Disclaimer: Les Miserables belongs to Victor Hugo
Warnings: Drugs, smoking, alcohol abuse, suicidal thoughts
A/N: I'm a bit self conscious about this one. Tell me what you think.
And the golden of the sun let itself be enveloped in the dark, twisted forest.
Grantaire was in the The History of Ancient Roman Architecture class because he was an artist, while Enjolras ended up there because he thought it would be interesting.
Chalk dust, meaningless conversations, and the whirring of a computer filled the room's air.
On the first day, Grantaire caught sight of Enjolras' blonde hair (later to be described as golden, when Grantaire thought more in-depth about Apollo's appearance), his blue eyes (later to be described as the sky, for the same reason), how he carried himself with a sort of cockiness (later to be described as confidence), and how his voice (later to be described as strong and passionate) rung throughout the classroom.
On the fifth day, they exchanged a few words. Grantaire started to come to the meetings Enjolras talked about, how they discussed upcoming cases and politics.
But it was the twentieth day that Grantaire itched for a pencil and paper, ready to capture his beauty.
There was a reason the whiskey only showed up in Grantaire's apartment on a Saturday night. Only on Saturdays, though.
Saturdays were the days Enjolras got together with his group of friends to discuss their protests.
And usually Grantaire could keep his eyes off Enjolras, could train them somewhere else. But most nights his thoughts were filled with every detail of how he would draw Enjolras. He wouldn't change a thing.
Mostly he scolded himself to think he could draw something that beautiful.
These behaviors didn't go unnoticed by his friends, but they slipped right past Enjolras, not noticing the stares Grantaire gives to this Greek god standing before him.
Enjolras' friends tried to accept Grantaire, and eventually succeeded. All it took was time. They laughed at the sarcastic comments he made, started texting often and had even tried to get Enjolras to see Grantaire's actions that gave away his feelings. The thing is, though, Enjolras was too focused on his protests against the government and rights and the way things were run.
Grantaire hadn't believed in anything since he started drinking his pain away, but there was no way Enjolras was actually a human, actually a mortal. He must be some fucking deity walking the earth, because no one is that angelic all the time.
He thought it upon himself an honor to be able to memorize the hard lines of Enjolras' face, be able to go home and try and try and try to get the beautiful angels and colors correct when he painted them: the golden of his hair and the blue of his eyes.
Grantaire's apartment was cluttered, mostly with empty bottles, stubs of cigarettes, and half finished paintings. The fridge was stocked with alcohol while the cupboards remained almost empty, save for a few boxes of stale cereal and some coffee filters. The sofa was stained and had burnt places from the cigarettes, the only table covered in pencil doodles, and the counter was filled with notes from previous classes and homework that he never bothered to do.
And then there was one room, a room he kept locked, that held paintings and charcoal drawings and colored sketches of his Apollo.
The drunkard sat in the alley behind the bar he chose tonight, counting on his fingers the numbers of things he had to live for.
"Come on, 'Taire. You've had enough to drink tonight," Enjolras tried to say in his gentlest tone. He helped him up from his sulking position and has Grantaire lean on his shoulder for support. But Enjolras' strong, sturdy hands on his back was driving Grantaire crazy, making him alert and slightly shake just to know that Enjolras was helping him, even at his worst.
All of that alcohol gone to waste. Grantaire only wanted to drown his feelings for a while.
"Hey, Apollo," Grantaire slurred, rubbing his eyes sleepily, bitter alcohol still present on his breath. The blonde nodded tightly, his attention focused on making sure Grantaire doesn't trip.
Enjolras was glad Grantaire couldn't see the pity in his eyes, the pity he couldn't hide anymore.
"Let's get you home," Enjolras mumbled, sweeping black hair out of Grantaire's face. Grantaire, too drunk to remember he didn't deserve Enjolras, went with it and let the angel take him home.
Enjolras discussing the next protest with his group of friends was one of Grantaire's favorite things.
He's never seen someone so passionate about what they believe in, never seen anyone able to come up with a comeback before Grantaire even finished his sentence. Sometimes, Grantaire wished he could do something like that: make a change and live for something and be so passionate and dedicated.
Grantaire went to all of the meetings, but who the hell knows why he went? For the alcohol? Because we sure know it's not because of the speeches.
No, it was for Apollo. It's because Enjolras looked quite cute when he was angry, and most of the time he was angry at drunk Grantaire for interrupting him.
"Things need to be changed," Enjolras said, his voice steady and calm, motioning to the papers in front of him. "This has gone on for too long." A strong and passionate voice rung throughout the Musain.
"How so?" Grantaire joked, just to piss Enjolras off. With his face flushed, Enjolras started on a long rant about the rights of the citizens.
Grantaire took another swig of his bottle, a smirk plastered on his face.
Everyone had cleared out around midnight, leaving Enjolras shuffling his papers back into his bag. Grantaire pretended to be busy, but really was just waiting for Enjolras to be done so they could leave together.
"Hey—" Enjolras started, and then decided not to finish.
"Yes?" Grantaire questioned. Anything Enjolras had to say to him, Grantaire surely wanted to hear it.
"You could stop, you know," he explained, nonchalant. "You should stop."
"Stop what?" Grantaire tried to seem clueless, but already knew the answer.
"The drinking," Enjolras said, though there needed to be more explained. "Excessively."
Hot blood pulsed in Grantaire's veins. "I don't need any help," Grantaire spits. "I'm not some fucking project for you to fix." Enjolras sighed and headed out the back door, in the direction of where his car was parked. He did want to fix Grantaire, there was so much potential: he could put his artistic hands to work and use his aggressive and bold (but arrogant) comments to rally the people.
Grantaire headed in the opposite direction to his bike, where he would ride in the rain for thirty minutes but he still did it every Saturday to see Enjolras speak about something he cared about.
It was too late at night to know what time it was, and drunk Grantaire didn't seem to care anyway. With bottles piled up around him, he could barely see the door opening and Apollo stepping into his apartment.
"Grantaire," he murmured, starting to pick up the empty bottles and put away the full ones.
After seeing Grantaire's black eye, probably from a bar fight, Enjolras bacame angry and frustrated at anyone who did this to him.
"Please stop drinking so heavily," Enjolras' quiet voice asked, begged him. He still thought he could fix the drunk and help him and make him sober and full of life again. And how could Grantaire refuse? Seeing his Apollo so sad because of him?
"What am I doing?" Grantaire wondered out loud, scratching his chin. A sad, empty look took over his face. With hearing that, Enjolras decided to pour what was left of the liquor down the sink. "Help me," Grantaire whispered, so quiet that Enjolras almost missed it. He turned his attention from the sink to the poor, drunk man sitting behind him.
"Okay," is all he answered with. Enjolras helped the man into bed and with a final debate whether or not he should stay here. Enjolras found spare sheets and was soon spreading them across the couch.
Grantaire's quiet (yet still annoying) snores kept Enjolras up most of the night, his mind wandering from all sorts of things but usually drifting back to Grantaire.
When Grantaire woke up, of all things, there was a text from Enjolras.
Enjolras: I had to leave early (we're planning another protest) but there's fresh coffee in the pot and some advil on the counter.
Grantaire struggled through the withdrawals and the relapses and the urges for just one sip of alcohol. But, he managed, because even though most of wanting sobriety rooted back to Enjolras, he also wanted it for himself.
Enjolras was faintly aware of the clean smell Grantaire was cloaked in, and if he would've thought anything of it, he would have been shocked. Grantaire, on a Saturday night? With no alcohol? No one would have ever thought it could happen.
Unless, let's say, the one person he looked up to—no, believed in—was standing beside him. And Grantaire has gotten better enough to know that he doesn't want Enjolras seeing him at his worse, not anymore. Now, he actually cared about something.
"Thanks for coming," Enjolras nodded to the crowd, and then continued, his face growing serious and somber. "If we're being honest, no one's listening to our protests. No one's listening to anything we have to say, and they don't care about any of it. We need to find a way to grab their attention and see, learn about what we're fighting for." He made big gestures with his hands while he was talking.
Tonight Grantaire doesn't speak out or piss Enjolras off. He's quiet and nodding and content to be here, within the presence of his Apollo.
Grantaire's eyes stayed trained on his longer than everyone else's did. His breath caught when Enjolras looked back.
Walking home that night wasn't as bad, he had the rain to distract him. But in the closed apartment, he couldn't help himself. His mind wandered, to the pink of Enjolras' lips, the pale blue of his eyes, his name, so perfectly crafted. It sounded like music out of his mouth.
And he hated it.
A weight settled itself in his chest, a conscience saying, You will never be good enough for him. Look at him, he's Apollo, a God, perfectly sculpted down to the last detail. Golden curls swinging across his head-though, he wears it straight more often; pure blue eyes that sweep right past you when he's in thought; arms that will only carry your drunk self home a few more times before he begins to stop caring. You think he thinks about you? Think again.
Grantaire tried to ignore it, but he couldn't. He's just wasn't strong enough. He gave in and crushed the framed painting on the wall of his apartment, fist coming back bloody. Bandaging his fist sloppily, and instead of seeking more help from a doctor, he collapsed into bed, wishing he wouldn't wake up.
Enjolras: The protests went exactly as planned, we're all meeting at the Musain tonight.
Enjolras: If you want to come.
Later in the evening, all of the guys gathered at the Musain, ready to order whatever kind of alcohol they wanted. Some of the citizens were finally starting to see what they were fighting for.
Grantaire came. But only because Enjolras invited him.
He was willing himself not to smell the bitterness of the whiskey, asked for water and downed that within the first two minutes.
Grantaire will not get drunk tonight, you will not get drunk tonight, I will not get drunk tonight, Grantaire's thoughts chanted. A mantra and a praise for being strong this long.
Everyone was happy that evening. Drinks went 'round, and most of all, people were surprised when Grantaire didn't even touch anything alcoholic.
"Enjolras," Cosette inclined her head and introduced him to the wide-eyed, beautiful girl standing in front of him, with caramel skin and dark eyes. She was genuinely funny, making Enjolras laugh and be at ease. Eponine. The name rolls off his tongue. All of the guys in Enjolras' group raised their eyebrows, surely expecting this relationship to work.
Grantaire's bright, laughing eyes found Enjolras' trained on some girl he didn't know. And the expression in them is amused, intrigued, and in awe. Slowly, the smile slipped off Grantaire's face and he made his way to the back of the bar-where his bike is set outside-begging God or anyone who's listening that no one saw how hurt he is, no one saw his hunched shoulders.
He did not think about Enjolras while going home.
He did not think about anything going home.
Except for the drinks he hadn't touched in weeks.
And he was doing so well.
Grantaire didn't want to have this drinking problem. It sunk itself into his bones, made them heavy as lead. He didn't like seeing everyone cautious, pitiful glances when a bottle was clutched in his hand. He didn't like to see the disgust written so plainly on their faces-on Enjolras' face. Except now he didn't care.
The empty bottle was broken in pieces, along with several more, and few full ones still waiting to be opened. Grantaire didn't know if he wants this alcohol to poison him. He didn't know if he wanted anyone to find his helpless corpse here after death had took its toll. He didn't know if he wanted to exist anymore.
Grantaire came into consciousness with a pounding headache and a groan. His arms are sprawled out across the table he passed out on, and his hand was still bleeding furiously. I must have cut it on a bottle, his thoughts mumbled.
A knock at the door and then Apollo was bursting into his apartment, his eyes worried.
"Grantaire?" Enjolras asks slowly. Hangover caused Grantaire to squint his eyes, to cover his ears. "What is this?" He looked around, taking in how many bottles were around Grantaire.
"What?" Grantaire sighed, exhausted and not wanting to fight.
"You drank again?" Enjolras says the question more like a fact. Grantaire shrugged, like it's something casual. Enjolras' eyes were full of anger, and his neck—Grantaire's stomach twisted and he wills himself not to look again—had a dark pink circle about the size of a quarter. Grantaire laughed at his self pity.
"You think this is funny, Grantaire?" Enjolras stood, squeezing his hands into fists, probably so he wouldn't hit him. Grantaire wished he would, the fists would hurt a lot less than this ache in his heart. Maybe it would have even distracted him from the pain of seeing his Apollo. "Your drinking problem is nothing to laugh about."
Grantaire reached for a glass to fill up with tap water while Enjolras' eyes stayed stony and judging.
"You promised you would stop," Enjolras said, quieter now. A vulnerability was present that Grantaire had never seen before. There was a hint of hurt in his voice. "Why didn't you stop?" Grantaire couldn't look Enjolras in the eyes.
"I'm not your responsibility," Grantaire snapped, his calm breaking in that half a second. As long as no one gives a shit about him, he doesn't give a shit about anything.
Through his fingers, Enjolras mumbled quietly, "I want you to be," but Grantaire couldn't hear him over the sound of his fist flying into a wall.
"Fuck," Grantaire muttered, not being able to move his fingers. He repeated the curse word three more times. Those fingers made him his money.
Enjolras moved forward while Grantaire took a step back. "I just want to help," he explained. Grantaire, groggy and hungover, lets Enjolras lead him into the bathroom, lets him wash off the dried blood on his hands. In the dark of the room, Enjolras' face in unreadable.
"Thank you," Grantaire breathed, shaky and unsure because his Apollo was touching his hands, was taking care of him and doesn't have a disgusted look in his eyes. Enjolras gave him a tight smile before uncomfortably putting a hand on his neck, covering up the hickey.
"I should be—" Enjolras started at the same time Grantaire spoke, but Grantaire snapped his mouth shut. "It's probably really late, and… And Eponine…" his sentence trailed off.
"Yeah—yeah, of course." Grantaire's voice was cold, dead, emotionless. His face showed no signs of longing; Grantaire learned to master that a long time ago.
Silently, they headed for the front door of Grantaire's apartment.
"Work in the morning," Enjolras went on, explaining.
"Until then, Apollo," Grantaire joked. Enjolras still stood awkwardly at the door.
"I—" Enjolras started to say, but he's cut off by Grantaire's lips on his, Grantaire's hands on his hips, Grantaire's door pushing against his back.
Before Enjolras has time to react or do something, Grantaire was pulling away and turning around, leaving Enjolras alone in the dark apartment, his lips still numb.
The clock on Enjolras' car read something blurry and very early in the morning, only four hours until Enjolras was expected to be at work, running things like the leader he is. Apollo, always in control; Apollo, apart of everything he believed in.
The drive home is silent, and Enjolras' mind was everywhere. Truthfully, he's still back at the apartment, with Grantaire's lips on his own.
And it killed Enjolras to not know the look on Grantaire's face as he turned away.
Probably just a drunken mistake, he thought absentmindedly.
Enjolras fumbled around in his pocket for keys. Instead, he pulled out Grantaire's and remembered when Grantaire gave it to him: one of the nights Enjolras had rescued him, drunk and in a ditch.
Not knowing what to do with it, he thrusted it angrily in his pocket. After a few minutes of fumbling around in the darkness, Enjolras finally fished out the key.
Collapsing onto the couch, being too exhausted to have made it to his bedroom, Enjolras let out a sigh. He closed his eyes and sent a silent prayer he'll wake up on time.
Grantaire made his way back to his bedroom, knocking a lamp over in the dark. Mumbling a string of curse words, he continued to his bed.
He angrily puts a pillow over his ears, trying to block out the buzzing in his head and whispering memories of Enjolras' soft, reassuring voice.
Luckily, Grantaire fell asleep before his mind can react to what he just did.
A few days went by with no word from Enjolras. No recognition of what happened that night.
Again, Grantaire found himself sitting in the Musain, watching the golden haired boy talk about his protests, or whatever it was he talked about.
Every word that came out of Enjolras' mouth Grantaire disagreed with, but that didn't change the beauty of him speaking.
"Oh, gracious leader, fearless Apollo, what speech do you have prepared for us today?" Grantaire asked, mockingly.
Enjolras was having none of Grantaire's shit today.
"Go home, Grantaire, you're drunk enough," he said, his voice soft but with a harshness behind it.
For a moment, an unreadable emotion flickered in Grantaire's eyes: anguish and longing, perhaps.
"As you wish, Apollo," Grantaire replied, his voice cold. Without waiting to see the looks on anyone's face, he turned and walked quickly to the back door, letting it slam shut behind him.
"Damn it," Enjolras muttered, ignoring the protests of his friends.
"Where are you going?" Courfeyrac called.
"Just let him be," Combeferre sighed, but Enjolras still followed Grantaire out the back of the Musain.
"Grantaire, I—" Enjolras started, but was interrupted.
"I don't need your fucking pity, Enj." Grantaire was exhausted and he didn't want to have this conversation tonight. He didn't want to do anything, really, but go back to being drunk to cover up the pain Enjolras caused him because what Enjolras said was enough to snap Grantaire in half and let's face it, anything Enjolras says is enough to snap Grantaire in half.
"But I—"
"Don't."
Enjolras couldn't take it anymore, couldn't take Grantaire being so this, or whatever he was being which was confusing Enjolras a lot, while there's nothing he can do to help or stop him.
"You're so goddamn selfish," Enjolras snapped. "Drinking yourself away, don't you want to do something with your life?"
Little did Enjolras know, Grantaire didn't want a life unless Enjolras was in it.
"What, do you think you're fucking perfect? All you think about is that fucking job of yours, you don't do anything else, you can't even see—" Grantaire stopped short.
"Can't see what?" Enjolras' voice was hoarse.
"You don't get it do you?" Now that Grantaire was going, nothing could stop him. "You think I fucking want this? To be so pathetically in love with you that's it's laughable, and there's nothing I can do about it? What was I supposed to do? Watch you fall in love with someone else when I'm right here in fucking front of you?"
"You're—?" Enjolras started, but was cut off by Grantaire's ranting.
"The only way to get rid of this fucking pain is to drink, Enjolras. And don't you think I know how worthless it makes me? Don't you think I know how lowly everyone thinks of me now? Of course I want to be sober; I want everyone to stop treating me like the drunk I am. I didn't fucking ask for this." Grantaire clenched his hands into fists to keep himself from hitting the brick of the Musain.
"You're not worthless," Enjolras stuttered out after a minute of silence.
"No, Enjolras, you're wrong." Surprisingly, Grantaire's voice was soft and quiet. "Everyone sure as hell makes it clear what I mean to them. Just a useless drunk whose life has already gone to shit." Grantaire put his hand on his neck "I don't even know why I come to these things, just to watch you stand up there. I try to make myself stop feeling this for you; I pick out every one of your faults and try to make myself hate you for them." He saw Enjolras' look of torment, like these words were killing him. "I'm not even fucking drunk right now, but everyone thinks I am. Everyone thinks I always am. They can't get past my alcohol problem, but I did. I fucking did because of you, and I'm gone when it comes to you."
A strangled noise escaped Enjolras, his lips swollen from biting and parted in confusion and why was Grantaire thinking about Enjolras' lips right now? He placed a hand at the nape of his neck, not knowing what to say. This was Grantaire: Grantaire who didn't give a shit, Grantaire who drank and smoked and occasionally did drugs, Grantaire who was vulnerable when it came to Enjolras, and he was saying the things that had been bottled up inside of him since freshman year of college.
Enjolras hesitated and then stammered out, "I—I don't—"
"Forget it," Grantaire said, quietly, waving a hand in dismissal before turning around and walking past Enjolras, down the alley and into the street, lit up from the moon.
Enjolras stood there in silence until Courfeyrac called him in.
"Enjolras?" His laughing voice rung throughout the alley and then becomes serious once he saw Enjolras standing there, an unreadable expression on his face. "You okay?" Courfeyrac's head swung from one side to the other. "Where's Grantaire?"
Enjolras hesitated, then clears his throat. "He, um—he left." Courfeyrac only nodded. "I should—I'll just go, too." He stuffed his hands into his pockets before turning around to leave, walking to his car just as it started pouring. A brief, fleeting thought wandered into his mind, Grantaire must have to walk home in this, and an empty feeling sunk in his chest.
"Shit," Grantaire muttered, flipping the hood up to his jacket; he was still twenty minutes away from his apartment and the rain had already soaked his curly hair. Grantaire took a long drag off of the cigarette he lit, filling his lungs with smoke.
The night air froze Grantaire's bones and he started to shiver, walking faster along the empty streets.
Enjolras shoved the keys into the slot to start the car, thinking that maybe if he goes fast enough he could still catch Grantaire (he's a slow walker).
Enjolras: Are you okay?
Enjolras: You can't just leave after you say something like that to someone
Enjolras: Please text me back, Grantaire
Relief inflated Enjolras' chest when he spots a dark figure walking down the side of the street wearing a soaked green jacket. Enjolras rolled down his window, not paying attention to the rain getting in his car.
"Grantaire?" He questioned, even though he knew the outline of sagging shoulders and lanky legs more than he thought he did. "You're going to get hypothermia," Enjolras said, matter-of-factly, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. He leaned over and opened the door for Grantaire, an invitation for a ride home.
Sighing, the stubborn cynic accepted and quickly got into the car, peeling away his soaked jacket.
After minutes of silence, Enjolras cleared his throat and spoke. "Are you cold?"
"We don't have to talk about it, or ever bring it up again. I don't care—you can forget about it, even, if you want." Grantaire stared out the window, reluctant to look Enjolras in the eyes.
"No, Grantaire, it's not—I just—I thought you hated me." Enjolras, usually excellent with words, was now stumbling his way across them.
"I try to hate you," he said quietly.
"Why didn't you ever tell me?" Enjolras blurted out.
"I saw what you thought of me, and that was clear enough."
Enjolras got the urge to punch something, punch someone who could actually have been this mean to someone like Grantaire, and then had a brief moment of self hatred; he was the one who had been so unkind. "Was I really that cruel to you?"
A frustrated noise came from the driver side over the car-from Enjolras-and Grantaire took that as discomfort. "I said you didn't have to talk about it," he muttered.
"No—I want to, it's just—God, I was so blind, someone should have told me about your feelings."
A bitter laugh escaped Grantaire. "You're friends tried to leave you hints." Quieter, he said, "almost like a game."
"It's not a game, Grantaire," Enjolras said, his voice filled with disbelief. Another low, bitter laugh came from Grantaire. Enjolras just sighed and continued driving, and after minutes of silence, finally pulled along the curb to Grantaire's apartment and parking the car.
Grantaire didn't get out for a while, instead he listened to the rain pound on the hood of the car. The few minutes of almost-silence gave Enjolras time to think about what he was about to do. Sighing, Grantaire opened the door and headed up the sidewalk, Enjolras following behind him.
Upon hearing echoing footsteps, Grantaire turned around. "What are you—?"
Enjolras put his hands on Grantaire's hips and pushed him against the door, just as Grantaire had done to him. The blonde whispered "you should have told me sooner," against his mouth before closing the gap, right before Grantaire's breath hitched. The kiss was intended to be chaste, but that plan few out the window once Grantaire started reacting. Hands were tangled in hair, hip bones pressed against hip bones. This was nothing like the first kiss, hesitant and drunken. Now, Grantaire was aware of kissing Enjolras: the strong jawline pressed against his own, soft lips brushing against Grantaire's chapped and bitten ones, a faint scent of Enjolras' cologne.
"God, Apollo," Grantaire breathed into the other man's mouth.
And the kiss was nothing short of what Enjolras expected; perhaps it was more. It was not something he had dreamed about for years, like Grantaire, but still, after kissing Grantaire, Enjolras was sure he didn't want to kiss anyone else except for the cynical, broken drunk who stood before him.
Fumbling, Enjolras twisted the doorknob and guided Grantaire inside, peeling off wet jackets and flinging shoes.
"Is this a dream?" Grantaire absentmindedly wondered out loud. Enjolras only shook his head, continuing on to kiss his jaw while Grantaire exhaled shaky, unsure breaths.
In between placing open-mouth kisses on Grantaire's neck, Enjolras let out nervous laughter. "Maybe I was a bit blind," Enjolras continues, "but I think I started to love you, too." His voice was thick with relief, happy that neither of them had to hide their feelings anymore. Enjolras went up to kiss him again.
"This is definitely a dream," Grantaire said, pulling away, but was smiling. Enjolras could see the happiness written in his eyes.
Enjolras shushed him and went in for another kiss.
4 Months Later
Grantaire was still startled when he saw his Apollo lying (naked or clothed, it didn't matter) in the bed they shared. A grin still spread stupidly across his face whenever Enjolras looked back at him, the shining in his eyes not fading. Kissing Enjolras was still like a breath of fresh air each time, it was water that a dying man in the desert only hoped for.
Enjolras was happy, too. When he woke up in the middle of the night with a Grantaire clung to him, taking up most of the bed, Enjolras couldn't fight the smile that wouldn't go away until he drifted happily back into sleep.
It wasn't easy being with Grantaire, though. There were relapses and shaking and violence, but Enjolras was with him through it all.
Their friends were supportive, too. Any negative comments about Grantaire had been erased, or saved for when he was no longer listening, and they fully accepted him, unlike before.
"That's great!" Even Eponine encouraged; she went on to fancy a young man with freckles spread across his face and Cosette clutched at his side.
"About time," Combeferre mumbled, rolling his eyes.
"Fucking finally," said Bahorel, adding "now I don't have to watch Grantaire pine around after you anymore."
"Bet the sex is great," Courfeyrac snickered, getting a glare from a blushing Enjolras.
Courfeyrac was right.