He Was Antinous

I couldn't come up with a title....

So I have done it! I have finally written an Enjoltaire. Obviously I couldn't come up with a title or a good enough summary, so you'll all just have to bear with me

The fic might be a bit all over the place? Anyways, I hope you find something to enjoy in it!

(Watch the video I linked if you haven't already. It's a cover, done by George Blagden aka movie Grantaire, of the song Follow You Into the Dark by Death Cab for Cutie. He changed up the lyrics to fit Enjolras's character, and we love him for it)

"No."

And, well, Grantaire probably should have expected this.

The rest of the large hall seems to be in a similar state of astonishment, silence falling over and settling comfortably into the empty spaces between bodies.

King Javert makes to stand. His movements are blunt and jerky, and it isn't all that far off to imagine the breath of relief the large at hall releases when Valjean lays a hand across his forearm and coaxes him back down into the throne--the man is practically rippling with restrained anger.

A small part of Grantaire can sympathize, though; he himself is itching to move, to twitch his fingers or drop the carefully blank expression he's sporting. To do something to disrupt the awkwardness trying to soak into his pores and choke him like it's choking the rest of the hall. But he's too good for that, he's a goddamn professional. You don't grow up with rags on your shoulders and dirt in your skin and rocks in the heels of your feet to simply forget how to be anodyne, impartial. You don't spend years--an entire childhood--appreciating the eyes that look upon you with vacancy, like you're nothing more than the wind that blows by, invisible, disregarded, insignificant, because it's better than the scum you could be seen as, the spittle you'd deserve and surely get if anybody cared enough to notice the way your existence was a stain on their aspirations of perfection. You don't know the fear of these thoughts, this worry, just to forget how to remain inoffensive in the face of authority. Even when you've risen to higher echelons yourself--especially then. (Because what if the people noticed? What then? What happens when everyone realizes you're just winging it, when everyone realizes that everything you are you've stolen?)

So Grantaire doesn't move an inch, doesn't let his mask fall or his lip twitch or his fingers clench. And nobody stares at him, because everybody's staring at the prince, at Enjolras, who, for his part, looks utterly unrepentant.

Which is incredibly unfair, because even now he has the audacity to look gorgeous.

"I refuse this proposal," he continues, managing to make even this sound like a proclamation, and a small bit of awkwardness seems to dissipate from the hall. "My loyalties lie with our lands. I love this kingdom and this kingdom alone. Any marriage of mine would be incredibly foolish, and I refuse to agree to anything if it won't directly benefit Musain."

"Enj--" Valjean starts, but Enjolras keeps going.

"I know, and I apologize, Prince..." He turns his attention to Grantaire, and Grantaire would be slightly hurt that he cared so little to the point where he hadn't even bothered to remember his name, except Enjolras's eyes are a piercing blue, and Grantaire's heart is a traitor.

"Grantaire," he answers. His voice doesn't come out as a croak, because, again, he's a professional, although even he is still moderately surprised.

"Right. Prince Grantaire. I apologize that you've come all this way, and I recognize that this turn of events can't be at all favorable, but I hope that you can see where I'm coming from." Enjolras's voice rings with all the grace and efficiency that comes with a life of authority, of being born with a hand of aces, of never having to know what it's like to feel like a stranger in his own skin. A voice that is accustomed to attention. Every body in the hall is leaning closer, desperately trying to hear more, to have more, and Grantaire isn't even surprised.