His mind is reeling, and with good reasons. He doesn't do things like this, doesn't get tangled up with dangerous girls and have liaisons in hotels and actually feel things. Some of his friends joke that his second superpower is being unable to feel anything other than frustration and moral calling, but right now Enjolras feels something entirely different. Foreign, undesirable - and yet not an entirely bad one. Just not one he knows what to do with.
He considers going somewhere to clear his head, but purging via risk doesn't work so well when you're untouchable. Been there, fallen off a rooftop or two, got a few scars but never any peace. Not such a good idea. No, maybe something a little more predictable will suffice. Maybe going home… no, that's another bad idea. Though sharing space with a close friend has been a good arrangement thus far, Combeferre's even smarter than he looks (if such a thing is even possible) and will no doubt figure everything out in seven seconds flat. At this point, the last thing Enjolras wants is to justify his behavior. If anything, he wants to forget… and that is an idea worth pursuing.
Half an hour later, he slips through the back entrance of a particular nightclub, well aware that the person he needs will be inside. Grantaire is the easiest person in the world to track down, even for someone who has little knowledge of the man's habits, and for an old friend… well, there aren't that many clubs that fit the bill. This one is adequate: minimal lighting, attractive waitstaff, and an ample bar. In the center of it all, a man in his mid twenties, all but oblivious to the world until he spots an acquaintance he hasn't seen in a while. "Do I dare ask?" he says in greeting. "You look like hell - and I'm pretty sure that's the first time I've said that about you."
Enjolras rolls his eyes, almost tempted to hit his friend. "I feel like hell," he admits.
"Oh please tell me you didn't fall for the daughter of a mob boss or something. The last thing I need is for Romeo and Juliet two point oh to happen."
"Worse."
Grantaire's eyes widen. "Worse than a mafia princess? I know your taste in women is abysmal, but is that even possible?"
"The Viperess." It's the first time he's spoken her name - or, more accurately, the name the journalists gave her. He doesn't know her real one, nor does he care to. At this point, he wishes he knew nothing about the woman in question.
"Yeah, you could've done worse."
"Twice."
"And she didn't try to kill you?"
"She can't. Unbreakable, remember?"
"Right. Well… far as I see it, you're the only guy in this city who she can fuck without worrying she'll accidentally kill. You need to enjoy this, mate."
"Enjoy the fact that I'm sleeping with my nemesis?"
"She's only your nemesis because that whackjob flower boy has an overactive imagination. And besides, she's hot."
Enjolras rolls his eyes. "You think anything with a pulse is hot, R."
"So I do. But that one… man, there are people who'd kill to be you."
"It's not…"
"It is. Enjoy it. And for fuck's sake, get over yourself!"