Grantaire takes one look at the broom Enjolras is holding and bursts out laughing.

'What the hell is that?'

'What?' Enjolras shifts his feet in the mud. He looks cold and uncomfortable. 'It was my grandfather's. At least, I think it was.'

'Give it here.' Grantaire takes the broom and turns it over in his hands. The word Cleansweep is faded, but still legible.There's no trace of a number, though.

'What model is this?'

'It's a Cleansweep', says Enjolras. Grantaire rolls his eyes.

'I got that part. What did the number say? I can't read it.'

Enjolras hesistates. 'It's never had one. Not that I can remember.'

Grantaire stares at him for a long moment. 'Say what now?'

'It's…never had one?' Enjolras looks distinctly alarmed, probably because Grantaire looks suddenly as though he might pass out.

'Are you telling me that this is a Cleansweep One?', Grantaire rasps. He runs a shaky, reverent hand down its length. 'Oh my god, it is. Enjolras, this is a Cleansweep One.'

'It's a bit old', says Enjolras. 'I don't know how well it works. I found it in the attic a few years ago but I've never really tried it out.'

Grantaire's mouth opens and closes soundlessly for a few moments. 'Right. Flying. I was going to teach you. Just- be gentle with her, all right?' He holds out the broom, but when Enjolras tries to take it his grip tightens involuntarily.

'Grantaire?'

'Right, yes. Sorry.' He lets go, slowly and reluctantly. Enjolras moves to put the broom on the ground but Grantaire squawks in horror and he freezes.

'What are you doing?' His voice comes out in a strangled hiss.

'Are you not going to make me do the 'Up' business? You know', he waves a hand vaguely above the ground, ''Up!''

'If you put her down in the mud, I will cry', says Grantaire hoarsely. 'Do you want that, Enjolras? Do you want me to cry?'

'Alright, I won't put her down', says Enjolras. The corner of his mouth twitches. 'So I guess I should, uh-' He swings a leg awkwardly over the broom. His foot catches on the twigs and there is a faint snap. Grantaire winces. Enjolras stands in the mud, both hands clenched on the handle immediately in front of his crotch. He looks so pathetic Grantaire can't help but laugh.

'What?'

'Nothing. Just- okay, space your hands out a bit more.' Enjolras shifts his left hand approximately half a centimeter up the shaft of the broom. 'Okay, a lot more. You know what-' He reaches out to move Enjolras's hand. Enjolras jumps at the touch, but moves his grasp higher up. For some reason, he isn't making eye contact. Grantaire swallows. 'Better.' He mounts his own broom. 'Ready?'

Enjolras clenches his jaw. 'Yes.'

'Count of three? Just kick off and hover. We don't have to go higher right away.'

Enjolras nods. His grip tightens on his broom.

'Right. Three- two- one-' Grantaire kicks off the ground and hovers, feet a few inches away from the mud. After a moment, Enjolras does the same. His knuckles are white on the broom handle, and his broom rises and falls slightly with his breathing. Grantaire turns and flies towards the far goalposts, rising higher. 'Just lean forward. She'll know what you want.' Enjolras's trajectory is wobbly and slow, but he manages a weak smile when he's hovering beside Grantaire, about ten feet off the ground.

'How do you feel?'

Enjolras's skin is pale in the fading sunlight. Strands of his hair are lit up all around his face. Grantaire feels suddenly dizzy.

'I don't think I'm exactly going to make the Holyhead Harpies anytime soon.'

Grantaire snorts. 'Yeah, but not because you can't fly.' Enjolras gives him a blank look. 'It's an all-women's team, genius.'

'Oh.'

'How about a lap of the pitch?'

He makes sure not to go too fast, but it still feels as good as ever- the swoop as he takes each corner, the rush of air in his face. Enjolras is just behind him. Grantaire glances over his shoulder at him every few seconds, and he almost looks as if he's enjoying himself. Then they turn as they pass the goalposts and he hears him gasp. He wheels around, coming to a halt. Enjolras has slid too far down his broom, practically sitting on the bristles. His eyes are closed and he's breathing much too fast, which is doing nothing for his balance. His hands are shaking visibly.

''Aire? Shit, 'Aire, help me. Please. Please help me.'

He's hovering by Enjolras in seconds. 'You're going to be okay, Apollo. I promise.'

'I'm slipping.' His voice wobbles. He sounds suddenly very young.

'No, you're not.' He wants to reach out and grab Enjolras, but he knows that touching him could upset his balance still more. 'I need you to listen to me carefully, okay? Just breathe. That's all I need you to do, just breathe. Slowly as you can.' The rise and fall of Enjolras's chest slows. His robes, fluttering around him, seem to slow, too.

'That's good. Now, very slowly, I want you to lean forward.'

The next few moments stretch into eternity. But then Enjolras is horizontal again, his legs clamped around the broom. Slowly, waveringly, he descends, until his feet touch the ground. Grantaire lands behind him. Enjolras breathes out hard, and Grantaire is frozen, not knowing if he should touch him or stay back. Then Enjolras grabs him by his robes and he wraps his arms around him just as Enjolras's legs buckle.

'You're okay', he says into Enjolras's shoulder. And, before he can stop himself, 'I'm sorry.'

Enjolras pulls away. He's breathing hard. And then he kisses him.

Grantaire's whole body pounds with the beat of his heart. His broom and Enjolras's lie forgotten in the mud. Enjolras's kiss is hard and fierce and their teeth clash. He can feel Enjolras's heart racing through his robes; their chests are pressed together and Enjolras's hands are in his hair and his breath is on Grantaire's neck. They stumble backwards against the wall of the pitch, his back thudding into rough wood.

'Fuck', Enjolras says into his neck. He looks up at Grantaire, his pupils blown. 'Grantaire- you, uh-'

'If the next words you say are 'saved my life', Grantaire hisses, 'I swear to God I will hit you.'

Enjolras's breathing is harsh. 'I can't - 'Aire, I haven't- I can't believe I did that.'

'We can call it the adrenaline', says Grantaire quietly. 'If you want. Pretend it never-'

Enjolras kisses him. 'Don't you dare', he hisses against his lips. 'Don't you fucking dare.'