It has been a while...I apologize for that! I saw Les Miserables in theatre (who even knows what number it makes by now) and then in the theaters for the film, and immediately knew I had to write something. A friend requested some Enjolras/Grantaire, and who am I to deny her? I hope she and the rest of you enjoy this, be forewarned that there is much loving in this. Yum. It was based more in the film, but a few elements of the book snuck in. I loved the book so much, but I figured more people would be aware of the movie right now since it's recent. Also, this was written to the melodic voice of Nick Pitera's one-man Les Miserables YouTube video. If you haven't seen it, you are REMISS IN YOUR THEATRE EXPERIENCE! It is...there are no words. I think they should just cast him next time. We have the technology for that, right?
It was not until it got too rowdy that the god deigned to speak for the first time that night.
"We need a sign to rally the people, to call them to arms, and bring them in line!"
A man of words, my Apollo, and each syllable is ready to fall from your lips like you are ready to fall for this foolish cause. I wonder what staid your tongue this long? It was a drunkard's musings, but he wasn't drunk tonight. Not yet. The night was still young, but should Enjolras give only praise where it was surely due to the men present, and not critique, perhaps he would skip the bottle tonight.
As if that ever occurs, he scoffed to himself. Always at least one word to pierce my heart, intentional or not, and it is as entertaining a reason to drink as any. Grantaire had few illusions on that score; he drank because he could, because it allowed him to fritter away a life that was virtually worthless anyways. The others here may be from families born of privilege that had long been renounced, but it had been easy enough for him. No parents, no prospects, no point: he'd lived without hesitation since giving his sister over to a good family that could do right by her. What was frugality when there was nothing to own and be frugal with? What was virtue when every virtue he may have once possessed was gone now whether given freely by or stolen from him?
He supposed he had one left, though it always caused more trouble than it was worth.
If loving was a virtue, then he had it in spades. Enough for another person to drink deeply from and not run dry, and enough to spill over and ferment when any love was denied him. No familial love still existed in his world, nor did he have designs on a bride (though, if men could marry men then perhaps it would not be so far-fetched) and his friends were often more occupied with the previous engagements or their Revolution to pay him much attention. No matter how cynical he may be, the curse of loving the world subjectively had long been on his head.
Now, Enjolras, he mused, He loves the world objectively. He hardly know the touch of a lover, as he's shamelessly stated, but nor does he understand the world he wishes to bring to light. However hard he tries, he is a doomed man, because he is not a man. Not really. He is some ethereal creature, something 'Other' that wears the skin of man, breathes and eats and sleeps, but does not live like one. It's as if he has traded his soul to merely wear a vessel so that he may lead them into a new dawn. Grantaire stared down into the bottle he held, wondering if it would ruin his game when Enjolras hadn't yet said anything berating. Doesn't he know that dawns are always red? His new world will not care if he lives or dies, so long as it keeps spinning. He likely doesn't care. And he still wouldn't, even were I to tell him my world will end when he falls.
Marius stared off into the emptiness of a place far away from the café. When Joly spoke up in question, the drunk decided he was not doing his title of Winecask justice and felt the painful thrill of masochism as he started the verbal sparring he knew would follow. He had seen Cosette in the street; of course, he and the wench that followed Marius like a lost kitten were more alike than he liked to admit. Helplessly in love, and suppliers of endless information. He knew what drew Marius from the room like a ghost.
He'd get a drink or two in yet.
"Here, have some wine and tell us what's going on," he demanded with an air of inquisitiveness. His friend came back to the present, and scoffed, nodding and taking the bottle.
"She was most certainly like a ghost, at least to me. One minute there, then she was gone." He sighed mournfully, swallowing a mouthful of drink and grimacing at the taste. Grantaire affected a horrified look.
"No! Say it isn't so! Marius: in love at last?" He grinned in reply to the boy's small smile of thanks. It was a gift to them; in light of his uselessness they could always feel worthy if they compared themselves to him. His beliefs ignored the words of others in favor of action, so the teasing jests and often cruel names and sharper wit could be hastily bandaged with the pats on the back and smiles of gratitude for his humor. "I've never seen you 'ooh' and 'ahh'," he teased, nudging some of the others. He turned dark eyes, bright with mirth and deep with anticipation—he so rarely engaged his Apollo in words anymore; it simply hurt too much—on Enjolras. "But you talk of these battles we must win, and he comes about like Don Juan, maudlin with affections perhaps unreturned." He laughed, posing dramatically and every bit the court jester. I court the fire; I court the dangers of the broken heart. Better to be burned alive than set to simmering until all passion dies in flickering embers, he recited to himself. "It is better than an opera!"
Ah, and the fire was certainly going to burn.
"It is time to decide who we are," their leader spoke in a flinty, steel coated voice. He turned cold eyes on Grantaire for only a fleeting moment, and the drunk tried to hold the gaze long enough to count to three, but he was promptly ignored once more. Without garnering notice, he brought a hand up to lightly hold the place where he thought his heart must be spilling over and staining his shirt red. Such a fool, I must be sick to stoop so far that these bitter glances are what sustain me if he will not look to me with affection.
"If it is the opera you want, you ought to have stayed home, Marius." Grantaire almost laughed. It was not anger, but resentment and jealousy that coloured Apollo's eyes green. The others said that their leader was unaffected by the lusts known to men, and his own agreement spurred their talk on, but what heard more secrets than a winecask? He suspected Enjolras wanted Marius in the way Marius was now longing to be with Cosette…and in the way he had always desired to be with Enjolras: in body, mind, and soul.
The irony tasted metallic on his tongue, but he would never begrudge his leader anything—proof in the fact he was here at all, still listening to talk of a future when he knew there was none—and Marius would make a better companion anyways. "Have you asked of yourself what's the price you might pay?" But, he could not help but resent the boy and think him foolish. To throw away the affections of one as beautiful in body and spirit as Enjolras…it was idiotic and tormented him all the more.
Enjolras sang then, a song Grantaire was immediately shocked to hear. He looked up sharply, mind spinning back to when the Revolution was first taken on by his Apollo. Grantaire had mocked him once, singing of the 'colours of the world' that made their leader blind to all other hues and shades.
"Red: the blood of angry men. Black: the dark of ages past. Red: the world about to dawn. Black: the night that ends at last!" His rich voice resonated, but Marius was no stranger to Grantaire's fits of musical whimsy. He knew how to return the blow.
"Enjolras, if you had seen her today, you would have known how it feels to be caught in a moment of breathless delight," he said, frowning at his friend's scoff of disdain. Grantaire watched with wretched glee, knowing the offhand comment from Marius was a lower blow than he thought. "If you weren't so cold, perhaps you could know what it means when what was right is wrong, and what was wrong somehow feels right."
Drive the dagger deeper; perhaps it will knock some sense into him. Grantaire took up the call, watching his beloved with a sharp look. "Red!"
Marius caught his meaning and his own voice joined the battle. "I feel my soul on fire."
"Black!" Let him goad Marius to sing the words he most wanted to say, at least they would be brought to light. An angry furrow of brows turned on him, knowing the origin of the song. You cannot use my silly lyrics against me, Enjolras.
"My world if she's not there."
"Red!" The others took up the chant, eyes darting between their leader and their friend who could betray The Cause for his love.
"It's the colour of desire."
"Black!"
"It's the colour of despair!" Grantaire smirked grimly. Indeed it is. And will forever be so in my eyes, because it is the colour of yours when you are wounded.
"Marius, there is a higher calling now. Your lonely soul is nothing to The Cause. Our lives Do. Not. Count." Grantaire's chest ached. He's trying to convince himself. He's always been like that; thinking he's nothing if he's not for The Cause. How wrong he is.
Marius looked angry for a moment, before he looked hurt and said in a disappointed voice, "If you think that, Enjolras, then I question your judgment in battle. If our lives are nothing more than pawns of a cause, then there is no love lost when we fall in turn."
"No! I—" the soldier tried to reconcile his words.
"Perhaps it is you who should think of the price," he continued without malice now. "I think there are some who would mourn more deeply for your life than their own." His eyes flickered to Grantaire, who was stunned at the regretful look in them. He knows. Always such a curious scholar, his mind parroted unhelpfully. "Just ask yourself if a world that rides on war is better than a world that sits enthroned on love." He stalked out, catching sight of the girl he'd sent out for information and following her, presumably to find his Cosette.
The silent room slowly began to fill back up with light chatter, no one wanting to be too loud after the quiet discussion that may have well been shouting for all the poison in the words.
Grantaire picked up his bottle and looked at it for a moment before he walked up to the loft above the tavern, where he stayed frequently. Better to drink alone, where I won't bleed the truth Marius spoke. He can ignore it if he will, he is an innocent anyhow. Perhaps—
The hatch leading to the loft opened and Enjolras emerged. Grantaire groaned and leaned his head against a barrel. "If you've come to scold me, Apollo, for egging Marius on, save your breath. It was just a bit of fun," he drawled, as though he were drunk. He waited a moment for an insult or a violent blow that was far rarer, but it didn't come. Silence echoed louder than a drum on the rafters. He hastily nattered on, to fill it. "I think he's right though, that this is ridiculous, and I'm drunk enough to say so—"
"You aren't drunk." So blunt, but with a strange look Grantaire chose not to try and decipher.
His eyebrows rose to his hairline. "I'm always drunk," he rejoined. "Or so you all accuse me of being."
"You didn't take a single drink tonight."
He outright laughed at that. "How would you know what I do or don't do?" He was met with silence again, dark eyes boring into his own, like he could see in and around and through him. It was unnerving, and he had rarely been the subject of Enjolras's attention for long, much less like this. He fought the urge to growl, trying to ignore the thoughts such a stare provoked.
"Because no matter whether you're crumpled on the floor and not going anywhere or running about like a madman, my eyes never seem to want to stray from you," Enjolras said quietly, as though he was fearful the words would leak from the rooftops or explode like a faulty musket.
Stop it. The words echoed in his head with agony lacing them, knowing this declaration was not a declaration at all. Stop making my life a living hell. All I want is to be able to let go and you…
He glared, and scoffed balefully. "You have some nerve, Apollo. I might be a drunkard, and an idiot to boot in your eyes, but I will remind you I went to school at the same University you did, and received as high of marks as you. I've fought my own battles that may not be as grand or lofty as the ones you do for your so-called mistress, but I have fought them nonetheless and come out alive for all that I've come out bleeding. I chose a different way, one that I often regret but is nonetheless the hell I wake to on the ghastly mornings I'm sober, because we have one very different quality and that is that I feel…and I don't think you ever have. Not in any way that matters." He felt winded, and something was hollow and aching in his chest. Probably my heart. He hadn't realized he'd stood in anger until he swayed a bit from the pain.
A strangled noise alerted him to the fight he could smell brewing, fermenting, but he was still unprepared when he was wrenched harshly to the floor by his leader and a blow was aimed for his face. He took the punch without defense, without striking back, because no matter how bitter he was he couldn't live with himself if he marked his beloved with violence. Always cynical and angry at the world, but never enough to hurt Enjolras. He let one more strike land before he caught the revolutionary's hands on their next descent. He held them for a moment while they struggled until they stilled, before he brashly pressed an open-mouthed kiss to each palm and let his head fall back, drained from the antagonism he couldn't keep up. No sense in hiding what he's obviously upset at. "But I wish I was wrong…" he admitted. To rarely be on the losing side of logic had always been a prideful thing for him, but he would have given up all the books and knowledge of the world if he could be wrong in this, even though it was foolish to think he wasn't. He closed his eyes and sighed, releasing the man's hands when he could be certain he would not be struck again.
The sob that issued from his Apollo's lips was anguished in a way Grantaire had never heard from him. "I despise you," Enjolras whispered, tears dripping onto the drunk's startled face. "You let me say such terrible things, take every blow and word like it's bestowed on you by God Himself. I am not a god, Grantaire. I am a man." He said it with such misery, as though this same plea had fallen on deaf ears one too many times. "Sometimes I wish I was more of one, and others I wish I wasn't one at all. If I were not, I would not have to burden myself with the fear and guilt and uncertainty that comes with this Revolution. I am certain of The Cause, of my own death being for something higher. But how can I ask that of the others? They are here willingly, but I am going to watch as they fall. Whether we win or lose, I will watch as people I love like brothers die for a future they will never get to see. I wish I could be above man or below him because then I would not have to feel such guilt if I live and they do not. How can I enjoy life when I am the leader that will deny so many of them that same pleasure?" His hands gripped the fabric at Grantaire's chest until his knuckles were white, still not releasing when he felt roughened hands cover them.
"And then…I wish I was more of a man. In a way you are right. I don't feel, not in the things that used to matter. I haven't for a long time, because you just…" he looked down and Grantaire took in a sharp breath at the feeling of being seen. Oh. "I miss you, Grantaire. I miss when we were close friends and I could confide in your critical, forgiving soul, and how you weren't so lost in the bottle and I in wanting to change things. I want my friend back. I want so much more than that. You would be the destruction of The Cause. I would burn all of France and start anew if I let my affections free. Patria will always come before me, but I'm not sure if it comes before you. I am not a god, mon ami. I am a man. And I am weak as only man can be." He gripped the drunk's shirt tighter and lowered his head in what could only be described as defeat.
It took several moments to let the gravity of Enjolras's words sink in, and a few more still to muster a voice. It was hoarse and raw, but he would try to joke anyways. It made him who he was. "If it's any consolation, Apollo, it doesn't matter what world I live in. Old or new, if you're in it, it's the world I'll tolerate for your sake."
The soldier let out a hitching half-laugh, "And if I'm not in it?" He brought his face closer, leaning his forehead against Grantaire's and letting a few more tears escape.
"I suppose I'll have to put aside all my skeptic's pride and pray like mad that there is a God and He has a place for me beside you in Heaven," he chuckled breathlessly. "I think I'll die of embarrassment right then regardless, so I might as well make it count for something. I hope the others don't have to see that."
"You have a morbid sense of humor," Enjolras chastised.
"And you have a disproportionate sense of idealism. It doesn't make me love you less."
Enjolras shook his head, but Grantaire took his face in his hands to still him. "Whether you want me to or not, I will love you. I have never hesitated to be selfish, and I will not start now. I would ask you to give up this Revolution, because no matter the outcome, if you die, I will follow. Since I know you cannot do this for me, I would ask simply to be allowed to love you while I can. If we depart from the world, it will be with our hearts filled and our bodies tired with lovemaking," he grinned at the half-stunned half-amused expression on his beloved's face. "Either way, the outcome is much the same. The only difference is that I will be allowed to leave this earth with my last thoughts turned towards holding you. Cynic and drunkard I may be, but idiot I am not. There is no better way to die."
The hesitation was nearly a sentient thing, but Grantaire took the moment to study Enjolras's face. Lines of worry and sadness and disappointment were scattered here and there on the smooth planes, but there were even more marks of laughter and happiness than these. Finally their eyes met, both asking, and one holding the answer. Enjolras paused only a moment more before he leaned down to take Grantaire's offering, sealing the deal in a kiss.
It was soft, softer than either of them would have expected from the other. Grantaire was still of half a mind that this was pity, or punishment, or something he would rather it never be, but he trusted his revolutionary. He was one of the few things in life he could let go for. Enjolras did not know whether it was the most important moment of his life, or the worst decision he had made. These things made the kiss softer, more tentative, but it was mere seconds before safety was granted in their minds and the kiss was suddenly not a simply kiss.
It was the beginnings of love making.
Grantaire's mind seemed to catch onto exactly who he was kissing—it was beyond surreal—and the desire to give, posses, be possessed, to know Enjolras as he had never thought he'd be allowed was suddenly all that could imagine. He rolled them to sit comfortably on the slighter man's thighs, capturing him once more in an exchange of lips and teeth and tongue.
The colours of his beloved's eyes were warm and—in this newfound territory—trusting of a drunk and an embittered creature to lead him to a place of pleasure. It was daunting, but Grantaire took challenges like swigs from the bottle. This was less a challenge, and more a reason. To exist, to keep going, however one could say it, but this was a reason for his life to be: to enjoy Enjolras's sharp mind and sharper tongue, to see deeper into his spirit and soul until there were no surprises he could think of, yet he continued to be surprised. He wanted to show his lover every pleasure conceivable and bring him to the edge over and over, until they both begged to finish that they might sleep together and wake still sharing the warmth of each other's body. It was intoxicating, and it would never be, but Grantaire would do his damnedest to get close enough in the time they had left.
He moved his mouth from dueling with Enjolras's tongue, pleasurable though it may be, to lave at the skin of his neck. His kisses turned to sucks and nips, letting his teeth graze against his Apollo's throat, stopping to mark here and there in a reminder that Enjolras was his. He would admire them as long as they lasted, he knew. His lover was receptive, but most certainly not one to stay passive for long. Enjolras gripped his hair to encourage his exploration, now moving to strip him of his shirt and shoes. Buttons were sacrificed to their desire, but they would not need such things soon. His own followed until they could press skin to skin. Their bodies were beginning to heat from the effort of control as much as the effort of their movements and even the perfect marble skin of his Apollo was glistening with the need to couple.
He made his way across a well-defined chest, pressing open-mouthed kisses against the near perfect skin. His tongue drew patterns along the taut stomach that quivered in either anticipation or ticklishness, he did not know. When his lover reached to roll him onto his back, he allowed the motion and moaned when their clothed lengths pressed close. He watched breathless when Enjolras stripped him of his remaining clothing joined when he removed his own, with no hesitation, eager to be as close as they could.
"Mon Dieu…" Enjolras breathed when Grantaire reached to take him in hand, the words dissolved into a cry of need with the quick pace his lover set. "Ah! It feels—!" His mouth was slack and his eyes glazed, but they still could pierce the cynic so easily. He knew his beloved would have said 'different' had he kept his silver tongue.
"I had no idea you thought so highly of me," he teased with difficulty, shifting so their cocks aligned and they could rut helplessly, driven to satiate the other, but both wanted every second to count. Grantaire stilled the revolutionary's hips, trying to ignore the soft whine of disappointment from his lover. "Too soon, I'd rather take my time pleasuring you until you come apart at the seams." A jolt of arousal traveled along Enjolras's spine in agreement.
He slid down the blankets on the floor until Enjolras could grip a crate bar and he could grip the slim hips above him and guide him into his mouth. He traced a line along the weeping length, giddy at the low sound of arousal his lover made. His mouth took him inch by inch until Enjolras was fighting every instinct to thrust into the warm, wet heat with uncaring abandon. Grantaire lifted and shifted his partner's hips to guide his motion, until he pulled away just enough to murmur filthily, "You can fuck my mouth, Adrian. I've thought of little else for long enough." Whether it was his Christian name spoken so intimately or the invitation or both, Enjolras let out a soft sigh and began to do as he asked. Grantaire took him deep, letting his instincts work to take him even deeper, letting him fuck his throat raw, feeling every inch until he felt he could come untouched just from being allowed this. It was Enjolras who found willpower this time.
"Sto—ah! Stop, I want—" He pulled back, shivering upon seeing Grantaire's slick lips reddened from his task. "I was too close, I need…" he was yet unsure of what he asked for, though he knew how men might couple. Still, it would likely be painful, but he would more than accept that to give Grantaire everything. And it would get better, he knew this. "Be with me, mon amour. Be in me."
Grantaire raised a brow in question, having thought Enjolras would demand his submission. How strange this new person was—this person who was real and warm and alive and asking to receive pleasure. It was intoxicating with a power beyond the smoothest wine. You have always been this beautiful creature underneath the cold exterior you throw up like your barricades. And I love you all the more for it.
"The colours I would paint you in change every time I see you, beloved," he murmured, reaching for the still-warm oil within a lamp extinguished to the night. Coating his fingers liberally, he slid them down quivering thighs and paid swift attention to his lover's dripping length before he continued to prod gently at his entrance. "But I think I may have found my favorites…" he pushed the first in, swallowing the revolutionary's moan of interest at the foreign feeling. He swallowed a desperate yell from the revolutionary when he trailed his finger over the place he knew could make Enjolras scream should he wish it.
Enjolras chanted his name like a prayer, and Grantaire could appreciate the irony of a deity pleading with a mortal for only a moment before he slid a second finger in to stretch and prepare his partner. "Red," he whispered. "I bleed if we're apart." He withdrew his hand, breathing heavily at the keen of need Eniolras let escape him. "Black…the dark of hatred past." He pressed soft kisses against his Apollo's lips, growing more urgent as he began to press into the heat and welcome of the body beneath him. "Red: the passion of my heart." He took a sharp gasp of breath to steady his desire to take and take and take. He was staid only a few moments before Enjolras drew him down once more and murmured his assent. "Black: the fear that ends at last."
Enjolras huffed, smiling until he had to throw his head back when Grantaire began to move in rhythm. "I was afraid—oh! I was afraid you'd pick up on the tune," he murmured between the slow thrusts and noises that refused to stay in his throat. Grantaire was breathing hard from the slow pace, but the moans spilling from his Apollo's mouth were worth the effort. He snapped his hips hard once, letting the cry of need from Enjolras wash over him before he slowed once more. "Tease," the revolutionary breathed with a glare.
"Mm, perhaps. But did you truly think it was Marius who created those words for his Cosette?" He laughed, stopping when the motion jarred their bodies in an altogether distracting way. They both groaned and Grantaire could feel his need building. He began a quicker pace, thrusting deep into the warm body beneath him. Ah, this is what my Adrian looks like when he gives himself to a true passion. The fervent look beneath half-lowered eyelids was familiar, but in a new context that Grantaire wished to see as often as he could. "No, mon cher. That was," he gasped a breath, "entirely my musical genius. Always for you." Words were lost to him now, but for Enjolras's name, and he put his mouth to better use in kissing his beloved, letting the messy slide of their mouths fuel his desire further, until Enjolras was near-pleading for release.
"Mon Dieu…Gran—taire!" His Apollo cried out in desperation when he slid out to turn him onto his stomach, bringing him up to his hands and knees, before thrusting sharply back in. His hands groped blindly to clutch and grip the barrel bar above him once more, giving him leverage to push back against Grantaire in time with each push forward. "Fuck, I—" his words went incomplete when his lover bit the back of his neck in a primal display of possession, soothing the bruise with a swipe of his tongue before he began to press heated kisses against his back. He opened his eyes against the absolute need thrumming through his body to see them reflected blurrily in the shards of a mirror in the corner. So beautiful, how we join he marveled for but a moment until Grantaire reached his hand to his weeping member to stroke only twice before he commanded in a wrecked voice, "Come for me Adrian."
Flashes of white took him and he thought perhaps he knew what awaited him should he make it to Heaven when he fell at the barricade.
Grantaire watched intently as his lover greeted his small death with a half-scream, feeling the warmth of release running through his fingers until he too was cast over the ledge and into the blistering nothingness that seemed better than the ones he had met before. Enjolras his mind reminded him with every pulse of pleasure he emptied into his Apollo's pliant body. Because it's Enjolras.
He managed to maneuver them with shaky arms until he lay beneath Enjolras, bearing the hard ground as he often did when lost to his cups. The sweat cooled on their bodies, their breath began to catch up with them, and Enjolras chuckled. "I ought to start calling you Dionysus as you call me Apollo." Grantaire smiled at the compliment, tugging the arm of his companion to twine their hands. He wondered if he had ever smiled and meant it so much in his years past.
"I will not argue if you deign to title me a god of sexual desire and wine. I'm flattered."
"Don't be, I only meant you're a bumbling idiot," Enjolras rejoined.
"Mm, you fool yourself, Apollo. Only fools can fool the self."
"That's convoluted logic if I ever heard it."
"Then merely accept that the sex was good and that I love you and my words will make sense once more." He pressed his face into the damp golden curls, breathing softly and compelled to sleep like this, with his satiated lover on the hard floor.
"I can concede both points, mon amour, your technique needs no logic to argue for it," his voice was playful (and if that wasn't a delightful tone he hoped to hear again) but heavier, obviously feeling the same call to rest as Grantaire was.
"Deep praise from an incarnate of beauty. Sleep, Enjolras. You will need it when the morrow dawns and Dionysus longs for his Apollo again." Enjolras merely hummed in agreement. Grantaire soon followed his leader into sleep.
xXx
When the barricade fell and two gunshots rang out not days later, it was with a brief, loving smile and full hearts that the revolutionary and the cynic fell together.
My back hurts more than this bullet. Sore with lovemaking. No better way to die, Grantaire smiled and breathed his last when the colours faded to nothing. No loss…
The colours that welcomed them were far more vibrant anyways.
Finis
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