Permission
Like all of my Les Mis writing, this is based primarily in the musical verse but I'm borrowing lots of details from the novel and many of my own personal headcanons, based off interpretations of both.
This short contains kissing and romantic interaction but is still SFW, however it contains passing references to more explicit sexual relations.
.o0o.
Love of mine
One day you will die
But I'll be close behind
I'll follow you into the dark
- "I Will Follow You Into the Dark," Death Cab for Cutie/ "?", George Blagden
.o0o.
November 1831
When his lips move in whatever rousing speech he's in the middle of, you think of their sweet taste and of how they feel against your own. Full and beautiful and firm, yet always unsure. You think of his low, murmuring words in your ear, always questioning and hesitant. It seems entirely out of character and you would not believe it was truly him if you didn't know otherwise. You suppose you must know him better than any of your friends do. Every part of him.
But such a way he has of speaking now! Each word comes out strong and powerful with a remarkable sense of self-assurance, near to overflowing with determination. His confidence is infectious. It is night, and the attic above the Musain is ill-lit and almost blurry with pipe-smoke and candle fumes, and yet he is radiant. It seems as though he could stand against the image a burning sun.
Apollo.
You are listening to him with rapt attention now – to the promises of a brighter future, a better future, a future that he is so certain he can help to attain for every man, woman, and child in France.
"And we will bring about greater things still, in the long run!" he proclaims. "When other faraway countries see the France we have built, when they see its greatness, they will follow our lead, learn from our example, model their own nations after our own! So we will stir the people. My friends, what we are making here is the foundation of a better world. Vive la republique!"
Your friends applaud and cheer. Little Gavroche, just turned eleven – the fact of which he has been boasting ceaselessly for the past two weeks – cheers loudest of all. Enjolras looks on him with fondness. He sees himself in that bright-eyed lad, sees his own unbridled passion. All of you know it. You know he half prefers Gavroche to the rest of you. None of you can really blame him.
"So if they model their nations on your ideal future, will they at least maintain their concept of fun?" you call out from your spot in the corner. "Or is the world to be made up of men who are free and equal but all made of stone?"
Your friends, Gavroche included, all laugh.
Enjolras does not.
"If you do not believe in our cause, then you need not attend our meetings, Grantaire." His voice is hard and cold. "I shouldn't like to waste any of your precious time you might otherwise spend drinking. I believe this meeting has come to a close, anyway. I will see all of you tomorrow at the same time. And do not be late – that means you, Marius," he adds.
Everyone laughs again.
"Come on, everyone," Courfeyrac calls out. "Let's head on out! We may treat ourselves to a final round of drinks downstairs – and Marius can tell us of what a fine time he had with his angel tonight that made him so late!"
"You needn't – that is, she's – " Marius sputters as the room erupts in laughter again, and even Enjolras cracks a smile.
"Hair spun of fine gold and eyes bluer than the sky itself, was it not?" Feuilly adds.
"And a voice sweeter than a chorus of angels," Gavroche chips in, thrilled to join in the fun.
"And lips that are sweet, too," you call out, "sweeter than – "
"Oh, stop it, all of you!" Marius complains. "There's hardly cause – if you knew her – and besides, it's not as if I'm the only one of us who has a woman he loves – "
"No, my friend, you're simply the only one of us who won't shut up about her." Courfeyrac slings an arm around Marius's shoulders and begins to lead him out. "At least there's no doubt Cosette is a fine lass, a good match for you, and not even a bourgeoisie despite her rank. I am certain I speak for all of us when I say that I should very much like to make her acquaintance one day." The rest of you begin to gather your things, too, and take to following them out.
"Could I get a drink too, gents?" The excitement in the air is infectious, and seems to be rubbing off on Gavroche by the second. He bounds around all of your heels like an overactive puppy. "Oh, could I? Couldn't one of you get me just a little one, a bit of wine for all my good help – "
"You may have a glass of milk," Enjolras cuts in, and immediately the young boy stops bouncing to glower at him. "And a good bowl of hot soup. We can't allow you to drink yourself senseless at your tender age, or you'll turn out like our good friend Grantaire here." He looks pointedly at you with this last statement, and you quickly avert your gaze as you put on your coat. You reach out to ruffle Gavroche's scruffy blond hair, and he flashes you a grin, bright and toothy.
Bless the child – he isn't one to pass harsh judgement on anyone, not unless they're rich or cruel or some combination of the two.
You're about to follow him and your friends out downstairs when you feel a warm hand on your shoulder. You know it is Enjolras before you turn around, and you know what he is going to say before he even opens his mouth. "Grantaire – a word."
You falter, hand clenching and unclenching around the fabric of your coat. You glance in the direction of the doorway, and Joly, the last to leave, flashes you a sympathetic sort of grimace before parting as well.
It is just the pair of you now, you and Enjolras, Apollo and… well, you might be a drunkard, but you are no Dionysus.
Just the two of you, and your own beating heart.
It is you who breaks the silence. "Well?" you demand.
"Was that truly necessary?" His tone is sharp. "Your little interjection just now?"
If you were braver, and kinder to yourself, if you were strong as he is, you might have protested. You might even have admonished him – is that truly necessary?
But you cannot. You are many things, but brave and strong are not among them. No, you are weak, too swayed by his beauty, his majesty, too overwhelmed to realise that perhaps you carry within you the capacity to be more than just him.
Apollo. Mon cher, mon cher.
This, then, is what it is like to be in love.
But you are not so selfless—so self-sabotaging—you can bring yourself to apologise to him and truly mean it. So instead you allow your gaze to slide down to your boots, and you say nothing.
"Very well," Enjolras replies at last. "I suppose that, perhaps, I was just a bit out of line myself."
The both of you pause, and you can hear the way he breathes, can see his heaving chest as he merely stares at you, his eyes too full of too many emotions for you to understand.
"Is all forgiven, then?" you ask. "Are we on level ground again, mon amour?"
Enjolras's mouth opens and closes, before he laces his fingers together and nods, leaning back against one of the tables.
You move to sit next to him, pulling yourself up onto the table, legs dangling. "You must rest. How late did you stay up last night, writing today's glorious speech?"
"I thank you for your concern, but I am fine." The words lack the bite they were clearly striving for, and after a pause, you reach out and squeeze his hand.
"That is enough." The words carry the force you are more used to associating with him.
You let go and glare at him a moment, then turn your head sharply away and aim a kick at the air.
This does not slip Enjolras's notice. "Must you act like a petulant child, Grantaire? Ye gods! If I didn't know otherwise I would mistake you for a boy Gavroche's age by your behaviour. But even Gavroche – "
"Is better than I in numerous ways. Yes, we have established that."
Enjolras sighs, and you realise he has finally come close to you. You can feel his sigh on the back of your neck. He reaches out to you, slow and unsure. "There is no need – " he begins, then stops. "I apologise. Yes. For that and for what I said before. I should not have humiliated you so."
Finally, you turn to face him, and all you can do is nod.
Enjolras continues. "But really, Grantaire. These little interruptions of yours are growing out of hand. I cannot invite you back to our meetings if you continue this way, you understand. The risks are such that – that is, if you mean to stir up trouble – "
"I shan't."
"You said that last time," he sighs. "And the time before that, and before that, and so on."
You raise your eyebrows. "Then say it. Tell me I cannot come, have me disbanded and I will not even set foot in the Place Saint-Michel again, let alone the Musain."
"You know I would not truly do that."
Then why would you say it? you think. "I meant only to call out your bluff, Enjy," you say instead.
Enjolras half-laughs. "Oh, heavens. I've had quite enough of that nickname, courtesy to young Gavroche." He traces out the whorls in the wood of the Ftable. "I wish to have you here, truly. But there are times when…. I… Well, I cannot help but think we are better off when we are away from this place. Just… the two of us, I mean."
This time, it is he who kisses you first, rooted on the spot but leaning forward. Eyes closed. You kiss him back, a little desperately.
"Je t'aime," he says, softly.
It's all the invitation you need.
You give his cravat a yank, splay your other hand across his chest. His chest is as much of a Greek sculpture as the rest of him, you know, from the times you have seen it bare. You can count those times on one hand, yet you've memorised every inch of its perfect expanse. The records of this reside in your small apartment, meticulously recorded in oil paints on canvas and hidden under a tarp for fear your landlord will see.
You lean forward and run your fingers through his golden locks. With one hand still holding firmly to his cravat you pull yourself closer to him, and you can feel him harden against you.
"I wonder," you murmur as you bury your nose in his shoulder and breathe in his scent and feel his heart pounding in his chest against your own, "which they would be more likely to execute us for."
Enjolras's whole frame goes stiff. He pulls away.
"You don't need to be afraid," you urge, and you reach out to him, but once again he shrugs you off. The spell has expired. He faces the wall, his back to you, but you can picture his face, can picture the firm, hard set to his jaw and his resolute expression.
"I am not afraid." His tone matches the expression you have imagined him with. "I am no coward."
He is, of course. But you do not tell him this. You never could. Instead you allow him to continue, even as his entire form seems to sag, exhausted, and even his red coat seems to slip off his shoulders, as if it, too, cannot hold on any longer.
Enjolras finally turns to look at you, and now his face is a mask. "They would kill us for either, I am certain."
The fact that he would only die for one goes unspoken, but both of you know it all the same.
Not that you are better than him, not in any respect. You are just as much of a coward as he is, the fact of which you accepted so long ago you cannot recall a time before it. Dear God, you can scarcely recall a time before him, before your heart began to race at the very idea of him.
"Return to my flat tonight," you say instead. If you are infatuated, you might as well play the part.
He does not turn away this time, but he does stiffen. "You never seem to be afraid that we will be caught. " You notice that he does not explicitly voice a rejection, and you lean back against the bar, feeling as a smug smile teases at the corner of your lips.
"Do you mean the landlord? The oblivious old fool tucks himself into bed well before sunset. He would never call on me at this hour."
There is another smile on Enjolras's lips. "Is he oblivious to the fact that you are a drunkard, too?"
"You insult me! It's a well-known fact. I am the embarrassment of the building! But he would never turn out a student, not one of my standing. He needn't know that my family hasn't spoken to me in nigh two years."
"Because of me," Enjolras says softly.
"Because of this." You gesture around you, and your hand knocks against a bottle of wine. But for shame! The bottle has been left half-full; the liquid sloshes around inside as it rattles against the wooden tabletop. You pause before taking the bottle in your hands, and have a swig.
"Come back home with me," you repeat, a simple, insisting plea.
Enjolras falters—this is promising. He looks you up and down, and you grin wolfishly in his direction, pink tongue poking out from between your teeth. When he misses the hint, you are forced to resort to an exaggeratedly suggestive wink. It takes him another moment yet to catch on, but he rolls his eyes once he does.
"Oh, very well, then," he mutters. He says the words low and quick, as though he is ashamed of them. Experience has taught you to ignore his tone, focus only on his words. "Quickly, and before it gets too late."
"It is cold," you nod in agreement. "It shall be a difficult winter, I am sure, and already the sun has set. But I will be warm with you, my own sun, to walk and stay by my side."
He's quicker this time, and just shakes his head in dismay. "'R, you fool. What am I to do with you?"
You push off from the table and sling your arm around his shoulders. He stiffens, again, at your touch, but makes no move to pull away, just nods awkwardly as you begin to lead him out of the attic. In your hand, you bunch up some of the fabric of his chemise, crisp and freshly ironed. How queer it is that he should be one for decorum when his heart is so firmly set on destroying the bourgeois class. The next time he calls you an 'unsightly thing' over an untucked chemise or unruly locks, perhaps you will mention it to him.
You swipe a bottle of brandy from the shelf on your way out the door, and Enjolras scoffs but says nothing more. You steal another quick kiss against his clean-shaven cheek before entering the warm and rowdy cheer of the world outside.
The pair of you meet the others downstairs, where Joly and Bossuet are taking turns peppering Musichetta with kisses as she laughs and pretends to be angry with them; where Gavroche and Marius are in the middle of a thrilling thumb-wrestling contest as the others cheer them on. You break apart then, and take drinks with your friends, you laugh and make merry until Joly makes a comment about it being past Gavroche's bedtime, and finally all of you part ways and take your respective paths home.
He sleeps close to you that night, and you drum your fingers against his bare chest like you would toy with the keys of a piano. Every so often, you exchange a kiss, his lips plump and sweet with the lingering taste of wine. His nose is buried in your hair, and he stares at the ceiling murmuring something about the republic as you fall asleep wondering what you smell like. Alcohol, probably.
He is gone in the morning, as he is always gone. So, you prepare coffee and finish off yesterday's baguette, hardly noticing the way it has begun to go stale. You open the shutters then, and the sunlight streams in, highlight the dust motes dancing in the air. From here you reach under your bed and remove the canvases you have hidden there, kicking up more dust motes as you draw away the tarp.
You choose one painting at random, and sit there on the edge of the bed for an immeasurable amount of time staring at the strokes of paint there. They make an effort to record, to immortalize a moment already imprinted in your memory, for how could you forget any night, any moment by his side? These paintings are ugly in comparison. None of them come even remotely close to doing his beautiful form justice. You've half a mind to put your foot through them if only Enjolras would let you. He called them beautiful once, the one time you were brave enough to show him, a rare blush tinging his cheeks as he said it.
Apollo. Mon cher, mon cher.
You think of him, and pick up your brush.
FIN.