters away, but still, he felt the need to give Enjolras more distance, so he scooted himself backwards in his chair and leaned against the back of it.

"Just for a second." Combeferre said, approaching the table.

"No, no, I don't-" Enjolras said, his voice shallow and quiet, resembling a frightened child.

"Will you let me do it or would you rather go to urgent care?" Combeferre asked, firmly. His face was unreadable to Grantaire, and he thought he sounded maybe a little too firm, but Enjolras was giving him that God, why do you always have to be right look, so he must've been down this road before. "Okay?" Combeferre asked, now only a few feet in front of Enjolras.

For whatever reason, Grantaire found Enjolras turning to him, though he hadn't any idea as to why. Maybe he was looking for some reason as to why this was Grantaire's fault, like usual. Though nothing about Enjolras' behaviour was 'usual' as of late, besides the endless bickering, so Grantaire offered him a raised eyebrow. He was going for a what's stopping you expression, but there was a chance it didn’t come across that way, because Enjolras began to look a little defeated.

"Listen, I know you don't like it, but I've got to clean you up, yeah?" Combeferre smiled. "Can't have you running around dripping blood everywhere."

A few seconds of silence passed, and then a quiet,

"Okay."

"Okay." Combeferre said with an encouraging smile.

Combeferre spun around to find Courfeyrac, who had been sitting on a stool at the bar across the room with an amused expression, watching all of this unfold. Courfeyrac was not the best with these kinds of situations. "First aid kit?"

Courfeyrac nodded, gesturing a salute to Combeferre, and promptly removed himself from the room to fetch it. In the meantime, Combeferre instructed Enjolras to take off his overshirt, a loose, previously white button-down now stained and bloodied, and to use it to place pressure on the wound. Enjolras looked unhappy about the unnecessary medical attention, but he obliged. He removed the shirt and Grantaire was left staring at the fitting white t-shirt that was hiding underneath. He felt his breathing get caught in his throat.
Soon enough, Courfeyrac returned with the first aid kit and handed it to Combeferre.

"Here ya go, doc."

Combeferre began to riffle through the unorganised contents, pulling out a few butterfly bandages from a slightly worn-down cardboard box. Enjolras was watching him, still backed against the wall and breathing heavily with a miserable, deflated sulk on his face. He shakily placed the now-ruined shirt on the table in front of him.

"Alright, just sit there." Combeferre gestured to the seat at the table.

"No." Enjolras whispered again.

Grantaire turned his gaze away from the bandages and cleaning utensils on the table and found desperation in Enjolras' eyes. It reminded him of the way he had looked that night in the street, only a few days ago. Knowing what was coming, his chest rising rapidly and falling just as quickly. The only difference now was that Enjolras was unwilling.

"It'll be so quick." Combeferre looked at him, trying hard to make it seem like nothing was out of the ordinary.

"No, seriously, don’t- I can- You-" Enjolras began to ramble, fidgeting his hands together as if they were made of putty. He sounded like he couldn't breathe.

"It's all good, don't think about it." Combeferre tried again, voice coming through a little louder now and only a fraction less forbearing.

"Don't!" Enjolras practically shouted, almost kicking the chair in front of him as he tried to place even more distance between himself and Combeferre, as if it were possible to go through the wall. But he was cornered, with Grantaire almost immediately to his right and the table being the only thing that separated him from Courfeyrac and Combeferre. Grantaire could literally see the panic surely building in the blonde's mind, with the way he pushed himself as far as he could to the left and tried to hide in the corner of the room. He slammed his eyes shut and shook his head viciously, firmly planting himself on the ground in the corner, like a child refusing to leave the playground with arms crossed and rambling a string of no and please and don't.

For anyone still pondering the answer to the question asked at the beginning, the answer was D.) All of the above. And perhaps that was why Grantaire was feeling bolder than he ought to. Some feeling of sympathy hurdled its way into Grantaire's chest. He would be the first to admit it, he loved seeing Enjolras worked up and stuttering, but not like this.

"Hey, Apollo." Grantaire cut in, interrupting Enjolras' mindless babble of nonsense pleas and Combeferre's futile attempt to calm him. Within a matter of mere seconds and almost regrettably, Grantaire stepped away from his own seat, fought off his dormancy, approached Enjolras with the stealth of a well-practised thief, and kneeled beside him where he sat on the ground. Finally, he placed a gentle hand on Enjolras knee.

Grantaire could hear someone gasp, probably Courfeyrac, but aside from that, you could hear a pin drop. He'd begun to think that he had made a grave mistake the second Enjolras opened his eyes and placed his laser focus on Grantaire's hand, and for a few breaths, he thought to move away and never show his face again. But somehow, Enjolras didn't seem to become any more agitated. His face was still red and flushed, and he was still bordering on hyperventilation, but his body movements stilled, and he began to relax whether he realised it or not, now having something solid to focus on.

"Give me your hand." Grantaire said, nonchalantly. He fixed the free hand he had out in front of him, palm facing up.

Enjolras tore his gaze away from Grantaire's hand on his knee to look him in the eye, where Grantaire saw a rollercoaster of thoughts happening behind them. At first, he appeared in shock, the way he did when Grantaire had encompassed Enjolras' fingers with the whole bottle incident. But then, slowly, his expression softened, his breathing slowed, and he stared down at the welcoming hand Grantaire was holding out for him. And to everyone else's surprise, maybe even Grantaire's, Enjolras placed his hand in his. Grantaire chuckled softly in bewilderment, amazed that that had actually worked, and smiled up at Enjolras with eyebrows raised.

"You are going to shut your pretty mouth and let our hot doctor friend patch you up, okay?" Grantaire asked, though it was more of an instruction.

"Okay." Enjolras mumbled with pink cheeks and something caught in his throat.

"Do this." Grantaire told him, as he gave an example squeeze of his hand. Enjolras copied him. Grantaire nodded. "Distract yourself."

Enjolras squeezed his hand again, looking back down at it.

Grantaire took this moment to find Combeferre with his eyes, trying not to be distracted by the look of absolute amazement Combeferre's face was showcasing, and Grantaire nodded for him to approach the two. He caught a glimpse of Courfeyrac behind Combeferre, a hand covering his mouth in a failed attempt to disguise the sheer and utter excitement that his face was showing.

Combeferre did eventually approach the two men in the corner, grabbing the first aid kit from the table and dragging a chair behind him as he did so. Enjolras still flinched at the scraping of the chair, he still hesitated when Combeferre ordered him to sit and face him, and he still backed his head away on instinct as Combeferre raised his hand to begin to clean Enjolras wound, but he wasn't fighting it quite so much anymore. No one really knew what to say.

"You're doing great." Combeferre said to Enjolras with a steady face, before shooting the quickest of glances Grantaire's way. He decided to ignore it.

Enjolras squeezed his hand. Grantaire squeezed his hand back.

It only took a few minutes for Combeferre to tidy up the blood that had been dripping down his neck, smeared from the shirt he'd used as a makeshift gauze pad. He cleaned the wound maybe a little too obsessively, it surely must've stung quite a bit if the way Enjolras was gripping Grantaire's hand was anything to go off, but Enjolras seemed otherwise okay. Eventually, Combeferre backed off a little.

"Okay, she's all cleaned up, I've just got to put a few of these little bad boys on there." He said, taking hold of the box of butterfly strips.

Enjolras looked to Grantaire. Grantaire nodded.

Enjolras looked to Combeferre. He nodded.

Grantaire watched Enjolras closely as Combeferre began to apply two adhesives to the wound on his jawline, scanning for any hint of discomfort. And he found it, obviously, but it was evident that the cause of distress had more to do with the hands on his face, and less to do with the hand that was tightly cupping his own. He wondered for a minute why out of the two people currently invading his space, there was only one who was welcomed.

"And you're done." Combeferre sighed contentedly, immediately removing his hands and placing as much distance between them as he could to still have an audible conversation. "Now, do I need to go full doctor on you, or do you know the drill by now?"

Enjolras was still holding Grantaire's hand.

"Yeah, yeah. Drink water, don't fall asleep for a few hours, call you if I feel weird." Enjolras said, sounding as though he was on autopilot. He had this vacant stare and a tension in his shoulders, he seemed to be stuck in his head.

"Atta boy." Combeferre grinned proudly. Grantaire moved to follow Combeferre's lead, attempting to remove his hand and restore the space between them, but the fact that Enjolras squeezed his hand tighter, not letting him go, made that exceedingly difficult.

"Come on, Enjolras, I'll drive you home." Feuilly offered, making to stand from where he sat beside Courfeyrac. He had his keys in his hand pre-emptively.

"But I wanted to talk about the permit." Enjolras began, before he was cut off by a tutting Combeferre.

"You can talk to me tomorrow." Combeferre ordered, organising and repacking the first aid kit and sealing it closed. Enjolras groaned, standing from his chair, and finally let go of Grantaire's hand. Grantaire quietly let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"Fine." Enjolras mumbled, crossing his arms over his body as he made his way to the staircase, closely following behind Feuilly.

"Bye." Combeferre said, teasingly, a polite smile on his face as he, Grantaire, Bahorel and Courfeyrac watched the two men approach the stairs, a smile that dropped at the exact millisecond Enjolras and Feuilly had disappeared from their view. All three men left standing in the room snapped their heads to stare at Grantaire, who had a stunned sort of look on his face. Bahorel was nodding slightly at him, as if to show he was impressed, his face contorting into a proud smile. Courfeyrac was behind him, with a shit-eating grin across his face. He seriously looked only seconds away from punching the air.

Combeferre looked unreadable.

"You touched him." Combeferre stated.

"Yeah." Grantaire said, nodding slowly, as if he didn't believe it himself.

"And he let you." Combeferre said, more confirming it for himself than anything else.

"Yep." Grantaire said, unsure of what else to say about it. Combeferre let his eyes narrow, and his brows met slowly.

"How did you-"

"I don't know." Grantaire shrugged, shaking his head as if he needed to be defensive. He awaited any kind of response from any of the three men gaping at him, but when it didn't come, he shrugged again and added, "He doesn't seem to react the same when it's me."

That statement earned another frown from Combeferre. It wasn't quite accusatory, rather intrigued, but it still made Grantaire feel like he'd done something wrong.

"What do you mean?" Combeferre asked, crossing his arms. Grantaire shrugged again.

"It's happened, like, three times now." He said, feeling guilty, as if he had done something he shouldn't have. Combeferre softened slightly at the words, giving a slow and singular nod at him, he appeared to be thinking.

"That's," Combeferre began, trailing off as he searched for the right word. "That's good. I think."

"It's gay is what it is!" Courfeyrac belted from behind them once he decided he couldn’t keep his excitement in any longer. He was still grinning maniacally, but now he was shaking Bahorel by the shoulders from behind. Bahorel just laughed and shook his head.

"Look who's talking." Grantaire teased lovingly.

There was a funny feeling in Grantaire’s stomach, in his mind, and his chest, but then he remembered that that was reasonably standard for someone who treats themselves the way he does. Regardless of the cause of said funny feelings, he figured they would probably go away as soon as he went home and slept off his (now double) hangover. The sooner he went to sleep, the sooner he would forget about the way Enjolras' hands felt against his own. Cold, slightly trembling, gripping so tightly Grantaire feared he'd lose circulation. He wouldn't have minded, truly, pathetically.

"Anyways," Grantaire sang, once the feeling of everyone's eyes on him became a little too much. "I've had enough of dealing with you nerds for one day. See you Friday."

"Bye, bye, conqueror!" Courfeyrac giggled.

"Look after blondie for me." Grantaire cheeked in response, not daring to look back at the knowing faces of his friends.

Grantaire made his way down the staircase as fast as he could without disturbing the knot growing in his stomach. Whether that knot was thanks to the alcohol, or the thought of Enjolras needing him for something, he was unsure. Either way, he didn’t particularly care to find out. He left his friends behind in the top room of the café, hoping that none of them would continue to speak of whatever the fuck just happened as soon as he was gone. But with Courfeyrac around, he doubted they would just drop it.

“Just drop it?!” Courfeyrac’s cry came from the room above, and Grantaire sighed to himself as he made his way out of the café and into the streets of the crumbling city around him.

Figures.

Enjolras was refusing to acknowledge the realisation that Grantaire had touched him, multiple times, and that it had actually been comforting as opposed to uncomfortable.
Grantaire was actively avoiding thinking about the fact that Enjolras hadn't pushed him away when he had reached out his hand, and one step further, straight up ignoring the fact that Enjolras had reached out to him once or twice. But there was someone who was processing everything that they had witnessed on Monday afternoon, and that person was Courfeyrac.

It was the following Friday, a little before six o'clock in the evening, before the rest of the group was about to start piling in one by one for the scheduled meeting. Enjolras was once again tucked into his work, tired eyes scanning the word document opened on his laptop screen from left to right. Courfeyrac was over on the sofa beneath the window, Combeferre by his side and lost in a book Feuilly had lent him.

"Combeferre?" Courfeyrac asked.

"Hm?" His friend replied, not quite dragging his focus away from the book.

"What do you think of Grantaire?"

Combeferre faced him, puzzlingly tilting his head at the question.

"What do I think of Grantaire?" He asked.

"Yeah." Courfeyrac confirmed innocently.

"I love Grantaire." Combeferre said after a thoughtful pause, still looking rather confused at the nature of the question. "Why do you ask?"

"You think he'd be a good boyfriend?" Courfeyrac grinned.

Combeferre just looked at him, still clearly confused, yet now he had a kind of bemused smile to accompany his wondering eyes.

"You got something you want to talk about, Courf?"

Courfeyrac laughed, bumping his shoulder into Combeferre's.

"Not for me! You're the only one I'd be down for. Maybe Marius. Or Jehan."

"Alright, reel it in, Romeo." Combeferre chuckled, dog-earing the page he was on and closing the book carefully, turning his shoulders now to give Courfeyrac his full attention.

"I mean for- You know who." Courfeyrac whispered, leaning into Combeferre's space conspiringly. Combeferre managed to follow his gaze to where Enjolras was sitting unaccompanied.

"Courfeyrac." Combeferre looked at him, dropping his smile and placing a stern look on his face. "We've talked about this."

"Oh, come on!" Courfeyrac exclaimed. "Is it not driving you insane?"

Combeferre deepened his look of disapproval, gaining a petulant groan from Courfeyrac.

"God, Combeferre. They're never going to figure it out on their own! They just need a gentle push-"

"We're not meddling, Courf." Combeferre stated sternly.

"But why!?"

"Because they're our friends, and although it is incredibly frustrating, we can't force them together. Enjolras won't have it, Grantaire won't believe it, and it won't work any better than it is now."

"Boring!" Courfeyrac droned, slumping down deeper into his seat. He turned his focus to Enjolras, at his usual spot at the table, typing furiously and hardly noticing time passing. Courfeyrac noticed Combeferre looking too. "I mean, look at him. He won't notice anything at this rate."

Combeferre looked back down at his book, sighing heavily as he opened it back up to the page he left off on.

"I know. But it's Enjolras and Grantaire. They don't exactly work like normal people. Forcing them together will only push them apart."

"He lets Grantaire touch him." Courfeyrac added, a cajoling tone in his voice. He saw Combeferre's eyes flicker up, just over the top of his book, as if he was just thrown into one hundred thoughts in a matter of seconds.

"What are you saying?" Combeferre asked, his voice impossibly solemn.

"We need to get that kid laid." Courfeyrac stated way too seriously for the words that had just come out of his mouth. Combeferre snorted, trying to hide his smile and returning to his book.

"Stop it, Courf." He said parentally, though the amusement was still evident on his face.

"Fine." Courfeyrac groaned, turning back to watch Enjolras.

Courfeyrac studied his still figure, the only movement being his tireless fingers against worn-out computer keys. Courfeyrac wondered how long it would take for either Grantaire or Enjolras to realise their painstakingly complex yet definitely evident feelings for each other, wondered who would be the first to make a move, if ever. Courfeyrac's entire world revolved around love, around romance and friendship and intimacy and everything in between. It hurt him inside to think that two of his best friends were missing out on something as incredible as another person, but he knew that Combeferre was right. He knew that trying to get them together would work as well as pushing the same poles of two magnets together, what with how stubborn they both were. But that didn't mean Courfeyrac would ever stop trying.

Eventually, the group of friends all began to crawl into the café, Grantaire appearing in the doorway of the staircase beside Jehan with just a few minutes to spare before the meeting began. Courfeyrac paid attention to the way that Enjolras followed Grantaire in with his eyes, how he began fidgeting with his right hand and chewing on the inside of his bottom lip absentmindedly. He saw Grantaire send a taunting wink Enjolras' way when he'd caught the latter looking, and how could he have missed the way Enjolras scowled at him viciously.

Patience, Courfeyrac thought. One day.

The weekly Friday meeting was wrapped up nicely, with most loose ends either being tied up neatly or cut off completely. The group was left with a stomach full of beer and snacks and a head full of plans for the upcoming protest.

Enjolras was by the bar, feeling a little overwhelmed this week. So much had happened throughout such a fleeting amount of time. He was somehow still recovering from the amount of alcohol he had drunk a week ago, his mind still foggy and tired and his body feeling weak and vulnerable due to the self-care he was sacrificing. Running a successful activist group was tiring in the twenty-first century, he found that somehow something new came up in the media every single day that demanded his attention. Racially motivated violence, sexual assault allegations, minority mistreatment, he just wished that he had the time to stand up for everyone. And he damn well tried, as much as it burnt him out. He didn't have the time or capacity to eat numerous meals a day or sleep for a solid eight hours, as much as Joly and Combeferre remind him of the importance of looking after his body. He had other issues at hand. Life was becoming just one more discrimination after another, and it took so much out of him to fight for everyone, but someone had to do it. If not him, then who?

But, regardless of how many sleep and hunger cues he could ignore, he was starting to feel the effects of his sleep deprivation catching up to him. He felt particularly worn out this week, and logically he knew it was because of his ignorance towards his own mental and physical health, but it wasn't the only thing on his mind.

Enjolras, as much as he fought it, was struggling to ignore the buzzing in his palm, the pesky lingering of phantom fingers wrapped around his own, squeezing his hand in a comforting way, the spot on his knee that still felt warm. It was all a bit too much for him, yet somehow, it was not enough.

Enjolras wondered if he was finally growing up a bit. You know, maybe he'd just needed to be willing to be touched, the way he was when it came from Grantaire, of all people. Perhaps he could handle it better now that he was older, now that he had had a little more experience with physical contact. The idea still frightened him, and he still cringed at himself for being so childish about it, but he wondered. If someone touched him now, if he could just picture Grantaire's hand in his, would it be okay? He was left wondering when Combeferre approached him.

"Good evening." Combeferre said, adding a cheery smile, maybe too cheery for a cloudy and miserable day. Enjolras' eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"I know what you're going to say." He said, attempting to appear unimpressed. He was no fool.

"You do?" Combeferre asked.

"You want to change my bandage." Enjolras said flatly.

Combeferre gave him somewhat of a sympathetic look, eyes flickering up to the small bandages stuck to the wound on Enjolras' jawline.

"It's been a few days. I'd really like to see how it's healing."

"No." Enjolras argued directly.

"Well, it needs to be cleaned again." Combeferre told him.

"I'll do it myself." Enjolras said.

"You won't be able to see it properly in a mirror." Combeferre reminded him. They'd been over this yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. Still, Enjolras wasn't having it.

"Then I'll guess." Enjolras shrugged.

"Enjolras. Don't be stubborn." Combeferre told him.

"I'm not being stubborn." Enjolras said lamely.

"You're being stubborn."

"Oh my God, fine!" Enjolras huffed as he threw the lid of his laptop closed. "Just do it then!"

Combeferre tilted his head with a smile, a silent gratitude sent Enjolras' way as he stood slowly and nodded towards a reluctant (and definitely stubborn, for the record) Enjolras.

"Follow me." Combeferre said, as he made his way away from the bar, and headed for the bathroom.

Enjolras rolled his eyes, but still, he followed his friend. He reminded himself of what he was thinking about before Combeferre had approached him. Maybe it wouldn't be awful this time. Maybe he didn't mind it as much now. He has done this before; he could do this again.

The first aid kit was already set out and waiting for the two of them in the bathroom when they entered - bloody Combeferre - and Enjolras hesitated to enter the room any more than a few feet.

He took a deep breath. He could do this. He was twenty-two years old. He could handle someone touching him. Someone already had, and it wasn't so bad. Five minutes, tops. In, out. Easy peasy.
He made his way to a clean spot between the row of sinks and perched himself up on the bench.

"Alright." Combeferre voiced as he took hold of the necessary bottle of some anti-bacterial solution. "You're ready?"

"Just do it." Enjolras spat, eyes closed and antsy. He heard Combeferre come a little closer, and the sound of disinfectant wipes being unpacked was the only other sound in the room. He felt his heart start beating harder, his breathing beginning to pick up. He felt a hand on his jaw, steadying his jittery head, and then fingers slowly peeling back the bandages there.

"It's alright." Combeferre reassured him when Enjolras had made a very disapproving sound. "I'll be quick."

Combeferre had been quick, truthfully, but Enjolras felt himself growing more and more restless with each second that passed. He felt ridiculous, frustrated with himself for being so hard to deal with. Enjolras let him do it, sure, but it wasn't as easy this time.

In fact, it wasn't easy at all, he realised.

That was when he felt the need to panic, when he realised that he, one, hadn't made any progress, and two, did not want to fucking do this anymore. He swears that he was only seconds away from pushing Combeferre aside, he could feel the irritation building in his throat in the form of cruel words and his eyes were prickling, but before he had the chance to react, Combeferre had finished cleaning his wound and backed off. Enjolras breathed heavily, not making any move to open his eyes.

Okay. Okay. He'd done it. Wasn't happy about it, but he'd done it. Fuck yeah. He could do it. That wasn't so bad after all!

"Alright, same as last time, just going to put some little strips over it." Combeferre said, his voice sounding as if he was right in front of him again.

Nope. Not a chance.

"Wait!" Enjolras blurted as his eyes flew open, startling Combeferre in the process. "Are you sure it really needs it?"

Combeferre must've sensed Enjolras' discomfort, for he took a good look at the wound with a questioning look on his face.

"It's not bleeding anymore, but it isn't fully closed over." Combeferre said after a while.

"Can I just leave it like this?" Enjolras asked, trying so hard not to sound like he was begging. Because he was a grown man, and that would be embarrassing.

"No." Combeferre shook his head, sympathetic.

"Please." Enjolras said, now dangerously close to begging, age and associated embarrassment be damned.

"It will take three seconds." Combeferre told him.

"No." Enjolras said, moving his head further back until it hit the mirror behind him. Combeferre huffed, doing his best not to seem frustrated.

"Be still." He said simply, his hands moving once again.

"No!" Enjolras flinched. "Fuck off, Combeferre."

Combeferre looked at him for a while, studying the scar on his jaw and the way Enjolras was physically closing himself off. Combeferre looked at a loss. Enjolras felt a wave of guilt and shame flow through himself. He knew that Combeferre just wanted to help, but he really didn't want him to. He could be embarrassed later, but right now, Enjolras didn't need to do anything but get the fuck out of this bathroom.

And suddenly, before Enjolras had any opportunity to flee from Combeferre's intense gaze, a different expression took over Combeferre's face. It was sympathetic still, but now it appeared as if a light bulb had appeared above his friend's head. His eyes focused.

"Wait here." Combeferre commanded, before placing the bandages down on the bench and promptly leaving the room.

"I'll do what I want." Enjolras mumbled to himself once Combeferre had already left.

He didn't know exactly what he was waiting for, Combeferre wasn't usually so fast-paced, and it threw Enjolras off. He wondered if Combeferre was just giving him a few minutes to collect himself, but he knew that Combeferre was aware that that wouldn't do much good. Then, he worried that maybe Combeferre would ambush him, that all of their friends would come and hold him down so Combeferre could finish what he had started, but logically he knew that his friends would never do that. Perhaps Combeferre had given up, gone home and left Enjolras to do it himself. He would've tried, too, if not for the fact that the wound was just so that it wasn't very visible head-on, and it would be a struggle to see in the mirror with his hands blocking the view. His hands were far too shaky to do anything about it anyway.

Eventually, the door to the bathroom flew open again, and Enjolras instinctually flinched at the thought that Combeferre was back and would try again. But it was not Combeferre coming through the door, it was someone else, with a far too motivated grin on his face.

"Where's Combeferre?" Enjolras asked, eyeing Grantaire down as he slowly approached him.

"He sent me." Grantaire shrugged.

"Why?" Enjolras said, with a pinch too much of disgust in his tone than he was going for.

"Apparently there's a cute blonde in the bathroom refusing medical assistance." Grantaire said, taking his place in front of Enjolras, who was still sitting on the vanity. He smirked, shrugging. "Thought maybe I could help."

"How would you help?" Enjolras narrowed his eyes disapprovingly. Grantaire looked him in the eyes, and Enjolras felt a familiar sensation growing in his chest, yet it wasn't anxiety, not anticipation or fear or anything other than indescribable.

"I helped you last time, didn't I?" Grantaire said, his voice low.

Enjolras could feel the heat creeping up his neck, he worked his jaw subconsciously and looked away. Once again, Enjolras lost his train of thought, and for a few moments, he just sat there staring at the cracked grout in between the tiles of the bathroom floor, losing himself in the buzzing in his knuckles, the smashed glass flying at his feet, the warm circles being dragged across his wrist, the pressure on his knee, the hand on his chin steadying his head and fingers applying butterfly bandages.

Wait a minute.

"It looks like it's nearly healed." Grantaire said, sounding rather proud of himself as he worked to bandage Enjolras up. “This is nothing. Remember the huge gash Bahorel got last year?"

Enjolras just continued to breathe, feeling uncomfortable for a completely different, unnamed reason now.

Enjolras did remember. How the fuck did he remember? Right now? How was he even thinking clearly with someone else's fingers on his skin? What the fuck was going on anymore? How was it so hard with Combeferre's hands, but so easy with Grantaire's? Maybe it was for the same reason that Enjolras allowed Grantaire to remain in the group in the first place; Grantaire had always been an exception. But why?

Enjolras looked up to see shiny blue eyes focused on him. Grantaire's eyebrows were furrowed in the way they always did whenever he was distractedly drawing during a meeting, or when he was playing his guitar, or when he was trying so hard to come up with some counterargument to something Enjolras had said. And yet, it was over before Enjolras could even comprehend anything besides the fact that Grantaire was so close to him.

"Voilà!" Grantaire exclaimed as he stood back to admire his work proudly, but soon he began to frown and purse his lips in thought. "It's definitely going to leave a scar."

Enjolras blinked a few times, willing himself back into reality, pushing his distracted thoughts away to the deal with after the revolution box in his brain.

"How would you know?" Enjolras said grumpily.

"I don't, I just wanted to say something doctory." Grantaire grinned.

There was enough space between them again for Enjolras to comfortably slide off of the bench, so he did. He turned to face the mirror, trying to appear as if he too was inspecting Grantaire's technique, but really, he was searching for any excuse not to look Grantaire in the eye. He frowned.

"You put one on wonky."

"God damn it!" Grantaire said, sarcasm dripping from his tongue, as he made his way to the door again. "If only we had a friend who was a doctor that could have done it for you!"

"Yeah, yeah, my hero." Enjolras hissed as he trudged over to the door with a roll of his eyes. He just wanted to get out of here.

"You're welcome!" Grantaire called from behind him.

"Didn't ask for your help!" Enjolras called back, refusing to even look at him. He stomped over to the table where he left all of his belongings and began to pack them into his bag.

Fucking Grantaire.

Combeferre watched Enjolras all but flee the Musain, his cheeks dangerously red and refusing to make eye contact with anyone he passed on his way to the staircase, and Combeferre smiled proudly to himself, giving himself a mental pat on the back as Grantaire approached him from the bathroom.

"Mission accomplished." Grantaire said as he clapped Combeferre on the back. He held out his hand enthusiastically. "That'll be one hundred dollars, please."

Combeferre turned to face him, his mind spinning one hundred different webs of one hundred different thoughts. Thoughts of shit, did that really work? Thoughts of his conversation with Courfeyrac, and just a lot of thoughts generally surrounding the thought to be untouchable Enjolras and the inevitable Grantaire.

"Can we- Can I ask you something?" Combeferre asked Grantaire, who was beginning to sport an uncertainty in his eye.

"'Ferre, I'm flattered, but you're not really my type-"

"Is there something going on that I should know about?" Combeferre asked. He knew how accusing his voice sounded, but he didn't mean for it to, and he knew that Grantaire knew that.

"Did Courfeyrac tell you? I'm so sorry 'Ferre, it was one time! He came onto me!" Grantaire joked.

"Be serious." Combeferre said.

"You sound like Enjolras." Grantaire taunted.

"Grantaire."

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry." Grantaire sighed.

Combeferre loves Grantaire and his jokes, but he wasn't in the right mind for his endless banter, not when his thoughts were clouded with concern for his best friend. Well, it wasn't really concern, more so a bone-deep need to know everything about his best friend's newfound ability to form connection, literally. But even then, Combeferre knew that he could probably guess why Grantaire was allowed to insert himself into Enjolras’ space now. And maybe, not that he'd ever admit it, Combeferre just wanted to see if Grantaire had the same guess as he did. Because if he did, Courfeyrac's little plan to meddle would become a whole lot easier.

"Is there something happening?" Combeferre asked again.

"...No?" Grantaire said, still clearly uncertain of what Combeferre was asking.

"Nothing?" Combeferre asked.

"Like what?"

"For example, is there a reason that Enjolras, who has forever refused any form of physical contact, who has avoided it for literally more than half of his life from anyone, including me, including his family, is all of a sudden okay with you touching him?"

Grantaire looked singled out, and Combeferre hoped he hadn't sounded too offensive in his words. He watched Grantaire look off into the corner of the room for a second, thinking over the words Combeferre had just said. It hadn’t appeared to do him any good, as Grantaire looked back at Combeferre and shrugged his shoulders.

"If there is a reason, I don't know what it is?" Grantaire offered, appearing as if he hoped that would be helpful. It wasn't.

Combeferre looked down at the tiles beneath him, looking for the right question to ask. Like we said, Combeferre could already guess what the difference between himself touching Enjolras and Grantaire touching Enjolras was. He supposed that the real question on Combeferre's mind was why was Enjolras acting this way all of a sudden? If Enjolras had begun to realise his feelings, perhaps Combeferre could finally bring it up with him, without the risk of the man losing it completely. But how likely was it that Enjolras had just realised his feelings out of the blue? And how would Grantaire even react to such a question? Do you think Enjolras might be in love with you? If so, why haven’t you done something about it? He couldn’t be so upfront about it yet, and besides, it wasn’t worth how furious Courfeyrac would be if he found out that he wasn't the one who got to break the news to Grantaire.

He decided to keep it simple, for now.

"It’s interesting." Combeferre nodded.

"You're weirding me out, dude." Grantaire said matter-of-factly, with a sheepish chuckle.

"Because it is weird." Combeferre replied. "Don't you think?"

Grantaire tilted his head at the statement, a confused frown appearing, almost defensively.

"I feel like I'm being interrogated right now so I'm probably just going to-" Grantaire trailed off as he pointed behind himself and to the door.

Combeferre watched Grantaire as he gave a cheeky wave of his fingers and nodded in his direction. He didn't finish his sentence, merely leaving Combeferre’s side without any semblance of an answer or resolution. Though Combeferre didn't have to think too hard in order to come up with some kind of conclusion, if not a resolution. What he managed to come up with was fuck,

Courfeyrac was right.

Chapter Text

Rule #4
Bossuet is not allowed to carry any trays of drinks from the bar to the table. He has already smashed way too many glasses and spilled way too much expensive liquor for himself to ever financially recover.

Rule #10
Éponine is banned from playing Risk. If she wants to play, she needs to stop cheating.

Rule #1
Grantaire is the only person allowed to touch Enjolras.

For some fucking reason.

And for some other fucking reason, everyone around him is so unphased by it. When Grantaire first touched Enjolras that day, in front of Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Bahorel and Feuilly, they'd all been shocked into silence. At a loss for words, unable to comprehend what had unfolded before them. Every single one of them. But now? Now, they're unsurprised. Now, they all plod around, acting as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world, as if it made any sense that the one person who Enjolras would allow to touch him wouldn't be Combeferre, wouldn't be Courfeyrac, or even Feuilly or Joly. It would be Grantaire.

And what makes it worse is that Grantaire doesn't fucking get it. He's not uncomfortable with it or anything, it's not like he hasn't been longing for so much as a brush of fingers with the guy, so he'll gladly be the one who can reach him. It's just that he finds it odd that no one else is freaking out. Hell, he wasn't even freaking out until everyone else stopped freaking out, and started sending each other those knowing glances whenever Enjolras does things like asking Grantaire to pass him a pen without asking him to set it down first.

It's been a week now since Grantaire bandaged that cut on Enjolras' jaw, and ever since then, Grantaire has found the blonde almost looking for reasons to touch him. Letting their shoulders brush gently as they walk by each other, or swatting him on the forearm when Grantaire is being too disruptive during a meeting, things like that. And while Grantaire is happy that Enjolras might finally be starting to ease into the whole physical affection thing, he can't help but wonder why it was him that Enjolras chose. If he even chose. Grantaire didn't know.

And if his friends acting like it was normal was irritating, the way they began to use it to their advantage was even more so.

"What are you, a coward?" Courfeyrac asked tauntingly.

It was seven minutes past six o’clock the following Friday, and the café Musain was echoing unusually loud for this time of the night. The meeting should have been starting at any second. In fact, it was supposed to start seven minutes ago, to be precise. Enjolras should already be standing above his seat at the table with papers in hand and a cup of whatever caffeinated drink was getting him through that particular evening. And in that case, Courfeyrac's request wouldn't be necessary, and Grantaire could get on with his drinking and yearning and (not) silently watching Enjolras ramble in a frenzy.

But instead, the blonde man was sat in his chair, body slumped over the table with his head gently resting on his crossed forearms. Enjolras looked so peaceful as he slept, so blissfully unaware of how all his friends had taken their usual seats at the table and were all waiting for him. Or rather, some of them had their attention turned to him, but most of them had become immediately distracted without Enjolras' commanding voice luring them in and had returned to their own conversations.

"Do I have to?" Grantaire asked, looking over at a sleeping Enjolras. "He's going to be all tired and moody. I'm not dealing with that shit."

Ever since he discovered Grantaire's newfound ability to make physical contact with Enjolras, Courfeyrac seemed to be rather interested in testing the limits of this connection. Yesterday, Courfeyrac forced him to make Enjolras do a fist-bump for the first time. And he did it, oddly enough, but it was rather anticlimactic to everyone but Courfeyrac. Then it was a handshake, with Courfeyrac insisting it was for ‘future business purposes’ and ‘you need to get comfortable shaking people's hands’, though Grantaire had a sneaking suspicion that he really just wanted to rub his crush in his own face.
And today, Courfeyrac wanted to push this further, apparently.

"Oh, please. You act like you don't love it when he's moody." Courfeyrac said, leaning into Grantaire's space and giving him a toothy smile.

"Put a sock in it." Grantaire rolled his eyes as he pushed Courfeyrac away.

"Pleeease?" Courfeyrac said, clasping his hands in front of him dramatically as he mimed begging. “I’d do it myself, but unfortunately, it is not me that he is in love with.”

"Christ alive, fine." Grantaire groaned, scraping his chair back from underneath him and making his way to the spot where Enjolras was currently dozing. He did his best to ignore the snicker from Courfeyrac as he walked away from his seat.

Enjolras was breathing evenly. Combeferre was watching Grantaire approach expectantly.

You see, one of Enjolras’ fatal flaws is his inability to look after himself. Sure, he’s an independent man, he pays his own bills, he folds his own clothes. But the one thing he has always been terrible at is getting adequate rest, getting so caught up in the highs of being an activist that he often loses sight of the ground below him. If his life was a runway, his plane would never land. This means that whenever he does end up crashing, he crashes hard. And waking someone up who is so dead asleep is already hard enough, but with the option of shaking them until they wake up taken away, it becomes next to impossible. Grantaire can’t count all the times that a meeting has been straight up cancelled, due to Enjolras falling asleep and no one being able to wake him, leaving him in the café on his own until he wakes.

Grantaire supposed Combeferre was thinking along the same lines as Courfeyrac.

“Is this a bad idea?” Grantaire asked Combeferre when he reached them at one end of the table, though he was looking at his sleeping friend. He looked so tired.

Combeferre pondered this question for a short while, before he replied.

“Well, it’s either have him be mad at you for waking him, or have him be mad at everyone for letting him sleep through another meeting.” Combeferre offered.

Grantaire sighed, nodding in defeat. Combeferre was right, again. As stupid as the protest was in Grantaire’s eyes, he knew Enjolras would become even more of a mess than he was now if he didn’t feel as prepared as possible. He would just have to take the fall for the group, namely Courfeyrac and his intensely creepy obsession with Grantaire’s love life. Grantaire dropped to Enjolras' level, legs bent and perched beside him, as he softly placed a hand on Enjolras' shoulder, giving him a gentle shake.

"Enjolras?" Grantaire tried. When there was no immediate response, he agitated him a little harder.

So slowly, so drearily, Enjolras raised his head from where it lay on his arms, his cheeks warm and hair stuck to his face. He looked around a little dazed, and it was probably the softest Grantaire had ever seen him. God, he wasn't drunk enough for this, Courfeyrac owed him at least two drinks.

"Hey." Grantaire said, shaking him again softly for emphasis. "Hey, Apollo, wakey wakey."

Enjolras half-mumbled something a little too close to fuck off for Grantaire’s confidence, and hid his face in the table once again, his arms over his head to cover his eyes from the bright lights of the café. Grantaire sighed heavily, ignoring the way that all of his friends were pretending not to notice the moment unfolding (besides Courfeyrac and Combeferre who were actively watching closely; Courfeyrac in giddiness and Combeferre in fascination). In the end, after twenty seconds of failure, Grantaire finally just said fuck it, and reached to gently wrap his hand around the top of Enjolras' semi-lifeless one. He squeezed his hand and shook it lightly side to side, hoping that could stir him.

"Wake up, you're late to revolutiony stuff." He whisper-shouted in Enjolras' ear. Grantaire could see the goosebumps that appeared on Enjolras' neck as he spoke so close to him, and he squeezed his hand again as Enjolras' raised his head abruptly from the table.

"What? I wasn't sleeping." Enjolras muttered. He raised his left hand to his eye, scrubbing over it violently, cheeks looking even warmer than before he woke up.

"You were, though." Grantaire laugh inwardly.

"Whatever, I'm awake." Enjolras said in a cranky tone, more sounding like he was trying to confirm it to himself than to Grantaire. "Now go away."

"Give me my hand back then." Grantaire chuckled, dangerously teasingly.

Enjolras' eyes widened, before looking down at his hand, still very much wrapped in Grantaire's. He pulled away abruptly, sending Grantaire a frown and a pout before turning away to face the rest of the table. Grantaire watched everyone suddenly turn away from Enjolras' vicious gaze, either pretending to be in deep conversation or now avidly admiring the ceiling. He laughed to himself as he made his way back to his usual seat, where Courfeyrac still occupied the spot beside him.

"Happy?" Grantaire asked pointedly, and by the looks of it, Courfeyrac was very happy, if the shit-eating grin on his face had anything to say about it. "Don't look at me like that, freak." Grantaire warned.

"Right. Protest. Two weeks." Enjolras' voice boomed across the table, straightening himself up and pushing the flattened curls out of his line of sight. "Right."

The meeting wasn't an exceptionally long one. They were currently in what Combeferre called the down period of the typical protest-organising-cycle, close enough to be organising the day-of preparations, but not close enough to start doing anything. There were truly few topics left to go over besides assigning tasks to group members to complete either in the days leading up to or on the morning of the protest. After barely fifteen minutes, the meeting came to a head, and Enjolras took control once again.

"Does everyone know what they're doing?" He asked the group, looking around at his friends. Bahorel put his hand in the air, and then quickly lowered it when he realised he could just speak.

"Me and Boss are on crowd control." Bahorel said proudly, giving a simple nod to Bossuet from across the table.

"And monitoring the police." Enjolras reminded. "And reporting back."

"Sir, yes sir." Bossuet beamed, finger-sling-shotting a plastic fork in Bahorel's direction as a response.

"Feuilly and I are organising the signs and banners-" Courfeyrac began, before Feuilly cut him off.

"No, I'm handing out flyers with Grantaire." Feuilly said.

"I thought Bahorel was doing that?" Courfeyrac asked, frowning.

“I literally just said we were on crowd control.” Bahorel said, gesturing to himself and Bossuet.

“Wait- Hang on-“

Grantaire watched Enjolras place his hand on the bridge of his nose with forceful pressure, screwing his eyes shut and exhaling heavily as Courfeyrac and Feuilly bickered back and forth in confusion. Grantaire sighed to himself. In another lifetime, one where Grantaire wasn't so obsessive and pathetic, one where he wasn’t so head over heels for the guy, he wouldn't really care all that much about who was doing what.

But in this lifetime, he was.

"Feuilly is on flyers with me. Courfeyrac, you're with Jehan on signs, and I am also doing face painting and shit, right?" Grantaire stated plainly, his loud voice booming over the rest of the group and turning to Enjolras for confirmation. He noticed Enjolras' eyes wash over him as he slowly shot Grantaire a surprised glance. His nostrils flared once, eyes narrowing in on Grantaire just the tiniest amount, and his frustrated stare softened. Grantaire could tell that the blonde was trying his damnedest not to smile at him, so as to uphold his stubborn demeanour, and so Grantaire took the attention away by giving him a suggestive smirk.

"Most responsibilities you've ever given me. You must've changed your mind on the whole good-for-nothing thing then?" He teased. Grantaire watched Enjolras' softened gaze crack slightly, as he retreated into his moody self.

"Yeah, well, don't screw anything up." Enjolras said.

"So, you’re with me, Prouvaire!” Courfeyrac cheered excitedly and placed a hand on Jehan’s shoulder.

"And Combeferre and I will be setting up a first aid tent." Joly said once Courfeyrac had stopped being a distraction. He turned to Combeferre. "Not that we'll need it, nothing bad is going to happen."

"And Marius, is Cosette still up for speaking?" Enjolras asked, smoothing out the skin beneath one of his eyes absentmindedly. Marius gave him a bright smile.

"She's very excited." He said, bouncing slightly in his seat. "Though I'll have to get you to go over her speech. There's a few choice words in there that I'm not one hundred percent sure are necessary."

"Hey, if she wants to cuss out an entire group of cops, I'm not going to stop her." Enjolras said, beginning to turn away.

"What am I doing?" Marius asked then.

Enjolras hesitated and pursued his lips.

"You're with Éponine." Enjolras replied, pointing to where she was sitting at the bar, chatting to Musichetta. Enjolras smiled innocently at her, as she turned to gape at him. She shook her head at Enjolras in disbelief. He knew what he was doing.

"Doing what?" Marius asked.

"Keeping you out of the way." Éponine called over the short distance, followed by an amused snort.

"Okay. Go away now." Enjolras said with flat face. Everyone began to disassemble.

"Oh, wait two seconds please!" Courfeyrac called out, standing from his chair with that bubbly excitement he always had. He waited to have everyone's attention, before speaking.

"As I'm sure everyone is aware, it's our good friend Combeferre's birthday tomorrow!" Courfeyrac exclaimed, beginning an unnecessary round of applause that was so commanding that Grantaire felt the need to join in on. "So, tomorrow night, mine and Marius' place, BYO drinks, be there," Courfeyrac said, pointing his fingers around the room, and then directly at Enjolras, as if it wasn’t obvious who he was reminding, "or I will be so, so sad. And you will ruin Combeferre's birthday. And that'd make you an asshole."

Courfeyrac sat down with a pleased smile on his face.

“And that... special brownie thing we were talking about?" Bahorel asked.

Courfeyrac flicked his eyes across the table, and with a seriously evil grin as he whispered,

"The plan is still a go."

(Grantaire would definitely be asking him about later.)

"Can I come? Or is this official ABC members only?" Marius asked cheerfully.

"You're- Yes, Marius, the party is at your house." Courfeyrac nodded.

"Is it really a party if it's the same people I see every day?" Combeferre asked, though he did not sound unexcited. He had the smile of a grateful friend, and of someone who was more than keen on getting a little (or a lot) drunk.

"It's always a party with you lot!" Bossuet laughed, taking a sip of his drink, hitting his tooth on the rim of the bottle accidentally.

As everyone began to wrap up their conversations, collect their belongings and make their way either out the door, over to the bar or the seats by the window, Grantaire couldn't help but watch Enjolras with pensive eyes.

This was pretty common month-of-protest behaviour for Enjolras, looking so worn out, getting snappy with his friends, and caring very little about everyone else's domestic affairs, but something else was up. Grantaire watched Enjolras remain at the table, yet again buried in his writing, the spaces on either side of him unoccupied. Grantaire being a bored, obnoxious Grantaire decided to slip himself into the seat on Enjolras' left. It took maybe a minute for Enjolras to look away from his laptop and even notice Grantaire's presence. It wasn't until Grantaire snorted at his lack of awareness that Enjolras turned his head to him, jumping when he finally realised he wasn't alone.

"Jesus, Grantaire!” Enjolras snapped harshly. “What do you want?”

"Someone seems a little more intense than usual." Grantaire said, disguising his concern with a provocative taunt. He was waiting for Enjolras to provoke him right back, to lay the building blocks of another ridiculous and childish argument, but instead, Enjolras turned back to his computer.

"Who are you, Combeferre?" Enjolras asked.

"Would Combeferre tell you that you look like shit and you could use some rest? And, like, a bagel or something?" Grantaire said.

"Yes."

"Then yes, I am Combeferre." Grantaire said proudly, gesturing to himself. "So, what's it gonna take for you to get off that darn computer and eat something?"

"Can't." Enjolras said robotically.

"Yes, you can." Grantaire rolled his eyes.

"No, I can't."

"Yes," Grantaire enunciated strongly, "you can."

Enjolras turned to him abruptly, harshly placing both hands flat on the table in front of him in frustration.

"No, 'Taire, I can't, actually. I don't have time."

Grantaire was unphased by the quick shift in tone, and gave him one of those settling looks, a slight tilt of his head, his face equally as unimpressed as it was sympathetic.

"You have plenty of time." Grantaire stated.

Enjolras kept looking at him. A silent gesture of hoping, for once, that Grantaire was right.

"You're gonna run yourself into the ground if you don't look after yourself." Grantaire spoke, a fraction less riling than usual. "And then you'll be no help to anyone."

Apparently, Enjolras didn't really know what to do with a kind and caring Grantaire, because he sent a quick glance down to his hands, before looking literally anywhere besides Grantaire's eyes.

"I am looking after myself." He mumbled, unconvincingly. Grantaire chuckled in protest.

"In what world are you looking after yourself?" Grantaire replied, finding adoration in the way Enjolras became slightly confused at the question, moving his eyes to the side as if to think.

"This- This one?" He said in uncertainty.

Yeah, Enjolras needed a break.

"Right." Grantaire said, slapping the table with an attempted authoritative tone. "I'm taking you home."

"I'll go with 'Ferre." Enjolras said, turning back to his work.

"He's not leaving yet." Grantaire told him.

"Well, then, I'll wait for him." Enjolras said stubbornly.

"Enjolras."

"What?" Enjolras asked as he continued to type on his computer.

"I'm going to sit here and nag you until you come with me." Grantaire said, putting on his most annoying and agitating voice.

"I don't care. I'm used to your nagging."

"Correction," Grantaire poked him on the shoulder, "you love my nagging."

"Shut up." Enjolras said. If he was blushing, Grantaire didn't see it.

"Whatcha workin' on?" Grantaire asked as he scooted his chair halfway closer to Enjolras', peaking over to see the words being created on Enjolras' laptop screen. If he had to be obnoxious to get Enjolras to look after himself, then he would commit to it. Being obnoxious was something that Grantaire thought of himself as being fairly good at, after all.

"Didn't I just tell you to shut up?" Enjolras whined like a child, turning his laptop screen to the right just enough that Grantaire couldn't see it anymore, but not too much so that Enjolras couldn't continue working.

"I don't think so?" Grantaire said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.

"Don't gaslight me." Enjolras spat from behind his screen.

"I'm not gaslighting you." Grantaire asked, feigning innocence.

"Yes, you are." Enjolras said, looking at him as if he was stupid.

"No, I'm not." Grantaire shook his head.

"Yes, you are." Enjolras said a little louder and a little less patient.

"I'm literally not." Grantaire said, failing to contain his amusement.

"Yes, you are!" Enjolras said, fully scowling now. Slowly, he understood the smirk on Grantaire's face and resigned a little, rolling his eyes. "I see, very funny. Now shut up."

And Grantaire did shut up, for the most part, resigning to simply examine the way Enjolras was behaving. He was no Combeferre when it came to psychoanalysing Enjolras but still, Grantaire couldn't help but notice the shortness of Enjolras' temper. To an outsider, Enjolras may not seem any more or less snappy than he usually did, but Grantaire could see it. He could see how his comebacks were more clipped than usual, less accommodating to the distractions that Grantaire usually planted in Enjolras' road. His voice was tighter, quicker. You could see the bags underneath Enjolras' eyes illuminated by the blue light of his screen. So Grantaire, just wanting to help in the only way he knew how, sighed, and began to tap an increasingly annoying rhythm on the table in front of him with his fingers, loudly. And it was annoying, even to himself. Enjolras flashed him a tired, warning look.

"Grantaire, seriously." He said, though it was void of anything threatening.

"Isn't this fun?" Grantaire said, immediately discontinuing his tapping and perching an elbow onto the table, resting his chin in his palm innocently.

"No, it isn't, go away." Enjolras muttered.

"Have a break and I'll leave you alone." Grantaire sing-songed.

"Jesus Christ, okay!" Enjolras snapped, slamming his computer shut. He looked at Grantaire angrily. "There. Happy?"

"Very." Grantaire grinned. He stood up to leave, before turning to Enjolras with his entire body, and his hands on his hips. "Now, what do you want to eat?”

"I'm not hungry." Enjolras said as he rubbed at his eyelids before he shook his head in an attempt to wake himself up a bit.

"Too bad." Grantaire said, before making his way over to Musichetta at the bar, leaving Enjolras to himself like he'd so desperately wanted.

At the taps, Musichetta was half occupied with drying a freshly cleaned glass, chatting to Feuilly as he walked behind the bar to help her out, even though he wasn't technically rostered on for a shift, which seemed to be a common theme at this café. Combeferre was also sitting at the bar, discussing something with Éponine, but upon noticing Grantaire appear, they seemed to change the subject to which flavour of cookie was better. It was strange, but Grantaire paid no mind to it, mostly because everyone was acting strange lately, and he liked to think it was due to the protest looming so close and for no other reasons. Grantaire turned his attention to Musichetta.

"Could you do a bagel or something please, good lady?" Grantaire said, his voice charming and batting his eyelashes at her. She rolled her eyes playfully, then looked behind him.

"Force-feeding Enjolras, are we?" She asked.

"Yeah." Grantaire sighed.

"A muffin, then." She corrected with a kind smile.

Grantaire frowned in thought.

"He doesn't like muffins." Grantaire said, looking at her rather confused. Musichetta returned the expression, before turning to Combeferre.

"I usually get him blueberry muffins." Combeferre interrupted kindly once he noticed the attention placed on him.

"He doesn't eat them." Grantaire said, shaking his head, before pointing at Combeferre and adding, "He pretends to, though."

Combeferre gave him a weird sort of look, one to convey that he was partly confused, yet somewhat impressed. Weird that you know that. Grantaire chose to ignore it and turned back to Musichetta.

"Bagel. Tomato and cheese." Grantaire smiled.

"Coming right up, then!" She smiled back. Grantaire watched her hurry off to make herself busy fixing up his order, muttering something to Feuilly as she passed him.

It was probably longer than socially acceptable before Grantaire realised that Combeferre was still giving him that look.

"What?" Grantaire asked innocuously.

Combeferre just shook his head and laughed under his breath.

"Nothing."

"You're freaking me out these days, man." Grantaire teased, and Combeferre gave him a playful slap on the shoulder.

The latter turned back to Éponine, who had been distracted by scrolling through the local grocery store baking section on her phone. Musichetta came back with his order not long after, as well as with a glass of water.

"Thank you, mon ange." Grantaire said, taking the plate and the glass from her hands and spinning around to deliver his offer to Enjolras.

Enjolras, who had somehow managed in the abbreviated time of Grantaire's absence, to fall asleep again.

Grantaire gave a soft chuckle, smiling to himself at the sight of the stoic Enjolras, now resembling a child. He sighed and placed the plate and the glass down softly on the table and pushed his laptop out of the way. He took a seat to Enjolras' left again and scooted his chair even closer.

"Enjolras." He whispered, placing a hand on the sleeping man’s back. Enjolras merely hummed dreamily, out of touch and exhausted sounding. "Enjolras, come on, buddy. Wouldn't you rather go to sleep in your bed? At your house?"

"Mm." Enjolras hummed again, though sat up in his chair with his eyes still closed, and still very clearly asleep. "Shh."

"Apollo, really, you-" Grantaire began, before he cut himself off as Enjolras slumped down slightly where he sat and all but fell into Grantaire's shoulder.

Um.

Okay.

It took Grantaire completely by surprise, the way Enjolras exhaled contentedly once his curls had found a comfortable position against Grantaire's upper arm, falling carelessly in front of his eyes.

Um?!

Okay?!

Grantaire sat perfectly still for a few moments, lost at what his next move would be.

"What the fuck?" Grantaire whispered to only himself. The way he saw it, he only had two options here. One, he could wake the man up, deal with the wrath of the worn-out leader, and fight black and blue to get him to just give up and go home so he could rest. Or two, let him sleep, here, on Grantaire's shoulder.

He didn't wake the man sleeping against him. He didn't have the energy to argue with him, or at least that was what he told himself. Instead, he simply sighed, carefully pulled out his phone without moving too much, and found that he had a few unanswered text messages. One message from a contact named useless bastard caught his eye.

USELESS BASTARD:
Gig tomorrow night at 6pm. The slot is yours if you want it.
(today 5:51PM)

Typical of his manager to offer him a slot on his friend’s birthday, but he could really use the extra money, so he groaned and typed out a reply. Combeferre wouldn’t mind if he was an hour or so late.

ME:
when and where? I’ll b there
(today 6:42PM)

And with the thought of Combeferre’s birthday coming up with the next sunrise, he began to ponder gift ideas. He remembers seeing this funny hat in the antique store he had gone to with him a few months back, but something told him it was more Courfeyrac’s taste. Grantaire could draw him something, but he felt that it might be getting old, no matter how often his friends begged to buy his art pieces. They were probably doing it out of pity, and besides, he would never sell his art to his friends. You wouldn’t force the muse to pay for the work.

Grantaire spent the next half hour scrolling through his phone, switching from one boring social media platform to the next, chuckling under his breath at the absolute brain-rotting content his algorithm had served for him. He would’ve probably stayed there like that for longer, with the warm weight of his friend leaning up against him somewhat replicating a weighted blanket., but Grantaire was distracted from his mindless scrolling all too soon.

"Combeferre!" Grantaire heard someone call loudly across the room.

Grantaire turned his head to find Courfeyrac staring at him, mouth agape and eyes impossibly wide. He saw Combeferre turning to look at what Courfeyrac was making a fuss about, and he silently cursed himself as the pair of them began to make their way over, Courfeyrac dumbfounded and Combeferre only slightly amused.

"Shh, don't wake him! Jesus." Grantaire whispered as Courfeyrac reached him, Combeferre following closely behind.

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Courfeyrac exasperated, throwing his hands up in a theatrical display of resignation. "I really can't even with you right now. I'm going home."

Grantaire gave Courfeyrac a deeply perplexed look as he stomped away dramatically, shaking his head the whole way over to the staircase. Grantaire scoffed at his friend's histrionics. That guy was an enigma, truly. Combeferre cleared his throat, and Grantaire turned to look at him. Once again, Combeferre was casting an odd look, and Grantaire couldn't help but feel that there was something Combeferre knew that he didn't. In light of that feeling, Grantaire didn't think he wanted to find out whatever it was that Combeferre was thinking.

"Bro, stop looking at me like that." Grantaire said, his voice unthreatening and just above a soft murmur, so as to not wake the man currently sharing his warmth with him.

"I'm worried about him." Combeferre stated rather emotionlessly, his voice as low as Grantaire's.

"Courfeyrac?" Grantaire said, looking back over to the staircase where Courfeyrac had disappeared from. Grantaire felt glad for a moment that Combeferre could sense the dramatics too. He sighed solemnly. "Yeah."

"What? No." Combeferre said, shaking his head impatiently, regaining Grantaire's attention. He gestured to Enjolras, who was still unbothered and breathing evenly against Grantaire. "Him."

Grantaire cast a short glance in Enjolras' general direction, and back to Combeferre with a frown.

"Why?" Grantaire asked.

"Look at him."

So Grantaire did look at him, and he tried desperately to ignore the flush swarming his cheeks as he watched Enjolras. The first thing he noticed was just how tranquil Enjolras looked like this, untroubled by his usual routine of trying to save a burning world. Grantaire couldn't find any trace of that unbridled chaos that usually shadowed him, there was no glimpse of the anger or severity that his brooding expression usually held. He looked sweet, he looked calm, like if you didn't know him, you'd think he was the most angelic person you'd ever meet. If it were possible, at that moment, Grantaire might've fallen a little more in love.

"He's overwhelmed, he's up all night, I'm pretty sure he hasn't eaten since yesterday morning, and he won't stop trying to find some non-existent protest-related issue to work on." Combeferre continued.

"And that's different to how he usually is?" Grantaire asked with his eyes still on Enjolras' sleeping frame. He bravely allowed himself to push a stray curl away from Enjolras' forehead and tuck it behind his ear. He eyed the fading scar on his jawline, brushing over it gently with his thumb.

"This is." Combeferre said, referring to the close contact of the two men.

Grantaire shrugged his one vacant shoulder.

"Maybe he's just finally growing out of the whole physical affection is bad thing. I mean, it's unavoidable, surely, wouldn’t he have to get used to it at some point?" Grantaire asked. "Maybe he's playing catch up."

Combeferre shook his head.

"He still won't let anyone else touch him. Courfeyrac hasn't stopped asking for a fist-bump." Combeferre laughed quietly.

"You think his little mind is finally exploding?" Grantaire asked, looking back down at Enjolras.

It was almost unsettling how quiet he was. It made Grantaire think of a small animal, and how he wanted to take him into his arms and not let him go. Grantaire loved him like this, but then again, he was biased. He loved every version of him.

"Something like that." Combeferre said, watching the two closely.

"What?" Grantaire asked.

Combeferre sighed, smiling a little.

"Oh, nothing." He said, making to leave.

"'Ferre?" Grantaire asked again, unsure of what he had meant.

Combeferre stood above him, cast one last glance at his unconscious friend, and then back to Grantaire.

"Just- Make sure he leaves at a reasonable hour, will you?" Combeferre asked, before walking away and leaving the café.

It was about then that Grantaire realised that most of his friends had disappeared, save for Feuilly and Musichetta behind the bar, Joly and Bossuet waiting for their girlfriend on the couch, and Éponine, also at the bar. Grantaire had caught Éponine right as she too was about to take off for the night. She approached him and said goodnight, before looking at Enjolras, and whispering something under her breath that sounded a little too close to "gay" and took off. Grantaire typically hated this time of the night, when everyone else was ready to head home, leaving him alone with his thoughts until the next excuse to see them all again. But as much as it surprised Grantaire, he felt rather peaceful himself at that moment. The close-to-silence of the Musain was ringing in his ears, and the sleeping man beside him was a bit of a bonus.

It was funny to Grantaire, how many years had he been wishing silently for even a scrap of Enjolras' affection? Two, almost three years? And now that he had it, it felt so natural. And it shouldn't feel natural. It should feel like a fever dream, it should make Grantaire's heart race and his stomach fill with butterflies and play up the effects of his already existing love for Enjolras. Grantaire couldn't even continue to look at him, he really couldn't afford for his mind to start thinking too hard about what was happening. Because all that was happening was that Grantaire was needed right now. Enjolras didn't love him, he knew that. It was just up to random chance that Enjolras felt comfortable around Grantaire, and even though it felt like some kind of cruel cosmic joke, there was nothing else to it. It's not love, it's not fate or destiny, it doesn't mean anything, and Grantaire was okay with that. He would be despised by Enjolras in one million different lifetimes if it meant that every now and then, he could sit like this beside him.

Enjolras had now slumped down a tiny bit so that Grantaire's arm was all but pinned to the chair behind him, and while it didn't hurt, his arm was beginning to lose feeling. Carefully, he wriggled his arm free from Enjolras' weight and wrapped that arm around the back of Enjolras' shoulders, not wanting to wake him. He shook his head playfully at the ridiculousness of this, Enjolras here, with him, touching him, and then let all his thoughts dissolve as he mindlessly let his head fall backwards against the back of his chair. He doesn't remember how or when an hour had passed. He hadn't been planning on staying for so long, in fact, he had a commission at home that he really should have left an hour ago to work on. But somehow, he hadn't noticed his eyes closing, hadn't noticed being lulled to sleep by the soothing consistency of Enjolras' breathing, and he woke an hour later in confusion. And, with his senses slowly returning to him, he could just make out a clicking sound not too far to his right.

Grantaire opened his eyes to identify the sound, and he didn't have to look around for too long to realise that it was the sound of computer keys being furiously pressed.

Enjolras was awake now, his face too far turned away and into his screen for Grantaire to be able to see, but he was working again, posture hardened, though his knee was bouncing unrhythmically. Grantaire realised then that he probably should've gotten Enjolras home while he was still sleepy. Now, after a power nap, Enjolras would be ever more difficult to coerce. Goddamn, it.

"You've got to be kidding me." Grantaire chuckled, his voice coming out hoarse, crackly from his sleep.

"I'm almost done." Enjolras mumbled, almost as if he was still asleep.

Grantaire looked around the room to find that it was empty, besides the two of them sitting at the table in the middle of the room. The bar was closed, a lazy piece of fabric covering the cash register and most of the lights switched off. There was a note on the table with a key neatly placed atop of it, reading 'lock up for me when you leave? - chetta <3' that was on Enjolras' side of the table, suggesting that both men had been asleep when she left the building.

"Was this your plan? Lure me into a nap so that you could go back to your work?" Grantaire said with a smirk, maybe to counteract the embarrassment that was settling in his chest. "That is sneaky."

But there was no casual rebuttal from Enjolras, no provocation or snide remark intended to start that familiar bickering. Just silence, and the sound of his fingers hitting computer keys.

"Apollo?" Grantaire asked, sitting forward in his chair, leaning his forearms on the table and propping himself forward to see Enjolras' face.

Enjolras face was red, his eyes glassy and exhausted, and his bottom lip was bleeding lightly where he had split it a few weeks ago, but still he was biting down on it as if he couldn't feel it.

"Enjolras." Grantaire said louder, his voice drenched in concern.

When Enjolras turned to look at him, his pale face was reflecting something Grantaire hadn't seen before. He looked empty, or sad, or something else. Something that pulled at the strings in Grantaire's heart. Enjolras opened his mouth to speak, but only a quiet huff came out.

"Are you okay?" Grantaire asked, now frowning, unsure of what to do.

That was when Enjolras' eyes began to well, his nose twitching against the prickling sensation, and he heaved a heavy breath before his chest filled with air just as quickly.

"Hey." Grantaire said, his stomach dropping. He tried to tame his voice into that of a soft and comforting one "Hey, hey, what's the matter?"

"Nothing, nothing's the-" Enjolras tried to say through quickening breaths. "I'm- No, nothing, I'm-"

"Breathe, Enjolras." Grantaire reminded him.

Without too much thought, he placed a hand on Enjolras' forearm, lightly caressing the thick woollen fabric of his sweater in that spot in an attempt to sooth, yet for some reason it elicited a broken breath that sounded dangerously close to an empty sob.

"God, I just need-" Enjolras said, trying to regain control of the rise and fall of his lungs.

"What do you need?" Grantaire asked. He'd get him anything. He'd do anything. Anything for him. Even if it made him feel a bit pathetic.

"I don't know." Enjolras basically whimpered, looking down. There were tears in his eyes, threatening to spill and expose him, but they never quite fell.

"Talk to me." Grantaire said soothingly.

"Why are you being so nice to me right now?" Enjolras snapped.

"What?" Grantaire asked, not hurt by the sudden shift in tone, but confused by it.

"Why aren't you making fun of me or-or riling me up as usual?" He asked, his words rushed and defensive, blinking a few too many times for Grantaire to believe he was actually angry. "Huh? What's your motive?"

"I'm not- I don't have a motive, Enjolras." Grantaire said, shaking his head and withdrawing his hand.

"Then why are you here!?" Enjolras shouted.

"What?"

"You're always just-" Enjolras began, before losing the words. "You're always- Why do you- Why do I-"

"Why do you what?" Grantaire asked.

Enjolras looked at him for a long while. Enjolras looked through him, Grantaire thought. He had a glisten in his eye, his eyebrows raised in fret, just looking at Grantaire. He watched Enjolras because, fuck, what else was there to do besides pay attention to someone like him. He watched his eyes trickle down, landing on Grantaire's lips, he watched his breathing begin to even out, he watched him grip tightly on the spot that Grantaire's hand was placed a second ago. Enjolras squeezed his eyes shut.

"What's wrong?" Grantaire asked again.

"I don't know." Enjolras whispered, possibly a little embarrassed. "I feel funny."

Grantaire pushed the glass of water closer to Enjolras, the ice cubes melted now, the outside wet from condensation. He also noticed that the plate that once held a bagel with tomato and cheese was now empty. Surprisingly enough, Enjolras moved to take the glass of water from Grantaire when it was offered to him, but he seemed to get a little distracted upon looking at both of their hands holding the glass. Enjolras man cleared his throat and shook his head violently, bringing himself back into reality. Enjolras began to speak again, not quite fluently, but still as if he wasn't just teetering on the edge of a panic attack.

"Why don't you paint your nails anymore?" He asked.

Grantaire looked in bewilderment, his brows meeting firmly as he offered Enjolras a simple smile. He hadn't realised that Enjolras ever noticed his lacquered fingernails, let alone noticed he stopped. He didn't know how to answer that, because for one Enjolras' mood swing had thrown him off, and two, the answer was a little uncomfortable.

"Well," Grantaire said, breathing deep. "I guess I stopped once the whole alcoholism thing took off." He gave a self-deprecating chuckle. He raised a hand in demonstration, and said, "Hands shake too much."

Enjolras was frowning at him, but what's new?

"You should paint them again." Enjolras said. He was staring down at Grantaire's hands, but his eyes were vacant.

"You're a strange boy." Grantaire said.

"I'm not strange." Enjolras said quickly, argumentative and harsh.

There he is, Grantaire thought.

"You're a bit strange." He chuckled.

"You're strange." Enjolras countered.

"Alright." Grantaire laughed a lot louder this time, trying to find comfort in Enjolras reverting to his usual self, even if he was just being so, well, strange.

Grantaire slapped the table lightly as he used it as leverage to pull himself from the chair and to his feet. He was still feeling a little off balance from just having woken up, and maybe a little due to the fact that he hadn't had a drink in a few days, but he managed to find his footing and slip away from the table. He could feel Enjolras' eyes on him the entire time.

"Drink this." Grantaire said, moving the glass of water even closer to Enjolras. "Go home. Get some sleep."

"But-"

"Nope. No but's." Grantaire said, collecting his coat from where it lay over the back of another chair.

"I just was going to-"

"I don't care."

"At least let me finish my sentence!"

"No, because I know your sentence ends with something along the lines of 'I don't need to sleep.'"

"But I don't!"

Maybe Grantaire was still half-asleep, or maybe he just wasn't thinking too clearly, for he came close to Enjolras once again, and placed a soft hand on his cheek. Enjolras looked up at him with marvellous eyes and inhaled sharply.

"The world will still need you when you wake up. Okay?" Grantaire told him, smiling tiredly when Enjolras nodded. Grantaire shook Enjolras' head with his hand gently, playfully. "The revolution will wait for you."

And with that, Grantaire dragged his hand away, feeling that soft version of Enjolras returning. As Grantaire turned to leave, he had only made a few meters towards the staircase when Enjolras' voice sounded across the room.

"Grantaire?" He asked.

"Hm?" Grantaire replied, turning to face him once more.

"I- Uhm- Thanks."

"Home, bed, sleep." Grantaire laughed. "No more finishing that essay you no doubt have sitting beside your bed.”

Enjolras looked at him sheepishly, as if he were self-conscious.

"How would you know that?”

Grantaire smirked mysteriously.

"Same way I know that you don't like blueberry muffins." He said, tapping his own forehead with his finger, as if to display genius. "I pay attention."

Enjolras scoffed. "Since when do you pay attention?"

Grantaire stared at him with nothing but friendly, albeit loving eyes. Enjolras looked sleepy, his voice was rough and low, his eyelids droopy from the sleep deprivation, yet he still managed to be the most beautiful person Grantaire had ever seen. Even like this, mussed from an uncomfortable sleep on a rickety chair and a bony shoulder, blissfully ungrounded, Grantaire was in awe of him.

Grantaire looked down at the floor for a second, and then back to Enjolras, and shrugged his shoulders.

"Guess you've made a believer out of me after all."

The night was beginning to grow cold and dreary as Grantaire made it home from the Musain, but his mind was warm and airy enough to not let the chill freeze his bones. It was just after eight o'clock, and he could see the kitchen light on from the street as he approached his front door.

“Hello, Grant.” A familiar voice called from his left, just as he stood himself in front of his apartment. He smiled to himself before even looking at the person the voice belonged to.

“Hello, Mrs. Winslow.” He said kindly, putting on the charm he had mastered.

“It’s Ruth.” She said sternly. “How many times do I have to remind you, mister?”

“My bad, Ruth.” Grantaire chuckled.

She lived next door, Mrs. Winslow, in the flat just beside him and Jehan. She was old, ancient basically, and had barely any vision left to warrant how often Grantaire saw her walking around alone. She was a little crazy, Grantaire had realised quite a few months back, but he found that the best company often was.

“Now, have you or your lovely girlfriend seen my Tabitha?”

Tabitha was Mrs. Winslow’s cat, missing a leg and rounder than a car tire. Of course, Grantaire knew where her cat was, but answering her truthfully would be of no help to anyone. Tabitha was in the keepsake box on Mrs. Winslow’s mantlepiece, in ash form, beside the photo of her in a frame that read ‘in loving memory.’ Grantaire sighed.

“No, Jehan and I haven’t seen her, but I’ll sing out if we do.”

“Good man.” Ruth replied, as Grantaire took her hand and placed a gentle kiss atop her knuckles.

“Get inside, it's freezing out here.” Grantaire instructed her, and waited outside of his own flat until he was sure Mrs. Winslow had gone into her apartment. Too many times had Grantaire been called by another neighbour due to Ruth’s behaviour, whether it be her banging on the wrong door, getting stuck on the stairs, or running around bothering everyone about her missing cat. It took Grantaire way too long to realise she must have put him as her emergency contact number, but he didn’t mind it.

Grantaire didn't bother with his keys, guessing that Jehan would have left the door unlocked for him, which they had. He could hear the TV, quietly muffled by the door, and amplified ever so slightly once he had made his way inside the house. Jehan was perched up on the couch in their pyjamas, half paying attention to some gory television program, though distracted by their phone. They turned their head at the sound of the door clicking shut and offered a welcoming smile when they saw Grantaire appear.

"Grantaire, lovely man!" They said as Grantaire worked his way through the kitchen and to the living room, placing his things on the kitchen table as he passed it.

"'Tis I." Grantaire grinned.

Jehan let their legs fall gently over the edge of the couch, readjusting themselves into their spot and giving Grantaire room to sit beside them.

"I thought you were going to be home earlier tonight?" They said, non-accusatory, and patted the spot they had created for Grantaire. "I was starting to get worried."

“Oh, yeah, sorry about that." Grantaire said, mind racing back to the one person it always seemed to race back to. He sighed. "I forgot to message you."

"No, no. That's okay." Jehan said, as Grantaire lay himself down so that his head was now in Jehan's lap. They began to messily stroke Grantaire's heavy head of ringlets, fingers combing through the strands that had tied themselves together. "What were you up to?"

Grantaire loves Jehan with all of his heart, not quite in the same way that he loves Enjolras, but definitely just as much. They'd been friends ever since the first meeting Grantaire attended, bonding over their respective crafts when Grantaire noticed them drafting poems on the back of a napkin that evening. The two often collaborate on projects, with Jehan writing beautiful sonnets and quotes inspired by Grantaire's drawings and music, and vice versa. It was something they loved to fixate over together, and the outcome was always rather interesting, what with Grantaire's cynicism towards the world and Jehan’s romanticism of everything around them. And having a romantic for a friend quite literally meant having someone analysing your every emotion, in search of the words that might make everything all better.

Grantaire had been doing great this year. His manager was booking him semi-regular gigs in the evenings and at numerous different venues around the city, he was gaining exposure in both his music and his art, creating beautiful portraits and abstract paintings for both his work and his leisure, and most importantly, his friends were his biggest motivators. They were his family, Jehan, Éponine, Joly, and all the rest. But last year, as much as he tried to move on and erase it from his memory, had not been a good year.

It was no secret to Grantaire's friends - or anyone, really - that he had been battling with his own mind for an exceedingly long time. He had struggled daily, for as long as he could remember, with a deep-rooted depression and a complex dislike for himself that was so enforced in his mind that he found it hard to allow someone as pure and lovely as Jehan to coax him out of those thoughts, but there were times where Grantaire hadn't had a choice.

The details were still hazy around the edges in Grantaire's memory, but he recalls a hospitalisation, an incident involving an empty bottle of absinthe and the pieces smashed on the bathroom floor, blood stains in his clothes that he couldn’t wash out. What he couldn't ever forget though, no matter how hard he tried, was Jehan screaming at him, shaking him, telling him to come back, come back, don't leave me, please, and Joly's heartbreaking expression above him, a mix of his obsessive spiralling and a desperation to fix it. Grantaire hated himself even more in that moment, for making his friends go through what they went through. But gratefully, they didn't abandon him after the incident, nor did they smother him. They helped him. They loved him, truly. And here he was, a year later, with his head in Jehan's lap.

So Grantaire knew what Jehan meant by asking him ‘what were you up to?’, and Grantaire felt a pang of guilt growing in his ribcage at the thought of Jehan sitting by themself in the living room, listening out for the door, wondering at what point it was reasonable to call Joly and tell him Grantaire hadn't come home yet.

"I fell asleep at the Musain." Grantaire offered, not feeling it was necessary to reveal the whole truth. "I wasn't planning on it, to be honest."

He felt Jehan move, likely nodding their head, as they continued to smooth their fingers through Grantaire's hair. A light tug at the base of his scalp suggested Jehan had started a small braid at the back of his head. Grantaire tried his best not to feel uncomfortable at the words that were left unspoken between them. I wasn't doing what you thought I was doing, I'm okay.

"What are we watching?" Grantaire asked, changing the subject knowing Jehan wouldn't push it.

"Uhm-" Jehan dragged out, reaching for their phone that sat on the arm of the chair. "I don't know. Some reruns of some old crime show."

"Ooo, intriguing." Grantaire offered.

The TV was displaying gruesome pictures of a body, the one of an unsuspecting victim post-mortem, though Grantaire had no understanding of what had happened to her due to having come home halfway through the episode. The same man's picture kept appearing on the screen, a balding, middle-aged man, with a grotesque scowl on his face and a sorry excuse of a beard, and Grantaire felt a little sick for a moment as Enjolras' words began to ring in his mind. ‘You will never know the extent of the violence women face. You will never feel the fear that they feel.’

"That guy did it for sure." Grantaire offered, pointing at the man on the screen. Jehan looked up from their phone.

"That's what I'm saying." Jehan mumbled in agreeance.

They sat like that for the duration of the episode and half of another, content just to have each other's company while they watched the TV, though neither of them were actively paying attention. Jehan was typing on their phone, perhaps a new poem, or starting an argument online with a stranger in the comments of some video essay. Grantaire's mind was simultaneously wandering around in circles and remaining completely stagnant, the lack of alcohol in his system sure to be catching up with him. At least Combeferre's birthday was tomorrow, if he finished his gig early enough, he could lose himself at the bottom of a bottle then, when he felt like less of a failure about it.

Jehan's phone dinged loudly, stirring his thoughts.

"Joly's asking if you're with me." Jehan's voice appeared suddenly, as an advertisement began on the TV screen.

"What does that kid want?" Grantaire asked mindlessly.

"Don't know. I'll ask." Jehan said, as they continued typing. "Maybe he's wondering if you're all good?"

Grantaire shrugged.

"He was at the Musain when I was. He can't be too worried."

Jehan's phone dinged again.

"He says," Jehan said, relaying the message, "don't show this to Grantaire."

"What?" Grantaire raised his head from Jehan's lap, turning to look up at Jehan, who was now smiling admirably at their phone. "What is it?"

"Awe!" Jehan called, giggling to themselves as they blocked their phone from Grantaire's view. "That's adorable!"

"What is?" Grantaire asked emphatically. His mind raced over what it could be, and he recalled Joly finding Grantaire's childhood photos earlier in the year. God, he hoped it wasn't more of that.

"Nothing." Jehan said in an innocent voice, smiling extensively at whatever it was that Joly had sent them.

"Well, now you have to show me!" Grantaire demanded, mere seconds away from snatching the phone from Jehan's grasp.

"Alright, alright." Jehan breathed, "Geez."

Jehan fiddled with their phone for a few seconds, Grantaire watching them screenshot whatever it was that was on the screen, and then zoom in on something. Eventually, they turned their phone around so that Grantaire could see.

"How lovely!" Jehan asked. "Picture credited to 'Chetta, he says."

Grantaire could see now that it was a photo of Grantaire earlier in the evening, asleep in his chair, with Enjolras lazily draped against him. Grantaire's head had fallen softly to the right, resting atop of Enjolras' curls, and Enjolras' arm had apparently found its way across Grantaire's torso and was resting there comfortably. Grantaire felt his stomach begin to flutter a little, as the embarrassment crept its way back in. Jehan was smiling wildly, partly poking fun, but on the whole, they were smiling pretty adoringly. Grantaire rolled his eyes and turned away.

"Seriously, Joly." He mumbled, sitting up straight beside Jehan and crossing his arms. He ignored that voice in his head, the one telling him maybe there is a reason it's you.

"Oh, don't be like that!" Jehan said, placing their phone down and resting their head on Grantaire's shoulder. "He loves you!"

Grantaire scoffed. "Well, tell him to tell his girlfriend that it's weird to take pictures of your friends while they're asleep."

Jehan groaned loudly, as if they'd been holding it in for a while. They raised their head to look Grantaire in the eyes.

"No, 'Taire, not Joly." They spoke. "Enjolras."

"What?" Grantaire asked, thinking for a second that he'd misheard the previous statement.

"Enjolras loves you." Jehan nodded slowly. "You know that, right?”

Grantaire felt shellshocked at Jehan's proclamation, and he supposed he looked the same.

"Oh my God, shut your mouth." Grantaire hissed, taking hold of the disgustingly orange couch cushion that sat beside him and hitting Jehan in the chest with it. They just laughed.

"I mean it!" They said, returning the same gesture of cushion-based violence. "That boy is in love with you."

"Jehan!" Grantaire groaned in disbelief, covering his face with his hands in embarrassment. "What is wrong with you."

"He is! I promise you." Jehan giddily tried to explain. "He just hasn't realised it yet."

Grantaire snapped his head to look at Jehan's face, expecting to find some kind of teasing smile or something, anything to say 'I'm kidding, I'm kidding, he would never love someone like you, are you serious?' because at least then Grantaire would have no reason to obsess over it. But when he looked, all he saw was Jehan's encouraging smile, those kind and genuine eyes that he knew so well, and his heart dropped from his chest to his feet. He knew Jehan was wrong, but that didn't mean he didn't want to believe they were right.

"You literally couldn't be more wrong." Grantaire said after a while, turning away grumpily to face the TV once again. He didn't see Jehan rolling their eyes.

"Okaaay." Jehan sang, playfully punching Grantaire in the shoulder. "Whatever you say."

Grantaire silently hated the role he must play in his friends minds. The hopelessly lovestruck blind man, reaching and yearning for a drop of the sunlight. A fool so smitten by the stoic leader in red, losing sight of the world around him, living for his love and only that. Grantaire hated that narrative, the one that painted him as a disciple of a God who didn't preach for him, the unloved ash below the burning flame. He hated it for what it made him look like, but mostly, he hated it because it was true, wasn't it? Enjolras told him he mattered, yet the blonde had to be completely and utterly drunk to get the fucking words out, so how true could it really be?

And with the thought of Enjolras, his mind began to play tricks on him, like it always did. To convince himself, even for just a moment, that there was a world where he and Enjolras could be closer than this one. He wouldn't dare dream of calling Enjolras his, he wouldn't kid himself that hard, but to just imagine somewhere close by in the universe, there was another timeline where his hand on Enjolras' cheek could allow for something more, where Enjolras' grasping hand in his own was out of love and not out of need. Grantaire looked down at his hands, ashamed that he was once again lost in a space where Enjolras was the stars, and became distracted by the way his fingers looked. How they looked against Enjolras'.

What are you, twelve? Grantaire thought. God, just shut the fuck up already.

"Oi, Prouvaire." Grantaire said suddenly, forcefully dragging himself away from his self-loathing.

"Mm?" Jehan replied, non-committal, as they watched the television intently, now apparently enthralled in the episode.

"Do you wanna paint my nails?" Grantaire asked, holding his hands out in front of him and inspecting his fingernails, long free of colour. Jehan turned then and directed all of their attention - and excitement - to Grantaire.

"Fucking always!" Jehan exclaimed, before swatting Grantaire away. "Go get the polish."

That night, Jehan painted Grantaire’s fingernails in a deep, emerald green colour, with small sunflowers on each of his thumbs and middle fingers.
'So when you flip the world off, you can let some of that hope you've been hiding deep down shine through.'

Chapter Text

Enjolras didn't have time for this.

Well, okay, that wasn't true necessarily. If he was being honest, he didn't really have a good enough excuse to justify missing his best friend's birthday. He had already finished both nearly identical copies of his speech, had one printed out, a back-up copy on his computer, and a handwritten one to be safe. He was undecided on which would be recited at the protest, it really depended on how rowdy the crowd would get. His comrades had delegated tasks, and they were all on board with what was expected of them in the coming week and a half. He'd even decided on what he would be wearing on the day, though even he knew that that was a little obsessive. But still, he wished there was more to do.

So, it's not that he didn't have time for a party, it was more so that he didn't want to have time for a party.

That being said, for whatever reason, if the choice was to either be surrounded by the messy drunks that his friends became whenever they had a good enough excuse, or to be at home, obsessing over every little detail, he'd choose his friends, regardless of how much he sometimes wished he could choose the latter. He was so appreciative of his friends, and truthfully, he would always choose whichever choice would be in their best interest. He felt he owed them that.

And again, it was his best friend's twenty-third birthday, and the look on Combeferre's face told Enjolras that he was beyond grateful for his appearance. Of course, Enjolras would never miss one of his friends’ birthdays, he loved them too dearly, it was just hard to focus on anything else with the protest looming so closely. But regardless of all of that, Enjolras found himself sat on Courfeyrac's uneven sofa at around nine o'clock on that Saturday night, a frumpy couch cushion digging into his back, far too sober to be enjoying himself, but content enough with watching Combeferre and Courfeyrac loosening up in the least sensible fashion.

"Let me wear your glasses." Courfeyrac said to Combeferre, visibly drunk also. He managed (easily, honestly) to steal the glasses from Combeferre's unsuspecting head.

"How is it somehow less blurry without them?" Combeferre asked, his face a whole lot more relaxed than Enjolras could ever remember seeing it.

"Because you're wasted, birthday boy." Courfeyrac grinned, hands on the temples of his newfound glasses, showing them off with a little spin and pose.

The night was going well, primarily, as well as it could have gone with a bunch of alcoholic twenty-somethings who collectively only had enough self-control for half of them. Combeferre had gotten hammered almost instantaneously, as he should, Joly was wearing a sexy nurse costume for some fucking reason and singing loudly and drunkenly along to an array of sea shanties that Courfeyrac had impulsively queued, and no one could stop Éponine's uncontrollably bouts of laughter at literally every single thing someone said to her. They were messy, they were embarrassing themselves, but they were having fun, Enjolras recognised. They genuinely did not want to be anywhere else, and for that, Enjolras felt a little jealous.

But soon enough, that jealously was long forgotten, and Enjolras was feeling something else entirely.

"Grantaire!" Someone had called from the middle of the room, and instinctively (and pathetically quickly) Enjolras' head shot up to locate him.

And there he was, sauntering into the room as if he owned it, a black guitar case covered in a seemingly random array of stickers strapped to his back. Enjolras watched him find his way over to a tipsy Bossuet and clap him hard on the back in a friendly manner. He was holding something behind his back rather awkwardly, with his guitar case bulky and in the way. The two exchanged a couple of words, before Bossuet was pointing to Combeferre, and Grantaire's face was lighting up. Grantaire began to stumble his way over.

Enjolras began to breathe manually.

"Well, if it isn't the birthday boy!" Grantaire called loudly upon arrival.

"I'm the birthday boy!" Combeferre called back, raising his arms in the air. Grantaire laughed, one of those real laughs that Enjolras rarely saw, and he pulled Combeferre in for a one-armed hug.

"You are!" Grantaire said as he pulled back, looking Combeferre up and down. "And you're having a big one by the looks of it!"

"Yeah, I am!" Combeferre whooped.

"Yeah, you are!" Grantaire mimicked, roughing up Combeferre's hair. His hands were so broad, they looked so strong, and warm, so-

"And what about you, Apollo? Having another crazy night drinking?" He said, before Enjolras realised Grantaire was looking straight at him.

"No." Enjolras muttered grumpily.

"Boo!" Courfeyrac called, getting half up in Enjolras' face. Enjolras rolled his eyes and found an interesting spot on the wall to look at instead.

"Sorry I'm late, I came from a gig." Grantaire stated unhappily. "Ran a bit overtime because my fucking idiot of a manager didn't think to tell me that I actually started half an hour later than he initially told me."

"Awe, you should've told us! We would've come and cheered you on!" Courfeyrac's voice came through clearly over the way-too-loud party music (if you could call it party music, Enjolras felt like he was in a completely different century.)

"And miss out on this absolute rager of a party?" Grantaire said, playfully sarcastic. "No way!"

"Whatever, you're here now." Combeferre beamed.

"And," Grantaire said, revealing the arm that was held behind his back. "I come bearing gifts!"

"What! No!" Combeferre exclaimed, now eyeing off the brand-new bottle of apple mead that Grantaire was holding up in front of him. A thoughtful gift, a perfect combination of Grantaire and Combeferre.

"You shouldn't have!" Combeferre took grasp of the bottle, his fingers brushing Grantaire's, and suddenly Enjolras felt a dire need to look literally anywhere else.

He spotted Bahorel approaching, as Combeferre could be heard loudly placing the bottle down on a coffee table that had been pushed away from the centre of the room in order to construct a makeshift dance floor.

"Grantaire? Is that you, brother?" Bahorel had reached them, placing a rough hand on Grantaire's shoulder to gain his attention. He looked... odd, Enjolras thought, more tired than he could recall Bahorel looking, though Enjolras couldn't quite pinpoint what was different about him. He didn't seem to be behaving normally, but he didn't seem too drunk. His eyes were half-closed, and his body was swaying ever so slightly. He even looked like he had been crying, his eyes were glassy and red, but he was smiling like a maniac. Whatever was wrong with him, he looked so out of it, and Enjolras almost felt concerned for his friend, until Grantaire began to laugh again.

"Ah, I see someone's been baking up a storm!" Grantaire said, resting a hand on Bahorel's shoulder in return, or perhaps to stop him from swaying.

"You want some?" Bahorel spoke conspiratorially.

"What a silly question. Lead the way." Grantaire replied with mischievous smirk.

Bahorel made eye contact with Courfeyrac as he directed Grantaire in the other direction, and threw a weird look his way, to which Courfeyrac grinned and nodded. And then, Grantaire was being led away by Bahorel, who was struggling not to bump into the random assortment of furniture scattered about. Grantaire turned back, just for a second, and gave Enjolras a cheeky wink and a soft wave of his fingers.

Fucking Grantaire. Stupid, fucking Grantaire, and his cocky demeanour that made Enjolras more furious than anything. He hated the feeling Grantaire invoked in him. The dangerous slamming of his heart in his chest, the creeping rise of temperature in his face, the way his stomach felt like moths were gnawing their way out from the inside. What the fuck was wrong with him? Enjolras had always felt this way towards Grantaire, the frustration and physical tension in his body whenever Grantaire was around was not new to him, but what the fuck was amplifying it? Did he really hate Grantaire that much that deep down his body was trying to reject him? Enjolras didn’t even think he hated Grantaire, but maybe he was wrong. Whatever it was, he was over it, and he certainly wasn’t going to waste his night worrying over stupid fucking Grantaire when he should be celebrating his best friend.

Enjolras shook himself from his thoughts and turned back to Courfeyrac and Combeferre, who were now talking to Joly, who seemed to have appeared out of thin air. Joly looked quite absurd in his nurse's outfit, the skirt showing off way too much leg that he may as well just be wearing the top half of the costume, and the little hat was sitting askew on his head, but he looked happy. And it was so good to see Joly happy, uncaring, a better contrast to the way it felt to see him usually, struggling with his compulsions. Joly had been doing a lot better in the past few years, Enjolras had hardly seen any of the worst of Joly's OCD, but regardless, Enjolras couldn't help but smile genuinely at him when he came to sit beside him on the couch, even with the shitty mood he was in.

"So, Enjolras." Joly said, waving his fake stethoscope around. "You want a free doctor check-up?"

"I think I'm good." Enjolras chuckled.

"Hm." Joly tutted, trying his best to feign a concerned doctor's persona. "You don't look too good to me."

"Really?" Enjolras said with a smile, just to humour him. "What's wrong with me, doc?"

"You look a little-" Joly managed between giggles. "You look a little flushed."

"Do I?” Enjolras began, barely flinching when Joly moved his hand so that it was just a few centimetres away from Enjolras' forehead. Joly was probably the one person Enjolras knew would never touch him without his consent, and so he wasn't too phased when Joly pretended to flip his hand over and over, as if feeling for his temperature.

"You feel a little flushed." Joly said, losing his composure. Enjolras rolled his eyes.

"Are you just going to tell me that you think that I'm on the spectrum again because-" Enjolras was cut off by a comical gasp.

"It's worse than I feared!" Joly said suddenly to Combeferre and Courfeyrac, who were also giggling like fucking maniacs. Joly turned back to Enjolras. "I think you've caught a bug!"

"What kind of bug, doc!" Courfeyrac managed out between fits of laughter, Combeferre grabbing him tightly on the arm to steady himself. Joly turned to look Enjolras in the eyes, as he wrapped his stethoscope around his neck.

"The lovebug." Joly drew out his words, voice low and teasing.

"Joly!" Combeferre laughed. "Subtle!"

"What?" Enjolras asked.

"Oh, nothing." Joly hummed with a bright smile. Enjolras didn't know what he was talking about, didn't understand what the other two were laughing at, and maybe he would've gotten a chance to press Joly further, if Bossuet hadn't called him away.

"Coming!" Joly sang, as he danced off.

Slow down, Enjolras thought. God, everything and everyone was moving so fast around him, and not just here, not just tonight. The days were becoming a blur, and right now Enjolras could barely focus on anything above the noise and the chaotic atmosphere. He felt unsettled, irritable even, and felt himself growing distressed again. Distressed like he was last night, when he'd woken up nudged into Grantaire's shoulder, panicky the way he had been with Grantaire so close, so warm. Enjolras remembered Grantaire's hand on his cheek, talking to him, looking at him. Those fucking eyes-

Get a grip. Pull it together.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac were still laughing loudly, only now they were throwing themselves around in hysterics, swatting each other with uncontrollable smiles and gasping breaths.

"What are you two laughing at?" Enjolras asked, frustrated.

He hardly accepted their half-composed strings of ‘no, nothing, I don't know what you're talking about’, before Enjolras knew he needed to just get out of here. This wasn't his scene, he felt out of place. He needed air, he needed water, he needed something to help him, needed someone to help him. But there was no one. They don't get it. They don't fucking get it. No one fucking gets it.

"Oh, don't frown so much, Enj." Courfeyrac said, lazily crawling over to the couch and throwing himself down on it beside Enjolras. "Maybe you just need to eat something."

Courfeyrac wasn't touching him, but he was still too close. Enjolras couldn't breathe comfortably.

"I'm going somewhere else." Enjolras voiced, before standing abruptly and leaving the back of the living room without a second thought.

Enjolras couldn't hear if Courfeyrac or Combeferre had called after him, and he also didn't care. He carefully made his way out of the room, the lesser drunk of his friends all making room for him as usual in these kinds of social events. In the hallway, he searched for the first open door, which happened to be the bathroom, and he quickly found his way in and shut the door behind him. In the bathroom, the lights were too bright, his eyes felt heavy from trying to adjust from the dimness of the living room. His skin felt wrong, his hair was falling wrong, everything was fucking wrong, and he had no way of fixing it.

Maybe he could just leave, he thought. He could just walk out right now, go home and find a book or a movie boring enough to send him to sleep. No one would even notice, not for a while anyway. Yeah. He could do that. He'll do it now, before everyone starts to get too rowdy. Before anyone will miss him. Yeah.

He sighed. No, he couldn't do that. Not on Combeferre's birthday. His friend's words from weeks ago were running through his mind, stop being so dramatic and ease up for once in your goddamned life, and so he took a long look in the mirror.

"Just- Just loosen up. Yeah." Enjolras said, staring back at himself. He shook out his hands, and then his arms, and his head for good measure. "Loose, fun, having a good time."

When he stopped pretending that loosening his limbs up would help anything, he watched himself back in the mirror for long enough for it to be unnerving. His jaw muscles looked tight, his eyes had dark rings beneath them, his cheeks were a little hollow, and he felt like he didn't recognise himself. Is that what he always looked like? God, no wonder his friends were all trying to get him to eat and sleep more.

And when he couldn't bring himself to look in the mirror anymore, he found himself turning away abruptly and fleeing the room, though maybe too impulsively, because once he found himself back out in the hallway, he wasn't sure where to go or what to do. Parties felt so unnatural to him, it was too much of a chore too keep up the charade of enjoyment. He decided to walk into the kitchen, to maybe get himself a glass of water, which is when he noticed all of the snacks Courfeyrac had set up. And he felt bad, knowing how much effort Courfeyrac had put into making Combeferre's birthday meaningful and memorable, and Enjolras was fucking sulking about like a shit friend.

He realised then that he hadn't actually eaten today, because ‘no Enjolras, coffee does not count as breakfast’, so he eyed off the spread of confectionery and biscuits and copious amounts of booze and settled for a cookie. And it was a fucking good cookie, he thought. He picked up another one. They were a little bland and had a weird nutty, earthy and overall savoury flavour that he couldn't quite identify, but his stomach was thanking him enough for it that he didn't really care.

Until he did care. Very, very much so.

"Ohhh, no." Grantaire's voice appeared from behind him.

Enjolras quickly spun around to find that Grantaire, Bahorel and Éponine had entered the room, and were staring at him in anticipation.

"What?" Enjolras asked with a furrowed brow.

"Uh oh, Enjolras." Bahorel said, a smile forming behind the hands that were covering his mouth.

"What?" Enjolras asked again, growing too impatient for any stupid behaviour.

"Which-" Éponine began, cutting herself off with a giggle. "Which plate of cookies did you take that from?"

Enjolras looked at her like it was the stupidest question he'd ever heard, and then down to the plate below him.

"This one?" He said, pointing.

"Oh my God." Grantaire said with a fallen face. Bahorel's laugh filled the whole kitchen.

"Yeah, so those are weed cookies chief." Bahorel said, all too casually. “Whoopsie daisy.”

"What?!" Enjolras exclaimed, dropping the last little piece of the cookie he had been previously enjoying back onto the plate.

"Oh, this is going to be fucking gold." Éponine bursted into another fit of laughter, smacking Bahorel on the arm.

"Why the fuck would you put weed cookies next to the normal cookies?!" Enjolras yelled at Bahorel.

"In my defence, I did label them." He said with that wide smile, one that Enjolras was truly having trouble understanding in this exact instance. Enjolras looked down at the plate to find that the cookies were, in fact, labelled, a piece of tape was attached to the plate with the word edibles written on it in teeny tiny writing.

"You ever smoked before?" Éponine asked as she cleared her throat, straining her voice as much as she could to sound like she wasn't absolutely whacked. It wasn't working, Enjolras thought to tell her.

"What do you think?" Enjolras shouted.

"Okay. Um, It's cool. Don't stress. They're not even that strong, honestly. Bahorel can't bake for shit." Grantaire said calmly, stepping towards Enjolras and his incoming freak-out.

"Uhm, didn't hear you saying that when I baked you that beautiful cake on your birthday last year." Bahorel said.

"Baz, it was burnt, and you spelt my name wrong on it." Grantaire said, taking the plate of cookies and moving them to a higher surface of the kitchen.

"Yeah, but that's only because I was high when I baked it." Bahorel laughed. Grantaire spun around.

"Look me the eye and tell me you weren't high when you baked these." Grantaire demanded playfully, gesturing to the cookies.

"Oh, I didn't bake those. Éponine did."

Grantaire was silent for a few seconds, before he nodded and mumbled quietly,

"Then we might have a problem."

"Oh my God, I'm going to die." Enjolras whispered to himself, loud enough to catch the attention of the people around him. They all looked fucked. Grantaire seemed the most put together, his eyes only a bit glassy, and he was only slightly drunk from his previous engagement, but Bahorel was swaying like a tree in a fucking hurricane, and Éponine could barely get a word out between bouts of hysterics, so it didn't really bode too well for Enjolras.

"You're not going to die, Apollo." Grantaire breathed a laugh, sounding way too calm and collected for the way Enjolras was feeling right now. "Just come and sit down. You won't even feel it."

Enjolras absolutely did feel it.

He didn't think anything had happened at first, at least he couldn't notice a change in his body for a while. Aside from the slight increase in his already rapidly beating heart, he felt much the same. The anticipation had been killing him more than anything, wondering what it would feel like if he had accidentally managed to get himself high, and the worst of it was not knowing when it would be coming. But a few hours later, when it did finally hit him, he couldn't have given a fuck less about it, because for once, he just felt good. He finally just felt good. Everything was clear, and comprehensible. It must've shown, too.

"Whoa, hey buddy, how are you feeling?" Grantaire's voice suddenly appeared next to him, a little distant but shockingly grounding.

He didn't notice Grantaire approach him, but then maybe Grantaire had been there this whole time. Enjolras couldn't remember. He also couldn't remember what it was that he couldn't remember. But he was feeling something for sure, and that's really all that he could come up with.

"Yeah, I am." Enjolras nodded dizzily.

"Brilliant stuff." Grantaire replied.

They were the only two sat on the mismatched loveseat next to the doorway of the living room, and Enjolras wondered how long it had been since he took refuge here. How long had his friends been throwing themselves around for? Was he watching the whole time? He tried to remember and came up with nothing, so he looked to Grantaire for answers.

Which naturally turned out to be an immediate distraction.

Grantaire looked different, Enjolras noticed. He looked nice. Not that he didn't usually, but in the colourful lighting of the cheap, house-party-grade lights - which were really just the regular lights covered in coloured cellophane - he looked really nice. His hair was brushed back slightly, though rumpled, and his eyes were glazed over and shining effortlessly. He looked sort of unreal.

"I'm pretty sure." Grantaire replied confidently, after some thought.

“What?” Enjolras asked, confused.

“You asked me if I’m real.” Grantaire said. “I’m pretty sure I am.”

“What?” Enjolras repeated, every word that left Grantaire’s mouth becoming as familiar to him as a song he’d never heard.

“Don’t worry.” Grantaire chuckled, tapping a light finger to Enjolras’ forehead. “What’s going on up there, huh?”

"Combeferre.” Enjolras said instead of, well, whatever the fuck it was that he was going to reply with. He'd already forgotten both question and answer.

"You want Combeferre?" Grantaire laughed so astonishingly that suddenly Enjolras was taken aback.

"Wait, you said Combeferre?" Enjolras said, mouth hanging wide. “He’s here?”

"Yeah!" Grantaire nodded enthusiastically, then pointed to the 'dancefloor'. "Look!"

Enjolras looked. Grantaire was right. In the middle of the living room was Combeferre, accompanied by Courfeyrac and Bossuet, all moving erratically and singing in unison. They were… Oh! They were dancing! Had Enjolras ever seen Combeferre dance? Was he good at it? He couldn't quite tell.

“What the fuck?” Enjolras said, uncertain if it was due to remembering the existence of his best friends, or a testament to how absolutely fucking high he was.

"Combeferre!" Grantaire called with his hands cupped on either side of his mouth for amplification. "Get over here!"

And suddenly, Combeferre was making his way over, and so was Courfeyrac, and they were still dancing and- Had Enjolras ever seen Combeferre dance? Did he already ask that? He couldn't quite tell but it didn't end up mattering too much because all of a sudden, Combeferre was in front of him, and when the fuck did that happen?

"What did you do to my Enjolras?" Combeferre asked, pointing a finger into Grantaire's chest. His words were impossibly slurred, and he was stumbling from foot to foot.

"Bahorel.” Enjolras said before Grantaire could respond. He was confident with his answer.

"A cookie." Grantaire corrected with a sharp nod. "He ate a cookie."

"A drugs cookie." Enjolras whisper-shouted with wide eyes and a smile that made his face hurt. Come to think of it, how long had he been smiling? It made his face feel so, so, so weird. He tried to relax it, but he couldn't remember how his mouth was supposed to sit normally, so he began to work his jaw until he forgot what he was doing.

"Get out of here!" Combeferre yelled excitedly, shaking Courfeyrac by the backs of his shoulders. "Are you hearing this?"

"What's happening?" Courfeyrac asked, swaying beneath Combeferre's not-so-steadying hands. His eyes were closed and Enjolras thought he looked lost. Whatever that meant.

"Enjolras ate your edibles." Combeferre said in Courfeyrac's ear. Courfeyrac's eyes flew open.

"Haaaa!" Courfeyrac called dramatically. "Where is Bahorel?! He owes me five dollars!"

“You’re so weird.” Enjolras said, jumping at the loud noise Courfeyrac made.

“No, darling, you are.” Courfeyrac said, taking Combeferre by the hand and beginning to drag him away. "Combeferre, do you want to come and do shots with me?"

"What are you, crazy?" Combeferre exclaimed. "We just did shots!"

"No, Combeferre, shots." Courfeyrac muttered, turning to give Combeferre a suspicious glance and a wink, before nodding his head towards Enjolras and Grantaire sitting alone on the seat. Combeferre replied with an expression of sudden realisation, and began slowly backing the two of them away, in the opposite direction of the shots.

Enjolras thought that that was a weird interaction, and regardless of just how Zen he felt at that moment, that feeling of anxiousness began to creep back in. Was he weird? Did he look weird right now? Why did Courfeyrac say he was weird? Does Courfeyrac think he is weird? Why did they just leave like that? Is Enjolras annoying? Are they sick of him? Oh God, oh fuck, he knew this would happen eventually. He is weird, but he guessed he already knew that. And now everyone else knew too. It was only a matter of time before people realised-

"What's next?" Grantaire said suddenly.

Enjolras drew his gaze from where it was previously floating in space to Grantaire's face.

"What?" Enjolras asked. “What do you mean?”

"Well, I have a hunch that this will probably be the only time I am ever blessed enough to see stoned-Enjolras," Grantaire said with a laugh that was way, way, way too distracting, though less distracting than the fact that Grantaire so nonchalantly reached a hand out to brush one of Enjolras' fucking curls out of his fucking face because that's something Grantaire can just do now, apparently, "and I refuse to let you sit here and get lost in that pretty head of yours, so what do you want to do?"

The questions stumped Enjolras for a minute. What did he want to do? He didn't really want to do anything; he was happy here. Staring into Grantaire's eyes, letting himself go a little bit, it felt right. It felt correct. The only thing he wanted to do was this, except maybe move a little closer, maybe even place his hand in Grantaire's again. He looked at Grantaire's lips. He knew what he wanted to do, he realised, but,

"Oh, I can't say that! Am I crazy?!" Enjolras yelled.

"What do you mean?" Grantaire asked, frowning now.

Fuck. Did Grantaire know what Enjolras was thinking? Did he fucking say it out loud? He couldn't have. Maybe he did. He didn't know.

"Oh my God." Enjolras settled on, after forgetting the question again. Grantaire laughed, another real laugh.

“I hope you know that this is the greatest night of my life." Grantaire teased light-heartedly.

What? Shut up. Think. What did he want to do?

"Okay, what about this.” Enjolras began, his words impossibly heavy and broken. “I write a book.”

“What?” Grantaire asked quizzically, barely containing his amusement.

“Combeferre has a library. That’s where books live.”

"This is true.” Grantaire nodded with a wide smile. “But we're at Courfeyrac's house, remember?”

Oh yeah, that's right. Courfeyrac's house. Courfeyrac doesn't have a library, and besides, what would he write a book about? Whose idea was that? God, Enjolras was struggling to keep up, he couldn't even keep a thought longer than a few seconds. He was hungry, he knew that much. And he was thirsty too, and he realised he still hadn’t gotten a drink of water when he was going to earlier. His mouth felt dry, like it was full of cotton, but he worried that Courfeyrac's kitchen wouldn't have a glass large enough to hold the amount of water Enjolras felt he needed at that moment.

And with that thought, a brilliant and amazing idea dawned in Enjolras' mind.

"Courfeyrac has a pool!" He exclaimed. Grantaire was looking at him like it was the best idea in the world, his eyes were soft, and he was smiling and he was so fucking close to him and,

"Oh, that's a horrible idea." Grantaire tried.

“Come on." Enjolras said to Grantaire, not bothering to wait for his reply. Instead, he bolted to his feet and made a break for the door. He was pretty impressed to find that his legs still worked, his feet knew the way when his mind couldn't remember where to go. The house looked so familiar, it was like he had been here before (he had, many times) and he was amazed by the way he found the back door. He struggled with the lock on the door for a while, Courfeyrac’s house was ancient, and all of the doors had those stupid old-timey locks with those long, rusty keys that stuck in the doors, but he managed it in the end and burst outside and into the backyard.

And there it was. The pool. Luminescent lighting turned it a vibrant shade of blue that Enjolras thought looked magical. Only slightly less magical than the sound of Grantaire's footsteps following closely behind his, and his sudden voice in his ear.

"Well, would you look at that?" Grantaire said. "That is a pool alright."

"Yeah." Enjolras breathed.

He could hear Grantaire beside him now, his breathing heavy from exertion. He heard Grantaire chuckle, and then sigh, and then a bunch of noises Enjolras couldn't identify. He turned to find Grantaire bending down, discarding his shoes ungraciously with some effort and a slight stumble. Enjolras looked around confusedly, looking for clues as to what was going on. He found none.

Grantaire straightened once he had thrown his shoes away behind them, and he took a few steps backwards as he turned to Enjolras with that stupid, stupid grin on his face and said,

"Hey, Enjolras."

"Yeah?" Enjolras replied.

"Check this shit out."

And then, Grantaire was running towards the pool, jumping high into the air, and hurtling himself down into the once-still water of the pool, creating waves and sending them flying. Enjolras felt part of the spray on his face and hands and flinched at the change in temperature. Something in his brain told him to feel annoyed, but that something was tucked too far away to make any sense. That looked cool as fuck.

"Whoa!" Enjolras exclaimed, laughing unnecessarily. "What the fuck?"

And then, Grantaire emerged, taking a gasping breath as he reached the surface. He scrubbed a hand over his face, sending his drenched curls out of his vision, laughing again. Laughing, like really laughing. Enjolras liked that laugh, uncontrolled and cackly, nothing like the one Grantaire gave him most of the time. The one that was low and steady, almost condescending. That one was smug, fake. This one was real.

"Whoo!" Grantaire exclaimed into the night sky.

"That was so cool." Enjolras half-whispered, locked in his daydream. He subconsciously walked himself closer to the edge of the pool, like a sailor in the ocean, being lured in by the sound of a siren's song. He knelt to inspect the water with his hand.

"You think so?" Grantaire asked, wading through the water until he met Enjolras at the edge. He looked up at Enjolras kneeling ahead of him, a proud grin on his face.

He looked happy.

"You're happy." Enjolras said, ignoring the way Grantaire all but flinched at the words.

"Huh?"

"Right now. You are." Enjolras explained. "I wish you were happy more.”

Enjolras didn't know why he said that, unaware of just how much the effects of the weed were taking a toll on his mind-to-mouth filter. He felt a little disappointed when Grantaire's face subdued, and he looked away.

"Damn," Grantaire chuckled as a deflection, "this kid tries weed once and starts just saying shit."

What? Enjolras wasn't just saying shit. Grantaire did look happy, until Enjolras brought it up. He looked effortless and relaxed, like he wasn't thinking about one million things in half a second. Grantaire must be really good at being high, Enjolras thought, because he seemed normal, seemed like the same Grantaire that Enjolras often saw. But now? Now Grantaire was looking anywhere but Enjolras' eyes and he had that self-deprecating smile on his face that he was trying to cover up and- shit, did Enjolras say something that isn't offensive in my head but is still apparently offensive again? What did he say?
Oh yeah, he gave Grantaire a compliment. He didn't usually do that. That wasn't normal. That wasn't what they did. That isn't how they work. So, he tried to compensate by saying,

"You're a fucking idiot."

Grantaire looked at him with fake offence and scoffed. "Excuse me?"

"I said you’re a fucking idiot." Enjolras said simply, hardly disguising his smile.

Yeah, good idea. It's working. Because now Grantaire was chuckling again and smiling and looked like he wasn't repeating the one hundred negative mantras Enjolras knew he said about himself in his head. Now, Grantaire was looking at him again and was, oh God, holding out his hand to Enjolras.

And Enjolras' mind may have malfunctioned just a bit. He felt his heart skip a few, because Grantaire had a wild look in his eye, wicked and calculated but so, so Grantaire, as he said,

"Shut up and help me out of the pool."

Yeah, right. Enjolras was not falling for that. Obviously, the trick would be that Grantaire, the stronger of the two, would pull him in with him. He'd wrap a rough hand around Enjolras' and draw him near, send him plummeting into the pool, because Grantaire was capable of that, because he was so strong. He could probably pick Enjolras up and throw him across any room, and he probably gave great hugs, comforting and warm and welcoming, a hiding place that someone could seek refuge in if they wanted to. Because Grantaire would let them, he was caring and kind like that, and the type of person to do whatever he could to show his love for his friends. Enjolras wondered if that love would ever extend to him. He'd be warm, too, and-

Wait, he was getting distracted. What was he doing? Oh yeah, he was helping Grantaire out of the pool.

He took Grantaire's hand.

Before Enjolras could comprehend his mistake, he was falling towards the water without so much as a moment to brace himself for the harsh chill on his skin. But once he hit the water, once the splash was a muffled sound in his ears, and once he opened his eyes, he saw hundreds of bubbles circling him, and he saw his clothes floating around his body, and he saw nothing but that blue light that had him in some kind of trance. He felt like he was flying, and it was the most peaceful moment he could think of ever experiencing. When he breached the surface, Grantaire was howling with laughter. Enjolras copied him, for whatever reason, his mind racing with endless thoughts of everything to do with this moment, in the pool with Grantaire.

"It's not cold?" Was the first thing Enjolras thought to say once he caught his breath, letting his arms do the work of holding him above the water. "How is it not cold?"

"Magic." Grantaire whispered with a story-tellers wonder.

Grantaire wouldn't stop laughing, and for once, Enjolras didn't want him to. He pressed his eyes shut, and focused on the sound, imagining it in his mind. He started to experience the whole moment in flashes of consciousness, as if he was looking at everything through a camera lens, taking pictures of the important bits. He didn't open his eyes until he realised that the sound of laughter was getting further away, and that Grantaire was drifting across to the other side of the pool, slowly, still giggling to himself.

"Where are you going?" Enjolras heard himself ask. He could hear the fucking downcast of his own voice, but he didn't care. One second Grantaire was near him, the next he was gone. Grantaire didn't reply, just retreated to the corner of the pool, towards the deep end, and-

"What the fuck is that?" Enjolras asked, his eyes open and attention now drawn to a circular object floating in the pool. This was too much magic for one night, he thought.

But then Grantaire was returning to him, with the unidentified floating object being dragged along in tow, and a delighted smile on his face.

"It's a- It's a pool float- Floating thing." Grantaire said as he pushed it over to Enjolras, the pool float slowly drifting across the distance between the two men, with Grantaire following closely behind it. "You sit in it."

It wasn't huge, but it was bigger than he thought they normally looked. He was caught up in how pink it was, and how cool it looked against the blue water as he watched it make its way over to him. Still, he felt like it appeared out of nowhere.

And suddenly, in Enjolras’ next freeze-frame in his mind, he saw the pool float being raised into the air, and coming down on top of Enjolras. He gasped, flinching away from it in bemusement, bracing for impact. But he quickly realised it had a hole in the middle, and before he could even process his movements, his head was through it. He scrambled to pull his arms up and through the hole and finally, he was balancing on it, higher now. He let his arms and his legs rest, letting go of his body completely, and that was the moment that Enjolras felt like everything, every single thing, was okay. No more fighting to stay alive, no more half-holding himself above the water. All he was doing was sitting on a pool float, high out of his mind in the pool, but Enjolras was alive.

"I'm literally the king of the pool." Enjolras stated with a pleased chuckle. He let his eyes fall shut again and rested his head on the newfound cushioning behind his neck.

"Don't you mean elected representative of the pool?" He heard Grantaire say.

When Enjolras opened his eyes, he was met with the beautiful sight of hundreds of thousands of millions of little flickering lights high up in the sky. It was a clear night, just like the night at the Corinthe, but for some reason, he found there were ten times as many as there were that night. He felt like the stars were looking down on him, here in the pool, watching him closely. Some looked brighter than others, and the more he looked, the sooner smaller and dimmer stars appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Where had they come from? Were they always there, seeing him, whilst he was looking elsewhere? Whilst he was distracted looking at the brighter stars? Enjolras felt a vine of guilt creeping through his gut, a pity for not seeing the other stars straight away for some reason and felt himself scowling. And then he heard Grantaire groan in annoyance.

"Stop fucking frowning all the time." Grantaire droned in an exasperated tone. He splashed Enjolras with the water. "What are you frowning about now?"

How would he even begin to explain?

"Those." Enjolras said, pointing up at the night sky, littered with clusters of lonely stars. "Up there."

He could hear Grantaire scoffing at him, along with the sounds of the water moving about as Grantaire absentmindedly circled him, less like a shark to prey, more like a goldfish stuck in a bowl.

"Of course." Grantaire chuckled. "Only you would find a way to be angry at the stars."

Enjolras huffed in response.

"I'll kill them." Grantaire said as he began to float on his back. "How dare they trouble you?"

Enjolras was silent for a few moments, besides a small, almost inaudible chuckle at Grantaire's statement.

"They're so- They're so tiny." Enjolras said, sounding quite annoyed at the thought.

"Well, technically-" Grantaire said, and Enjolras could hear a splash of water loud enough to be able to recognise that Grantaire had raised his arm to point upwards. "They're actually pretty fucking massive. You're just too far away to see it."

Yeah. Exactly.

"I can’t count them all tonight." Enjolras said, once again with an anger of sorts, as if the stars had singlehandedly murdered his entire family.

"You never could, but alright." Grantaire reminded him.

"And they're always there. But sometimes I forget they're there because I'm either not looking, or I'm-" Enjolras tried to explain, but he wasn't even sure the words were coming out of this mouth.

Grantaire reappeared in front of him, now moving to place his forearms on the floating disk and resting his head upon them. He looked at Enjolras curiously, waiting for him to continue. Enjolras became distracted for half a second, noticing a black marking on the skin behind Grantaire's shirt, the white fabric now see-through from the effects of the water. A tattoo. One Enjolras had never seen. On his chest. Enjolras absolutely could not afford to think about that right now, so he took a second to search his mind for the thought he was previously thinking, attempting to find it before it flew away into the nothingness.

"What the fuck was I saying?" Enjolras asked impatiently, squeezing his eyes shut as he continued his mental search.

"Something about the stars and how they're too small and how that fills you with indescribable violent rage for some reason." Grantaire snickered, his head tilted and resting on his arms.

"Oh yeah. I mean, it just makes me think about- I don't know." Enjolras huffed. "What else have I missed because I thought that it was smaller than it was? Do you know what I mean? Does that make any sense?"

Grantaire tilted his head and made a sound in question, motivating Enjolras to elaborate. Enjolras grumbled under his voice.

"What else around me is so amazing and important and- Like you said, fucking massive," Enjolras said, and then sighed, letting his angry demeanour soften, "that I've missed it, because I thought it was something small, because there was something brighter to distract me, and because I was too far away?"

He looked to Grantaire, who was giving him a pensive stare, a look that Enjolras had seen as many times as there were stars in the night sky. The look of Grantaire's eyes, wide and glorious, a corner of his mouth upturned in thought. Enjolras felt something warm in his chest again, and he felt his heartbeat quickening. He could feel the moths in his stomach waking up once more, and this time they were back for vengeance. But he didn't feel angry right now, so why was his body betraying him? He didn't want to feel angry, he didn't want to always feel angry at Grantaire. Grantaire wasn't doing anything wrong, for fuck's sake. Just looking up at Enjolras with those attentive eyes and that slow blink and a sort of aliveness that Enjolras couldn't look away from.

"Damn." Grantaire said so casually, offering a light-hearted laugh. "Who knew stoned-Enjolras was so poetic? You'd give Jehan a run for their money."

And with the mention of someone else, the reminder that other people were existing in the near vicinity, Enjolras felt like the bubble he had blown around Grantaire and himself, the pool and the stars had burst. They weren't the only ones who existed, the world still moved around him, even in his inebriated state. The revolution was still waiting for him on the other side of this early morning, dawn would break in a matter of hours, and he would feel the chill of the world seeping deep into his bones again.

"You okay?" Grantaire asked, his voice softer than his usual taunting inflections.

Enjolras just needed to get out of this pool. Yeah. Don't get him wrong, he wanted nothing more than to stay here, in this moment forever, to feel like his mind was wandering aimlessly along the edge of the pool. A part of him began to imagine the dangers of the world around him as electrical wires, unable to reach him in the pool without losing their power. But those wires were determined to cause destruction, and if they found him here, they'd all go up in sparks. Including him. Including Grantaire. Enjolras had to get out of the pool. Now.

"Yeah, I just need to get out of this thing." Enjolras mumbled, a sense of urgency plaguing him, as he lightly tapped the edge of the pool float, which he could now see had been painted to look like a strawberry doughnut with rainbow sprinkles.

He began to struggle with the stupid doughnut, pulling himself further up to place himself on top of it, rather than slipping through the opening at the bottom and into the water.

"Wait, no, you're supposed to go under-" Grantaire's voice chimed, an amused laugh elicited from his lips.

And with Enjolras' legs through the hole at the top, he lost his balance on the severely unstable floating device. There was no time to process that he was falling, his body thrown backwards into the water as the float was pushed out from underneath him. The backward dive into the chill of the water sent every atom in his body into survival mode, and without thinking, he took a large breath in shock, half-choking on the water he was submerged beneath.

Enjolras could have been upside down, sideways, or floating diagonally, but he wasn't even sure that his eyes were open, so he didn't really know which way was up or down. All he could focus on was the way everything sounded when he was underwater. Grantaire's laugh was a distant rumbling, the water moving around him sounded so calming, and for the briefest of moments, Enjolras found himself having a horrible, terrible thought.

The thought of breathing in as deep as he could, letting his lungs fill with water and chlorine, feeling the bursting of his own eardrums, and then, the best part, feeling nothing. God, how good it would feel to just feel nothing, no responsibility, no buzzing in his chest, no thought keeping him from sleep. Nothing but nothing.

But he didn't breathe in deeply, he wouldn't do that, didn't want to do that. It was only something of a sick fantasy that tended to creep into his mind sometimes, during a moment of complete anxiety. But at the same time, he also wasn't really making any move to swim himself up to the surface either. He just allowed himself to sink deeper into the ambient depths of the pool. And finally, when his eyes began to close amidst the calming sensation of sensory deprivation, Enjolras felt rough hands gripping his shirt, and he was being pulled upwards through the surface of the water and towards the world above him.

When Enjolras could finally breathe again, he began to cough and splutter out the water he had all but inhaled, opening his eyes to find Grantaire directly in front of him. Grantaire was still laughing at him, his head thrown back in a fit, and his hands still clutching the neck of Enjolras' shirt. It made Enjolras laugh too for some reason, the contagiousness of Grantaire's happiness. Grantaire said something sarcastically along the lines of just how gracefully Enjolras had executed his dive, but Enjolras was hardly listening to the exact words coming from Grantaire's mouth. He was rather caught up on how soft Grantaire's voice sounded in his ears. Because amongst the coolness of the pool and by extension the increased circulation in his body, Grantaire's focused gaze was upon him, along with the infinite number of stars watching over him.

They were so close now, and Enjolras could feel the warmth of Grantaire's body pouring his way, across the mere inches that now separated them. If Enjolras took one step further, they'd be chest to chest. If he took another step, they'd be-

Enjolras stopped laughing.

His mind laser-focused on the man in front of him. Still laughing, still mindlessly pulling at Enjolras' shirt. Grantaire's eyes opened eventually, and Enjolras watched in slow motion how his gaze became somewhat vacant, as if he were following Enjolras' lead. Or perhaps, Grantaire had become just as lost in Enjolras' eyes as Enjolras currently was in his. They were so close, closer than they'd ever been to each other. Closer than Enjolras had ever comfortably been to anyone. He'd spent the last twelve years avoiding this, avoiding the feel of another person's breath on his skin, the electricity of someone else's pulse beneath his fingertips. But right then, he couldn't have imagined why he'd found the thought of touching someone else so frightening. Enjolras' breathing stuttered slightly, but somehow, he found the courage that he had lacked for most of his life, and he willed himself to keep himself composed. Composed enough to carefully, decisively pull his own arms up from out of the water, and cup either side of Grantaire's face.

Enjolras wished he could've captured the way Grantaire's face morphed. His eyes widened from giddiness to amazement, as if the only thing that existed was Enjolras and the closeness they were sharing. Grantaire's chest rose and fell with a steady succession, as if the pool had become the ocean and the waves were controlled by Grantaire's lungs. And when Enjolras felt Grantaire's hands detached from his shirt, felt his arms disrupting the flow of the water around him, moving slowly and carefully until his hands were planted softly on his waist, he was brought closer by the hips. Enjolras' mind short-circuited, the pool becoming electric, but not for the reason he had previously feared.

Grantaire chuckled again, nervously this time, never turning his gaze to anything but Enjolras' eyes. That gaze was locked in place, and neither of them said a word, not daring to disturb the reverie they were sharing. If they spoke, the moment would become reality, and even if they were both feeling the overwhelming gravitational pull towards each other, there was no room to acknowledge that this had been what both had been dancing around for years. This is what they should be doing, Enjolras thought, but this is not what they did.

And suddenly Grantaire's focus on Enjolras' eye was broken, flickering down, landing on Enjolras' lips. He let out a shaky breath, before looking back up at Enjolras, and in that moment, Enjolras was gone. His mind had disappeared, his thoughts were incomprehensible, and the world around him had obliterated into smaller and smaller pieces, until nothing mattered but Enjolras and Grantaire, in the pool, mimicking the stars. They were perfectly aligned, a solar eclipse, but they could never be any closer. The moon would vapourise if the sun got too close.

And if the collision of the sun and the moon could create an implosion of the universe, Enjolras thought he felt it, because without so much as a simple warning, the back door to the house flew open. Enjolras half jumped out of his skin, Grantaire did the same.

"What's going on out here?" Bahorel's booming voice echoed through Enjolras' water-clogged ears. Bahorel and Éponine appeared out of Enjolras' peripheral vision, staggering and drowsy, making their way over to the side of the pool. Grantaire cleared his throat, the only contradiction in his effortlessly blasé demeanour.

"Enjolras is quite angry with the stars." Grantaire chuckled casually, turning to face Bahorel now, a respectable amount of distance between him and Enjolras. The words elicited an understanding scoff from Éponine.

"Aren't we all." She said, her toes curling around the edge of the pool. "Come on, Baz."

Before Enjolras even had time to process anything that was happening around him, he heard a large splatter of water to his left, freckling him with droplets once again. And then, another splash, and then voices, and then cheers and laughs and all of a sudden, the night was moving too quickly again. The world continued to spin, and Grantaire had disappeared from his spot right in front of him. Bahorel had him in a headlock, Bossuet and Cosette had now joined them and Enjolras felt the cold. The freezing chill of the pool had killed the moths in his stomach, and he found that he felt lonely without them.

It was nearing one in the morning, and (almost) everyone was awake and kicking. Marius had passed out on the floor of the kitchen an hour prior, and Joly and Musichetta were cuddled up on the loveseat by the door, insisting that they weren't sleeping, but a certain someone's heavy, even breaths were telling a different story.

Those who were still partying on found themselves relaxed in different spots around the living room. Courfeyrac was on the floor at Joly's feet, with a very sleepy Cosette's head in his lap. Éponine took the armchair beside the television, spaced out, hair wrapped up neatly in a towel and sharing a bag of chips with Bahorel, who was still just straight up dripping water everywhere. Combeferre was perhaps the most amusing sight of the night, sitting on the sofa to Enjolras' right with a pair of New Year’s Eve sunglasses on his head, and sipping an unidentifiable beverage from a saucepan with a straw. Grantaire was talking to Bossuet from where they sat beside each other against the far-left wall, the two sharing a large beach towel as an improvised blanket, and Feuilly and Jehan had stretched out on the ground behind the couch. They were all a sight to see, the lot of them. No one ever said your early twenties were glamorous.

"Alright ladies and gents, and Jehan!" Courfeyrac called to the group dispersed across the living room with a suspenseful glint in his eye. Cosette shifted slightly below him, his rousing voice jolting her from her half-sleep. "I think it's time for a little performance, don't you?"

"No, Courfeyrac, no karaoke, please." Bahorel groaned in exasperation. "I can't remember all of the ABBA words right now."

Courfeyrac laughed. "No! Not karaoke!"

Courfeyrac gently coaxed Cosette's head out of his lap and propped her up on a pillow, before briefly leaving the room and heading down the hallway. He came back a short time after with Grantaire's guitar case, the strap lazily slung over his shoulder. He raised his eyebrows suggestively, looking towards Grantaire, who was shaking his head with that smile again, the deflective one that told Enjolras that he didn't have any belief in himself.

"Nah, you don't want to hear all that!" Grantaire laughed, gesturing to the years-old speakers on the TV cabinet. "What about your Renaissance music?!"

"Do it! Come on!" Courfeyrac cried drunkenly. He pulled the guitar case from where it was slung over his shoulder and held it outstretched in his hands, shaking it gently. "You know you want to!"

"It's my birthday, I'm literally birthday boy, I say you have to." Combeferre piped up with a blank face, his sunglasses crooked on his nose and speaking around the straw in his mouth.

Grantaire smiled lovingly at Combeferre, and then accidentally caught Enjolras' gaze. He didn't hold it for very long before he rolled his eyes, reluctant, yet decided to extend his arm.

"Can't argue with that logic. Hand it over then, pretty boy."

A loud round of whoops and encouraging applause filled the room as Grantaire took hold of the guitar case and carefully pulled it from its protection. Bossuet took the beach towel from Grantaire's shoulders and wrapped it around himself properly as Grantaire moved away and found himself a spot in the middle of the room. He settled onto the floor with his guitar on his knee and strummed a chord for dramatic effect.

"Right." Grantaire said, looking around at his friends. "What do you lot want to hear, then?"

Grantaire began playing softly over top of the discourse of his friends bickering about which song they should force him to play, and Enjolras found it rather baffling that anyone would be able to be distracted when Grantaire was playing his guitar at all, even if he was just strumming random chords that belonged to no specific song. Grantaire’s hands moved so naturally around the strings, he made it look easy, and it was entrancing. Eventually, Combeferre pulled the birthday boy card again, for probably the millionth time that night, and he requested a song that Enjolras had never heard of.

“Alright.” Grantaire said, and he began to play a progression of chords that sounded like gold.

His hands moved fast and methodically, Enjolras always wondered how someone could figure out how to do that. The shapes he was making with his fingers looked complicated, and don’t even get him started on remembering what shapes to make. Whilst Enjolras watched Grantaire's hands move, he noticed that his fingernails were painted in a dark green shade, and some of his fingers had yellow circles or something on them, he was moving them too quickly for Enjolras to get a good look. It made him smile to himself.

And then, when Enjolras thought he was already as entranced as he could be, Grantaire began to sing.

His voice was so soothing, a little raspy, but it had a higher sort of pitch than Enjolras would have assumed. It held a controlled quiver on the ends of words that drew Enjolras in, and he found himself lost in the sound. Grantaire was singing the words with his eyes mostly distractedly looking away or closed altogether. But when his eyes flickered open sharply to meet Enjolras' fixed gaze, Enjolras suddenly felt exposed.

"Now, would you die for the mouths unfed? Oh, Eloise." He sang.

For some reason, those words seemed to carve lines in Enjolras' chest, like a prisoner tracking his sentence. Enjolras didn't know if this song was an original, or if Grantaire was simply playing a freakishly relevant song, or maybe Enjolras was still too high and imagining the whole thing, but the way he was singing made Enjolras feel as if he was talking right to him, and he suddenly felt the urgent need to look anywhere but Grantaire, turning his gaze to the wall.

Some of their friends joined in, singing accompanying oohs and aahs so easily that Enjolras realised they must have heard this song one thousand times. Grantaire typically played grungy, rock-style music at his gigs, or at least he did at the handful Enjolras attended, but this song was airy, acoustic, and so much different to his usual style. Enjolras wondered why Grantaire had never played this specific song in his gigs before. He wondered why he never asked to hear one like it.

Grantaire narrowed his focus upon Enjolras' still frame once again, deriding him with a smirk.

"I've seen you publish all the lies, poor girl."

"Lies, poor girl!" Jehan echoed right in Enjolras' ear, tauntingly. Enjolras found himself catching his breath, subconsciously frowning at the attention that was placed on him.

"I've seen the rubbish that you cry over."

"Cry over!" The four backing vocalists (who shouldn't quit their day jobs) sang again, all of them giggling in Enjolras' direction as if there was some kind of joke that Enjolras was missing.

Grantaire was still giving him that cheeky look, evidently amused to see Enjolras so flustered due to the attention. But then, Grantaire's cheeky and testing expression began to lessen, morphing into a troubled look that Enjolras could hardly describe. It was a look like the one he had given him when Enjolras had asked him how he could be so hopeless. It was helplessness. He sang,

"How can you stomach all the dying world? Oh, Eloise."

Enjolras' world decided to stop spinning, as he and Grantaire shared a desperate look that lasted much too long for Enjolras to feel comfortable. Still, he couldn't bring himself to tear his eyes away. He felt vulnerable and open, and maybe it was the weed, or the way Grantaire seemed to be talking to him through those glances they kept sharing, but he couldn't find it in him to close himself off.

When Grantaire looked away, down at his fingers that began to play a bittersweet, melodic instrumental, the rest of his friends had attempted to join in, obviously butchering the harmonies and the tempo, and Grantaire began to laugh and look around at them with small eyes. Enjolras' gaze shifted down to Grantaire's hands, fingers moving sporadically between chord changes.

Grantaire's hands, the ones that had planted themselves in Enjolras' mind at the smash of a bottle, the ones that led Enjolras home on a drunken night, the ones that sweetly bandaged the now healed scar on his jawline. The same hands that give Enjolras soft pats on the back as he slips past, the same hands that can hand him pens and cups. The hand that placed itself so naturally upon his cheek, the same hand that pulled him into the pool. The hands that found their way to his waist, inching him closer. Enjolras wanted to feel them in his own again, wondering if it was pathetic, how much he craved it.

Enjolras couldn't look away from Grantaire, even with everyone including Grantaire watching him, with everyone able to see how lost Enjolras was in Grantaire. He could sense Combeferre's harsh gaze on him, closely examining him, but he didn't care. Not when the rest of the room was drifting away around him, not when his friends’ voices were becoming nothing but white noise as he narrowed his focus onto Grantaire, who shook the hair away from his face as he caught Enjolras' eye, took a deep breath, and began to start singing again.

"Good night now, Eloise, I miss you lots. It's been so hard since the world forgot. Uh, oh.
I'll try now, Eloise, to change what's wrong. I'll try for you, and I'll write your song.”

Enjolras chest began to rise more rapidly, feeling as if his lungs were tightly wrapped in an unbreakable cord, and the warmth of Grantaire's voice seemed to be enough to resurrect those angry moths in his stomach.

What the fuck. Fucking stop. Please, Enjolras bargained with himself. He couldn't keep feeling this rage, it was fucking killing him. Grantaire had done nothing wrong, and Enjolras was feeling the symptoms of his anger again, with seemingly no cause.

The guitar began to soften, and Grantaire's eyes closed tightly as he came to the end of the song, their friends all watching closely now with different faces of pride, awe, and contentment. Grantaire's hands stilled, stopping their strumming, and Enjolras felt strange all of a sudden. He felt strange watching Grantaire's hands, hearing his unshielded voice, locating those eyes that made him feel so strongly and so often. Those eyes were speaking to him, saying something, asking him questions he didn't have answers to.

"Oh, how I've crumbled now, my mind is gone. Oh, Eloise."

God, Enjolras was never doing drugs again.

Chapter Text

What a way to celebrate your friend's twenty third birthday! Courfeyrac wished he could remember any of it.

He remembered bits and pieces, sure he did. He remembered giving Combeferre the world's best birthday present; a half-ironic, half-fulfilling lap dance in the living room to Promiscuous Girl, fully clothed and even wearing pieces of Marius' ski clothes to strip off. He knows that last part to be true, because he remembered hunting Marius down to ask him if he could borrow the ski clothes, only to find him asleep on the kitchen floor. He also remembered,

Yeah, that was about all he remembered.

Courfeyrac woke up in the bathroom the next day, in the early afternoon, with a headache so severe that it felt like someone was husking his skull like a coconut. He looked around his immediate environment to find that he was lying on his back, uncomfortably propped up in the empty bathtub. His left arm was lazily wrapped around a bucket that sat unevenly on his hip, and his right hand clutching onto a semi-crumpled five dollar note. He didn't quite remember how he had gotten in this exact position, though a brief memory of running to the bathroom as fast as he could to throw up the entire contents of his stomach did spring to mind. He began to pull himself up from where he was lying, and groaned in pain when he moved a little quicker than he should have. The bucket he was holding, thankfully empty, fell to the side as he sat up and produced a loud banging noise on the side of the bathtub that made him flinch.

God, Courfeyrac loved partying.

He always thought the nights he would spend surrounded by his best friends, drinking their cares away was well worth the hangover. Combeferre would always tell him he went too hard, or that he'd often make a fool of himself when inebriated, but Courfeyrac didn't care. He was always making a fool of himself; he was the joker in the deck of uniform playing cards. Not that his friends were too ordinary, but he loved to have an excuse to shuffle them up and deal them out. But right now, the hangover was talking, and it spoke very angrily.

The thought of his friends gave Courfeyrac back some of his life, the boozy fog in his eyes clearing away to reveal what was really going on around him; the aftermath of a fucking awesome night, celebrating his best friend. He made to stand up, removing himself from the bathtub and bracing himself to see the damage the night prior had caused to his friends. Though as he stepped out of the bathtub, he was almost sent flying across the room by narrowly avoiding stepping on a young boy at his feet.

"What the fuck?" Courfeyrac practically squealed in surprise, coaxing the boy's head from the pillow that was squashed into the corner of the wall and the bathtub. Courfeyrac vaguely recognised the pillow to be one of Marius' from his bed, but the throw blanket that was tucked up to his chin was unidentifiable.

The young boy groaned impatiently as he looked at Courfeyrac from his phone.

"Finally!" The boy's familiar voice spoke, pulling himself tiredly from the cool bathroom tile. "I've been waiting for the shower for ages!"

"Gavroche?" Courfeyrac squinted at him. "What are you doing here?"

Gavroche began to scoop up the blanket and the pillow, to tuck them semi-neatly into a pile by the door, before turning to give Courfeyrac a smile that was all lip and front teeth.

"I'm waiting for Éponine." He said simply.

"When did you get here?" Courfeyrac asked, looking around the bathroom as if it would give him an answer to his question. It did not.

"Three hours ago." Gavroche said, now toying with something in his hand. It appeared to be a piece of paper, no, a banknote.

Wait a fucking minute-

"Can I keep this?" Gavroche asked, inspecting the five-dollar note rigorously.

"Uh, yeah, sure." Courfeyrac finally managed out, his voice hoarse and worn down. Somehow, he had even more questions and less answers, but he didn't let it bother him. Gavroche clearly seemed to know what was happening, and so against his better judgement, he left the thirteen-year-old boy to hang out in the chill of the bathroom with his newfound fortune.

Courfeyrac didn't quite remember what time it was that he'd passed out drunk in the bathtub, but it must've been quite late. He definitely didn’t feel like he had gotten his eight hours in, so he figured if he could just make it to his bedroom, crawl under the covers and let sleep take him and his hangover away, then perhaps he would remember a little more of the night previous once he woke up. As he walked down the hallway towards his bedroom, Courfeyrac poked his head into the living room, just to see which of his friends were still alive. Not to his surprise, they were all asleep, crumpled up on the furniture or star-fishing across the floor. What was surprising, though, was that the living room only held four of them.

Feuilly was lying on the loveseat beside the doorway, using his sweatshirt as a blanket. Pretty counterintuitive really, Courfeyrac thought, but at least he was being resourceful. On the floor beneath Feuilly, stretched out and snoring evenly was Bahorel, still holding a litre whiskey bottle that was dangerously close to empty. Joly and Bossuet were occupying the armchair in the corner, tucked up into each other for warmth, a mess of limbs covered partly by a beach towel that Courfeyrac didn't recognise.

Where the fuck was everyone else?

Come to think of it, Courfeyrac couldn't remember seeing any of the rest of them after three o'clock in the morning. He and the four men currently sleeping in the living room had stayed up the latest, he could figure that much out, and recalled playing really shitty drinking games from a two dollar app Bahorel had downloaded on Courfeyrac's phone, but the whereabouts of the rest of them was a mystery.

"You all good?" A quiet voice joined his thoughts from across the room. Courfeyrac quickly realised that it was Bossuet's voice, and that he had not been asleep when Courfeyrac poked his head in.

"Where is everybody?" Courfeyrac croaked.

Bossuet simply shrugged, and reached for his phone that was tucked deep into the crack of the armchair.

Courfeyrac did his best to remember. He could slowly recall most of his friends disappearing throughout the dark and early morning, but he could hardly make out the details. He knew that Marius was no longer on the kitchen floor when he had passed through to retrieve a glass of water for Bossuet late last night, which was very odd, because usually once Marius is drunk and passed out, he's not moving. He figured he and Cosette probably just went to his bed, but that still left half of them unaccounted for. Combeferre and Enjolras were missing in action, as was Grantaire, Jehan and Éponine, and even Musichetta had vanished from where she was last seen sandwiched between her two boyfriends on the armchair.

Eventually, Courfeyrac decided it wasn't worth the mental effort to try and locate everyone at that moment. It wasn't his fucking job to make sure all his friends were alive, this he knew. If anything, that was Combeferre's or Jehan's job. He could figure it out after a good sleep.

So, he sent a lazy wave Bossuet's way and dragged himself away from the doorway, covering the few meters between the living room and his own bedroom door, and reached for the handle. He pulled the door open harshly and sighed heavily as he all but fell into his bedroom, desperate to let his frumpy mattress swallow him. But a quick glance over to his bed revealed a wrench in Courfeyrac's plan. On the bed, now in one of Courfeyrac's hoodies and a pair of pyjama pants was Grantaire. The sight of him unlocked a memory, a request for dry clothes. Why would Grantaire need dry clothes?

The pool! Ah-ha! They went in the pool, Grantaire and Bahorel and Enjolras and… and someone. He couldn’t remember.

Grantaire was asleep on top of the blanket, looking rather dishevelled, his curls kinked sideways from sleeping with wet hair. Curled up beside Grantaire, underneath the covers, hair wrapped lazily in a towel, was Éponine. The two people responsible for claiming his spot just became the top two people on his hitlist, and Courfeyrac was so close to ripping the covers off of her and pushing Grantaire over the edge of the bed, but before he could do anything menacing, he quickly and quietly slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him.

"For fuck's sake." Courfeyrac muttered sourly to himself, leaning up against the door behind him and using it for stability. He groaned miserably, accepting defeat as he trudged back into the living room, his legs a little trembly and his stomach twisting in protest to his movements. "Fucking alcoholics."

Courfeyrac cursed as he threw himself down onto the unoccupied sofa in the centre of the room. Bahorel's head was at his feet, and he barely missed stepping on the sleeping man as he did so. Bahorel began to stir with a groan, the bottle in his hand falling mercilessly onto the hardwood floor of the living room, awakening both Feuilly and Joly from their respective slumbers.

"Shut up, man." Bahorel spat as he squinted at the bright light of the day. "Too early."

"It's twelve o'clock." Bossuet said, not raising his head to look up from whatever he was reading on his phone.

"Who's side are you on, gremlin?" Bahorel spat, his eyelids heavy as he wiped them with the back of his hand.

Courfeyrac hurriedly leaned down to pick the bottle from the floor before too much of the remaining contents could spill out, and harshly placed it upright beside Bahorel's head. He groaned as he retreated into his seat.

"I just want to sleep, and those motherfuckers are in my bed." Courfeyrac exclaimed in pain, hunching himself over into a ball against the backrest of the couch. He closed his eyes tight and pictured that he was in his bed, curled up nicely in the dead centre, drifting off into a blank state of unconsciousness.

"No one cares, dude." Bahorel groaned, ripping Feuilly's sweater from him and tossing it up and in Courfeyrac's direction. It missed him by a good few feet. "Go back to sleep."

"So, picture this." Courfeyrac began, because he was nothing if not theatrical.

Bahorel emitted a guttural sound of agony and discouragement. "Please don't start monologuing-"

"I wake up, dazed, confused, in the bathtub, a small child asleep on the floor beside me. I manage-"

"Did he just say small child?" Joly mumbled to the room. Courfeyrac was not deterred.

"to make it out of the bathroom, headed to my own quarters, but then-" Courfeyrac said, huffing and adding a dramatic pause. "As I slowly, slowly creeped through the door, I find my bed occupied?!”

Courfeyrac received no reaction, watching as Feuilly slammed a couch cushion over his head and rolled to face away from the rest of them.

"My bed. Mine. Two people, people who are not me, in my bed!" Courfeyrac called.

"Oh, that sounds terrible." Bahorel said sarcastically and void of all emotion as he rolled over and onto his back.

"So sorry to hear that." Joly said flatly. "Can I go back to sleep now?"

"Do you guys even love me?" Courfeyrac said, retrieving the balled-up sweater now on the ground in front of him and sending it hurtling Joly's way. It hit Joly in the chest, and the boy sat up abruptly at the interference. "I'm wasting away here! I slept in the bathtub! I need my beauty rest!”

"I literally slept on the ground." Bahorel said, propping himself up on his elbows and throwing his head back to take an upside-down glance at Courfeyrac.

"Why didn't you sleep on this couch then, Einstein?" Courfeyrac replied, kicking Bahorel's shoulder with his foot.

"Just go wake them up." Bossuet said helpfully. "Who is it?"

"Grantaire and Éponine." Courfeyrac said sourly. "Where the fuck is everyone else?"

"Combeferre and Enjolras took Marius' room." Feuilly said, apparently having given up on his attempt at returning to his sleep. He rolled over to face Courfeyrac and released a soft sound of discomfort.

"God damn it." Bahorel said grumpily. "I fucking knew getting Enjolras high wouldn’t work! Give me my five dollars back.”

"If you want your five dollars back, you’re gonna have to take that up with Gavroche." Courfeyrac replied sulkily.

”What?”

"Nothing." Courfeyrac sighed tiredly. "But- Wait, if Combeferre and Enjolras are in Pontmercy's bed, then where is Pontmercy?"

"Kitchen floor." Feuilly said, eyes closed.

"Wrong." Courfeyrac replied.

"Then dead somewhere, probably." Feuilly said.

"And Cosette?" Courfeyrac asked further. "And literally everyone else?"

"Who cares?" Bahorel said, smacking Courfeyrac's knee lightly from the ground below him. Bahorel made to stand and started dragging himself from off the floor. Courfeyrac swears he heard every fucking bone in Bahorel's body crack as he placed himself down on the unclaimed spot on the sofa beside Courfeyrac.

"I care!" He replied in an exasperated tone, punching Bahorel in the shoulder a tad harder than he received. "A good party host always cares about whether or not his guests are alive the next day!"

"Oh, I remember. Cosette and Marius got picked up by her father." Feuilly stated, looking confident with his answer.

"And Jehan?" Courfeyrac asked the group. He definitely remembered Jehan's presence the night before, not too long before everything began to blur. They were on the couch beside Musichetta at one point, the two attempting and failing to braid each other's hair at the same time. "And Musichetta?"

"Oh, yeah, about that." Bossuet spoke sassily, drawing out his words whilst giving Bahorel a death glare. He turned back to Courfeyrac with a grimace. "We put Musichetta in a taxi around four o'clock, and we saw Jehan leaving in a black car."

"Sneaking off, more like." Joly added.

"With whom?" Courfeyrac asked, his eyes narrowing. He thought that he already knew the answer, but he hoped he was wrong.

"Who do you think?" Bossuet said, turning back to Bahorel. Courfeyrac did the same, mouth gaping and brows downturned.

"Bahorel!" Courfeyrac scolded, not having a bar of the what can you do expression Bahorel was sporting. "What happened to hiding Jehan's phone so they don't text Montparnasse?!"

"They told me Grantaire had it!" Bahorel defended, his hands surrendering. Courfeyrac groaned in exasperation.

"Not happy with you, sir!" Courfeyrac said to Bahorel as he stood messily, taking his time to stretch his legs before pulling himself to the doorway of the living room. "Whatever. I need coffee."

"Ooh, make me one, would you?" Bahorel called desperately, sounding as if the continuation of his life depended on a hot caffeinated beverage.

"Me too!" Bossuet added.

"And me?" Feuilly asked politely.

"You got any hot chocolate?" Joly mumbled sleepily.

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes and slinked away, his stomach growling at him, either for drinking way too much or not eating enough the previous night. He needed a coffee, and he needed it bad, and he figured it was the prime time to steal some of Marius' fancy, exotic blends. After locating the hot chocolate mix tucked away in the cupboard, he pulled out five mugs, busying himself with trying to figure out Marius' coffee machine. He then pulled out an additional two mugs in anticipation once he heard Marius' bedroom door opening to reveal a very fucked-up looking Combeferre. Courfeyrac laughed at the sight of him.

"How the tables have turned." Courfeyrac teased, playfully swatting Combeferre on the arm as he passed. "Good morning, party boy."

Combeferre took a seat on one of the stools beside the bench, and let out a long, painful exhale.

"Don't ever, ever, Courfeyrac," Combeferre said, resting his forehead in one of his palms, and pointing at Courfeyrac with the other hand, "let me drink that much again. Ever."

Courfeyrac merely continued to giggle at this. He felt quite the same, his own hangover was pounding in his head and his stomach was curling with every second that passed while he was waiting for Marius' stupid fucking bougie ass coffee machine to finish pouring the first coffee, but Combeferre looked and sounded way, way worse.

"Coffee?" Courfeyrac offered with a flirty smile and kind eyes.

"Mhm." Combeferre nodded, before lifting his head from his hand. "Please."

Courfeyrac managed to painstakingly craft three coffees, Combeferre claiming one, himself claiming another, and the third sitting waiting to be collected when the rest were made.

Courfeyrac was being a great party host and beginning to make the fourth coffee, when suddenly the sound of the front door flying open could be heard, and the slam of it closing echoed through the kitchen. A few seconds passed, both Courfeyrac and Combeferre turning in curiosity, only to find Jehan storming in with their sweater sleeves bunched up at the fists.

"Well, well, well." Courfeyrac said, relaxing against the kitchen bench. "Look who came crawling ba- Hey, Jehan, are you okay?"

Courfeyrac jolted when he noticed that Jehan's eyes were red and puffy, cheeks stained with drying tears. They had been crying. Who the fuck made Jehan cry. Jehan shouldn't be crying! Jehan is perfect!

"What happened?" Courfeyrac asked softly, voice drenched in empathy and concern. He made his way swiftly to Jehan's side.

Jehan's lip was trembling, and they allowed Courfeyrac to take them by the shoulders.

"I don't know why I keep letting him back into my life." They said, sniffling, before another stream of tears began to make their way down their cheeks.

"Oh, sweetheart." Courfeyrac said, pulling them in for a tight hug.

The two eventually moved over to the bench stools and sat down beside Combeferre, as Jehan began to explain the story of their night, what had happened after they had left the Courfeyrac-Pontmercy residence and gotten into Montparnasse's pristine corvette that he definitely did not use his own money to pay for. They described the drive to Montparnasse's friend’s house, where they were supposed to just smoke weed and play poker, but when an unknown girl in a tight maxi dress walked in, Montparnasse had feigned sick and asked Jehan to leave. Jehan had apparently run back inside to retrieve their forgotten scarf, and found Montparnasse passionately making out with the girl on the pool table, and not even bothering to run after Jehan as they stormed out and went home.

"Why didn't you come back here?" Combeferre asked gently, placing a hand on Jehan's back and rubbing a soothing circle. "You shouldn't have had to spend the night alone."

"I didn't want you guys to tell me you told me so." Jehan mumbled, looking down at the granite surface of the bench below them.

"Oh, love." Courfeyrac said, pulling Jehan in for a sideways hug. "You know what? Fuck Montparnasse. Fuck him. Or, rather, don't fuck him anymore."

"Courfeyrac." Combeferre said sharply. Jehan giggled.

"Too soon, I get it, my bad." Courfeyrac agreed, nodding. He sighed and turned back to Jehan. "If he's too dumb and stupid and blind to see how absolutely amazing you are, and how much of a fool he is for messing with you, then he doesn't deserve you. In fact, no one deserves you! You're literally perfect."

"He's not that bad." Jehan tried, but Courfeyrac just gave them a disapproving grimace. Combeferre squeezed their shoulder kindly and offered them a sympathetic look.

"Jehan, he is. He doesn't like ABBA." Combeferre said simply.

"Don't fucking remind me." Courfeyrac called dramatically. "But Combeferre is right. He is the worst. And you deserve better than that. You deserve someone who, um, loves you like the shore loves the ocean, or something. I don't know. Poetry is your thing."

"Above the storm, the heavens wait to be seen." Jehan recited with a shy smile.

"Exactly! I think." Courfeyrac cheered, giving Jehan a gentle shake. He clapped his hands together and stood to his feet, turning back to the kitchen and eyeing down the three empty mugs still on the bench. Looks like he'll need to add another.

"Now, what do you say we make you some peppermint tea and then delete all of the photos of that annoying little prick from your phone, hm?" Courfeyrac asked Jehan with a cheesy grin.

"Yeah." Jehan chuckled sweetly, nodding in agreement and drying their cheeks with their sweater sleeves. "Okay."

"That's the spirit!" Courfeyrac encouraged. He spun back around to see Combeferre blearily leaning over the bench, eyes shut sleepily. It made him chuckle. "Combeferre, another coffee?"

"Yes, please." Combeferre replied gratefully.

"Alright. Jehan, go get comfortable." Courfeyrac instructed, a pep in his step. Courfeyrac loved nothing more than seeing his friends happy, always feeling gleeful whenever he could be of some assistance to them. Jehan offered a sweet smile to their friends and retreated to the living room.

"And Combeferre," Courfeyrac quickly added, before Combeferre had any time to fall asleep at the bench, "will you go tell those lot there are two coffees ready, and they'll have to decide amongst themselves who gets them while I make the last few? I'm not dealing with all of that."

"Can do." Combeferre groaned in a voice that screamed ‘no I fucking can't’, but he pulled himself from his seat and headed to the living room anyways.

"Oh! And is Enjolras awake yet? Ask him if he wants one too. I'm also not dealing with one single second of come-down Enjolras if he's not been caffeinated."

"Sure." Combeferre said blankly, dozily rubbing his eye and leaning against the doorframe. "Where is he?"

Courfeyrac looked at Combeferre for a second, looking incredibly confused at the question. Enjolras was where Combeferre left him. He hadn't exited Marius' room yet; they would've seen him. Courfeyrac knew Combeferre looked rough, but exactly how fucking hungover was this kid?

"What do you mean?" Courfeyrac asked.

"Where is he?" Combeferre repeated, sporting a returning expression of confusion.

"What do you mean where is he?" Courfeyrac shook his head as he spoke slowly.

As if on cue, Marius' door swung open again, and both Courfeyrac and Combeferre turned to locate the person coming down the hallway. It was not Enjolras.

"How fucking loud do you all want to be?" Éponine said, already pulling her boots back on as she walked into the kitchen. She was fully dressed in last night’s clothes, her hair redone and her jewellery stacked on neatly. "Ooh, you're making coffee? Can you make me one?"

"Where the fuck did you come from?" Courfeyrac asked, though he knew the answer. He just couldn't make sense of it.

"Wow, racist?" Éponine replied harshly. She turned her head to the hallway as she called out, "Gavroche! Are you here yet? Come on we're going to be late!"

"Weren't you sleeping in my bed?" Courfeyrac asked, his face dropping all hint of understanding.

"No?" Éponine was looking at him as if he were stupid. Courfeyrac felt stupid for a moment, too.

And then it hit him like a tonne of bricks.

"So, you," Courfeyrac confirmed, already displaying an overzealous grin. "were sleeping in Marius' bed with Combeferre?"

"Oh, come on, it wasn't like that." Éponine rolled her eyes as she took charge of all coffee making. She began to pour herself a mug and made her way over to the front door with said mug in hand. "Combeferre and I were just looking at that big ass book of insects that Jehan gave Marius, and I passed out. I want a tattoo of a death moth."

"Hawkmoth." Combeferre corrected kindly.

"Yeah, yeah. whatever nerd." Éponine muttered quickly and with disinterest. "Gavroche, pick up the pace! We haven't got all day!"

Gavroche appeared then from the bathroom, after having what must've been the longest shower in history. Although his hair was almost fully dry, suggesting he had finished showering a long time ago, and the overwhelming smell on his skin and clothes and the moisture smeared on his cheek told Courfeyrac that the little shit had been messing around in his bathroom cupboards.

"Alright. Get." Éponine said, shoving him out the front door and hastily following behind him, taking the half-full mug of coffee with her. "See ya round, losers."

The room was silent for a few moments while Courfeyrac's brain played catch up, and Combeferre, in his hungover daze, must've managed to sense Courfeyrac's strange behaviour.

"What?" Combeferre asked finally when he saw Courfeyrac laughing to himself in disbelief.

"No. Fucking. Way." Courfeyrac whispered to no one but himself.

"What?" Combeferre asked again, a little less patient this time.

Courfeyrac did not have time to explain. This was quite literally the most exciting thing Courfeyrac had experienced since, well, since the last time Enjolras and Grantaire had done something fucking homoromantic. Which really wasn't that long ago. And really said something about Courfeyrac's character.

"Bahorel!" Courfeyrac shouted as he came barging into the living room, barely stopping himself before he reached the couch that Bahorel was now lazily draped across. "Bahorel!"

"Seriously, I need you to tone it down-"

"My money was on the right horse!" Courfeyrac cried giddily, grabbing hold of Bahorel's arm and attempting to drag the man off the couch. It was a futile attempt, with the man so buff and tall that Courfeyrac's scrawny frame paled in comparison, but Bahorel gave in and stood to his feet.

"What money and what horse?" Bahorel asked uncertainly.

"Just come on!" Courfeyrac groaned, not having given up on his attempt to drag Bahorel along with him to his bedroom.

"Where's my coffee?" Bahorel asked, as they passed the kitchen, to no reply. Courfeyrac was too preoccupied with his findings and Combeferre was just standing solitary in the kitchen, looking so utterly confused. Poor guy.

The two reached Courfeyrac's bedroom door, and they paused. Bahorel looked unimpressed, but Courfeyrac felt that that might change momentarily.

"Shh." Courfeyrac whispered, bringing his index finger to his lips, before slowly and carefully prying the door open. Both men peeked inside.

Grantaire was in roughly the same position as thirty minutes ago, splayed out on his back above the covers, but beside him in a slightly different position was a now identifiable Enjolras. The towel on his head had shifted its position slightly to reveal flattened curls of yellow peeking out from his head, his face now on a slightly better display. He too was lying on his back, and Courfeyrac could see that both men had their arms linked at the elbows, with Enjolras' other hand placed lightly atop Grantaire's.

"Well, would you look at that." Bahorel chuckled quietly, as they examined their sleeping friends.

"What's that saying about moths and flames?" Courfeyrac whispered with a beaming smile on his face.

"Leave them be, Courf'." Combeferre's voice appeared quietly from behind them, once he had finally caught on to what all the fuss was about.

"Are you having a laugh?" Courfeyrac whisper-shouted as he faced Combeferre. Courfeyrac was already pulling his phone out of his pocket. "I need a picture of this."

"Courfeyrac." Combeferre warned, as stern as he could whilst whispering. "This is an invasion of privacy."

"Boohoo." Courfeyrac said, making his move. "I'm going in."

"Courfeyrac!" Combeferre whisper-shouted back, looking quite cross as Courfeyrac tip-toed a step further into the room. "Don't you dare."

Courfeyrac grumbled under his breath, quickly snapped the picture on his phone, and followed Combeferre's order to get out of the room. He looked down at the picture and giggled to himself as he met Combeferre at the doorway.

"Go." Combeferre instructed sharply, pointing back down the hallway with a hand already on the door to the bedroom. Courfeyrac rolled his eyes.

"Yes, mum." He groaned sarcastically, but he complied.

Courfeyrac followed Bahorel down the hallway and to the kitchen, and smirked to himself when he turned his head over his shoulder to find Combeferre sending one last glance into the bedroom. He knew that Combeferre was enjoying this just as much as he was. Their meddling was working. He knew it would. Courfeyrac lost himself in his little daydream for a moment, wondering if anything notable happened between his two friends last night, as he sat himself down at the bench. Bahorel had already begun to take over coffee-making duty, so Courfeyrac allowed himself to stay in his mind, all excited and giddy.

"It's fucking cold." Bahorel grumbled, and Courfeyrac looked up to see Bahorel sipping one of the already-made coffees from before.

"My bad." Courfeyrac grinned testingly.

What the hell happened last night?

There were a few times during the night prior that Enjolras was convinced that he was dying.

The first time he felt that panic growing inside of him again was when he was sat on the back lawn, a towel lazily draped around his shoulders, though not doing much to combat the chill creeping up his spine and sending shivers through his limbs. He could see Bossuet and Cosette, lying on the cement around the pool ahead of him, drunkenly babbling to Bahorel and Grantaire, who were still half-drowning each other an hour later. His vision turned hazy, his mind untrusting of the logical voice in his head telling him he was safe, that there was no threat around him. He focused on his breathing, recalled reading about marijuana and paranoia coming hand in hand, and repeated I'm just high in his head like a mantra.

The second time was after Grantaire's little performance. Enjolras didn't know why he'd felt like he couldn't breathe anymore, he was not physically exerting himself, he was just sitting quietly on the couch surrounded by his friends, whose loud applause sounded like thunder in his ears.

I'm just high, I'm just high, I'm just high.

The third time was now.

It was like he blinked, and time had skipped hours into the future. Enjolras looked around the room to find it notably emptier than he remembered finding it before he zoned out. The television was on, brightly and colourfully rolling some stage production of a movie he'd never seen before, but he was the only one in the room looking at it. There was a towel curled upon his head, drying the damp curls there, and he didn't like the way it felt on his ears.

Everything was getting to be too much again.

Courfeyrac was now wearing a pair of ski boots that had seemingly appeared from nowhere, attempting to waltz with Musichetta in the centre of the living room, glass bottle in hand and a fake cigar in his mouth. Jehan, Joly and Bossuet were all ranting and raving at Bahorel, who was apparently cheating at Never Have I Ever. Enjolras didn’t even think that was possible. Feuilly was on the loveseat by the door, the light from his phone dancing across his face as he sporadically howled with laughter, usually followed by an exclamation something along the lines of 'this is sooo me!'

Enjolras needed to leave, he decided rather easily. He needed to leave now, go home and pull himself underneath his covers, squeeze his eyes tight until bizarre patterns emerged behind his eyelids, and watch those patterns dance until he fell asleep. But when he looked around the room, Enjolras quickly discovered that he could not locate Combeferre. This was a problem.

"Feuilly?" Enjolras asked, feeling flushed and panicky.

"Yeah, boss?" Feuilly replied, not looking away from his phone.

"Where's Combeferre?" He asked.

"He's gone to sleep in what’s-his-names room, I think."

Fucking brilliant, Enjolras thought. He just wanted to go home, but there was no way he was making it home without Combeferre. The walk home from Courfeyrac’s house was a short one, and Enjolras had done it one million times, but the anxiety working itself up in his chest made him fear the night outside. Enjolras wasn't as high as he was a few hours ago, maybe just as dreary and heavy-limbed, but his mind was starting to piece things together a lot faster than he had been earlier. When people around him talked, their voices were no longer distant echoes of familiar voices, they were right in his ear. When he saw something move out of his peripherals, there was no delay to his vision. And that meant he was sobering up. And with sobering up came clearer thinking. And with clear thinking came the spiral. So, screw it if he had to sleep in Courfeyrac's bed, right now he just needed two things; Combeferre’s calming reassurance that he was not going to die, and to be unconscious in the very near future.

"I think I'll join him." Enjolras said as calmly as he could manage.

Feuilly looked up from his videos, a concerned look on his face. Enjolras was not doing a great job of acting normal.

"You okay?"

"Mhm." He nodded, avoiding eye contact. “Tired.”

"Okay." Feuilly said, smiling kindly, but not thoroughly convinced. "Sleep well."

Enjolras did not reply. He couldn't find it in him to speak. Instead, he fled from the sofa and out of the living room, slow enough to not cause a scene but quick enough to avoid further questioning. He found his way to the hallway. Courfeyrac's bedroom door was open ajar, the room darkened with the exception of the glow of a table lamp cascading through the crack. Enjolras, not wanting to draw too much attention to himself, pushed through the door without so much as a knock. He hoped Combeferre was already asleep.

The man was not asleep. The man was also not Combeferre.

"Fucking hell!" Grantaire's voice came suddenly, causing Enjolras to look up from his path on the floor.

Grantaire was standing over by the built-in dresser, midway through pulling a shirt down over his head and past his chest. Enjolras caught a glimpse of that chest tattoo again, the one he'd never seen before, but not enough of a glimpse to clearly make out any of it. It looked like a triangle, which was all his brain was capable of coming up with at that point because it was, you know, on Grantaire's chest. When Enjolras realised he was staring, he diverted his gaze back down to his feet.

"Shit." Enjolras said, raising a hand to block Grantaire from the top of his vision, as if it were any better privacy than stepping out if the room altogether. "Sorry, sorry."

Grantaire began to laugh at him, and Enjolras found his attention drawn away from the carpet and back up to him. He was properly clothed now, wearing one of Courfeyrac's hideously neon graphic t-shirts, one that said in bold letters 'NFT's are for virgins', whatever the fuck that meant.

"It's cool, you just scared me." Grantaire said, pulling a black hoodie out from the dresser and beginning to throw it on overtop of that tragedy of a t-shirt. He rolled the sleeves up to his elbows, once again displaying the familiar tattoos on his wrists and forearms. Enjolras got distracted again.

"Sorry, uhm-" Enjolras tried, having to manually stop himself from staring again.

"It's okay. What's happenin'?" Grantaire asked, not looking at Enjolras as he moved towards the wooden desk in the other corner of the room. He fumbled with a charger cord for a few seconds, before plugging his phone in and leaving it resting on the desk.

Grantaire turned back to Enjolras, who only just realised that he had failed to conjure up a response and was just awkwardly standing in the doorway. Grantaire's easy expression shifted into that of a concerned friend.

"You feelin' okay?" Grantaire asked.

Enjolras shifted from foot to foot, his shoulders sagging lightly as he let himself go, just a tiny bit.

"I'm so high, Grantaire." Enjolras breathed.

Grantaire's worried expression dropped from his face, and he began to smile knowingly. It was close to teasing, but the way he laughed said something closer to sympathy.

"Come sit down." Grantaire said, making his way over to the door to take Enjolras by the back of the shoulders and direct him to Courfeyrac's bed. Enjolras didn't even flinch at the unexpected physical contact, and he didn't really know why this caused him to feel even worse. It was so easy with Grantaire, which was also why it was so fucking hard.

Enjolras adjusted himself, once he was sitting down on the mattress, to lean against the wall and cross his legs. He didn't even remember taking his shoes off in the night, he made a mental note to try and locate them before he left. He wouldn't be surprised if he walked home in his socks, with how spacey he felt.

"Drink." Grantaire said, magically holding a short bottle of water out for Enjolras to take. "You'll feel better."

Enjolras shook his head, though his hands were moving already and claiming the water bottle as his own. He took a few light sips. It wasn't until he felt the coolness of the water settling in his body that he realised that his mouth felt like sand and he really, really needed some more fucking water. He drank until the bottle was empty, looked down at it, crumpled slightly in his hand, and then looked back to Grantaire, who was giving him an odd look somewhere between entertainment and sympathy.

"Drugs are overwhelming." Enjolras sighed, closing his eyes and resting his head against the wall behind him.

"Especially for a lightweight like you." Grantaire chuckled, and Enjolras felt the empty plastic bottle being removed from his grasp.

There was an almost-silence for a few seconds, nothing but the sounds of Grantaire's feet shuffling across the carpet and the plastic of the water bottle hitting the edge of Courfeyrac's paper waste bin. And then,

"Do you want me to get out of your hair?"

"No!" Enjolras said with his eyes flying open, perhaps too abruptly, because Grantaire looked somewhat taken aback by the speed of Enjolras' delivery. Hell, even Enjolras was taken aback by the speed of his delivery, and he tried to compensate by acting cool and unbothered. "No, no, it's okay."

This must've been a good enough answer for Grantaire, Enjolras was glad, for Grantaire simply smiled humorously and took a seat on the bed across from him, a respectable amount of distance between them.

"I don't think I like drugs." Enjolras said, when the movement of the mattress beneath him had settled.

Grantaire was still smiling at him, a provocative kind of smirk that would usually make Enjolras annoyed. Right now, it was something to look at, and that was grounding.

"Who would've thought?" Grantaire said sarcastically, raising his eyebrow at Enjolras.

"Shut up." Enjolras muttered, and reached out to swat Grantaire on the arm. Grantaire frowned, still smirking, and swatted him right back.

The abrupt movement drew Enjolras' attention to the hand responsible, connecting to the arm, connecting to the elbow, and more black ink caught his eye. He became distracted by Grantaire's tattoos, the fascinating details of the marks left in his skin. Perhaps it was the weed that kept Enjolras so easily distracted, or perhaps he just liked that he could blame almost anything he could say or do right now on the weed. Maybe he could even blame the thoughts of Grantaire on the weed, though he knew deep down that those thoughts did not just appear tonight, and they would not just disappear tomorrow.

But for now, let's blame it on the weed that Enjolras extended his own arm and took Grantaire's hand after it had retreated.

He didn't mean to pull Grantaire's arm so hard that he fell forward, only just stopping himself with his other arm, but Enjolras didn't feel much remorse. The closer he was, the better he could see Grantaire's tattoos. That was all.

"Did those hurt much?" Enjolras said, before Grantaire could even protest being somewhat manhandled. Enjolras was looking down at the arm in his grip, examining a tattoo that he'd seen many times in passing, but never this close. A semi-realistic portrait of a snake with its eyes crossed out.

"Thinking of getting one?" Grantaire chuckled, his arm losing its prior tension and allowing Enjolras to flip his arm so that his wrist and palm were facing upward. There were more tattoos there.

"God, no." Enjolras scoffed, not removing his gaze from the tattoos. "I fucking hate needles."

"Probably best you don't then." Grantaire replied with a laugh.

Enjolras moved one of his hands to lightly trace one of the pictures in ink, a cartoon skull with flowers growing from the top and roots exiting the base. He noticed goosebumps appearing on the skin around the tattoo, and then Grantaire cleared his throat and spoke again.

"It hurts a little bit, I suppose." He said, shrugging before a cheesy grin appeared on his face. "The best things in life usually do, don't they?"

"What do you mean?" Enjolras asked, looking up to Grantaire's eye.

His finger was still outlining some of the different shapes on Grantaire's wrist, but suddenly he felt a long, bumpy line beneath his pointer. It drew his attention back down to Grantaire's arm, and beneath all of the intricate details of the multiple tattoos there, Enjolras could now make out a long, vertical scar. Healed, the same colour as his flesh, and only noticeable if you're looking closely. Grantaire did not seem to pay any mind to where Enjolras' attention was.

"Well, I mean, if you enjoy the sunlight, you've got to be at least a little bit okay with getting burned." Grantaire continued with that cheesy smile.

Enjolras looked back up and frowned.

"Sunscreen." He spoke.

"No, like-" Grantaire tried.

"Or just don't go out in the direct sunlight.

"Okay." Grantaire chuckled, before sighing and shaking his head. "Don't worry."

Enjolras' frown only deepened, but he resigned, going back to inspecting the artwork on Grantaire's arm. He briefly wondered if Grantaire drew his own tattoos, or if he even did them himself. Some looked unprofessional, for instance, a circle made up of small X's, nine of them to be exact. One of the X's was in red, the topmost one, the rest were black.

"What does it mean?" Enjolras asked, circling the tattoo with his finger.

"That one?" Grantaire asked, looking down at the tattoo Enjolras had his eye on.

"The one you're hiding." Enjolras replied nonchalantly, not deterring his movements. "On your chest."

At those words, Enjolras felt Grantaire tense. He looked up to meet his gaze, but Grantaire wasn't offering it anymore. He pulled his arm away from Enjolras' carefully and rolled his sleeve down, then cleared his throat again.

"That would be," Grantaire began, a fraction softer than his usual tone and avoiding eye contact. "the one for my sister."

Enjolras' eyes widened as he raised his eyebrows.

"You have a sister?"

"I had a sister." Grantaire corrected, tilting his head and offering a smart-ass smirk.

"Oh." Enjolras said, now wishing he hadn't brought it up. He felt his heart drop into his stomach. "I'm sorry, I didn't know-"

"Nah, don't sweat it." Grantaire said, shifting his weight beneath him so that he was lying more vertically on the right side of the bed, stretching his legs out and resting himself on his elbows. "It was, like, seven years ago. Long before I met any of you."

Seven years. It felt like such a long time, almost a third of Enjolras' life. He thought that four years without his own family had felt like an eternity, and he didn't even like his parents. He didn't have any siblings of his own, so he tried to imagine not seeing Combeferre for seven years. It made him feel uneasy.

"That must've been pretty shitty." Enjolras said, voice soft to match Grantaire's.

"It was." Grantaire chuckled, though there wasn't too much humour in the way it sounded. He was trying to sound nonchalant, as if it didn't faze him, when it was evident to Enjolras that it definitely did.

There was a pause, where Enjolras didn't know whether to change the subject, or if he should speak at all, but he couldn't bear to dismiss that bittersweet look in Grantaire's eye, that deflective smile, and so he pressed on.

"What was her name?" He asked, hoping the question would be welcome.

He seemed somewhat hesitant, reluctant maybe, but Grantaire pulled the left side of the collar of his hoodie and shirt down as far as it would go, to reveal a tattoo of the letter A in black ink.

"Anais." Grantaire said, smiling a touch brighter. "Older sister. Two years older."

Enjolras’ eyes widened, partly shocked that Grantaire was the youngest child. He was so protecting of Jehan, so supportive of Joly and Éponine that Enjolras had just automatically assumed he was the big brother. He was an only child himself, and Combeferre being the closest thing to a brother was the same age as he was, so it was hard to imagine spending your childhood with someone who had already gone through the motions before him.

"What was it like? Having a sister?" Enjolras asked.

And suddenly, Grantaire's face was lighting up as if he'd been waiting to talk about it for a lifetime. He pulled himself to sit back upright and fashioned himself against the headboard. Grantaire smiled so warmly, Enjolras felt the need to do the same.

"It was great. She was great." Grantaire replied and chuckled breathlessly. "She just- You know when you meet those people that just- They just light up the room?"

Enjolras nodded and smiled kindly. He knew someone like that.

"I know how cliché it sounds but, she was just so bright. Smart, too, like, stupid smart." Grantaire continued, fiddling his hands together in his lap in distraction. He chuckled. "And I owe my much superior taste in music to her."

"So that runs in the family, then?" Enjolras asked, positioning himself against the bedhead beside Grantaire. He pointed over to the guitar case that was sitting idle against the wall.

"Yeah, well, that was hers." Grantaire said, taking a moment to look over at his guitar, before turning back to Enjolras with that focused sort of gaze again. "She taught me how to play it. And a bit of piano, not long before she-" Grantaire clipped his sentence short, covered it up with a shrug, and looked down at his hands. "We were going to start a band, when we were younger. Seems like a lifetime ago now."

"You write any songs?"

"Eh, we tried. Or, rather she did, and I just played along." Grantaire said. "But she always wrote cringey shit about how amazing the world around her was." He said, staring off into his lap as he wringed his fingers together. Grantaire began to laugh, as if he'd remembered a funny joke or fond memory, and abruptly turned to Enjolras once more.

Enjolras was listening, he really was, but God, was it hard to take in every word Grantaire was saying when his face looked like that. The bright smile, intriguing and full of melancholy but still so wonderful. His eyes, narrow and glassy, though unclear if they were twinkling due to the weed or due to the memories. It never ceased to amaze Enjolras just how passionate Grantaire could get when talking about something he loved. It was something that he often forgot, that Grantaire was not just planted in his road to test him. Grantaire had passions that Enjolras couldn’t even dream of.

Grantaire continued to ramble, unaware of just how powerful of an effect he was having on Enjolras in that moment.

"Oh, dude, you would've loved her. She was, like, a social justice warrior on steroids. I mean, not as much as you," He teased, bumping his shoulder lightly into Enjolras'. "but she was always trying to get me to have that same stupid kind of lust for life. Total glass half-full kind of person."

Grantaire heaved a hard breath, as if he was in disbelief of what he was saying, or maybe in awe. Enjolras nodded along, watching Grantaire's expression dance all over the place. From fondness, to disappointment, to concern and back to fondness again. Enjolras couldn't even think of a single word worthy enough of interrupting Grantaire's spiel, and for once, he found he didn't mind it. Grantaire's voice was cooling him down, and the way he sounded so avid was firing him up.

And then, something caught in Grantaire's throat, so suddenly that Enjolras might've missed it if he wasn't watching so intently. Grantaire's voice lowered, and he sighed.

"She was way too naïve, though, I guess." He spoke. "Don't know how she saw so much good in everything when everything is inherently bad."

Enjolras blinked a few times at that statement, at such a drastic shift in tone. It sort of amazed him to think of this sister of Grantaire's. He wondered what it would be like to meet someone who looked like Grantaire, who talked and acted and joked like him, though was somehow the complete opposite in belief. He wondered how the two could spend so much of their lives together yet think so differently.

"How old were you?" Enjolras asked timidly. "When she died?"

"Sixteen. Almost seventeen. She was nineteen." Grantaire said easily. Enjolras gasped.

"That's so young." He said, his own face reading sullen and sorry.

"She was." Grantaire nodded.

"I meant you." Enjolras said, catching Grantaire's eye. They looked at each other for a few moments, Grantaire's eyes flicking back and forth between Enjolras'. He shrugged finally, and rested his head against the bedhead behind him, looking up at the ceiling.

"Mm." He said in agreeance. "That was probably the part that sucked the most. The fact that the only person who remembers her is a fucking sixteen-year-old." Grantaire chuckled and shook his head. "Like, people around you are always telling you that your loved ones live on in your memories and what not, but no one else remembers. And that's a lot of pressure for a sixteen-year-old, to keep someone's memory alive."

Enjolras could tell that Grantaire was holding back a bit. There was a veering tone in the way he was speaking, as though there was a lot more he'd wanted to say, but didn't know how to say it. It threw Enjolras for a loop, so unused to Grantaire holding his tongue, so different to how annoyingly opinionated the man could usually be.

"Well, where were your parents?" Enjolras asked.

"Eh, who cares." Grantaire said, barely even giving time to process the question. It was as though his brain was programmed to steer away from the subject as soon as it was brought up, and Enjolras wanted to respect that more than anything. But then, Grantaire was looking at him, and although his face was saying don't worry about it, his eyes were saying are you sure? Enjolras nodded encouragingly.

Grantaire took a deep breath and adjusted his legs so that he was holding his knees to his chest. He tried to look as if he were unbothered, but Enjolras could spot Grantaire's sadness from a mile away.

"Anais and I moved here after our parents stopped giving a fuck about us. It's pretty easy to get a place with government housing when your mum is bipolar and your dad is a handsy drunk." He said, chuckling shakily, a sound that made Enjolras feel like fucking sobbing.

Grantaire was fiddling with a loose thread on the knee of his - Courfeyrac's - pyjama pants, wrapping and unravelling the string tightly around his finger repeatedly. Enjolras reached a gentle hand out to his, placed his hand over top of Grantaire's, and the latter's fidgeting stopped. He sighed, frustrated for being so worked up. He shook his head and allowed himself to exit his blast from the past.

"Heard the old man died a few years ago, after he overdosed on something or other. Mum killed herself the next month. So-" He said, trailing off and looking back at Enjolras, turning his palm upright beneath Enjolras' and holding onto it comfortingly. Grantaire smiled again, but it was back to being larger than life and cocky, the mask had been replaced, and he was hiding all the pain again. "I'm the last one standing, I guess!" He exclaimed exuberantly. "Who'd have thought?"

Enjolras, bless his heart, had absolutely no idea what to fucking say to all of that. Grantaire had just performed a monologue moving enough to make someone cry, and he was sitting here again with bright eyes and goofy grins as if he hadn't just said maybe the most heart wrenching few sentences Enjolras had ever heard. The only indication that Grantaire even remembered saying any of it was that his hand was still tightly gripping Enjolras' own, trembling ever so slightly. Grantaire must've cottoned on to the fact that Enjolras was at a loss for words, because he hastily withdrew his contact from his hand and coughed nervously, and once again he began to ramble.

"But it's whatever. Made me independent. It's fine. Real families are bullshit. I've got a better one now anyways." He smiled, and although Enjolras felt like his heart was breaking for the man, he couldn't help but return the smile. "And I just prefer to think of myself as lucky."

Enjolras looked at him in bemusement, and he hoped it didn't show. "Lucky?"

"Yeah, I mean, if we hadn't run away, I wouldn't be here with you guys." He explained. "And for having Anais. I mean, yeah, she's dead now, but I still feel like I must've been a fucking saint in another life or some shit to deserve someone like her for sixteen years."

"That's a surprisingly optimistic viewpoint to come from you." Enjolras said, feeling that the mood was lightening. Grantaire laughed in response.

"What can I say? She'll do that to you." Grantaire said.

And suddenly it all made sense to Enjolras. Of course Grantaire would feel so cynical towards the world, of course he fucking would. His sister was the one good thing Grantaire could look at and see evidence of something better than tragedy. Evidence that the world isn't completely fucked. To go from having someone to hold in such a high regard, to hear them speak of the lovely parts of the world when all around Grantaire was misery and rubble, and then for that person to disappear forever? That would break even the most hopeful of idealists. No fucking wonder Grantaire saw darkness everywhere he looked. He had been stripped of his source of light.

"She sounds really cool." Was all that Enjolras could think to stammer out.

Grantaire smiled appreciatively and nodded. "She was."

They were watching each other again, calmly, unmoving, unaware of just how much of the distance between them had disappeared while they talked. Or rather, while Grantaire talked and Enjolras listened and watched, which Enjolras thought was a pleasant change of pace for once. But now, they were both watching each other, waiting for the next move, if it would ever come. Enjolras felt vulnerable like this, observed by Grantaire and those wide eyes, but he quickly realised that this was always how Grantaire behaved around him. Watching, observing, listening. And for the fourth time that night, Enjolras' body began to overwork itself, his pulse slamming dangerously loud in his neck, his gut bubbling with anxiety and anticipation, but miraculously without the angry cloud that shadowed his thoughts.

"Go on then." Grantaire said suddenly.

"What?" Enjolras asked, frowning in confusion. Grantaire looked at him with a knowing, expecting face. When Enjolras just continued to stare, Grantaire rolled his eyes.

"I know your nosy ass wants to ask how she died." Grantaire explained, folding his arms smugly. He gestured with his head toward Enjolras. "So go on."

"I'm not nosy!" Enjolras said defensively, mimicking Grantaire's body language and crossing his own arms. Grantaire only stared on, with one eyebrow raised unconvincingly, and Enjolras huffed in annoyance. "Okay, fine, fuck you! I am nosy." Enjolras pouted. "But you don't have to tell me, if it's- you know."

"What? Incredibly depressing?" Grantaire asked, smirking again. Trust Grantaire to seem so complacent whilst on the topic of his own sister's death.

"I was going to say hard to talk about, but yeah." Enjolras muttered.

Grantaire seemed to ponder this offer for a while, his mouth opening as if to speak, but closing suddenly, as if he had changed his mind. He resigned swiftly and shook his head.

"I don't want to kill your vibe, stoner." Grantaire joked, batting a hand, though he seemed disappointed.

It made Enjolras irrationally frustrated to think Grantaire was choosing not to bore Enjolras with the buried details of his past, when Enjolras was offering to hear it. Grantaire always had to be so difficult. But when he thought about it, Enjolras was less frustrated at Grantaire and more frustrated with himself, for creating a relationship with Grantaire where the latter didn't feel as though he was worthy enough to speak like this, openly, free of judgement.

"Hey." Enjolras said, turning to face Grantaire directly, crossing his legs and sitting fully upright. "If you want to talk about it, I want to listen."

Grantaire rolled his eyes once, and looked away, still smirking. Enjolras was not shaken. He made sure that when Grantaire looked back, he was still watching him attentively, encouragingly, engaged.
Grantaire pursed his lips to the side, reconsidering his initial decision, before he finally took another deep breath and began to speak.

"Well, she had this boyfriend. Real fuckhead, this guy." Grantaire said. He shook his head and made a face of disgust. "I always hated him. And he hated me. He was one controlling asshole to Anais, which I thought was a crazy change of pace for her."

Enjolras must've been making a face, too, because Grantaire widened his eyes and nodded, giving him a look of I know, right?

"I told her she should tell him to fuck off. Break up with him. She was like 'yeah, yeah, I'll talk to him'."

And that was the moment that Enjolras began to see Grantaire crack. He had his head against the headboard, tilted as to watch Enjolras from the bottoms of his vision, and Enjolras could see the twitch of discomfort in his posture, the blur of his waterline, and the way his fists clenched by his sides. Grantaire's usual chipper tone began to fade, but not into anger. Not into sadness or hurt or anything of the likes. Grantaire's voice was as void of anything as Enjolras had ever heard it when he said,

"I came home from school that day, found her knocked out cold on her bedroom floor." Grantaire stared back up at the ceiling. "She never woke up."

And if Enjolras was at a loss for words before, then right now it was as if he'd never learnt how to speak. If he felt like his heart was breaking a few minutes ago, then it currently felt like it had been pulled out of his body. He felt angry, but worst of all, he didn't feel surprised at what had happened. That was the state of the world, the state of society, the actions of being a man and the consequences of being a woman.

"R, I'm-" Enjolras began, before he was cut off.

"Don't even think about apologising." Grantaire said, tilting his head to the left to look at Enjolras another time.

Grantaire was smirking again, deprecating and bummed out, granted, but it was still something. Nothing like that empty slate of an expression he was wearing before. It scared Enjolras to realise just how talented Grantaire was at hiding whatever it was that he was really feeling at any given moment. And since Enjolras already didn't know the right words to say at that moment, and with the option of an apology off the table, he really became stuck. He took the short silence as an opportunity to readjust himself, realising just how drained his body felt, and decided to stretch out his legs along the length of the bed.

"You know," Enjolras dared to speak as he laid himself down, resting his head on the cush pillow. He closed his eyes. "I'm sure Anais probably felt just as lucky to have you."

Enjolras heard Grantaire chuckle under his breath after a few seconds of quiet, and Enjolras opened his eyes to find Grantaire lost in space again.

"What?" Enjras asked defensively, boldly. He feared what might be running itself through that head of his; it could be anything from no, she didn't, how could she? to you're just saying that because you feel like you have to say something, and Enjolras was stubborn enough to need to let Grantaire know that neither of those were the case.

But Grantaire just spared a glance in Enjolras' direction, before he too pushed off from where he was sitting and made to lay on his back, their heads sharing the pillow, their bodies with only a foot of distance between them.

"No, nothing." Grantaire said as he settled. "I just haven't heard anyone else say her name in a really long time."

Enjolras' turned his head towards Grantaire's, foreheads so close they could be touching, but stayed where he was until Grantaire turned his head too.

"It's a cool name." Enjolras said.

"It's a dope name." Grantaire agreed, and then turned back to examine the ceiling with a pensive half-smile.

Enjolras did not move, instead he traced Grantaire's face with his gaze. Grantaire’s eyes, shiny now, blinking sporadically. His nose, crooked, downturned, nostrils flaring every so often. And his lips, one corner upturned, biting the inside of his cheek. How could someone go through something like that and still turn out to be someone like him? So jocose, so radiant.

"I'm sorry." Enjolras whispered to the side of his face. Grantaire huffed dramatically, throwing his hands up in a manner of disapproval.

"I just told you not to apologise." He said, shifting to face Enjolras again with a snarky grin. Enjolras did not feel like joking.

"Somebody should." He said to Grantaire, eyes carefully focused on the other man's. "You deserve an apology for all of that."

Grantaire rolled his eyes playfully, and moved onto his side, now fully facing Enjolras with his entirety. "Don't go all revolution on me."

Enjolras copied him again, rolling onto his side so that they were mirroring each other. There was a brief second where Enjolras considered his words carefully, not wanting to sound like his sister's death was just another thing for the cause, but his high combined with the need to relate everything to the fucking cause got the better of him.

"Misogyny is the root of it all.” He said quietly, straight-faced. This earned a sharp and bold laugh from the man lying beside him.

"Yeah, yeah." Grantaire breathed with a nod, though he was still grinning amusedly. "Good ceases to exist."

"You exist." Enjolras whispered.

Grantaire's smile drooped lightly, and he quirked an eyebrow, appearing to not understand.

"You're good." Enjolras clarified, voice still hushed. "Good exists."

"Eh, I don't know." Grantaire said, attempting to draw attention away from the way his chest rose suddenly, and he tore his eyes away from Enjolras, looking past him. Enjolras, feeling brave, or maybe feeling stupid, raised a hand to Grantaire's jaw, guiding his gaze back to him.

"I do." Enjolras said, hand lingering in place. "I know."

Grantaire seemed a soft version of shell-shocked, his eyes scanning Enjolras' expression for a few moments. Enjolras felt so seen here, and it made him feel odd. He could be so comfortable standing in the middle of the room with all eyes on him, listening to him speak. He could feel no fear commanding a crowd of hundreds with his words, all attention on him. But right now, Grantaire was the only one watching him, and it felt like the eyes of thousands of stars were piercing his body. Grantaire scoffed softly, and watched the way his next words fell out of his mouth, rather than hearing them.

"You seem to know everything, don't you?" Grantaire said, his lips curling around the syllables. Enjolras did not, could not look away. "I suppose you wouldn't talk so much if you didn't."

And fuck knows if Grantaire was still speaking to him, Enjolras could hardly process anything else besides the skin and stubble beneath his palm and the electric numbness in his limbs, along with the quickening of his own breathing. Grantaire could have started singing the national anthem for all Enjolras was aware, he wouldn't have known.

"Enjolras?" Grantaire chuckled, clicking his fingers in front of their faces. Enjolras quickly removed himself from his reverie and looked Grantaire in the eye again. Bravely, I might add.

"Hm?" Enjolras said, clearing his throat. "What?"

Grantaire's face was so fond, so soft and lovely and caring and God, Enjolras did not want to leave this moment.

"Those cookies are starting to wear you out, huh?" Grantaire added, laughing a little louder now.

"Shut up." Enjolras said grumpily, though he didn't feel anything besides wholehearted contentment. He closed his eyes.

It was rare for him to feel so at ease, with nothing so slight as the temperature or distracting noises or the uncomfortable material of the towel on his head to set him off. Just Grantaire, his voice, his warmth, him.

It was barely five minutes later that Enjolras fell asleep, his body so heavy on the mattress that he could hardly help it. He wasn't awake to find Grantaire securing the falling towel on his head, Grantaire pulling the covers up over him and tucking him in gently. Grantaire, finding his hand and holding it softly between them, chuckling to himself and whispering "good exists" with a roll of his eyes, and falling asleep beside him.

Chapter Text

The sun was spilling into Courfeyrac's bedroom with no forgiveness, coating every wall and corner in harsh grey light. The fuchsia curtains were left hanging on either side of the large window, regrettably forgotten the night previous, allowing the sunlight to attempt to warm up the notable chill in the room. It was mid-autumn, no longer just the morning air that bit your skin, but the afternoons too. Enjolras could not tell what time it was when he woke up.

He couldn't tell if it were morning, or afternoon or evening, but by the way his breath was turning to fog as it left his lungs, and the way his nose stung slightly when he inhaled through it, he knew it was a dreary one. But even though the day was cold, he himself did not feel it.

The first thing Enjolras felt as he slowly crawled out of sleep - a sleep deeper than he had had in a long time, he thought - was the weight of his eyelids. He batted them mindlessly for a second or two, getting adjusted to the brightness of the room with his eyelids no longer softening the blow. He felt as though he had been asleep for days, and still he felt he could sleep for days more. He noticed an uncomfortable material pressed against the side of his face and the back of his neck. Coarse, thick, and slightly damp. Half-conscious, he lifted a hand to the mysterious item wedged between his head and the pillow and managed to free it from the vice-like force. Upon a rather lazy inspection, he was able to work out what the item was. Enjolras was holding a white towel in his hand. Where had he gotten a towel from?

When Enjolras finally let his eyes peel fully open, it dawned on him where he was, what had happened the night prior, and who he was with.

He would've started to freak out a bit, in all honesty, if it weren't for the sleeping man beside him. He felt too compelled to remain silent, too afraid of the repercussions of said sleeping man regaining his consciousness. Enjolras didn't know a whole lot about marijuana, no more than the average person surely did, but he did have a thought the night prior, during his inebriation, that perhaps the effects of the high would lead him to forget some parts of his night, if not all of it, once he woke up.

But here he was, his mind slowly battling unconsciousness as his senses returned to him, one by one, to relay his memory back to him.

Enjolras was still feeling somewhat woozy. His eyes felt like they were not his own, like he was watching his body and surroundings through a fisheye lens, and his brain was foggy and disoriented. He could feel himself dissociating slightly, like he did often, but at least this time he knew what the trigger was. Bahorel and his fucking cookies.

And as his brain and memory played catch-up, he recalled falling asleep last night, feeling safe, feeling warm. Feeling comfortable, after a night of overwhelming discomfort. Feeling warm skin beneath his fingertips, the scent of smoke and chlorine close by, the sound of a raspy voice and tired chuckles. Enjolras knew exactly where he was, his memory was not affected the way he had hoped it would be.

He could do no more than to emit a sleepy breath, limbs heavy and useless, but with every bone in his body telling him not to, he looked to his right.

He found Grantaire, lying beside him. This was no illusion.

Grantaire was still sleeping blissfully, breathing evenly into the pillow, stray ringlets messily framing his face. He was above the covers, all but trapping Enjolras in on one side, though they were basically linked at the wrists. Enjolras first had the thought to be sympathetic, he hoped Grantaire had not been too cold during the night, but with how close they were lying he knew that he probably was not. Enjolras could see his eyelashes fluttering absently every few seconds, and could feel their knees touching through the cover. It was warm.

It was also interesting, this feeling of warmth. Enjolras couldn't even remember the last time he'd been this close to somebody, let alone welcoming it. It'd been twelve years since the last time he had hugged his own mother, since he knew he'd never do it again. He doesn't think he's been touched like that since. And as much as he'd like to pretend otherwise, Enjolras could've stayed like this forever. He wouldn't mind being trapped here for the duration of his life, or at least more realistically, the rest of the day. The outside world was cold and merciless, misunderstanding. Full of hatred and terror, agony and despair. The bed was cozy and safe, and so was Grantaire.

But that was also half of the problem, you see. Grantaire would soon wake up, and Enjolras would have to look at his half-conscious smile, his sleep-heavy eyes, and try not to react as Grantaire teased him about spending a night so close to him. He'd probably make an inappropriate joke of sorts, and tell everyone they knew, and Enjolras wouldn't hear the end of it. He sighed, and decided that he would just have to leave before Grantaire could awaken.

Very slowly, Enjolras withdrew his arm from Grantaire's clutch, carefully pulling the blanket off himself from the left side. Grantaire hardly stirred, aside from curling his arms around his own torso with an unhappy grumble. Enjolras sat up in the bed, contemplating his most efficient escape route. On his left was the wall, so he would either have to climb down from the foot of the bed, or try to climb over Grantaire without awakening him. Enjolras looked at Grantaire for a moment, wondering if he was sleeping deeply enough to not be disturbed by Enjolras' clambering around.

But then, looking at Grantaire became watching, and it was rather impossible not to. Grantaire looked so easy in his sleep, his face so neutral and relaxed, lying so still. He was just like he usually was, unbothered and content. But it was all a trick, wasn't it? Enjolras had seen a different side to Grantaire last night, and it painted such a stark picture of the man in front of him now. Enjolras' chest swarmed with something unfamiliar, like it had multiple times the night previous, and he exhaled shallowly.

It was no secret that Grantaire struggled with depression. He wasn't always openly conversational about it, but it wasn't something he cared too much to hide, either. Enjolras could think of various occasions that Grantaire appeared more run down than usual, bleak, even more cynical and pessimistic towards whatever Enjolras had to say. He recalled the moment last night, looking at Grantaire's tattoos, that his finger had found the remnants of a scar lining his forearm. A physical scar on the body of a sad young boy, a scar that caused more scars in the minds of those around him. He cringed internally at the thought of it.

That night was so vivid in his mind, like a jump scare in a bad dream. He remembered Courfeyrac's phone call, late into the evening one winter night almost a year ago, a tinny and distorted cry of an unintelligible message. A sleepless night, curled up in the hospital waiting room. An ABC meeting with Grantaire's seat empty, and the next as if nothing had ever happened. Enjolras remembers how he felt when he'd gotten that phone call, when he'd finally figured out what was happening. His body had gone numb for a moment, frozen in place with his phone to his ear, unspeaking. It was like he was watching the shore of the beach being dragged away, completely aware of the fifty-foot wave building in the distance, but unable to understand the destruction that awaited. And then, when his mind had connected the dots, an unbridled rage that coursed through his body. Dread, panic, daze, but an unrecognisable anger that trumped everything else. How could Grantaire have been so careless with himself? Didn't he know he was loved? Didn't he know how much people needed him? People like his friends, people like Enjolras.

And with those thoughts in his head, as Enjolras watched Grantaire's sleeping body beneath him, he started to feel that familiar anger returning, just like it always did whenever he thought about Grantaire for too long. Enjolras always hated the fact that he let Grantaire create such a stir in his emotions. It's not like he wanted to be so mad at Grantaire all the time. He didn't actively choose to get so flustered around him, so distracted and stumbly, and desperate. If anything, it was exhausting, mentally taxing, and perhaps one of his greatest worries. What if he and Grantaire could never co-exist without it being detrimental to Enjolras' productivity?

Because when Enjolras thought longer about the subject, he realised that the common thread between his own stagnation and his discomfort was always Grantaire. Grantaire close by, watching him, taunting him, leaving him feeling like he wasn't in control. Grantaire in his ear, on his mind, in the corner of his eye. Even at the thought of him, Enjolras could feel his heart pace speeding up, those stupid moths commandeering his insides as the thought of Grantaire's taunting voice appeared in his mind. It was so intense, Grantaire was so intense, the entire world would stop for however long Grantaire's laugh lasted.

It was never something Enjolras had ever really allowed himself to ponder about. There had been one hundred occasions where he could have asked himself for an answer to the question, 'what was it about him?' What was it about Grantaire that caused him to linger in his mind, when no one else ever had? Why did Grantaire have the ability to invoke such intense reactions out of Enjolras every single time without fail, when everyone else failed to even get across to Enjolras? Why could Grantaire, like no one else could, reach out a hand and touch him, without it feeling unnatural for once? How could Grantaire be such a comforting shoulder, yet simultaneously remain the catalyst to Enjolras' fits of rage? Sure, he was an exception, but what was the fucking difference?

Enjolras thought harder.

Yes, he had more patience for Grantaire’s obnoxious antics than anyone else’s, but that was only because Enjolras actually liked Grantaire. Anyone similar who had been turned away from the ABC for the same reasons had something about them that Enjolras didn’t accept. They didn’t have Grantaire’s mind, or his voice, or his mystery. They put him off, Grantaire kept reeling him back in. They weren’t him. No one was quite like him.

Which was when it hit him.

Maybe it wasn't anger. What if that beat in his chest was not out of anxiety, or that feeling in his gut was never a threat? What if those things weren't rage or fury or anything he had previously believed? Maybe they never had been. Maybe it had been his heart racing in excitement, his mind wandering dangerously. The moths gnawing at his insides not really moths at all, but butterflies.

Enjolras was dumbfounded.

It wasn't anger, Enjolras realised suddenly, it was fascination. It was his body, screaming at him to let someone in. This whole fucking time, all Enjolras' had been craving was someone to hold close, to attach himself to. For someone to reach out a hand, to show him what he had been missing out on.

Waiting for.

Enjolras hadn’t known until now that all he wanted someone beside him, like this. That he wanted to be seen, to be heard, and to be loved. Could it have been anyone? Perhaps, but it hadn't been. He'd never felt anything akin to this, not until his eyes met Grantaire's for the first time.

Enjolras gasped. It wasn't anger. It was vulnerability. It was attraction. It was letting his walls crumble.

It was love.

The realisation really shouldn't have been so startling to Enjolras, in fact, it was even quite obvious once he thought about it, but the sudden comprehension shocked him so much so that he felt himself entering a fight or flight type mentality. Thinking quickly (or not thinking at all, depending on which way you look at it) Enjolras made a move towards the foot of the bed, in an attempt to flee the room as quickly as he could. But with his luck against him, as it so often seemed to be, our poor, helpless Enjolras misplaced his footing, and sent himself hurtling over the edge of the bed and slamming into the floor beneath him.

"Ow!" Enjolras groaned quietly, holding his shoulder tenderly and rubbing where it hurt. "Motherfucker."

And to make an awkward situation a billion times worse, Enjolras heard Grantaire chuckle, and he froze.

"Anything exciting happening down there?" Grantaire mumbled jokingly, his voice husky and filled with sleep. Enjolras felt a deep blush consume his cheeks as he quickly pulled himself to an upright position.

"No." He spat as he staggered to his feet with haste, standing largely and solidly whilst smoothing down his sweater. A forest green sweater that was not his, he realised.

"I was kidding." Grantaire said, catching his eye for the first time that day. His eyes were so blue in the sunlight.

Enjolras looked away. He needed to get out of this room right now before he said or did something ridiculous. He needed to think.

"I have to..." Enjolras began, searching for an excuse to leave. "pee."

Grantaire gave him a funny look, and to be fair, Enjolras himself wasn't one hundred percent sure that he had sounded or looked very confident in his statement, but it didn't stop him from excusing himself from the room as fast as he could.

"Have fun!" He heard Grantaire call before he pulled the bedroom door shut.

Enjolras was standing solitary in the hallway, scanning for an exit. He could hear someone else in the house, presumably Courfeyrac or Marius or hopefully, Combeferre, but he knew that whoever it was making all that noise in the kitchen could not see him, so he made a break for the bathroom across the hall. They could probably hear him, though, with the way he was basically running through the doorway and slamming the door behind him, leaning heavily against it once it was closed.

Enjolras didn't dare move, not with his mind already doing enough running around. He simply stared straight ahead, looking directly at himself in the mirror on the wall. There was a long stretch of almost-silence whilst he tried to manage his breathing, his ears ringing dangerously loud as his breath echoed around the bathroom, and then,

"No. No, no, no, no, no." Enjolras whispered under his breath, raising a hand to his forehead. "Oh my God."

What the fuck? There was no way. He was fooling himself. He didn't love Grantaire, right? He couldn't possibly love him. If anything, he hates Grantaire.

Okay, well, hate is a strong word, but so is love! Enjolras didn't love many things, he couldn't love Grantaire. Sure, he loved his friends, but it wasn't that kind of love. And would he even consider Grantaire a friend?

Well, okay, fine, he would, but it was different. Somehow. It had to be.

Holy shit. Holy shit. No, okay, breathe. Think. Breathe.

Enjolras focused in on the mirror ahead of him. His mirror's image was poor, it showed him looking worn down like it did last night, only now he was caught in a spiral of what the fuck? and no fucking way and oh my god and breathe, think, breathe, think and, for good measure, what the actual fucking fuck?

Okay. Okay. Alright.

What if Enjolras were to merely allow himself to entertain the possibility that he was in love with Grantaire. It wouldn't be the worst thing to happen in the history of bad things happening, right? It would be okay. It would be fine! And not to mention, nothing to asphyxiate about! Besides the fact that, you know, this would probably be the worst and most awkward thing that could ever happen to Enjolras.

I can't, I can't, I can't.

Enjolras blinked at himself in the mirror, and shook his head again, as if willing the thoughts away. He made somewhat of a self-soothing gesture to himself with his hands, attempting to act as if nothing was wrong and everything was okay, and that it wasn't like a total fucking bombshell had been dropped on him.

Because it hadn't really, had it? The longer Enjolras thought about it, the clearer it became truth. He thought back over the years, all the way back to the first time he spotted Grantaire at the bar of the Musain, and he found that this feeling inside him had always been there. Growing, festering, plaguing his mind until it was bursting at the seams. And all it had taken was a touch of fingers for him to begin to notice it. Enjolras exhaled shakily.

Okay, well, fuck. What now?

Leave. Yes. Leave the bathroom, calmly, normally, and find his fucking shoes and avoid Courfeyrac and find Combeferre and ask him for a ride home and, in the event that Combeferre was not ready to leave, tell him he would see him later and get the fuck out of here and walk home and continue to spiral in the comfort of his own home. And do it without causing a scene.

Enjolras collected himself and opened the bathroom door.

"Well, well, well." Courfeyrac said smugly, making Enjolras jump. "What do we have here?"

Courfeyrac was standing against the wall across from the bathroom door, arms folded and a devilish smile on his face. He looked like shit, maybe even worse than Enjolras did, but the pride in his posture and the tone of his voice showed he was very much switched on. This was already a lot more than Enjolras was prepared to deal with, and he hadn't even made it out of the bathroom.

"Good morning to you too." Enjolras spat impatiently, passing Courfeyrac and making his way to the kitchen. Right. Where are his shoes?

"It is a good morning, isn't it!" Courfeyrac said cheerily. Enjolras was not falling for it. Shoes.

In the kitchen was a telling scene. Empty bowls and half-eaten bags of crisps and snacks sat unattended to along the benches, the sink holding what looked like every single mug Courfeyrac owned, now stained with leftover coffee. The living room was worse, with empty glass bottles scattered around the floor, spills soaking into the furniture. Combeferre was lying on his back on the couch by the door, his eyes squeezed tightly shut as he took deep breaths. His sandy-coloured hair was tangled at the front and sides, as if he'd previously fallen asleep on his face, and his posture was short and folded. Enjolras' eyes opened wide at the sight of him. Combeferre looked like shit.

"You look like shit." Enjolras told him, and he watched Combeferre's eyes open reluctantly.

Combeferre sighed, let his eyes fall shut for a moment longer, and then pulled himself to sit vertically, still leaning against the back of the couch for stability.

"So do you." Combeferre grumbled.

It was at this point that Courfeyrac slipped into the living room, making himself comfortable on the couch beside Combeferre and resting his head on his shoulder, and Combeferre laid his own head atop Courfeyrac's. It would've been a sweet sight, maybe even humorous, if it wasn't for the way Courfeyrac was watching Enjolras' every move as he manoeuvred around the room in search for his shoes. And of course, Courfeyrac didn't offer any help, he just sat there with that stupid smile on his face that told Enjolras he was onto him. Where the fuck were his shoes?

"So, Enj," Courfeyrac asked enthusiastically. "How'd you sleep?"

Enjolras did his best to not flinch at the question. He wasn't stupid, Courfeyrac was trying to get it out of him, but Enjolras simply ignored the question as he slipped out of the living room and down the short hallway leading to the courtyard, where he found his shoes beside the back door, sitting in a puddle of water. Enjolras huffed in annoyance, but he shook them off lightly before carrying them back towards the living room.

"I slept fine." Enjolras called as he reappeared, leaning against the doorframe as he pulled his shoes on. He was happy to find that the insides of his shoes were not nearly as damp from the pool water as the outside of them was, but they were still slightly uncomfortable. Yet rather than get worked up about it, he took a silent breath and focused on his mission.

"Mm, I bet." Courfeyrac said, crossing a leg over the other and mindlessly fidgeting with Combeferre's hand. "How good is my bed!"

Enjolras stopped struggling with his shoes for a moment long enough to glare at Courfeyrac sharply, to cast a stern warning look at him before returning to tie his shoelaces. Courfeyrac was hardly ever intimidated by Enjolras' pointed glares, and he just smiled sweetly in return.

"I know what you're getting at." Enjolras said with a stony voice, as he finished up with the laces. "Get there quicker, please."

Enjolras wasn't stupid. He'd been caught out. The only option now was to not react, because that was all Courfeyrac was really after. Instead, he entered the living room fully, and looked for his bag. He remembered dropping it off in the corner at the very beginning of the night, and was glad to find it was exactly where he left it.

"Is there something I should be getting at?" Courfeyrac asked, quirking his head to the side.

"No." Enjolras said plainly, ignoring the snide gaze and picking his bag off the ground, searching through it to make sure everything was as it was. Phone. Wallet. House keys. Perfect. He took his phone out of the bag and shoved it lazily into his pocket and threw his tote onto the seat beside the television. Courfeyrac shrugged, but his cheeky grin never fell.

"Then I'm not getting at anything."

Enjolras rolled his eyes at his friend, and diverted his gaze to Combeferre, instead of giving Courfeyrac any further ammunition.

"'Ferre, can you take me home now?" Enjolras asked.

"What's the rush?" Courfeyrac teased. "You haven't even had your morning coffee yet!"

"I don't want a coffee-"

"Coffee." Combeferre mumbled drearily. The poor guy looked so out of it, Enjolras almost felt bad, but if they went home now, they could have endless coffee and naps on the couch without distraction and judgment and,

"Ooh, great idea, Combeferre!" Courfeyrac smacked him lightly. He had that fucking tone in his voice, the one that Enjolras always associated with Courfeyrac's evil plans. "Enjolras! Be a dear and make us some coffee?"

Enjolras just stared at Courfeyrac, who knew exactly what he was doing, and gestured in a huffy confusion with his arms. Courfeyrac continued to smile, and Enjolras rolled his eyes and exited the living room, making his way back into the kitchen. He wasn't fucking happy to be playing this childish game of back and forth. The 'I know what you did' type of sly commentary was frustrating him even more so than if Courfeyrac had just up and called him out. At least out in the kitchen, he wouldn't be watched like a hawk.

"I owe you my life." Combeferre called from the living room, rather dramatically for his usual tone.

"You owe me a ride home." Enjolras corrected.

Enjolras busied himself with the task he had been assigned, choosing to just brew coffee normally, as opposed to using Marius’ fancy and confusing coffee machine. Time was kind of of the essence here, and anything Enjolras could do to make leaving happen sooner than Courfeyrac could say Grantaire's name was greatly appealing. He opened the mug drawer whilst waiting for the coffee to brew, and selected three of the very few remaining mugs. He did not envy whoever was in charge of dishwashing next. The mugs were then lined up neatly on the bench beside the coffee pot, one mug with a kangaroo wearing boxing gloves on it, the one beside that a mug that was shaped like a shark’s open mouth. The third was a printed mug, pictures of Courfeyrac's headshots from his brief theatre career, if you could call it that.

Beside that mug in the drawer, though, was another printed mug of a piece of artwork, The Girl with the Pearl Earring, and Enjolras studied it, taking it out of the drawer as well. He observed a small signature on the bottom near the handle, a cursive R. And from the way the colours had chipped slightly, Enjolras soon realised it had been hand-painted on, not printed.

He didn't let himself think about it too hard as he lined it up with the other three mugs on the bench. Seeing as Grantaire was already awake, it would be rude not to make a fourth coffee. That was all.

He finished pouring all four coffees, setting the fourth aside and taking a sip of his own. He called for the two men in the living room to come and collect the remaining two, and after the sounds of shuffling and whispering could be heard, Courfeyrac and Combeferre appeared in the kitchen.

Enjolras was obviously noticeably antsy this morning, he could tell that Combeferre was studying him in depth, but he didn't care a whole lot about what these two thought about him right now. He chugged his own coffee, as much as he could without burning his entire mouth, and not-so-subtly continued to push Combeferre's drink closer to him each time he set it down.

Courfeyrac huffed.

"Combeferre, can you ask Enjolras why he is in such a rush this morning?" He asked. Combeferre sighed.

"Enjolras, why are you in such-"

"Why are you in such a rush, young man?!" Courfeyrac's voice boomed overtop of Combeferre's disinterested one. "Got somewhere to be, do ya'?"

Enjolras rolled his eyes, which earned a dramatic mocking of his eye-roll from Courfeyrac.

"Good morning, ladies!" That familiar voice suddenly boomed across the kitchen. Enjolras jumped harshly, almost dropping his coffee and spilling it everywhere, and looked up to find Grantaire entering the kitchen. Grantaire didn't seem to sense the immense power he had over Enjolras right now, only laughing at him. Fucking Grantaire.

"Good morning!" Courfeyrac cheered, a beat too fast for Enjolras' liking. "Aren't you looking cute this morning?"

Grantaire looked down at his attire, he was still wearing Courfeyrac's pyjamas. He chuckled and shook his head as he blearily scuffled into the room, making his way to the drawers to retrieve a mug for coffee. Enjolras stopped him in his tracks, blocking him with his arm, his other arm still occupied with his own mug, and then pointed at the cup of coffee set aside. Grantaire offered him a bright smile.

"Well, aren't you just an angel in the morning?" Grantaire grinned, redirecting himself to the coffee Enjolras had made for him. Enjolras rolled his eyes again.

"It's two o'clock." Enjolras said coldly, moving to lean against the bench. His own coffee couldn't cool down fast enough, but he didn't care anymore. Enjolras began to down as much as he could stomach.

"You've got him making you coffee?" Courfeyrac exclaimed exaggeratedly. "What, did you two fuck or something?"

Enjolras basically choked on his beverage.

Combeferre smacked Courfeyrac's shoulder. Grantaire was unphased, already looking through the fridge.

"Didn't realise you were twelve, Courfeyrac." Grantaire snorted, pulling out an apple from the fridge and taking a bite. Enjolras wished he were literally anywhere else.

"Didn't realise I was surrounded by lame, lame losers who are lame." Courfeyrac grumbled, side-eyeing Combeferre.

"Good one." Grantaire said sarcastically, before sipping on his beverage.

"Ooh, someone's blushing!" Courfeyrac sing-songed, bopping in his seat.

It took Enjolras a second longer than it should have to realise the following;

A.) Courfeyrac was referring to him, and;
B.) He was actually blushing.

All eyes were on Enjolras, with Courfeyrac and Grantaire looking in amusement, and Combeferre in sympathy.

"What? No." Enjolras stammered, raising his free hand to his cheek. His hands were cold from the chill, and his cheeks felt very hot beneath his touch. "I'm not. It's just warm in here."

"It's, like, twelve degrees." Grantaire corrected, and Enjolras silently wished the floor beneath him would open up like a black hole and swallow him whole. If Grantaire knew that Enjolras felt this way toward him, Enjolras thought to himself, he would literally never fucking live it down. He needed to avoid that at all costs.

"It's not- You're- No, I meant, like-" Enjolras stuttered, clutching at straws in search of something to say to direct the attention away from himself. God, I know I don't believe in you, but please get me out of this situation.

And miraculously enough, Enjolras' phone began to vibrate in his pocket, and he took a moment to thank everything he had ever prayed to. He was so appreciative of the distraction that he didn't even put his mug down, just fumbled around one-handed in his pocket until he managed to pull his phone out.

"I have to take this." Enjolras said confidently, attempting to appear as if he wasn't just making an excuse to leave the situation. But when he looked down at who was responsible for the call, he trailed off. It was a caller ID that had not popped up on his phone in years, and Enjolras even rubbed at his eyes in case he was reading it wrong.

"Everything okay?" Combeferre asked.

When Enjolras looked up from the phone still vibrating in his palm, he realised all eyes were still on him, but now in anticipation, or in Combeferre's case, concern. Enjolras looked back down at the name on his phone, still on the screen. He was not dreaming.

"I should- I should take this." Enjolras mumbled, placing his three-quarters-empty coffee down on the bench to be forgotten. "Excuse me."

Enjolras did not wait for a reply from anyone in the room to remove himself from the kitchen, swiftly avoiding the eye contact that his friends were still trying to make with him. His palm felt numb from the vibration, and his chest felt numb from the surprise. He quickly found Courfeyrac's bedroom and hurried inside. Enjolras did not know why this person was calling him, now, after everything, but he knew one thing; it could not be good.

After Enjolras all but stormed out of the kitchen, securing himself in Courfeyrac's bedroom, Grantaire oddly felt like he could breathe again.

"Strange kid, that one." Grantaire chuckled a moment after hearing Courfeyrac's bedroom door swing shut.

Grantaire began to walk towards the living room with the coffee in his hands warming up his cold fingers. He did his best to ignore the way Courfeyrac's heavy gaze was upon him, following his movements. That one is also strange, he thought, but he knew that already.

The living room was empty when he entered, blankets and cushions and bottles of beers that Grantaire wouldn't catch himself dead drinking were strewn across the floor and the furniture. As he sat himself down on the couch, he sat on an unclaimed, brown sweater. He fumbled to toss it aside one-handedly, it looked a lot like the one Feuilly was wearing the night prior, but with no sign of Feuilly. Or anyone else, for that matter.

Grantaire relaxed into the seat beneath him, careful not to spill the hot drink in his grip. He'd already gotten one outfit ruined, his clothes from the night before likely sitting forgotten in a pool of water somewhere in Courfeyrac's bedroom, so he thought it would be best to keep these clothes dry. He looked down again at the ridiculous articles of clothing he'd picked out, without stopping to look for anything actually decent. Though, he thought again, if he wanted decent, Courfeyrac's closet was not the place to look. Grantaire studied the black hoodie he had on, the one he had found on Courfeyrac's desk. He chuckled, thinking it over. Grantaire hadn't been wearing his own sweater when he had jumped in the pool, so it was dry when he got out, and he should have probably just chosen to change into that and get over it. But Enjolras had looked so cold and cranky last night, with only a fresh t-shirt and sweatpants pants, that he couldn't help but offer up his own sweater to Enjolras.

And he was still wearing it. He slept in it.

Grantaire felt his lungs deflate.

Eventually, Courfeyrac followed him in, and he sat down beside Grantaire on the sofa, facing him. He was smiling maniacally with widened eyes and a bouncing knee, and Grantaire continued to look at him in wait, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

"You alright, there?" Grantaire asked.

"So..." Courfeyrac began, clearly with no intention of finishing his own thought.

"So..." Grantaire mimicked. Courfeyrac nudged him with his shoulder.

"Sleep comfortably?" He asked, a diabolical glint in his eye.

There it was.

Grantaire threw his head back slightly in understanding, and with a soft eyeroll, he spoke,

"I see where you're going with this," he said with a nod of his head, "and I can assure that you're about to be severely disappointed."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Courfeyrac said, sounding like he knew exactly what Grantaire was talking about. Courfeyrac straightened his posture and crossed his legs where they dangled from the couch, resigning into faux innocence.

"Oh, of course not." Grantaire suppressed a laugh.

"Because there's nothing even remotely homo about sharing a bed with the guy you've been pining over for forever." Courfeyrac quietly added after a beat.

"I have not been pining over anyone, thank you very much." Grantaire said casually, even though he knew that both of them knew that he absolutely had been pining over Enjolras since the minute they saw each other, but Grantaire wasn't just going to up and admit that, now, was he? He was rather proud of just how convincingly the words had come out of his mouth, even if they were ineffectual. "And shouldn't I be the one interrogating you?" Grantaire added, so as to draw the focus away from himself.

"What ever do you mean?" Courfeyrac asked with a mischievous grin.

Grantaire was glad, for once, that Courfeyrac didn't mind having so much excess attention thrown his way. He was whore for it, and that worked for Grantaire. He cleared his throat and leaned closer to Courfeyrac in order to lower his voice.

"What's going on with you two?" Grantaire asked, grinning as he gestured to the kitchen with his head. In the kitchen, Combeferre could be heard singing under his breath - some Christmas carol, even though it was early May - whilst clearing away some of the mess from the night previous, and Courfeyrac gasped dramatically.

"Nothing!" He cried, swatting Grantaire's hand. Courfeyrac paused, looking rather happy with himself for someone who was being interrogated, and then quietly added, "Some things."

"And yet, I don't see a ring!" Grantaire laughed, shaking Courfeyrac by the shoulder.

"Oh, quit it." Courfeyrac said, shaking his head and sighing. "Some things are just not for people like you to understand, my love."

"People like me?" Grantaire asked. Courfeyrac nodded, beaming from ear to ear. "Who are people like me?"

"People who are destined to spend their lives with one person." Courfeyrac explained theatrically. "A soul mate, if you will."

"Okay." Grantaire scoffed, scooting back to his side of the sofa, closing himself off slightly with his arms. "Now you've lost it.”

Courfeyrac was the kind of person who lived and breathed endless romance, so much so that he'd almost beat Jehan in practice, if it were a contest. And while Grantaire loved and dreamed of the idea of having someone like Enjolras to hold close until they were old and grey, he knew that was all it was and would ever be. A dream.

"Remember this conversation, dear Grantaire." Courfeyrac stated boldly. "One of these days, you'll look back and you'll understand."

Grantaire grinned and scratched his jaw. "Mm, I'm sure I will."

Courfeyrac looked like he had something he wanted to add, he was practically shaking with excitement at the subject of conversation, but for whatever reason, he held his tongue. Grantaire thought about the words Courfeyrac had just said, and found himself wondering if maybe there was something he was missing. When he had been at his worst, mentally, he never could've imagined where he would be now. So maybe it wasn't crazy to believe that there could be a time, sometime soon, when Grantaire would be proven wrong. Where the universe would show him that he was not destined to remain alone forever, that he was deserving of happiness, and someone would come along and whisk him out of his misery. He'd been alone long enough to not get his hopes up, to not be disappointed when everyone around him eventually realises how useless he could be, but still, it was nice to dream.

Maybe one day, he'd meet a lovely girl or guy who would show him the love he'd always been searching for. Love he never had from his parents; love he had taken away from him when his sister died. Granted, that person would never be enough to stop him from loving Enjolras, but it didn't matter. Nothing could ever stop him from loving Enjolras, not even Enjolras himself.

Grantaire caught himself in the middle of his thoughts, ashamed for thinking so selfishly, wallowing so deep in his self-pity. He already had love much stronger than he felt he deserved, the love of his friends, his new family. His home.

And so Grantaire opened his mouth to speak again, not even sure what words would come out, just to say anything to fill the silence that now fell over the room, but unexpectedly, the sound of a bang beat him to it. Courfeyrac's ears pricked up at the sound, and Grantaire followed suit, looking towards the hallway where the sound had come from. Courfeyrac turned back to face Grantaire, to give him a playfully confused look, and Grantaire was about to write it off as Combeferre dropping something, until he heard,

"Enjolras?"

It was Combeferre's voice ringing through the house, starting off in a confused tone, but very quickly drenching itself in concern. "Enjolras, what's going on?" he continued, "Who was it?"

Grantaire and Courfeyrac turned to look at each other once again, this time less playfully. The two initially waited for more words to be exchanged, but they soon scrambled to their feet when they saw Enjolras, looking very flustered and worked up, storming past the living room and towards the front door. Stepping out into the hallway, Courfeyrac took to Combeferre's side, all three of them looking at Enjolras, who was struggling with the lock on the front door.

"Are you okay?" Courfeyrac asked him timidly. The sound of his voice was uncertain, which was uncommon for Courfeyrac, and it made Grantaire feel unsettled.

"Fucking perfect." Enjolras spat through gritted teeth, finally working the key in the lock of the door and pulling it open. In a matter of seconds, Enjolras was disappearing through the door, and banging it closed behind him. The walls around the door rattled, the venetian blinds on the windows clattering helplessly for a few moments, before silence filled the room.

Grantaire was still new to this whole understanding Enjolras thing, still unsure of what warranted concern, or what was just Enjolras being Enjolras, but by the way his friends looked so taken aback, Grantaire figured that this was probably not your everyday occurrence.

"What was that?" Courfeyrac asked, looking to Combeferre. "Did you touch him?"

"No." Combeferre replied, eyes locked onto the front door, his lips pursed in thought.

Grantaire wanted to chase after him. He'd seen Enjolras rattled and angry before, but never like this. Enjolras' hands were shaking like a leaf when he got stuck on the locked door, his breathing excessive and windy, and Grantaire felt his chest lurch. He thought of Enjolras two nights ago, at the Musain. His eyes were welling, his voice strained and unable to speak, before he had snapped back into his usual, brooding self. This was what that almost was. Panic.

And by the seems of it, Combeferre must've come to a similar conclusion, because he was already beating Grantaire to the door.

"Wait, 'Ferre." Courfeyrac said suddenly, interrupting Combeferre from enacting what was probably already a carefully constructed plan on how to bring Enjolras back down.

Combeferre's hand stilled as he turned to face Courfeyrac, looking impossibly concentrated. His eyes were already focused in the way they did when it came to communicating with Enjolras, and Grantaire felt a little calmer than he did a moment ago. But then, Combeferre shot a glance at Grantaire and bit his lip, before turning back to Courfeyrac and nodding. Grantaire didn't see what Courfeyrac had done to make Combeferre stop in his tracks, but nonetheless, Combeferre's hand slipped off the door handle, and he began to retreat.

"Go." Courfeyrac whispered in Grantaire's direction, patting him on the arm and looking at the door.

Grantaire turned to find that Courfeyrac's face had no hint of amusement anymore, and so Grantaire nodded. He didn’t wait for further instructions, he didn't look Courfeyrac or Combeferre in the eye. He simply made his way to the door, turned the key, and pushed the door open.

When Grantaire walked through the front door and out onto the street, Enjolras was nowhere to be seen. The main street was empty, as it usually was on a Sunday afternoon, with hardly a car on the road or a child in the front yard. The street ahead of him was long, with multiple exits on either side, but he knew that the streets immediately to the left and right of the house were dead ends, so Grantaire began down the main street and hoped Enjolras hadn't gotten too far. Although, Enjolras was probably the fastest walker Grantaire had ever seen, and an Enjolras in distress would probably be even faster, so Grantaire began to speed up.

After turning down the second side street on the right, one he knew eventually led to Enjolras and Combeferre's apartment and was probably the one Enjolras would take if he were walking home, he could see a mess of bouncing blonde curls atop the head of someone in a dark green sweater, maybe a hundred meters in front of him, and Grantaire sighed a breath of relief.

"Enjolras?" Grantaire called as he slowed.

He watched Enjolras' head whip around to locate the sound of his name, and then he stopped walking. It was only for a second, though, for then Enjolras was turning back around and speeding away.

"Hey, Apollo, wait up!" Grantaire called, picking up his own pace again. He could see Enjolras' street appearing in the distance, and raced to catch up to Enjolras before he could lock himself in his house, alone and in anguish. Finally, finally, he reached him, and he was only a few metres behind him, when Enjolras turned harshly, standing in place, and snapped.

"What?!" Enjolras shouted.

As Grantaire caught his breath, he could see tears forming in Enjolras' eyes, threatening to spill at any second. His face was red, seething with anger and breathless enough that his voice sounded broken. Grantaire took a step closer, his face painted with concern. He could not fuck this up.

"What's wrong?" Grantaire asked, aware of just how sad his own voice sounded in his ears.

"Nothing's wrong." Enjolras hissed, turning back around and stomping away. "Everything is just brilliant."

"You're truly a horrible liar." Grantaire called after him, following closely behind.

He didn't let Enjolras put too much distance between the two of them, but Enjolras was already turning down the street he lived on, so Grantaire closed the distance. When he managed to reach Enjolras, Grantaire placed an arm on his shoulder, which surprisingly stopped him dead in his tracks. Grantaire took this as an opportunity and moved to place himself in front of Enjolras, who was still breathing heavily and now had his gaze directed to the concrete.

"Who called?" Grantaire asked softly, hoping he was on base. It seemed that he was right to ask, for Enjolras looked up, his eyes wet and shiny and meeting Grantaire's worried ones.

"My father." Enjolras heaved angrily. He still had his phone in his hand, the screen even open on the message bank, and he raised it high in the air before throwing it down onto the nature strip of grass beside the footpath. "Fucking asshole!"

"Okay, alright. Let's just..." Grantaire spoke softly, reaching to pick up Enjolras' phone, which now had a few hairline cracks in the screen. "...put that down."

"God, who does he think he is?!" Enjolras shouted, fully coming undone now, completely indifferent to the fact that he was standing in the middle of the street yelling. "The bastard hasn't spoken to me in over four years, and he just calls, out of the blue, telling me to stop doing everything I'm doing? Fuck that!"

Grantaire, bless him, did try his best to get a hold of Enjolras, who was dodging his touch like his life depended on it and still rambling over top of Grantaire's weak attempts of calming him. But Enjolras was already a hard one to get through to, let alone in this state.

"Okay, breathe." Grantaire said, after realising he was able to do nothing but stand and watch Enjolras and his furious pacing. "It'll be fine-"

"No, it won't be fine!" Enjolras called from the top of his lungs. "Not if he's right!"

Grantaire paused, and looked at Enjolras in confusion. "Right about what?"

Enjolras laughed incredulously, though it might've been involuntary, due to the way he stopped to think. Grantaire watched him become stuck in his own head for a long while, before he snapped back out of it.

"It doesn't matter." Enjolras spat.

"No, tell me."

"It doesn't matter!" Enjolras yelled again. "The ABC is done! He's going to fuck it all up."

Grantaire frowned, not understanding.

"How would he do that?" He asked, giving Enjolras an unconvinced expression.

"I don't know! He's rich! He'll find a way!" Enjolras continued.

"He won't." Grantaire tried to reason with him, finding it difficult to be the voice of logic between the two of them. He hoped some reassurance would be enough to persuade Enjolras to level himself out, at least enough to explain what was going on. "We won't let him."

Enjolras stopped his pacing at last, though the rise and fall of his chest did not slow. If anything, Grantaire thought it seemed to pick up its pace. Regardless, Enjolras' face was not as flushed as it was a moment ago, and Grantaire let himself breathe.

"Go away, Grantaire." He said, miserably.

"Do you want me to?" Grantaire pushed. Enjolras hesitated to respond, eyes locked onto Grantaire’s frame, as he laughed.

"I fucking-" Enjolras cried, covering his eyes with his palms. "Ugh, God."

"I said breathe. You're not breathing." Grantaire joked lightly, chuckling as he aimed to not make Enjolras feel too vulnerable. But soon enough, Grantaire realised that Enjolras genuinely wasn't taking deep enough breaths, and his face was as white as a sheet. "Enjolras, breathe."

Grantaire rushed to stand in front of Enjolras, again, and he placed his hands on either of Enjolras' shoulders. Enjolras' eyes were squeezed shut tightly and his hands moved up to his scalp, pulling at strands of hair at the front of his head. He was gasping for air over and over and over until he looked like he was genuinely going to lose consciousness.

"Enjolras." Grantaire said, raising his voice, growing more concerned by the second. He didn't know if Enjolras could hear him, but it did not seem as though he could, and that was when he really started to worry. "Hey, it's okay. It's alright."

Grantaire spoke those words repeatedly, searching his own mind for a way to get through to Enjolras. He took one of Enjolras' hands and tried his best to direct him to the strip of grass only a metre away. But Enjolras was trembling, his knees locked in place where he stood, and when Grantaire pulled his hand to steer him away from the footpath, Enjolras all but collapsed to his knees onto the spot of grass, whilst mumbling again and again I can't, I can't, I can't.

Enjolras was now slouched down on the grass, his arms extended out in front of him and holding himself up, though barely. Grantaire took to sit directly in front of him, still so unsure of what to do. He placed a hand on the side of Enjolras' face, coaxing him to look up and place his gaze on Grantaire. Enjolras' cheeks were stained with streaks of tears, but he didn't look sad. He looked angry. Grantaire's heart stuttered.

"I can't, I can't-" Enjolras cried, as he reached his hands out to clutch and pull at whatever part of Grantaire he could reach. His left hand balled itself up in the collar of Grantaire's hoodie, and his right hand grabbed desperately onto the hand Grantaire had on his cheek.

"You can, buddy. Just deep breaths, yeah?" Grantaire spoke sternly, though his voice was filled with consideration.

This was a terrifying sight, not knowing what to do. Grantaire made a note in his mind to thank Jehan again for all of the times they had been in Grantaire's position, and Grantaire had been in Enjolras'.

Enjolras made a frustrated noise, a voice-cracking sound just short of a sob. He was completely crying now, his bottom lip trembling with every short gulp of air that he managed, but Grantaire could not get over just how furious Enjolras looked. Grantaire continued to speak, telling Enjolras to focus on his voice, all the while wondering how someone could have room in their body for all of that rage. How had the poor kid not exploded until now?

Grantaire began to make a show of breathing deeply and evenly, and told Enjolras to copy his breathing. Breathe in for four seconds, hold for six, exhale for eight. Grantaire could tell that Enjolras could hear him, that he was trying his best, but it wasn't quite helping. So, at a loss for what to do, Grantaire lifted his hand to the hand that Enjolras had bunched up in his hoodie, and pried the white-knuckled fingers out of the fabric to lay flat against Grantaire's chest.

"Feel how I'm breathing? Copy that."

So Enjolras did, for the most part. It took a good minute or so, his breathing fluctuating from in time with Grantaire's to panicking again, but he soon managed to breathe in through his nose and out through his mouth. Grantaire smiled, still uncertain, and watched him closely as some of the colour returned to Enjolras' face.

"It's okay, you're going to be fine. The ABC will be fine, you don't need to worry about him." Grantaire babbled, barely paying attention to what he was saying and just hoping it sounded something akin to soothing enough. "No one is going anywhere. I'm not going anywhere."

And after what felt like an eternity, Enjolras' breathing slowed, the hand that could feel Grantaire's heartbeat returning to the ground to stabilise himself. His once vacant stare became lucid, and his eyes began to focus. It was like Grantaire could physically see him returning to his body, becoming grounded, and Grantaire let out a relieved breath and smiled.

"There he is." Grantaire chuckled. "See? You're okay."

Enjolras blinked a few times, his eyes scanning his surroundings, almost in a confused daze, and then searching Grantaire's face. He shifted his weight backward and off his arms, and pulled his hands to his face as he began a muffled ramble.

"Fuck, sorry. I'm so sorry. I don't know what is wrong with me, I'm sorry."

Grantaire tutted and shook his head, adjusting his own position so that he was sitting on his crossed legs, his hands back in his lap.

"No apologising." Grantaire said, leaning his elbows on his knees. "You're tired, you're coming down, your dad is a prick."

"A powerful prick." Enjolras sniffled, dragging his knuckles along the wetness of the skin underneath his eyes.

"Not as powerful as all of us." Grantaire grinned, eliciting a sad chuckle from Enjolras.

"That's not even remotely true." He said, resting his elbow on his knee and holding his forehead in his palm. He sighed heavily, Grantaire could physically see the tension in Enjolras' body, and all he wanted to do was reach out his arms and pull him into a hug. Though Grantaire had no idea if that would be a welcomed gesture, especially in this moment, so he stayed in his own space.

"Maybe not in money or ability." Grantaire offered. "But it'd take more than a pissy little phone call for us to back down and you know it."

Enjolras raised his head from his palm slowly, his eyebrows downturned to distract from the way his eyes were still leaking.

"Us?" Enjolras asked, attempting to disguise his sniffing. "I didn't think you gave a shit about us."

Grantaire did his best to not take offence to that last part, because he knew Enjolras didn't mean for it to sound as snarky as it did. Besides, it was true, technically. Grantaire had never given Enjolras any reason to believe that he cared about the ABC's success, and he supposed he was correct in thinking that. Grantaire didn't care. He didn't care about the future or educating young people on how to vote and who to listen to, he didn't care about any of that. But he cared about the ABC. He cared about his friends, and he cared about Enjolras.

"Of course I do!" Grantaire called playfully, just wanting the mood to shift into something he was a little more comfortable with. "How else would I spend my time?"

"Same as always, just minus the politics." Enjolras grumbled in a judgemental manner. "Drinking with your friends without the protesting and advocating."

"Is that what you think of me?" Grantaire joked.

"Am I wrong?" Enjolras said, eyes locked in place on Grantaire.

Grantaire could do no more than share the commiserating gaze with Enjolras. How was he even supposed to answer that? It was close enough to the truth that he could just nod in agreement, but Grantaire didn't want to kick the man while he was down. Or maybe he just didn't want Enjolras to know he was right; he was stubborn enough. But it also wasn't the full truth, not entirely. Of course, he loved to socialise with his friends, to go out drinking and walk home with Jehan and Éponine when the sun was rising over the city, but the ABC was so much more than just a group of friends. They were family. They offered purpose to each other.

Grantaire smiled at Enjolras, looked down at the squashed grass between them, and he said,

"You wanna hear a story?"

Enjolras looked at him puzzled. "Story?"

"You'll like it, just listen." Grantaire said as he looked back up to Enjolras, giving a dismissive hand gesture. Enjolras' eyes were sparkling, almost distractedly looking deep into Grantaire's. This would have been the longest the two had held eye contact all day, Grantaire realised.

Enjolras quirked one corner of his mouth up and into a smile. "Okay."

Grantaire smiled back and took a deep breath.

"I first met Joly at the Corinthe when I was eighteen. He'd walked in alone one night, this was before he'd met Bossuet and 'Chetta, and he sat himself down at the bar beside me. And he ordered a few shots, and then requested the whole bottle. Caught my attention, obviously, so I introduced myself.

"We hit it off instantly. Like, I'm coming to the bar every night at this point, just to chat to the scrawny weird guy that keeps challenging me to games of poker.” Grantaire laughed softly, before laughing harder at the memory. “He was so bad at it, too, I have no idea why he kept playing with me. And I mean, I didn't really know anyone in this place besides my sister, so it was really cool to have someone to hang out with again. We were practically inseparable for the year, me and Joly."

Enjolras nodded along, his line of sight occasionally wandering down to watch the words roll off of Grantaire's tongue, and then back up to Grantaire's eyes. This is how Grantaire knew that Enjolras was actually paying attention to what he was saying, and it made Grantaire chuckle. Enjolras was very obviously focused on using the correct amount of eye contact to show his interest in what was being said, something he started doing often after Grantaire had essentially bullied him for 'not paying attention' a year or so ago. Grantaire knew that Enjolras didn't love eye contact, unless he was the one in a position of dominion, so Grantaire appreciated the sentiment. But Grantaire's grin faded a little when he remembered the next part of the story. He sighed deeply, fidgeted his fingers into the blades of grass in front of him, and continued his story.

"And then, the second year I knew him, he started to get bad. And, I mean, really bad. Like, I'm not sure if you ever saw the worst of Joly's OCD, but-“ Grantaire said, clearing his throat. “He was just really unwell. He was getting himself as drunk as he could, whenever he could, just to stop that pesky voice in his head that was constantly telling him that something horrible was about to happen. And for the first few months of his... decline, I went along with it, 'cause, hey, if it helped, I certainly wasn't one to judge.

"But eventually, he started losing it. His hands were so cracked and raw from the constant washing and sanitizing. I'd have to physically restrain him from repeatedly taking his own temperature and checking his own pulse. He was convinced he was dying all the time, and that was fucking rough to watch. Not knowing how to help, unable to do anything."

Enjolras frowned, or rather, his frown deepened. He was always fucking frowning.

"You tell really sad stories." Enjolras mumbled miserably. “This isn’t making me feel better.”

"That's because I'm not done, asshole." Grantaire snarked. Enjolras rolled his eyes.

"When we were twenty, Joly started therapy. Some really intense treatment, something to do with lights, and- And rewiring his brain to think differently, I don't really know, I didn't ask too many questions. But anyways, part of this therapy was finding something to pour all of his focus into, and this was before med school, so he found the ABC, and everything was uphill from there." Grantaire beamed, watching Enjolras' frown disappear. "It saved his life, having that. Having you guys. I mean that."

"He never told me that." Enjolras said quietly, and Grantaire even thought he might've seen the prefix of a smile on Enjolras' face, but he couldn't be sure.

"And, now, I gotta be honest, when he invited me to come along, I told him it sounded kinda lame, because," Grantaire laughed. "no offence, it sounded kinda fucking lame. I was so not interested in whatever-"

"Wow, who'd have thought?" Enjolras said sarcastically.

"You're pushing it, blondie." Grantaire said, but he knew that the smile he felt on his face was as far from threatening as you could get. Enjolras was clearly doing his best not to smile back, a trait that Grantaire wished desperately for him to just drop already.

"So yeah, I wasn't going to go, but then I thought about Anais, you know?" Grantaire sighed, diverting his eyeline, and he shrugged. "I knew that she'd have kicked my ass if she knew that I let this pass me by. Because she died standing up for herself, she died because she was a woman existing in a world set up to help men like me succeed, or whatever. The least I could do was go to one meeting of a group that I wish existed when she was around."

Grantaire didn't speak for a short amount of time after he finished his story, and surprisingly, Enjolras had nothing to say either. Grantaire dared a glance up at Enjolras, and discovered that he was staring rather pensively, his lips pursed and eyes vast as if deep in thought. Grantaire had to admit, it freaked him out a bit. It always made him feel wild whenever Enjolras had that focused look in his eye. He hated it. He loved it.

"So, whatever." Grantaire clambered to wrap his story up. "The moral of the story is that even if the ABC were to be destroyed by some rich asshole in a fancy suit-"

"Millionaire." Enjras corrected, and Grantaire blinked at him.

"Really?" Grantaire asked in shock, laughing breathlessly when Enjolras nodded. "Fucking hell, Apollo, if I'd have known that I would've started being nicer to you a long time ago." Enjolras rolled his eyes. Grantaire continued. "Whatever, destroyed by a millionaire asshole in a fancy suit," He grinned. "the ABC has already changed lives. And not just for the people on the outside, but for everyone in the group itself. Joly, me, all of us. And you're responsible for that. And that's the only time you'll ever hear me admit it."

For the second time, Enjolras was watching him closely again, but this time there was something else. Something shy, something wonderous, and Grantaire couldn't help back watch him back. And then, Enjolras began to give him a knowing smile, like he'd reached a realisation, but Grantaire wondered why he almost looked disappointed.

"Now it makes sense." Enjolras said, nodding slowly.

"What does?" Grantaire asked. Enjolras sighed.

"I've always wondered why you've stuck around if you don't believe in change." Enjolras explained. "The whole... dead sister, unfinished business thing explains a lot."

And Grantaire felt the need to laugh, because of course Enjolras would say something like that. Enjolras could always be the smartest guy in the room (as long as Combeferre didn't show up) and still be so, so dumb and so fucking blind. Enjolras looked at him in confusion, and Grantaire shook his head.

"I said she's the reason I went along in the first place." Grantaire said, tilting his head. "I didn't say she's the reason I kept coming back."

Enjolras looked even more confused at this explanation, but that was all he was getting. Right now hardly felt like the time to open that whole can of worms. Grantaire couldn't even think of a worse time to explain that hey, I'm actually ridiculously in love with you and would probably follow you to the ends of the earth, not with Enjolras coming down from a high and recovering from a panic attack. Not that there would ever be a suitable time, Grantaire planned on taking this to the grave.

"Come on, get up." Grantaire stated abruptly, standing to his feet. He held out a hand to Enjolras. "Let me walk you home."

Enjolras rolled his eyes for probably the billionth time in the last twenty-four hours, but placed his hand neatly in Grantaire's, and allowed him to help him to his feet. It was still so bizarre to Grantaire, how easily Enjolras' hand fit in his own. It was so natural that it was unnerving.

"Chivalrous." Enjolras deadpanned.

"Just trying to weasel my way into that Enjolras family fortune." Grantaire beamed cheekily, giving Enjolras' hand a squeeze.

They were only a few hundred meters distance away from Enjolras' apartment building, so it only took five or so minutes to get him home. Unsurprisingly, they argued for the entirety of the walk, and absolutely surprisingly, Enjolras never let go of his hand.

Chapter Text

"He is never going to give this up, you realise that, right?" Grantaire said to Enjolras as he raised his drink to his lips and smirked around the neck of the bottle.

It was a dull Wednesday afternoon, moving quickly into the evening, but night's dark had not yet taken over. Regardless of this fact, Grantaire felt as though he were asleep and dreaming.

There was nothing special about this particular Wednesday afternoon; it was less exciting than the previous week. Grantaire was sitting idle at a seat near the back of the Musain, enjoying a nice, cold beverage that made his thoughts move slowly and his stomach feel fuzzy. Courfeyrac and Combeferre had the day away from their studies, resulting in the two of them, plus others, meeting at the Musain for drinks and catching up, giving Grantaire the excuse to see his friends and, even better, the excuse to drink. Nothing out of the norm, everything in its place.

But this Wednesday, in its ordinary nature, held a unique charm for Grantaire. He felt a profound sense of belonging as he sat on a bony stool by the row of windows, swishing around the remainder of his drink. Today, he was not just a part of the group, he was an integral thread in its fabric. His friends never made him feel unwelcome or unwanted, but today, he felt special. Today, he felt needed, in a way, like he served a purpose—an insane, mind-boggling, gut-wrenching purpose, to service the man who usually needed no one. Today, Grantaire was joined by Enjolras.

Enjolras was smiling today. The last few weeks had been a struggle for him; his inner turmoil was evident to everyone, as it usually was this close to an ABC event. His mood would shift with the mention of a wrong word, and he was lost in thought in every conversation. But today, he was smiling. It was that rare, almost elusive smile, the one he so often hid from his friends, dimples and smile lines like creases in silk. Today, Enjolras was laughing at jokes, listening to domestic conversations, and there was that sparkle in his eyes again. More notably, it was directed to Grantaire.

Grantaire felt as though things between the two of them had shifted somewhat. Since Combeferre’s birthday, Enjolras has been different towards him in the ways mentioned above and more, but the problem was that Grantaire could not identify exactly what that shift was.

To clarify, he and Enjolras' relationship dynamic hadn't changed all that drastically. They still argued until they couldn't get the words out, and they still pretended to hate each other, but something about the way that Enjolras would look at him now felt strange. Foreign. Not necessarily in a bad way, but not in a terrific way either. At times, Grantaire almost felt as though Enjolras was genuinely trying to find excuses to be angry with him, and as amusing as it was at the beginning, Grantaire couldn’t help but feel like Enjolras might have meant the things he was saying. He was still brutal to Grantaire, calling him a deadbeat and a drunk, and he still disciplined his lack of focus or direction. The exact words he had said to Grantaire one thousand times before, for some reason, had more sting to them than usual. There was more venom in his voice, more guts behind his tone. It was funny, really. Grantaire realised nothing had changed at all, not physically, anyway.

In fact, Grantaire may never have noticed this tiny shift in their dynamic if it weren't for the way Enjolras looked at him now. Those eyes, green and dusty, so often caught aflame and burning, now turned timid, curious even. When Enjolras looked at him now, Grantaire could find one million different expressions crossing his face, where he used to only find anger. When Enjolras frowns now, his eyes look up tauntingly through his brow. When he rolls his eyes, where they once used to move on, they now find their way back to Grantaire's. Now, every sentence has a hint of a smile, no matter how vicious the words are.

And that's all well and good, but what the fuck does it mean?

It had been a week and a half since that night in the pool, since the body sleeping beside him, radiating warmth. A week and a half since their conversation in the street, when Grantaire had walked Enjolras home, hand in hand for the second time now. At the time, Grantaire felt like that in and of itself was crazy, chalking it up to being in the right place at the right time, multiple right places and right times in a row—a mere coincidence. But the day directly following that Sunday in the street, Grantaire realised that this was not just random chance. This was the start of something.

As for what that something was, well, Grantaire couldn’t afford to be picky, now could he?

He had been halfway through another unscheduled shift at the café that day, covering for Musichetta’s usual Monday afternoon shift once again when Enjolras had shown up. He was bundled up in what looked like too many layers to walk comfortably in, his cheeks and nose pink from the frosty winds outside the café’s doors. Grantaire remembered looking in confusion at the clock when he watched Enjolras stomp his way inside the building. It was only four o’clock at that point, two whole hours before their occasional Monday meeting time. He accidentally caught Enjolras’ eye, giving him a playful smirk as he watched him do a doubletake, and holding his eye contact as Enjolras approached the counter cautiously.

"What are you doing?" Enjolras asked, his head tilted in that innocent yet subtly judgemental confusion.

"Working." Grantaire smiled.

"You don't work here." Enjolras said.

"You know, I get that a lot." Grantaire nodded slowly, amused by the way Enjolras’ confusion shifted to something softer, still indescribable. "What do you want, then?"

"Oh, nothing." Enjolras shook his head abruptly, knocking himself out of his daze. "I just came here to work on my speech."

"Have you eaten?" Grantaire asked.

A beat.

"Yes.” Enjolras replied.

"Have you?" Grantaire asked again with a doubtful glint in his eye. Enjolras was silent for a second before he rolled his eyes, giving himself away. Grantaire gave him a soft chuckle, deriding him with his unimpressed glare. “I was willing to bet.”

Enjolras had no opportunity for snide remarks before Grantaire swiftly turned away from the blonde, looking over his shoulder as he did so. He went to the glass cabinet where they kept the pastries and sandwiches, eyeing off a fresh croissant with smoked ham and brie cheese. There was some green, leafy garnish atop it, and Grantaire quickly removed it and threw it aside. Don’t ask him how he knows Enjolras will not eat it otherwise, it definitely has nothing to do with how often he stalks Enjolras with the corner of his eye. He returned to the counter with the plated croissant, where Enjolras was still watching him, and placed it down on the surface between them. He looked at Enjolras.

“Eat."

"I didn't pay for that." Enjolras frowned.

"On the house." Grantaire smiled kindly.

"You don't work here." Enjolras reminded him.

"Fine, I'll pay for it." Grantaire groaned in faux annoyance, his smile mismatching his tone. "I'm nothing if not a gentleman."

There was a moment where Enjolras only scoffed, his instinctual annoyance indeed taking charge of his expression, but to Grantaire’s surprise, he resigned. He was looking down at the plate of food between them, tapping his finger lightly on the counter's surface, before he looked up to meet Grantaire’s gaze again. It appeared as if Enjolras was thinking of something, and the way his lips parted slightly before they sealed themselves shut gave off the impression that there was something he wanted to say. Grantaire could almost see the cogs in Enjolras’ head turning, too fast for his own self-preservation, too slow for his confidence.

Finally, the words came.

"Do you get a break?" Enjolras asked, more guardedly than Grantaire was used to hearing his voice sound.

"Um, I'm not sure,” Grantaire said, pretending to think. He could hardly help the smile that was beginning to crawl upon his face. "I don't know if you know this, but I don't technically work here."

"You should get a break.” Enjolras said. “Employee or not, you’re entitled to one.”

Grantaire thought it over. The new employee at the bar was working casually, washing and drying dishes, running orders to tables and restocking the counter, leaving Grantaire to do most of the front register work. The guy coming in to take over Grantaire’s – Musichetta’s – shift was still twenty minutes away, and Grantaire felt a little dodgy at the thought of leaving the café alone to the newbie for any longer than he ought to. But a quick look around the shop showed an array of empty tables, lonely older women drinking coffee strong enough it could probably kill them, and a few preoccupied school students on their computers. There were only twenty minutes until the end of his shift, twenty minutes separating him and the bottle of rum he had picked out for the evening. As much as Grantaire would love to spend that extra twenty minutes with Enjolras instead of working, he knew he shouldn’t.

“I don’t know.” Grantaire said, checking over his shoulder at the new employee. He was at the coffee station, looking like he was minutes away from crying while trying to figure out how to work the hopper—poor kid.

"A quick one." Enjolras said, a beat too impatiently.

"Whoa, it’s just lunch, Apollo." Grantaire teased.

"Oh my God, Grantaire, do you want to keep me company or not?" Enjolras snapped huffily, though his eyes were shy and undemanding.

Grantaire’s heart skipped a beat, maybe two. That was the moment he picked it. Something is changing, he thought. Enjolras in his company, at the right place at the right time, however many times in a row. This was the giveaway, the change in their dynamic. He smiled brightly at Enjolras. Sorry, new kid.

"Give me five minutes."

That day, they'd shared a spot at the back of the Musain by the window, overlooking the sad cloudscape and the muddy, rocky courtyard beneath them. Enjolras had his notes out, a pen tucked behind his ear, and Grantaire was working his way through the bottle of rum he’d set aside, but both men's projects were very quickly abandoned after they started to converse.

"You painted your nails." Enjolras had said, quite easily reaching for Grantaire's hand to inspect his nail art. Grantaire's heart may have stopped for a few beats, but he grinned, nonetheless.

"Captain's orders." Grantaire had replied, to which Enjolras rolled his eyes. Grantaire allowed the man across from him to manoeuvre his hand in whichever way to get a better look. His hands were cold against Grantaire’s own.

"Don't be ridiculous." Enjolras said.

"Do you approve?" Grantaire had continued to tease, beaming a bright smile. Enjolras did his best to not let his own smile show through.

"I suppose." Enjolras had replied, feigning a kind of disinterest that was pretty easy to see through. Grantaire felt warm on the inside, even if it was due to seeing something as simple as Enjolras' reaction to Grantaire listening to him. He shrugged. "Not my favourite colour."

"Yeah, not mine either." Grantaire had said, then inspecting his nails himself. Jehan would tell him there was no such thing as a favourite colour, that all colours have the ability to earn your attraction, depending on the colour you feel inside at any given moment. Truthfully, Grantaire had no idea what the fuck that meant. When Grantaire looked up, he found a puzzled Enjolras looking back at him.

"Green isn't your favourite colour?" Enjolras had asked.

"Nope."

"Huh," Enjolras said in surprise. He looked away in thought for a second and then right back to Grantaire. "But—“ He began, and gestured to the many examples of green on Grantaire’s person; the chartreuse-tinged paint staining Grantaire’s phone case, his emerald green key ring, his black shirt outlined with pale mint graphics.

"Well, sure, it's my signature colour," Grantaire offered, "but it's not my favourite."

"I see." Enjolras said as he nodded and turned to look out the window.

A few moments passed, with Grantaire watching Enjolras and Enjolras watching the sunset in the distance. The sky was a dark shade of orange melting into a shade as pink as the skin on Enjolras’ fingertips, though the grey clouds harshened the view far more than Enjolras seemed to notice. Grantaire watched Enjolras' eyes flicker across various parts of the world outside until Enjolras turned back to meet Grantaire's gaze.

"What is your favourite colour, then?" Enjolras had asked. Grantaire simply smiled, looked out to the sky beside him, and chuckled.

"Red."

On the following Friday, Grantaire found himself at yet another ABC meeting. From where he sat, tucked away in the back corner, he could almost see the top floor in its entirety. At the table in the middle of the room was his beloved army of rebels, doing their thing as usual. Organising, planning, chatting. But it was an open meeting that night, and there were plenty of fresh faces amongst the crowd, watching Enjolras. Enjolras stood at the left-hand side of the table, manoeuvring his way around his present and future comrades like he choreographed it. He always spoke with such influence, but that night, for the newcomers, he put on a show. Passionately rambling about, well, whatever it was he was passionately rambling about. Strategic, poetic.

It wasn’t until after the meeting, when his friends were busy networking and socialising and informing the new recruits about the upcoming protest that Enjolras came and found Grantaire in that lonely corner.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight.” Enjolras said, a hint of judgment in his tone.

His cheeks were fuller these days, Grantaire noticed, though he doubted it had anything to do with adequately looking after himself. Sure, Things were changing, but Enjolras was still his own worst caretaker. The split in Enjolras’ lip was missing now, too, and the scar on his jawline was just a whisper of what it used to be. His hair fell mercilessly from the crown of his head, the dark band securing it up and out of his face peeking out like a shadow amongst the glow. Grantaire thought Enjolras looked nice with his hair up, but what stunned him the most was how easily Enjolras could throw himself together in a mess and still look like a finished artwork that an artist with the steadiest hand could have spent months of their life working on. He was a portrait Grantaire would never have enough skill to perfect.

“Just admiring the view.” Grantaire said with a cheesy grin on his face. Enjolras frowned in confusion as he turned his head toward the window, inspecting the nothingness of the nighttime.

“It’s pitch-black outside.” He said, chuckling softly and fixing his hair from where it threatened to fall from high up on the back of his head. A tight ringlet of golden hairs was sticking out from Enjolras’ messily crafted ponytail, the way a pencil hangs out from behind your ear. And Grantaire, not knowing what came over him, tugged on the stray curl. It stretched straight, almost to Enjolras’ shoulders, before bouncing back up atop his head when Grantaire let go.

"Ow!” Enjolras spat, punching Grantaire viciously on the shoulder. “What was that for?!”

Worth it.

“Bouncy.” Grantaire said, as if it were a suitable answer, and reached to tug the strand of hair again.

“Stop it.” Enjolras said quickly, attempting to pull his head away where Grantaire could not reach him and swatting him away like a bug.

"You can't blame me," Grantaire called defensively, but finally resigned. "I've literally been dreaming of messing your hair up forever."

Grantaire couldn’t remember a time he had ever seen Enjolras’ eyes widen so much.

"You've-" Enjolras stuttered, his cheeks turning dangerously pink as he cleared his throat and diverted his gaze. "Uhm, okay."

"Okay?" Grantaire asked, rather enthusiastically. Enjolras realised his mistake.

"No-" Enjolras added quickly, sharply turning to Grantaire and pointing a stern finger in his direction. "Not okay. Quit it."

Grantaire was tempted to fuck with him, as was his natural response to being so close to Enjolras. He wanted to pull his hair or give him too much eye contact or move closer or do any of the petty things he knew would make Enjolras flustered and nervous, just because he could do that now. To make Enjolras whinge his name in that angry way he did whenever Grantaire was being obnoxious, which was most of the time. Grantaire had given up on trying to coax his name from Enjolras’ lips in the flavour of honey and sugar long ago, and he’d become rather fond of the gravel and muck it was coated in now. But he hadn’t gotten a chance to do any of those things, for a woman interrupted them.

“Hi!” Her voice came through, “Sorry, I hope I’m not interrupting.”

Grantaire turned away from Enjolras to find a woman standing before them. She was small, her hair long and oaky, her skin burnt by the sun. She had light brown eyes, so warm they were almost orange, and the smile on her face matched her sunny demeanour. She was looking at Enjolras, her body turned towards him, but her eyes had a habit of wandering back to Grantaire. Enjolras quickly morphed personas, ditching the cranky expression he was wearing moments ago for one more neutral as he looked up at the woman.

“Not at all.” He smiled kindly, nothing like the asshole who had no problem physically assaulting Grantaire.

“I just wanted to say how awesome it is, what you guys are doing.” She beamed.

“Thank you. We are proud of what we have achieved and hope to achieve.” Enjolras spoke sweetly, “Are you considering coming to the protest?”

“I wouldn’t miss it!” She said enthusiastically. “And I was actually just wondering, if you don’t mind, could I come back next week? I know it’s a closed-off meeting for the protest, but I’m just so intrigued. I’d love to see you all in action.”

Enjolras was about to respond, but Grantaire beat him to it.

“Trust me, you don’t want to see him in action.” Grantaire said, gesturing with his head to Enjolras, whom he could feel staring daggers into the side of his head. Grantaire patted Enjolras on the back. “He’s too intense. Isn’t that right, buddy?”

Enjolras did not look impressed.

“Don’t be cruel.” The woman laughed, keeping her eye contact with Grantaire. “Mister…”

“Grantaire.” He introduced himself, before pointing to Enjolras. “Enjolras.”

“Grantaire.” She repeated, a glimmer in her eye as she spoke. “Dorothy.”

“Good to meet you, Dorothy.” Grantaire offered her a polite smile in return and turned to face Enjolras, as his frown faltered, and he opened his mouth to speak.

“I’m sure I speak for everyone when I say we would love to have you-“ Enjolras began, but was cut off once more.

“Are you a part of these meetings too?” Dorothy asked, her attention still placed on Grantaire. Grantaire could see Enjolras in his peripheral vision, flickering his focus between he and the woman. “I didn’t see you up there.”

“Eh, I’m mostly just here for the company.” Grantaire shrugged, bumping his shoulder into Enjolras’. “And the booze.”

Dorothy laughed, a simple laugh, but unmistakably flirtatiously. She pulled a strand of her chocolatey hair out from her face, tucking it behind her ear as she looked at Grantaire with small eyes.

“Well, maybe sometime I could supply the company.” Dorothy spoke, her voice suggestive and taunting. “You can supply the booze.”

“Oh, uh, sure. Maybe.” Grantaire replied, chuckling awkwardly. It had been a while since someone had come and asked him out up front, and whilst Grantaire was usually particularly good at these kinds of situations, he found it hard to find any interest for outside entertainment with Enjolras sitting so close.

“Let me give you my number then-“

“The next meeting is for members only. Sorry.” Enjolras interrupted, blunt and firm. “Goodbye.”

Dorothy looked to Enjolras shocked, maybe even a little confused, and then back to Grantaire. Grantaire was sporting the same reaction to Enjolras’ hasty reply. She smiled awkwardly, skipping her focus between the two men, and nodded playfully.

“See you round, Grantaire. Enjolras.” Dorothy said, before resigning herself to the group of unknown faces by the table in the centre of the room.

Enjolras stared her down as she waltzed away to join the rest of the newcomers, his face scrunched up into a pessimistic scowl. Grantaire studied him, a bemused look on his face.

“What was that?” Grantaire asked slowly.

“What was what?” Enjolras replied, crossing his arms and sitting up straight in his chair, chin turned up proudly.

“Uh, that?” Grantaire said, a wicked smile returning to his face confusedly. He gestured to the group the girl was now standing amongst. “That whole interaction?”

“Nothing?” Enjolras assured, though Grantaire didn’t believe him. “The next meeting is for members only. You know this.”

Grantaire squinted his eyes at Enjolras, who was actively avoiding his gaze, and Grantaire’s smile only grew wider as he let out an intrusive laugh.

“Are you-“ Grantaire began, scoffing at his own question. “Enjolras, are you jealous?”

“What?” Enjolras practically shouted in his face. “Jealous? No?”

“Oh my God.” Grantaire mumbled, loud enough for the blonde to hear.

“What?” Enjolras asked defensively.

“You are.” Grantaire nodded as he spoke, incredulously.

“No, I’m not!” Enjolras defended. “Why would I be- I’m not jealous.”

Grantaire was a little dumbfounded by this.

“Stop looking at me like that!” Enjolras barked aggressively.

“Well then, do you think I should go get her number?” Grantaire teased, leaning in closer to Enjolras and making the blonde's breath hitch in his throat. “She seemed pretty into me.”

“Do whatever you want. Why would I care?” Enjolras mumbled, the deflating look on his face giving him away.

“Nah, I’m not interested.” Grantaire said easily. “She’s not my type anyway. I kind of have a thing for blondes.”

Something is changing.

And today was Wednesday, boring old Wednesday, a Wednesday with nothing special about it. Grantaire was sat at a table with Jehan, Courfeyrac, and Enjolras. Jehan was sitting happily across from Grantaire, with two knitting needles in hand, crafting the sleeve cuffs of a brown and blue sweater out of wool. Courfeyrac was standing with a hand on his hip, and he may as well have been tapping his foot with the way he was looking at Enjolras like a mother who caught their child sneaking out past curfew.

"If you can do it with Grantaire, you can do it with me!” Courfeyrac demanded of Enjolras, heavy on the sass. Grantaire couldn’t help but feel a little proud of himself for Courfeyrac’s observation.

"Oh my God." Enjolras’ muffled voice came through unclear from where his head was currently hiding in his hands. A bashful Enjolras had quickly become one of Grantaire’s favourite kinds of Enjolras. He leaned in closer to Enjolras’ ear, just to prolong the sight, as he said,

"I think he's jealous."

Enjolras jumped slightly. Grantaire grinned further.

"Of you?" Enjolras barked dramatically as he pulled himself from his hiding place. "Don't flatter yourself."

"Oh, I don't have to." Grantaire smiled cheerily, reaching a soft hand to brush a stray curl that ungraciously framed Enjolras’ face from the sudden movement, oh-so-slowly tucking it behind his ear. "You do it for me."

Enjolras’ eyes softened, in that way they did these days, as if his vision had gone blurry. He did his darndest not to show any hint of a smile, but Grantaire could picture it anyway.

"I liked you better from a distance." Enjolras said easily, but his eyes were filled with a kind of fondness and not at all as menacing as he was attempting to be.

"Oh, yes, I can see that." Grantaire laughed sarcastically as he raised his eyebrows, giving Enjolras’ frame a sneaky once over with his eyes. Enjolras’ lips pursed to the side in an attempt to hide that smile, rolling his eyes, before turning back to a very impatient Courfeyrac, who was still trying to get Enjolras’ attention.

"Earth to Enjolras!" Courfeyrac sulked. "Are you even paying attention? This is important for the name of science!"

Enjolras huffed, closing his eyes as he pulled his head and heavy body to face Courfeyrac fully. "Literally nothing about this has anything to do with science."

"You're trying to stall, and I tell you, it won't work!" Courfeyrac snapped, raising a silencing finger and wagging it side to side. "It's easy! I'll demonstrate with my lovely assistant here, Jehan."

"Fine. I’m watching." Enjolras mumbled, sitting back in his seat and crossing his arms.

"This ought to be gay." Grantaire muttered under his breath loudly enough for Enjolras to hear, making him laugh.

"Jehan, start us off." Courfeyrac called, to which Jehan nodded excitedly as they threw their woollen project down on the table in front of them and made to stand.

"Hi! Nice to meet you!” Jehan said as they stood, stepping towards Courfeyrac with a wonderous glint in their eye and a sunny smile on their face. “My name is Jean Prouvaire, but you can call me Jehan."

"Hi, Jehan! I'm Grantaire." Courfeyrac said.

"What?" Enjolras asked, confused. Grantaire bowed his head, chuckling to himself.

"Pleasure to be acquainted!" Jehan said chirpily, extending out their faded ink-stained hand to meet with Courfeyrac’s. The two shook each other’s hands firmly, and Courfeyrac’s movement made Jehan stumble closer by a foot. Jehan laughed sweetly at this.

"Quite a grip you got there." They said, as they planted their other hand against Courfeyrac’s chest to steady themself.

"Oh, yeah, I'm amazing with my hands." Courfeyrac said, his voice low and teasing.

Honest to God, hand on heart, Enjolras blushed.

"Courfeyrac." Grantaire warned in amusement, as a response to the look on Enjolras’ face.

"Okay, okay." Courfeyrac sighed, as he let go of Jehan’s hand and turned back to face the table. "Enjolras, you're up."

Grantaire watched Enjolras roll his eyes once more in detest, but still, the blonde man stood to his feet and made his way around the table to plant himself in front of Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac was already sporting an overzealous grin, holding himself like a man from nineteenth-century royalty, a hand behind his back and the other squared in front of himself. Grantaire wondered who was enjoying this more, himself or Courfeyrac. Either way, by the hesitation in his eyes, it was not Enjolras.

"Hello there, good sir.” Courfeyrac bowed gently. “What is your name?"

"You know my name." Enjolras said, unimpressed.

"Just say your name." Courfeyrac whispered quickly, dropping his character for only a second.

"Enjolras."

"Wonderful to meet you, Enjolras!" Courfeyrac cried, probably with a little too much enthusiasm for someone to have over shaking someone's hand. He extended his hand for Enjolras to shake.

Now, a part of Grantaire had faith in Enjolras. Here was a man who could do almost anything he set his mind to, and this man set his mind to many things. There was no doubt in Grantaire’s mind that Enjolras was becoming more confident, if not in his ability to tolerate touch, then in his ability to let people in. Grantaire watched Enjolras study Courfeyrac’s palm, his fingers wiggling temptingly as he stared Enjolras down. There were a few seconds where Grantaire was sure that Enjolras was about to do it, and he will admit, those few seconds he felt somewhat bothered. But Enjolras’ hand did not raise itself, did not meet Courfeyrac’s, and Grantaire felt a tiny wave of relief. As selfish as it was, he liked having Enjolras’ hands to himself.

"I’m not doing it." Enjolras muttered sourly, as he took a step away and spun confidently to return to his seat beside Grantaire.

"Oh, come on, Enj!" Courfeyrac sulked.

"Don't push him." Grantaire piped in. "He's fragile."

"Shut up." Enjolras spat in response.

"Don't think about it. Just shake." Courfeyrac said, hand still extended, regardless of the table now separating the two men.

"No." Enjolras said.

"Gah, but you were so close!" Courfeyrac called as he threw his hands up in the air in defeat, before deflating and nodding in agreeance. "Baby steps, baby steps."

"Yeah, with enough practice, you could become as much of a slut as Courfeyrac!" Grantaire teased.

"Hey, I also give great hugs!" Courfeyrac sulked. "Not that Enjolras would know."

"It's true, he gives the best hugs." Jehan added.

"Oooh, let's demonstrate a hug." Courfeyrac jumped excitedly.

"Jesus Christ." Enjolras muttered to himself as Jehan and Courfeyrac took their places.

Grantaire loved this weird moment unfolding before him. In his life, there had been a handful of moments that Grantaire will remember for as long as he lives. Growing up in an unstable family, losing his sister, and his neglect and abuse towards himself, those things tend to make a man forget a lot about himself. To forget about where he grew up, who he truly was deep down, behind all of the whiskey and sarcasm, before he was damaged. But with his friends, they replace those gaps in his memory. There was a time when the smell of lemon cleaning spray put him on edge, forcing him to return to his childhood home in his mind, to any of the hundreds of memories he’d rather not return to. But now, that scent was a reminder of Jehan, and their citrus-scented body wash bought from the health foods store. Once, a car alarm going off would throw him into a panic attack; now, it makes him think of the time Bossuet accidentally broke into someone else’s car, thinking it was his own. To sit so close to Enjolras, that alone used to make him feel like he stuck out like a sore thumb. Now it feels like he blends in.

"Courfeyrac, you're such a great friend!" Jehan said, eyes staring lustfully into Courfeyrac’s.

"Thank you, my beautiful Jehan. May I?" Courfeyrac replied with the same flirty air about him.

"You may." Jehan nodded with a smirk.

Grantaire examined Enjolras, who couldn’t decide where to put his attention between the two in front of him and the table below him. Courfeyrac and Jehan and the closeness the two were sharing evidently wracked on Enjolras’ nerves. Grantaire could tell by the look on his face that Enjolras wasn’t comfortable, his cheeks looked warm, and he struggled to watch the scene in front of him taking place. How funny it seemed to Grantaire now, recalling the closeness of himself and Enjolras in the pool that night. Hands on hips and fingers bunched in drenched cotton. As if there was any difference between them then, and these two now. Perhaps that was the thought replaying in Enjolras’ mind, too, for now and then, his gaze wandered over to Grantaire’s hands on the table.

Courfeyrac pulled away from the hug with Jehan and looked them menacingly in the eye.

"And may I just say that you are looking ravishing tonight!" Courfeyrac spoke, his low and sultry tone reappearing.

"Oh, well, thank you!" Jehan said sweetly as they innocently tucked a long cherry strand of hair behind their ear, though an equally sinful glint lived in their eye. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

And, because Courfeyrac and Jehan cannot be left alone in a room together without one of them getting the other pregnant, Courfeyrac began to advance. Slowly, almost painfully slow, Courfeyrac leant in close to Jehan’s sweet smile. His eyes were closing, and Jehan got up on the tips of their toes to meet Courfeyrac halfway. Gently (at the beginning at least), the two’s lips met softly, graciously, and they pulled each other tighter once more. Grantaire would have thought it a sweet moment between his friends, if the gobsmacked look on Enjolras’ face wasn’t so fucking hilarious.

"Okay, uhm. This isn’t-” Enjolras stuttered, his gaze directing itself away to stare at the table between them as Courfeyrac and Jehan went from light kissing to wildly inappropriate. “That’s not-“

"Don’t worry, Apollo." Grantaire smirked, placing his hand on Enjolras’ shoulder and leaning in closer to his ear. “We can skip this part.”

The look on Enjolras’ face as he turned away from their two friends, who seemed as if they were genuinely trying to eat each other, was priceless. With his hazel eyes wide, he sucked in a short and sharp breath. Grantaire offered him a joking smile, but Enjolras seemed rather flustered, nonetheless. He quickly dodged Grantaire’s gaze and turned back to Courfeyrac and Jehan, kissing like their lives depended on it, and began clapping his hands in their direction.

“You two.” Enjolras barked, “Stop it.”

They were not deterred.

Grantaire couldn’t help but laugh. As much as he hated to admit it, he was honestly impressed with Courfeyrac and his ability to seduce anyone within a five-mile radius. That was Courfeyrac, someone with a heart big enough to share it around, and the personality to prove it. Enjolras was still attempting to break them up, but Grantaire figured it was a futile attempt. Once Courfeyrac had set his mind to something – or in this case, his mouth – he could not be stopped.

Unless, of course, emergency called for it.

"Hey, fellas?" Éponine’s voice joined them in the room of the café, a fraction panicked. "Uh, a little help?"

Grantaire turned his gaze to the woman now barging up the staircase, her crinkled hair whipping furiously as he turned, looking over her shoulder. Grantaire didn’t think twice before he stood from his seat and made his way over to her, where they met in the middle of the room. Instinct kicked in as he took her by the arms, checking her all over for any signs of hurt or damage.

"What? What's wrong?" Grantaire began, scanning her face. "Are you okay?"

"I swear to God I'm going to fucking kill him one of these days." She said, taking a deep breath and shaking her head. "He was fucking waiting outside my apartment for me, and he followed me here. I didn't see him, I didn't- Not until I got here and he-"

"Hey, it's okay, it's okay. Who followed you?" Combeferre’s voice appeared suddenly, as he placed a comforting hand on Éponine’s shoulder. She shut her eyes tight for one moment, took another deep breath, and replied,

"Montparnasse."

Montparnasse.

Grantaire didn’t hate many people in his life. Sure, he hated his mother, he hated his father, and he hated his sister’s ex-boyfriend, but that’s about where the line was drawn. To hate someone was to waste too much energy that someone with Grantaire’s mental health status couldn’t afford, so Grantaire hated truly little. He isn’t a picky eater, he’ll most likely find any movie amusing, his playlist is a vast ocean of genres. Perhaps, he wasted all of his hatred on himself; that would sure make some sense. But regardless of that, if there was one person he did hate, it was Montparnasse. Grantaire was honestly kind of glad to hear his name escape Éponine’s mouth. He had been waiting for the day to come when he could finally have some semblance of an excuse to put Montparnasse six feet under, and if he were lucky, then perhaps today would be that day.

"Where is he now?" Grantaire asked, his eyes impossibly focused.

"I don't know!” Éponine said, her cry soaked in annoyance. “He came into the parking lot right behind me. He was alone, though. He might've left."

"It's okay, he's not going to hurt you." Combeferre said kindly, his eyes on her not faltering.

"Oh, I know." Éponine nodded, before she gestured down to her satchel. "That's what my taser is for."

"Your what?"

"Uh, guys?" Courfeyrac’s voice chimed from across the room. He and Jehan were now standing by the front-facing window of the building, the one that overlooked the courtyard where the main door to the café sat. His voice was not so much concerned, as it was inconvenienced. "He's coming in."

Éponine turned to look at Grantaire again, her dark eyes displaying that pleading look. It wasn’t a helpless look, Éponine wasn’t helpless, but Grantaire knew what she was saying with those eyes. Today may be that day.

Not after long, heavy footsteps could be heard approaching the room from the bottom of the stairs, each step louder and more dramatic than the last. Everyone in the room knew what was going on by now, save for the sole two patrons in the café that did not belong to the ABC. They were looking around, wondering what all of the commotion was about. It would be a sight to see, a young woman barging in calling for help, and then seven or eight men moving to block the stairway with their arms crossed and noses turned up. It was probably wise then, that the two locals who had no business being there slipped out the back entrance while they could. Eventually, Montparnasse reached the top floor, only stopping his advancement when he had come chest to chest with Grantaire.

"You're not welcome here." Grantaire spat as soon as Montparnasse reached him, not even waiting for his introduction.

"Well, hello to you too!" Montparnasse grinned temptingly. "May I come in?"

"No." Grantaire said. Montparnasse grimaced.

"I think you want to let me in."

"You thought wrong." Grantaire replied.

There were a few seconds where Montparnasse attempted to give Grantaire somewhat of an intimidating look, but Grantaire had always found it hard to take this man seriously. Grantaire had heard every story under the sun about Montparnasse, about this crook with a past darker than the depths of the ocean, money that was not his flaunted in the expensive apparel he wore, a new scar on his body day after day. He was hardly his gang's ringleader, but he was a criminal. However, Grantaire recalled in that moment of standing chest to chest with Montparnasse, a story Jehan had told him of the man's fear of the dark, or of the fluffy yellow socks with ducklings on them that he wore to sleep, or of how he used to listen to recordings of Jehan’s voice reciting poetry whenever he cooked or cleaned, and suddenly this criminal became no more than a boy.

So perhaps this is why Grantaire entertained the man for longer than even he thought he would have, allowing Montparnasse to find Éponine’s focused glare and attempt one of his dominating glances. He was looking at her as if trying to command her to allow him to enter the room, but she didn’t make any move to do so. She was probably thinking along the same lines as Grantaire; this was a public space. If he really wanted to come in, he could. Neither Éponine nor Grantaire couldn’t stop him from doing that. Montparnasse just wanted to put on a show, as he so often did.

When Éponine didn’t budge at his attempt to control her, he added, "I have something that I think you will find is of great use to you."

"I don't want whatever you have," she said, trying to shut him down.

"Oh, it's not for you." Montparnasse laughed and shook his head. Suddenly, his attention was ripped away from Éponine, and he scanned the room once more until his eyes landed on Enjolras, who was standing solemnly in the centre of the room, watching everything unfold. "It's for him."

Enjolras appeared surprised, his brows deepening into his skull and his eyes looking around the room at the dozens of eyes now on him. Enjolras looked to Éponine, as if awaiting some instruction, and when it never came, he turned to Grantaire.

Now, let the record show that Grantaire didn’t actually know what the right move here was. In any other circumstance, he would have told Montparnasse to go and get fucked, or simply let Éponine and her bag of tricks deal with him. But as keen as Grantaire was to see Montparnasse leave the premises on a stretcher, he would never actively endanger Éponine or Jehan by subjecting them to witnessing such a thing. With Enjolras’ eyes turned to him, Grantaire shook his head softly.

Unfortunately for Grantaire, Enjolras had always had a hard time being the one to follow orders.

"Let him in." Enjolras instructed.

Grantaire hesitated, screwing his face up at Enjolras’ demand. He hoped Enjolras would not be stupid enough to tango with this charlatan, and maybe he was, but his face became incredibly focused suddenly, and Grantaire remembered why Enjolras was the leader of their cause. Montparnasse always had some kind of trick up his sleeve, but then again, so did Enjolras. Grantaire only breathed in place for a second longer before stepping to the side and reclaiming his spot beside Éponine and Combeferre. The remaining men in the room watched Montparnasse’s every move closely as he sauntered into the room, Bahorel and Courfeyrac planting themselves firmly between Montparnasse and Jehan. The seven friends in the room had arranged themselves to subtly surround Montparnasse as he approached Enjolras carefully.

"Oh-ho, bunch of tough guys, are we?" Montparnasse snickered at the display of intimidation.

"Shut up, 'Parnasse, what do you have?" Enjolras spat at him.

Montparnasse’s eyes sparkled menacingly as he watched Enjolras watching him back, before he reached into his trouser pocket and pulled something out slowly.

"Catch." He said, before underarm tossing something through the air, leaving Enjolras to catch it. He looked down at the small object now in his hands, holding it out in front of him enough to where Grantaire could see that it was only a few centimetres long, black, and made out of shiny plastic.

"A hard drive?" Enjolras asked.

"Correct." Montparnasse nodded.

"Why would I want this?" Enjolras asked without much interest.

"I'm so glad you asked." Montparnasse grinned as he began to approach Enjolras further, but not before turning to Bahorel and Courfeyrac and asking. “May I, fellas?”

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes, a glistening scowl warning Montparnasse as he allowed him to proceed. Bahorel was lying in wait, but that didn’t stop him from puffing out his chest, his muscles protruding from his arms, and adamantly glaring with that masculine white man terror that he wielded whenever it was necessary. Montparnasse paid neither man any mind, his eyes locked dangerously on Enjolras as he reached him. Enjolras took a step back.

“That,” Montparnasse dragged, "has some pretty interesting information on it, Maybe even relevant to your little protest."

Grantaire watched Enjolras’ ears prick up at the mention of his precious protest, and quickly he realised that this was a dangerous game, whatever it was that Montparnasse was playing. As much as Grantaire hated the guy, and wished to see him thrown in a cell or the back of an ambulance, he knew one thing. Montparnasse always knew how to get what he wanted.

"I think it would be handy to know if, say, the police aren't intending on being as peaceful as they have led you to believe they will be." Montparnasse explained, watching Enjolras closely. “Don’t you?”

Enjolras was washing his gaze over Montparnasse’s face, looking for any sign of a trap. Funnily enough, Enjolras also knew how to get what he wanted.

"What exactly is on this?" Enjolras said, not twitching a muscle as he stood only a foot away from the man with the offer. Montparnasse shrugged his shoulders, and began to circle Enjolras casually, pretending to admire the room he was standing in as he went. When Montparnasse refused a response, Enjolras squinted his eyes and turned his focus back down at the hard drive in his hand. He flipped it around aimlessly for a while, before finding Montparnasse’s face once again.

"How did you get it?” Enjolras asked.

"Does it matter?" Montparnasse tried.

"It does if it's going to be traced back to us." Enjolras demanded. Montparnasse sighed, making a visual display of weighing up his options. Grantaire couldn’t stop thinking about how much of a tosser this guy was. He wished Montparnasse was asking him instead of Enjolras, because Grantaire could think of a few ways to get the bastard to talk. But luckily it didn’t come to that, as finally, Montparnasse decided he could part with some information.

"Claquesous knows someone who keeps track of this kind of thing." He offered. "For a living, of course, but I'm inclined to hand this over to you, free of charge."

Montparnasse stopped his pacing as he made a full circle of Enjolras and firmly stood himself directly in front of him. They were mirroring each other, these charming, terrible men, both searching for ways to outsmart the other. You could see it on their faces, in their posture. Montparnasse was lightly rocking on his heels, hands behind his back in an attempt to appear non-threatening, trustworthy, but his eyes always showed that he had something to hide. Enjolras’ face remained focused, thoughtful. He was planning.

"You're lying." Enjolras said blankly, and Montparnasse nodded his head to the side before he started speaking again.

"You're a clever one." Montparnasse chuckled. "No, I wouldn't hand it over for free exactly. I do require a favour."

"A favour." Enjolras repeated.

"Enjolras-" Combeferre’s voice suddenly came from behind Grantaire, who turned to locate the voice. When he found Combeferre, he also found an uncertainty in his eye, and a cautious shape on his face. But Enjolras wasn’t looking at Combeferre, he was watching the theatrics Montparnasse had planted to distract him.

"After the protest," Montparnasse carried on as he began to pace again, "once all of the chaos has died down a bit and you're all off the hook, I need you to tell people that myself and my boys were here. With you."

"Why?" Enjolras asked.

"I need an alibi." He said, stopping in his tracks, casting an evil curl of his lip over his own shoulder.

"No. Enjolras, no." Combeferre tried again, taking a few short steps forward.

"What do you mean?" Enjolras asked, not once losing Montparnasse’s gaze, who simply ignored all other distractions and continued.

"Let's just say, on the day of your protest, my men and I have something unrelated to deal with." He smirked, like he was proud. "You tell the police, if they even ask, that is, that we were here. Helping fight for the cause, or whatever it is you boys do around here."

"And where will you really be?"

"So many questions!" Montparnasse groaned, rolling his head around on his neck. "Do you want it or not?"

Grantaire felt uneasy for a moment.

There was a split second where Enjolras looked like he had been considering this offer, like he was about to sign over his trust to a truly horrible man with a nod of his head. Grantaire knew that that was a bad idea, because anything involving Montparnasse and his band of delinquents was always a bad idea. Montparnasse was a bully, he was abusive and reckless, and he had no morals, no care for anyone besides himself. He’d made that evident to Grantaire way back when Éponine was messing around with him. Grantaire has had to deal with this creep more times than he could count on his fingers. So, he was relieved when Enjolras tossed the hard drive back to Montparnasse, who caught it against his chest.

"I don't trust you." Enjolras said.

Montparnasse scoffed, his lips pursing to the side as he looked down at the plastic in his hand. He shook his head and looked around the room.

"Of course you don't. None of you do, right?" He said viciously, turning to find Éponine in the crowd of rebels. "Aren't you going to tell your little friends that they can trust me?" He asked her.

"They can't trust you." Éponine spat with a disgusted look on her face. Montparnasse nodded as if he were expecting that response, but that didn’t stop the hurt creeping onto his face. Pity, maybe Grantaire would actually have held some sympathy for this man if he hadn’t broken two of his best friend’s hearts.

Montparnasse took a few steps in the other direction, to the other side of the room, coming close to Bahorel’s side. Bahorel stopped him with his arm, but Montparnasse was not bothered. He looked over Bahorel’s shoulder.

"You don't trust me, Jehan?" Montparnasse hissed.

Grantaire watched Jehan’s face, their eyes diverted to the windowpane currently collecting raindrops. They didn’t reply, simply shaking their head. Montparnasse gave a closed-mouth chuckle.

"You used to." He sang.

"Montparnasse, I think it'd be best if you leave.” Enjolras said sternly. “Take your hard drive with you.”

Montparnasse groaned, throwing his head back as he made his way back over to the centre of the room. "Why do none of you trust me anymore!"

"First of all, you don't like ABBA." Courfeyrac snapped, now placing himself in front of Jehan, allowing them to shelter themselves in the shadow of Courfeyrac’s taller frame. They gingerly wrapped their hands around his waist from behind as Courfeyrac stood his ground.

"Hey, it's growing on me." Montparnasse said defensively.

"We don't need your help." Enjolras said, attempting to regain control of the situation.

"Oh, come on, Enjolras. I thought you were the tough one of the group." Montparnasse bargained.

"That'd be me, actually. And I'm telling you no." Éponine dared from the few meters that separated her from Montparnasse.

"Interesting." Montparnasse smirked, turning to face her and closing some of the distance. "Oh! By the way, your dad has been asking for you. I'd hate for him to find out where you are now."

Okay, Grantaire thought, fuck this.

"Get the fuck out of here, man!" Grantaire called angrily, taking a step towards Montparnasse with determination. He shoved the man hard, pushing him back by a stumble of a few feet, but Montparnasse did not seem too bothered, nor did he retaliate with physical force.

"Enjolras?” He tried again. “You can't find it in yourself to trust me? That's quite ironic coming from you."

Grantaire could have thrown into him right there, the cockhead was mouthy and asking for trouble, and Grantaire wanted nothing more than to give it to him. But Montparnasse wasn’t even paying any attention to Grantaire and his threats, simply snickering at Enjolras.

"Last chance." Montparnasse said, inching towards Enjolras.

"Get out." Enjolras replied.

"Is this how you treat all of your guests?" Montparnasse took a step forward.

"You're not a guest." Enjolras remained still.

"You know, Enjolras, I've always admired you." Montparnasse took another step forward. "You're really something, aren't you?"

"You need to leave now." Enjolras remained still.

"You act like this fucking saint, all self-righteous and perfect, but it's funny. You don't ever actually get your hands dirty, do you." Montparnasse said as he took one more step forward, so close to Enjolras now that there was barely any space between the two. Enjolras’ face was visibly growing flustered, but in his typical stubborn nature, he stayed firmly put.

"Out. Now." Enjolras said spat through gritted teeth and flared nostrils.

"Or what?" Montparnasse teased.

"Or I will drag you out myself." Enjolras snapped.

Grantaire watched the following moments occur as if in slow motion, the way Montparnasse dared to lean his head in closer to Enjolras’, mere inches apart. Enjolras looked ready to blow, but he remained. Montparnasse’s smirk grew wide, taunting. He came in close to Enjolras’ ear, and he said,

"How are you going to do that when you can't touch me."

There was barely any time to process what was happening when Enjolras raised his fist, as he moved with the speed and agility he was known for. There was a collection of gasps around the room as Enjolras’ knuckles collided with Montparnasse’s cheek, the loud collision sounding through the previously silent room like the crack of a whip would. Montparnasse’s head flew to the side as he stumbled backwards, cursing loudly as he raised a rough hand to his cheekbone, now red and hot. Grantaire paused in shock at the sudden eruption of violence, and maybe more so due to the fact that it wasn’t himself who initiated it. But as quickly as Enjolras had thrown the first punch, he received one of his own to the side of his face. And once it came, the throws did not stop, the two men latched onto each other like rabid dogs.

Courfeyrac and Bahorel raced forward to the two men, attempting to pull Montparnasse away from behind. Bahorel managed to catch Montparnasse’s fist from where it was soaring through the air mid-punch, and the two men were able to begin to drag him away by his elbows, tucked behind his back. But there was another problem that they faced, and that was Enjolras. Enjolras had started this fight, and he definitely didn’t seem too keen on giving it up. He was locked onto Montparnasse as his two friends tried to separate them, still throwing punches to whatever he could reach, though they were more frantic than calculated.

Grantaire watched Combeferre spring to action at the realisation that this was not a rescue attempt, but a need to subdue their leader. Combeferre attempted to make a move on Enjolras, grabbing him harshly by the shoulders and pulling him off of the helpless man now kicking and screaming profanities at them all. But as soon as Combeferre’s hands had made contact with Enjolras’ shoulders, Combeferre was thrown off of him and stumbling backwards. And every second that Enjolras wasn’t being dragged off of Montparnasse, he was only making his situation worse. The two men were shouting threats at one another while the rest of the group around them tried desperately to knock some sense into either of them verbally, and while Grantaire particularly enjoyed the sight of Montparnasse getting exactly what had been coming to him for years now, Grantaire knew he needed to step in. He was the strongest of the group after Bahorel, so he rushed forward to drag Enjolras away from the defenceless man. He feared for a moment, that he would be thrown off too, that Enjolras would turn his anger towards him instead of Montparnasse. And to a degree, Grantaire was correct.

Grantaire did manage rather easily to whisk Enjolras away, who was throwing his arms around erratically as the arms around his waist dragged him away, but he didn’t soften the way Grantaire was hoping he would. The harsh part of Enjolras’ elbow almost met Grantaire in the cheek a few times, and Grantaire did his best to dodge the feet kicking into his shins as he continued to place as much space as he physically could between Enjolras and Montparnasse. When Grantaire felt his back collide with the wall, he flipped the two of them around, firmly pinning Enjolras in between himself and the wall.

Enjolras cursed at the impact, and for just a moment, his movements stopped. Grantaire saw this moment as an opportunity to turn Enjolras around but still keep him against the wall, and he did so as gently as he could without sacrificing the grip he had on him. Enjolras continued to struggle in Grantaire’s grasp, his arms now clawing at Grantaire’s hands on his shoulders, trying desperately to free himself. He was kicking his legs with all of his strength to throw Grantaire off of him, but his strength had run low, and his eyes were glassy and vacant and Grantaire couldn’t help but notice it.

"You're a psychopath, blondie!" Montparnasse called as he was being dragged by Bahorel towards the staircase.

"I’ll kill you, I swear to God-" Enjolras shouted, writhing his body in any way that he could in an attempt to free himself from Grantaire’s clutch.

"Enjolras, stop!" Grantaire called. "Stop it!"

He tried so desperately to make eye contact with Enjolras, doing his best to try to block his view of Montparnasse with his head, but Grantaire quickly realised that there was no use. Enjolras wasn’t focused on him, he wasn’t focused on anything. Enjolras was on autopilot, his eyes catatonic as his chapped lips mindlessly blurted hurtful threats towards the man currently being thrown out of the building. Enjolras was gone in that moment, Grantaire realised, he couldn’t hear what Grantaire was saying, he couldn’t register that it was Grantaire’s hands on him, and not someone else. He was fighting Grantaire’s touch.

"Stop it! Please!" Grantaire tried again, pushing Enjolras into the wall again once sharply, a throwaway attempt at bringing him back to reality. “Come on! Hey!"

Montparnasse was no longer in the room, neither was Bahorel. The two could be heard out the window having a very vocal discussion, though from what Grantaire could hear, it was more of Montparnasse sulking about the ‘absolute disrespect’ he was shocked to experience. Grantaire wasn’t all that concerned about how Montparnasse felt, more focused on the man in front of him, who began to grow weaker. Grantaire watched it take a few moments for Enjolras’ senses to serve him, looking around the room in confusion as he continued to wriggle between Grantaire’s palms and the wall. But Grantaire watched Enjolras’ eyes reconnect, his breathing slowing inch by inch, and he soon returned to his body.

"Hey. Hey, there you are.” Grantaire said lightly. “It’s cool. He’s gone.”

Enjolras stopped fighting the strong hands on him, locking his eyes with Grantaire’s finally. Grantaire could feel the tension drop from Enjolras’ shoulders a little, though not fully, but still, Grantaire slowly released him. He observed him, the way his hands let go of Grantaire’s forearms as they lowered, how he brought his own hands to clasp together in front of him as he looked down at his fist. Enjolras’ knuckles were red and slightly bloodied, and his hand trembled when he held it up to examine.

"Let me see." Grantaire said, reaching for Enjolras’ hand, before Enjolras snapped and pulled away.

"Don't touch me." He spat, his eyes vicious and desperate. The abruptness startled Grantaire, but he immediately complied, taking a step backward and throwing his hands up in surrender. Enjolras looked like he was going to cry, or scream, or blow up, or something Grantaire knew would not be good, but Grantaire was helpless.

"I'm sorry." Grantaire stammered out after a few seconds, voice a mere whisper.

After a moment of silence, of Enjolras gripping his fist with his other hand until it looked like he might snap it off, he stormed off. He was doing his best to avoid all the eyes that fell on him, with all his friends in the room showering him with concerned gazes. He simply ignored them all and made a rush to exit the room, face flushed and breathing frenzied.

"Enjolras?” Courfeyrac’s voice came through as the group watched him flee the Musain, and Courfeyrac began towards the staircase that Enjolras had just started descending. Combeferre caught him by the shoulder before he could advance too far.

"Don't." Combeferre told Courfeyrac. "Just give him a minute."

Courfeyrac dropped the tension he was holding in his body and sighed, watching the direction Enjolras had escaped from. Grantaire watched Jehan and Courfeyrac share a glance of some kind, though he could not determine what the glance was about. And so Grantaire just stood there, at that back wall, at a complete loss. He hadn’t meant to make Enjolras react like that. Did he push it too far?

Perhaps Combeferre could read his thoughts, or perhaps he was just terrible at hiding what he was thinking.

"He'll be alright, he just needs to cool off." Combeferre’s voice appeared suddenly, a hand on Grantaire’s back in a comforting gesture. Grantaire sighed and looked at Combeferre, before looking back to the staircase.

“If you say so.” Grantaire said.

The table at the back wall still held Jehan’s knitting needles, Courfeyrac’s phone, and most importantly, the bottle of lager that Grantaire hadn’t quite finished off. He felt a little deflated as he moved to where he sat before, pulling up the seat and taking a rather generous chug of the liquid. Combeferre followed suit and pulled up the chair beside him.

"Listen,” Combeferre began. “I wanted to ask you a favour."

"What now?" Grantaire grumbled, his eyes still pinned on the staircase, hoping Enjolras would walk back in, wondering if he should go after him. It had worked that time before, after Combeferre’s birthday. He had been able to calm him down, rather than rile him up. It was a pleasant change of pace, to be able to do more than just push the blonde’s buttons. But if he ran out of the Musain now, down the street and in search of Enjolras, if he called him name, would he spin around this time? Would he even stop walking? Would he let Grantaire walk him home, hand in hand?

"I need you not to come to the protest." Combeferre’s voice came suddenly, knocking Grantaire from his thoughts.

Grantaire turned to see if Combeferre was serious. He was.

"What? Why?"

Combeferre sighed, the kind of sound that made Grantaire feel uneasy, like he’d Combeferre had witnessed him become the disappointment he always promised he’d turn into. He spoke,

"Well, in the simplest terms, Enjolras is frazzled right now. Clearly. He needs to be at his sharpest when the protest comes." Combeferre said, carefully crafting his words like a man on the record. There was a pause, where Grantaire anxiously awaited whatever it was Combeferre was getting at, a stretch of time where Combeferre only chewed the inside of his mouth and looked away in thought before he managed to find the words. "He's become a bit distracted with you."

"Distracted?" Grantaire frowned. “What do you mean?”

"I can't-“ Combeferre said, still lost in that head of his. “I can’t really explain, but he's just- He's distracted around you. He freezes more, he's tense."

"Did I do something?" Grantaire asked.

"It's nothing personal, but-"

"Sure feels a little personal, 'Ferre." Grantaire tried to joke, but he knew the fear in his chest was evident in his words. Combeferre examined Grantaire, and once again, it made Grantaire uneasy. Combeferre let his head bow for a fleeting moment, before turning back to fucking look on his face again, the one that would be condescending if it wasn’t coming from Combeferre. The one that would be kind, if it weren’t aimed towards Grantaire.

"Look, it's nothing against you. I promise. But just,” Combeferre tried, “Just take my word for it, yeah? Give him some space until the protest, and after that, you can rile each other up to your heart's content. Okay?"

Grantaire thought over this. Such a request coming from Combeferre would never usually be taken lightly. Combeferre is always right, this much is true, but the request seemed so out of pocket that Grantaire couldn’t help but feel like there was something Combeferre was purposefully leaving out of his explanation. Grantaire drank the remainder of what was left in his bottle and sighed as he placed it onto the table before them.

"Won't it stress him out more if I don't show up?" Grantaire pondered. Combeferre appeared to think over the question, squinting his eyes as he frowned in thought.

"It's a risk I'm willing to take." He replied.

Grantaire chuckled lightly. "Anyone ever told you that you speak in riddles?"

"Yeah, you." Combeferre said, a smile beginning to creep onto his face. "Repeatedly."

Grantaire nodded, placing both palms on the table as leverage and rising to his feet. "Drink?"

"Tea?" Combeferre asked.

"Comin' right up, grandpa." Grantaire laughed.

Chapter Text

Four days. It had been four days since Grantaire last saw Enjolras. Four days, four nights, four steps behind the man he never had the guts to chase. Four miserable, stormy days since the sun had come out. On Sunday evening, Grantaire found himself where he usually found himself, at the bottom of a bottle of jack, fingers stained black with charcoal.

Grantaire knew Combeferre was right. Combeferre is always right. There was something off about Enjolras lately, and it wasn’t just the stress of the protest. He was antsy, and reckless, becoming a problem to himself. And not only that, but he also had that sparkle in his eye when he looked at Grantaire, a brightness in his voice that wasn’t there previously, and even though it had been an enjoyable sight while it lasted, Grantaire realised it could only mean one thing. Enjolras is finally losing his fucking mind.

Sometimes it felt like Enjolras controlled some kind of lightswitch in Grantaire’s brain, one of those self-automated ones that turn off and on at scheduled times. Whenever Enjolras disappeared, be it to his own home or just a room away, Grantaire’s world was dark. The placebo of feeling cold when seeing nothing would creep in and settle in Grantaire’s bones, and he’d walk around in search of nothing but that inch of light to reveal his way. His path only ever led directly to the source light; the rest of the world be damned. There were things he should be doing, people he should be fighting for, friends he should be keeping track of, but how could he when he was dropped into a sea of nighttime?

And when Enjolras reappeared, so did Grantaire’s vision. Everything was crystal, everything was true. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but Enjolras being around him made Grantaire feel like he could think more clearly, like he didn’t have to fight so hard to navigate his way around a meaningless pit anymore. Grantaire wondered if this was the kind of love a poet would spend an entire book trying to capture, or whether it was just as pathetic as he thought it was.

So Grantaire listened to Combeferre’s advice because Combeferre knows Enjolras better than anyone, and whilst Grantaire wished avoiding Enjolras didn’t have to be the case, he knew that it was what was needed from him at this moment. And that wasn’t even what made Grantaire feel so utterly miserable about himself, not really. He wasn’t upset about missing Enjolras, he always missed Enjolras, and he had certainly gone longer than four days without seeing him. It was more so the fact that he was so much of a fuck-up in everyone’s eyes that the only way he could possibly help was by staying out of the way altogether that was keeping him down.

And Jehan had told him that he was wrong, that it wasn’t personal, but how was he supposed to take it any other way? Grantaire felt like no matter what he did, he did it wrong. He always did something wrong. He got too close to Enjolras, he touched him, he got too comfortable and thought it was invincible, this thing between the two of them. He should have known that he would find a way to mess everything up in the end, it was what he did best and everyone around him knew it too. So, if he was supposed to just sit on the sidelines while the ragtag team of dreamers kept Enjolras level-headed, then whatever, Grantaire had better things to do anyway.

What things? Oh, well, you know.

Grantaire had been drinking a lot these past few days. His liquor cabinet, usually stocked up for rainy days and impromptu house parties with his friends was now half empty and dwindling with every hour that passed. It wasn’t until the third bottle that he’d polished off that weekend that he’d realised he hadn’t actually drunk much in the last few weeks at all. His tolerance was low as a result, and maybe that explained why his head was spinning faster than it typically did, or maybe he was just too plastered to notice that he’d drunk more in a weekend than he usually would in a week.

Enjoying some whisky – depending on your definition of enjoying – Grantaire sat on his living room floor, carefully eyeing the messy canvas in front of him. This piece wasn’t a commission, not for any other purpose but an outlet for his boredom and disappointment in himself. Jehan was spending the weekend with Marius and Courfeyrac, playing board games and watching Mamma Mia for the hundredth time. Grantaire knew this to be true because he had received an invite from Jehan, but he politely declined, because of all of the more important things he had to get done. Like this bottle. And this drawing.

It was a rough sketch in charcoal, the drawing. An exercise he created in his mind to pull him from stagnation. He always drew the same things when he drew, the same pictures, the same shapes in the same colours, the same person in the same seat at the same table in the same room. Grantaire could not keep allowing himself to draw him, for his own sake. So, he sketched himself instead, a rough, rounded face with charcoal hair and graphite stubble, smudged around the eyes and cheeks shaded grey.

He could not find anything to add to this drawing.

If it were a drawing of Enjolras, Grantaire would find one million and one things to add. A flag held high in his fist, bony fingers clinging on tightly to his dream. A croissant on a plate on the counter in front of him. Curls drenched with chlorine water, eyes glassy and vacant. Grantaire found that almost anything he could imagine, he could imagine in front of or beside Enjolras. He could draw him with his eyes closed in any setting, he had studied him enough in his time.

But this wasn’t a drawing of Enjolras, this was a self-portrait, and a sorry one at that. He couldn’t get the nose right, his crooked, ugly nose, broken from one too many bar fights. His eyes looked too beady, like they were cursed in some way, but perhaps that was just what he looked like. He had used the mirror as his reference image, after all. Grantaire stared at the drawing for a long time, attempting to map out in his mind how he could fix it.

Perhaps he could shade a thin layer of grey overtop of the sketch and add some colour to whichever parts of his face stood out from underneath, making it more abstract than realistic. Or maybe he could exaggerate the parts he hated, he could turn himself into the joke he always felt like he was, a caricature only loveable for the entertainment it provides. Maybe, he could remove some of the shading with an eraser, and lighten the darkest, saddest parts of his face, but he thought that if he did, it wouldn’t be a self-portrait anymore. It would be a reminder that he wasn’t bright, not like Enjolras. Where Enjolras was the light, Grantaire was the void of it. If Enjolras were the sun, Grantaire would be the shadow he casts. He could not compare to Enjolras, not if he tried.

How foolish he was for thinking, even entertaining the idea, that something was changing between them. Nothing would ever change. Nothing ever changes. Perhaps he ought to cover his canvas completely with black ink and start again.

There was a bang at the door as Grantaire searched around blindly for his bottle, eyes still glued to the piece of art in front of him, not that he would call it that. Once his fingers found chilled glass, he grasped the bottle like his life depended on it, and raised it to his lips cautiously, slowly. There were maybe only a few shots of liquor left in the bottle. Why waste time? He thought, and downed the whole lot, glass attacking teeth. The liquid tasted acidic, tree fruits lingering on his tongue as the static settled into his stomach. It tasted like the wine he drank the last time he saw Enjolras.

His mind raced back to that day, four days ago, maybe an hour after he watched Enjolras flee the Musain. An hour after he had sat at the table with Combeferre, staring at the door in wait for his angel’s return. Combeferre had asked him to leave him alone for a while, and while he could do that, it didn’t mean he found it easy. Grantaire had just felt so helpless, it felt like he was starting all over again, like he never actually knew Enjolras further than he could touch him. It felt like nothing was changing. Nothing is changing.

He had sat there for an hour, sketching in his water-stained notebook yet again in an attempt to keep his eyes from the door. But after that hour, Enjolras did return to the top floor of the Musain. He spoke with Jehan for a few moments, Grantaire watched on over the distance of the room from the corner of his eye, but he looked away once Enjolras was walking towards him and returned to his drawing.

Enjolras reached him after a brief time and sat down silently, and Grantaire allowed himself to spare him a glance. There was a rosy tinge to his cheeks, Grantaire wondered if he had only just calmed himself down, or if it was a testament to how cold the air outside was against Enjolras’ warm skin. He was looking down at his hands where they rested on the table in front of him, fiddling with his fingers in agitation. Grantaire didn’t receive any kind of look from Enjolras in exchange, and sighed to himself, turning back to the pencil in his left hand. Enjolras took his time to break the silence.

"What are you drawing?" Enjolras said after he had cleared his throat. His voice was smaller than usual, but his tone was riddled with faux confidence, and Grantaire chuckled to himself under his breath.

"You." Grantaire told him, his pencil not ceasing its movement. "Punching Montparnasse in the face."

"Of course you are." Enjolras said bitterly, his typical bitchy tone coming back into play.

Grantaire looked away from the sketch in his book and over to Enjolras, who was scowling with his arms now crossed over his chest in annoyance. An annoyance that Grantaire could see right through, one of those taunting glares that Grantaire knew meant Enjolras was fishing for an argument, for the words he wanted to hear, to give him a reason to punish Grantaire verbally. Grantaire would have loved nothing more than to give it to him, too, and he opened his mouth to do so, but then he remembered what Combeferre had said only an hour ago. Grantaire sighed to himself as he dropped the playful look from his face, resigning himself back to his drawing. He could feel Enjolras scowling at him from across the table, of course he could. Those hazel eyes stared daggers into Grantaire’s skin, slicing him endlessly and without care, but Grantaire continued to pretend he couldn’t feel the sting of the blade.

"What was that?" Enjolras asked, his voice sour and unkind.

"What was what?" Grantaire asked, continuing to ignore him.

"That weird look." Enjolras said.

"I didn't do a weird look." Grantaire replied.

"Yeah, you did."

"My bad." Grantaire said monotonously. "Sorry."

It was silent for a short while after that, the only sounds at the table being the graphite meeting rough paper and Enjolras’ leg bouncing unrhythmically underneath the table. Grantaire felt awkward; usually, he would be filling this silence with flirtatious taunts, unfunny jokes accompanied by his own laughter, and cruel, cruel words towards the man he loved, but right now Grantaire remained silent. It was almost killing him, to be truthful, Grantaire and silence do not typically mix, but Combeferre had given him an order, and Grantaire just wanted to do what was best for Enjolras.

"What’s your problem?" Enjolras asked after the prolonged silence between the two men became unbearable.

"Nothing." Grantaire mumbled, shading in the dark fringe of his cartoon nemesis.

"You have nothing to say?" Enjolras asked him, the sound of utter disbelief in his voice.

"About?" Grantaire asked, daring to look up at him. Enjolras’ face was a little more flushed than it was when he had sat down, and he looked mildly angrier too.

"I don't know." Enjolras snapped. "You always have something to say."

"Not today." Grantaire shrugged.

"Really?" Enjolras spat sarcastically. "Nothing about the hard drive? About how our protest is doomed?"

Grantaire went back to his drawing and shrugged his shoulders once more, desperately bargaining with whoever was listening to get Enjolras to just drop it. But Enjolras being Enjolras never dropped the subject easily, so he just huffed angrily and leaned back in his chair, arms still folded over himself.

"Whatever.” He spat. “I don't need your opinion anyway."

"I'm glad." Grantaire mumbled.

"We shouldn't let ourselves fall in debt to Montparnasse and his crew."

"True."

There was a pause, before Enjolras added, "Would've been interesting to see what was on that hard drive, though."

"Also true." Grantaire replied.

There was another pause, a reoccurring thing becoming between these two men, and Grantaire tried his best not to feel the sharp stab in his chest as he heard Enjolras rise to his feet with a grumble and stomp away. Grantaire looked up from his book to watch Enjolras make his exit, this time allowing himself to use his full attention. Enjolras’ blonde curls bounced and swayed as he left the room, his coat left forgotten hanging over the back of the chair that Courfeyrac was occupying. That was the last time Grantaire had seen Enjolras, the lightswitch in his mind flipped off, and darkness had been surrounding Grantaire ever since.

Four days. Not a long time for most, but too long to let a boy be sitting in the darkness, staring at a painting of his worst self in charcoal and watered-down paint.

There was another bang at the door, this time louder than the last. It only barely stirred Grantaire from his self-pity spiral, but he did hear it this time. He made no rush to go and identify the person responsible for interrupting his evening; Jehan had a key, if it was them, they could get in, and if it was anyone else, they could fuck off. Grantaire was rather busy trying to fix the mess of a man he had created, both on and off the canvas. Maybe if he submerged the drawing in water the way he drowned himself in alcohol, something might come out of it. At the very least, he could watch the black pigment melt off the canvas and circle down the bathtub drain, disappearing forever. Performance art, he would call it, for an audience of none.

Again, the knocking at the door sounded through the apartment, and this time, it pulled Grantaire from his trance-like state. He was forced to look away from the canvas sitting against his wall and in the direction of the sound. This time, the knocking was sharp, aggressive, and did not slow. Sighing to himself and pulling to his feet, steadying himself against the wall of the living room with his hand and leaving a black print in its place, he cursed himself and the Lord above for his demented neighbour.

“I don’t know where Tabitha is, Mrs. Winslow!” Grantaire sang through the room as he made his way to the front door. He passed the cabinet where he kept his alcohol, hesitated and did a double take, before picking out a nice bottle of red wine from his lovely collection.

The knocking continued and grew harsher.

“Jesus Christ.” Grantaire muttered to himself, pulling the fake cork from the bottle and throwing it lazily on the floor below him. He took a large mouthful, finding the doorknob with his other hand before he could even manage to see it through his staggered vision. The door got stuck on the lock, Grantaire forgot he had locked it, and he struggled for a moment to open the door. All the while the banging continued. Grantaire loved Mrs. Winslow, he was lucky to have a neighbour who could barely hear Grantaire’s music playing too loudly or his fist hitting a wall, but God, she could be a real piece of work.

“I don’t know how many times I have to tell you this, Ruth,“ Grantaire sighed as he opened the door, pulling his hand away from the doorknob to shield his eyes from the brightness of the sunset outside. “But your cat isn’t here.”

Grantaire half expected a sharp rebuttal from the old woman, and perhaps he would have received one had it been her standing at his front door.

"Who the fuck is Ruth?" Enjolras’ razor-sharp voice cut through the distance between them. “Are you expecting someone?”

Grantaire lowered his hands from his eyes. In front of him was the man he had been trying to avoid. Enjolras’ clothes were soaked and heavy, his golden curls now a shade darker from the downpour outside, droplets of water on his face and hands. The lighting from the setting sun outside lit him up from behind like an actor on a stage, the spotlight shining directly in Grantaire’s eyes. He was so accustomed to the darkness that he hardly recognised the face staring him down, but instantly felt the warmth of the light on his weary skin.

“What- Uh, no.” Grantaire said, blinking heavily and shaking his head.

“Well, are you going to let me in then?” Enjolras asked, though it wasn’t truly a question. It was more a command, one that Grantaire could hardly argue against as Enjolras stepped into Grantaire’s apartment without so much as a warning. Their shoulders bumped harshly as he stomped passed, his soaked clothes leaving marks of cool wetness on Grantaire’s sleeve. Combeferre had told Grantaire to leave Enjolras alone for a while, and he had done a fucking excellent job so far, but what was he supposed to do in this exact instance?

"What are you doing here?” Grantaire asked, unsure if the image of Enjolras was some kind of wine-induced hallucination. Enjolras spun around hastily.

"No jokes. No sarcasm. No more talking." He spat, keeping Grantaire in his place both physically and metaphorically. "And please, please don't tell me you told me so. Promise?"

Grantaire was stunned.

"Is- Is everything okay?" Grantaire asked hesitantly, almost afraid to hear the answer.

"Promise?" Enjolras stated again, this time louder, firmer. Grantaire stared at the man with eyes of confusion, but he nodded anyway.

"I promise."

The words seemed to comfort the blonde standing before him, though he paused for a beat longer than Grantaire felt comfortable with. Enjolras took a deep breath and turned his head, his eyes darting around the room in thought. He had an expression on his face that was difficult to understand, something not far from fear, but still not quite. It was more thoughtful than that, more childlike. His lips were curved to the side of his face, and his chest rose and fell to match the speed of the night settling in outside. He was silent for some time, but not from a loss for words. Grantaire could tell he was building something in that mind of his, working around the syllables as if he couldn’t find the right to compute in a spoken sentence. But suddenly, Grantaire watched Enjolras lock his gaze, watched his expression fall, his eyes relaxing as his face melted in realisation. Enjolras laughed miserably.

"You're fucking wasted, aren't you?" Enjolras spat ruthlessly, now eyeing off the floor of Grantaire’s living room.

Grantaire followed his line of vision and found a rather conspicuous scene. Littered across his floor were days' worth of empty bottles of various kinds of booze, cans of beer sat on almost every empty surface of his living and dining room, pillows were thrown across the room, there was paint water spilling into his carpet, and the kitchen was in an alarming state of disorder. Grantaire knew there was no lying his way out of this accusation.

"Guilty." Grantaire said humorously with a smirk.

Enjolras chuckled under his breath, though it was not out of humour. "Un-fucking-believable."

"What?” Grantaire exclaimed defensively, throwing up his hands in annoyance, barely avoiding painting the wall behind him red with Merlot. “Am I not allowed to enjoy a drink in the comfort of my own home?"

"So, let me get this straight." Enjolras spoke as he stepped harshly into his space, his hands balled into fists in front of him and his voice filled with that familiar anger that plagued him. "We're a day out from the protest, and you're skipping meetings to get drunk."

"What, did you miss me or something?" Grantaire said sarcastically, because, well, what the fuck else was he supposed to say? He said the words to fill the silence more than anything, but he knew deep down he had messed up once again. No amount of filling the silence with his horribly timed humour could ever change that fact, but he could try. Enjolras was looking at him like he had single-handedly ruined his life, so Grantaire raised his bottle to his lips.

"Stop!" Enjolras snapped, reaching for the bottle with an urgency that took Grantaire aback, their fingers brushing harshly. Enjolras slammed the bottle down on the dining room table, cans around it clattering helplessly as they were knocked down like dominoes. "Stop fucking drinking!"

"Chill out, man." Grantaire chuckled nervously. "I missed one meeting."

"Jesus, I don't know why I even bother." Enjolras shook his head, diverting his gaze to the roof.

"Oh my God, why are you here, then?!" Grantaire shouted. He hadn’t meant to sound so aggressive, even if Enjolras was ruining his perfectly horrible evening, but the sudden burst of anger came from his exhaustion, admittance of defeat. There was really only so much belittling Grantaire could take before he lost it. He could not please the man in front of him, so why bother?

Enjolras looked surprised at the sudden outburst, maybe even regretful, and he stared at Grantaire for some time before he looked away.

"Nevermind." Enjolras mumbled helplessly, beginning to make his way to the door from which he entered. "I'll leave you be."

Enjolras began to make his exit, gunning sharply for the rusted silver handle on the front door. Grantaire saw the look on his face. He was stressed, he was confused, he was angry and hurting and overwhelmed, and Grantaire had added to the pressure more times than he can count now. Whatever his reasoning for walking through the drenched streets and showing up at Grantaire’s door, Grantaire owed it to him to listen. No jokes, no sarcasm, no more talking, and no saying ‘I told you so.’

"No, hey, wait." Grantaire said, taking a step in front of Enjolras and blocking him from the door. Enjolras looked up at him with those big, glassy eyes, full of awe and wonder but still lost to battle, and he didn’t say anything. They were close now, Grantaire looking down on the unexpected guest in his living room. Grantaire began to speak again when Enjolras was silent for too long. "I'm sorry." Tell me why you're here."

Enjolras took a deep breath as he took a step backwards, raising a cold hand to his head and smoothing the soggy locks of hair behind his ear. Grantaire watched him closely, as Enjolras reached into his pocket and retrieved something. It was small, rectangular in shape, black in colour. It was shiny plastic in his marble hand, and Grantaire wasn’t quite sure what he was looking at.

Until he was. He took a deep breath.

"This better not be what I think it is." Grantaire whispered, maybe because the shock kept him from getting the words out. Or maybe because he didn’t like that he already knew that it was exactly what he thought it was. In Enjolras’ grasp was a hard drive.

“Listen to me.” Enjolras said carefully.

“You went back for it?” Grantaire asked in stupefaction. “Enjolras, why would you-“

“I didn’t go back for it. He dropped it when I punched him, and I took it.” Enjolras defended. “We don’t owe him anything.”

Grantaire resigned slightly, though not willingly. It didn’t make him feel much better about the situation, messing with Montparnasse and his goons was always a risky idea, but what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Or more accurately, cause him to commit any of the numerous felonies Grantaire knew he was capable of committing.

"You need to keep hold of it." Enjolras said, holding the hard drive out for Grantaire to take, even though Grantaire’s arms remained by his sides. "Keep it somewhere safe."

"What? Me? Why?" Grantaire asked, shaking his head.

"Because if something happens, someone has to have evidence."

"Whoa, slow down." Grantaire told him, taking him by the shoulders and speaking slowly. "What are you talking about? Evidence of what?"

Enjolras didn’t say a word. He didn’t make a sound. He simply looked at Grantaire, that thoughtful fearfulness in his expression returning ever so slightly. It made Grantaire feel uneasy.

“Enjolras.” Grantaire tried again. “Evidence of what?”

Enjolras shook his head slowly.

"It's so much worse than we thought." He said, his voice quiet, timid. His face was reading no more of that controlled wildfire he typically cast, Grantaire only found anxiousness in response. "The hard drive is a list. Profiles of people who’ve been sent orders to abolish the ABC. There has to be over a hundred names on it."

"To abolish the ABC?" Grantaire asked. "What does that even mean?"

"What do you think?” Enjolras mumbled.

Grantaire paused. Surely Enjolras must be mistaken, surely this was just some kind of misunderstanding. This had to be some kind of sick joke that Montparnasse had set up, even if it made no sense for him to do such a thing. The ABC was always on shit terms with the police, sure, but Grantaire had never assumed it was hit list material. Enjolras and the rest had caused thousands of dollars in property damage, their followings causing the majority of it, and people on both sides of the cause got hurt here or there, but the ABC had never caused so much damage or destruction that it warranted policemen to attempt to end their cause. Grantaire didn’t even know if they were allowed to do that.

"What the fuck do they want with us?" Grantaire asked, later coming to realise he wished he hadn’t.

Enjolras didn’t respond with his words, simply making his way passed Grantaire and down the hallway to his bedroom, where Grantaire’s laptop was sitting open on his desk. Grantaire followed hastily, more concerned about Enjolras finding something embarrassing on his laptop – he tried to remember if he had deleted his search history recently – but the only thing on the screen was his desktop background, a picture of himself, Éponine and Joly on the night he had been dragged into the Musain all those years ago. Enjolras seemed to stop for a second upon seeing the picture, before proceeding to jam the hard drive into the socket viciously, and Grantaire could do no more than watch.

After a few moments, a file popped up on the screen, a folder filled with multiple different pages of names. The names of their opposition, addresses, dates of birth, photo identification, government titles, police ranks, badge numbers, everything. Enjolras began to scroll through one of the documents, which alone held maybe thirty or forty different people’s information. The list went on and on, as did the second list, and as did the third. Grantaire just stared in confusion at the screen in front of him as Enjolras kept scrolling faster and faster, showing the sheer amount of information in this folder. Grantaire was a little disbelieving that somehow, they had ended up with potentially the most beneficial tool for their group to possess. Even more than that, he was shocked that Montparnasse would ever willingly help them in this way.

“This is good, isn’t it?” Grantaire asked, “Now you can prepare better, scope out whoever you can from this list, right? You give this to Bahorel, and he can keep some of them from getting too close.”

Enjolras didn’t respond, just kept scrolling until he reached the last page of the third document. It read,

‘DISCLAIMER,
This document is strictly confidential in instruction and communication to and solely for all recipients listed in the pages above. Sharing or using this information in any way with any person or business outside of the aforementioned names is a direct breach of the confidentiality laws in the contract signed at the beginning of this case. Serious measures will be carried out against anyone disregarding the laws of confidentiality in this case.’

The document went on in detail, instructions for each instance that could occur at the protest on what to do to stop the ABC from winning the fight. Positions, weapons to be checked out, group tactics. Grantaire still didn’t feel as concerned as he should have felt, perhaps he didn’t quite understand the severity of the situation, but reality soon kicked in when he saw the following pages. Nine death reports, each labelled with the names of the official ABC members with photo identification attached, all dated to tomorrow’s protest. The cause of death on every single report was ‘Third-Degree Murder; Self Defence’. The only blank boxes on the report were the name of the officer reporting, the time of death, and where the incident occurred.

The document continued on.

‘Upon completion of the task, each recipient will be compensated accordingly and wired the payment to a secure account. Do whatever it takes to put the ABC to rest. The deaths of persons D. Bahorel, J. Combeferre, M. Courfeyrac, K. Fueilly, R. Grantaire, R. Joly, B. Lesgle, and J. Prouvaire, are not mandatory but will be covered if death occurs. The deaths of members associated but not in official affiliation with the ABC group C. Fauchlevant and É. Thénardier are not mandatory and will NOT be covered if death occurs. The death of one M. Pontmercy is strictly prohibited. The death of one J. Enjolras is mandatory and will be covered when death occurs, though live capture is strongly encouraged.’

Grantaire felt sick. He stopped reading.

"Nah." He muttered under his breath, shaking his head and walking away from the computer.

"Someone is behind this. There's no way the protest is going to go the way we want it to." Enjolras said defeatedly, eyes still washing over the screen in front of him. Grantaire dragged his hand over his face and let out a pissed-off groan.

"Well, you really know how to harsh the mood, don't you?" Grantaire chuckled, even when he found it hard to find any humour in the situation. "So, why are you telling me this?"

Enjolras turned to him then, his face confused, almost insulted. "Why wouldn't I tell you this?"

"No, I mean," Grantaire shook his head. "This just feels like sort of grounds for bringing up at the next meeting. Why are you telling me this now?"

"Because our next meeting isn't until after the protest?" Enjolras explained like it was obvious.

"Whoa, whoa, wait a minute." Grantaire said, a frown cursing his brow. "The protest is cancelled, right?"

Now, Grantaire did not believe in a God, nor did he believe in any other form of omnipotent, benevolent creator. If God existed, he could not be both of those things at once, either he was less powerful than he was made out to be, or he was an evil, tyrannical bastard who didn’t deserve the cult he had created. There was no point in praying, to calling out to a God who either isn’t there or doesn’t care. So Grantaire was shocked to find himself doing exactly that, begging internally for Enjolras’ response to be affirmative. Yes, Grantaire, the protest is cancelled.

"No, Grantaire, we’re not cancelling the protest. We've put months’ worth of preparation into this-"

Grantaire’s heart sank.

"No, no, no, wait. We are outnumbered, people are essentially hunting you for sport, and you literally just said that we pretty much do not stand a chance. What the fuck do you mean you’re not cancelling the protest?" Grantaire called frantically, a smile on his face in utter disbelief at the recklessness that Enjolras disguised as courageousness. He was hoping Enjolras would hear him, not that he ever did in these situations, but he had to hope regardless. Even if he knew Enjolras wouldn’t truly hear him, that he didn’t care for Grantaire’s concern.

"I know you can't quite grasp the concept, but we have people counting on us. It’s fine.” Enjolras snapped. “I’m going to meet up with Combeferre now, we will come up with a plan, and- And other groups from around the city, they're coming to help us tomorrow, we can work something out-"

"You could fucking die, Enjolras, do you not understand that?" Grantaire shouted, his voice growing louder and louder with each word.

"What am I supposed to do, Grantaire?” Enjolras shouted back, matching the new volume of the conversation. “There are people who believe in us. People hoping for our success, people expecting us to fail them. Am I supposed to just bail on them because I care more about keeping my life?"

Grantaire hadn’t even the slightest clue on how he was supposed to respond to that. He felt as if glass shards were piercing his chest from inside his skin, unable to shake off the cold sting of the words Enjolras had just cried. How can he be so fucking blind? How does he think that ten post-schoolboys will change the world when there are ten times as many rich assholes set out to keep things the way they are? Grantaire couldn’t respond, so Enjolras continued.

“The women we're trying to help aren't scared anymore.” He spoke. “They're ready to face this bullshit head-on and fight. And if we stop this protest, they go back to being scared."

"You know what else is going to scare them?" Grantaire tried. "Seeing the only person advocating for them being shot dead in front of them."

"If we stop the protest, nothing gets done. We will have wasted everyone's time, resources. We will have let everyone down. We can't just sit around and do nothing out of fear."

This had to be a joke, right? A test, some kind of weird prank his friends were pulling on him. Enjolras could be stupid, sure, but he wasn’t that fucking stupid. And their friends surely weren’t that stupid. Combeferre wasn’t, Combeferre will disagree with this idea once he finds out, right? Or would he too follow Enjolras to the end of the line, just as he always did? If he did, the rest of the ABC would follow. He thought about his friends, gung-ho and enthusiastically walking directly into a battle they wouldn’t come back from. This was a horrible, horrible idea. Grantaire could hardly find it in him to speak, eagerly awaiting to wake up from whatever alcohol-induced coma he must have drunk himself into. Or maybe Enjolras would laugh any second now, and tell him he was messing with him, or that it was a dare from Courfeyrac; this is some Courfeyrac-minded bullshit. Grantaire stared him down for as long as he could handle the silence, but Enjolras wasn’t kidding. He could see it in his eyes, the look of someone ready to become a sacrifice. Grantaire felt like he was going to be sick.

"Enjolras, stop it." He said, shaking his head, manoeuvring himself away. "Stop it. You're fucking scaring me."

"They want us to be scared! They want us to cower away! If we do, they win!"

"They've already won!" Grantaire shouted, stopping Enjolras dead in his tracks.

Enjolras had this look on his face. It wasn't quite a sadness, nor was it pain or fear or shock. It was maybe akin to a sort of helplessness, but there was something about the way Enjolras was looking at him now, something that made Grantaire want to hold onto him tightly and keep him safe. It made Grantaire feel vulnerable, uncomfortable, weak. He didn’t know what he was meant to do with this version of Enjolras. He knew he loved them all the same, but he wanted to hate this one.

"Do you think I don't know that?" Enjolras said after a beat, his voice impossibly defeated. "Do you think I don't wake up every day and see evil everywhere I turn? I do, you know, I'm not as naïve as everyone seems to think."

Grantaire exhaled. "I don't think you're naïve."

"Yes, you do." Enjolras said.

He wasn’t naïve, Grantaire knew that. Even when he was too optimistic for his own good, when he would expect the best of a horrible situation, it wasn’t naivety. Grantaire knew it was always just a matter of undercalculation. Still, Grantaire didn’t rush to correct him. Even if he didn’t think Enjolras was naïve, he didn’t do a fantastic job of showing it.

"If I were truly naïve, I’d pay no mind to the people starving in the streets.” Enjolras began. “I wouldn't see kids like Gavroche or Azelma who don't have a family, or people like Éponine who have been forced into parenting, or women like Musichetta and Cosette and your sister," He continued, heavily drilling those last two words into the sentence, "people who have been treated like pieces of meat, people who live in this world knowing deep down it wasn't created with them in mind. If I were truly naïve, I wouldn't see corruption everywhere I look, Grantaire, I wish I was naïve. I wish I could be like you. I wish I could be ignorant of what's happening around me."

"That's not fair." Grantaire shook his head sternly. “I know what’s happening around me. I see it. You know I do.”

"So how can you just choose to look away?" Enjolras asked.

"Because sometimes, that's what it takes to survive, Apollo." Grantaire replied, huffing as he moved away from the desk, turning his back to Enjolras as he continued, "And sometimes, it's okay to just be selfish. Everyone else around us is doing it, we may as well do it too."

Enjolras shook his head fervently, wet curls soaking the carpet beneath him. "I can't."

"You can, though." Grantaire said, exhausting all he had left in him in an attempt to plead. "You can choose to let someone else take this fight. You can choose to live. Please, Enjolras."

Enjolras studied him carefully, his eyebrows curling in the opposite direction of his frown, lips parted softly as short breaths escaped his lips. Grantaire thought he seemed to consider this request; his typical opposing response was delayed for longer than it would usually be. So Grantaire begged silently to the fake God in his mind, hoping it would be enough to change the blonde’s mind on the matter, even though Grantaire already knew that this God he had invented wasn’t paying attention.

"I'm not afraid to die." Enjolras spoke firmly.

“Christ, Enjolras.” Grantaire shook his head as he scrubbed a hand over his face and laughed incredulously. "When will you wake up and realise that you don't have to die for the people?"

"Someone has to!" He shouted.

"Why does it have to be you?" Grantaire shouted back.

"Who else is it going to be?"

The words rang slowly through Grantaire’s ears. There was no changing his mind. There was no point trying to get Enjolras to see Grantaire’s point, because Enjolras already knew. He already knew that death was what would be served to him, and no matter how hard Grantaire tried to stop him, Enjolras was painting a pretty picture of a new world rising with his own blood and guts. There was no point to this conversation anymore, the only purpose of talking now becoming a means to keep Enjolras here, before he would inevitably be ripped away.

"This is-" Grantaire laughed, not out of humour but out of sheer bewilderment. "This is psychotic. You're psychotic."

"If I die tomorrow, do you know what will happen?" Enjolras said, stepping further into Grantaire’s space, acting as if he didn’t hear Grantaire's words. He reached for Grantaire’s hand, flipped it over, placed the hard drive safely in Grantaire’s palm, and gently forced his fingers to close over it. "You will hand the hard drive over to Combeferre, he will publish the contents, and the public will have the evidence they need to indict everyone involved. If this hits the press, it will make every fucking news article in the area. Whoever's funding this whole charade will be exposed, the system will get dismantled from the outside, and I can die knowing my life was worth something."

There was a feeling forming in Grantaire’s gut, and he wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or the martyr in front of him causing it, but he felt as if he were going to be sick.

"Don't-" Grantaire cleared his throat, taking repetitive steps backwards until he was at his bedroom door. "Don't say shit like that, Enjolras. Please."

"This is what we've been working towards.” Enjolras said, rushing into Grantaire’s space again, his eyes maniacal and frightening. “Don't you fucking get it? This was always my fate."

"No. No, no, that is not-" Grantaire begged. "You're not some kind of sacrifice."

Enjolras’ silence complimented the ringing in Grantaire’s ears, harsh and melodic, full of nothing and everything at the same time. There was too much space in his mind for his thoughts, and they were steadily growing larger and meaner and scarier with every second that Enjolras spent staring into Grantaire’s eyes like he was actively going to sacrifice himself, until one of those large, mean, scary thoughts gave Grantaire a dangerous realisation. Enjolras was actively going to sacrifice himself.

"You're not a fucking sacrifice, Enjolras!" Grantaire cried, throwing his hands at Enjolras’ shoulders and shaking him abruptly. He dropped the hard drive on the floor beneath them and let it disappear from his immediate thoughts. Enjolras stayed silent. "If you die tomorrow, then who would be here to lead the rest of the ABC? Hm? If you don't make it back tomorrow, then who will be here to take a stand for the precious people you care so much for?" Grantaire said hurriedly, clutching at straws to get Enjolras to stop the madness he was brewing in his mind. "You said it yourself, if it's not you, then who will it be?"

"Combeferre," Enjolras began, as Grantaire scoffed over his speech. "Courfeyrac, Joly, Bahorel, Marius, everyone else who leads alongside us."

"First of all, Marius doesn't do shit." Grantaire interrupted, removing his hands from where they rested on Enjolras’ shoulders. "And second of all, everyone sees you as their leader and you know it."

"That's not true." Enjolras said with a scowl, as he pushed past Grantaire standing in the doorway and began to make his way down the corridor to Grantaire’s living room.

"No, you know what? Forget the ABC." Grantaire shouted, following him. "Who would be here to drive Combeferre to the airport every holiday? Or- Or who would be here to proofread Courfeyrac's shitty fucking blog entries before he posts them?"

Enjolras rolled his eyes angrily. “That’s not-“

"No, shut your mouth and listen to me.” Grantaire spat ruthlessly, tears of frustration forming on his waterline. “Who would spend countless hours of their precious time trying to convince a deadbeat drunk that he matters? That good exists because he is good, and he exists?"

Enjolras looked up at Grantaire in shock, a sort of actualization that he lacked when he first stormed into Grantaire’s flat.

"Grantaire-"

“What about all of the people who love you? What about them?" Grantaire continued to ramble in a desperate frenzy, leaving no room for Enjolras to respond despite his efforts. “What about the people who have had nothing but blind fucking faith in you? What about the people who have an earth-shattering amount of love for you? What are they supposed to do? Have you thought about that?"

"They don't-" Enjolras tried, to no avail.

"Who will we love if you’re gone?" Grantaire shouted, seeing double through blurry vision.

Enjolras stopped at the words, he honestly to God looked like he wanted to cry. Or maybe shout, scream and kick and punch and run until he couldn’t do anything else. His chest rose and fell with the intention of responding viciously, but his shoulders soon fell, as did his face, and he looked down and away from Grantaire.

"I'm not loved. Not like that." Enjolras mumbled as he shook his head, leaving Grantaire half speechless.

"You're not- Enjolras, what?" Grantaire breathed, moving closer to Enjolras and attempting to reclaim the spot his hands had been on a few moments ago. "Of course you are."

"No, I'm not." Enjolras said, shrugging the hands off his shoulders and taking three steps backwards. "I'm not! Not like that! I'm loved when I can do something for the ABC, they love what I provide, you know? But other than that?”

Grantaire couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He knew Enjolras was humble, but he wasn’t a fucking idiot. How blind can one man be? Does he not realise the way Grantaire feels about him? How everyone that he meets feels blessed to be in his presence? Does he not know how many insignificant moments he has created for the better? How many people in the city feel a little safer when they see his face pass by, even if just by an inch? Grantaire for one never tried to hide how he felt towards Enjolras, never actively tried to fool anyone. Grantaire figured he had to know, he’d been more than obvious about it, but he was only now realising that Enjolras had no idea about any of it. Enjolras did not realise just how loved he truly was.

"Because, when it really comes down to it, I'm the one who puts in all of the effort. I'm the one who manages everyone's time. I'm the one who has to stomach it all, so they can just show up and get the adrenaline rush of participating." Enjolras laughed, his own eyes now glassy and sunken. "They love that. They don't love me."

"That's not true." Grantaire tried, though he figured it was futile.

"And I mean why would they? I'm- I'm cruel and I'm angry all of the time and I'm horrible to everyone and I'm too fucking neurotic and- I mean, I can't even touch anyone, for Christ's sake!"

"Slow down."

"You know what? I'd rather die doing something fucking useful than succumb to this fucked up world we live in." Enjolras shouted as if he couldn’t hear his own voice in his ears. "I know I'm fighting a losing battle, I do, but I just don't care. I just want it all to stop. I'll give up my life if it means it will all just fucking stop."

To hear those words falling out of Enjolras' mouth did something to Grantaire's core. He didn't want Enjolras to give up his life for anyone. No one was worthy of replacing Enjolras, and Grantaire couldn't bring himself to accept that his entire world could be turned upside down, his days engulfed in darkness, and he wouldn't have even known it if Enjolras hadn't shown up like this. He couldn't accept that Enjolras was hurting, troubled and angry, enough to spend his life at the feet of the wretched.

"Enjolras." Grantaire said, letting a tear roll down his cheek. "What are you saying?"

"Don't show up tomorrow." Enjolras demanded. “Please. Tell me you won’t show up tomorrow.”

Grantaire had no idea how to react, all he could do was shake his head. "Are you insane?"

"This is my purpose. Not yours." Enjolras tried to explain, even despite Grantaire’s visible display of not wanting to hear it. "Don't throw your life away because of me."

Grantaire laughed impulsively. "It's a bit too late for that."

"Please, Grantaire."

No. Fuck this guy. Fuck all of this. Grantaire was a grown man, capable of making decisions for himself, thank you very much. And he didn't really care what Enjolras wanted from him, not right now, not in this instance. Enjolras was standing in front of him talking as if he were planning on throwing himself in front of a fucking bullet, so if Grantaire had to piss him off in order to make sure he got out alive, then he would do it. Enjolras was looking up at him with wide, painfully sad eyes, and Grantaire began to spiral.

Of course, showing up to the protest would be running the risk of dying himself in the process, and as much as Grantaire's life had been pretty dogshit, he didn't actively want to die anymore. The thought of this being the last night he would ever spend getting drunk and throwing paint on a canvas until it resembled something half as horrible as he felt inside honestly did scare the hell out of him. But then Grantaire thought of his friends. He pictured Éponine, running around the streets of the city with her makeup ruined, desperately trying to flag down help for Jehan, bruised and bloody, unresponsive. He pictured Bahorel attempting to give CPR, not knowing how fast to move his hands and unable to ask Joly for help, for he is the one not breathing. He pictured Enjolras, watching a gun being pointed towards him, and closing those eyes for the last time.

Grantaire was too drunk for this. All of this. Too drunk to be trying to decide between life and death, too drunk to be picturing his friends’ doomed fates. And he was way too drunk to have Enjolras this close, his earthy-coloured eyes begging, pleading. How was he supposed to decide what to do? What was he expected to do? What did he want to do? What Grantaire wanted, more than anything was to snap some sense into the man before him. He was desperate to get more out of him, to prove to him that there was more to life than dying a martyr at twenty-two, but what was he even to say? How do you persuade a politician? How do you tame the wild?

"Please." Enjolras spoke, his voice only a whisper. "Please, Grantaire."

"I’m not leaving you to die at that fucking café." Grantaire replied, their faces dangerously close now. Enjolras didn't say anything, only screwing his eyes shut as hard as he could whilst giving his head a slight shake. He looked as if he were scared to move, to speak. "Tell me what to do. Tell me what I can say to make you stop this."

Grantaire could feel Enjolras squirm beneath his touch, his pulse growing heavy. He could feel Enjolras' breath on his neck, broken and airy, with short gasps every inhale.

“You can’t.”

“Tell me!” Grantaire snapped finally, shaking Enjolras hard by the shoulders. He was quickly running out of room for hope that the man in front of him would come back to his senses. Enjolras' eyes were open now, all wide and washed over and staring into Grantaire’s in surprise at his demand.

Enjolras mumbled something so quietly that Grantaire could barely hear it, though it very closely resembled cursing. There was a knot growing in the pit of Grantaire's stomach, as he watched how easily he could make Enjolras, leader of the people and sculpted out of marble, crumble into pieces as if moulded from sand. Grantaire pulled his hands from Enjolras' shoulders and replanted them on either side of his face, tears on his cheeks seeping into the skin of his fingers. Enjolras’ eyes were still vacant and wide, Grantaire noted how his browbone was tensed, and Grantaire felt desperation travelling into his bones. Stay with me, Grantaire wanted to say. Hit pause on all of those thoughts circling in your mind, Enjolras. Stay in this moment, forever. Don't go. Please don't leave me. Everything on the other side of that door wants to hurt you, wants to beat you down until you're nothing. Apollo, you're bigger than they think you are. The world still calls for you. The world still needs you. I still need you. I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you-

Grantaire was pulled from his racing mind when Enjolras’ hands were suddenly racing to tangle themselves up in the neck of Grantaire's sweater. It caught Grantaire by surprise, the sudden change in pace, and without any more of a warning than that, Enjolras' lips were on Grantaire's.

It was a kiss full of malice, of passion and hatred and longing and anger and everything negative Grantaire felt boiling up inside of him. A mix of emotions that Grantaire could not put a single name to, not with Enjolras this close, finally colliding into Grantaire as they should have years ago. Enjolras’ lips felt as soft as the petals on a rose, and he tasted like coffee and spearmint. Grantaire let out a surprised huff as two slim hands grappled to touch every inch of Grantaire, moving flawlessly from his sweater to his jaw to his neck, where they snaked around and rested in the curls on the back of his head. There was no thinking in a moment like this, not for Grantaire anyway. He felt that there was too much space between the two of them, and he reached for Enjolras’ waist and pulled him closer.

Enjolras’ breathing was ragged against his lips, never pulling away to catch his breath or make a noise, simply allowing Grantaire’s lips to muffle the pleasureful sounds he was creating. Skin was scratched, hair was pulled, and half syllables were attempted. Grantaire couldn’t afford to think too deeply about the way Enjolras whispered his name devilishly into the kiss, the way the wetness of his dampened hair was cooling down the heat rising in his cheeks. This was a daydream meeting a nightmare, and with every second that passed Grantaire was screaming at himself to stop. Stop ruining him, stop taking advantage of him, stop thinking about him, stop messing with him, just stop.

Grantaire pulled away.

Enjolras stumbled lightly as his point of stability was removed, and he looked at Grantaire with wide eyes and shortness of breath. He gasped in shock to himself, shaking his head after a few moments.

“I’m-“ Enjolras stuttered, taking a few steps back and raising his hands to clasp together in front of his chest. “I’m so sorry, I-“

Grantaire felt unable to process whatever the hell just happened, and so he didn’t say anything.

“I’m sorry.” Enjolras said again and bolted for the door. As soon as it had started, it was over, Enjolras slammed the door behind him and ran onto the rainy streets once more and Grantaire was left standing in his living room, staring at the wall beside the door.

The night had grown much darker outside now, but Grantaire only realised how dark it was once Enjolras had left him there. His lightswitch had been flipped, and a cursed thought jumped into Grantaire’s mind. The thought that he may remain in this darkness forever, that his lightswitch may never be turned on. He found his freshly opened bottle of merlot on the kitchen table, and downed the whole thing.

Chapter Text

Fuck Enjolras. Fuck Combeferre. Fuck everyone involved in this stupid, pointless race to the death. No more thinking about them; Grantaire had to think about himself.

This was the drunken thought process Grantaire had found himself stuck in during the early hours of the lonely morning, just after Enjolras had left him, and just before he had polished off his bottle of red and passed out on the kitchen tile. He’d drunk so much the previous night that the hangover should be killing him. It was what he deserved for drowning his liver so viciously, his insides should be boiling with that familiar nausea, the taste of grape on his breath and bile on his tongue. But when Grantaire woke up with warm cheek pressed against cold clay, the sun beaming harshly on his skin, he could do no more than feel anger.

Sure, there was the initial jolt of panic. What time was it? Where were his friends? Was it too late? Were they all gone? But once he squinted at the frog-shaped clock ticking away mercilessly on the kitchen wall, finding it was no later than seven in the morning, it was this vile, antagonising anger that knocked about in his chest. He felt the stabbing pain of the knife of grief twisting in his gut, he felt the shiver of anxiousness creeping up his spine like a vine to a spout, and ultimately, he felt tired. Tired of the constant back and forth that kept his heart trapped in its place behind a man marching to his death. Tired of the gnawing feeling that gripped his insides like a climber to rope. Tired of the way he and Enjolras worked, or more accurately, didn’t work.

Even still, Grantaire found himself standing at the door of his flat early that morning anyway, his leather satchel of paints and brushes gripped tightly in his left hand. He wasn’t fooling anyone, he would follow Enjolras to his untimely end in every single lifetime, why would this one be any different? Grantaire sighed to himself, regretting the day ahead of him before it had even started.

The light sun showers had just started to spit down as Grantaire had left his apartment, his satchel weighing down the shoulder it was slung over. It was only nine in the morning by the time he’d made it through the door, still another two hours until showtime, but Grantaire knew himself well enough to know that he could not sit around his apartment for two more hours on his own. He’d too likely dust off the bottles in the back of his liquor cabinet, ones that have been there since he moved in, and he’d drink himself to sleep or death.

Grantaire knew he couldn’t do that, though, not with so much at stake. He needed to clear his mind.

He had decided to walk down to one of the small and hidden spots he so often ran to, today’s pick being a forgotten park side only a few blocks away from the Musain. He found himself sitting on the pavement, the cement only slightly coloured by the rain, sketching whatever he saw as it passed him, He attempted every little detail, only moving to the next sketch when something more interesting drew his focus. His first model was a crow that flew by, wings like velvet and eyes like buttons. His pencil captured the way it perched effortlessly on a thin, bouncing powerline.

Beneath the bird on the powerline, Grantaire found a greying old man sitting on a wet park bench, and Grantaire’s pencil jumped to the other page. The man was reading from a blue book as thick as his skull as the sky came closer and closer to the end of the cloudy morning, the sun now daring to rear its head and illuminate the man’s humungous wristwatch. Grantaire was intrigued by this man; his clothes were battered and torn, yet he wore bright, sparkling jewellery that dangled from his neck, wrists, ears and fingers. Drawing him was like creating a story from thin air, Grantaire wondered where this man had come from, where he was going, and if his drawing did him justice. All he knew was that his drawing kept his focus away from the peril of himself and his friends, and Grantaire was happy enough for that.

The man on the bench didn’t look up from his book as a young couple strolled by, snagging Grantaire’s attention as he turned a page in his sketchbook and began to sketch them instead. The couple paced slowly, hand in hand, taking in the sights of the city and the sounds of the river only a few blocks away. The pair of lovers had stopped in front of a small boutique, eyeing off charms and fabrics through the front window, smiling like smitten schoolchildren. Grantaire started over on his sketch of them, now outlining the way they were posed for a moment, the young girl flat against the wall of the coral-coloured boutique and staring lovingly into the eyes of the young boy who accompanied her. The boy leaned down and placed a soft, gentle peck on her lips, cheeks rosy and grins wide.

And Grantaire froze, an unwanted memory calling out to him. Last night, between the foggiest of drunken memories, a vivid feeling of lips on his own, hands tangled up in his hair, the weight of another pressed up against him. If he thought hard enough, he could picture the flashes of red and gold peeking through his closed eyelids, the soft sounds of the man he had been hoping to experience such a moment with for years. How ironic it was now that Grantaire was trying to forget the unforgettable.

With his mind a blur and his inspiration lost, Grantaire slammed his book closed. The couple had already begun walking in the opposite direction, the backs of their coats fading into the foggy street ahead of them. With a huff, Grantaire packed his sketchbook back into his satchel and decided that it was time to face the music. He had only managed to kill an hour at that park side, and though he didn’t particularly feel like getting to the café any earlier than necessary, he figured he had nothing better to do. He set off in the direction of the Musain, taking the long way, admiring the silence of the scenic route. It felt eerie, how he knew this quiet courtyard would be packed with voices and footsteps in just an hour from now. He pictured Enjolras and his crew, marching through the open spaces like they owned them. Did they too feel it? This misleading sense of calm? Or were they already weathered where they prepared at the café? The storm before the calm before the storm.

Grantaire wouldn’t lie, he felt a little weary as he approached the building his friends occupied, entering through the back door off the alleyway behind the café. The whole routine was now in full swing as he entered the bottom floor level of the place. Faces familiar or otherwise holding flags and signs walked vibrantly around the room, making their way from table to table and losing themselves in whatever pointless discussion the ABC were giving out. Grantaire spotted Jehan and Courfeyrac sitting at a table on the bottom floor of the café, organising pre-made signs of cardboard on wooden stakes, antsy and buzzing with energy. He saw Feuilly at another table, folding up the last of a large stack of pamphlets and flyers whilst directing interested parties to their respective locations. Grantaire knew he was supposed to be helping Feuilly, but there was not one singular chance in hell that he would be doing any of that. He could not find it in himself to care, either.

It felt like walking through an old battlefield of sorts, as if he were from the future, putting himself in the shoes of those from the past. How they were so blind, thinking they could change their fates. Believing they could stand up to a hundred men and come out on top. Grantaire knew how this would end, even if the rest of them thought they could dodge a bullet. The people won’t win, the people never win. They never stir, they never rise to the call. They fall at the feet of the soldiers, history repeating.

Grantaire made his way up the staircase to the top floor of the building, a staircase he’d climbed one thousand times before, though this time those cloudy thoughts were swirling around in his mind with every step he took. His feet continued to rise to the steps that loomed ahead. What if showing up was a mistake? Grantaire never actively contributes to these kinds of things, he’s always hanging around the sidelines and keeping a careful eye on one particular member of the group. What if he just gets in the way? He took another step. What if he is just an obstacle in his friends getting to safety when the protest inevitably goes to shit? Another step. What if Enjolras kicks him out? Another step. What if Enjolras tells him again that he isn't needed? That he isn't wanted? How will he deny Enjolras what he wants?

The last step gave an ache in his muscles already, and at the top of the stairs, Grantaire realised he was in it now. There was no turning back.

He honestly felt a little foolish. Like in high school, when a teenage girl would ruin herself for a sliver of attention from the boy she likes. Dumbing herself down for a moment of fondness, starving herself for the illusion of health. Was Grantaire willing to die for the man he loved so dearly? Grantaire felt stubbornness wash over him as he realised something; Enjolras would die for who he loves, just as Grantaire would do the same.

And speaking of Enjolras, there he was. In the centre of the room that Grantaire knew like the back of his hand, standing beside Joly and Combeferre, Enjolras was a soldier reborn. He looked nothing like the man who had shown up on Grantaire’s doorstep the night before.

Enjolras hadn’t slept, Grantaire could tell immediately. His face gave it away, purple crescent moons beneath his eyes, a sorry contrast against his colourless face. His hair was a mess, Grantaire doubted he had even run his fingers through it, and his clothes looked eerily identical to the ones he had last seen him in. But it was his eyes that broke Grantaire’s heart. Red, tired eyes that hardly focused as he mindlessly spoke something or other to the two men in his company. He was no doubt giving some instruction, or complaining about something, like muscle memory. Grantaire took a deep breath, steadying himself.

Soon, eyes fell on him, and he felt a strange obligation to enter the room as if it were any other day at the bar. Joly was the first to call out for him.

“Grantaire!” He called from the middle of the room.

Grantaire did his darndest not to look at Enjolras as he responded to Joly’s call with the turn of his head, he could see in his periphery that Enjolras’ head whipped around to locate him, but trying not to look at Enjolras was like trying not to read ahead on a page in a book that has you captivated. You know it will only ruin what comes next, but you just can’t help yourself.

And as soon as their eyes met, Enjolras’ expression turned from one of shock to that easy rage. Grantaire did his best to remain as composed as he could as he watched Enjolras breathe deeply through his nose. Grantaire looked away from Enjolras and poured his attention onto Joly, who was still beckoning him over to where the three men stood. On each of the men, a different expression took over their faces as Grantaire approached them with a fake confidence he didn’t know he was capable of possessing.

"You ready to paint some profanities on my body?" Joly said as Grantaire reached the group and took his spot in front of them.

Joly seemed giddy, practically bursting with adrenaline, a suspicious contrast to his usual anxiety-ridden behaviour. Grantaire studied him as he shone a bright grin, bopping his head as he spoke, and he couldn’t help but feel that there was something he was missing, like everyone around him knew something he didn’t. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what was off, but he could feel it. Grantaire had meant to respond, but he’d realised all too late that Joly had even spoken to him, too enamoured in the way Joly was behaving. When Grantaire’s response never came, Joly narrowed his gaze and frowned in concern.

"Y'okay, mon ami?"

Ha!

No, he was not okay. How was he supposed to be okay right now? How was everyone fucking okay with this? How could his friends decide to continue with their plans when they knew what was coming? Grantaire felt sick, and nothing bad had even happened yet. His mind began to race. He wanted to leave. He shouldn't have come. He shouldn't have let Enjolras leave last night.

He looked at Enjolras.

He could've made him stay, there in Grantaire's arms where it's safe, where there's no threat or danger or scary men with guns. Maybe he could call in a bomb threat, or set the café on fire, something to throw a wrench in the plan. Grantaire, you’re staring. Grantaire, they’re waiting for a response. Say something. Say anything.

“Peachy.” Grantaire said, a wicked look in his eye as he watched Enjolras’ face grow flushed.

It was rough, looking Enjolras in his eyes. They weren’t nearly as soft as they were last night, locked on Grantaire’s. Wet, shiny eyes that previously begged were now demanding and dominant, but Grantaire knew just how much of a façade it was. He didn’t know if the flush in Enjolras’ cheeks had anything to do with the memory of Grantaire’s lips on his, or if he was truly that fucking repulsed to see him here, but either felt like a punch to the gut for some reason.

“I thought I told you not to show up.” Enjolras said sternly, of course he did. Grantaire laughed, but not humorously.

“Since when have I ever done anything you've told me to do?” Grantaire spat blankly, pushing past Enjolras, bumping their shoulders harshly as he did so. He ignored the way Joly called out after him.

Fuck them, he thought, as he miraculously willed himself to walk further into the room. Finding himself a seat at a table closer to the back, further from the noise, Grantaire placed his case of body paints down mindlessly.

He felt so out of it, as though he was on autopilot, but that didn’t stop him from feeling every negative feeling under the sun. He was still so full of anger that he hardly felt the urge to busy himself, but he did it anyway. He began with the task of laying out the assorted colours of paints, the various sizes of brushes, and all of the miscellaneous equipment he'd had half a mind to hurriedly shove into his case that morning.

As he began to set things into place, grouped by colour or brush size, Grantaire noticed that there was a subtle tremor in his hands whenever they weren’t resting. He had moved to steady them, palms facing down on the rough surface of the table, but he noticed that the table appeared to be much further away than it looked. Vertigo of a kind set in, and suddenly he felt the overwhelming urge to sit down in the seat and stop moving so fast.

God, he needs a drink. Would anyone be mad if he just sat at the bar and drank all day, instead of marching the streets or whatever it is that they plan to do? What exactly was the plan here? More importantly, what was Grantaire’s plan? He was strong, sure, and he was quick-moving, but he hardly had any experience in this sort of shit. He wasn’t search and rescue, he still felt like that scared kid finding his sister on the floor of her bedroom, bloody and still. He remembered that day so briefly, years of alcoholism and disgust tuning the memory out, but he would never forget finding Anais. How could he? The way he froze, stuck in the doorway, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. The way he didn’t even approach her for the length of an entire minute, just stood there with his eyes glued on the pool of blood dripping from the crack in her skull. The way he mumbled her name, as if hoping she would respond, but knowing she wouldn’t. What if he freezes again when it is life or death? What if he has the chance to save his friends, but gets stuck in the doorway?

"Hey, 'Taire, you’re good." A familiar, soothing voice cooed in his head as he felt soft fingers on his shoulders. Grantaire hadn't even realised his eyes had fallen shut until he opened them, and found Éponine beside him, rubbing mindless circles into his back as he slowly gained his composure before he could spiral into panic. He looked up at her.

Éponine had her hair pulled back, a rarity for her, and there was subtle glitter on her face. She was wearing even more mascara and eyeliner than usual, and stunning with a deep red lip. She looked just as vibrant as everyone else, but she had this concerned look on her face. Not so much concerned, Grantaire supposed, more empathetic, more knowing. Grantaire let her manoeuvre him by the shoulders until he faced her, where he could now see that Joly was standing immediately to her right, watching on anxiously.

"What's happening, buddy?” Éponine asked, kneeling to his level as he sat on the uncomfortable wooden seat at the table.

Grantaire’s gaze jumped back and forth between Éponine and Joly’s, praying they would understand exactly what he was feeling without the need to say it all. But even from someone as switched on as Joly, that was too much to expect, so he let out a controlled, yet shaky breath as he cleared his throat. He had somewhat hoped the clearing of his throat would magically conjure up the right words, but all he was able to come up with was a shy, squeaky,

"This is insane."

Éponine gave him a sympathetic look, though it was mixed with a ‘we’ve been over this’ kind of grimace. She sighed.

“Come on, now.”

“Seriously Éponine, what are you doing?” Grantaire spat, shaking his head in disapproval. “Genuinely think about what you are doing here.”

Éponine smacked her lips, pursing them as she watched him through narrow eyes. After a few moments, she turned to Joly and muttered something. It sounded like she had told him to give them a second alone, and Grantaire must have heard correctly, for then Joly was hurrying off to rejoin the three boys the day revolved around.

“What’s wrong with you then?” Éponine asked shallowly, though Grantaire knew her question was filled with nothing but love.

“What’s wrong with me?” Grantaire asked incredulously, pointing to himself as if he had misheard her. “Don’t do this, ‘Ponine!”

“It’s going to be fine.” Éponine rolled her eyes as she spoke her words sternly, conjuring up that motherly instinct she often possessed.

“Éponine, come on-“

“How much have you drunk today?” She asked, cutting him off. He shook his head.

“Nothing.” He replied

“See,” Éponine said, “This is why you’re having bloody panic attacks at ten in the morning.”

“No, I’m having a panic attack because everybody outside this building wants to put bullets in my friends.” He whisper-shouted, trying to sound as serious as he could without terrifying the poor newcomers around him.

“Okay, sure, but you are an alcoholic who hasn’t drunk any alcohol today. Know your triggers, man.” She said, breaking eye contact and reaching down to the ground beside Grantaire.

Grantaire followed her with his eyes as she did so, and found that her green woven bag was sitting beside the table, half of the contents spilling out onto the floor. Éponine didn’t waste much time being careful with her belongings, throwing them back into her bag before pulling out a bottle of whiskey. The good kind, too. Expensive. It was no doubt supposed to be a celebratory bottle, one for after the protest, to share amongst the group of them, but she handed it to Grantaire instantly.

“Get some of this into you, and then grow a pair of tits.” She said, as if she expected that to help.

God, he wanted to scream at her. At all of them. To shake each of his friends by the shoulders and tell them to snap the fuck out of it. But it wasn’t that simple, it never had been that simple. They all knew the risks, and they all cared about the cause. Grantaire sometimes wondered if they cared more about the cause than they did about each other; they all met with a common interest in changing the world, after all. He knew that they lived for this shit, and he knew he had to reason with himself that they knew what they were doing. If they were able to remain calm and collected, even knowing what they all know, then he could too. He wanted to help them, that was why he showed up in the first place, but how was he supposed to help any of them if he couldn't even hold himself together?

So, Grantaire did hold himself together. He took a swig from the fiery bottle in his palm, the green-citrus taste settling in his throat and a short numbness washing over him for the briefest of seconds. He was ashamed to admit that the alcohol did put some life back into him, and even more ashamed that he’d already decided he would be getting drunk as soon as he could get out of this fucking café. If he managed to get out of here, that was. He just had to survive the day. He could do that. He sighed.

Time to paint some profanities on his friend's bodies.

In all honesty, the morning was running relatively smoothly, or as smooth as a morning could run considering the fate that awaited them. The thought of that godforsaken hard drive, still in the doorway of his bedroom, no doubt lost amongst a pile of unwashed clothing and plastic waste, it made Grantaire’s skin crawl. He forced the image out of his mind as he began to paint mindless swirls on the backs of his hands, waiting for his friends to be ready to play canvas. It was oddly soothing, watching the black paint coat his knuckles, though too much water on his brush meant the dark paint lines began to weep into the surrounding cracks of his skin. It didn’t matter. Nothing matters.

Courfeyrac was the first face he painted, baby soft skin dotted with freckles, now covered in colour and curse words. Granted, Grantaire did have to restart Courfeyrac's face painting twice because he couldn't get his lines straight, but as he continued to work, he found that it was a good enough distraction. By the third human canvas – a boy he did not recognise from the café but rather from the market down the street – Grantaire had managed to pour all of his focus into his painting. He even managed to push thoughts of Enjolras' whereabouts deep down into the 'save for later' section of his mind, if you can believe it.

Grantaire painted feminist quotes and flowering art all over his friends, watching them fight against the buzz of adrenaline in their bodies to sit so still for him. Grantaire still couldn't make sense of any of it, the excitement for the day ahead, but he didn’t feel the need to hash it up again. Not yet.

He continued to paint, admiring every one of his friends as they came and went. He tried not to think about it, but something about the way it felt to watch them walk away from his station subtly felt like a goodbye, as if he were trying to take in everything he could from his friends before they disappear into the angry sea of people. It hurt him to think like that, but what’s a pessimist without pessimism?

Éponine sat down in front of him next, her eye wary on him, but her thoughts distracted. She requested 'STILL NOT ASKING FOR IT' to be painted in big, red letters across her chest and stomach, bright words covering hip scars and patchy skin, a daring contrast to the lacy black bralette she was wearing with nothing overtop. Grantaire might’ve admired her for longer than he did anyone else who sat before him, but not just for her beauty. He admired her for her courage, as stupid as he thought she was for risking her life like this.

Grantaire painted 'ANGRY WOMEN WILL CHANGE THE WORLD' across Jehan’s back, surrounded by flowers of all colours to match the ones nestled into the creases of the long, braided ponytails that fell over their shoulders and down their chest. He painted 'HOLD YOUR SONS ACCOUNTABLE' on Joly's plain, white shirt, the pink letters tying in nicely with his rosy cheeks. He painted ‘BREAK THE SILENCE' on Cosette's right cheek, and '#METOO' on her left. He saw undying passion and fury in her eyes, and for a fickle moment, he felt glad in his decision to show up to support his sisters, regardless of the danger in their way.

And when no one needed his artistic abilities anymore, after watching them all walk away from his spot at the back of the room and join one of the many forming crowds scattered around the building, Grantaire let himself breathe.

Maybe it would be okay. Grantaire knows he has a habit of being a bit of a downer, always awaiting the worst even during the best. He was always waiting for that other shoe to drop; he could hear the sound of it ringing in his head before it had even happened. Call it confidence or self-sabotage all you want, Grantaire called it inevitable. But for some reason, that gut feeling had subsided a fraction.

Don’t get it twisted, if he had it his way, he would still call off the protest, but he supposed he had a little more trust in his friends than he did earlier in the morning. When he thought about it, he supposed he was being maybe a little dramatic. He knew Éponine would never put herself in unnecessary danger, she’s got Gavroche and Azelma to care for. Speaking of Gavroche, she wouldn’t have brought him here if his life was truly in danger, and Grantaire could’ve sworn he saw him downstairs speaking with Marius when Grantaire had first arrived. Joly seemed to be confident, too. He was cautious as always, but if he was genuinely concerned for his life, he would not have submitted to the plans so easily. And as for Enjolras? Well, Grantaire had said it himself. No matter how stupid of an idea, Enjolras will figure it out. He always seems to.

Either his friends were utterly moronic, and in way over their heads, or they had a plan. God, if you’re there, are you listening? Are you watching?

Grantaire couldn’t decide who to place his trust in.

The final time Grantaire saw Enjolras before the rush of the protest separated them, Grantaire was washing the red paint off of his brush. He had looked up from his mug of murky paint water, bristles softened by the moisture, and was met with the harsh, bone-chilling gaze of the man he'd so desperately been trying not to think about. Enjolras had stared at Grantaire simply, with no real hint of that emotion from the night prior, nothing in his expression other than the fire hidden behind his eyes, even if it was threatening to go out. Grantaire may have stared into those eyes a second or two longer than his heart would have liked. He forced himself to look away.

It was too hard to look at Enjolras now. He looked the same as he always did, maybe more exhausted than usual, but the same. All it took was learning his plans to throw his life away at the feet of the people to reveal just how noticeable his pain was, if you looked and listened closely enough. The pain had always been there, Grantaire should’ve picked it from the day his fingers captured a cold hand against the neck of a bottle. Enjolras didn't speak, his eyes following Grantaire's movements as he washed out his paintbrush and packed away his things.

He looked up at Enjolras one last time, something sombre reflecting in his eyes, though this time Enjolras’ head was turned away. Grantaire nodded to himself, chuckled humourlessly, and looked away. He didn't watch as Enjolras hesitated, before walking away, continuing to go about his morning as if it were any old morning. Grantaire couldn’t bear to feel the lights going out, one final time, the loss of warm sunlight on his freeze-dried heart. He took a seat, allowing himself to rest before he wasn’t able to.

When Grantaire had taken a seat this time, he felt something odd that he hadn’t noticed before. Perhaps he was too drunk earlier, or too busy fighting off panic, but as he readjusted himself in his seat, he felt the dig of a foreign object into his hipbone. He reached into his pocket out of curiosity, and the second his fingers made contact with the object, his skin grew colder.

The hard drive, the one that was supposedly still lying forgotten in his doorway, was now in the front pocket of the jeans he was wearing. Grantaire tried to remember.

He couldn’t recall a whole lot about what happened after Enjolras left. All he could think about was licking his lips and tasting salty teardrops like pearls settling on his philtrum. He recalled the moment his lips were occupied, fighting and pleading for a never-ending moment of desire. He recalled the moment he pulled away, leaving Enjolras in shock and embarrassment, his cheeks swarmed with colour and his eyes filled with confusion. He recalled the slam of his front door, how the cheap walls shook and the silence that followed rang villainously in his ears. But what came after?

Grantaire pictured himself standing there, hopeless, staring at the door, his breath still ragged with both lust and anxiety. He recalled the taste of wine drowning out the coffee and spearmint, washing away the last of the man he was trying to cling to. He remembered throwing the bottle to the floor, glass shattering at his feet. He looked down at his ankle, there was dried blood on the cuff of his jeans, faint scratches littering the skin above his sock line. It began to come back to him, slowly, like recalling a dream.

He remembered staggering through his house, one hand holding his bottle and the other hand grappling for his phone, his mind with half a thought to call someone. He recalled not being able to decide. The canvas with the face of a man he despised was staring at him, how it felt as if it taunted him now. The bleak, sad eyes of the self-portrait looked so focused and full of ridicule through the booze, and Grantaire let out a frustrated sob, before putting his foot through the canvas. He looked down at his ankle again. It was not blood that stained the cuff of his jeans, but earthy crimson watercolour.

And finally, he recalled the dreary trudge to his bedroom, the decision to just call it a night and deal with everything in the morning. He recalled stopping dead in his tracks, the hard drive staring up at him from the messy floor, and further, he saw himself reaching to pick it up from where it lay. He thinks he remembers a thought to destroy it, to crunch it beneath his shoe or toss it in the river, but he didn’t do any of that. He simply shoved it into the front pocket of his jeans.

He hadn’t changed his clothes after waking up in the kitchen, heartbroken and miserable, and the realisation that he still had the hard drive with him was not a great one, to say the least. The two things Enjolras had asked of him, to keep the hard drive safe and to stay out of the way, Grantaire had already fucked up both, and it was only ten thirty.

Before long, it was showtime.

The protest began at eleven o’clock on the dot, the mundane sounds of casual conversation and antsy well-wishes stopping abruptly as a quiet chorus of voices chanting slowly built into a crescendo of wildfire. It started out pretty evenly, protesters on the side of the people set up just outside the walls of the café. There, on a concrete slab turned into a makeshift stage platform, were Grantaire’s friends. It had begun, the crowd in the courtyard facing the café building, cheering on the speaking members of the ABC.

As far as Grantaire knew, the ABC’s protests didn’t usually start with the speeches. Typically, they’d have a starting point – more often than not, this would be the café – and they’d lead the crowd in a march to the end of the city street, chanting their slogans and waving their banners. People browsing in storefronts surrounding the street would watch on, none would ever join, none would ever care, but it never slowed the marchers. Police would be standing by, oftentimes creating a human barrier to separate the world outside of the ABC from the ABC itself. Grantaire figured this may be the main reason for such hesitation from outsiders to jump to the call and march alongside his friends. And when they’d reach their destination, the group would usually do one of two things; set up a podium at the end of the city street by the river; or make their way back to the café, where the speeches would begin.

But today, the protest started with the speeches, and Grantaire couldn’t help but feel like his friends had decided on this course of action for a reason. Enjolras never did anything without a reason, never put less than one hundred percent into the events he organises, and now that Grantaire knew what the police were planning, it made perfect sense. Enjolras knew that they needed to get the speeches out of the way before they could be shut down, and to scrap the marching meant Enjolras knew they weren’t making it to the end of the river.

Enjolras was no longer holding a protest and he knew it, his plans had changed. He was holding what Grantaire knew it would become all along, a riot.

However, Grantaire noticed quickly that police were still lined up down the city street, forming a chain of bodies to keep the crowd from getting too close to civilians. If the crowd wasn’t marching, having so many of their uniformed officers on standby where no one would show hardly seemed an effective use of police resources. Grantaire couldn’t decide what this meant. It didn’t make sense.

He was watching on from the base floor of the Musain, sitting uncomfortably at a table keeping safe hold of his and Éponine’s belongings. The great windows from floor to ceiling gave him a decent view of the world they were creating outside. Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Combeferre and Cosette stood upon the stage, their backs to Grantaire’s view. Cosette was speaking, or yelling, rather. She was bouncy and exuberant, and heartfelt emotion filled her voice as she spoke, though Grantaire couldn’t make out exactly what she was saying with the café walls acting as a barrier for all of the noise. He didn’t need to hear the exact words she was saying to know she was nailing it; the awe of the crowd said it all.

Over the course of an hour, more women joined and left the platform, some Grantaire knew and some he didn’t. The woman from the last meeting Grantaire attended, the one that had asked for his number was front row in the crowd, sitting atop the shoulders of a stocky young man. Truthfully, there was an alarming number of men amongst the crowd, and maybe it was his cynicism, but Grantaire hadn’t expected so many to show up. Maybe the people did hear the calls. Maybe men in the city really did care about their ladies. Maybe the world had actually changed since Grantaire last thought about the odds and whose favour they were in.

Maybe Enjolras was right.

Grantaire watched him, sitting to the far left of the platform, barely taking any spotlight for himself. The back of his blonde mop of curls swung furiously as he nodded and applauded the woman currently speaking. It was a lady Grantaire recognised from the council, a member of the government, a member of the exact corruption they protested. Someone from their side, now on our side.

Grantaire laughed at the thought. He knew Enjolras was capable of something big, Grantaire had always believed it more than he let on, that was for sure. As for Enjolras’ ability to change the world, Grantaire had never really entertained the idea. He didn’t know that it was possible, though he did think that if anyone could, it would be his Enjolras.

But maybe, Grantaire thought as he stared longingly at the man he loved, he was wrong. Maybe Enjolras wasn’t only capable of changing the world for the better, but maybe he was already doing it.

And something visceral washed over Grantaire then, like a sobering glass of ice-cold water thrown in his face, diluting the self-righteousness he held over his friends' heads all the time. Grantaire felt his ego deflate, and suddenly there were tears in his eyes. There was no point in crying, yet huge waves wracked through his chest anyway, the breaking exhales and rolling inhales taking over him in the split of a second. It should have made him feel better, knowing Enjolras and the gang had everything under control, but it just beat Grantaire down a step further than he already had been.

He didn’t want to make this day about himself, he couldn’t give a fuck less about himself at the moment, but he supposed that was also the problem. Grantaire, the mouthy, obnoxious cynic. A bastard full of ill thoughts and the scars to prove it. God, was he embarrassed. What a sorry excuse for a friend he had been, unable to just place his trust in his friends. Of course, he couldn’t come along to support them without spewing negativity and hate for their ideals. Enjolras was right. Combeferre was right. He was a terrible friend, deserving of being pushed into the corner, and he knew that the rest of his friends knew it deep down. When the day is over, when everything turns out okay, everyone will think of the complaints Grantaire gave, the doubt he had in the people he loved the most, and they will realise what space he wastes in their group.

And if you thought that was bad, one thousand more horrible things you wouldn’t call your worst enemy jumped around in his mind as he reached for the bag left sitting at his feet, though it was not his own satchel he reached for. It was Éponine’s bag that he began to rummage around in, searching for the one thing he knew would silence his racing mind. When he found what he was looking for, he found himself doing what he knew he was best at. With tears of frustration soaking his vision, he popped the lid off the bottle of whiskey and took a large swig, maybe bigger than he even wanted, but it didn’t matter all that much. He didn’t deserve what he wanted anymore.

He did not deserve his friends. He did not deserve Enjolras. And most certainly, he did not deserve the moment he shared with the man the night prior. Grantaire sat at that table in the café, and he drank himself to sleep.

Grantaire couldn’t immediately identify what time it was when he woke up with his temple digging into the table. He didn’t know how long he was out for, nor did he remember exactly what was happening before he lost consciousness, but when he woke up, he felt a surge of energy so indescribable that for a second he feared he was dying. His vision didn’t return to him immediately, he swears he felt his eyes fly open, but the vignette around his periphery was drowning his sight. This wasn’t unusual per se, for him to wake up from a drunken sleep faster than his senses could crawl back to him, but that didn’t make it enjoyable. The only one of his senses that he could rely on right now was his hearing, and that was certainly working. The loud sounds around him kept him grounded until he was able to blink his brain back to alertness.

Which is when he remembered where he was, and that there shouldn’t be such loud sounds.

Grantaire didn't hear the commotion when it first began, how could he have? He was too busy where he was, the whisky bottle that was full this morning now missing half of its contents. In full transparency, Grantaire should still be conked out right now, in a deeper sleep than any sober man. But it was just that, the loud sounds around him that seemed to have woken him, unfamiliar sounds that didn’t make sense for where he was when he shut his eyes. Sounds that slammed his brain with a crowbar whilst screaming at him to wake up or be sorry. The entire world had moved in circles around him while he slept, and now that he was awake, the world had him surrounded.

When his vision was entirely restored, though still unfocused and spinning, Grantaire felt his heartbeat picking up speed. His chest ached with every breath he took as he blinked a few, looking at the environment around him. The café was empty, trashed to high heaven, with the front door off its hinges and a window smashed from the outside. The entrance to the café had been barricaded off with café tables, chairs, and the bookshelf from the corner.

Shit.

Grantaire wasn’t even confident that what he was seeing was really there, but still, he refused to waste time. He jumped to his feet as fast as someone exiting drunken oblivion could manage, fighting the way that time seemed to move as it did in a dream. His body reacted similarly, like when you’re dreaming of being chased but you can’t seem to run. His legs felt heavy, like bricks were tied to his ankles, and paired with the blurry vision it made it hard to know how much ground he was actually covering and at what speed. Somehow, by focusing hard enough on just getting one foot in front of the other, Grantaire was able to stumble his way to the door of the café, the crunch of glass beneath his feet.

The destroyed wooden furniture only blocked off the left half of the doorway – a pretty ineffective barricade to say the least, but the thought was there – and Grantaire was able to push the blockage further to allow for a gap only just big enough to squeeze through. Once on the other side of the door, Grantaire emptied his lungs as he turned to investigate the sounds of battle outside. He felt his stomach fall to the floor when he saw it, the mess that had been created.

The scene was moving so quickly, it would have been hard to describe everything happening.

The first thing Grantaire saw – impossible to miss, really – was the crowd of people gathered in the middle of the courtyard, just as they had been earlier in the morning. The only difference between then and now, though, was that this time the people in the crowd were not cheering with hope and confidence. They were screaming, yelling, thrashing and stumbling around. The flood of people everywhere looked like a rip in the ocean, and it behaved that way too, with people being swallowed up from the outside and dragged toward the centre.

But it wasn’t just the crowd that demonstrated the turn the protest had taken since Grantaire last looked. Homemade signs with hopeful messages splayed across them were left trampled on the ground, and broken furniture from surrounding establishments lay littered across the courtyard. There were windows shattered as if bricks had been thrown through them, and balconies above buildings held people huddled behind pushed-over tables for cover.

But the worst part of all of it was that noise that had woken Grantaire moments ago still ringing in his ears. And no, it wasn’t the sounds of people shouting and crying, calling out desperately as they tried to locate their friends. It wasn’t the sounds of windows crumbling, or of police sirens, or of rubble being trampled through the street. It was the unmistakable sound of a gun being fired, followed promptly by the sounds of the once angry now full of fear.

So, yeah. To say things got messy would be an understatement.

Grantaire froze in the doorway of the café, unable to let his legs carry him out any further as he took it all in. The damage, the danger, the severity of the situation. There was a shallow pool of blood right in front of him, one step and he’d be standing in it. It was not a concerning amount, until you realised there was a trail. Grantaire’s eyes followed the trail as it ran away from the building and towards the makeshift stage, the platform that held the men speaking earlier now unoccupied. Now, the stage was home to nothing but a mangled t-shirt ripped into long strips of fabric and sheets of paper stuck to the concrete with wet boot prints holding them in place, helplessly flapping in the wind Grantaire felt so small at that moment.

Someone was bleeding, someone was hurt. He felt the sting of tears in his eyes.

How badly were they hurt? Did someone help them? Did they get to them in time? His chest heaved unwillingly.

Did they get to safety? Who did this to them? Who did this to you? A tear spilled down his cheek.

What are you doing on the floor? What are you doing on the floor? What are you doing on the floor?

Grantaire stood there, in the doorway of his sister’s bedroom, staring at his entire world, shattered on the floor. The sounds of the protest disappeared, and for a moment, all he could hear was his own ragged breath, his hesitant footsteps towards the woman he loved lying on the floor. Her face was barely recognisable, with swollen cheeks and green-tinged eyelids. Her eyes were open, Grantaire prayed and prayed to the same God he prayed to every night that this was a sign of hope. That she was looking at him whilst he looked at her.

“Anais?” Grantaire mumbled, his monotonous voice broken. She didn’t answer. She never answers.

“Anais.” Grantaire dropped to her side, kneeling on the ground as he placed a hand against her neck, looking for a pulse. Of course, he didn’t find it. He never finds it.

“Anais!” Grantaire cried at the young girl lying before him. “Please, come on.”

But there was no use, and Grantaire knew this. He’d had this flashback one hundred times before, but every single time he saw her lying there, he could never fight the feeling that maybe this time he could save her. Maybe this time he would come home in time to get help, maybe this time she would blink, or twitch, or breathe. Maybe this time he could do something.

But there was never anything he could do. No matter how loud he screamed in her ear, there was still blood clotting against her skin. No matter how he reacted to seeing her there, she never moved an inch. There was nothing he could do.

He looked away, blinking tears from his eyes.

And when Grantaire looked away, the bedroom he was in began to crumble, and he started to try to cling to the moment like he always does. Seeing her like this was fucked, but at least he saw her, even if he knew she wasn’t really there. However, despite his efforts, the real world came back to him and he was where he left off, stuck in the doorway of the café on his knees. Blood had been spilled, people had been hurt, and crowds were fighting viciously. He looked down to find his hands were no longer on the shoulders of his sister’s lifeless body, they were flush against the ground beneath him. She had disappeared, she wasn’t coming back, he couldn’t change that. As much as he tries, Grantaire will never be able to change that. Not for her.

But what about them?

Grantaire looked up again, the reality of his situation sobering him up far more effectively than any coffee and cigarette ever could.

I can’t save her. But maybe I can save them.

He rose to his feet, barely stumbling for someone in his position, and scanned the environment around him for something that could help him. He couldn’t see anyone he recognised, not immediately anyway, so he stayed put watching in astoundment.

Grantaire fucks up a lot. For example, he fucked up Joly’s recovery by about eight months when he first met him. He fucked up the attempt on his own life, evidently. He fucked up the one most important rule the ABC had created, to never touch Enjolras. But now, Grantaire was determined. This was something he would not fuck up.

When he sprung to his feet, pushing himself up off of the ground and closer to the action, the courtyard became entirely visible. The faces of people around him were no longer just blurry shapes moving too fast for his brain to follow, they were people now. Some he recognised from the morning, right before the protest had begun, some he recognised from around the city, and some he didn’t recognise at all. But now, with his head screwed on straight and his mind allowing him to think clearer, he searched the scene in front of him for his friends.

And for the first time since Grantaire had woken up, he did find someone he was looking for. Just east of the crowd, being forcefully dragged away by two uniformed officers were Feuilly and Bahorel. They appeared mostly unharmed, save for their teeth bloodied and their hands cuffed behind their backs, but they were walking upright and consciously. Grantaire caught the eye of Bahorel as one of the police officers placed a rough hand on his head and pushed him down into a police car, and Bahorel gave him a maniacal smile just before the door of the car broke their eye contact. The two men were driven away.

Alright, Grantaire thought, I guess we’re doing this.

He looked around some more, taking a few steps closer to the crowd whilst keeping a safe distance from the tide of people on the outside. His heart slammed dangerously in his chest with every step he took, everything inside of him screaming to turn around and get somewhere safe, somewhere quiet. The bar upstairs would surely be empty, no one would notice if a bottle of vodka happened to go missing. Anyone in their right mind would bunker down until the insanity dies out.

And so, in what was maybe the stupidest moment of courage he had ever experienced in his entire life, Grantaire shut his eyes, took a deep, steadying breath and entered the crowd.

It all happened so quickly.

He tried his best to push his way through whilst remaining upright, figuring that going against the force of bodies wouldn’t do him a whole lot of good. He managed to make it a few metres towards the centre of the crowd, scanning every face he passed to see if any of his friends were caught in there with him. Feuilly and Bahorel had been dragged away from the crowd, so it wasn’t stupid to assume some of his friends may still be in here, was it? Did stupid even have meaning anymore?

He thought he saw Courfeyrac for a split second, but it had turned out to be a girl with the same hair length and complexion as his friend. He scanned for bald heads, wavy pink hairstyles, long ginger braids, searching for any of his more easily identifiable friends. Every blonde head of curls in the crowd was the wrong length, the wrong shade, the wrong curl pattern. It was to no use, but even though he feared he was alone in the crowd, Grantaire kept moving.

He felt helpless in this position. He was nowhere near the centre of the crowd when a formidable physical force pushed him from behind, and as a result, he lost his footing, collapsing against the crowd of bodies that clambered at arms and legs to not get dragged down. The sea was violent and unforgiving, and Grantaire was being swept away back in the direction of the café.

“No, fuck, wait-” He called half-mindedly, not speaking to anyone in particular. Grantaire does not believe in God, we have been over this fact a million times, but in that moment, he found himself ready to believe. And as luck will have it, or at least what Grantaire could call coincidence, that was the moment when he saw her.

A woman, her ponytail ruined, deep brown chunks and flyaway hairs no longer secured by the ribbon hanging at her shoulders. She had dark mascara smudged around her eyes, and smears of what Grantaire hoped was just red paint all across her chest, as well as staining the little black top she wore. She was Éponine, and she was alive. She was okay.

“Éponine!” Grantaire shouted ear-piercingly, for as long as he could manage despite the disabling breaths that he was heaving. “Éponine!”

Her head whipped around fast at the call of her name, eyes scouring every person in his direction, though it took her a few moments to properly locate exactly where Grantaire’s voice was coming from. Once she did, once their eyes met, Grantaire thanked the universe that it really was her, and not a trick of the light. She made her way through the crowd.

And Éponine was more than just okay, it seemed. She powered through the crowd in a way that didn’t make sense to Grantaire, considering how short and petite she was compared to the people around her. She didn’t even use both arms to push her way through, with one held closed in a fist against her chest. Her eyes were locked on Grantaire as she fought her way through the gathering of bodies to reach him. When she was close enough, Grantaire saw through his boozy view that her hand was outstretched and reaching for Grantaire’s, and the relief he felt when their fingers met was like no other. Three of his friends were safe, confirmed, and now Éponine was taking him by the forearm and dragging them away from the centre of the crowd.

Grantaire was close behind her now, clinging on to her as if his life depended on it. In a way, he supposed it did; he felt as though he had a newfound surge of energy after finding her, like there was a point to risking his safety. Up closer to her now, Grantaire could see the beginning of a harsh bruise encircling her left eye, though thankfully she didn’t seem to show any sign that she was in any pain.

Finally, the two made it out of the crowd, the momentum of surging forwards at such a pace causing them to stumble once on the outskirts of the crowd. Grantaire hit the ground first somehow, bracing himself with the flats of his forearms where they met his elbows. Luckily for Éponine, Grantaire broke her fall.

“Fucking hell!” Éponine cried, not too fussed about the condition of the man beneath her. “We gotta get the fuck out of here, man.”

She quickly rose to her feet and wasted no time dragging Grantaire skyward by the sleeve of his sweater, forcing him up. She didn’t even let him work his footing out before she was pulling him towards the door of the café, squeezing herself through the gap in the doorway between the table and the bookshelf. Grantaire did his best to do the same whilst matching her pace, but God, that bitch could move.

Once inside the café, the two flew up the stairs to the top floor of the building as quickly as they could without any more damage to themselves or their surroundings. Grantaire’s legs shook as he moved up the stairs, knees trembling as if they could give out at any moment, but he powered through.

Safe from the immediate chaos, the two collapsed against the back wall of the building, just meters from the bar. There were surprisingly very few people in the room, Grantaire had half expected that more people would have used the top floor of the Musain as a sort of refuge when all hell broke loose, but other than a small group of women peering out of the top floor window, the room was practically empty. Éponine was breathing evenly next to him, their backs against the cool concrete wall. Grantaire turned to her, not knowing their next move, but very happily allowing this moment for rest.

"Christ, man. You okay?" Grantaire asked once he had caught his breath.

Éponine looked all sorts of fucked up, but somehow, she seemed to be rather calm. Her breathing wasn’t nearly as rushed as Grantaire’s was, and she didn’t look as red in the face as Grantaire felt he was. God, he needed to exercise more. He reached to touch her cheek, a comforting gesture, and she leaned into it.

"Yeah, you?" Éponine managed out through her slow, yet still laboured breathing.

“I think so.” Grantaire said, and Éponine hummed in contentment.

She leaned further into the hand on her cheek, resting the tension that she held in her body. Her shoulders dropped as she slumped down, placing her warm forehead against Grantaire’s shoulder, his hand falling to the back of her head. Her ponytail was almost thoroughly destroyed, and Grantaire noticed a sticky, wet substance drying throughout the ends of her hair. He could feel it crumbling between his fingertips with the lightest touch, and curiously he looked over her head to see what he was feeling.

“Is this blood or paint?” Grantaire asked upon inspection of the substance.

Éponine did not respond.

“Éponine?” He tried again, nudging his shoulder so that her head was no longer lying limp against him. Her head raised slowly and her eyes fluttered open at the disturbance.

She did not respond.

“’Ponine.” Grantaire said sternly, shaking her by the shoulder lightly to grab her attention. “Oi.”

Grantaire noticed a few things at that moment. For one, her face was slowly losing its colour, her cheeks pale and gaunt as her lip trembled lightly. She wasn’t unresponsive, but she didn’t look to be as Zen as Grantaire had previously mistaken her. Her eyes jumped between fluttering closed and staying open, though they didn’t seem to focus on anything when they were. She didn’t look too bad, and though she was responding with half-legible mumbles of reassurance, Grantaire quickly realised that something was wrong.

“Shit, man.” He muttered under his breath, pushing her backwards gently, slowly, examining her all over for any signs of injury. He lay her flat against the ground, her body heavy as he slowly lowered her head. He didn’t know what was wrong, but he wasn’t trying to add a concussion into the mix. “Did you hurt yourself? Éponine-“

And then he saw it. A large puncture wound on her palm, so deep you could almost see right through. She wasn’t actively bleeding out somehow, though the sight of the hole in her hand made Grantaire feel faint. He was lucky he wasn’t one of those people who throw up at the sight of injury, because even though he couldn’t really tell what he was looking at, he knew that it was a pretty nasty puncture.

Éponine had her eyes open again, though she didn’t rush to respond to Grantaire’s previous question. She blinked sporadically, some of the colour returning to her face as she lay horizontally on the ground.

“Is it bad?” She mumbled.

Yes, it was.

Grantaire tried desperately to remember what to do in this situation. God damn it. He knew CPR, Joly had taught everyone in the group in case of emergency, along with the recovery position, how to make a tourniquet out of clothing or fabric scraps, hell, Grantaire even knew how to do a really shitty stitch job. But this? They hadn’t covered this! All he could think was that he had to do something. He had to at least try. Thinking as quickly as he could, he whipped off his sweater and pushed it on to the wound.

“Uh, no. It’s not that bad.” He lied.

Éponine winced at the contact. “Well, it hurts like a bitch.”

This would be the moment that Grantaire really started to panic, faced with the gravity of the situation. He felt overcome by heavy breathing, trying hard not to work himself up so much. He couldn’t freeze in a moment like this, he told himself he wouldn’t. He turned back to study Éponine’s face, and he was happy to find that she didn’t look as ghostly as she had a moment ago. She honestly looked closer to a shade of green, like she was going to be sick, and somehow, this calmed Grantaire subtly. She wasn’t losing a heap of blood; the wound was barely bleeding at all. Additionally, she seemed happier to be lying down, and Grantaire realised that her drifting in and out of consciousness probably had less to do with dying of blood loss and more to do with being squeamish at the sight of the wound. If he could just find her some help, she would be okay.

She will be okay.

“Alright, listen.” Grantaire said, mind racing as he plotted his next steps. “I’m going to go find help. You stay here.”

“Hold on,” Éponine grunted, attempting to pull herself from where she lay. “I’m coming with.”

“No, you’re not.” Grantaire said sternly, pushing her gently back down. “You’re staying here. I’m going to find Joly.”

“Needle in a haystack, buddy.” She laughed. “Good luck with that.”

Grantaire ignored her, only hesitating to leave her for a second before making a beeline directly to the front-facing window that led onto the small balcony. The group of women were huddled there still, tending to small grazes on each other as they carefully studied the world outside of the café. Two of the girls noticed him approach.

“Hey, one of you.” He directed, pointing to them as he continued to pass them, and then pointing to Éponine on the other side of the room. “Make sure she doesn’t die, yeah? I’m going to get help.”

And with the newfound motivation to do what he said he would, he sprang to action, the booze in his system drowned out by the sobering rush of adrenaline pumping through his body. He carefully peered out the window, just as the girls did, but he decided it was safe enough on the balcony. Maybe it was a bad call, but either way, he had to make a move. And so, he stepped out, the higher ground giving him an advantage of sight. He didn't know what he was looking for exactly, but he stopped for a minute to take it all in.

The crowd was far larger than it appeared from the ground. The entire courtyard was packed, the café completely blocked off from the street. Waving hands and cardboard signs and petrified faces all around swayed back and forth with the push of the crowd, moving unwarranted. He saw the platform where his friends stood earlier this morning, the table that held ABC flyers now on its side with the legs cracked and bent. Unsurprisingly, the platform was now occupied by policemen, shields and guns drawn. Another gunshot sounded throughout the packed street outside, followed again by the sounds of worried screams and cries. Grantaire jumped at the sound, and hoped and prayed that they were warning shots.

There was no leaving the area, they were stuck in the building.

God?

Oh, why bother?

It was so loud in his ears, the raging of the crowd and the police sirens going off in the distance. There seemed to be three sides fighting against each other amongst the crowd; angry men turned devilish; even angrier protesters, and uniformed policemen trying to regain their control of the situation. The mass of bodies looked like it was split in half, though not an even half by any means. The side of the anti-protesters was much bigger, and Grantaire wondered how many of those assholes had their names on that hard drive. It reminded him of a Viking battle, when two sides charged each other in broad daylight, swinging and slashing at whatever their weapons could reach.

Grantaire shut his eyes. Aside from the sirens, aside from the shouting, what could he hear? What was there to help him? He stopped focusing so hard on the sound below him, as hard as it was to drown it out, and he tried to listen around him. He could hear a helicopter whirring above him, though he doubted it was any medical aid coming to his rescue, more likely some poor journalist trying to get news coverage. He heard the group of girls inside. He could hear Éponine telling one of them to leave her alone in maybe the bitchiest tone Grantaire had ever heard. He heard one of the girls crying.

And whilst listening for voices, he heard a different voice to his left, through the window of the building that shared the balcony with the Musain. The sound stopped him dead in his tracks, as he focused in on the voice. For the first time in his recent life, Grantaire was more than ecstatic to hear the obnoxious, piercing, whiny voice that unmistakably belonged to Courfeyrac.

Grantaire followed the voice, crying out chants of hope and passion and everything else Grantaire didn’t think fit in the chaos. When Courfeyrac finally came into Grantaire’s view through the window, he let out a breath of relief.

Courfeyrac’s hair was soaked through with sweat and God knows what else, and his knuckles were bloody and cracked, yet he was laughing. Laughing, hearty and bold, screaming something with his chest down to the violence below. The safety of hearing his friend's voice beat the absurdity of his energy, and that was enough for Grantaire apparently because before he could even recognise his own movements, he was moving towards the building where his friend was. He locked eyes with Courfeyrac, a man surprised to see him, and his friend extended his arm out to Grantaire to helped him clamber through the window to share the safety.

"Grantaire!" Courfeyrac said as their hands gripped forearms. Courfeyrac patted him hard on the back as he pulled him through the opening, hardly giving him a moment to catch his breath. He laughed, exasperated. "Welcome to our world!"

Once through the window, Grantaire stumbled heavily from foot to foot, his hands against the wall keeping himself upright as he moved away from the window. He shook his head.

"Where is everyone else?" Grantaire panted, grabbing Courfeyrac's arm in relief, the stitch building in his abdomen much more noticeable when he was standing idle. Courfeyrac pulled him into a quick bear hug before pulling away again to speak.

"Feuilly was arrested, I think," Courfeyrac swallowed, breath catching, "I saw Marius and Cosette leaving from the other side of the crowd, so I assume they're fine. Combeferre and Joly are down in the alley behind the café. Or at least that’s where I left them."

Grantaire nodded, attempting to hide his worry. “Okay, okay, well, Éponine needs help.”

“Where is she?” Courfeyrac asked.

“Top floor of the Musain.”

“Alright.” Courfeyrac said, not wasting any time sitting around, even though Grantaire wished he had a minute for his brain to play catch up. “Let’s go then.”

Grantaire groaned breathily as Courfeyrac was already making his way out of the window and back onto the balcony, shaking his head in what was mostly a mixture of disbelief for the amount of energy Courfeyrac had, and disbelief that he was even in this situation in the first place. He began to climb through the window he had entered through, following closely behind his friend.

"What the hell happened, man?" Grantaire spat, his breath slowly coming back to him before he could waste it away again. Upon the words, Courfeyrac spun around to face him. He shook his head at Grantaire in amusement, a hand raised to his forehead.

"Copper dogs, man. They started to attack in record time, and I’m telling ya’,” He laughed. “It doesn't take much taunting for the police to react these days."

"Well, who the fuck was taunting the police?" Grantaire croaked, suddenly aware of the pain in his chest, drawing a sharp breath from him. Courfeyrac stared him down before laughing once more, sharp, loud.

"Who do you think?" Courfeyrac asked simply, his head turning to gesture over his shoulder for one moment, before turning away and rushing back across the balcony en route to the café balcony door.

And when Grantaire turned to look at what Courfeyrac was referring to, he saw Enjolras. On the roof of the Musain standing proudly in all his glory, he shouted down to his people. His purple knuckles were raised in a fist in the air, blood drops that trickled down from his nose now staining his crisp, white shirt. Even in that state, bloodied and bruised, dishevelled and seething, screaming at the top of his lungs, he was beautiful. Even when presenting like the devil, Grantaire could see his halo.

Even with his body telling him to follow Courfeyrac, to run for cover, Grantaire couldn't look away.

Chapter Text

The riot didn't begin to die down until well into the evening. Police vehicles, too many to count, came and left, each time dragging protesters away from the madness kicking and screaming. The crowd slowly dwindled, one by one, as the authorities tried their best to regain control of the courtyard. It was alarming, the way Grantaire had stopped flinching at the sounds of gunshots. He wondered if this was because he’d gotten used to the sound over the course of the day, or if deep down he knew he couldn’t bring himself to think too long about who could be on the other side of the barrel.

Grantaire had felt a surreal illusion of control when he had seen Enjolras standing atop the roof of the Musain. Seeing him stand up there roaring to the crowd below gave Grantaire a sliver of hope for the outcome, the way Enjolras could put himself on display for those who wanted to ruin him and yet remain standing. It surprised Grantaire that his immediate response wasn’t something along the lines of climbing up onto the roof himself and dragging the man back down with him. He felt a sickening urge to do so, of course he did, but a sense of clarity flooded his mind as he watched Enjolras, bloodied and rageful, opening his chest up to the world like a target.

You can’t save someone who refuses to be saved.

And Grantaire hadn’t meant that in the way that it sounded. He wasn’t giving up on Enjolras, not by any means. Grantaire would sooner meet his own fate than give up on trying to convince Enjolras to fight for himself as much as he fought for the people. But Grantaire could beg and beg all he wanted, Enjolras wouldn’t budge. He was one stubborn son of a bitch, anyone who knew him knew that caring for him – or rather, getting him to care for himself – was arduous work, and granted that didn’t mean that it was not work worth doing, but you can only go so far for someone.

Grantaire had stood there, watching him, coming up with one hundred and one different ways to coax Enjolras off the roof. He could shout out to him, pray that he hears his name being called over the ruckus, and pray further that Enjolras would just acquiesce and follow him to safety. Or he could continue to stand there, waiting for a stray bullet to hit Enjolras in the shin; Grantaire would be there to catch him as he fell from the height. Or, Grantaire thought, maybe he could leave the building, go home, start studying physics and quantum mechanics and be the first man ever to accomplish time travel, and then proceed to go back in time to the night he met Enjolras and then simply choose to stay home.

But Grantaire hadn’t done any of those things, you see. The thought in his mind was simple; Enjolras was up there, and I am down here. Down here, Éponine lay injured, his friends remained unaccounted for, and the immediate environment around Grantaire urged him to keep moving. Sure, Éponine was probably fine, Grantaire doubted the deep puncture wound in her palm was a life-threatening injury, but she needed help, nonetheless. And who knew how many more of their friends needed help once they found them? All Grantaire knew was this; you can’t save someone who refuses to be saved.

You can, however, save someone who lets you.

God, if his therapist could see him now, Grantaire would be earning gold stars like candy on Halloween.

The moment that Grantaire knew he was truly safe, the moment he allowed himself to breathe a little, was as the sun started to lower itself below the city horizon, not that he could see it all that well from where he sat. He was sitting in the alley behind the Musain, his back to the brick wall behind him as he regulated his breathing. He had been sitting here for the last two hours, though he hardly noticed the time passing. His mind felt foggy, in the sense that everything happening around him felt like it was a figment of his imagination, or perhaps some weirdly specific dream.

Joly was sitting to Grantaire’s right, toying with a loose thread on the hem of his t-shirt, now ruined with pink paint smudges. Combeferre and Éponine sat across from the two, against the opposite wall, chatting mindlessly about how well the day had gone, given the circumstances. Gavroche was there, too, leaning comfortably against his big sister’s shoulder as he rested his eyes from a long day of exhaustion. And finally, joining the five of them, was Courfeyrac. The man was on his feet, pacing steps up and down the alley as he obsessively checked the time on his watch.

Let us catch up to speed.

Grantaire and Courfeyrac had made their way back to where Éponine had been lying on the floor, in the upstairs room of the café. The two men were relieved to find that she had been conscious and alert, much more so than when Grantaire had left her in search of assistance. If there had been any downside, Grantaire supposed he hadn’t been all that thrilled to find that she sported quite the attitude about her situation. For context, he had only been gone for ten minutes and when he had returned, Éponine had already managed to scare off the entire group of girls that had shared the room with them before Grantaire left her unsupervised. But in her defence, she never had been much fun to be around whenever she was in pain.

When Courfeyrac and Grantaire had gotten her to stop bitching about being fine when she very obviously wasn’t, the three had made their way down the café stairs and bolted for the back door of the building. Grantaire had felt a funny sense of déjà vu as he exited the door he had entered through that morning. The door still slammed closed the same way, but the beating of his heart against his ribs had doubled in force since then.

The backdoor of the café led directly to the alley behind the Musain, an alternate route that Grantaire had used to walk himself home many times in his life of being a drunken patron. He and Courfeyrac hadn’t had much of a plan, or at least not a well-thought-out one, but Courfeyrac had said he last saw Joly and Combeferre in this very alleyway only an hour or so ago. The plan they were working with was this; find Combeferre, and or Joly, get Éponine’s hand looked at, and use the back of the building as a means to sneak away from the madness. If they could manage all of that, Éponine would be fine, and Grantaire may be able to let go of the impending feeling of doom rising in his body.

The only problem with their plan, though, was that the alley no longer led to the street as it had the last time Grantaire had seen it. The opening to the outside world was now barricaded off with the previously missing café furniture, admittedly a much more impressive feat than the half-assed attempt to block off the main entrance, but inconveniencing, nonetheless. Luckily, the three friends had found Joly and Combeferre in that blocked-off alleyway, tending to a nasty cut that sat smack bang in the centre of Gavroche’s forehead.

“Gavroche! What is wrong with you?” Éponine had snapped aggressively at the young boy sitting in front of Joly. She had grumpily placed herself down beside her brother and smacked him lightly on the bicep in dominance, yet quickly moved to fuss over him in a way that was gentler than Éponine would be with anyone else – even Grantaire.

“I’m not a baby, you know.” Gavroche had grizzled back to her, returning the smack to the arm, but otherwise sitting still to allow her fussing, along with the careful fingers that belonged to Joly, who was wiping blood from his skin.

“He’s going to be fine, ‘Ponine.” Joly had assured her, watching his own movements meticulously as he worked to clean Gavroche up, though sparing his sister a kind glance. “Couple of tiny stitches and he’ll be good as new.”

“Doesn’t matter.” She had grumbled in response. “You could have gotten yourself killed.”

Grantaire had essentially taken a seat on the cold, dirty cobblestone immediately, his body feeling all sorts of wrong. He had to admit, he felt crazy, like his brain was not his own. His eyes were blown wide with the rush of dopamine, whilst his body felt wild anxiety. It was a rush, really, a natural high if he’d ever felt one. He might've understood why his friends were always so eager to get themselves into these kinds of situations if he wasn't currently plagued with nausea from everything that he had already experienced today. But still, Grantaire couldn't help but shake his head and laugh to himself.

"Where is everyone?" Courfeyrac had asked, rather impatiently. Even though he had done his best to not appear too concerned, his fidgeting hands had continuously ran themselves through his hair and down his face nervously. He had looked more in need of a drink than had Grantaire felt.

"Everyone is accounted for." Combeferre had replied, his body still lightly shaking from the adrenaline rush. "Marius and Cosette got out just before things took a turn, Bossuet is with Jehan, they had eyes on Enjolras, and it seemed that they were all heading here. Musichetta broke a finger, but she managed to get a safe ride to the hospital. Feuilly and Bahorel are at the station, they don't know if they'll be held overnight or not yet."

A chorus of relieved sighs had sung through the narrow alley, a few chuckles of 'fuck you, you can't stop the people', and even more grumbles of sore limbs and exhaustion.

The five of them had decided that the best course of action was just to stay put, to wait for a moment safe enough to get Éponine and Gavroche to Combeferre's car and get their injuries looked at properly. There were ambulances about, the lot could hear them, but neither of their injuries were so severe that they warranted going back out into the danger to flag down help. Joly had managed to stop the bleeding on Gavroche’s wound, gauzing him up and giving him some ibuprofen, and Combeferre tended to Éponine’s hand with gentle fingers. It was two hours before the racket lowered.

The six of them had fallen quiet after the first hour had passed. Gavroche was almost asleep, or at least his heavy breaths against Éponine’s shoulder seemed to suggest so. Éponine was chatting away to Combeferre quietly, so as to not disturb her young brother, and Combeferre returned the thoughtful volume. Joly sat silently beside Grantaire, his head was resting against the wall behind him with his eyes shut, though he was evidently far from sleep.

Joly did look worried, nothing like the peppy excitement he was wearing on his face this morning. His t-shirt was smudged only lightly, the pink paint causing splotch marks that added an edge to his look that Grantaire found rather artistic. He seemed a little more like his usual self, Grantaire thought. Anxious, curious, but strong all the same. Maybe it was the events of the day, or the emotion of thinking he was going to lose all of his friends, but Grantaire felt something heartfelt wash over him then, looking at Joly. Besides, Joly was no doubt anticipating the worst of what state the three ABC members might be in once they return, his main concern being Bossuet the way Grantaire was concerned about Enjolras.

Courfeyrac, despite everyone's best efforts to get him to take a seat, was still pacing back and forth after the second hour had passed.

“Shouldn’t those three be here by now?” He said, his dramatic emotion for once fitting the tone of the conversation.

“They’ll be here, Courf’.” Combeferre said reassuringly, though Grantaire couldn’t help but feel unnerved by the way Combeferre continued to check his own watch every few minutes.

Courfeyrac groaned in response, taking a huffy seat beside Grantaire, sandwiching him between his two friends. Courfeyrac drew his knees to his chest, shaking his head and burying his face in his hands.

“Argh! This is the worst part.” He sulked.

“Keep your voice down. Jesus.” Éponine snapped, her free arm gesturing to the resting kid against her.

“He’s got a point.” Joly replied weakly to Courfeyrac’s concern, looking to Combeferre in anticipation. “They should be here by now.”

Éponine rolled her eyes with a groaned in response before Combeferre had a chance to add anything.

“You three, get it together.” She said, gesturing to Courfeyrac, Grantaire and Joly aggressively. “I’m sure your girlfriends will be here any minute now.”

“Jeez, no need to be a bitch about it.” Courfeyrac sulked, throwing her a fierce glare. Éponine didn’t flinch.

“If you think this is me being a bitch, just wait until there isn’t a sleeping kid on me.” She said.

“You’re just jealous that I have someone to worry over.” Courfeyrac teased, to which Éponine portrayed an offended grimace.

“I have someone to worry over, thank you very much.”

“Gavroche doesn’t count.” Courfeyrac snarked.

“No, I was talking about your mother.” Éponine snarked back, equally as sassy and nipping.

“Very funny.” Courfeyrac mocked in a ridiculous voice.

Grantaire shut his eyes once again as his two friends bickered light-heartedly. He hardly felt that now was the time for such a playful conversation, but he knew deep down that Éponine and Courfeyrac were only trying to distract themselves. Worrying would not accomplish anything, especially since they could do no more than sit, wait, and try to regain some strength. Grantaire wondered what the sight outside looked like now. It had to be less intense than a few hours ago from what Grantaire could hear, there hadn’t been any shots fired in at least the last hour, though it was hard to keep track. Voices cried and shouted through the area just as they did mere hours ago, but perhaps it was quieter, or clearer. It gave the illusion of calming down, whether that was the case or not, but Grantaire let himself hold onto that hope for a while longer.

Above the noises of the trampling crowd, Grantaire began to hear something else. It was what he identified as footsteps rapping loudly on wooden floors, growing louder with each second that passed, and he turned to locate the direction of the sound. People, close by, closer than they thought. People in the Musain building now, approaching, running quickly towards them. Was it friend or foe? Rescue or attack? Grantaire didn’t know. The sound grew louder, and Grantaire took to his feet in anticipation. As he did so, the door to the back of the Musain swung open mercilessly, and Bossuet all but fell through the opening and into the breezy alleyway. Joly perked up at the mere sight of him.

"Oh, thank God." Joly chimed, standing hastily from his place on the ground beside where Grantaire had sat, wasting no time waiting to pull Bossuet into a tight embrace. Bossuet returned the notion, his arms wrapping tightly around his love’s torso with a smile that almost made the day feel worth it. Grantaire smiled subconsciously.

Jehan pushed past the two of them, grinning sweetly at Courfeyrac and letting him all but squeeze them to death when they finally reached each other. Courfeyrac had life brought back to his face, and he held his eyes shut as he let Jehan whisper sweet words of reassurance into his ear. Over Courfeyrac’s shoulder, Jehan shot Grantaire a kind smile and waved their fingers in his direction. Grantaire couldn’t help but return the nicety.

Grantaire braced himself lightly for what was to follow. Seeing Enjolras walk through that door would somehow have been the hardest thing he had to do all day, and that was saying something. He felt a little sick at the thought of coming face to face with Enjolras in, well, whatever kind of state he was in. Up on the roof, Enjolras looked a mess, but his confidence and passion overruled any negative feelings Grantaire could feel whilst watching him. He soared like an angel up there, a beacon of hope, truly invincible. But now, back on the ground where Enjolras was human again, Grantaire worried he wouldn’t be able to stand the sight without breaking down. With a sharp but deep enough breath, Grantaire turned to watch the doorway, awaiting Enjolras’ presence.

But oh, how the door swung shut with a loud bang as no one else crossed through it. How the look on Combeferre’s face dropped when he realised that Enjolras had not followed Jehan and Bossuet to safety. How Grantaire first felt confusion, followed by immediate worry.

"Where is Enjolras?" Combeferre asked no one in particular, his words clipped and bordering on frantic. Combeferre looked as stressed out as the rest of them felt, and Grantaire turned to Jehan for some kind of an answer. But for some reason, Jehan was smiling still, unfazed that their group was down a member.

Bossuet sighed quietly, lulling his head slightly before he began to speak. “Look, I tried to get him to follow, but-“

“He’s a little preoccupied.” Jehan giggled, pulling away from the warm hug Courfeyrac had offered and turning to face Combeferre.

Combeferre frowned, and hesitantly spoke, “What do you mean preoccupied?”

The smile didn’t fall from Jehan’s face, even when facing the intense expression Combeferre was throwing at them. If anything, Jehan’s smile only grew wider, which simultaneously soothed and confused Grantaire, even if he began to feel his patience running thin. Instead of answering Combeferre’s question, Jehan simply raised a finger to the air as a signal to wait, their gaze floating up and to the right as they were listening out for something.

And then Grantaire heard it. The unmistakable sound of victory. It was quiet at first, but the more Grantaire searched for the sound, the louder it grew. The crowd that previously echoed a haunting melody of cries and whimpers, now chanting firmer every second. They were singing, cheering, laughing. Grantaire felt confused for a moment longer, expecting the worst yet again, until he was able to make out a clear, strong voice amplified by a megaphone. The voice in question was calling out above the noise, shouting words of affirmation and celebration.

Grantaire let out a breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding, sighing in relief as the tension dropped from his body. He would recognise that voice anywhere, saying anything, in any circumstance. It was his Enjolras.

Jehan giggled again - Grantaire recognised it as their tired laugh – and they rested their head softly on Courfeyrac’s shoulder. Courfeyrac let out a sharp laugh, too, before rolling his eyes huffily and turning to look at Combeferre.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” He said.

And without hesitation, Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Jehan set off in the direction of the voice.

Grantaire was so tired. He was amazed at just how much fight his friends still had in them. He didn’t think he could run right now even if he wanted to. The day had been so long already, and clearly, it still wasn’t quite over. Éponine still had to be seen by a doctor, as did Gavroche, Feuilly and Bahorel were no doubt sitting idle in a holding cell, poor Musichetta was probably still waiting in the emergency room, and Grantaire hadn’t half an idea on what to do or who to go to first. He didn’t even know if he could leave yet. He was frozen in place.

Grantaire wanted to run after the three men, he really did. He wanted to see Enjolras with his own eyes, he needed to know it was true, that he was safe and uninjured. And more than all of that, Grantaire just wanted to hold him again, this time never letting him go. He wasn’t so sure Enjolras would let him, but the thought of it alone gave Grantaire that edge he needed to not fall to his knees in this dirty alleyway and give up on the day. But his legs were like jelly and his mind was lost in a fog, and he didn't want to leave Éponine's side. He already lost her once today; he didn't want to lose her again. He knew she would be alright, Combeferre had insisted it was not nearly as bad as it looked (and to be fair, it looked pretty bad) but Grantaire felt as though he owed it to her to sit by her side for as long as she needed him.

And yet, Éponine being all-powerful, maybe the closest thing to a God that Grantaire would ever find himself believing in, gave Grantaire that knowing look. A look that told him to go, to do what he needed to. Grantaire hesitated, eyes locked on hers, and in response, she smiled with a roll of her eyes and gestured to the door with a tilt of her head.

“Text me, yeah?” Grantaire told her, and she nodded kindly.

"Off you go." She assured, her tone much like an impatient mother. Grantaire looked at her for another long moment, before his gaze flickered over to Joly, who was already throwing his supplies into his backpack and helping Gavroche to his feet. They would be okay without him, they always were. And so, Grantaire entered the café through the door, and made his way through to the front of the building.

The sun had long begun to set now, the streetlights illuminating wet pools of blood and rainwater on the cobblestone street. The panic that surged through the area earlier in the day had become diluted with exhaustion, as Grantaire made his way to the front door of the café. The sound was undeniable now, the sounds of sirens and shots fired replaced with happy voices in the night. Once Grantaire had reached the front entrance of the Musain, he could see easily through the crowd and to the other side of the courtyard.

Standing on that makeshift stage, megaphone in one hand and a red flag held high in the other, was Enjolras, leading the people's voices of cheers and rejoicing. A glance around had demonstrated how the crowd had become much smaller since they last saw it a few hours ago. The sky had darkened, a soft purple with clouds of grey that floated passed. There weren't any police in sight, not anymore. No vehicles with ear-piercing sirens that set out to destroy the peace and hope of the people, no one encouraging the fight any further, and Grantaire could barely believe it. His Apollo was accounted for, and no one had hurt him. His Apollo was safe.

He was alive, that was all Grantaire needed to know.

The sight of Enjolras upright and energetic was enough to bring Grantaire to his knees. The adrenaline rush had long worn off by this point, and the liquor-induced headache that had been creeping up on him had now made itself known. His bones were sore from the shaking, his chest heavy from the exertion. He was tired, God, he was so tired, and all he could do now was collapse against the external wall of the Musain and watch on in amazement.

From where Grantaire sat, he saw a touching scene. If Grantaire had his sketchbook on his person, he would have tried to capture this moment to look back on forever. Combeferre had joined the stage, smiling brightly at his best friend, their leader. Courfeyrac stared up at the stage from below, amidst the crowd, cheering alongside Jehan and the people of the city. The voices still sang out in the courtyard, women and men alike singing and dancing and taking photos and living in that moment that the ABC had created for them. Grantaire smiled sombrely. His friends had done this. They had done what they said they would do. They haven’t won any major battles yet, they haven’t changed the world for good, but this? Watching a group of strangers come to life over the hopeful ideals of a handful of twenty-year-olds? Grantaire felt his heart soaring.

Fuck you, you can’t stop the people.

And then, Grantaire’s smile faded upon a sudden realisation. The realisation that his friends had done this, not him. He had had no part in this, in fact, he actively advocated against this. He was far too blind with worry to see what good could come from a little risk. He wasn’t up there with the rest of them, celebrating the small victories. He wouldn’t be there with them celebrating the big ones, either. He didn’t belong in the picture, he never would. He was the artist, not the subject.

Perhaps, instead of dwelling on his own irrelevance, he ought to do what he knew he could do well. To make his way back to his seat on the base floor of the Musain, and fish out whichever bottles weren’t broken from behind the bar.

Yeah. That.

As the speed of the day slowed, it seemed that almost everything felt as if it was moving in slow motion. The door creaked open when he pushed it, he hardly paid any mind to Joly and Bossuet leading Éponine and Gavroche through the café and out the door, a wink coming from the latter as she passed him. The voices ringing through the courtyard became muffled, shouts sounding like whispers. His feet braced the trek to the table he had found himself passed out on earlier that day, all the way at the back, the half-empty bottle of whiskey miraculously untouched. Maybe God is listening, he thought.

Grantaire took his seat drearily, heavy limbs relieved as the chair beneath them did all the work of keeping him from collapsing to the floor. He grabbed a tight hold of the bottle that had been waiting for him, and quickly, he started to lose himself in it. He couldn’t have truly known how long he sat there, slowly swigging on the bottle as he stared off, emotionless. He could only guess it had been an hour, judging by the way the sky was now darker, but still not quite pitch-black. It was a full shade of navy, the moon now looming through the window. People left the crowd over that time, one by one, with smiles and sweat and fucked up clothing. Grantaire watched the show outside, everyone full of joy and wonder.

Everyone except for Enjolras.

Well, sure, he was wearing that stoic, powerful mask, but it was just that; a mask. If Grantaire really watched Enjolras, he could see the weightiness in his body, the delay of his movements as he made them. Combeferre surely picked it too, but he let Enjolras fake his way through the moment of happiness that he had created for everyone else.

Grantaire should've clocked it sooner. He should’ve known. He did know. He knew Enjolras was not okay. He could see it in his face. He felt it in his company. He watched the man work himself half to death and he even heard it straight from the horse’s fucking mouth. And still, Grantaire had just let him leave, all alone in his mind only one sleep away from revolution. He pictured Enjolras, tired and shaky, sitting on Grantaire's desk chair, soaked from the downpour, staring at the screen of his laptop. He should've picked it then, should've told him it would be okay and that all he wanted to do was make Enjolras happy, keep him safe from everything. But what had he done instead? He indulged in Enjolras' problematic choice of release, all because he was too selfish to see that it was wrong.

It was wrong. You've ruined everything, Grantaire, yet again.

He turned to the bottle. He drank the whole thing.

When the rest of the group returned, Grantaire was drunk. Fucking wasted, if you will. He had had quite enough of today, thank you very much, and he was just thankful that it was almost over.

Combeferre was the first through the door when the four men returned from the dwindling chorus outside, smiling wide with pupils blown. Jehan was smiling broadly as they walked backwards through the door of the Musain, followed closely by Courfeyrac, the pair walking hand in hand. Courfeyrac was jumping up and down with every step he took, not quite yet had the adrenaline worn off. And last through the door, smiling devilishly, was Enjolras. The ends of his hair were crispy with dried blood, probably his own, Grantaire noted. His eyebrow was bloody and swollen, his lip split open and his cheekbone a dark shade of purple. But he looked thrilling, ecstatic, and Grantaire felt a moment of peace for the first time in the last twenty-four hours. One fleeting moment to allow himself to believe in the cause, because Enjolras believed in it.

"Oh, man!" Jehan exclaimed merrily, taking a heavy but relieved breath as they casually dropped Courfeyrac’s hand. Courfeyrac promptly made his way over to Combeferre, throwing his arms around him hastily, bordering on an assault. Grantaire chuckled.

"Grantaire! My love!" Jehan’s voice called sweetly in his ear. They had walked up from behind Grantaire, placing a loving arm around his shoulder and pushing a forceful kiss onto the side of his head. Grantaire leaned in gently and allowed them to ruffle his hair, placing his arm on the forearm slung over his shoulder. Jehan sighed. “What a day.”

What a day.

Grantaire felt all kinds of emotions rushing through him at that moment. Part of him was still angry, terrified even, that they had only narrowly escaped the danger that could have been their fates. But mostly, it was exhaustion that allowed Grantaire to feel a sense of admiration for his friends. How stupid they were, and how he loved them anyway.

Enjolras caught Grantaire's eye as he walked further into the room. Combeferre and Courfeyrac were just a few feet from where Grantaire was sitting at the table, now joined by Jehan as they pulled up a chair beside him. Jehan might’ve said something further to Grantaire, but he couldn’t have been sure, for Grantaire wasn’t listening. He was rather occupied watching Enjolras find his place amongst the other two with favour. When he reached them, just for a second, he turned to meet Grantaire’s gaze, and though his smile was unwavering, he bowed his head. Stood amongst his brothers, Enjolras was a leader once more, no longer a risk to himself, and Combeferre smiled wildly at him whilst saying something Grantaire couldn't make out.

"Yeah, well, too bad they didn’t stick around." Enjolras chuckled with enthusiasm. "I would've loved to have a reason to-"

"Whoa-kay buddy, let's real it in, you nearly got us all killed out there." Combeferre reminded, though his gaze was nothing but loving and humouring.

Over the next hour, the crowd had vanished completely. Grantaire watched on through the broken window as pairs of lovers and friends wandered off, the buzz of pride still evident in their footsteps. Girls skipped away, holding hands and continuing their shouts of peace and love until the sound was nothing but an echo from streets away. The night had crept in now, swallowing any colour that had remained in the sky and drenching the outside world in shadow. Inside, where it was a touch warmer, Courfeyrac had managed to find the café light switch behind the downstairs bar, allowing the room to become engulfed in dingy, orange lighting. It did truly not matter how poor the quality of the lighting, though, because Grantaire found that Enjolras lit up the room more than any bar light ever could.

Enjolras was smiling still, even though his cheeks were hollow and eyelids heavy. Grantaire and Jehan too had their attention turned to Enjolras, how could they not. He was doing his usual spiel about how hope perseveres, how things get done when people who love deeply come together, and Grantaire was mesmerised. Not in the substance of the spiel, obviously, but in the passion of the speaker.

"Because this is what we do. We stand up for the voiceless. We tell the stories that they've been trying to tell for hundreds of years, we use our privilege to make them heard." Enjolras continued, his voice quivering ever so slightly as the dopamine surged through his body. "And today, our sisters called on us. They stood bravely and faced their oppressors head-on, that's more bravery than I've seen from myself. I mean, did you see Éponine out there? She was flawless, the rage and the passion that she embodied was- God, she was exhilarating!"

Courfeyrac whooped, cheering Enjolras on dramatically. Grantaire was taken aback at that last statement. He hadn’t known that Éponine was out there today. How had he not known that? Sure, he knew she was in that crowd, cheering on their friends, but actually up on that stage? Speaking? Grantaire mentally cursed himself for his lack of connection to his best friend lately and made a mental note to call her before he went to sleep, to check in on her and her little devil of a brother. She was with Joly and Bossuet now, she would be fine without his call for a few more hours. Right now, Grantaire was preoccupied with a certain someone else.

"We showed everyone today, not only the prejudiced of this city, but the evil fucking cop bastards, that we will not be stopped. We will not just allow them to push us aside, to silence us. And most importantly, we will never be scared off. We will never-"

Click.

The noise was soft, you’d miss it entirely if there was anything more than just Enjolras' booming voice contrasting against it, but still, it managed to stop everyone in their tracks. Everyone including Enjolras, which was usually no easy feat, not when he’s worked up like this and on a roll. Grantaire watched Enjolras’ head tilt lightly at the sound, before his gaze fell once again on his friends, his eyes darting between the three of them. They even found their way over to Grantaire once or twice in confusion, a confusion that Grantaire matched easily.

It wasn't until Enjolras looked back at Jehan that his face morphed lightly, retreating from that confusion and welcoming a huffy, knowing frown. Jehan was looking straight passed Enjolras, and Grantaire realised quickly that the noise had come from behind him. Enjolras rolled his eyes dramatically, and slowly he turned his head over his shoulder, towards the front entrance of the Musain.

Grantaire watched on as Enjolras’ body followed his head, no longer blocking the view of the door from where Grantaire sat. Grantaire could finally see what it was that Jehan had their nervous attention drawn to, and it was easy to tell instantly that it wasn't good. Standing in the doorway, now facing Enjolras directly, was a man who looked to be in his forties. He wore a navy trench coat, bunched at the sleeves, and he sported a crooked smile as Enjolras shuffled his feet in anticipation. In the man’s right hand, arm extended in front of him, he held a pistol.

"You boys caused quite the scene today." The man smirked, his voice drenched with malice as he nodded to himself, "Did a lot of damage, a lot of good men got hurt.”

Grantaire, if he was being honest, didn't quite know how to react. His initial reaction to feel fear was promising, thought it was lightly squandered by the uncertainty of the situation. He was unsure if this was a normal occurrence for the group, being that they always seemed to get themselves into the most ridiculous of scenarios. For all Grantaire knew, this was just another side quest in the game they played on easy mode. Grantaire was sure he had seen this man before, but he couldn't place where he would have seen him. So, he just watched as the man stared daggers down Enjolras' frame, a dirty, entertained look in his eye.

"What do you want?" Combeferre's voice came from Grantaire's left. Combeferre sounded startled, and the way his voice came out so small made Grantaire's skin crawl.

Combeferre was scared. This wasn't normal. This wasn't good.

Grantaire looked over to where Combeferre was stood, now tightly grasping onto Courfeyrac's hand, taking a small step in front of the latter. Courfeyrac peaked daringly from behind Combeferre’s taller frame, and whilst he too looked a little confused, there was a nervousness that wracked him. Jehan had seemed to freeze in their spot at the table beside Grantaire, eyes still glued on the weapon pointed at Enjolras. The man scoffed at Combeferre’s question, wielding the pistol as he gestured towards their leader.

"Him." The man stated simply.

One fleeting moment of peace that Grantaire had felt, destroyed. Shattered by the prefix of a bullet.

"What do you want with him." Grantaire found himself blurting out, choking on his own shaky voice. He gained a nervous glance from Jehan, but he refused to look them in the eye. He couldn’t afford to break right now, not with whatever it was that was on the line, but seeing Jehan’s usual chipperness turn to stone would surely cause Grantaire to lose it.

"Well," The man said easily, as if he wasn’t threatening a poor boy’s life. He took a step closer to Enjolras, now only a few feet of distance between the man and the small group. "Let’s just say that there are two ways that we could do this."

Grantaire exhaled shakily as he caught Enjolras' reflection in the entrance window. Enjolras didn't look scared. He looked focused. Grantaire wasn’t sure which would have been worse.

"One, I take pretty boy over here, and he comes willingly." The man snarked in a cheesy tone, disregarding any eye contact he previously held. He took one step closer and planted himself firmly in front of Enjolras. "Or the second option, I shoot you all in the back of the head, and I call it self-defence. After the mess you boys made, no one would doubt a thing."

Grantaire's breathing was suddenly, predictably, incredibly unsteady.

Why the fuck did his friends have to get themselves into these situations? Seriously. Regular people Grantaire’s age would be out partying right now, getting drunk or high or both in strange houses in strange parts of the city. But not Grantaire, not his friends. No, here they were on a Monday evening, staring down the barrel of a gun. Just an ordinary day in the life of being a menace to society.

"What's it going to be, blondie?" The man addressed Enjolras head-on when no one of them responded.

There was a silence that smoked across the room, the realisation amongst the four that there was no one else around to see the murder that could take place. The realisation that this could end very, very badly. Enjolras slowly turned his head over his right shoulder, a blank yet concentrated expression daunting his pale, bruised face. He looked to Combeferre, whose face had furrowed, a look of warning, pleading. Don’t do something stupid, it read. And Enjolras went to turn his head back to the man, seemingly heeding Combeferre’s warning, but before his gaze could fall back to him, it relaxed on Grantaire's face for a few moments. Enjolras was looking Grantaire directly in the eye.

Grantaire never tried to hide the terror that plagued his eyes, he knew that Enjolras could see it, but he didn't care to downplay it. If Grantaire hadn’t been so scared, he’d have had the courage to tell Enjolras to run, to bolt out of the back of the Musain and leave the man to the rest of them. But it was when Enjolras' eyes widened, pupils blown in a maniacal rage, his lips curling into a sick, twisted smile, that Grantaire really felt terrified. Enjolras' head snapped back with ferocity to the man with the gun.

"Here's a third option for you." Enjolras said, snappy and sharp. "Go and fuck yourself."

The man laughed, still smirking, and tilted his head slightly to the side. "Wrong choice."

He held the gun out further in front of him so that the end rested just in front of Enjolras’ forehead, gunmetal just brushing his skin. The man held his finger on the trigger, receiving a choked whimper from Jehan. Grantaire felt the contents of his stomach trying to creep its way up his throat, a sudden anxiety that was unlike anything he had ever felt before pestering him until his vision started to flatten. Enjolras didn’t flinch, he simply raised his left fist hard into the air, his body shuddering at the recoil.

"Long live the ABC!" He shouted at the man, raspy and broken, yet it held the strength of one thousand armed men.

No.

Before Grantaire could think, he closed the distance between himself and Enjolras as fast as he could, and reached out desperately to grab his hand. When Grantaire’s fingers met the sleeve of Enjolras' bloodied shirt, he held on tightly and used every single inch of force that his body could muster up to pull him out of danger's way. The two men stumbled to the right as a gunshot sounded loud in their ears, hitting the wall of the bar behind them. When the ringing had begun in Grantaire's head, everything seemed to happen so fast.

Here's what Grantaire could recall.

Combeferre had dashed at the man with the pistol, attempting to disarm him, and Courfeyrac had jumped onto the man's back, an arm around his neck. The man dropped the gun after some struggle, his own arms busy with the task of trying desperately to fight off Courfeyrac, leaving Combeferre to kick him hard in the backs of his knees. Courfeyrac, or maybe Combeferre, slid the gun over to Jehan, who slid the gun further out of the way. Enjolras was on his knees beside Grantaire, who still held onto him tightly and desperately, unwilling to let him go now that he had him. As the former began to find his footing, he looked at Grantaire. It was an expression Grantaire couldn't name.

He supposed Enjolras looked angry, confused or surprised even, but there was something else. It was similar to the look on his face just moments before he had placed his lips on Grantaire’s, only a night prior. It was filled to the brim with that defeatist feeling, like he couldn’t find it in him to be concerned with his own survival, but rather wanted to stay in the moment where Enjolras and Grantaire both lived, close to one another, letting the world pass by as they watched each other. Grantaire supposed that maybe he could name the look on Enjolras’ face after all. The look of someone who had already accepted his fate, perhaps, and wasn't expecting to be saved.

The two on the ground continued to watch each other for a few moments longer before Grantaire's hearing came back to him.

"-ave to go! We have to go! Now!" Jehan's crisp tune sang through with urgency as he shouted.

And all too quickly, Enjolras was pulling away from Grantaire's grip, his fingers slowly losing contact with Enjolras' wrist. He couldn't do anything but watch Enjolras blink at him in disbelief as he ripped himself away. He looked livid.

"Come on!" Combeferre called demandingly to the four of his friends, yet only Jehan and Enjolras managed to follow him through the front door of the café, making their escape.

Grantaire looked up from the ground where he sat, watching as Courfeyrac was still dealing with the man, still wrapped messily around his back. Though now, the man had a firm grasp on his arm, attempting to twist and smack as hard as he could. Courfeyrac was shouting, kicking and headbutting whatever he could, but it was clear that he was struggling.

Without thinking – because Grantaire was rather good at that, after all – Grantaire raced to scramble to his feet, dashing back to the table he had occupied earlier. His mind raced and his vision was blurry as he searched for the empty bottle of whiskey he had polished off, his hands grabbing at whatever he could until his fingers met it. With the man's hands occupied, it gave Grantaire ample ability to stride over directly in front of him, and with a harsh breath, he raised the bottle atop the man's head. He hoped that he had given enough time for Courfeyrac to lean back far enough, but as we’ve established a thousand times in this story, hope wasn’t always around when Grantaire needed it.

Grantaire shut his eyes and set to lower the bottle heavily and as hard as he could onto the man's skull with one, sharp whack.

The man cried out at the impact and fell to the ground with a heavy thud. Courfeyrac dodged the bottle entirely, luckily, and he stumbled as he caught himself with his feet. The two friends fell silent, as did the man, blood pooling at his temple. His eyes flickered softly, before they didn't any longer.

Courfeyrac was panting heavily, the skin on his arm reddened from the grip the man had on him. He looked at Grantaire.

"Fuck me." Courfeyrac heaved.

"Yeah." Grantaire said breathlessly, as if that even began to cover it.

With exhausted breaths, the two men looked at each other for what felt like an eternity, unsure of what to do next. Were they to call the police? Hide the body? Was the man even dead? Should they be running right about now? Were there more men outside, ready to back this one up? A million thoughts began to circle Grantaire's mind, but those thoughts were soon hushed as he felt Courfeyrac's arms around his neck, his chest pressed tightly against the other man’s. He allowed his arms to cross heavily around the small of Courfeyrac's back, a small chuckle sounding as he exhaled.

"I love you, man." Courfeyrac breathed tiredly into Grantaire's shoulder, his chest relaxing as Courfeyrac moved a hand to hold the back of his head. Grantaire felt a sense of calm wash over him, somehow, as much as one could muster up after possibly killing someone.

Grantaire laughed loudly, possibly because he was still in shock from what had just transpired. With love and angst, he said, “You guys seriously need to find a better hobby."

Grantaire woke up in a haze the next morning. Well, that would be putting it lightly.

The sun was still rising, a coolness present in the air of the Musain. Grantaire had found himself falling asleep on the bench seat at the back wall of the café, not before anxiously throwing up whatever was in his stomach onto the messy hardwood floor. After the night he had experienced, it’s a wonder that Grantaire didn’t take advantage of the empty bar and help himself to whatever he could reach, drinking himself away and passing out on that bench seat downstairs. He found that the alcohol wasn’t needed to induce his sleep this time; after what he did to that unnamed man, the one who had threatened their lives, the one still lying at the entrance of the café, Grantaire found himself passing out soon after Courfeyrac had left to catch up with the others.

Grantaire remembers doing a brief survey of the area with Courfeyrac before he had disappeared, to ensure that they were fully alone, that there was no round two coming to kick them in the ass. And once they were satisfied, or as much as they could be bothered to be, Grantaire had taken his seat.

And that was where he woke up, on that seat, all too aware of the pain in his legs. They were sharp and achy as he stretched them out, and he felt a shooting pain travel from his shin up to his knee. He cursed out loud for the day he had spent running around like a lost child, searching for his friends. The pain was a simple reminder of one of the many reasons he chose not to participate in these events, he was nowhere near cut out for this kind of activity.

And then he felt another burst of pain in the same spot.

As he pulled himself into consciousness, he quite quickly realised that he was not alone in this room. He was certain he could hear a voice, distant against the rumbling in his ears, but it was there, and it was real. He allowed his eyes to stay shut, unable to face the brightness of the early morning just yet, choosing rather to search for clues with his hearing instead of his sight. But after the third jolt of pain to his shin, his eyes flew open.

"Grantaire.” The voice came again, much more distinguishable this time.

After he had adjusted to the crushing light of the morning that ripped him out of his not-so-peaceful slumber, Grantaire abruptly regained a sense of awareness. His head snapped to examine the cause of pain to his legs, where a hand was quickly withdrawing from flicking him in the shin. Grantaire followed the hand to the arm, and the arm to the body of who was responsible for disturbing his sleep, and he was met with the face of a now cleaned-up, but still unrested-looking Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac’s mouth was curled into a small grin, lips pressed together into a thin line. "Grantaire. Get up."

"Courf'? How do you do, my good friend?" Grantaire started, sleep still lingering in his voice. He let himself resign slightly upon the realisation that it was only Courfeyrac attacking him. Though Grantaire probably shouldn’t have let his guard all the way down, for Courfeyrac was still as intense as any enemy, and the latter placed a firm grip on Grantaire's arm and dragged him upward from where Grantaire was sleeping minutes before. "Ow, dude-“

Courfeyrac’s face was only inches from his own as he leaned toward him with a focused gaze, and Grantaire’s memory of the night prior began to play catch up with him.

"Listen, we gotta move, okay?" Courfeyrac said. He took a second to laugh, before he returned to speaking quickly. "That was badass last night for real, but now we have to get rid of him."

Grantaire blinked at Courfeyrac, still trying to wake up as he studied his face carefully.

"Last night. The policeman." Courfeyrac continued, attempting to help Grantaire’s memory catch up quicker.

Policeman, he had said. Grantaire felt his body go numb – Policeman. That probably wasn’t good.

"That was- Shit." Grantaire droned out, worry filling his chest. He pulled himself upright as he moved out of Courfeyrac’s grip, placing his hands on his knees to steady himself and slow the spinning in his head. "Oh my God."

"Chill out, man." Courfeyrac's grip on his arm dropped back to his side with an easiness in his movements that hardly made sense for the situation they had found themselves in.

"Chill out?!” Grantaire shouted in a panic, before lowering his voice to a frantic whisper. “We killed a cop! What do you mean chill out?!"

"What- No, he's not dead." Courfeyrac frowned and shook his head impatiently. "We're going to drop him off at the hospital."

Grantaire blinked up at his friend.

"We?" He asked

"You and me." Courfeyrac assured, with a sweetness in his tone that suggested this was no more than a fun girl’s day out. Grantaire scoffed at Courfeyrac and raised his hands in surrender.

"I didn't fucking sign up for this.”

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes again expressively and shrugged.

"No time for regrets, my dear.” He said, “Now help me get this prick into Combeferre's car."

"God, this bastard is heavy." Grantaire complained as he took hold of the unconscious man’s legs, helping Courfeyrac manoeuvre the man out from the backseat of the car.

They had taken Combeferre’s car to the hospital with the man still half dead inside the car with them. They had checked for a pulse, obviously, and the man was breathing evenly, but considering he was still unconscious ten hours after the bottle took him out, taking the asshole to the hospital seemed like the right thing to do. As much as Grantaire wished it wasn’t. Courfeyrac had unscrewed the plates from Combeferre’s car, risking being pulled over seeming like a safer bet than being caught on footage dragging an unresponsive policeman from the car. But luckily, they had made it to the hospital’s emergency room without any complications.

Well, they’re almost there.

"Well, don't just stand there complaining, move!" Courfeyrac snapped at him, his arms linked underneath the pits of the man’s, the top half of his weight resting obnoxiously on Courfeyrac. Grantaire found he had the better end of the stick, yet somehow he didn’t feel all that grateful.

They had parked about a half block away, not wanting to be seen in the car by security cameras if they could help it. The hospital sat just off the corner of the highway, the rear of the building facing a plot of trees and bushes to separate it from the road behind it, which Courfeyrac figured was the perfect spot to drive in unnoticed. Grantaire thought it was a little overkill, but then again, if you told him thirty-six hours ago how the last thirty-six hours would turn out, he’d have not taken you seriously.

"What's the plan here exactly? Are we just going to walk him in and dump him?" Grantaire asked through laboured breaths as the two men shuffled the silent body through the bushes and towards a side entrance of the hospital. "Hey guys, we just found this guy bleeding out on the footpath, can't stay though!"

Courfeyrac laughed through his own struggling breathing, though it was evident he was much more fit than Grantaire. "That is exactly what we’re doing."

"God, we're going to jail." Grantaire sighed breathlessly.

"We are not going to jail." Courfeyrac said in a mocking voice. “Have some faith, cynic.”

Grantaire huffed to himself as they continued to trudge towards the opening in the trees. God, he could not wait to get out of this mess. He hadn’t even created said mess, for once, yet somehow, he was still right in the thick of it. They reached the opening quickly, Courfeyrac looking left and right to see if anyone was around before they proceeded to make a beeline directly to a significantly less busy side entrance that was used mainly for ambulances upon arrival. The two of them took a step out into the open and prayed to anything that was out there that this didn’t look entirely suspicious.

"What happens when he wakes up and tells them everything?" Grantaire whispered hurriedly as they approached the building further, trying desperately to not make eye contact with a paramedic who was walking in their direction. "They're not just going to let us drop him off and run. What if they ask us what happened?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I have a plan.” Courfeyrac dismissed him, smiling kindly to the paramedic as she rushed passed by them. “Don't worry."

"What's your plan?" Grantaire asked, continuously looking around, pessimistically waiting for cops to swarm them any second now.

Courfeyrac heaved as they reached the entrance door, closed for unauthorised access. He suddenly began to lower the man to the ground, and Grantaire followed his lead.

"Montparnasse wanted an alibi, he's got one." Courfeyrac said simply, though not even trying to hide the vengeful grin on his lips.

"That is evil." Grantaire chuckled, as he watched Courfeyrac pressed the big, red button beside the door, the one labelled ‘FOR EMERGENCY ASSISTANCE ONLY.’

"Patron-Minette is evil." He replied.

"Oh my God, when are you going to drop the ABBA thing?" Grantaire said quickly, noting the way multiple nurses inside the building were now rushing towards the exit with haste, clearly not expecting the two men to be standing there with the body of what looked like a lifeless man.

"When I die." Courfeyrac replied. "Okay, you're Montparnasse, I'm the other one."

"Claquesous." Grantaire corrected.

"Bless you." Courfeyrac said, just before the see-through door swung open. "Now shut up and act worried."

Grantaire took a step back when the door opened, allowing Courfeyrac and his history of theatre performance take the lead. Five or so nurses – or maybe they were doctors, Grantaire didn’t know the difference – raced to bring a stretcher to the entrance. The group quickly moved the unconscious man onto the stretcher and took him inside the building. One of the nurses, an older woman with grey hairs melting into her short, black bob, was directing the other nurses to begin a bunch of scans with fancy names that Grantaire had never heard of. Another nurse, wearing a long white coat, pulled Courfeyrac inside to speak with him. Grantaire decided to stay put outside the door, and it swung closed, leaving Grantaire alone and forgotten amongst the rush.

“What the fuck, man.” Grantaire mumbled to himself, scrubbing a hand over his face. He stood in place, unsure of what to do. Should he wait for Courfeyrac? Should he meet him back at the car? Was Courfeyrac even coming back? Grantaire observed his surroundings.

From where he stood, Grantaire could not see Combeferre’s car. He saw this as both a good thing and a bad thing; good because it meant that they probably weren’t seen by anyone but that one paramedic, and bad because he couldn’t make an instant escape. He knew the direction they had come from, but he didn’t dare go looking for the car on his own. He was far too full of dread and stomach acid to want to do anything right now, so instead he waited for Courfeyrac to return.

Luckily, Courfeyrac hadn’t been all that long, maybe five minutes or so, and he was being escorted out of the door he entered through by the nurse who had been questioning him. Courfeyrac had tears in his eyes, his chest expanding rapidly and repeatedly as if he were bordering on panic, but once the nurse had shut the door behind him, the act dropped, and Courfeyrac rolled his eyes as he wiped a stray tear that was about to roll down his face.

"Let's get the fuck out of here." He said, before promptly walking off in the direction they had come from. Grantaire followed.

They had almost made it back to Combeferre’s car, there were maybe twenty meters separating them and the vehicle, when Courfeyrac’s phone dinged loudly, startling Grantaire from his focus on the sounds of only leaves crunching beneath his feet and ragged breathing in time with Courfeyrac’s. Courfeyrac continued to walk towards the car, but he pulled his phone out with a dramatic huff and a mumble of ‘give me a break’ anyway.

Grantaire tried to focus on getting one foot in front of the other, stepping over fallen twigs and dodging muddy puddles as he trekked through the wet forest-scape. It wasn’t until his own breathing settled a little that he realised he could no longer hear Courfeyrac’s footsteps crunching beside him, and so he turned in place. He found Courfeyrac had stopped walking a few meters back from where Grantaire stood, staring at his phone in what appeared to be shock or disbelief.

"Everything okay?" Grantaire asked, quirking an eyebrow at the man. He did not respond. "Courf'?"

Courfeyrac took a while to look up from his phone, visibly enthralled in whatever he had been reading on the screen in his grasp. Grantaire couldn’t describe the look in Courfeyrac’s eye at that moment, but he knew he didn’t like it. Grantaire sighed, feeling his escape from the situation being pushed farther back yet again.

"What is it?" Grantaire asked.

Courfeyrac shook his head, the same look still cursing his youthful face, and looked back down at the contents of his phone. "Emergency ABC meeting at 'Ferre's."

Grantaire felt himself grow heavier with disappointment. A consistent state of panic and an impending sense of doom had been following him for the last two days, ever since Enjolras showed up on his doorstep with that motherfucking hard drive, and even though Grantaire could see Combeferre’s car not far off in the distance, with all of the uncertainties the last few days had held, one thing became clear;

They were not out of the woods quite yet.

Chapter Text

If there was one thing about Grantaire, it was that he loved to see the people around him laughing. Yellowed teeth on bright display, pinkened cheeks scrunched like forgotten laundry, the sound of joy filling the room. Sometimes, he thinks he could quit drinking and get drunk on the sound of entertainment instead, but he knows that the fullness that laughter brings doesn’t last half as long as the burn of whiskey.

From as far back as he could remember, Grantaire had only ever wanted to make people laugh. He’d spent most of his teenage years cleverly sculpting himself into a comfort character, the comic relief in a world full of agony, aiming to be the funniest guy in the room wherever he went. He succeeded in spreading joy and cracking jokes and rewarded himself by watching the rest of the room laugh. Whether it was with him, at him, the subject didn’t matter as long as the world around him found joy in humour, hope in warmth. In a world full of misery, what else was one to do but try to share the small joys? Not to say that Grantaire ever felt like he experienced those small joys with them, but watching his friends feel it for him was close enough.

Perhaps that was one of the reasons Grantaire felt so stuck now that Courfeyrac was silent.

Grantaire and Courfeyrac sat in excruciating silence for the entire drive to Combeferre and Enjolras’ apartment. A song blared unintelligibly from the tinny car speakers, one of Courfeyrac’s party playlists queued up on his phone, which sat in the centre console connected by an auxiliary cord. His phone was face down in that centre console, rattling against the lip with every bump they drove over. Grantaire’s breathing was shorter than he would have liked. Courfeyrac was silent.

Courfeyrac is never silent.

Usually, Courfeyrac’s silence could be seen as a blessing. As much as Grantaire loved to evoke ridiculous reactions from his friends, Courfeyrac was the one friend who gave more than Grantaire needed. This had never been a bad thing, it just meant that Grantaire typically cherished these rare moments of peace, so often aching in the head or hot from hungover nausea. But Courfeyrac’s untypical silence did not come from a state of boredom or the lack of a need to ramble. Courfeyrac was holding his tongue because he was thinking; Grantaire could see how his hands gripped the wheel tightly as he drove, fingernails scratching at faux leather. Courfeyrac’s mouth was zipped tight, teeth gnawing on the inside of his lip to keep from speaking, but it was evident that his mind was surely racing.

Courfeyrac never thinks before he speaks. Something is wrong.

We last left off in a small clearing behind the hospital, with Courfeyrac tearing out of the woods as fast as Combeferre’s shot accelerator would allow him. They had exited back onto the road, the path ahead of them foggy and the horizon distant. The road was wet, though Courfeyrac continued driving at the limit, not wasting time braking for sharp corners. Grantaire had asked Courfeyrac then what was going on, noticing his friend’s rushed mania, but Courfeyrac’s mouth stayed uncharacteristically shut. The only hint that Courfeyrac acknowledged Grantaire’s presence throughout the drive was the subtle glances in his general direction every few minutes.

Grantaire wanted to press it further, every fibre of his being searching for ways to make Courfeyrac chuckle, at the least, if only to fill the silence. Grantaire wanted to query him, to ask him what it was that he had read on his phone that caused such a drastic shift in behaviour, but Grantaire chose to keep his mouth closed. So, the two sat in silence for fourteen agonising minutes, with Grantaire staring out of the passenger seat window and trying desperately not to listen to that cynical voice in his head that told him the worst.

And after those fourteen minutes had passed, Grantaire and Courfeyrac pulled into the parking lot of Combeferre and Enjolras’ apartment complex.

The last time Grantaire was here, Enjolras’ hand was in his. A soft, perfect hand, like the one on a mannequin, finding comfort in Grantaire’s. Grantaire remembered that day, the morning after Combeferre’s birthday, as Courfeyrac pulled up beside an expensive-looking car in the present. How the red puffiness had only just begun to disappear from Enjolras’ cheeks and under eyes. The content walk home, and how he smiled so sweetly at Grantaire before closing the door between them. How Grantaire had stood there for a moment longer than he would like to admit, looking down bashfully at his busted shoes, shaking his head. How he had felt like something was changing. How he had fooled himself that something was changing.

Grantaire was anxious to find Enjolras in whatever state he would be in inside his apartment. Grantaire could rule out the latter having taken any time to himself over the last twelve hours, probably still clad in bloody clothing, fingernails dirty and skin grazed. He was probably livid, considering how poorly the protest had played out. If someone had hurt him, the feeling of their hands on him was probably still echoing on his skin, burning up in his mind. Grantaire knew that even he could not help at this moment, for the last time Grantaire had comfortably touched Enjolras, they had shared a kiss so forbidden that all destiny of their closeness was shattered in an instant. Grantaire felt ashamed; he could hardly find it in himself to regret the kiss one bit.

Courfeyrac sighed aggressively through the nose, returning Grantaire to his reality, a world in which he and Enjolras were not just arriving mindlessly at that front door, in no rush, with nothing at stake. Now, it was Grantaire and Courfeyrac, and by the looks of it, some of the others were gathered here, too. Bossuet’s minivan – the JBM-mobile, as Courfeyrac liked to call it – was poorly parked between two car spaces. Jehan’s bike was here, too. The rusty, spray-painted bicycle was leaning against an old garbage can, only a few feet from the lockable bike rack. Courfeyrac pulled on the handbrake, and the driver's side door swung open. Courfeyrac hadn’t even put on his seatbelt.

Something is wrong.

Grantaire swallowed hard, gnawing lightly on the inside of his cheek as he took deep breaths through his nose. Courfeyrac surely picked up on the fact that Grantaire was becoming increasingly more panicked, but now his friend wouldn’t even look at him. Grantaire realised Courfeyrac was doing his best to remain composed, but Courfeyrac was never particularly good with composure. Instead, Courfeyrac began to walk from the car to the stairs with a focused stride that wore Grantaire out just by looking at it. Grantaire breathed as deep as he could and chose to follow suit.

And when the two men found themselves standing outside their friends’ apartment door, Grantaire watched Courfeyrac’s expression closely, noting how his promisingly destructive stare became a little less intense. Courfeyrac knocked harshly on the door and shuffled his weight from one foot to the other.

"Courf’?" Grantaire found the courage to ask once the pair of them were still. “Is everything okay?”

The sounds of footsteps grew apparent as someone inside the apartment approached the door from the other side. Grantaire took a deep breath.

Courfeyrac looked at him then, only briefly, before turning back to the door. He replied casually, “I don’t know yet.”

Courfeyrac is never casual.

Something is wrong.

The door flew open with such haste that it took Grantaire aback. Joly’s face was there waiting for them on the other side, and Grantaire found his gaze. Joly’s eyes widened slightly as he inspected Grantaire’s face, a look that set Grantaire back five steps in whatever conclusion he was trying to come to, watching on as Joly quickly turned to Courfeyrac in mildly vexed shock. The words unspoken between the two other men sent Grantaire spiralling as suddenly he felt out of place. Grantaire was still eyeing Joly down as the latter turned back to him, still a little unreadable.

"Come in, come in." Joly said despite whatever it was that he wanted to say, as he shook his head and ushered them inside the apartment.

Enjolras and Combeferre’s apartment.

Grantaire had never actually been here during the day, he realised upon entry. The front door opened into the sitting room, a sun-soaked lounge space with two mismatched armchairs and a bean bag chair in the corner. The morning light bounced effortlessly off the walls, full of posters and picture frames, photographs of recognisable faces smiling back at him. Inside the room, you could hardly tell the day outside was miserable, high enough up that only the sun and white clouds were visible from the windows. It was messy in the room, books wide open and left forgotten on the floor, one interesting nest of papers and pens, cushions and blankets surrounding the fuzzy, pale mint-shaded rug directly in front of the window.

The apartment was duly lived in, though it was the energy in the room that was unnerving. Roughly half of the group was present, although there were a few notable missing faces. Bahorel and Feuilly were absent, though Grantaire assumed this had something to do with the image of them being hauled away in a cop car the previous day. Marius was missing, as was Cosette, along with Musichetta and Éponine. Combeferre and Enjolras were not in the room either, presumably hiding away in some other room, hushed in oh-so-serious conversation, and Courfeyrac rushed off in what Grantaire assumed was their direction. That left Grantaire standing awkwardly on the spot in the centre of the room with Joly, Bossuet and Jehan.

Joly was sitting on a desk chair that had been dragged in from another room, a phone now to his ear. He was speaking rather quietly, but from the tone, Grantaire gathered that it must have been Musichetta on the other line. Bossuet was leaning against the wall beside Joly, trying to gain his lover’s attention. The two chatted softly amidst the phone call as the group waited for the other men to return from their conversation, and Grantaire felt a little out of the loop.

Jehan manoeuvred their way across the room to Grantaire’s side, giving him a kind smile as they reached for his arm and clung to it comfortingly. Grantaire smiled back, though a confused sort of frown accompanied it.

“You okay, buddy?” Grantaire asked Jehan, unsure whether they needed his comfort, or if they were just feeling touchy-feely today. They looked up at him with eyes that looked wet, and cheeks that were pink, and Grantaire realised they had been crying. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

They smiled softly, the hurt still evident on their face, but their words soft and consoling. "Will you come sit down with me?”

Grantaire felt his heart lurch in his chest, but of course, he nodded wordlessly. Jehan beckoned him over to one of the armchairs. Jehan did not take the seat for themselves, but rather squatted down beside it, leaving it open for Grantaire. Grantaire frowned and remained standing.

It was then that Combeferre’s impossibly commanding voice filled the room, attracting the attention of everyone present, though he was actively avoiding looking anyone in the eye. He was standing by the hallway door he had just reappeared from when Grantaire turned to look, his eyes continuously scanning the room as if mid-way through a thought

"So, we have a problem." He said vacantly. Combeferre’s mind was surely muddled.

Something is wrong.

Grantaire felt sick as the obvious crept into his mind. They’d been caught, hadn’t they? He’d been actively ignoring the memory of assaulting that officer the night before, though the sound of glass crunching against thick bone rang effortlessly in his mind. He had taken it too far, hadn’t he? Once again, Grantaire had ignored the orders from his betters, and once again he had ruined everything. Would the protest have turned out the same if Grantaire had simply stayed home? He struggled to see how his presence made all that difference, but still, it must’ve been his fault, right? They’d been caught, he’d been caught. He felt ashamed.

Jehan must’ve noticed this sudden sink in Grantaire’s demeanour, as they once again tried to manoeuvre his body to sit on the seat behind him, but Grantaire’s legs were locked into place. Jehan sighed.

“I think you should come and sit down, ‘Taire.” They whispered kindly.

Grantaire shook his head, confused. “I didn’t- I didn’t mean to."

Grantaire hadn’t known what he was expecting, but he was thrown off when he didn’t get any kind of response from Jehan. Maybe he had expected them to reassure him that it was okay, that nothing was the fault of his own, but the blank expression on their tear-stained face was louder than the thought of the Jehan he knew. Even Jehan blamed him, and Jehan never blames him.

Something is wrong.

Grantaire was left to play match with the emotion in the room as he watched Jehan turn away from him, blinking a single tear from their eye as they began looking between Courfeyrac and Combeferre. Grantaire followed their gaze and found Combeferre’s focus on him, too.

"Okay, Grantaire, listen.” Combeferre said, stepping closer to the space where Grantaire and Jehan stood.

And then, Grantaire noticed, Courfeyrac was watching them, too. And so was Bossuet, and so was Joly. Everyone present had their attention turned to Grantaire, and he began to feel vulnerable and singled out. He felt embarrassed almost, having all of this excess attention on him, and not knowing why. It reminded him of the way his friends all stared at him in that hospital room after he had woken up groggy and dazed those several months ago, none of them knowing what to say or where to start. He remembered Joly watching him with the same expression that he was watching him with now. Shock mixed in with a little bit of hurt, a sadness that didn’t quite consume as it did ruin. Jehan had been there, too, and Éponine, the former speechless and teary-eyed. He remembered how Éponine still cracked jokes that Grantaire was the butt of, her teasing tone mending the silence that threatened to slice the air. How thankful he had been for her presence that day was reprised as he wished she was here now, doing the same.

But here she was not. There were no jokes, no teasing, no explanation as to why all attention was focused on Grantaire. Jehan and Joly looked upset, Courfeyrac looked as if he wanted to cry himself, and Combeferre looked troubled in that vacant way he did so often when something was up. And so, with the silence, with his friends not knowing what to say or where to start, Grantaire’s mind began to spiral.

"What's going on?" Grantaire mumbled nervously, as he took a step away from Combeferre approaching.

“We just need to have a little talk to you, okay?” Jehan spoke softly again, attempting once again to direct Grantaire to the armchair against the wall. Grantaire’s feet stayed firmly in place.

"Jehan, what is this?” Grantaire said, rushed and a little snappy as he looked around the room, meeting the gaze of each of his friends. “You know I didn’t mean to-"

And then, as he was searching for hazel eyes against white marble as he so often did, Grantaire froze, blood running cold. He met everyone's gaze twice, maybe even three times as he scanned. Something is wrong.

Enjolras was not present.

“Where is Enjolras?” Grantaire said, discarding any remaining hint of concern for himself and reflecting every inch of worry upon the one man who he had not accounted for. Grantaire’s breath spiked as he turned sharply towards Combeferre, barely able even to get the words out.

Combeferre’s nostrils flared as he adjusted his glasses upon his face. Jehan bowed their head towards the ground, trying once more to reach out for Grantaire’s arm to hold onto, though Grantaire didn’t feel it. Joly and Bossuet gripped onto each other like loss was on the table, the phone with Musichetta listening in now placed on the desk beside them. And Courfeyrac, God, if grief could be in a look, it was embodying him right now. Embodying everyone. It seemed that no one had wanted to give Grantaire an answer to his question, and Grantaire’s heart sank.

"No." Grantaire whispered, almost a chuckle. He felt himself smiling from sheer disbelief as he shook his head. "No, no."

"Grantaire, come sit, okay?" Jehan whispered into his ear, a single tear now rolling down their cheek as gently as rain would trickle down a windowpane. Their grip on his arm tightened, seemingly more determined to drag Grantaire into the seat.

"No." Grantaire started, feeling a dreadful panic bubbling in his chest. "What- Combeferre-"

Combeferre looked down at his feet, sharing no words with him.

This couldn’t be happening. There was no way this was fucking happening. This had to be some kind of sick method of intervention, right? A way to trick Grantaire into sobriety, to shock him, scare him, make him aware of the consequences of his actions. He hadn’t thought his friends capable of composing such a cruel trick, but it made more sense than the alternative. Enjolras wasn’t gone, he couldn’t be. He’s surely in his bedroom just a few doors up the hallway, sitting crankily on the edge of his bed as he flips through the pages of a book, searching for some specific excerpt of prose. Perhaps he is in a holding cell with Bahorel and Feuilly, taunting the forces that put him there. Maybe he is in hiding. Or maybe he broke a bone, maybe he was wrapped up in a hospital bed somewhere amongst the rest of their injured friends. Or maybe, or maybe.

No. He was here, he had to be. Enjolras can’t be gone, the light outside is still blinding Grantaire. No matter how mad Enjolras could get at Grantaire, he wouldn’t have just left him here. Grantaire saw him, he was okay.

"Grantaire, breathe, okay?" Jehan said, desperately trying to coax the poor man to his chair, and this time he succeeded easily due to Grantaire’s lack of control over his limbs.

“Where is he?!” Grantaire shouted as best he could, though the panic in his system muffled any kind of authority in his voice. The words came forth as more of a dizzy murmur. Grantaire raised a hand to his own chest, feeling the threatening bash of his pulse through his ribcage.

He feared he was dying, life flashing before his eyes, though not his own life. Memories of a hand against his chest in panic, much like the present, fingernails bunched in cotton and grass and mud. He was there that day, and Grantaire had let him go.

“’Taire.” Jehan whispered, placing their forehead upon his knee as they kneeled beside him.

The night before the protest. Perfect, perfect lips against his own, hands snaking around the nape of his neck, curls wrapped like tendrils around his fingertips. He was there, and Grantaire had let him go.

"We don't-" Combeferre rushed, his words heavily drilling into Grantaire’s ears, battling his panic.

The night prior. Enjolras’ eye’s shutting as the metal of a barrel was pressed to his skull. Grantaire’s hand finding his once again, so effortlessly even in a moment of adrenaline. Taking hold of him, taking him to the ground. And Grantaire had just let him go.

"We don't know where he is." Combeferre said.

Grantaire looked up from where he had apparently buried his face in his hands at some point, to find Combeferre looking at him firmly. His panic faltered, only somewhat, but Grantaire used all of his strength to fight in that moment, to push away the sick curdling in his stomach.

"You don't know?" Grantaire asked quietly, begging for clarification, but Combeferre only looked on as he did before. Grantaire’s voice grew louder, harsher. "You don't know?! What do you mean you don’t know?!"

Grantaire ignored the feeling of heavy fingers gripping his bicep, keeping the man in place as he felt a fire rage from inside of him. They don’t know? Why don’t they know? Of course Grantaire knew neither, but that was expected from the cynic. For the people that entrust their lives to one another, this was bad. This was wrong.

"We lost him after we ran." Combeferre said.

"You split up?!" Grantaire shouted, dumbfounded. Slowly, he felt the life returning to his body, his limbs responding in nervous twitches.

"It seemed like the best option at the time." Combeferre replied, remaining composed as he always did. For some reason, this only infuriated Grantaire more than he already was. Jehan drew Grantaire’s attention.

"It was Enjolras' idea." Jehan said in an attempt to cool Grantaire down, rubbing his arm gently and comfortingly. Grantaire shook his head, standing from his spot on the armchair and began to pace towards Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

"What the fuck is the matter with you?!" Grantaire spat.

"Grantaire, stop-" Jehan said, rushing after him, but of course, it was to no use. Grantaire felt unreachable, and though he asked question after question, he knew no answer could bring him back down. Not right now.

"I fucking told him this was a stupid idea. I told all of you that this was insane!" Grantaire snapped, seeing red.

"We didn't exactly have a choice, Grantaire." Combeferre tried again, though it was evident that he was losing his composure with every word Grantaire muttered. Good, Grantaire thought, and he refused to slow.

"Yes, you did have a choice!" He said viciously. "You know how fucking blind he can be. You know better!”

The room was quiet for a short moment, save for harsh breaths and soft sniffles. Silence, long enough for Grantaire to get his thinking in order.

"You." Grantaire said, swapping his pacing and turning to rush now towards Combeferre with a finger pointed at his chest. They stood only a few feet apart, and oh how the tone of the room changed. "This is your fault."

"I don't appreciate that-" Combeferre replied, with a frown and a deep breath.

"I don't give a fuck!" Grantaire howled, pushing Combeferre against the wall behind him. The door to the hallway banged against the wall at the force against the structure. Grantaire kept his hands firmly on either side of Combeferre’s shoulders, shaking him harshly back into the wall as he felt himself well with a wave of consumable anger he had not felt in years.

Courfeyrac rushed to try to break the two apart, though he didn’t seem all that desperate to succeed. Grantaire wasn’t hurting Combeferre, even if the tiniest version of him wanted to, and it seemed his friends knew this too.

"Why didn't you tell him this was a stupid idea?! Huh?! What the fuck were you all thinking?!" Grantaire cried.

Combeferre didn’t respond, angering Grantaire even further. Grantaire observed the man’s eye, and though he found a glint of frustration there, it was apparent that Combeferre was not fearful of Grantaire’s attempt at a menacing accusation. His eyes were furrowed dangerously once again, like Grantaire had seen many times in his life since knowing Combeferre. The man wasn’t looking for something to say, he knew what he wanted to say, he just had to figure out how to say it best. Fucking academics.

"This isn't anyone's fault, Grantaire." Courfeyrac appeared then at Grantaire’s side, beating Combeferre to whatever words he was preparing. Courfeyrac returned to coaxing him away from Combeferre against the wall as Grantaire’s fight slipped.

Grantaire let Courfeyrac remove him from Combeferre’s space, dropping his knuckled grip on Combeferre’s shoulders and taking a few steps back, though he shrugged off the hand Courfeyrac had on his shoulder. He turned back to Combeferre again, a silent agreeance to refrain from physicality, a soft apology in his eyes, but not yet fully ready to drop the fight.

"I thought you were supposed to be the brains of this group." Grantaire shook his head at Combeferre, who was unreadable. "You mother him relentlessly in every other aspect except the one that is most likely to get him killed. What the fuck is that?"

"And what about you? I told you not to come." Combeferre’s words finally came, smooth, rehearsed, but full of an emotion Grantaire couldn’t name. "I told you that you'd become a distraction and that is exactly what happened."

"So, it's my fault?" Grantaire spat, chuckling in angry disbelief.

"No one is saying that, R." Courfeyrac said from beside him, shaking his head.

"No, actually, I am." Combeferre said.

Grantaire looked at him in a shock he felt embarrassed to portray. Grantaire already blamed himself, this much was not surprising, but to hear Combeferre admit it felt like a knife to his chest.

"Combeferre!" Joly snapped from beside the small group, staying silent until then.

"Now I know you just wanted to make sure he was safe, that we all were," Combeferre said, his patience running thinner by the second, "but you shouldn't have shown up at all."

Grantaire felt something ticking in his mind, a puzzle being thrown together in a matter of seconds. Finally, Combeferre was accusing him of something, after weeks of dancing around the subject, feeling judgemental eyes on the back of his neck, knowing Combeferre and Courfeyrac spoke in secret words about him. Grantaire shook his head, ready to admit defeat.

"What is your fucking problem with me?" Grantaire asked, his chest deflating. Combeferre took a moment to respond, shutting his eyes for a little while and taking a resigning breath.

"I don't have a problem with you."

"Yes, you do." Grantaire added sharply. "Think I haven't noticed it? Think I can't see the looks you give me whenever Enjolras is around? Or the weird ass questions you've been asking me about him? What is with that? I mean-"

"He doesn't have a problem with you, R." Courfeyrac said then, attempting to come between the two arguing. "He’s just a little upset at the moment-"

"Yeah, well so am I!" Grantaire shouted at Courfeyrac, beginning to feel the prickling sensation of tears flooding his waterline. He wanted to fight, to scream, to hit something, break something. He wanted to run out of the room and never look at his friend's judgemental gazes again, but even with all of that dangerous rage filling him to the brim, Grantaire just felt so tired, so weak. He let himself resign, giving up his fight, and deflating as quickly as the morning had become the afternoon.

Grantaire let Courfeyrac and Jehan guide him back to his spot on the armchair, which he now noticed had a dark green sweater draped over the headrest. It slipped down behind him as he sat, and Grantaire reached to tug it out from its hiding place. He held the sweater in his hands, he recognised this well, the thread coming loose on the left arm cuff, the tiny orange acrylic stain on the hem. This was his sweater, the one he had lent to Enjolras.

Grantaire felt himself starting to let those tears fall.

"Grantaire, we couldn't have known this would happen." Combeferre tried to add, though the sound of his voice felt a little off for Combeferre, as if he didn’t know whether he should speak. It seemed as if Combeferre was attempting comfort, but he was weary to do so, and Grantaire felt guilt for reacting so aggressively. No wonder they all knew about this before Grantaire did, this was premeditated. They knew his reaction would bring strife. They knew he would be difficult.

Once again, Grantaire, you’ve brought ruin to everything.

"Grantaire, please breathe." Jehan said, attempting to drown out the rest of the room, knowing what Grantaire needed to focus on. Unluckily for Jehan, Grantaire had never been one to focus in such a moment of black and white.

"But you did know this was going to happen.” Grantaire heaved, feeling his entire body sink in defeat. He used the remainder of his energy to spit the words as heavily as he could. “You had- You should've stopped the protest altogether after you found out what was coming. And I know, I know, I sound like the resident cynic, but seriously."

"You're being unfair." Combeferre said. "We couldn’t’ve known this would happen.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“How so?”

"Oh, I don't know." Grantaire said rudely. "The hard drive?"

Grantaire held onto the sweater in his grasp like his life depended on it. Like Enjolras’ life depended on it. He pictured Enjolras in his sweater, sitting perfectly on the couch with his wet hair wrapped up in a white towel. Eyes drawn to Grantaire’s hands as he played a song he knew would rile Enjolras up. Grantaire pictured how he got flustered instead of frustrated, eyes curious and wonderful with peachy colour in his cheeks. Grantaire pictured him on the side of the street, eyes again on Grantaire as he listened to his story. And as they had walked back to Enjolras’ flat that afternoon, Grantaire had watched Enjolras as he walked through the door to his apartment – this apartment – and turned to wave and smile at Grantaire before he closed the door. He looked so beautiful in green, Grantaire didn’t want to see Enjolras in red stained clothes anymore.

Combeferre’s voice dragged him away from his daydream.

"Montparnasse's hard drive?"

Grantaire chuckled to himself sadly, before replying with sarcasm. "No, ‘Ferre, I’m talking about some other hard drive that is somehow relevant."

Grantaire didn’t look up from the sweater in his lap, not yet ready to let go of the image of Enjolras falling asleep drearily beside him, rugged up beneath both the sweater and the quilt. Grantaire had watched Enjolras’ glassy and bloodshot eyes flutter shut so perfectly, his cheek squished against the pillow they had both shared that night. His lips pouted graciously as his breathing evened out, his hand nicely wrapped up in Grantaire’s. Does good still exist if Enjolras is not here to believe it?

"We don’t have the hard drive." Combeferre’s voice came again, and this time, Grantaire turned to find his gaze. Grantaire paused a second, before he shook his head.

“No, I know. I have it.” Grantaire said. He swears Combeferre’s eyes widened, just for a millisecond, before he frowned in thought.

“You have the hard drive?” He asked.

“Yeah.” Grantaire told him.

Silence.

Grantaire frowned too, looking around the room at the mixed expressions of his friends. Joly and Bossuet, who hadn’t said much of anything for the time they were here looked on in genuine confusion, as did Courfeyrac. Grantaire huffed, reached into his pocket, retrieved the hard drive, and held it out for the room to see. Combeferre simply examined the hard drive in Grantaire’s grasp, and Grantaire couldn’t make sense of the bizarre behaviour of his friends. He knew that he wasn’t continually active in this whole protesting bullshit, but he hadn’t really expected his friends to be so gobsmacked at the fact that Enjolras had left it with him. Or maybe that made sense, Grantaire had no idea the reason either.

"What?” Grantaire asked when once again the attention became too much.

“Why do you have that?” Combeferre asked again, slowly this time, once again sounding accusatory. Grantaire rolled his eyes softly, tossing the hard drive to Combeferre, who caught it between two palms.

“Enjolras gave it to me.” Grantaire replied truthfully. “He told me to keep it safe. And to not come to the protest. And to give it to you afterwards if anything bad happens. So, I guess, here you go.”

Combeferre looked down at the item in his grasp. His mouth was drawn thin, lips disappearing as he breathed through his nose. His eyes were weirdly drawn to the hard drive, as if he had never even seen one before. Combeferre’s expression made no sense to Grantaire. Surely of all the people to not remember the plan, it wouldn’t be Combeferre.

And in a perfectly cinematic moment, everyone in the room had come to the same conclusion just moments from each other.

Enjolras had not told him the plan. He had not told anyone but Grantaire about the hard drive being in his possession. None of them knew it until right this moment, but Enjolras had perfectly carried out a sadistic plan, and a clever one at that. Enjolras had become the sacrifice he was itching to become. Grantaire felt sick.

"Oh my God." Grantaire whispered, laughing mindlessly in shock. “He never told you.”

Combeferre’s face grew an expression that Grantaire can’t remember ever seeing him possess. Sure, Grantaire didn’t remember most things due to the alcoholism, but Combeferre and just plain sadness do not typically mix. Usually, a sad Combeferre was also an angry one, a disappointed one, or a nervous one. But this, this look of utter misery on Combeferre’s face made Grantaire’s skin crawl. Combeferre knew Enjolras better than anyone, and within a matter of seconds, Combeferre had unquestionably come to two conclusions;

Enjolras always gets exactly what he wants.
Enjolras knew precisely what he was doing.

Courfeyrac must’ve sensed the emotion quickly filling the room, at least, if the look on his face said anything about it. He was crying now, too, but it wasn’t that dramatic sook that Courfeyrac gives, all blubbery and hyperventilation. It was silent, it was mournful already, and it was not Courfeyrac at all.

"It's going to be okay." Jehan said, now resting one hand on Grantaire’s lap and the other hand in Courfeyrac’s, though Grantaire felt that the words were more muscle memory than any hint of truth. Grantaire shook his head.

"No, it's not going to be okay! None of this is okay!" Grantaire sobbed, wishing he didn’t sound so angry. "God, why can't you just- Why couldn't you all just form a book club or something? Why’d you pick revolting against the government? For fuck’s sake-"

Grantaire could hear himself rambling on and on, but he barely knew what words he was saying. They were angry, they were hurt, they made sense and they were incomprehensible at the same time. All he could think about was Enjolras, unsurprisingly. Picturing him hurt, picturing him dead, picturing him running for his life. Grantaire’s friends didn’t know yet what he knew, that Enjolras wasn’t focused on coming out alive, Grantaire knew better than anyone else that Enjolras was most likely already gone. The thought of having to explain that, the depression in Enjolras’ eyes the night before the protest, that alone was enough to make the grief catch in Grantaire’s throat as he sobbed.

It was funny, how with all of Jehan's support and all of Courfeyrac’s comfort, that the thing that drew him from his spiral was Combeferre appearing in front of him. Combeferre had always been a good friend to Grantaire. They talked about his alcoholism, about his depression, they talked about his family and his sister and his childhood, but Combeferre was never much of a comforting figure to Grantaire. He saw Combeferre as more of an outlet to gather facts from, information. If Grantaire wanted comfort, he would typically turn to Jehan or even Courfeyrac. But it was Combeferre who knelt to his knees and took Grantaire’s hands in his own, returning to look focused once more, becoming himself again. And finally, he gave Grantaire a look of the eye that he found it hard to look away from.

Combeferre’s face came close to Grantaire’s, and Grantaire watched him closely as he spoke.

"Listen to me. We are going to find him. I don't care what it takes, or how long. We are not losing him. You are not losing him. Do you hear me?"

Grantaire flickered his focus between Combeferre’s two eyes, studying him for that sadness that had shown itself before. Scanning for any hint in Combeferre’s expression that was lying, that knew the truth already. He found none of it there. Combeferre resembled Enjolras at that moment, optimistic yet terrifying, concerned about the worst yet expecting the best. Funny how easily his friends could do that to him, making Grantaire feel as though they stood a chance against the odds.

"That was kind of hot." Grantaire tried to joke, if only to fill the silence, sniffling sadly.

"I'm serious." Combeferre said sternly. "Okay?"

Grantaire nodded. "Yeah."

And as easily as that, a newfound sense of faith washed over the room, as they all found themselves borrowing some of that hope that Enjolras so often spewed. Grantaire never believed in that feeling, as we all know, but he had to admit, it had a nice ring to it.

"So, what do we do?" Joly said from the corner of the room, allowing himself to intrude on the conversation now that it felt safe to do so.

Combeferre sighed tiredly, but hell, you wouldn’t even pick up on it from that look in his eyes.

"We get to work.”

It really shouldn’t have been so easy.

Enjolras was not one to brag, not usually. Of course, if there was someone who deserved to hear it, he could hardly pass up the notion, whether it be his family, the people questioning him, the enemy. But on the whole, Enjolras was a rather humble man. He was proud of his accomplishments, and of the success of his darling group of activists, but he never felt the need to be excessive when presenting his winnings.

But this win, well, this trumped anything he’d ever accomplished. He could already see the headlines.

His protest had gone perfectly, down to every little detail. The cops showing up earlier than intended, splitting up with Combeferre and Jehan, finding himself stuck in what the enemy believed was a trap; it isn’t a trap if one walks in willingly. But still, Enjolras found himself in a rather uncomfortable predicament, and just because it was a predicament that he had expected to fall into, this didn’t mean he necessarily enjoyed it.

Enjolras’ plan required him to dissociate through the majority of the last couple of days. The protest had to get violent, no matter what it cost him. It had been Grantaire’s words all those weeks ago that had sparked the thought in his mind. It wasn’t a protest anymore, what he needed to lead was a riot. Of course, he would never let Grantaire know how much he had helped him in that moment, instead just shrugging it off with his typical idyllic speech about hope and faith and whatever else Grantaire didn’t believe in.

And the protest did turn into a riot, of course it did. Back weeks ago, at the council meeting, Enjolras had lied straight to their faces. He told them they’d start off marching to the end of the river, where police had lined up to supervise. But then, Enjolras had told everyone back at base that they would start at the Musain, to scrap the march and set up the stage where they already held the majority. And of course, the police didn’t like that they had nothing to do (on top of their usual nothing; useless cop bastards). Enjolras had led the chanting, getting rowdier and rowdier until the police dared to intervene. And when they did, that was when the people would strike. From that point on, Enjolras required himself to switch off.

The minute he felt that man’s hands on his body, the first anti-protester that threw a punch, Enjolras let that switch in his mind flip, the one he used to get him through the worst of his issues, shutting out any sensation of irritation that he could feel. He maintained this up until now, even as he was shoved into a van with a rag over his mouth and nose. Of course, he still kicked and screamed, cried out of frustration and discomfort, but that only helped him look as if his captors weren’t doing exactly what he wanted them to do. Besides, in a mere few hours, none of this would matter. He wouldn’t have to worry about the feeling of fingers on his skin ever again.

He shut out the images in his mind of his friends, scared and helpless as they realise Enjolras’ absence. He tried to pretend they wouldn’t spend time searching for him, telling himself that they were all too focused on the mission to waste time on someone expendable. Combeferre would soon discover his plan, and the rest of them would follow him. Combeferre will lead the ABC to victory, just as Enjolras planned, once Grantaire inevitably discards the hard drive onto someone else, as Enjolras had also planned.

But at the reminder that somewhere in the world, Grantaire was there, waiting to get berated by him another time, Enjolras felt a small inkling of doubt rush through him. And when he thought about Grantaire – because let's be honest, even with the chaos of the riot, he hardly stopped thinking about Grantaire – there may have even been a tiny feeling of regret thrown at him. From the moment he raced out of Grantaire’s flat, the look in Grantaire’s eyes after he had kissed him scaring him away, to the second he felt a rag covering his nose and mouth, inhaling what smelt like chlorine, his mind was focused on what Grantaire would think.

He was right, after all. Enjolras was being reckless, not only with his own life, but with the lives of countless others. He supposed that, in a way, what he did was entrapment, but he never chose to look at it that way. Chalking it up to more of an acceleration than entrapment, though he knew Grantaire would disagree. Grantaire always disagrees.

But it didn’t matter what Grantaire thought of him, of his plan to end his own life at the hand of his captors, his pursuers. Enjolras still knew that no matter how mad Grantaire would be when they discover him gone, Enjolras would love Grantaire the same as he always did. It wasn’t even pathetic anymore, Enjolras found it poetic. Even when he felt his consciousness being ripped out from under him, with his switch flipped, all he could think about was Grantaire.

When he woke up from a sleep that was less than refreshing, Enjolras hadn’t any idea where he was. More than that, he was surprised to find that he had woken up at all. The hard drive seemed to suggest that he was wanted dead, eradicated, but here he lay, the taste of rust in his mouth, metallic and bitter, and his vision entirely black. There was a bag over his head, it smelt earthy and dirty, and the sensation of burlap fabric scratched the skin on his ears and the tip of his nose. Enjolras could feel dry rope wound tightly around his wrists held behind his back, digging into his skin. He did his best to remain still, at least until he got his bearings.

Enjolras lay there, on the cold, hard ground, waiting for some kind of hint as to what was happening, where he was. He felt as if he were waiting for the other shoe to drop, almost bracing himself for impact at each second that passed, but it never came. He breathed a heavy breath, coughing into the fabric that was trying to suffocate him, before falling silent again. He could partially make out the space around him, even blind. It seemed that he was in some kind of warehouse or barn, at least with the way he could hear the echo of his cough bounce off the walls and travel back to him. The surface he lay on was rough, like concrete or asphalt, but it was dirtier than any standard concrete slab. Enjolras could feel the powdery feeling of dust and rock clinging to his arms, stuck like honey.

With his vision moot, Enjolras listened for further clues. He could just make out people speaking softly, but he was unable to discern whether they were in the room or outside of it. Regardless, they didn’t sound too close to him at present. If he stayed still, then maybe they wouldn’t know he had woken up yet, and that would give him more time to think.

Enjolras wasn’t sure how long he lay there, pretending to be unconscious still. It felt like hours before he felt like he was alone – every time he thought there had been enough silence to try to move around, someone spoke again. And after however much time had passed, he heard the voices getting closer to him, still speaking in the same tone of conversation, but now distinct enough that they could be heard talking about someone they referred to as Boss. He braced himself for what may come, for the feeling of someone’s rough hands on him, ready to break him, but nothing ever came. Nothing but the sound of a large, metal door creaking open, footsteps disappearing, and then the door slamming shut.

Enjolras waited idle for a few minutes, or as long as he could before his own stagnancy drove him crazy. He could no longer hear voices, footsteps, anything to convince him that he could be seen, and once the sound of a vehicle driving away outside the room confirmed his suspicions, he allowed himself to attempt to sit up.

He felt dizzy once he did manage to pull himself upright, steadying himself on his knees, and it took all he had in him not to fall forward onto his face. He half curled over himself, trying to allow gravity to force the bag off of his head. When that didn’t work, he wriggled his hands as much as he could, in an attempt to free himself from his restraints.

There wasn’t much point in trying to break free, Enjolras soon realised. The rope wasn’t budging, chafing his skin whenever he moved, and the bag over his head was tight enough that it wouldn’t slip off, no matter how far he tilted his head down, or how much he thrashed back and forth. But more than that, Enjolras knew that he didn’t need to break free. The funny thing about Enjolras and his ideas is that the first steps of any plan he creates are the most important. That is where the desired outcome must be actualised. He had gotten himself captured, and that was all that he was counting on. Whether Enjolras survived this encounter or not didn’t matter. In his eyes, he had already won.

Still, he wasn’t actively trying to get himself killed, it was more so the fact that if it were to happen that way, he already got what he wanted. He left the hard drive in trusted hands, whether Grantaire likes it or not, and once his friends realise that Enjolras had met his untimely end, the ABC can use it to help themselves. If, somehow, Enjolras manages to survive this ordeal, then that’s just a bonus. But he owed it to his friends to try and make it back to them, and besides, he was rather proud of how effortlessly executed his plan was. He wanted to expose the hard drive himself.

So, Enjolras continued to struggle at the rope around his wrists, feeling the tiniest amount of room opening up between his skin and the rope. Not enough to squeeze through, nowhere near, but if he kept at it for long enough, then perhaps he could manage to slip free. Just a little bit more force, and at the right angle, maybe-

"Good morning, sunshine."

The voice startled him, stopping him cold in his tracks with his arms locked in place. The voice belonged to a man, presumably, deep and stern, the kind of voice some asshole supervillain would have. Enjolras listened further, awaiting more words to be spoken, but all he could hear was loud, clunky footsteps approaching him. Enjolras’ heartbeat quickened, though not in fear, but in anticipation. The footsteps travelled from what Enjolras assumed was the far end of the room, right up into Enjolras’ space. The man the voice belonged to was close to him now, and Enjolras looked up when he felt him looming overhead, even though he couldn’t see him.

"Someone's feeling shy today. I thought talking was your strong suit." The voice taunted him. Enjolras felt an anger inside of him growing more vigorous, more than ready to get this over with.

"Who are you?" Enjolras spat, courage in his tone.

"An old friend." The voice replied. "I was hoping we could have a little chat."

The voice didn’t sound remarkably familiar to him, or at least, it was no one he recognised immediately. He supposed the voice rang some kind of a bell, in the sense that it was an old, white, male voice, and Enjolras had pissed off more than enough of those to warrant being hit listed by one.

"What do you want, you bastard?" Enjolras snapped at the man, wasting no time with pleasantries.

The man tutted, sounding as if he had knelt down to Enjolras’ level. Soon, the voice reappeared in his ear, muffled from the burlap sack but clear enough that Enjolras couldn’t mistake the words he spoke next. He said,

"Now, is that any way to speak to your own father?"

Enjolras’ blood ran cold.

"What?" He barely managed to mumble out.

Soon enough, there was a hand gripping the sack over Enjolras’ head, catching some of his hair amongst the fabric and pulling it out as the man tore the bag off of him. Enjolras blinked in adjustment to the sudden change in brightness in the room, trying to regain his sense of sight as quickly as he could, to disprove the man’s words. But when Enjolras looked up at the man kneeling before him, he saw the unmistakable hazel eyes he had stared down endless times as a youth, the frown lines on the man’s forehead that Enjolras recognised every time he looked in the mirror. In front of him, smiling devilishly, was his father.

"Hello, Julien."

Words were Enjolras’ strong suit. Since a child, Enjolras knew that words held a disgusting amount of power, not only in his line of work but in everything—conversations with people he hated, or people he loved. Small talk exchanged between retail workers, emails, phone calls, story books, songs, poetry, all of it. When he was a child, Enjolras used to write short stories in the back of his schoolbooks where no one would find them, a way to escape from his reality, to indulge in fantasy. He wrote about princes on horses and monsters in caves, children in fields playing with flowers and eating fruit happily beside trees of gold.

It was then ridiculous to Enjolras that his strong suit had been used against him, for suddenly, without any sort of warning, Enjolras was that child again. He was small, he had no jurisdiction over the impossible authoritative force that was the man in front of him. No more than a boy, crying at his father to let go of him. The scared child he used to be in the corner of the room, trying to place as much distance between himself and the man towering over him. Suddenly, he was thirteen years old, and there was no hero to the story. There was no one was coming to save him.

"Alright, so here's how this is going to go." His father said, rising back to his feet and pacing around his son on the floor, his voice heavy with power and confidence. "I'm going to give you an ultimatum, and you're going to decide with everyone's best interest in mind. Yes?"

Enjolras remained silent, excusing the rapid exhales through his nose in an attempt not to lose himself completely. Other than that, the room was empty of sound. It would appear to outsiders that his father had to take some time to collect his thoughts, but Enjolras knew the man better than an outsider. This was an intimidation tactic. Don’t panic, Enjolras told himself over and over in his mind. Nothing good comes from panic.

"The first option, the wise option,” His father spoke, sounding judgemental, “is for you to come back to your mother and me. To disband that silly group of yours and finally make a real man of yourself. You know she's been worried sick about you, running around the streets preaching such trivial rubbish. Trying to fight for the little guy, telling them they deserve equality. You really should have learned by now that there is no such thing as equal!"

Immediately, if they weren’t already, alarm bells began to go off in Enjolras’ head. Of course. Of course, this was his angle. His father circled back around to face him again, kneeling back down as he continued his villainous monologue.

"Men like us, we're powerful, rich, intelligent, we belong on the top!” He tried to explain. “Who cares about the scum on the bottom? Your little group of friends aren't on the same level as us, Julien. They're nothing but pawns that you should be using to get yourself ahead! You never did understand that, did you? So, forget about your friends, move on from this... interesting phase of your life, and come home."

Enjolras’ father was looking down at him with that fake kind of compassion that Enjolras had forgotten he was so used to seeing. The kind smile, the sympathetic eyes, a look that could convince anyone that this man was caring, loving, the pinnacle of a great father. But Enjolras knew it to be a façade, one pretty expression painted across his father’s face to try and get what he wanted. Enjolras hated to admit that he himself had used it to his advantage a few times, hated to admit how similar to the man staring him down he really was. Enjolras swallowed hard, daring himself to speak.

"Or what?" Enjolras asked. His father's expression shifted, the devil in him coming out to play.

"Or, I kill you." His father said, before smiling innocently again. "Your choice."

This, Enjolras would look back and realise – if he made it out of here alive – was the exact moment that fright settled into his bones. He was no longer just angry at his father, but he feared him now as much as he did as a young boy. But Enjolras would sooner die than allow his father to know the fear that wracked over him, and so Enjolras breathed harshly.

"Had enough of hiring people to do your dirty work, then?" Enjolras asked carefully crafting his tone, as not to sound as frightened as he truly felt. But he was his father's son, he could not fool him if he tried. Every mask, every fake expression, where do you think he learned it all?

His father pouted mockingly in response and tilted his head. "What's the matter? You look uncomfortable.”

"That would be because I am uncomfortable!" Enjolras shouted, trying to find that rage in his body again, in an attempt to overtake the fear.

"Always so angry, aren't you." His father declared with a shake of his head. He raised from his kneeling position and stepped backward, raising his eyebrows in indifference. "Pity your anger won't help you now."

Enjolras wanted to cry. Not like one normally would in such a situation, not out of sadness or defeat. It was as if a grief so vile overtook Enjolras, a feeling of mourning for what he could have been had he been born into some other family. How loving and caring he could be if his father hadn’t been such a horrible man. How Enjolras could have been held, kissed, affectionate and intimate without the feeling taking over of him, had his father not subjected him to such horrible torment. Who could he have been if he hadn’t seen the things he had seen? Enjolras didn’t feel upset at what may happen to him, at what his father was capable of, not in the slightest. In fact, if Enjolras were to perish here today, then at least he wouldn’t have to follow his father’s demands. He got out of the world of that sadistic blackmail that his father used so often as a child, and he would be damned if he fell back into it now.

What he truly mourned was his childhood. Even if time always passed by long enough to convince him to deny it, there had been times over the years that Enjolras had been full of that stupid, reckless hope. Hoped for reconciliation, hope for an apology, or at the very least, the hope to make amends.

That hope was lost to him now. Now, he looks back at that child, lost amongst the violence. He tells him he will never forget him, that he will always stay with him, and he says goodbye. He is not that child anymore. He no longer writes happy fantasies, now he writes in dystopian reality. He doesn't know when he turned into the person he is now. He fears that his childhood self would write him into his stories as a villain. He is not who he thought he was.

"I would rather die than go with you." Enjolras said, feeling the sting of his eyes welling in frustration.

His father stared blankly at him for a moment, sighing in resignation and looking down at his hands. He nodded softly, a disappointed look washing over him as he turned around and began to walk away from Enjolras.

Enjolras exhaled while he could, only some of that nervous tension leaving his body, but still keeping himself guarded. He watched his father make his way across the room – a room Enjolras could now see was some kind of abandoned workshop or something of the like – and place himself in front of a workbench that was attached to the far wall. There was a battery of some kind sitting on the bench, possibly a small generator or power bank, with a long white cord connected to it. Enjolras watched on suspiciously as his father took something out of his back pocket and plugged it into the cord.

"You know, it’s a shame. I can already picture the look on your friends' faces once they track you down." His father sighed. "It'd be such a shame if they were to come all this way, only to find your body. You wouldn't want that, now, would you?"

Enjolras soon realised what it was that he was looking at. It was his phone that his father had possession of, being recharged. Enjolras knew immediately his father’s aim. His father's voice began to drown out, and eventually all he could hear was the thumping of his blood in his ears. His phone. His friends will try to track his phone. Once it turns back on, when his location appears again, they’ll be lured here, either into whatever trap his father and his lackeys had set up for them, or worse, they’ll have to find Enjolras in whatever state his father leaves him in.

This wasn’t the plan, Enjolras thought as he began to become increasingly restless. They weren’t supposed to find him like this. They were supposed to publish the contents of the hard drive, to expose the higher forces using their power for evil and ruinous behind the scenes activity. With that information on display, the police would have to reform, and good officers, the few there are, would do the searching. He knows his friends will be hurt when he’s gone, but they were only supposed to find out after the fact. Enjolras thought of each of his friends, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Feuilly, Jehan and the rest. How could he subject them to that image?

And on the topic of his friends, Enjolras’ mind raced back to Grantaire. How in what may be his final moments on this earth he wished he didn’t lose his courage the night before the protest, how he was going to tell Grantaire how he felt, but how he couldn’t find the words. How he wasn’t even sure the right words existed. But it hadn’t mattered, had it? Enjolras showed him his feelings when he foolishly kissed him. Grantaire had kissed him back, only briefly, but it was all Enjolras needed. He could die now, he could take this to the grave, but he couldn’t let Grantaire find him like this.

Enjolras finally let those tears fall down his cheeks, barely able to breathe from the violent panic surging through him, humiliated to be so vulnerable in front of the man he hated more than anything.

"Oh, come on now, Julien,” His father said sweetly, discarding the phone on the bench and promptly making his way back to Enjolras’ side. “There's no need to be upset."

His father was close now, reaching out a hand to wipe the tears from his face, and Enjolras dropped any sense of composure he had left in him.

"Don't you dare touch me!" He shouted, vicious and desperate. His father’s hand halted just mere inches from making contact.

"That's right!" His father said in wicked realisation, dropping his hand back down to his side. Enjolras was ashamed to admit that it made him feel a little better, even despite knowing he was playing into his father’s emotional assault. "You've always been a little queer about physical affection, haven’t you?"

"I wonder whose fault that is." Enjolras spat angrily, barely able to see his father through the blurriness of his vision.

"Will you stop!" His father shouted suddenly, that booming voice so familiar, as the knuckles of his fist met the side of Enjolras’ head sharply. Enjolras made a choked sound at the impact, the crunching ache in his jawbone somehow so distant in his mind when lined up next to the emotions he felt wracking through his body. The force pushed Enjolras aside, almost falling onto his shoulder, but a rough grip on his hair pulled him upwards and stopped his descent to the hard ground beneath him. His head was thrown back, forcing him to look directly into the eyes of his father.

"Stop talking down to me! I am your father." He said viciously.

"You're not my fucking father." Enjolras said, spitting blood at his father’s feet. Every sentence came out rushed, heavily interfering with his breathing as he spoke them. “You are not my family. You are sick in the head. I will never forgive you. And I hope you fucking burn.”

Enjolras didn’t even realise he was rambling at first, seeing only red and tasting the same. It wasn’t until his father dropped back down to his level, mirroring Enjolras on his knees, that Enjolras let himself take a breath.

At the words, his father switched up, as if he almost heard what Enjolras was saying. Enjolras knew better than to fall for it, but if this was his last moment alive, he desperately wanted to pretend his father cared for him. To pretend that he was in one of those other lifetimes, where the hand in his hair was soothing, not abusing. That the words ‘I am your father’ could come from pride, not from shame.

"I'm sorry, Julian, I am, truly. For everything." His father so obviously lied, just to rile up whatever anger was left inside the poor boy. It was a game they never quit playing, even after years of no contact. "Come here."

Enjolras had such little fight left in him as his father moved in closer, placing unwelcome arms around Enjolras’ frame. He rested a hand on the back of Enjolras’ neck and held Enjolras’ head in the crook of his own. Enjolras struggled against his grasp with whatever he could muster up, which wasn’t much, but it was something.

"Let go of me. Now." Enjolras barked through gritted teeth.

"You say the word, and I'll never hurt you or your friends again." His father said, lightly caressing the curls at the nape of his neck.

Enjolras stopped fighting.

"My friends?" He whimpered, the fire inside him finally, finally extinguished.

"Oh, did I not say that already?" His father said, pulling back from the hug, but keeping his hands firmly planted on either side of Enjolras’ arms. "My bad! Either surrender yourself back to me, or I will kill you and have all of the ABC killed too."

No, this would be the moment he truly felt fearful. He felt his stomach churn.

Now, Enjolras knew he had options. He knew he could fight this until the end, to give his father a piece of his mind once and for all, to lay it all out plainly, to curse the Enjolras family name, himself with it. He could try to break free, to run as fast and as far as he could until his legs gave out. He could attack his father, armless, kick him down and stomp until his lights went out. His phone was in this room, he could call for help, if he managed to subdue his father for long enough. He could even remain on his knees and beg for mercy like he was taught to do, perhaps his father would have a change of heart, sparing his friends and just killing him instead.

But he also knew the power his father had. If Enjolras escaped here today, it would not just be the end of it. His father wasn’t one to back down from getting what he wanted, he never had been, and so Enjolras knew that no matter what action he decided to take, this victory belonged to his father. And it was well-played too. Enjolras must have forgotten, somewhere amidst being so proud of himself for his own success and the memories lost from a family he left behind, that he could not outsmart his father.

"So, my boy, what’s it going to be?”

Chapter Text

“It's Thursday. That’s three days.” Éponine said quietly, three fingers wagging in front of Jehan’s face. Her frame was hunched over in hushed conversation with them, who closely watched Grantaire over her shoulder. Grantaire was watching the blank spot on the wall. The day outside Bahorel and Éponine’s place was brighter than most recent skies that had passed, but the general energy of the situation the crew had found themselves in did not match the birdsong beyond the windows.

On Tuesday, the first day of Enjolras’ disappearance, Grantaire was in misery.

Bahorel and Feuilly had been released from their holding cell the day after the protest, though not until later in the evening. When the pair had been arrested, they had been caught throwing rocks at ‘peaceful’ cop car windows that drove along the street. Any average person would think this would be cause enough for a charge, for destruction of property or assault on an officer or fucking vandalism at the least. But even so, the two weren’t questioned, nor did they even speak to anyone for that matter. They were simply led to the front desk of the shabby precinct, given their belongings back, and expected to find their own way home as the sun faded into river. Bahorel had called Éponine to collect both himself and Feuilly, the two of them so unaware of what the rest of the group had been up to. It was when Bahorel had gotten into his own car driven by Éponine and noticed how sour and sullen she looked that he picked that something wasn’t right. She filled them in as the three made their way to Combeferre’s apartment.

It began to make sense, once Éponine relayed the upsetting information, why Bahorel and Feuilly were let off the hook so easily. Their arrest was clearly just a way to get closer to their leader, and Bahorel soon realised that he and Feuilly had dodged a massive bullet. Éponine gave her version of the contents of the hard drive, and even though her use of language was more colourful than professional, Bahorel figured she was probably close enough to the truth to find it unnerving. Who knows what might’ve happened to the two of them had the officers not taken Enjolras already. Bahorel wasn’t happy that their leader was missing, don’t get him wrong, but he was glad that he didn’t have to find out what awaited him had he not been.

The three had slowly made their way to Combeferre and Enjolras’ apartment, letting the reality of what was transpiring sink in. Bahorel wasn’t a hugely emotional person, but the vibe in the apartment when they had arrived had been enough to make any amount of emotional strength crumble. It wasn’t really silence that shook him; it was instead the opposite. Even though quietly, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Feuilly, and Joly were chatting quickly with a worried tone – Bahorel heard Enjolras’ name mentioned several times, and Grantaire’s maybe once or twice. In the centre of the kitchen, upon the small island counter, Combeferre’s laptop sat open in front of them.

It was all very alarming, the seriousness of the reality, but still, Bahorel wasn’t all that worried about Enjolras. It might’ve sounded harsh to someone else, but come on, it’s Enjolras. Not only was Enjolras a badass, but he was also the most stubborn person Bahorel knew, and something inside of him told him that Enjolras would never let Grantaire have the last say. Enjolras will reappear soon enough, even if only to prove Grantaire and his months’ worth of anti-protest ramblings wrong. More likely, the former will waltz in, the two will rant and rave at one another for endless hours, before Grantaire sweeps him up into a protective embrace and refuses to let go. There was obviously a problem, needing to confirm Enjolras’ safety, but all you had to do to feel hopeful was look at the four in the kitchen. They were working against the clock for a solution, and Bahorel knew they would stop at nothing to see their leader returned home safely. So, no, it wasn’t Enjolras that Bahorel was worried about.

It was Grantaire.

Bahorel had been leaning against the wall in the kitchen dining space, just beside the hallway door that led directly into the entry sitting room. He was watching Jehan from the corner of his eye. Jehan stood on the other side of the doorway, inside the living space, tapping their foot lightly as they watched Grantaire in his seat. They were listening in on the conversation next door for anything important, ready to help Combeferre and the rest however they could, but it was evident that their main priority was keeping a close eye on Grantaire. They hardly flinched when a voice from the room over spoke audibly above whispers.

"No, he couldn't have. He's been unconscious since the attack." Bahorel – and surely Jehan – had heard Courfeyrac say amidst the conversation.

"So, it was someone else. Someone from the list." Joly had responded.

"There's a hundred names on that list. How do we find out which one has taken him?"

"We could upload the contents of the hard drive for public access. They'd all have to be investigated." Feuilly had chimed in.

"We're not doing that until Enjolras is home safe. We don't want them to get spooked and hurt him." Combeferre had told them, a hint of uncertainty in his voice. It wavered in a fashion that was so unlike Combeferre.

Jehan’s sigh was louder in Bahorel’s ear than the spiralling conversation of the rescue mission. Bahorel turned to face Jehan, but Jehan remained watching Grantaire. Bahorel followed their gaze.

Grantaire had been idle in Combeferre and Enjolras’ sitting room still - he had not moved from that armchair since Bahorel had arrived, even though it had been several hours by then. Bahorel had turned to watch him through the doorway, the dark-haired man seemingly unaware of the two sets of eyes that fell on him. In his lap had been a sweater. Bahorel recognised it as one Jehan had knitted him, made from thick, green wool and coming undone at the sleeve. Grantaire had a loose thread of wool wrapped around his finger, fingers lightly shaking as he toyed with it. His eyes were glued to the floor.

Bahorel felt for the guy, he really did, but he had a challenging time expressing it. Bahorel was a good friend, but he had just felt so useless, coming up blank whenever he tried to think of anything he could say to help. This was for two reasons: Bahorel had never been particularly good with comforting words, and he already knew Grantaire well enough to know there was only one person who could pull him out of his spiral, and that person was the reason they were here. Still, Grantaire needed something, so Bahorel chose to leave the comfort and consolation to the one who knew how to comfort and console Grantaire the best.

Jehan sighed sadly and entered the room Grantaire occupied, making their presence known.

"Hello, my love." Jehan had said as they approached, their voice softly growing distant in Bahorel’s ears as they walked further into the room. They smiled deceptively as they sat on the floor before Grantaire, crossing their legs, still in Bahorel’s line of sight. Grantaire hadn’t even bothered sparing them a glance, only diverting his gaze back to his finger and the green wool wrapped snugly around it. Grantaire’s eyes were glazed over, his expression impossibly blank, and Jehan sighed. “Talk to me.”

But Grantaire must not have felt like talking, remaining silent as his lip threatened to tremble. Bahorel could see it in his eyes, tears and ragged breaths would accompany any word that escaped his mouth, and if the man cracked for once, it would be for all. Grantaire was trying to keep it together, even when both Bahorel and Jehan knew what he truly needed was to let it all out. Jehan would often say that Grantaire had never been good at letting his negative emotions wash over him as they should. He feared them, they knew; he let them consume every inch of him until nothing was left to ravage.

Bahorel was a good friend, but this was why he left the kind words to Jehan.

"It's going to be okay, you know." Jehan had said when the silence stretched on for too long.

Grantaire scoffed lightly, his voice weakening, but he did reply this time, even if it was just to say, "You don’t know that."

Bahorel watched as Jehan paused for a fleeting moment, calculating their thoughts. Their cherry hair was tossed carefully over their shoulder, returning their hand to Grantaire’s knee before they spoke.

“I know that you’re going to be okay.” They bargained. Grantaire shook his head.

"Doesn’t feel like it.” Grantaire mumbled.

“I know, sweetheart,” Jehan said. They scooted closer to Grantaire and placed their head in his lap from below him. “I know.”

Bahorel made short eye contact with Jehan as they did so, the latter smiling softly, more a sympathetic notion than a happy one. Usually, in this instance, Bahorel would find himself barging into the room, too. He’d ask Grantaire with a humours expression ‘who do I have to bash now?’. It was always a joke, of course, Grantaire never took him seriously, but something told Bahorel that Grantaire didn’t need any more visions of violence in his mind right now. Looking at Jehan, though they probably shared the same thought, they looked a little lost without their backup.

A cloud outside the window passed in front of the sun, dampening the light in the room like water spilled into fabric. Bahorel watched Grantaire hold the sweater closer to him.

“What if he’s hurt?” Grantaire whispered again so softly that Bahorel almost didn’t hear it from just outside the room.

Jehan raised their head swiftly at the sound of Grantaire’s voice. They looked at Grantaire with a motherly kind of compassion, soft eyes with balanced eyebrows, lips pursed in thought, searching for the right thing to say. As if there were something they could say to make Grantaire see on the brighter side of hope, to tell him if things can go wrong, they can also go right. But Grantaire was a pessimist, and without his shine of the sun to cast away his shadows, Bahorel knew any attempt Jehan could think to make would end up lost in the void.

Jehan stood from their spot on the rug beneath them and moved to sit on the arm of the chair, leaning heavily on Grantaire as they spoke. They seemed uncomfortable, not physically, but emotionally. The way they darted around Grantaire’s space looked so bizarre to Bahorel – Jehan was usually an elegant type of mover, and Bahorel figured they felt just as miserable as Grantaire did.

"Don't think about that.” They said, shuffling and fidgeting in their new seat. “Think about how much you get to say I told you so when he comes home."

"If he comes home." Grantaire said pathetically, and Jehan took a deep breath.

"Grantaire," Jehan said, though their voice held a little less comfort and a little more demand this time. "Please don't talk like that."

Grantaire sighed. "I’m sorry."

"Don’t apologise. I understand.” Jehan said.

They weren’t getting anywhere.

Bahorel wondered what he could do to help in that moment. He wasn’t as brain-smart as the four circled around the computer in the kitchen, so approaching them hardly felt like the proper solution. They knew what they were doing, standing as best a chance as they ever would, and Bahorel didn’t want to get in anyone’s way. He would rather leave them be and approach Jehan and Grantaire, but when he thought out his steps, he didn’t feel like he had much to offer them. It was stupid, but sometimes he thought he wasn’t all that good for much else besides being the group's brawn. He loved Grantaire very much, and it was at times like these that he wished he had been better versed in the ways of his emotions and mental status. Bahorel sighed to himself and continued listening in to both conversations at once.

"What are you doing up there?” Jehan had said, and Bahorel watched as they prodded Grantaire’s temple with a delicate finger before tucking his hair behind his ear for him, repeating their movements when it bounced back out immediately.

Grantaire shrugged, letting Jehan fuss over him. "I don't know."

And then Jehan gave Grantaire that look, the one that told him he knew he was lying. It wasn’t quite like Éponine’s knowing glare, though, all disapproval and taunting. She used those eyes to read you back to front, to intimidate you into telling the truth, or deceive you into accidental admittance. Jehan’s look was softer, gentler, and it told Grantaire they’d wait until he found the words. Bahorel watched their shared looks unfold, a silent conversation amidst the moment of severity. Eventually, the words Grantaire must’ve been looking for had come to him.

"He knew this was going to happen, Jehan. He was counting on it." Grantaire whispered so quietly as if fearing the words, as if saying them out loud made them more real. Jehan watched on calmly, clearly thinking the words over. Bahorel tried to predict what Jehan would say next, but suddenly, he became sympathetic as he realised Jehan could not dispute the words Grantaire spoke.

Grantaire continued, not giving Jehan any more time to process.

“Why else would he come to me? Why else would he give me the hard drive and tell me not to show up? Me, of all people?"

There was a moment, then, when Bahorel saw Jehan falter lightly, as if they were ready to interrupt with something, but they changed their mind at the last second. It would appear that Jehan would say something they didn’t mean, or something that would come as a shock, and thus they refrained from speaking, but Bahorel thought deeper. Jehan made eye contact with Bahorel once more, and it was then that the two of them knew the words Jehan wanted to say. ‘Because he loves you’. Grantaire continued his ramblings.

"He knew that if he died, we could hold the hard drive over their heads. He expected me to sit the protest out. That’s where the hard drive is the safest, right? In the deadbeat’s pocket? I should've known. I should've gotten him out of there. I should’ve-"

"Why are you putting all of the blame on yourself?" Jehan shook their head, seemingly discarding the last previous thought, staying in the current moment.

"Because I'm the only one that could've physically dragged him out of there, Jehan! I shouldn't have let him leave, the night before the protest.” Grantaire said, breathing heavily in frustration. It was almost a groan or a sigh, but most definitely an anti-tear tactic. Grantaire gestured, reaching out in front of himself. “He was right there, I could see him, I could feel him. And I just let him go."

Jehan sighed yet again, and their shoulders deflated softly.

"You couldn't have stopped him, even if you tried.” They shook their head, desperate for a way to get through to Grantaire in his self-deprecating state. “Even if you had to restrain him physically. No one could’ve-”

"His location is back on!" Feuilly had suddenly alerted from the room over, and Bahorel watched Grantaire’s entire face light up with a hope he didn’t know Grantaire could possess.

"Where is he? Can you see him?" Courfeyrac had all but shouted in a rushed manner, darting to Feuilly’s side at the bench. Bahorel followed him into the room further, leaving Grantaire and Jehan behind in the sitting room.

Feuilly messed around on the laptop for a few seconds, hitting whatever keys Bahorel supposed were necessary to resummon an anarcho-socialist cult leader. Watching the computer carefully as Feuilly did so, Joly, Courfeyrac and Combeferre were again shocked with a jolt of energy. Bahorel remembers how he had felt that hope swelling in his chest.

"It looks like he's a couple of hours away." Feuilly had said.

"Then what are we fucking waiting for?" Courfeyrac had said, brimming with forgotten energy as he rushed to pass Bahorel in the hallway. Bahorel grabbed Courfeyrac by the arm.

"You can't just waltz in-" He began to say, before Courfeyrac swatted him silent.

"Yeah, yeah, we can figure out a plan on the way. Now, come on!" Courfeyrac cried, before rushing to the front door of the apartment.

Bahorel had watched Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Joly and Feuilly race out of the house, some more hesitantly than others, and make their way down the stairs to the parking lot. It was the only time that day that Bahorel had seen Grantaire look so faithful; Lord knows he was not a religious man, but Grantaire placed his head at the top of his fingertips, palms pressed together in a silent prayer to whomever it was that Grantaire prayed to.

Of course, our story never ends where it would be most convenient, Grantaire was never that buddy-buddy with any higher power. Bahorel wishes he could forget how Grantaire’s face had morphed when Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Joly and Feuilly returned hours later, with no Enjolras in tow. Combeferre had stormed right in, refusing to catch Grantaire’s eye, Courfeyrac following him into the kitchen. Feuilly had made eye contact with Bahorel and simply shook his head. Bahorel had felt his heart sink a little deeper.

That was Tuesday. And on Wednesday, Grantaire was livid.

Any attempt to even mention Enjolras and his rescue plan was stopped by Grantaire and a string of obscenities. He had felt very strongly about the actions of one rebel blonde and the consequences that accompanied them, that much was clear, and he must have felt the need to remind everybody at every chance he got that he didn’t care about Enjolras, how it didn’t bother him whether he came back or not, how he brought it on himself and doesn’t deserve the group of friends chasing his lead across the city.

But on Thursday, day three, Grantaire had switched up entirely. Today, he was neither basking in agonising misery, drowning himself in his own emotions, nor was he raging up a storm that could douse the fires effortlessly. Today, he was void of anything.

It had been three days since any of them had realised Enjolras was missing. Three days since Grantaire’s friends watched him slowly lose it, more with each day that passed. Three days since Enjolras met whatever fate it was that welcomed him. Bahorel eavesdropped on the conversation between Jehan and Éponine as Grantaire lay on the floor of Bahorel’s living room.

“Éponine.” Jehan spoke softly, their eyes locked onto the back of Grantaire’s messily tousled head. “It doesn’t matter how long it's been. He doesn’t need to hear you talking like that.”

“I’m just saying.” Éponine defended. “At what point do we-“

“What? Call it quits?” Jehan snapped in a hushed, disbelieving tone, as if it hurt them even to say the words themselves.

Bahorel knows how much Éponine and Jehan care for Grantaire. Fuck, everyone who cares for Grantaire shows it rather obviously. They all knew how deep in his own self-hatred Grantaire was, and they all knew that it took wildly apparent displays of love just for Grantaire to think no one hated him too much. But out of everyone in their friend group, Éponine and Jehan probably needed to show Grantaire that they cared the most.

They each have their own way of showing it, too. Jehan cares – not just for Grantaire, but all of their friends – with soft words and kind gestures, giving all they can to ensure comfort and safety. Small hands petting heads of hair, wiping tears, round lips offering friendly pecks to cheeks and foreheads. Jehan was the motherly comfort, a single strand of holy light amongst a darkened forest path, guiding the way to temporary safety.

Éponine’s version of care and comfort was a little different to the norm, more avoidant and distracting than actually comforting, but it worked on Grantaire, nonetheless. She poses the feeling that nothing is wrong, that they’re all still here, together, and that life moves on. She is a siren, calling to Grantaire’s vessel as he drives directly toward the rocks. Éponine ignores the unspoken, allowing Grantaire the space to think he is fooling his friends all the way up until the inevitable crash, and Jehan is there to put the pieces back together afterwards, to hold him until he feels safe enough to let go again.

And when it comes to Grantaire and his sickening mental state, both Jehan and Éponine’s tactics work well, either together or separately.

“I’m not saying call it quits, I just-“ Éponine sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. She turned over her shoulder to spot Grantaire lying on the floor, huddled up in a blanket with his eyes fixed on that blank spot on the wall. The television was turned on, though nothing was on the screen anymore, since whatever movie Jehan had put on had ended almost an hour ago. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I get it. I do.” Jehan sighed in response. “But he’s here, we’re watching him, and-“

But Bahorel was a good friend, and of Grantaire’s three closest confidants, his approach to comfort and care was a little more unorthodox than that of Jehan or Éponine. With a hand behind his back, obscuring some object from Grantaire, Éponine and Jehan’s view, Bahorel stepped into his living room.

“Hey buddy.” Bahorel said into the room as he approached the man folded over on the floor. “What’s happenin’ down there?”

If Bahorel thought Grantaire looked rough on the morning of the protest, then right now he looked a wreck. Bahorel looked down on the semi-lifeless man. His eyes were glazed over as if he were paralysed undead, barely blinking at the fact that Bahorel had joined him in the room. He was clad in that green sweater; the same one he had worn for days now. His hair melted into the floor as he lay steady where Bahorel last saw him this morning. He would bet a lot of money that Grantaire simply had not moved since then.

“Not a lot.” Grantaire murmured, eyes still focused on the white paint chippings on the wall directly ahead of him.

“I can see that.” Bahorel said. “Looks like a lot of fun.”

Grantaire did not respond.

This was basically routine at this point. Jehan and Éponine trying to give Grantaire some space after desperately trying to coax anything healthy out of him. They had managed to get him to eat today, but only because Éponine threatened to physically hurt him if he didn’t. Bahorel had tried many times now to joke around with Grantaire, knowing how much a simple laugh can usually cheer the man up in normal circumstances. But Bahorel figured these weren’t normal circumstances, not really. None of their friends had ever disappeared before, none of them ever in such peril; missing or gravely injured. So, Bahorel knew what he had to do.

He had to sweeten up his offer.

“Hey, so, do you remember that time we got super drunk and threw plates at the ground?” Bahorel tried, as he carefully lowered himself down in front of Grantaire, careful to keep his mystery object hidden from Grantaire’s view.

“Yeah.” Grantaire mumbled.

“Guess what?” Bahorel said, settling into his spot with a cheesy grin.

Grantaire gave a close-mouthed sigh. “I don’t want to throw plates at the ground.”

“Well, luckily for you, I don’t own any plates.” Bahorel laughed, even against the unwavering negative energy present, to which Grantaire’s focus shifted from the wall to Bahorel’s eye.

Bahorel shrugged internally. It was something, at least.

“How do you not own any plates?” Grantaire mumbled.

“We threw them all at the ground, remember?” Bahorel said with a chuckle, as if it should be as evident to Grantaire as it was to him. They had just brought up the memory, after all.

“That was, like, a year ago.” Grantaire said blankly.

“I’m not a perfect person, okay?” Bahorel hushed Grantaire and his associated attitude. “Anyways,”

Bahorel noticed Grantaire watching in a hidden anticipation, one that told him Grantaire simultaneously didn’t want any distractions but prayed there was one that would fix him. Bahorel allowed himself, once he was sat in front of Grantaire, to remove the hand from behind his back and reveal a nice bottle of honey mead. Bahorel had not purchased this one, he had simply found it in Éponine’s bedroom closet. It looked eerily similar to the one Grantaire had purchased for Combeferre’s birthday. Bahorel chuckled.

“Look what I found in Éponine’s bedroom.” Bahorel said, wide eyes with wiggling brows.

Grantaire looked unimpressed, though his eyes did flicker with some form of life upon seeing the bottle. Alcoholics, man, Bahorel thought, they’re simply too easy.

“You realise that Jehan put that in there to hide it from me, right?” Grantaire said, though something in that thousand-yard stare at the mead suggested he didn’t seem to care for Jehan’s decision.

“You realise Jehan isn’t my fucking mother, right?” Bahorel contested.

Grantaire rolled his eyes miserably and took a second to respond, but soon sat up slowly and mirrored Bahorel’s position, sitting cross-legged in front of him as he pulled the blanket he was wound up in onto his shoulders. He looked down at the bottle between them and sighed, letting said blanket slip off his shoulder slightly as he reached an arm out. Bahorel hardly found the time to wonder if this was the right thing to do, before Grantaire was reaching for the bottle.

“Hand it over then.” He said blearily, to which Bahorel obliged.

The two men opened the bottle and shared a few swigs in silence. Well, silence wasn’t the correct word at all, not on Bahorel’s part. Endless words were coming to him as naturally as the mead settled on his tongue, words of comedic relief and distraction, ample inappropriacy. They sat there for only moments before they were interrupted by Jehan’s usually honey-toned voice, now sharp as thorns.

“Bahorel!” Jehan’s voice came soon enough, and they appeared in the living room, followed by one unhappy Éponine at seeing her stolen prize now being shared around. Jehan gestured at Grantaire, who had turned to look at Jehan with the bottle already partway to his lips. Grantaire stopped briefly, but soon continued to swig from the bottle, not releasing Jehan’s gaze.

“What is wrong with you?” Jehan snapped at Bahorel, giving him a light smack around the back of the head.

“Hey, let the man drink!” Bahorel demanded, not impressed with the infantilisation of a grown man, no matter how he was acting. “Besides, this is payback for Combeferre’s birthday when you tricked me into letting you keep your phone.”

“Oh my God, you are fucked.” Éponine spat, rolling her eyes, but yet she still stepped into the room and placed herself down hastily beside the two on the floor. She snatched the bottle from Grantaire’s grasp, lightly spilling a few drops into the carpet. “Well, don’t be a hog. Pass it ‘round.”

Grantaire offered the bottle over readily, and Éponine took a swig from the warm glass. It seemed to go down poorly, if the look on her scrunched-up face gave anything away. Bahorel wasn’t a big mead drinker, if you could believe it, so he wasn’t sure if it was meant to be sipped or swigged, mixed or straight, room temperature or chilled, but he knew one thing; It was fucking disgusting. Jehan hesitated, before huffing and joining in themselves, grumpily snatching the bottle from Éponine’s grasp and taking a small sip. It was a good thing there was a bottle of vodka in the freezer that Bahorel did just so happen to purchase. If the mead keeps getting passed around at this rate, which Bahorel had had a feeling it would, they’d need something a little more substantial.

Somehow – and this wasn’t really part of Bahorel’s plan – hours passed like this, the four of them lazing on the floor of Bahorel and Éponine’s shabby living room. The sun outside had gone to sleep an hour or so ago, but the friends in the room stayed up past it’s bedtime. Jehan had made a small nest of pillows and blankets and could be found there staring at their phone in a focused manner, alongside Grantaire, who just sat and listened to Bahorel and Éponine talk. Éponine was blind drunk before the bottle of mead even spilled its last drop. Antidepressants, Bahorel chuckled to himself, a broke girl's dream.

He had to admit, they did seem to be enjoying themselves. Of course, he felt a bout of shame for having any amount of fun whilst their friend was missing and their other friends were working tirelessly to track him down, but he also knew that sulking about it would not help anybody. Especially not Grantaire. So that is where the four of them found themselves later on in the evening, just shy of nine o’clock.

“Alright, okay, last one. Fuck, marry, kill…” Bahorel said, his words only shortly slurred compared to Éponine’s dragging sentences. “Me, Grantaire, Jehan.”

“Well, I’d obviously marry Jehan.” Éponine spat quickly and with a little more disgust than Bahorel liked.

“Awe!” Jehan murmured and rested their head against her bicep, though they still texted away on their phone like a teenager.

“I’d kill you,” She continued, talking directly to Bahorel, “and I’d fuck Grantaire.”

Bahorel dropped his jaw, though he was genuinely unsurprised. “What the fuck? You’d kill me?”

Éponine shrugged. “If I had to choose.”

“I let you move in with me!” Bahorel shouted playfully.

“I pay your fucking rent, dude!” She shouted back, matching his energy.

Bahorel chuckled. “Fine, fuck you. I would kill you too.”

“Shocker.” She said.

“And then I’d marry Jehan and fuck Grantaire.”

Éponine scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Jehan could do better than you.”

“Jehan?” Bahorel said with haste, turning to Jehan for confirmation. Unfortunately for Bahorel, the confirmation was squandered in an instant.

“I refuse to answer because I wouldn’t kill or fuck any of you.” They said cheekily, still typing furiously on their phone.

“Fine.” Bahorel spat in annoyance, crossing his arms over himself. Eyeing Éponine dangerously, he continued, in an attempt to prove his point. “Grantaire? You wouldn’t kill me, right?”

Grantaire was silent.

Bahorel looked over to the man bundled up in his own blanket cocoon. He did not speak; he did not move. He hardly showed any sign that he had even heard the question. Now, obviously, Grantaire was in quite a fragile state; the love of his life had just up and gone before him, but his mood had very quickly shifted since Bahorel had last looked at him. Only moments prior, Grantaire was – whilst his words were clipped and dull – joining in on conversation, playing stupid drinking games, even if only to appease his friends. But now, he had reverted back into that state of loss, of terribly influential heartbreak.

“’Taire?” Jehan asked, and Bahorel saw that they were now looking up and away from their phone. Éponine turned to look at Grantaire, too, and the three found him void of emotion outside of their little circle. Something had clearly caught his eye, and Bahorel turned to see what it was.

It was a picture frame that had gotten Grantaire’s attention, hidden out of the way over on the side table beside the couch, a photo inside of the group of friends that called themselves the ABC. It was a picture taken from last summer, after a meeting, of a handful of the group and missing only a few faces. In the foreground were Bahorel, Joly, Bossuet and Jehan, drunken smiles on display and glasses raised high. And further away, in the background, sat Grantaire beside Éponine, with a particular secret admirer watching on from even further into the background. His blonde hair fell messily before his face, but his eyes were unmistakably watching Grantaire.

Bahorel turned back to Grantaire, watching him look at the picture in mourning, and he felt something churn in his stomach. He needed to fix this, somehow.

“Oh, love.” Jehan mumbled, after surely realising what it was that Grantaire had been eyeing off. They reached out lovingly for Grantaire’s hand. Éponine had figured it out too, for she threw a cushion from Jehan’s nest at the picture, the frame clattering helplessly as it was knocked off the table and landed on the floor, face down.

“Sorry.” Grantaire said blankly, shaking his head but still keeping his focus on where the picture frame once was, as if he could still see it.

“It’s okay. We understand.” Jehan said, smoothing out the wool of the sweater Grantaire was wearing, picking at a chunk of orange paint stuck in the fibres of the hem. “We’re all upset. There’s just nothing we can do right now.”

“I know.” Grantaire said, finally breaking his gaze and looking down to his own lap. “I think I just want to go to sleep.”

Bahorel was a good friend, he swears.

“Too bad.” Bahorel said, devoutly unimpressed. He ignored the way everyone in the room turned to look at him. Jehan blinked in confusion. Éponine glared with drawn-in eyebrows in addition to a smack on the bicep. Grantaire still looked hopeless, as he was one to do, but at least now his interest was clearly piqued; whether in frustration or anticipation didn’t matter.

“What?” Grantaire asked as if he had misheard.

“You heard me.” Bahorel nodded once, sharp.

The room was quiet again, and the other three friends were silently trying to make sense of the sudden insensitivity. Bahorel waited for any kind of comment, but when nothing came, he felt the need to explain himself. He rolled his eyes as he spoke.

“It’s been three days, and you’ve done nothing but sleep, drink and cry. We’re getting you out of the house.” Bahorel said sharply, directly to Grantaire. He rose then to his feet with haste, wobbling only slightly. Grantaire chuckled exhaustedly at his friend's busy demeanour.

“Baz, there’s no fucking way I’m going out right now.” Grantaire sighed, looking defeated already.

“Oh, we’re not going to the bar, my friend.” Bahorel said dramatically, stretching his back on his spot as he spoke. He gesticulated theatrically with his hands as he continued. “We’re going to do some therapy, if you will.”

“Pass.” Grantaire said, rugging himself up further in his blanket safety spot. Jehan patted him on the arm lovingly, caringly.

Bahorel tutted the man. “Not taking no for an answer. Éponine, go get my baseball bat.”

Éponine looked up at him in confusion, her eyes close to crossed. “What the fuck do you want that for?”

Bahorel shrugged, trying to emit as much suspense as he possibly could when he said, “I guess you’ll just have to wait and see.”

The evening was swinging into the night as the trees shook mercilessly in the breeze. Bahorel’s dingy unit complex loomed distant behind them as they wandered along the empty road, headed towards the bushy landscape. They were a sight to see, the four of them strolling into the abandoned lot just off the highway. Bahorel walked ahead of the rest of his small posse, a massive, heavy duffle bag that only he could probably lift swung over his shoulder like a backpack. The breeze blew softly amongst his hair, and Bahorel felt giddy towards the cinematic ambience of the moment.

Behind him in tow, Éponine, Jehan and Grantaire followed closely. The group of them were silent, no sounds but shoes scuffing rocky dirt and unfit breaths of exertion. Bahorel gave no clues at to where they were headed at this time of night, though his friends agreed willingly, and followed him to their destination, where they soon arrived. Bahorel stopped walking, turning to face the three following him.

“Here we are, boys and girls and neither.” Bahorel said conspirative. He was aware of the fact that he probably looked like a psycho murderer to his friends, bringing them to a barely lit lot with a bag full of mismatched apparatus, knowingly containing a baseball bat, but he knew his friends could never fear him. Bahorel might’ve caused terror in the hearts of his enemies, but his friends saw him for what he was; a big softie.

“Where the fuck are we?” Grantaire asked, very little enthusiasm in his voice, and Bahorel almost felt bad for dragging the man out of the house in his current state.

Almost.

“I call it,” Bahorel began as he slowly spun on the spot, gesturing to the world around him like it was heavenly, “the greatest place on earth for when you are angry or sad or your anarchist boyfriend disappears.”

“That is a mouthful.” Jehan offered.

“Yeah, I haven’t workshopped it yet.” Bahorel murmured hurriedly, determined not to ruin his moment.

Before them was a hidden lot disguised in bushes and trees, a dumping ground most commonly used to dispose of old cars, shipping crates, dumpster rubbish and abandoned recyclable technology. A set of train tracks ran along the side of the lot, but it seemed that no train had passed by here in years if the old, abandoned carriages that sat upon the tracks said anything about it. The windows were smashed in, spray paint graffiti covering the panelling to the point of almost no remaining original colour. There were empty cars with endless parts stolen from them: tyres, rims, panelling, interior parts, you name it, they were missing it. This wasn’t a place where many would hang out, it was probably too dangerous and isolated for stoner kids and the homeless to want to spend their time here, but Bahorel came here often when he needed to do some therapy of his own.

Bahorel’s unit, the place he called home, was owned by the state. When he turned eighteen, rent-free living was given to him as he aged out of the foster care system; in fact, the entire block of units was occupied by kids from the system, some he recognised, some he knew, and some he didn’t. Bahorel’s unit had truly been the only place he’d stayed in for more than a year consecutively, often moving around every few months to different foster families and group homes. It wasn’t all that bad, Bahorel thought, but to have his own place, even with how crammed and dingy it was, it felt like a palace fit for a king.

Until the first winter, when the walls couldn’t keep out the chill of morning frost and the windows displayed how lonely lunchtime could feel.

Bahorel didn’t always have a twenty-something-year-old girl running around telling him what to do in his own home constantly, and back when he didn’t have her – plus the thirteen-year-old asleep on his sofa every other night – Bahorel’s homelife was quite uneventful. Bahorel had found the place quite sad, lonesome, oftentimes finding himself looking for something to do, for somewhere that actually felt like home, like the café did. Perhaps that was why he spent so much time there, surrounded by his friends inside and outside of the ABC. But after opening hours, when the doors of the Musain were bolted shut, he had to look elsewhere.

And one night he found it, as ridiculous as it seemed — an abandoned lot. You’d think he would have felt even lonelier here with no one around and the highway noise loud enough to muffle the sound of him breaking things, but here, he was able to be as loud and as crazy as he wanted. It's hard to feel lonely when your knuckles grip your attention, or when the crooked laughs that come out of your mouth sound distant, as if others are watching on.

And now, he found himself in the abandoned lot again, except this time, he was accompanied by three of his closest friends. Bahorel grinned brightly, feeling a lovely warmth settle in his chest as he watched his friends. Bahorel dropped the heavy duffle bag off of his shoulder. It hit the ground with a thud, disrupting the dirt that settled beneath it. Bahorel coughed as the soft clouds dared to reach him.

“Grantaire,” Bahorel said, whistling as he gestured for Grantaire to approach. “Come here.”

Bahorel saw little care in Grantaire’s eyes, but despite tremendous defeat lingering there too, Grantaire obeyed and approached. He trudged over to where Bahorel had dropped off his bag and watched as Bahorel kneeled to empty the bag's contents onto the dirty ground beneath them. With each item Bahorel pulled from the bag, Grantaire’s expression became increasingly more confused. Bahorel huffed an exerted breath, and then stood to his feet.

“Behold,” Bahorel said proudly, taking a step back to examine his work. “My mighty armoury.”

Bahorel noticed Grantaire spending some time examining the items now on the ground. In front of the two men, a variety of household and otherwise items: a sledgehammer with busted leather around the handle, a crowbar that had rusted off at the sharp end, a baseball bat with Bahorel’s initials scratched into the side of the pommel, an old, fractured metal pipe, an orange can of gasoline and a reusable metal lighter. Bahorel watched Grantaire slowly notice the age and state of each item.

“Why do you even have all of this stuff?” Grantaire asked, wanting so desperately to sound uninterested, but failing.

“Uh, let’s see,” Bahorel said, taking his time and pointing out each of the different items. “Worked in a factory, keep locking my keys in my car, high school baseball captain, I live in a dodgy area. Now, enough questions.” Bahorel snapped, before gesturing to the collection as a whole. “Take your pick.”

“For what?” Grantaire asked, and Bahorel gestured to the entire lot full of abandoned cars and forgotten train carriages. Some were smashed to pieces, probably no longer recognisable to the original owners. Some had parts missing, dents, bumps, and bruises. There was one car, a navy-blue car with black, white, and gold decals in surprisingly attractive shape, considering what the rest of the vehicles looked like.

“Take a guess.” Bahorel said, a wicked grin on his face.

Grantaire did look around, and Bahorel saw some speck of light flicker in his eyes when he realised why they were here. Bahorel smiled to himself, mentally patting himself on the back in advance. Slowly, Grantaire turned towards the items and leaned down to pick up the crowbar.

“Good choice.” Bahorel applauded. Grantaire stood holding the crowbar like he didn’t know what to do with it, and Bahorel was happy to swoop in and offer a helping hand. He moved behind Grantaire, leaning his head over Grantaire’s shoulder and coming close to his ear like an older brother, convincing him to play a prank on Mum and Dad. “Now, see that car over there, behind the stump?”

“The blue one?” Grantaire asked.

“Yep.” Bahorel said “It’s looking a little too intact to me, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Awe, hell yeah.” Éponine chuckled, springing to action herself. She chose the mighty metal pipe as her weapon before going over to the Toyota Bahorel had pointed out. Jehan giggled and jumped on the spot before snatching the wooden baseball bat from the ground as they, too, passed, following Éponine’s lead easily. Grantaire held back for a second, not so much in disinterest as in hesitation. He simply watched on as his two friends approached the car, and before long they were starting to make it look like it belonged in the lot with the rest of them.

Bahorel noticed this hesitation in Grantaire’s movements – it was hard not to – and so he decided to hang back himself for a bit too. He picked up the sledgehammer, placing the heavy end on the ground and resting his forearms on the pommel before lightly knocking Grantaire with his elbow to gain his attention.

“Don’t lose your fight.” Bahorel said, not looking Grantaire in the eye, remaining focused on Jehan and Éponine. He wanted to ensure Grantaire heard him, but making a big deal out of this drunken pep talk felt incredibly hazardous to Grantaire’s already lacking pride.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Grantaire said. He was bluffing.

Bahorel sighed, looking down at his forearms resting upon the end of the sledgehammer, and chose his next words carefully. “I never had anyone to teach me shit about perseverance. I know you didn’t either.”

“Jehan says aggression isn’t healthy.” Grantaire murmured, seemingly feeling uncomfortable at the prospect of Bahorel taking his emotional health for a spin.

“It’s healthier than taking it out on yourself.” Bahorel said.

Grantaire seemed to ponder over the words, for he didn’t respond with any exhausted, witty one-liner or self-deprecating joke. He simply looked up at Bahorel with glassy silver eyes, chuckled, and nodded his head. The moonlight illuminated the reflective parts of Grantaire’s face – his eyes, his hair, his round, shiny nose. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, But Bahorel was almost convinced that he caught the draft of a smile upon Grantaire’s lips.

“Godspeed, soldier.” Bahorel said before Grantaire could intervene. And soon enough, Grantaire was smiling politely, turning back to his newfound project, and walking over to it with a stride he hadn’t possessed in days.

Bahorel watched him with awe, as he oftentimes did. Grantaire was like the textbook image of a tormented genius, with creation so poetic that his sad, cold life paled in comparison. He continually chose to make his trauma more beautiful than it was, after all, a darling crimson paint splatter on a canvas is much more beautiful to a tortured artiste than the true memory of what he has seen. Bahorel loved his friend, sometimes feeling as if the two of them had the most in common out of the entire group of them. So, to see Grantaire return to himself a little, even if only at the prospect of slamming a crowbar into a beat-up Toyota, it made Bahorel feel like he had helped himself, too.

Grantaire reached the car and hesitated a little further, though now more a testament to exhaustion than to concern. But after some thought, Grantaire steadied himself. He planted both feet firmly on the ground, only a few feet from the car, and raised his hands above his head. With a sharp whack, he brought the crowbar down upon the side panel door, and the three remaining friends called out in excitement.

“Whoo! Atta boy!” Éponine cried, moving herself to the other side of the car and joining Grantaire.

They must’ve only remained there like that for a few minutes, maybe ten but less than twenty, but time seemed to stretch on for hours as they demolished the remaining life from the car. Royal blue paint chipped away to reveal gunmetal grey, rusted car parts, revealing their true nature. Grantaire was going to town on the hood of the car, busted half open, allowing him to destroy the engine bay more than it already was.

“Yeah!” Bahorel called out, still driving his own sledgehammer into the car's boot. “Give it to it!”

“Fuck you, dad!” Éponine cried into the misty night as she raised her pipe into the air, allowing gravity to do most of the work as this heavy metal object collided with car windows.

“Fuck you, Éponine’s dad!” Jehan called after her, following her lead once again.

“Fuck you, nineteen-ninety pinstriped Toyota Camry!” Bahorel screamed as loud as his throat would let him.

The four of them released all their anger, resentment, hurt, misery and doubt onto this poor, unsuspecting Toyota Camry, cursing people who had wronged them, wishing for better for people they loved. Grantaire didn’t say a thing the entire time, but Bahorel could see what Grantaire was fighting for in his eyes. If this were an animated movie, there would be a yellow and red flicker of fire in those eyes right about now, flame daring to fight against the lake blue of his iris. Bahorel was chuffed; he was just glad he got Grantaire to fight at all.

And after the adrenaline had died down a little, after Éponine had stopped working on the windows and started lighting up a cigarette that smelled suspiciously less like a cigarette with each puff she took, after Grantaire had even begun to laugh a few times at the absurdity of the activity, Bahorel stepped back to admire their work.

The car was fucked. Granted, it was internally and mechanically fucked before they got here, but now its shell was in a state beyond repair. The bonnet was dented, all of the windows had been smashed in, with glass covering the seats inside, the headlights and taillights had been destroyed, courtesy of Jehan and their baseball bat, and the words ‘fuck you’ had been keyed into the passenger-side door. If the car had any juice left in it, Bahorel reckoned the alarms would definitely be going off by now. But the car was out of juice, and the four friends standing beside it were out of juice, too. There was only one thing left to do.

Bahorel slowly knelt down to pull something out of his duffle bag. He reached in and found the cylindrical can of gasoline, grabbing it carefully and unscrewing the cap before rising to his feet once more. A waft of that putrid yet somehow delicious smell attacked his nostrils as he held the can in his dominant hand, and he may have been just drunk enough to take a large breath in through his nose. He walked ahead of the group and stood firm in front of the car, allowing the others time to remove themselves from the area by a good few metres. Bahorel didn’t believe in any God, not anymore, but he still found himself saying a prayer and a curse before he doused the car in gasoline.

“The final step.” Bahorel said, returning to his friends side, tossing the empty gasoline can out of harm’s way. He stood beside Grantaire, the other two taking a further few steps backward.

“This is so illegal.” Jehan laughed from behind the two men.

“It’s what Enjolras would have wanted.” Bahorel dared to say, hoping the mention of his name wouldn’t send Grantaire back down to where he was an hour ago.

Grantaire chuckled tiredly. “True.”

Bahorel hummed tiredly and gestured to Éponine for a hit of her smoke. He stopped, took a drag for himself, and then offered it to Grantaire as he exhaled the smoke sharply. “Wanna do the honours?”

Grantaire looked at the cigarette held out between them for only a moment. Bahorel knew it did not take much convincing on either of their parts to get Grantaire to smoke, and Grantaire took the cigarette lightly with calloused fingertips. He put the filter in his mouth, took a long drag, and then exhaled slowly, savouring every bit of it.

And then, Grantaire tossed the lit cigarette in through the car window, and the whole car went up in flames.

Okay, it didn’t. Not until, in all honesty, Éponine threw the lighter in with it. But this was Bahorel’s story recount, and he felt it was cooler his way.

Bahorel looked at Grantaire, and he smiled to himself as he watched an impressed grin make its way over Grantaire’s face. This was no cartoon, this was reality. Now, there truly was a flame reflecting in those blue eyes, hungry and ravishing. Bahorel saw a little bit of Enjolras in Grantaire’s gaze, but he didn’t find the need to speak his thought aloud. Not right now, not here, in this god-awful moment of absolute bliss. They stayed there for a short while, the four of them watching the car burn, gasoline and marijuana assaulting their senses. Bahorel didn’t know if it was possible to get high off of gasoline, and maybe it was just the marijuana, but his head began to spin and blur, and for the first time today, looking around at his friends, it felt like it would be okay.

God, he was such a good friend.

It was only a short walk back to Bahorel and Éponine’s place, just on the edge of town passed the highway. Grantaire had no idea why Bahorel had taken them the long way to this spot, he supposed it was something of a suspense factor, but the ache in Grantaire’s legs was really beginning to make itself known. Still, he felt relaxed enough that he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Bahorel and Jehan walked ahead of him and Éponine strode at his side, matching his casual pace. The two in the front debated, an intense argument over their respective top five rankings of television superheroes, and Grantaire was rather glad for the silence he found he and Éponine sharing.

Grantaire had been staying at Bahorel and Éponine’s unit ever since the day after the protest, for obvious reasons. His friends had told him it was to stick together so as not to risk anyone else being targeted, but Grantaire wasn’t stupid. He knew what Jehan meant when they said they wanted to keep an eye on him. And the truth is, Grantaire was glad for it. He wasn’t going to do anything he couldn’t take back, nor was he going to subject anyone to something of that calibre, but the company was less than unwelcome in these harrowing times.

He felt somewhat normal again. Granted, every thought of Enjolras felt like a stab in her chest, one laced with both anger and an undying inability to hate him, but this moment that Bahorel had created for him laughed louder than any lingering heartbreak did. The whole day, the days previous, it all felt like some bizarre dream where your legs don’t move as fast, and you can’t feel your stomach drop. But somehow, high and drunk, Grantaire felt the most awake he had all week. Somehow, even without Enjolras, his blinding light and his fiery warmth, Grantaire could still imagine a world where the sun would rise.

That wasn’t to say he had gotten over Enjolras; he wouldn’t kid himself that hard, but he supposed that he found himself with a sliver of that hope Enjolras always told him to find. Suddenly, it wasn’t the end of the world. Enjolras had not been confirmed to be dead or alive, and whilst that could be bad, it was also good. Enjolras was strong, wild, charming and terrible, and always in battle with the world who sought to eliminate him. What made this time so different?

Eventually, and unexpectedly, Éponine’s crystal tune sang through the distance between them.

“How are you feeling?” She asked, clearing her throat. “Or is that still a stupid question?”

Grantaire chuckled. He knew Éponine wasn’t very well versed in talking about feelings, the two of them usually choosing the route of ignoring said feelings and getting drunk enough to forget about them, but she was trying now, and Grantaire found that for once, it was quite welcomed.

“Less stupid.” Grantaire replied, trying to sound normal in this unusual moment. “I feel a bit better.”

“Good.” Éponine said blankly. “I do too.”

Grantaire did feel a little bit better, truthfully, after having released some of that pent up rage. If you could even call it that; it was forty percent rage, fifty percent misery, and a sneaky ten percent ‘I told you so’. But he answered her question honestly, and the two walked along in a little more silence, listening to why Spiderman was oh-so-overrated in Bahorel’s eyes. Jehan sounded to be winning the argument, regardless of Bahorel's facts. Grantaire chuckled heart-warmingly. After Bahorel’s fun Spiderman fact number three, Éponine chimed in again.

“Did I ever tell you about how I’ve known Enjolras since, like, the second grade?” She asked.

“You did?” Grantaire said, turning to her in shock as they walked. He paused, waiting for her to say she was kidding or something. “Why didn’t I know that?”

“Oh, no, I was never friends with him. He was a freak.” She said harshly. “I didn’t actually become his friend until after high school when I met Marius. But yeah, I went through all of school with him.”

“No wonder you bully him.”

“Of course I do. He was a freak.” She spat. Thinking about young Enjolras, made Grantaire chuckle, and he guessed she was probably right.

“But I’ll tell you this for free. That kid has never let anything stop him. Teachers, bullies, rules.” She continued, kicking a small stone along in front of her as she walked. “He was exactly like he is now, just more blonde. And shorter. And less gay.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes.

“Let me guess,” He said, looking down at the rock moving effortlessly along the concrete patches ahead of them. “Next thing out of your mouth will be ‘he will be fine because he’s strong’ or some shit.”

“No, actually, I don’t know that for sure. I’m not a weatherman. I can’t see the future.” Éponine said. Grantaire stopped walking.

“Hold on, do you realise the weatherman can’t actually see the future?”

Éponine didn’t slow. “Agree to disagree.”

“Alright.” Grantaire chuckled and nodded to himself as he continued walking, just a step behind his best friend.

“My point is,” She sighed, and shrugged as Grantaire tried to catch back up to her. “Whatever happens, it’s not your fault.”

Éponine wasn’t a mean person, even though Grantaire knew how it looked to others. If Grantaire had a dollar for every person he couldn’t hang out with because they didn’t like Éponine’s abrasive personality, Grantaire would be rich time and time over. Maybe it was because Éponine only spoke true thoughts, or because she learnt her harshness from her father and mother, but Éponine did come off as quite brazen. At times, her jokes could be at the minor expense of others, or so harshly truthful that it made people fear her rather than rethink themselves. But Éponine wasn’t mean, she was far from it.

So maybe that was why Grantaire felt a little stupid for a moment. He couldn’t detect any annoyance in her tone – it wasn’t as if she were just saying what he wanted to hear – nor did he feel she was lying. Grantaire feared that she was right, and maybe that was a little too confronting for him right now. All Grantaire wanted to do with this newfound sense of hope was believe that Enjolras was out there somewhere, perfectly okay. Maybe he had a few bumps and bruises, but he would walk his way back into Grantaire’s life soon enough. But Éponine’s words told truth, of the other possibility, and Grantaire couldn’t decide how to feel.

Éponine must’ve sensed the decline in Grantaire’s confidence, as now it was her turn to stop walking.

“Grantaire, look at me.” She said, all seriousness in her body revamped.

Grantaire stopped walking, and he did look at her, her big brown eyes trustworthy and more comforting than they usually felt whenever he looked into them. Oil paints, Grantaire realised. Oil paints would capture her beautifully. Whenever it is that he returned home, he would find the biggest blank canvas in his apartment, and he would paint her like this, inviting and spectacular, warm toned browns instead of her usual cool.

“None of this is on you.” Éponine said, direct. “He got himself into this mess, and if he doesn’t get himself out of it, you are not to blame.”

It was as if he blinked, and suddenly she was not a model for the page, but his friend, and one that loved him the same way he loved her. Grantaire heard the words, and he realized something for the first time in the last three days. He felt the same way he did those days ago, seeing Enjolras upon the roof of the Musain, when Grantaire knew saving someone who did not want to be saved was a near-impossible task.

Enjolras’ plan didn’t have to involve Grantaire. This would have been the outcome, no matter who Enjolras chose.

None of this was the fault of his own. Had he not been there to rile Enjolras up or whatever it was that Combeferre had assumed, this would still have happened, wouldn’t it have? Enjolras may be perfect to Grantaire, but he’s not perfect to the world around them. Éponine was right. There’s no sense in blaming yourself for something someone else did to themselves. Theres no sense in taking a beating for the person who crafted the stick.

But still, Enjolras did choose Grantaire, and Grantaire couldn’t help but feel there was a reason for that.

“I know.” Grantaire said, looking down at his mud and rust-splattered shoes. “It’s just easier to be mad at myself than to be mad at him.”

Éponine sighed, reached for his hand and took it in hers, wrapping her other hand around his upper arm. She leaned her head on his shoulder for a few moments, before she directed the two of them to continue walking, keeping her head in place as they did so.

“You’re gonna be okay, R.” She whispered, loud enough for only them to hear. “Eventually.”

It was nearing the middle of the night, winter's cool reign in the air outside, no match for the warming presence of vodka in their bellies. Bahorel’s neighbours were assumedly fast asleep and dreaming by now, though it might’ve been hard to do so with the ruckus coming from Bahorel and Éponine’s unit. The four friends found themselves where they did an hour or two prior, in a circle on the floor, surrounded by cozy cushions and patchwork quilts. The world outside still moved, Enjolras’ whereabouts were still unknown, but inside the unit, the four let time stop. Just for tonight, they bargained, just for them. Lord knows they deserved it.

“Alright, answer now, my dear Grantaire.” Bahorel said, slurring his words and appearing even more drunk than he was when he stopped drinking over thirty minutes ago. “Fuck, marry, kill… Our dads.”

“Oh, easy.” Grantaire guffawed, holding the – now empty – bottle of vodka in his lap. “I’d kill Thénardier, marry Mr. Prouvaire, and fuck your dad.”

“Haha, very funny, I have no dad.” Bahorel joked sarcastically.

“Nah, I’ve met him. He’s sexy as hell.” Grantaire chuckled, turning into a brighter laugh. He felt better like this, he had to admit. Holding space to feel concern without letting it wash over him the same way vodka and honey mead did his friends.

“Asshole.” Bahorel mumbled crankily.

Bahorel looked pleased with himself, and Grantaire could only assume this had something to do with being the one to break Grantaire from his protective shell. He was grinning as his eyes rolled around in his head, that vision surely spinning, what with how many equivalent shots of vodka he must’ve drank from slugging straight from the bottle. (Not that Grantaire could talk; he did the same exact thing.)

Éponine and Jehan weren’t really playing this game of fuck, marry, kill anymore. The former had put a movie on the television behind Grantaire, and he could hear all sorts of unfunny jokes and cringey romantic one-liners that he figured it had to be a movie only drunk Éponine would love. The latter was busy once more on their phone, living it up in the digital space doing, well, whatever the hell it was that they were always doing on there. Grantaire thought it looked comical how brightly the screen's blue light lit up Jehan’s freckled face. The phone even dinged a few times, though only Bahorel seemed to care enough to turn to look. Grantaire was too busy trying to picture what Bahorel’s dad would look like.

“It’s just Combeferre. I’ll just go take this.” Jehan said casually, but they rose from their spot on the ground in a fashion that told Grantaire it was definitely Enjolras-rescue-mission related. Grantaire did his best to ignore it and continue on with his stress-free night.

“You’re just jealous that I have a dad.” Grantaire snapped playfully.

“Bro, your dad is literally dead.” Bahorel reminded him.

“At least I met him!” Grantaire laughed, feeling his own smile wide and brighter than it had been in a while.

God, he loved his friends. Look at them. The support they’d given in the last three days was enough to make Grantaire want to lay down his life for them. They each deserved the world for giving theirs to him for so long, and Grantaire couldn’t think of a way to thank them enough. Grantaire found that once he looked for it, he could finally see a truth he had ignored for the last few months. It wasn’t only Enjolras that he truly lived for; it was all of his friends who were the reason he was put here and, even further, maybe the reason he remained.

“Yeah, and wasn’t he the actual worst?” Bahorel asked.

“Nah, that’s my dad.” Éponine chimed in, eyes still glued to the television in focus. Bahorel laughed.

“To shit dads.” He said, raising an invisible drink into the air as if they hadn’t all been sharing sips straight from the bottle.

“To shit dads!” Éponine and Grantaire echoed with a laugh and hands raised high. They all mimicked clinking glasses as the real bottle fell to the floor from Grantaire’s lap. It was after their imaginary toast that Jehan reappeared in the room, shock mixed with thoughtfulness on their face.

“Guys!” They said.

Everyone turned in sudden attention to Jehan, and Grantaire found that they looked like they had seen a ghost. With three words, times halt came to an end, the night picking back up speed, worlds spinning in Grantaire’s mind. With an unreadable expression, strands of long auburn hair dangling messily in front of their eyes as they had rushed back into the room with haste, Jehan spoke confidently.

“They’ve got him.”

Chapter Text

When Enjolras was a child, from as far back as he could remember, he loved to play pretend. Just like any young boy growing up in an unfamiliar reality, superheroes and fantasy idols clouded Enjolras’ young mind like an umbrella did harsh sun against fragile, porcelain skin. Knights atop dragons, high in the sky, swashbuckling rogues stealing priceless treasures from the rich to give back to the poor, princess warriors in battle defeating colossuses of villainous armies, Enjolras loved it all. It made him feel as though there was a better world than this one somewhere out there, and if he could just pause time for long enough to find it, he could make it his reality.

Story after story, fairytale after happily-ever-after, our young Enjolras would find himself stuck in his daydreams of kingdoms so tall they pierced the heavens, of haunting valleys so low they’d scare the hells themselves. By the age of twelve, Enjolras found no story he couldn’t write himself into. No matter how broad or ambitious, Enjolras’ goals could always be achieved, his fantasy could always be made a reality on the page. Maybe that was why he was such an idealist; in his mind, the entire world was his to manipulate and mould into that brighter tomorrow.

Enjolras is no longer a child, granted, now an adult of twenty-two years, but pretend was a game he still loved to play. He had to, at least in his line of work. Being a modern-day political activist was a hard gig, even for the most hopeful of idealists, and sometimes pretending everything wasn’t crumbling around him was what he had to do to achieve whatever unrealistic goal he had set for himself. There simply was not enough time in a day to waste trying to grasp the little things, as much as Enjolras wished he could change that, so one might as well delusionally gaze at the bigger picture until their eyes blurred.

If he really could hit pause on time, though, Enjolras felt he might be better at understanding those little things that came so naturally to everyone but himself. Sure, he would still enact all of his focus upon his plan to save the world, but maybe in addition, if he could stare at Courfeyrac’s face for long enough, Enjolras could make sense of the gaze that held on to mournful sadness. Maybe, if he had all the time in the world, Enjolras could understand why Combeferre barked angrily at him instead of welcoming him home.

“Enjolras, please, just talk to us!” Courfeyrac’s desperate voice rang sullenly through the apartment. His friend flinched at crunching ceramic, dodging stray pieces that flew at his feet.

But, of course, time didn’t pause, not in the real world. Even on days when everyone around him remained still enough to create the illusion, their blood still pumped, their chests still rose, and their minds still ticked like solemn clocks. They still spiralled, just like he. Stillness was a façade; he had no fictitious ability to hit pause on some worldwide clock to give him all the time he wished he had. There was no ‘maybe if’ here, only facts. Fact, his hands bled steadily, like someone softly weeping, tiny dots of blood lining shallow wounds he had created. Fact, Courfeyrac’s kitchen floor was littered with smashed china, navy marble plates now smeared with crusty crimson at his bruised and swollen feet. Fact, Combeferre and Courfeyrac reacted as they did, and it didn’t matter if Enjolras made no sense of it.

It was close to midnight now, and the night’s cold shine was lacklustre upon the dim, grey streets outside, only subtly reflecting through the windows. Courfeyrac’s apartment was cold, the walls softening the blow of the chill as best as they could, though Enjolras’ bones still shivered inside the apartment just as they had outside. Enjolras hardly recalls the last few hours, feeling like he was on autopilot, a tactic not to let that chill creep into his mind like it did his body.

The things that transpired after his father had taken him away from that warehouse he had woken up in were truly heartbreaking, however, Enjolras could hardly feel the emotions trying to break into his mind like unwanted guests banging on his door. He was somewhat catatonic, with nothing to distract him and everything trying to break him as he remained in that blank state for the duration of his journey home — or as close to home as he could get. The empty streets of his city felt double the size, unfamiliar and repetitious. The long, tiring journey back to the crossroads was haunted by unwanted thoughts and uninviting memories trying to follow him home. And it appears that they succeeded.

“Courf’, he can’t fucking hear you.” Combeferre’s distressed tone sank deep into Enjolras’ outer consciousness, only just heard by the part of him that wasn’t in charge. His mind was too focused on his father's voice to hear his friend's words.

Enjolras recalled the days prior like they were freeze frames. He remembers getting out of the car before it burst into flame – perhaps that was when his ankle rolled, he couldn’t quite tell. He remembers a flicker of how he had stood there, watching flames engulfing the car his father had mercilessly thrown him into only moments before. He remembers the screams, cackling just like the fire, and then nothing but flames roaring, but none of it mattered. What mattered was hiding, running, sneaking down an unfamiliar highway in the dead of night as police cars flew past him. He remembers how time felt like it had sped up in that moment, racing to engulf him, too.

He could’ve called someone. He should’ve called someone, with the little battery his phone had on it and the one bar of cell reception that he could source. He remembers thinking about it, contemplating it, but his mind was in far too a shadowed state even to know who to call. To even know what he’d say. It’s hard to find the fight to keep going when the shoes on your feet haven’t been unlaced in days and the sound of the new day dawning is being pushed further back every time you check your phone.

Honestly, he did think about going home, after he left the burning car behind him. He pictured the weary trudge home, countless hours of walking along the streets in the harsh of day until his legs ached. The image of the stairs leading to his front door loomed in his mind as he imagined himself climbing them, one hesitant foot after the other, but the thought of what would be on the other side of his door waiting for him got the better of him. Combeferre’s degrading lecture roared in his mind, and as selfish as it was, Combeferre was the last person he wanted to see right now.

Or, let's not kid ourselves, second last.

Which, of course, brought Enjolras’ wandering mind back to the same man he had obsessed over for the last three days prior. At the crossroads down the street from his apartment, Enjolras stood out in the open for longer than he knew he should have, pondering his options, knowing where he should and shouldn’t turn up.

The street to the right was the homestretch, leading him to his bed, to his shower, to his hard drive and his mission, but it would also take him to Combeferre. Enjolras pictured him standing sleepless and bothered in the centre of their empty apartment. Enjolras looked down at himself, battered and bruised, looking like hell and feeling similar. Combeferre would want to see that Enjolras was safe, that he was okay, this Enjolras knew, but he had no idea what Combeferre would say when he saw him like this.

The street to the left would take Enjolras to Courfeyrac’s apartment, only a five-minute walk he had endured countless times before. Courfeyrac and Marius should be passed out in their beds at this time of night, like always, giving Enjolras a quiet night’s rest on the couch before the inevitable storm that would awaken in the morning. This seemed like the better option of the two, and perhaps it would give Enjolras time to think of the right words to say to Combeferre.

But there was that other option, as bad of an idea as it seemed in Enjolras’ mind. The street directly ahead of him would take him on a longer journey, to a place where he feared he was not wanted, making it all the more tempting. It was only quarter to midnight at that point; Grantaire would still be awake, no doubt polishing off whatever mismatched combination of bottles he had picked out for the evening. Enjolras could rock up to the flat he shared with Jehan, and they could argue with each other, and Enjolras could listen to all of the things Grantaire would blow out of proportion. Cruel ‘I hate you’s and proud ‘I told you so’s. Perhaps Grantaire even had the hard drive still, Enjolras wondered how hard he would have to fight to get what he wanted out of the man. Enjolras could get anything he wanted, this he knew, and if he was lucky, Grantaire might’ve even wanted the same thing as he did.

Enjolras swallowed hard, shook his head, and went to Courfeyrac’s home instead.

Now, Courfeyrac was Enjolras’ oldest friend, and whilst the two shared an insurmountable number of differences, sometimes Courfeyrac’s presence over Combeferre’s was just what Enjolras needed, if you can believe it. The last four days had been beyond tiring, and the weeks leading up to them didn’t help either, so perhaps sneaking into Courfeyrac’s apartment and falling asleep silently on his sofa would better prepare him for the way Combeferre would try to read him into pieces before Enjolras even had the chance to say hello. The journey there was filled with sympathy for his friends, but the exhaustion running itself through his body spoke louder than any guilt he harboured.

And so when he had arrived at the Courfeyrac-Pontmercy residence, Enjolras had limped in begrudgingly, trying his best not to make any sort of noise to alert the occupants of his arrival, dragging a waiting storm inside with him to release into tomorrow’s skies. He hadn’t really any idea what he would say to Courfeyrac if he had still been awake, probably his usual incoherent rambling, aiming to confuse and upset until Courfeyrac admitted defeat and went to sleep. What he was met with, however, were Marius, Courfeyrac and Combeferre sitting around the dining room table, staring up at him like they had just seen a ghost.

That was before that metaphorical storm broke out, and if time could pause, Enjolras would have had time to prepare himself for the downpour, instead of letting himself get drenched in the rain.

“What were you thinking?!” Combeferre snapped in real-time, pacing circles around Enjolras like a predator to its prey.

“I don’t want to talk about it!” Enjolras shouted at his best friend, never daring to make any eye contact. Courfeyrac attempted to get in between the two men, but it was to no use. Breaking up two headstrong, stubborn men was no easier feat than trying to part the storm clouds yourself.

“I’m not just going to let you waltz back in and act like everything is perfectly normal!” Combeferre tried angrily, for once letting his emotions get the better of him. “You owe us an explanation!”

Enjolras huffed unsteadily, feeling his chest sparking with frustration.

“I don’t owe you shit!” Enjolras barked, dramatically sweeping the kitchen counter in anger. He knocked a mug to the ground and watched it smash into sizable pieces at his feet with the rest of the dishes he’d broken. Courfeyrac flinched lightly at the noise again, and Enjolras almost had half a heart to calm himself down, but the look of anger on Combeferre’s face outweighed the emotions Courfeyrac was stirring in his chest. If headstrong was what Combeferre wanted, then it was what he’d get.

In the kitchen was a telling scene, and it wasn’t precisely how Enjolras saw this going, the three of them finally reunited. For starters, Marius was involved, and when the fuck was Marius ever involved where it counted? Marius was sat on a stool at the counter, quietly observing the scene ahead, though he rightfully stayed out of it. Courfeyrac was standing in amongst the chaos of the room closest to the doorway that led to the hall, a hand to his heart as he watched on while Combeferre attempted to regain control of the storm Enjolras had created. Enjolras was standing dead centre of the kitchen with broken kitchenware at his feet and a fresh cut on his palm.

Without so much as another word, Enjolras stormed down the hallway, desperate for an out. Time was moving too fast. This was not what he needed right now.

“For fuck’s sake, Enjolras, you can’t-” Combeferre began to ramble, following him down the hall and into the room Enjolras was attempting to escape to.

Enjolras will admit it, he zoned out while Combeferre was speaking – or shouting. It wasn’t that he wanted to, Enjolras wasn’t so rude, but rather that he had to. He found himself mimicking that young child his father had brought out in him, running to hide from the scary men with loud voices, playing that game of pretend when everything became too much. He couldn’t keep himself from dissociating, finding no other way to block out the past. Visions of the hands around his neck gripped his mind as the drowning did to their lifelines. There were endless memories of his pulse beating rapidly against their fingertips, strength in numbers, forcing his wrists behind his back, pulling that woven burlap bag over his head. The feeling swarmed him like a plague of insects. It was all too much, the sensation, skin bumps, callouses, and arm hairs on edge. The thoughts upsurged in animosity against the crescendo of Combeferre’s angered tone. Enjolras could feel himself ready to burst at the slightest prod.

What was worse, Enjolras thought as he approached Courfeyrac’s bedroom, was that they didn’t understand. They’ve never understood. They’ve never known how Enjolras has always felt like a prisoner in his own body. They didn’t know how badly Enjolras needed to get out of this conversation. How badly he needed to decompress, to sit in this room and cry or shout or hit things until his nervous system stopped acting like he was being hunted for sport. No one has ever understood him, and further now, he feared no one ever would.

How close he had come to his end, to never trying to make them understand ever again, and how cynical he felt to think it may have been for the better.

“You’ve had everyone worried sick for days. You can’t just pretend that didn’t happen!” Combeferre barked as Enjolras attempted to close Courfeyrac’s bedroom door behind him. But Combeferre had his foot in the way, keeping the door from slamming shut and pushing it wide as he followed his friend into the room. Enjolras threw himself onto Courfeyrac’s bed as Combeferre parented Enjolras just like he always did. He eyed Enjolras with a malice that felt so real and sure, and whilst he was probably not aiming to rile the blonde up, he was doing so anyway.

Enjolras pulled a pillow from between the bed and the wall and shoved his face into it with a groan in response. It smelt like Courfeyrac’s aftershave mixed with cigarette smoke. Combeferre was still ranting and raving at him, but Enjolras looked at him as if he couldn’t hear his friends angered words.

It sucked to look at Combeferre now, in all honesty. Here was Enjolras’ best friend in the entire world, his rock, his role model, his brother. It both hurt and confused Enjolras that they would fight right now after everything that Enjolras thought he had lost. After he thought his friends had lost him forever, he had come so close after all. But Combeferre didn’t welcome him home so easily, not after the stunt Enjolras had pulled, and Enjolras knew he wasn’t going to get out of this one by sheer force. He had to reason with Combeferre, and reasoning with Combeferre often felt like pleading to God, impossible to match.

But it wasn’t God standing before him, it was his Combeferre, whose hair was a mess, unruly unlike usual, all kinked and frizzy in places that usually sat smooth and neat. It was Combeferre’s fingers that trembled, even though they rested against his arms, and it was Combeferre’s eye that twitched so softly, just like it did whenever he was ready to get some sleep. Enjolras began to wonder if Combeferre had even slept at all since they last saw each other. Come to think of it, he looked similar to that moment, right before they had split up, right before Enjolras’ capture. Uncertainty mixed with tumultuous frustration, flustered in the worst way.

The longer Enjolras watched Combeferre, the more apparent it became that Combeferre wasn’t angry, not really. The anger was a front, an outlet to what he really felt. He was tired, and Enjolras felt that familiar pang of guilt eating at his insides. Still, he didn’t zone back into the world around him until after Combeferre had finished speaking, watching him now standing in the doorway with a hand on his hip and his eyes narrowed so carefully on Enjolras’ silent frame. Of course, Combeferre could read Enjolras better than anyone. He knew already what Enjolras was thinking, that he could talk his way out of it. Of course, in typical Combeferre fashion, he was waiting for Enjolras to speak before completely destroying his argument from the inside out.

Enjolras chose to be silent.

Everyone chose to be silent.

Enjolras shut his eyes and began to play pretend. He imagined a quieter scene, a midnight beachfront with choppy waves lulling him to sleep on the sandy shore. How calming the sound of destruction could be when controlled, when the ocean's only job was to beat and bash against the rocks. Enjolras pictured himself as a happy young man with his knees on the ground, looking out into the horizon. There, he could spend an eternity of paused time, praying to the water and thanking it for being a constant in an always-changing world. The moon would reflect upon the rocky waters, promising him stillness that was never there, but it made him feel calmer all the same, even if only by a little.

He knew he was being unfair to his friends, as much as he was hesitant to admit it. None of this was truly his fault, but it wasn’t theirs either, and more importantly, Enjolras needed to conserve this energy for use against evil, not against his comrades. He could ignore his friend's cruel tone, finding it harder and harder to continue arguing when he knew what needed to be done. Enjolras took a few evening breaths as he emerged from the pillow, pulling himself upright and almost calming himself down as Combeferre continued to drone on and on. Willing time to stop for a moment, Enjolras pierced Combeferre’s gaze, and a silent Combeferre pierced it right back.

The room was quiet, only a few shuffling noises of feet joining Enjolras and Combeferre in the bedroom. Marius might have hesitated to follow their uncertain path to Courfeyrac’s room, but Courfeyrac, with eyes wide as frightened moons, appeared in their view as Combeferre and Enjolras shared that moment of fraught silence. Both turned to face Courfeyrac, breath held in the heavy air as the latter dared speak.

“Enjolras?” Came Courfeyrac's voice, trembling like a leaf in the wind. His eyes were wet pearls, leaking misery. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

It was quick, it was soft, but the tender ache in Courfeyrac's tone shattered Enjolras’ heart, mirroring the shards of coffee mugs scattered on the kitchen floor just a few rooms away. Distracted by the gathering squall, Enjolras felt a crack threaten to open within him, but he held fast, bracing against the storm. He did his best to remain composed, even if he felt himself getting worked up to the point that he wanted to cry. But it wasn’t sadness, no, it was more so this panic. Putrid and vile, the concern that his father’s men were hunting him down as he stood there was so vivid it felt as though he could hear the thunderous clouds of impending doom approaching him, that the downpour would find him even here, even when sheltered.

That was the real issue here, wasn’t it? There was no time, as much as Enjolras wished there was, to baby his friends and their feelings. He loved them dearly but could not stand around and play therapy with Combeferre and Courfeyrac right now. Right now, he was on a government hit list. Right now, he was on the run. Right now, he was being targeted. He needed that hard drive, and the practical part of his mind began to play pretend again, thinking of ways to get what he wanted. He even felt the sting of tears on his waterline begin to taunt him, but he remained stoic. He didn’t let himself cry, for if he did that, he wouldn’t be able to use all the time he was buying himself.

“Combeferre.” Enjolras sighed, speaking as gently as he could, never daring to catch Courfeyrac’s saddened look. “Give me the hard drive.”

Combeferre stood firmly, and arms still crossed over himself as he eyed Enjolras down as sharp as diamonds.

“No.”

And then, the flood.

“Come on!” Enjolras shouted, throwing the pillow he clutched at to the wall behind Combeferre’s head.

It was all too much, the memories, the sensation, the judgemental eyes that fell on him. No one was touching him, but still, Enjolras felt like a million different hands were placed on his body, tugging and grasping with every move he made. His shirt didn’t sit right, the tag on his collar scratching the skin on the back of his neck. His hair fell awkwardly in his face, parts not sitting behind his ears where they had dried bloody. Enjolras felt the meltdown coming on quicker than he had anticipated, and it felt like nothing would be strong enough to stop the feeling.

Almost nothing.

It was the sound of thunder that roared louder than the growing discomfort in his mind. The bang of the front door swinging open loudly mimicked a crackling bolt of lightning, tearing the ground in two as what sounded like a chorus of footsteps followed Enjolras’ voice. There were a few seconds where the group of clapping footsteps raced through the house, heading to meet them in the bedroom, and Enjolras jumped and turned to see who had followed him into the apartment. His guard was all the way up, expecting his father or someone of his likeness to barge in and drag all of the men out, kicking and screaming. But luckily – or unluckily, depending on how you looked at it – it was not his father.

Combeferre saw the culprit before Enjolras did, and he laughed exasperatedly.

"Oh, perfect timing. You want to give us a hand with this one?" Combeferre said brazenly. Enjolras might’ve even hinted a little sarcasm had he not been overwhelmed by the sudden sound of unexpected guests. And after only a few moments, there he was.

Combeferre fell aside and allowed the newcomer to enter Courfeyrac’s bedroom ahead of him, clearing the doorway. Combeferre didn’t even have to say his name, Enjolras knew from the pace of his drunken footsteps who had waltzed down the hallway. Finally, he was back in front of him where he belonged. Grantaire stumbled foot after foot into the room, followed closely by Éponine and Jehan, however, the latter two did not encroach any further than the door on Grantaire’s position opposing Enjolras. Enjolras rose to his feet with haste as Grantaire made eye contact with him, and the two both stopped in their tracks.

Here, now, it was just the two of them, sun and moon, fitting into their respective places.

Enjolras gazed longingly at the man who had just walked through the door into the room, unable to look away. It was like a burst of silvery light had followed him in, illuminating his inky curls and olive skin. He looked like a god, but maybe that had more to do with the fact that Enjolras felt he needed someone to plead to. Enjolras paid no mind to the rest of the group building; the audience they were constructing now gave all attention to Enjolras and Grantaire’s stage. The spotlight shone in Enjolras’ eyes, blocking him from seeing how Éponine looked around at the room they had just stumbled into, already looking just about ready to leave, her keys still in her hand. He couldn’t see Jehan sighing relief at Enjolras’ presence, looking a little frightened but dropping their guard a little more with each second they stood before Enjolras. All he could see was Grantaire, that glow, and how he kept his eyes planted on Enjolras as if a moment's glance away would cause him to disappear.

"Fucking hell." Grantaire murmured under his breath.

And just to humour him, time felt like it had finally, truly stopped.

Enjolras had half expected the pair to hurl arguments at each other within seconds of their reunion, and the other half of him expected them to race to each other’s sides and never let go – though there was still time for either, he supposed. Time stood still, never allowing Enjolras the comfort of certainty for which route they would take. He breathed heavily at the sight of Grantaire, the man looking a mess and probably feeling like one, too.

Grantaire was drunk, that much was instantly plain, but he looked rougher than his normal state. Deep, tired circles surrounded his moonlike eyes, and his sunken cheeks were like divots in stone. His face was in shock, his lips were frozen in place, searching for the right shape of speech.

It was funny to Enjolras that no matter what he had experienced in the last few days, the torment, the abuse, the taunts and the mind games – none of it stopped him from thinking about Grantaire. Forget about the other five members in the house, or the rest of the group for that matter; they had hardly been occupants of Enjolras’ mind the entire time he had been gone. It was thoughts of Grantaire that helped him through, thoughts of Grantaire that he utilised when unwelcome hands were on his body. Thoughts of his smile that made the incredible trek in the rain worth it. All Enjolras had to do was picture Grantaire’s sleepy stare, longing and pensive, and he felt he could run for miles, no matter the weather. It was almost as if Enjolras had forgotten, until he saw him again, that Grantaire was truly his saviour, God above or below be damned.

Enjolras let the shocked gaze fade from his face, steeling himself. He supposed the expression he gave Grantaire was rightfully returned; Enjolras realised what the sight must be like for Grantaire. Enjolras had a bruised eye, dark shades of purple and brown eclipsing his eye socket and cheekbone. His lip was split where it had been split many weeks ago, dried blood creasing on the corner of his mouth. His hair had been so dirty and crusted that he could hardly force it behind his ears, but that didn’t help hide the redness on the tips of his ears that matched the tip of his nose. His wrists had indentations from the restraints and burns from the rope to match, disgracing his ivory skin. Enjolras looked just as messy and felt just as gutted as Grantaire looked.

Enjolras was all caught up in staring at the man he fell in love with that he didn’t even recognise Grantaire was speaking to him. With everything that had happened, it was hard in that moment to feel anything other than relief. Enjolras hadn’t let himself wonder what might’ve become of Grantaire after he, Combeferre and Jehan had fled from that man with the gun. All that felt important to Enjolras was that love, a love that delusionally kept him from imagining the worst. That tender ache of when someone you adore is finally back beside you, knowing they could leave again at any point. Bittersweetness that soured your tongue and rotted your teeth simultaneously. With that feeling clouding his perception, Enjolras missed how Courfeyrac dragged Combeferre back a step by the elbow, how Éponine and Jehan were closely eyeing them down. Enjolras was too busy watching the face of his paramour, wide-eyed and glorious, seeing him here and keeping him safe in the night just like the good moon does the tides and lonely hearts.

And just like the sun and the moon continued to orbit, after what felt like ages, time started moving again, and Grantaire sighed a shaky breath.

"Are you-“ Grantaire gulped. He looked Enjolras up and down, up and down. “You're okay?"

Grantaire had asked it so timidly, in a way that never became Grantaire, stuttering in his step to move forward. It was shocking to watch Grantaire approach Enjolras with such care that Enjolras felt like time had not started back up at the right speed.

"I'm fine," Enjolras murmured, his gaze falling to the floor as he wove his words quietly, striving to cloak the uncertainty swirling within him. He noticed Grantaire’s shoes inching into the top of his view, each step bringing him closer. It was heavy and forceful, the gravity that seemed to pull Enjolras in, too. He took a step closer to Grantaire, though his gaze still remained avoidant and weak.

"You're not hurt?" Grantaire asked rather quietly, enticing Enjolras to look up at him. He found, then, that once he did so, he could not look anywhere else in the room. Both sets of eyes locked dangerously on one another, warm and daring, as everyone else in the room fell silent and attentive.

Enjolras shook his head with a pensive glint in his eye. "I’m not hurt."

Jehan, from behind Combeferre, sighed and touched their hand to their heart. They mumbled, "Oh, I'm so glad."

Enjolras felt a little peace wash over him, feeling this alluring, subtle serenity as they stood here like this. Despite the inner turmoil circling him, this fleeting moment of calm was a rare reprieve, and Enjolras felt determined to cling to it a little longer. He wanted to speak, to bridge the chasm with words, but caution stilled his tongue. Grantaire's gaze was just too intense, filled with unspoken emotions that Enjolras desperately yearned to decipher. Even if Grantaire took some time to respond, even if Enjolras had a plethora of things he wanted to say, Enjolras let Grantaire be the one who spoke next.

But oh, he quickly found he wished he hadn’t.

“How fucking dare you?” Grantaire snapped suddenly, that dangerous gaze of warmth now turning icy cold as he shook his head so shortly.

"Hey, what-" Jehan began. They pushed past Combeferre in the doorway, moving into the space and placing an arm on Grantaire’s shoulder. Enjolras watched him shrug it off.

Of course, right now, Grantaire wanted to pick a fight he knew Enjolras wouldn’t win.

Enjolras laughed a breath that spoke typical, a miserable chuckle that revealed to himself a truth that made him fill the clouds with stormwater. He was angry, but he was not surprised. It was maybe a kind of misery, a stab in the chest that sliced straight through any hope he held of affection from the man in front of him. All of the rage that had previously been burning up in his gut was instantly reignited at the audacity of Grantaire to come in here like he had any say in the matter.

"Oh, here we go." Enjolras cried, throwing his hands up in annoyance. "Here comes Grantaire to the fucking rescue!"

"Okay, this is not constructive." Jehan could be heard saying to the side of Grantaire’s person, though Grantaire seemed to ignore it.

"You don't even know how fucking mad I am at you!" Grantaire shouted overtop Enjolras’ remark, only moments before completely losing his composure.

Voices erupted in a cacophony, each one demanding to dominate the others. Enjolras' defensive words clashed with Grantaire's cutting jabs, while Combeferre’s efforts to impose order felt like salt on Enjolras' already raw nerves. They all shouted over one another, a desperate chorus to assert their truth, leaving the air thick with tension. Éponine pulled Jehan into a protective embrace as they flinched at the sudden uproar, their form small and fragile against the storm of voices. Courfeyrac stood motionless, his face a canvas of sorrow and resignation, staring at the tumultuous scene unravelling before him.

Time was flying like this, and everyone was losing their place.

Enjolras tried so hard to come up with something to shut the both of them up, but God, did he struggle. No matter what excuse he could think of, he could already hear the rebuttals that Grantaire and Combeferre would throw his way. ‘I’m sorry!’ he could say, but no, he wasn’t. ‘I didn’t know!’ Yes, he did. ‘It wasn’t my fault!’ Yes, it was. Enjolras hated that fact, that everything Grantaire and Combeferre were screaming at him was correct, that it was his fault, that he did know this would happen, that it was his fault that they were in this mess. In a moment of weakening strength, Enjolras played the only card he had left.

"You told me so!" Enjolras spat, looking directly into Grantaire’s eyes before refusing to speak any further.

It was as if the room itself held its breath, suspended in frailty and confrontation, each word a dagger, each silence a void. The world outside might have continued in its rhythm, but within these walls, time really did seem to fracture, each pulse in Enjolras’ ear echoing with the weight of his now shattered dominance. Enjolras held firm, not letting the silence defeat him, even if it watched him so closely that his skin crawled at the brush of the air.

To be fair, Enjolras wished he could disagree with the taunting words rolling off his tongue. They were only meant to be smart words, a phrase placed to piss Grantaire off, but that didn’t mean they weren’t truly what Enjolras believed. Grantaire had told him so from the very beginning. The first time they’d argued about the protest, Grantaire had been wise enough to see what a hopeful Enjolras couldn’t; they’d never have won the battle, no matter the weather. And accepting that did feel a little bit like giving up to Enjolras, like he had admitted defeat and given Grantaire an easy win, but he knew deep down it was no easy win. Grantaire fought for this, and despite being correct, as he so often was, the look on his face revealed that he, too, had lost.

Grantaire was evidently studying Enjolras for any truth behind the statement. Enjolras masked up, ensuring Grantaire would not find it.

"What was that?" Grantaire asked, taking a step forward with his head tilted. The disgusting mixture of satisfaction and chaos on Grantaire’s face made Enjolras feel annoyed, if not a little sick in the stomach.

The two men were close now, not quite chest to chest, but a single step forward would send Enjolras crashing into the man he wanted to crash into, like choppy waves against a rocky shoreline. How he could just fall into him, soak himself into the sand of Grantaire’s skin to create something new and fragile, their love just like sea glass.

Enjolras took a step back.

"That's what you wanted to hear, right? You told me so?" Enjolras asked, his voice increasing in defeat with every word, gesturing dramatically. "Well, there you go. You told me so, Grantaire. You were right about everything."

Grantaire looked about ready to snap, his fists balling at his sides.

"Yeah, actually, that is exactly what I wanted to hear! Because I did fucking tell you so!"

The violent chorus began to pick up again, though this time, only Enjolras and Grantaire had anything to say. Combeferre seemed to have given up, or at least Enjolras found no fight left in that sullen and beaten gaze. Jehan looked ready to cry, and if Enjolras hadn’t felt the same way, he’d maybe have a shred of remorse for his actions.

It was just so tiring.

It felt like stalling, almost. Enjolras was so beyond sick of this game of pretend he played with Grantaire, losing track of what was real and what was false. Grantaire was like a coursing river, dangerous and ever-moving, washing away any traces of truth that Enjolras could try to cling to. The one man for whom he wished time would stand still, that he might memorise every curve, every scar, every hair, freckle, and imperfection — Grantaire was just too elusive. The ache of longing weighed heavily in Enjolras's chest, the chasm between them widening with every unspoken word and misunderstood gesture. He yearned to bridge that gap, but the torrent of emotions and unspoken truths threatened to drown him, leaving him breathless and adrift in a sea of everything he hadn’t done to right this wrong. The feeling swallowed him alive.

“Why are you here?!” Enjolras snapped, his voice slicing through the tension like a blade. His arms were raised in a gesture of both confusion and frustration, the volume of his words crescendoing with each word. No longer could he hold the emotion bubbling within his chest. “What do you want?!”

“Grantaire, don’t listen to him.” Combeferre stepped forward into the room, leaving the doorway open, his tone a blend of concern and authority as he tried to mediate the growing argument. “He’s worked up.”

“I’m not a child, Combeferre!” Enjolras retorted, taking deliberate steps backward as if the mere presence of Combeferre’s proximity was a threat. The space that stood between them was indomitable, Enjolras knew, but that did not mean he felt safety behind it.

“Well, you’re acting like one.” Combeferre’s voice, usually a source of calm and reason, was now strained with uncharacteristic irritation. This shift only served to unsettle Enjolras further, shaking the foundation of his already shot composure.

“Fuck you, Combeferre!” Enjolras spat out the words with a venom that stung even as they left his lips. He hadn’t meant them—of course not—but the heat of the moment had ignited that fire in his gut, and everything he said felt instinctive rather than deliberate.

“No,” Grantaire intervened, his voice firm as he stepped back into the fray. He gently but decisively moved Combeferre aside, reasserting his presence in the space. “Don’t take your shit out on him. You brought this on yourself, and you know it!”

Enjolras wanted to refute this statement. God, did he try to think of something clever to say that would simultaneously shut Grantaire up and get him screaming, but there was nothing. It was true, and Grantaire had figured it out. Grantaire’s eyes were drawing him in in a way that felt vulnerable and accusatory, and Enjolras felt the need to shy away. He looked down at his shoes, busted at the side and covered in blood and muck.

For the first time since Enjolras had returned home, he had nothing left to say.

Grantaire reapproached Enjolras as he stood quietly looking at the floor. No one spoke for a moment, Enjolras could feel the eyes on him like a hot coal on his skin, but he dare not move.

"I mean, what were you fucking thinking?" Grantaire continued, leaving Enjolras feeling disappointed at his ease to give up. "You didn't even tell them about the hard drive? You told me you were going to sort everything out with Combeferre. You lied to me?"

"No, I didn't lie to you." Enjolras rushed, finding his way back into the argument. "I was going to talk to Combeferre, I was. But then-"

And then he stopped. He had not really thought this far ahead. The one part of his plan he hadn’t counted on occurring was somehow his favourite and most dreaded memory.

The kiss. Their kiss. A moment suspended in time, a fleeting instance where the world around them ceased to exist. A kiss full of pent-up emotions, the culmination of years of dodged words and forbidden glances. Enjolras remembered how Grantaire's lips felt against his, soft yet demanding, desperation in how they moved together. Their breath mingled, hearts pounding in unison, and for that brief moment, everything made sense. The electricity that surged between them was undeniable, a profound connection that left them both breathless.

But yet, as perfect as it felt, it was also a kiss filled to the brim with regret, both knowing it could never be more than that single, perfect instance. Reality was a cruel master, and so was time, and it carved a chasm between them that no amount of longing could bridge. Their kiss was an escape, a beautiful lie they both willingly believed in for only a heartbeat. The taste of Grantaire had lingered on Enjolras's lips as he had rushed out of Grantaire’s flat that night, a bittersweet reminder of what could never be. And Grantaire seemed to know precisely what Enjolras wasn’t saying, because Grantaire had always been more intelligent than anyone had given him credit for, and the man nodded with a face full of what Enjolras could only assume was regret.

"But then." He said, confirming.

Maybe Enjolras should have just gone home after all.

"How about we all just take a breather, yeah?" Combeferre said, trying to regain composure and failing miserably. He hardly even approached the two men, and Enjolras knew then that this wasn’t just any normal Enjolras and Grantaire argument. This was wearing their friends down, this thing between them, and whilst Enjolras thought it invulnerable, it was beginning to crack under the weight of the feelings they held for one another.

"Come on, ‘Taire." Jehan said, trying to reach for Grantaire’s arm once again.

"You know what?” Enjolras said, attempting to cut the conversation as short as possible. “None of this pertains to you. Go be drunk somewhere else."

Enjolras attempted to dodge the eyes that fell upon him as he turned to dash back out to the hallway, dodging Jehan, Courfeyrac and Éponine by mere feet. He hadn’t a plan on where he would go, but perhaps he could lock himself in Marius’ bedroom instead, shut the door behind him and prop it locked with bookshelves and desk and hide away there until his past inevitably caught up with him and some strike team came for him to whisk him away to prison. Of course, Grantaire didn’t let that happen, following him wherever he went. Enjolras had barely even reached Courfeyrac’s doorway before Grantaire’s angered voice came once more.

“I thought you were dead, Enjolras!” Grantaire called, storming up behind him. “We all did!”

Enjolras scoffed, rolling his eyes, though no one could see, as he stomped his way to the bathroom, intending to lock himself in until the coast was a little clearer. But as he went to reach for the handle of the door, Enjolras felt harsh fingers wrapping easily around his upper arm, and Enjolras felt his breath hitch. The grip pulled him around to face the man responsible for the touch. Grantaire stopped Enjolras in his spot, only a foot's distance between each other, and Enjolras let go of a breath that caught in his throat. However, Grantaire seemed to notice this slip in Enjolras’ demeanour and let go of his grip on his arm. Enjolras internally deflated at the loss of physical touch.

Grantaire continued, evidently too riled up to notice just how badly Enjolras wanted to reach out and touch him again.

"Do you know what it's like to lose someone, Apollo?" Grantaire asked. He simply pretended Jehan wasn’t right behind him, trying to pry him away from Enjolras. "To find out that the one person who makes life even remotely worthwhile is fucking gone forever?"

Enjolras felt instantly guilty, a spark of dread for the conversation that sat unspoken between them in his stomach. He watched Grantaire, his eyes full of flint, steel, and gasoline. Enjolras remembered when those eyes filled with tears, when they blinked sadness away as best they could. Now, they bragged that sadness, displaying the emotion for everyone to see.

"Do you?!" Grantaire snapped, when Enjolras realised he was staring.

"'Taire-" Jehan tried, but it was abruptly cut short.

"I'll be honest with you! It's not fucking fun! Okay? It's hell." Grantaire said menacingly, pointing a strong finger at Enjolras. "And you nearly put all of us through that."

Grantaire didn’t quite seem finished, but nonetheless, he turned to walk away and back into the living room in a dramatic show of storming out.

Enjolras had had quite the week. The last seventy-two hours were spent God knows where, listening to his father’s ridiculous demands, hands on his body like he was just a toy to play with. And before that, the stress of the protest, uncertainty in the safety of himself and others, concern for the groups of people he had called to arms. And even before that, planning, writing, organising, phone calls, flyers, and everything under the sun that could take up his time caused him stress he never knew one could feel. Perhaps that was why Enjolras decided to take it that one step too far when he said,

"Well, isn't someone being untrue to themselves."

And Grantaire froze, slowly turning his head over his shoulder, before the rest of his body followed. Jehan’s mouth opened slightly, looking as if they misheard Enjolras the first time. Enjolras swallowed hard.

"What?" Grantaire spoke, head tilted. "What the fuck do you mean by that?"

Enjolras stared him directly in the eye.

“What happened to your arm?"

"Enjolras!" Jehan spat, angered in an unusual fashion for themself. Grantaire looked in utter disbelief at the question, his mouth agape in a shocked smile, as he shook his head slowly from left to right. He tried as subtly as he could to place the open skin of his wrist against himself, hiding whatever proof may lie there.

"You are a real piece of work-" Grantaire began, but he was once again cut short.

"I will never forget the look on Jehan's face when you did what you did." Enjolras cut him off, stepping into his space as close as he could without the two touching. "You're here berating me as if you're some fucking saint who didn't put your own friends through the same hell trying to help you.”

Jehan was on their feet at the mention of Grantaire’s past, eyeing Grantaire carefully as they wrapped snug hands around Grantaire’s arm, sending a few rude glares Enjolras’ way. Combeferre was standing with crossed arms, mind racing in calculation, if the way he chewed on his lip gave any sign. Courfeyrac still looked like he wanted to cry, but he stayed in the room. Enjolras had half expected Grantaire to have snapped back instantly, with some turning point for the argument, for a reason to change the subject, but he remained silent, lips disappearing as they drew a straight line on his face.

”And look around you, Grantaire! They're still here, trying to help!" Enjolras gestured around the room as he spoke, looking at the friends surrounding them. Their friends, how they all loved him. How they all wanted what was best for Grantaire, Enjolras included. Enjolras wasn’t being smart, he really wanted Grantaire to see how much they cared. But Grantaire didn’t look around, not for a second. He never looked away from Enjolras.

Grantaire rolled his eyes, took a step back and readjusted his posture. Enjolras stiffened further, not ready to drop the topic. He dared to continue, taking a step forward until they were only inches from noses touching, eyes fierce.

“And do you know why they've stuck around?” Enjolras asked with a ferocity that didn’t match the context of his words.

Grantaire looked hurt, for sure, but there was something weirdly hopeful in that glance he spared Enjolras. His eye was a little mistier than it usually looked, but the shock on his face made Enjolras realise that Grantaire was actually listening, waiting for the answer. He needed to know why people as good as their friends wanted to help him, and Enjolras felt the need to stop being such a smartass and be truthful to give Grantaire what he wanted, what he needed. Enjolras spoke again so softly it felt like he hadn’t said it at all.

“Because everybody loves you, ‘Taire.”

Grantaire watched him helplessly, as if he wanted more than anything to believe his kind words, but still, he scoffed and looked away.

“Not everyone.” Grantaire whispered, the hopefulness in his gaze deflating.

The calm in his voice should have brought the argument down a peg, and in any other circumstance, maybe Enjolras would have taken the hint to back off a bit. But the self-deprecation in Grantaire’s broken tune pierced Enjolras’ nerves dangerously. He laughed.

“Oh, give me a break.” Enjolras huffed, rolling his eyes back in frustration. He watched as Grantaire turned his gaze to the floor and grimaced at the words. “Maybe you're too caught up in your own misery to see it, or maybe you just hate yourself enough not to believe it, but you have to know it deep down.“

“Know what?" Grantaire sassed, rolling his eyes and looking back to Enjolras.

“That-“ Enjolras spat, fully unphased by the fact that he was outing himself.

Until he paused, shocking himself with what had just come out of his own mouth. He hadn’t meant to give anything away, but Grantaire’s self-loathing made Enjolras angrier than anything. But we’ve already established that it was never anger that Enjolras felt towards Grantaire. Perhaps it was so easy, now that he knew his own feelings for Grantaire, to admit them in every instance. How could Grantaire not know? Why can’t Grantaire see how beautifully created he was? Why can’t he believe Enjolras’ heartfelt words, as rare as they were? Why does the artist never mimic the art?

Enjolras swallowed, bowing his head bashfully for only a moment before looking back up and latching onto Grantaire’s gaze.

"You're a smart boy. You'll figure it out." Enjolras sassed right back.

How typical.

Grantaire sighed before breaking into a laugh, but it wasn’t that laugh that Enjolras loved. It was disbelieving, cold-hearted, and distinctly not Grantaire. It was empty, like a shy boy in a pool, like a drunk man on a sofa. It was rude, telling stories upon stories of the lovely, hiding away behind layers of sarcasm, hurt, trauma, and cruelty. It hurt Enjolras deeply just to see it.

"You know what?” Grantaire asked indifferently, pointing at Enjolras before walking away and approaching the front door. "You're a fucking psychopath."

"Sweetheart," Jehan said as Grantaire rushed away to grab his belongings, which were truly not a lot: a sweater he had dropped on the floor and his phone lying dead atop it, but Enjolras supposed it gave him something to occupy his attention.

"Do whatever you want,” Grantaire said, not making eye contact with anyone. “Don't worry about the people around you. Don't listen to me. You want to go and get yourself killed? Go right ahead, I don't care anymore. But just know that there is nothing you can say or do to change the fact that the death of a twenty-year-old won't do any good. You won't accomplish anything."

And with those words rolling off his impossibly sharp tongue, Grantaire turned for the living room door, the one the group had entered through only minutes ago.

Enjolras felt that sudden pang of desperation. Watching Grantaire attempt to flee like that struck Enjolras’ argument frozen. He stood helplessly as he watched the man turn with an abruptness he didn't know he could possess, at least not in his usual drunken state. It shook Enjolras to see how desperate he was to get away from him; he wanted to run after him, to grab the man's arm before he could get too far, or to call for him, but he hadn't any idea of what he would even say. What even was it that he wanted to say to Grantaire? He couldn't think of anything besides one simple fact; he did not wish to see Grantaire go.

Enjolras bolted for the door, too, antsy to get Grantaire to stop moving. He needed to keep Grantaire still, but the river coursed fully and drowned out the sound of the door opening. Enjolras tried to slam it shut from behind him, but Grantaire was bigger and stronger than he was, and it was a tricky feat. "Grantaire-“

Grantaire spun around hastily in response, looking Enjolras down in the eye.

"No!" Grantaire barked, laughing again, standing in the open doorway. "No, Enjolras. I'm done, okay? I'm done with this, whatever you and I-" Grantaire gestured with his finger between the two of them, before stopping promptly to stare at the ground with a distant twinkle in his eye. Enjolras knew what he meant, it was the closest they’d ever gotten to talking about it, this thing between them, and Enjolras feared it was the closest they’d ever get.

Grantaire sighed miserably. "I'm done with the cause, I'm done with the group, I'm just fucking done."

And there was a brief pause in time here, where Enjolras contemplated one thousand things to say. Things that would put him in the lead in this race to make the other person throw in the towel, something to get Grantaire out of his head and into the real world around them. Enjolras felt crushed; he felt his heart burn with the brand marks of Grantaire’s words, but there had to be something. There had to be something he could say, in this moment of frozen time, that would make Grantaire stay. There was always something he could say.

There was nothing.

"Fuck you." Enjolras snapped, feeling the sting of tears welling in his eyes.

"Fuck you." Grantaire echoed, turning for the door handle to pull it closed behind him.

As stubborn as always, refusing to let his desire to be filled with love be stomped down by Grantaire's impossibly defeated outlook, Enjolras managed to manoeuvre himself so that he stood between the door and Grantaire, a flimsy barrier between giving Grantaire what he wanted and Enjolras getting what he needed. Enjolras watched Grantaire watching him, eyes frozen on him like a tongue to ice. Neither one of them moved, only chests rising from heavy breaths and feet shuffling weight from one to the other. It was a standoff, a silent battle of wills where anger and unspoken words hung heavy in the air. Grantaire made another move for the door, and Enjolras ducked in the way of his hand. The touch, though brief, sent a jolt through both of them like a spark igniting a long-simmering fire. Enjolras pretended he didn’t feel it.

“Get out of my fucking way!” Grantaire hissed, his voice trembling with a mix of fury and pain.

“No.” Enjolras’s voice was firm, but there was a crack in his resolve, a fissure where his fear of losing Grantaire peeked through.

Grantaire’s eyes flashed with a mix of defiance and desperation, but he scoffed and reached once more for the handle on the door. Enjolras didn’t let him make contact, standing with the handle pressed directly into his back.

“No.” Enjolras repeated.

“Enjolras.” Grantaire said dangerously, looking him down. “Move. Now.”

“Or what?” Enjolras taunted.

“God!” Grantaire huffed, taking a defeated step backwards. “Why do you always have to be so difficult!?”

“I’m being difficult?” Enjolras shouted, pointing to himself.

Again, Grantaire reached for the door handle, and again, Enjolras was nary about to let that happen.

“Please, Enjolras.”

“Don’t leave.” Enjolras’s voice was raw soft, but it was raw, the words ripped from deep within him. “Don’t leave me.”

Grantaire paused the angry glare he gave Enjolras, mellowing out with a soft shock that mixed with sensitivity.

Time continued to stand still. God only knows what the other people in the house were doing at that moment, but whatever it was, they froze in place like marble statues. Grantaire glared forward, watching Enjolras’ blurring eyes with that pensive emotion. The air between them was thick with unspoken words, that storm of emotions waiting to be released. Enjolras braced himself.

And suddenly, with a swift yet hesitant movement, Grantaire’s knuckles softly met Enjolras’ arm, but instead of pushing him aside, his fingers slowly moved to clutch at him. It was a gesture that spoke volumes, a desperate plea masked in anger. Enjolras, feeling the touch, pulled Grantaire into a hug that was bigger than both of them, enveloping him in an embrace that broke down the dam.

Grantaire quickly circled his arms around Enjolras’ back, holding him tight as he rested his chin atop Enjolras’ matted head of hair. His grip was a mix of anger, relief, and something more profound that neither had dared to name. They held onto each other fiercely, their breaths mingling in the charged air. It was a bittersweet moment, where the pain of unspoken love clashed with the overwhelming relief of being close again. Everyone around them was drowned out, no sounds or movements made apparent came from anyone besides the two sharing the embrace.

It was a poetic moment, as if their souls intertwined on some level that shook the force of their emotions, and amidst the storm of their reunion, there was a glimmer of hope. The embrace was both a sting of what had been lost and a promise of what could still be saved. As they held each other, buried under layers of hurt and pride, the unspoken love they felt began to surface, making the air between them electric.

"Don’t leave me." Enjolras repeated into Grantaire’s, the words now carrying the weight of a confession. When his voice came, it was only a whisper soaked in that lovely vulnerability. Grantaire’s heart pounded in response, Enjolras could feel it in his pulse; those walls he had built around his feelings were starting to crumble. Grantaire smelt like something Combeferre would drink, felt warmer than the sun on his skin in even the dead of night, and in that moment, they were two souls laid bare, their love transparent and never-ending, just like the clearest of oceans. Sure, they had not yet admitted the full depth of their feelings, but in that embrace, they found something. A promise, perhaps, of what could be.

As they stood there, holding each other amidst the turmoil, the two men sank into each other, and the possibility of that something began to take shape, fragile yet undeniably real.

“I’m here. I’m yours.”

Enjolras was home. Enjolras was finally home. After three long nights of Combeferre’s apartment standing empty—nights during which Combeferre had barely managed any sleep—and three excruciating days of unrelenting work to find him, the search had at last come to an end. Enjolras was safe, or at least as safe as one can be after narrowly escaping a fate worse than death.

Combeferre hated himself for feeling so conflicted.

Of course, he was overjoyed. This was a miracle, truly. His best friend, his brother, the boy he loved more than words could convey, had been returned to him safely, save for a few scrapes and bruises and the emotional trauma that would likely haunt him for years to come, of course. It was genuinely a wonder that Enjolras had come home at all, though Combeferre did not yet know the full story of how Enjolras had found his way to Courfeyrac’s doorstep so late in the night. Combeferre could speculate endlessly about whether Enjolras had escaped or been let go, or what fate might soon befall them. But they could deal with those queries later; this was a time for rejoicing. So why did Combeferre feel such anger mingled with his relief?

In reality, it made sense. Anger is just grief in armour, and Combeferre felt anything but strong without it in his current state. No wonder he had cloaked himself in that vile rage; he hadn't allowed himself to feel it until now, and the fear he had experienced over the last few days had been unlike anything he had ever felt. Terrified of losing Enjolras to the sinister forces that roamed their streets, afraid that he would search forever and never find the boy he had grown up with.

It was difficult for Combeferre to feel anything but that anger upon seeing Enjolras waltz through that door as if he expected them to simply wave him off to bed. Combeferre wanted to feel joy, to fall at his side and tell him how much he loved him, but he just couldn’t. Combeferre was hurting more than he could express with a glance, so words of terror cloaked in rage were all he could manage when he saw Enjolras standing there as if he didn’t know how hard his disappearance had hit everyone.

What hurt Combeferre the most was knowing that Enjolras had been so willing to throw his life away for the sake of the people, in the name of the cause. Enjolras lived and breathed revolution, and Combeferre wasn’t naïve, but perhaps he had not realised the extent of Enjolras’ fixation with martyrdom. He had always feared that this passion would someday lead to his untimely end, but he never expected that day to come so soon, nor did he expect Enjolras to walk into it so willingly. He did not want to lose Enjolras, just like Grantaire and the rest of their friends. The thought of Enjolras leaving him behind was unbearable. Combeferre needed Enjolras more than anything, and clearly, he wasn’t the only one feeling this way.

He, Courfeyrac and Jehan all sat silently in his car, thinking quietly to themselves after what felt like the final hurdle had been overcome, even if they all knew it hadn’t been. Whatever that final hurdle was, and whenever it would come up out of nowhere, it hardly mattered. They were all so beat.

They’d been sitting in the car for half an hour now, still in Courfeyrac’s driveway, with no intention of ever turning the key in the ignition. They hadn’t much in the way of a plan once they had left Enjolras and Grantaire inside the house, but right now, Combeferre was far too lost in thought even to consider leaving the premises.

Combeferre was sitting in the driver's seat, scratching at a chunk of faux leather on the steering wheel mindlessly, as Courfeyrac hummed contently to his left. In the passenger seat he sat, bouncing his weak knees and letting his head lull to the side. Combeferre might’ve thought he was falling asleep if he hadn’t been practically trembling with electricity. Jehan sat in the back, eyes glued to their phone as they messaged furiously on their keyboard.

The way Combeferre saw it, it was a calculated risk, leaving Enjolras and Grantaire alone in the house. On one hand, they really shouldn’t be splitting up right now, not when there was a confirmed group of people hunting them down. Combeferre was already thinking of ways to keep everyone safe – perhaps they’d have to bunk together for a while until things died down a little. But as nervous as leaving Enjolras alone made him, Combeferre was a realist, and he knew that, indeed, Enjolras was not alone. He had Grantaire.

Combeferre sighed. Fucking Grantaire.

He felt a spin of shame inside himself for acting so out of control, both towards Enjolras and Grantaire. Fear can make people do bizarre things, and Combeferre had never been so scared in his life than he had been over the last few days. He truly wasn’t mad at Enjolras, nor was he angry with Grantaire, and he hadn’t meant to make either of them feel like they had done something wrong. (Well, at least not Grantaire. Enjolras knew exactly what he did, and they would have serious words later.)

But poor Grantaire, the look on his face when he walked through that door an hour or so ago will stick in Combeferre’s mind forever. The way they both looked at each other. The shock in Grantaire’s eyes, mingled with relief and an almost palpable sorrow had been heart-wrenching. He had been through so much, waiting, hoping, and fearing the worst. Combeferre could see the toll it had taken on him – the dark circles under his eyes, the way his shoulders sagged with the weight of his worries. Grantaire was a figure of tragic loyalty, always standing behind Enjolras despite everything, and the thought of losing him had clearly been unbearable.

Combeferre knew something then, in that moment. This was no longer just a thing between them. This was true love, real, raw, and unbridled.

Combeferre’s heart ached for Grantaire, who had endured things in his life that no one should have to face, let alone what they all faced now. He had seen the silent moments when Grantaire’s eyes would glaze over, lost in some dark thought or memory, and Combeferre had always felt a deep, abiding pity for him. Grantaire’s love for Enjolras was a beacon in the storm, a light that had kept him going through the darkest hours, and until Combeferre really thought about it, it was that silent, unexpected hope that kept even he himself hopeful. It was a love that deserved recognition, respect, and above all else, compassion.

In that fleeting moment, Combeferre vowed to himself that he would do everything in his power to protect Grantaire and Enjolras. This was a mission he had always subconsciously set to himself to serve, but maybe it needed more recognition than it already had. The bond they shared was endlessly being tested, and it was up to Combeferre to help mend the fractures, to offer the empathy and support that they both desperately needed, until they knew how to give it to each other. Combeferre wished the two men could see what he could see, knowing that by standing together, they could find the strength to heal and to face whatever weather would be cast upon them.

No matter the weather in the metaphorical, tonight was cold and pitiful, yet Combeferre still felt hopeful for the future. Rain rapped lightly against car windows, and Combeferre shut his eyes as he listened to the sky softly weep.

The car's silence was both comforting and suffocating, as each occupant was wrapped in their thoughts. Combeferre's mind raced with the events of the past few days, the fear and anxiety still gripping his heart. He replayed the moment he saw Enjolras walk through the door, alive but battered, over and over in his head. The relief he felt was immense, but it was quickly overshadowed by the anger and frustration that had built up during the sleepless nights and desperate search. He knew he had to let go of these feelings, but it was easier said than done.

Courfeyrac, on the other hand, was trying to stay positive, as Combeferre knew he was always one to do. He hummed softly, a tune that was both soothing and a little melancholic. He kept glancing at Combeferre, clearly aware of the turmoil his friend was going through, but for whatever reason, he kept his hands to himself. Combeferre knew how hard this had been on Courfeyrac, never seeing him so distressed than as the last few days had shown, and in turn, Combeferre wanted to reach out, too. To offer words of comfort or something of the like, but he knew that sometimes, silence was the best support he could give. He hoped that by staying close, by being there, he could help ease some of the burden Courfeyrac carried.

Jehan, who would usually have the most to say in this moment, was uncharacteristically quiet. They scrolled through their phone as if effortlessly distracted, but it wasn’t hard to spot that their mind was elsewhere. The fear of losing Enjolras had shaken them to their core, not just for Grantaire’s sake like you might think, but for their own and for everyone else’s. The idea of the group's heart being ripped away had been unbearable to everyone. But now that Enjolras was back, Jehan surely felt a strange mix of joy and sorrow. Joy for the reunion, sorrow for the pain they all had endured.

As the minutes ticked by, the weight of their collective silence became almost tangible. Each person in the car was dealing with their demons, their own fears and hopes. The energy in the car was strong, the silence never once being mistaken for a lack of thoughtfulness, but it was being tested in ways they had never imagined. Combeferre took a deep breath, trying to steady his racing thoughts. He knew they needed to move forward, to find a way to protect each other and to heal from the recent day's fear. But for now, in this moment, they just needed to be. To sit together in the quiet, to draw strength from each other's presence, and to prepare for the challenges ahead.

"What do you think would happen if we just locked them in a room together for twenty-four hours?" Jehan said suddenly, breaking the silence and yanking Combeferre from his swirling thoughts. Combeferre glanced up at them through the rearview mirror, raising an eyebrow in response.

"See!" Courfeyrac exclaimed, almost leaping from his seat as he turned to face Combeferre fully, his sleepy yet jittery demeanour replaced in an instant by an infectious excitement. "Jehan gets it!"

Jehan nodded enthusiastically, placing a soft hand on Courfeyrac’s shoulder in an attempt to settle him down. Despite the loving gesture, it was evident that calming Courfeyrac was a futile task.

"Look, I'm starting to think that it's honestly not a horrible idea," Combeferre mumbled, more to himself than to the other two in the car, but privacy was not in season whenever Courfeyrac lurked about. Courfeyrac gasped dramatically, a shocked look on his face.

"Are you fucking kidding me? This is what I've been saying for literal years now!” Courfeyrac's hands flailed animatedly as he spoke, his excitement growing with every word. “And it’s not technically meddling.”

Combeferre sighed, rubbing his temples.

"Worst case scenario, they die from the sexual tension." Courfeyrac added quickly.

"And best case scenario," Jehan chimed in, leaning forward, "they give in to the sexual tension and get married and adopt a bunch of stray kittens."

Courfeyrac bounced in his seat, practically squealing in agreeance with Jehan’s colourful picture.

"Would you two just take it down a notch?" Combeferre pleaded, though an amused smile was tugging at the corners of his mouth despite his best efforts to suppress it. Courfeyrac leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms with a satisfied grin.

"I'm just glad that you see what we have to do."

"We're not actually doing that," Combeferre stated firmly, though his resolve wavered slightly under the weight of their combined enthusiasm.

"What?" Courfeyrac exclaimed incredulously. "Why the fuck not?"

"Because we don't have to," Combeferre replied, his tone hinting at a plan forming in his mind.

Both Jehan and Courfeyrac leaned forward eagerly, their eyes wide with curiosity. Courfeyrac was uncharacteristically quiet, though Combeferre noted it was more in anticipation than disinterest. Combeferre took a deep breath, preparing himself to share his thoughts, but not without commanding authority over what was about to happen.

"I need you both to promise me that you're going to be normal about what I say next," Combeferre requested sternly, his gaze shifting between his two friends. Courfeyrac and Jehan exchanged a quick, knowing glance before nodding in unison.

"We promise," they said together, their voices filled with excitement and genuine curiosity.

Combeferre looked at them both seriously, noting the eager anticipation in their eyes. Courfeyrac's eyes were already lighting up with excitement, as if he were plotting his next move. The car filled with a heavy silence as the weight of Combeferre's next words sank into the air. Taking another deep breath, Combeferre spoke those words that he knew would change the course of their plans and perhaps their lives, the weight of the past day's fears slowly beginning to lift already.

"We're going to meddle."