A/N I actually wrote this ages ago, but didn't post it for some reason. Re-reading it, though, I rather like it, and emotionally weak!Grantaire is a wonderful thing. Feedback is appreciated, of course!
Enjolras's mind is a tempest, a golden hurricane of thoughts and plans, ideas darting and sparking off of one another as they dash throughout his consciousness. The night has barely emerged, lamps about the cafe and on the darkly winding street only just taking light, and yet he already feels the hungry race of ambitious anticipation thrumming throughout his bloodstream, causing him to be light on his feet and heavy in his speech, flush-cheeked and bright-eyed. This manic energy, this fervent enthusiasm, has the same effect on him as the wine that so many of his men are taking with his words, yet it sharpens his mind rather than deteriorating it, so that he stands tall and strong, cutting an impressive figure amongst the mulling motions of his lieutenants. His hands are poised on a table, chin held high as he regards the others. They're boisterous, laughing; Courfeyrac and Prouvaire are conversing with a curious intensity over shared bottles, Bahorel guffaws his way through some series of jokes that have Feuilly's shoulders shaking, Bossuet and Joly regard the rest with soft smiles and brushed shoulders. It's an amiable atmosphere, somehow complementing rather than contrasting against the passionate fire of rebellion that surges in his stomach. Charged but peaceful, homely, and yet—as he only realizes now, straightening from his swift consultation with Combeferre to regard the rest—something is missing. There's a layer absent to the joyous revelry, an extra shadow that thickens those few corners exempt from candlelight.
"He does seem rather subdued, does he not?" Combeferre murmurs beside him.
"He—?" And then, of course; Enjolras realizes quite swiftly that he's being rather dense indeed. It's Grantaire, Grantaire who's sitting silently at his own table, one hand flat on the wooden surface and the other running thoughtlessly around the neck of a particularly tall wine bottle. His eyes are downcast, slightly reddened around the edges, and the breaths trembling his shoulders are alarmingly swift, almost panicked. A slight scowl darkens Enjolras's countenance, confusion furling inside of him. He's used to the dark-haired drunkard being the proud center of attention, singing and shouting and laughing the loudest of all, and this is uncharacteristic enough to be disconcerting.
"Perhaps you had best talk to him? Something could be wrong." Combeferre is still watching, as well, a hand on his waist as he regards Enjolras with an expression that can't quite be pinpointed. His mouth is tight and his eyes knowledgeable, in a way that makes Enjolras feel uncomfortably ignorant, as though missing out on some massively obvious truth.
"I should talk to him? I am hardly..." He trails off before he speaks anything truly worth correction. Because it's true—if anyone ought to talk to Grantaire, it's most definitely him. He's the one, after all, who has that wordless something with the rowdy cynic, that which will cause them to meet at the cafe before the rest begin to gather, or stay after they've left; that which births soft murmurs and entwined fingers and looks that don't need words... that which, neither frequently nor rarely, has led to much more, against alley walls or in the firelight-painted corners of Enjolras's own apartment. He hasn't put a name to it, and he doubts he ever will, and yet it is there, as easily as he may forget it when drenched in the brilliant energy of their grander revolution. He feels it even now—a twisting clench in his chest where there should be carelessness, forged out of the nervous solemnity that shapes Grantaire's very posture.
"Hardly?"
"Fine." Driven in equal parts by his friend's encouragement and his own reluctant concern, he rises more fully from the table, legs oddly stiff as he begins to make his way across the crowded room. Despite the fact that the sun has been down long enough to deviate most of the others' attention from his attempted serious command, he can't help but feel anxious, as though all of their eyes are on him as he moves in the direction of the man whom he's still so ashamed to associate with. After all, Grantaire is undoubtedly the lowest of them all, and even now Enjolras can't put into words why he matters at all, let alone matters so much—so goddamned much, but he won't think about that right now, because the sweet agony that it inflicts on his chest is too much to endure, especially here, where he's used to being strong.
He reaches him in moments, and extends a hand halfheartedly, unsure whether it's acceptable here that he actually touch him. It's hard, too hard to detect just where the lines are drawn, and for someone as constantly acquainted with the law as Enjolras—whether he be ripping down the rules rather than following them is irrelevant, for they have a strong enough impact on his life either way—it's disconcerting, weakening. Yet he cannot afford to be weakened now, because in this instant it seems that Grantaire needs him—with that in mind, he goes on and lays his hand on the other's shoulder anyways, grasping it gently, at least attempted to be reassuring but certainly far from firm.
The response is startling: Grantaire jerks away violently, his breath peaking in an audible rush as his fingers clench and tighten around the bottleneck, knuckles showing white under the glisten of candlelight. His shoulders shake before stiffening, and his eyes flick up only briefly, locking with Enjolras's just long enough for the typical flush to soften his cheeks before glancing downwards once more. He is silent, strangely, and even below the soothing mumble of the rest of the room, his heightened breaths can be heard far too easily, jarring and unnatural enough to convulse Enjolras's heart in a swift burst of anxiety. Combeferre was right—something is wrong, most definitely wrong, and that undeniable fact darkens and chills the whole of his surroundings, permeates them with a sense of unshakable upset.
"Grantaire—Grantaire," repeating the name because he still won't look at him, and he's beginning to grow more than concerned, actually fearful of whatever could be causing this alarming oddity. "Is there anything... are you—quite alright?" It's spoken awkwardly, because he has no way to phrase it; he's not used to expressing concern even in small amounts, and this is a near impossibility. He keeps his voice low, ducking his head until Grantaire has no choice but to properly meet his gaze.
"Managing," he murmurs in response, his voice cracked rather than smoothed by the unsavory quantities of alcohol clearly pounding through him. His free hand, laying on the tabletop, curls and clenches, tight enough that his fingernails are undoubtedly cutting into his palms. Shocked by the blatant destructiveness, Enjolras finds himself instinctively reaching down and pressing his fingers to the shaking wrist, holding it in place.
"Grantaire," he says softly, a third time, and then turns over the stiff fist, forcing free the contracted fingers. They move easily at his touch, barely bothering to resist, and then he's winding his own with them, forging the two together into a steady grip that he hopes works to conjure the memories it's meant to, remind Grantaire of who he's with and somehow reassure him that whatever he's going through mustn't overtake him entirely. "What troubles you?"
"I..." His shoulders hitch again, and it strikes Enjolras then that he's practically panicking, his usual calm demeanor entirely burned away. For a moment, Grantaire's eyes squeeze shut, and his teeth glint, ground tight. Enjolras finds himself moving yet closer as the concern swells inside of him, until he's practically enfolded the smaller man in his arms.
"How much have you had to drink?"
"Too much." It's the first answer that's come quickly, and Enjolras finds himself nodding, half-horrified and half-relieved to have found what might be considered a material cause for the devastation shuddering through the dark-haired man now. Yet he's more scared than ever at the same time, for Grantaire never says that he's had too much, probably wouldn't if he was on his very deathbed, and a sudden but vibrant bolt of self-hatred flashes through Enjolras's lungs, for being able to let this happen, for neglecting the man meant to be his partner enough to allow such a transformation to occur, for continuously letting him poison himself, never doing more other than offer a few feeble words in objection...
"Very well. I'm taking you home, you—Grantaire? Grantaire!"
The shaking has heightened to entirely new levels, and Grantaire's hands are suddenly wound in the fabric of Enjolras's vest, fingers clutching him tightly, desperately as he pulls him in close, releases impassioned, almost choking breaths into it. Instinctively, Enjolras's hands move under his elbows, lifting him into a standing position, and he half-stumbles backwards as Grantaire immediately sags against him, evidently barely able to stay on his feet—whether that be due to the effects of the wine or the bizarre anxiety that seems to be tormenting him now is unclear, but the result is plain enough, and Enjolras wastes no time in shifting his grip, wrapping one arm around Grantaire's waist and continuing to hold his hand with the other, as tightly as possible, thumb running repeatedly over the damaged palm.
A few curious stares are being directed their way now, but Enjolras's own self-consciousness will come later if it cares to turn up at all; right now, he's far too intent on making sure that he gets the other man home to give a damn what the rest of them might think.
"Grantaire?" Joly pipes up concernedly before Enjolras can turn away. "Is everything alright?"
Bahorel glances up from across the room, a smile darting like wildfire over his sharp features. "Haven't seen him that tanked in ages," he shoots to Feuilly, whose response is a not-quite-genuine smile. A couple of the other assembled students let out willing chuckles, and Enjolras feels a fierce hardness in his chest, gleaming with hot frustration at their casualness.
"We are going back," he announces perhaps a bit too loudly to be offhand, still making sure to offer reassuring strokes along Grantaire's hand. The other is quavering against him, heart racing like a trapped bird, and keeps his own stare down, forehead nuzzled into Enjolras's shoulder as he tries with clear exigency to control what's approaching hyperventilation. "We meet again tomorrow—till then, keep your hopes high and your voices loud, my friends." Deeming that an appropriate final note, he proceeds to turn and begin to half-limp, half-carry Grantaire along the stairs, carefully feeling out each step before taking it. The room is far from silenced at their abrupt departure; on the contrary, laughter swells through the clusters of men, and though Enjolras knows that it isn't meant to be mocking, that they don't understand what Grantaire is going through—hell, even he can't claim to do as much—it still ignites a swift flash of defensiveness in his chest.
"You truly should not intoxicate yourself so severely... it's damaging," he murmurs into the tousled hair brushing against his jaw, and the only response is a soft stir, an impossible tightening of the fingers on his shirt. He realizes, just then, that he's left his jacket upstairs in the heated flurry, but chooses not to let the mistake hinder him as he reaches the bottom of the staircase, pushes through the entrance room, which is empty save the low-burnt tallow candles and a single barmaid quietly mopping a corner. The surge of sound upstairs is slightly muted, to his at least partial relief, though it's also disconcerting to be able to hear Grantaire's ragged breathing even more audibly. It's elevated and amplified both at once, almost sickened in its harshness, a painful reminder of the fact that something here is physiologically amiss. Enjolras coaches his own near-panic into forced calmness, determinedly maintaining his composure as he shoulders open the door, letting them both out into the night.
The cool, dark air is certainly refreshing, washing the flush from their faces. Out here, it is entirely hushed, the only noise being that of a soft breeze rattling through the high buildings around them, and the stars are the sole providers of light as soon as they escape the golden pool of the Musain. Enjolras only brings them a few steps farther, enough to meet the walls of one of the buildings lining the thin alleyway, then halts. He turns, pulling himself away despite Grantaire's positively kitten-like whimper of protest, then grips the other man by the shoulders, turning him against the wall.
"Tell me of your affliction."
"Not an... affliction—" Grantaire wrestles against his pinning hold, clearly seeking the warmth of his arms again, but Enjolras refuses, as much as it hurts him to see such weak, frantic movements from the other. "Enjolras, please..."
"Are you merely drunk? Because this is—this is extreme, even for you, this is..." Terrifying me. Stop. Please, whatever's happening to you, make it stop. I need you back, the real you, the one that's noisy and stupid and laughs at every absurd little thing, that—
And he's so poor at this, incapable of even consoling the man that he thinks he might love, because there are tears running down Grantaire's face now, visible even in the thick shadows. "Please," he repeats again, haltingly, the single syllable rasping in his throat. "Please—"
The most powerful shiver yet courses through his thin frame, and that's the only warning Enjolras gets—he realizes what's about to happen a split second before it does, and only just has the time to step forwards before Grantaire collapses entirely, folding into his barely-prepared arms. He stumbles under the sudden weight, hissing a string of expletives under his breath, and can do nothing more than hold them both up for a moment, before mustering the strength to reach underneath and pull him into a proper carry, one arm at the crook of the limp drunkard's knees and the other behind his shoulders in order to lift him fully from the ground. Grantaire's head lolls against Enjolras's bicep, eyes half-closed, not quite unconscious but far from lucid. Tear tracks still gleam over his cheeks, catching in his lashes, and the sight causes rough pangs through Enjolras's stomach, so that it's all he can do to stay focused on the physical struggle of their predicament, to force his feet over the night-painted cobblestones and ignore the straining burn of his arms, keep his head up and focused on the road ahead rather than letting it dip to constantly affirm that Grantaire is still awake, if only barely; his awareness, though faint, is at least some sort of reassurance, something to hold onto and keep Enjolras from the impression that he's slipping away entirely.
He finds himself talking, for a reason that's probably foolish, but one which he doesn't bother to try and uncover. All he knows is that it helps, just to imagine that Grantaire might be hearing any of the empty words that fall endlessly from his lips—perhaps even be comforted by them—though the logical part of his mind tells him that he's too far gone to process anything, which, of course, loops him back around to the beginning, swift, dark fear stabbing through his veins. Perhaps it's unreasonable to be as aggravated as he is, but the thought of his own idiocy isn't enough to stop the inflamed concern from ricocheting through his mind, lighting him with the energy necessitated for closing the distance between here and Grantaire's apartment, a few blocks that feel like endless miles with such severe worry spurring his movements.
"Hold on for me," he says, softly; "be easy, you mustn't give in now... minutes more, just minutes." He feels his voice crack on the final word, and pulls in a heavy breath, cradling Grantaire more tightly to his chest. His breath mists in the chilled air, a barely material silver cloud hanging in the inkiness. The coldness is beginning to seep through him, prickling along his skin and spine, and he feels the absence of his jacket more vividly than ever. He doesn't care, though, because he wouldn't go back to retrieve it if he could, and Grantaire burns within his arms, brushing him with warmth that pierces straight to his core.
The words repeat themselves in his head, and perhaps aloud as well.
Hold on for me.
He promised minutes, and minutes it is; regardless, it feels as though centuries pass before he's finally reaching the battered front door of the small apartment that Grantaire calls home, the shabby lodgings which he'd never so much as considered the existence of before they started properly spending time together. Grantaire, he remembers, had been rather sheepish about the whole process of introducing Enjolras to his living quarters—abashed as he always was when exposing or relating all those little details of his own personal life that so fascinated and intrigued Enjolras, though of course he never said so.
He sharply regrets that silence now, of course, as the jarringly nostalgic images fade away, so that he isn't seeing that familiar bright-eyed, softly grinning Grantaire reaching into his waistcoat for a key with murmured warnings to "not expect much"—instead, Enjolras is the one dipping his fingers gently into his partner's pocket, trying to ignore the way that Grantaire stirs and convulses against him. It's a tricky balancing act, because there's no way he's going to set him down, but soon enough he manages to get a grip on the iron key, and he supports himself against the doorframe, breath hissing out as he fumbles with the lock. The damned thing won't catch, and Grantaire's started shivering again, soft groans emerging from his mouth in a horribly pitiable way, so that all Enjolras can do is shush him like a child, biting down on his lip in combined pain and vexation.
"Open up, open up..." He slams his shoulder against the wood in pure frustration, and, to his surprise, the jerking movement seems to be just what the lock needed. The key turns all at once and the door creaks open, suddenly enough that he nearly falls over—his hold on Grantaire instinctively tightens rather than the reverse, subconsciously valuing the other's well-being above his own. It is, all in all, a very ungraceful entrance, and when the door grinds shut behind him once more, he's bathed in a complete darkness that makes his next few movements far from easy. It's just as cold inside as it was out—the vague forms of furniture placed throughout the narrow room, swimming into view as his eyes slowly adjust, reveal a dank, empty fireplace. Damn it, Grantaire, surely the least you could do is take care of yourself when I am not able to.
His arms are truly beginning to strain under the pressure of the other's weight, and it's with no small amount of gratitude that he closes the distance between the door and the thin single bed, tucked carelessly into the corner. He lays Grantaire upon the thin mattress with the utmost care, settling his slack form slowly and gently, then straightens up again. It's a physical difficulty to bring his hand away from the shoulder that it lingers on so tenaciously. Still, thought of light and warmth eventually propels him from Grantaire's side, and he struggles in the dark for a few minutes, attempting to solve the arrangement of the unfamiliar fireplace. Even moving hastily, it takes far longer than he would have wished before a spark finally catches, and flames flare up with relative ease after that, casting the room in undulating ripples of golden orange light and sending a flush of heat through its stale air.
He returns as quickly as his legs allow him, kneeling beside where Grantaire still lies. One hand instinctively reaches up to caress the dark, sweat-stained curls from the other's eyes—they're closed now, lightly, lashes barely brushing his disconcertingly pale cheeks. The tear tracks running along them are clearer than ever under the firelight's soft sight, and Enjolras finds his fingertip brushing along them. Somehow, the dampness is astounding, confirming as it does the materiality of his crying. Enjolras wishes, desperately as he watches the unsteady rise and fall of Grantaire's chest, that he knew what it is that has driven him so seemingly mad in its grasp. For it surely is more than the alcohol—it has to be. This is not normal. Unorthodox, even. Anxiety beginning to rise inside of him once more, Enjolras extends his second hand to gently cradle Grantaire's jaw, fingers running along his neck and under his chin, detecting the breath and the pulse that tremble about them. It's stupid of him, childish to need such physical reassurance, but that does nothing to negate the fact that he does need it, and so he continues the small, tentative movements, following the shadows that dance over the slender-featured face.
"Come now, Grantaire," he murmurs, his own voice barely audible under the crackle and hiss of the fire heating his turned back. The soft expression touching his lips is almost a smile—not quite anything so irrefutably positive, but a look that's in all ways fond, gentle. "Whatever have you done to yourself this time?"
His words have a surprisingly intense effect—another moan issues from Grantaire's parted lips, and a second later his eyelids are fluttering and half-opening, as if he's been pulled back to the surface by the mere sound of Enjolras's voice. Tension comes with full consciousness, suddenly wracking his whole frame, and Enjolras hastily responds, placing one hand on Grantaire's tremor-struck chest and wrapping the other steadily around his wrist, holding it in place as he once more locates the thrum of the pulse, hammering into delicate skin.
"Hush," he breathes as those brilliantly dark eyes find his; "rest... rest."
As usual, Grantaire resolutely refuses to follow his mellow command, instead making what might be a futile attempt to sit up. Enjolras is alarmed enough to press against him, forcing him to remain down.
"You—brought me back..." The words are forced out between shuddering breaths, punctuated by catches in his throat that sound as if they're approaching sobs.
"Of course I did. You would not, I hope, expect me to leave you keeled on the street, naught but awaiting some worse fate to discover you there?" And he's definitely smiling now, even through the unidentifiable prickling pain that causes his vision to be scored across with sudden blurring. It is such a profound relief to see Grantaire talking that he feels rather as though he's about to fall apart, with the previous bindings of fearful distress so suddenly loosened from around his heart and lungs.
"I have taught myself to expect nothing of you whatsoever," Grantaire exhales, his eyes slipping shut again. Enjolras squeezes his hand tighter, and this time he gets a response, weak fingers twining with his own and clasping firmly. "Doing so..." A pause, and a heavy breath. "Doing so only ever leads to my own selfish shame."
The words twist and writhe inside of him like fiery snakes, and it's all he can do to lower his head until his lips are scarcely a hair's breadth from Grantaire's forehead, breath tickling the waves of dark hair that fall across it. He moves his second hand to his first, so that they're both clutching the thinner, limper one between them, holding it with as much resolve as he can manage without their grip becoming painful. His own eyes close, darkness lending to the fervency of his speech. "Never doubt," he sighs. "Please, my dearest friend, it is all I can plead that you will never doubt me to catch you when you fall. It is little I do as things are, and the thought that you would anticipate yet less—"
"Merely because you have greater causes towards which to work." Grantaire shifts, and when Enjolras's eyes open again, it's to find the other's directly across from his, the wide gaze—still spangled with the glitter of drunkenness—like a chasm into which he's near falling. "I would never consider myself near the level of your revolution."
"Let us not talk of revolution at this hour," Enjolras implores in response, and though Grantaire's brow loosens in surprise at this, he certainly says nothing to object. "Speak instead of what your own troubles may be. Something was wrong tonight—something remains so now. I pray, do not attempt to hide it from me; it is far too late for such lies as you may offer."
"I have never been capable of lying to you, Enjolras."
He doubts he will ever overcome the way that his name sounds in Grantaire's voice, how each syllable is treasured and savored as though it's some blessed privilege just to utter. The bright something pounding at his ribs swells and shivers at the whisper, and then he lowers enough to press their foreheads fully together, his lips ghosting through the air just above Grantaire's, near enough that the smallest movement would bring a touch. He feels Grantaire shudder beneath him, but this is different from the coursing chills that have been wracking him over the course of the night; this is warmer, deeper, unwilling in a separate way entirely.
"Then do not allow such sin to commence now," he murmurs, dipping his head so that his lips brush against Grantaire's ear.
"The way you speak of sin... is as much itself," Grantaire gets out, and his tone is light, almost playful, causes Enjolras to pull back and assume an expression of forced disapproval. The sudden absence of intimacy causes them both to gasp slightly, but Enjolras keeps the slight shock from dominating him, instead straightening up to regard Grantaire with an eye that he hopes to be stern.
"This is hardly the time for recreation," he huffs, pretending that he wasn't as absorbed in the sudden closeness of the moment as his partner had been. "I shan't allow your insecurity to escape me. Tell me what causes such concern—tell me," repeated and intensified as Grantaire begins to shrink away, the instantaneous lightness shifting away from his features once more, "for I intend never to repeat an incident such as this."
"Not to say that it's entirely unpleasant, surely."
"Grantaire..."
"I am sorry." He sighs again, and for several seconds there is nothing but the purr of the fireplace. When he does speak up again, his words are free entirely of humor, and the result is something quite disconcerting, absent of a tenor that Enjolras realizes he's grown dependent on the presence of. Broken, almost. "I... am very afraid."
"Afraid?"
"Often. It overwhelms me."
It couldn't have been phrased more plainly, and the simple words somehow confound Enjolras far more than all the aimless beating around the bush had. Afraid is not the word he expected. Confused, perhaps. Anxious. Aggravated. And yet afraid suggests something else entirely, something more rawer, younger. Something which, perhaps, cannot so easily be blamed on things as clear as Enjolras may have hoped. Fear is a powerful thing, and he has no idea whether he will be able to dispel it.
"What are you afraid of?" he questions stiltedly, because there's nothing else to ask and the silence is deafening. He resumes tracing Grantaire's hairline with one hand, tangling his fingers in the midnight curls and letting their softness sooth him. A light, almost fevered sweat has broken out over the prone man's forehead, and he carefully brushes it away, his motions growing easy, comforting with repetition.
"Everything. Myself. You. Loss."
Each word is equally devastating to hear in its own way, and Enjolras presses his lips together, eyebrows furrowing. He does not know how to respond to this, how to interpret it, even, so he lets the fire's filling of the silence speak for him. It isn't long before their stares, previously wandering, lock again, and now Grantaire looks merely exhausted. Not guilty or embarrassed, but instead just weary; hauntingly so. When it becomes clear that Enjolras has no words of his own to offer, Grantaire resumes, still speaking almost mechanically. It is an unsettling contrast to the liquid fluidity with which his earlier words had flowed, minutes before when they were closer, their minds emptier.
"I cannot control it. I fog my mind, drown myself, you know that as well as anyone, and yet—on occasion, there will be a night during which it is insuppressible. I look to you—I look to you, Enjolras, and I see your grave."
All at once, his voice narrows into a sharp cry of what seems to be physical pain, and Enjolras does not think before he moves forwards, reaching under Grantaire's shoulders to lift him into the most powerful embrace he can muster. One hand threads through his ebony locks, pulling him into his own shoulders, and Grantaire's arms curl around Enjolras's waist immediately, his whole frame shaking with the force of the sobs finally spilling free. Though he has seemed weakened up till now, it is now with a ferocious strength that he clings onto Enjolras, as though they're at the end of the earth together, like the final day has come already and they are the only ones left.
"I... cannot... fathom," Grantaire pants, because now that he's started talking he can't stop, "a world without you, the very thought will not allow itself full formation in my mind. You are all I see, all I desire, all I love, and damned if that curses me, for I would be ill to have it any other way. Yet it is agony, even to feel you now, for your loathsome revolution approaches ever faster, and doubtless when the judgment day arrives, you will be the first shot down—"
Enjolras's own words could not come fast enough even if he attempted to release them, and so he doesn't, instead holds Grantaire close to him as his shaking voice dies into nothing and he slackens against Enjolras's firmness, would sink to the floor if not for the steady hold keeping him in place. Turning his head, Enjolras presses his lips with utmost tenderness to Grantaire's collar, neck, jaw; running them over his skin and letting them speak the millions of things that he can't possibly voice. They are close, nothing more and nothing less, touching in every place that they can and clinging to each other in a gesture that's utterly primitive and sacred both at once, a fundamental, material need realizing itself in a way that's beautiful with its simplicity.
"Don't speak, now—don't speak," Enjolras urges. "There is no truth to your thoughts. They are nightmares, Grantaire..." His mouth brushes the other's, and the next words are breathed with their lips touching; not a kiss, merely a sweet soft caress. "Only nightmares."
And this time it's Grantaire who pulls away, if only to duck his head down, settle himself firmly against Enjolras's breast. "I haven't asked for your lies." His voice is tear-scorched yet absolute. "And I have neither the need nor the desire to receive them. I know what lies ahead. More surely, I daresay, than the rest. What is it they speak of? Tomorrow, a dawn—there is no dawn awaiting, not for us. I see that. My vision is unhindered."
Every word pounds deeper into Enjolras like a pummeling dagger, until he can barely breathe, his lungs feeling as though they're compressed under some massive weight. A sickly sensation is beginning to course through his veins, bitter in its potency. He realizes, all at once, that perhaps this is the source of the much-clichéd heartbreak, for nothing else within the bounds of his wildest twisted fantasies could feel so sweetly destructive. It is all he can do to hold Grantaire with all the energy he is capable of, to breathe in his warmth and allow it to flow through his mind, erase the images that the cynic's broken words deliver.
"Then at the very least," he sighs, "let yourself live now, free of such dread. If the day comes, then come it shall, yet there is no reason for the future to suppress your present. You claim to see clearly, yet clouds of obscurity from a dreamed-up destiny must ensure just the opposite. I am here, Grantaire. I am real. I—"
Say them. Say the words. There is little harm they can do now.
"I love you, and that is real, as well."
For a radiant instant, Grantaire stops breathing, pulling away with his fingers still tangled about Enjolras's loosened shirt, looking up just enough for their stares to meet once more. And though the tears glittering across his cheeks are more abundant than ever, Enjolras is blind to them, for they are nothing in contrast to the wide eyes gazing into his, blissful, enraptured.
And then they lean together, arms still enfolded around one another, and their lips join in something that, this time, is more than just a touch.
Surely enough, it is the most real thing that either of them has ever felt.