"I am simply tired of your constant hounding!"
The others gasped. Besides raw passion for his cause, Enjolras never showed what he was feeling, especially not for his followers.
Grantaire, the hapless victim of the outburst, hung his head. He had gone too far this time, and he knew it. Utter shame had wiped any memory of the exact words, but the gist was easily guessed. He was truly sorry, but assumed that Enjolras would quickly resume his speech.
To his utter shock, the blonde man strode to his seat in the corner, shoved the chair backwards until it hit the wall, grasped Grantaire's shoulders, slammed him against the wall, and grabbed his neck with one slender hand, pinning him with his body as well.
Grantaire froze. The room silenced, none of the Revolutionaries wanted to interfere with their leader's wrath. Besides, it was only R…
R forced his head back as far as the hand would allow, true terror evident on his face. He had never seen Apollo like this; the true incarnation of his personality. Only Grantaire saw the look of pure, unfiltered fury directed at him. He went utterly limp, submissive. He was lost to the smaller man, and he knew it. A single tear rolled down the large cheek, evoking no response in his captor.
"Now." Enjolras's word gained still more attention, the atmosphere of the room was utterly stifling. Glancing away from his victim, the god turned to his subjects. "Leave."
With only a hasty shuffling, the others retreated. They, too, were afraid, and had not even been touched.
Enjolras turned back. His grip had not loosened in the slightest. Grantaire was no less petrified. He was certain he would be killed. Better to be killed by a God… but he wasn't really paying attention to the thought. His being was focused on the face of Enjolras, so close to his own, so terrible.
"You know what you did wrong." It wasn't a question.
Grantaire tried to nod, but the hand at his throat produced a strangled noise. Gasping slightly, he tried to speak. "Yes."
The hand loosened a fraction, but the slender body leaned in harder. "Then why," the god asked, not really to the prisoner, "am I reacting like this. It is no different from any other time."
Grantaire was both intelligent and sober enough to remain still and silent. A formidable man, whom he adored, had him at his utter mercy. He no longer knew what he was feeling. He tried to look away, but the hand pressed backward, almost as if Enjolras was trying to reach through the brawny neck. Grantaire swallowed, hard and painfully.
Enjolras continued. "Honestly, I don't know why. The revolution is closer, even you must feel that. But…" he shrugged. "I suppose it doesn't matter." His expression changed, the thoughtful replaced again by anger. "Why do you come here? Why? To torment me? You gain some depraved satisfaction?"
Grantaire shook his head, slightly. He was still terrified, but fascinated all the same. His god had spoken, confided, shown emotion.
"Then why?" Gently, Enjolras released the other man's throat, leaning a little harder.
Grantaire allowed himself a moment to compose, blinking, swallowing, avoiding eye contact. "You know why," to the floor.
The wild ferocity filled Enjolras' eyes again. Grabbing the limp Grantaire's shoulders, he slammed the man backwards into the wall, bashing the back of his head sharply. Grantaire winced, still not looking up. "Tell me."
"You." One word, an eternity of meaning. He allowed himself the briefest of glances into the piercing eyes fixed on him.
Enjolras stepped back, sighing. Grantaire, utterly submissive, sank to the floor in a boneless heap, sobbing quietly.
"I knew. I had to hear. But…what does this mean? What am I to you?"
The shaggy head perched on the heap moved, slowly, from side to side.
Enjolras knelt, leaning in, inhaling the sharp reek of wine that permeated his victim. Gently, as if speaking to a child, he repeated, "What does this mean?"
Slowly, shakily, Grantaire straightened his neck, leaning his head against the wall. He gave another choking sob, another pair of tears streaking his face. Eyes closed, blocking out the glory before him, he began. "You…it's not 'what am I to you', it's what aren't you to me. You are everything. My god, my muse, if I did anything, my… I have never…" he inhaled, that sharp, painful breath that stems from crying. "I have never loved anyone, anything…except you." He bowed his head again, flinching into himself, clearly expecting a blow, a harsh word.
Enjolras smiled. Leaning back on his haunches, he extended a hand to the shaking lump. Grantaire didn't notice. Slowly, gently, like approaching a wild animal, he reached out a hand, put it on Grantaire's shoulder. Grantaire turned away, neck twisted painfully, hair falling over his eyes, sticking to the tears. Enjolras squeezed lightly, getting Grantaire's attention.
Grantaire looked up, carefully, as if afraid the vision would vanish. Enjolras was still there, still watching him, touching him, holding out a rescuing hand. His own hand emerged from the pile, shaking as it sought strength. Enjolras took it, still smiling. He carefully drew the shorter man up, holding him close. Grantaire shuddered, sobbing again. Enjolras ran his hands over Grantaire's back, making soothing noises deep in his throat.
Without warning, he tilted Grantaire's head back, nestling the chin in his palm. He stared into Grantaire's eyes for a moment, before leaning in, ever so slowly. Grantaire closed his eyes, tried to draw back. Enjolras took his head, holding Grantaire's head steady. Their lips met. With a final gasp, Grantaire broke away, fleeing the café, sobbing into the night.