WARNING! There are artsy/vague implications of heavy molestation, definitely further dubious consent, drug use, and moderate violence.
"What?" Grantaire found himself swept off his feet, "Stop!"
He landed with a breathless oof onto his back, Gueulemer and Claquesous dropping down on either side of him and laying their heavy knees on his forearms. He instinctively yanked at his arms to free them and the first cry of pain escaped him, skin and bone pinched down hard enough to send sharp jolts into his shoulders. Babet was at his feet, grinning as he made a grab for his ankles. Grantaire kicked out, landing his heel squarely in the middle of the man's chest and sending him back on his ass.
Montparnasse dropped down to straddle his chest and he knew it was all over. He had no delusions about what they wanted but he prayed they were too lily-livered to go through with it. Maybe they'd bust up his face and scare the hell out of him before leaving him here for his friends to find. They were bastards but they weren't rapists.
Jesus, he hoped they weren't.
Montparnasse's lips were pulled in a devious smirk that belonged on that of a carved pumpkin during All Hallows' Eve. A hand, quick as lightning and just as deadly, shot down and curled around his neck. The top pads of his palm laid perfectly along the swell of the flesh, the joint of his thumb curling around the bob of his Adam's Apple.
Then Montparnasse showed him just how true those rumors about his neck fetish were.
He started small, just squeezing at first, but tightening in slow pulses until Grantaire was gasping. He would clenched down on his windpipe just long enough to make his eyes water before releasing him to a soft caress. It was maddening and his throat soon turned raw. Every breath started to hurt like someone was pressing down upon a bruise.
"This leaves the most lovely marks, I find," Montparnasse huffed out, a single strand of hair falling into his face, "I do so love to see my hand print around a pale throat. Nothing like it."
"Sick fuck," Grantaire coughed out, fingers flexing desperately to keep the circulation going. The heat was gone from the points where the other men had their knees dug into him.
Somewhere from his feet there was a dark chuckle, "You don't know the half of it."
Minutes bled by. The only timeline he could keep was the bursts of air he got, tears pooling in his eyes to fall in weak trickles down into his hair. Despite his mounting anxiety he refused to make another noise besides the desperate pants to keep his lungs full. A high-pitched buzzing started in the base of his skull. At first he thought it was from the lack of oxygen but it was persistent. Growing and raising until it danced between his ears like music. His head was starting to fuzz up like someone had stuffed it with dryer lint and feather down, just pinches at a time until he could to feel it behind his eyes.
Montparnasse let go of him to sit back and observe, "Doesn't he look about ripe?"
"More than," Claquesous commented rather darkly.
Montparnasse pulled out his phone, putting his free thumb to the artist's chin and pushing it sideways to reveal the marked curve of his neck. His head felt too heavy to fight the touch and he could only wince as he heard the shutter clicks from the device.
"Beautiful," he muttered, "I shall have that printed and framed."
Slowly the boys backed off him one by one, letting the artist puff and rub at his neck.
Grantaire rolled onto his stomach, chin tucked to his chest as he started to cough. There was pain from the bottom of his jaw to the top of his clavicle, like the older man's fingers were still pressing down into him. He didn't know what the men were waiting on but the harder he thought about it the more his concentration wavered, like trying to hold too tight to sand at a beach. From here he could see the window and it looked like an escape as much as anything else. Keeping his surely blood-shot eyes on the curtains as an anchor, the artist started to crawl on his elbows toward it.
"For God's sake," Montparnasse hissed through his teeth, "Pick him up before he hurts himself."
Gueulemer obeyed with one hand, dragging the artist up to his feet by a handful of shirt. The muscles in his arm bulged noticeably but his expression didn't change. Montparnasse closed the distance between them and laid the solid line of his fingers along Grantaire's pulse, pressing harder than necessary and cocking his head like he was thinking over its pace.
"Hmm, yes, just listen to that hummingbird heart," Montparnasse nodded at Claquesous, the blonde split an eager grin, "He's good and ready."
It dissolved into some terrible game of pass-around between the boys with Grantaire as the ball. They'd grab him, tug hard at his shirt or give him a hasty punch before pushing him toward the next. It was disorientating, each blow as much a surprise as the next.
A vivid memory of his father backhanding him into a wall made him cry out more than the next blow.
There was something like a balloon swelling at the top of his chest, curling around his heart and making it flutter like a wild bird. It was getting harder to catch his breath but he wasn't sure it had anything to do with Montparnasse's iron grip. Joly had told him a dozen times to never touch X again. He remembered promising him so easily at the time because he'd never expected something like this to go down.
Grantaire tried to fight back but his blows were grazing, it didn't slow them down at all. He stomped down on Claquesous's foot so hard the man yelped and got a backhand that would probably bruise in a few hours. Another flash recollection of father whipped through his mind and a few more unwilling tears escaped.
Babet was the one to finally tear off his shirt.
"Look at those marks," Claquesous whistled lowly at the faint red lines across the man's chest from Enjolras's little exploration, "A little possessive, isn't he?"
Grantaire focused long enough on his smirking face to clock him straight in the nose. The man roared and pulled back, eyes instantly watering up and hands clutching his face. Crimson started to seep through his digits and when they fell it revealed not only a gush of blood but a twisted scowl.
"You little bitch!" Babet surged forward and grabbed him by the shoulders, driving his knee up and hard into his stomach. Grantaire gagged loudly on bile but he managed to keep everything down. His air, however, had left him completely. He doubled over on himself but didn't get a chance to move away before another blow caught him in the chest.
"Don't break him," Montparnasse drawled lazily, though the swell in his jeans showed just how interested he actually was, "We're only getting started."
Still reeling, he was shoved back until he smacked into Claquesous. Strong fingers ran down his back and across his ribs, digging in until hot pulses tore through his torso. The numbness hit him all at once, knees nearly buckling and arms going heavy at his sides. It was just like last time. Joly had told him something about his brain not kicking in the serotonin that changed that numbness to a high, that instead of relaxing his body just tried to shut down in response to the MDMA in his system. The heat chased the feeling, a new layer of sweat breaking across his skin.
"Fuck," Grantaire wheezed, dropping down to one knee only to have Gueulemer yank him back up, "You th'nk I'm 'fraid 'ah you?"
Babet was glaring him down and sopping up his bloody nose with a handkerchief, testing it to see if it was broken. The bastard was lucky and it stayed firm.
"There's only one person to blame for this and that's your sun god," Montparnasse pointed out, catching the artist's attention, "He's the one who gave you up."
Grantaire couldn't quite process what he was saying. He blinked hard enough to hurt, the gears in his head running like they were rusting. Enjolras did...what? Gave him up? What did that mean?
Montparnasse kept his voice soft, watching the boy carefully to make sure he was out of it enough to believe him, "I asked if we could have you, and he said yes."
The world snapped back into focus.
"You're lying!" Grantaire barked, tremors working up from his fingers into his shoulders and down through his ribs, "He doesn't treat people like that! Not me!"
He took a raw breath, thinking only of impossibly golden hair, "N-Not me."
Montparnasse waved his phone, "Shall we call and see?"
It was like a signal. Gueulemer snatched him up and tossed him too easily onto the guest bed. Grantaire flailed gracelessly, scattering the pillows to the floor. Someone drove a knee into the dip of his back but he couldn't even twist to see who it was. A hand fisted in his curls and buried his face in the bedding, making him struggle just that much more for a full breath. His palms slid across the top blanket uselessly, sliding off it from sweat and weakness. It was so unbearably humid against the bed and he could feel tears escaping before he could choke them down again.
He had to keep fighting. He couldn't give in, not even for a moment.
Enjolras was in the middle of explaining to Feuilly just why the incident in Belfast could happen here in France when his phone went off. He gave a quick apology before pulling it out and checking the screen.
"Montparnasse," Enjolras growled, cheery mood deflating the moment he put the receiver to his ear, "What do you want?"
"Not a good time?"
"Just make it quick," Enjolras rolled his eyes at Joly, the brunette made a cut-throat gesture in return.
"You recall Gervaise, don't you? He's a boy who used to work for your little organization. He's approached me and he'd make an excellent little runner."
"First of all, I don't know what you're talking about," Enjolras rattled off, patience wearing thin, "Second, I don't care."
"I think you do."
"Really? I know I don't."
"You are such a stubborn mule," Montparnasse chuckled lightly in his ear, "I just want your permission to hire him on. Seeing as we're not on the same side, I believe it to be a common courtesy."
"There are no sides, you impish glutton," Enjolras cursed as politely as he could while he kept his temper, "And I don't give a damn what you do with him."
Montparnasse gave a sort of musical hum underlined with a faint beep from the phone, "I'm sorry?"
"Just take him if that's what you want!" he snapped into the phone, so loud it made all his friends stare, "I don't care what he tells you, I don't want him crawling back here. Anything else?"
"That's all."
"For God's sake," he growled as he hung up, frustration crinkling his brow.
"What was that about?" Jehan asked hurriedly.
"Montparnasse was just asking me about a boy I used to have gather information for me," Enjolras tucked his phone away angrily, "If you ask me he was just pestering me for the sake of it."
Babet pulled him up by his hair, every sound in the room rushing back to him at one time. Grantaire gulped down air and put his arm beneath his forehead, preventing himself a mouth full of sheet again. Someone was talking and from the sing-song cadence he deemed it was Montparnasse.
"Are you with us?" Claquesous smacked his shoulder, "Jesus, he's out of it."
Then another voice filled the air, one that made him freeze.
"Just take him if that's what you want! I don't care what he tells you, I don't want him crawling back here. Anything else?"
Montparnasse held the phone a little closer to his mouth as he replied, "That's all."
"For God's sake," it was a rough growl before the line went dead.
"Enj?" Grantaire tried to call out but his voice was too frail to carry. He felt like his entire throat was on fire from the inside out, ruined beyond repair. He almost felt like he was floating except for the anchor of Babet's knee and hand. Those words...had they been about him? He had chased after Enjolras earlier and had coerced him into the body shot but certainly he hadn't made him angry? He made it his life mission to get under his leader's skin but had he gone too far this time? Should he have not sat on his lap in public? Touched him so freely? Had Enjolras heard his moan of enjoyment and been disgusted by it? Did he know how he felt?
Grantaire let out a small sob, his whole body going limp as the weight of the alcohol and drug collapsed what was left of his strength. It felt like a wave crushing over him, more noises falling from his lips as insistent fingers slipped along his belt and unbuckled it. He vaguely felt his pants being tugged down and off his hips and down to thighs, something cold and soft stuffed beneath his belly to can't his body up. Those same fingers eased his legs apart, just a little, and he found himself thinking that he was comfortable this way.
A pillow...it must've been a pillow under his belly.
Gueulemer looked a little apprehensive from where he was standing, "We won't really...you know, right?"
"Don't be such a woman," Montparnasse pulled the slim tube of slick out of his pocket, "Hmmm. I wonder how far we'll get before the boys find us?"
"They're not going to find us," Babet frowned as he finally got off the artist, "A-Are they?"
"Of course they are, you nitwit," the leader scoffed, kneeling onto the bed to look over the mumbling boy spread out on the bed, " 'Mer? Hit him with something, will you?"
Gueulemer grunted and looked around, walking over to the blinds. He fingered along the adjustment wand before ripping it off with a simple tug. The blonde took step toward the bed and swung down, snapping the plastic across Grantaire's pale back. The boy barely whimpered and his muscles twitched but otherwise he stayed still.
"Perfect," Montparnasse twisted off the cap and tossed it aside, "If he starts to move again hit him. The brat can barely feel anything. Babet, I want you to capture this. Claq, you're next."
He glanced up at the blonde, "And be creative. It'll be good practice for you."
Grantaire legs shifted around as the other man's knees brushed against them. His eyes were blown and a fine sheen of moisture had slicked his body, making him shine in the streetlight. Dark hair, pale skin, it fit right into his usual type. And of course Enjolras, the pompous little prick, had stolen him first. He was going to put his mark on this brat in more way than one by the end of the night.
Grantaire couldn't feel much of anything past the sharp jolts going through his jaw. He was grinding his teeth but he couldn't stop, stopping every few seconds only to pick it back up again. Joly had told him that when this happened, be it from alcohol or drugs, to take mental stock. Count what he could feel and make a mental list. He had said it was some sort of concentration trick.
He could feel the blanket beneath his hands and cheek, hot from his body heat but still smooth. His neck hurt, that pain sliced through the numbness more than anything else. There was something on his back, a sensation of scraping. Teeth...maybe, it was too far away. A chill touched his fever-hot flesh, just at the small of his back. He slipped away long enough for the faint touch to turn into thick pressure, lower than his back but deeper. He wanted to squirm away from it but his body wasn't listening right now. Something touched his ear, the same something that was probably pressing down into him and making it a struggle to fill his lungs. A new kind of warmth bled through his groin, sending his hips rocking blindly in search of more. It didn't hurt and that was all that mattered.
"Ohh, you like that, don't you?" Montparnasse purred into the artist's ear, pushing against the spot that made him slither against the bedspread, "How long has it been since you've been properly fucked, hm? I bet Enjolras can't make you moan like this."
Grantaire felt a noise echo through his throat but he couldn't hear it, blood pounding so hard in his ears that it smothered up everything else.
Claquesous hesitantly picked a beer bottle up off the floor, the one Grantaire had brought in him with. He dumped out the dregs before holding it up to the light, a smirk starting to break out across his handsome face. He tested its weight before bringing it back over to the bed.
Montparnasse saw it and grinned, "Be still my beating heart! So you do know how this works."
"Can I?"
"Of course," Montparnasse carelessly slipped his fingers out of the boy's hot body and wiped them off on the blanket, "What a perfect way to open him up."
He ran his hand down the swell of Grantaire's ass, thumbing just under the cheek, "I'm sure for all his big talk our Enjolras isn't quite packing up to standards. We'll give him something to really moan about."
Babet lowered his camera phone, "Any way I can get a turn with his mouth?"
"The more the merrier."
Joly inquired where Grantaire had been for the past hour and Jehan broke.
"I stole your phone!" it was abrupt and loud enough to quiet their group in an instant.
"I'm sorry?" Enjolras shot back, confusion battling with irritation.
"I-I didn't mean to, I didn't. I mean, I took it, but I didn't know," tears were filling his eyes, in one beer too many to keep his composure, "He said it would be a joke and I believed him because I'm so fucking stupid and naive like you're always telling me. I didn't want to believe h-he'd-"
Jehan broke off into a sob. Feuilly grabbed him around the waist and brought him into his shoulder, taking his weight and casting his eyes at the others. They were all pretty confused, their romantic's words were quickly dissolving.
"I'm so stupid," Jehan clung to his friend, trying to hide his shame and his face within his shirt, "I told Grantaire I loved him but if you love someone you're not supposed to hurt them and that's all I do. God help me, I can't do anything right and-"
"Hush," Feuilly scolded sharply, "Yes you stole Enjolras's phone but what are you going on about? If it's just the phone it's okay, I'm sure he's not mad."
"Jehan?" Enjolras's voice was actually soft as he came up and put a hand on the younger blonde's shoulder, "What else is there?"
It took Feuilly carding his fingers through his hair to finally get him to calm down enough to speak. The younger man lifted his head and looked at his leader with wet eyes, the kind that made Enjolras's chest pang in sympathy.
"Grantaire got a text while we were outside," Jehan chewed his lip, tasting salt, "It said to meet him upstairs. It was...it was from you, Enjolras."
"But I didn't-"
"Before that girl gave it back to you."
"Jehan," it was a much harder tone this time, "Who told you it would be a joke? Who did you give my phone to?"
"Montparnasse."
The word landed like weights within their hearts, dragging them down into the pits of their stomachs.
"He texted Grantaire?" it felt like a death sentence upon his tongue.
"Probably."
"I don't like this," Feuilly let go of the younger man, priorities switching almost visibly, "He's been gone way too long."
"I should've noticed sooner," Enjolras cursed under his breath, "Feuilly, with me. Find Lesgle and ask him where he keeps his guns. Joly, stay here, I don't want you in a fight. I'll grab someone else and meet you at the stairs."
Jehan's hands fluttered nervous in front of him, "What about me?"
Enjolras grit his teeth and didn't reply, his silence telling everything he needed to hear.
The orator split off and made headway through the crowd, snatching his left hand man by the elbow and dragging him away from the pretty red head he had been chatting up.
"Enj-?"
"Who's better with a weapon, you or Courferyac?" Enjolras interjected impatiently.
Combeferre didn't gape but he sure as hell frowned, "I'm not sure."
"Combeferre!" he snapped.
"I am," the other answered quickly, then calmed his tone, "Courferyac is terrible with a gun."
"Come with me."
He led the tight-lipped blonde to the stairs with a hand on his elbow, steering him toward their waiting friends. Lesgle had a briefcase in his hand and a terrified expression on his face. He handed it off to Enjolras before wiping his palms across his pants, like he couldn't bare them.
"There's three in there, one clip with each," he sniffed sharply, "They belong to my uncle and I'm not supposed to touch them but they'll do."
"Thank you, Lesgle, truly," Enjolras took the case up and started up the steps, "Get Bahorel and have him start suggesting to leave. You might have to clean this house out if it gets rough."
" 'Gets rough'? What does that mean?" Lesgle called after the three of them, a frantic edge to his voice when they didn't answer, "What does that mean?! You can't start a firefight upstairs, my mother just had it painted!"
Once on the second floor the three of them distributed the guns and left the case behind. They were all familiar with the weapons and how to hold them, aim them, fire and keep steady. It was almost professional and any other time that would've scared the political pacifist but right now wasn't the moment for it. Grantaire was probably in some deep trouble and he needed his help, now more than ever.
"These are for threatening, not for use," Enjolras locked his own clip in place, "But they don't need to know that, do they? Search every room."
They fanned out and started pressing their ears to doors, searching for familiar voices. Combeferre found a sheepish couple and Feuilly discovered a boy who had gotten a little too high and was trying to ride it out in the bathtub in the guest bathroom.
"Head downstairs and find Lesgle," Feuilly scolded, hiding the gun behind his back, "Tell him to call you a cab and go home, for Christ's sake."
The boy scrambled to obey, looking like he was about to cry.
Enjolras was the one who found the room with a noises they were looking for. Soft whines, laughter, the sound of a bottle thumping on the floor, and the distinctive cadence of Montparnasse giving orders. He whistled lowly and caught his friend's attention, pointedly throwing his chin at the door.
Feuilly held up his hand to stop them, voice low, "We have to agree now. Whatever we see in there – it stays between us."
"Heartily agreed," Enjolras nodded, "Now kick that fucking door down before I rip it apart with my bare hands."
