Author's Note: This chapter is fairly tame. The worst thing is nudity, which isn't described in great detail. I hope that people are continuing to read and enjoy!
Part Six: A Safe Place
Grantaire finds himself at the center of the troupe of wolves, Jehan on one side and Bahorel on the other. Enjolras leads the way, as is fitting, and the rest of the pack follows with a joyful step.
It almost doesn't matter that they lead him to their den. The streets are too complicated, the night too filled with the scents and sounds of the pack and those they pass for him to properly focus on any of it. He's spent too long alone these past weeks, too long without a pack before that. Even ignoring his deficits, he's a poor example for any wolf, too stunned to do more than gaze vaguely around as they travel.
The pack's den is a house, a boarding-house by the looks of it. The two-story building sprawls in its lot, the gate abutting the street open. Trees push out of the snow, their black branches clawing at the open air in seeming desperation.
No lights are on in the house, and Grantaire stands perfectly still once he's been ushered inside, trying to give his eyes a chance to adjust once the door is closed behind him. He can hear other members of the pack stretching, sighing, even the distinctive rustling of clothes being discarded, but all he can see are shadows and blacker shadows.
Just when his eyes are starting to adjust, the fire flares to life and a lamp is lit. Blinking against the sudden light, Grantaire finds himself still surrounded by the pack. Some have already shifted to wolf form, and they sit stoically next to their still-human brethren, eyes fixed on Enjolras.
Enjolras turns to face the pack, his blond hair glinting an almost blood-red in the low light of the lamp. "We're home. Do as you like for the evening. Take whatever form you like, but no howling."
The last words are filled with power, and a collective sigh wrings itself from the pack. Grantaire finds his own throat closing on a disappointed whimper, but the distress gets lost in the sheer confusion of feeling the alpha's power close around him.
He isn't pack yet. Enjolras' commands shouldn't have such weight for him.
He really doesn't mind that they do, though.
"Really, Enjolras, must you give us the same commands every evening?" Courfeyrac sighs heavily, leaning against Combeferre's arm as though the other wolf were a wall. "Doesn't it get tedious?"
"Pack magic to fight pack instincts." Enjolras' eyebrows arch. "Or would you prefer we try to explain to the neighbors why we've a pack of dogs in the house? They already think it odd enough to have so many young men attempting to run a house by themselves."
"I've said we could hire a housekeeper for during the day, but you seem to get some perverse pleasure out of sweeping the floor."
"It's relaxing. It gives me a chance to think in peace, which is sometimes in short supply around here. I'm sure you'd know nothing about that, though." Clapping the other man on the shoulder, Enjolras offers a slight smile to take any potential sting out of the words. "Besides, we've been over this. Hiring a housekeeper, even for the daytime, would stress the pack more than it would help us. We need this place to be ours, to be safe, and at the moment the only way it can be safe is if we keep it to ourselves."
"I know." Courfeyrac nuzzles his face against Combeferre's arm. "I know, Enjolras, and I know you grant us more freedom than many city alphas can, but… sometimes I wish the revolution was already over. Sometimes I wish we were free to simply be ourselves, to Change when we wish, to sing when we wish, to embrace the wolf with as much abandon as we do the human side of our natures."
"That's something that can't happen as long as we're in the city." Enjolras wraps his arms around the lower-ranked wolf, pressing their heads together. "I know sometimes it irks you, Courfeyrac, and I will change it as soon as I can—"
"We will." Combeferre finally speaks, ruffling his mate's hair and gently butting his head against his alpha's shoulder. "We'll win our freedom along with the humans'. Until then, we'll do what we need to stay safe and stay alive."
"Besides, Changing outside when it's this cold isn't terribly fun, anyway. Without clothing, it's too cold; with clothing, well, getting out of human clothing once you're wolf-shaped without destroying it is an art form I've yet to manage, and not having clothes when you wish to Change back is usually quite awkward."
Silence descends after Grantaire speaks, and he finds himself studying the floor, wondering if he's broken some unspoken pack taboo. It's clear that the three higher-ranked wolves have a bond all their own, but surely they don't mind his speaking up since they had to have seen him standing in the entryway the whole time.
"A fair observation, and true. We must keep him, Enjolras, if only to have such bold statements of bald fact in the future." Courfeyrac's rueful laugh breaks the stillness, and the brown-haired wolf manages to bound from his position between Enjolras and Combeferre to Grantaire's side between one breath and the next. "And we freely admit that our humble abode, though free from wind, isn't much warmer than the outside until we've had the fire going a bit longer, so if you wish to Change, feel free to. There are empty rooms if you desire privacy. If you desire to stay with some of the Pack, though, I'm sure they'd all be happy welcome you and offer you some companionship."
Grantaire suddenly finds himself self-conscious, standing still in the entryway while the rest of the pack has dispersed. Only the trio of high-ranked wolves remains, watching him, Combeferre with restrained uncertainty, Courfeyrac with tail-wagging enthusiasm, and Enjolras with curiosity.
It's that last which loosens his tongue and allows him to speak again. If Enjolras is curious about him, he must do more than stand and appear to be a love-struck pup. Lowering his head, he takes a step further into the house, closer to Enjolras. "I would like to stay with the Pack, if you will allow it."
"It's not for me to say who wants you with them for the evening." Enjolras' voice is even, not chastising, but Grantaire finds himself lowering his head further anyway. "Each of the Pack has their own room; we'll assign one to you, as well. Oftentimes Pack members share rooms, though, and usually there's a handful of wolves by the fire."
"It's where Enjolras likes to sleep, when he finally sleeps." Courfeyrac whispers the words in Grantaire's ear. "At least when we haven't been too infuriating."
"We can hear you, you know." Leaning back against the stair railing, Combeferre shakes his head at his mate. "You are in quite the mood tonight, aren't you?"
"I'm happy." Courfeyrac speaks simply, bluntly, and the truth of his words is written in his body language and in his smell.
"Then you'll be happy to show him around, right?" Combeferre asks.
"I can do that." Grabbing Grantaire's arm, Courfeyrac drags him toward the stairs. "I'll catch up with you two once I have him settled in."
Grantaire doesn't have time to protest before they're up the stairs and Courfeyrac is throwing open doors.
"This is Bahorel's room." It's the first door, the one closest to the stairs. Clothing is scattered haphazardly across the floor, and a sheathed sword rests against the wall. A handful of potted plants perch on the floor, on a stool, on the window ledge, and, oddly, on the pillow, their greenery looking far healthier than anything normally would this far into the winter. "He's a bit territorial, so I'd ask before entering."
The next door is already half-open, but Courfeyrac throws it the rest of the way open. Screens, paints, canvasses, and fans are littered around the room. "Feuilly's room. He experiments here, though he does most of his work actually at work. He gets very upset if there are multi-colored footprints around the house, and he doesn't appreciate the beauty of tail-brush art, so be careful when walking through his room."
"He paints?" Grantaire feels a familiar itch in his hands as he stares at the paints, inhales the scents that go with artwork. It's been months—no, over a year now since he's managed to sit and sketch, let alone paint. Perhaps, if Feuilly doesn't mind…
"He does." There's a gentleness to Courfeyrac's grip as he tugs Grantaire toward the next room, an understanding in his eyes that makes Grantaire's cheeks heat. "I'm sure he'd be thrilled to talk with another artist. His art is largely for profit, of course. He's one of the ones who actually makes money rather than spending it, but he also has an eye for the finer things in life, though he can be a bit gruff about it."
"I shall have to talk with him." They would have a great deal to talk about, between painting and humans and how complicated it had been to become a pack member, and Grantaire is suddenly overwhelmed at the prospect. Shaking off the feeling, he pauses at the next open doorway.
Bossuet looks up from where he is crouched on the floor, his fingers buried in Joly's belly fur. Joly's head lolls to the side, and he blinks upside-down eyes at Grantaire and Courfeyrac even as his tail continues to wave happily. Smiling down at his mate, Bossuet speaks. "Giving the grand tour, Courfeyrac?"
"I am." Courfeyrac walks boldly into the room, crouching down to join in the scratching of Joly's chest and stomach. The wolf's tail picks up speed, swishing across the floor in mad streaks. "As you can see, this is Bossuet and Joly's room. They were offered separate rooms, but they seemed to inevitably end up back together due to one calamity or another, so we eventually stopped fighting fate. So far this room has been only mildly damaged by water and had the window broken once. It's doing quite well."
Grantaire frowns, wondering what the room doing poorly would require if broken windows counted as doing well. Before he can think of anything to say, Joly shivers, shifting from his wolf to his human form. Scuttling over to where his clothes are, the man hastily dresses. "You shouldn't tease Bossuet about his bad luck, Courfeyrac."
"Why ever not?" Courfeyrac reaches over to rub Bossuet's shoulders. "The pack deals with the disasters that seem to follow him. Asking us not to comment on them would be like asking us not to comment on the weather. Besides, none of us blame him for what happens. You understand that, right?"
"We do." Musichetta's voice comes from behind Grantaire, and he takes a quick step into the room to allow the other wolf to enter. "Still, we refrain from calling you a bright-eyed fop who is more comfortable with the humans than a proper wolf should be. You could return the favor by refraining from mentioning Lesgle's… poor luck."
Lesgle stands hastily, moving to Musichetta's side. "Since I don't mind, and even tend to joke about it myself, I see no reason for Courfeyrac to not jest about it."
Joly joins Bossuet on Musichetta's other side, and the higher-ranked wolf places an arm around each of the males. "I know you don't mean anything by it, Courfeyrac. I'm just protective of my mates still."
"I know." Courfeyrac ruffles Musichetta's hair. His smile as he looks at each of the lower-ranked wolves is gentle. "But you're safe here. You're all safe here. So there's no need to fight amongst ourselves."
Grantaire blinks. That was a fight? Really? In other packs a wolf of Courfeyrac's position might have badly bitten a wolf like Joly or Musichetta for such blatant insubordination. A wolf in Joly or Bossuet's or Musichetta's position wouldn't have spoken up at all, most times, and instead just let the high-ranked one have his sport.
Not that other packs were always violent. The best packs weren't, the ones that wolves sought to enter, and perhaps it's just been too long since he even dared to approach one of those packs. Has he simply forgotten how kind pack-mates can be to each other?
Musichetta's hand settles gently on Grantaire's shoulder; Courfeyrac's right hand presses his head down into a submission posture while his left arm goes around Grantaire's shoulders. Musichetta is the one who speaks. "I'm sorry, stray. There's no need for worry or fear. We speak plainly in our pack, and if Courfeyrac and I were going to fight it would have been months ago."
"True enough." Courfeyrac's cheerful agreement rumbles against Grantaire's ear. "You've been away from proper Pack culture for a while, haven't you?"
"Yes." The word comes out more strangled than he intended, more pathetic, and Grantaire finds his hands clenched tight, one on Musichetta's arm, one on Courfeyrac's. "I've… been alone for longer than I think I should have been."
Courfeyrac tightens his hold, and Grantaire closes his eyes. He doesn't see Joly and Bossuet move to join their huddle, but he feels their warmth, scents them, their comfort here, their pleasure at being with their pack, their joy at being with their mates, and for a long moment he just basks in the sense of Pack and rightness that comes with it.
In the scent of Enjolras that runs throughout the pack, even when the alpha isn't there, the thread of power that first drew him to these people, and he will need to be worthy of this pack.
He will need to be worthy of Enjolras.
Squaring his shoulders but keeping his head down, submissive but determined, he releases his hold on the other wolves. They move away from him easily, as though nothing of import has happened, and Courfeyrac gestures toward the door. "Shall we continue the tour?"
Grantaire simply nods, not trusting his voice, and allows Courfeyrac to lead him out.
XXX
Musichetta's room is next to Joly and Bossuet's. It's a pretty room, with more decoration than most of the other rooms have had. It's also neater, all the clothes carefully folded or hanging in the wardrobe. Jehan's room is across from hers, and Grantaire is certain that he's never seen so many books and oddities packed into a single space before. His hands reach for one of the books, but he doesn't dare to actually touch anything, wary of causing an avalanche. There isn't really time, anyway, Courfeyrac's arm tugging him forward to the last room.
The room is simply furnished, a single wide bed with white sheets that would be comfortable enough to curl up on in either human or wolf form, a desk, and a wardrobe making up the furniture. No dust or fur is present on the floor, and though the pack-smell in the room is as strong as the rest of the house there's no single scent or group of scents that stands out as there have been in the other rooms.
"Would this be acceptable as a place for you to stay?" Courfeyrac lounges in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest.
"I… yes." Grantaire turns to face the other wolf. It's really quite unfair how often this pack is rendering him tongue-tied. Speaking is the one thing he has always been good at, for better or for worse. "This would be fantastic, if you're truly offering it."
"We are, and it's yours for the duration of your stay with us." Courfeyrac's smile is gentle again, with just a slightly self-satisfied edge. "However long or short that turns out to be."
"I want to stay." Grantaire closes his eyes, drawing in a deep breath, sorting once more through the scent of the pack. Enjolras, sharp and determined, the thread that ties everything together; Combeferre's scent, tied around that, less bright but no less strong; Courfeyrac's scent, shining and thrumming; Bahorel, fierceness and blood and life, so brightly filled with life; the rest of the pack, all bound together in Enjolras' magic, and he wants his scent added to it. He wants to know what note he would add to their magic, what spice Enjolras would twist from his essence to tie into this strange, beautiful, foolish collection of people. "I will do whatever you require, if he'll let me stay."
Courfeyrac's smile fades as he considers Grantaire. "He will. If it's what you truly want, if you're no danger to the pack, he will accept you. But don't waste these days he's granted you. Truly be sure you can stand with us, because what we desire is not safe."
A low laugh forces its way out of Grantaire's throat. "Living isn't safe, Courfeyrac. Being packless isn't safe. Being one of us isn't safe. Hell, even being human wouldn't be safe right now. If you've got your way, even being King wouldn't make one safe."
"There are different kinds of danger, though." Fire burns in Courfeyrac's eyes. "We will be free, Grantaire. I will be able to be myself without fear of reprisal, and if I have to shed blood to have that freedom, so be it. Even if the blood is my own, I will pay it readily."
"And if it's your packs' blood? Your mate's blood? Your subordinate's blood?" Grantaire faces Courfeyrac squarely, his head high. "Would you pay with Combeferre's blood or… or Enjolras' in order to sing more freely?"
"I wouldn't have to." A shadow crosses Courfeyrac's face, sorrow and love, an old grief. A grief that hasn't happened, perhaps, a sorrow imagined but not yet come to pass. "They'll gladly pay it themselves. All I can do is stand with them and add my voice, my skills, my strength to theirs. If you would stay with us, you will need to find the strength to do so as well."
"All he'd have to do is order me to, and I'd have no choice." It's a bald statement of truth again, but something that needs to be said. "With how strong he is, Courfeyrac, he could order other alphas. He does, holding you and Combeferre at his side. If you wish to change our people, why don't you—"
"Force them to? Make them stand with us?" Courfeyrac tilts his head to the side. "Force the humans to accept us, as well? He might be able to do it, Grantaire. He could certainly control more wolves if he wished to. Maybe he could even control humans. But what then? Is he never to sleep? Is he never to rest? Is he never to die, for fear that anything gained in blood will be lost the same way?"
There is nothing Grantaire can say to that, so he allows his eyes to fall away, purposefully showing an obeisance that his body doesn't feel.
"It also misses the most important part." Courfeyrac's hand cups his chin, brings his eyes back up to meet the higher-ranked wolf's gaze evenly. It is not something many wolves would do, not willingly, and Grantaire can feel Courfeyrac shiver as he fights his own instincts. "He wouldn't do it, Grantaire. He won't force our people. He won't force the humans. He will fight for us, and he will die for us, but he won't control us. It's why Combeferre and I can follow him. Because we can, not because we are forced to. Because we believe in him."
"I believe in him." Grantaire whispers the words.
"No." Shaking his head, Courfeyrac releases Grantaire, reaching over a moment later to gently push Grantaire's head down to a subordinate's position. "You're in awe of him. But you don't believe in him. You can't. You haven't truly thought about what he says, what he stands for. You don't love him, because you don't know him. That's why these days are important, Grantaire. When you ask the pack to accept you, make sure that it's truly what you want. If you don't…"
"You'll kill me?"
"No." Courfeyrac speaks after a moment, his words soft and bemused. "I would say we'll send you away, but I fear that might be worse than killing you. I don't know what I'll do, stray, other than have to tell Combeferre he was right, and that can be an incredibly irksome thing. So listen, and learn, and I pray to the white moon and the black night that you'll find a spark of the revolution in your heart."
Grantaire raises his head again, meeting Courfeyrac's gaze fleetingly, showing his difference without actively challenging the higher-ranked wolf. "I will be worthy of your pack and your trust, Courfeyrac. Not just for his sake. Approaching me, offering me this… it was a kindness. And one I suspect I owe to you."
It's Courfeyrac who looks away, the higher-ranked wolf pacing in a tight circle to save his dominant stance. "It was nothing. I couldn't very well allow you to keep sitting there, watching us."
"You could have. You could have done worse." He refuses to let his mind wander to other possibilities, other times. "But you didn't. You were kind. Even if Enjolras were not here, even if it was only you and the others that I have talked with, Bahorel and Jehan and Monet and Feuilly, I think I would want to be a part of this pack."
"I am very glad to hear that, Grantaire." Courfeyrac's smile is bright and pleased again, the wolf clearly proud of his pack and happy with Grantaire's answer. "Very glad indeed. Now, if you wish to Change or to rest here, feel free to. Otherwise, I'll show you around downstairs."
XXX
Grantaire prepares to shift to his wolf form, trying not to be self-conscious about Courfeyrac standing in the doorway. He spent his entire childhood Changing naked in front of other wolves. Nudity is no taboo among their people, and it's one thing he never expected or wanted to pick up from the humans.
Changing in front of humans would be disastrous, though, and he's spent the last few years ensuring he was alone before allowing the power to ripple through his body. Perhaps it's simply that lingering fear and hesitancy that makes Changing in front of Courfeyrac difficult.
"I could leave, if you want." Courfeyrac makes the offer conversationally, studying his nails. "Or Change, as well. The tour will be less vocal then, but I'd certainly not have a problem running around on four legs."
"Whatever you prefer." Grantaire mumbles the words through gritted teeth. Changing shouldn't be difficult. It had been just on the edge of happening earlier in the evening, when he first met Bahorel.
Thinking of the wolf brings to mind his scent, the odd green of his eyes, and between one breath and the next Grantaire feels the Change sweep over his body. Fur sprouts in a riot from his cold flesh, trapping and warming the air within seconds so that the bite of the chilly night fades away. His bones rearrange themselves with sharp cracks, growing, shrinking, twisting, and it should be painful but there's too much exhilaration for it to hurt. Falling forward onto four legs, Grantaire stretches and feels his tail waving happily behind him.
He lowers it as soon as he notices how high it is, though he allows it to continue to wag as he looks over at Courfeyrac.
The other wolf has shed his clothing, revealing a long, lithe, female body. Like all of their people, Courfeyrac is flat-chested, and he has the lean, ropy muscle of a wolf who is trained to fight and run. Closing his eyes, Courfeyrac allows the Change to roll over him, and a bare second later a female wolf bounds happily up to Grantaire.
They play. Grantaire can't help it. He hasn't been on four legs with another wolf in almost two years, and having Courfeyrac there play bowing to him is more than he can resist. They race down the hallway, Courfeyrac chasing Grantaire first before Grantaire rounds on the female wolf and chases her back down the hall. They yip, quiet sounds of pleasure that won't carry far, any true howls or cries held back by the alpha's command.
The one who will be his alpha, and Grantaire rolls over in happy submission as Courfeyrac bowls him onto his back and stands above him. These wolves will be his pack, and he will be happy here.
The tour of the downstairs is swift, a darting in and out of rooms and between the legs of other wolves. There's no need for Courfeyrac to tell him who lives where. The richness of the pack's scent is enhanced in wolf form, his vision sharper if colors lost, and Grantaire trots behind Courfeyrac as the other wolf bounds from room to room. They start with Combeferre's room, Courfeyrac knocking over a stack of papers with a tail wag that seems a little too premeditated. Then they dash into Courfeyrac's own room, where the female wolf prances proudly in a loose circle before dashing out again. Monet is curled up in wolf form in his room, and Grantaire presses his ears back in apology as he hastily backs out.
The final bedroom is Enjolras'. Grantaire slinks toward the door, belly to the ground, whining low at Courfeyrac. The female wolf prances up to the door, seemingly unconcerned, nosing it gently open. A low, exasperated huff slips from Courfeyrac's throat, and Grantaire peers over the other wolf's shoulder to see Enjolras sitting at a desk, writing. Books are open around him, but he doesn't seem to glance at them, absorbed in his work.
Courfeyrac crouches down, tail twitching, eyes narrowed with mischief.
"Don't." Enjolras speaks quietly, but it stops Courfeyrac immediately, though Grantaire can feel no echoing of the alpha's power in the words. "Not right now. I'll be out in a few minutes, and then we can play. Show him the kitchen and the den, and try to have just a bit more patience."
Sighing, a far more human sound than Grantaire has heard from a wolf before, Courfeyrac retreats from the doorway.
The kitchen is a cacophony of fantastic smells, and Grantaire is pleased to see Courfeyrac demonstrate how easy it is to open the cupboards even with four feet. The meat that the pack has stashed is salty, tough, not what he would normally choose to eat in this form, but he long ago learned that beggars can't be choosers, and having an after-dinner treat is something he won't ever turn his nose up at.
About half the pack has gathered in front of the fire when Courfeyrac finally leads him there. Combeferre lies stretched out on the hearth in human form, his shirt unbuttoned, a book lying before him. Musichetta, Joly and Bossuet all rest against him, furred, raising sleepy eyes to peer at Grantaire when Courfeyrac leads him over. Jehan scribbles in a notebook, biting his lip in concentration, while Bahorel's wolf form stretches across his legs.
Grantaire studies the pack, sitting uncertainly for a moment. Raising a back foot to scratch at an itch, he considers who he should approach. Jehan, perhaps, since he is the lowest-ranked wolf? Or should have simply stay with Courfeyrac, follow him as he greets Combeferre, though he will refrain from licking Combeferre's face with as much exuberance as Courfeyrac is.
He's saved from making a decision by Enjolras appearing. The alpha has stripped down to a loose white shirt and black pants, and he smiles at his pack when he sees them.
The pack bounds up, swarming around their alpha, those in wolf form greeting him with small licks, those still human rubbing their heads against his shoulder. Courfeyrac begins worrying at the hem of Enjolras' pants, and after a moment Enjolras shakes him free with an exasperated, "All right, all right."
Grantaire watches as all the wolves respectfully back away, sitting patiently, Courfeyrac with a wolf-wide grin and a happily wagging tail. Enjolras strips out of his clothes with the ease of long practice, and Grantaire isn't surprised to see Combeferre and Jehan do the same.
What an alpha like Enjolras feels, those close to him will feel, and being trapped by human clothing in wolf form really isn't fun.
Enjolras is beautiful as a wolf. His fur is a pale blond, healthy, lustrous, and his eyes are bright, luminous as the fullest moon. Grantaire has no doubt that were he in his human form, better able to see color, they would be the bluest blue he could ever hope to paint.
Enjolras greets the pack again, moving from wolf to wolf, ensuring that he touches each one. Other wolves trickle down the stairs, until the whole pack is present, all furred, all exuding contentment.
Contentment turns to excitement as Courfeyrac play-bows to his alpha. At first Grantaire thinks that Enjolras is going to ignore the other wolf, as he turns toward the fire. A slight shoulder-check from Combeferre that could have been intentional or could have been accidental turns Enjolras back to Courfeyrac, though, and after a moment's hesitation he returns the play-bow. It is, Grantaire thinks for one confused moment, the signal for every wolf in the pack to go mad.
The fury of activity soon sorts itself out into individual matches, though, wolves joining and splitting apart again in games of chase and mock-fights that don't even result in lost fur.
They don't include him in the play. They don't exclude him, not intentionally, but the mad dashing and brief, playful tousles run through the pack magic. They reinforce mate-bonds, pack-bonds, reiterate the hierarchy of the pack, and he has no place in that hierarchy yet. Soon, hopefully, but not yet.
That's all right, though. He's content, for now, to watch these wolves enjoy themselves, to bask in the glow of their affection for and trust of each other, and to know that, one day, he will get to enjoy this.
One day, he will be worthy of Enjolras' attention.
XXX
The play eventually calms down, wolves peeling away with yawns and stretches. Jehan and Bahorel head up the stairs; Feuilly and Monet retreat back to Monet's room, though Feuilly returns naked a few moments later to steal some coals from the fire for a bed-warmer. Musichetta, Joly and Bossuet settle down to sleep, still in their wolf forms. Combeferre stretches into his human form and walks sleepily toward his room, Courfeyrac trotting happily at his side. Enjolras retreats to his own room a moment later.
After a moment's consideration, Grantaire curls up next to Joly. The other wolf eyes him sleepily for a moment before giving a brief, welcoming wag of his tail and settling back down again.
Within minutes, the house is silent, and Grantaire can feel the quieting of the pack magic to a dull background hum.
He should sleep. He should relax. He should be able to relax, because he is safe here, accepted here, and perhaps he will make a better impression on these wolves tomorrow if he is well-rested and not drunk—well, not too drunk.
He can't sleep, though. He's wound too tight, too drunk on the thrill of pack-magic all around him, too off-put to be sleeping in the midst of so much magic when he isn't a part of it.
Burying his head against his side, closing his eyes tight and pinning his ears back against his head, he tells himself that it doesn't matter. This will be his pack. These will be his people.
This won't be like other times. He won't be driven away. They won't be disgusted by him. He won't give insult when no insult is meant. He won't fight with those that he wants as his allies, his friends, not again.
He dozes, fitfully, waking from half-dream, half-memories of blood and pain more often than he would like. Once Joly snuggles against him, the other wolf huffing a comforting sound into his ear. Once Musichetta licks his muzzle, pressing him tighter to the other males. Once Bossuet attempts to curl up against him, somehow resulting in them both having singed tails. Each time it brings comfort, briefly, and he returns to sleep only to have another nightmare rip him back to the waking world.
He doesn't remember the names of the wolves in his last dream. They were strays who had attempted to form their own pack, and he had been foolish enough to ask to join. Strays were strays for a reason, though, and a half-mad alpha who could barely thread the pack together didn't need the strain of an unintentionally insubordinate wolf, too.
He hadn't meant to give insult.
He hadn't meant to cause trouble.
He hadn't wanted to fight, to taste the mad alpha's blood, to splinter that almost-pack, but intentions didn't always matter.
"Hush." A hand, human, strokes between his ears. "You're here. You're safe."
He presses against the gentle hand before he's fully awake, settling with a contented huff into the strength of Enjolras' power. Only once he's fully conscious does he freeze, uncertain.
"Don't worry." Enjolras' voice is quiet but full of steel, of authority, of certainty that Grantaire sinks into with a deep sigh. "No one hurts my wolves. You're safe here."
Musichetta, Joly and Bossuet press against them, surround Grantaire and Enjolras with the smell of wolves, the scent of pack.
"Now, sleep."
Grantaire doesn't protest, doesn't fight that note of authority, closing his eyes and allowing himself to sink into the darkness of dreamless sleep without fear.
Enjolras' voice continues to murmur, quiet, far away. "We all need to sleep, and sleep well, because we've plenty of work to do in the morning."
