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.
Enjolras is good at it. He can steal a crowd's attention quicker than death can steal an innocent soul.
He keeps going. "I hope our kingdoms can remain at peace, and know you part now with Musain's best wishes, but that I want what's best for my people and--" he pauses to take a breath, because even Enjolras is only human, no matter how many times he seems to prove he is nothing less than a god.
Valjean must see his chance, because he uses this slight gap to break in. "Enjolras, son, I know you are smart enough to realize that a unity of this sort can only be beneficial--"
"Not with our relations so strained as they are with the northern kingdom." Enjolras's voice is practically overflowing with conviction, and Grantaire is torn between feeling pity for Valjean for being on the receiving end of such passion or pity for himself for not. "A wedding would only be a liability, they could find ways to use it to their advantage--no matter how powerful our armies are, taking the risk would be foolish."
Javert stands, and this time, Valjean doesn't try to stop him, instead rising right along with his husband. "Enjolras," the former grits out, "a word, please."
Nobody moves as the three of them make their ways towards a door at the side of the throne room, Valjean throwing Grantaire an ostensibly reassuring look before disappearing from the hall.
Enjolras keeps his shoulders straight, his expression resolute, the entire way, and the room returns to a pleasant rumble the second the door closes behind them.
Grantaire, for lack of anything better to do, looks around. Everybody is milling about, flitting from conversation to conversation, and Grantaire gets the distinct impression that the people have grown used to Enjolras's stubbornness. Whether through continual experience of it or just for the fact that Enjolras is royal and they wouldn't dare dispute him, Grantaire isn't sure. (Although he assumes some skewed mixture of both.)
At the back of the room, Cosette is still sitting primly on her throne. They lock eyes, and Grantaire inwardly composes himself as she stands and makes her way towards him. She reaches Grantaire much quicker than he'd expected.
"It's a pleasure to meet you Grantaire," she greets kindly. Cosette seems like the sort of person that doesn't have a single mean bone in her body, and yet her kindness doesn't feel any less subjective. It feels as though it's meant specifically for him, and that thought is the strangest breath of relief. "Although, it's funny, it feels like we've met before."
The relief leaks away. Grantaire swallows. Smiles. She can't remember, he tells himself, and like a mantra it repeats again and again through his head. She can't recognize you. "Your face is not one I'd forget." He keeps his tone light.
Cosette smiles, an amused quirk to the corners of her lips. Grantaire really hadn't been lying, although he'd meant it as a diversion; the tales of her beauty were not at all exaggerated.
Swiftly, though, her smile slips away, and her expression morphs into one of sympathy. "I'm sorry about my brother," Cosette says.
Probably, Grantaire ought to look a little more like a kicked puppy, but he mostly doesn't feel the need to play it up, and his simple resignation is the best he can muster. "He did what any respectable royal would do."
Cosette frowns. "But you must be a little angry. A unity such as this one passed up? I can see where my brother is coming from, of course, but it's not as if his actions weren't also foolish."
"I'm sure he knows what he's doing. Word spreads far and I've heard his heart is made of gold." It's only a half lie. Grantaire has heard that Enjolras is strong of heart, but he's learned that people lie often, and if it weren't for the fact that he's been on the receiving end of Enjolras's dogged altruism, he'd have never believed a single soul could hold so much one-track goodwill.
Of course, Enjolras can't remember him. Enjolras can't remember the unfortunate, young servant boy who owes much of who he is today to the gracious young prince who'd offered a hand, years ago, when no one else would. Enjolras can't remember how he'd seen the same servant boy observing him silently, time and again, when he'd thought the prince wasn't looking, only to realize how naive he'd been when those piercing blue eyes locked onto his. Enjolras can't remember how he'd smiled at the boy and shared his bread and spared a blanket.
Enjolras can't remember all of this because it was years ago--lifetimes, to a scared, shivering child--and they'd both been too young to realize the merits of recognizing a face. Enjolras can't remember all of this because he'd been a prince, and Grantaire had been a servant, and life has always been the conventional type. Enjolras can't remember this because Grantaire is banking on it.
Because Grantaire is a cardboard prince, and his kingdom is a house of cards, and he'd known since the moment the kings of Musain had proposed the marriage that life had only ever intended it to be a joke. He knew he was only getting his hopes up, and yet he'd accepted.
What's it like living life as the punchline? Grantaire can hear the world asking now. How silly to think your love meant anything at all. How silly to think he'd feel the same.
How silly, Grantaire knew, to hope so desperately that Enjolras wouldn't remember the pathetic little boy eternally vying for his affection, and yet hope equally as desperately that his feelings would be reciprocated.
Grantaire's delicate status is nowhere near strong enough to hold the truth.
Cosette smiles. "No heart is more gold."
Grantaire imagines the red of his own blood, falling like rain from his eyes. He's crying, he's sickly, he's the same old servant boy he's always been, masquerading in the wealth he stole. (He stole it with Eponine. He stole it for Eponine. The world is better for it.)
In his imagination, Enjolras is crying with him, and his tears run gold.
**
His hands hit pavement. He chokes on mud. Somebody's tugging at his curls.
"How fitting," one of the boys laughs cruelly, "roll around in the mud like the pig you are. Ratty servant." The words are snarled, filled like nightmares with hate and malice.
(Later, much later, when Grantaire is grown, he'll realize that their words had simply been an incident in their childish search for approval, that it takes one to know one.)
A burning pain explodes in his side. Hard shoes connect with thin skin. Hard shoes connect with brittle ribs.
Grantaire knows he should feel pain, he knows he should, but the ground keeps swooping back and forth from under him, and the world has erupted in stars. He gasps because he's always been astounded by space.
He inhales dirt. His lip splits. His cheeks are wet, but that might be the mud.
"Dirty servant, nobody's going to miss you. Why don't you sit up and shine my shoes?" The boy laughs and laughs--laughs until his voice turns raspy, laughs until he starts to cough. He continues kicking.
Stop it, Grantaire tries to beg, please stop it! But his voice won't come, and the words crack and tumble past his bloody lips as a croak.
"Hey! Stop that!" The voice is different.
The kicking stops.
"Leave him alone or I'll tell the kings!"
There's the sound of shoes slapping cobble, like the boys are running, except it's muffled, and Grantaire thinks there might be mud in his ears because he's too afraid to assume the boys are running away.
The kicking doesn't continue. Two seconds later, it still hasn't continued.
"Are you okay?"
Gentle fingers curl around his arms and haul him carefully up, and Grantaire squeezes his eyes shut, grits his teeth, afraid that the slightest eye contact might be interpreted as a challenge.
"You can open your eyes, I won't hurt you."
His breath is coming in ragged little inhales. If Grantaire opens his eyes, he'll get hurt; if he doesn't, the voice will be mad, and then he'll get hurt.
Slowly, he blinks his eyelids apart. The boy isn't one of the mean ones--his eyes are too kind, his smile is too sympathetic. The boy isn't one of the mean ones because he's cloaked in a red, warm-looking fur coat, and his boots aren't sharp, and he's the prince.
"I'm Enjolras," he says, one hand reaching out towards Grantaire. "What's your name?"
Grantaire stares at the proffered hand warily, heart still rabbiting in his chest. This could be a trick. This could be a cruel, cruel trap. "Grantaire," he answers, except his throat is still sore from the mud caked there, and the word splits in half and tumbles down, and the only sound that makes its way intelligibly out is 'r'.
The prince looks surprised. "You're named after a letter?" His eyes light up, and his lips curve towards the sky. "That's so cool!" he exclaims.
Grantaire doesn't have the heart or the voice to correct him.
He wakes up in a cold sweat.
For a few, dizzying seconds, Grantaire can't remember where he is.
The bed--because it's too big to be anything else--is soft beneath him, and the blankets are thick and warm and pulled up to pool loosely around his chest. The sheets are strong, with a thread count larger than the heavy coats they sell in winter, and, like the drapes pulled haphazardly across the still-dark window, a brilliant, intimidating, royal blue. He's situated comfortably in a large, airy, unfamiliar room, and his heartbeat climbs in uncertainty.
Slowly, the day before comes back to him. It resurfaces in bits and pieces, memories that snap into place like a puzzle.
The kings had returned to the throne room a little while after their departure with the prince, revealing little information into the conversation that took place behind closed doors, but assuring Grantaire nonetheless that Enjolras would come around.
It wasn't too hard, of course, to figure out what that meant: Enjolras had won the argument again. As was expected, really.
Grantaire was given a suitable amount of time to get his bearings and resign himself to what was always going to be the simple truth, and that, if nothing else, he was grateful for.
Sure, perhaps this little arrangement hasn't worked out the way Eponine and he had hoped, and, sure, this is definitely going to make things more difficult for them and their newfound status, but it's not as if they hadn't planned for the worst. And, really, unfortunate though this turn of events is, it is most definitely not the worst; the prince and princess both declared their hope in a continued alliance. And, sure, it won't be as strong as it could have been, forged in the fires of a marriage of convenience, but Grantaire knows the hesitant situation Musain has found themselves in with the northern kingdom, and he highly doubts they'd go around making more enemies anyway. They're going to need all the allies they can get, should worst come to worst.
Deep down, Grantaire's known yesterday would play out exactly as it did. Deep down, he's been prepared, lining himself with gold and silver and resignation.
So no, deep down has never been the issue, deep down has never been what he truly feared. That spot had been filled, ages ago, by the small, unassuming organ beneath the soft tissue of his chest, and the careful friendship it'd struck up with the prince.
Death, with its inky black tendrils and malevolent tendencies, couldn't haunt him in his dreams, because blue eyes and golden hair and kind hands already did. Death couldn't strike him as absolutely paralyzed as life could, which was pathetic, if Grantaire stopped to think about it, because life had nothing on Enjolras.
My world starts and ends with you, Grantaire thinks. And somehow, because life is cruel and a dark sense of humor apparently comes with the job description, it isn't even a lie.
But Grantaire can deal. He can deal because he's dealt before and he's never stopped dealing, and stupid, innocuous things like hearts that beat too fast too loud in certain company, and thoughts that stray too far, and skin that prickles hot when you meet the eyes that greet you in your sleep, can't break a cardboard prince if he believes it hard enough.
Deep down he can deal with. Everything else is not important.
Grantaire pulls his legs from the confining heat of the blankets and throws them over the edge of the bed.
King Valjean had thanked him for his patience and lack of ill-will towards yesterday's situation, and offered him a guest room in the castle, a place to sleep where he could wake up in the morning and know there'd be food waiting.
("You are welcome here for as long as it takes," he promises.
Until Enjolras finally keels under the pressure and accepts, is politely kept unsaid.
Grantaire smiles and nods, but his thoughts are already turning to Eponine--how he'd left her to rule their newly acquired kingdom alone while he'd made the journey to Musain to hopefully return a married man, because at least then they'd know where to look for help and have it offered--and his mind is already made up.
Musain is, no doubt, welcoming and happy to house him, but Grantaire knows an unyielding resolve when he sees one, and he can't stay if there's not a reason to.)
Grantaire stands from the bed and slips into the green robe he'd been left along with the room.
Quietly, because the sky is still dark and the halls are silent enough to hear a feather drop, he pads through the door and starts down the dimly-lit hallway, following the steps his feet take because this is uncharted territory and nothing looks familiar. Most of the doors he passes are closed. Grantaire doesn't spare more than a glance into the ones that aren't.
It's easy to let his mind wander, to lose himself in the fluid back-and-forth motion of his legs, in the way he can count on the fact that each step brings him closer to...something. There's a difference between being closer to something and being further from everything, and the thought is soothing enough to distract him from any set destination.
Grantaire doesn't realize he's walked into a library until his knees hit the cushions of a couch, and when he looks up, he's standing in front of a large window, soft pink light filtering in from the rising sun on the horizon, dancing lithely with the dust motes fluttering between book shelves.
He's sitting down before he's had a chance to fully process the action.
All of his skin tingles warmly, and Grantaire gives up on attempting to single out any definite explanation of why. It's easier, he thinks, to accept that it's there and enjoy the sunrise.
Something ghosts across his knee, and he startles.
A large, silky grey persian stares boredly up at him.
Grantaire stares back. Nobody moves. Nobody makes a noise, and the castle is, somehow, even more silent than before, like the world was upturned during the night and everybody but him had tumbled into space. The cat's tail swooshes once, twice.
Then it's crawling into his lap, circling slowly, and lying down.
Hesitantly, Grantaire brings a hand up to its fur, carding his fingers gently through the cat's hair when its only response is to start purring.
"What's your name?" Grantaire asks in a whisper, smiling down at the ball of fluff, who, unsurprisingly, doesn't answer.
The next few minutes pass like this, Grantaire watching the sun as it steadily grows more confident, fingers absently petting at the cat, trailing over the nubs of its spine and scratching briefly at the soft skin behind its ears.
It's peaceful and quiet, almost cathartic, and despite the sound of footfalls that seem to echo in the silence, Grantaire nearly misses the sound of another person entering the library.
He doesn't look over his shoulder. He has his suspicions.
The footsteps stop, and the cat continues purring.
"She never lets people touch her," says Enjolras. He doesn't whisper, because everybody has their flaws, and a disregard for the respect of silence is apparently one of his.
Grantaire leans back to gaze at Enjolras upside-down. He's dressed in a white long-sleeved blouse, a red waistcoat settled neatly over it, and if it weren't for the way his gold curls were thrown messily into a bun atop his head, Grantaire would believe he'd been awake for hours.
His gaze tracks the prince as Enjolras makes his way around to the front of the couch, eyes resting on the spot beside Grantaire before flicking back up to him. There's a furrow to his brow, and a question in his gaze, and Grantaire spares a moment to think, as if you had to ask, before nodding.
Enjolras settles down gently. The look he sends Grantaire's lap and the cat in it is a beautiful thing full of awe.
Grantaire lets his lips curl into a grin. "That might be the kindest thing you've ever said to me." It's not--(Don't listen to them, R, they're just jealous. You have the prettiest eyes I've ever seen.)--but Enjolras can't know that.
His gaze rises again to Grantaire's own, and Grantaire can spot a hint of contrition, how he looks almost pained that anyone would think he's anything less than eternally kind. "Look, Gran--"
"No," he interrupts hurriedly, "it's fine. I understand." Grantaire was only trying to make a joke, and now he's gone and gotten the prince's feelings hurt. "I don't blame you. I'm not exactly skilled at this whole....well, it's not like I've been a prince for very long. I don't have anywhere near the level of experience as you. Royal know-how." He tries to laugh off the icky feeling of seriousness, but it just comes out self-deprecating. "I'd be a pretty terrible choice of spouse."
It's not exactly a secret, how he and Eponine came into power. How her parents, the Thénardiers, had been the previous powerhouse, and who, for years, had ruled with a greedy thumb, like tyrants to their people. You, and everything that belonged to you, belonged to them. For the longest time, the death rate spiked, reaching heights so depressingly close to that of wars, because disease spread faster when living on the streets was the best you could afford--afford, because even homelessness was taxed if you were caught--because three weeks was the longest you could survive without food, because winters were harsh and unforgiving when the only thing you owned was your skin. When Grantaire had finally gotten enough people together, when he and Eponine had finally organized a hopeful plan to overthrow the royalty, when the day had finally come and the group of them chased the Thénardiers out of their land (with pitchforks and fire and the determination of a people who would not be slaves again), the responsibility of a kingdom fell to Eponine, and Grantaire had practically become their living, breathing Robin Hood. It didn't matter that he wasn't of royal lineage, Grantaire was Eponine's best friend, and none of the kingdom seemed to object when she proclaimed him a joint ruler, a prince.
Grantaire is not qualified, in the least, to rule a kingdom, and it never really came as a surprise when Enjolras said no.
The library is silent once again, and even the cat has stopped purring.
Hesitantly, Grantaire meets the prince's eyes. Some deep, pathetic part of him needs to know how Enjolras feels, what Enjolras thinks of him.
Enjolras is frowning, slightly. "Prince Grantaire, that is not at all why I rejected my fathers' proposal. You must know that I have nothing against you as a prince, no matter how you acquired the title."
Grantaire doesn't say I know, because he isn't sure if it's true. Instead, he gives his best smile and drops his gaze back to the cat, grasping for a way to kill the awkward air that's settled around them. He ends up asking, "What's her name?"
There's another second of silence. He fears, for a moment, that Enjolras isn't going to drop it, that he's going to insist on dragging Grantaire through the mud of wherever that conversation was headed. Nowhere good, inevitably.
He doesn't. "Fantine," Enjolras answers finally.
"Fantine," Grantaire mimics, testing out the name on his tongue as he moves his hand to scratch beneath her chin. "She's sweet."
Enjolras makes a sound that is half snort, half chuckle, and if Grantaire were a better man he'd surely deny, till his dying day, how it makes his heart sing. As Grantaire is not a better man, he mostly just wants to kiss the sound from his lips and fall asleep beside him whispering what he'd give to hear it again. "She's not usually this sweet."
Grantaire shrugs, hoping it comes off as nonchalant. "What can I say, I'm irresistible."
"Is arrogance irresistible these days?"
For one terrifying moment, Grantaire is confused. But then he sees the playful quirk of the prince's lips, and he gasps in mock-offence. "Are you saying I'm not irresistible?"
"Oh no," Enjolras gestures at the cat, still curled sweetly in his lap, nudging up into his touch, "you're a regular pied piper."
Grantaire snorts. "I seem to be lacking a pipe."
"I'm sure we could find you a pipe somewhere in this labyrinth."
"Or I could just use my voice."
"Can you sing?" asks Enjolras, and Grantaire pushes down the warmth that fills his chest at the way the prince's voice is filled with genuine curiosity. He's missed this.
"Can I--Princess, how dare you." He had, of course, meant it only in jest, but Enjolras makes a noise like he's choking, and Grantaire's aware it's not really a joke--not a good one, at any rate--unless both parties find it funny.
"What did you say?"
Grantaire's cheeks flare pink. He ducks his head and hopes it isn't extremely obvious. "How dare you?"
There's a beat. "You called me 'princess'."
All the red that swarmed to his face flees as he pales, swallows. The nickname had simply slipped off his tongue, familiar and nostalgic and easy. But Enjolras doesn't know that, Enjolras can't know that, so Grantaire casts about desperately for a deflection, any deflection, and settles on, "Don't tell me that insulted you," because it seems the easiest conclusion to come to. For any stranger to the prince, at least.
"No," Enjolras replies, face scrunching, and affronted has never looked more gorgeous on anyone. His eyebrows furrow beautifully. "No, of course not--I just." Enjolras's gaze turns dangerously assessing, and Grantaire does his best not to gulp. "You're not the first to call me that, is all."
Keeping his expression carefully blank has never been harder. Even for the professional that he is. Grantaire makes a face, hoping against hope it comes off as some twisted sort of amused. "And here I thought I was special," he jokes, as if his hands aren't currently sweating oceans.
Through the large window, it is magnificently obvious that the sun has risen fully, and at some point in the last few minutes, the castle had slowly descended into wakefulness, if the quiet, distant noises are any indication.
Gentle yellow light is playing across Enjolras features. Grantaire's heart does a thing, and he distracts himself by concentrating on his hand as he strokes the cat's back.
"Are you hungry?" asks Enjolras, speaking finally.
Grantaire smiles. "I could eat."
**
Grantaire finds Jehan humming to themself in the gardens.
His friend looks the same as they've always looked, dressed head to toe in a mix of colors that would be sickening on anyone else, but that fit them perfectly, seem to settle against them in all the right places.
Jehan's grown up, of course, but they're still the same small thing they've always been, and Grantaire can't help the smile that rises to his face.
Grantaire walks up behind them, stepping gingerly around the flowers that have been precariously placed across the ground, and clears his throat.
Jehan startles. When they whirl around, their expression--because it's Jehan, come one--lacks any anger at having been spooked, and is simply one of surprise. It morphs, swiftly, when they notice Grantaire, until they're beaming with unbridled joy, as if Grantaire is the greatest thing in the world.
"R!"
Grantaire's tugged into a tight embrace by Musain's second finest hugger--second only to Bahorel--and his answering smile is hidden by Jehan's shoulder. They've kept in touch as best they could, considering they're a kingdom away and Grantaire's newfound responsibility, but it's still been too long.
"This calls for a celebratory flower crown," Jehan crows, and it's the only warning Grantaire gets before they drop into a sitting position on the grass and tug him right along.
Grantaire watches as Jehan turns to the side, leans forward, then turns back to face him, basket of flowers held gently aloft in their hands. They start in on the crown, using the harder flower stems as the structure, tying, twisting, positioning, and only then does Grantaire remember himself enough to look around. There doesn't seem to be anyone else in the garden, and Grantaire releases a breath of relief and returns his gaze to Jehan, shaking his head although they probably aren't paying attention to the movement, and says, "Grantaire."
"Hmm?" Jehan hums, eyes never leaving their growing creation.
"You can't call me 'R'."
This time, Jehan does look up, although their fingers continue to work on the crown in their lap. "What?"
"I was called here on the proposal of marrying the prince," Grantaire starts, to which Jehan nods and throws him a sympathetic smile. It shouldn't be all that surprising, Jehan already knowing the news, given that gossip spreads like wildfires and Jehan had been as much of part of Enjolras's childhood friend group as Grantaire'd been, but it isn't exactly the best thought, knowing that the whole kingdom is probably already aware of his rejection. "Which means I cannot, under any circumstances, let anyone find out that the prince almost married one of the castle's previous servants." He says it like it's obvious. Which it is.
But Jehan looks confused. "You don't want Enjolras knowing you're R?" they ask.
Grantaire nods.
"Why not?" Jehan still looks so incredibly confused that, for the briefest of moments, Grantaire struggles to recall his reasoning. "He'd probably be stoked. I mean, it's not like it was a secret that Enjolras was head over heels for you."
Grantaire manages to hold back the bark of laughter that crawls it's way up his throat, but only barely. "Enjolras wasn't head over heels for me." It's crazy and hopeful, and only maniacs would go so low as believing in every positive word from somebody else's mouth.
"If I could tell you were head over heels for him then trust me, I could definitely tell he had it bad for you."
"You only knew because I told you I loved him," Grantaire reasons. "He didn't tell--" he cuts himself off to squint threateningly at Jehan. "He didn't tell you anything, did he?"
Jehan flicks their wrist around a seemingly troublesome knot and returns their gaze calmly to the task at hand. "If he did, I wouldn't be at liberty to say."
Grantaire pouts. It's an exaggerated gesture more fit on the faces of children, but he figures if ever there were a time to use it, it's now. When that doesn't work, he heaves a theatrical sigh and flops backwards into the grass.
Jehan's eye twitches. Grantaire sighs again.
"...he didn't say anything," Jehan gives in. Grantaire sits back up, and they cock their head. "At least not to me. But it was obvious."
"Uh huh. He wasn't head over heels for me."
The noise Jehan makes is exasperated enough to make Grantaire feel a tiny bit guilty. "He always picked you first for hacky sack."
"That's because I was ace at hacky sack."
"He smiled at you all the time."
"He's Enjolras and we were kids."
"He'd always blush when you guys touched," Jehan says, and this time their tone holds an air of finality. And Grantaire, well. Grantaire isn't really sure how to respond to that.
It's true, but back then, Grantaire had always chalked it up to Enjolras being Enjolras. He blushed because that was his thing. Grantaire isn't blind though, or stupid, and he will agree, now, that it could have been something else--which, of course, still doesn't specifically mean him.
"Enjolras wasn't head over heels for a smitten servant," he repeats, but even to him it seems more like a token protest than anything substantial. "And even if he was--" he was not "--it's not like it matters now, anyway. That was years ago."
Jehan hums, the noise sounding thoughtful. "You're still in love with him, aren't you?" they ask finally. There's a snap and a soft swoosh as they tie the final stem on and adjust a few of the petals. "Finished!"
Jehan smiles brightly and presents the flower crown, handing it over carefully, and Grantaire relaxes slightly, grateful for the distraction because he hadn't had a retort ready.
The crown is brilliant, all soft colors and whimsical, vibrant leaves. There's the soft yellow of a dandelion sticking up here and a small poppy tucked snuggly away there, a lilac snaking around the edge, thistles of baby's breath woven throughout. The pool of colors contrasts perfectly with the dark hues of the stems.
When Grantaire looks back up, Jehan meets his gaze, expression nervous and expectant. The urge to laugh is strong--as if Jehan has any reason to believe that anyone would think the crown was anything less than spectacular--but it might convey the wrong message, so Grantaire opts for a smile instead.
"Jehan," he says, "it's perfect." Carefully, Grantaire raises it to rest on his head. "How do I look?"
The smile is back on Jehan's face, all the hesitance draining away, and they let out a shrill cheer and clap their hands together. "Like a lost child looking for his way back to his cottage in the woods among the fairies."
Grantaire smirks, opens his mouth, prepares a response somewhere along the lines of, I meant now that I'm wearing the flower crown, but he's interrupted before he can even get the first syllable out.
"Sorry to interrupt you," Enjolras is saying, making his way towards them from the head of the gardens, and both Grantaire and Jehan snap their gazes his way, "but Jehan, can I talk to you for a--" His words seem to sizzle out, and he snaps his mouth shut. The prince's eyes are rapidly widening, and his face is swiftly turning an alarming shade of red. For an instant, Grantaire thinks irrationally that he's choking.
Except Enjolras is staring intently at Grantaire, throat working around a swallow, and Grantaire can barely make out the quiet oh that slips past his lips.
"Something wrong, princess?" he questions with a smile, half jokingly and half deathly serious. Grantaire is not above giving the heir to the throne mouth-to-mouth.
There's a niggling voice in the back of his head, though, one that sounds suspiciously like Jehan and won't stop insisting that Enjolras isn't choking, that he's stunned, breathless, because of--
Grantaire diligently avoids the significant look he can feel Jehan leveling the side of his head.
Enjolras looks to Jehan so fast, Grantaire can feel himself getting whiplash. He coughs, rubs the back of his neck. "Sorry, I'm fine," he gets out, eyes flitting back to Grantaire's just long enough to be respectful before looking away again. "I like the um..." There's a vague hand gesture.
"The flower crown?" Jehan chirps, eyes alight with amusement.
Enjolras is still blushing. He nods.
"Jehan made it for me," Grantaire cuts in, leaning forward to knock his knee against Jehan's appreciatively. "Magnificent, isn't it?"
His friend sends him back a warm smile. "Anything for Grantaire." There's the barest hint of an inside joke swirling in the tone of Jehan's voice, and Grantaire is endlessly grateful for the way they refrained from calling him 'R'.
Enjolras is frowning. "You guys know each other?"
Jehan catches his eye. "Old friends," they say simply. Then, before the awkward pause biting at their heels can catch up, "What did you want to talk to me about?"
Red swims back into the prince's cheeks and his eyes, for a few unbelievable moments, snap to Grantaire. "Oh, I--nevermind. It's not important."
At this, Jehan smiles warmly, hand reaching out to pat the ground beside them in obvious invitation. Enjolras hesitates.
"I wouldn't want to impose..."
Grantaire picks idly at the blades of grass below his fingers. "You?" he grins, after a brief second to steel himself. "Never an imposition."
It's true. He also wants to know what Enjolras was going to say to Jehan.
After another stretch of hesitation from the prince, he sits down where Jehan had previously motioned, to which Jehan crows again, and Grantaire smiles.
Just like old days, he doesn't say, but oh how he wants to.
**
"I knew you looked familiar," Grantaire hears two days later, making his way through the bright castle halls to the library.
It's become a routine--as much of a routine as three days time will allow--him and Enjolras meeting in the morning at the library. It started out as a happy accident, and Grantaire doesn't know Enjolras's reason for keeping up with the pattern, although he himself isn't too stubborn to deny continually having the chance to spend some time alone with the prince as part of his own reason.
Now, as it is, he's a tad bit late. As a rule of thumb, because it's better to be safe than sorry, Grantaire always tries to get to the library as early in the morning as he can. The sun's already risen though, currently filling the halls with its natural white light, and there's a part of Grantaire that fears, quite pathetically, that Enjolras has already noticed his absence and left.
Grantaire sighs, inwardly, and resigns himself to the knowledge that he's going to be a bit more late than he'd thought. He works up a surprised smile and turns around to face the voice.
He drops it immediately.
Cosette is there, white gown flowing in wispy bursts around her feet, an expectant look resting in her eyes, and Marius is not far behind her. When she crosses her arms across her chest, Grantaire's stomach falls to the floor.
It's easy enough to assume what's gone down. Reasonably, Grantaire knew he never should have trusted Marius with his secret--any secret, honestly, least of all one quite the breadth as his. But it had been easy, easy to forget that Marius never could keep a secret for the life of him, easy to forget that the presence of the princess only made his problem that much worse. It had been easy to forget all that and focus instead on the sort of pact they'd made so long ago, Marius and him, the way they'd shared in the misfortune of being in love with a royal.
Back then it was nice to have someone Grantaire could talk to that knew. He always had Jehan, and he never doubted the way he could count on Jolly, and of course he couldn't hide his love for Enjolras from them--not when it took everything he had to keep himself from splitting in two from the sheer size of it--but they didn't know. They didn't know what it was like to be in love with someone they could never have. Marius did, and their love-struck solidarity was inevitable.
Reasonably, Grantaire should have known that was not grounds for seeking the boy out for a reconciliation. Reasonably, Grantaire should have known to wait until he was leaving to say his hellos--at least then he'd be miles away before the guy had the chance to leak his true identity to Cosette.
Unfortunately, Grantaire had not been reasonable.
He levels Marius a look over the princess's shoulder, and the guy smiles apologetically.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Cosette demands, shifting to the side until she's standing in Grantaire's line of sight. "Why didn't you tell me you were R?"
He sighs. This is his (Marius's) fault, and now he has to deal. "I didn't want you to know."
Cosette squints harder. "That doesn't even make sense. Why not?"
Grantaire doesn't really have an answer for that. "You're his sister," he settles on, and assumes, from the way she doesn't promptly look confused, that Cosette understands the 'he' Grantaire's mentioning. "I didn't want him or you or your fathers finding out."
"R, you disappeared for years. The only reason we don't think you're dead is because of the few things Jehan tells us of your infrequent reunions." Cosette lets her arms fall back to her sides. "And even then, I'm not sure Enjolras is fully convinced. He was broken up over your for months, R, fuck, I couldn't tell you in good conscience that he isn't still grieving."
The pang in Grantaire's heart is hard to ignore, but the guilt that's crawling up his spine is worse. So much worse. "I'm sorry," he whispers. Why is he whispering? When did he start whispering? "I didn't mean to cause any pain, you know that, you must know that." He must sound as desperate to Cosette as he does to himself, because her expression immediately slips into one of concern, and she splays her arms wide, inviting. He doesn't hesitate to fall into her embrace.
She's not Jehan or Bahorel, but she's got her Cosette touch, and Grantaire lets his shoulders slump forward.
"Eponine needed me," he says, into her shoulder. "I was never planning on leaving here, or staying there for that matter, but Eponine needed me and I couldn't--I couldn't--"
"I know," Cosette gentles, rubbing soothing circles into his back, and Grantaire figures, after everything, he probably deserves this one moment of peace, even if it is just for a few seconds. "I know, I'm sorry."
"Don't--" he swallows past the lump in his throat "--don't be."
The princess doesn't fight him, instead begins to hum a song Grantaire vaguely recognizes under her breath and gently sways.
When Grantaire's eyes flutter open, for the briefest of moments, he catches sight of Marius, standing awkwardly a foot away with one hand fidgeting nervously at his side and the other in the pocket of his pants, and welcomes the wry smile that graces his lips. He lifts one arm from around Cosette and motions Marius over.
It's enough, Grantaire thinks, to be wrapped in Cosette's tight hug, and to see the way Marius hurries over to join them with a relieved expression that Grantaire probably finds too amusing. It's enough, and although he may be too late to catch Enjolras in the library now, Grantaire finds he doesn't mind it quite as much as he did two minutes ago.
He lets his mind drift away to the sound of a vaguely familiar song.
(Enjolras is still in the library when he finally arrives, and that, too, is enough.)
**
They host a party the night before Grantaire is set to leave. It's a small thing--as per Enjolras's adamant request--not quite the grand scale celebration it would have been had Enjolras said yes a week ago, but the ballroom is still practically bursting at the seams, the kind of full-house that gets suffocating after a while.
The ballroom itself is large, possibly the castle's largest, with crisp white columns lining the walls and giving way to wide archways where doors should be, and intricately carved torches placed strategically to give a sort of medieval feel whilst continuing to maintain a stunning incandescence. There are large tables pushed up against the walls, set with gold tablecloths and a bountiful array of concessions, and there is music thrumming seamlessly through the floors and the walls and the mass of giddy bodies spread throughout the room. But perhaps the most breathtaking of all is the chandelier, strung up perfectly from the center of the ceiling and jeweled with strands of white beads, beads that reflect the flickering flames from the torches and fall in varying lengths until all you can see is a sort of spider web of pearls.
Grantaire could hardly breathe from the beauty of it when he first walked in--it's a new edition, if the way he can't say he's ever seen it before is any indication--and that did nothing to help the claustrophobic feeling that clawed its way up from the heat of the bodies crushing closer with every twist of melody.
And then the prince had walked in, garbed in a dazzling silk suit, the color of plums so rich you only ever hear about them in fairytales, and sporting a smile that could surely put the sun to shame. Shadows of the flames had got caught in his golden curls, and Grantaire's breath truly had better judgement than he did, then, because it fled while it had the chance and Grantaire was left alone, rooted to the floor as he slowly succumbed to his inevitable asphyxiation.
He didn't die. It was the strangest thing, possibly, because all it took was for Enjolras to lock eyes with him from across the room, and his breath came stuttering back. Probably he would have kicked it back out for it's devilish abandonment if he didn't also need it to survive.
For the most part, Grantaire had avoided the prince as best he could, fleeing like a bigot from common sense whenever they got too close. Despite his attempts, though, the two of them still wound up side by side often enough to have virtually the whole room stare whenever they separated--and, let's be honest, even when they didn't.
People obviously still had rights, one of which was still free thought, which wasn't actually a problem until seemingly the only people invited to Grantaire's departure party were also only ones who believed more in his and Enjolras's would-be marriage than in themselves.
Which was fine. Grantaire could deal. Mostly. A little.
Point is, Grantaire is human just like anyone else, and that, unfortunately, entails a little thing called a breaking point. His came in the form of an eyebrow waggle from Bahorel, situated, like he'd been all night, at his sanctioned post by the ballroom entrance. And then, subsequently, an eyebrow waggle from Jehan. And then Cosette. And then the dopiest two thumbs up, courtesy of Marius.
All of that, coupled with the ever growing heat emanating from the dancing bodies and the gorgeous, unattainable prince who couldn't seem to stay more than an arms length away, boiled over into unbearable.
Heart not so figuratively in his throat, Grantaire made a hasty retreat to the balcony.
That was twenty minutes ago. He's been out here ever since.
A small part of him feels a bit guilty for deliberately skipping out on the party that was planned for him, but a greater part of him is thankful for the way the cool, fresh air feels against his overheated skin. The way the breeze and the distant sound of the crickets below feel freeing in a way he hasn't known for a good while.
Ballroom music hums softly through the balcony doors, reaches Grantaire even all the way out here.
He thinks of Eponine and Gavroche. He thinks of how tomorrow he'll be returning to them, how a piece of him dreads having to leave behind his friends for a second time, only to return to Eponine the same man he was when he left. And then he thinks of how he should probably stop thinking altogether. There will be plenty of time for that after the party. The party for him. His party.
Grantaire grips the balcony ledge and stares off at the sunset.
There's a whoosh and then the music briefly gets louder, before the balcony door is closing again.
It's truly an ironic twist of fate when Enjolras steps up beside him, resting his arms against the railing and gazing along with Grantaire as the sky fades from a gentle pink and orange, to an inky black.
It's silent for a while, the only sounds are the prince's gentle breaths, his own, the chirping crickets that would be grating on any other day, and music of the ballroom still floating through the closed doors.
Grantaire isn't sure whether the silence is comfortable or not, whether his skin is prickling from his proximity to Enjolras or from the weirdness of the general quiet. He is equally unsure whether he should be grateful or not when Enjolras speaks up.
"You're not coming back to the party, are you?" His voice is carefully blank, and although Grantaire can't deny that he's more than mediocre at reading people, he fails to read the prince. It's not exactly the most opportune time to lose his touch.
Grantaire keeps his gaze resolutely trained on the distant darkening sky, and gives himself a second to compose a response. He hadn't thought much about it, although, subconsciously, a part of him thinks Enjolras is probably right. "It's better if they don't see us together anyway," he says, in lieu of a definite answer. It's probably true.
"Well, that's a pity," Enjolras starts, voice sounding so sure of himself, "because I was hoping for a dance."
Was Grantaire's heart always beating this rapidly? Was his face always this warm?
Hesitantly, and hopefully not as rosy-cheeked as he feels, Grantaire tilts his head until he's watching the prince. Enjolras meets his gaze head on, seemingly without a single hint of hesitance or regret for his words. It's dangerous, this eye contact.
"Be careful with your words there, Princess, a boy might get ideas," Grantaire jokes, and still, Enjolras has yet to look as if he wishes he could take his words back.
"Let the people think what they want. If I stopped to plan my words around the world's assumptions, I'd be nowhere."
Grantaire smirks half-heartedly. "You'd probably be marrying me. If Enjolras, wise prince of Musain, couldn't entirely sway a room of people and the kings with the captivating conviction of his words, then your fathers' proposal would have been a done thing before either of us had heard of it."
Enjolras raises an eyebrow, and he says, "You say that as if it's the end of the world."
Grantaire can only blink. Usually, now would be the time for him to return a quip, except he's lost for words. He stares at Enjolras's dress suit, at the way the setting sun casts a kaleidoscope of colors upon it, and at the way it almost feels as if the universe is baiting him, hiding somewhere in the dark and watching, sniggering into its palm like the Enjolras-shaped whole in Grantaire's heart is somehow hilarious.
Maybe it would be the end of the world, Enjolras and Grantaire actually getting married. Maybe that would rip the world right down it's middle, because never in a million years was it ever supposed to happen, because if it did it would surely mean there's been a flaw in the world's code.
Maybe it would be the end of the world because Grantaire would give anything if he knew it was anywhere even close to a possibility. Maybe it would be the end of the world for Enjolras because choosing Grantaire would certainly be scraping the bottom of the barrel, like being forced to eat the poisoned apple knowing you were surrounded by hundreds of safe apple trees.
Grantaire lets these thoughts sink in, and then he considers Enjolras's proposition to dance. How would it feel to hold Enjolras's hand? How would it feel to know their bodies swayed along together to the same melody? How would it feel to stand so close and yet know their souls lied worlds away?
Grantaire has never thought of himself as a masochist, but he considers all this and he doesn't immediately run in the opposite direction.
"I'm sure for most of the people in that room, it would be the start," he answers finally, pushing off the balcony ledge and facing Enjolras fully. "But I wouldn't mind a dance." Grantaire holds out his hand and ignores the fire that sparks up his arm as Enjolras takes it.
And if, when Enjolras pulls him back into the ballroom and all eyes flit to them, Grantaire doesn't notice, too busy reveling in the glory that is the prince on the dance floor; and if Grantaire likes it a bit too much when Enjolras pulls him close and settles his hands on his hips; and if they end up closer than two dancing partners ought to be; and if Grantaire uses this proximity to rest his cheek against the prince's chest; and if Grantaire's heart jumps as Enjolras hums; and if he doesn't mention how fast his heart is racing because perhaps Enjolras's heart is racing just as fast--well. Grantaire can't exactly be blamed.
**
Grantaire is woken by the sound of frantic footfalls outside his door, and then by the sound of frantic footfalls in his room.
For a second, he's irrationally annoyed. He'd been dreaming about last night, the images of memories flitting by in an almost-accurate representation of the events of the party. How, at one point, Enjolras had leaned down to whisper in his ear about the people around them, how Grantaire had joked along with him, said something amusing, although god knows he can't remember exactly what now, how the prince had laughed, and how Grantaire had felt it in warm bursts of breath against his neck. He wants Enjolras, and in his dreams, Enjolras had wanted him too, had whispered it against his dark curls, and everything in the world was good, and nice, and right.
Even in the low light the moon provides through the open bedroom window, even in Grantaire's current sleep-muddled state, he knows with terrifying clarity that something is terribly wrong.
Cosette is standing by his bed, face too pale. Looking, for all intents and purposes, like a ghost. Her breathing is ragged, and when she speaks, her voice shakes. "He's missing."
The world stands still. Something's not clicking, something doesn't make sense, it doesn't fit. Grantaire knows, vaguely, that he's still laying in bed, but he can't feel a thing.
"He went out, after the party," the princess continues, speaking fast, so fast Grantaire almost misses her words. "After the party ended and everybody went home, and you'd already gone up to bed, and Papa and Father had already gone up to bed, and I'd already gone up to bed. He went out and he told Courfeyrac and Combeferre he was going out, and R that was hours ago, and he still hasn't come back--"
Grantaire stops her with a hand to her arm and a quiet, "Slow down," when his voice comes back and he remembers how to move. "Who're Courfeyrac and Combeferre?"
"His personal guards." She grips his arm in return, fingers going uncannily white with the force of it. "I trust them, R, they're my friends, and they said it's been too long, that something must have happened, that he--"
Grantaire finally processes her words fully, and they settle like lead to the pit of his stomach. He sits up, spine going ramrod-straight. "Do the kings know?" he gets out, voice sounding more steady than he'd thought he currently had the capacity for.
"Yes, they--they sent a search party out, just in case, to ask around for him, but everybody thinks it was the northern kingdom." Cosette's eyes widen, like she just remembered something. "They're going to wait a day, see if he shows up, but then they're going to send a group of men to the kingdom. Father wants to go himself--he was so angry, R--but Papa is trying to talk him out of it. But, but what if."
"They're going to find him, Cosette. The northern kingdom wouldn't just kidnap the prince, that's not--they wouldn't." Grantaire doesn't know who his words are meant for.
He doesn't dwell on it. He scoots over, pulling the blanket away, and Cosette takes the hint and crawls into the bed beside him. Grantaire hugs her, sways, hums the tune of a familiar song, because he figures he ought to return the favor.
They both need it.
**
"Have you found anything?"
The shake of a head. Grave. "Not yet."
**
Grantaire knew, from the moment Cosette came into his room a night ago, that Enjolras wasn't just late. That he didn't just lose himself in a lovely conversation, that he didn't just forget the way back. He knew from the moment he lied to Cosette through gritted teeth that the search team wasn't actually going to find him.
He'd hoped, oh how he'd hoped so dearly, but even he knew it was pointless.
And yet, Grantaire can't help how surprised he feels when Cosette finds him, informs him that there was a woman. A woman who'd passed the prince talking to an older man the day he went missing, who couldn't remember what the man had looked like, except that he was wearing a hat. And a sort of fuzzy-edged, blurry image is already forming in Grantaire's mind, even before Cosette goes on to explain that the search party had followed the woman's directions to the last place Enjolras was seen, even before Cosette tells him they found a hat, shoves the object from her hands into his face as if to prove her point.
The hat is thin and tall, rising into an ovular curve at its highest point, a faded scuff mark proudly boasted in the top right corner, and the hesitant image in Grantaire's head solidifies into a more permanent one.
And then his blood turns white-hot, like liquid magma flowing through his veins and lighting his heart on fire, a mad, uncontrollable rage. He grits his teeth and tastes blood.
"Enjolras wasn't kidnapped by the northern kingdoms," he spits, although it doesn't really matter anymore since the kings have already sent troops out.
Cosette shakes her head, looking for all the world like she doesn't understand a thing he's saying and it physically pains her.
But she doesn't need to understand, because Grantaire understands enough for the both of them. The hat is all too familiar.
Grantaire remembers Monsieur Thénardier's face as he'd stolen it from a poor man in the street: smug and ruthless and apathetic. When he speaks, the words leave his mouth like venom. "Enjolras is in my own kingdom."
**
They don't waste a second on thinking through this rationally, because there isn't a moment to spare. Not when the distance between the two kingdoms is a two days trip, and they've already let a day slip past since the news of Enjolras's disappearance came to light.
Grantaire feels sick, too sick to eat, and he throws all of his spare energy into concentrating on not letting that thought blossom into similar worries. (Is Enjolras eating enough? Is he being fed at all? How long do they have?)
Him and Cosette set out at night, when they are most certain the kings won't notice their absence until it's too late to stop them. They don't expect to run into Combeferre and Courfeyrac on their way out, but Grantaire has long since passed the point of desperation, and he isn't afraid to admit how his first thought is to fight their way through.
"What?" Cosette prompts, and Grantaire realizes she's just as determined as he is. Her posture is too stiff, almost coiled, like a snake preparing to strike. Her tone is clipped.
Enjolras's guards don't notice or choose instead to ignore it. "We're going with you," one of them says.
Neither Cosette nor Grantaire fight it, because it seems pretty counterproductive to argue against help. Maybe they should. Maybe they should stop to make a plan. The Thénardiers have always been unpredictable at the best of times.
They don't.
**
"Enjolras is missing, Eponine, your parents have him."
Her eyes glint like knife blades.
**
Even with a considerable amount of the kingdom stepping up to aid in the search for Musain's prince, it takes three hours to find him.
Even then, for better or for worse, Grantaire is the one who finally does it. Cosette wasn't too far behind him when he first walked into the café, but they separated instantly, her going to search the upstairs rooms, Grantaire making his way towards the basement.
The sight, when he finally spots the prince, is so pathetic he nearly cries.
Enjolras is slumped forward in an old, rickety chair, hands ghostly pale and dotted with streams of dried blood from where his wrists are pinned taut to the arms of the chair with an unyielding strip of rough rope, cutting off the circulation in his wrist and digging deep into his skin until it's mangled and trickling blood. His ankles are tied in a similar fashion, and there's a large gash trailing a path across his forehead and over his brow. Grantaire can only imagine it was caused by Monsieur Thénardier getting in a good whack to knock him out, because he's too afraid to think it might be anything else. He's been stripped down to nothing but his underclothes.
Enjolras's eyes are closed and his breathing is ragged and shallow--the kind of shallow that prompts the urgency for large, deep breaths, although the prince can't seem to get in a single good inhale.
Grantaire rushes over. "Enjolras," he rasps out, dropping to his knees in front of the chair and lifting the prince's head as gently as his shaking fingers can manage.
Enjolras's face is too warm for it's striking paleness, and his skin is clammy and sticky with sweat.
Grantaire's voice is shaking when he continues. "Enjolras. Enjolras, please, you have to work with me here, please." He scrambles to remove the rope from around Enjolras's wrists, movements getting increasingly frantic as the prince's breath stutters and his eyelids twitch, as if trying to open.
"Gra--" Enjolras breathes, then breaks off, and Grantaire would think it was simply the wind, except then his eyes blink fully open and his gaze moves sluggishly to Grantaire's.
"No, don't move," he warns, when the prince begins to struggle against the bindings, "it's okay. Enjolras, it's okay, I'm here now, you're going to be okay." Grantaire tries his best to keep the panic from his voice, but he's never been all that good under pressure. "You're going to be okay," Grantaire repeats.
The first rope peels off, leaving a pulpy, distressing, purple bruise in its wake, and Grantaire can't help the shaky gasp that escapes his lips.
Enjolras's now-free hand makes it's sporadic way slowly to settle over Grantaire's trembling one, and Grantaire's eyes snap up.
There's something in the prince's gaze, some heady feeling swirling just behind his dark eyes, and Grantaire isn't sure what it is, but he knows it's there. It's there and it's strong.
"I'm going to be okay," Enjolras agrees, and it sounds almost placating, like a promise.
Grantaire takes a deep quivering breath in, then releases. He does it again, and again, until his trembling has eased, and then he starts working on the second knot.
He has it halfway loosened, fingertips raw from the sheer effort of undoing the tight ties, when there's a shuffle from behind him, followed by the telltale click of the safety being released on a gun. Grantaire's freezing even before the figure has a chance to voice his threat.
"Step away from him, boy, or I'll shoot."
Grantaire's stomach drops to the floor. He doesn't move--too afraid it won't matter either way, that moving away from Enjolras won't even make a difference--not at first, not until he feels the barrel of the gun jab into the base of his skull.
"Stand. Up."
This time, Grantaire obeys. The pressure is removed from the back of his head as the gun moves away, and he spins, slowly, to face the all too familiar visage of Monsieur Thénardier.
The man is grinning in that smug way he always used to, teeth stained black and yellow, hair a mess of knots in the places he isn't balding. He hasn't changed at all. Except that he's garbed in the gorgeous plum suit Enjolras had been wearing the night of the party, the night he went missing.
Grantaire's fists clench so tightly that his knuckles go white and little crescent-shaped indents start forming beneath his nails. He sees red. "You won't get away with this," he practically spits, surprised by the way his voice has steadied in the face of this immediate danger. "The whole kingdom is already searching for you."
Monsieur Thénardier grins. "See, here's the funny thing." He sways on his feet, the rest of his body following the motion until he's pacing a small line in front of Grantaire. The gun never strays from its mark. "All of this," he continues, motioning with his free hand at the prince's miserable state, "was just a happy accident. I only stole him away for his clothes."
Grantaire's teeth grind together, and he thinks he might feel dizzy. "What is that supposed to mean," he grits out.
"It means I can smell wealth from a mile away--I'm like a bloodhound in that sense." The man leans forward, something dark glinting in his eyes. "And he reeked of it. It was only once I brought him here and stripped him of his possessions that I realized he wasn't just some random deep pocket but a prince. And then I figured, what a waste to have this prime ransom material in my grasp and do nothing."
Grantaire refrains from lunging with vindictive fists and a fire in his eyes, but only barely, and only because he's still under the scrutinous gaze of a loaded gun aimed to kill. Instead, he snarls, "However this plays out, you'll never win. You're just one man against two kingdoms."
The other man hums, then, and his tongue goes up to swipe slowly across the front of his top teeth. "It's crazy, how much power one man holds when he's got a knife to the prince's throat."
Something must show on Grantaire's face, because Monsieur Thénardier grins and gives him a knowing look before continuing. "Don't worry. I need him alive for obvious reasons. But you, on the other hand--that's what you should be worrying about. You're just collateral." And then he cocks the gun in his hand and raises it, aiming for a straight shot at Grantaire's skull.
Reasonably, Grantaire knows the man is right--he probably should be more worried for himself; he's about to be killed by the greatest coward he knows, any breath now could be his last. But his heart isn't racing because he's afraid to die, and his eyes aren't wet and full and threatening to spill because he'll never again get the chance to taste the salty winds of the ocean at the edge of Musain.
Grantaire is afraid, he's terrified, but all that fear pales in comparison to his guilt for leaving Enjolras to be ransomed by the hands of Monsieur Thénardier, for how, after his death, Eponine will be forced to deal with the recent chaos of her kingdom alone.
And maybe, if he plays his cards just right, if he waits it out and dives to the side at just the right moment, the bullet could miss him. The chances are slim, but they aren't insubstantial. He could survive all this, return to Eponine, return to Musain if he must. But he's also aware that any move he makes puts Enjolras that much more in danger, that his own safety is incongruous with Enjolras's, mutually exclusive. Grantaire could play his cards just right, dive out of the way in time for the shot to miss him, but if it misses him, it hits Enjolras. And Grantaire could move away now, before Monsieur Thérnardier shoots, step out of the line he's so unfortunately in with the prince, but then he won't have a chance to dodge the next bullet when it subsequently comes. He's stuck in a repeating cycle. Every outcome is the same--achieved through different means, but he always dies. Might as well save himself the trouble and not move at all.
Just right isn't worth the risk, and Enjolras's death isn't worth his own life.
Grantaire squares his shoulders, levels a steely gaze on the gun aimed at him, and refuses to give Eponine's father the pleasure of seeing a hint of his fear. He waits, steels himself for what he knows is about to go down, wills his limbs into iron, waits some more, waits because he knows Monsieur Thénardier is drawing this out, that he wants the anticipation to kill Grantaire first, that he wants--
There's a clap, a loud ring that reverberates around the close confines of the café basement, and for one terrifying moment, Grantaire thinks that he's been shot. That it's all over.
It takes a moment to realize that his body is unmarred, still whole, that the pain he feels is no more than the phantom ache of his expectancy to be shot.
It takes a moment and the sight of Monsieur Thénardier's eyes falling shut, face freezing in a picture of surprise, body falling limp to the floor. The gun skitters across the floor and out of his grasp.
Cosette is standing there, expression set in grim determination, large gold goblet wielded in her hands like a bat.
Grantaire stares at her, eyes wide. For a couple seconds, she stares back. Then, almost simultaneously, both their gazes rove to the unconscious man splayed across the floor.
Even with the danger momentarily subdued, Grantaire's heart is still rabbiting like anything in his chest. As if it hasn't quite yet realized that it isn't a second away from death. His brain, though, has caught up to that fact, and he lets what little relief he can manage wash over himself as he stares at the still form of the man who nearly killed Enjolras. Enjolras--
Grantaire whirls around. The prince is back to the position he was in when Grantaire first found him, slumped forward and looking for all intents and purposes like death is at his heels.
When Grantaire races back over, fingers flying across the remaining bindings with a steadier hand than he had before, Enjolras barely stirs, making no move to reassure Grantaire of his health besides a pitiful loll of his head.
"Cosette--" Grantaire starts, desperately, and the princess must read his mind, or else she had his same thought, because she's already rushing back up the stairs and calling for help.
Grantaire gets the last rope untied and throws it across the room. Without anything left to hold him in place, Enjolras falls forward.
"Fuck," Grantaire hisses, hand darting up to catch his shoulder and push him back. He moves his hand down the prince's arm until his fingers flit over Enjolras's wrist, and he can catch a pulse, light and distant but there.
When Cosette finally returns, with Combeferre and Courfeyrac immediately behind her, she grabs Grantaire's hand and squeezes. Her hold never loosens back up, but Grantaire's grip is just as hard.
**
"R, you should get some rest."
Grantaire's entire body tenses, fingers going rigid where they're clasped around Enjolras's own lax hand.
The boy in question is still sleeping, though, eyelashes gently fanning out across his pale cheeks, body nestled comfortably in his bed without a care in the world as his mind drifts through the dream realm.
Grantaire knows he should probably correct Joly, inform him that he shouldn't be called that anymore, that he can't be called that because nobody else can know. But he's just so tired.
Grantaire sighs, and his shoulders slump, if only minutely. "I'm fine."
"I'm a doctor, R," Joly says, and his voice is gentle and kind and soothing, "you're not fine." There's a pause, and Grantaire uses the silence to compose himself, before Joly starts again. "But Enjolras will be."
And sure, Enjolras has already gained some color back, and it's relieving in a way that lets Grantaire know that his health has improved, but the thought of leaving the prince's side now is ludicrous, absolutely absurd. He's practically set up a permanent residence by his bed as it is; no use breaking the record now.
"R," Jolly insists when Grantaire doesn't make a move to stand or reply.
"You know I can't do that."
"Eponine has already sent guards to escort Monsieur Thénardier to Musain. The kings are going to decide his sanction. The threat is over, Enjolras is going to be fine, but if you keep forcing yourself awake with all this worrying, you will get sick. R, neither of you need that right now." Jolly lays a hand on Grantaire's shoulder, and he tenses.
"This is what I'm talking about," Jolly sighs, squeezing his hand gently. "You're too wound up, R, you need rest."
"Enjolras is resting enough for the both of us," Grantaire grumbles back irrationally. It's stupid reasoning, but it's the best he's got on the spot. He does need rest, he knows he does, he can feel the weariness seeping further into his bones with every passing second, and that is exactly why he can't explain to Jolly why he has to stay by Enjolras's side. He's too tired for any explanation to make sense.
Jolly must be able to sense the iron-clad resolve in Grantaire's voice, because he sighs and gives up with the sleep argument. "Have you at least eaten anything recently?"
Grantaire shrugs, because it's as good a response as any. "The other nurse brought some food earlier."
"R, that was barely anything!" Jolly scolds.
Grantaire simply shrugs again.
"I'm going to bring you food and water, and please, for the love of god, Grantaire, eat it."
If Grantaire hadn't already been aware of his exhaustion, the fact that he passed up the very lovely opportunity of the 'you don't eat water' quip would have been a sure sign.
"I'll be back with it in a second," Jolly finishes, "don't go anywhere."
It's a sad excuse of a joke, and yet it still gets Grantaire to crack a smile.
**
He does end up falling asleep. A few times. Grantaire still refuses to leave Enjolras's side except to relieve himself, but he eats the food Jolly brings, and he drinks the water he's given, and he sleeps when the effort of keeping his eyes open is too much.
He only ever removes his hand from Enjolras's own when he absolutely needs to, and usually he's content enough with that. Which is why he's only mildly surprised when he feels a gentle squeeze on his fingers.
It's still the early hours of the morning, the sun having barely risen, and Grantaire finds himself monumentally grateful for that when he snaps his gaze down and watches the few rays of light shining through the window catch in Enjolras's eyes, bleary with sleep, lashes fluttering gorgeously in his attempt to blink himself awake.
Something in his chest clenches, tugs. He's too surprised to make a noise, too relieved to see the prince finally awake to remember to talk.
There's another squeeze on his hand, and then Enjolras's head is rolling to the side, golden curls fanning like halos against his pillow, and catching his gaze.
"Grantaire," he says, and his voice sounds rough with disuse, but oh so delighted.
"Enjolras," Grantaire answers back.
"Grantaire." And then the prince is struggling upwards, body cracking, and looking as if the simple act of moving is terribly painful. He winces, bites back a pained groan, and then lets himself fall back down to the bed, hands flying up to curl in the fabric of Grantaire's shirt. "Grantaire are you--the gun, the--there was a shot--" Enjolras has to break off for a coughing fit, and the sound of it alone makes Grantaire's chest ache.
"Enjolras, calm down," he tries. He raises his own hands to settle warmly over the prince's, and after a minute, the coughing subsides.
Enjolras stares at him, eyes almost pleading and shining with worry. "Are you okay? Are you..." he roves his hands across Grantaire's midriff, searching for something that Grantaire can only assume is a bullet wound.
"I'm fine, Enjolras, I'm okay. He never got the chance to shoot--"
"But--"
"Cosette knocked him out." This seems to make Enjolras relax a little, and the thought is strangely hysterical. "Enjolras, are you okay? You can't just wake up and start asking how I am, you've been asleep for five days."
"What?"
"Five days, Enjolras. That's how long you've been unconscious. Like a short coma. We didn't know when--Jolly said there was no real way of knowing how long you'd be unconscious for, Enjolras, and I was so fucking worried that, that--because you can't just--you were gone, missing, and I thought that maybe...but you can't leave, you can't, I still need you, we all still need you, so you can't just--
"Shut up and kiss me."
The world grinds to a screeching halt, tilts on its axis. "I--what?" The words come out strangled.
"I said," Enjolras continues quietly, reaching forward to play idly with one of Grantaire's wayward curls, "kiss me." When Grantaire doesn't move, when his breath stutters out, Enjolras moves his hand, ghosts his fingers over Grantaire's jaw and trails an invisible path along its curve, down his neck.
He's staring at his fingers, Grantaire guesses, or some fixed spot on his neck. A second passes. Enjolras moves to pull his hand away, but Grantaire's faster. He knows how it feels now, to be touched by the sun, and he catches Enjolras's wrist, wraps his fingers around the bone there, gentle, significant.
Enjolras's gaze snaps up to meet Grantaire's own, and the idiot's eyes are swimming with shock and awe, and Grantaire knows, realistically, he should be dead. Realistically, Enjolras should be a guilty man, standing over Grantaire's bleeding body as piercing stare after piercing stare runs him through.
"R--" Enjolras whispers, and Grantaire surges forward.
Their lips meet in an explosion of ultra violet and gold, and Grantaire thinks he wouldn't even notice if the sky fell.
One of Enjolras's hands is still fisted in Grantaire's shirt, and Grantaire can feel, when their lips connect, how it twitches, holds tighter.
The prince's lips are warm and familiar in the strangest sort of way. When he breathes, Grantaire feels it in warm bursts against his own mouth, and when Grantaire moves his free hand to curl through Enjolras's hair, the prince shivers and makes a noise low in the back of his throat.
And then his words click into place. Grantaire pulls away. "What," he breathes, and then has to blink, swallow, "what did you say?"
Enjolras's gaze moves up from where it's trained on Grantaire's lips to meet his eyes. Grantaire doesn't know what to make of his expression--a beautiful amalgamation of disbelief and wonderment and some other emotion he can't quite discern. "What?"
"What did you just say?"
The prince's hand is still grasped in his shirt. It flutters, slightly. "Kiss me?"
Grantaire blushes. "No, after that."
Enjolras frowns, for a moment, and then his face morphs into one of understanding, even as his eyes skitter around the room, everywhere but Grantaire. "R?" he whispers.
Grantaire's heart does a thing. "How did you..."
"Know?" he finishes, when it becomes apparent that Grantaire isn't going to.
A nod.
"I first had a hunch in the library, when you used the nickname. It wasn't...the thought stuck, after that, and then it was just little things that you used to do. Things that would have been unnoticeable, except that I already had my suspicions."
Grantaire swallows around the lump in his throat. If Enjolras has known, this whole time, then..."Why didn't you ever say anything?"
The prince frowns. "I didn't exactly get the idea that you wanted me to know."
"Well, yeah! Because I was afraid you'd hate me if you found out."
"I couldn't hate you, R."
Grantaire struggles to keep his expression in check. Nothing is making sense. "But why?"
"I think you know why," Enjolras answers, and there's that same unnameable emotion in the set of his features as he pulls Grantaire back in.
It's probably not the best idea to be kissing the prince who only just woke up from his coma and is still lying in his sick ward bed, but mostly, Grantaire just hopes nobody walks in.
Fuck, that is the longest thing I've ever written
Even I feel like the ending left a lot to be desired, so I'm sorry about that :/ I hope you found something enjoyable in it anyway :D