Author's Note: This was written based on a prompt from Besanii for an aggressive, seductive Enjolras chasing Grantaire.
The Merits of Persistence
The nine of them—sometimes ten, sometimes twelve, sometimes fourteen, but always at least nine—remember more each time they find each other again in a new life.
The third time through is one of the worst, because they have enough pieces to know that the others they have just met are important—that they've seen each other before, that they've fought beside each other before, that they've loved each other before, that they've died with each other before—but not enough pieces to make a whole story out of the mish-mash of blood and hugs and words and colors that each sees.
The fourth time is better. They manage to put the pieces together into a semblance of order, and know that it is the fourth time, know that they have done this before, know that the bodies they see in dreams and the ones they hug in the waking world belong to the same souls. It's also the first time they suspect what's going to happen, how long they're going to live, and they enjoy every moment of their twenty-odd years but they aren't surprised when the riot becomes a revolution becomes a bloody massacre.
Just like they aren't surprised when they find each other again, the fifth time around. Or the sixth. Or the seventh.
It's on the eighth time around that Grantaire approaches Enjolras, desperate-angry-scared, with the enemy at the gate and Death waiting to waft them to their next life.
Enjolras knows what will happen. It has happened before, more often than not. Grantaire, the cynic, the skeptic, the one most likely to be turned bitter and scarred by the horrors in the world, even if they don't directly touch him, will stand with him now. He will live up to the fire that Enjolras has always seen burning bright in him. He will be the embodiment of Enjolras' hopes for humanity, just for a few minutes, and it will be glorious.
Instead he kisses Enjolras briefly, fiercely, and Enjolras finds his eyes opening wide as his mouth molds itself to those too-familiar lips.
There isn't time for more. There isn't time for apologies or explanations or questions about what will come next. There are only soldiers, pouring into the room, and Grantaire's hand is in his, and Enjolras throws his head back, raising his eyes to meet theirs proudly as he clasps Grantaire's fingers with all he has.
This time they shared a kiss.
Next time…
Next time will be even better.
XXX
Enjolras meets Combeferre when he's six years old.
It's the start of everything, for him, of nightmares and dreams, of hopes and fears, of need like he wouldn't have imagined anyone could need.
He is six years old, just starting second grade at a new elementary school, a blond-haired, blue-eyed child with copper-colored skin that has darkened to chocolate after a summer of playing in the sun. The boy that he meets is only five, though he will be six very shortly, is almost the same age as Enjolras, and he has brown-red hair and pale white skin and green-hazel eyes that catch Enjolras and freeze him in place.
This will be my purpose.
It is not a six-year-old's thought. None of the thoughts that swamp him then belong in a child's head, and he finds himself unable to breathe, unable to move. Children should not remember blood, spraying everywhere, from friend's broken bodies. Children should not remember a dozen variations of maps spread on tables, marked with barricades, marked with troops, marked with traps, marked with all the tools that they have to try to better the world through terrible, awful means. He does remember, though, and as the images play through his head they are covered with disjointed snips of voices in languages he doesn't know but can understand.
He has known this boy, he manages to think, the only thought in his too-full head that is his.
I will be fire. He will be water. Together we will change the world.
Together they are balanced, his driving energy and inability to surrender spurring Combeferre to do what is needed even when it is terrible, Combeferre's compassion and ability to compromise ensuring that they never go further than they must, and they can make things better, together.
They can set the world on a path toward better things, but the cost will be so, so high.
He is crying, tears streaming down his face, but his feet carry him forward, to the hazel-eyed child whose name he does-and-doesn't know.
Combeferre starts crying, as well, but his arms wrap around Enjolras' shoulders, fierce, firm, and he buries his head against Enjolras' neck.
"We're going to help fix things." It's all that Enjolras can articulate out of the flood that has swept through his mind, Combeferre the key that opened the lock, the hole that has breached the dam of his identity. "And we're going to die."
"Yes." Combeferre's arms tighten around him. "But not for a long, long time."
The teacher comes to them, then, asks them what's wrong, asks why they are crying.
Neither of them can give her an answer, so instead Enjolras stops crying, tells her that everything is fine, and holds Combeferre until his tears are gone, too.
He doesn't let go of Combeferre's hand for the rest of the day, though, and the teacher, perhaps seeing something in Enjolras' eyes that wasn't there before—that should not be there yet—doesn't ask him to.
XXX
They find the others slowly, over the course of years, and each one found allows Enjolras to breathe a bit easier, as though a piece of his heart and soul that he didn't know he had been born missing has been returned to him.
Courfeyrac comes to them when they are eight; Feuilly they find when they are ten; and each one brings with them another wave of memories and another hand eager to help with their work.
Their world is broken still. There is still poverty, ignorance, so much division among humanity, and though the concepts of democracy and republicanism are given avid lip-service they are bruised and battered in execution.
They will help fix it. There is never any doubt, never any hesitancy about that, and Enjolras somehow manages to love his people even more fiercely each time they share his visions of a better world.
They find Bahorel when they're thirteen, Jehan when they're fourteen, Joly when they're sixteen, Bossuet days later, and they are almost complete, almost have the complement that they are supposed to have.
Almost, but not quite, and Enjolras chafes with each day, month, year that passes, because there have always been nine of them. Sometimes there have been more, others who have loved and lived and fought with them, and he will be happy to find any of those who are here this time around, but always there are nine, and one of them is missing.
A piece of his heart is still missing.
They start college together, all in the same city, a group of eight who have already been labeled as trouble-makers, who already know all the laws related to protests and petitions and public gatherings, who have already seen the inside of a jail cell more than once.
And there, finally, after an almost-lifetime—for he always dies in his twenties, always, and he is running out of time again—Enjolras finds Grantaire.
XXX
He is an art student. He has deep brown eyes and dark black hair and a bloodline that has been mixed beyond easy recognition, though there is a touch of Asia in his slanted eyes, a hint of Africa in the texture of his hair, native America and eastern Europe adding to the color of his skin.
He is the most beautiful thing that Enjolras has ever seen, the last one—the key to another handful of memories, another wave of shattered pieces of previous lives.
"Grantaire."
He calls him by his original name, out of relief, out of force of habit, and watches as Grantaire freezes, two dozen steps away from him on the sidewalk.
It doesn't take long to close the distance. It doesn't take long to take Grantaire's hand, to squeeze it firmly in a grip that sends shadow-memories skittering through Enjolras' mind again.
How often have they stood like this?
How often have they been side by side at the end?
He couldn't put a number to it, not right now, and the number doesn't matter. All that matters is the feeling that this conjures, the sense of rightness and relief and completion, and Enjolras smiles as he raises a hand to stroke Grantaire's cheek.
Grantaire jerks away, his eyes wide, something like horror in the twist of his mouth.
Enjolras' smile falters. "Grantaire? It's me."
"Enjolras." Grantaire breathes the name, and there is so much hurt in his eyes, hurt that is covered quickly by a sheen of tears as Grantaire pulls his hand free. "You—you're Enjolras."
"Yes." Enjolras tries not to shiver, though his empty hand feels cold, frozen. "I've been waiting for you to appear."
"You… but…" Violent shivers wrack Grantaire's body, and he closes his eyes tight. When he opens them, the tears are gone, though Enjolras thinks he can see a ghost of hurt there still, panic and pain waiting to rise. "Are there… others?"
Enjolras nods, wanting to soothe away the pain, to ease the discomfort and disorientation, but knowing better than to push Grantaire for contact after Grantaire has pulled away. Feuilly almost broke his nose when he tried to hug him before he was ready; Bahorel gave him a split lip deep enough to leave a scar. "All the Amis but you."
"All…" Raising a hand to his head, Grantaire closes his eyes again.
"It's all right." Enjolras' arms itch to grab Grantaire, to pull him close, but he can be patient. He can wait, so that he doesn't add to the pain in Grantaire's eyes. "Don't fight the memories. Give it time, and you'll be able to make sense of them."
"Right." Grantaire lets out a long, lost sigh, and his eyes focus slowly on Enjolras again, his hand falling to his side. "Are you… are they… do you meet anywhere?"
"Yes." A smile breaks over Enjolras' face again. "Would you like the address?"
After a too-long pause, a hesitancy that is agony, Grantaire nods his head.
Enjolras writes the address on Grantaire's hand, because he has no paper on him and Grantaire has only a sketchpad filled with images that Enjolras doesn't want to risk damaging—images that he thinks come from other times, other lives, but he doesn't say that to Grantaire, not quite yet.
And if Enjolras imagines as he writes the address, his phone number, Bahorel's phone number, Bossuet's phone number—all the names and numbers that he can fit on Grantaire's hand—that he is etching the contacts onto Grantaire's soul, it is only because Grantaire's name is already etched deeply onto his own heart.
XXX
He gives Grantaire a month.
He doesn't want to. He wants to grab him, kiss him, hold him, do all the things they didn't do last time, fulfill the promise that was made in that too-short kiss.
He will not hurt Grantaire, though, and Grantaire needs the time to adjust. He needs the time to remember, to adapt to remembering, to slide into old habits, and it takes a month before he is doing what he has always done.
Grantaire sits with Joly and Bossuet, drinking, laughing, teasing them about their latest attempts at authorship and romance. He joins Bahorel on his romps around town, earning bruises and stories for his troubles. He cajoles Jehan into long, fierce, beautiful diatribes, somehow seeming to know just what infuriating thing to say to set the poet off.
He debates politics with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, always the antagonist, always the doubter, but actually debating. Actually making reasoned arguments, actually aware of what they are doing and planning, and it is beautiful to watch.
Grantaire has grown, in the years and decades and lifetimes that they've been together. The fire isn't quite so hidden in him anymore, not quite so drowned in drink and hopeless wandering.
Seeing him like that makes Enjolras yearn to touch him all the more, to hold him, to have their lips pressed together again. It's a strange feeling, a strange sensation, one he hasn't felt before, but it isn't unpleasant.
Not unpleasant at all, really, and Enjolras has to force himself not to watch Grantaire too closely, not to study his lips and wonder how much the feel of them will match the memory-fragment he has from last time around.
Watching the way Grantaire watches him now, not so very changed from the first time around, with a smile and a longing sigh, Enjolras contents himself with the certainty that Grantaire will reciprocate his desire.
He waits a month, until Grantaire has settled into their lives, and then he waits another week, trying to find the right moment.
He decides, eventually, that there will be no perfect moment, that his grasp of romance precludes that, and instead settles for separating Grantaire off from the others following one of their meetings.
Grantaire is nervous once they're alone, jittery, uncertain, his eyes jumping to Enjolras' face again and again but not staying there.
"Grantaire." Enjolras reaches out, runs his fingers lightly across Grantaire's shoulder, down Grantaire's arm, their fingers tangling together for a moment in a gesture that both their souls know far too well. "Do you remember when we died last time?"
"Yes." Grantaire's voice is quiet, a barely-audible whisper.
"You kissed me." Enjolras grabs Grantaire's fingers between his, squeezes tight.
"Uh huh." Swallowing, Grantaire studies his feet, though his fingers are just as tight around Enjolras' as Enjolras' are around his.
"I enjoyed it." Biting at his lip, Enjolras tries to decide what the reasonable thing to say next is. There is nothing reasonable about their lives, though, about the memories that they have, so he decides to simply continue the thought out loud as it echoes in his mind. "I'd like you to do it again."
Grantaire pulls back as though he's been struck, his hand pulling free from Enjolras'. His eyes are wide, terrified again, and he shakes his head. "No way. I couldn't."
"You could." Enjolras frowns, crossing his arms over his chest, holding his once-more bitterly cold fingers against his own body for warmth. Why does Grantaire pull back from him like this? Why is fear one of Grantaire's responses to him? "Do you not want to?"
"Want doesn't—it's not—it's—" Grantaire huffs out a breath. "You're not the kind to get involved in a romance. You never have before."
"I'm interested now." He will do everything he can, now, everything he desires, so long as it doesn't interfere with his work, because he is going to die of unnatural causes. His blood will buy freedom for others. He will not regret spilling it.
But he also doesn't want to cheat himself of anything he can experience in this life.
"No, you're not. Not with me." Grantaire smile, a soft, bitter expression, and runs a hand through his hair while shaking his head. "Look, I appreciate you making the offer, but we both know you and I are never meant to be, so let's just… enjoy what we have. All right?"
No. It's not all right. It's not anything like how this conversation was supposed to go, and Enjolras finds himself simply staring at Grantaire, at a loss for what to say or do.
"So…" Grantaire edges away, his eyes looking everywhere but at Enjolras' face. "I'll see you back with the others. I'm… glad you didn't hate the kiss, at least."
With that Grantaire is gone, fleeing, though his eyes flick back twice to look at Enjolras, wistful and longing.
After a few minutes of quiet, fruitless thought, Enjolras returns to his table, settling in at Combeferre's side.
He doesn't understand what happened.
He wants Grantaire.
He's fairly certain from the way Grantaire looked at him—is looking at him—that Grantaire wants him, too.
So why did he say no?
Resolving to find out, Enjolras allows his thoughts to be drawn into talk of politics and plans while his heart aches with confusion.
XXX
He told Enjolras no.
Enjolras asked Grantaire to kiss him, and Grantaire told him no.
Stupid.
Idiotic.
And right.
Perfectly right, because he isn't good enough for Enjolras and Enjolras doesn't really want him. Maybe Enjolras wants something, this time around, but it's never been and never will be Grantaire's dark and cynical heart. Wouldn't he have done something before, if it was really Grantaire he wanted? No, this isn't love, this isn't desire. If it's anything on Enjolras' part it's a sense of guilt, of obligation, a memory of the kiss that Grantaire stole last time around twisting things this time.
He won't be loved for pity. He won't be loved out of repayment for all the times he's spilled his blood for Enjolras' causes—the Amis' causes, all his friends' causes, and the payment for that isn't even Enjolras' to give. It's Grantaire's payment for their tolerance of him—their love of him, their acceptance of him, when he is drowning darkness and they are all variations on soaring light.
With Enjolras the highest and brightest of them all, and Grantaire won't take the risk of hurting Enjolras, of tainting him with Grantaire's bitter certainty of defeat and helplessness. Better for both of them to crush this idea before it goes too far.
Better for both of them, really.
So why does his chest ache every time he looks at Enjolras? Why does he feel as though he's just ripped a piece of his heart out and burned it?
Downing his drink, Grantaire tries hard to focus on the joke that Bossuet is currently setting up, vowing that he will not look at Enjolras for the rest of the evening.
He fails before his next drink arrives, and he hates himself just a little bit more than usual for that as well as everything else.
XXX
Enjolras enlists Bossuet in his crusade first.
He needs to know why Grantaire said what he said. He needs to know if Grantaire truly doesn't want him—if Grantaire's sexuality is too straight this time around, if he misinterpreted the kiss last time, if Grantaire truly, truly doesn't want him—or if Grantaire is denying him for another reason.
If Grantaire really doesn't want him, Enjolras will let him go.
If Grantaire is being a martyr for some foolish reason, though, and denying Enjolras out of a lack of self-confidence or some such…
He waits until eight in the morning to call Bossuet. He's been up pacing the small apartment that he shares with Combeferre and Courfeyrac since five thirty, so he feels he's been quite patient as he taps his right foot and waits for Bossuet to pick up the phone.
Bossuet picks up right before his phone would have gone to voice mail, and Enjolras can hear the eagerness in his own voice as he says, "Well?"
"Enjolras…" There's a mixture of exasperation and amusement in Bossuet's voice. "Do you know what time it is?"
"Eight oh six." Enjolras glances at the clock to confirm the time, though his internal clock is usually dead on.
"Right. Eight on a Sunday. After I was out all last night, partly fulfilling your bequest. I have had three and a half hours of sleep and I could not tell you if I am drunk or hung over or both right now but it's not a pleasant sensation." Bossuet makes a sound that's not quite a sigh and not quite a laugh, and when he speaks again there's a definite fondness to his tone that makes any regret Enjolras has about calling dissipate. "Then again, the joy of getting to see—or at least hear—you discomfited by romantic intricacies counters most complaints I would have."
"I did try to be patient." Enjolras can feel his face heating. "I just… want to know."
"Know that he's head over heels in love with you?" Bossuet's voice is still gently teasing. "Because the rest of us have known that one for a century or two now."
"Then why…" Enjolras finds his hand clenching hard around imaginary fingers.
"Because he's Grantaire." Bossuet's voice falls to an even gentler level, the teasing falling away. "Because he doesn't believe in love. Because he doesn't believe in himself. Because the only thing he believes in is you, and he's deathly afraid that if you and he get involved you'll come to think he's worthless and toss him aside. He would rather follow you for eternity as a pining shadow than risk having you turn him away."
"But he wants me." Enjolras' chest feels strange, too big, too full, his heart beating too fast. "He wants to be involved with me—romantically involved."
"I suspect nothing would make him happier." There a clatter on the other end, the sound of brief cursing directed at the cat, and then Bossuet's voice comes back. "Just… remember how important you and the rest of us are to him. If there's a chance this would ruin things between him and you, or make it hard for him to be with the rest of us, then let it go."
"But if I think it would work out—if I think that we could both be happy—"
"Then knock yourself out." Good humor fills Bossuet's voice again. "And don't blame the rest of us for watching in fascination and doing anything we can to help out our favored side."
"And you'll tell me if I push things too far?" Enjolras' hand is tight around the phone. "Because I don't want to force him into anything, but I… I want this."
"We'd tell you. But I don't think it'll be necessary." A yawn interrupts the words. "Now, I'm going to go to bed and let you plan your nefarious actions. See you this evening, Enjolras."
Enjolras murmurs words of gratitude, heartfelt, but his mind is already far away, planning how he can go about convincing Grantaire to let go of his doubts and give them both what they want.
XXX
Grantaire is certain that Courfeyrac is responsible for his first two weeks of torture.
Enjolras is beautiful. He is always beautiful, no matter what time period they're in, no matter what body and life they're in. Grantaire always finds his breath taken away the moment his eyes find Enjolras, his pencil wanting to draw nothing but Enjolras from the time they first meet, and this hasn't been helped in recent incarnations by the fragmented memory-pieces he has of previous lives with the man.
Not that Enjolras has always been a man in previous lives, but that just adds another layer of complication to the already-confused mess that is Grantaire's emotions.
Enjolras is usually not conspicuous in his beauty, though. He tends to dress simply but elegantly, in a way that will give gravitas to his words without stripping him of his identity or dignity.
He does not usually wear tight-fitting, low-cut blue tops that match his eyes and skin-tight black jeans that show off his thighs and his tight rear and his everything to ridiculously good effect.
Or a loose, flowing gray shirt that shifts to hug his torso invitingly with every gesticulation of his hand and white capris that highlight the chocolate tones of his skin.
Or a dark red tank top that shows off the lean fighter's muscles in his arms and black shorts that should be criminal.
Enjolras doesn't wear his new and improved—sexy, so damn sexy, but also so different, so strange, so not Enjolras—wardrobe every day. He doesn't wear them in front of crowds, when he's talking of his ideals and goals, though from the reactions of everyone else in the restaurant when he parades around in them it would be a good way to draw attention. He doesn't even wear them every day that the Amis meet together, so there's no way for Grantaire to be prepared. Some days he'll arrive at their café of choice and find that Enjolras is dressed as usual, and everything will be normal, though Enjolras has developed a disturbing tendency of wandering over to whichever table Grantaire decides to occupy and attempting to engage the Amis there is small talk.
Given Enjolras, that usually devolves into a political discussion within about two minutes, and as soon as Enjolras' attention is involved elsewhere Grantaire can sneak off to another table, trying hard not to stare at Enjolras' too-perfect body.
He can never make himself go far enough away to keep from hearing Enjolras' voice, though, reveling in the sound of Enjolras' intelligence and energy and sheer burning life.
He can never make himself move away from Enjolras, even when he knows it would be best for both of them.
He goes two weeks without saying anything, certain if he just ignores the change Enjolras will stop tormenting him like this.
Then Enjolras comes in, this time in a dark green tunic and tight black pants and lace-up boots, looking like something that just escaped from one of Grantaire's childhood fantasies, and his breath catches in his throat.
He's barely managed to remember how to breathe when Enjolras throws himself down into the chair at Grantaire's right hand, his usual fluid grace in every movement, and the chair scratches its way across the floor, leaving Enjolras' bare shoulder less than a centimeter from Grantaire's arm.
Scooting to the outer edge of his chair, Grantaire puts more distance between himself and Enjolras.
Enjolras' blue eyes fix him, a faint line appearing between Enjolras' brows. Then Enjolras' eyes flick to Joly, sitting at Grantaire's left hand, and he smiles. It isn't a comforting smile. "What are you drinking?"
"Uh…" Joly looks down at his drink as though he's forgotten. "Rum and Coke."
"Could I try some?"
No. Grantaire stares hard at Joly, willing him to develop telepathy. Don't you dare.
"Sure?" Joly blinks and moves to hand his drink over.
Before he can do that, Enjolras is stretching himself across the table, his left hand on the back of Grantaire's chair, almost touching Grantaire's neck, his right reaching for the drink, and Enjolras' left thigh is right there again Grantaire's leg and Enjolras' shoulder-length hair is hanging down in Grantaire's face and Enjolras' heat is etching itself into Grantaire's body—
And then all sensation seems ripped from the world as Enjolras settles back in his seat, takes a sip from the drink, and grimaces. "Nope. Still tastes terrible. Here."
Before Enjolras can stretch his body across Grantaire's again Grantaire shoves his chair back and escapes, murmuring something about using the bathroom.
Instead, he finds and corners Courfeyrac, waiting until Courfeyrac goes to fetch more drinks to pin him against the wall away from the others.
"What-have-you-done?" The words hiss their way out of Grantaire's mouth.
Courfeyrac gives him a puzzled look. "Many things. Help me remember what I'm being accused of?"
"Enjolras. You're the one who—who—" Grantaire gestures toward the half of the room where Enjolras hopefully still is, refusing to look that way again. "Who's helping him dress up like a hooker."
"Uh, no." Courfeyrac's perpetual smile disappears, leaving behind a dangerous anger. "For one thing, I don't like the implication that being a hooker is somehow one of the worst and most degrading things you can be. For another, he doesn't look like a streetwalker. Sure, he's got a few new clothes and the style's a bit different. So what? The man's gorgeous. He wanted to show it off. If that bothers you, the problem lies with you."
Grantaire can feel his ears burning red, and his hands clench into fists at his side. "You law students are familiar with the concept of entrapment, aren't you?"
"Grantaire." Courfeyrac rubs at his eyes, suddenly looking tired rather than angry. "Why is it bothering you to see him like this?"
Because it's cheating. Because he hasn't felt like he needs to run off to the bathroom and masturbate in two years and he hates feeling like that now. But most of all… "Because it's not Enjolras."
And that is the crux of the matter, really, the reason he both loves seeing and doesn't want to see Enjolras like this.
There is a pattern to how his life goes. He meets these people. He falls in love with Enjolras. Enjolras gives him trial after trial and though Grantaire repeatedly fails Enjolras never turns him away. Enjolras and the others die for their cause, and Grantaire dies for them—for him—because they are the only thing he can truly believe in.
Nowhere in the story does Enjolras love him. Nowhere in the story does Enjolras parade around like—like—
"It is Enjolras. Believe me on that." Courfeyrac's hand falls lightly on Grantaire's shoulder. "And he's doing this to show off for a certain person, yes, but he's also doing it for himself. You know Enjolras would never do anything he didn't want to—not unless it was imperative to the cause."
"He had some of Joly's drink." Grantaire mumbles the words to his hands, not meeting Courfeyrac's eyes.
"Uh huh. And immediately went and ordered everything the bar has to order, I take it, from the way you're panicking?" Courfeyrac steers Grantaire to the side, peering over Grantaire's shoulder at something. "Oh, look, he's got iced tea just like usual. You're blowing everything way out of proportion, my friend. Enjolras got himself some new clothes. Enjolras tried a drink. He does that every once in a while, you know. So tell me what the real problem is."
"You know what it is." Grantaire raises sullen eyes to meet Courfeyrac's. "He asked me to date him."
To kiss him, to love him, Grantaire doesn't know what words to put to Enjolras' request other than absurd.
"And do you want to?" Courfeyrac's hand swipes ineffectually at Grantaire's tangled hair, pushing it back behind one ear.
"I can't." Grantaire shakes his head. "You know it would be awful."
"I've told Enjolras what I know." Courfeyrac pats Grantaire's shoulder. "This is his answer."
Sighing, Grantaire goes and gets himself another drink before finding the table farthest away from Enjolras and settling down there to watch him for the rest of the night.
XXX
The two weeks that follow are slightly better. Enjolras only wears his new clothes twice, both times when the Amis are only meeting among themselves. He continues to follow Grantaire around the room, but he doesn't drape himself across Grantaire again.
A combination of relief and bitter disappointment wells up inside Grantaire, growing more poignant by the day, until eventually he does the only thing he knows how to do to make the too-complicated emotions fade away: he drinks.
He's drunk when the Amis' meeting starting; he's very drunk by the time it finishes, rambling, ranting, and he can tell from the way Bossuet keeps telling him to be quiet and the way Bahorel keeps taking his drink away and the way Joly keeps telling him that some of the things he's discoursing about are decades—lifetimes—past that he's probably overdone it.
He doesn't want to stop, though. He wants to keep drinking, keep talking, and maybe somewhere in the talk he will find what he needs, find an answer to the questions that shouldn't have to be asked, and—
Strong arms lift him from his slouched position in his chair, and a voice like music and fire cuts the string of thoughts that's pouring from his mouth into a thousand different lost balloons drifting through his mind. "Come. That's enough. It's time you go home."
He doesn't fight Enjolras helping him out to the car. He's never wanted to fight Enjolras, and this is no exception, though it's so cruel, the way he can feel Enjolras' leg against his, the way he can feel each of Enjolras' ribs rising and falling in a gentle pattern, the way that Enjolras looks so damn beautiful and sexy and inhuman even like this, in his normal clothes, with his hair tied back at the nape of his neck.
Enjolras doesn't say anything for long minutes, coaxing Grantaire into the passenger seat, climbing into the driver's seat, pulling out onto the road. Grantaire finds himself holding his breath, waiting. Eventually his patience is rewarded.
"You don't need to do this." Enjolras doesn't look at him, keeping his eyes on the road. "You haven't done this since we found you. Why now?"
"Because it's who I am. It's what I do." Grantaire leans his too-warm cheek against the cool glass of the window. "I drink. I joke. I make the others laugh on occasion and I make you scowl. I am your court jester, your fool, your clown with the painted-on smile that terrifies all. And in the end, if I'm lucky, I'll be worthy of dying with you."
"If you are willing to offer your life, you are worthy of giving it. There is no man who has a right to turn aside such a gift." Enjolras is quiet, still, and his face in profile looks young, so young, but Grantaire knows that it's never going to get a chance to look old. Mature, perhaps, to lose those last wisps of childishness, but Enjolras is always beautiful and he always dies in his twenties. "But there's far more to you than that, Grantaire. There always has been. You've always been worthy of our trust—never betrayed us, though you've had chances enough and rewards if you did. And you always want to try again. No matter how often you fail, you always want to try again."
"To fail again." Grantaire murmurs the words to the window.
"Failing is far better than never trying at all."
Grantaire doesn't know how to respond to that, and silence descends in the car.
The next thing Grantaire knows is the door being opened, Enjolras' arms around him hauling him to his feet.
Enjolras helps him to his door, helps him with his keys, and then they stand, for a few moments, braced against each other in the entrance to Grantaire's cluttered apartment.
"Do you need help getting to bed?" Enjolras asks the question gently.
"No." Grantaire doesn't shake his head, knowing that it won't be worth the nausea. "I can manage it."
He expects Enjolras to leave, then.
Instead Enjolras pulls him into a fierce embrace, Enjolras' head resting against Grantaire's right shoulder, Enjolras' nose against his neck. Enjolras' hands vice-tight around his chest, and Grantaire doesn't know what to do.
"I love you." Enjolras' voice is soft but fierce, his breath burning hot against Grantiare's skin.
Grantaire shakes his head. "You barely know me."
"I've known you for over a hundred years. I know what I want—what I'd be getting." Enjolras' breath catches, just a small hitch, a not-quite sob. "If you tell me, right now, that you don't love me like this, that you don't want to touch me, hold me, kiss me, I'll stop. I'll leave you alone. I don't ever want to hurt you."
He should say it. Oh, but he should say it, needs to say it, has to say it, but he can't make his lips form the words, can't make his mouth open to let them escape, because it would be a lie.
"But if all you need is time and convincing…" Enjolras pulls back, though his lips trail briefly across Grantaire's neck in a feather-light kiss.
Enjolras doesn't finish the threat or ultimatum or the promise or whatever it was going to be. He simply turns and leaves, the lingering touch of his lips searing hot on Grantaire's neck.
XXX
Enjolras starts touching him again for the two weeks that follow.
They're just small touches, at first, an accidental brush of his hand against Grantaire's when they're both reaching for drinks or a slice of pizza or something like that. A brush of Enjolras' leg against his when they're both rising from their seats in the restaurant or at the movie theatre. A hand on his shoulder when Enjolras trip-skips over something on the floor—never mind that Enjolras never trips, that he has perfect balance. Each touch is flame, beautiful, searing, and Grantaire feels as though his body is covered in small bonfires, little nerve-memories of Enjolras that will never stop tingling.
He tells Combeferre about it, hoping that Combeferre will convince his friend that chasing Grantaire is utterly silly. Combeferre merely shrugs, saying that Enjolras will chase who he wants and that if Grantaire wants Enjolras to stop all he has to do is tell Enjolras to do so.
Then the touches become more than mere accidents. Enjolras follows him to the bar, orders a drink, intentionally wraps himself around Grantaire while picking it up. Enjolras makes sure to ask for things from those sitting on the opposite side of Grantaire from him, taking the opportunity to drape himself across Grantaire's lap. As the weather finally cools Enjolras makes it his duty to collect coats for everyone from the coat room, helping people into them, and if he often has a hug for Courfeyrac or Combeferre or Feuilly or the others he always has a long embrace for Grantaire, his fingers getting bolder and bolder in the places they go.
Grantaire turns to Bossuet and Joly, hoping they will be able to tell Enjolras what a terrible, stupid idea this is, and finds no assistance from them, either.
"If you really don't want the attention, tell him." Bossuet makes the statement firmly.
"We'll even come with you if you want." Joly makes the offer helpfully. "We will be whatever moral support you want or need. But you need to say the words. You need to tell him that you don't want him, that you don't want a romance, and everything ends."
"Meaning that if you cry to us after that about how beautiful he is and how much you want to run your hands through your hair, we've got the right to smother you." Bossuet seems far too cheerful about this possibility.
Grantaire considers asking Bahorel for help, but decides he doesn't want to be directly laughed at and instead vows to simply hold on and not respond to any of Enjolras' touches, no matter how much he yearns to.
How long can Enjolras keep this up, after all?
XXX
Enjolras declares Grantaire his partner for their latest round of political wall-papering the next day.
It's mildly dangerous work, possibly resulting in a few days in prison and a hefty fine if they're caught distributing and posting the illicit material. It's something they do on a regular basis, something Grantaire's helped the others with, and he assumes, because it's related to the cause, that it will keep Enjolras from pursuing any of his more personal ambitions.
He has apparently underestimated Enjolras' ability to multi-task.
"I want to put one up there." Enjolras hefts the hammer in one back-leather-glove glad hand, the flier in the other as he stares up at a boarded-over window. The day is unseasonably warm, and they'd left behind their coats, leaving Enjolras is black pants and the sleeveless green tunic that complements his eyes too well. "It'll be visible from across the street and hard to get down. Give me a lift up?"
Grantaire hesitates. "I'm supposed to keep watch."
"The police don't tend to watch this part of town. You know that. Now, up—the faster we do this, the faster we're out of here."
Sighing, Grantaire bends down, allowing Enjolras to shimmy up onto his shoulders before straightening to give Enjolras as much height as he can. It takes Enjolras barely a minute to get the flier situated and nailed in place, and then the hammer is tossed to the side, landing with a soft thwack on the sidewalk.
Enjolras doesn't shimmy down as quickly as he'd shimmied up, though. He slides his way slowly down Grantaire's back, his right leg snaking in between Grantaire's to run slowly down the length of Grantaire's inner leg. One of his hands buries itself in Grantaire's hair, and the other strokes fiercely, possessively down Grantaire's back before looping under Grantaire's arm, brushing over his chest. Enjolras' lips press gently to the nape of Grantaire's neck, and Grantaire jolts forward.
"What the hell are you doing?" Grantaire whirls, his face bright red, his breath panting from his lungs with a mixture of fear and excitement.
"Apparently finally breaking your self-control." Enjolras looks mildly chagrined, his arms crossed in front of his chest.
"We're working. You're working. You can't—you don't—" Grantaire gestures wildly at the hammer on the ground, the collection of fliers still waiting to be placed. "This isn't you."
"Putting subversive but important information out for the public to peruse isn't me?" Enjolras' eyebrows both rise. "Well, I must have been doing something wrong for the last two centuries then."
"No, I mean…" Grantaire sighs, pressing a thumb to the bridge of his nose. "You being distracted from that work by—by me."
"I'm not being distracted from my work. I would not allow personal matters to get in the way of that work. I am currently doing my work, with the man I love, who I would very much like to have kiss me." Enjolras takes a step closer to him with each sentence, and Grantaire finds himself against the wall, Enjolras' face barely centimeters from his own. "You won't say you don't love me. You won't say you don't want me. So what do I need to do? What's it going to take to convince you I want this?"
"A reason why." Grantaire whispers the words, his eyes locked on Enjolras, feeling the heat of Enjolras' bare arms on either side of his body as Enjolras leans against the building with him.
"Because I want this." Enjolras repeats the words slowly, but there is hunger in his eyes, burning fire. "And I want it now, soon. I turn nineteen in three weeks, Grantaire. Then twenty. Then how many more until it happens again? How many…"
"So it's just about time? If you just want to screw someone, there's a thousand people who would die to sleep with you." Not the right words, too many shades of what's happened between them in the past but twisted wrong distorted, and Grantaire hurries on. "I'm sure some of the others would happily sleep with you, if that's all you want. Courfeyrac. Combeferre. Feuilly. Jehan."
"It's not about the time. It's…" Enjolras makes a soft, strangled sound down in his throat. "It's that I know what I want, and I know I've only got so much time to get it in. And I don't want a stranger." Enjolras' hand finds his, squeezes tight, and Grantaire's breath catches as he remembers a half-dozen other times, their fingers so tight together, their lives so entwined together. "I don't want one of the others. I want you to finish what you started last time. I want you to kiss me."
"I'm not good enough for you." The explanation is like glass, sticking in his throat. "You tolerate me. You let me die by you. But I'm not good enough to live by you."
"You really think that." Enjolras' free hand rises, brushes gently across Grantaire's face. "You really don't see how you've grown. You really don't see how you've changed. Even standing here, even as you help me, all you can see is failure."
Dominos in his hands, disappointment in Enjolras' eyes, and Grantaire wants to run but he can't because Enjolras is here, holding his hand, and his skin is darker than it should be because that was lifetimes ago and he is offering Grantaire all he has ever dreamed of and Grantaire doesn't know what to do.
"You've grown. You're still you—the best things about us never change, never will, I don't think—but you're living up to your potential, Grantaire. More and more each time, you're being who I've always dreamed you would be." Enjolras smiles, the break of dawn, the hope amidst all the horror and chaos that is humanity, and Grantaire can feel his heart melt. "And I want you to continue to grow, right here at my side. So I ask once more. Will you kiss me, Grantaire?"
Standing there centimeters from him, their hands locked together, Enjolras' blue eyes fixed so steady and sure on Grantaire's, Enjolras' body presented for Grantaire to see, Enjolras is asking him, once more, to kiss him.
Throwing caution to the wind, Grantaire leans forward, his free hand snaking around Enjolras' head, pulling them fiercely together. Their lips meet, and it is everything it was last time and more, because this time there aren't soldiers at the door, bullets in the air, their friends' blood coating the streets outside.
This time there is just him and Enjolras, and Enjolras wants him to kiss him.
Enjolras embraces him, arms around him, presses him back, so that he is flush against the wall and Enjolras' body is flush against his. Enjolras is warm, delicious fire, and Grantaire can't touch enough of him, his hands running through Enjolras' hair, over his face, over his neck, over his back. Enjolras' lips are soft, inexperienced, but Grantaire doesn't care, and there is enough burning passion between them to make up for it.
When the kiss ends they don't break apart. Enjolras continues to hold him, and Grantaire shivers, a cold that has nothing to do with the rough brick of the building against his back.
"Grantaire?" Enjolras' voice is as gentle as his hands are strong.
"I don't want to break this." Grantaire's voice cracks, and he can feel the threat of tears in his throat and eyes though he hasn't cried in years. "I don't want to break us."
"You won't." Enjolras presses a kiss between Grantaire's eyes. "We're going to be glorious, Grantaire. We're going to fly together, you and me, life to life, and it's going to be wonderful."
It's a dream. It's yet another dream of Enjolras', too good to be true, and Grantaire knows that.
Closing his eyes, resting in Enjolras' arms, accepting, finally, the fact that Enjolras wants him, Grantaire doesn't care.
He's died for impossible dreams before.
Perhaps it's time to see how long he can live in one.