"I didn't want this," Enjolras confesses, sitting on the edge of Grantaire's bed, his eyes on the floor. "I meant-- I don't know; to convince you, once and for all. To make you understand, or to tell you to stay away."
"I would," he says quietly, aching, "if you told me to."
"But I can't, do you see? I am already lost." A hand reaches for his, slim and strong and cool. "I can't fight you; you don't fight back. I can't resist you; you offer too much... Oh God."
Grantaire clasps his fingers, puts an arm around him. "I wouldn't do anything to hurt you. I swear I wouldn't--"
"I know." Enjolras steals a look at him, white-faced with the effort of humility. "Please."
His heart melts. He kisses the fair hair, over and over again, hardly daring to believe his good fortune; kisses Enjolras' forehead, caresses his shoulders, and shivers as he feels the touch returned.
"Oh..."
"Will you let me?" Grantaire whispers, his hand hovering at Enjolras' collar; and is answered with a tremulous smile.
Then his hand is drenched in blood. Enjolras sags in his arms, and he looks up, sick with horror, into the face of his lover.
"God in heaven, Maxime," Grantaire breathes. "You've gone mad."
The knife pricks his skin. "You want this," comes the familiar rasp, and though, from the bottom of his shattered heart, Grantaire does, he never says a word.
"I would," he says quietly, aching, "if you told me to."
"But I can't, do you see? I am already lost." A hand reaches for his, slim and strong and cool. "I can't fight you; you don't fight back. I can't resist you; you offer too much... Oh God."
Grantaire clasps his fingers, puts an arm around him. "I wouldn't do anything to hurt you. I swear I wouldn't--"
"I know." Enjolras steals a look at him, white-faced with the effort of humility. "Please."
His heart melts. He kisses the fair hair, over and over again, hardly daring to believe his good fortune; kisses Enjolras' forehead, caresses his shoulders, and shivers as he feels the touch returned.
"Oh..."
"Will you let me?" Grantaire whispers, his hand hovering at Enjolras' collar; and is answered with a tremulous smile.
Then his hand is drenched in blood. Enjolras sags in his arms, and he looks up, sick with horror, into the face of his lover.
"God in heaven, Maxime," Grantaire breathes. "You've gone mad."
The knife pricks his skin. "You want this," comes the familiar rasp, and though, from the bottom of his shattered heart, Grantaire does, he never says a word.