A/N: Well, mes amis. It's been a long time. I'm not proud of it, but life has a funny way of getting in the way of things. I feel like I'm in control of everything right now, so binge-writing will commence. My writer's block has finally been cured by a trip to London to see the show live for the first time last week, and I decided to choose 14th July to make my return - it seemed appropriate.
On that note, happy Bastille Day! I admit, this pairing did not come courtesy of an RNG - the next one did, I promise - but I wanted to return on a strong note, and E/R is a relatively strong pairing for me, so enjoy! I hope I'll be posting more often.
Courfeyrac leant back in his chair, considering and pouring himself a glass of wine. This was not something he was prepared for, not in a million years. But he was pretty sure Enjolras didn't know how to lie, and he spoke with that calm, matter of fact tone. This was not a lie, or a joke, or some passing madness. This was something he'd sat down and considered.
"You came to me?"
"I did not come to you. This is not some problem I need resolving, I don't require advice. I just want you to stop pushing me towards an endless string of grisettes and whores."
"I'm not the only one..."
"No, but you are the one I trust most in this matter. This is not an aspect of my character that I want to become public knowledge." That was fair enough. Enjolras was not well-liked. He seemed to be made of marble. He was a boy of eighteen years who wouldn't drink or gamble or smoke with them, who seemed unwilling to share his emotions, or to join his friends in their womanising. Well, now Courfeyrac understood why, but he would not be greeted with open arms if word got out. Combeferre saw potential in him, but he was a long way from the avenging angel 'Ferre wanted. To the majority, he just seemed stuck up.
"Why Grantaire?" Enjolras shrugged. Grantaire was Enjolras's polar opposite, but maybe that was the appeal. He was no great beauty, but if Enjolras had no real concept of beauty. Otherwise, Courfeyrac was sure, he'd spend hours in front of a mirror. Maybe it was the art, or his stubborness, or the fire in his belly. It was inconsequential. The point was that the drunken cynic had captured Enjolras's attention in some way or another. "But... you hate him."
"I don't hate anyone. He irritates me, and I don't like certain aspects of his character, but I do not hate him. And besides, it is easier than falling prey to temptations and distractions. It's easier to keep my distance."
"I'm sure your precious Patria will forgive you falling in love."
"This is not love!" he insisted.
"No? Then what is it?" It was not physical attraction. Courfeyrac was sure Enjolras didn't feel physical attraction, and certainly not towards Grantaire. If freeing him from his mental torment was as easy as getting Enjolras into Grantaire's bed for a night, he'd be right as rain by morning.
"I don't know. Love is Jehan simpering over whichever girl has caught his attention this week. That's not this."
"Then what? What is it you want of Grantaire?"
"Just... for him to be there. To know he's nearby. Oh, I don't know. This is not something I normally feel."
This was love, Courfeyrac decided. It was love in a very Enjolraic, logical way, but love nonetheless. But he would not give in to his desires, not while there was work to be done. Grantaire, of all people...
Well, in a way, it made sense. On one side, Enjolras had hate. Certain members of their group had no affection for their Apollo, wanted to drag him down to mortality. On the other he had love, his close friends often overbearing on a boy who had time for and no understanding of the intricacies of emotion. To Enjolras's oblivious eyes, at least, Grantaire simply didn't care, praising and condemning in the same breath.
That would be a hell of a blow, then, when he discovered the truth. Grantaire was smitten, and Enjolras was blind enough to believe it was just some shred of faith in the cause, in Enjolras's devotion to the cause. Grantaire believed in Enjolras, yes, but not for his ability to change the world.
"Valentin, he's in love with you, and I believe it to be much the same as your love for him." Granted, there was not a complete lack of physical attraction on that side, but lust was not the driving force in Grantaire's infatuation, and he'd never lay a hand on the boy, content to just look.
"I am not in love!" His raised voice caught some attention. Combeferre frowned but Courfeyrac waved his hand in some vague gesture, mouthing 'I'll tell you later' at him.
"Alright, maybe love is not the right word." It was, but Courfeyrac didn't want to argue on a technicality. "The point is, Grantaire feels the same way about you. He hides it behind cynicism, and you hide behind duty, but you are the reason he stays. Granted, he doesn't help much, but he tries. He wouldn't lift a finger to help the republic if you didn't ask. You could be happy and aid the cause in one move."
"No. I can't take the risk of distractions. I've seen what it does to the rest of you. Even Combeferre on occasion. I won't fall prey to that."
"One day, then? When the fight is won, when Patria is free. Then will you consent to let yourself be happy?"
"Why does it matter to you?"
"Because you're my friend. I want you to be happy, and you deserve to be."
"Fine. If this - whatever it is - proves to be more lasting than your transient infatuations, then I will give in when France is free. But France comes first."
"I know, I know."
"Thank you for your help... I think. It's getting late, I'm going to head home. Goodnight, Gabriel. Please, don't repeat any of what I told you."
"I promise. 'Night, petit." He rolled his eyes - well, that was what he got for looking about fourteen - and left. Courfeyrac would keep his promise, to an extent. He'd gloss over everything with Combeferre, but he couldn't entirely resist interfering. He sat himself opposite Grantaire.
"So what's going on? Has some heavenly grisette caught Apollo's eye? It was only a matter of time, I suppose. Even gods have needs."
"Nothing of the sort, mon ami. Now listen to me, and listen closely. Do not give up on him."
"There's nothing to give on. I admire him from afar. He continues to be his Apollonian self. You and I both know that he will fight for this until he wins or dies, and the latter is more likely."
"Well, that amount of faith is not going to win him round. You have to fight for what you believe in just as much as we do."
"I believe in nothing."
"You believe in him."
"Courf, what's the point of this? We both know he hates me, and feigning interest in his little revolution won't help my case."
"He's dear to me, and I want his happiness. Call me crazy, but I think you can give it to him. Besides, it will make you happy too. Please, just say you'll try. I'm not asking you to lead the revolution, just make an effort. For me. For him."
"Fine. For Apollo, I'll try." He took another swig from his ever-present wine bottle. "But expect no miracles. I won't give up on him, but he has already given up on me."
Courfeyrac thanked him, and left him to his wine. They were perfectly matched, he decided. Both stubborn and devoted and refusing to give up on a man who they felt had already given up on them. Maybe, just maybe, this could all work out.