Author's Note: This was written for a friend, c-chan, for their birthday and is set in my "Belonging and Believing" universe. I hope other people enjoy it as well!
A Time to Dream
Grantaire wakes late.
He shouldn't have. He really should have gotten up when the rest of the pack did—or at least when Courfeyrac did—but he'd been up half the night chasing Bahorel around. Or, more accurately, being chased by Bahorel and attempting to hide from him behind pretty much every other member of the pack. It had been a good-natured game, and it seemed to help Bahorel to relax to the point where he actually slept through the night instead of pacing throughout the house, but it left Grantaire sore and tired. When combined with the restless, inhuman energy of both the impending full moon and the first hints of fall in the air, it makes today a good day to skip class.
Stretching, shaking his fur into place, Grantaire trots from his place in front of the empty hearth to the kitchen.
He apparently isn't the only one who thought today would be a good day to skip class. Jehan is in the kitchen, a collection of mixing bowls and half the contents of their pantry spread before him, frowning between a jar of flour and a pitcher of milk.
Placing his paws up on the table, Grantaire looks between Jehan and the ingredients spread out on the table. Taking a deep breath, he inhales the scent of fresh meat and his mouth begins to water.
Deer.
Fresh venison.
Craning his neck closer to the meat, Grantaire sniffs at it daintily before opening his mouth to take just a small—
Jehan's finger smacks across the tip of his nose, though the poet doesn't sound too upset. "No. Not yet."
Grantaire huffs and drops down onto all fours, stretching into his human form before standing again to look over Jehan's shoulder. "What's all this for?"
"I'm making a cake." Jehan's voice makes it seem perfectly reasonable and obvious.
Grantaire blinks, staring at the meat sitting beside the more normal ingredients one would think of for a cake. "With venison."
"Yes." Jehan finally sighs, taking a scoop of flour and dumping it in a bowl that already has eggs and sugar in it.
"You're making a venison cake." If he repeats it often enough perhaps he won't have to ask Jehan if he's gone mad.
"It's for Bahorel's birthday." Jehan sighs, adding another scoop of flour to the mixture before attacking it with a spoon, mixing with furious abandon but clearly not much experience. "I want to make him something special."
"Bahorel's…" Grantaire frowns. That doesn't make any sense. Perhaps there really is something wrong with Jehan. "You do know that it's fall."
"Yes." Jehan adds a splash of milk to the bowl, mixes it again, and then licks a bit of the sticky concoction off his finger.
"Wolves aren't born in the fall." Grantaire tilts his head down, trying to make himself submissive even as he towers over the small poet, trying not to give offense. "We're all born in the spring, Jehan."
"He wasn't." Jehan doesn't seem perturbed, simply smiling as he continues to add ingredients with what seems to Grantaire little rhyme or reason, tasting between each addition.
"But… mating season's in the fall. We're all born in the spring. To be born in the fall, his parents would've had to… I mean… it just doesn't happen." Grantaire thinks back on the strange delta, on the way his scent is different from the scents of any other wolves Grantaire has known, on the sharp green eyes and the way the wind sometimes seems to flow around him like a living thing. "Unless… this is part of his not being entirely a wolf? What is he, Jehan?"
"That's for him to tell you, if he wants to." Jehan smiles, dumping the venison into the bowl with a bloody plop, and Grantaire's fingers itch to reach out and grab a piece before it all sinks into the floury mess. "But he was born in the fall, on the full moon, and he gets even more worked up this time of year than the rest of us, so I'm going to make him something special."
"You're going to ruin perfectly good meat by attempting to put it in a human cake." Grantaire sighs as Jehan mixes the meat into the batter thoroughly.
"Perhaps." Jehan's grin is wide and infectious as he turns to Grantaire, two small pieces of venison in the palm of his left hand. He tosses one to Grantaire before biting into the other with eager abandon. "You never know if something will or won't work until you try it, though."
Chewing the delicacy, savoring the bloody taste of running-honed muscle, Grantaire finds himself smiling along with his packmate, caught up in Jehan's enjoyment and eagerness. Perhaps it will be fun to experiment.
Even if it ruins perfectly good food that all his years as a stray tell him should be devoured right now.
XXX
Bahorel gets into a fight before the sun goes down.
Usually it takes him until night and a few rounds of drinking to work up the proper atmosphere to start a true brawl, but tonight's the full moon. He's going to need to be with the pack once the sun goes down. Even aside from that, the energy of fall is starting to build while the energy of summer's starting to wane, creating a twisting, turning, infuriating mess of contradictory signals in his body.
Time to mate.
Time to prepare for sleep.
Time to change, because the moon's riding high and full overhead.
And time to shove Bonheur's teeth down his throat because the human's a self-satisfied idiot who cares for no one and nothing besides himself.
If pressed Bahorel would probably have to admit that he was looking for a fight, coming into a café where a group of Ultras was clearly enjoying themselves, but that would involve someone asking him anything. Thankfully Bonheur and his friends seem more intent on teaching him a lesson with fists rather than with words, and that suits Bahorel just fine. With five of them against one of him, it makes the odds almost in the human's favor.
It takes about sixty seconds for his attackers to get their coordination, for everyone to stand and decide that they're actually going to help Bonheur, and that's sixty seconds in which Bahorel makes sure every move he makes count. Bonheur has a bloody nose, the second man into the fight is shaking out his fist and cursing in agony after punching the wall behind where Bahorel had been standing, and the third is keening on the ground cradling a kicked knee before the other two even join the fight.
After that things are a bit sketchier, and Bahorel finds himself retreating, taking a blow on the chin which is followed up by a right-cross that splits his lip and leaves him spitting blood onto the floor as he scrabbles away and attempts to keep track of all his opponents.
It would be easy if he Changed. If he gave into the infuriating, demanding itch in his blood and drew his wolf about him, he'd be faster, stronger, able to break any of their limbs between his jaws before they even knew what was happening.
That isn't what he wants right now, though. He wants to do this in his human body. He wants to do this half-sportingly, to drive this body as hard as it will go, to eke every last sensation from it, be it the twinge of muscles pushed to their limits or the ache in his hand bones following a solid connection between someone else's head and his fists or the way his blood tastes in this form, sharper, richer, metal and salt and just a faint overlay of sweetness, a myriad of tastes that his wolf form doesn't always notice.
He's grinning even as the tide turns against him, and that only seems to infuriate the humans more. One of them manages to get behind him, sweeping his legs out from under him, and though Bahorel recovers quickly he's still not going to be fast enough to block the blow that a furious Bonheur sends at his face.
The blow never connects. Jehan's body slams into Bonheur, sending both of them crashing to the ground. Jehan recovers first, scrambling over to Bahorel's side, his teeth also bared in a fierce grin.
"Mind if we join you?" Bossuet drawls the words, arms crossed over his chest just inside the door. Joly stands next to him, leaning on his cane, frowning at the humans.
"The more the merrier." Bahorel meets Bonheur's eyes as the human hesitates. "Unless you're afraid that it won't be a fair fight anymore. I suppose you could just surrender, showing the same cowardice and lack of conviction in your fighting that you show in your politics—"
There isn't any further goading needed, and the brawl escalates again.
It doesn't last very long, unfortunately. With four of the pack there, it's easy to make short work of the humans. Even though Joly only participates once, using his cane to trip up a human who was intent on assaulting Bossuet from behind, it's still nowhere near a fair fight. As packmates they sense each other, instinctively, protecting each other's backs, and before five minutes have passed Bonheur is unconscious, two of his friends have fled, the fourth is ghost-white where he lies sprawled on the floor with Joly kneeling very carefully on his spine while whispering in his ear, and the fifth decides that intelligence is the better part of valor and raises his hands in surrender.
Bahorel sighs, nods to the man who surrendered, and walks out of the café, knowing that the others will follow him.
They do, Jehan skipping along at his side, Joly and Bossuet behind, Joly frowning as he pokes gently at a bruise starting to bloom on Bossuet's cheek.
"I didn't need the help." Bahorel turns so that he can see his packmates, trusting Jehan not to let him walk into anyone or anything. "But thank you anyway."
Bossuet grins. "It's been a while since we hunted as a pack. It was fun. Good exercise."
"Dangerous exercise." Joly's hand falls to his side, and a smile twitches at his lips despite his words. "But exciting, yes. Why do I suspect this is going to be a common occurrence over the next two months?"
"Because it was last year. You're intelligent enough to notice patterns. It's not my fault that Enjolras leaves us no other options to relieve ourselves of excess energy at this time of year." Bahorel sighs, dodging to the right at a tug on his sleeve, not bothering to look at what he's evading. "And I do protest that Bonheur had it coming. He and his crew have worked over a few of the younger Republicans in the last few weeks, especially those showing any interest in participating in demonstrations or riots. I was preemptively protecting our allies."
"While thoroughly enjoying the fight. Child of the changing, green eyes bright as justice's fire, red blood flowing free…" Jehan's voice is soft, his beatific smile at odds with the blood staining the right side of his face. Despite Bahorel's attempts to teach him proper human fighting, Jehan has a tendency to bite no matter what his form, a tendency Bahorel finds rather endearing. "It's about what we expected when we came to find you, honestly. I'm sure no one will be surprised at home, either."
Frowning, Bahorel looks at the sun, low but not yet set. There's still an hour or two until moonrise. Did Enjolras think he would forget to come home? The thought stings a bit, and the irrational, restless, purposeless energy begins to build in him again.
"We know it's early to come in." Jehan's hand tugs on his sleeve again. "But there's something we want to give you."
Another grin breaks across Bahorel's face, causing his split lip to begin bleeding again. "A surprise?"
Bossuet and Joly share a knowing smile. "We'll see if you're still that happy after you've received it."
XXX
Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac emerge from working on their newest pamphlet into general chaos.
Feuilly, Monet and Musichetta are sprawled on the stairs, Feuilly hanging over the rail while the two female wolves rest next to each other on the landing. The rest of the pack is a writhing, laughing, yipping mass of limbs and half-donned clothing that finally sorts itself out into Grantaire, Joly, Bossuet, Jehan, and a Bahorel who couldn't grin wider if he tried. Bahorel is the last one to stand, rising from the floor and brushing himself off with exaggerated dignity.
"Enjolras." Bahorel inclines his head just slightly, a sign of respect. "Sorry about that."
Combeferre sighs, shaking his head as he studies the pack, his lips twitching with a suppressed smile. "Could you explain what happened?"
"Jehan made me a cake!" Bahorel's expression softens slightly as he turns to his mate. Then he purses his lips in an exaggerated frown. "And then he refused to let me eat it."
"I told you that you couldn't take a bite until the rest of the pack got there!" Jehan fingers his shirt where a button has been torn free. "You refused to wait."
"You tackled me."
"You got Grantaire involved."
"He got Bossuet involved." Bahorel claps a nervous-looking Grantaire on the shoulder. "Which was not what I expected, so good job there."
"Jehan." Enjolras draws the poet's attention back to him. "This is the cake you were talking about yesterday? The one—"
"For my birthday." Bahorel looks smug. "That's the good thing about being weird, means I get special treatment."
"Well." Enjolras looks from the window to Combeferre and Courfeyrac. "It's getting on toward moonrise. I doubt we'll get much more useful done tonight, anyway. Shall we have a celebration?"
The answer from the pack is a clamor of excitement and eager energy flowing along all the pack-bonds, and Enjolras hears though he doesn't need their verbal assents, allowing himself to be drawn along into the dining room where a frosted cake is carefully set in the center of the table.
Bahorel cuts the cake quickly and efficiently, passing a piece of the odd-smelling creation to each member of the pack. They wait for Bahorel to serve himself before everyone takes an experimental bite.
Enjolras finds himself chewing the bite for longer than he'd like, a mixture of sugar-sweet and meat-tangy tastes flooding his mouth, and he tries to force himself to swallow while keeping his thoughts from his face.
"Jehan." Bahorel swallows and then scrubs at his face. "This is really, really terrible."
Jehan takes a tentative second bite of his cake and then nods slowly. "Yes. It is. At least, it tastes terrible when we're in this form."
Bahorel puts his arm around the poet, pulling the female wolf to him and nuzzling against his ear. "And I absolutely love it."
Enjolras surreptitiously pushes the cake away from him. "Perhaps we should bring the gifts out."
Bahorel and Jehan freeze, Bahorel's face twisted with an emotion that Enjolras can't quite read over the pack bonds. Or rather too many emotions, surprise and joy and a strange little spike of fury, and Enjolras frowns as he tries to sort out what it means.
"Presents?" Bahorel looks around at the pack, watches Courfeyrac as the gamma skitters out to his room, eagerness written in every step. "For me? Why?"
"Because this is an important time for you." Enjolras shrugs. "If Jehan was going to celebrate and have a cake, it seemed appropriate that we take other cues from the humans and have gifts, as well."
Grantaire stares between Bahorel and Enjolras, his head tucked low. "You don't want gifts?"
"It's not that. I like getting something, same as the next person. But we never celebrate anyone else's birthday. A cake is one thing, but no one else gets gifts." Bahorel frowns.
"Bahorel. You give us gifts all the time, whenever you feel like it." Jehan tilts his head up, his left hand rising to flick the end of Bahorel's nose. "This is a reason to celebrate. We're enjoying it. Let us."
For a moment Enjolras thinks Bahorel's going to argue, and he supposes, now, that he could understand why. He hadn't considered that celebrating like this would strike Bahorel as being a separation between him and the rest of the pack, a distinction, and it wasn't what he intended.
Any awkwardness disappears as Courfeyrac returns with the packages in hand, and Bahorel seems to take great joy in tearing the paper apart to reveal the gifts that Courfeyrac, Joly, and Bossuet had decided on. The pack's attention is so focused on Bahorel, on his good cheer and bright grin, that moonrise almost sneaks up on them.
Almost, but not quite, and Enjolras draws a deep breath as the silvery, tingling energy of the Change begins to build in his limbs. They've a few minutes still, enough time to do what's needed, to give the proper commands and divest themselves of their clothes.
Standing, drawing the rest of their attention to him, Enjolras quietly gives the order he must give every night. "No howling. Otherwise, do as you will."
Bahorel growls, low in his throat, rolling his head on his neck as the command runs through the pack-bonds on a flood of Enjolras' power. "I wish you didn't always have to do that."
It's a common complaint. It's one he's usually able to ignore, understanding the reasoning behind it, but Enjolras finds himself tensing as he studies his pack, the acceptance of why he must make the command coupled with a general wish that it not be so flooding his mind.
"One day." Enjolras reaches across the table, his hand resting lightly on Bahorel's shoulder. "We will be free to howl all we wish when our battle is won. We will be free to hunt, to bring down prey such as Jehan brought to the table today under our own power. We will be free to be ourselves, fully, completely, but it is not safe now."
"I know." A wry smile flows across Bahorel's face, and he rubs his chin briefly against Enjolras' hand. "It's why I'm following you, because you believe in that one day and you don't give orders you don't have to. But now… now is not a time when I like being ordered about."
Enjolras finds himself smiling as he straightens. "You never like being ordered about, my friend."
"True." Bahorel stands and stretches, his fingers starting to work on the buttons on his clothes as moonrise edges closer and closer. "But sometimes it's more annoying than others."
"Can we dream tonight?" Jehan raises his eyes to meet Enjolras' for a moment before they drop away, a flush creeping across the submissive wolf's face. "I mean, could you pull us all together in the dream? Like when we accepted Grantaire as pack. There's energy around, after all."
Enjolras looks around at the rest of the pack, at their eager faces as they begin to strip off their human clothes in preparation of the coming change. "I will try. For anyone who wants it, I will try."
They're the last coherent words he can say as the silver energy becomes overwhelming, and he barely manages to fling aside his clothes before the Change sweeps over him, claiming the rest of the pack seconds later.
The feel of fur and four feet is wonderful, right, the way things should be on this day, and Enjolras finds himself turning to Combeferre and bowing before he thinks to question his instincts. Combeferre returns the bow before feinting at him, a dash forward intended to end in a shoulder-check, a move he's used since they first fought each other as pups. The move never connects, Courfeyrac plowing into Combeferre's side with a yip and a furiously wagging tail, and Enjolras opens his mouth in a smile before finding himself bowled over by a sleek black wolf.
His delta is completely unapologetic, tongue hanging out in laughter as he watches his alpha pick himself up. It's very much like Bahorel, and Enjolras makes sure to twitch his tail to show his amusement before launching himself at his delta, ensuring the pack knows this is still a game rather than anything serious. Bahorel runs from him, a mad dash under chairs and over other pack members, and before long the entire pack is engaged in the game.
They run. They play. They lose themselves in their furred forms, giving themselves over entirely to instincts that they have to quell and suppress when among the humans—or almost entirely, Enjolras' command still in place, keeping them from revealing themselves.
When finally they bed down for the night, still in their fur, they dream of running, of howling, of hunting, and even if it is only a dream for now it's a good dream.
Before they dream, though, they devour the cake that Jehan made, the taste strange but not unpleasant on their wolf tongues.