Enjolras was agitated. Or at least, more so than usual. His les amis must have noticed it too, because their meeting at the Café Musain was noticeably shorter than normal. Feuilly and Joly in particular were shooting him concerned glances and for a moment he wondered if his ranting was getting a bit too intense. After wrapping things up he saw Combeferre take a few steps towards him, as if wishing to discuss his mood; he shot the other man a look and shook his head; he retreated
Marius was gathering his things, ready to leave as soon as possible. There was a pathetic, eager-puppy expression on his face that curled the blonde leader's lip in disgust. He was, no doubt, eager to return to his beloved ghost. As the men filtered from the café, Enjolras hastened to the boy's side and grabbed his shoulder.
"You're coming with me," he growled, and felt a bit gratified to see the smile fade somewhat from his face. Damned fool. He pulled the young master Pontmercy to the back room behind all the tables, his attention too focused to notice that behind them slept another man, slumped beneath the table, mind fuzzy from drink.
"Enjolras, what is it?" Marius asked, fool eyes wide and terribly innocent.
"You know very well what," Enjolras felt his irritation building rapidly. He was always high-strung, but felt as if a cord had snapped in his mind somewhat—he was closer to losing it than he had ever been.
"Enjolras, I thought we'd talked about this!" Marius dropped the oblivious act when he saw he couldn't get out of it. "I'm still with you, by your side. I'm not leaving this rebellion."
"I didn't trust you from the beginning," replied the young Apollo, hate in his voice. "With a family like yours, how could I. This is a game to you. You don't hunger for the freedom and the equality as we do. You feel nothing of the pain and the poverty—"
"I left my family!" anger was beginning to surface in the eyes of the younger man. "I burned every bridge. Not a cent comes my way from their pockets."
"But the mentality never left, eh Marius? You're with us until your eye is caught by some pretty little bourgeoisie bitch…"
"Don't speak of her that way!" the boy was shouting now, too, hands clenching in the fabric of his leader's jacket, sweet brown eyes full of anger. "You know nothing of this woman…"
"Oh, 'this woman,' is it?" Enjolras snorted with derision. "Thinking with one's trousers will do that for a man. You don't even know her name."
Marius averted his gaze, cheeks burning. "I intend to… learn it," he confessed. "I can't help that I've yet to speak with…"
"You've never even spoken to her? And yet you're ready to throw our entire cause into the gutter for a chance at lifting her skirts. You are a damned idiot, Marius Pontmercy, make no mistake of that. I want you out. You are a danger to the les amis de l'abc."
This stopped the boy cold, and his eyes filled with worry. "No… Enjolras, don't say that! I'm with you, with them—I want a free France. Why can I not pursue the woman I love and fight by your side? What holds you so against it? I see Courfeyrac with a different woman every day and you speak no words against him."
"That's because Coufeyrac feels nothing for 'those women'. He doesn't know their names either, and he certainly doesn't intend to learn them. What do I care where he spends his seed so long as his head and heart is with us?"
"So if I didn't love her, you would be happy," Marius surmises, nostrils flaring and eyes burning, "If my intentions were not pure, it would satisfy you."
"You don't love her!" That final straw had been laid on the camel's back; Enjolras broke then, and struck the boy, hard, across the cheek. "You are delusional! You're just young, Marius, and want…" while the boy was still reeling from the slap, Enjolras dropped to his knees and reached for the boy's trousers, unsnapping the buttons before he had recovered.
"Wh—what are you doing?" Marius stuttered as the older man reached into his breeches, seeking. Enjolras made no reply but to grasp him with a strong fist, to draw him out. He brought his lips to the boy's flaccid manhood.
"S—stop!" Marius protested, eyes wide. He attempted to draw back but Enjolras seized him at the belt, holding him in place, and encased the boy's tip in his mouth. Marius' eyes, wide to the bursting point, seemed to grow even more in side.
"Ah," he said, a shocked, breathy little gasp. The sound went up in pitch as Enjolras gave a sharp suck and brought his tongue into play. Young and virile as ever, the cock in his mouth gave an interested twitch.
Because the boy still struggled, albeit feebly, Enjolras removed his mouth and pushed the boy by the hips firmly against the wall before returning his attention to the task before him. With the ease of an expert he licked a long stripe up the underside vein and then encased the not inconsiderable length in its entirety, the blunt tip bumping the back of his throat, which he widened to accommodate, burying his nose in the hair curled at the base. Marius' inexperienced legs trembled.
With the hand not pinning Marius into place, Enjolras fondled the boy's full testicles, rubbing his thumb in small circles at the skin, urging. He drew back and gave a little grunt of satisfaction as the boy's hips thrusted, choking him.
"I'm sorry…" Marius gasped as Enjolras gagged. The blonde man merely shook his head and resumed. It wouldn't last long—the brunette was tensing already. A small moue was the only warning he received before bitter seed flooded Enjolras' mouth, which he immediately spat to the side, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He stood, adjusted his clothing, as the boy slumped to the ground.
"That's all there is to it," he told Marius, his voice hoarse. "Just a minute or two, if the person is good enough and the other is a frustrated child. That is all Courferyac wants from his women, and it will have to satisfy you."
"I can't believe… you would go so far," Marius panted, eyes filled with conflicting emotion. Shame, anger, satiation.
Enjolras reached for a wine glass, sticky with residue, and brought it to his lips, swilling out the foul taste on his tongue. "I would die for France and you think this is too far? Either you're with us or you're not, Marius. I'll do anything for this cause… even you. Tell me now—are you with us to the death? Or will you be running after powdered skin and fine bonnets once again? Because you can have her, or you can have France."
The boy fixed his eyes up on the other man, and Enjolras was relieved to see determination, sincerity in there as well. "I'm with you. I was always with you. My heart won't stop me from this war."
Enjolras nearly sagged in relief. Hormones; that's all it was. He could deal with a young man's hormones, as often as it would take, if it would keep the boy's mind on the task at hand. He offered Marius a curt nod and then left him to collect himself.
The café's bathroom was echoy with dripping water as Enjolras splashed his face at the basin, pouring more cool water in with the decorative pitcher. He felt a bit dirty, sticky; more than a bit unhappy with the night's proceedings. It's for France, he reminded himself sternly. It means nothing.
He didn't hear the door slip open until an arm was already around his waist, a chin resting on his shoulder.
"That was a bit aggressive if I may say so, my Apollo," Grantaire breathed on him, foul wine-breath brushing his cheek. "I didn't know our resident sun god could be brought so low. Kneeling at the foot of a rich boy like a whore…"
Enjolras shoved the taller man aside. "Don't speak of things you don't understand," he snapped. "For France I am brought to my knees; I never suggested otherwise. The boy means no more than the musket he can hold and the plans he can conceive."
"So Apollo can be bought at the price of France," Grantaire mused, looking plantative. "You will become the resident whore for all of les amis, then? Keep our minds on the task at hand and away from women who may lure us away?"
"It's not like that!" Enjolras snapped at the drunk, appalled at how high his voice rises at that. "You can have all the women you like. But Marius, he was speaking of love. Love is what I forbid. You have to love this cause, you have to love France…"
"We have to love you?" Graintaire replied, dark eyes piercing through his Apollo's armor. "You're afraid we'll leave you and your ideas. You're afraid we'll marry and have fat babies and forget all about the childhood fantasy of war and redemption until all it remains is a fond memory of youthful eccentricity."
Enjolras was stopped flat, eyes wide, heart thudding, as he stared at the other man. "You're nothing but a drunken fool," he said, shaken to the core.
"Some of us do love you," Grantaire confessed. "Not here for France. For you, and we will die by your side because it is yours, not for freedom. I don't give two figs for freedom, Apollo. I will die at your command if only to see a sparkle of pride and feeling in those eyes." He brushed a surprisingly gentle finger across the blonde's cheek, brushing underneath his eye. He leaned forward and whispered, "You still have the boy's spunk on your face, Apollo."
Enjolras jerked back, enraged. "Keep your hands to yourself, drunkard. You are no benefit to—mmf!"
His lips were overtaken by those of Grantaire, who tipped his head back, dipping his tongue into the other's mouth. Enjolras' knees shook. Not entirely unaffected by the moments before this, he felt himself stirring in his own trousers, and he pulled back with fire in his eyes. "Don't you dare," he snarled, pushing the other man back.
"But why ever not, Apollo?" Grantaire asked innocently. "I thought you'd do anything to keep us in focus. Do any one."
"It's different when it's you," Enjolras said, turning away to hide the hurt in his face. "You speak of your love to me, but you too only wish to use me, don't you. I don't care. Love is an illusion."
"It's not," Grantaire said softly. "That's the one truth I know. Enjolras, I love y—"
"Leave this place! Enjolras shouted, pushing Grantaire from the toilet. "We fight for France and that's all I want from any of you. Go, and leave me be."
With a tip of his hat, Grantaire exited the café, leaving behind the parting words, "Anything for you, my Apollo."
Enjolras refused to cry.
Authors note: I'm so, so sorry I wrote this. I tried not to. But the plot bunny wouldn't leave me alone and every time I obsessively watched the 2012 musical the bunny was there, kicking at my brain. Forgive me for the shameless smexy timez. This is it; I promise. No, I know Les Mis is more than just 'shipping'. I know it's based on a really bad time in France and that some of these things actually happened and…
I am ashamed, but I wrote it anyway.