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Chapter Text

L'été, 1831

I.

Grantaire was a frequent visitor to the Louvre's cavernous, opulent halls. He knew them intimately, his feet able to follow their paths without direction from his higher faculties; their works so ingrained in his memory that he now barely felt the need to glance at them, despite surrounding himself with some of the finest works of art humanity had thus far produced – would ever produce. Familiar, though not loved, Grantaire regarded the grand corridors in much the same manner as a child forced to attend mass regards the church: with detached, inconvenienced awe; aware of the significance placed upon it, of the implicit weight of power, yet alienated by the stifling, formal pageantry of it all. 

It was, therefore, with great and pleasant surprise that he looked up from his sketchbook one balmy afternoon to find a new work within their midst. He knew the silhouette immediately: tall, long limbed, his fair hair visible at the nape of his neck, beneath his hat – a slouched hunting cap, informal and incongruous amidst a crowd of fashionable, top-hatted gentlemen and women in elaborate, wide-brimmed bonnets. He was walking with purpose, unhurried, but taking in none of the plundered treasures of antiquity that surrounded him. 

Grantaire watched him traverse the gallery, amidst a confluence of gleaming deities and heroes, stark white in contrast to the dark wood furnishings, the rust-red walls and gaudy, gilded columns of the Galerie des Antiques. The effect of his appearance, and his disinterest in the works on display, gave him a suspicious air, though he held his head high: his carriage that of aloof self-assurance. His cravat was loose, his shirt collar unstiffened and slightly open, and half the buttons of his waistcoat were undone. The effect was to make him appear disreputable, as though he had come straight from carousing in a tavern, or from some back alley engagement. Almost, he had the air of a man looking for trouble. Grantaire would accuse him of imitation, if he thought it intentional. 

When he was about to pass out of sight, Grantaire rose, closed the distance between them in several quick strides, and hailed him: "So, Apollo has descended from Mount Olympus to visit his stone brethren." That earned him a pained look in place of a hello; the firmed line of his mouth turned down at the corners, the upward tilt of his jaw disdained, but Enjolras paused, so Grantaire took it as assent to attempt conversation. "I am surprised to encounter you here; I did not take you for a man who appreciated art. It is a boon to learn you do not spurn everything that is purely decorative in function. Is that why you suffer my presence at your councils, to add interest to your office of war?"

"I am not, in a broad sense." Enjolras did not deign to legitimise the rest of Grantaire's theorising with a response. "But there are a few works I admire."

"Then do tell, or better yet, show," Grantaire replied, eager to prolong their unusually cordial conversation, curious for a glimpse of the secret inner workings of Enjolras's mind; the thoughts that did not emerge fully formed in bursts of articulate, passionate idealism. Enjolras glanced at the sketchbook Grantaire carried tucked beneath his arm, then around at the contents of the room – at the abundance of stone flesh it displayed without shame, though not entirely without censorship – and deduced Grantaire's purpose there. 

"I suppose, as we are both here, it would be logical to accompany each other, so long as you do not hinder me," Enjolras consented, without enthusiasm.

"I would not dream of it." Grantaire leant in close, in exaggerated performance of a hushed, conspiratorial whisper: "Are you here in service of your aim? Did I accost you on your way to some clandestine engagement? I did wonder at the purpose that was driving you with such direction."

"I am here to view one work only." 

"Enjolras –" the corners of Grantaire's mouth twitched briefly into a small, fond smile, despite himself, "– that is not how this particular social dance is done. No wonder you stand out so. Allow me to offer my services in blending into this particular theatre of battle."

"Will this lesson take long?" came Enjolras's dry response.

"That depends on the speed with which the pupil grasps what is being taught." 

"Fine." Enjolras turned to continue on his path in long, decisive strides, but Grantaire did not follow.

"Lesson one –" Grantaire called after his retreating form, causing Enjolras to pause and face him, frowning at Grantaire's obvious intent to take liberty with his compliance, "– most people come to Museums to look at the objects on display, or at least to be seen doing so." 

Grantaire moved to stand beside him with deliberately slow steps, gesturing towards a statue with the arm that held the sketchbook: "Here is a work worth observing, should you wish to appear cultured." He directed Enjolras towards the figure of a goddess: tall, naked from the waist up, her lower body obscured by a draped sheet, her torso athletic and her noble face bearing a serene expression; perfect, save for the two rough points where her arms had come away.  

"A replacement for the Venus de' Medici, now that the Italians have successfully demanded her return. It has been attributed by some to Praxiteles, though, I can't say I believe it; were I to gamble on it I would say she succeeds the Classical period, much as the establishment would like us to believe otherwise, for the sake of France's artistic prestige –" Grantaire waffled, Enjolras silent as stone beside him, and equally inscrutable. "It is thought that Praxiteles' lost original, the Aphrodite of Knidos, was the first of her kind in the Greek world; the first full size sculpture of a nude woman. It is said she was so lifelike that one young man made love to her marble form, then went mad, and threw himself off a cliff – have your past lovers shared the same fate?" Grantaire smirked at Enjolras, who looked unamused in return. "Yet you seem uninspired? Perhaps a nude man would be more to your taste? There are plenty of those I could show you if they would be more apt to stir the blood?"

A lesser man might have struck him for the insinuation; a particularly sensitive one might have challenged him to a more formal altercation.

Enjolras simply said, in clipped tones: "Grantaire, is there a purpose to this lecture?"

"That is not a denial," Grantaire said, with a victorious grin. 

Enjolras gave the statue a silent, cursory once over, before looking back at Grantaire with an expression that communicated his desire to move on. 

Grantaire knew Enjolras did not appreciate any of his cruder lines in conversation – did not appreciate any of Grantaire's conversations, save the rare occasions where he managed to serve as advocatus diaboli to Enjolras's persuasive rhetoric in a manner that was actually useful. Grantaire would provoke, and Enjolras would rebuke, a sport their friends took passing interest in, for show; for a moment of Enjolras's undivided attention; to alleviate the tedious monotony of routine and, sometimes, merely out of habit. 

Yet Grantaire wondered, and had never quite found the right play to force him to reveal his hand. Enjolras never boasted of his conquests, as was customary among friends such as theirs when bolstered to bravado by wine – a reliable source of mirth, at Enjolras's expense – yet surely they were many, however much his chaste reputation befitted his persona. In physical charms, he was the most blessed among them, save perhaps Courfeyrac, in accordance to taste. Courfeyrac's beauty was earthly and warm, where Enjolras's was divine, and forbiddingly cold. His was a face sculpted by the hand of some primordial deity in the making of the world, and oft repeated since, wherever history or legend had need of a man whose beauty was equal to his virtue. Grantaire could compare him to Alexander the Great; to Antinous; to Adonis, and still the comparisons would not do justice to the reality.

They walked in silence for a moment; Grantaire watching the crowds as they passed through them, many dressed in their finest clothes – those they desired to be seen in – though here and there he spotted the odd concession to the season in a loosened cravat, a coat worn slung over a shoulder, or a skirt clearly intended to be stuffed with more petticoats than it currently concealed. It was the height of a particularly hot summer; a conjunction of circumstances that commonly saw much of the city's middle class population seeking the idyll of the countryside. On a scorching Friday afternoon, only wealthy idlers, tourists and students of fine art would elect to spend their time in such a stuffy environment, yet apparently he could also add displaced Republicans to their number. The interior of the lower floor galleries was cool, the palace's vast, airy halls poor at retaining heat, a mercy in this weather, though likely a curse in winter when it had served its previous function. This observation supplied another line of teasing to Grantaire's arsenal:

"Lesson two, you would appear less out of place if you attempted to dress like a man who cared for his appearance, and not like a man who has just stumbled out of a tavern," Grantaire regarded Enjolras as he spoke: Enjolras never followed the fashions of Paris's middle classes, as some of their number did, though Grantaire suspected he could afford to. His clothing was habitually well-made, but simple; functional, rather than decorative. On this occasion, however, he appeared dishevelled; crumpled, as though he had slept in the clothes he currently wore, or perhaps been up all night at some activity that had kept him from sleep. Perhaps the heat had finally affected him, too.  

"You are dressed no better than I," Enjolras observed, without looking at him, as they reached the end of the gallery, approached a staircase, and began to ascend it. 

"I am an artiste, a poor and lowly student of those with more talent than I; people pay you no mind if you have a brush or a stick of charcoal in hand – which begs the question: why are you here? If not for love of art, perhaps appreciation of the egalitarian principles of the museum's founders?" 

"Principles that were cast aside when Napoleon and his allies co-opted their work as a means of boasting of their own power." Enjolras's tone turned suddenly impassioned. "No; the corruption remains, the keys are in Orléans' hands, and Jacques-Louis David died a coward in exile." That Enjolras felt every member of the convention that outlived it should have died attempting to restore it was implicit, and well-known.

"I should have guessed it," Grantaire laughed. "You judge him by his politics; I say we should judge him by his work – which I find a little heavy-handed in its symbolism, but it is not without its charms."

"I have no opinion of it." Enjolras's shoulder shifted as he spoke, giving the impression that he might have shrugged, but lacked enough interest in the subject to trouble himself to do so.

"I shall not insult you by suggesting we visit the king's tableware in the apartments of your namesake then." Grantaire watched Enjolras's mouth twist in distaste at the notion. "I am more curious than ever at what could possibly stir you." 

When they had surmounted the first set of stairs, Enjolras gestured towards the right, and Grantaire motioned for him to lead the way. Enjolras proceeded, leading him past the wide, bright Grande Galerie, through an open set of tall doors of dark, panelled wood. Grantaire knew it, though it was not a regular feature in his visits: the Salon Carré. 

The walls were hung so thick with paintings that it was difficult to determine their original colour. Here were works by Carravagio; Rembrant; Poussin; Lorrain, the titans of his craft, yet he knew before Enjolras halted beneath it which work had drawn him.

The scale alone was bold, and arresting, given its subject. Enjolras stilled beneath the towering canvas of Géricault's Le Radeau de la Méduse; a grim scene. Its composition rested upon a twisted, tangled base of human remains, rising into a pyramid of desperate, hopeful men, their rescuers a dot on a distant horizon. Grantaire admired it, though he could not say that he liked it. Yet Enjolras's fascination made absolute sense; the line Grantaire had always imagined him to tread with the unconscious precision of an acrobat, between death and hope, writ large in oils before them.

"France," Enjolras stated, as though it were explanation enough, yet Grantaire grasped the outline of the metaphor. Still, he would prefer to hear Enjolras speak it. 

"Mankind's true nature laid bare," he postured, assuming the oppositional stance. "Left to ourselves, we would murder our fellows for sustenance, and eat their corpses before their bodies are cold."      

"Corruption," Enjolras began, offering Grantaire a sour, sideways glance as he did so. "The abandonment of her people, and what men are forced to become when they are without hope or means of helping themselves. The leaders who were supposed to see them to safety left them for dead. One hundred and fifty, adrift with only enough food and water for a dozen. They may have turned their anger toward each other, but it was their captain that forced their hand, by failing them."  

"Did the captain put a knife to their necks and demand they turn on each other?" Grantaire countered, wilfully contrarian. "Desperate they may have been, but they were not without free will; what a man chooses to do with his can be placed on no head but his own." 

"It is a tragedy of any society in which man can be rendered powerless by the failings of those that have power over him," Enjolras did not look at him as he spoke, but instead continued to regard the painting with a distant, far-off look that seemed to stretch beyond its towering form. "You see free will, and men who choose to do ill with it; I see men who might have chosen otherwise, if they had not been denied the chance to do so."

"It is a good painting," Grantaire conceded, "by any measure I am qualified to judge it by, though it is far too miserable for my taste."

"That is unsurprising."

"No doubt you think me frivolous," Grantaire stated, turning to leave via the long, vaulted corridor of the Grande Galerie.

"Unserious, certainly," Enjolras agreed.     

"You have me there." Grantaire laughed again. "Though, not all of us are such martyrs that we seek misery for comfort. I am partial to more mundane pleasures, it is true. The simple veneration of the human form, for one."

"Pornography," Enjolras replied, disdaining.

"Ah, so you have encountered it. In that case I marvel at how you can still be wound so tight?" Grantaire jibed, before giving him a far more serious look. "Art, Enjolras, is not pornography."

"I see little distinction."

"Love," Grantaire said in abstract, gesturing to their surroundings, "beauty, emotion, passion, death, even violence: they speak to those of us that do not have a mind filled to bursting-point with battle maps and marching songs."

Grantaire could think of several hymns with which to underscore Enjolras's preoccupation, but he knew better than to hum them here. Their conversation had already strayed close enough to the political to prick the ears of any would-be informers. Instead, he glanced around the gallery, seeking an example to prove his point, and settled on a couple, huddled close to each other, before a large statue depicting a dramatic, familiar scene.

"Observe –" He gestured to the man, outfitted as a dandy, with a fashionably dressed young woman on his arm, at the opposite side of the hall. "See how they linger –" 

The couple had paused at a statue of a man, bent forward and clutching a reclining woman in his arms, his hand cupping one small breast and his arm obscuring the other. Large feathered wings sprouted from his back, and the only suggestion of clothing borne by either of them was a slip of fabric draped deliberately over the woman's hips. 

"– Psyché ranimée par le baiser de l'Amour, see how he leans closer to relay the tale to his mistress, in hope of impressing her with his knowledge." Grantaire leant closer to Enjolras to underlie his point. "He is telling her how Venus grew jealous of the mortal Psyche's beauty, and ordered Cupid to compel her to fall in love with something hideous," Grantaire grimaced theatrically at Enjolras, who did not rise to it, "but instead Cupid scratched himself with his own arrow, and fell in love with her."

"I am familiar with the story," Enjolras said, stiffly.

"Her father grew concerned that his loveliest daughter remained unwed," Grantaire continued, ignoring Enjolras's waning patience, "so he consulted the oracle of Miletus, who warned him that a dragon-like creature would come and bring disaster in its wake, if he did not abandon her upon a rock, to be carried off by some monstrous beast. He did so, but instead, she was borne away by Zephyr, to fall asleep in a beautiful meadow." Grantaire watched the man's monologue, following the reactions of his companion to keep pace, imitating it for Enjolras's ears. "When she awoke, she wandered her way to a magnificent palace, where she heard beautiful music and was served a fine feast, and eventually was led by a disembodied voice to the bedroom."

Grantaire glanced to Enjolras at his side, to gauge his reaction: Enjolras's gaze was fixed on the couple. Grantaire continued: "There, Cupid made love to her in darkness, forbidding her to see his face." Enjolras's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly: Grantaire seized on the small victory, feeling a flicker of smug satisfaction. "To abridge the rest of the tale, Psyche's sisters convinced her that her lover was in fact the winged serpent the oracle spoke of, so while Cupid slept she brought a dagger and a lamp to slay the monster, but instead gazed upon Cupid's beautiful form. In her desire to look closer, she spilt a drop of oil, in some versions wax, on his skin, and he fled in betrayal." The woman was hanging on the man's tale now, her expression enraptured.

"In pursuit of her lost love, Venus set her several tasks to accomplish, the last of which was to journey into the underworld, to obtain a vial filled with the beauty of Proserpina, the queen of the underworld. Psyche accomplished the task, but her curiosity overcame her, and she opened it, instead of beauty finding the unending sleep of death." 

Grantaire allowed a small, dramatic pause to hang between them, before ending: "The statue depicts the moment Cupid found her. He drew the sleep from her, back into the vial and woke her, in this instance with a kiss, though in other iterations of the tale he pricks her with an arrow. Now he will make some innuendo about the nature of the arrow –" right on cue, the woman raised a hand to her mouth and giggled softly, "– and so the lovers embraced, having earned their happy ending." The man flashed his lady a charming smile, and the couple moved on.

"How did you know he would attempt the line about the arrow?" Enjolras asked, his tone unimpressed, though his features had turned curious.

"This is his fifth visit this week, each time with a different woman on his arm," Grantaire grinned, "perhaps Courfeyrac has a rival at last." Enjolras, a disdainful set to his features, turned to walk away again, Grantaire hastening to catch up with him, following at his side as they descended via a different set of stairs, and found themselves at the opposite end of the Galerie des Antiques.

"But you still have not answered my question," Grantaire stated. "Why are you here, truly? If you were seeking a reminder of the state of your homeland, you needn't have looked far beyond your own doorstep."

Enjolras seemed to consider his answer, then, his impassive expression crumpling into one of frustration, exclaimed: "It is too hot! My apartment is an infernal furnace, and I cannot think straight while I sit in it. I thought perhaps a change of scene might clear my head; it has."

"Ah, so our inhuman machine of republican fervour has revealed a weakness at last," Grantaire voiced his amusement in low tones, to elude prying ears. 

"Do not call me that in public," Enjolras replied, without inflection.

They neared a set of glass doors, flung open to greet the bright sunlight of the palace's courtyard, the contrast so great it made the well lit interior seem dim in comparison. Near their point of egress stood a statue Grantaire was particularly fond of: a depiction of a youthful, delicate-featured Apollo, nude but for his sandals, leaning against a tree trunk with one hand resting atop a head that was crowned with voluminous curls. His left forearm was missing, as was his cock.

Grantaire stared at it a little too long; Enjolras noticed.

"A work you admire?" he asked.

"Apollo Lyceus," Grantaire glanced from the statue, to Enjolras, and felt as though he were seeing double. "You would make a good model for him; the resemblance is striking, even down to the removal of his –"

"Grantaire," Enjolras said, in familiar warning. The point where irritation bordered anger finally achieved, Grantaire grinned in triumph, and gestured for Enjolras to lead on.

"I am unsure who I would be a suitable fit for," Grantaire pondered as they walked. "Perhaps an unshaven Dionysus, if I were being charitable to myself, though I accept Diogenes of Sinope as my ultimate fate…"

They passed the threshold, into blinding whiteness and a wave of oppressing heat that made the air seem thick in his lungs.

"Well, dearest, object of my affection," Grantaire turned to him, affecting a gentlemanly bow in mockery of the Lothario they had observed earlier, "that was almost pleasant, should I kiss your hand as we part?"

"It was tolerable," Enjolras conceded.

"Ah, you flatter me with what every suitor most desires to hear. I am honoured that my company proved adequate," Grantaire maintained the charade, as they traversed the courtyard, towards the bustle of the Palais-Royal. "Here I leave you, may I ask to what errand?"

"Now I will go to the Musain and finish my articles."

"Have you forgotten?" Grantaire halted, and regarded Enjolras with fond amusement.

"Forgotten?" Enjolras frowned.

"It is closed. The owners have gone south," Grantaire began. Enjolras's expression remained perplexed. "It is August, Enjolras, people are permitted holidays." 

Enjolras stared blankly back at him, looking momentarily lost, before concluding, "Then, I will find another Café."

"I do not envy you the task of finding one that will meet your exacting standards in this heat." 

"Then I shall have to make do at home."

"You could write in my apartment," Grantaire suggested, without thinking. Enjolras's distaste at the notion flashed briefly across his features. He was quick to disguise it, but Grantaire marked it, the sour look turning his tone bitter, "I do not know where you imagine me to live, Enjolras, but I assure you, it is perfectly serviceable, some might even describe it as pleasant."

"I have not imagined you to live anywhere…" Enjolras paused, then added, "Save perhaps in an urn on a street corner."

"I –" Grantaire stuttered in surprise, "– Apollo, did you just attempt a jest?" The corner of Enjolras's mouth twisted upwards, almost imperceptibly, and Grantaire latched on to it: "My lodgings are close to the Musain, they are small, but they are relatively cool, and equipped with a writing desk that you may make use of."

"Where will you go?"

"I was not offering to be displaced from my own home," Grantaire replied, gesturing to his sketchbook. "I have a commission to complete. We need not disturb each other."

"If you prattle on while I am working I am leaving."

"'Thank you, Grantaire, how generous of you to offer.'"

-

Upon entering Grantaire's apartment, Enjolras regarded it with suspicion, as though he had expected to find it lice infested and filthy. Instead, his scrutiny fell upon a simple, white-washed room, partitioned by a large wooden screen into a studio, equipped with the promised writing desk and a second, much larger table, beside a small, overflowing cabinet of painting supplies. The room was clean enough, but littered with canvases in varying states of completion, amidst an eclectic assortment of props; large rolls of fabric to serve as backgrounds, and many smaller curiosities. Behind the panelled divider a fireplace and the backrest of an armchair could be sighted: Grantaire's living quarters.   

Grantaire, shrugging off his coat and, moving to open the wide sash window, gestured to the writing desk as he passed: "Your centre of command. There is paper and ink in the drawer to the left."

Enjolras followed suit, hanging his coat over the back of the chair and opening the drawer, finding the promised supplies; "Thank you, this will serve."

"Think of it as my contribution to the cause," Grantaire said, flippantly. He set his sketchbook down on the larger table and moved behind the screen, taking off his waistcoat and shirt in favour of the old, paint-dappled replacement he kept for working in. 

When he returned, Enjolras was already lost in concentration, his head bent low over the desk, having located pen and inkwell to begin the process of transforming whatever thoughts had been troubling him when Grantaire had accosted him into a persuasive diatribe.

Grantaire set out his own supplies and positioned himself with his back to the window so the light would fall upon his canvas, but instead found himself watching the light catch Enjolras's hair, turning burnished gold into pale fire. 

Grantaire admired him, surreptitiously, as his brow creased in concentration; as the tendons at the wrist of the arm that formed a support between his elbow, atop the desk, and his temple stood in sharp relief to the smooth surface of his skin. His sleeves were rolled up to reveal the long, sharp blades of his forearms, his shirt taut at the yoke where his shoulders curved, his spine rounded as he poured over his work; his long legs sprawled beneath the low desk as he slouched further into the small wooden chair. 

Grantaire was struck by the desire to commit the image to marble, though it was outside his skillset, it seemed more fitting than the flimsy, fragile medium of paper or the delicate art of oil on canvas. His was a face that deserved immortality; a permanence Grantaire's abilities could not offer. He turned his attention to his own work: a pretty but uninspired scene from the Iliad. 

Enjolras, Grantaire learned, wrote frantically, his pen scratching so harshly that it was a wonder that it withstood his misuse. Grantaire could visualise the smudges on the page; the rogue blots of ink and harshly scored out lines where Enjolras's attempts to condense his ideas into words did not meet his standards. At first Grantaire found his presence a pleasant distraction; to sit quietly in Enjolras's company, ignored, but afforded some measure of acceptance, was an intimacy he had never expected to be granted, so he indulged in glancing intermittently aside from his own work, to watch the changing light as the sun passed across the sky play out in the glow of Enjolras's pale features. After a while, the movement of his hand became less frantic, and Grantaire realised he must be re-drafting his initial scribbled fury into a more finely constructed argument, now that the initial zeal had been vented.

By the time Enjolras seemed to remember Grantaire's presence, the light that washed over them through the open window had turned the pale orange-pink of arriving sunset.

"What are you working on?" Enjolras asked.

"Hmm?" Grantaire, absorbed at last in his own pursuit, hummed around the paintbrush he held in his mouth.

"The painting." Enjolras had turned to face him now, the fine sheen of the day's sweat and oil giving a soft shine to his skin that only emphasised its fine texture, like the layer of varnish applied over an oil painting to make uniform its surface and give depth to its colours. Grantaire set the brush in his hand aside, along with the one he had been absent-mindedly worrying with his teeth, and gave answer:

"It is terrible," he began, "the request itself is gauche, the composition is laboured, and there is little I can do to correct it while still fulfilling the brief."

"It is a commission?"

"The swine asked me to paint his wife as Queen Hecuba. I am not sure if the insult is intentional, or merely the result of a poor grasp of the source material. Perhaps he has not even read it – there is quite the fashion among the rich for inserting themselves into the tales of antiquity." 

"I thought you passionate about such tales, am I mistaken?" Enjolras questioned, off-hand.

"I am, and I am not," Grantaire answered, with a sigh. "It is complicated… there is much to admire in it, and much that has been co-opted and misappropriated as propaganda for the Empire, or as a way to make the tiresomely wealthy feel cultured." Conspicuous displays of wealth and importance had never appealed to him, even before he had fallen in with the Société, but his chosen career necessitated a certain level of complicity in them. 

"You sound like you dislike your profession."

"Intensely!" Grantaire laughed. "I detested my time at the École des Beaux-Arts, and I despise my work now." 

"Then why persist at it?" Enjolras asked, his brow knitting in confusion.

"A man must eat. Or in my case, drink it all away. I am ill suited to the profession, it is true, but I am no better suited to any other." Grantaire shrugged in dismissal. "I have skill enough at it to maintain a lifestyle of some level of comfort, and I have no principles to spur me to discard it for any other purpose."

"Complacency," Enjolras deduced. "You complain of your situation, yet you do not live in poverty. You have means; you may change it."

"I have no desire to go hungry in order to make a point of artistic integrity," Grantaire dismissed. 

"It is late. I should leave you." Enjolras forced a change of subject; this was too personal a conversation for their level of acquaintance, Grantaire surmised.

"To return to your furnace? Will you manage any sleep?"

"I will try." 

Grantaire's mind struck him with the sudden image of Enjolras lying naked on his bed, tossing and turning in discomfort in a vain attempt to sleep. He could offer to let him stay; Grantaire had shared his bed with their brothers on many an occasion, but never Enjolras. 

He met Enjolras's dispassionate gaze, and thought better of it.

"In that case, I will bid you goodnight." He rose, and saw Enjolras out of his chambers with a nod. Enjolras's absence left Grantaire feeling bereft, and in need of a distraction with which to fill the renewed silence.

He reached for a bottle, uncorked it, and poured himself a liberal glass.

Chapter Text

II.

Grantaire was greeted the following morning by a vicious headache and a sharp knock at his door. Cursing under his breath, he rose, staggering into his shirt and trousers as he made his way to the threshold, noting from the angle at which the slatted beams of light cast across the floor that it was a few hours before noon. He opened it to the unexpected vision of Enjolras, looking even more dishevelled than the previous day, his hair uncombed and the white strip of his shirt visible beneath his waistcoat, where he had neglected to tuck it fully out of sight. He carried no coat, only his hat clutched loosely in one hand. Grantaire blinked the sleep from his eyes as he straightened up, smoothing his own shirt front compulsively as he spoke:

"Cupid of the sixth arrondissement, twice in as many days you grace my chambers with your presence, to what do I owe the honour?" His voice sounded rough to his own ears.

"Did I wake you? You were an inordinately long time in answering." Enjolras peered around the door frame, past Grantaire, as though seeking evidence of company, or a long night at the bottle.

Grantaire saw no gain in denial: "It is a little before my customary hour, though I am unsurprised to learn that you rise with the sun." Grantaire looked closer at Enjolras's countenance as he spoke, and noted with surprise the dark circles under his eyes, purple shadows complicating the smooth surface with colour. "You do not appear to have had a restful night, however." Grantaire noted, too, the sweat on his brow, the parched appearance of his lips, and the red flush to the top of his otherwise pallid cheeks.

Enjolras drew his bottom lip between his teeth, wetting it with the tip of his tongue as he did so, and glanced around Grantaire's room once more, before at last meeting his gaze. "It is unbearable," he answered, finally, sounding as exhausted as he appeared.

"Am I to take it you come seeking another serving of my hospitality?" Grantaire raised an eyebrow, affecting an air of disinterest.

"Indeed, if it would not inconvenience you to provide it," Enjolras replied, seeming as indifferent as Grantaire aimed to, though he did at least have the decency to add a belated, "please," to the request.

Grantaire considered turning him away; making an excuse of having something far more important to do than sit in his empty room, trying to pull inspiration out of the ether to finish one of his many half-completed paintings, or, more likely, going out for a late breakfast of oysters and wine, and spending the rest of the day in much the same state as he'd ended the previous one. Then Enjolras shifted, brushing his sweat-damp hair away from his forehead, a movement that drew attention to the ink stains on his sleeve, and Grantaire became aware of the tension in his posture. His inability to focus – the precious time he could be spending chipping away at the obstacles that stood between mankind and its glorious future wasted, due to the weakness of his own flesh – must be maddening to him. Grantaire felt suddenly merciful at the realisation, and not at all because the motion had drawn equal attention to how the slightly glazed look to his eyes only made them seem a brighter blue.

"Come in." Grantaire stepped aside, and Enjolras dipped his head in thanks as he passed, striding into Grantaire's chambers as though they were as familiar as those of an old friend, despite never having set foot in them before the previous afternoon.

"It is appreciated," he said absently as he took his seat at the writing desk, no longer looking at Grantaire, and pulled a fresh sheet of paper out of the drawer. The inkwell was already in position, where Grantaire had not troubled himself to tidy it away.

"What's mine is yours, chief; that is how societies such as yours work, is it not?"

Enjolras, already dipping his pen in the inkwell, did not seem to hear him.

Grantaire, still slow from sleep, left him to his thoughts. He retreated to the privacy of his living area and busied himself with his toilette, pouring the lukewarm water from the pitcher into the basin and splashing it onto his face, then reaching for a cloth with which to dry himself. As he did so, he caught sight of his own reflection in the round central panel of the folding mirror of his washstand. His chin was rough with several days' worth of stubble, his cheeks reddened with dozens of tiny broken capillaries, his features bloated and his eyes faintly bloodshot from too much drink and too little sleep. His forehead bore near permanent creases, and his cheeks sagged. Taken together, the picture was not a pleasant one. Grantaire gave his reflection a brief, disdaining inspection, before looking away in disgust, adjusting the angle of the right hand panel so he would not have to witness himself in it also. 

Grantaire glanced at it, now that it no longer faced him, and found instead a reflection of the dark wood of the screen, and, past it, the back of Enjolras's head, bright even in the dull light where the shutters were still drawn, hunched over the desk; his curls matted at the crown, evidence of his restless night, the sides wilder, giving the impression of wind and motion, rendered still and permanent by a sculptor's hands. Enjolras shifted, dipping his pen in the inkwell again, the loose fabric of his sleeve brushing against the still-wet ink on the page as he did so, smudging it and adding another stain to the collection at his wrist.

Grantaire, in sudden awareness of his own inactivity, folded both side-panels of the mirror closed, and set about finding a clean shirt instead.

As he dressed, Grantaire's idle thoughts turned to the subject of where Enjolras's current home was. He presumed it was not far from here: Grantaire lived near to the Musain, and, aside from himself, Enjolras was usually among the last of their friends to depart, even when they had resolved the political discussion of the day and let the candles burn low, as high minded discourse descended into companionable ribaldry, suggesting he, too, did not live far from its doors. 

He attempted to picture what Enjolras's apartment might look like, and found it a difficult task. He would have books, that much was certain, and somewhere to work; a writing desk like Grantaire's own. But aside from the paraphernalia of his politics, Grantaire struggled to fill in the rest of the image. His bed was probably a sad, procrustean thing; too short for his long limbs and certainly too small for company. He doubted Enjolras owned an armchair. Did he own any trinkets or sentimental objects; relics of his childhood in the midi? If he did, Grantaire could not imagine what they might be. He had never heard Enjolras speak fondly of anything, save the abstract, idealised notion of France, the Republic, Rousseau and the rights of man. 

Grantaire's own room was comfortable, well-equipped for its meagre size, furnished in dark wood and rich-toned textiles, but closer scrutiny revealed cracks in the plaster that covered the walls, and patches where the paint flaked away from the ceiling – evidence of past water damage. His chamber was situated at one corner of a small, three-sided courtyard, populated by a single horse-chestnut tree: one window facing inward and the other facing a narrow, little-used alley, meaning much of the noise of the street did not reach him and casting it partially in shade while the sun was at its highest. The pleasant result was that his rooms were never unbearably hot in summer, with the adverse side-effect of rendering it particularly frigid in the depths of winter.

The property in which he resided had formerly belonged to the church; following its confiscation by the Constituent Assembly of 1789, his land lady's father had purchased all three buildings for a very reasonable sum. It had since fallen into disrepair, its location and condition falling out of favour with tenants who could pay well, necessitating the conversion of its apartments to house as many as its size could accommodate. Its current proprietress was a Madame Miette: amiable, capable of being stern, and willing to ignore much of what occurred within her domain, as long as the rent was paid as agreed.  

Grantaire, having dressed, gathered together a breakfast consisting of a bowl of leftover bread and a glass of weak red wine. He glanced at Enjolras as he rounded the screen, confirming that he had not imagined his presence in a false awakening: a dream within a dream in which his subconscious had manifested him to torment Grantaire further, in waking to solitary disappointment. Enjolras appeared wholly absorbed in his task; Grantaire opened the shutters, took his seat behind his canvas, and poured a little of the wine into the bowl to soften the hard husk of the stale loaf.

He examined his previous day's work as he ate: the background, a stone column, after the imitations in the Galerie des Antiques, and a velvet curtain that currently hung on the opposite wall, neared completion. The figure in the centre: a woman in a chiton, clutching a jug in one hand and a cup in the other, offering it to the viewer with an aloof, slightly coy expression that befitted its sitter but not its narrative, was formed of light and shade, but lacking in colour.    

Hecuba pouring a libation in order to offer it to Priam – or Hector, the client did not specify - a dignified scene that should be rich with constrained emotion: with Hecuba's concern for the outcome of the war at their doorstep. A fraught prelude to her later fates, as a slave to Odysseus; her despair at the loss of her children, or, later still, if Euripides's foreshadowing bore fruit, Cynossema: a bitch's grave, cursed to bark like a dog before her fall. Grantaire had attempted to prise a little of the logic behind the request out of his client, but his disinterest in the subject had been plain. Had the wife requested it? He had met her only briefly to sketch a preliminary likeness from which to begin the final piece, and it seemed unwise to ask in her husband's presence. He supposed it was possible, though to identify herself with a figure that would endure such tragedy only raised further questions. An arrangement had been made to have her sit for him again, so he could complete the finishing touches from life; perhaps they would be alone then, and he could sate his curiosity. 

As Grantaire applied the first layer of colour – French Ultramarine, a poor man's lapis lazuli – he began to hum a lively tune, at first unconsciously, only becoming aware that he had begun to voice lyrics to match it – "gens à pamphlets, à couplets, changez en gobelets vos larges écritoires" – when the accompanying scrape of Enjolras sharpening his pen nib ceased.

"I wish you would sing something else." Enjolras's words were clipped, bordering on vexed.

"Would you prefer something more rousing? Ah! ça ira, ça ira –"  Grantaire affected a half-hearted raising of his fist in emphasis.

Enjolras raised a dismissive hand in turn, gesturing him into silence. After a pause, he looked to Grantaire in seriousness and added, "You have a pleasant voice, yet you waste it on ridicule." Noticing the bowl of wine-soaked scraps at Grantaire's side, his nose wrinkled in further distaste, as he asked, "Do you truly mean to eat that?"

"Do not disparage what you have not experienced," Grantaire answered, bringing a particularly sodden husk to his lips as he watched Enjolras watch him in turn, his disdain perfectly legible in his features. "It is fairly unpleasant, incidentally," he added, having swallowed.

Enjolras appeared as though he wished to voice further commentary, but, meeting Grantaire's expression of open challenge, thought better of it, and turned his attention back to his task.

In time, Grantaire began to hum a different melody, the lyrics long forgotten: one that carried the shape of long, low green valleys amidst wide, rolling hills. Enjolras's scraping halted again, but he did not speak, or glance at him, until Grantaire had finished of his own accord.

"My Grandmother used to sing that," Enjolras supplied, absently.

"I believe I knew it as a child," Grantaire considered, "though, I no longer recall the words that went with it."

"Nor I." Enjolras sat quiet for a moment, wearing a distant, thoughtful expression, before dipping his pen in the inkwell once more.

-

Grantaire had assumed Enjolras's request to be an anomaly: a freak occurrence born of desperation in last resort, to be remedied with a more agreeable solution as quick as he could arrange one. Yet the heat did not abate, and Enjolras's visits continued, entwining their routines in a strange holding pattern that lasted several weeks. Grantaire would wake to a knock at his door; upon answering find Enjolras, in some state of disarray, each time wearing the same, absent-minded, inconvenienced expression. 

By the fifth day, they had dispensed with the ceremony of pleasantries entirely; Enjolras simply nodded in greeting, and Grantaire, still somnolent, would gesture his permission to enter. Enjolras would set to work, and Grantaire would tiptoe around him, allowing himself a limited supply of surreptitious, appreciative glances, until he felt alert enough to begin his own toil. 

What little conversation they shared was stiff, but civil enough. With no audience to play to; no pressing concerns to steal Enjolras away to share hushed tidings in a distant corner, Grantaire was almost content, basking in the simple certainty of his presence.

He had to admit, the boon to his productivity had been remarkable. He had near finished the commission – ahead of schedule, for once – and, in waiting for his appointment with the sitter to complete it, turned his attention to some of the other unfinished canvases that had littered his apartment for months. If having a beautiful, taciturn, golden haired muse attend his chambers was the secret to artistic motivation, he was grateful for it. He had sought it in darker avenues in the past: in substances that coddled him in warmth, and washed away his cares. A temporary solution, and one that did not come without cost. In comparison, the ache of Enjolras's absence in the dark hours between his terse goodnights and the dawn he seemed to drive before him as a chariot was almost pleasant.   

Grantaire could not explain to himself why Enjolras held such a draw for him. He had been – in some ignored, cobweb-ridden corner of his psyche – dimly aware of it before, though the notion that it might bear examination was a new realisation, brought on by the sense, whenever Enjolras departed, that he had misplaced something significant, and noticed only in its absence. 

Grantaire regarded him, sat in his shirt-sleeves: an affectation Enjolras had adopted once the first week had passed, abandoning propriety for the sake of comfort. Grantaire in turn had taken to answering the door in a similarly half-dressed state; he could hardly fault Enjolras for discounting him as polite company. He was pretty, that much required little comment: the glances he drew in any public forum, from women and men alike, were testimony enough, and as an artist Grantaire's appreciation of beauty was more finely honed than most, but he was not the only rosy, golden-haired youth in Paris. 

Not a youth, Grantaire reminded himself, despite the time spent in closer quarters revealing no evidence to the contrary. They were much the same age, if his mathematics were correct, though Grantaire's own features had not fared well. His own doing, naturally: he had not treated his body with kindness. His features bore constant evidence of his drinking habits, and the rest of his skin was marred by the evidence of his physical pursuits: scars on his knuckles from boxing, his nose crooked where it had been broken by an opponent's misplaced blow at savate, and again in an alley behind a particularly disreputable establishment, along with dozens of other scars of which he barely remembered the origins. Any roguish appeal he might once have been able to lay tenuous claim to had long expired.

Yet Grantaire's need for Enjolras was more akin to the need he felt, upon waking after a night at the bottle, to crack open another. His presence grounded him, levelled him, and made him feel like a less world-weary iteration of himself once more. To know that a creature of such pure faith as Enjolras could exist in this cynical, undeserving world was welcome challenge to Grantaire's own lack of belief. His upright, candid nature served as anchor to Grantaire's ever shifting-foundations; his unassailable virtue a stark, bright exception to Grantaire's inability to reconcile the evidence of his experience with the notion that mankind held any inherent goodness. Men like Enjolras belonged in books: those of ancient history, once the uglier facets of reality had been dulled by a forgiving editorial hand, or in poetry; in myths and legends that were by design exemplary, idealised projections, their heroes far too perfect to be wrought of anything but paper and ink.  

If asked, Grantaire would state – without intent to deceive – that he sought nothing more than friendship: a mutual regard between equals, pure and egalitarian. That he harboured darker urges – the urge to grasp, to soil, to expose what must surely be finely-carved flesh to his grubby hands and leave fingerprints all over it – was merely an unconscious reaction to the vast gulf of convictions that separated them. A simple fault within his own sickly, spineless nature that urged him, when confronted with Enjolras's firm, unflinching belief, to damage him, as he defaced anything he touched – to tarnish him with the same dirt that clung to the rest of the sordid, sinful mass that was humanity in its natural state.   

He had considered it, on occasion. Not in Enjolras's presence – he could correct himself enough to maintain some veneer of respectability – but at night, when his chambers were devoid of company, he gave up the pretext of civility and let his thoughts wander where they would. Often, they brought only further darkness, to be chased away by liquor or the yields of the poppy. Sometimes, however, came images: phantasmic promises of sensation that stirred something unwholesome in his mind and body in turn.  

If he acted on them – which he did, more often than he should, weak-willed as he was – it left him feeling unclean, and oddly protective. The images of Enjolras: on his back or on his knees, his red lips surrounding Grantaire's prick, in place of his own hand – his release painting Enjolras's pale cheeks and chin with pearlescence, instead of his linen; honey-milk thighs circling Grantaire's hips, quivering as Grantaire moved inside him – his own hand closing tighter at the thought; blue eyes meeting his own, imbued with equal desire, brought momentary, gasping release, followed immediately by shame, and the urge to erase his imagined transgressions: to wash the evidence of it away with rosewater and gentle hands; to shroud his sacred flesh in fine silks; to kneel before him and spill an earnest stream of apologies at his feet, like a devout man redacting temptation over the worn beads of a rosary.

Enjolras's professed lack of interest in all matters of the flesh only heightened the guilt, despite his own scepticism of it. Though he did not believe Enjolras to be entirely without sin, he certainly believed him without sinful thoughts pertaining to his own person.

If Cupid had struck him with an arrow of gold, he had surely struck Enjolras with an arrow of lead.

-

His client's home was a square, white-washed two-story building, occupying one corner of a small, manicured private garden. The street outside seemed unnaturally clean, its buildings too new to have attracted the familiar layer of filth that clung to most of Paris's habitations. One wall of the upstairs parlour in which he sat was dominated by an extravagantly large window, overlooking the garden and providing ample light for his work. For all its affected grandeur, the end result was similar to that of a greenhouse, capturing the sun's heat and rendering their lavishly equipped surroundings stiflingly hot, despite the season being long past its peak. Grantaire sympathised with Enjolras's predicament: it was intolerable.

His subject, dressed in an approximation of a chiton of pale, slightly transparent indigo silk, stood opposite his easel, pitcher and cup in hand, looking disinterested and vaguely inconvenienced.

It had not taken him long to discern the probable cause for the insult. His client's wife, this time unaccompanied by her husband, had proved perfectly charming, greeting him warmly and offering him wine as he set out his pigments and began mixing the first of them with linseed oil, readying his palette. Grantaire had accepted the wine with gratitude, it was of mediocre quality, but better than the cheap swill he was accustomed to, and began adding the final layers of colour to her painted counterpart's clothing and features.

Then she had begun to converse, at first expressing interest in his work; his studies; his passions as an artist; if she perhaps knew any of the other clients he had painted for, and other such pleasantries. Grantaire answered those he could with cautious enthusiasm – he did not care enough to recall many of his past client's names – but it quickly became apparent, from her increasingly superficial responses, that she was not truly interested in his replies.

Then she had voiced her proposition: 'Would it aid Grantaire to capture the likeness of her form, if she were to remove the chiton?' in tones that positively dripped with implications.

The suggestion was not without precedent: more than one commission had found him the subject of advances by the unfulfilled wife or curious adult daughter of his patron, attracted, no doubt, by the romance and novelty of his profession; the edge of rebellion that attached itself to his reputation, in the eyes of those too conventional to consider it a career, as ordinary as any other, but Grantaire did not mix business with pleasure. He had learnt that particular lesson long ago.

He politely declined, appealing to her vanity with flattery: 'He couldn't possibly focus on his work if faced with such a lovely distraction,' while the image of Enjolras's glorious profile lingered in the back of his mind. In actuality, he merely wanted to be paid the rest of his due and leave; an outcome significantly less likely to occur if her husband came home and found his wife in bed with the beneficiary of his patronage.

If Grantaire had not been born a cynic, his job would have made him one. The insight into his client's private lives his trade had given him had served only to further prove his long held theory that any two people, if bound by the legal constraints of marriage, entangled in its subsequent codependency, were destined only to make each other miserable in time.   

The wealthy, in his particular experience, were frequently awful to one another, but money soothed all but the deepest of wounds. Grantaire, an outsider, who made his trade only by his reputation and the dubious artistic credentials his education granted him, would be afforded no such forgiveness.

He completed his work with little further conversation, his subject placated and resigned to indifference. On being presented with the finished work, the client had merely nodded, before gesturing for a member of his household staff to find somewhere unobtrusive to hang it once dry enough to be varnished, and handing Grantaire his dues without enthusiasm. 

Grantaire couldn't blame him: the painting was dross.

He returned home, to eat a solitary supper acquired on his way home, along with an intoxicant of a more potent nature than wine. 

-

The next morning, Enjolras had resumed his usual seat. Grantaire had been particularly slow on this occasion to rouse to his presence; Enjolras had glanced at him a little longer than usual, his brow knitting into a frown at whatever evidence of Grantaire's evening he had found in his features. 

Now, Enjolras was in full, silent flow, and Grantaire was picking at his food and staring, unseeing, at a blank page in his sketchbook, unable to find reason to blemish its uniform surface with his talentless scribblings. 

He must have remained still for some time, for when Enjolras put down his pen – the sound of its scratching suddenly ceasing – the sun was at its highest in the sky, and Enjolras was regarding him with something resembling concern.

"Is something troubling you?" Enjolras asked, the sudden interruption to Grantaire's spiralling thoughts reeling him back into the present.

"Oh –" Grantaire gaped at him momentarily, his mind slow in responding to the reminder that he had company: "Nothing."

Enjolras's gaze was sceptical, and prompted him to elaborate. Grantaire did so, relaying an abridged, self-abasing version of the tale. Enjolras's features remained impassive as he spoke, but the corners of his mouth folded in distaste as he neared its conclusion. 

"Petty nonsense," Enjolras offered in succinct assessment.

"To whom would you address that appraisal, the husband or the wife?" Grantaire asked, smirking at the bluntness of Enjolras's dismissal. It was amusing, to hear him pass judgement on something so mundane; he so rarely expressed an opinion on anything less worthy of profound discussion than la Charte, or Bonaparte's crimes.

"Both," Enjolras answered, his tone grave, like that of a doctor prescribing the removal of a limb.

"Do continue," Grantaire urged, in delight.

"It is improper to allow a private quarrel to infringe upon a public transaction, particularly when the disagreement is over something so vapid. There is no shortage of far worthier concerns to occupy oneself with." Enjolras regarded him seriously; Grantaire stifled a chuckle at his words. 

"That is an indictment on the very institution of marriage if I have ever heard one! What should man and wife disagree over, if not each other's conduct?" Grantaire, his troubles momentarily forgotten, affected the casual sprawl he so often adopted in the backroom of the Musain, his posture itself open invitation to a battle of wills. "What would you have couples argue over the dinner table? The social contract? The extent to which Louis-Philippe resembles a pear?"

"I would have all citizens consider the will of the people their concern."

"Ha!" Grantaire barked out the harsh laugh he had been holding for some time. "Your idea of sweet-talk is gauche, little Hippolytus; you will never woo a woman with those words. You are fortunate that celibacy suits you."

"I am not interested in marriage."

"Wisdom at last; marriage is either a transaction of economic convenience, or a means of salvaging the consequences of a lapse in judgement. A couple may be happy with the former; they might sit silently in their armchairs while both grow older and uglier, if they are polite enough to ignore each other's emissions. The latter are doomed to make each other miserable, once the blinkers of youthful ardency are removed and their libidos have relinquished them to the tedium of middle-age."

"Combeferre has been impressing upon me the plight of women whose husbands abandon their families; he tells me many of those who solicit in the Palais-Royal do so because they and their children would go hungry if they did not." Enjolras replied, his words stilted, in a manner that made it clear he was parroting words that were not his own. "He would argue it is not a convenience, but a duty. Either way, I want no part in it."

"I happen to know several whores who are perfectly content; their moans might be false and their flattery is certainly hollow, but a purse that rattles with coin is fair recompense for a little pretence," Grantaire challenged. "No doubt our friend means well, but do not assume your pity will be gratefully received, o benevolent archangel. Save your heart's blood for those who might mourn its spending."

Enjolras, the set of his features turning disdainful at the rapidly declining quality of the conversation, let his lip curl in distaste at Grantaire's maundering, before turning back to his writing, presenting his lovely profile once more. 

Grantaire, his challenge unaccepted, felt the hot air that had propelled him into speech dissipate, leaving him limp and deflated; a sad, solitary leather glove lying trampled in the dust. He turned his attention back to his sketchbook, twirling the nub of charcoal in his fingers as he pondered its application. 

Inevitably – inexorably – he found his eyes drawn to Enjolras once more.

"Can I draw you?" he asked, on impulse.

"If you do so in silence," Enjolras replied, without interrupting the flow of his hand across the page.

Grantaire considered his subject, taking Enjolras's acquiescence as tacit permission to regard him openly: he appeared a little less dishevelled, and a little more himself, than he had at his first visitation. 

Then, he had materialized at Grantaire's door as a shade of the man he knew, pallid and rankled. Now his skin had regained some of its usual colour; still pale, but lit with warmth from within like the polished bronze of a lantern. His shirt was clean, and freshly pressed, billowing stiffly out from the waistband of his trousers, checked only by the wide strips of his braces. His eyes, however, remained dulled, where normally their brightness spoke of the clarity of his purpose, his passion gleaming in them like the blue hyacinthus gemstones of legend. Now, their colour seemed flat; a haphazard wash of pigment, lacking the delicate highlights necessary to give a semblance of life, and the bruise-like shadows beneath remained. 

His posture, too, was less than purposeful; he rested his elbow against the desk, supporting his head with fingers that threaded loosely into his hair, with a lassitude that suggested he would do better to rest his head on the table instead and have done with it.

The wider image was, naturally, still exquisite. Enjolras, even sleep-deprived and quiescent, was ever a prepossessing sight. The prospect of attempting to do justice in committing his likeness to the page was an intimidating one. Grantaire studied his model at length, and in time began the attempt.

By the time Grantaire was willing to declare his work finished, the sun was at his back, and the empty complaint of his stomach declared it was near time for supper.

The end result was quite charming: its cameo composition and Enjolras's attic profile lending it a regal, timeless quality, reminiscent of a portrait lifted from the face of an ancient coin, given greater realism by the careful shading; the gilt of his hair and sweet, arcuate form of his mouth highlighted in lighter chalk, softening his austere beauty into something a little less forbidding. 

The Enjolras of Grantaire's creation was warm, but lifeless; without the convictions that burned inside him, it was only a superficial likeness, a shallow imitation. He had been correct in his assumption that the blazing essence of Enjolras burned too bright, in too many colours to capture in such a form. Enjolras was a firebrand; what Grantaire had made little more than pretty kindling.

Still, Grantaire intended to keep it. He did not feel the usual compulsion that came in assessing his own sketches: to tear it out, and throw it on the fire.

"Have you tried the chicken at la mère Saguet?" he questioned, venturing at last to break the silence between them.

"Pardon?" Enjolras, his focus slow to release him, turned to him with a frown. 

"Food, Enjolras; it is evening, and neither of us has eaten since breakfast. The ambrosia of your fury at the state of your homeland may be enough to sustain you. I, however, am but a mere mortal; I require sustenance of a much more tangible nature. I was suggesting dinner." Grantaire made the offer in absolute certainty of Enjolras's refusal, but – buoyed by his continued, quiet presence – felt it worth venturing. He was a man riddled with inconsistency; one who needed little cause or reason to abandon any pursuit that seemed difficult or uninspiring, save only where Enjolras was concerned. His desire to ingratiate himself into Enjolras's circle of intimacy was a well that never ran dry. In being rebuffed by him, he would honour a fleeting retreat, only to return to the charge with greater abandon. He barely felt the need to lick his wounds these days.

"Dinner?" Enjolras appeared surprised, though not as displeased as Grantaire had expected. His answer came quick enough that he could not have given it any serious consideration: "No, thank you, I will wait."

"But you have eaten?" As Enjolras had turned to face him once more, Grantaire had noted again the pallor of his features and the listless manner of his speech. He had been so focused on his work that he had barely shifted in his seat as Grantaire had studied him. Ideal, to have a model that could hold their pose without complaint, but concerning when coupled with his uncharacteristic lethargy of the past few weeks. His stillness befitted the carved quality of his form, but seemed to weigh heavy on the soul. Perhaps it did, and Grantaire had simply never been privy to it before, held at arm's length with a white-gloved hand.

"Earlier," Enjolras answered, and turned his attention back to the page.

"There is a little stale bread and some apples in that cupboard," Grantaire pressed, gesturing in indication, "or a passable café three doors down, if you would prefer I fetch something more appetizing to eat here."

"I am fine," Enjolras dismissed, half-heartedly.

"I will be some time…" Grantaire did not wish to be an ungracious host, but the thought of poulets à la crapaudine had only made the matter of his empty stomach feel more pressing. 

"I am not hungry; I will finish my article, then see myself out." 

"Madame Miette will see to the locks if you ask, I will tell her she may permit you entry, should you change your mind." Grantaire rose, disappearing behind the screen to don more suitable attire. He wavered by the door on his way out, hat in hand, but Enjolras merely waved in dismissal. 

As he had his hand on the latch, Enjolras spoke again, his tone managing some semblance of vigour: "Grantaire, thank you."

Grantaire, caught off-guard, tipped his hat to him as he departed, attempting to ignore the warm, content feeling that had bloomed in his chest. 

-

With dinner had, naturally, come wine. Grantaire was merry enough on his return that he hummed the drinking song that Enjolras had taken previous – for once unintended – offense to on his way up the stairs. His assent was easy; he had been so absorbed in drawing Enjolras that he was vastly behind schedule, his feet obedient where he would often return staggering.

His door gave him no trouble, but he fumbled with the lamp, the light of the corridor illuminating little of his room. When he had succeeded in lighting it, its radiance beat back the shadows and fell upon something bright.

His heart jolted, shock freezing him briefly in place with one hand on the latch.

Enjolras was asleep at the desk, his gold, tousled head resting on folded arms, his face turned towards the window; the shutters were still open, but the moon provided little gloomy light. The white of his shirt was vivid against its backdrop.

The sickly horror of seeing something where he had expected nothing, like a humanoid shadow glimpsed in the corner of his vision that vanished when he tried to fix his gaze on it, was replaced with a pang of indefinable longing, and a warm flood of affection, when Enjolras's ghost proved to be nothing of the sort.

Grantaire approached quietly, torn between waking him, sending him on his way after assuaging – or encouraging – his embarrassment, or letting him sleep; the shadows beneath his eyes that Grantaire had omitted from his sketch evidence of how sorely he needed it.

The page beneath his crossed forearms was almost full, and almost entirely illegible; what little of his hand Grantaire could decipher was predictable in its substance, but shocking in its incoherence: the meandering subordinate clauses, more befitting Grantaire's prolix speeches than Enjolras's carefully composed pamphlets, muddying his normally candid prose, and several of his verbs were in disagreement with their subjects. It was far from his finest work.

Grantaire made his decision; placed a tentative, reverent hand on his shoulder. At first, Enjolras did not stir, so deep in exhausted sleep that Grantaire's cautious contact did not reach him. The soft linen of his shirt was warm to Grantaire's touch; Grantaire squeezed his shoulder gently through it, expecting to feel the resistance of hard stone, but the surface yielded a little in his grasp. Grantaire rubbed his thumb gently over the raised edge of his shoulder blade, and Enjolras stirred at last, the eye that wasn't concealed in the cradle of his arms opening to reveal a lazy sliver of blue, almost fluttering closed again several times, before at last finding Grantaire's troubled features.

"Endymion, are you well?" Grantaire asked, concern knitting his brow; this was unlike him, or at least wildly incongruous to Grantaire's image of him. "Has Selene attempted to claim you for her own? I did not expect to find you here, yet here you are, with sleep upon you – o magic sleep! O comfortable bird… I should thank whoever's work it was if they have granted you eternity…" Grantaire's speech trailed, as Enjolras's unfixed eye cleared.

Raising his head slowly, his voice rough and uncharacteristically meek, Enjolras met Grantaire's anxious gaze with an uneasy look of his own, and spoke: "Sorry. I am exhausted." 

"That is quite evident." Grantaire, in seeing Enjolras awake and chagrined, felt the familiar urge to conceal his worries with discord and derision, but something in Enjolras's sleep-ruffled features gave him pause. There was a long, jagged crease running down his left cheek: an impression left by a fold in the fabric of his sleeve, and his hair was noticeably wilder on the same side. Yet still, Grantaire caught himself staring, entranced by the softness in his normally hard gaze, and the slight part to his lips; his jaw unfirmed by wakeful resolve. "You may sleep longer –" Grantaire began, before he had fully considered what he meant to offer, "– take the bed, if you like."

"What time is it?" Enjolras sat up with a start, his features solidifying into the beginnings of wakefulness at last. Grantaire, realising he had not released his grip on Enjolras's shoulder, withdrew his hand in haste.

"Late, but well before the hour at which I habitually attempt sleep; rest a little in comfort, before you return home?" he suggested.

Enjolras glanced around the room, taking in the long shadows cast by the meagre glow of the lamp; the dark shape of the horse chestnut tree at the window, a twisted silhouette against an inky sky. Behind it, the moon was little more than a distant, pale half-sphere, its glow lent a greenish tint by the thin cloud that half concealed it. In the dim light, Enjolras's pale features held the diffuse glow of warm candle-wax.

He dipped his head in a slow, weary nod, and rose. Grantaire used the lamp to light a second; handed it to him, and watched his sylphlike form vanish behind the screen.

It was too dark to paint, without filling the room with an excessive amount of candles by which to mix his colours, but he could sketch; the harsh contrast of charcoal on unbleached paper would be visible enough with the lamp at his side. Sleep did not come easily to Grantaire, unless he had drunk himself into a stupor. He had not, and so required something with which to occupy himself until physical exhaustion overruled his unwilling mind. 

He closed the shutters, settled into his seat, and began sketching, from his mind's eye, the outline of a figure, with little thought to who or what he meant to depict. His hand worked almost of its own volition, as Grantaire's troubled thoughts turned to vague, uneasy concern at Enjolras strange, unprecedented fallibility. It was easier to believe his presence to be a mirage, the product of Grantaire's own compulsive imagining, than to believe Enjolras had erred; had succumbed to some hitherto inevident human fragility. 

When at last he felt physically depleted enough to attempt sleep, he set aside the charcoal, and inspected the finished sketch: two figures, a man and a woman, both small and of indistinct features, against the background of a shadowy forest. The man lay on the forest floor, in deepest slumber. The woman hung above him in the sky; a lunate crown adorned her brow and a robe of fine cloth billowed about her graceful form. His fingers were blackened, where he had used them to blend the thin wisps of cloud above them and the murky, opaque shapes of the forest floor.  

He rose, bringing the lamp with him, and headed for his washstand. 

As he rounded the screen, its light fell upon Enjolras's sleeping form. He lay on Grantaire's bed, his back to the source of light, curled on his side and still clad in his shirt and trousers. 

He was profoundly still. In the light of day, there was always something of the sculptural in the way he carried himself, but in the gloom of Grantaire's chamber, he seemed not even to draw breath. The sight conjured in Grantaire's thoughts the image of an alabaster relief adorning the lid of a tomb; white stone that gleamed in candlelight, bearing the idealised likeness of its occupant. Serene stone forms that, like the bones beneath, would sleep forever.

Grantaire felt momentarily compelled to lie down beside him; to circle him in his arms, feeling the warmth of his skin and the rise and fall of his chest, to reassure himself that there was life within him still. 

He brushed the foolish notion aside; yet, he did not have the heart to wake him. Instead, he set the lantern down by the basin; scrubbed the charcoal from his fingers before conducting the rest of his night-time toilette. 

He stripped to his own shirt and trousers, and settled into his armchair. It was significantly less comfortable than the bed, but it would serve. He had fallen asleep in it many times; bottle sliding out of his slackened grip and rolling across the floor as consciousness slipped from him, unperceived. 

He gave Enjolras's motionless form one last glance; he still appeared static and immovable, but in closer proximity Grantaire could hear the faint, reassuring whisper of his breathing. 

He extinguished the lamp, and closed his eyes.

When he woke the next morning – a crick in his neck and an ache in his shoulder from the awkward angle of his posture – Enjolras was gone, vanished like the fleeting spirit he had seemed. But there was evidence of his presence in Grantaire's tidied bed; Enjolras had made far neater work of it than Grantaire had ever cared to. 

When Grantaire rose stiffly from the chair and lay down on it, to sleep another hour or so in comfort, there was a faint, sweet smell to his pillow, quite different to his own.

Chapter Text

L’automne 

I.

Grantaire mourned the passing of summer, even as it waned, the days growing slowly shorter and cooler; the branches of the horse chestnut tree at his window began to bear fruit, growing round and plump and an ever-more vibrant shade of green as they ripened: a signal of the approaching Autumn. Undoubtedly, its departure would leave Enjolras without cause to brighten his bleak chambers with his presence, his own no longer so intolerable that he sought to escape them. 

Yet to Grantaire's perplexed delight, his visits did not end. Enjolras returned to his bright-enamelled, unfaltering self as soon as the heat had abated, yet Grantaire's position in his orbit seemed to have shifted; from the spare, unwanted piece of flotsam that circled his centre at a polite distance, to something a little less superfluous. Though never explicitly desired, Grantaire's meagre offerings had not been met with the divine displeasure he might have anticipated. 

Enjolras's visits became less frequent: perhaps once, twice a week, a night at the Musain would leave him inspired and desiring action, too full of ideas for sleep, and he would put passion to the page instead. 'Grantaire's quarters were closest; it was logical to make use of them', Enjolras had suggested, and Grantaire – drunk, but not insensible –  had derided Enjolras's stilted attempts at sweet talk by way of agreement, while his heart hammered in his chest in relief.    

"We shall have to buy more candles," Grantaire commented, off-hand, on one such occasion. He often worked by candlelight in the depths of winter, when the days were at their shortest and natural light was fleeting and insufficient, but Enjolras regularly worked much later into the night than Grantaire would commonly choose to. Grantaire had worked alongside him, lest Enjolras take his inactivity as a suggestion that he had grown tired of company; that Enjolras might be outstaying his welcome. Grantaire would not have him depart a moment sooner than he wished to; would not have him depart at all, in truth, if the matter was his to decide. 

"I've spare," Enjolras replied, pen still flitting across the page, "I shall bring them. I have not been using them as often since –" Enjolras stilled, in motion and in speech, as the end to his train of thought gave him pause.

"That would be kind of you," Grantaire said, in tones that were deliberately casual. 

Enjolras remained still for a moment, long enough that Grantaire expected him to say more; to recognise the peculiar domestic pattern they had stumbled into and wrench it into the light, laid bare in the naming of it. Grantaire did not wish to speak of it; was frightened that, in doing so, they would break the spell that seemed to have bound them, ineffably, into this precious, quiet routine, and he would find himself unmoored, without Enjolras's adamant certainty to give form to the days, weeks, months that often slipped by him in a haze of wine and smoke and doubt.  

He had grown too comfortable, and too content with their current circumstance; that the delicate house of cards they had built together would come crashing down was inevitable, but he would not topple it with his own hand, if he could control himself.

"It is no trouble," Enjolras said at last, and the scratching of his pen resumed. 

-

The first time Enjolras's familiar knock came in the mid-afternoon, his presence was unanticipated, and for once found Grantaire occupied. 

"Ah, Enjolras," Grantaire feigned ignorance of his caller as he answered; he knew the sound by instinct now. If the rap of knuckles on wood could convey indifference and terse pleasantries, Enjolras's achieved it. "Perhaps now is not the best time…" Grantaire hesitated, the door open only a sliver.

"Do you have company? I can go elsewhere," Enjolras replied, his features impassive; his form a fine, impeccable column of well-kept clothing, topped by neatly combed hair. Grantaire wanted to reach up and coax the curls back into motion with his fingers. This tidy, tamed Enjolras – the very model of a diligent student, dressed to attend his lectures – unsettled him. The wild, passionate Enjolras of the backroom of the Musain, loose-collared and leonine in movement and appearance – his hair wild, his body a coiled spring of will and strength, seeking its object, ready to pounce – constrained by the veneer of respectability and conformity, seemed almost a stranger. Still, even a respectable, subdued Enjolras was a remarkable sight, and one that had Grantaire momentarily speechless.

"No – well, yes," he answered. The need to form an explanation for his hesitancy was pre-empted by a call from behind him.

"Is that Enjolras's exact tones I hear?" Courfeyrac's voice rang, loud enough to be heard by his unannounced guest. 

Enjolras expression changed to one of curiosity; his features brightening in recognition in a manner they never did for Grantaire. Grantaire gestured him inside with a flourish and a polite incline of the head that hid the bitter twist to his mouth, an unconscious response to the reminder of where he ranked in Enjolras's esteem.

Courfeyrac sat, beaming, on an approximation of a couch – in actuality an upside down bathtub, covered by a sheet and a few sad cushions – wearing only a chlamys: a wide cloak pinned at his right shoulder, artfully draped, the tail of it carefully positioned so that the final image could be presented as tasteful. 

Enjolras's eyebrows rose, the corners of his mouth quirking in amusement; yet his cheeks did not colour, as Grantaire might have hoped, if only to bear witness to it. Framing the scene, Courfeyrac had aided Grantaire in hanging several sheets of a thin, transparent cotton, in place of silk, and Grantaire had recruited his tableware as stand-ins for amphorae or goblets; a wooden tray in place of a shield. The windows were flung open, letting in a light breeze that caught and lifted the flowing fabric, adding motion to the tableau. The final scene was airy; rich in symbolism, but without opulence. 

"Welcome to Troy, come, play my Helen?" Courfeyrac offered with an easy smile.

"Absolutely not," Enjolras replied with finality, his tone softened by his own smile in return.

"While I've no doubt that Enjolras's fiery glance could burn the topless towers of Ilium –" Grantaire interjected, as he moved towards his chair, "– his stature is far too lofty to play your Helen; the composition would be imbalanced." Grantaire made a broad, abstract gesture with his hand that encompassed the scene before him, and Enjolras's disharmonious presence in it. "Jehan would be a more suitable fit, and require far less coercion to take the part." 

Courfeyrac spread his arms in a conciliatory gesture. Enjolras folded his own across his chest and looked between them with a seeking expression.

"What, exactly, have I intruded upon?" he asked, the after-image of a wry smile still present on his lips.

"Grantaire is enacting a small rebellion of his own, against the wisdom of the École and the judgement of Louis's hand-picked academy," Courfeyrac offered in explanation. "As both a friend and an avid dissenter, I am ever willing to help a dear fellow out."

"Particularly if it provides an excuse to get his own fellow out."

Courferyrac laughed, and conceded with a gesture that was half-shrug and half flourish, before offering further context: "I, currently, embody Paris, the man, but also Paris, that is to say, her people –"

"A juvenile and inelegant metaphor," Grantaire interrupted, as his cheeks began to colour. What had seemed like an uncomplicated yet amusing piece of satire when they had concocted it – the two of them, with Bahorel's enthusiastic encouragement – over shared wine and a hearty meal, now sounded hopelessly amateurish, laid out to be dissected by Enjolras's keen, discerning intellect. 

"You will have to enlighten me, it is not a part of the tale I recall well," Enjolras himself requested, his gaze shifting between them.

"A man and a populous, caught in a grand conflict between kings," Courfeyrac elaborated, when Grantaire made no immediate attempt to speak for himself. "Paris's abduction of Helen – or elopement, depending on the teller – was an act of love co-opted by a jealous, vengeful ruler as the justification for war, while all he wanted was to be free to fuck his fair maiden in peace." 

Grantaire glanced at Enjolras as Courfeyrac spoke; Enjolras was listening intently, brow creasing in the frown of concentration he often wore when his mind was pulling at the tangled threads of a knotted conversation.

"All the great kings of Achaea came to air their grievances against Troy, with Paris and his lady caught in the midst of it," Courfeyrac continued. His speech flowed with a natural ease that befitted his charming nature; he was more coherent in the telling of it than Grantaire might have been. "Paris was forced to turn his hand to battle, though he had little skill or desire for it. The battle was eventually won, but perhaps in truth it is more fair to say that everybody lost; Paris died and Helen was left to grieve for him, Priam lost all his sons, and Agamemnon was slain not long after he returned home. Even the victor is remembered less for his deeds and more for his hubris and lack of grace."

"But Paris was a prince," Enjolras's keen eye had spotted the first flaw, "yet you would have him represent the people?"

"Paris, though a king's son in truth, was raised by a herdsman as though he were his own child."

"You refused the red hat that would have highlighted that," Grantaire ceased watching the debate that had somehow descended upon his studio and entered the fray.

"It would not have worked with the set of my hair," Courfeyrac feigned affront.

"A crime and a tragedy in the making, no doubt," Enjolras responded, prompting a double-take from Grantaire: surely it could not have been Enjolras that had spoken with such insouciance? Enjolras fixed his gaze on him –  piercing and unflinching – and continued: "And you mean to exhibit the finished work at the next Salon?"

"Courfeyrac is imparting a more palatable impression of my motives than is accurate," Grantaire raised his hands in a gesture of pre-emptive guilt and gave a rueful smile. "Oh, it fits, but my initial intent in requesting he play the role of artist's model was much simpler: the idea of our dear Courfeyrac on the wall of such an illustrious institution, being admired as only his mother and his lovers should see him, by the has-been lickspittles of the jury – and perhaps even our upstart King himself – amused me." To Grantaire's amazement, Enjolras nodded at this, and, astoundingly, smirked. The expression spread across his features like a fissure in the surface of a frozen lake; a promise of unseen, mysterious depths beneath. 

Grantaire could not help but mirror it, then, realising he was staring, continued: "The censors can hardly find grounds to exclude it on content – though, quality is quite another matter. One must pander to the academy's tastes in order to have any hope of admission while the academicians still hold such sway within the jury." He made no attempt to quash the bitterness in his tone; it seemed he would never be rid of the formal constraints of his training, no matter how hard he tried to shirk them.

"An institute as corrupt as the rest of them in its current form," Courfeyrac offered in interpretation, speaking in concepts Enjolras was fluent in, "Louis-Phillipe used the Salon of 1831 to show what a good patron of the arts he is, and the brown-nosers amidst the establishment clamoured to welcome him in return."

"It would have made you ill," Grantaire said, with a nod to Enjolras in emphasis, "I daresay you'd have spit flames from your fine nostrils if you'd set eyes on it. All those works glorifying the trois glorieuses…" 

"I've never seen such elaborate flattery produced with so much efficiency," Courfeyrac agreed.

"Devéria's attempt was particularly sickening; I've never felt so dangerously close to having my principles offended before."

"What principles?" Enjolras, to this point glancing back and forth with the ebb in the tide of their conversation, cut through it with the accuracy of a well-manned trireme.

"Precisely," Grantaire flashed him a rictus half-grin, and resumed his seat at his canvas, the companionable mood shattered; the familiar footing of lofty disdain re-established.

"You never told me what became of your entry?" Courfeyrac pressed.

"Sold it, to some bourgeoisie banker," Grantaire replied, waving his hand in a gesture of dismissal.

"That is excellent," Courfeyrac beamed; Grantaire felt warmed by it, despite himself.

"I'm glad to be rid of it, it was an eyesore." 

The painting in question had been the product of one of his occasional flirtations with romanticism; a woman who had not quite been his mistress, reclining on his bed in only her stockings, her arms crossed behind her head, her fair curls unpinned and pooling beneath her like ribbons of gold. She had left him in pursuit of a worthier prize two weeks after the painting's completion; he had titled it 'Floréal' on submission, a graceless pun born of bitter, raw emotion and the desire to thumb his nose at the selection committee. The banker had been ungenerous in his offer for it, but at least he would never have to see it again. 

"As you are here, I had a letter I wished to discuss with you," Enjolras spoke; Grantaire did not look up from his canvas, the request so clearly directed at Courfeyrac. 

"One of Bahorel's love-letters?" Courfeyrac asked, suddenly serious.

"Indeed, this one from our friends in the Cougourde of Aix." Enjolras reached into his coat pocket and withdrew the folded letter, its seal already broken; he held it between two fingers and proffered it in Courfeyrac's direction.

Courfeyrac looked to Grantaire; "Might I interrupt our sitting for a moment?"

Grantaire gave a loose shrug, intended to communicate permission, and opened his sketchbook, flicking through it for the sketches he'd made in preparation. 

Courfeyrac wrapped the chlamys around his waist, gripping it in his fist against his hip to ensure that everything remained covered as he moved, doubtless for Enjolras's benefit: it was nothing Grantaire had not seen before. Enjolras took his seat at the desk; Courfeyrac lay an easy hand on his shoulder as he leaned in to study the letter in Enjolras's hands. 

Grantaire would not have predicted his studio's transformation into a war room, but perhaps he should have known better the moment Enjolras set foot in it: with the two of them present, it was almost inevitable. 

They kept their voices hushed as they dissected it, a habit against prying ears when discussing such matters outside the sheltering walls of the backroom of the Musain. Grantaire understood perhaps half of what they spoke of, but the half he did comprehend troubled him. 

When it became clear that single sheet of paper contained enough secrets that his model would be occupied for some time, Grantaire turned to an empty page and began to sketch the scene before him. 

The portrait was an intimate one: Enjolras pouring over the letter, radiant and animated in his excitement, with Courfeyrac beaming at his side; the familiar, comfortable affection with which his hand lingered on Enjolras's shoulder visible in the lack of tension in both their postures. Grantaire envied it, and not for the first time; Courfeyrac's warmth was indiscriminate, and so unmannered that it was impossible to resent him for it, but the ease with which he expressed it where Enjolras was concerned awakened something avaricious and unbecoming in Grantaire. He could not decide if he wished to ape it, or whether he wanted to slap his mortal hand away and place Enjolras on a cartouched pedestal, out of reach of all but the gods he ought to sit amongst.    

Upon recognizing the familiar onset of melancholy, Grantaire resigned himself to it; he reached for the half-empty bottle of eau de vie that stood nestled amongst the mismatched assortment of vessels that crowded the top of the nearby cabinet, and proceeded to sip from it as he sketched, letting their quiet, earnest conversation wash over him.  

Through the fog of his own self-loathing – the bitter clamour of thoughts and fears that threatened to drown him if he failed to drown them first – the meaning of their semi-coded speech became apparent in increments. One word in particular filtered through his inner turmoil, giving him pause and causing him to listen with more intent, hoping he had misheard – carabine.

"– in addition, eight to Saint-Martin, twelve to Saint-Antoine, have we enough?" Enjolras was listing names and numbers, making notes in the margins of the letter as he did so.

"Not at present, but in a few weeks perhaps, if all proceeds as planned."

"They will distribute, if we can supply?"

"Perhaps it would be safer to put them in contact directly? I dislike the notion of acting as middle men, when fewer links in the chain would mean fewer weak points," Courfeyrac questioned.

"Perhaps, but a single chain can be stronger than a web if well-wrought," Enjolras countered, in tones that suggested that, in his mind at least, the matter had already been resolved to his satisfaction. "A web is what we must strive for to ensure all hands are working towards the same goal, but it will slacken under the slightest strain if the individual threads are weak. We should help our allies in this, I think; a little goodwill extended now may grant us much in return later."

"Who would you cast as Hermes?" 

"I know a few men of Feuilly's mutual acquaintance that are honourable, and whom I believe capable of discretion..."

Grantaire's heart sank like a stone, then settled somewhere in the pit of his stomach, where it wallowed in the black bile that mixed poorly with the eau de vie and left him feeling nauseous and uneasy. He had no business eavesdropping on this particular conversation, its nature entirely business and morbidly serious, yet there was no turning aside, now that his mind had been set at the beginning of the familiar, sloping path to despair. 

He saw no possible end to their labours that would see them anywhere other than imprisoned, or dead, and for what? The image of them wasting away, incarcerated, ill and alone or being worked to death in chains, haunted his dreams as often as his waking thoughts. What a waste; there was so much life and potential in each of them, to see it squandered – 

"Ah, but I can see we are making tedious company for our host," Courfeyrac's bright voice cut through Grantaire's spiralling imaginings. He looked up from his abandoned sketch, to find Courfeyrac patting Enjolras on the shoulder with finality, and moving to resume his position at the centre of the picture's composition: "My apologies, friend, I am once again at your disposal."

"Don't let my fatuous whims trouble you," Grantaire croaked, coughing around a mouthful of the sharp liquor.

Courfeyrac returned to his former pose, fussing with the drape of the chlamys until it sat just so, and gradually succeeded in drawing Grantaire out of the bottle and into conversation with his uncanny social grace; subtler than Bahorel's boisterousness or Joly and Bossuet's cheer, but equally compelling. 

His charm was irresistible, and served as a natural mediating influence in all circumstances, for though Enjolras wavered briefly, turning in his seat as if to make his exit, the thrust and parry of their conversation – a deposition on Courfeyrac's vanity and fickle romantic attentions, against an accurate dressing-down of Grantaire's poor habits and general affiliation for debauchery – caught his ear and drew a sudden, unexpected burst of laughter from him, ringing and clear like the peal of a bell. 

Grantaire turned to him in surprise, a sheepish smile tugging at the corner of his lips; Courfeyrac beamed fondly and openly between them. After that, Enjolras seemed resolved to stay, pulling out a fresh sheet of paper and beginning to draft what Grantaire deduced to be a reply to their contacts in the Cougourde of Aix. 

Grantaire and Courfeyrac continued to spar good-naturedly; Enjolras remained largely focussed on his task, supplying only the occasional quip to the sally they traded back and forth, but those he did offer were precious: Grantaire felt warmed by every smile, every wry twist of phrase, gathering them to his chest like half-empty bottles scattered across the tables of a darkening room, to keep him company when his friends had departed.

Grantaire's progress on the painting was slow, their conversation a frequent but welcome distraction. Evening approached: the sun a warm-orange half sphere sinking beneath the moss-covered roof of the building opposite his own. 

Courfeyrac shifted at last, signalling that the sitting was over; Grantaire nodded his thanks, and he vanished behind the screen to dress. 

"I hope I will find you both at the Musain later," he said as he struggled into his heavy frock coat. He buttoned it; its exaggerated shoulders and tight waist playing tricks with his naturally angular proportions, making a smooth, sloping hourglass of his square chest and narrow, uncurving hips. Taking up his hat and cane completed the costume of a modern man of fashionable taste; he tipped the cane to them as he departed, leaving them in familiar silence.

To Grantaire's surprise, Enjolras was the first to break it: "Is that why you wished to draw me, for the Salon?" he asked, gesturing to the canvas between them and returning to a thread of conversation Grantaire had long forgotten.

"Hmm?" he uttered, then recalled their earlier discussion; "Perhaps." Now that would be a sight: Enjolras glaring out from a towering canvas at the assembled nobility and bourgeoisie below him in static fury.   

Grantaire's true motivation had been far simpler, and far more self-serving: Grantaire found him beautiful, perfect in the symmetry and classical austerity of his features; permission to draw him was by extension permission to study him without shame, an allowance Grantaire was still exceedingly grateful for.

It would be amusing, to put the man who wished to tear society in its current form down in the chambers of those who profited from it; funnier still to imagine him face to painted-face with the king, a monument to antique virtue that the corrupt, corpulent rulers of the nineteenth century could only shame themselves in comparison to. 

He suspected none of his previous entries had been given more than a cursory glance, followed immediately by near automatic rejection. His last and only accepted entry had been small, and hidden away in a corner where only the most determined to view everything would see it; the few critiques it had received had been flippant, if not outright discouraging. The closest thing to praise he had received for it was that his brushwork was 'subtle'; whether that was intended as commendation or reproach he still could not be certain.

The established artists all made their fortunes by prostituting their talents to power anyway. Perhaps if he'd ridden with Thiers to beg Louis-Phillipe to return he would have his works given pride of place too. Grantaire might have had no beliefs or ideals to renege on, but at least he was an honest sceptic, consistent only in his inconsistency.

He had tried to paint something on the subject of the July Revolution last year, knowing that the jury would expect to see it, but when he had sat down to approach the subject all he had remembered of the event itself were the sounds – the roar of the guns echoing through empty streets, boots marching in synchronicity as the Garde Royale approached to attempt to quell the citizenry, the click of hooves beating over cobbles and the clamour of distant bells had reached even his quiet corner – and Enjolras's white-hot fury in the days that followed, animated like something out of legend. The others had been bitter with anger and disappointed hope too, but in a quieter way, dampened by shock and the ache in their battered, exhausted bodies. Bahorel had simply ricocheted between fights in the street, to arguments, to animated talk of what exactly he thought of the usurpers and back to arms again. 

Enjolras had been an exquisite, terrible sight to behold; indignant rage suited him, but he had had no patience for Grantaire's poor attempts to lighten the mood, and Grantaire could hardly have provided anything that might soften the blow of the people's glorious revolution averted.

He had tried to distil something of the mood in an allegory: 'Themis Enraged for the People', modelled on Enjolras's fierce, furious disapproval at the politicians who had sat safe in their stone fortresses and silently traded one Bourbon for another, while the blood of the people they claimed to serve ran red in the gutters. He had made an honest attempt, but found himself incapable of capturing Enjolras's blistering severity or censorious gaze without a live model, and his dissatisfaction with the attempt had driven him to embrace the heralds of forgetfulness once more.

His efforts had long since been painted over; evidence of his attempt to form enough of a political opinion to give meaning to his work erased, replaced with the more comfortable territory of frivolous flattery and sparse Neoclassical perfection.  

They worked quietly for another hour or so, until Enjolras completed the first draft of his letter and rose, voicing his intention to move on to the Musain. Grantaire, absorbed in the task of matching the vibrant red of the chlamys to his pigments, did not follow.

-

After that, Enjolras's visits were no longer relegated to late nights that drifted, unmarked, into early mornings. Grantaire's days became punctuated by a steady knock at his door; one that would announce Enjolras, having come from a lecture that had left him dissatisfied or riled, or in anticipation of some important address that he felt ill prepared for, requiring time and focus to iron out the finer details. Outside his window the horse chestnut fruits darkened and began to split, their spiked cases shrivelling, exposing the warm brown promise of new life within. 

They worked largely in silence, Enjolras so absorbed in his battle of words that he often seemed to forget Grantaire's existence entirely. Grantaire found himself content with it, despite his usual proclivity for conversation. It was preferable to the lofty, distant indifference that his attempts at courting Enjolras's attention had so often broken against before, and the silence was a companionable one: easy and comfortable. 

On the occasions that Enjolras's taciturn mask slipped, he would enquire about Grantaire's progress with his work, and hum approvingly when Grantaire's answer pleased him. Grantaire felt frequently at a loss for what to say in turn: he could hardly ask if Enjolras's own aim was going smoothly with such casualness. He settled instead for the safer territory of Enjolras's wellbeing: to which Enjolras would simply claim that all was well, even on the nights where the depth of the shadows beneath his eyes threatened to match those he had borne all summer.  

To be simply accepted as a fixed presence – neither welcome or unwelcome – in Enjolras's world felt like progress, in a sense. Grantaire, well aware how pitiful the warm feeling of contentment that seemed to settle over him at being permitted to sit quietly in Enjolras's presence made him, would never speak of it, but the shape of his feelings towards him had shifted, without him being consciously aware of it. The nature of his admiration had transfigured itself; from the awestruck, uncomprehending wonder of a supplicant towards his god, to something a little harder to define – some sentimental, charitable impulse that Grantaire had long forgotten he possessed. 

It was best not to dwell on it; examination could only complicate matters. If Grantaire let himself slip into self-pitying contemplation it would serve only to expose the cracks in their cautious foundations. Whatever Enjolras needed of him, he would provide; his presence alone was gratitude enough in return. Almost, Grantaire might have ventured to say that he was happy.

He had even acquired another commission: a friend of the woman he had depicted as Hecuba had contacted him, claiming his name had been recommended to her. Grantaire had assumed he'd burned that particular bridge, if not with his refusal then with his mediocre work, but evidently he had made at least some impression. 

He had been asked to paint a simple portrait of his client's daughter; a pretty, precocious girl of sixteen, who fiddled constantly with the puffed fabric of her absurdly large gigot sleeves as she sat for him. She was accompanied by a maid who could not be much older than her – twenty, perhaps, unmarried and young enough to still be without cares, but older than her charge. The pair gossiped inanely throughout, and Grantaire felt their gaze on him as he worked; felt them watching him with eyes that seemed large in their small faces, like a pair of judgemental owls. 

They giggled conspiratorially as he packed up his things; Grantaire felt glad to be away from their stifling scrutiny when he had finished for the day.

That evening, Enjolras brought a stack of articles with him and sat sifting through the pages with a fine crease to his brow. Grantaire finished his work for the day, and began the far more enjoyable task of capturing Enjolras's pensive features; the way he pursed his lips as he read, squinting at some of the more cryptic passages, perhaps in difficulty at deciphering his own hand. The expression, emphasised by the guttering light of the candle, set his cheekbones in sharp relief; the shadow of his brow highlighting the depth of his eyes, yet concealing their colour.  

He left a little after midnight, bidding Grantaire goodnight with a companionable clasping of his shoulder that lingered on Grantaire's startled skin long after he had departed. He took his papers with him; Grantaire completed the sketch without him, with the aid of a bottle of Burgundy, and thought wistfully of pressing his hand to Enjolras's fair cheek and kissing him goodnight in return as he drank himself to sleep.

Chapter Text

II.

September turned cooler as the month progressed; the leaves of the trees that lined the boulevards at the city's heart began to lose their colour as their green hues faded, revealing the first washes of the splendid, vivid display of yellow and orange pigments that had previously hidden beneath. 

In the courtyard the horse chestnut fruits turned brown and began to fall in earnest; Grantaire gathered a pocket-full of their seeds off the worn cobbles, meaning to sketch a study of them; afterwards he scattered them around the room like large Venetian red pearls in an attempt to add some seasonal interest to his surroundings. Enjolras smiled when he noticed them; he picked one up, turning it in his fingers and examining it as though it were a long forgotten souvenir that sparked distant, fond memories.

Enjolras's smiles still kindled something warm and hopeful and half-forgotten in Grantaire; witnessing those serious patrician features soften into cherubic innocence in his delight made Grantaire's heart flutter like a held dove seeking flight.

As much as it pleased Grantaire that Enjolras continued to accept his tentative attempts at friendship, as the weeks progressed without further change in their circumstance, that abstract longing he had felt before, but could not quite place, began to unsettle him. 

They had been sharing his space for nearly two months now, yet Grantaire still felt as though he had barely scratched the surface in his understanding of his frequent companion; Enjolras was a closed book, and one Grantaire could not quite bring himself to crack open, no matter how enticing the cover, lest it spoil the illusion he had allowed himself that Enjolras might actually enjoy his company. He suspected in truth that Enjolras was simply humouring him, or using him, not in deceit but as one would wield a tool if proffered: without thought to the lender's motives or hidden ulterior desires, of which Grantaire could not acquit himself, no matter how greatly it would ease his conscience to do so. 

He wanted more. Drawing Enjolras was still a pleasant distraction, and one he indulged in as often as Enjolras seemed willing to permit it, but it was no longer enough to satisfy his compulsion to know the lines of Enjolras's body as well as he knew the lines of his own palms. He wanted to touch: to explore and model with his hands like a sculptor drafting in beeswax, if only to test if the suspicion that Enjolras's body was as statue-like in its perfection as his features held true. 

More, still. The spineless aspect of his nature that bowed before Enjolras's moral backbone – made him want to cower at his feet and kiss the ground he walked on – persisted. Grantaire wanted to worship Enjolras; whether as a man newly converted to faith, waiting to be transfixed by some divine presence, or as a lover he could not decide. He was curious to see if he could make Enjolras's body respond to his touch; if he could figure out what he liked and bring him pleasure, and in doing so perhaps finally be of some discernible use to him. 

It was difficult to fully imagine what Enjolras would be like in the throes of congress – as abstract and impossible as truly comprehending the reality of a god transfigured in order to sport with mortals – much as his thoughts had strayed in that direction, but he was certain Enjolras's pale cheeks would suit a flush of pink, that his bottom lip would redden between his pearly teeth. Would he frown in concentration; treat it with the same stern focus he afforded less prosaic concerns? Or would he be wild and animated; the Enjolras of the aftermath of the July revolution, with battle-rage still coursing in his veins? Grantaire found the notion of a furious Enjolras using him as a vessel into which he could pour out his frustrations more appealing than he should…

Perhaps he just needed to satisfy that particular itch elsewhere; to rid himself of the images in a symbolic lustration. It had been a while since he had indulged his baser instincts; talked his way into bed with a stranger, or flashed coin in such establishments as might find it answered by a wrustle of skirts, as its insoumises sought to flutter their way into his lap. It might be worth the attempt, if only to lessen his guilt each time Enjolras conceded to treat him as an equal.

The last two Saturdays of the month found Grantaire spending his afternoons in an airy, pale-green parlour, fulfilling his final appointments for the portrait of the young woman. His subject sat in an armchair, upholstered in ivory striped silk, a Saint-Cloud vase of fresh carnations at her side; an heirloom that suggested familial ties to old money, if genuine. As he was finishing the fine details of her hair – arranged in the absurd, stiff-looking, fan-shaped style all the fashion plates were depicting; he couldn't see the appeal of it, nor determine the logistics that kept it upright to ensure accuracy in its depiction – he noticed the maid smiling at him while toying with the frilled edge of her apron.

He raised an eyebrow in return, and, when she did not look away, attempted to smile back in a manner that might be flattering, as opposed to the gargoyle's grin his features often found of their own accord.

She was pretty, if a little more delicate and innocent-seeming than the kind of women he was accustomed to spending time with. Grantaire tended to meet women of questionable virtue in establishments of unquestionable disrepute; he had never become more than superficially acquainted with one he had met in a place as fancy as this, largely because the bourgeoisie as a whole bored him, their conversation a world away from the bawdy free-for-all of a working man's tavern, the whirl of ideas in an artists' coffee house or the comfortable clamour of the Société's gatherings. That train of thought led him to Enjolras, and to wondering where he might be in this instant. He would likely be found in the Musain tonight, where Grantaire would inevitably follow, despite the prospect of alternative diversions.

The girl's mother was the one to pay him for the portrait on this occasion; she tipped him well for his work, an extra ten francs, though why he could not fathom, for such a simple piece. He suspected it was intended to be shown to potential suitors in their attempts to arrange a advantageous marriage, or perhaps to mark the last occasion at which she had belonged to her parents, rather than a husband; either way a daughter of a lineage that placed as much stock in wealth as their home suggested was unlikely to be allowed to choose her own fate. He almost felt sorry for her as she bid him farewell with all the grace and bearing of a practised hostess, a far cry from the girl who had giggled at his presence with her maid at their first sitting. 

The maid smiled at him again as left; he tipped his hat to her as he departed, but otherwise left without comment or clumsy attempts at seduction.

This left him a few hours to fill before he would be likely to find company in his customary haunts. He dropped his painting supplies off at home, then stopped in at a café on the Boulevard du Maine, one that served better wine than he would usually spring for, to drink away a little of his unexpected good fortune. He was in the middling stages of inebriation by the time his feet carried him to the Musain, merry and loose-tongued, but practiced enough at feigning sobriety that he navigated the narrow staircase without difficulty.

It was probably for the best that he had spent the rest of the afternoon alone: the maid might not have been family to his client, but attempting flirtation could still bring damage to his reputation if he had misread her intentions; or if he had read them correctly, in which case he might have had a pleasant evening that he would come to regret, if her employers found out and disapproved of their conduct.

-

The backroom of the Musain was busy, filled with noise and smoke and bodies; every table crowded with eager, earnest young men, pouring over pamphlets and engaged in animated discussion. He presumed all his friends were here, though he could not pick them out amidst the throng; he did see several men he recognised as infrequent attendees, and a handful he did not recognise at all. He surveyed the scene before him, in hope of spotting an empty seat, and found his search fruitless. 

A pair of heavy hands landed on his shoulders, spinning him towards the far corner and shepherding him in its direction. Grantaire, still disoriented, allowed it, and Bahorel's voice, offering his apologies to those they parted as he drove Grantaire before him like the pilot of a locomotive, confirmed his suspicions as to the hands' owner. Joly and Bossuet's table materialized out of the crowd between them, along with Courfeyrac, standing beside it and clutching a piece of paper, half-crumpled in one closed fist. 

"Hold, who is this fine gentleman I see before me?" Courfeyrac's features brightened in mirth as he looked up to spy Grantaire. "Such a well turned coat, and that hat, I've half a mind to requisition it for myself."

"He looks like our Grantaire, yet it cannot be –" Bahorel released him, and moved to stand at Courfeyrac's side, surveying Grantaire with similar amusement, "– I see no stains upon his waistcoat, and that collar is as white as the king's blood."

"The uniform of my profession," Grantaire explained, feeling hot under their friendly scrutiny, "I'd hardly be permitted on the furniture if I turned up to a client's home smelling like a stray dog and looking like I'd slept in the gutter, no matter how authentic the effect; much as the lonely wives of the bourgeoisie might admire my artist's mystique once they tire of their ineffectual husbands, I doubt their appreciation would extend to my musk – stop gaping, and hand me a drink!" 

Bossuet – perhaps taking pity on his discomfort, or possibly just unwilling to hear further description of Grantaire's odours – handed him the rest of the bottle of wine he and Joly had been sharing.

"You were missed last Saturday, where were you?" Joly asked.

"Working, alas," Grantaire replied, accepting the wine with gratitude.

"Again?" Courfeyrac said, with affected surprise. Grantaire paused in the act of raising the bottle to his lips to make his excuses; Courfeyrac quelled them by adding, "I'll forgive you on this occasion, I dare say the rest of us made up for your industry in idleness. Those of us that did not forego leisurely pursuits finally had the pleasure of meeting our friend's mistress." He gestured to Bahorel, who stood straighter in response, his chest positively swelling with pride, wearing the smile of a cream-fed cat.

"What?" Grantaire spluttered, wiping wine off his chin with the back of his hand and looking to Bahorel, incredulous. "How long has it been? Two? Three years? I have been naming you a liar behind your back all this time, yet finally I am proven uncharitable in my assumptions? And in my absence, no less – that hardly seems fair. Who is she then, this mysterious Euphrosyne?"

"Her name is Mélanie," Joly offered, "and I do believe you would adore her."

"We took in a ball at a guinguette past the Barrière de Belleville," Courfeyrac continued, "Bahorel, I suspect tired at last of our speculating on the nature of his alliance, invited her to accompany us."

"Already I have some measure of her mettle if she tolerated an evening of Joly's dancing," Grantaire spoke.

"Hush, I'll have you know she turned out to be just as keen a dancer as I!"

"Keen, yes, but skilled?" Grantaire looked to Bossuet for reinforcement, who nodded gravely, then smiled fondly as Joly's features began to form the beginnings of a pout, softening the blow.

"Save your assessment of Joly's physical abilities for later and let me reach the most salacious part of the tale!" Courfeyrac scolded, eyes bright with mirth; his irritation feigned, but his eagerness to move on apparent. "She and I were engaged in a very pleasant conversation over a pair of cigars, when one of the moral guardians approached with the aim of reproaching her for her excesses in conduct."

"He meant to caution her against smoking, or continuing to dance so vigorously; he suggested she should depart to avoid further conflict with the law," Bossuet embellished.

"She informed him that she would leave once she finished her dance and her cigar, and blew smoke in his face to underscore the point!" Courfeyrac smirked.

Grantaire bellowed out a harsh laugh; "What then? Was the gendarme struck down by a flaming comet? Did the pair of you come to blows when Bahorel found you attempting to sweet-talk his woman?"

"She was issued a fine, for the affront to public pudeur," Bahorel answered, beaming with pride, "sixteen francs; we succeeded in dissuading him from arresting her, I believe he harboured intentions of pursuing a prison sentence."

"The benefit of a decade spent failing to complete a law degree," Bossuet teased.

"Almost two, between us," Bahorel returned.

"I am sorry to have missed it; you must invite her again." Grantaire did regret his absence, but he could not deny that there was a certain comfort in having a greater buffer between himself and his own financial ruin. He could get used to it.

As the Musain continued to fill with friends and strangers alike Courfeyrac and Bahorel disappeared, returning minutes later with two stacks of additional chairs, borrowed from the Café's main room. Grantaire claimed one, and set it at Joly and Bossuet's table; Bahorel did the same, while Courfeyrac vanished into the crowd once more. Grantaire finished the first bottle of wine and started on a second, conversing with increasing detachment as the topic turned from the personal to the political.   

Their ideological unity in such matters, despite their differences in temperaments and varied philosophical groundings, never failed to surprise him. His frequent attempts to present an apple of discord at the table served only to clarify their agreement; a test of faith they all passed without faltering, particularly the apple's true intended:'for the fairest…'

It did not take him long to spot Enjolras, even in the clamour: when standing he was tall enough to be seen over most crowds. His hair distinguished him further; a flash of gold amidst an array of tall, dark hats in drab colours. Even in the insufficient glow of the Argand lamp, further dimmed by tobacco and candle smoke, Enjolras was a bright smudge of light, a brighter slash of white at his throat – his stock, harsh against the deep blue of his coat – heightened the effect, reflecting light upwards and lending his features an unearthly pallor. 

Grantaire watched as Courfeyrac appeared at Enjolras's side, tailed by several men Grantaire did not recognise: fresh blood, he suspected. Enjolras greeted those new to him with bracing severity; every aspect of his posture and features communicated a kind of solemn respect, said 'we are fellow citizens, and what we do here is right'. Grantaire recalled what it felt like to be faced with such conviction; to be offered the same in his outstretched hand. It was the same way Enjolras had greeted him when they had been introduced, and never again since. 

Grantaire had spent half of his first evening in his company attempting to pour cold water on their arguments, and the other half lowering the tone in an attempt to seduce the others towards similar humours. He had lost Enjolras's respect, and lowered himself in Enjolras's estimations from potential ally to reluctantly-tolerated acquaintance by virtue of having friends among them. 

Until recently, Enjolras had ignored him more frequently than he acknowledged his presence, moved to face him in passion – in rejecting and rebuffing – only when Grantaire's ceaseless efforts to get under his skin finally succeeded. Now it seemed Enjolras had settled on considering him part of the scenery, though whether he presented a blight on it, or was simply so familiar as to seem invisible, Grantaire was no longer certain.

Enjolras in public was sparing with his words, unless moved to a spontaneous outburst of soul or issuing a decree, but in a manner different to that Grantaire had grown accustomed to when they were alone. Here his silences were watchful and considered, as he listened to the swelling tide of ideas that grew around him, turning them over in his tactical mind until he pieced them together in a pattern that satisfied him. Here he did not allow himself weakness, in succumbing to irritation or his own human fragility for one simple reason: the opinion of these men mattered to him; Grantaire's did not.

Grantaire realised he was staring – almost a habit now – when Enjolras noticed their table and nodded his acknowledgment of their presence; Bahorel raised a glass to him in return, and Grantaire shifted his focus to the dregs at the bottom of his glass.

When the backroom of the Musain approached capacity, the nature of the meeting metamorphosed from a casual melting-pot of ideas to a more formal debate. Grantaire had all but stopped listening by then; turning instead to drinking with greater efficacy, having acquired something stronger than the weak wine his friends had been sharing. 

The topic, at present, was the government's feeble response to the capture of Warsaw. Enjolras, Courfeyrac and Combeferre stood around a chairless-table before the fire, the focal point of the debate; the others turned their chairs, if they had them, to face them, the rest stood at the edges of the fray. The debate was civilised; the assembly quiet and attentive, aside from a few scattered murmurs of approval by those in agreement with the current point.

"Does it not befit France's glory, to feel the struggles of all oppressed peoples as though they were her own? I should consider it her honour," Feuilly spoke, arguing in favour of intervention.

"I should say so, yet our government displays insufficient sympathy to act," Bahorel agreed, his arms folded and his seated posture tense, as though ready to spring into action.

"What did Lafayette say, 'all of France is Polish?' All save the king and his ministers, it would appear."

"I'll not give credit to any statement of his after that balcony wedding to the king last August, even if that particular political marriage has now dissolved," Bahorel disdained.

"Sébastiani's clumsy summation has no doubt provided the excuse they need to do nothing," Courfeyrac, still holding the crumpled sheet of paper, unfolded it and set it in evidence before them, handling the page with obvious distaste. "'Order reigns in Warsaw…' perhaps we should take that to mean only that the city still stands, but at what cost? That remains to be seen." 

Enjolras presided over the debate in thought, with folded arms and the curled fingers of one hand pressed to his lips, his expression remote; the very image of an antique figure of justice, waiting to dispense his verdict. 

"The people have already taken to the streets to express their sympathies, only to meet the swords of the sergents de ville; it is proof at least that France cares, even if the hands at the helm do not," Jehan supplied from his position at the fringe of the debate; leaning against the wall with the sole of one shoe braced against it, wearing his pen behind his ear and the air of one deep in contemplation.

"France has the opportunity to lead by example," Enjolras broke his watchful pose to speak; Grantaire listened with renewed attentiveness. "History suggests we may aid them indirectly, if the government is unwilling to offer more substantive aid. Our actions here might give courage to those who seek the same rights as we seek to secure for the future. When we succeed, others will follow: so it was last summer, in Belgium and in Poland; so it was in '89, when the aftershocks of the storming of the Bastille were felt throughout Europe. Let us be a beacon of hope. Let us embolden their hearts, by proving what may be done –"

"What sophistry!" Grantaire scoffed, before he could contain himself. "What a hagiography you would write for the saints of your cult of reason! It is not glory enough to paint the streets of your own capital red; you must make it a fashion, inspire others to don the same colours. Have you forgotten the wars that followed '92? Has the directory slipped the net of recollection? How much death is enough? Your mistress, she hungers, she consumes, and gives nothing in return. The great men of history are all the same: they rest upon a throne of the fallen and call it justice, so long as their ambition is achieved. Would you join them there?" He wouldn't, Grantaire was certain of that much: Enjolras would die with them, he was too virtuous – too idealistic – to do otherwise. A man who held himself to lower moral standards might survive, but Enjolras would not be that man.

Enjolras held his tongue while Grantaire spoke, regarding him with a look that was less angry than Grantaire had expected; instead he seemed… startled, perhaps, and a little hurt. Grantaire had never elicited that particular response before. He noticed it as his soliloquy began to spiral; it surprised him out of scorn, and into ceding the floor once more. The wounded look lingered on Enjolras's features for a moment, before he turned his attention back to the matter at hand; his jaw firmed in resolve once more.

"We must consider our actions wisely," Combeferre said, his tone mild, but kind, as he broke what might otherwise have been an uneasy silence. He turned to address Enjolras directly; "We have spoken already of the need to be strategic in our efforts, but I dislike the notion of pursuing our aim at the expense of all else, if we are capable of providing aid…" 

Between them, Courfeyrac leant with one elbow resting atop the fireplace, watching their aside with interest. 

Grantaire looked to the others; Feuilly looked grave and concerned, leaning forward in his seat and twisting his cap in his hands. Bahorel looked ready to riot, sprawling with a deliberateness that belied the affected ease of his position; nothing unusual there. Jehan looked melancholy; his reclining posture so lax as to appear weary and his chin cradled in his hand. He caught Joly and Bossuet in exchanging a look, communicating on a level only the pair of them could understand; he suspected his own outburst as its cause.

"I won't risk what we've built here for this, if the people are not yet ready to stir en masse, not when we are this close; I do not believe that this is the spark," Enjolras replied, quiet enough that it seemed to be meant largely for Combeferre's ears.

"Surely you cannot be suggesting that we do nothing? That France ought to ignore their plight?" Feuilly said; louder, and impassioned.

"No," Combeferre raised his hands, gesturing for calm, "only that this may call for a more charitable approach."

Enjolras gave a subdued nod to Combeferre, then turned to address the room at large once more; "We cannot risk arrest or the discovery of our networks at this time, we could lose months to the pre-trial detentions alone; we could do more for them if the power to do so was not wasted in idle hands."

"We might aim to keep the news fresh in people's minds; I could write something?" Jehan offered, suddenly bold.

"That won't help people rebuild their lives, or win their freedoms back," Feuilly replied, his tone sceptical.

"It won't, but it might prove useful in moving others to sympathy for them," Bahorel said.

"The government is accepting refugees – Lafayette's committee have turned their attention to aiding them; they at least appear to have accepted that fight as lost. As distasteful as some may find it," Courfeyrac looked to Bahorel and Enjolras as he spoke, "we might find common cause there. Perhaps we can channel some aid in a similar direction?" 

Enjolras considered his response; "That ought to appear innocuous enough to the authorities, if we are discrete about its exact provenance." He fell into considering silence for a moment, before offering his final verdict; all turned their attention to him to receive it. "We will try. What can we offer?"

The conversation, at Enjolras's acquiescence, grew lively again, as suggestions were presented to the floor for scrutiny. Joly offered to seed the notion of directing volunteers and donations towards the cause within the medical school; Bossuet proposed to do the same at the gates of the law school – he had been struck off again the previous week, and so could not attend any more lectures himself this term.

"What for this time?" Courfeyrac asked, failing to hide his amusement.

"Losing my admittance ticket," Bossuet answered, laughing at his own misfortune.

Jehan and Bahorel agreed to persuade a few friends into writing contributions to a pamphlet on the subject, the proceeds from the publication of which would be directed as charitable aid.

Grantaire's attention began to wander again, and he sat quiet for some time, too busy ruminating on Enjolras's uncharacteristic response to his rattle to notice much else. He had not believed himself capable of hurting Enjolras with his words, or that Enjolras might allow them to affect him; he was so comfortable in his belief that Enjolras ignored his outbursts when he was less than lucid, that the notion he might have been heard and understood enough to produce an emotional effect seemed unfathomable. He must have misread the sentiment; if the others had noticed any change in Enjolras's demeanour, they had chosen to brush it aside.

With the matter of what they might do for the citizens of Poland resolved for the present, the meeting turned towards the subject of France, and to arguments Grantaire had heard so many times before he felt as though he were attending a play he had learned by heart, but with new recruits in their midst it doubtless bore repeating. 

When the meeting finally adjourned, Courfeyrac returned to their table, resuming the topic of their escapades at the guinguette and the woman he had left with. Enjolras and Combeferre retreated to a table in the opposing corner, joined later by Feuilly, who seemed appeased if not entirely satisfied. They remained there until the crowd began to thin, the candles to burn low and their friends to depart.

Grantaire closed his eyes for a moment, content to let the world swim around him and the ambient hum of conversation grow quiet; when he opened them Enjolras had risen, and was approaching, looking striking and severe. Grantaire stared, and was surprised when Enjolras did not change course, instead reaching his table and taking Bahorel's vacated seat opposite him.

"Cherubino?" Grantaire said, still leaning back in his chair, raising one questioning eyebrow.

"You are drunk," Enjolras stated, that much required no confirmation; Grantaire simply shrugged, as Enjolras continued, "If you still take such issue with my rhetoric, I would appreciate you at least being sober while expressing so in public."

"Public, here?" Grantaire made a point of looking at the tightly-drawn curtains, and the door that led to the long corridor that separated them from the café's ordinary patrons. "You mean if I must make a spectacle of myself in front of your young initiates." He looked to the few that lingered still, watching an animated discussion between Bahorel and Courfeyrac; standing by the fire and speaking of further entertainments that might be sought elsewhere.

"If that would motivate you to curb your excesses." Enjolras leant one forearm against the table's aged surface; the other he let rest by the elbow atop the back of his chair, as he twisted in his seat to look behind, to the others. Grantaire let the impulse to keep Enjolras's attention – now that he had it for himself – rule him. He placed his hand over Enjolras's, leaning forward so he could speak softly; Enjolras's hand tensed beneath his, his head whipping back to face Grantaire again, but he allowed the transgression, looking to Grantaire with a seeking expression. His eyes were very blue, and narrowed a little in his frustration.

"Ah," Grantaire began, "I see I have offended the lady of good counsel; I am reckless with my honesty, and now I have only myself to blame that she scorns me –" Enjolras's eyes narrowed further as Grantaire's muddled attempt at contrition wandered, "– it won't happen again."

"See that it doesn't," Enjolras replied, flexing his fingers in a manner that communicated his desire for Grantaire to release them. They regarded each other for a moment. Enjolras still appeared vexed, but his eagerness to change the subject showed itself when Grantaire removed his hand, and Enjolras spoke again; "I have some letters I must look over before I burn them; I do not wish to carry them further than I must."

Grantaire, deducing it as a request for permission to do so in his apartment, expressed his agreement with a sigh.

-

The silence between them as they walked home, side by side, but each inside their own thoughts, felt sharper-edged than usual. Grantaire stumbled a little on the stairs as he led their ascent; the few lamps that lined the staircase had almost burnt out for the night, and though he could usually manage it in the dark he was too drunk to do so with any grace. If Enjolras noticed his ungainly ascent, he made no comment. 

Grantaire unlocked his door and entered without glancing behind, lighting the oil lamp he kept beside it with unsteady hands and taking it around the room to light the candles also. He heard the door click shut behind them, rather than slam as it might if Enjolras had not caught it; Enjolras had evidently closed it with more care for his neighbours than Grantaire felt willing to trouble himself with at present. When Grantaire had finished his task he turned to him, and found him standing conspicuously still by the threshold, having made none of his usual attempts to make himself at home. He had yet to even remove his hat.

"What a thing!" Grantaire stated, with a broad gesture that encompassed their modest surroundings and the distance between them, as Enjolras stared back at him, looking weary and cautious, as though he expected Grantaire to launch into a fresh harangue. "Our friends go on to various exotic delights, yet here we are, in my sorry little room," Grantaire continued, taking a step towards Enjolras, intending perhaps to take him by the arm and encourage him to sit, or simply to steady himself so he could gaze into those pretty blue eyes a little longer. Enjolras held his ground, but his eyes betrayed some small flicker of negative emotion; disgust, maybe, mingled with a little apprehension. Grantaire scoffed at it; moved away and flung himself into his chair instead. "I could be well on my way to Kublai Khan by now, or perhaps have a grisette eager in my lap, yet here I sit, in for another night of watching you frown at pages of esoteric gibberish. How did we end up here, working away like a pair of monks? These vows of silence and chastity grow wearying –" He had asked himself before what could possibly have motivated Enjolras to lower his god-like self to linger in his company, but found no satisfactory explanation forthcoming; Enjolras's expression hardened as he spoke, before finally he snapped:

"Do I force my company upon you?" He folded his arms across his chest, raising his chin in disdain at Grantaire's clumsy attempt at airing a little of his frustrations. "Do I hold the reins that keep you in check? If I do, I've done a tremendously poor job of it thus far." He remained motionless by the threshold when he had finished speaking, betraying no intent to take his usual seat this time.

That statement landed a little too close to the truth for comfort; Grantaire answered without thinking, slipping into the easy territory of crude provocation:

"Would that please you?" he goaded. Enjolras's disdainful expression shifted into a frown. Grantaire, unheeding, wheels spinning wildly off kilter, forged on; "Place the bit in my mouth and lead me down your gloomy path, I could pay for such treatment elsewhere, but if you're offering…" 

"If my presence pains you so I'll leave you to your debauchery," Enjolras dismissed, ducking his head, his hand moving to the latch once more. 

"I did not mean that," Grantaire began, his mind fumbling to string the sentiments he wished to voice into a coherent request, "only – " caught between showing his hand or driving a further wedge between them, Grantaire threw caution to the wind, "– have a drink with me? No revolutions occur in the autumn, it is the time for sleep, the last remaining warmth before winter's temporary death; you can rest, there will still be tyrants to overthrow tomorrow."

"Can you take nothing seriously?" Enjolras asked; his shoulders flagged, he sounded very tired.

"Can you think of nothing but your beloved republic?"

"Why would I wish to?" The retort came too quickly, too easily, and it stung; Grantaire's selfish, mundane concerns were evidently far beneath him.

"Why, indeed." 

Of course Enjolras did not care about Grantaire's wants or feelings; it had been naive of him to entertain the notion that he might. Yet the rejection still crushed the breath from his lungs and left him feeling bitter with hurt pride. He resented Enjolras's hold over him, and yet the thought of being free of it seemed worse, somehow. He could not put a name to the sentiment. Instead he rose, and turned away to hide the hurt that must have shown in his features; moved behind the screen and knelt to light the fire.

Enjolras did not follow immediately; the delay had Grantaire wondering if he had decided to leave – he had seemed eager to, but Grantaire did not hear the door close behind him. He turned his attention to the striker, and tried to dull his thoughts with the percussive rhythm of its use, sending a more aggressive stream of sparks flying into the grate than usual.

When he looked up again, Enjolras was standing at the edge of the screen; he had moved silently across the studio, and in doing so had removed his hat and his coat, which he now carried over his arm. They had never spent time together in this part of his room before – Enjolras sleeping while Grantaire fretted hardly counted – it was an intimacy at odds with their current temperaments. 

"There, burn whatever you like," he said, rising from his crouched position at the grate; the kindling smouldered behind it. Burn all my execrable drawings of you while you're at it, he thought petulantly, but managed to conduct himself with some shred of dignity to his armchair, where he reached into the cabinet beside it and opened another drink: a bottle of kirsch.

Enjolras remained where he was for a moment, looking around the unfamiliar space, Grantaire recalled that he must have been all but asleep when he had seen it before; no doubt he had hurried to leave in the morning without taking in much of his surroundings. Enjolras frowned at the sight before him; at Grantaire's unmade bed, the blankets of which lay in a knot on the floor; the worn rug before the fire, ornate, but faded and clearly at least second-hand; his overflowing book-shelf and the stack of old, tattered sketch-books beside it, and Grantaire himself, legs crossed and bottle in hand, staring back at him from his chair with a sullen disposition. 

"Thank you," Enjolras said stiffly, then knelt by the fire, pulling a bundle of letters out of his coat pocket.

Grantaire watched him with a scowl that softened into something melancholic, as he re-read them slowly; no doubt memorising the important information before he introduced them to the flames. The orange glow of the fire against the darkness of Grantaire's room lit his features from below, making him look even more sublime in his disapproval; his expression emphasised by harsh shadows, as though he had stepped out of one of Caravaggio's towering chiaroscuro canvases. Imposing, and yet somehow diminished; kneeling as he was, he looked small, and a little desperate, as though presenting himself at an altar in the hope that enough piety might see him rewarded with what he so eagerly sought.

It must be a lonely way of living, he thought, then thought himself foolish. He wondered if Enjolras ever stopped thinking about the future long enough to enjoy the present; if he ever allowed himself distraction enough to enjoy the company of their friends without self-reproach, and with nothing else on his mind. Grantaire could not expect to know; he did not see him when he was alone with the others, but the question almost answered itself, if he knew him at all: Grantaire had simply never considered it before. Their conversation as he had drawn Courfeyrac was perhaps the closest to relaxed he had seen him in months. He knew Enjolras drew sustenance from righteous anger; was exhilarated by it in a manner that made him uniquely suited to his calling, but it must be exhausting to feel such passion in the face of such forlorn hope. Grantaire could not imagine having the will to care so deeply about anything; no wonder Enjolras looked so tired, sometimes… 

He was being sentimental again: Enjolras had them all in the palm of his hand, and all of Paris in his head; he could not be lonely if he tried. Which brought him back to the question: why was he here? 

He stared a little too long, then closed his eyes, despairing. He stumbled into sleep before Enjolras departed.

Chapter Text

III.

He did not see Enjolras the next day, or the day after that. Not too unusual; Enjolras had his own lodgings, and classes to attend, nor had Grantaire's tirade produced a particularly significant disagreement by their standard, but he felt uneasy. His room felt emptier for Enjolras's absence than he had ever realised before, and the long evenings of silence as he waited for the knock that didn't come soon became unbearable; he fell back on the long-utilized remedy of spirits to ease his troubled thoughts, and woke each morning with an increasingly persistent headache.

By the fourth day he could stand his own company no longer; his fears that he might finally have pushed the bounds of Enjolras's patience too far were beginning to overwhelm him, and to bring their friends to settle in the back of his mind with them. They had been quiescent more often than usual of late, whenever he had sat quietly with charcoal or pencil in hand, describing the line of Enjolras's cheek or the way his fingers tangled in his curls. He had not realised how soothing he found the process.

He was preparing to go out for the evening to seek greater distraction from his sorrows – not to the Musain, he could not face that particular chorus in his current, brittle state – when a knock at his door pulled him out of his sleep-walking stupor.

Enjolras.

He straightened his collar, and brushed his hair away from his forehead, grateful that he had made a half-hearted effort to shave that morning for the first time in days, before opening the door – slowly, affecting an air of unconcern; attempting to appear as though he hadn't spent half the week intoxicated and disquieted.

Enjolras was standing in the narrow corridor, looking as radiant and ageless as ever. Grantaire stared; Enjolras blinked back at him, waiting for him to speak. Grantaire's throat felt suddenly dry; he gaped at him around his unformed greeting, until Enjolras took pity on him at last:

"May I come in?" he asked, looking past Grantaire rather than at him, into empty air. He shifted, drawing Grantaire's attention to the parcel he carried beneath his arm: it was cloth-wrapped, and the way he held it suggested some level of care had been necessary in its handling. Grantaire could take a likely guess at its contents; he inhaled, and his olfactory senses confirmed it.

"What's this?" Grantaire glanced pointedly at it when Enjolras's eyes met his; they were shadowed again, and as unreadable as Grantaire had ever seen them.

"Dinner," Enjolras stated, as though that were explanation enough, and not the incitement to a dozen further questions that it served as.

"That I surmised, but why is it here?" It was not his finest moment in eloquence, but Grantaire considered it a miracle that he had spoken sense at all. He felt rather like he had taken a blow to the head, and had yet to fully recover his senses; as though the ground had turned to sand beneath him and left him stumbling to regain his footing.

"Call it a peace offering, if it pleases you," Enjolras replied, the ease in his tone belied by the awkward air that hadn't released him. "I was ungracious to you the last time I was here, and ungrateful. I am sorry for it."

Grantaire gaped again; if Enjolras's conciliatory offering of food had shared its effects with being struck by an opponent's fist, his apology had been akin to a cane cracking against the back of his skull.

"Is it poisoned?" he asked, half-jest, half genuine disbelief that Enjolras was here without any ulterior purpose.

Enjolras almost laughed at that, the corners of his mouth twisting into a fleeting smirk; he paused, then his features brightened further as he answered: "It is from the Corinthe, so, perhaps, though not by my hand."

Grantaire could have kissed him then, in thanks and relief and delight at the way he smiled a little at his own adorable, silly joke; a trifle from any of the others, but from Enjolras something far scarcer, and more precious. In a room full of sparkling wits and learned minds, Enjolras's was amongst the keenest of them all, but his intelligence was consistently preoccupied with more serious pursuits; such spontaneous humour seemed to come far less naturally to him.

Grantaire smiled back, involuntarily, then hesitated in his reply; he felt his own need to apologise in turn, for his intoxicated belligerence and subsequent ill-temper, but Enjolras's presence had caught him entirely off guard. He needed time to find the right words: ones that would not spark further conflict between them.

"Of course you may come in," he settled on for now; he tried to sound appropriately easy, missed, and landed on solemn, but Enjolras seemed satisfied. He stepped aside, and Enjolras nodded his thanks as he entered. He approached the writing desk – out of habit, Grantaire presumed – then paused, looking uncertain where to set their meal down.

Grantaire bustled past him, and set about clearing his table so that they could share their meal at it; the vessels atop his painting cabinet rattled ominously as he wedged the jar of turpentine his paintbrushes were currently soaking in amidst its fellows, and brushed the loose flakes of dried pigment he had scraped from his palette onto the floor, to be dealt with at a less pressing time. That done, he turned his attention to fetching plates and cutlery, while Enjolras set his burden down on the table; began unwrapping it and laying it out.

Following a brief internal conflict, Grantaire retreated to his living area to retrieve his good wine; when he returned, Enjolras had finished setting their plates. He took the chair from the writing desk, and set it opposite Grantaire's; Grantaire considered placing a candle on the table, but deemed it too presumptuous. Instead he poured Enjolras a share of the wine – in his cleanest glass – and gestured for him to sit.

Enjolras did, with a scrape as he shuffled closer; Grantaire followed suit, sinking gratefully into the comfortable embrace of his painting chair, relieved to feel himself back in familiar territory. He looked across the table to Enjolras, sat upright in the too-small desk chair he had claimed for himself. Perhaps Grantaire should buy another, sometime. They were silent for a moment, the tension that had been present at Enjolras's last visit not entirely departed. Grantaire attempted to brush it aside; he tipped his glass to Enjolras, took a long, eager sip, lowered it with a dull thud as it met the table's surface, then regarded the meal before them.

The dinner Enjolras had brought turned out to consist of bread, brie, olives and a little unidentifiable cooked meat. It was nothing elaborate, but it smelled good, and looked more appetizing than much of the Corinthe's fare.

"It looks nice," he said, to fill the lack in conversation; Enjolras looked sheepish in return.

"I did not know what you would like," he said, his tone apologetic. He avoided Grantaire's eyes as he spoke, instead appearing fascinated by the crenelated texture at the base of the glass Grantaire had set before him. Grantaire might almost have interpreted his evasiveness as shyness, if he believed Enjolras capable of the sentiment, "– but I know you eat there often, with Bossuet and Joly and the others; I assumed you would at least not dislike it."

Grantaire's heart ached at that, struggling in his chest against the bonds of restraint and pragmatism he had woven tightly around it. He exhaled with a suppressed sigh, and speared an olive with his fork while he grappled against the hopeful impulse Enjolras's words had ignited in him once more.

He did not have the heart to tell him that they continued to eat at the Corinthe for reasons that decidedly did not encompass the quality of the cuisine available; he was too touched at the thought behind it to care. Enjolras did not join them there as often as he would have liked him to, but when he did their circle felt complete, despite the air of seriousness he brought to all proceedings. His presence alone seemed to serve as a reminder of what had brought and bound them together: the righteous, crushing significance of the future they all sought – that the others sought, while Grantaire sat in the corner and basked in his friends' reflected brilliance.

Grantaire reached first for the brie, not entirely trusting the way the meat seemed to quiver like jelly as Enjolras cut the end off one thick slice and raised it to his lips, took it neatly between his teeth and began to chew.

His distaste was immediately visible in his renewed, so-familiar frown; the way his nose wrinkled and the tilt of his mouth turned sour. For a moment, Grantaire expected him to spit his half-chewed mouthful back onto the plate. Instead he swallowed thickly, and, having done so, reached for the wine again to wash away the taste, his brow still furrowed.

"I'll take that face as a resounding condemnation of its palatability," Grantaire chuckled.

"The texture is extremely unpleasant," Enjolras said, between two mouthfuls of wine that he let sit on his palate. "I cannot fathom how something can be both too hard and too soft at the same time." Grantaire watched as he continued to scowl at his plate, banishing the rest of the meat to its side, his features dispassionate again now that he had successfully rid himself of the after-taste.

"The brie is delicious, however," Grantaire conceded; Enjolras's expression softened in response, his features shifting from forbidding loveliness into angelic sweetness in that fascinating way that made Grantaire want to pinch his cheeks, or wrap his arms around him and squeeze him until he gasped for air. When he glanced up to meet Grantaire's eyes at last he was smiling ever so slightly; he seemed almost relieved that his offering had been met with approval, as though Grantaire wouldn't have accepted the rejected scraps from Enjolras's own plate with gratitude at the fact that Enjolras had thought of him at all.

Besides, watching him glare at his dinner with the same formidable intensity it would have inspired had it managed to provide insult to the republic had been priceless.

He smiled back, in a manner he hoped was reassuring, then turned his attention back to his plate, unsure how to further their conversation; its chipped edge stood in clean white contrast to the table beneath, the surface of which was covered in raised smudges of every possible colour, dried into the wood and giving it texture where it had once been smooth. His fork rang against the plate's surface as he chased a second olive across it.

"When I arrived, were you going out?" Enjolras broke the silence himself this time, he sounded a little hesitant.

"I intended to," Grantaire replied, without looking up.

"Then I'm sorry to have intruded."

"You did not," Grantaire raised his head to meet Enjolras's cautious gaze. He could not hope to explain how emphatically glad he was to see him without disclosing too much of his affection, but he could show sincerity in his response: "I am very glad you are here."

"Good," Enjolras paused, frowning at empty air again; Grantaire watched some unreadable emotion flicker across his features as he finally caught the runaway olive, and raised it to his mouth. Enjolras's features set in resolution as Grantaire chewed, letting the astringent taste settle on his tongue. In time, he spoke the question he had been forming: "Were you working on a commission?" he nodded indicatively in the direction of Grantaire's paint brushes.

Grantaire swallowed, and answered: "Not at present, but that is not uncommon; I have been fortunate of late to have so many –" His work had taken a decline in the preceding days: he should have spent his idle time seeking connections that might bring more work, but had been unable to muster the will to do so. Nevertheless, on the whole it was going well; he could not complain without sounding ungrateful to his own ears, "– those were from working on Courfeyrac's lady-love."

Enjolras's mouth curled in surprise; Grantaire laughed.

"A fiction, alas –" he gestured to the painting, drying against the cabinet that lined the opposite wall; Enjolras twisted in his seat to follow his indication. The image of Courfeyrac was now largely complete: rakishly handsome, but wearing a serene, fond expression that softened what might otherwise have seemed an exercise in vanity. His dark eyes were fixed on something just out of frame; where Enjolras had sat, when the painting's composition had been set. The shade of Helen stood at Courfeyrac's side; her pose was complete, the folds of her clothing suggested in blocks of colour, but her features lacked definition "– the form is from an old sketch, but I've yet to find her a face."

Enjolras looked thoughtful when he turned back, as though piecing together Grantaire's process; "You do not always work from a model, then."

"I prefer to, but sometimes one must make do without; it becomes easier with practise."

Enjolras nodded as though he understood Grantaire's insufficient explanation, and turned his attention to cutting himself another slice of the brie. They ate quietly for a moment; Grantaire had a thousand questions he wanted to ask Enjolras, but none that did not seem trivial, or likely to lead them towards further conflict.

"Have you seen any of our mutual friends of late?" he asked, settling for safer territory.

Enjolras's features brightened at that. He began to recount a debate he had witnessed between Joly and Combeferre, on the merits and excesses of blood-letting and how it may have contributed to the death of a former American president; what had begun as a thought experiment on what might have been the ultimate cause had quickly turned philosophical, encompassing the ethical responsibilities of a physician at large; "I'll admit the subject of phrenology is beyond my field of interest, but I found the conversation stimulating."

Enjolras relayed as much as he could recall; Grantaire listened intently, though he understood little: whether the initial conversation had been beyond him, or Enjolras's recollection of it was too muddled to convey it's nuances was unclear, but it served as distraction enough from the discomfiture that surrounded them that their talk was a little freer after that.

They had almost finished their meal by the time he mustered his courage, and attempted his apology.

"This was pleasant," he began, gesturing to his almost-empty plate, and to Enjolras's. "Thank you."

"You are welcome," Enjolras took a bite out of his last slice of bread, topped with brie and a little butter from Grantaire's own store; chewed it with a thoughtful, far-off look, his eyes dreaming and unfocussed. The softness had vanished from Enjolras's features as they ate, his familiar stony intensity slipping back into place as he relaxed back into himself, but his seriousness was directed inwards, not outwards, against Grantaire's interruption of his contemplation.

"As are you," Grantaire said, before he had given much thought to what he meant by it. Enjolras's eyes cleared, and found Grantaire's; Grantaire saw confusion in them, and hurried to ease it, "Welcome here, I mean. I am sorry if I made you feel that you weren't, whether with my words or my foul mood," he was expressing himself poorly again; Enjolras had always had the singular effect of rendering his wits unreliable, an effect only exacerbated by drink, and the way Grantaire's pulse seemed to quicken whenever Enjolras granted him his full attention. "It was no fault of yours that I let my poor habits get the better of me. You should not listen to my raving, or take it to heart. I am a fool, and not one witty enough to be worthy of heed –" Grantaire's words were solemn; he meant them as surely as he meant the desperate concern that had propelled him into argument the previous time Enjolras had regarded him with such undivided focus, and was muddling them just as severely.

Enjolras raised a hand, gesturing him into silence, but his features were gentle. Grantaire held his tongue, and looked back at him with an imploring expression that he hoped did not appear entirely pitiful. To claim that he was sorry for what he had said would have been a distortion of the truth that Enjolras did not deserve, but he was certainly sorry for how he had said it. He respected Enjolras too much to offer him false contrition, but it pained him that he might have caused him even a moment of genuine hurt.

"I know you do not view men the same way I do," Enjolras began, his tone that which he used when addressing promising strangers of uncertain allegiance: warm, but guarded. "I expect you think me wilfully ignorant of their faults. Whatever you may think of me, the Société is not unwelcoming of dissent, or of those who seek education in political theory. I am not offended by your wish to question, but I do wish you would make some attempt to listen to the arguments set before you and try to see their merits. Yet you continue to mock all, without affording them any due consideration."

"I do consider them," Grantaire said; the words left a bitter after-taste on his tongue. A small, treacherous voice in the back of his mind posited that this was the ulterior motive he had been seeking in Enjolras's actions; the dinner little more than a sweetness to make him more amenable to Enjolras's persuasions. A conceited thought, and one Grantaire roughly pushed aside; Enjolras's cause had no need of him, and he had nothing to offer it. Perhaps it was simply reflex, to practise his rhetoric at any given opportunity; to Enjolras's eyes, everything and everyone was a potential tool.

Enjolras's mouth drew into a thin, sceptical line at his poor excuse; it was no surprise that he did not believe him.

Grantaire truly did attempt to weigh the merits the others saw against his own experience, but all he saw was foolish, false hope; the endless, selfish acts of humanity in the abstract, that left those who fell on ill-fortune to be ground into the dirt. Men who lied, cheated and stole their way to the top, and the casualties of their own self-concern that they left in their wake. Only a handful of those he knew were worth fighting for, and only one stood in bright, brilliant counterpoint; the stark exception that highlighted the prevalence of the rule. He could not begin to fathom how he might explain the hopelessness he felt to one so immune to the sentiment.

He reached across the table for Enjolras's hand, thought better of it, and wrapped his fingers around the neck of the wine bottle instead, lifting it to refill both their glasses. Enjolras was looking at him with the same patient pity he extended to any he perceived as in need of guidance; he used to look at Pontmercy that way, before the doe-eyed fool had deserted their company – or, possibly, shown wisdom enough to escape while he could. "I will try," Grantaire said, at last.

"It is all I ask." Enjolras seemed satisfied at that, granting Grantaire a temporary reprieve from the attempted conversion. He raised his newly-refilled glass, taking a measured sip and setting it down again with a finality that signalled a change of subject. He straightened in his chair, and regarded Grantaire again, his features open and curious. "When you hailed me, in the Louvre, what had you been sketching?"

Grantaire was taken aback by the question, and the revelation that Enjolras remembered that meeting at all, when he had so many worthier thoughts with which to occupy his mind. He racked his brains to think, but found he did not recall. He did not remember much of the visit at all – only Enjolras's unexpected outpouring of passion at Géricault's work, and that in part because he had not thought his philosophy allowed for such romantic sentiment. Watching Enjolras witness the sublime, and be moved by it, had been sublime in and of itself.

"I truly can't recall," he answered, but his curiosity was piqued at the question, "Why do you ask?"

"I was wondering if I might see it."

Grantaire felt staggered; for the third time this evening, Enjolras had surprised him, and for the third time he felt an answering pang of longing. Enjolras's interest in his work should have filled him with warmth, but his most pressing sentiment was the familiar anxious feeling that came with showing his work to anyone he esteemed; the one that had made his years as a pupil so nerve-racking.

"Whatever it was, I doubt it was noteworthy enough for inspection; a preparatory sketch, nothing more," he dismissed, then hesitated, as Enjolras continued to regard him with open attentiveness. "I suppose I've others I could show you, if you wish it, though I can't imagine they hold enough merit for that; ranked against my peers my work is distinctly average, at best. Perhaps you would prefer to accompany me to –" Enjolras quelled him with a speaking look, even as he offered him a way out of his request.

"I wish to see your work," he said, earnestly enough that Grantaire believed him.

He hesitated. The request had sent him off balance, scrambling for some excuse or more enticing distraction, but he had never managed to deny Enjolras anything, and he was not about to attempt to over something so inconsequential. Alongside the uneasy, unsettled feeling in his stomach, the faint spark of some shapeless positive expectation had blossomed, despite his qualms, a combination that left him feeling peculiar, and a little light-headed.

"Very well," he assented, and rose to his feet, leaving Enjolras briefly alone at the table; rounded the divider and crouched at the foot of his bookcase to sift through the stack of discarded sketchbooks before it, seeking something worthy of Enjolras's scrutiny.

The newest addition to the pile had far too many pictures of Enjolras in it; that would be an embarrassment for both of them. The one before that contained mainly images pertaining to clients, preparatory sketches for commissions and a few of former lovers; that seemed in poor taste, too. The oldest and those nearest the bottom of the pile were from when he was still a pupil, and seemed painfully amateurish now.

He was considering the repercussions of withdrawing the offer, and Enjolras's potential disappointment, when his gaze fell upon one from three or so years prior. The deep-blue, cloth-board cover was less tattered than some of the others; he recalled its contents as roughly aligning with the time he had squandered much of his leisure burning through his inheritance on good wine and fine food, and delighted in finding good company with which to share it. He had become more closely acquainted with the other members of the Société as a result; his bouts of drunkenness had been frequent, but generally amicable, and far less melancholy. It sparked memories of a happier, simpler time, when he had finished his training and was at last free to paint what he wished, before the blood and bullets of the previous year's summer.

He rose with it in his hands, leaving the rest of the pile in disarray.

While he had been absent, Enjolras had finished his meal and set his plate aside. He looked up as Grantaire approached, when he noted the sketchbook in his grasp he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his fingers with care; Grantaire offered it to him with unsteady hands. Enjolras took it from him and set it on the table between them as Grantaire returned to his seat. Grantaire's heart gave another anxious flutter as Enjolras opened it, and began leafing through its pages with slow, methodical interest.

Its contents was mixed: sketches from the Louvre and other institutions of Paris, of statues, artefacts and architecture; the occasional crude caricature of a visitor that had caught his attention, or of public figures that had been topical at the time; a few studies of objects or animals in the natural world.

There were fewer drawings from life than would be found in the sketchbooks from when he was still completing his apprenticeship; drawing from the nude was the underpinning of the formal technique. Grantaire had spent countless tedious hours being forced to perfect his depiction of a subject's anatomy, to the point where he now felt an almost clinical level of detachment when faced with bare flesh, his mind on the technical requirements of his craft, rather than on the passion or perfection he ought to be depicting. He had strayed a little from the convention since: the drawings of nude models he had done in his own studio were softer, and more naturalistic in style, but he had yet to find a muse that inspired him to imbue his work with any genuinely grand sentiments or tangible eroticism.  

Grantaire watched Enjolras's study of his work with mingled fear and expectation. Enjolras's features remained enigmatic, but he seemed to examine each page with intent. Grantaire felt suddenly exposed, as though Enjolras's scrutiny was turned to his own personage. He should not feel like his very soul was in those pages – he hadn't cared for most of the sketches when he'd made them; they were practise, nothing more – but Enjolras was examining them as though they contained the secrets of the universe or some forbidden, unparalleled wisdom.

Some of the women depicted in the sketches – clothed, or otherwise – reoccurred. Enjolras had no reason to recognise their faces, and glanced over their bodies with cursory disinterest. It was almost a shame his cheeks did not colour at the sight; Grantaire would have liked to see it, but his features remained as stoic as Grantaire had ever seen them.

He turned the page again, to a sketch that depicted the interior of a café, the bodies that populated it little more than indistinct shapes, but it sparked a memory in Grantaire, and with it the realisation of what the rest of the pages contained. He wondered if he should let Enjolras see them, but indecision made him too slow to call an end to his perusal to prevent it. 

He watched Enjolras gaze down at the image of three men, sitting at a table in the Musain's backroom, so close their elbows pressed each other's; watched Enjolras's eyes light up as his smile at last reached their corners, as he recognised the faces of their friends. 

The drawing depicted Joly, Bossuet and Bahorel, deep in their cups and laughing in raucous, static mirth. Bossuet's arm rested casually over the back of Joly's chair, a glass held loosely in his other hand; Bahorel sat across from him, fixed in the act of raising his own glass to his lips; Joly sat pressed between them, his smile timid in comparison, but equally genuine.  

Enjolras studied it with a fondness to his gaze that Grantaire had never witnessed before, then turned to the next page. Grantaire watched him beam down in turn at a preening Courfeyrac, a pensive Jehan, a sketch of Joly examining his own tonsils in a small silver mirror. His eyes widened in surprise when the next page found him faced with a naked Bahorel, his muscles tensed for optimum display in an artfully casual recline, made decent only by the angle of his pose, his left thigh obscuring what ought not be studied too closely. Enjolras glanced up at him, one eyebrow raised in question, wearing the hint of a smirk; Grantaire returned it, and explained:

"It is a common request of clients that I depict them with more physical prowess than they possess in truth. A little flattery is sometimes required to meet their expectations; flattery our friends have been known to aid me in producing."

Enjolras gave a single, suppressed snort of amusement at that: evidence of his scorn at the vanity of Grantaire's patrons, and flashed his pearl-white teeth as he grinned at Grantaire in silent understanding, before turning his attention back to the sketches. Grantaire watched with stunned appreciation, as Enjolras's delight became steadily more evident in his features each time a turn of the page revealed a face he recognised.

Only Bahorel, Courfeyrac and Jehan had posed nude: Bahorel to display his admirable physique, Courfeyrac his beauty and charm, a befitting substitute for those who wished to align themselves with a hero fabled for their physical appeal. Jehan's allure was softer, and quintessentially romantic; his lowered, calf-lashed eyelids and softly-curling hair produced a sweetness that rivalled Enjolras's own in his softer moments, though he lacked Enjolras's unearthly, distant quality. Enjolras was composed above all else; Jehan practically blushed off the page.

The pink glow of twilight seeped in through the window at Grantaire's back, lending the scenery of his room a rosy tint; Grantaire liked watching sunsets, he liked the way the colours mixed, blue and orange peeking through grey clouds, but he liked the sight before him more: Enjolras's curls falling over his face as he smiled down at each page, his features unguarded in his joy at seeing his friends' faces rendered fixed by Grantaire's meagre skill. Grantaire looked across the table at the top of his gold, dusk-touched head; he wanted to bury his face in those curls, to kiss the point at the crown of his head that they spiralled out from, as Enjolras's head remained bowed in his continued study of his work.

Aside from Feuilly, who was frequently and understandably occupied, the only other of their number he had not yet drawn was Combeferre. Combeferre held the dubious honour of being the only member of the Société that intimidated him more than Enjolras did, though for entirely different reasons. He reminded him of one of the professors at his collège: one who used to scold him in a manner that was so painfully kind that often he would rather have just been struck; he might have felt less guilty that way.

He said as much; Enjolras laughed at the comparison, in the sudden unexpected way that occasionally burst from him and made his fierce features take on a guileless aspect, that of the country boy fresh off the diligence from his home province, pink cheeked and wide-eyed at the thought of the adventures and experiences that might await. Except Grantaire suspected Enjolras had arrived in Paris with a knife in his boot and a head full of grand, dangerous plans; the veil of innocence nothing more than a ceremonial myrtle wreath, its soft white flowers hiding the sharp point beneath. The deception was convincing; he was so beautiful it made Grantaire's chest ache to look at him too long. 

He realised he was staring when Enjolras lifted his head again to smirk at him, the laughter not quite gone from his features yet.

He turned his own attention to the bottle, and found it almost empty, though he had drunk surprisingly little of it himself. His attention drawn to the fact, he noticed Enjolras taking small, measured sips from his own glass as he continued his study. He was drinking more liberally than usual tonight: Enjolras did not drink often, and the only refreshment he had partaken in in Grantaire's chambers so far had been water from the pump he shared with the other buildings that formed the boundary of the courtyard – fresh enough to be palatable, but tasteless. It seemed Enjolras had at last permitted himself to relax in his company; a notion that was striking in its abnormality.

"I enjoyed this," Enjolras said, as he closed the sketchbook at last, turning it so it lay face up between them once more; Grantaire thought he detected a hint of surprise in his frank admission. "I am not averse to repeating it."

Grantaire gaped stupidly at him, before collecting himself enough to reply: "Then, allow me to broaden your culinary horizons; this was pleasant, but Paris has much more to offer than the Corinthe's hazards, or the Musain's staid fare."

"So I am told," Enjolras said, with a wry, self-effacing smile.

"I will bring some for you, next time," Grantaire suggested hopefully.

"I look forward to it." 

A moment of stillness passed between them, unremarked; neither of them hurried to end it. Their eyes met; Enjolras's were heavy, and the rich blue of a moonlit sky. "I should go," he said at last, looking drowsy, but satisfied. "Will I see you at the Musain this Saturday?"

"Naturally."

Enjolras nodded, and rose, gathering their leftovers back into their wrappings in order to take them with him; it appeared the meat, though foul, did not warrant wasting. Grantaire opened the door for him when he was ready to depart, his coat buttoned to his collar and his hat pulled low over his forehead, one stray wisp of hair curling against his cheekbone. Grantaire wanted to reach out and tuck it behind his ear; instead he let his fingertips brush against Enjolras's elbow as he passed. Enjolras paused in the open doorway, and turned to him, as though expecting him to speak. 

"It's nothing," Grantaire said, "goodnight."

Enjolras bid him goodnight in return. Grantaire closed the door behind him, and turned to clear the paraphernalia of their meal away; alone again, and reeling in wonder at the kindness Enjolras had extended to him.

Chapter Text

IV.

October brought a fine mist of rain, and grey skies that seemed permanently overcast and full of gloom. The days grew darker and the air damp and chill. The nights turned cold as Autumn began to tighten its hold; Grantaire was grateful his newfound productivity would allow him to be generous with the logs this winter. The leaves of the trees that lined the boulevards at the city's heart started to wither; in the courtyard the horse chestnut fruits turned brown and began to fall in earnest. 

And still, Enjolras sat at his desk – for it was, in Grantaire's mind at least, his desk now. Enjolras had used it far more than Grantaire ever had himself, preferring a larger space that he could cover with the clutter of his materials. Its status as an heirloom also troubled him, though its ownership had passed to him; he still felt the conditioned need to be careful not to stain the expensive wood with his mistakes. Of late he had deliberately avoided it, for fear of disturbing Enjolras's rhythm; his pen and inkwell had taken up permanent post on it. He always took his writing with him, though, along with the letters he did not condemn to Grantaire's fireplace.

That evening, he seemed to be in more haste than usual to finish his work. He rolled the ink-blotter across the page with a force that stirred Grantaire's attention away from his own task, before unscrewing its handle to remove the evidence and folding the letter with deft, practiced motions. He handed Grantaire the used sheet of blotting-paper on his way out; Grantaire glanced at the mirror image in his hand as the door clicked shut behind him. He could decipher its secrets if he wanted to – his artistic training had made him able to recognise shapes at all angles: reading backwards presented little challenge – but he wouldn't, both out of respect for Enjolras's privacy and because he suspected he did not wish to know its contents. He would rest easier in the dark.

He tore it in two and threw it on the fire, as Enjolras had wordlessly instructed him to, without a backwards glance.

-

Eating together had become a new aspect of their unspoken routine, and they took turns to provide for each other. The food Enjolras brought was simple, but generally of good quality now that he had reverted back to safer options – they had both silently concluded that the Corinthe had been a failed experiment. In return, Grantaire provided a thorough sampling of all the best their corner of Paris had to offer, and the occasional extravagant foray acquired from further afield.

Tonight he had made his way to l'Ermitage, following a hankering for galettes. The woman at the counter was known to him, and feigned offence as she asked why he had been so fickle in his patronage of late.

"I must be fair in the allocation of my company, and sow the seeds of pleasure I bring across a wide pasture, so all may share in my voluptuous presence." To share in the contents of his purse and liberal dispensing of it, more like.

"My girls have been positively bereft of your charm," the café's proprietress replied, with a sardonic raising of the brow and a look towards one of the waitresses as she passed with tray in hand. The waitress rolled her eyes in return, but did spare him a pretty smile as she skirted his obstructing form and moved deftly through the crowded café towards a waiting table, her skirts brushing against his knees as she did so. When he looked back to the proprietress her expression had warmed, softening her disapproval. 

He bought two large cakes: one savoury, one sweet, and left with the promise to return sooner than they could miss him.

His walk home was leisurely, if a little damp. The sky was already dark with cloud; the streetlamps already lit, and swinging on their ropes. There was a fine mist of rain in the air, and a bitterly cold wind that scattered the carpet of freshly-fallen leaves before and about him; those it did not catch crumpled underfoot with a crisp sound.

As he walked, he let his thoughts wander. It was true that he had not spent as much time cluttering the tables of his various haunts of late; he had spent far more time at home in their place. He used to avoid his own lodgings as often as he could; he hated being alone with his thoughts, and it was easier to distract himself from them when surrounded by the bustle and clamour of Parisian life, in all its beauty and its grime. 

But he wasn't alone anymore, on many of the nights he chose to stay in; though Enjolras hardly made for lively company, his presence was both more distracting and more soothing than the noisiest of cafés or most unending supply of wine.

Grantaire had at last tried to put a name to the feeling Enjolras inspired in him; the great ocean's swell of sentiment that washed over him every time he thought of him, a physical thing as much as it was a spiritual one – unrelenting, and impossible to resist. 

Admiration? That was one aspect, but as a descriptor to encompass the entire complexity of his feelings it seemed woefully insufficient. Veneration? Perhaps there was more truth in that than he'd like to admit, because he knew Enjolras, in his insistence that all men are equal, would perceive it as mockery… love?

It bore some relation to the love that poets sang of – Enjolras taking up space in his thoughts, whether he was present or not; the fluttery feeling in his chest whenever he looked at him too long, and the painful longing that followed on its heels – but with an edge that felt sharper, and more painful, for its unwantedness. They were almost friends now, in as much as Enjolras's distant, pensive nature allowed for personal connection, yet the writhing, grasping creature born of pure want that was always present beneath the surface of Grantaire's thoughts made the true, open camaraderie he shared with the others impossible. He could not clasp Enjolras's shoulder, or shake his hand, without staring into its void, avaricious maw.

He reached his building, and found Enjolras already inside, loitering in the sparsely-furnished hall and trading impersonal pleasantries with the porter. He excused himself from the conversation when he noticed Grantaire's presence. The porter nodded stiffly and unsmilingly to Grantaire, and returned to her sitting room. A curious woman, Grantaire had always thought; she was almost as tall as Enjolras, and almost as frosty in her general demeanour. He was shocked the pair of them had managed to find something to talk about at all.

Enjolras accompanied him up the stairs without ceremony, but lingered at his side in curiosity when Grantaire placed their dinner down on the table. Perhaps Grantaire's guilt at previous inebriated misbehaviours had spurred him to spend a little more than necessary, for there was enough to last them several meals. Nevertheless, Enjolras voiced his approval at his choice, and consumed a hearty slice of each: one filled with leek, mushrooms and cheese, the other mixed berries in a sweet, spiced glaze. They were delicious; the pastry crisp and buttery and the fillings rich and flavourful. Grantaire reaffirmed his conclusion that they were the best in Paris, and Enjolras saw fit to agree with him.

Following their meal Enjolras helped him clear the table, before both turned their attention to their own tasks. The air tonight was particularly cold, a preview of the longer period of winter to come. Enjolras sat with his coat draped over his shoulders against the chill, and Grantaire in turn had donned an old housecoat over his shirt, its collar turned up to cover the back of his neck, and a pair of worn out gloves with holes for his thumbs and forefingers to warm his hands. If the weather turned much colder in the coming months, he would have to move his work closer to the fireplace. The sky outside was as black as pitch, with few stars visible and only the thinnest sliver of a pale silver moon. 

The only sounds that accompanied them were the familiar scratching of Enjolras's writing, the occasional creak of the chair as he shifted, a clattering of jars and bottles when Grantaire had need of a different shade of ink, and an occasional crackle from the logs in the grate. 

He had no commission at present, but had sold a handful of the smaller pieces that had been cluttering his room for months to a merchant that dealt in decorative trinkets. At present he was toying with composition ideas for future projects, drawing in abstract shapes that suggested at human forms and blocks of colour to represent their surroundings, in translucent shades of grey and brown. He had taken stock of his current finances, and concluded that he could afford to maintain his current standard of living for several months before he would need to find work, or tighten his purse strings. A better position than he had found himself in one year prior, and, he suspected, partially Enjolras's influence; nevertheless, the instability of his profession was inescapable, without luck or the influence granted by status and connection in high society. Complacency had been his undoing before, perhaps this time he ought to at least try not to waste any opportunities to further his career that might present themselves.  

That notion brought with it the tedious thought of long dinners and stuffy social events, of obsequious flattery towards people he despised, and almost made him groan aloud and reach for the wine again at the prospect of playing sycophant. He'd never been particularly good at it, despite his ability to waffle unendingly at the slightest provocation; lampooning was more to his taste, and played better to his talents.

He sighed, and glanced across the room to Enjolras's bent head; to the dandelion clock of his hair – he could often mark the lateness of the hour by how disorderly those curls appeared – and his noble profile, eyes fixed on the page and the thin line of his mouth drawn in concentration, and allowed himself a brief, appreciative survey. He knew the fine lineaments of his features in more detail now, from weeks of study and uncounted attempts to reproduce them in charcoal or ink, yet he never tired of looking at them.

The one man he could think of endless encomiums for, yet Grantaire knew he would hear none of them.

The more time he spent in Enjolras's company, the more vexing he found him. It was disconcerting: Enjolras seemed accepting of his presence, and of some small measure of affection from him in one moment, then withdrawn in the next, as remote as ever behind the unknowable number of walls he had built about himself. Grantaire had at last been permitted passage through certain of them, but just when he felt he was closing in on whatever truths they guarded, he would take a wrong turn and meet another barrier of stony silence. 

Clearly, Enjolras was practised in compartmentalising; Grantaire had always known him to possess a level of self-discipline that was equal parts admirable and frustrating. More frustrating than ever, now, for the brief, precious glimpses he had witnessed of the quiet, considerate twenty-five year old student that existed alongside the ageless priest of the ideal. 

He had wondered before what Enjolras might be like, if he hadn't chosen to rigidly devote himself to his cause; to deny himself all the common distractions and fleeting passions that were the perquisite of youth. Grantaire had drunk his fill of them, and ultimately found them hollow, though perhaps that was more a product of his own cynicism and over-indulgence than a universal conclusion; the others still seemed to balance their enjoyment of them with more serious pursuits. His own continuing irreverence was motivated more by habit than by genuine satisfaction.

He realised he was brooding again – that would do him no favours – and sought an end to it. He considered the bottles in his liquor cabinet, but instead found his attention drawn back to Enjolras as he paused in his writing to shift his position, and to stretch. He abandoned the pretext of occupation, and decided to pry, to distract himself from the onset of a melancholy mood.

"What are you writing about?" he asked, to break the silence; to chip away at the base of the next wall between them.

Enjolras's shoulders noticeably tensed at the query, his posture straightening as he paused to consider his reply. 

"You have never shown any interest in my work before," he stated, his hesitancy to indulge this line in questioning evident in his tone: clipped, where previously it had been idle, almost relaxed. Evidently, Enjolras suspected Grantaire of seeking a rise out of him. A fair assumption, given past evidence, and not entirely inaccurate at present, either. 

"Can a man not experience a change of heart?" Grantaire postured, placing his palm over his own for emphasis, feigning wounded offence where there was none; any insult implied in Enjolras's wariness was his own doing.

"I am not convinced you can," Enjolras answered, then paused. Grantaire took the return to weighted silence as another barrier raised between them, until – "I am writing on the subject of the silk workers of Lyon, and their requests for the prefecture to force the manufacturers to apply a fixed rate, to limit the decline in their wages."

Grantaire regarded him with surprise, "A little outside your usual sphere, is it not?"

"The silk workers have shown their ability to organise and to act in solidarity with one another; I am preparing an argument that there is potential for our causes to align. If they are willing to mobilise to voice their demands, perhaps there is value in convincing them our aims are compatible."

"Ah. You mean you wish to mobilize them towards your aim."

"I wish to convince our existing allies that it may be worth their while to aid the workers in theirs."

Grantaire marvelled, not for the first time, at the clockwork machinations of his mind, emotionlessly calculating, a general moving pieces across a battle map, cold and cruel enough not to care for the individual lives at stake; he was fearsome like this. It was difficult to reconcile this facet of him with the man he shared his dinner with and who smiled to hear talk of their friends. Grantaire suppressed the mental image of Enjolras, towering over him with pistol in hand, his beautiful features rendered terrible by righteous fury, and tried to focus on the conversation at hand:

"It was your Constituent Assembly that enacted the Le Chapelier Law, was it not? I thought your kind were against such interventions? Trade guilds being a relict of the old ways, and so forth."

"To the ire of many that supported the revolution in the first place; a revolution that does not court the workers is doomed to failure, or usurpation: case in point last summer."

Grantaire could have argued further, just to be wilfully contrarian, but he wouldn't, on this occasion – he did not wish to be reminded of those three hellish days, or picture the state of the streets he'd woken to in the days that followed anymore than he must. Even the recollection of the fear that every sound on the staircase would bring him ill news, or the memory of sitting in his corner the first night they had reassembled at the Musain, counting the bandages and discerning the less visible signs of damage on his friends, in limbs used with more caution than usual or the odd, stoically-concealed wince, was enough to make his pulse quicken in trepidation. 

In the end, it hadn't even been worth it, as much as they had all tried to draw hope from the fact the people had risen. Nothing changed that didn't stay the same, and there was a ready supply of ambitious men willing to clamber over the bodies of the fallen to take their turn at the top, should the present order suffer a brief upset; why bother handing them the opportunity?  

They had lapsed into silence again, though neither of them was focussed on their work this time. Grantaire watched Enjolras fiddle with the nib of his pen and frown at the lines of ink on the page before him, his eyes unfocussed and his mind obviously on other things; the act left smudges of ink on his fingers, and he wiped them irritably on his sleeve before raising the pen to eye level to examine it closer. The stillness stretched between them, until Enjolras gave up the effort of scowling his pen into submission, set it aside and turned to him in a single, decisive motion, and asked: "What are you sketching?"

Grantaire set his own pen aside with a slow, calming breath, and answered, "Nothing in particular, just idle imaginings."

"May I see them?"

"I suppose so." Grantaire bent his head and blew on the latest lines of ink, then rose to his feet and leant across the table, the sketchbook held in his outstretched hand. Enjolras did the same with a scrape of the chair legs against the wooden floor, and stretched the short distance to take it from him. 

He glanced down at the open page, then back to Grantaire with an apologetic look; "I am unsure what it's supposed to be." 

Grantaire chuckled, "It is perhaps a little abstract; the shapes in the middle are figures, the more geometric forms represent the architecture of the background. It is not intended to detail the finished image, only the areas of depth and height; it would be better suited as a design for a bas-relief than a painting. The earlier pages may make for more interesting viewing."

Enjolras set the sketchbook on the table before him, and turned to the previous page, beginning a study in reverse of Grantaire's recent artistic efforts. Grantaire, despite himself, lent across his own table to better see which drawings Enjolras was looking at. His brow arched the first time he recognised one as a likeness of himself, but he said nothing, and Grantaire did not detect displeasure in his features. 

His perusal took him back in time, through Grantaire's memories of the last few months, past more vague composition ideas and sketches of himself; a study of women's hairstyles, made in a fashionable café near the Palais-Royal, to aid him in his last commission; the chestnuts, arranged on his table at home; a few studies of the flora in the Luxembourg Garden as it changed with the season; a caricature of the porter and a varmint hunter chasing rats out of the cellar with rifles – he should probably burn that one, just in case; she would flay him alive for the cheek if she saw it. When Enjolras reached the half-finished sketch of Courfeyrac and himself he smiled with the same rare warmth Grantaire had come to cherish witnessing in him. The ease of their friendship was visible in both their postures, and in Courfeyrac's fond expression.

The images of Enjolras were all similar – he had been drawing him from the same angle for months, after-all – but viewing them in quick succession made the progression in his perception of him more pronounced, for there were slight differences in them that over time reflected a certain intimacy with his subject. The newer images were more detailed, less idealised and more imperfect. 

"They are all similar, I know," he said, when Enjolras hesitated on that first, revealing image of himself – of how Grantaire saw him; he couldn't tell in the moment whether Enjolras liked what he saw or not. "Would you hold a different pose for me, sometime? No, don't trouble yourself to answer; I know you have more worthy demands on your time." The revolution couldn't wait, and would not allow Enjolras to rest long enough for Grantaire to do true justice to his likeness. 

Enjolras remained quiet for a moment, staring at the facsimile of himself before him – or, possibly, through it, then: "Perhaps I would, if it were important."

Grantaire found himself taken aback by his words, said without looking up from the sketchbook, and so casually that he might almost have missed them. His surprise was followed by another flood of sentiment, at the thought of Enjolras sitting sweetly and demurely while he fussed with the composition of the scene, allowing him ample time to study him while he wasn't preoccupied with another task. "It would be an honour," he said with sincerity, "I would have to think of something good for it." 

He had considered the notion of having Enjolras model for him before – there were many physical comparisons he could draw between the man before him and the subjects of myth and legend – but he had never quite managed to find the perfect fit for him. He was so much on his own already, that to cast him as anyone else felt diminutive, a dimming of all the virtues and fierce convictions that he already possessed. He had no need to pretend at being anyone but himself.

He voiced a little of this conundrum, as Enjolras glanced to him with the look of scrutiny he wore when he was determining the allegiances of an unproven source. 

"I'll admit the idea of submitting your likeness to the academy would be pleasingly subversive, even more so than Courfeyrac's, handsome as he is, it would bring me greater amusement to see them fawn over your image."

"Is that your intention, humour? I had thought you were attempting commentary," Enjolras was looking at him in that calculating way that made him feel stripped bare to the very soul; Grantaire was perpetually paranoid that he might see right through him, but evidently he could not, or he wouldn’t be entertaining this conversation now.

"You have too generous a view of my motives, or of the taste of the public; there are reasons your image would appeal that aren't so high-minded." That was too close to an admission for comfort; he glossed over it as he continued, "Besides, attempting commentary is dangerous, Charles Philipon is awaiting trial for 'insulting the person of the king' in his caricatures as we speak, and not for the first time." 

"Some might consider it worth the risk." Enjolras continued to fix him with a stare that made Grantaire lower his gaze, before he mastered himself enough to meet him eye to eye, and answered: 

"Yes, some might think that."

A pause, in which Enjolras looked back to the sketchbook, then closed it with finality. "I like them," he concluded, and handed it back to Grantaire. 

Evidently, they had indulged in as much conversation as either of them would dare attempt for the evening, for neither of them spoke again until Enjolras declared his intention to call a halt to his work for the night.

He asked Grantaire's permission to take a little of the sweet cake with him – for breakfast, Grantaire assumed – as he was preparing to depart; Grantaire wrapped a large slice for him and handed it to him as he paused in the doorway. Enjolras's hands lingered over his as he took it from him. They bid each other goodnight, and Enjolras left, without further comment, and without noticeable reaction to the intimacy of his touch.

-

Grantaire would never have imagined himself adopting a stray, like Courfeyrac and his – now-absconded – Pontmercy boy. It made sense for warm, generous Courfeyrac to be willing to take an earnest lost soul under his wing, but not for Grantaire. The idea of himself successfully taking care of anything more demanding than a potted plant was laughable, as was the notion that anyone would see the state of him and take the offer of his aid as anything other than a jest.  

Unless that stray was Enjolras, apparently. In the months since that first stifling afternoon he had somehow become a near permanent fixture in Grantaire's apartment: a beautiful decoration, his own tame demagogue, cautiously eating out of his hand. Somewhere between that first begrudging acceptance and the present, their relationship had reconfigured itself again, into one of almost domestic familiarity, comfortable in its unspokenness. 

As the nights grew colder, Grantaire felt with increasing intensity that he would have liked him to stay; it had been too long since he'd last had someone to share his bed with, and a friend, if he could call Enjolras that, would do as good a job as a lover at warming the sheets. 

That seemed a pathetic excuse even to himself; he could buy a bed warmer if that was all he wanted from him.

Often, Enjolras clasped his shoulder as he left; a motion that was brief and perfunctory, but conducted with a gentleness at odds with the stern, warlike nature he so often showed in public. 

Sometimes he allowed his legs to sprawl under the table as they ate, and if his feet happened to rest against Grantaire's, or their knees pressed in the insufficient space, he did not alter his position; that made Grantaire feel hot under the collar, caught between wanting to pull away so as not to betray himself if his features began to flush, or pull him closer. If Enjolras even noticed at all, he showed no sign of it.

Occasionally, he glanced up from his work to catch Enjolras in the act of watching him, with an expression he had never seen on him before: soft, if a little forlorn, or – more familiarly –  intense and frowning in concentration, as though deeply lost in contemplation. If their eyes met, he would blink himself back into the present, gold lashes wiping away whatever thoughts had been hidden in his gaze, and turn away. 

Grantaire wanted to know them; wanted to rise to his feet, close the distance between them, take the point of Enjolras's chin in his hand and catch whatever fleeting thoughts had been troubling him, before he could conceal them from view. He was not so bold as to entertain the notion that they might be similar to his own, but if there was a boundary to his desire to uncover more forbidden knowledge where Enjolras was concerned, he had yet to discover it. 

Perhaps he was as virginal and chaste as he publicly professed; Grantaire had had much greater opportunity to observe him of late, and had yet to witness any evidence of his being troubled by needs of that nature. Though he spent half his evenings here, there were dozens of other places he could be, should he have needs to be met. Grantaire knew most of them himself, but he had never encountered Enjolras in passing en-route to any of them, and his comings and goings as Grantaire witnessed them all found him presentable enough. 

Irreproachable; he had never come to Grantaire's bearing any contracted hint of perfume, of cologne, with rouge on his collar or bearing telling stains on his clothing, and when he left it was often approaching the silent hours after midnight, not too late to seek further company, but he seemed to depart only when he had at last exhausted all his faculties, slipping out of the door already half-asleep. 

Perhaps he was as marble as he appeared, in that respect, at least.

-

November seemed to come swifter than Grantaire had anticipated; the leaves at his window continued their turn, from darkening green to a crisp, burnt orange, then gave up the pretence of life at last: falling to the ground in a thick, dirt-coloured carpet that dissolved into mud when it rained, forming a treacherous, slick surface atop the damp paving slabs. At night, the wind rattled the chimney pipe and howled through the rafters of the attic above; a dissonant duet that would only grow louder and more frequent as the winter progressed. 

Today was bright, despite the chill in the air, the sun low enough in the sky to stream in through the window at his back and cast the white impression of the window panes across the table, deforming as they stretched towards the ceiling. Grantaire watched the shadow of some flying creature flitter across Enjolras's shoulders and up the opposite wall.

Enjolras was back at his desk, copying out an article he had written yesterday in a neater hand, while Grantaire sketched and admired the noble plane of his brow, the straight, aristocratic nose, the deep-set eyes above a pair of defined cheekbones. He had left at a particularly disreputable hour the previous night; Grantaire had considered offering him the bed again, so determined had he seemed to work himself to exhaustion.

They had just finished a late breakfast together: coffee made at home with water boiled over the fire; fresh, golden-crusted rolls that were still warm from the baker's oven and a little fruit that Enjolras bought on his way to Grantaire's. The weather and the meal had left Grantaire feeling uncommonly chipper, and he kept a second cup of coffee at his side as he settled in for a few hours of productivity, beginning with a sketch of Enjolras to inspire further creativity. 

"Exquisite," Grantaire murmured, largely to himself, "quel beau marbre."

"What?" Enjolras paused; his lofty brow furrowed, the corners of his mouth furled. 

Grantaire hesitated – he had thought Enjolras so engrossed in his task that his own presence was currently being ignored; being called to account for his idle utterances was an uncomfortable level of inclusion. He took a breath, and answered: 

"Your profile, it is divine; were anything capable of convincing me of the existence a creator's hand – not the church's sober prescriptions, but of primordial titans, shaping man out of mud – it would be the heavenly symmetry of your features – I mix my metaphors, but the sentiment is true."

"If you mean to mock me again, I would rather you wait until this article is complete," Enjolras frowned, "It's important." His rebuke delivered, he turned back to his work, reading over his last lines again before picking up where Grantaire's interruption had broken his concentration.

Grantaire sighed, and set his pen aside. Enjolras seemed to sense Grantaire's stillness, and take it for the desire to speak seriously that it was, for he looked back to him and lowered his own pen in turn, regarding him expectantly.

"I am aware I convict myself by my own tongue," Grantaire began, attempting to imbue his tone with all the honesty he could muster. "I spew so much hot air that all compliments from me ring false, but in this I speak plainly. I do not mean to appear facetious when I express my admiration of your virtues."

"Beauty is not a virtue; that misconception is surely as old as civilisation itself." Enjolras's disdain for the notion was clear in the shortness of his tone. 

"Certainly not one I possess," Grantaire said, with a grimace.

"Have you any?"

'I have you' bloomed, unwanted, on Grantaire's tongue and he choked on it, his own savage hope cutting far deeper than Enjolras's words ever could. Instead, he answered: "Never knowingly." 

If Enjolras did not value it then Grantaire would not call him beautiful, though he still thought it, and felt it with every fibre of his being. Looking at him was like looking at a force of nature, and understanding for the first time what had motivated the creation of the most moving works of art he had ever seen; the danger and excitement and the cosmic awe of knowing how fragile it all was, and how fleeting. Now he understood the passion and the care that drove others to capture what they saw; what had driven him to take his paints and his papers and daub crude likenesses of the flowers in the garden, or the clouds in the sky, when he ought to have been doing his sums. If only he had the talent to commit his esteem for Enjolras to his canvas.

Enjolras gave a supercilious huff, and turned away again, forcing an end to the conversation. They still could not help but find each other's rough edges, for all their cautious efforts to get to know each other. Theirs was a friendship built as much on what they chose to keep from each other as what they deigned to share. Grantaire had been blaming himself, and his inability to hold his tongue, but perhaps more than he ought to – and giving himself too much credit in the process. They were just too different in temperaments to agree on certain matters, but he was trying, and he could see in Enjolras's patient pity that he was, too. He had no idea why he bothered.

Enjolras finished the article before the sun was at its highest. He folded it, and rose, signalling his departure.

"I am meeting the others at the Musain, are you coming?" he asked.

Grantaire considered; he almost always delighted in their company, but he was not certain he was in the mood for more high-minded idealism at present. Enjolras's words had stung a little, despite his being accustomed to them. Perhaps he was a little out of practise in brushing them aside; "No, thank you. I think I've had my fill of righteous disapproval for the day."

Enjolras hesitated by his chair, pausing in the act of looking for his hat to sigh, and regard Grantaire again. He ran his hand through his hair, putting the massy curls in disarray; he looked like he wanted to say more, but did not know where to start. Grantaire noted that he looked tired, as he had not for some time.

"It's fine," Grantaire said. Taking pity on his lost expression, he decided to reassure; "Let me lick my wounds and pity myself for an afternoon, I've work to do anyway. I will see you tomorrow, maybe?" 

"Tomorrow," Enjolras nodded, seeming relieved, then took up his papers and his hat – which he had left atop one of the rolls of fabric that rested against the wall – as he left.

-

By the afternoon, Grantaire's mood had soured further. He had intended to begin a new painting today, but his foul mood had him fighting the impulse to reach for the bottle while he waited for the initial layers of lead-white and chalk to dry, and by the time it had he was no longer in the mood for anything that required concentration. His mind was preoccupied with his own failings.

Enjolras was untouchable, and so achingly pure that Grantaire's own desires felt like an insult. He was so vastly inferior in every aspect – physically, yes, though Enjolras professed indifference there, but in everything that Enjolras valued too, and that was the greater crime.               

He needed to stop waiting for Enjolras like a dog pinning at the door, lost until its master came home. 

The sky turned grey as evening approached, the morning's cheerful weather vanished with the amicable mood. The light gone, and all hope of productivity with it, he set his paints aside, donned his coat, and decided to seek distraction elsewhere.

The streets in his part of Paris were uncommonly quiet, with a palpable tension in the air. The street-hawkers that might have hailed him in hope of drawing attention to their wares were absent, and the cafés that were open had brought their tables indoors, the only evidence of occupancy the yellow glow from within, the odd silhouette at a window. Almost all of the shops he passed had their shutters tightly closed; if their windows could be barred, they were.

The atmosphere was familiar; it was easy, with so much life and light, to forget the undercurrent of violence that was always present. Paris was a powder-keg, always one spark away from ignition, a tension that had only grown more brittle, since the previous revolution had left all sides dissatisfied. Everyone was angry about something, it did not take much to aggravate the old scars; for people to start spilling blood in the streets again. There had been so many riots since the restoration of the monarchy he was certain even Enjolras had lost count; anyone who had lived in Paris long enough knew how to read the signs, the mood of the masses, and when to take precautions.

He wondered where Enjolras was, in this moment. He hoped he was still in the Musain, discussing theory with the others; he suspected otherwise.

A few hours and many drinks later, he found himself in a café that was frequented by artisans, men of Feuilly's ilk, overhearing talk of an uprising in Lyon. It rang a bell with something that had been discussed in the Musain on previous nights, but he was too drunk to place it.

Over the preceding years, Grantaire had developed safeguards of his own. He ended the evening in one of his old haunts: a dark, smoke-filled room, draped with tattered silks. He hadn't been here for a while, and he wasn't in the mood for it now, but he bought something with which to insulate his thoughts and dull the sounds from the street later, should the situation take a darker turn, in more cloistered surroundings.

That acquired, he began to wander his way home, through the dark, deserted streets.

Chapter Text

V.

The gates in the gardens of the Tuileries were locked, as Enjolras had anticipated. He had known the government and the palace would be prepared; news from the south travelled fast, but what information they had gleaned was of uncertain reliability, each new sliver seeming to contradict the last. The Chamber of Deputies would be receiving the same news – perhaps more – at a similar pace. They lacked the necessary connections to have had the upper hand; a tactical weakness he had hoped to address, with little success thus far.

The initial reports of workers in the Croix-Rousse forcing factories to close had reached them two days ago; they had discussed it in the Musain that evening, then Enjolras had spent much of yesterday penning an article on the political nature of the problems at the root of their discontent.    

This morning had brought news of the situation's escalation into a revolt: the workers had marched on Lyon the previous day, and succeeded in seizing control of the city in the process. The news, upon reaching Paris, had spread rapidly, causing a rightful frisson of excitement, and no small amount of alarm. In the hours since, the sources of solid information seemed to have run dry; Courfeyrac had heard rumours that the telegraph poles in Lyon had been cut down, a suggestion Combeferre and Bahorel had both deemed plausible, though bad weather was just as probable a cause. It mattered little; the outcome was the same. The station in Paris had not received news from its counterpart in Lyon for some time, and the mail coach brought news at too significant a delay to keep pace with an ongoing conflict.

The Hôtel de Ville, when he'd passed it, had been well guarded too, and surrounded by members of the national guard on all sides. He had followed the increasing density of the pockets of angry, excited citizens through streets that were still missing some of their paving slabs from the previous year's fighting, to the point where their predecessors had stood, on one of the battlegrounds of ‘92. 

The crowd wasn't as big as they had hoped; there were soldiers on the other side of the wrought iron fence, and beneath Bonaparte's triumphal arch – now crowned with the gilded victories of the restoration, in place of the stolen Venetian horses that had been paraded with such pageantry at the close of the last century. Grantaire had asserted that they were Greco-Roman, once, in one of his rants that took aim at Bonaparte and Bourbon alike, via the fall of the Byzantine Empire and the sacking of Constantinople – that wasn't important now.    

He had passed a line of mounted cavalry en route to the city's seats of power, no doubt preparing to clear the streets, should any impassioned talk threaten to boil over into violent disorder. A few calls for action grew, repeated and died in ripples: simple, direct demands, in words that recalled previous, violent uprisings, but none succeeded in capturing the imagination of the entire crowd, or in uniting them. The street lamps were lit, and swaying idly with the wind, but the growing darkness and the cold would soon drive all but the most determined to reconsider their commitment to their discontent; there were practical reasons the riots of the previous summer had raged as long as they did, as well as ideological ones. Even the cabriolets of curious onlookers that trouble often attracted were conspicuously absent. He did not believe the uprising in Lyon was the event that would successfully trigger the next in his own domain, but he would stay and watch. It was worth waiting, just in case chance presented itself. 

He would seize any opportunity he could, if it seemed promising – they had already missed one because they had not had the right connections. The riots after the fall of Warsaw had found them under-prepared, though they could not have expected to see them coming; it took a week for the news to reach Paris, and when it had the numbers had not been in their favour, the government had had enough warning to mobilise troops in readiness. Those that had been willing to rise had been too few, and too fragmented; it would have been a waste of lives.

Still, it rankled that they did not have a better measure of the current mood in their own country; instead some had wasted their enthusiasm in uncoordinated action, and grown weary of the fight. They would have to fan the flames of rebellion themselves, if they were to succeed.

If he had not been wasting time doing...  whatever he was doing with Grantaire, perhaps he would have been more on top of the situation himself. It was an error he must correct sooner rather than later: play-acting domestic life with him, something he had known he'd never have even before he had chosen to devote himself to a higher calling; the only calling that mattered. If only he could be persuaded towards being useful in the cause, then they could work together in this; instead it had become an indulgence that Enjolras allowed himself too often.

His absence spoke volumes.

Earlier, in the Musain, they had evaluated the ongoing situation. They had discussed the possibility of the discontent in Lyon turning into a revolt several times over the past few weeks, but had not been able to come by an accurate assessment of the mood of the Canuts. Now that the matter had escalated, all they could do was measure their own city's pulse. Enjolras, Courfeyrac and Bahorel had taken to the streets, the others to the printing presses and meeting spaces where men of adjacent political affiliation gathered, to try to hear any news as soon as it came.

On route to the city's political core, he had passed Grantaire's again – it was barely out of his way – and found the windows dark, though the shutters were not yet drawn. He had gone with the intent to let him know the Republic called, should he feel like moving himself to answer, but concluded instead that he must be out carousing in a tavern or gambling or whatever else he did in his endless leisure; it would likely have been a wasted effort, anyway.

Grantaire's attempts at seriousness had their limits, and they'd found them that morning in his untimely fit of humour. He had professed his intent to try to consider the arguments set before him weeks ago, but Enjolras had yet to witness any evidence of him having done so, or of him taking them to heart. 

Grantaire's oft-professed disbelief in their cause had long been a conundrum, if not exactly a problem; he could hardly be described as helpful, but he was not actively harmful, either. The most vexing aspect of his presence was the question of why he felt the need to provide his constant company, if he thought so little of their aim. 

Previously, Enjolras had shunned the question whenever it threatened to occupy his thoughts; that particular Gordian knot had no shot-cut to its untangling, and he had many more pressing problems to solve. But of late, it had become harder and harder to ignore. That was the consequence of letting the personal sit too close to the political.

Otherwise, only Feuilly hadn't come, and that, Enjolras knew, was because he would already be here, somewhere in the crowd; an instinct that was soon confirmed when he spotted him amidst a group of artisans. As Enjolras approached, he overheard snippets of their heated conversation; one man was complaining of an influx of unskilled migrant labour, Feuilly was countering it with the changes in how many factories paid their workers.

Enjolras halted at a distance to listen; Feuilly spoke well, and was better positioned to empathise with these men than himself. 

"How many of you find your wages are no longer guaranteed? It is the practise of being paid by the piece that drives the demand for cheaper labour, and undervalues your craftsmanship."  

In the distance, over the heads of the crowd, he noted a line of mounted soldiers beginning to clear the rue de Rivoli; this particular gathering would end soon, one way or another.

He approached; Feuilly nodded his acknowledgement of his presence, and Enjolras raised a hand, in a gesture that signalled the need to draw the conversation to its close. Feuilly excused himself, and moved to Enjolras's side.

"Did you speak with them of the violent repression of the riots in Saint-Denis and Bonne-Nouvelle? It is clear evidence that the government thinks little of their economic concerns."

"I did, but it was not as effective in moving them to solidarity as you might hope; they do not all consider those who chose to riot their brothers."

Enjolras nodded gravely. 

At the edge of the crowd, the cavalry line advanced, forcing the groups of citizens before them to disperse, or risk being trampled under the horses' hooves.

"What is your measure of their mood?" he asked, keeping eyes on the line's progress.

"Mixed," Feuilly answered, "While all here agree that all is not as it ought to be, there is little consensus on the exact nature of the problem, and even less on the solution."

"You mean not all are in favour of a republic," a statement, not a question, and one that hardly needed answering.

"Correct," Feuilly too had noted the soldiers' ever increasing proximity; Enjolras could read his unease in every line of his posture. "You know I am on your side, and l'ABC's; I agree wholeheartedly that it is the right thing, for France and for us all, but those that must spend every waking hour concerned with their own troubles do not always have time to consider the exact nature of their cause."

"I understand." They were close now, barely a horse's length away; the crowd around them had begun to separate, but a few resolute souls held their ground. "I haven't a solution for that yet, but I will think on it." Half a horse's length now, they were almost within arm's reach. "We ought to move; there's nothing further we can do here tonight –"

A flash of silver in his peripheral vision – Enjolras saw the arc of the blade coming almost before it fell – he moved in front of Feuilly in an instant, an instinctive response to the foreseen threat.  

The blow, when it struck, was expected, but he barely felt it as it sliced through the fabric of his coat.

The man who had swung at them was gone as suddenly as he had appeared, and before Enjolras could consider escalating the fight, disappeared into the uniformed line of his peers; he hadn't got a good look at his face. Elsewhere in the crowd a woman's scream communicated that his assailant wasn't the only of the line to draw his sword, or to use it. 

Adrenaline flooded through him, he could feel his own hands threatening to shake, but he forced them to be still. Beside him, Feuilly was voicing his concern, gripping his uninjured arm as he watched the movement of the crowd, now scattering in all directions.

"It's nothing," he answered, to Feuilly's urgent question, "time to go." He was armed, but only with a small knife, and most of the crowd weren't ready or suited to a fight. Instinct and indignation were still telling him to defend himself, to strike back, but he wouldn't let emotion make him reckless.

Feuilly nodded, but kept his grip on Enjolras's arm as they navigated the disarray that had fallen upon them. They weaved between the horses' legs and the fleeing citizens, ducked beneath other drawn swords and trampled through flowerbeds, until they reached an open stretch of lawn behind them, separated from the disorienting fray by the waist-high hedges and wide fountains of the garden's meticulously landscaped composition. Distance had dulled the frightened noises of the crowd, the soldiers' commands to disperse and the whinnying of the horses, but they could still look back from where they had reached to the chaos they had left behind.

They made their retreat through the garden's shadows; when they left the shade of the line of trees at their border they reached the rue de Rivoli again. They crossed it with haste, reached the rue Saint-Honoré and doubled back on themselves to follow it east, then veered south, between the Louvre and the Church of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois. The church's bells were silent, on this occasion; the porch beneath its spiked gothic façade was shadowed, and forbidding.

They halted when they reached the Seine, beneath an arch of the Pont Neuf. The river ran high from the season's rainfall; it lapped at their heels as they paused to catch their breath. Feuilly kept a watchful eye on the stretches of shore to either side against unwanted company, while Enjolras removed his stock and wrapped it hastily around his upper arm, binding it as best he could in the dark; it would have to serve, for now.

"I believe the coast is clear," Feuilly said; Enjolras could just make out the shape of him in the shadows.

"We should separate, just in case," he stated. 

Feuilly's form shifted, suggesting a nod, which he then clarified with a, "Yes," then, "How badly are you hurt?"

"A trifle only." He had been unable to examine the wound in their retreat; it stung, but he did not feel his movement impaired, or a concerning level of pain, "I do not believe the soldier intended to kill me, or you; if he had he would have used the blade's point, rather than its edge. It was a tactic intended to frighten the workers into fleeing. One that worked." Enjolras flexed the fingers of his right hand as he spoke, but felt no further discomfort. "I believe the damage to be superficial." 

"We should seek the others," Feuilly sounded serious, and concerned. 

"I will have it attended to," Enjolras assured, "do me the service of seeing to your own safety in return. We will meet again tomorrow."

Feuilly hesitated, but shifted again, then moved to peer out at their surroundings once more, checking the bank of the river was empty on both sides.

"Be careful," Enjolras murmured as he passed.

"And you," he said, and disappeared into the night.

Enjolras waited, allowing him time to pass without attracting undue attention, then made his own way up the stone steps to reach the level of the street. He felt fairly certain they would not be followed: the government's supporters had too much else to contend with tonight, but he would be careful, all the same. He pulled his hat lower over his brow, slouched to make himself smaller, and moved as silently as he could; he knew every route between the Palais-Royal and the Pantheon in his sleep, and was capable of passing unnoticed when necessary. 

When he reached the left-bank he passed a small group of street children running the opposite direction. He hailed one, the smallest, and most likely to pass unnoticed, handed him five sous and told him there would be more waiting for him if he happened upon someone matching Courfeyrac or Bahorel's description and gave them the right password. That done, he kept walking, though he had yet to decide on his destination. It was a long shot that the boy would manage to find them in the crowd, but he wouldn't begrudge him the money if he did nothing more than pocket it. He had more need of it than Enjolras did. The password was a code, formed of three letters, signifying his assessment that they were outmatched on this occasion, calling a halt to further escalation.

Once, what felt like a lifetime ago now, Enjolras had had the idea that Paris was prosperous and privileged compared to the provinces, then he had arrived, and seen it for himself. There was some truth to it, in the arcades of Palais-Royal, in the institutes and the institutions, but the gulf between rich and poor seemed wider for all the prosperity on display, the destitute just as poor, and just as without hope. The palaces that still sprawled as opulent monuments to excess where the city had engulfed them – but failed to erase them – sickened him.

He had, at present, several options: to go to his own lodgings, which were close, but the most direct route was not the quietest, and there existed the chance of being seen entering with blood running down his arm; the other students that inhabited his building would not be in bed at this hour. He might go to Combeferre's, or Joly's, though they were further; it would be wise to have the wound checked by someone more knowledgeable than himself, but that avenue carried the risk of jeopardizing their safety, and everything they had worked for, if he was wrong in his belief that he had not been pursued. He could go to Grantaire's. It was the closest, and its courtyard's structure lent it some seclusion; he did not know if Grantaire would be home or not, but he was confident he could talk the porter into letting him in either way. He was halfway there already, his feet following a familiar route while his mind had been focussed on other things, and it would be prudent to deal with the cut sooner rather than later; if he was spotted, or stopped, it would raise questions… 

That decided him.

Minutes later, Enjolras approached the familiar, off-white façade of Grantaire's building, patinaed with decades worth of the grime of the city. The black paint of the door was faded and peeling, marred with pale spots of mould and creeping patches of lichen, the discoloration visible even in the low light. Enjolras grasped the wrought-iron handle of the bell-pull and tugged it downwards, before releasing it. The motion was answered by the clash of a distant bell, loud in the silence of the street; Enjolras would need to show penance for the disturbance. He pressed his hand to the fabric that covered the slash on his arm, wincing at the renewed sting, as he waited. 

A few moments later, the lock clicked, and the right-hand panel of the double-door opened inwards, revealing a small woman of middle-age, her dark hair peeking out from beneath a white linen cap; Enjolras deduced that she must be Grantaire's landlady. So far, Enjolras had only encountered the porter, who was taller and more matronly, with red cheeks and eyes that wrinkled at the corners, giving her the aspect of one that had laughed often in her life, though Grantaire seemed convinced otherwise. This woman – Miette, Enjolras recalled – had the bearing of a lady, and reminded him a little of his mother's wealthier friends: it was clear she had been raised with money. She surveyed him from head to toe, then raised her chin to meet his gaze, her brow arching in an expression of curious recognition.

"Monsieur Grantaire is not home," she said, making no movement to admit or deny him. 

"Your pardon, Madame," Enjolras began, his tone apologetic, "I must be early. Could you permit me entry? I have an urgent matter to attend to." Enjolras took a calculated risk, and made a motion with his shoulder to draw attention to the injury. The landlady's eyes widened a little at the sight of blood seeping through the fabric that concealed the wound, but she masked her shock swiftly, and, her features softening in a manner that made her brown eyes seem kind, nodded, and gestured him inside. 

"Shall I inform him you await him when he arrives?" she asked.

"Thank you, but he will not mind," Enjolras said with certainty.

"No, I shouldn't think so," she replied, her lip curving into the hint of a knowing smile as she turned to lead him up the long, winding staircase. Enjolras was curious as to what conclusion had sparked it, but not enough to inquire. Instead he filed the knowledge of it away for later, and followed. Their footsteps echoed against the stone, and the banister beneath his hand was worn smooth through heavy use.

At the end of the steep, circuitous climb, Enjolras found himself alone in Grantaire's chambers. Chamber, in actuality, given the illusion of being larger than it was by the screen that divided it into Grantaire's studio, and his living quarters – necessarily small, as the paraphernalia of his trade required significant space. Enjolras bypassed the desk and table at which they had worked in quiet companionship for the past few months, and made his way towards the more mundane, private space, where he knew he would find the washstand at which Grantaire conducted his toilette. 

He found the pitcher to be half-full – it would suffice – and poured its contents into the basin, before carefully untying the makeshift bandage of his now-ruined stock and shrugging out of his outer clothing. When he was down to his shirt-sleeves, he inspected the damage. 

A large, dark stain was forming at the torn edges of the slash in his right sleeve, where the wound had continued to bleed, the linen clinging to his skin where the blood had begun to dry. With far more care than he would usually take, he unbuttoned the placket in the front of his shirt and eased his left arm out of its sleeve, untucking the tails and lifting the body of the shirt over his head, before beginning the slow work of peeling the right sleeve away from the wound. The removal caused the cut to weep again, but he persisted until he was rid of it, then cast it carelessly aside. 

Taking up a clean-looking washcloth, he dipped it into the cold water, and began to dab gently at the dried blood that remained, until it began to soften, before wetting the cloth again and wiping it away. He turned his attention to the cut itself, biting his lower lip in discomfort as he did his best to ensure that it was clean and clear of debris from his tattered sleeve; it was still bleeding, but less than before. It would be prudent to have Joly or Combeferre stitch it closed, but he knew not whether either would be home yet. He hoped the others were safe. Alcohol would be useful: he recalled a conversation in which Joly and Combeferre had debated the merits of alcohol in the treatment of battle wounds; Combeferre had spoken of attempting its application himself, with promising results. Grantaire surely had some, but though Enjolras had so often shared his space, he drew the line at rifling through Grantaire's possessions while their owner was absent. The best he could do was ensure it was tightly bound, and hope his amateur ministrations would be enough for now.

So focused on the delicate task was he, that he barely registered the click of the latch that announced Grantaire's return.      

-

Grantaire knew something was off the moment he opened the door. The candles were lit, for one. Perhaps his landlady had done so in anticipation of his return? She was a kind enough woman, but her hospitality did not commonly extend to readying her tenants chambers as though she ran an Hôtellerie, rather than a decrepit four story immeuble, largely occupied by students in their latter years of study, plus a few bourgeoisie who fancied themselves to be of a Romantic disposition. No, that wasn't it. 

He glanced around the room: everything was as he had left it, save for a shirt, cast unceremoniously aside, occupying the floor of the space where the screen ended, and one could see through to his living area. Grantaire strode forward, on legs that were only a little uneasy, and stooped to pick it up. He did not recognise it as his own. One sleeve was torn, and bloodied, Grantaire could not recall – 

The sound of water hitting the basin startled him, and he looked towards his washstand. 

"Enjolras," he said, his surprise pulling the name from his lips without thought. Enjolras's posture stiffened, and Grantaire enjoyed a brief survey of the expanse of fine, fair skin; the fan of his shoulder-blades and the barely-concealed musculature that supported an upright spine, offset in shadow in the dim light, as Enjolras glanced over his shoulder at him. Then he turned, and Grantaire no longer knew where to look. Enjolras's hair hung across his brow, and he stood in casual contrapposto with his left arm across his chest, pressing the damp cloth to the upper half of his right.

"How did you get in?" Grantaire asked, when he remembered where he was.

"Your landlady admitted me." Enjolras's tone was blunt. Unapologetic.

"I am not sure whether I should buy her flowers, or complain of poor security," Grantaire replied. His attempts to avert his gaze settled on the white cloth in Enjolras's hand. Upon further scrutiny, Grantaire noticed it was darkened with blood. Grantaire felt a pang of something adjacent to sympathy, followed by deep and unwanted concern.

"You are hurt," he stated, all previous hurt of his own vanished at the sight of blood – Enjolras's blood.

"A minor wound, it will heal."

"How?"

"A sabre cut. They sent cavalry to disperse the crowd. Most did not draw weapons... some, however –" Enjolras's jaw clenched in the effort of biting back some fleeting sentiment. He had said enough to make the sequence of events plain. 

Grantaire had known better than to believe Enjolras could stay out of whatever trouble had been brewing. Had they anticipated it? He didn't know. Enjolras had been making his plans in Grantaire's presence for months, yet his thoughts were as much a mystery as they had ever been; Grantaire was not privy to his feelings, or his schemes. He pushed the questions this realisation raised aside, and focused on the present: "Were you pursued? Did they mark you as a republican?"

"Perhaps," Enjolras made a motion with his shoulders that was halfway towards a shrug. "There were too many assembled for them to pursue individuals; I do not believe their aim on this occasion was to make arrests, only to give the government one less concern to deal with."

"That is a relief." A significant one. "I'll thank you not to bring any agents of the Sûreté home with you."

"There is no chance of you being mistaken for a republican." Enjolras lifted the edge of the cloth away from his arm and frowned at the wound as he spoke; Grantaire's stomach churned at the sight of fresh blood. "You incur little risk in harbouring me; simply hand me over if they come, and a brief interrogation would be enough to acquit you." On seeing that the wound still bled, he applied more pressure to it, but when he raised his chin again he looked through Grantaire, rather than at him.

"Touché," Grantaire refused to linger on the barb barely concealed in the casual statement, even as it cut deep. "I'll have you know I am able to talk the talk, should the right flight of fancy strike. A bas le ministres, mort aux tyrans, etcetera…"

"Yet you do not," Enjolras said, simply, then changed the subject: "As you are here, where do you keep your liquor?" 

"Now I know you are here to entrap me; who are you and where is the man whose face you impersonate?" Grantaire blustered, a more familiar line in conversation. "Enjolras, seeking the bottle? Did they strike you over the head also?"

"For the cut." Enjolras removed the cloth fully this time, looking away from Grantaire to inspect it again. Grantaire was glad Enjolras did not see him flinch at the sight of the long red gash marring the skin of his upper arm, as unsightly as a tear in the canvas of a masterpiece. "I am told it aids against contamination," he explained.

"I will fetch it," Grantaire seized on the excuse to look away, before Enjolras noted the heat that surely coloured his cheeks, "I have bandages, also."

"Thank you," Enjolras said idly; Grantaire scoffed at the perfunctory politeness of it: manners, from a man who had just invited himself into his home and insulted him. He could, if he allowed himself to indulge in the bitterness he sometimes felt, accuse Enjolras of many things, but tedium would never be one of them. 

He moved towards the small cabinet that resided next to his armchair; from its belly he retrieved a tall glass bottle, uncorked, but mostly full. "I'm afraid my meagre stores are depleted; here is a particularly foul and vinegary white wine, I've nothing stronger to hand." 

Enjolras shot him a disbelieving look, but accepted it all the same. Grantaire turned his attention to the fireplace beside him, taking up the striker and sending sparks flying until the kindling caught them. When he turned again, he found Enjolras holding the bottle up to the light, frowning.

"What, does it fall short of your standards? Or do you suspect it as the source of all my faults? You won't turn into a débauche the instant you try some; it takes dedication to get this experienced," Grantaire chuckled at his pensive expression.

"No." Enjolras hesitated, still thoughtful. Grantaire took it as an opportunity to glance at the wound again – it was still bleeding, though not profusely – then he shook himself out of whatever reverie he had fallen into, and met Grantaire's gaze at last, "I am uncertain how to make best use of it," he admitted, with a half-smile that Grantaire could not help but mirror.

"I could certainly provide instruction in that, or demonstration…"

"Your person is example enough," Enjolras replied, with an arching of the brow and a look from beneath his lashes that suggested the words lacked seriousness. Enjolras, making a joke again? Truly, the world had turned itself upside down tonight.

"Joly is acquainted with a former British army surgeon who swears that the habitual consumption of alcohol is the source of their military strength; he theorized that it prevents disease, something to do with eradicating contagion in the blood." Enjolras gave Grantaire a knowing look: Joly's convictions were many, and not all were entirely sound. "Combeferre expressed his doubts, but he did not denounce it entirely."

"Well, if that's true I must be your most hardy soldier," Grantaire suppressed a surprised hiccup of mirth as he spoke.

"You are not my soldier." 

"I could be." 

Both knew that was too ludicrous a statement for Enjolras to answer. He directed the conversation back to the topic at hand instead; "Both of them agreed that many learned civilisations have practised the application of alcohol to external lesions of the flesh; I am told the Ancient Greeks used wine, the Sumerians beer…" 

"Why not both?" Grantaire suggested. "It sounds like hogwash to me, but I can attest to its effects at dulling the senses; it numbs the pain and steels the mettle, not that you lack fortitude in that domain. You will at least have a more pleasant time of my binding that cut with a little lubrication of the spirit."    

Enjolras regarded him for a moment with an inscrutable look, before nodding, removing the cracked cork from the bottle and bringing it to his lips, keeping eyes on Grantaire as he did so. Grantaire, feeling hot in the face of his unflinching gaze, turned away, moving to the wooden trunk that contained much of his miscellaneous belongings. Searching through it, he found the roll of white cotton gauze he used to wrap his palms before a bout at savate, along with a small pair of scissors. 

In addition, he reached for one of his own shirts – considered, briefly, whether to offer it, and if Enjolras was likely to accept it if he did so. He glanced over his shoulder to witness Enjolras, still half-naked, taking up another cloth, wetting it from the bottle and dabbing tentatively at the broken skin, biting his lower lip and letting out a quiet hiss as he did so. Grantaire felt a visceral pang of something wistful and pitifully hopeful, and succumbed to selfish impulse; he relinquished the shirt, and rose without it. Instead he moved to his bed, sat down on its edge and motioned for Enjolras to sit beside him with a, "Come, my warrior prince."

The red line of Enjolras's mouth firmed at the term of endearment, but he obliged, bringing the bottle with him. The mattress shifted beneath Grantaire as his weight was added to it. He took a second long swill from the bottle before lowering it, his lip curling in distaste, and offering it to Grantaire.

"You were not under-selling it; it is foul," he said. Grantaire took it, knocking back a large gulp of his own, before setting it on the floor beside them.

"Still, it serves its purpose," Grantaire gestured with the bandage towards Enjolras's arm, "May I?"

"I am capable..." Enjolras began, but trailed off when he looked to Grantaire. 

"I am aware," Grantaire said, in earnest, "but I would serve you, in this if not in your fight. I would act as your shield-bearer, to clean your boots and polish your sword, the Patroclus to your Achilles, if you would have me –" Enjolras raised one fine eyebrow at the innuendo, "– I did not even mean it in that sense," Grantaire laughed, "and yet, it fits the allegory."  

"Patroclus did fight for Achilles," Enjolras corrected, off-hand, but held his arm out for Grantaire anyway. There's the rub, Grantaire thought, there is the insurmountable wall of Troy. Of all his misappropriated and half-recalled references, it seemed fitting that this would be the one that Enjolras cared enough to amend him on.

Grantaire took his arm in his hand with light fingers, inspecting the wound closely. It appeared to be a clean cut – the blade must have been kept sharp – lacerating the surface and exposing the red flesh beneath. The sight of it up close made Grantaire feel ill again, the wine swimming in his stomach adding to the discomfort. "You should really have Joly or Combeferre see to it –" he hesitated.

"In the morning," Enjolras brushed his concern aside. 

Grantaire wavered, but when Enjolras did nothing but sit, waiting expectantly, he ran the pad of his thumb feather-light over the unbroken skin beneath the cut, then – with hands that trembled, from wine or nerves he could not tell – used it to hold the tail end of the bandage in place, as he unwound it carefully around Enjolras's arm, passing it between his fingertips until it was bound tight enough that he could release the free end, then wrapping it over itself until the entirety of the offending score was hidden, the unwanted proof of Enjolras's mortality with it. 

When he had finished tying both ends into a neat, tight knot at the centre, he felt a sentimental impulse to lean forward, to place a kiss over it, like a parent attending to a child's scraped knees. The wine had made him maudlin tonight, it seemed. He resisted, and instead looked to Enjolras, finding him staring, unfocused, at the fire in the grate. He had been as silent and still as stone as Grantaire worked, and yet his skin had felt more like warm, pliable wax – soft and yielding, beneath the gentle press of his fingertips. 

Grantaire realised, yet again, that he was without his shirt, and felt newly flustered at their closeness. He, of all people, with his sketchbooks full of nude flesh in classical, idealised forms, should not be so stirred by the sight of a man's torso, however exemplary its contours, and yet – 

Enjolras, suddenly revived from stillness, turned to him, and Grantaire looked to the floor – to the bottle – to mask his fascination, then reached for it in answer to the compulsion to have something with which to occupy his hands. Enjolras leaned back beside him, resting his weight on his palms. He did not inspect Grantaire's work; either Grantaire had competency enough for the task in Enjolras's estimation of him, or Enjolras's indifference to his own form was such that the quality of care it received did not concern him. Grantaire took another long gulp of the wine, then looked back to Enjolras's impassive features, as he stretched beside him, staring into the fire once more. 

Grantaire felt naggingly, painfully aware that he was sitting on his bed, with Enjolras half-naked beside him. He could, if he were a bolder man, express his desires plainly; turn to him and press Enjolras back into the mattress, roll on top of him and kiss him as savagely as all his pent-up urges compelled him to, and inevitably receive a knee to the groin and Enjolras's undying contempt for his trespass.

He could have done many things in life, were he a different man. Instead, he took another drink, and grasped for something with which to distract himself.

"Does it hurt?" he asked, stupidly.

"Yes," Enjolras replied, truthfully, then added, "Though less than the knowledge of its provenance. To know that French forces have again turned their swords against their own citizens tonight." 

Grantaire, in lieu of anything comforting to say, offered him the bottle once more in commiseration. Enjolras took it with his bound arm, and took another swill. Grantaire watched, surreptitiously, as he tipped his head back, exposing the long line of his throat; watched the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallowed, and felt shame at the visceral thrill it sparked in him. He wanted to put his mouth to it; to press his lips along the length of Enjolras's sharp jawline, and lower, to claim his neck with tongue and teeth.

He was deeply infatuated, that much was certain.

Enjolras returned the wine to him, and Grantaire finished it.

-

Enjolras had been surprised at the notion of Grantaire binding the wound for him, both by the presumptive nature with which Grantaire voiced it, as though the matter had already been decided, and at the delicacy and skill with which he had conducted the task. The concern had been clear in his usually bleary, bloodshot eyes. Enjolras had watched as he worked, with a focus he had only witnessed when Grantaire had been deeply absorbed in one of his drawings. He knew his hands must be dextrous; he was an artist, and a competent one, in Enjolras's untutored estimation, but he had not anticipated the level of care Grantaire took to avoid pressing too harshly on the sore skin, beyond the necessary pressure of the bandage itself. His touch had almost been tender, despite the shake of his hands – the result of drink, no doubt, for Enjolras had noticed the smell of wine and tobacco as soon as he had sat beside him. 

The concentration had been plain in his countenance, and had the effect of mellowing it. Enjolras would never have described Grantaire as ugly, as others – and Grantaire himself – often did, but his features did seem permanently contorted to mockery; his clever tongue turned only to disdain and disruption. In truth, Enjolras, until recently, had not spared any thought as to how to describe him at all. 

Time spent in close quarters had revealed him to be capable of more kindness than Enjolras had expected of him. Sharper-witted, too, when he wished to be; when his derision was turned towards the right targets, Enjolras almost appreciated it. He could not tell if Grantaire considered him a fool, or if his outbursts of scorn simply targeted anything and anyone with equal vehemence. Still, he had mellowed a little of late, and Enjolras minded his attention less as a result – was tempted to invite it, on occasion, before he reminded himself of the insignificance of his own desires. A selfish distraction, and a waste of valuable time.

The rush of adrenaline that had left him eager for the fight had long subsided, but he still disliked leaving the matter unfinished, the insult to liberty unanswered. The prospect of immediate action had passed; the wine had done a little to dull the edge of his anger, but the tension and the fury that had propelled him this far was still present, if suppressed, simmering beneath the surface.

He had considered allowing Grantaire to bear the brunt of his frustrations, with his talk of shield-bearing and soldiery, his desire for physical confrontation; had looked down at the crown of Grantaire's dark head and thought – impulsively and foolishly – of running his hands through the messy curls as he worked, of threading his fingers into them and pulling him closer. He wanted action, and something intangible that he could not quite put his finger on. Then Grantaire had shifted of his own accord, and Enjolras had brushed the notion aside, and looked away. 

Now, he was opening another bottle, this one of an undoubtedly cheap red wine that smelt off even to Enjolras's inexperienced nose, and talking nonsense, again.    

"I have often thought you would make a fine model for Achilles, after Rubens' cherub faced depiction, perhaps, though your paths do not mesh; Achilles hid from his calling, you march headfirst into yours, bare your breast to the bayonets and your neck to the sword. I suppose I should be relieved I will not have to don your armour for you – for it would not suit me, I could never hope to make a worthy substitute; I'm no warrior… A lotophage, perhaps, would that I could so easily forget my friends – though perhaps Patroclus had the better half of the deal in the end; he did not have to watch Achilles die…" Grantaire stilled at the thought, arrested in the motion of raising the bottle to his lips, as though cast momentarily in bronze, before becoming liquid once more; taking a sip and sinking to the floor in one fluid motion. 

Seemingly decided that sitting upright in his chair or on his bed was too much effort, he leant forward to offer Enjolras a share in the wine, which Enjolras declined with a slight negative incline of his head. Grantaire placed it at his side instead, and removed his shoes, casting them carelessly aside and sitting cross-legged by the fire on the small, threadbare carpet, gazing up at Enjolras with eyes that were increasingly bleary. 

"Pollux gave up his immortality for Castor, so they would not be parted, Pylades tended Orestes when the Furies drove him mad; Harmodius and Aristogeiton slew a tyrant together, and thus we find ourselves back at the first complication." He rubbed a hand across his face, then through his hair. Enjolras wondered what had him fixated on this particular train of thought; he wasn’t familiar with all of the names, but the ones he did know… surely he couldn’t mean what he thought he meant, but if it was mockery again it was of a particularly percipient nature, and one of the few things he would rather not have his nose rubbed in. He did not have time to think too hard about that now; there was work to do, contacts to make, preparations to be made so they would be ready, next time – sudden silence made him realise he was staring, and Grantaire had stopped talking. Instead, he was looking at him with such a soft expression that it gave him pause.

"You will do it," he stated, with quiet certainty, "you will rally them – your enfants perdus – they will follow you into battle, fight beneath your blood-stained flag, and you will be glorious to behold, before the bullets rip through you. What comfort is glory to those who are dead, or to those left behind? Great men speak of it as though it is a tangible thing, yet I hear stories of soldiers selling their medals for scrap in order to feed their families, and when they have no trinkets left they sell their bodies, not as women do, but as beasts, toiling beneath the yoke, then when their bodies fail them they become beggars, and die alone and unheeded in the gutters. Did they not fight the same battles as those we ought to esteem? But the dead are convenient; they do not speak, so they cannot ask, was it worth the price?" 

"Keep your prophecies of doom to yourself," Enjolras replied, adding: "I do not ask them to fight for glory. I ask them to fight so there will come a day when there need be no more battles." He shivered, then, suddenly aware of the cold winter air and his half-dressed state.

"Ah, I sympathise with Cassandra," Grantaire replied, his tone flippant, orphaning his concern with a wave of his hand, as though batting away a fly. He stretched out his legs and leant back, supporting his weight on one hand, the other again wrapped around the neck of the bottle, his eyes still fixed on Enjolras. "Your faith in human nature is admirable, yet flawed. What quarrel drove the first men to raise rocks against each other? Did one believe the other to be a tyrant, or did he simply wish to possess what the other owned, and saw the most expedient route to his desire? There can be no end to it when men fight over such small, petty things; war is the same, though there we speak of nations wielding mountains against cliff faces."           

"You speak of the old world; I would enkindle a better one," Enjolras replied, wearily, scratching at the skin around the bandage where he could not scratch at the wound itself, which was beginning to itch. This was a familiar refrain, though delivered with more gentleness than condescension this time. "I am tired," he admitted, and turned his head, twisting and seeking until he found one of the loose blankets on Grantaire's bed. He grasped it by its corner and pulled it towards him, wrapping it around his shoulders against the cold.

"Why do you come here, when you disdain me so?" Grantaire asked, suddenly solemn, the directness of the question throwing Enjolras off-balance like a well executed feint. He expected magniloquence, provocation and obfuscation: Grantaire's words tumbled out of him faster than even Enjolras could dissect them at times, and were frequently meant to confound his opponent into quitting the bout, or sink deep and reveal themselves to be injurious long after the initial strike. Perhaps his words had had the intended effect after all, for Enjolras found himself without a riposte. Grantaire, showing uncharacteristic patience, watched him from beneath dark lashes and waited, while Enjolras contemplated his answer.  

"I do not disdain you," he replied at last, "I despair of you." A harsh truth, perhaps, but an honest one. 

Grantaire, for his part, merely hummed in response, still uncommonly thoughtful. He took another swig, and lay back, allowing his limbs to splay. He was silent for long enough that Enjolras, suspecting him of having fallen asleep, rose to his own feet, the blanket still draped over his shoulders, and stooped to remove the bottle from his hand. He meant to spare his clothing – not that there was much cause to, for upon closer inspection each article already bore several stains in shades of deep purple, brown or yellow, some more faded than others. Some were clearly wine, others rogue smudges of pigment or ink, the rest he did not wish to consider too closely. Grantaire's eyes were closed, and his features had slackened, but he stirred when Enjolras spoke.     

"Go to bed," Enjolras suggested, his disapproval surfacing in his tone, "you should not sleep there, you will grow cold when the fire dies."

"It's a wonder I'm not cold already with such frigid company," he huffed. Enjolras's shoulders stiffened at the insinuation, a physical response to its implications, but when Grantaire opened his eyes and stared back at him it was with a lazy, dreaming expression. Smiling softly, he said, "Come with me, Ganymede," and reached with one fumbling hand to grasp at Enjolras's ankle, grazing his knuckles against the calf before wrapping his strong fingers around it and continuing the caressing motion with his thumb. "What eagle brought you to my chambers? He is a good friend, I shall barely begrudge him for all the wine he will never repay me for if this is his hand."

"You babble," Enjolras chided, resisting the urge to free himself from Grantaire's lax grip. "Were you this intoxicated before you came home, or has my company driven you to desire to be rid of your senses?"

"You would look well in a Phrygian cap – pour me a libation, if you intend to, otherwise let us surrender to the sirens' gloomy lullaby. My mattress is a sea nymph, wrought of linen and feathers." Grantaire released his hold, though the ghost of it lingered, and rose, less elegantly than he had sat. He moved to his bed under his own steam; struggled out of his coat and lay down on it, leaving space for Enjolras beside him. He let out a long, sighing breath, and closed his eyes.

Enjolras regarded his prone form, and the large, soft mattress. He ought to have been repulsed by his drunken and shameless behaviour, but the events of the day had left him too weary for further outrage. There was room enough for two. He was exhausted – from the combined influences of depleted adrenaline, exertion and emotion, though strangely, not from Grantaire's company. Now, his most pressing urge was for sleep. 

"I'm afraid my bed is of mahogany, not ebony," Grantaire murmured.

"I am leaving," Enjolras decided, though the walk through Paris's dark, cold streets to reach his own bed held little appeal, it was at least less thorned with implications. It should be safe to pass unnoticed now.

"As I knew you would." Grantaire made a vague motion with his hand as though to dismiss him, and contented himself to sleep.

Enjolras examined the almost-empty contents of the bottle, before setting it aside and, considering its consequences, located the chamber pot and placed it at Grantaire's bedside. His bandaged arm throbbed as he did so. 

He stooped to pick up Grantaire's coat, too, attempting to brush some of the creases out of it with his hands, before hanging it over the back of the chair. Something fell out of it as he did so - a tiny glass pot, filled with some sticky-looking brown substance. He opened it, and sniffed at it in interrogation; it smelt strongly of cut grass, and faintly of decay. He hadn't encountered it in person before, but he had his suspicions as to its nature. He placed it back in Grantaire's coat pocket, resolving not to speak of it. It wasn't his business, but it did lend a little context to Grantaire's sombre mood, and certain past misbehaviours. 

It was an unwanted level of clarity: too private, and too material.

On resuming his discarded clothing he noted the state of his coat sleeve – sliced where the sabre had fallen, and bloody, though it was mendable. By the time he had finished, Grantaire was snoring faintly, his sleeping posture that of the dead, laid out on the dissectionist's table.

Enjolras placed the blanket over him, then quenched the candles, banked the fire, and departed.

-

Grantaire woke the next morning with a profound headache and a sharp pain in the region of his kidneys, his mouth as dry as sandpaper and the foul aftertaste of wine-induced sleep on his tongue. He sat upright, casting his eyes about the room for something to take the edge off. His gaze fell on two empty bottles, placed neatly atop the table beside the armchair. Enjolras – the bottles, they had shared one. He glanced towards his washstand; from the wooden rail beneath it hung two linen cloths, stained brown with dried blood. He remembered returning home to find Enjolras – without shirt, an image he could never erase, nor would he wish to – remembered bandaging his arm, and the sight of the red flesh the wound had exposed that had made his stomach turn. 

The memory made him feel unwell again; he swung his legs gracelessly over the side of the bed, rose, placed one foot into his – mercifully empty – chamber pot and stumbled as he did so. He stooped to pick it up, and took it with him to the armchair, setting it beside the empty bottles in case it proved a necessary companion. 

He had a notion that he and Enjolras had spoken, about the source of the wound, and beyond. He had been maudlin, and Enjolras had been weary, but beyond a broad, creeping sense of embarrassment he could not recall much of the specifics. Only the image of Enjolras looming over him as he lay by the fire stood out to him in sharp relief, his hair falling around his face as a bright gloriole; a disapproving angel casting his lofty gaze downwards, dispensing judgement. 

That Enjolras had come to him hurt, and Grantaire had responded to it by drinking himself to a stupor was shameful, even by his standards. He had wanted to help, and all he could recall was rattling on about his own fears. Had Enjolras been afraid, when he found himself threatened? Grantaire couldn't imagine it, but if he had been… that made his maundering seem all the more selfish.

Now, he was paying for his poor conduct in how poorly he felt. He could smell the alcohol seeping from his pores, on his clothes and on his sheets. It was no wonder Enjolras had left him to wallow in his mistakes.

It wouldn't do at all. Any time spent in Enjolras's company was uncountably precious, and he had wasted it by rendering himself insensible. He was of little enough use to Enjolras sober, even less so if he was too drunk to speak any sense at all. He would have to try to drink less in his company, next time – even if that time was the result of events he would rather forget.

He would have to make amends, next time he saw him.

-

It was evening before he felt well enough to go out, and then only to eat and drink. He washed and dressed and did his best to make himself presentable, though he could do nothing to mask the shadows around his eyes and the haggard appearance of his features. The sky was already dark again, but the streets, though quiet, had calmed a little. He passed no massing crowds, and only one hot-headed young man attempting to stoke his peers to fury. Grantaire didn't know him. When he returned home, it was with replenished supplies, and he whiled away the rest of the night medicating himself with spirits and attempting to restore order to his surroundings. He didn't resort to the opium he found in his pocket; the situation was not dire enough for that, this time. 

The drink soothed his sore head, but did nothing to ease his conscience.  

On the second night he decided he must show his face in the Musain again, if only to take the measure of Enjolras's state of mind; to attempt to divine whether he was angry with him, or simply with the current state of affairs, with himself presenting only a minor further nuisance.

It was well past the hour at which they commonly assembled when he skulked in at the tail end of a debrief. Enjolras did not pause in the act of speaking to acknowledge his presence, but a few of the others nodded or smiled, and Bahorel took his feet off a chair and pulled out his handkerchief to brush the dirt his shoes had deposited on it away with a flourish.

Grantaire took the offered seat, and settled in to listen as Enjolras continued his analysis of the event's denouement; "– but the Orléanists have shown their true colours in sending the army to suppress their own people, those who sought only to claim their natural rights as citizens of France. This government serves only those who would uphold it, and the people will see that their claims of continuing the work of the July revolution are false."

"Quite right!" Bahorel concurred, "Such hypocrisy cannot go unmarked, not in Paris and certainly not in Lyon. We will hold them to account."

"We will," Enjolras said, firmly.

"I suspect it to be part of the larger play in abolishing the hereditary peerage; they're pleasing their new political class in their place," said Courfeyrac, his features unusually grave.

"I am afraid this government has proved itself to be too busy with internal power struggles to treat their concerns with the seriousness they deserve," Combeferre looked to Feuilly as he spoke, who nodded his agreement.

"That is an opinion shared by some of my peers."

"That is why we must continue the work in their stead," Enjolras imbued his speech with the aspect of a call to arms, "All citizens must have the right of political expression, in order to ensure the law is a true reflection of the will of the people. Yet this government has banned their assemblies, sent troops to retake Lyon, and appears set to renege on its one concession to their demands –"

Grantaire watched in silence as Enjolras spoke a while longer; the light of the fire at his back lent him an aura of blazing amber. He was captivating like this, assured and eloquent and thrillingly certain. Grantaire let his hope and conviction wash over him, as he painted with his words the gleaming, arrow-straight path to the future. None of them stuck in Grantaire's mind, or took root in his soul, but it was always a pleasure to witness Enjolras in one of his outpourings of passion; he wanted so badly to believe him.

The events of the past few days had left them all dissatisfied, but not disheartened. After Enjolras had said his piece, and ceded the floor for others to do the same, the meeting naturally dissolved. All the while, Grantaire sat without a drink in his hand, and surveyed the room with uncomfortable clarity, and no small amount of unease.

In time he found himself sharing his table with Bahorel and Courfeyrac, who had begun by speaking of Bahorel's mistress again – a blatant attempt by Courfeyrac to raise his spirits – and were now speaking of tactics and telegraphs.

"Do you suppose we could find one sympathetic to our cause within the telegraph office, or position someone within sight of a station?" Courfeyrac pondered.

"It would gain us an hour's advantage, at most," Bahorel said, apparently unenthused.

"Much might be accomplished in an hour, if used wisely; I've shared plenty of tales with you that would attest to that," Courfeyrac said, with a smirk that suggested the stories had been licentious in nature, then he turned to address another. "Say, Combeferre, do you know semaphore?" he called, across the amber and pine stretch of the room.

Combeferre looked up from some intense, half-internal conversation with Enjolras, and answered, "I do."

"Of course you do," Courfeyrac said, fondly.

"It is not the best use of his talents," Enjolras said, discerning the thread of the conversation and dismissing it in an instant, despite hearing only an inkling of it.

Grantaire remained in his corner, joined in succession by a hopeful Bossuet and Joly, a pensive Jehan who used him as an unappreciative sounding board for his latest verses and, finally, found himself alone, watching the embers of the fire grow dim. He continued to shun the bottle, though it was offered to him, beyond what he had consumed at home to steel himself to come. His relative sobriety rendered him more aware of his surroundings than usual, but his mood was no better for it.

As the others gave up their attempts to cheer him and left him to languish in his ill temper, then slowly departed, he found himself alone.

Alone, with Enjolras. He had been so quiet in his movements that Grantaire had not realised he was still present, until he had approached and appeared out of the gloom. It was a wonder that he had not left without him.

"Well?" Enjolras asked, expectantly, his coat resumed in readiness to leave.

"Well what?"

"Am I to leave with you, or to leave you here?"

Grantaire was not sure what he had expected, but it wasn't that.

Grantaire's guilt continued its persistent gnawing at the edges of his thoughts on their way home. The streets had regained their usual level of life, and the noise that drifted from the cafés they passed suggested they were as busy as they ever were. The night was warmer than the previous few had been, and Enjolras glanced up at the clear sky as they waited for the porter to admit them through the front door. The bannister creaked as they ascended the stairs. 

"You are uncommonly taciturn this evening," Enjolras remarked, as Grantaire latched his own door behind them.

He hesitated, surprised that Enjolras had noticed, or cared enough to comment, then took a breath. He released the handle, turned to him and, in solemn tones, offered in explanation: "I am ashamed of myself."

"How novel that must feel," Enjolras said, dryly, as he shrugged out of his coat – a black tail-coat, not the deep blue frock coat he had been wearing since the weather had turned colder; it must be the formal one he usually reserved for examinations, while the other was being laundered. Grantaire was unable to resist the urge to search for evidence of the injury he knew Enjolras still bore, but there was no sign of blood on his sleeve this time. 

"Did you have Joly see to it?" he fussed.

"I did."

"Good." He was about to retreat to his living area to light the fire, when Enjolras laid a hand on his arm, making him pause and turn back to him in question. Enjolras withdrew his touch as suddenly as he had offered it, and fixed him with a stare that threatened to bore right through him. 

"Why do it?" he asked.

Grantaire did not know where to begin; "You'll have to be more precise in your question, unless you mean to invite me to dissect all my faults?"

Enjolras frowned at that, but continued, "Why drink to such excesses, if you are capable of self-reproach for your conduct?"

"Why did Helen seek nepenthe?" He was surprised it wasn't obvious; Enjolras was more than intelligent enough to figure it out, if he cared to. It was a habit of self-deception that had long since progressed into one of self-preservation. He had believed himself past acknowledging the humiliation he occasionally courted as its downside, but the other night he had tapped into some well of shame he had thought long dry, and Enjolras had borne the brunt of it. "Anyway, I'll do better." 

It was a promise, though Enjolras hadn't asked for it, and Grantaire didn't truly think himself capable of keeping it. He was a fraction less likely to break a promise to Enjolras than he was one to himself, at least.

"Don't trouble yourself on my account." Enjolras's reply was waspish; he had already turned his back to him, but he settled in at his desk for the night, and when he left it was with a peculiar softness in his gaze as he clasped Grantaire's shoulder on his way out. Grantaire might have mistaken it for sympathy, had it come from another.

He banked the fire, and settled in for a sleepless night.

Chapter Text

L’hiver

I.

By December the branches outside his window were completely barren, a sharp black spider's web against pale sky. On one particularly cold morning Grantaire opened the shutters to admit the meagre dawn light, and found them grey with frost. Below, some industrious soul had at last swept the courtyard clear of the fallen leaves, reducing them to a dust-brown heap at one corner, where they now lay rotting into mulch. 

Grantaire spent the morning conducting a cleaning of his own, ridding his room of some of the half-empty bottles that had been tucked away in every hiding place he could recall, and a few he had forgotten about entirely. It wasn't a very thorough culling; he kept the good bottles of wine he had been saving for some ill-defined special occasion, and a couple of bottles of spirits, placed out of sight if not entirely out of mind. He couldn't give it up completely, but he could cut down his consumption if he limited his more extensive drinking to external establishments, in theory. He would try.

When Enjolras had arrived in the early afternoon, still in his short coat and bearing a lidded pot of soup Grantaire recognised as having come from his landlady's kitchen, he had cast a curious, calculating eye over the last box of rejects by the door, waiting for Grantaire to muster the energy to throw them out. He said nothing, but did offer an approving nod before he took his seat.

He did receive a few raised eyebrows and questioning glances the first evening he took his seat in the Musain with only one bottle of wine in hand and a coffee at his side, but no one felt the need to address the anomaly head on. It was just as well, for his nerves were frayed enough of late, without being called to account for his uncharacteristic behaviour. He had slept poorly for a week – his body's way of expressing its displeasure at his failure to provide it with as much alcohol as it had grown accustomed to – sleeping fitfully, if at all, and waking in cold sweats from dreams that vanished as rapidly as they overcame him, leaving only after-impressions of half-recalled horrors, and a constant, deep-rooted sense of unease. 

At the meeting, Courfeyrac had brought news of the army's successful reclamation of Lyon, and reports that it had been achieved without further bloodshed.

"That is some small comfort, at least," Combeferre said, meeting Enjolras's questioning glance as he clarified, "That it did not become a one-sided massacre. The show of force was enough; there were no further deaths."

"And no progress," Enjolras's tone was mild, but firm. "They fought bravely, yet on the subject of their complaints they are exactly where they started." 

"A conundrum we must all face," Bahorel said, "how best to make our fight count. And our lives."

"Precisely," Enjolras agreed, and so turned the conversation into one of tactics again. 

Grantaire was not inebriated enough to bear talk of the subject of sacrifice; he distracted himself by taking out his sketchbook, penning a rough image of the room, and of the shapes of his friends within it, with Enjolras at the centre of the composition, Combeferre and Courfeyrac at his sides. 

When at last the conversation lightened towards less serious topics, he let himself be drawn into Joly and Bossuet's game of dominoes, which Bossuet was loosing good-humouredly. 

The evening had found them all in good spirits, in spite of things, and they conversed late into the night, before Louison's increasing presence in their midst as she ferried varying used vessels into the scullery succeeded in reminding them that they were keeping others from their beds, too. 

When Enjolras donned his coat as they readied themselves to depart, Grantaire noticed that he had been wearing his preferred frock coat again, now washed and repaired; there was a patch on the sleeve, covering the tear where the blade had sliced through it with brutal efficiency. The new fabric wasn't a perfect match, its colour a deep indigo, so dark it was almost black, but from a distance it was not immediately noticeable, and it would likely fade with time.  

They left as a group this time, Feuilly first, giving his apologies before hurrying ahead, then Joly and Bossuet; Joly carried his cane in one hand, and linked arms with his companion with the other. They were followed by Bahorel and Jehan, who were attempting to recall if Hernani was still running, with Grantaire between them, denouncing their taste; “If you ask me it's not his best work, I much preferred Marion de Lorme.” He was aware that Enjolras had lagged behind, finishing some conversation with Courfeyrac and Combeferre, and slowed the pace of his steps in hope that he would catch up soon enough, and that he was not tired enough to retire to his own rooms, yet.

They reached the end of the rue de Grès, and the point where their paths diverged. They paused beside the empty shelves of an open-air bookseller's stall to say their goodnights. Bahorel pressed a copy of La Caricature on him as he bid him farewell, saying, "Thought this might amuse you."

Grantaire took it, and glanced at its front page. He was behind on the situation in light of things, but soon discerned what injustice had motivated its author to pen his opening spiel: "So, Philipon is facing six months in Sainte-Pélagie for his little portrait. Are we artists all to be locked up for rendering what is true, if it fails to flatter our subject's opinion of himself?"

"An affront to art itself and the freedom of the press in one verdict," Bahorel clenched his fist as he spoke, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet in the manner of a pugilist readying himself for a fight, then he leaned closer, and, in a display of the duality that formed the essence of his nature, smirked; "You might enjoy the supplement, however." 

Grantaire tittered at how very like Bahorel it was to shift from riotous anger to laughter in the same breath, and pressed his hand as they parted. "I shall share my artistic appraisal when next we meet, my friend." 

A clattering of boots on the stairs echoed in the empty street, announcing that the others had joined them in their departure. Grantaire turned to witness Enjolras saying his own goodnights, now bearing a lidded metal pot in his arms.

"Something from the Musain's kitchen?" he asked, when Enjolras caught up to his position. 

"The remains of tonight's stew." Enjolras shifted his carrying position from the pot's handles, to cradling it in the crook of his arm, and began fastening the buttons on his coat with his now free hand. "Are you hungry?"

He wasn't, particularly, but he couldn't deny generosity if it came from Enjolras; it still astonished him every time. "I could eat something," he said, feigning neutrality. He folded the periodical Bahorel had given him and tucked it into the inside of his own coat, then held out his hands, gesturing his intent to relieve Enjolras of his burden.

"I am famished," Enjolras said, with the hint of a smile as he passed the stew into Grantaire's care, then finished fastening his coat against the cold. "Do you think there will be frost tonight?"

Grantaire regarded him fondly, feeling the familiar ache that seemed to lodge itself beneath his ribs whenever Enjolras was of a mood to be cordial with him. The air was particularly brisk tonight, and their breath formed a visible mist between them; the stew warming his hands was welcome counter to the cold; "I'd count on it."

Enjolras held out his hands to retrieve his burden, but Grantaire waived him off, and Enjolras permitted it.

The walk to Grantaire's building was short, but the length of Enjolras's strides suggested he was as eager for the warmth of its interior as Grantaire was. There was barely any moon tonight, nothing but a pale argent sliver hanging low in the sky, but the streetlamps on the main streets bathed everything within their reach in dim light, rendered hazy by the wetness in the air; a fine damp mist that seemed to cling to everything, including Grantaire's face and eyelashes.

Intermittently, Grantaire glanced to Enjolras as they walked. Enjolras was regarding their surroundings, with the level of diligence Grantaire would expect of man who knew he had strayed into unfamiliar, unsavoury territory, though without the accompanying paranoia; his eyes darted from one pool of shadow to the next, as though he perceived the shades of co-conspirators in them. Grantaire was struck by the notion that Enjolras's awareness of the city's beating heart might run deeper than he had guessed. 

He had always assumed Enjolras knew Paris as a scrupulous general knows his battlefield; intimately, but through the work of conscientious study, and without feeling or affection. Watching Enjolras, when he was unaware that he was being observed, revealed a more tangible approach. Grantaire suspected he was aware of the state of the city on a level beyond the typical senses; that Enjolras could feel the rumble and vibrations wherever anger festered as ripples across the surface of a still lake; the faint tremors of discontent that might be exploited to further his goal. It was an undercurrent that even Grantaire could not ignore at times.

A sudden commotion down a side street caught his attention – the clamour of a group of drunk men spilling out of a tavern – Enjolras looked to them and disregarded them in the same instant, but he remained vigilant as they passed out of the light of the streetlamps, down the darkened alley that would lead them towards their destination.  

He didn't find Enjolras's watchfulness to be excessive; Grantaire knew his city's soul, and found it wanting in certain areas.

Grantaire spent most of their journey looking between Enjolras's shadowed features and the uneven paving slabs beneath his feet, a precaution against catching the toe of his boot between them, or slipping over hidden hazards; Enjolras had entrusted him with his meal, and he didn't wish to spill it in the street.

Upon entering Grantaire's building, Enjolras took a taper from the table at the base of the stairs, lighting it from the accompanying candle, and led their ascent, lighting their way. When they reached Grantaire's door he held it steady while Grantaire fumbled with his keys, unlocking it with one hand and allowing it to swing open before them. 

Enjolras stepped inside, and passed the taper between his hands as he removed his coat and hat with surprising dignity, despite the difficulty, then made to retrieve the pot from Grantaire's hands again so he could see to the lamps, and to his own undress. His fingers brushed Grantaire's as he did so, and his touch was bracingly cold. 

Grantaire stilled, still bearing some of the pot's weight, with the fingers of his free hand curled loosely around the thin body of the candle above where Enjolras held it, their hands just barely touching, and studied Enjolras's blank features, half-illuminated and half-shadowed in the taper's flickering light. There was something of the devotional statue about his white face, illuminated from below and towering over Grantaire in the gloom, but further study revealed subtle imperfections that proved otherwise. The end of his nose and the tips of his ears were ever so slightly pink, which Grantaire found unspeakably charming, and his lips appeared a little chapped from the harshness of the winter air. He wanted to put a hand to Enjolras's cheek, to trace the sharp angle of his cheekbone with his thumb, to watch his pale mouth curl into a sweet smile – The red tip of Enjolras's tongue darted out, wetting his lips, and that caused Grantaire's own throat to feel instantly dry.

"I could see to the fire," Enjolras said, suddenly, shaking Grantaire out of the pleasant daydream he had fallen into, reminding him of the fact that they were standing face to face in the open doorway, and that he was staring, again. The subtle unevenness of Enjolras's tone must surely have been imagined.

"Yes – thank you," he said, and allowed Enjolras to take the pot from him, relieving him of the candle in turn.

Enjolras placed it on the table, then vanished into the living area. Grantaire removed his hat, scrubbed an idle hand through his hair and shrugged out of his overcoat. He lit the lamps, closed and latched the door, then set two places at the table while Enjolras coaxed the warm embers of the fire back to life. 

Enjolras ended up eating most of the stew himself, devouring it with a pace and eagerness Grantaire hadn't witnessed from him before, but Grantaire did serve himself a small portion so Enjolras would not feel impolite in eating alone. The stew was overcooked, as was to be expected when it had been over he fire all evening, and composed mostly of beef, with a few disintegrated vegetables and what might once have been roughly-cut potatoes. Its taste was rich and hearty, despite being mostly liquid by now, and Enjolras appeared to enjoy it very much, though how much that was due to finally sating his hunger he could only guess. Grantaire did appreciate the warming sensation of having a hot meal, despite spending only a brief time out in the cold.

As they ate, Grantaire unfolded the copy of La Caricature, skimmed the rest of its front page and flicked through it to examine the prints it contained. It was two weeks old, but its news was still fresh to Grantaire's eyes; Philipon's punishment, and a fine of two-thousand francs, in aid of which the publication had opened a subscription.

Between its back pages was a supplement; an annotated lithograph, showing Louis-Philippe's gradual reduction at the artist's hand into a pear, drawn in evidence of the claim that one could draw physical comparisons between any pair of objects, if one desired to. Grantaire appreciated its simplicity, and the defiant nature of its humour. He set the journal itself aside, and began to read the annotations. 

Enjolras's curiosity must have been piqued by the blunt, indignant language of the front page, for when Grantaire looked up he was looking over his bowl at it, and at the lithograph in Grantaire's hands.

"Is that the work of the cartoonist you mentioned; the one arrested for providing insult to the king?" he asked, between two mouthfuls of his meal.

Grantaire didn't recall the conversation, but could not think who else it might have been; "I expect so."

"What work was he arrested for?"

"I believe I have it, somewhere." Grantaire rose, and went to his bookcase to dig through the pile of journals and newspaper clippings that occupied one of the lower shelves. He found the issue he was searching for, and brought it back to the table with him, opening it to the necessary page and setting the image of the king, outfitted as a labourer and plastering over the promises of the July revolution in evidence before Enjolras, saying, "On this occasion, that."

Enjolras's broad brow creased as he glanced at it, then smoothed as he deduced its author's intended meaning, and he flashed Grantaire a conspiratorial glance, "I expect he wished to deny its accuracy, in making an example of the artist."

Grantaire couldn't help the small, amused sound that escaped him in hearing Enjolras share his conclusion on a subject adjacent to art; it was too delightful for words, but he rallied himself enough to continue their conversation: "He is simply following in his predecessors' footsteps in the grand tradition of censorship. I won't pretend to be surprised to find he's not the cultured patron of the arts he professes to be."

"The case is not without precedent; it is only a matter of time before he tightens the restrictions on the liberal press that helped hand him the crown."

They were walking a thin line, between a world Grantaire was familiar with, and one he would rather not be. It was a peculiarly amicable conversation, given its topic.

"No one wishes to be presented with a mirror if they dislike their reflection," Grantaire said, with caution; this was fertile grounds for contention, but Enjolras was rarely this engaged in matters Grantaire was familiar with, and he was regarding him with a patient, thoughtful expression, "hand them the ability to bend the law to the whims of human vanity and – well…"

"Yet someone must speak truth to power." The pensive frown steeled into a look Grantaire had seen often before; the determined, indignant look that accompanied his denunciations of any system of governance that wasn't the republic.

He could not help feeling as though he had been tricked, somehow; trapped into having to concede Enjolras's point, or prove his own inadequacy yet again. "A dangerous business, as our friend's plight proves." He gestured with the lithograph, and lay it on the table between them. 

Enjolras fixed him with a grave look – one that made his own self-consciousness feel unbearably present – but it wasn't one of anger. It was an expression he had seen him fix Marius with, whenever he was fumbling around at the edges of understanding, being led along the convoluted path towards the acceptable opinion. 

Except, Grantaire was no ardent youth still clinging to romantic, unquestioning misconceptions; a blank slate awaiting instruction. He knew what Enjolras's answer to the problem would be, and it was not as innocent or as righteous as his solemnity implied it to be. "Best not attempted by those who value their liberty," he concluded. 

Enjolras said nothing, only bowed his head, looking back to his meal. He turned the bowl in his hand, in order to spoon the last dregs from it. 

Grantaire supposed his silence was preferable to his scorn, but in backing down from the potential fight Enjolras had unsettled him. Perhaps that had been his intention.

He began to speak again, to alleviate his own discomfort: "That is why I take the easy jobs; the portraits, or the history paintings based on tales far beyond living memory. The worst offence that may occur is the sitter taking a disliking to the accuracy with which I have depicted the shape of their nose, or the hang of their jowls, and for that the true blame lies with their parents, or with god. Ugliness is everywhere; all most people want from me is a little gloss and gilding applied to reality." It wasn't conducive to the creation of the most profound or original work, but it paid the bills. It was enough.

"What would you prefer to paint?" Enjolras raised his head to look at him again; he was luminous in candlelight. 

The question threw Grantaire off again; he still lacked the gall to voice the obvious answer, but he struggled to think of one in its place. He considered the question; he had enjoyed painting Courfeyrac, though as much for their conversation during their sittings as for the act itself – the end result was still incomplete. He had painted other friends too, and a few former lovers, the latter in more intimate circumstances – works he kept out of sight, if he had kept them at all. Nature, too; back in his home town he had liked painting the lavender meadows, and the green hills behind them.

"The things that are dear to me," he said at last.

Enjolras seemed to accept this as an answer, or at least consider the conversation unworthy of pursuing to its obvious conclusion, for he did not interrogate him further on the subject. Grantaire's relief that it had not resulted in a confrontation almost made up for how disquieting it was that they had come close to agreement.

Enjolras did not go to his desk that night; instead he remained seated opposite Grantaire, reading through the issues of La Caricature on the table while Grantaire dealt with his own correspondence: answering enquiries as to his prices, and the odd social pleasantry that was necessary to maintain his standing and reputation. Some were obviously spurious leads, but a few held some promise of proceeding into legitimate opportunities.  

He even laughed, once, at one of the jokes on the journal's back page. Grantaire was powerless to do anything but marvel at it; at the way the amusement spread across his features like warm butter. 

He left an hour or so later, taking the empty stew-pot with him, to be returned to the Musain when next they met there. Grantaire bid him wait a moment, and went back to his bookcase, returning with a few more old copies of the same publication.

"Take these, if you like," he said; Enjolras's pleasure at their content had been gratifying, and he hoped they would bring more of it. Enjolras thanked him with another half-smile, and saw himself out. 

Grantaire sighed, and went back to his desk, finishing the last of his replies before opening his sketchbook to while away the rest of the hours before exhaustion claimed him. His mind kept distracting him with the recollection of Enjolras's features touched pink by the cold, of the candle flame reflected in his eyes, of running his fingers through that shining hair, of his mouth – 

The resulting sketch was openly sensuous; he had not been able to get similar thoughts out of his head for days, and so turned to exorcising it onto the page. He left it half-finished, when his eyes began to blur. He went to bed feeling decidedly frustrated, and availed himself of a remedy he hadn't resorted to in a while.

The next day he was due to attend a meeting with a prospective client, one who resided on the right bank. He made himself as presentable as he could, and set out a little before mid day, meaning to stop for a meal on the way. There was a café that served good coffee and hot chocolate not too far from the man's place of residence. His route took him across the Île de la Cité, and past the building that housed the assize court. 

The Palais de Justice occupied what remained of one of Louis XIV's grand palatial excesses, and had survived the fall of his line, the revolution and the empire, despite several fires and no shortage of conflagrations. Its mismatched architecture reflected a turbulent two centuries, for it was now in a near constant state of being repaired.

Opposite the grand double doors of the court, the limestone wall that lined the river was covered in rough scribblings in charcoal and chalk: blunt demands, crude drawings and, he noticed with gleeful satisfaction, a dozen or so drawings of pears. Some were amateurish, simplistic forms, but others had clearly been drawn by those with experience or training. Grantaire chuckled to himself, and stepped closer. Glancing around to ensure he was not being observed, he pulled a small leather case out of his pocket and rummaged through it until he found the remains of a stick of red chalk. He might not be eager to publish such inflammatory material himself, but as an act of defiance it was so elegant in its simplicity that he could not resist participation. He added one of his own to the collection, in hasty, inexact strokes, signing it with a roughly scrawled 'R'.

-

The weeks since the silk workers' revolt had been quiet, but fruitful. They had spent much of their time communicating and coordinating with other republican collectives, seeking to send agents to aid their counterparts in Lyon, and to influence the mood of those not yet fully aligned to strengthen their base of support. If all had gone smoothly, the first of their number should already have arrived.

Closer to home, the events had had a heartening effect, despite their success failing to stick. It was proof that the people had not grown complacent and fearful of violence in the months of moderate compromises; proof that there were still those willing to rise, upon hearing the right clarion call.

Closer still, Enjolras had witnessed another favourable development. He was not certain what had sparked his sudden self-awareness, but Grantaire had changed, a little. He had been steadier in his displays of emotion – outwardly, at least; quieter sometimes, too, holding his peace during meetings and keeping his naysaying to himself. The rest of the time he had been as verbose as ever, though less offensive in his choice of topics. 

On a previous afternoon, Enjolras had arrived to find him clearing an excess of bottles out of his room, a few of which had never been touched. It was a positive effort on his part, and Enjolras gestured his approval, in hope of encouraging it; he might have done more to, if he had thought it would help. Grantaire's behaviours and motivations had always been something of a mystery, therefore, whether an approach would influence him favourably or otherwise was impossible to predict. Just when Enjolras was beginning to believe they had formed the basis of an understanding between them, the wind would change, and with it Grantaire's mood; every thread of consistency would slip from his grasp, leaving him just as clueless as before, and just as incapable of directing Grantaire's abilities towards a useful purpose.

He had believed the root of the problem to lie in the fact that Grantaire, fundamentally, did not wish to be helpful; that he existed and persisted in pressing his company solely to frustrate their efforts, in return for whatever amusement it brought him. But then he had lent Enjolras the use of his desk, for months now; bought him dinner on dozens of occasions, bound his wound for him with self-evident seriousness, and now appeared to be making an attempt to better his behaviour. Enjolras was feinting into darkness, again. 

This morning Enjolras had taken it upon himself to bring breakfast with him for both of them. It was nothing elaborate; bread, naturally, along with a selection of preserved meats; some apples and mandarin oranges for a little sweetness. Enjolras was in the midst of peeling one of the oranges, pressing his fingernails into its fine outer skin to break through its surface, when a creaking of the chair alerted him to the fact that Grantaire had shifted in his seat. He looked up to find Grantaire sitting with his hands folded on the table before him, looking at him as though he wished to say something. Enjolras regarded him; he had looked unwell on several occasions in the past few weeks, since the night they had taken to the streets, but he was looking better today. There was colour in his cheeks again, though their redness was less patchy than before. The hollows beneath his eyes were still purple, though.

He set the orange down on the table, its sharp citrus scent still filling the air around them, and waited expectantly.

"I had a thought – well, a notion," Grantaire said. He paused in the act of wringing his clasped hands to reach into his pocket; Enjolras watched him withdraw a small key, which he slid across the table to him, then he resumed his fidgeting and waited, as though he intended Enjolras to deduce the meaning of the cryptic exchange on his own.

Enjolras wiped his fingers on his handkerchief then picked the key up, turning it between his fingers in an effort to humour him. It was too small to be the key to a room – more like one that ought to open a trinket box, or the cover of a cylinder desk. He glanced over his shoulder to the writing desk, noted the keyholes on its upper drawers and turned back to Grantaire, who had ceased fidgeting and was now wearing the dreamy expression he often wore when Enjolras caught him unawares in looking.

"For the desk?" he prompted.

"If you like." His puzzle solved, Grantaire picked up his knife again, and began cutting one of the apples into slices – his table manners had proved to be more refined than Enjolras had expected of him, one of many preconceptions that had proved him to be a harsher judge of character than was sometimes deserved, where Grantaire was concerned, at least. "Since you seem to have claimed it for your own, I thought you might like somewhere discreet to store your things," Grantaire elaborated. "All those republican tracts you must have on your person when you leave here; we mustn't have you running afoul of the police, when they've only to so much as shake you and all your secrets would spill from your pockets like goose down from a split mattress."

"I assure you I am far more careful than that," Enjolras answered, as he studied the key in his palm; it was so light as to feel almost immaterial, and warm from being kept on Grantaire's person. He was surprised, and uncertain what to make of the gesture, but he did appreciate the apparent thoughtfulness behind it. "Thank you."   

"Don't mention it," Grantaire dismissed, then his tone warmed with humour as he added, "And don't swallow it, either; I haven't another copy."

"I'll bear that in mind." Enjolras looked up to find Grantaire smiling at him. He smiled back – he had found the jest amusing, despite the very real threat it made light of that they hadn't quite addressed. He placed the key in the breast pocket of his waistcoat, and went back to peeling the orange. 

He had not, initially, planned to buy the oranges, their being an unnecessary luxury, but it was one that he could afford, and the prospect of sharing them made it seem a more forgivable extravagance than buying them only for himself. They had been a much-desired treat in his childhood, arriving by cart from the south at the end of winter. He had, when he was very small, mistakenly concluded that the citrus fruit sellers brought spring with them, as their arrival seemed to pre-empt the return of colour to the flower meadows of the surrounding countryside. These oranges were smaller, sweeter, and probably imported, but they still reminded him of home.

He finished peeling it, preserving as much of the rind as he could, then pressed his fingers into its soft centre and eased it apart – carefully, so as not to pierce the individual segments – until he held half in each hand. He held one of the halves out to Grantaire, who had finished carving the pips out of the apple slices and been about to take his first bite. He lowered it instead, and held his other hand out for Enjolras to drop the half-orange into his palm. 

"Thank you," he said, then pushed his own plate towards Enjolras, signalling permission for Enjolras to share the apple in return. 

Enjolras had meant to leave the apples for later, to better savour the orange, but he did help himself to a few slices from Grantaire's plate, alternating between the earthy sharpness of the apple and the tangy bittersweetness of the citrus fruit.

They didn't speak much after that, but Enjolras had always enjoyed the quiet.

A few days later, Enjolras was occupying Grantaire's desk, while Grantaire pottered quietly about his room. The ambient noise of his movement did not trouble him as much as it once might have; he had grown accustomed to ignoring it now, and when he did allow it to infringe on his concentration it was when Grantaire was humming or singing a familiar tune. He had a surprisingly agreeable voice; therefore, Enjolras did not mind its accompaniment, as long as he made no deliberate attempt to provoke him with his choice of tune.      

At present, he was drafting a scathing response to an article in the Journal des débats, which he hoped to have published in one of the smaller republican journals. The article in question had concerned the Lyon revolt, and had left him profoundly irritated by the sensationalism with which its author had depicted its actors; a sentiment he was now releasing via the method of putting pen to page.

'Les Barbares qui menacent la société ne sont point au Caucase ni dans les steppes de la Tartarie; ils sont dans les faubourgs de nos villes manufacturières –' That a man who sought a role in government would speak of the people he professed to serve with such contempt, even in allegory, was deplorable. What would France be, without her workers? Without her people? An idea only. If any involved ought to be labelled barbarians, it was those that had the power to ease the suffering of those less fortunate than themselves, and chose to not to. He was so incensed that he had already filled one side of the page; he would rewrite it for publication, after – 

"What would you like to eat tonight?" Grantaire's easy question intruded on his train of thought.

"I haven't any opinion on it." He had too much else to focus on at present. "Whatever you would like is fine." He was trying not to be ungrateful; if he was short with Grantaire it was not due to personal offence, or self-importance. His work was more important than either of their comfort, or any potential hurt feelings.

"I'll leave you to eviscerate Girardin with your pen then; I expect you mean for it to be a thorough castigation. I almost pity the man, though, I can't say he didn't bring it upon himself –" Enjolras heard him shuffling about the room as he spoke, readying himself to go out. "I shan't be long," he said, when he was donning his coat by the door.

Enjolras made a quiet noise of understanding, already scribbling on the back of the page. He heard the door click shut behind Grantaire, then he was alone in blissful silence and solitude for he did not know how long. He was making efficient progress, until he reached the bottom of the page, and his productivity came to an abrupt halt when he realised he hadn't another sheet of paper to hand. 

Frowning at his own lack of foresight, he rose and covered the distance between his seat and the peg by the door on which his coat hung in a few quick strides. He searched through his coat pockets, but found nothing but his gloves and his coin purse; he had emptied them when he had handed the coat over to be fixed, and had not yet replenished them to full usefulness. 

In losing his focus, he had become aware that the room was warmer than it had been of late; Grantaire had shifted the dividing screen to expose the fire, which was blazing merrily in the grate and filling the room with warmth. Feeling a little stifled, he unbuttoned his waistcoat while he considered his predicament. He should have thought to ask Grantaire where he keeps his letter writing supplies; he only knew where he kept his sketchbooks, and tearing pages from those would be inappropriate. 

In shrugging one arm out of the waistcoat, he remembered the key in its pocket; perhaps Grantaire would not mind him checking the desk's drawers for some. He removed the waistcoat as he returned to his seat, hanging it over the back of his chair, then retrieved the key and proceeded to search. 

He didn't find anything of note in the drawers that had no keyholes – only the expected writing implements and domestic miscellanea; old ticket stubs, matches, half a tin of tobacco, and so forth – and he didn't find fresh paper. Finding his initial search unsuccessful, he turned his attention to the others.

The first one he tried wasn't locked; its only noteworthy contents was an old assignat, the first Republic's failed paper currency. He found nothing of use to him there. The second proved to be the one the key was meant for; he opened it to find it contained a loose assortment of printed materials, largely in the form of pamphlets. Enjolras's brow furrowed, as he picked the first layer up and began to leaf through them. 

The names on the pamphlets were eclectic – their titles changed each time their editors came under pressure from the courts, each time one printer was forced to cease their production, or had their presses seized, only for the publication to reappear again under a different heading, their authors writing under a new assumed name, but he recognised them all. Some were the work of others that he had thought worthy of sharing; there was a script for a seditious play published under a pseudonym that he recognised as Bahorel's handiwork, and a few of Prouvaire's poems, but the bulk were his own articles.

It was like looking at a history of his own thought, laid out in some semblance of reverse-chronology. The ones at the bottom of the pile were years old, from the early days of l'ABC. His curiosity piqued, Enjolras withdrew the oldest he could find, and began to read it. It was not very good, too dry, and too esoteric, lacking the concrete, practicable calls to action that were necessary to persuade those with directionless anger towards their cause. He had worked to correct that since, as they had all been working to focus their efforts, though it was not without significant challenges when they were operating by necessity as a loosely connected group of small, individual cells, each with slightly differing priorities. His own vision was the same as it had always been; he knew what he wanted to achieve, what France needed. She would get there, but it was an uphill battle, fought on ground that constantly shifted.  

He wondered why Grantaire had kept them. He was still wondering, when a creaking of the floorboards and the click of the latch announced Grantaire's return.

Chapter Text

II.

It was much like any other afternoon - Enjolras had turned up, this time bearing a copy of the Journal des débats and an armful of logs, with which Grantaire had gratefully replenished his own stores. Enjolras had set to work while Grantaire had stoked the fire; he had been less economical with the fuel this evening, and had altered the position of the screen so they would better benefit from the fire's warmth.

Grantaire had deduced, from the vigour with which he had thrust the journal at him, instructing him to use it for kindling, and the page it had been open to, what had sparked his current displeasure. He skimmed it surreptitiously while Enjolras removed his coat, and let out a quiet huff of sardonic amusement at the gall of its author. It was no wonder he had earned Enjolras's ire; Grantaire could scarcely have done a more efficient job of it himself. 

His guest had seemed thoroughly distracted when Grantaire had left to see to his own errands, and to procure their dinner, so he took his time, knowing Enjolras would not feel bereft of company in his absence.

His business took him in the direction of the Barrière de la Cunette. He had arranged to visit a prospective client's home on the rue de Varenne, in one of the wealthier, more desirable parts of the city. The buildings there were an inharmonious mix of old and new; many of the grander houses had their own private, walled gardens. The client was a merchant, looking for something to hang in his offices that might impress potential business associates.

Grantaire made a few suggestions, presented him with a few samples. The man had seemed interested, until Grantaire gave him his prices.

"A little steeper than I expected, I spoke to a man the other day who said he could produce something for half that," he had said.

Grantaire had bitten his tongue on telling him that he had trained in the ateliers of some of the previous decade's most revered painters; he did not strike him as the kind of man who could discern the nuances of technical skill. Grantaire hadn't learned much from them anyway, aside from what he was doing wrong.

"I could reduce it by one-sixth if you would be content with synthetic pigments," Grantaire had offered.

"I'll consider it," was the man’s unenthusiastic reply. He made a show of studying Grantaire’s samples with a scrupulous eye, and showed him out with a promise to send word back to him.

That had been a waste of his time. 

He wandered aimlessly as far as the Champ de Mars, before the dying light and the proximity to the École militaire made him wary; they had no business with him, but his associations had encouraged his natural distrust of men with uniforms, guns and the righteousness of purpose behind them, despite frequent reminders from others in the société that they were not the true enemy. It was too early for the filles de joie to be out, but he suspected the darkness of hiding many cracks in the grand façade of civilisation; where there were young men with salaries and no wives to keep them honest, there were women in need of income to provide distraction. 

As he neared the farmer’s wall the density of the city thinned; the buildings there had fewer stories, and the banks of the river were lined with grass and dirt instead of paving stones. He recalled the location of a guinguette of modest expense and excellent quality, and began to think of dinner, and of what to bring home for Enjolras. The grass was crisp and frost covered beneath his feet, and the stars made pleasant companions to his walk home. 

When he returned – a few hours after he had set out, with muddy boots and a red wine matelotte for them to share – the fire was still burning and the lamps were still lit. It was dark outside the window, but Enjolras had not troubled himself to close the shutters. He had made himself comfortable in other ways, though. 

Grantaire removed his boots, coat and hat by the door, closed the shutters himself and put the food over the fire to warm before he realised Enjolras wasn’t working, and paused to regard him. He looked radiant, sitting in shirt and trousers with his sleeves turned up to his elbows – it was pleasantly warm inside – but he was frowning, and it was with a sinking feeling in his stomach that Grantaire realised why.

-

"I did not mean to pry, but you did tell me I could make use of this," Enjolras said, gesturing to the key in the lock and attempting to appear contrite. Grantaire gave him and the pamphlets a sideways glance as he unfastened his cuffs and turned up his sleeves, then hooked a finger into the knot at his throat to loosen his cravat, still avoiding Enjolras's gaze. 

He was not certain whether he ought to press the subject, or whether doing so would send Grantaire into one of his cantankerous moods from which there was little hope of timely recovery. They were treading in unfamiliar territory again, but he was intrigued by the possibility that Grantaire might hold their ideals in higher esteem than he claimed; "Why do you have these?"

Grantaire stilled in response; every line of his body appeared suddenly tense, as though he was newly aware of standing on a sheet of ice, and Enjolras's query had been the ill-omened sound of it splitting.

"You passed them out," he said. He sounded dismissive, but he approached and regarded the pamphlet in Enjolras's hands, and the others laid out on the desk before them. His hands, when he picked one up, were steady; evidence that he had not been drinking while he was gone – his efforts to better his comportment in that regard appeared sincere thus far.

"But why have you kept them?" Enjolras pressed. He believed the confusion written on Grantaire's features to be genuine; he was frowning, scratching at the stubble on his chin and appearing genuinely perplexed, as though he had been as surprised by their presence as Enjolras had been. Perhaps he had secreted them away and genuinely forgotten that he had done so, but that did not explain why he had not discarded them with the same level of disregard he had expressed when Enjolras had first presented them to the société.

"Isn't it obvious?" Grantaire asked. Enjolras did not answer. "To hone my arguments," he continued, completing the removal of his cravat one-handed and threading it between his fingers as he spoke, "to inoculate myself against your persuasions, lest you try to convince me to put myself in harm's way for your cause, and so forth…" He stuffed the cravat into his trouser-pocket as his speech trailed, and turned the pamphlet over to squint at the next page. It was a flimsy, insincere answer; evasive, and no doubt intended to deflect Enjolras's attention elsewhere. Enjolras might have believed it once, but the logic behind it no longer fit with his new perception of Grantaire, now that he knew him a little better. Or thought he did, at least.

"You cannot expect me to believe you, of all people, require practice in playing devil's advocate," Enjolras turned in his chair to fix him with a serious look as he spoke. Grantaire even argued against himself, sometimes, when no one else was willing to rise to his provocations.

"Perhaps you think too highly of my intellect," Grantaire said, still staring at the page in one hand and scrubbing the other over the rough-looking shadow beneath his jaw.

"Perhaps I've thought too little of it," Enjolras replied. Grantaire winced at that, and Enjolras realised as soon as the words had left his lips that they had come out harsher than he had meant them to be. Grantaire was many things, but he had never been dull-witted. If anything, he was too clever for his own well-being. "I did not mean –"

Grantaire raised a hand to silence him; "I take no offence; I make my own reputation by my actions, I cannot blame others for the impression I've given them."

He was, quite clearly, lying, but in doing so had neatly changed the subject. Enjolras watched him read while he considered whether to press the subject. He had not been seeking conflict, and so altered his approach: "I was looking for paper."

"That I have," Grantaire said, placing the pamphlet back on the desk without looking at him. He went to his painting cabinet, opened it and rattled its contents until he produced two fresh sheets from its depths. Enjolras supposed it made sense: he had never actually seen Grantaire use the writing desk himself; he did all of his work, painting and correspondence, at the larger table by the window. Grantaire approached again, and handed them to him.

"Thank you," Enjolras said; Grantaire lingered at his side, still looking anywhere but directly at him. "What did you think of them?" Enjolras asked. 

Grantaire tensed further in response, answering, "Oh, come now – you cannot claim you did not mean to insult my intelligence and expect me to answer that truthfully, unless you are seeking a further outlet for your frustrations." He gestured to the article Enjolras had been drafting, almost forgotten beside him. "If it is a battle of wills you wish for I'll play, but you won't be pleased with my answer."

He met Enjolras's enquiring gaze at last as he lay down his challenge. Enjolras searched his features for any subtle betrayal of his thoughts to find purchase on, but found no hint of them. He was wearing the faintly self-satisfied look Enjolras knew from years of Musain back room harangues like an obstinate mask. Perhaps it had been too much to hope that his possession of the pamphlets was a sign of some attempt to understand Enjolras's perspective – of an effort to get on board with their ideals, but theirs was a cause built on hope; Enjolras was not quite willing to let go of it, yet.

-

Enjolras was frowning at him, and regarding him thoughtfully; Grantaire was fidgeting where he stood and trying not to break under his interrogating gaze. Trying, also, to resist the urge to reach out and tuck a stray curl behind his ear. "If you mean for us to have it out, might we eat dinner first?" Grantaire said, to break the fraught silence they had found themselves in. "It will be over-cooked if I leave it on the fire."

The crease between Enjolras's brows deepened, but he nodded. Grantaire went gratefully to the fireplace and, using a spare cloth to protect his hands, retrieved the now warm dish. He took a few slow, calming breaths as he did so, at the reprieve from having to explain himself; his heart had been hammering in his chest since Enjolras's first question, and his undivided attention had only made his pulse race with more intensity.

When he returned to the table Enjolras had set their places for them, and was in the midst of pouring two glasses of wine from one of the good bottles Grantaire had tucked away in the back of the cupboard that held his tableware. He paused before pouring the second, and looked to Grantaire for affirmation.

"I assumed you would want some with your meal?" Enjolras said. Grantaire was slow to answer, struck by how angelic he looked in candlelight, dressed only in soft shades of tan and bleached linen, with his clean white shirt billowing about his shoulders – an effect only emphasised by the bright corona of his hair, longer now, having grown a little since the summer, and more tightly curled as the strands sought to spring against gravity.

"I would – I do, yes, thank you." 

Enjolras's impassive expression twitched briefly into one that was hard to define, but he poured Grantaire a drink, placed the cork back in the neck of the bottle and sat, while Grantaire set the matelotte down on the table. He removed the bouquet of herbs that gave the sauce its depth of flavour and portioned out their meal, then took his own place at the table. 

Their meal smelt strongly of the wine that formed the base of its sauce, but with a rich undercurrent of fresh herbs, and a hint of the sea. Through the steam that rolled off their plates, he watched Enjolras skewer a shallot with his fork, and test its temperature with the tip of his tongue before taking it into his mouth.

"It's good," he said, when he had finished his first mouthful.

"From a guinguette in the quartier des Invalides. They claim the fish is fresh off the boats at the Barrière de la Cunette; in some establishments that is a lie, but as these are the best matelottes in Paris I am inclined to believe them."

Enjolras hummed in response, and repeated the motion with a piece of the fish.

Grantaire had hoped they had managed to avoid the potential conflict, but Enjolras's pensive silence troubled him. There was a palpable awkwardness between them that had not been present for months; Grantaire had noticed its absence before, and found its return unwelcome. Beyond sharing their assessment of their meal they did not speak at all, allowing ample time for Grantaire to berate himself for his innumerable follies. He was the first to clear his plate, and, to distract himself – and to vent a little of his frustrated self-loathing – pulled out his sketchbook again.

At least he was drawing Enjolras from a different angle, for a change. He tried to capture the way the candlelight made his hair look darker and more luminescent all at once, like beaten gold, but failed in capturing the nuance of the different shades of ivory and yellow that comprised his person without colour. He resorted instead to blacking out the background, blending it into darkness with his fingers to make his subject shine brighter in contrast. His hands became progressively dirtier as he did so, as the loose pigment settled into their lines and clung to their surface, turning them black with smut.

When he had run out of patience with the endeavour he set aside what remained of the stick of charcoal he had been steadily abrading into dust, and looked up to find Enjolras had emptied his plate, and was now watching him over the rim of his glass.

"Let me take that," Grantaire said, gesturing to the plate. Enjolras lowered his wine, and passed his plate to him. Grantaire stacked it with his own, and rose to remove them. When he looked back to Enjolras he found him leaning across the table, with one hand on the sketchbook.

"May I?" Enjolras asked. Grantaire shrugged in response; he had grown oddly accustomed to Enjolras examining his work, though he couldn't imagine why he frequently seemed so keen to. He remembered, a little too late, the sketch he'd made in frustration several nights before. Let him see it, he thought, feeling the old unhelpful urge to offend Enjolras's sensibilities resurfacing – the need to provoke some reaction, no matter how harsh. If he must disdain me, let it be for that, he beseeched of no one in particular.

-

Enjolras looked down at the page before him – another portrait of himself, though this one from a new angle at least – it was a very severe image, and a little ominous – was that how Grantaire saw him? He turned back several pages, through what he assumed were preparatory sketches for the commissions Grantaire had been pursuing, until one image in particular caught his attention.

If Grantaire had drawn it from memory, and not a pair of live subjects, the recollection must be vivid indeed. The mens' poses were static, yet there was movement implied in their bodies, in the way each muscle was drawn under tension to show the exertion in their struggle. Their faces were less formed, bearing only a hint of expression, but though there was violence in it, it lacked the brutality Enjolras expected of a conflict. It was a softening of the less palatable aspects of its subject matter; a celebration, even, of the raw physicality it depicted. It was strangely moving, the passion with which Grantaire had imbued it.

"What are they doing?" he asked, when the soft sound of Grantaire's footsteps faltered behind him.

"Fighting," Grantaire said, with more defensiveness than Enjolras had anticipated. "You of all people ought to recognise it, being our master of such ceremonies. Were it not for your indifference to Venus's allures I'd suspect you of being Mars in disguise." The last was muttered under his breath, as though to himself. Enjolras elected to disregard it. 

"It does not resemble any fighting I have participated in," he said, with practised indifference.

"A tragedy," Grantaire answered; Enjolras turned in his seat to meet his gaze, and noted that his cheeks were a little redder than they had been minutes earlier, and that he had removed his waistcoat. He was rubbing a damp grey rag between his hands, attempting to remove some of the charcoal that clung to them with little evident success. "That is because yours is a battle fought with the mind, as much as with the body; your opponent is an abstraction, yet those you face are as willing to die to preserve it as much as you are to defeat it, I can't imagine why." 

-

Grantaire gave up the attempt to clean his hands – he would have to give them a thorough scrubbing later – and moved to Enjolras's side. Enjolras had slouched over the drawing in order to look closer, but he straightened in his seat when Grantaire approached. Grantaire looked over his left shoulder at the drawing as he continued, "As I see it we've been doing it wrong; give me a simple contest of strength over cannon fire, any day," he blustered, to relieve a little of the awkwardness of having Enjolras scrutinise the product of his sexual frustrations. "It is far nobler to settle one's conflicts themselves, than to have hundreds of poor souls fight it out on your behalf. Mankind never should have grown so numerous as to end up killing each other over another's troubles. It's all sport in the end, only for whose entertainment I couldn't say; I lament the death of the ancient games – did you know the athletes wrestled in nought but oils? I should've liked to witness that." He was teasing again, prodding at the bounds of decency to see where they might yield. "Now all that's left are the images of the victors, and even those have been tarnished by our prudish modesty."    

He leant over Enjolras's shoulder as he spoke; if Enjolras were anyone else, or if they were freshly acquainted, before he'd first earned Enjolras's displeasure in failing to meet the lofty standards of his company, he might have rested his hand on it, or placed his palm to the nape of Enjolras's neck, let his thumb caress insinuatingly, tested whether he could make his cheeks colour at his closeness…  

"I am aware; the way you draw it, it resembles love making," Enjolras's tone was incongruously casual, given the subject at hand. 

Grantaire stifled a laugh. "How would you know, untrodden snow fall? Diana born man?"

"I know more of such matters than you seem to think," Enjolras said, deathly serious.

"Do you?" Grantaire did laugh, that time. "Enlighten me then. Shall I sit at your feet and be instructed, if you are so educated on the subject?" 

Enjolras twisted further in his seat to face him fully. "You require no instruction there, or so you are at pains to have us all believe. Am I wrong to take you at your word?" He was sincere in his question, Grantaire could read it in his face; in the way he looked at him, then away again in avoidance.  

"Do you mean to tell me you don't, either?"

"If you are asking if I am unacquainted with matters of congress – no, I require no initiation there." Enjolras looked at the sketchbook, rather than at Grantaire as he answered, which was a relief, on this occasion – he would not witness the look of utter, astonished incomprehension on Grantaire's face. No doubt it was wholly unbecoming. 

He placed a hand on the back of Enjolras's chair to steady himself while his mind examined the implications of the admission. He was fairly certain Enjolras had never more than glanced at any woman he wasn't directly addressing; certainly, Grantaire had never seen him admire one… but if he has taken lovers to bed with him before, then –    

The penny dropped, and with it Grantaire's legs turned to water beneath him at the shock of sudden enlightenment. He lowered himself to his knees beside Enjolras, to the sound of the chair-legs scraping against the floor as Enjolras pushed himself away from the table, but he turned towards Grantaire, rather than away, and Grantaire recovered his senses to find himself gazing up at Enjolras's beautiful, austere face, with one hand on his knee. Beneath the pale wool of Enjolras's trousers Grantaire felt warm flesh, and tense muscle.

-

What was he playing at now? Enjolras had meant to correct him on the matter of his inexperience; he was no child, and that particular line of teasing had been growing tiresome for some time, but Grantaire's reaction to it had not matched his expectations at all. "Grantaire –" he said, his tone a warning, "Don't make a fool of yourself." Enjolras could feel heat rising to his cheeks, an act mirrored in Grantaire's own. Grantaire's eyes were wider, and more alert than Enjolras had ever seen them, and his hand on Enjolras's thigh was as hot and heavy as a branding iron.

"It is only us here," Grantaire replied, his grip tightening as he leaned closer, "and I could hardly make a bigger fool of myself in front of you than I already have, on numerous occasions – if you are seeking to spare any blushes, I suspect they're your own." The line of his mouth cracked into the beginnings of a self-satisfied smile, before he continued: "Are you so concerned about your public image that you must guard it even in private?"

"Is that what you think I care about?" Enjolras said, and sighed at having stumbled into conflict between them, again. It was not for his own benefit that he cared about his conduct; he had outcomes riding on him that Grantaire could not even begin to imagine, the stakes were so much higher than his pride. 

"Your own conduct is proof of it," Grantaire beamed, baring his teeth. "Enjolras, the untouchable, and untouched by the desires that drive us mere mortals –  that is why I go to such lengths to set the bar so low for myself; my conduct need not fail to disappoint if others expect disappointment – and now you tell me your chastity is a lie? Have I pledged my devotion to a false idol?"

"I don't want your devotion –" Enjolras answered, and ran a hand through his hair as he stared down at Grantaire's expression of utter, acerbic delight, "– devote yourself to the republic, if you've found some hitherto unprecedented ability to hold a conviction longer than an afternoon."

The incisiveness of his reply seemed well targeted – Grantaire's smile faltered for a moment, but he recovered quickly, and rose higher on his knees to counter the disparity in height between them. Enjolras had not meant for his words to sound quite so dismissive, but if they had any effect on Grantaire, it proved a temporary one. He harboured no designs at being a figure of worship – if he held sway over others at all it was because movements needed figureheads, and men to hold to account if they lost sight of their goals. Enjolras would be what the republic needed of him – what his friends needed of him, no matter how poorly and how often he failed in living up to his own expectations of himself. 

That Grantaire frequently figured in those failures was not his fault; Grantaire could not be expected to hold himself to such standards, or know the effect he had on Enjolras's ability to meet his own.

-

"What are you doing?" Enjolras's voice was thin, and suddenly tired, as Grantaire repositioned himself between the vee of Enjolras's thighs; his legs were too long to sit neatly in the short, Spartan desk chair – it was low enough to put them practically eye to eye. It was a hard, austere thing, of unadorned wood with a rattan seat that frayed at the edges; Grantaire had always disliked it, had almost never used it, in favour of the upholstered Biedermeier chair he had acquired when long hours at his easel had become a necessary part of his daily routine, or the soft luxury of his armchair. Grantaire had long assumed Enjolras thought discomfort was good for the soul, rejecting even the simplest of pleasures like the self-abnegating priest of the Republic his public persona implied. Perhaps his abstemity was closer to abstention than Grantaire had realised? The self-admitted lapse in Enjolras's unassailable virtue had revealed a hairline crack in the marble exterior. If he prised a lever into it, worked it open with continuous, targeted pressure, would the entire structure split at the seam, crumbling under its own strain? There was one way to find out.     

"Pledging allegiance," Grantaire replied, sliding his hand along Enjolras's thigh until he reached Enjolras's own, curled into a loose fist in his lap; he noted that Enjolras had ink on his fingers again as he did so. He placed his hand over Enjolras's: a further, experimental chisel, and studied his features for any small betrayal of sentiment. His hand beneath Grantaire's was warm, and a little clammy

"I told you I do not require that of you…" Enjolras began, but hesitated when Grantaire curled his fingers around his wrist, pressed his thumb to the place where his pulse hammered beneath the skin. Its quickness betrayed him where his features did not, and it was Grantaire's turn at momentary speechlessness, as he stared down at his own hand over Enjolras's in stunned silence. "Get up," Enjolras ordered. 

"My, you are feeling autocratic tonight," Grantaire teased, shaking off his surprise. "It sits well on you, like ribbons across the forehead of a victor – though, for that portrait, I'd need you naked – laurels then, they needn't be gold…" Grantaire's thoughts were unspooling around him, like a dropped spindle rolling across the floor, but his mouth was still working without much input from his mind. He expected Enjolras to put an end to this with some harsh rebuke; he did not expect to elicit the soft, pained sound that escaped Enjolras's throat in its place.

"Grantaire, please can we leave this subject behind?" Enjolras began, averting his gaze again and schooling his features back into neutrality, even as Grantaire noticed the increased tension in his forearm and a more deliberate curling of his fingers, giving the lie to the apparent ease of his sprawl.   

"I believe you were the one who raised it, on this occasion." Somehow, that was true, as impossible as it seemed. "I assure you, I do mean this in earnest; it would be a pleasure, you may have me in any way you wish," Grantaire said, raising his chin to look at Enjolras with sudden seriousness: this was a turn of events he would never have anticipated. Imagined, yes, dreamed on multiple occasions but never, in all the years they'd known each other, dared to believe – 

Enjolras looked back to him, patrician features softened by unprecedented indecision; he wavered, wrestling with some internal conflict, before answering: "No, it would be too great a liberty."

"This from the man who preaches of little else –" Grantaire's thoughts were in utter disarray, newly kindled hope grappling violently with a self-preserving instinct that tried to reassert everything he knew of their reality; this was how men went mad, Aphrodite of Knidos indeed, "– I do not follow your hesitation?"

"Too great a liberty to ask of you." A loaded statement; one that turned Grantaire's giddiness at his victory, in having found fault in his idol's exemplary virtue, to poison in his belly. Grantaire felt floored as though by a body-blow at the notion that Enjolras had, in his lofty, distant, brilliant mind, ever considered his value at all. That he considered him someone he could take something from, as though all Grantaire owned, all that he was, was worth anything – was not already his, despite how inadequate an offering it was.        

The devastating notion that Enjolras, atop his ivory pedestal, somehow had more respect for him than Grantaire had for himself.

"Again, I am lost?" Grantaire leaned closer. Enjolras made no move to draw away from him, only stared at him with hard, unbreachable resolve in the firmed line of his jaw, but Grantaire had studied those exquisite features over the months in which they'd shared his space, and there was the slightest hint of red creeping up from beneath his collar, his pupils seeming to drink more light from their surroundings than usual, the blue of his eyes reduced to a thin corona of deepest ultramarine, appearing almost black in the low light. 

Encouraged, he caressed the inside of Enjolras's wrist with his thumb, then, when that was permitted, released his hold on Enjolras's arm enough to brush his fingertips along the inside of Enjolras's thigh, over soft superfine, feeling the lean muscle beneath twitch in response. The candle on the table beside them flickered as Enjolras let out a sharp, uneven breath. 

"I am offering, Enjolras," Grantaire implored, all belligerence fled, replaced by some gnawing, hollow yearning to please this newly merciful force of nature. "Take what you will." He would not beg; in the newfound knowledge that Enjolras had even the faintest glimmer of regard for him, he would scrabble in the dirt to keep hold of it, like an urchin that had just stumbled upon gold. 

Enjolras remained still, and to all appearances unmoved. Grantaire, finding words inadequate to the sentiments he felt towards him, leant in and placed a delicate kiss on the inside of Enjolras's wrist. The dry press of his lips to the smooth, bare skin shocked them both into stillness, until Grantaire mastered his courage, and looked up, to find Enjolras frowning, and turning an unprecedented and unflattering shade of pink, which Grantaire found positively delightful.

Enjolras regarded him again, searching his features. He must have found sincerity there, for he stated: "You are serious."

"Wildly," Grantaire replied, emphatic.

-

Enjolras has urges, of course. Not as frequently as some, if many of Courfeyrac or Bahorel's conversations are to be taken in illustration, but he is not made of stone, as Grantaire would so like to think. It was a selfish impulse, and an inegalitarian one; to extract one's pleasure from another's flesh ran in contravention to his own personal code of honour. He voiced this concern, and Grantaire bellowed out a harsh laugh, his features creasing in mirth, in a manner that made Enjolras want to strike him – an urge followed by immediate shame – or sink his teeth into the solid line of his shoulder, or silence him with his cock in his mouth; it was a confusing sequence of impulses. 

"Believe me, Enjolras," Grantaire said, when he had ceased laughing, though he still sounded a little breathless, "You do your lovers a service, you mustn't undervalue yourself – for you could charge for the privilege, there's many who would pay handsomely for your particular brand of charm, if you kept your mouth shut, or turned it to better use than lecturing them on égalité and so forth during the deed itself."

The words were crude, as ever, but the tone was gentle. For all Grantaire's jokes and bluster and multitudes of small nuisances, Enjolras has wondered on several occasions whether there is something more sincere concealed within them, half-truths hidden in plain sight, but it was difficult to take any of Grantaire's words as given, when they were so often intended to provoke for the sake of it.

"Does this mean you've never felt moved to reciprocate –" Grantaire began, his own incredulity preventing him from finishing his question. He was too close, or not close enough, their bodies perhaps a foot apart, joined where his hand still loosely circled Enjolras's wrist. Enjolras felt burned by it.  

"I have." Definitely too close, Enjolras witnessed the amusement vanish from the corners of Grantaire's mouth at his answer, betraying some small displeasure.

"Not so unmoved by a handsome face after all, then. What penance does your code of honour demand of you for your failings?" Grantaire's tone was embittered, but not quite combative.

"It is not that kind of code." Enjolras did not need to explain this to Grantaire. Grantaire, who went to great pains not to believe in anything, and therefore was incapable of understanding those who did, but Enjolras had somehow grown used to his labyrinthine monologues and changeable humours these past months; had begun to better understand his deliberate throwing away of any potential he might have to make a positive contribution to society – it was an active rejection as much as it was a deficiency of character, though Enjolras found him no less frustrating for it. 

But, it was a relief, sometimes, to be around someone to whom he did not have to dispense hope. Grantaire would only take it and turn it into ash with which to soil everything he held as sacred, if he tried.  

-

"Men have made advances, I do not seek them, but I do not always rebuff them as I should. It is selfish, but all men are fallible. I try not to be." Enjolras said, as though it was simple. Perhaps in his perfect, nimbed head it was.

If Enjolras did wish to seek them, Grantaire could direct him, though his own selfish impulse was to keep the knowledge to himself; the confirmation that others had coupled with him in the past – a fact he had suspected from his looks alone before he had come to better know his character, but the knowledge that he had been correct all along was surprisingly unwelcome – sparked an unkind, possessive impulse in him, as though any man could think himself worthy of touching what Grantaire knew he should not. 

Still, the confirmation that Enjolras did harbour inclinations towards men was a boon to his confidence in what he was attempting to achieve, as was the way Enjolras did not shy away under his scrutiny, though Grantaire noted with some satisfaction that the blush had spread further across his cheeks. The slender arm within his grip slackened, some of the tension seeping away as whatever impulse had spurred Enjolras's desire to change the subject passed.   

Grantaire has brought other men off before; fucked them on occasion; been fucked by them, rarely, but most often he coupled with women. It was easier: they both knew the roles they were expected to play, even if they chose not to comply. He need only flash enough coin in any number of disreputable taverns to find a willing, amiable companion, despite his lack of physical charms. Some even came with him for the sheer pleasure of his company, finding some measure of appeal in his wit and good humour. With men, it was a constant negotiation of boundaries and parts, and one Grantaire did not always feel he had got a fair deal in. 

But this was different, because it was Enjolras, not some stranger of uncertain intent, both of them trying to maintain the upper hand in a temporary exchange. He knew him, yet apparently not nearly as well as he had believed… 

Grantaire rose to his feet, still holding Enjolras's hand in his own. He looked down at the fine-boned fingers in his grasp, thought of them touching him and felt his body stir in response. His grip was lax; his thumb was stroking idly across the raised ridges of the tendons at the inside of Enjolras's wrist. Grantaire forced it to be still; waited, with bated breath for Enjolras to act, one way or another. He still half expected to be rebuffed, though whether he had finally gone far enough to incite Enjolras to true disgust remained to be seen. 

Enjolras's features remained conflicted, and Grantaire caught him glancing at the hand on his wrist, then up the length of Grantaire's body, as though deciding whether what he saw was appealing to him – no doubt the picture was wholly inadequate, in juxtaposition to his own reflection, even when accommodating for Enjolras's entire lack of vanity. Grantaire did not need to make the same assessment: he could draw every line of Enjolras's body through the combined work of memory and ill-used imagination alone, despite having only one all-too brief glimpse of it. 

Enjolras rose to his feet, stretching to his full height and looking down at Grantaire. He was taller than any woman Grantaire knew, broader at the shoulders too, but he was as pretty as one, his features naturally coloured where some would spend a considerable portion of their toilette applying rouge to achieve the same effect, his eyelids always a little red, his full lips redder still, with one golden curl falling softly across his brow. 

Enjolras drew his pillowy bottom lip between his teeth, blue eyes fixed on Grantaire's, and nodded, a gesture that pierced Grantaire's lungs like a bayonet. 

"Well, then –" Grantaire said thickly, the spit drying on his tongue as the reality of what Enjolras had consented to dawned on him. 

"Come," Enjolras said, pulling himself free of Grantaire's grasp and breezing past him, rounding the screen and vanishing from Grantaire's sight.

Grantaire let out a shaking breath, in which he realised his hands were trembling. He grabbed the bottle of wine on the table by the neck and took a few mouthfuls to settle his nerves – he barely tasted it as it passed over his tongue. He placed the bottle beside the open sketchbook with a dull thud, and snuffed out the candle between his fingertips before following Enjolras to what served as his bedroom, his nerves thrumming in anticipation as he considered who awaited him.

Chapter Text

III.

When Grantaire rounded the screen Enjolras was waiting by the fire, already unfastening the top buttons of his shirt and pulling its tails free of his waistband, his braces hanging loose from his hips. He looked devastatingly perfect, bathed in the warm light of the fire – the only source of it, in this half of Grantaire's room. Behind Enjolras, Grantaire's bed was in the same state of untidiness he had left it in that morning, but he had at least troubled himself to pull the blankets back over it before he had begun his day in earnest. 

Enjolras looked up as he approached, and Grantaire noted he was biting his lip again, a nervous gesture on anyone else, but coupled with the severity of his glance it served only to heighten the air of intense concentration that surrounded him, always. 

Grantaire considered, briefly, attempting further conversation; he did not know what Enjolras wanted or liked in such circumstances, but Enjolras did not give up much information on himself at the best of times, and under such fraught circumstances Grantaire could not imagine himself meeting much success there. He had pushed his luck further than he ought to already tonight. 

Grantaire wanted to kiss him; wanted to be tender, to take his time as he normally would with a companion he was more intimately acquainted with, but something in Enjolras's demeanour told him it would not be gladly received; the firmness of his expression and the hard line of his mouth foretold no bending, and invited no softness. Grantaire did not wish to dissuade him when he was so close to having what he had wanted for so long – far longer than he had been ready to admit it to himself – or give Enjolras cause to tire of his company before managing to bring him some measure of release. 

This Enjolras was a wild, fragile, ungraspable thing; new and uncertain. There was nothing to do but let him take, and follow where he led. 

He did not kiss him, but instead put his hand to Enjolras's hip, and looked to him for permission to proceed. Enjolras shifted closer, his expression remote even in this, and began unfastening the first of the buttons that ran in two lines from the waist of his trousers, and lower, over the sharp ridges of his hip bones. Grantaire, still marvelling at being permitted to touch him, slipped his other hand beneath the billow of Enjolras's shirt, pressing his fingertips into soft, warm skin and feeling the muscles beneath contract and release as Enjolras moved. 

Enjolras's expression did not change, as Grantaire's hands followed Enjolras's work on his buttons, exploring more newly exposed skin, but Grantaire did feel him shiver beneath his touch as he discovered and traced the trail of fine hair that ran from navel to groin with his thumb, as the last of the buttons parted, then Enjolras's cock was exposed to warm air and to Grantaire's eager scrutiny. It was as fine as the rest of him, the skin smooth, pale, yet faintly golden, and flushing at the tip; larger than the allegorically modest genitalia of the statues Grantaire had so often compared him to, but not exceptionally so. The Greeks thought large penises uncouth and uncivilised, reserved them for satyrs and barbarians; Grantaire told him something to this effect, a compliment elided in his usual line of circuitous avoidance.

Enjolras, fairly, told him to chut.

Grantaire did. Instead, he put his palm to the tip of Enjolras's cock, already half-roused, brushed against it with deliberate restraint while he studied Enjolras's expression. He would rather have put his mouth on it, but for the time being he was content to watch the torment play out in Enjolras's features, as he took him in hand and began to stroke him with more intent. Enjolras was biting his lower lip again, his eyes half closed, and one of the veins at his temple stood out beneath the smooth surface, evidence of some effort in constraint. Grantaire was hard himself, too, possibly for some time: he had been so focused on Enjolras's admissions of humanity that he felt detached from his own flesh, set adrift by unknown tides. 

Enjolras exhaled raggedly, then his hands were on Grantaire's buttons, fumbling them open, and Grantaire was stifling a groan already, fighting the urge to move; to press Enjolras against the closest wall and rut against him as though in the heat of some hasty back alley encounter, as Enjolras reached into his trousers and wrapped a demonstrative hand around Grantaire's cock, with more urgency than Grantaire had succumbed to thus far. His touch was knowing, if a little perfunctory, and not exactly gentle; proof, if Grantaire had desired it, that he has definitely done this before.

"Do not turn coy on me now," Enjolras said, his voice low and thick with feeling. 

Grantaire had not exactly expected maidenly blushes and shyness, but he was still pleasantly surprised at Enjolras's active pursuit of what he wanted, and forced to reassess his measure of him yet again, though he should have known better; Enjolras treated this with the same stern efficiency he treated everything else – there was no sentimentality in it, but he was practised, and if Grantaire hadn't been growing hard from the moment he had first laid hands on him, he would be now.

Grantaire accepted his challenge, mirroring Enjolras's motions, and escalating them. "How would you have me?" he said, as Enjolras pressed into his hand with endearing eagerness, his body arching into Grantaire's touch. Grantaire wrapped his free arm around Enjolras's waist to pull him closer still, while their hands worked, trapped, between them, brushing against each other in the discordance of their rhythm. His back was warm, and yielded ever so slightly to Grantaire's touch as he pressed his palm to it.

"Efficient –" Enjolras's speech twisted into a quiet gasp, somewhere near Grantaire's ear. 

"Your rhetoric lacks inspiration," Grantaire laughed, his own speech breathy, and succumbed to the temptation to turn his head and place a kiss to the side of Enjolras's forehead, breathing in the scent of him mingled with the pine-smoke from the fire, and letting gold hair tickle at his nose as he spoke the rest of his words into it, "that is not something any lover ought to hear –"

"Do not be so quick to claim titles for yourself," Enjolras chided, the rebuke softened by the strain in his voice, and the vice-grip of his free hand in the loose fabric of Grantaire's shirt.

"Do not be so quick to send those who would service you to the guillotine –" Grantaire must have stumbled upon a chord that resonated, then – for Enjolras dipped his head, and sank his teeth into the muscle that connected shoulder to neck, through worn linen. Grantaire hissed in response to the sudden sharpness, and suppressed the urge to make further sounds, as Enjolras turned his head and repeated the rebuke at the exposed skin above his collarbone; evidently, words had failed him at last. Grantaire tightened his grip, crushing Enjolras's narrow, boyish hips against his own, and hastened the motions of his hand. 

Enjolras had the gall, next, to withdraw his teeth; to straighten up and look Grantaire in the eye, while their hands were on each other's cocks. 

Grantaire did not wish to be seen, in this moment; he wanted to feed Enjolras's brightness until it burned his own, worthless self away, and he existed only as shadow in evidence of Enjolras's luminescence, the object that cast it insignificant and transitory, just one of many obstacles in his path.

Still, Grantaire was a simple man; when confronted with such splendour, it was impossible to look away. If the desired effect of Enjolras's beauty was to inspire awe, like the deliberate opulence of a palace, meant to instil the notions of power, plenty, permanence and divinity in its owner's subjects, Grantaire needed little convincing.

This is foolish, Grantaire thought, of his own imagination: Enjolras's looks were no more deliberate than those of a flower, unfurling before the sun.   

Enjolras's gaze finally faltered under such scrutiny, and he hid his features from it in the curve of Grantaire's shoulder again. They were quiet for several moments; the only sounds Grantaire was aware of were Enjolras's uneven breath in his ear, the creak and crackle as a log split in the grate, his own pulse and the occasional sordid sound of skin on skin. The reality of Enjolras's hand on him – and of the long line of his body pressed close to his own – was an unbelievable thing, somewhere between indescribable pleasure and exquisite agony in the way his touch seemed to wring every possible feeling to the surface, and in how badly Grantaire still wanted more.

Enjolras shifted in his grasp, drawing back to face him again. "It's not enough," he said, with an apologetic look, and Grantaire was reminded that the man in front of him was just that, of the same flesh and blood as any other, despite the evidence of his own eyes deceiving him; the cock in his hand was subject to the same stimuli as his own.

"The bed?" Grantaire suggested, reluctant to release him, but eager to please. Enjolras assented, but it was several drawn out moments, in which Grantaire battled the urge to go to his knees again, to offer himself as supplicant and let Enjolras fuck his mouth until he spent, before either of them made any movement towards it.

They parted just long enough to get there; Enjolras's boots were discarded in the process. Grantaire had just enough time and clarity to recall that Enjolras thought of this a favour, and not something Grantaire has coveted, in some unheeded, sickly part of his psyche, almost as long as he has known him – not the honour, gift that it is – before he was on his back and Enjolras was everywhere.

It was anything but tender; Enjolras's full weight on him, his cock pressed to Grantaire's stomach, rubbing against his thigh and leaving a darker stain on the dull black fabric of his trousers; his hands tugging Grantaire's shirt tails free, sliding beneath it and up the sides of his chest, then Grantaire rolled them both over, pinned Enjolras beneath him in turn and succumbed to the temptation to savage his neck with his lips and teeth, pressing the kisses he so longed to provide into the soft skin beneath Enjolras's jaw. Enjolras tolerated his affection – more than tolerated – one hand finding its way into Grantaire's hair, tugging sharply in a manner that sent shivers of twisted pleasure down his spine, whenever Grantaire's urge to mar his pale throat with the evidence of his want got the better of him. His other hand dipped beneath the open waistband of Grantaire's trousers, his fingers pressing harsh dents into the muscle of Grantaire's backside. Enjolras shifted beneath him, parting his legs to allow Grantaire's to slot between them and bring even more contact.

Grantaire could come from this alone – from the press of their bodies, flush against each other from knees to chest; from the soft, stifled sounds Enjolras makes when their frantic motions bring them together at an angle that presses skin to skin – could draw the pleasure of it out for hours, in which the boundaries where he ends and Enjolras begins are blurred, as they writhe together until they find release, then begin again – and again, but he is certain that is not what Enjolras wants.

He managed to withdraw long enough to wrestle himself free of his trousers, and rolled them over again.

-

Enjolras had meant for this to be simple, a mutually beneficial exchange between… friends? He supposed they ought to call each other that now, for lack of a more accurate descriptor. If it helped him discern Grantaire's true motives in being kind to him, then so much the better; if it was a bluff… at least he would finally have his proof. The reality of it was no insincere challenge, and anything but the straightforward release he had intended. In hindsight he ought to have known; attempting serious conversation between them had always been a volatile endeavour, this was equally turbulent, with just as much potential for catastrophe. And yet – 

Grantaire's mouth on his neck had the odd effect of making Enjolras's nerves spark in unconnected places, his toes curling and his hands gripping tighter than he intended to when Grantaire's teeth nipped at his throat. It seemed superfluous to the exchange; he did not need it to attain release, but it was pleasurable – in a manner less immediate, and somehow more intellectual than the direct stimulation of Grantaire's prick sliding against his own – as was the needling sensation of Grantaire's stubble against his cheek, and the grounding warmth of his body – solid, compact, but with the promise of strength in his wiry limbs – when Enjolras found himself beneath it. Enjolras recalled his tales of boxing, of dancing and Savate, and found that he believed them. 

He found himself in disbelief, however, when Grantaire – having rid himself of his trousers – was beneath him once more, and, placing two fingers in his own indecorous mouth, withdrew them, slick with spit, and lowered them between his own legs.

"What are you doing?" Enjolras demanded, incredulous.

-

"Easing the way," Grantaire said, lips quirking in amusement at the scandalised look on Enjolras's face, even as he rutted against him, seemingly unaware that he had been trying to fuck Grantaire's thigh for some time now.

"No –" Enjolras's eyes were wild, his cheeks red and his tone fraught, the surprise in his features making them appear softer, almost innocent "– I cannot ask that of you!"

"I am giving it to you," Grantaire stated, simply, omitting the complicating truth – that this was no selfless offering; Grantaire wanted as much of Enjolras as he would spare him, and there was no guarantee his idol would remain in his halls, when whatever rapture had seized them both lifted. He understood the ancient tales of mortals being toyed with by the gods now, compelled by forces beyond their reckoning into acting against decorum; he did not know what force was driving Enjolras to allow this, but clearly he had set all reason aside.

The affront behind Enjolras's expression was revealing, telling a little of his experiences thus far. He has clearly taken men in hand, and been taken in hand in turn, but that he was moved by this suggested a certain distance to his previous encounters, holding his lovers at arms length in much the same manner as he distanced himself from his own desires. In a less pressing situation Grantaire would make much of that; of the little sliver of truth Enjolras has revealed of his psyche. Four months ago he would have obsessed over it for hours, pondering the implications until their inevitable conclusions left him having to attend to himself, but, astoundingly, he had Enjolras's needs to attend to at present.

Above him, the shining mass of Enjolras's curls glowed bronze in the firelight, his skin made golden by the warmth in its hue; Grantaire felt his affection for this impossible man like a knife-twist.

He let out an uneven breath, and forged on.

-

Grantaire spoke casually, as though what he was doing to himself was not obscene.

Enjolras understood the theory of it, of course. He has had men request it of him before, but he had always denied it – and terminated one encounter with a man who seemed a little too keen on it before they had begun, in suspicion that he might try to spring it on him later when he was in a more vulnerable position. Some had offered it, too, but Enjolras would never have asked it of them; would never ask it of any man, even one with whom he shared some measure of trust – for he did trust Grantaire, with his body if not with his ideals. 

Yet Grantaire seemed eager to provide. Enjolras knew him to be liberal with his amorous attentions; had seen him with women in the Corinthe – he was not bold enough to attempt to bring one with him to the backroom at the Musain. He had even seen him kiss Courfeyrac on the mouth, once, both of them inebriated and laughing merrily when they broke apart, but this was an intimacy far beyond what was required for a little mutual relief – one more fitting of love-drunk, unwedded youths or married couples with too many mouths to feed, and neither model was pertinent to him. He did not wish to take what he would not be willing to give, but the offer was intriguing. 

He watched as Grantaire worked, stroking both fingers lewdly over the tight ring of muscle, back and forth, before returning to his mouth for more lubrication, then repeating the action a further time. Enjolras stilled over him, straddling one of Grantaire's legs, mesmerised into forgetting his own urgency by what Grantaire was doing to himself.

The next time Grantaire withdrew his hand, Enjolras caught it and brought it to his own lips; it was the least he could offer.  

-

"God –" Grantaire profaned, as the tip of Enjolras's tongue darted out to wet his own lips, then he was taking Grantaire's fingers into his mouth, and that tongue was pressing against them, and slipping between them, and Grantaire did not even try to stifle his groan of frustrated pleasure at the notion, at the sight of Enjolras's pretty mouth on his stubby, unworthy hand. Enjolras looked to him at the sound, and Grantaire ran the calloused edge of his thumb across his full bottom lip – fuller still, as the result of his own abuse with his teeth – and it proved just as soft as he had imagined it to be. 

"That was – something –" Grantaire stated, finally utterly lost for words, when Enjolras released his fingers, inspected his work and appeared to find it satisfactory. "Do not do that again if you wish me to last!" Grantaire just about managed to laugh, breathlessly, though it made him feel light headed. 

Enjolras seemed to take his meaning, because he smiled, then. It was a small, half-formed thing, barely more than a wry quirk at one corner; but from Enjolras – to Grantaire – when they were in his bed, half-naked, and regarding each other with heavy-lidded eyes, it was precious beyond gold. 

Grantaire, with renewed urgency, set about working himself open, scrutinising Enjolras's features for any sign of hesitancy as he did so. His expression was difficult to define, but he did not look ill-pleased at the prospect; Grantaire noticed that his own fingers had left a dark smudge of charcoal at the point of Enjolras's chin, and that concrete evidence of his touch had him longing to repeat it. It had been a while – years, probably – since he last performed this particular feat, and he was still tighter than was ideal. Grantaire looked away, momentarily, scanning his surroundings for something to provide further ease, but he was hopelessly underprepared.

He looked back to Enjolras, to the sight of him sitting back on his heels, his head bowed, fair hair tousled and falling over his eyes; his collar unfastened and in disarray where Grantaire had pawed at it to get at his throat; his trousers open and sinking to his knees, with his hand on his own cock, slicking it with the spit in his palm. 

"Jèsus –" He exhaled the word as much as spoke it, vowels slipping into the accent of his home province in his astonishment. It was the most magnificent thing he had ever seen, and he knew he would spend if he did not look away. With an effort of will he had not known himself capable of he withdrew his hand and turned over, onto his hands and knees.  

"Now, Enjolras, please," he did not beg; he requested, and Enjolras obliged. 

-

Enjolras found having Grantaire's fingers in his mouth unexpectedly satisfying, in a manner he could not quite explain. His skin tasted of sweat and of charcoal, human and earthy, and there were raised calluses where he held his paintbrush, similar to those Enjolras found on his own hands when he had been writing for long hours; indents where the pen rested in his grip. 

Grantaire, too, enjoyed it far more than Enjolras had anticipated, evidenced by the sound he made. It was a frustrated, impatient one, and Enjolras understood – was feeling something similar himself. He felt himself smile, and Grantaire looked back at him with the softest, most genuine expression of delight Enjolras had ever seen him wear. It suited him.

Enjolras was aware that some additional form of lubrication would be desirable, but Grantaire was not forthcoming with it, so he took matters into his own hands – hand. That Enjolras's mind was providing him with terrible puns at a time like this felt like Grantaire's influence, taking up space in Enjolras's thoughts as surely as Enjolras had been taking up space in his home. Grantaire had never seemed to mind it, however, and Enjolras found he was willing to forgive the intrusion in return. 

Grantaire, now with his back to him, requested he begin; Enjolras rose to his knees and positioned himself behind him. He would rather face Grantaire in this, he realised, and voiced it.

"It is easier like this," Grantaire replied, with enough strain in his voice that it dissuaded Enjolras from further argument.

Enjolras put one hand to his hip, and took a brief moment to appreciate the sight of Grantaire beneath him – for he did appreciate it, aesthetically, as well as for the promise of release that awaited him. Grantaire's body was something he had never contemplated with any deliberacy before; had never seen before, save obfuscated by ill-fitting clothing, but his legs were lean and well-muscled, his buttocks were firm, pleasingly round, and warm when he shifted his grip to separate them, and used his other hand to guide his aim.

-

Grantaire made a small, involuntary sound of discomfort when Enjolras pressed into him, and Enjolras stilled immediately. 

"I am hurting you," Enjolras stated, with a hint of familiar displeasure.

"It is fine," Grantaire replied, willing himself to relax. "It will be fine; I am merely out of practise – had I known I would be performing tonight I would have rehearsed," he laughed – it helped.

"You can bear it?" Enjolras said, his suspicion evident in his tone.

"Yes," Grantaire said, then, seeking to prove his point, pushed back, forcing Enjolras further inside him. Enjolras let out a small, suppressed sound that was somewhere between a moan and a sob – one that seemed to resonate through the connection of Grantaire's body to his, straight to Grantaire's cock, spurring him on, to take Enjolras deeper, chasing that sensation again. Enjolras made a harsher, less surprised sound the second time, though it sparked an equally visceral response in Grantaire, in a recursive wave. The stretch burned a little – his eyes were watering – and when he could go no further he stilled, until he acclimated to the feel of having someone – Enjolras, he still could not quite believe it – inside him again.

Enjolras had both hands on his hips now; his grip was tentative. He was still, and Grantaire felt an anxious pressure coil ever tighter in his chest the longer he remained so; considered twisting to look over his shoulder and ask what had given him pause. Then Enjolras stirred, withdrew a slow, cautious inch, and said: "You must tell me if I cause you discomfort."

Grantaire wanted to tell him that he would do no such thing; that his body was at Enjolras's disposal, to do with as he wished, the only worthwhile thing he had ever used it for. 

Instead, he said: "Save your concern for your people, Enjolras, I grow weary of it; what good will it do me?" Enjolras's grip tightened as Grantaire spoke: "What good will it do any of us?" 

Grantaire had learned, through a dedicated process of trial and error, and meticulous study, exactly where to strike if he truly wished to provoke Enjolras into the closest thing to fury he was able to muster in personal matters. He used it sparingly – only when Enjolras had barely looked at him in weeks; had barely looked beyond whatever aim had seized him to see any of his friends at his side – but Enjolras's hesitancy had unsettled him. He could almost picture him withdrawing inside himself again; turning his fine hands to the task of raising the ivory tower atop which he sat, orchestrating the forces that would bring about the glorious future he envisaged like the head of a revolutionary Pantheon, dispatching lesser deities to enact his divine vengeance, and taking him ever higher out of Grantaire's reach. So, he struck: "You may have your row of heads on pikes, but their blood will water no crops, their sallow faces will not smile benevolently down upon France's children and inspire them to grow into good little Republicans. It will teach them only the need to strike first. Violence, Enjolras, that is what unites us all; I would think you of all people should know it –"  

Enjolras made a small, dismissive sound – one Grantaire knew as a precursor to a more eloquent rebuttal of his argument – and thrust deep. 

-

The next sound Enjolras made felt ripped from him, in place of whatever rebuke had been forthcoming – the shape of it eluded him. He knew the ploy, had fallen victim to it many times – less easily, now that he knew Grantaire well enough to see it for what it was, but under the wrong circumstances, when his control was already stretched and fraying, Grantaire was the one who knew how to make it fail with frightening efficiency. 

In terms of ways to silence him, this was an untested one, though it proved most efficacious. Grantaire ceased his taunts as soon as Enjolras began to move in earnest; pushing back against him and breathing harshly, but otherwise blissfully quiet.  

It was good. Better than anything Enjolras had tried with other men, the pressure far more consistent – and more profound – than what could be achieved with only hands and mouths; the friction was exactly where he needed it each time he withdrew, then pushed deeper again. It was easier now, and getting easier with every repetition, as Grantaire clenched around him and trembled with a strangled, cut-off cry, before slumping forward onto his elbows and spreading his legs wider. 

Enjolras knew he was close, and did not wish to think about how they had arrived at this point; how Grantaire's expert manipulation had almost caused him to forget what they were to each other: foils, each serving only to exaggerate where they differed. Civil, amicable even, at a superficial level, but in ideals, in what mattered, worlds apart.

And yet, the act had the effect of rendering Enjolras sentimental. Through some combination of pleasure and surrender, Enjolras did not feel the anger he might have expected of himself. Grantaire was doing him a service, despite what was doubtless an ulterior motive. Intimacy might mean little to enough to him, but Enjolras valued himself – and Grantaire – highly enough that he would not debase either of them by dismissing the significance of the deed.

When Enjolras's release left him – in one heavy, silent, drawn-out shudder of sensation that left him feeling as though his nerves had been shattered – he lay against Grantaire's solid, warm back, and pressed his lips untidily to the nape of his neck, in what bore every resemblance to a kiss. 

The skin there was soft, with a faint, familiar taste. Enjolras couldn't place it.

-

By the time Enjolras came – without warning, buried deep enough that Grantaire could feel his legs shaking where they pressed against the back of his own – Grantaire was already undone; damp linen beginning to cling to his stomach where his own release had spilled into the billow of his shirt. He shuddered at the sensation despite himself, biting his forearm as the over-stimulation of Enjolras's continued movements urged him to squirm out of his grasp, while the part of him that yearned to abase himself at Enjolras's feet found twisted comfort – and morbid self-satisfaction – in having finally wrestled from Enjolras's grasp the rod of his rigid self-control; the complaint of his wrung-out nerve endings akin to the solid, reassuring ache of well-used muscles after a contest of strength. 

He was not sure who was winning this bout; perhaps one was as defeated as the other.

Then Enjolras was resting against his back, heavy and weak-limbed in the aftermath, and Grantaire's self-satisfaction changed shape again, into the urge to cradle him in his arms, to tangle his fingers in his shining hair, and never let him go again. 

He felt Enjolras's lips press against the back of his neck, in the semblance of a kiss that surely could not have been deliberate, before Enjolras finally pulled away from him, lying on his back beside him and beginning to fasten his trousers. Grantaire had been in no position to fight to keep him there, but he felt bereft at the loss of contact. 

The silence between them weighed heavy, like the boulder of Sisyphus's eternal labours.  

Grantaire turned his head to regard him; Enjolras's gaze was directed at the ceiling, his brow drawn in a slight frown, his cheeks pink and his lips swollen, his hair beginning to cling to the sweat on his brow and the smudge of charcoal still present on his chin. He had expected to meet anger, or disgust, but found in Enjolras's features only the distant, melancholy isolation he had often felt himself, when the temporary intoxication of desire lifted, replaced by an abrupt return to himself and the un-shirking of his cares; a sudden awakening from a pleasant dream and an unwelcome return to his senses.   

He watched the rapid rise and fall of Enjolras's chest gradually calm, the colour draining slowly from his cheeks and the soft, spent line of his body regaining its tension, as he solidified into stone once more before his eyes.

"Thank you," Enjolras said at last, a curt, cursory politeness at odds with their predicament. Grantaire would have laughed, if not for the sinking feeling in his stomach, the ache lodging itself behind his ribs. That's right, this was a favour.

"Don't mention it," he replied, his own breathing slowly levelling; his pulse was still racing, though not merely from exertion. He rolled onto his side, tugging his shirt prudishly down in a pointless display of modesty. Enjolras turned to face him, and Grantaire's eyes were drawn again to the thumb print he had left beneath the bow of Enjolras's worried mouth. He glanced over the dishevelled state of his clothing, noticing additional black finger-marks at the waist of his trousers, a smudge at the inside of his wrist. He reached forward without thinking, meaning to wipe the mark on Enjolras's chin away with his sleeve. 

What had felt like a triumph while Grantaire had been giddy with desire now felt like blasphemy; Enjolras's perfect skin should not be soiled with the evidence of Grantaire's impure, impudent attentions. 

Enjolras flinched as he reached for him; Grantaire stilled, feeling Enjolras's unconscious, betraying reaction as a knife to the gut. He lowered his hand, trying to keep the hurt from showing in his features, as Enjolras regarded him with cautious, guarded eyes.

"You have charcoal on your chin," he stated, his voice small and pathetic, even to his own ears.

"Oh." Enjolras lowered his eyes, and did not meet Grantaire's directly again, instead suddenly fascinated by the texture of the wrinkled blanket beneath them. "Thank you," he said again, clearly unsure what else to say. 

The renewed stiffness in Enjolras's mannerisms – the way his eyes seemed unfocused and uncertain, as though he could not bear to acknowledge what had passed between them by looking directly at him – made Grantaire want to berate himself for his foolishness; anger would have been more palatable, if only Enjolras would spare him the trouble. 

Finally, Enjolras rose. He paused by the side of the bed, his back to Grantaire; Grantaire noticed a clear grey handprint marking where he had grasped the back of Enjolras's shirt, and brought a despairing hand up to cover his eyes. He listened to the rustle of cloth and Enjolras's footsteps as he fixed his clothes, before opening them again to see Enjolras at his washstand, inspecting the state of his features in the mirror. 

Grantaire wanted to pull at his own hair in frustration; if either of them ought to feel guilty, it should be him. He sat upright, retrieved his trousers from the foot of the bed and listlessly resumed them while Enjolras wiped at his chin with a damp cloth.

It was as the clouding influence of desire cleared that Grantaire realised just how tentative their friendship had been, built as much on what they chose not to say to each other as what they did share. He did not dare to guess where this might leave them now, but he could not expect things to be as they were. He had an unwelcome, sneaking suspicion that Enjolras had seen him for what he was, and would want no more to do with him.

"I'll go," Enjolras said, when he had finished wiping the finger marks from his skin, looking at him at last with eyes that were bright, but weary. He looked as radiant as ever, if tired – and still a little dishevelled – and Grantaire realised with utmost despair that, having had him, he still wanted him, just as desperately as he had before.

"Yes," Grantaire said, permitting him his departure without complaint.

What else was he to say? 

Chapter Text

IV.

This time Grantaire had finally achieved the inevitable. He had goaded Enjolras too far, and in doing so had fractured what tentative trust existed between them. He had ruined their arrangement as surely as Psyche had broken Cupid's trust in gazing at him in the lamp-light. Now his lover would flee in wounded betrayal; Grantaire would be left to lament his losses alone, and to no avail with no divine forces to aid him.

He cursed his own hubris as he tidied away the evidence of their meal – the last remains of the stew in the bowl were still warm as he covered them – scraped their used plates clean and set them aside to be taken down and washed when there was more heated water available. He bolted the shutters, and blew out the candles. That done his habitual motions brought him back to his bedroom, and to the scene of disaster. 

He swallowed his frustration as he wrenched himself free of his shirt, spurning it with a violent, self-directed loathing, then ran his hands through his hair, curled his fingers into it and tugged, eking out a dull ache where it was rooted into the scalp. The soreness served as yet another reminder of Enjolras's absence – his scalp still felt tender wherever Enjolras's grip on his hair had been fiercest – but the pain grounded him in the present, and the tight feeling of the skin on his stomach as he stretched prompted him to go to his washstand.

Listlessly, he wiped the evidence of their encounter from his belly, from between his thighs, then scrubbed what remained of the charcoal from the lines of his hands with a harsh-bristled brush, with no care for how much it hurt. He felt physically depleted; the raw feeling between his legs, the warm, throbbing after-impression of Enjolras's hand on his cock, and the tender point on his shoulder where Enjolras's teeth had left their impression were all nagging reminders that what had just passed between them had not been some particularly vivid fever-dream. 

His head ached too, though this time he could not blame the wine for that; the pressure behind his eyes that he wouldn't permit to turn into tears felt suffocating.

Spiritually, he felt the kind of deadened hopelessness Icarus must have felt as the wax that held his wings together melted, and his soaring flight towards the sun became a plummet into the waves below. It was with abject despair that he put his head in his hands, pressed the dampness from the corners of his eyes and breathed harshly until the swell of contempt for himself became a dull background persistence. 

When the crushing pressure at his temples subsided he changed into a clean shirt, fetched the wine from the table and took it with him to the chair by the fire, where he sat with a resolute sigh. He had no immediate desire to return to his bed alone. He would not throw himself into the river just yet, but he would drown his sorrows; the tender current might have placed Psyche back on her feet, but the waters of the Seine would not deliver him so kind a reproach for his despair. 

The next morning he noticed that the article Enjolras had been drafting was gone, but the pamphlets remained, arranged in a neat pile on the desk's surface - a hint, perhaps? 

He had no recollection of sleep, but the light shining through the slats in the shutters was evidence that he must have lost a few hours to unconsciousness. He glanced at the tangle of his sheets as he rinsed his mouth at the basin, recalled Enjolras's gold hair splayed out against the off-white and blue-striped backdrop of the bolster, and the yield of the mattress beneath both their bodies. There was a chance he would have to burn both of them to rid himself of the images they now conjured, but for now he would allow himself the temporary indulgence of letting the memory consume his thoughts. 

He lay down on his bed, still in his crumpled clothing, and stared at the cracks in the ceiling as he ruminated on the details of the night before – the fraught and twisting conversation, Enjolras's admission that he was not as immune to desire as his carefully-guarded reputation suggested, Grantaire on his knees, Enjolras blushing, and after that – his cock stirred in response to the recalled after-images, the remembered sensations, and the sounds… All combined they conjured an unsettling mix of fear and arousal that threatened to rouse him further had he not been so afraid of the loss that was to follow. The sheets still smelled of Enjolras's presence, mingled with his own stale sweat. 

He reached the point in the sequence where Enjolras flinched, and the turbulent dream shattered, vanished like a popped soap bubble into an anticlimactic nothingness, without fanfare and without trace.

But Enjolras had been right there with him; for one brief shining moment, he had felt certain that they had shared the same driving physical need, and Enjolras had seemed comfortable in sharing it with him. It was maddening how close to happy that little glimpse of Enjolras's humanity had made him, the way the simple openness of a shared smile in the midst of a moment of passion had metamorphosed into a hook buried deep in his heart the moment the door had closed behind him.

Enjolras did not come over that day, not that Grantaire had been expecting him to. They had, prior to the catastrophe, fallen into the habit of Enjolras asking if it would be convenient for him to call the next day, and Grantaire assuring him that he was welcome at any time while mentally structuring his own schedule around Enjolras's, but he had left last night with no such informal arrangement. 

He resolved to give Enjolras time and distance to work through whatever feelings the encounter had left him with, if he felt anything at all. Such space would also give himself time to master the nervous impulse to avoid facing him. Perhaps Enjolras would be angry, upon further reflection, but his quietness in the aftermath had been troubling. He had not been the confident, collected Enjolras Grantaire knew from the years spent gazing at him from an admiring distance. He had not even been the quietly-seething Enjolras that Grantaire had found bleeding in his apartment less than three weeks ago.  

He ignored his work, avoided his empty apartment by wasting time and money seeking convivial company in dice-games, in cards and in drinking with strangers of similar eagerness to forget greater cares. It was an enjoyable diversion, but one that left his pockets lighter than before. He considered enlisting Jehan in sharing in the diversion of an opium pipe, but decided he would make for miserable company in such spirits. He went alone, and emerged blinking against the sun, feeling dull-witted but a little less hopeless; it was a shame the effects did not last, or that he would soon find his pockets entirely empty if he did not find a more permanent solution to his misery. In his distracted state, stupor and its subsequent after-effects he was several days late in delivering his latest commission, and had to lower his price to keep his client happy.

By the middle of the week he found himself contemplating the prospect of having to go to Miette, hat in hand, and ask for a delay in settling his rent, if matters seemed set to continue thus. It was a recourse he had resorted to only once before, and it had wounded what little pride he had to do so; he might be a hopeless case, but he did not require charity. At least she had had the decency to disapprove of his negligence. He could not decide which of the two he'd rather face, Miette or Enjolras, but he would have to choose one, sooner rather than later.

The rest of the week passed in a blur; he had lost track of the days, but the exuberant clamour that woke him that afternoon suggested a Saturday, and neighbours coming home in high spirits at the end to a week of toil or study. The sun was already setting beneath the line of the opposing building when he roused himself enough to open the shutters. His head ached again, and his mouth felt and tasted as though he had eaten ashes; he quenched them with his first mouthful of wine of the day, lowered the bottle, and sighed. He felt physically rested, but spiritually drained; he tired of the hollow feeling inside his chest, of the way the drink, the smoke and the bile made all his meals seem tasteless. He missed his friends, and the warmth of good food and good company. He missed Enjolras, and avoiding him in fear of his response would do nothing to address that particular void.

Headache aside, the extra hours of sleep had achieved some positive effect, and he spent what little remained of the afternoon taking stock of his situation. He deemed it untenable; his purse was emptier than it had been in weeks, and his next commission was not immediately forthcoming. He could speculate at Enjolras's motives for his absence, but he could make no claims of certainty: Enjolras's feelings were his own, and difficult enough to deduce at the best of times. In any case, he had managed some semblance of capability without Enjolras's sobering influence; he could do so again, if he must.

He spent more time at his toilette that evening than he had over the last week. His mirror presented an unappealing portrait; his chin was rough with several days worth of stubble, and his complexion was patchy, red-nosed and red-eyed. He did what little he could to improve the picture with mechanical indifference; shaved haphazardly, polished his teeth until they appeared merely yellow instead of stained, oiled and brushed his hair until he could comb his fingers through it without getting them tangled. He could still smell the drink on himself in the stale, sickly odour seeping out of his pores. A clean shirt helped a little, the smell of lavender from his trunk having some effect at masking it.

The Musain was already full of life and light when he ascended the staircase to the back room; it spilled out into the dark street in the form of Courfeyrac's bright laugh, Bahorel's deeper, booming one, and a pool of yellow light when he opened the door. The heat from the fire was palpable even at this distance, and Grantaire was struck anew by all the reasons he kept the company of this group of idealists despite the incongruity of his presence among them; he felt the warmth of the room and the souls inside it reach out, and reel him in.

Enjolras's bright head was the first object he distinguished through the smoke; he had looked over to the door as Grantaire had opened it. Their eyes met, and the jovial hubbub of the back room dimmed to a faint background hum as they regarded one another. 

Enjolras's expression was inscrutable, and Grantaire found himself rooted to the spot, one step in from the cold, by the glossy, opaque façade that look presented; felt his breath catch in his throat as he met that icy blue stare, and recalled instead heavy-lidded eyes and tormented lips – the taste of smooth skin beneath his tongue, and the tender dark imprints Enjolras's fingers had left on his hips. The curved bruise on his shoulder was still visible beneath his clothing, progressing from a vivid purple to a mottled green and yellow and itching again at the reminder of its presence. The blooming, flower-shaped mark on his neck had faded first; he must have left his own marks on Enjolras's throat in return, but the stiff collar of his shirt hid all from Grantaire's avaricious study. The collar itself was an anomaly: tall and starched to attention such that it would have stood on its own. It was not a fashion Enjolras usually cared to take to such extremes of formality. Grantaire wondered what secrets it concealed, but coupled with the fine ivory stock there was little chance of it yielding them. 

Their connected gaze was broken, as Courfeyrac approached to waylay him.

"Come here and let me congratulate you," Courfeyrac ordered, warmly, placing one familiar hand on his shoulder and squeezing, an unexpectedly convivial welcome. Grantaire suppressed a wince as the imprint of Enjolras's teeth stung beneath his firm grip.

"What?" Grantaire asked, incredulous, and utterly uncomprehending. His heart skipped a beat as a ream of possibilities presented themselves. Surely he couldn't be talking about – 

"One of my little birds told me they had seen one of your works opposite the assize court," Courfeyrac said, beaming, and Grantaire deflated in relief even as his hopes were ground further into the dirt. "I said to myself, surely that cannot be true, or he would have told us all, so I went to see for myself. Sure enough; there was your signature. I'm amazed you managed to keep such wit to yourself. Fine work, my friend! Perhaps we shall have you illustrate our next pamphlet…"

He beamed at Grantaire as he said it, and did not remove his hand. Grantaire felt panic rise in him again at the notion that his small private jest – his play-act of rebellion against an unjust ruling – had not gone as unnoticed as he had expected it to.

"I don't know what you mean," he said, cautiously, watching Courfeyrac's features for his thoughts, "perhaps you are mistaking some obscure hieroglyph for my scrawl?"

"Never." Courfeyrac's smile did not falter, but his grip slackened. "But if you do not wish to speak of it –" he leaned in to speak conspiratorially into Grantaire's ear. Grantaire noted that Courfeyrac was currently wearing a powdery, fresh scent, in great contrast to the one that must be following him like a sour, miasmatic cloud; if Courfeyrac's senses were offended by it, he did an admirable job of hiding it. "– I shall guard your secrets as closely as if they were my own."

Grantaire scoffed at that, before he could contain himself, and said, "That is not as reassuring as you think it is; you are an even worse gossip than I!"

Courfeyrac withdrew, smiled roguishly, and poked him gently in the ribs with the pommel of his cane in playful admonition. 

They bickered good-naturedly for a short while; when Courfeyrac moved on Enjolras's head was bent over some missives again, already back to work and no longer paying him any heed. It was not exactly a warm reunion, but one that might have gone worse; there was still hope of reconciliation, however fragile. 

He alternated between watching Enjolras in cautious admiration and fretting over what he might say to him during the meeting itself. There did not appear to be much to say tonight, for there was no new ground covered; evidently, he had not missed much in his absence. Later Bahorel joined him with a new issue of La Caricature in hand; they shared some dry amusement over a drawing of the king shitting out titles to his grovelling deputies over a pair of hand rolled cigars – also Bahorel's, but he seemed as eager as ever to press his precipitous generosity on him. Unlike Courfeyrac's, Bahorel's altruism always had an undercurrent of prospective mischief to it; accepting it came with the possibility of ending the evening with a back-alley brawl, of being ejected from some fashionable salon or sitting insensible on the floor of a stranger's rooms with no recollection of meeting them; it was why Grantaire liked him, and had befriended him first.

Grantaire waited until the others had begun the drawn-out process of leaving, saying their goodnights by the doorway even as their conversation and laughter continued to delay their actual departure, before he made his approach. Enjolras was still in his seat, beneath the yellowing map of France under the republic, still leafing through a pile of pamphlets, letters and Grantaire could only guess what else. The candle on the table beside him cast flickering shadows beneath his features; in the dancing half light the map behind him seemed to shift too, rippling like a piece of cloth in the breeze. He seemed absorbed in the task, but did look up as Grantaire approached this time.

"Grantaire," Enjolras said, coolly, in lieu of a more personable greeting. Grantaire said nothing, only gripped the back of the chair on the opposing side of the table so tightly that his knuckles turned white. If Enjolras noticed the anxious gesture he paid it no heed, only bade him to sit with the subtle flick of a hand. Grantaire pulled the chair away from the table, scraping the legs against the floor with an undignified screech that felt louder for Enjolras's apparent tranquillity. 

"Beloved," he answered, casually, and a little louder than necessary, in an attempt to break the tension by playing paramour. Enjolras's features betrayed no reaction to the word, so Grantaire leaned closer, resting his palms on the table and lowering his tone so only Enjolras would hear. "That is a frosty greeting for one as acquainted as we are now." Silence, in which he thought better of his choice of address. "Perhaps I had mine the wrong way round." 

Enjolras frowned, an expression so familiar that Grantaire had come to find it endearing, and answered, coldly, "I would prefer not to speak of that here."

"What, so I don't embarrass you again in front of your peers?" The peers that were currently halfway out of the door, and paying them no heed. He regretted letting go of the back of the chair, suddenly aware that his hands were beginning to shake. Enjolras's response had been a blow to his already fragile confidence; though, he could not have expected otherwise without lying to himself. "Should I tell them all they've been misled; that our chaste monument of vertu is no such thing?" He contorted his features into a toothy, lecherous grin, in mockery of the shameful instinct he might once have accused himself of, had Enjolras's reciprocal attentions not complicated the matter. "I could set a price on my silence." He folded his arms, and gazed down at Enjolras in challenge. 

It was a crude jest, even by Grantaire's standards; a poor attempt to lighten the mood, to return them to the firmer footing of detached indignation. He had expected Enjolras to chide him, or for his elegant nostrils to curl as he bit his tongue on whatever reproach he had decided not to waste his breath on. 

Instead, he looked genuinely hurt, his fine features falling – crumbling – in sudden defeat; it was the same exhausted look Grantaire had not seen on him since last summer. Grantaire was taken aback by it; he had only elicited such a wounded expression from him once before, the last time he had run his mouth in this very room. He had taken it for a fluke at the time, but twice was a frequency he could no longer ignore. Perhaps Enjolras made greater, deliberate efforts to conceal his emotions than Grantaire had previously given him credit for. That he was letting them show now must be significant, somehow.

Enjolras glanced at the table between them, then back at Grantaire with that same forlorn look in his eyes. It was a face that did something peculiar to Grantaire's digestion – made his heart feel like it was trying to force its way into his mouth to spill his darkest secrets like wine.

He relented – dropped the mask of extorter as quickly as he had taken it up, and withdrew, standing, sheepish and awkward, in front of Enjolras with an air of guilt about him. It was not an affectation; the realisation that his words had cut deeper than he had expected had been decidedly unpleasant.

Behind him, the din of conversation had finally dimmed, becoming a distant hum almost indistinguishable from the other sounds of the street outside. Their friends had at last completed their departure; the muffled voices making-merriment in the night might almost have been strangers to them. 

He had known it before on a purely intellectual level, but now he found himself forced to unpack the significance of the fact that he had been the first person Enjolras had ever fucked. The first person Enjolras had ever engaged in that level of intimacy with had been him, and Enjolras was not as indifferent to that fact as Grantaire had believed. It had been significant for Enjolras, too, in some way. 

"A jest; and one in particularly poor taste, I apologise," he said, softening his tone and bowing his head in contrition. A few seconds of silence passed between them, accustomed and familiar, despite the circumstances; he would welcome a return to the status quo, at this stage. 

He was not certain he knew how to be straight with Enjolras, after years spent concealing deeper sentiments with misdirection – or if Enjolras would be capable of discerning the difference if he tried – but when he chanced a look to determine whether or not his words had sounded sincere, Enjolras was leaning back in his seat, expression neutral again. He nodded towards the opposing seat when his eyes met Grantaire's. Relief warmed him from within, and Grantaire took the offered chair without hesitation, grateful for the permission to remain in Enjolras's confidence; for the opportunity to explain himself. The table between them provided a mediating barrier; perhaps a formal negotiation of where they stood with each other had been long overdue. Grantaire would try to be as honest as he could. 

"If you would rather we pretend it never happened, I'll swear never to speak of it again," he offered, an opening gambit he'd rather not be called to honour, but if that was what Enjolras wanted – 

Enjolras raised a speaking eyebrow, which was fair, based on Grantaire's prior inability to keep his mouth shut on any given subject. Both knew what that promise would have been worth, before… 

"What feeble assurances can I offer?" Grantaire asked, resting his empty palms on the table before him in emphasis. "There is nothing I hold sacred enough that swearing on it could satisfy you, but I will give you my word – if it's worth anything at all…" 

I could swear on you, he thought; That's the one thing I do believe in.

"You have not given me cause to distrust your word so far." Enjolras's reply was cold; that Grantaire hadn't, but also that he had not given him reason enough to trust it either yet was implied. Grantaire had the nagging sense that he had been granted a fairer judgement than he deserved; clearly, Enjolras was in a forgiving mood. It was unlike him – in matters of great importance, at least. He might politely avert his gaze for minor indiscretions, but if something was a threat to Société's effectiveness as a cohesive whole, he was as firm-footed and immovable as a mountain. 

Enjolras sighed, and with that single exhalation his stiff posture softened. He looked down at his own hands as he spoke, fidgeting with his interlaced fingers – that was uncharacteristic of him, too. 

"I shouldn't have allowed it," he said, with resignation in his tone. That blow felt like a mortal one; Grantaire felt his already fragile self-esteem begin to crumble into dust. A chisel taken to a plaster maquette. He could hardly blame Enjolras if he regretted their brief entanglement, but the acknowledgement that he did soured Grantaire's fondness towards the memory further. Enjolras continued to avoid his gaze, speaking instead to the table between them; "A moment of weakness on my part. I used you; I shouldn't have. I owe you an apology."

That statement gave Grantaire pause, thinking he must have misunderstood him. When he turned Enjolras's words over in his mind, stretched them like dough and pressed them back into shape again, he still couldn't find any logic in their form.

The notion that he might have felt used by Enjolras was too nonsensical to even consider. He would have given Enjolras anything – his body, his possessions, the shirt off his back, if he wanted it. The only thing he might have hoped for in return was for Enjolras to look upon him and see someone worthy of him. 

The true tragedy of it all was that the one thing Enjolras most desired was the one thing Grantaire couldn't give him. If only he could… he would wrap the Republic in a scarlet banner and forge a chain of iron-clad principles around it, turn smoking guns into a bouquet of flowers and carry them to Enjolras's doorstep, if it could be done. Grantaire could not do that for him, so:

"You owe me nothing."

"I do," Enjolras rebuffed, too quickly. "I was pursuing a selfish end."

"What did you think I was doing?" This was all topsy-turvy, a ship turned upside down by a storm – 

"I couldn't possibly presume." 

Enjolras was still fidgeting with his hands, and not meeting his eyes. Grantaire regarded him with fresh questions in his mind.

Surely Enjolras had assumptions; he was simply too polite to say so now. 

Why had it happened, truly? Too much time spent in close quarters, perhaps? Grantaire had been blaming himself for failing to keep his own urges in check, for being thrown a bone and proceeding to worry it like a dog that couldn't contain its excitement. 

The facet their current conversation had revealed was one he had failed to notice at all, until Enjolras's words had shone a light through it and it had glittered like cut glass, refracting sudden clarity. 

Enjolras considered his role in their encounter a moral failing – which made perfect sense, the closer Grantaire considered it; there was always a certain brutal logic to Enjolras's reasoning, even when he was mistaken in his conclusion.

"Blame wild Atis, if you require absolution," Grantaire said, in denouement. "You needn't ask for my forgiveness." 

Enjolras did not answer; he merely sat, motionless, in thought. Grantaire watched the play of light across his features, the casting of shadows beneath his lowered eyes, and wondered why the conversation did not appear to be over yet. Then Enjolras shifted, and Grantaire pressed his fingernails into his own palms in anxious anticipation. 

"Do you think less of me for it?" Enjolras asked, looking at him again at last, furrowed brow uncreasing as his hard expression softened. His chin was still lowered; the glance was furtive, hesitant, as though Enjolras was the one that ought to feel ashamed for goading Grantaire into acting on his desires, as absurd a notion as it was. Grantaire had always been the voluptuary among their company, never Enjolras…    

Had it tarnished Grantaire's image of him? Maybe? A little. Grantaire could not pretend nothing had changed, but the end result had only made him want Enjolras more. In the way imperfection added character to an otherwise impersonal portrait – made the beautiful only seem more impressive for the reminder of that work that went into it, the human effort that produced it –  the glimpse beneath the perfect surface of Enjolras's irreproachable self to the complexity of feeling beneath had only made him more fascinating and beguiling to Grantaire.

"Never," Grantaire stated, with as much solemnity as he could muster. Enjolras nodded stiffly in reply, and, after a brief silence in which they regarded each other warily, turned his attention back to the pamphlets at his side.

Grantaire did not dare ask the same question in return, but he was content to sit quietly in Enjolras's company while he finished sorting his papers. He could never tire of looking at him, and Enjolras seemed content to allow it, still. 

He did not ask if Enjolras would be coming home with him tonight; Enjolras pre-empted it, saying he had an errand to complete. It did not take much guessing to deduce what kind of errand might have him wandering the streets in the middle of the night, or whose name it might be in service of. 

They rose together when Enjolras was ready to depart; Enjolras put out his hand between them, and Grantaire squeezed it with his own. Enjolras's hand in his was warmer than expected, and he gripped Grantaire's hand firmly in return. It was a conciliatory gesture, but one that conveyed respect, and one for which Grantaire was profoundly grateful, if a little uncertain that he had earned it. Tonight might have ended much worse, all things considered. 

To Grantaire's greater surprise, Enjolras did not release his hand right away, but instead leaned closer. The action caught Grantaire unawares, and he was too slow to do anything other than stand stock-still, and hope he hadn't immediately flushed beet red in response. 

He hesitated for a moment with his face close to Grantaire's – his nostrils furled in distaste, betraying why; Grantaire couldn't blame him, he could still smell a week's worth of ill-spirits on himself – then he leaned closer still, until his lips brushed the hard edge of Grantaire's right cheekbone, just beside his ear. 

It was not quite a kiss, closer to the impersonal affection a child might show to an aunt out of politeness, but the effect it had on Grantaire was profound. His heart leapt in terrified delight, even as Enjolras pulled away from him; Grantaire gathered the memory to his chest and curled his fingers around it, even as he released his hold on Enjolras's own.

It was proof, beyond any doubt, of Enjolras's forgiveness. Proof, too, that there was a way to set things right between them. From a Courfeyrac or a Jehan, a Bossuet or even an amorously drunk Bahorel it would have been nothing, but from a man of sharp edges and few sentimental attachments such as Enjolras, it might as well have been an embrace. It was over as suddenly as it began, but Enjolras looked at him a moment longer, before releasing his hand and moving to collect his papers.  

They bade each other goodnight at the end of the street, and Enjolras's departure left Grantaire alone with his thoughts. 

Enjolras's need for reassurance had been something wholly unanticipated. Grantaire never could have known of it, but Enjolras had asked for it, in his own enigmatic way. The acceptance it had been met with, however subtly Enjolras had shown it, had felt like a gift. 

That he had consummated his lust for him should feel profane, but if anything his esteem for Enjolras had only heightened. The memory was precious to him for reasons beyond the physical authenticity of it: for the way Enjolras had looked in the moment, perfectly imperfect; and for all the small ways in which he had tried to consider Grantaire's comfort, as though that mattered at all. 

Enjolras had proven, once again, how much of a better man he was. 

Perhaps desire was the true end of all idolatry: an extreme consequence of Grantaire's natural veneration for him. Perhaps it was much simpler than that. 

He had been totally blind to Enjolras's needs, beyond the obvious physical ones he sometimes let fall to one side, and Grantaire could not help wondering what else he had been wrong about. It was an unflattering reflection of himself to be confronted with – the fact he had been too absorbed in his own misery to realise that Enjolras had feelings, too. He might not be as practised in communicating them as he was the rights of man and the benefits of a republic, but they were every bit as significant. More so, to Grantaire at least.

Grantaire was hardly any better equipped himself, but what he wanted suddenly felt a little less impossible. He would have to find a way to make himself worthy of Enjolras's affection.

-

Enjolras's last errand tonight took him to a dark side-street off the rue de la Roquette, bearing a string-bound bundle of pamphlets stuffed inside his coat and a small purse of coins as a gesture of appreciation. The man he had arranged to meet was a member of a like-minded society; Enjolras had met him a handful of times before, and taken his measure of him as a man who enjoyed the finer pleasures in life: he dressed extravagantly, drank liberally, gambled freely, but was scarlet in his principles and otherwise morally sound. He reminded him a little of Bahorel.

This time, their purpose in meeting had been to exchange a fresh batch of illicit publications for what he had been promised would be a list of suppliers: ones that could provide them with the necessary paraphernalia to equip a small fighting force, beyond the obvious. Guns they had, but they would be of little use with only enough bullets for a hunting party, and purchasing them in vast quantities was guaranteed to raise suspicion. They could cast their own, but for that they needed tools, and components.   

This part of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine was quiet after dark; the buildings that lined the street comprised mostly workshops and storehouses. As a result, it had little need of street lamps. It was the ideal place for clandestine activities in the hours when their doors would be barred for the night, and that brought with it a specific vulnerability: any area ripe for sedition or impropriety was also the ideal place for those that wished to sniff out such activities to linger; one would simply need to watch, and wait for it to reveal itself. It had not been his first choice of meeting place.

The exchange, however, occurred without a hitch. The trade was smooth, with barely more than a few words exchanged between his contact and himself; from any angle but theirs they might have been one stranger asking another for directions, or for confirmation of the hour.

On the way home he allowed his thoughts to wander, and found them circling, inevitably, back to the Musain, and to the difficult conversation he had navigated with some trepidation. He was glad Grantaire had decided to show his face again; it was not unprecedented for him to disappear for weeks at a time, then reappear without notice looking sheepish and reeking of drink, but otherwise unchanged; but, he had not done so in a while. Enjolras had only been surprised at how much he had noticed his absence, this time. It was palpably strange, how present his absence had felt.

Strange, too, to know he himself had something to do with it. He was glad things were not irredeemably awkward between them. He had been pleasantly surprised at Grantaire's offer of discretion – and surprised at himself, at how much it had meant to him. He was still disappointed in himself for his own conduct, but Grantaire had handled the aftermath of the affair with an unexpected amount of dignity. It was further proof that Enjolras's previous unkindnesses towards him had been undeserved.

He was preoccupied for much of his walk in pondering the implications such thoughts raised, but not so preoccupied that he did not notice he was being followed. 

Perhaps he had caught his tail off the contact. It did not matter why, but it was a problem, given what he was carrying. He had not studied the note he was handed in return in full, but at a covert glance it had appeared promising. It was not something he wished to surrender into the wrong hands, or something he wanted to be found with. 

He quickened his pace, subtly, lengthening the already significant distance he covered in his strides without making too obvious a show of haste. His shadow was maintaining a furtive distance, which Enjolras would use to his advantage; he could lose him in the illogical labyrinth of the Latin Quarter, before he reached his own lodgings.

He could discern nothing of the man's features in the dark, but he was dressed for incongruity, hat pulled low over his brow, and he cut a square, strong-looking shape in the night. He was tall – not quite Enjolras's height, but his build appeared solid beneath his coat. His presence felt like a threat, but either his suspicions were not aroused to the point that he was willing to approach, or he had greater designs than shaking Enjolras down for an excuse to arrest him.

Enjolras turned a corner, diverting from the most efficient route and plunging himself into further darkness through sleeping, lantern-less streets, and calibrated a different trajectory as he went. 

He was certain he had managed to lose his pursuer by the time he reached his rooms, but he was still on edge as he ascended the staircase, starting at the shadows cast by the dim light of the taper in his hand. He bolted the door behind him with extra care, and multiple locks. 

As soon as he had his own lamps lit he removed his stock and loosened his stiff collar, which had been chafing him all week, but was preferable to exposing the marks of shame at his throat to the entire world each time his collar slipped. 

He surveyed his surroundings as he stripped down to his shirt-sleeves: his rooms were pleasant, airy, well-lit, if a little sparse, and almost entirely devoid of personality. The furnishings were finely-made, but simple, and not his own. The green drapes at the window and the white linen on the bed were fairly new, and the walls were without cracks or obvious signs of disrepair. It had been well maintained between tenants, and the rent he paid reflected that fact.

It was satisfactory, but it wasn't a home. Not that he had chosen it as such; he had not treated any of his residences as more than a temporary bolthole since he came to Paris. 

It was a stark contrast to the ageing tenement he spent much of his time in, these days. Grantaire's room was slowly falling apart, and filled to bursting with character. 

Perhaps he would look more closely into alternative arrangements, just in case. He did not put his own name to his most inflammatory articles, but the ones he was willing to publicly claim were provocative enough to earn the ire of the establishment, if its guardians were feeling threatened enough to retaliate. The outcome of the cartoonist's trial had been evidence that they were; a repetition of the fate shared by dozens of his own peers. Even if they could not convict them for anything, they could keep them out of action for months with lengthy pre-trial detentions. It was a tactic they had used on other republican groups in the past; an effective way to hamper their efforts, and one they could not afford at present. 

Then there was the matter of Grantaire, again.

His diplomacy in the face of their encounter, once he had had his fun in riling him, had not been something Enjolras had thought him capable of at all. He was grateful for it. He was still irritated with himself for slipping – for letting Grantaire bear the burden of his inconvenient desires – and for how often he had considered repeating it, in the intervening week.

It was far too tempting to relax around Grantaire; but, he had felt bereft of his presence. It was strange how comfortable he found it. A force of habit, maybe? It was best not to examine too closely the reasons he had allowed the habit to develop, since the first instance. 

He was keenly aware that there was a line between accepting kindness from a fellow citizen, and taking advantage of that kindness, but he had lost the ability to judge where to draw it where Grantaire was concerned. He had confirmed a theory tonight, as much as he could be certain of anything pertaining to Grantaire's thoughts. 

Grantaire still wanted him, and for some obscure reason there was some deeper attraction behind it. When Enjolras had kissed him on the cheek he had turned as white as the dead, then an uneven pink, and frozen as though frightened of scaring away a bird. There had been no artifice there.

It was not as uncomfortable an idea as Enjolras would have thought it would be, but he did not have time to allow it scope.

He could balance this: keep his baser urges in check without losing the simple, uncomplicated comforts he had grown accustomed to. He must, if he was to maintain efficiency in his work.

Had it counted as his first kiss? He doubted it was what the poets meant when they described young romantics flush with budding desire for the opposite sex, dreaming of their desired object's caress, but Enjolras's own experiences had never quite matched that of his peers. Grantaire was no blooming maiden; the uneven stubble on his cheeks and the fact he had smelt as though he had spent the last week on the floor of a tavern was very present evidence of that truth. 

He had not disliked the experience. 

He did not have any more messages to set into code tonight, so he prepared himself for bed and elected to read for a while before resigning himself to sleep, sitting upright against the headboard – he did not possess an armchair, and the room had not come equipped with one. 

He wondered what Grantaire was doing at that moment. Drawing, probably. When at last he put his head to his pillow for the night it was in a bed that was still unpleasantly cold, with much still on his mind.

Chapter Text

V.

December remained dark and cold as it neared its conclusion; a week passed with little fanfare as the turning of the year approached. Grantaire spent the ever-shortening days pursuing his work, and the long, frigid nights alternating between the sheltering warmth of the Musain and his own draughty, confining chambers. 

It was becoming increasingly difficult to find the will to put charcoal to page, or paintbrush to canvas, with so few hours of bleak, uninspiring daylight. Only Enjolras kept him from abandoning the endeavour entirely and passing the rest of the season in a comfortable, wine-induced haze by arriving early each morning with warm, fresh bread and a seemingly infinite well of his own work to complete.

Grantaire was glad the aftermath of their intimacy had not lessened the frequency of Enjolras's visits, which had become an almost daily occurrence; he was content not to question that particular miracle for fear of seeming ungrateful. He had, over the past week, made a habit of setting the cafetiére to brew each morning as soon as the porter arrived with fresh hot water, in order for there to be coffee ready when Enjolras arrived.

They ate their breakfast at the table by the window, in the soft grey light of the winter mornings. Some days Enjolras brought newspapers with him and sat, uncommunicative and scowling, as he read, lost in the counter-arguments he was surely composing in his own mind. Other times he might lay them out on the table at an angle they could both glance at; Grantaire would pass comment, here and there, and feel a thrill of pride on the occasions he would manage to draw a scoff of derision or a smirk of amusement from Enjolras in return. He had grown less afraid of provoking his irritation or driving him away with a misjudged comment since their conversation in the Musain; if their tenuous friendship had survived that – perhaps it was not so tenuous after all. Their disjointed rapport felt easy in comparison now, provided they avoided the most contentious topics of conversation. 

Today Enjolras had arrived empty-handed, save for their bread, and instead watched Grantaire bolt back his breakfast and begin work on his preliminary sketches for his next client. Enjolras took his time with his own meal, and peered over the rim of his small porcelain coffee-cup at Grantaire as he explained the brief behind it. 

At least one of the leads he had been pursuing over the last month had come good. The end work would be larger in scale than he was usually asked for, therefore he could charge more as a result. He had had one sitting with the man so far, and it was going to take him several weeks to produce the final product. The commission was a relatively straightforward portrait, though the client had requested a level of grandeur Grantaire generally avoided if he could; he was the type that would expect to be flattered. 

"That sounds… conspicuous," Enjolras said, carefully, with one raised eyebrow. His attempt at diplomacy was dignified, though the subtext that he thought it decadent and old-fashioned was poorly-hidden.

Grantaire chuckled. "The client is an unbearable legitimist; I daresay you'd spit flames from your fine nostrils if you set eyes on his collection." Grantaire smirked at him; Enjolras's eyebrows climbed further in return, mouth hidden behind his cup, but the way his cheeks rose suggested an answering smile. "It was all copies of dour portraits of kings and pictures of Marie Antoinette in her nightgown, as far as I could tell." 

Enjolras snorted with unexpected laughter, a rare and unbecoming sound that Grantaire found wholly precious, then schooled his features back into seriousness as he suggested: "You could refuse, if you find the request so distasteful."

"I could, but then the client would just find some other hack that's willing to take his money, and I would have to break the news to my landlady that an attack of principles has left me regrettably out of pocket."

Enjolras hummed in response, but said nothing further, only watched Grantaire work a while longer. His expression looked thoughtful each time Grantaire glanced at him, until finally he removed himself to his writing desk for the rest of the morning with a second cup of coffee. Grantaire enjoyed the rich, warm scent of it as he worked.

Perhaps if he practised them more he could become more proficient in painting landscapes; they were always at least somewhat in fashion, but most paying clients wanted either exotic, foreign – and often imagined – locales or idyllic pastoral scenes. He could not afford to travel far or frequently enough to do justice to the former – his grandfather had left him a generous inheritance, but not enough to go gallivanting off across the Mediterranean or the Levant at his leisure. The closest he would ever get to Egypt were the artefacts in the Musée Charles X or the camels in the Ménagerie. He had tried the latter on occasion, but though he had grown up amongst farmland, flower meadows and green hills his memory of them was steadily fading, even as he grew more intimately acquainted with the stones and the people around him. He could go back if he truly wished to, but his world was here, and had been for years now.

It was a strange holding pattern; a friendship that would not quite bear the weight of scrutiny, should either one of them have questioned it. However, all things considered, Grantaire was happier than he could remember being in a long while. He did not have everything he wished for in life, but what man did? He was closer to content than he had ever dreamed he would be.

The next morning began in much the same fashion. As Enjolras was draining his second cup there was a knock at the door, which startled Grantaire out of his concentration; his hand slipped as he was defining the curve of the man's shoulder, leaving an erratic streak along his sleeve. Enjolras glanced over his shoulder at the sound, and Grantaire eyed the back of the closed door with suspicion. 

No one but Enjolras normally knocked at his door so early in the morning, unless they required something from him. He hoped it was not about money with Enjolras here – that would be too shameful to bear. He considered crossing the span of his room, walking over to the door and taking his caller out in the hall – no, that would achieve nothing; his walls were not that thick, Enjolras might still overhear. Perhaps he was worrying over nothing; it was usual for the porter or some other soul in his landlady's employ to slip his letters under the door at about this hour, though why they would need to knock – now he was keeping them waiting.

He called a tentative, "Come in."

The door opened, and the porter – Mme. Meunier – took half a step inside. In the crook of one arm she carried a pile of letters, in the other she held a small parcel in her outstretched hand. Grantaire felt relief wash over him, followed by a meek, mild embarrassment at having overthought the matter so entirely.

"Your post, Monsieur," she said, without wasting her breath on further pleasantries.

"Thank you," Grantaire answered, and attempted a hospitable smile. She had never been particularly affable towards him, but he made an effort to mind his manners, all the same. He had long suspected that he had managed to offend her somewhere along the way and failed to apologise for it, but he had never been able to deduce why with enough specificity to make amends. Perhaps she had just judged him – accurately – as a bit of wastrel, and deemed him a waste of her time in turn. He did not blame her.

"Leave it on the desk, if you would be so kind," he said. If it had been Miette he might have added a little shameless flattery, but he had tried that only once with the porter. It had not been well received.

She did as bidden, holding the door open with one clog-covered foot as she did so, then departed with a curt 'Messieurs' and a polite incline of the head to Enjolras as she left, which Grantaire watched with some bemusement. Perhaps he really had earned her disrespect if she was more glad to see an unpaying guest than she was him. Or perhaps it was simply because Enjolras was the more respectable of the two of them; he would have to test the theory further some other time.

Enjolras stretched the short distance to the desk, swapped their empty plates for the parcel and handed it to Grantaire. Grantaire thanked him as he took it from him, and squeezed it gently to test its contents as he examined it. It was roughly square in shape, and bound neatly with coarse brown paper and string; whatever it contained was soft, for it bent easily in his hands. The postmark bore the number of his home department, and it was then that he recalled that it would be Christmas this coming Sunday. He was used to all his days passing in a blur, as inexorable and unchanging as the movement of the planets, distinguished only by the times his orbit crossed that of his friends, and they brought life to his barren domain; this new-found clarity was still a novel development. 

Opening the parcel revealed a pair of wool stockings, and an accompanying letter in a hand he could not immediately place. Grantaire ignored it in favour of unfolding the stockings; they were a rich, mossy green, clocked with embroidered yellow thistles, decades behind fashionable Parisian taste and clearly hand-knitted. He held them up to the light, and noticed Enjolras had been watching him as he did so. He was smiling at him, lopsidedly, in a manner that caused his cheek to dent on one side. 

"Who sent you those?" Enjolras asked, still smiling. It was a curious thing, such asymmetry on such an exemplary face. It was utterly charming.

"My grandmother, I expect," Grantaire answered. He suspected the letter would contain an explanation; there was only one person it was likely to have been. 

His grandmother had knitted stockings for all her grandchildren, every winter, for as long as he could remember. He had not spoken to her in a long while – he had always been closest to his grandfather, and had less cause to visit now that he had passed – but he was touched that she had still thought of him. He suspected he was still the boy who always had holes in his stockings from going about with no shoes on, in her mind. There was still a sliver of truth in it. 

Perhaps he ought to send her something in return – a sketch, maybe? His grandfather would have liked that.

"I can't imagine I'll leave the house in them, but they'll do for bed," he mused.

"They are a little gaudy," Enjolras conceded, his smile shifting into a thoughtful expression. "It is kind of her to send them."

"It is."

Grantaire sat quietly in contemplation for a moment, stilled by the slow, unlooked-for realisation that he knew nothing of Enjolras's family. He had inferred from passing mentions that he was on cordial if distant terms with his father, but beyond that he knew no solid details. He was not certain he felt bold enough to ask, yet.

Enjolras must have read his thoughts anyway, for he reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled a sealed and folded letter from it. He set it – unopened – on the table between them. A glance at it revealed a similarly distant post mark; neat, interlocking folds, and exemplary penmanship.

"From my Father," he stated, regarding the letter with caution, as though it might become animated, bare its teeth and lash out. "Asking when I will be coming home to put my studies into practise, I suspect."

The letter and the explanation took Grantaire by surprise; Enjolras almost never volunteered information about his past – information that had nothing to do with ideology, at least. 

"Will you answer him?"

"If I do it won't be to his satisfaction." Enjolras sounded as though it pained him to say it; his voice was flat, and uncharacteristically resigned.

Grantaire made a quiet noise of comprehension, as Enjolras continued to regard the letter with distrust. He could relate to that sentiment; he had not received any communication from his own father in at least a year now, and when last he had it had been terse, and full of evident disappointment: 

"I understand." 

Oddly, he did - his decision to accept his place at the Beaux-Arts had been much to his father's disapproval; it made sense that republican conspiracy might not have been what Enjolras's father had wanted for him, either.

The letter turned out to be from his cousin, wishing him well on behalf of his extended family, but with little else to say. 

When Enjolras left – several hours of silent scribbling later – he took his own letter with him, still unopened.

Another week passed in much the same fashion, and Grantaire found himself relaxing into a comfortable routine; one that saw him end the week – and the year – in the Musain, as was his long-standing custom, but this time with a level of sober clarity that he still wasn't quite accustomed to. 

The café was busier than Grantaire had expected on such a night – perhaps he was not the only lost soul that found refuge from his own loneliness here. It was uncomfortably warm with so many bodies inside, despite the harsh touch of winter in the night's still air; they filled the chairs and lined the walls; drank deep, and spoke in loud, exuberant voices.

With the year 1832 a mere handful of hours away the topic of conversation in the back room turned, as it so often did, towards the future, and how best to proceed in encouraging its magnificent, righteous progress. Faced with such talk, Grantaire turned sentimental, reflecting on the previous year with a clear, sceptical eye. He could find much to complain about: the lack of resolution to the violence of 1830, the subsequent tightening of the freedom of the press and artistic censorship, his own poor showing at the Salon…

Yet there was cause for celebration too: he had witnessed both Bahorel and Jehan have pieces successfully published, made a few significant sales of his own – on the question of governance he had no answers, but the debate was raging in many cafés across Paris, not just their own; perhaps someone would find an answer to it. Perhaps that someone would be Enjolras. 

Enjolras, who he could now call his friend; who laughed at his jokes and bought them breakfast and was content to work alongside him; who had allowed Grantaire more intimacy than he had ever dared to hope for, however tinged with complications of feeling the memory was. That was progress, though towards a wholly selfish goal.

None among the Société had celebrated Christmas or the new year with any great extravagance since leaving their families behind; in the beginning they had not been able to afford to, and now such excesses seemed tasteless. There was too much bourgeois decadence in holding grand secular feasts and greeting the new year with indigestion for it to sit well with any of them now, given what they knew of the scarcities endured by those less fortunate than themselves. 

Still, as the meeting neared its conclusion there was a little more festivity to the atmosphere; the wine flowed a little freer as they drank to the year ahead. All were merry, and in varying stages of inebriation. Even Combeferre had allowed himself to be plied into good humour with wine, and was looking decidedly pinker in the face than Grantaire could ever recall seeing him; ordinarily he would have been too far gone himself to notice much if Combeferre had conceded to join them. Only Enjolras and – shockingly – himself remained staunchly abstentious.

Moments before all attempts at serious conversation were abandoned entirely, Courfeyrac, up to that point lounging like some sleek, pampered kitten at one of the centre-tables opposite Enjolras and Combeferre, seemed to take measure of the mood of the company, and rattled the foot of his cane against the floor to call for silence. 

"I demand a toast," he said, setting his cane aside and pouring two further measures of wine as the smoke from the candles curled about his appealing features. His call was swiftly echoed several times over, most loudly by Bahorel and Jehan, who took to chanting for it while pounding the tables with clangourous enthusiasm. Courfeyrac rose, circled the table, pressed one cup into Combeferre's hand and the other into Enjolras's. 

"I leave it to our philosopher and our chief to give this mediocre year a fitting send off." He returned to his seat, sat inelegantly and resumed his former languor.

Mediocre was not how Grantaire would have described it, all things considered. Evidently their priorities differed greatly.

Enjolras rose, and Combeferre followed his example. Grantaire did not pay much attention to their words as they spoke of the year in decline, and the year ahead, but he enjoyed the melodious enthusiasm in Combeferre's usually measured voice, and the steel and determination that drove Enjolras's contributions. He found himself preoccupied with his own recollection of the past six months, and in awe of the present he had fumbled his way into. He was here, happy and mostly sober – three notions that, one year prior, had felt as though they were slipping further out of his reach.

He was content – and amazed at how much had changed, without his ever having paused to reflect on it.

He felt the need to preserve some semblance of the moment for posterity, so he pulled out his sketchbook and moved as unobtrusively as he could about the room, seeking a better angle. He worked fast; Combeferre could talk at length on any subject one broached with him with little encouragement required, but Enjolras was more economical with his words: he would not spend the entire night holding his audience captive. Perhaps he did not even realise that he could. 

He left their features shapeless, but he was confident that anyone that knew them well enough would be able to recognise each figure from their postures, either seated or lounging at the edges of the room: Enjolras, Courfeyrac and Combeferre in the centre; Feuilly close by at a table of working men; Jehan and Bahorel by the fire with a pair of lit cigars; Bossuet and Joly in the opposing corner, sat so close their elbows touched. The strangers were less formed still, but the final image had a pleasing, balanced symmetry to its composition, lit from the centre by the Argand lamp and the bright smudge of Enjolras's hair. He wasn't in the habit of dating his work, but he did so on this occasion, in roman numerals worked into the table leg.

He could not resist the urge to scribble a quick portrait of Enjolras, too, as Enjolras watched Combeferre speak with his lips pursed in concentration. The end result was quite pleasing; Enjolras looked very earnest in it, and discerning. Perhaps he would send that one to his grandmother with his reply to his cousin, title it 'portrait of a young student', or something equally nondescript. It felt appropriate to send something that represented his life here; he could think of nothing more significant to him than Enjolras and their mutual friends.

He re-joined Joly and Bossuet's table when he had finished, uttering hushed apologies as he pressed his way between occupied chairs, fumbling his way back to his seat in the dim light at the edges of the room. 

When it was time to clink cups Bossuet slid one across the table to him, filled with weak red wine. In the commotion of scraping chairs and exuberant shouts of 'santé' that followed he lost track of who he had exchanged its contents with too quickly to be sure he wasn't meeting some people twice; he caught sight of Enjolras clinking cups with an artfully-dishevelled Jehan, before Bahorel loomed before him, and toasted him with so much enthusiasm that half his wine leapt from his cup and splattered down his trouser leg. When he looked for Enjolras again he was several tables away, toasting each of the working men at Feuilly's table with a sincere smile.

It was a minor disappointment that he had missed him, but perhaps he would have his chance later.

As the conclusion of the year drew nearer still Grantaire found himself sat between Bahorel and Jehan, who spent what remained of the evening returning to the debate of the previous Saturday: the relative merits and demerits of midnight mass. It was an uncommon topic of discussion here, in their church of humanity – unless such discussion involved Jehan, for whom religion, social philosophy and science were an inseparable nexus of harmonious ideas, each as necessary to the other as the organs of the body were to the functioning of the complete whole – or so Grantaire had heard him theorising to Combeferre as he had arrived on Christmas Eve. 

"Surely you can appreciate the theatre of it?" Jehan said, gesturing languorously at nothing in particular. His eyelids were heavy with inebriation, but the plea was heartfelt. 

"Outmoded pageantry," Bahorel scoffed, louder even than usual as the wine had lubricated his already-loose tongue. 

"But the history of it all –"

"If I wished to be lectured by tedious old men in dressing gowns I would attend the ones I take the trouble of registering for."

It was a novel feeling, bearing witness to the drunken idiosyncrasies of others while sober himself.

When he was called on to settle the matter as the deciding vote he could not resist sharing Bahorel's sentiments, though he did concede that the aesthetic surroundings of Paris's most prestigious churches were spectacular. If only the Concordat had managed to reconcile the position of the church and the state without re-legitimising the hypocrisies of the old regime; though, if Napoleon hadn't affirmed the synergy between church and state first the re-throned Bourbons would have.

Bossuet, joining them with what remained of one last bottle of wine and Joly on his heels, took a vacant chair and contributed: "I'll say this in the church's favour; I suspect those attending mass tonight will be drinking better wine than we are."

"Some cabbage and onion soup in the morning will help," Joly, in a maternal state of sentimentality, suggested, offering Bossuet a reassuring pat on the arm. 

"Or some laudanum; I expect there will be a lot of sore heads tomorrow," Grantaire said, dryly, for once anticipating a new year's day that did not have him feeling like he had spent the night offering his skull as Hephaestus's anvil.

Enjolras sat between Combeferre and Courfeyrac, until Courfeyrac excused himself from more serious matters with a vague admonition against working too hard on a night that ought to be devoted to friendship and frivolity. His place was taken some time later by Feuilly, with whom Enjolras shared what seemed to be a warm conversation, and a firm handshake. Grantaire found it endeared both of them to him further, despite having previously envied their mutual, whole-hearted respect for one another. He wondered if they recognised it themselves; Enjolras looked on Feuilly with a kind of radiant pride, while Feuilly in the presence of Enjolras positively glowed with all the promise of humanity's future, alive with budding ideas and capable of meeting him as an equal, despite the vastly different hands life had dealt them.

They were politely expelled shortly before eleven o'clock; Grantaire lingered, and, as he had hoped, received a nod from Enjolras that communicated his desire for Grantaire to wait for him. Despite the festive mood, Enjolras seemed distracted once again throughout their brief walk to Grantaire's rooms. 

The streets were busier than they would commonly be at this hour, populated not only by drunken carousers and those that preyed on them, but by a vast and colourful cross-section of humanity, comprising all in Paris that could not afford the convenience of a cabriolet.

They passed a well-dressed elderly couple in their Sunday best, walking arm in arm; a family spanning multiple generations with three young children on their coat tails; a pair of pretty young women in extravagant bonnets that paired oddly with their rather plain dresses – perhaps they worked as shop assistants at a millinery somewhere; a group of four working men conversing gaily in a language that wasn't French; a middle-aged man with a young woman on his arm that might have been his daughter. Some must have been on their way to mass, or to listen to the church bells strike midnight; others seemed to be returning from private celebrations such as theirs. All had the air of festivity about them, and, in Grantaire's opinion, relief at seeing the tail of another fraught year.

The air was wet with a fine, filmy fog that threatened to turn into frost overnight as the mercury plummeted. A rosy-cheeked Mme Miette bid them good health as she admitted them into the hall. She pressed a taper into Grantaire's hand and a small home-made cake into Enjolras's, then vanished back into her sitting room. Its open door revealed, briefly, a roaring fire, several friends sat beside it and an open bottle of whisky on the table between them.

His evenings spent with Enjolras were much the same as they had been before; Enjolras settled in at the writing desk for another half-hour of work, while Grantaire added detail to the sketches he had begun in the Musain. 

As much as a weight had been lifted by the knowledge that Enjolras did not wish to withdraw from his company, the festive mood had turned him wistful again; he watched Enjolras pick at his half of the cake as he worked, grappling with the conflicting feelings it inspired in him. He felt content in the present moment, yet a part of his inner psyche that refused to be silenced still yearned for more – then came shame at the fact he had been offered genuine friendship at last, and met it with yet more unwanted lust. He was greedy, and made no claims at being above his base desires, but Enjolras's evident distaste at his own had introduced a new complication.

The memory alone ought to be enough to sustain him for a lifetime, but the guilt had yet to fade; the desire to protect Enjolras's pure image for him was stronger than ever before. He would lay Enjolras out on his bed and worship him without care for his own pleasure if Enjolras allowed him to; that thought sat a little better than asking Enjolras to act on his own unwanted desires, though it was not quite what Grantaire wanted.  

That same guilt, for Enjolras, seemed to have had the effect of making him an even more efficient iteration of himself. Over the past fortnight he had been staying later and later each night, and returning most mornings with bread fresh from the baker's oven and a readiness to start work that Grantaire found incomprehensible; evidently he did not require much sleep at present. Grantaire had witnessed him in that state once before; momentous shifts must be on the horizon, if his work alone was enough to sustain him.

He did not know what Enjolras had done with other men before him, or of their number, nor did he wish to consider the matter too closely. Judging by his reaction to Grantaire's offer it had been nothing so intimate as fucking. If only Grantaire had been more patient. If he had been confronted with the knowledge that Enjolras had taken lovers before he would have felt certain that Enjolras only coupled with those who met his own impossible standards; Liberty takes her lovers from the people, spreads her thighs only for those who wish to embrace her with arms soaked in blood – yet evidently he would have been mistaken.

He would not risk pressing the matter again unless Enjolras initiated it – which seemed unlikely, but stranger things had happened between them now. 

Had any of Enjolras's former lovers been members of the Société? Men that Grantaire knew almost as intimately himself? It was easier to imagine than Grantaire felt easy with; yet, he had watched Enjolras long and often enough that surely he would have noticed if such a connection existed between them? 

Enjolras looked on all his friends with the same measured, distant warmth: he welcomed them as comrades with open arms, but rarely extended the hand of genuine friendship as Grantaire knew it. The kind of companionship where all minor indiscretions were permitted – where the mutual recognition and forgiveness of each other's faults could be taken for granted – was not the kind of friendship he was used to witnessing Enjolras engage in. Enjolras was ever willing to sit in their company, to listen as they spoke of the future, the ills of the present, of theory and philosophy, but aside from the occasional dry humour Courfeyrac or Bahorel were capable of coaxing out of him – the kind Grantaire had managed to draw from him himself now – and an appreciation for a clever pun, he remained starkly aloof to their less serious conversations. He did not accompany them when they went drinking or dancing at the guinguettes in the outer reaches of the city, to balls or to the opera. He occasionally spoke of attending lectures with Combeferre, but that appeared to be the limit of his indulgence in Paris's many distractions.  

Still, Grantaire would hardly judge him for it if he had been intimate with a brother ami in the past; he would willingly admit to each of their virtues, though perhaps not always in their hearing. Every one of their number was some shade of intelligent, charming, witty and admirable, and each was a worthier object of Enjolras's desires than himself. So why had he allowed Grantaire to touch him? And why was he here, tonight, of all the places he might go and all the other hearths that would have welcomed him? Grantaire could find no answer that made sense to him.

When Enjolras next stirred in his seat it was shortly before midnight.

"Would you share a drink with me?" Grantaire asked, shaking himself out of his hopeless theorising in momentary decisiveness. "Unless you have somewhere else to be –"

"I don't," Enjolras said, by way of answer to his second point. He remained in his seat, watching Grantaire expectantly, which Grantaire took as compliance to his request.

"I'd rather sit by the fire." 

"Very well."

Enjolras stood, stretched, lifted the chair and took it with him as he crossed Grantaire's studio and vanished from Grantaire's view as the screen interrupted his line of sight. Grantaire hesitated, then went to his side cabinet, setting aside canvases and curios as he opened it in search of the good wine he had hidden away.

When he had the bottle and two glasses in hand he followed, and found Enjolras sitting opposite the armchair, close to the fire; his back was curved, his shoulders rounded and weary, and he was resting his chin on one bent elbow. He looked up as Grantaire approached, without shifting in his seat.

Grantaire regarded him fondly before turning his attention to the cork in the bottle, and reached a minor setback – he had forgotten to bring a knife with him. Enjolras appeared to notice the same problem, for he produced a small, folding blade from his trouser pocket and handed it to Grantaire. Grantaire swallowed thickly at the realisation that Enjolras had been carrying it the entire time – its handle was warm from being on his person – breached the bottle, and tried to put what had occurred the last time Enjolras had entered this part of his space out of mind as he poured two servings from it. He deliberately averted his eyes from his bed, lest he give the wrong impression of his motives.

His studio housed the public-facing aspects of his life, his work, the necessary paraphernalia of his trade or of receiving polite company. This was his truly private space, where he received only his closest friends, or occasional lovers. Enjolras was both of those things now – or had been, if only for a moment.

Enjolras sat up straight again to receive the glass Grantaire handed to him, and accepted it with an appreciative nod. He took a measured sip, and relaxed back into his seat, long legs sprawling in the space between them as Grantaire sank into the soft comfort of his armchair. The fire was low in the grate, burning steadily between them but set with attention to economy of fuel – the heat rising from the fires in the rooms below helped to warm his, despite the chill in the air.

"This is good wine," Enjolras said, when Grantaire offered nothing to fill the silence.

"The best that I have, of what I kept." Grantaire watched Enjolras take another sip, ignoring his own glass in favour of studying Enjolras in the firelight. Enjolras continued to look at him as he drank, and Grantaire felt an unfamiliar shyness seize him. He was used to Enjolras tolerating his gaze now; he had yet to grow used to being studied in return. 

A series of thoughts raced through his mind, one on the heels of the other, tripping over those that preceded them as he struggled to sift through them: don't stare; Enjolras is staring back; don't run your mouth without thought; he fucked me in that bed; he's still looking. One sentiment rose to the surface out of the muddle, warming him from within and silencing all others with a gentle hand: I am so glad he's here.

"Thank you for letting me come here," Enjolras said, unprovoked; his voice wavered, almost imperceptibly, and he swallowed a mouthful of air as he awaited Grantaire's reply. 

It took Grantaire a moment – spent wondering what had prompted Enjolras to speak – to collect himself; when he managed to he replied, as casually as he could muster: "It is no trouble. I enjoy having you here."

Enjolras's features betrayed no response to that; his expression was so opaque that it must have been deliberate. Then his lofty brow creased in a frown of concentration; he appeared entirely lost in thought.

Grantaire finally turned his attention to his wine as he waited, wondering if Enjolras would share whatever conclusion he was so clearly forming. As he watched, Grantaire attempted to shape his own, an answer to the question he had been asking himself for some time, but found that he could not.

He had a vague recollection of speaking the words aloud before, but whether it was the dim impression of a half-formed memory, or a dream he had confused with reality he could not be certain. Perhaps now was as good a time as any to try again:

"Why do you come?"

It was Enjolras's turn to flounder briefly in surprise; he glanced at him, mouth slightly open as though about to speak, then he closed it, and stared into his cup. Grantaire wanted those words, whatever answer he'd thought better of sharing, but Enjolras had never been one for speaking without thinking first. It was one of his most admirable and infuriating qualities, and one Grantaire had made greater efforts to emulate recently than he cared to admit. He was quiet for long enough that Grantaire wondered what internal debate was transpiring within the privacy of his thoughts. 

Just when he was beginning to suspect Enjolras had forgotten the thread of the conversation entirely, distracted by some other, more pressing idea, Enjolras raised his chin, met Grantaire's gaze directly and smiled a small, bashful smile, as though his own answer surprised him. 

"I like it here," he said, simply, then, after a moment's hesitation: "I like having company when I work. I like your company."

Grantaire felt as though he ought to say something in response to that, but he could not quite put a name to the sentiment swelling inside him, so unfamiliar was the sensation of blooming contentment he had somehow attained.

He liked having company when he worked, too; he was under no illusions that his recent productivity would have occurred under different circumstances – without Enjolras's aid, if one could call it that.

"That is good to hear." He took another sip of the wine to mark the end of his speech. Enjolras watched him do so with a curious expression, the hand that held his own glass resting, ignored, in his lap.

Had Enjolras expected him to say more? How could he possibly do justice to the gratitude he now felt towards the universe, and whatever forces governed it, with words. He hadn't lost his ability to rattle on with reckless abandon, leaving destruction in his wake like a loose cart rolling down-hill, but he had never been comfortable saying what he truly meant. It was easy to speak the truth with just enough facetiousness that he could present those truths as parody; to clamour for attention knowing that he would be ignored, chastised or politely quelled with a few choice words and another drink in his hand. Now that he had Enjolras's undivided attention he did not quite know what to do with it. 

Should he ask him to stay? No, that would be too presumptuous. Patience was a virtue. An agonising, maddening virtue… 

"I am glad you like the wine."

They were quiet again; Enjolras watched the fire while Grantaire watched him, his face half illuminated in the orange glow. The rest of the room was cast in shadow; the lines of his bed posts stretched across the ceiling, heavy, black streaks through grey darkness. Enjolras had worn a dark blue cravat tonight, which had emphasised the blue of his eyes, and now hung loose around his open collar, stark against the clean white of his shirt. 

In the distance, through the mist-filled streets, the bells of a faraway church began to chime, then another, closer to home – the Église Saint-Sulpice, perhaps – and another. Each strike reverberated through the still night air, answered by dozens of similar calls all across the city. They mingled together, creating a raucous, joyous cry. It was a different sound to the usual twelve strokes of midnight, a discordant mixture of notes, each striking to their own clock or ringing a set of changes. Grantaire felt suddenly thankful that they did not mark midnight in such a fashion every night – the din would wake even the dead from sleep.

If it was loud now it must have been deafening, once, when there had been more of them. The victors of the first revolution took the bells for cheap metal, melted them down and recast them into coins, or cannons, and not all had been replaced since. Perhaps they had been used to forge some of the same guns that had been turned against the crowds a year and a half ago. Perhaps they would again, soon. A lot might happen in a year.

The bells seemed to stir Enjolras out of his private reverie because he lifted his gaze again, looked Grantaire in the eye and smiled one of his quiet, charming smiles. Grantaire raised his glass to him, in offering of their own, private toast. 

Enjolras accepted it, maintaining the glance and the smile as he gave Grantaire's glass a delicate tap with his own, before tilting his head back to send the rest of its contents down his throat. Grantaire watched the shadows shift on his white neck as he swallowed, before draining his own glass.

As the cacophony finally began to pass, the last distant echoes of it fading into silence, they remained, watching each other with empty glasses in their hands. Grantaire suspected he knew what Enjolras's next words would be. He pre-empted them by asking, "Will I see you tomorrow?"

"It is already tomorrow," Enjolras answered, as he stretched in his seat. The legs of the chair gave an ominous groan as he did so.

"I don't expect we'll be seeing Bahorel for a day or two, or Bossuet – or Jehan, for that matter."

Enjolras smiled again, broadly, showing the dents in his cheeks that formed only when his mirth was genuine. "It is evident that Prouvaire is drunk when tries to convert Bahorel back to Catholicism."

Grantaire chuckled, heartily. "A hopeless cause, if ever there was one."

Enjolras smiled still, an expression that slowly faded back into his customary pensiveness. 

Grantaire had pronounced a lot of causes hopeless in Enjolras's presence before, but that was the first time Enjolras had found amusement in it. At last they had found a level of stakes they could both find humour in.

"It's late." Enjolras stated, as anticipated. "What time would be convenient for you?"

Grantaire wished to say 'Any; don't go.' What he said in its place was: "Whenever pleases you; I've nothing set in stone." 

He would, previously, have begun the year unconscious, and remained so until well past noon, but his present state promised him an easier awakening. His head had barely troubled him over the past week, though he still woke at intervals in the night, yet to break the cycle of troubled dreams and cold sweats that relative-sobriety had left him with.

He followed Enjolras back into his studio as he re-donned his coat, waiting by the door with a candle to bolt it behind him. He was about to open it, when Enjolras paused, coat fastened and hat in one hand, to observe him. 

"Goodnight," Grantaire said, expecting the same courtesy in return. 

Instead, Enjolras moved closer in small, measured paces; Grantaire paused in the act of reaching for the door handle, and waited in cautious anticipation. He assumed Enjolras meant to shake his hand, or perhaps clasp his shoulder as he had done alongside many such farewells now, but Enjolras continued to advance, shrinking the distance between them in careful increments. 

When he was inches away he stilled, and reached out with the arm that was not carrying his hat. He threaded it beneath the arm with which Grantaire held the candle, and pressed his fingertips to the small of Grantaire's back. The touch was delicate, cautious, but Grantaire felt the weight of the gesture as though his hand were made of lead.

He managed not to make any further contact beyond the light pressure of his fingers. It was an awkward position – not quite an embrace, but too intimate to call anything less. Grantaire remained still, until Enjolras began to withdraw, at which point he succumbed to the urge to tangle the fingers of his free hand in the silk-floss of Enjolras's hair, fixing him in place. 

He raised his chin, tilted his head and pressed his lips to the side of Enjolras's forehead, burying his face in Enjolras's curls and breathing in the familiar scent of his hair, and clean linen.

Enjolras made no sound or motion in response, but he permitted him that liberty for the brief moment Grantaire dared to impose on him. Then Grantaire released him, even as he battled the temptation to try his luck at taking further advantage of his closeness. He wanted to put both arms around him, press him to his chest and kiss him senseless; to cling to him like a drowning man to a raft, and to his own hope of salvation.

"Goodnight," Enjolras said, and jammed his hat resolutely over those glorious curls.

-

Sunday morning brought a misty dawn, and streets that were quiet, though not entirely devoid of life. No doubt there were many who had celebrated to excess the previous night, and were now sleeping off the consequences or made languid by too much feasting. Many of the better-off took Sundays off if they could; the ten day week of the calendrier républicain had never fully succeeded in erasing the tradition of the Sabbath. Even the poor had once been permitted a day of rest, a practice that had all but vanished as soon as the law no longer stipulated it. The destitute had never had such luxuries; every day must feel the same to them, a battle for subsistence that never became any easier, no matter which regime was in charge. 

It was a matter that ought to be addressed under the next republic. Combeferre had many thoughts on the subject, and multiple conclusions; his insistence on education as the starting point was the only consistent thread in each of his plans. Feuilly had found a more direct solution, though on a much smaller scale. He had orchestrated the founding of a small charitable fund with some of his fellow factory-workers, in order to aid those in their midst that could not always afford bread for all their children. When the matter had come to light one evening in the Musain even Grantaire had dug deep in his pockets, and produced a handful of loose change to contribute to it without comment.

Perhaps he ought not have been so surprised, in hindsight. It had taken him far too long to discover a different side to him.

Enjolras bought their bread, and made a note to himself to ask Feuilly how his charity was faring.  

By Monday morning the streets were full of life again; Enjolras passed a second-hand newspaper seller's stand on his way to Grantaire's. It was not his turn to scour the daily publications for any new developments this week, but a quick perusal to keep abreast of any major news was usually worth his time. 

There was not much of direct relevance to the cause, but one article did manage to catch his eye, a fragment of interest standing out amidst the countless lines of undistinguished, tiny typeface – the word revolution on the front page of le National again. He paused for a closer look, squinting where the black letters were shadowed with the grey of the reverse side. 

The article began with a relitigation of arguments he had read before, and participated in himself dozens of times by now, weighing the compromise of the July revolution against the alternatives; but it took a turn that interested him, so Enjolras continued to read. He tucked their breakfast beneath his arm when the article was cut short without conclusion, and unfolded the paper to reach the next page. The second page brought a pleasant surprise: So Armand Carrel was coming out in favour of a republic once more? It was about time the paper's remaining editor grew a spine again, and accepted that the trois glorieuses had not ended in glory after all. 'L'année 1832 répondra à toutes ces questions, que l'année 1831 laisse pendantes' – so they all hoped.

He bought the copy to read over breakfast, carrying it and the bag of warm bread-rolls in the crook of his arm.

Grantaire was awake, and mostly dressed when he arrived. His sleep-ruffled features brightened as he opened the door to admit Enjolras, greeted him with a nod then returned to his washstand to finish his morning ablutions. Enjolras watched him retreat behind the screen, barefoot and fastening his braces to the waistband of his trousers as he walked. 

He was greeted, too, by the particular woody-sweet bouquet of linseed oil and turpentine that always pervaded Grantaire's room, no matter how late he left the windows open. Enjolras had found it cloying at first: there was something sickly and fertile about it that reminded him of bloated corpses swelling in the sun. He had come to find it strangely comforting since, now that his senses had grown accustomed to it.

He removed his own hat and coat, turned up his sleeves and busied himself in setting the table for them. When Grantaire reappeared some minutes later he was decent that time, though his hair was still a wild tangle of dark, shaggy curls, and his cravat was tied only by one single, uneven knot. He had put on his stockings, and a pair of well-worn house shoes.

Enjolras took his seat, and glanced surreptitiously at Grantaire as he poured their coffee. There was something admirable about how at home he was in his own skin, how casual and unmannered he was, no matter whose company he kept. Enjolras used to think him slovenly, but he had since found that to be untrue. He moved with an easy elegance to rival Courfeyrac's, but he wasn't vain at all, which Enjolras appreciated about him. 

He had observed that Grantaire had been looking a little healthier of late, since the reduction in his drinking had begun to stick. He seemed to be putting more care towards his own appearance, and there were fewer broken capillaries on his face, less blotchy redness staining his cheeks like a dense map drawn in red ink. Enjolras watched, intermittently, as he ate, taking his time to enjoy the quiet morning without urgency; he had business to attend to that afternoon, but nothing pressing to do until then, for a change.

Grantaire, in contrast, ate quickly, then pulled out his sketchbook to continue work on the preparatory sketches for his most recent commission. Enjolras watched him work for a while, drinking his coffee in small, measured sips to prolong his meal. The process intrigued him; he admired the way Grantaire was able to pull ideas out of the ether and give them form, and he was talented. 

Enjolras had never had much of an eye for beauty himself, but there was a directness in what Grantaire drew that he appreciated, and one he was unused to seeing in the work of more celebrated artists, Géricault aside. An earthiness. The figures he drew, whether imagined or otherwise, looked as though they could be real people who had lived real lives. 

An ugliness, almost; Grantaire did not soften hard edges or smooth unwanted lines for the sake of vanity when he wasn't painting for a client. It was only his drawings of Enjolras himself that presented a more flattering portrait than reality, compared to what Enjolras saw in his own reflection, at least. He had little opinion of his own physical appearance, but his mind and soul had their shortcomings.

He had yet to fully reconcile what had occurred between them with his own moral compass. He had long felt a vague sense of unease whenever he required something from another that he could not offer equal exchange for; when compounded by the guilty instinct with which he recognised that he might have caused Grantaire more discomfort than he had let on, and the knowledge that Grantaire's feelings towards him were more nuanced than he'd understood, he was left with a sour feeling towards his part in the exchange.

Then there was the habitual, enduring guilt that he often felt whenever he ought to be doing something more important; something more worthwhile than spending his time eating oranges and admiring the deft movements of Grantaire's fingers. 

Time spent in Grantaire's chambers produced a different sentiment in him than time spent with other members of the Société, or in the backroom of the Musain. There, he could better pretend it was wholly in service of their aim, even if more honest self-reflection might reveal a dual purpose. Time spent eating or drinking or speaking with Grantaire was purely self-serving; it was impossible to bend the truth far enough to pretend otherwise.

He compromised with himself by considering what points he might raise at the next meeting while he watched, and eventually moved to the desk in order to write them down. He had left his notes from the previous evening in the locked drawer at his side; the key to it had proved a useful courtesy on Grantaire's behalf, and he was grateful for it.

He had relaxed into a comfortable routine again, despite the rut that might have made continuing along the same road impossible. He left a little before noon to see to the tasks he hoped to accomplish that day, meaning to return for a quick supper and to tie up any loose ends those tasks had exposed.

It was on his way home from Grantaire's that night that his hopes of steady onward progress were shattered. He reached his current lodgings – an unremarkable five-story tenement building on a long, modern street, five minutes walk from Grantaire's quaint remnant of an older, less orderly city – and caught sight of a figure lingering in the shadows of a café awning, at the intersection between his street and the one that cut through it as it stretched towards the river. 

He stilled on the steps beneath his building's front door, as the wheel of progress was jarred off course with sudden violence by another unwanted complication, this time with the potential for disastrous consequences: he recognised that man. 

His heart hammered in his chest and every muscle in his body tensed, as the realisation struck him like a body-blow.

He had committed the silhouette to memory last time, in hope that if he did encounter him again he would have the advantage of not being caught off-guard. The immediate area was better lit than the ancient, shadowed streets of the Latin Quarter, and with more light by which to appraise him the man was clearly a mouchard. Enjolras's concerns had not been unfounded. 

The man had an officious look about him; he was too neatly dressed to be an ordinary hired agitator, paid to cause friction and report on those that responded to it, but presenting no significant threat beyond immediate physical harm. They had anticipated that the government might increase its efforts to clamp down on republican activity in the wake of the Lyon revolts, but it had happened sooner than he'd hoped.

He lent against the iron balustrade, pretending to inspect something on the toe of his boot while he considered his options. If the man was there for him he had already uncovered his address; there was little use trying to pretend he resided elsewhere. If he left, he would undoubtedly be followed, in hope that he might lead them to one of his co-conspirators. He could burn the usage of an unaffiliated safe house, but that would do nothing to address the greater threat. He had spent too long on his doorstep to simply turn back now without raising further suspicion. It was preferable to be accosted in a building full of potential witnesses than in some deserted, dark alley where such violence might go unmarked. The best course of action was to proceed as he had intended, and ready himself for the consequences. 

He rang the bell, and feigned distraction by the view of the clear night sky, breathing in the brisk, free air. 

By the time he had ascended the four flights of stairs to his room, his next course of action had been all but decided. He bolted the door behind him and leaned against it, standing with his back straight and arms folded, his state of mind manifesting in the stiffness of his posture. He listened for movement on the stairs as he surveyed his room with interrogating scrutiny. He was pleasantly surprised at how little he found to incriminate himself; he was thankful that most of his recent writing was concealed in Grantaire's locked desk-drawer. 

The contents of his bookshelves would raise questions, ones he was capable of deflecting with well-rehearsed answers. A few of the publications he owned were contraband, but they would not find anything that proved he was more than just an ordinary, liberal-minded student, provided they had not confiscated anything of his own authorship from one of his contacts. They could not arrest him on the nature of his reading material alone.

Only the linen, the books and the papers were his own. Even the mattress was rented, and not particularly comfortable. Grantaire's was thick and plush with goose down, like the one he had back home, in the bedroom of his childhood. Perhaps it belonged to someone else now; he had not been home in recent years. 

He removed his hat and coat at the door, and set about conducting his usual night's routine – coaxing a little more life out of the fire for another hour of warmth before he went to bed, divesting himself of his outer clothing, polishing his teeth and splashing cold water on his face for lack of the will to bother with the kettle – all while anticipating a knock that didn't come. That was well; that meant either that the man had no warrant, yet, or that his instructions were to observe only.

He did not believe the man was a senior enough officer to have the authority to issue his own warrants; Enjolras knew most of the men in their ranks with a history of interest in activities such as theirs on sight, and he had not encountered this man before his previous tailing. He had a day or two to find a solution. If he was somehow mistaken – well, he was prepared to lie to protect their operations, or face the consequences himself, should they come.

When he was in his nightshirt he resolved to wait a while longer: he was too on edge to be capable of sleep any time soon. He busied himself by taking his valise out from beneath his bed, and began emptying his linen out of the wooden chest of drawers the room had come equipped with. The repetitive action of folding his clothing afforded him the necessary focus to think more clearly on his situation. 

He had a plan in mind, the same that had occurred to him on the previous occasion, but he was not without doubts as to its wisdom. Perhaps he would seek a second opinion in the morning. He doubted it would change much: it was rare for anyone to sway him when he had found a course of action that suited him, but it would be prudent to consult someone that might achieve it. 

He paused in his folding to scratch at his upper arm through his sleeve; the right side still itched sometimes, a phantom sensation of the now-healed wound. At least there had been no lasting damage.

He would have to move, that much was not open for debate. He could only describe his current room as adequate, and he would not miss it. The rent was paid for a few weeks yet; he could simply disappear, once he had settled the matter of where else he would go.

An hour later he heard boots on the stairs – two pairs of feet, not one. He stilled, and listened, breathing steadily to calm his pulse even as it began to race again. He heard a low, masculine voice, then a woman's delicate laugh, and felt the tension that had gripped his body diminish in relief. It was only his neighbour, the Polytechnique student that rented the room opposite his, bringing his mistress home, again. For once Enjolras welcomed it.

He did not habitually sleep with a gun at his bedside, but perhaps he ought to tonight. He believed the man to be an agent of the law, and therefore bound by it to act with restraint, in theory. But there was a chance he might have misjudged him; it was not unheard of for the Sûreté to make use of paid informants or less salubrious characters to disrupt republican activity such as theirs. He placed his pistol – loaded and half-cocked – on the table beside his bed, and tried to take his mind off the matter, as much as he could with the prospect of their entire operation toppling like an interrupted house of cards playing on his mind; it was a danger that felt closer now than ever before. 

He resolved to read until exhaustion claimed him; he knelt in front of his book shelf, bare knees against the cold wood of the floor, and searched for something that would provide sufficient diversion. His fingertips passed over volumes of history, of philosophy; Rousseau, Thiers, a volume of Condorcet he had yet to return to Combeferre… 

His hand came to rest on a slim volume, its cover of scuffed brown leather with a faded, gold-stamped title. It was not something he would commonly elect to pass his time with, not something of direct usefulness to him, but at present his thoughts were preoccupied with a more pressing concern. He required distraction. He remembered enjoying it well enough, when last he read it, years ago. 

He banked the fire and quenched all but one small lamp before he clambered into bed. He set the one that remained lit on his bedside table, a cautious distance from the gunpowder that lay dormant in the pan of his pistol. It was just enough light by which to distinguish the letters on the page. Matters were dangerously close to spiralling out of his control, but taking alarm would achieve nothing. A cool head had served him well in life, thus far. It would be preferable to risk his own safety by holding his ground alone, than to lead them straight to the door of another member of the Société, thereby exposing the next link in the chain. He was expendable.

He set his pillow between his back and the headboard, pulled the sheets and the quilted coverlet up to his chest, lay the book open in his lap, and began to read: 

'Sing, O goddess, the anger of Achilles son of Peleus, that brought countless ills upon the Achaeans…' 

Chapter Text

VI.

Grantaire woke a little past dawn, as the first diffuse rays of grey winter sunlight brightened his room from pitch-black to merely gloomy. He coaxed some life back into the warm embers of the fire, but it did little to beat back the chill. He wrapped himself in his housecoat for further warmth and took his customary seat at his table, studying his sketches from the day before while he waited for the porter to bring a fresh pitcher of hot water to his door.

The first knock of the day came as he was tearing a particularly unsatisfactory page out of his sketchbook – he had had a sitting with his client the previous afternoon, and spent the entirety of the two hours he had spent in his chambers becoming intimately acquainted with the man's many insecurities:

'No, you've made my nose too fleshy; my jawline too weak… Can you make my chest look broader?' And so forth had been the tune to which he had tried to make some meaningful progress on the task at hand. He had spent the entire ordeal wishing he was back in his own studio, with only the distant, muffled sounds of life from his neighbours or the scratch of Enjolras's pen to accompany him. Even the cutting but accurate criticisms of his tutors at the Beaux-Arts would have been music to his ears in comparison. His scepticism at his own good fortune had proved founded once more; this was going to be a trying task to complete. At least the man had already paid a sizable deposit towards the final sum; he appreciated the money, if not the time spent in the client's company.

He rose at the welcome interruption and opened the door to find Mme. Meunier, bearing the pitcher; he thanked her, set the coffee to brew, then poured a little of the water into the basin in order to wash his face and conduct the rest of his toilette while he waited for Enjolras to appear with their bread. His cheeks were already rough to the touch and his jaw was shadowed, despite his having shaved only yesterday. It was a level of untidiness he could live with, so he foreswore the razor and focussed instead on combing a little oil through his hair to create a more presentable picture that way.

He dressed at his leisure in a clean shirt, a pair of warm woollen drawers and last winter's buff-coloured trousers – an ill-advised purchase, given his usual propensity for splashing drinks on his clothing and the messiness inherent to his profession, made at Courfeyrac's insistence that they would flatter him. He was still not entirely sold on that fact, but they fit him better than most of the pairs he owned, and they were well-made; Courfeyrac did have a good eye for quality where tailoring was concerned, even if he did not always give due consideration to the practicality of following fashion.

He settled in at his table again as his wait for Enjolras to arrive stretched on; he was later than usual. He occupied himself by idly testing the proportions for the painting's final composition on a fresh page in his sketchbook. There were a few tricks he could utilise to alter the man's physique and physiognomy to better reflect the image he wished to project of himself, while still creating an authentic likeness: the right angle, or the right scale, the right direction of light… he would figure something out. 

He lost track of time for a while, but the empty complaint of his stomach exerted a gentle, persistent tug that pulled him back into the present, even as he tried to lose himself in his work. He poured himself a cup of coffee to tide him over, but gave it up after the first mouthful: it was over-brewed, cold and excessively bitter.

Surely Enjolras ought to be here by now, if he was coming at all?

He felt the beginnings of concern coiling inside his chest, then attempted to dismiss them. They had parted amiably enough the night before; there was no reason to believe anything had changed between them in the intervening hours. Perhaps Enjolras had an appointment he had neglected to mention? He did not expect Enjolras to keep him abreast of his individual plans or to know all his movements, but he could not pretend to himself that he wasn't a little disappointed. 

He hoped he was safe. A hissing, treacherous voice in the back of his mind theorised otherwise, but he quashed it with the knowledge that Enjolras hadn't displayed any particularly vivid signs of fervour or excitement as he'd worked diligently away at his articles the day before; the past few weeks had been blissfully uneventful where the political was concerned. 

He did not wish to spend the entire morning alone in his room listening to his own stomach gurgling, so he resolved to wait one more hour to ensure Enjolras hadn't simply overslept, then seek breakfast and company elsewhere if he did not materialise. He discarded the ruined coffee, resisted the urge to open a bottle of something stronger and returned his attention to his work for a little while longer.

The hour passed with no sign of him. Disheartened, but not yet despairing, he donned his hat and coat, leaving his empty room behind in order to fill both his stomach and the lonely silence. He left word with the porter that he would return in the afternoon, on the off-chance that Enjolras did show himself after he had gone.

Perhaps he would try the Corinthe? The others liked to breakfast there often, and it attracted a good-humoured crowd if he was forced to resort to the company of strangers. Enjolras would reappear when he wished to, if the past six months had taught him anything at all. The streets were already bustling with life as he stepped out of his building's front door; he narrowly avoided the spray from the wheels of an empty delivery cart as they ran through a patch of wet mud in the gutter – yet another impracticality of Courferyrac's taste in fashion. The scent of fresh bread and coffee drifted from several bakeries and cafés as he passed them on his route towards the river, but he had made his choice, and did not defer from his path.

He arrived at his destination to the enticing, buttery smell of fresh brie, mixed with the ever-present hint of brine from the oysters. The lower floor of the wine-shop was deserted, save for Matelote, but on ascending to the upper floor he found Joly and Bossuet sitting across from each other at a square table by the window, sharing a breakfast of oysters, cheese and ham. Both glanced towards him as he approached, and fell silent; Grantaire suspected he had interrupted some clandestine conversation, but neither appeared to begrudge the interruption.

"Here's a curious fellow," Bossuet hailed him, gesturing towards one of the two vacant chairs in invitation. "How do you do, stranger?"

Grantaire raised an eyebrow at the greeting, but took the offered chair. "Is he unwell?" he asked, directing his question at Joly, who was sitting to his left with the plate of brie in front of him. Grantaire felt his hunger more acutely than ever as the smell of it reached his nose again. 

"I believe he is making a point," Joly answered, leaning it to murmur conspiratorially and gesturing aimlessly with the little pewter mug of wine he held.

"It has been weeks since I last saw you here," Bossuet, at Grantaire's right hand, elaborated. The fourth chair remained free, bearing silent witness to the fact their partie carrée was incomplete. He would have to persuade Enjolras to come here with him, one day.

"Perhaps the holes in your coat offend me; I've a reputation to uphold! I mustn't be seen with such unfashionable company."

Bossuet emitted a single, loud peal of laughter, and leaned across the table to say to Joly: "Put a man in a pair of cuir de laine trousers and suddenly we're beneath his regard."

"It does serve the theory," Joly answered, cryptically, and presented the plate of cheese in Grantaire's direction. 

It was as grey inside the Corinthe as it was outside of it, but there was a fire going beneath them, and enough of its heat had risen that it was comfortable inside; it was warm enough that Joly and Bossuet had both removed their coats.

Grantaire lifted an already-sliced piece of the cheese delicately between his fingers, studying it with the focused intent of a sommelier raising a glass of wine to his nose. It smelled of rich, smooth butter, with only the slightest hint of ammonia from the outer rind, which was bloomy and chalk-white. The inside was a warm, even straw colour and soft in texture, already begging to deform in his gentle grip.

"Brie de Meaux; the cheese of kings," he concluded, and placed the entire piece in his mouth in one motion. The flavour confirmed it; clearly old Mother Hucheloup hadn't lost her sense of taste entirely. That, or some of her late husband's arrangements with his suppliers were still in effect. Grantaire missed that cantankerous old man, sometimes; he had been a good sport in their rowdier fits of humour, with an ill-temper that was almost entirely a theatrical affectation.

"The cheese of Laigle's forefathers," Joly said, with playful seriousness.

Bossuet raised his knife, pierced the outer rind of the largest piece of brie with its tip and sliced decisively, wearing the bloodthirsty grin of an executioner as he did so.

He helped himself to a glass of their wine, too. When Matelote arrived with two more bottles of it he waved away her attempt to set them on the table, but did ask for more of the cheese and some bread to accompany it.

"I wanted some of that wine," Bossuet said, wearing a frown of mild offence, as he watched Matelote remove the bottles and retreat with them through the hatch to the lower floor. 

"It is barely past ten o'clock," Grantaire said, feigning disapproval.

"And yet, Grantaire is as lucid as we have ever seen him," Joly said, carefully, to Bossuet, while eyeing Grantaire with a suspicious, sideways glance. Bossuet mirrored it, then Grantaire watched as they shared a conspiratorial look. There must have been some secret communication in it, for both turned to him in synchronicity and fixed him with matching looks of interrogation. Their shared expression put Grantaire in mind of a diptych of devotional portraits,  stoically taking the measure of his sins.

"So he is," Bossuet said, far too casually. "I've some theories as to why that is."

Grantaire, knowing an accusation when one was about to be levelled at him, braced himself. He was in a humouring mood, however, so he scoffed, and said: "Best have out with them, then."

"Hypothesis one," Bossuet began, folding his hands on the table before him and maintaining his scrutiny of Grantaire's features. "You have found God, and he has shown you the error of your ways."

That notion caught Grantaire entirely unprepared, and he found himself inhaling wine as he choked on the swig he had been taking of his drink. He set his cup aside, pounding his fist against his chest as he coughed and spluttered with averted laughter.

"Of course, that is extremely unlikely," Joly said, slickly, picking up the thread of conversation Bossuet had left dangling as though he'd never dropped it. That confirmed Grantaire's suspicion that this was a planned interrogation, some play at courtroom theatrics that they must have concocted between them.

"No doubt our friend would be stricken by holy flame and reduced to ashes the moment he set foot in a church." Bossuet's expression turned grave; Joly crossed himself against Grantaire's influence with exaggerated motions, and Bossuet smirked in response. "Or perhaps some hedonistic pagan deity of Prouvaire's allegiance would return from the retirement of obscurity to claim him as their own."

Joly smiled, and fussed with his collar, which had slipped during his display of dramatics; one mustn't catch a chill from having one's throat exposed, he had said previously on numerous occasions.

Grantaire smirked to himself, but said nothing, refusing to incriminate himself; this was proving to be an enjoyable diversion after all. He tipped his chair until it was resting on its rear legs only in a display of exaggerated indifference. He folded his arms, and waited for the scene to continue.

"And thus we come to the second theory," Bossuet said, turning to him again with a smile that was far gentler this time. "My dear fellow, I'm afraid I must accuse you of having found yourself a mistress, and failing to inform us of your happiness."

With no wine half way down his throat this time, Grantaire felt a wave of laughter forming in the pit of his stomach and forcing its way out of his chest as a sudden, raucous sound. The muscles in his abdomen clenched erratically as he threw his head back, giggling uncontrollably and gripping the lip of the table to avoid overbalancing until he managed to right his position. 

Joly and Bossuet watched with amused expressions as he laughed until he was gasping for air, rendered insensible with humour both by the accusation itself and the subsequent inference that, if that theory stood, it would place Enjolras as his mistress. 

Enjolras, lower himself to the position of being some washed up painter's paramour? That thought would have had him scoffing if he wasn't too busy gasping for air. As if Enjolras would ever debase himself to such insalubrious depths. The one time he had… Grantaire wouldn't finish that particular thought.

He must have been blue in the face by the time he managed to contain himself, wheezing as he fought to regain his breath. The muscles in his cheeks were beginning to hurt from the exertion of it; he had not laughed that hard in a long while. He took another mouthful of his drink to clear his throat, before he gave his defence:

"What grisette would tolerate my hideous face? What could I possibly offer that might keep a woman interested past the first heady flushes of a new romance?" 

He was not willing to share the true source of his recent good-humour, even if pressed on it; he intended to preserve Enjolras's privacy in the matter – if, indeed, there was anything worth speaking of from his side.

"Musichetta tolerates the smell of Bossuet's feet," Joly said, wryly, raising an eyebrow at his companion. Bossuet blew a derisive stream of air through his lips in response; Grantaire hiccoughed, and wondered what subtext had passed him by that time.

Later, when they were at the end of the bottle and several topics removed in conversation, he found his thoughts returning to that same notion that he had found so ridiculous at first. 

He had failed to keep most of his former lovers invested in him as a long-term prospect through the fact he could barely provide for himself, let alone prove stable enough to have anyone depend on him. If either one of Enjolras or himself were to be the other's mistress, it would have to be him.

Enjolras was far better positioned, financially and in evenness of temper, to provide for another, but Grantaire found he couldn't picture that arrangement either; Enjolras was too detached, and too focussed on greater concerns to have someone depend on him without finding it a great inconvenience.

But there was no escaping the fact they had been providing for one another in a small, inconspicuous manner, since they had started sharing most of their meals together – since Enjolras had first turned up at his door with dinner from this very establishment, and Grantaire had felt moved, without obligation, to return the gesture.

Perhaps that lack of obligation was what had made their informal arrangement work? He had given it far too little consideration, for fear of what conclusion he might find. He had long been content to accept it as some minor miracle that Enjolras did not appear eager to question it either. 

He did not dislike the idea of being materially dependent on Enjolras as much as he would have thought, however. He wasn't too proud to admit he had been ideologically dependent on him for years now. In his bleakest days, Enjolras had been the single bright star at the centre of his universe; a symbol that all wasn't darkness and despair in this rotten world. He still felt that same swooping admiration for him at times, but the crushing sense of his own inadequacy that had previously accompanied it no longer felt quite so suffocating, now that he better understood the inhuman expectations Enjolras placed upon himself. He wanted to help him bear that burden, though he had no concept of how to even begin to offer –

It was a peculiar notion, but one that didn't quite fit the reality of the arrangement they had stumbled into.

Was that how it worked, for the ones lucky enough to find themselves happily in love?

-

Enjolras could not be certain how much sleep he had managed to snatch that night, but he must have drifted a little. He woke as the first scattered beams of grey sunlight began to peek through the slats in the shutters, still half-upright with the book lying open in his lap. He must've read for hours; the pages he had yet to turn were fewer than those he had managed to make his way through. He opened the shutters to let in a little more light; the street below was quiet, for now, and he caught no further sight of his tail as he peered out through the condensation-covered glass, surveying the street below.

Relief that he hadn't been dragged out of his bed in the middle of the night to be beaten or shot progressed swiftly into a desire to act. He felt suddenly caged, as though the walls of this little room were closing in around him, the half-defined shadows on the floor cast not by the lines between the window panes but by bars. He needed to leave this place – today, if possible.

He dressed quickly, turning the events of the previous night over in his mind as he did so. He ought to have foreseen the problem, or remained alert enough that he might have spotted the man before he had spotted him. It was too late to dwell on what he should have done now, but that did not lessen the impulse to berate himself for it. It did little to improve his mood, either.

He had not had a restful night; a glance in the mirror above his washstand revealed reddened, swollen eyes, and his hair was sticking up everywhere but at the crown of his head where he had rested against the headboard. His neck was stiff from the awkwardness of the angle. He thought he recalled dreaming of walls being torn down, stone by stone; of an eagle grasping a torn red flag in its talons – no, not a flag, a serpent, hissing and thrashing in impotent rage until finally it struggled free. It had opened its wide mouth to reveal sharp fangs dripping with venom, but he hadn't felt afraid of it.

He thought he remembered reading of a similar vision between the pages of the book he'd chosen as his distraction, but couldn't quite recall its meaning.

He left his chambers only for as long as it took to share a brief conversation with the porter, then spent the rest of the morning alternating between pacing and packing, all while considering how best to mitigate the threat his own carelessness presented to the rest of the Société. He spared little thought towards breakfast, though his stomach grumbled for the lack of it. He had more pressing concerns to see to first. 

An hour or so later his thoughts were interrupted by a gentle knock at his door.

"Who is it?" Enjolras called, warily, pausing with a volume of Thiers' Histoire de la Révolution française in each hand.

"Just me. I received word that you are ill?" came the reply in a familiar, measured voice. There was a hint of worry in it, which Enjolras felt a twinge of guilt for provoking.

"A moment," Enjolras answered, abandoning the books and the route he had been pacing and moving instead to the threshold. He turned his key in the lock, slid back the bolts that he'd kept fastened tight for much of the morning, and opened the door a cautious sliver. 

Combeferre was standing in the hallway, his physician's bag in one hand and a look of concern upon his kindly face. He was a most welcome sight.   

Enjolras nodded in greeting, and opened the door further to admit him. As Combeferre gave him a cursory glance over his concerned look deepened into a frown; it had not escaped Combeferre's notice that he was fully dressed, or that he did not appear sick enough to require a house call. 

He had looked pale from the lack of sleep in his mirror that morning; the porter at least must have believed the ruse if he had arranged for his message to be delivered so promptly. He had complained of a fever and cold-sweats in the night, and asked for Combeferre to be summoned in the guise of sending for his physician. Now that Combeferre had answered his summons the deception had proved as transparent to him as water.

"You are not convalescing," Combeferre deduced, pushing his spectacles higher on the bridge of his nose with his fore and middle fingers in a gesture that was more habit than necessity. Enjolras could read the conflicting impulses in his changing expression as clearly as if they were written in ink: relief, at finding Enjolras as well as ever, coupled with the subsequent deduction that whatever he had been summoned for with such subterfuge was likely to be worse.

The set of his shoulders changed, barely perceptibly, as he rallied himself. He smiled ruefully, gesturing inelegantly with the bag of elaborate diagnostic implements in his right hand and feigning disappointment that he would not have the opportunity to use any of them on Enjolras after all. "I suppose I shan't be needing this."

"Thank you for coming," Enjolras said, stepping aside to admit him over the threshold. He did not feel the need to apologise; Combeferre knew him well enough to know there was a reason to his actions, and he did not seem to have taken any tangible offence to the ruse.

"It is no trouble at all." Combeferre entered. The bag made a dull, heavy sound as he set it on the floor by the doorway – clearly there was some heft to it – then he began removing his hat and coat without further invitation.

"Did my request for discretion reach you?" Enjolras asked, already returning to the pile of books on the floor beside his bookcase – to the mess he had been in the middle of creating when Combeferre's knock had interrupted the process. He crouched as he sifted through them, glancing up at Combeferre in expectation of his answer.

"There was an addendum of that nature." Combeferre finished setting his things aside, and watched Enjolras with a look of patient expectation in place of his previous concern. "I should tell you, though, that such secrecy will only inspire more curiosity in those in possession of a vivid imagination." He removed his spectacles as he waited for Enjolras to offer him his explanation, pulling a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiping some invisible specks of dirt from their lenses. "I took care not to mention your name at the door, if that was what you meant."

"Good," Enjolras answered, briefly distracted by the sheer volume of satirical magazines he did not entirely remember acquiring. How many of these had Grantaire given him?

"I suppose we ought to come to the point," Combeferre said, a little professor-like sternness infusing his tone, which meant that he was apprehensive, and trying to hide that fact. He set his spectacles back in place, and said, with infinite patience: "How much trouble are you in?"

Enjolras pushed his hair away from his forehead as he collected his thoughts, and rose again in order to meet Combeferre eye to eye for this discussion; he wanted to face this particular matter as openly as possible, but there were some facets of it that were easier to voice than the others. 

"I have made a mistake," he stated, meeting Combeferre's steady gaze as he did so. "I believe I've caught the attention of an agent of the Sûreté, or perhaps one of their informants. This building is being monitored."

Combeferre, mercifully, betrayed nothing of his inner thoughts, beyond nodding gravely and folding his arms across his chest, maintaining sympathetic eye-contact. If he was disappointed or angry with Enjolras for his failings, his posture betrayed no sign of it.

Every one of the truly sworn-in members of the Société were well aware of the risks they faced for what they had chosen to do. They had discussed protocol for eventualities such as this in the past; Enjolras was glad he had not been entirely blindsided by it, and grateful to Combeferre that he had not responded with overt emotional distress. He did not expect any of them to make too great a show of their concern for him, but Combeferre knew him well enough to know he sought a solution above sympathy. 

His decision to call on Combeferre had proved to be the best option, for the excuse that would provide discretion and for efficiency in tackling the problem at hand. He would be well within his rights to chide Enjolras for his lapse in vigilance – any scrutiny he brought upon himself could endanger the rest of them, too – but it was against his nature to do so. He trusted Enjolras to be careful, and Enjolras was relieved to find that he did not consider that trust broken.

If any one of them were to make a scene, it would have been Grantaire. He did not know whether it would have been for show or not anymore. That particular unpleasantness would have to be faced sooner rather than later; he intended to tell him in private, to contain the worst of his melodramatics.

"I see," Combeferre said, when it became apparent Enjolras had finished his confession. His initial attempt at wiping his spectacles clean must have proved insufficient, for he removed them again. He exhaled slowly onto the lenses, misting them with his breath before re-applying the handkerchief.

Enjolras continued to watch him as he considered the ramifications of the problem, biting his lower lip in contrition as his shoulders flagged a little; he was inordinately weary. 

Combeferre replaced his spectacles, then rested his index finger against his chin as he calculated his response to it. "We expected they would heighten their efforts to disrupt republican activity after Lyon." That was forgiveness, in an indirect way. "How much do you believe they know?" That meant, 'Is anyone else at risk of arrest?'

Enjolras recounted his observations of the man thus far, recalling the previous tailing and the events of the previous evening. He omitted the minor detail of where he had been returning from. It was not directly relevant to the problem at hand; he could avoid the subject a little longer, yet. "I thought too little of it the first time – I had hoped that I had eluded him, or that the information he had gathered was too scant for him to be capable of finding me again; then I saw him outside yesterday. I underestimated the severity of the situation. Perhaps I'm being excessively cautious, but I would like to leave this address as soon as it can be arranged."

"I do not think circumspection is ever unwise," Combeferre said, seriously. He considered the matter a moment longer, removing his spectacles and repeating the action of cleaning them a further, superfluous time, before pronouncing his conclusion: "As your friend, I would of course offer my own chambers in the meantime, but as your ally I think it tactically imprudent."

Enjolras nodded his accord. It was a thought he had had before, and dismissed with similar reasoning; if he brought the ire of the law down on another member of the Société there was far more than just their personal liberties at stake.

Still, sharing his lodgings with one of them would not be without precedent. Bossuet may well have slept on every spare mattress in Paris by now; living with Joly was a solution to that problem, and it was safer for Bossuet and for the Société than having him stay with whoever would have him next, with no measure of their political leanings or how trustworthy they were.  

Courfeyrac had taken Marius under his wing as though he was some kind of adopted protégé for a while, until Marius had found his feet and struck out on his own. He had been absent from their meetings in the Musain for some time now, which was a shame; there had been promise there, beneath the slavish devotion to the ghost of his father's purple opinions. Perhaps there were benefits to staying close to another member of the Société in order to escape greater misfortune.

Grantaire's position as a satellite to their inner circle complicated the matter further, but perhaps it might prove beneficial in this specific set of circumstances…

'I agree," he affirmed. Combeferre's sharing of his opinion had done a little to set his mind at ease; his initial thoughts took further shape in his mind, solidifying into a plan of action at last. "We should spread out; it would jeopardise our entire operation were they to arrest more than one of us."

Combeferre made a thoughtful sound, and glanced over the piles of books and papers at Enjolras's feet as though their disorder pained him. "So now we must find somewhere more suitable. I could ask one of my colleagues at the Necker if they've space for a guest, or perhaps taking an hôtel room under a pseudonym would serve while you search for somewhere more permanent…"

"I have somewhere in mind." 

Enjolras stooped to gather a pile of the books. He took them over to his writing desk, depositing them on its surface and turning to collect another. He was not quite ready to voice the specifics of his plan, yet.

"Very good." Combeferre followed him to the desk, gesturing his offer to help him arrange the books into some kind of order. He caught Enjolras by the arm as they passed one another, squeezed it gently and gave him a soft smile. "I am glad you are safe and well, if not entirely out of danger yet. I will help you pack."

"Thank you." Enjolras returned the smile, and placed his hand over Combeferre's in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture.

He did want to ask Combeferre about the thoughts that had been troubling him; about the wisdom of involving Grantaire in this misfortune and the larger question of what on earth he had been doing with him these past months – almost six of them, now, not that he had been counting them. He knew himself to have a tendency to see too narrow a field of vision at times.

Combeferre was broader, in mind and in stature, but his thoughts were grounded in empathy in a way Enjolras found admirable. He felt the human joy and suffering that motivated their actions, where Enjolras was focussed on the undeniable necessity of them, and sometimes tied himself in knots over the wisdom of a choice when it did not fit neatly into the greater scheme of things, or made too grand a leap forward and missed the individual foibles that might leave others left behind; the parts that didn't operate by the same logic he did.

There was nothing logical about what he was considering now, no matter how many justifications he had woven out of thin air to support it. He needed an unbiased perspective to temper his hasty impulses.

He had considered asking Courfeyrac as well, but on reflection concluded that he might not be best qualified to advise on matters that involved maintaining a cordial relationship after a physical encounter, given how long his own dalliances commonly lasted. Courfeyrac's romantic engagements were brief, passionate, and prone to fizzling out like fireworks in a rain shower; he and Grantaire were well past that kind of quiet, anticlimactic conclusion being a viable ending between them. 

At the same time, he had realised that he did not wish to sever whatever connection was there, nor did he wish to push too far, too fast, and topple the delicate bridges they had managed to build between them. He had grown fond of Grantaire's presence, though he could not quite explain why.

They worked in quiet concert for a while; Enjolras passed the books to Combeferre, who appeased his displeasure at the present turmoil by alphabetising them, before stacking them in the wooden crate Enjolras had procured the last time he'd had cause to move. There were too many to fit them all inside it now; perhaps he could obtain another from the café across the street.

He wished to broach a further, more difficult subject, but could not decide where to begin. Combeferre must have been attuned to his desire for further disclosure, because he offered an opening to it, unprompted:

"I have been thinking of late, about what this is all for." The admission was almost off-hand; he frowned at the stacks of books before and around him as he made it, as though it still lacked cohesion, before reaching for the 'A' pile and beginning to sub-divide it by category as well. 

"For the Republic, surely?" Enjolras frowned, certain that he had failed to take his meaning.

"Naturally." Combeferre looked to him in seriousness. Enjolras nodded; he had not truly entertained the notion that Combeferre's convictions had wavered. "Nevertheless, I am not blind to what it might require of me. Of us all. A sacrifice – though I'm not yet certain which part I'll be called to play in it." 

Enjolras's frown deepened; this sounded like the beginnings of a discussion they had shared before, enough times that Enjolras had made his peace with the prospect that the matter might never be laid to rest until they could postpone it no further. He was still willing to listen – it was no easy subject, and he respected Combeferre's sensitivity to it: "If you have concerns, I would hear them." He sat, heavily, on the edge of his bed, and gestured for Combeferre to draw up the sole chair. Combeferre abandoned the books, took the offered seat and regarded Enjolras with a weary smile.

"We agree on the desired end: civilisation, illumination, freedom for all mankind. I suppose I'm finding it ever more difficult not to count the cost."

"Violence against the people must be answered with violence," Enjolras said, with conviction. It was a belief he had never wavered from, despite his distaste for the deed itself; he had believed they had at least settled the ethics of the matter long ago.

"So you've said before, but –" Combeferre hesitated a brief moment, glancing down at his own hands, which were spotted with ink like Enjolras's own, and dry-skinned from whatever alchemical concoctions he used to preserve the specimens he studied: the bits of sheep-gut and other unidentifiable pieces of viscera Enjolras knew he kept as examples. He scratched at a dry bit of cuticle on his thumb nail, then looked up, unexpectedly – "Have you spared any concern for its effect on your soul?" 

His soul? That was a new angle, and one he had no opinion on. He frowned, and reached for the common grounds of belief they shared to try to make sense of the question.

If he discarded the metaphysical, considered instead the more tangible notion of his own moral duty to preserve the honour of the revolution he sought to dedicate himself to, he could almost understand it. He set his teeth in his lip, and nodded, gravely, meeting Combeferre's gaze and finding his brown eyes softened by a tender sort of trepidation. 

He had given his own part in what they hoped to achieve plenty of thought these past few years, perhaps too much – he was no wide-eyed idealist, as much as others might perceive them all as such. He knew what he must do, and the price by which the future would be bought. He knew, also, the cost of turning aside; of allowing misery to perpetuate itself through a lack of willingness to get his own hands bloodied. Both might seem intolerably high to some, but he was satisfied with his decision, if wary of the means he must utilise. 

The wrath of the people was a dangerous tool, but just – those who would attempt to wield it must be equally so.

It was the reason he guarded his own principles so carefully, held his own conduct to such high standards: he must be capable of protecting that vital force from being co-opted for a dishonourable purpose. 

The narrative of progress desired leaders; heroes to elevate above its collective actors, though the logic of it was driven by the will of the people – their willingness to rise in numbers great enough to seize it – but leaders were simply men, and no man was incorruptible. He foresaw what may become of him if he accepted that narrative for himself too eagerly.

History was full of such men: egotists empowered by misplaced trust; those who turned away from pure purpose, or never followed it to begin with. One could become another ambitious Tribune playing political games to manoeuvre against his enemies while the people mourned a poor grain harvest; another corrupt Thermidorian attempting to point the finger of blame for the first revolution's cruelties at anyone but their own morally-bereft allies. 

Enjolras refused to lose sight of the fact he acted on behalf of forces greater than himself – his individual desires meant little in comparison; any stains his soul might attain in service of the Republic were ones he would accept willingly, alongside their consequences.

"I am not worried for myself. You have placed your trust in me, and I am grateful for it; I will ensure that faith is not misplaced."

"That I did not doubt." Combeferre sighed then, as though Enjolras hadn't quite comprehended his meaning. "I despise the methods we must utilise, but not as much as I would despise myself for choosing inaction through cowardice."

"On that we remain in agreement. Whatever the cost on my soul, I'll pay it gladly."

Both were quiet for a moment, each examining their own thoughts, but there was no tension to the silence. Enjolras noticed, idly, that silences with Grantaire felt equally comfortable now. Combeferre was the man he would name as his closest friend, but he surprised himself with the realisation that he was almost willing to admit Grantaire to the same circle as the rest of his brothers. That knowledge lead to a different thought, and he voiced it, elaborating on his earlier conviction with quiet certainty:

"What we do is an act of love – for our brothers and for the people of the future, so all might experience true fraternity. If my death hastens the dawn of progress then I'll go gladly and peacefully."

"As would I." 

Combeferre remained silent for a moment after that, and Enjolras joined him in that silence. He considered Combeferre's confession – and the confession he, too, had yet to make in full.

It was right that he should offer honesty for honesty.

"I am going to stay with Grantaire, for now," he said, almost before he had made the decision to speak, then hastened to justify himself: "He lives close to the Musain; it will be convenient for meetings, but I believe his address is technically within the bounds of a different faubourg to this one. If I am fortunate, that will place it outside of my tail's jurisdiction –"

"Grantaire?" Combeferre said, a curious set to his features; Enjolras could see him beginning to put the pieces together in the way his brow creased, as he reached up to adjust where his spectacles sat on the bridge of his nose again. He did not look displeased; merely perplexed, then his brow smoothed. When he looked at Enjolras again it was with the kind of knowing scrutiny that made him feel unbearably perceived. 

If Combeferre had indeed seen right through him, he was polite enough not to level any accusations: "Yes, that seems suitable I should think, if a little surprising…"

"You approve of my plan?" Enjolras asked, in relief both at Combeferre's approval and having voiced the thought aloud at last. If there were reasons he ought not go through with it he wanted to hear them, though he had little intention of changing course now. "I think he can be relied upon for discretion – that far, at least."

"I believe he means us no harm or ill-will…" The wheels of Combeferre's brilliant mind were still turning, examining the events of the past few months afresh now that the right context had been presented to him. His mouth twisted in brief self-disparagement, as though he were chastising himself for missing some obvious fact, but his voice was level when next he spoke: "I think I do… yes – if you are comfortable with such an arrangement."

"Good." That was not the end of the matter, though; Enjolras wanted to say more, and now he'd started he found he could no longer stop – "There is more to it than that."

"Yes, I imagine there is."

Combeferre regarded him with a neutral, patient expression, waiting for Enjolras to muster the last reserves of courage necessary to put a name to what he had done. Eliding the truth with metaphor might make it more palatable, but it wouldn't make it any easier. He couldn't look Combeferre in the eye while he said it, though.

"He proposed sexual intercourse – I agreed to it."

That admission produced no reaction whatsoever; Combeferre did not betray his thoughts with even as much as a flinch, which was infinitely frustrating. He wanted Combeferre to rebuke him, to tell him to get a hold of himself, to be repulsed. Anything. Instead, he displayed only the polite indifference he might show to his patients' past carelessness in the course of deciding the best method of treatment for whatever ailments they courted through their own indiscretions, as though Enjolras had just admitted to forgetting to return a borrowed book by its due date or spending a little too long lingering in the company of their friends when the more sensible pursuit was a good night's sleep.

"Yes," Combeferre prompted, aware that there was more to the matter yet. Enjolras grasped the ruffled quilt beneath him with both hands and gave a weary, impotent sigh. 

He had felt desire towards other men before – in the abstract more often than individually, but a rare few had caught his interest, or simply caught him desperate. He had been intimate with a smaller number still; he accepted that aspect of himself, as long as it did not interfere with what mattered. He knew Combeferre to be sympathetic to men of his inclinations, despite regarding even the allures of women that so distracted the others at times with a broad indifference that Enjolras found admirable. Desire was, allegedly, a natural function of the body; there was a reason for everything in nature, or so Combeferre had said in answer to similar concerns before.

He could not find the reason his own mind had fixated on Grantaire, however. Submitting to that particular impulse had done little enough to appease it – he still wanted him, and it was eating away at him – at his ability to think clearly – like some wasting disease of the spirit that made him no better than all the other young men of Paris that squandered their days pursuing the favour of grisettes or demoiselles, going to great lengths to discover the secrets of tailoring or toilette that might make the object of their desire notice them in a crowd. It was a waste of time, and one he wanted no part in. 

Grantaire himself had been nothing but accommodating towards him in recent months, and nothing at all to him before that, but that courtesy only complicated the matter further. Grantaire was familiar, and knew him far better than any man he had been intimate with before, and therefore knew exactly how to get under his skin, seemingly without deliberate effort on his part.

Enjolras ran a hand through his hair, and looked to Combeferre, imploring: "Am I going mad?" 

"Are you soliciting my opinion as a physician, or my opinion as one who knows you better than most? The answer is the same, but I'd like to know which tone of delivery to utilise." 

Which option would have him be straight with him? "As a friend."

"It doesn't matter what I think." Combeferre delivered his answer with absolute tranquillity, and a slight creasing at the corners of his eyes that suggested he was aware just how unsatisfactory an answer it was. "I won't pretend to understand it, but if you are looking for condemnation you won't receive it from me."

"But it's Grantaire –" Enjolras heard the disdain in his own voice, and disliked himself for it; it was wholly unfair of him to accept Grantaire's affection and think poorly of his lack of convictions in the same impulse. 

"Do you think he's a good man?" 

"He's not a good republican."

"That is not what I asked."

Enjolras considered the question. He had certainly thought worse of him in the past. The Grantaire he had first been introduced to – years ago, now – had been an uncouth drunkard of no fixed belief or opinion on anything save his apparent disdain for those who did have the foolhardiness to hold their fellow men in high regard. Enjolras had dismissed him as beneath his notice, but the others had found his company enjoyable enough that he had stayed; it was not Enjolras's place to overrule them on matters of friendship.

He was willing to accept that he had been wrong on several counts: Grantaire was not the uncaring, unsympathetic, lazy flâneur he had believed him to be. He was warm-hearted, beneath the prickly, defensive exterior, and he did work hard at his trade, when he wasn't lost at the bottom of a bottle or in some bleak fit of despair. He was generous, towards Enjolras but to their friends also – how many times had he seen him lend money to Bossuet or buy drinks for any of the others, with no expectation of repayment and despite the precariousness of his own financial situation?

He had had what he'd wanted from Enjolras, but he hadn't treated him with any less respect or regard for it, the way some men treated their conquests. He was not fickle with his affection, which was both admirable and a little discomforting; Grantaire's admiration for him felt a little too close to uncritical adoration at times.

He weighed these merits and demerits in his mind, while Combeferre waited for his answer. It was Grantaire's kindness and affection for their friends that decided him, at last: "I do. Yes."

"Then you have your answer."

"I'd still like to hear yours."

"To answer that one would need to define the standard –"

Enjolras silenced him with a look; Combeferre's mouth twisted with suppressed amusement, before he gave his assessment:

"I dislike the notion of dispensing judgement over the character of my fellow men. I might find some of his opinions a little unsavoury – entirely unsavoury, actually – but there's no malice in him. Is it right that I should deem another man inferior for lesser sins when I am no saint myself? I don't believe so. Should swans feel superior to ducks for the colour of their feathers?" 

Enjolras laughed then, despite his unease with the topic at hand. "Is he the duck or the swan in this metaphor?"

"You won't trick an answer out of me that way." Combeferre laughed, too, then turned serious again: "But why do you ask?" He regarded Enjolras with a searching gaze, as though seeking the heart of his worries. It was alarming how quickly he found it. "My dear friend, did you really think this would alter my regard for you?"

A glance was enough to betray him, but having broached the subject he had been holding in for so long he felt relief as well as shame at the opportunity to elaborate: "It lowers my regard for myself."

Combeferre frowned in answer. "It's hardly as bad as all that, surely –"

Enjolras's features must have betrayed his seriousness, for Combeferre paused, reaching for and finding Enjolras's hand, squeezing it between his own.

"I cannot believe you've moved me to speak in his favour, but Grantaire doesn't deserve to be treated as a source of such self-flagellation, nor should you inflict it upon yourself."

"No, he doesn't." Enjolras agreed with his first point; it was the latter he found harder to accept. If he could find the words to explain it to Combeferre he would, but he had yet to even fully explain it to himself.

He might have asked the same earlier question in regards to his own moral standing – was he, himself, a good man? A good republican? It was a question that only became more complicated the closer he got to his goal, and the harder he tried to live up to his own ideals. How many indulgences could he be permitted before he strayed too far into vice? Did he have the right to dispense justice on behalf of the revolution when he was less than pure himself? He knew Combeferre would argue that the greater good mattered more than whatever his personal shortcomings may be, and so dismissed the matter, for the time being.

"You are right, I know." Both knew there was a conjunction hanging unvoiced at the end of that statement. Combeferre knew him well enough to let the matter rest, for now – he would not press him further on the subject when he was so clearly still grappling with it himself. He still did not know how best to move forward; Combeferre was not the right person to ask there – if indeed a step closer was what he wished for. 

He knew that Combeferre's opinion was a fair one, but his own was not so objective, and hadn't been for some time now. He flexed his hand beneath Combeferre's, and straightened up. "I should speak to the porter again."

"I'll do that – you are supposed to be ill." Combeferre gave his hand one last affectionate squeeze before he released him. "I will recommend your removal into my charge."

Enjolras nodded, and rose to continue gathering his things. He was grateful Combeferre was attuned to his plan, and to his fears; he was a valuable ally, and a treasured friend. He was glad to find nothing had changed between them. The matter of the police spy was one he knew how to contend with, but the interpersonal tangle he had allowed to grow more complex between Grantaire and himself was a new kind of challenge.

Another hour later the logistics of his departure had been arranged, with the help of the porter and Combeferre's creative use of medical jargon. Combeferre would leave before him via the back entrance and ensure the way was clear, while the porter would ensure the belongings they could not carry between them would be transported by cart that afternoon.  

Enjolras dressed as though he were attending one of his lectures. He reached by habit for his hunting cap, then thought better of it – it was what his tail would expect of an agitator; respectability would be the better disguise. He took his good top hat out of its battered storage box instead, and pulled its brim as low as it would go over his forehead.

"It's a pity we can't do anything about your hair, or your height," Combeferre said, as he donned his own hat and coat. 

"The level of precaution we have taken ought to be enough; I will take an indirect route, just in case."

"Should I inform the others?" Combeferre asked, casually. He meant to take the unpleasantness of explaining the tail upon himself, to remove the need for Enjolras to repeat his confession in front of their peers – he wouldn't mention Grantaire's involvement, unless Enjolras requested it of him. Enjolras appreciated the intent behind it, but he could not let Combeferre shoulder that burden for him.

If his choice of alternative arrangement proved a long-term one they would have to know of it eventually, but he wanted to delay that conversation until he was certain.

"Tell Courfeyrac; he ought to know where to find me. The others I'll tell myself, once the matter is settled."

"Of course." Combeferre took up his own bag alongside one of Enjolras's, and followed him into the hall.

He waited in the shadowed hallway by the back entrance while Combeferre conducted his reconnaissance. His thoughts were focussed on the path ahead – he had no sentimental attachments to what he was leaving behind. Inevitably, he found himself considering what he would say to Grantaire when he saw him. It was then that he realised he would need to ask his permission to stay, and that he had failed to consider the possibility that Grantaire might deny him that request.

A whistle informed him the way was clear; he picked up his valise, and stepped out into the daylit street.

Chapter Text

VII.

They must have lost track of the hour, because they were several shared bottles deeper into silliness by the time Joly checked his watch, and startled to find he was late to a comparative anatomy lecture. He downed a cup of coffee in one breathless gulp as they settled the matter of payment, yet still yawned as they stumbled out into the street. 

"I have been up visiting my patients since seven," he said by way of apology, and stifled a second yawn as they bid each other farewell.

Grantaire kissed Bossuet's bald head goodbye and tipped his hat to Joly, knowing him to be uneasy with being touched when he wasn't expecting it. Joly squeezed his arm in return, then Bossuet's, before hurrying off to hail a cab, his cane in one hand and his hat in the other, swaying ever so slightly as he picked his way over the uneven paving slabs. 

Bossuet watched his progress with a fond expression; he chuckled softly as Joly's steps meandered from a straight line into a serpentine, before excusing himself with a "Best I go with him…" and a pat to Grantaire's shoulder.

Grantaire remained in good spirits on his walk home: he was pleasantly tipsy, and merry alongside it. He had a vague intention of taking his materials to a café with him and spending the afternoon sketching its patrons, until Enjolras was likely to be home.

The front door to his lodgings was unlocked when he arrived; he leant against it for a moment to steady himself, then pushed it open. His breath caught in his throat as he noticed, in the same instance, someone seated at the foot of the stairs, and that that someone was Enjolras. He felt himself smile, as Enjolras's head snapped up from the newspaper in his hand, and their eyes met across the brief span of the narrow hall. Enjolras did not return the smile, but he did close his newspaper, and began folding it in his lap at Grantaire's arrival; clearly, his absence had been noted.  

There was a half-drunk cup of coffee at Enjolras's side, and beside that was his hat. A black top hat of some felted material – beaver fur, perhaps? – smarter than Grantaire was accustomed to seeing him in, and in a prime position to be flattened under the heels of one of Grantaire's neighbours should they fail to watch their step. The rest of his attire was similarly formal; he appeared to have dressed for a funeral. He looked paler than usual, and the shadows in his face spoke of a restless night, and greater troubles hounding at his heels. Grantaire was uncertain what to make of this strange apparition, but his trepidation was mellowed by the fact that he was pleased to see him; and relieved to find him well. Well enough.

"You could have asked Miette to let you in again," Grantaire said, for lack of the necessary courage to address the peculiarity of the situation head on. He could hear a little of the warmth and tenderness he felt towards Enjolras infusing his own voice, despite his intent to remain light and casual.

"She offered." Enjolras's reply was curt, but not cold. He glanced at Grantaire again – his blue eyes were glassy and unfocussed – then lowered his head again as he began gathering his things. Grantaire looked down at the top of his head and felt a brief pang of longing as he noted the point from which Enjolras's curls spiralled outwards. He wanted to press his lips to it, or to sit down beside him and throw an arm over his shoulders with the same easy affection he might show towards his drinking companions – he wasn't drunk enough to attempt it. 

Instead he looked him over, from pale head to black, polished shoes. His long legs were a hazard in the insufficient space of the hall; he was certainly making an obstruction of himself, which Grantaire found endearingly eccentric. 

The coffee cup came from Miette's kitchen; he could practically picture the conversation in his mind: Miette's polite, peremptory offer to let him into Grantaire's rooms with the aim of getting him out of the way, and Enjolras's equally polite refusal to be moved from the vantage point in which he had chosen to wait. Which begged the question:

"Did you want something?"

"Not here. Upstairs." There was a cool, commanding edge to his tone; clearly the matter was as grave as Grantaire had feared. He swallowed, silently, and stooped to pick up the coffee cup and place it on the console table beside the head of the banister, while Enjolras tucked the newspaper beneath his arm and picked up his hat. 

Enjolras unfolded to his full impressive height and led their ascent. Grantaire glanced down at his own knees as he climbed the stairs behind him, and noticed a few stray, faint-purple splashes of wine on his trousers from when he had been laughing so vigorously a few hours before. It was bound to have happened sooner or later.

They ascended in silence, which wasn't unusual – yet Grantaire's sense that something was off only heightened as they reached his room. Enjolras set his hat and newspaper aside, but did not remove his coat. He lingered by the doorway, in place of taking his seat at the writing desk as he normally would. Grantaire was at a loss as to what might have unsettled him so, though clearly something had left him rattled. A creak sounded from the hallway, the groan of old floorboards settling as the air changed; Enjolras's posture notably stiffened at the sound, though there were no footsteps to have triggered it.

"Is something the matter?" Grantaire asked, in a light, casual tone that took conscious effort on his part. He had gone from rattled himself to deeply concerned; it was unlike Enjolras to be so skittish. "If there is anything I can do –" He didn't finish that particular platitude; what could he offer that might quiet Enjolras's concerns?

Enjolras let out a slow, sighing breath, visibly deflating before him, and said, "Sit down." A suggestion rather than an order, and one Grantaire did not feel inclined to take at present.

"I'd rather stand." If it was as bad as he expected he wanted space to move, to pace, to flee perhaps. 

"Please yourself." 

Enjolras fidgeted in mild frustration; he ran a hand through his hair, bit his lip, and turned his gaze on Grantaire with a frown wrinkling his lofty forehead. "I have attracted the attention of the authorities," he said, bitterly, revealing the frown to be one aimed at himself. "My previous address can no longer be considered safe." Grantaire felt the sinking feeling in his stomach grow suddenly more profound, and more pressing. "I wondered if you might allow me to stay here, until I find somewhere more suitable? I am aware that it's an imposition…" 

Fear coiled in Grantaire's chest, reached with its clawed hands and wrapped them around his throat; he felt as though he had been thrust into ice-cold water. Some semblance of the dread he felt must have shown in his features, because Enjolras had fallen silent; he was watching him warily, waiting, but Grantaire could not speak. Blood pounded in his ears and he felt chilled to the marrow by the implications of Enjolras's words.

He did not wish to ask how it had happened. He didn't need to; his own mind was already providing him with a multitude of scenarios, flickering through his thoughts one after the other yet somehow all at once like the turning of a thaumatrope, each image more catastrophic than the last. There were any number of reasons Enjolras might have attracted police attention, though none at all might suffice; no evidence was required in order for the state to threaten anyone suspected of republican activity.

"A room at the prince's pavilion doesn't appeal?" he asked, when he had regained the use of his tongue. He swallowed thickly, and regarded Enjolras with a lost, searching look. 

"It does not," Enjolras said, simply, as though the thought of going to prison inspired only mild distaste in him – presented only a minor inconvenience, as though Grantaire's comfortable, rose-tinted impression of the last few months hadn't just been revealed as a gossamer delusion.

The knowledge that Enjolras might be snatched away from him at any moment made him feel sick to his stomach. He glanced around his room, unconsciously taking stock of all the hiding places that might have contained something strong enough to quash the fear roiling in his chest, and cursed his past self at the realisation that he had nothing to hand. If he had a bottle of spirits anywhere in this room he'd drain the entire thing without stopping for breath – what had he been thinking? Getting rid of them all – 

What if Enjolras was arrested, sent to Sainte-Pélagie or some other dank hole? What if he became ill through poor treatment and suffered alone? What if he died there? What if Grantaire lost him…

Anger of a vehemence he'd never known before rose in him, violent and overwhelming, and he realised he was trembling with rage at the injustice of it all. He wanted to shake Enjolras for being so calm about the matter, to break his cool reserve and draw some reasonable human emotion out of him. He wanted to put his fist through the nearest canvas; to hurl every bottle of pigment or medium he had at the wall; to throw ink over his client's stupid face as it starred haughtily out of his still-open sketchbook. 

A glance at Enjolras's drawn, white face was enough to drive all the fight and frustration out of him. In place of the usual urge to pin him to the mattress and stick his tongue down his throat he just felt desperately afraid. He wanted to put his arms around him, to cover and cling to him to be certain that he couldn't be snatched away without Grantaire knowing it, without a chance to fight for him – 

The rapid crescendo and subsequent fall in the intensity of his emotions drained him of feeling entirely; he was exhausted beyond words or action. He slumped into his chair and put his head in his hands; scrubbed them over his face and ran his fingers through his hair; stared at the table's textured surface, at the brush marks and fingerprints that formed its rough, pitted surface – earthy, fleshy tones, browns and pinks, flecks of indigo, a smear of red from Courfeyrac's chiton…

Enjolras took a few further steps forward into the room. The sound of his movements drew Grantaire out of his paralysed state, and he looked up to find Enjolras regarding him warily and waiting, patiently, for an answer to his earlier request. Grantaire forced himself to focus, to continue the conversation at hand.

He had been so distracted by every horror his mind could conjure that he had missed the implications of Enjolras's question entirely.

He knew he couldn't say anything other than yes, even if he wanted to; he had never been capable of denying Enjolras anything, yet his mind in grasping, hopelessly, for some semblance of normality now fixated on the logistics of the matter:

"There isn't room for another bed – I suppose I could make do with the mattress on the floor, if you brought your own…"

"I was thinking that we would share." 

"What, take turns?" Grantaire frowned in momentary incomprehension; Enjolras's unfamiliar worried look flickered briefly into a far more familiar steely-blue look of mild exasperation, and Grantaire grasped his meaning entirely at last. "Oh." 

As a response it was rather painfully inadequate.

His bed was certainly big enough for two: he had shared it with half the Société at this point, sometimes two at a time after an evening's drinking that had progressed into an early morning's collapse in the welcome comfort of whoever's lodgings were nearest. One particularly messy occasion had ended in him spending a restless night with Joly, Bossuet and Bahorel top to tail in his bed, waking at the crack of dawn with Joly's foot unfortunately close to his face. Theirs was the kind of friendship that laughed off such indignities, but Enjolras's demeanour, with his high walls guarding him against friendships that were too intimate; the neat, orderly exterior that masked the elemental force within – it was a strange thought, but not one Grantaire was capable of turning down.

There remained another, far-less welcome guest in the room that warranted addressing, however. Enjolras must have evaded questioning in order to be here now, but for all Grantaire knew an officer of the law may as well have his ear pressed to his keyhole this very moment. He had to ask, despite how desperately he wished to return to the blissful ignorance of a mere quarter-hour ago.

"Do they have reason to charge you with anything?"

"Nothing they will be capable of proving."

It wasn't enough – Enjolras wasn't safe. It was then that Grantaire had his most foolish thought yet; he wanted to take Enjolras somewhere far away from the pressing danger, or lock the door behind them and never open it again, to never again let Enjolras out of his sight… He sighed, and rubbed a hand over his eyes again. His fingers itched to grasp the neck of the bottle that wasn't there.

"So, is the matter settled?" Enjolras asked, a little icy impatience creeping into his tone.

Grantaire stared at him a moment in disbelief, before answering, "Yes."

Enjolras's shoulders flagged as the tension in his posture departed. The change left him looking limp and small with relief, as though all the adrenaline that had been keeping him functioning thus far had left him with Grantaire's answer. 

Grantaire had yet to move past the shock of it all himself, but he could tell by the relief in Enjolras's features that the admission had been a challenge for him, and that Grantaire's acceptance had not been a foregone conclusion in Enjolras's mind.

"Your things –" Grantaire began, then trailed off, still struggling for words.

"Downstairs in the porter's sitting room. Combeferre helped me remove them discreetly." Enjolras removed his coat at last, then added, with a wry smile entirely at odds with the oppressive, suffocated feeling that had taken root in Grantaire's chest. "I suspect she didn't wish to have them cluttering up the hall along with my person."

That observation almost succeeded in drawing some dry amusement out of Grantaire in spite of everything, which made him feel mildly delirious. "I will help you bring them up."

Enjolras nodded; Grantaire lurched inelegantly to his feet again, finding his legs still in working order despite their leaden feeling.

As Enjolras was about to step out into the hallway Grantaire reached for him, catching him by the elbow without any thought as to what he meant by it. Enjolras turned to face him; his arm felt lax in Grantaire's loose grip. 

Grantaire studied his features, uncertain what he hoped to find; Enjolras's eyes were the pale, washed-out blue of a cloudless winter sky, their whites lined with visible redness. He was ashen-faced, his familiar features drained of their usual colour; his lips were a pale, chalky pink, and drawn into a terse, thin line. The shadows beneath his cheekbones seemed more hollow than ever, for the drawn, solemn look he was still wearing.

Grantaire wanted to put his arms around him, to squeeze him tightly to his chest and bury his face in his shoulder. He managed an awkward half-embrace instead, pressing the flat of his palm to the curve of Enjolras's spine. 

"I am glad you are safe," he uttered into Enjolras's hair - Enjolras did not return the hug so much as pat him gingerly on the back in return, but he did rest his chin on Grantaire's shoulder for a moment, leaning against him for a brief span of seconds before he straightened up once more.

When he withdrew he nodded, but said nothing further on the matter. Grantaire wished he could put his own fears aside that easily.

Enjolras seemed to relax a little, after that; evidently their conversation had alleviated a little of his concern, or else he was simply too weary to worry further. The rest of the afternoon was spent treading up and down the stairs with Enjolras's belongings; most of the trips involved hauling crates of books into Grantaire's studio, where they stacked them precariously against the far wall, beside the window. There were only two small valises devoted to Enjolras's other possessions, and a long, rolled up tablecloth with something solid at its core. Grantaire knew better than to ask what was inside.   

Grantaire had never had a houseguest bring so much luggage with him before, and was at a loss as to where to put it all. He offered Enjolras half the use of the trunk at the foot of his bed, and found in the corner of his studio, beneath a pile of half-prepared canvases, a small folding table that would serve to place his bags on while he emptied them.

He lingered, unhelpfully, at Enjolras's side while he unpacked, fighting the urge to open the one bottle of wine he had squirrelled away somewhere. It was infuriating how calm Enjolras was about the matter, how nonchalant he appeared in the face of a threat to his own safety.

Grantaire wasn't sure what he had expected Enjolras to own – weapons, probably, an abundance of republican tracts and forbidden texts… the severed, pickled head of Louis XVI, perhaps. Instead, his possessions proved to consist of an alarmingly vast number of books, mostly of history and philosophy; a modest amount of clothing, most of which Grantaire had seen before on multiple occasions; writing implements and papers; articles of the toilette and other mundane necessities. His unpacking revealed hardly any of the trinkets that one might commonly find accumulating in most bourgeois homes, even the temporary ones.

"Is this all you own?" Grantaire asked, when much of Enjolras's possessions were laid out on the bed before them, awaiting a new home.

"Yes," Enjolras answered, in a tone that implied 'what else would I need?'

Enjolras's linen went in the chest at the foot of the bed, beside Grantaire's; his waistcoats and trousers in the chest of drawers beneath the small window that looked out onto a little-used passageway beneath. As he was in the midst of stowing away his shirts, Grantaire watched him hesitate with one in his hands. He placed it back on the bed, and unfurled it, revealing a small gilt frame. Grantaire's interest was piqued; the frame looked re-purposed, the gold leaf at its edges was worn away, exposing the red paint beneath. Inside it was a tiny painting, barely the size of a handbill. Enjolras glanced at it for a brief moment, then placed it back inside the otherwise empty valise. Grantaire didn't get a good enough view of the painting to discern its subject matter, only a glimpse of green as Enjolras tucked it out of sight; he wouldn't pry, despite the intense curiosity it awoke in him. He had never pictured Enjolras as a man that might own a work of art, no matter how small and unobtrusive; yet another inconsistency to add to the ever growing list in Grantaire's mind.

The valise, now no longer required, went under the bed with Grantaire's own empty cases. That done, Enjolras turned his attention to the books, which Grantaire felt better able to help him with. Together, they found a more suitable place for the crates to go, some beside his own bookshelf, the others in an out of the way corner among his studio props.

There was little overlap in their collections, only a few works of ancient history – Enjolras did own a translated volume of the Iliad, which Grantaire found curious; poetry was another object he never would have expected to find among Enjolras's possessions. He felt a vague twinge of guilt at the fact he had spent so long thinking of Enjolras as a philistine in artistic matters; he was deeply intelligent, and erudite, in matters that interested him. Perhaps he shouldn't have found it so surprising after all. 

He might have expected Enjolras to bring a whole cache of guns with him, but he glimpsed only one, in the form of the stock of an elegant hunting rifle, as it slid free of its wrapping, confirming Grantaire's suspicions as to what the old tablecloth had concealed. He would have preferred not to have it in his rooms, but he resolved to try to put it from his mind, as Enjolras tucked it out of sight beneath the bed.

There was a subtle tension between them for the rest of the afternoon as they returned to their usual routine, to a silence broken only by Grantaire's offer to fetch dinner for them, and the polite stating of preferences that followed. Neither of them ate much of the braised beef and cooked vegetables that Grantaire acquired for them – in Grantaire's case because he still felt sick with worry. Their leftovers would keep until tomorrow.

Dusk brought a slightly warmer tint to the grey sky, slowly darkening into a rich, unbroken black; there were no stars tonight, and the moon was rendered weak and dim by cloud cover. 

It was far earlier than Enjolras would commonly choose to leave when he began yawning in his seat and slouching further in his chair. He gave up any attempt to continue working not long after that, and they had run out of conversation between them already, now that there was no natural end to the evening to mark the rhythm of their words by.

Grantaire went to change behind the screen first, digging out a night shirt from the base of his trunk. Ordinarily he slept in the same shirt he had been wearing all day, or naked in warmer seasons, but this time he had company. He changed the sheets too, while he was at it; he couldn't remember how long it had been since he last did so. When he had removed his trousers he attempted to lighten the wine stains on them with a little water from the basin, beat the creases out of them and hung them over the back of the armchair to dry.

That done, he poked his head around the edge of the screen to ask Enjolras if he wished for privacy. Enjolras shrugged in response; he looked dead on his feet, and seemed entirely indifferent, so Grantaire went to his washstand instead while Enjolras changed behind him. 

He averted his gaze as he polished his teeth and washed his face, wondering simultaneously if he ought to change his underwear habits while Enjolras was here as well; he rarely bothered with small clothes for reasons other than warmth unless the cut of his trousers dictated it, for decency's sake. He had discarded the woollen drawers he had been wearing out of sheer habit – would Enjolras still be here when it was warm enough to do without them?

He glanced in Enjolras's direction only when he was beginning to brush his hair, and found him sitting on the edge of the bed, wriggling out of a long pair of woollen drawers, similar to his own. A brief flash of white buttocks as Enjolras stood was enough to dissuade him from overthinking the matter further, and make him turn away again, feeling suddenly very hot and more than a little flustered, and trying very hard not to think about the fact that Enjolras was now bare beneath his nightshirt.

He avoided looking at him as he said, "I'll see to the locks –" and left Enjolras to perform his own ablutions. He bolted both door and shutters, put out the candles in his studio and banked the fire, leaving only a single lamp by the bed and the taper in his hand burning. The soft sounds of Enjolras's movements seemed loud in the silence, echoing in the gloom. 

When next he chanced a look at him, Enjolras was sitting in his bed with the sheets pulled up to his chest, in the yellow circle of light cast by the oil lamp at its side. He held a book open in his hands, and was frowning intently at its pages. The low, ruffled collar of his nightshirt exposed the long, elegant line of his throat; the marks Grantaire had left on it had long faded, yet Grantaire couldn't help but stare, and think of his mouth on it; of the muscles of that neck moving as Enjolras swallowed, and of the feel of his pulse beating harsh beneath the skin. 

He swallowed, thickly, and pulled back the corner of the sheets. The mattress dipped as he settled in the cool space beside him, and pulled the corner of the covers up over himself. Enjolras closed the book, and turned his head to regard him.

"What are you reading?" Grantaire asked, nodding towards the book. He couldn't discern the title beneath Enjolras's fingers.

"Nothing important," Enjolras answered, making to set the book aside. 

Grantaire was about to make a jest on the topic of Enjolras plotting to overthrow the government even in bed, when he glimpsed the gold lettering on the book's spine, and recognised it as the copy of the Iliad he had noticed earlier. 

"Enjolras, were you reading for pleasure just now?" Grantaire asked, shocked out of tact and delighted at the idea that they just might have an intellectual interest in common after all. 

"I suppose so," Enjolras said, after a pause, as though the thought surprised him.

Grantaire bit his tongue on a comment concerning other things he might do in bed for that, and said instead, "You must tell me what you make of it when you've finished it." The pages of the book were all cut, indicating that someone at least had read it cover to cover before. Grantaire didn't wish to presume; the book may well be second hand.

"I read it before, once, years ago now."

"Did you like it?"

"As far as I recall." Enjolras turned away from him then, tucking the closed book beneath the bolster and sinking further into the mattress, pulling the blankets up to his shoulders as he lay down beside Grantaire. 

Grantaire marvelled at the thought of Enjolras reading poetry, however ancient and full of strife. He marvelled, also, at the sight of Enjolras's bleary features in the dim light, the soft whiteness of his nightshirt and the softer yellow of his hair, freshly brushed and as puffy as down feathers for it.

"Did you?" Enjolras asked, turning towards him once more, one cheek buried in the pillow beneath.

"What?"

"Like it?"

Grantaire hesitated on his own answer. He had liked it enough for it to serve as a source of artistic inspiration once, when he'd been amateur enough to choose his own subject matter, before his relationship to tales of battle had soured in the wake of experience; he'd rather lost his taste for war and tragedy since. He had gained an emotional clarity that made it hit closer to home in its place – which was proof of its author's mastery, in a way. "Yes," he answered, because it was easier than explaining the truth. 

Now they were making small talk in bed like a married couple. Enjolras gave a soft, thoughtful hum, and closed his eyes. Grantaire shifted, settling deeper into the bolster at his back, unable to take his eyes off Enjolras's features, half hidden by the pillow.

Enjolras moved beside him, shifting onto his side until he faced the wall, his back to Grantaire. "Good night," he uttered, sleepily, and said nothing further. 

It was undoubtedly for the best; Grantaire would not have been able to bring himself to snuff out the candle otherwise.

Trying to fall asleep with Enjolras beside him proved to be a new kind of pleasurable torment. Grantaire was acutely aware of how little space there was between them, terrified of accidentally brushing against him as he changed position, afraid of disturbing him by shifting too much, too often, or of getting too close. Enjolras was motionless on his side of the bed, in the same deathly stillness Grantaire had witnessed the last and only other time he had slept here; but his body was warm beside Grantaire's, in welcome contrast to the chill air at his own back. 

It had been a long time since he had had the concurrent sensory delights of clean, fresh smelling sheets, and the warmth of having a companion beside him. The agony of knowing that that companion was Enjolras was a novel experience. 

Enjolras seemed to fall asleep almost as soon as his head had hit the pillow. Grantaire wondered, uncomfortably, how much sleep he had managed the previous night. Not much, he suspected. He stared at the vague outline of Enjolras in the dark, a paler shadow than those around him, and listened to the faint sounds of his breath, over the pounding of his own racing heart; it seemed so loud in his own ears that he feared Enjolras must be able to hear it, but Enjolras did not stir.

He wanted to cross the distance between them; to put his arms around Enjolras and hold him tight. Instead, he let the steady, shallow rhythm of Enjolras's breathing wash over him, as he slowly drifted…

-

Enjolras awoke in the night, in momentary disorientation at finding the wall on the wrong side of his bed as his feet made contact with something cold and hard. The brief flash of panic as he recalled his police tail passed as quickly as it had come; prison cells did not commonly come equipped with goose down mattresses. The mattress beneath him shifted; there was someone beside him. 

He was in Grantaire's bed, and the low noise he had mistaken for a roll of distant thunder had been the snore that had prompted Grantaire to shift onto his side. Enjolras, feeling the night's chill seeping through the stone and mortar beside him, rolled over himself, seeking the warmth at his back. It was still dark outside; the only evidence of light in the room were the faint silver-green bars of moonlight seeping through the gaps in the shutters. He couldn't make out Grantaire's features in the gloom, but he was breathing more easily now, a quiet, steady snuffling sound.

Enjolras sighed, still heavy-limbed from sleep and unwilling to move further. He felt drained, and numb both physically and in feeling; but beneath that numbness there was relief, also. The mattress was soft beneath him, and seemed to pull him into that softness; he was comfortable to the point of inertia.

The covers jerked unexpectedly as Grantaire flinched in his sleep; his body spasmed as he reached for something, catching and curling his fingers into the billow of Enjolras's sleeve, just beneath his wrist, pinning Enjolras in place by his own shirt cuff; Enjolras had no will left to untangle himself.

He inched closer, and closed his eyes again.

Chapter Text

VIII.

A warm hearth, and the hum of voices around him: these comforts were familiar to Grantaire, as was the room around him, ill defined and ever shifting as it was; as the shadows cast by the fire changed shape, so too the walls seemed to bend to fit them. What stood out to him as strange was Enjolras's hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently as he spoke – familiar words that passed through Grantaire's mind without ever resolving into something coherent. He recognised it as a call to action, and swallowed mouthful after mouthful of wine to quiet the treacherous voice in the back of his mind that wanted him to scream 'It'll never work'. The room darkened as Enjolras's words battered him as the tide slowly beats back the shoreline, and outside the sky turned the grey of the ash in the hearth. He looked around to find his friends had gone. The hand on his shoulder had released him, too - Enjolras had vanished with it.

Unease followed confusion; where was everyone? Grantaire rose, and walked through the open doorway of the Musain – or was it the Corinthe? The Musain's backroom had no hatch in the floor, but it was a different shape – and out into the street below.

Rain lashed the cobbles, falling with such ferocity that the droplets bounced off the paving slabs and leapt into the air, yet Grantaire could not feel them touch him. There was a commotion in the street, a horse running loose without its rider, and bodies littering the path ahead of him. He was too late.

He knew far too many of their faces, now waxy and pale and lying stricken in pools of blood. He reached for the nearest of them – Bahorel, still smiling and pressing one palm to his breast in a gesture of patriotic rapture. Grantaire couldn't bear to look at him, but his body wouldn't respond to his urge to turn away; he felt as though he was moving through a fog so thick it was a physical presence. 

There were shouts ahead, and he turned his head sharply towards the source of the sound. 

His heart leapt at the sight of yellow hair, and a deep-blue frock coat.

Enjolras stood at the street's end, beneath a titanic heap of paving stones; twenty feet high and counting, the men before him were passing stones up to its summit, busy in the task of blocking the end of the street. Of walling them all into this tomb.

"Enjolras –" Grantaire called, but the fog was so thick his voice did not reach his own ears. He hurried towards him; Enjolras turned to him as he did so, and Grantaire shivered in horror at the sight that greeted him.

Enjolras had always been pale - a consequence of spending too much time at his desk, and too little out in the sun – but now he was bloodless. There was a long, gaping hole on one side of his face where a rifle shot must have obliterated half of his cheek. His lips were a thin, parched line, and entirely drained of colour. He looked dead already – blank eyed and skeletally-hollow, a revenant risen to finish the task he'd failed at in life. The only part of him that still held its colour was his hair, which shifted as he moved as though lifted by some undetectable breeze. Grantaire reached for it, desperate for some solid point to cling to; desperate to know how much of this was real. Enjolras's golden curls came away in his hands, fell through his fingers and scattered on the wet cobbles around him. When he glanced after them he realised the front of his own shirt was wet with blood.

Grantaire jerked himself out of sleep for as long as it took to recognise that he was dreaming, and clutched a fist full of the covers before he was pulled under again.

His dreams remained troubled after that, though none managed to match the dread of seeing all his friends dead; of seeing Enjolras beyond dead, animated only by unfulfilled purpose. He did not truly approach awareness again until the morning light began to break through the shutters, when, still half-dreaming, he stirred, and felt someone stir beside him in turn. 

As the finer details of his nightmares began to slip through his figures like the fleeting oblivion of opium smoke, he opened his eyes to find Enjolras in his bed, tow-headed and sleep-soft. Enjolras's face was inches away from his own, and he was regarding him lazily with one half-lidded eye, the other obscured by the creases in the pillow that separated them. Something of Grantaire's surprise to find his presence had not been the after-image of his imagination must have shown in his features, for Enjolras's brow tensed in an uncertain expression. Grantaire recognised the concern in his gaze as the incipient worry that he might be unwelcome; for his part, Grantaire was merely surprised that Enjolras had not vanished with the dawn, as Cephalus was carried off by Eos. 

"Good morning," Grantaire said, with a half-smile intended to soothe Enjolras's fears, and let his eyes drift closed again. He had moved closer to Enjolras in the night, or Enjolras had moved closer to him; there was alarmingly little space between them, but Grantaire did not yet feel capable of moving enough to rectify their arrangement.

"You are cold." Enjolras's voice was fogged with sleep, his words a little slurred, and Grantaire became aware that the cold sweats that plagued him whenever he awoke painfully sober had returned. He was shivering; the covers had fallen away from his chest and pooled at his waist, but he was sweating profusely, despite the cold. 

He opened his eyes again, and realised that in place of the covers he was gripping the loose fabric of Enjolras's sleeve in one closed fist. He released him immediately with an apologetic frown, and shrank back into his own space, retreating to his side of the bed.

"It's fine," he croaked, rubbing his hand over his face to hide his embarrassment at the imposition. "An after-effect of the wine I had with breakfast yesterday – it will pass." It wasn't a new sensation, but it was one he had had to contend with more frequently of late, now that he no longer kept himself in a near permanent state of intoxication.

Enjolras bit his lip on whatever he'd meant to say in return. His brow wrinkled further as his frown deepened. He reached across the space between them; Grantaire barely concealed a flinch in response, uncertain what he expected beyond a vague, lingering sense of dread, but Enjolras's hand, when it made contact with his forehead, was warm, and very much alive. Grantaire gazed at him with half-closed eyes, as Enjolras brushed his hair away from his forehead, then pressed his palm to it – checking for fever, some external narrator inside Grantaire's own thoughts observed. He closed his eyes again, breathing slowly and trying to focus on the feel of Enjolras's hand against his brow, on the light pressure of his fingertips as he traced the shape of his hairline, tucked a strand of hair behind his ear; Grantaire did not move, afraid of startling Enjolras into realising what he was doing, and how unprecedented it was. His own hands lay clenched between them, itching to reach out for something – 

Enjolras's fingertips grazed the stubble on his cheek, then his hand was gone, and the covers shifted around him as Enjolras withdrew, clambering over Grantaire's legs and off the side of the bed, leaving an abundance of cold air in his empty place. Grantaire opened his eyes and rolled onto his back, turning his head to see Enjolras standing beside the bed with his back to it.

Grantaire could tell by the stiffness in his posture that he was freezing; outside the warmth of the covers the air was bracingly cold, and the fire's residual heat had long since departed.

"Take my housecoat," Grantaire said, gesturing to where it hung on a hook by his washstand when Enjolras turned to face him. The look on Enjolras's face was peculiar, and a little alarmed; he looked rather like a rabbit scenting the air, wide-eyed and bolt upright.

"I can't take yours –"

"I have another." Grantaire quelled Enjolras's protest, propping himself half-upright on his elbows and nodding towards the trunk. 

Enjolras stared at him a moment longer, biting his lip as he so often did to silence himself, then did as suggested. He moved stiffly towards the washstand, took the housecoat off the peg and slipped it on. It became immediately apparent that the sleeves were too short for him, but the shoulders fit well enough, and its colours rather suited him: a striped cotton in dark tones of red, orange and purple, with a collar of deep red velvet and matching cuffs. It proved too short in length too as he buttoned it across his chest and fastened the belt at his waist. His stockings had slipped in the night, bunching around his ankles and exposing the shape of his calves; the pale yellow hair that veiled them still half-surprised Grantaire, being proof that he was a man of flesh and blood and not a particularly lifelike portrait.

Some realisations took much getting used to. Grantaire stared, and considered, what now?

"Thank you," Enjolras said, then went to see to the fire. He knelt before the grate and began shovelling the cool ashes into the dulled copper pail, prodding the warm coals beneath into position and adding new fuel.

Grantaire slumped back into the pillows and folded his arms behind his head; he stared up at the flaking ceiling, trying to ignore the renewed ache that seemed to lodge itself in his chest each precious time Enjolras was tender to him. 

If either of them had ever been keeping score of whose turn it was to buy breakfast, both had lost track by now. Grantaire beat Enjolras to it; he was not quite willing to let him go wandering the streets alone just yet. He would have to come to terms with the risks sooner rather than later, but he could live in denial an hour more yet.

He dressed hastily when the room was a more reasonable temperature to leave the warmth of the sheets behind, and left Enjolras at his washstand with the promise to be as quick as he could.

He searched the faces he passed for any signs of traitorous intent, but had no notion of what he ought to be looking for; the constant assessing and balancing of risk the others lived with wasn't part of his world. He was ignored by all he passed, though the streets were already beginning to bustle with people beginning their day. He fumbled with his coin purse as he paid for their bread, trying to scrape together enough loose change for it; the baker was the same mix of jovial and harsh as ever, bellowing at a delivery boy like a former sous-officier that still hadn't put the army behind him as he left.

Enjolras had made their coffee by the time he returned. He had dressed in Grantaire's absence, but had resumed the housecoat in place of his waistcoat; the front of it gaped open as he leant across the table to pour their cups, exposing a white shirt-front that was only partially-buttoned.

Grantaire turned away from the sight, and busied himself in taking off his coat and shoes. 

As they were midway through their breakfast there was a knock at the door. Enjolras visibly stiffened at the sound, almost flinching as he froze with his cup halfway to his mouth. Grantaire frowned at the sight of Enjolras's discomfort, then at the chipped rust-brown paint on the back of his closed door.

He did not wish to answer it. He had received several polite reminders that his rent was due over the past week, and had been dragging his heels on paying it as the difficulties he had yet to overcome in completing his current commission had become increasingly apparent. He would need to make the deposit last; sitting down to work on it filled him with the same sense of inadequacy and looming dread that sitting among his peers in Gros's atelier used to give him, comparing his own hard-won skills to their natural talent and ease that seemed to make their art come as naturally to them as breathing. He hadn't felt his own fraudulence so acutely in a long while.

Those facts explained his own hesitancy, but it did not explain Enjolras's reaction. A glance at Enjolras's expression made it perfectly plain: Enjolras had not forgotten his police tail. There was a deep crease between his eyebrows, and Grantaire watched his eyes dart towards the screen, towards the gun concealed beneath his bed.

His own problems seemed utterly trivial in comparison. 

"I'll get it," he said, with a significant glance to Enjolras intended to seek his assent. Enjolras nodded, already continuing the motion of taking a sip as if nothing had troubled him. The gesture seemed stiff and self-conscious now.

The knock proved to be none more threatening than the porter; she had come to ask if they would be wanting hot water for a bath that afternoon. Grantaire had been about to say no, wondering why she had bothered to ask him this time when he'd never expressed much enthusiasm for the notion before, when Enjolras shifted in the corner of his vision. He glanced at him in query, and noted that his interest seemed piqued.

Grantaire said yes for his benefit, and bolted the door behind her, just in case.

He felt a pang of guilt at the fact his first thought on hearing a knock at the door hadn't been for Enjolras's situation; it had been for the contents of his purse. But why hadn't it been about rent? And why hadn't she said anything about the fact Enjolras had, quite clearly, become more than a temporary fixture of his apartment? He glanced at Enjolras with suspicion as he was about to resume his seat, and found him gazing back at him with his coffee raised to his lips. The tilt of his chin coupled with Grantaire's half-standing position made his eyes appear large, and startlingly innocent. 

"I took the liberty of arranging to pay half while I'm here," Enjolras explained, then turned his attention back to his cup.

Grantaire was unsure whether he ought to be offended or grateful at the gesture. Except it was Enjolras, so it wasn't a gesture at all, merely logic. He couldn't fault him for it – it was fair.

Grantaire wondered, briefly, what his landlady had made of the arrangement. She wouldn't assume they were lovers; who in their right mind would believe he could seduce a man like Enjolras? Even if she had noticed the varied nature of the people he had bought home in the past, and thus discerned his sexual inclinations… She was, undeniably, a lady of class and impeccable manners, to have ignored his indiscretions so entirely all this time.

The interruption aside, breakfast was a quiet, efficient affair. Enjolras lost no time in moving to the writing desk with what remained of his coffee, though he did spend a little longer than usual staring at the fresh, blank sheet of paper before him before he dipped his pen in the inkwell at his side.

Grantaire stared at the open pages of his sketchbook in turn, and tried to summon the will to begin the task of forming the disparate and half-finished drawings into a recognisable whole. He ought to have begun the underdrawing for the final portrait by now – the sooner he applied himself to it the sooner he could be rid of it, in theory – but his mind refused to obey his efforts at spurring himself into action. He hated every second spent contemplating the task, and hated himself for his own inability to act like the professional he sold himself as. He wanted to draw something – anything – else, and right in front of him sat the most pressing temptation of all, wearing his housecoat.

What would it be like to paint Enjolras? He had studied him enough that he might have done so from memory by now, but nothing compared to the advantage or the intimacy of having a live subject sit for him. 

He had painted a man that looked a little like him once, years ago now. A man with similar yellow hair and youthful features, though with a much softer bone structure beneath his less defined features, and muddy green eyes the colour of mulched grass in place of Enjolras's sharp, brilliant blue. He had met the man in a discreet club a few streets away from the gardens of the Palais Royal, and in a moment of weakness paid him to sit for him. He had not been brave enough to pay for further services, though the offer had been implicit from the circumstances of their acquaintance. Accepting that offer had felt too close to besmirching something sacred; he suspected he would have been too paranoid that Enjolras might somehow detect his trespass and smite him for it to keep it up, had he tried to go through with the deed. 

There was something too precious about the feelings Enjolras inspired in him for prostituting them towards selfishly-sought release to feel right, even back then. Enjolras had always exerted some indescribable power over him that made him want to be a better version of himself, no matter how lost that particular cause had felt, and despite showing no signs that he was even aware of the effect he had on Grantaire. 

He had paid many people over the years to sit for him, whenever he was embarking on a subject matter that required it; when none of his friends fit the part and when no other willing subjects were forthcoming, or when the scenario would have been too embarrassing to suggest to someone who wasn't a stranger to him.

Had anyone painted Enjolras before? It wasn't as unlikely as it seemed, based on what little he knew of Enjolras's upbringing. 

It would be obvious even if speaking of their own class and upbringing had been proscribed in the Musain that Enjolras's parents had been wealthy. The way he carried himself, the innate, quiet confidence with which he navigated the world around him and the impeccable social manners he was capable of drawing on when it suited him to do so were abundant proof of good-breeding, and no lack of resources spared towards a proper education. As much as Enjolras might go to great pains to empathise with the concerns of men like Feuilly that worked hard to make their own way in this world, or those that didn't, but still bore the stubborn working-class pride of their modest upbringings – the Bahorels and Lesgles of the world – he could never be one of them. 

Courfeyrac bore his own fortuitous upbringing in turns as a badge of shame he would rather excise as he had the particle from his surname, and a shield he could use to deflect suspicion or cushion those he cared for against dire financial difficulties, as the mood took him, but he made no effort to hide the fact that he enjoyed the finer things in life. Enjolras simply ignored his, unless it was beneficial to the cause for him to do otherwise.

It was highly likely Enjolras's parents had more in common with many of Grantaire's patrons than he would like to admit. He must still be getting an allowance from somewhere if he was willing to share Grantaire's rent – Grantaire had never heard him speak of being employed, and couldn't fathom where he would find the time to be if he needed the money. The articles he wrote for various republican journals couldn't possibly pay well enough to count, if at all – most of their subscription fees went to paying off the various fines their contents attracted. Perhaps his father was still paying for his education, despite the strained nature of their relationship; Grantaire had never heard him speak of his mother, or of any other family. Grantaire had eaten through the inheritance his Grandfather had left him in order to finish his own education long ago. He wasn't prepared to press Enjolras on the subject at present, but he was curious. 

He also wasn't making any progress towards beginning the painting, so he submitted to that curiosity, if only a little:

"Have you ever sat for a portrait? Formally, I mean – my sketches aside."

Enjolras paused in his writing and looked up. "Once, when I was small. I think the artist was a friend of my mother's." Enjolras hesitated for a moment, frowning, then he smiled a wistful half smile, as though recalling a memory he hadn't known he possessed. "I hated having to sit still long enough. I don't think I was very well behaved at the time. I looked rather cross in the finished portrait."

Grantaire felt staggered at that; it shouldn't be a surprise, but he couldn't make the thought fit in his head alongside everything he knew of Enjolras as a man. It was difficult to imagine the notion of Enjolras ever having been a child at all – he ought to have sprung forth fully formed from the soil of France like Athena from Zeus's forehead; Apollo transformed from babe to man at his first taste of ambrosia.

Enjolras had looked no more than twenty for as long as Grantaire had known him, permanently caught between the final awkward throes of puberty that had given him his last few inches in height and the ruin of time that followed, like the tall head of a flower unweathered by the season. It was an oversight that Grantaire hadn't noticed him age as he himself had done, but perhaps a forgivable one; his face was a little thinner than it had been at twenty-two, but his cheeks were still as smooth as a woman's. He must be at least twenty-five by now; Grantaire didn't know his birthday, but he could measure the passage of time by the ache in his own fingers, by the knot in his spine that never quite untangled itself. 

He would have to paint him himself one day, if only to have something to remember him by; to prove that Enjolras had been more than an allegory concocted in his own imagination, once those that knew him were no longer left to bear witness. 

At present, the task of doing justice to Enjolras as he saw him seemed too great. It was that prospect that finally motivated him to roll out a larger sheet of paper, and begin mapping the proportions of his sketches onto a larger scale. Practice was practice.

It was late afternoon when the porter knocked again, in order to tell them that the hot water was ready.

Grantaire couldn't remember the last time he had bothered to bathe at home; it felt far too extravagant to put anyone to the trouble of filling a tub for him, when a basin of water and a cloth did the same job with far less fanfare. There were plenty of public bathhouses he could make use of if he really needed one, or the bathing boats by the pont Marie or the pont Royal. He had used to go to those as student – he had never sketched there for obvious reasons, but the communal pools were a useful place to observe a variety of bodies in less clothing than society commonly permitted. 

The bath he currently owned had only ever been intended for use as a studio prop. He had bought it second-hand off a friend from the atelier who had sold his second home in the city, and thus no longer required much of the apartment's furnishings. It was larger than was entirely practical, with a battered, rolled rim and a hole near its base that had been roughly soldered shut. He had found some creative uses for it other than its previous purpose; he was not entirely convinced that it would stay watertight with more frequent use.

With Enjolras's aid, he rolled the hearth rug aside, shifted enough of his studio props to retrieve the tub and placed it beside the fire, while the porter and a burly, thick-forearmed man he recognised vaguely as being in his landlady's employ bought up two casks: one of hot water and one of cold. Enjolras thanked them, while Grantaire rifled through the pile of large heavy-cotton sheets he kept to cover the furnishings when painting at scale, searching for the cleanest one with which to line the rough interior of the tub.

He left Enjolras to it after that, drawing the screen across to give him his privacy. He returned to his work, and tried to force the fact that Enjolras was naked not five paces away from him to the back of his mind.

-

Enjolras had always liked baths; he liked the uncomplicated quiet of sitting alone with his thoughts, coupled with the practicality of getting clean. He understood why the Romans were so fond of them; the austere splendour of the ancient thermae had been an egalitarian luxury that few secular spaces had achieved since, if accounts were to be believed. It was a pleasant way to clear his head, and work though any arguments he was having trouble articulating if writing was proving insufficient.

The water was hotter than the porter at his previous apartment had ever achieved; steam rose from its surface and met the cooler air, making the room feel humid and the air close and thick. Enjolras retrieved his own soap from the basin, divested himself of Grantaire's housecoat and his own clothing, folded and placed them on the back of Grantaire's armchair, then dipped the tips of his toes gingerly into the water. It felt almost scalding in contrast to the temperature of his feet, but he could bear it, and the heat was more inviting than the air around him, so he stepped over the rim of the tub and lowered himself incrementally into it.

The heat of the water was just shy of unpleasant at first, but he relaxed into it as his body slowly acclimated to its temperature. The bath was large enough that he could almost fully straighten his legs in a seated position. He leant against the wall of the tub and closed his eyes, letting out a quiet sigh. His back and shoulders ached from hunching over his writing, but not as badly as he was used to after sleeping in Grantaire's bed. His mattress was far more comfortable than the one in his old apartment had been. His right wrist was sore too, from gripping his pen; he pressed the fingers of his left hand between the long bones of his forearm and the smaller bones of his hand, massaging them idly as he sat and soaked.

Grantaire's willingness to accommodate this particular excess was kind of him, as was his generosity in allowing him to stay. He was far too accommodating in general, and it troubled Enjolras that he did not know how to repay him for his hospitality, aside from shouldering his share of the cost. He heard the faint intermittent sounds of Grantaire shifting about the other half of the room, humming snatches of songs Enjolras couldn't name, but they did not disturb him. Aside from those reminders of Grantaire's presence, all he could hear was the crackling of the fire and the movement of the water, as he dipped the yellow bar of soap into it and rubbed it between his hands. It was perfumed with lavender to mask the less-pleasant smell of the fats it contained, but it did the job of washing the oil and sweat away, and the fresh, clean scent was quite pleasant, if a little jarring to the senses.

The transition had been easier than he could have possibly hoped, despite the sense of trepidation he would not permit himself to dwell on. He hadn't slept that well in months; he had been so utterly exhausted the previous night that sleep had felt as inevitable and inescapable as death from the moment he had lain down in Grantaire's bed. 

The incident with the police tail felt like days ago now; the feeling of safety and familiar comfort Grantaire's room inspired in him made the danger seem a distant, over-aggrandised threat, barely real at all and incapable of reaching him here. It was a false feeling of security, he knew; but he had taken the necessary precautions, and Combeferre had not expressed any concerns he had not already considered himself; he hoped he had done enough to make himself difficult to find. This building felt like a different world, despite being barely ten minutes on foot from his previous lodgings: old stone, a courtyard filled with ivy surrounding an ancient tree, a room full of knickknacks and colour and personality. The cracks in the ceiling and the damp, leafy smell when it rained reminded him of home.

The housecoat was too much and he really ought to give it back. Grantaire had offered it as though it wasn't of any particular significance, and perhaps it shouldn't have been, but its smell reminded Enjolras of Grantaire, and of the way his bed sheets had smelled before –

It was troubling how much he liked it. He couldn't place his finger on exactly what he wanted from Grantaire, nor could he spare too much thought towards it at present. Their current situation was one he could navigate with care, but each time he tried to think further ahead he lost his usual ability to see the future clearly, as though he was trying to introduce a new piece to the whole that couldn't quite fit. It was a problem for another time.

If he wanted more – how much harm could it do?

He felt the beads of sweat forming on his brow and upper lip; he set the bar of soap aside, and lifted a handful of water to pour over his face. 

A floorboard creaked somewhere on the other side of the room, startling him out of his thoughts.

"Enjolras?" Grantaire called, tentatively, shuffling; Enjolras could hear him moving towards the other side of the screen.

"Mm?" 

"Can I come in?"

He realised as he considered his answer how far he had allowed himself to sink down into the tub, relaxing into the warmth; the water was almost at his collarbones. He pushed himself upright, ran a hand through his damp hair to move it away from his forehead and folded in on himself, primly, making certain he was not overtly exposing himself. "Yes."

Grantaire's head, followed by the rest of him, appeared around the edge of the screen. He was making a deliberate show of not looking at Enjolras, gazing instead in turns at the hearth rug rolled against the wall, at the orange fireplace and the unmade bed behind him. "I wanted to ask when you wanted to eat," he said, glancing at last at Enjolras's face, then past him once more. "I was thinking of putting the leftovers over the fire."

When the second night passed with no trouble Enjolras was tired of being fearful and bored of being careful. He had not been anywhere near as tired as he had been the previous night when they had gone to bed, and so had been more aware of Grantaire's movements, how restless he was in the night, but he hadn't minded. It was pleasant to have company beside him, someone present that might wake easily enough to give warning if they were disturbed by those that sought him, and he was very warm.

He could not ascertain for certain how safe his situation truly was unless he was prepared to step outside his self-imposed exile, to push against the newly-tightened boundaries he was operating within – gently, and with an abundance of caution; but inaction had never been something he was capable of for very long. He restrained himself because he must – and because he couldn't do this alone.

He woke early, and dressed as Grantaire was still dozing behind him. He was putting on his shoes by the time Grantaire surfaced from sleep with a sigh and a creaking of the bed frame as he rolled over. He did not give Grantaire room to protest as he insisted on going out for their breakfast; Grantaire made a groggy, offended noise, opening and closing his mouth around the counterargument he was not yet alert enough to voice, but he did not try to stop him.

Enjolras's trip to the bakery a few streets away yielded half a dozen small, hard-crusted rolls and some unexpected news. He had never been inside this particular establishment before, though he had passed it often on his way between Grantaire's and the Musain, preferring instead to bring breakfast for them from the tiny bakery on the rue de la Harpe that stood halfway between Grantaire's place and his own. This bakery was larger, brighter, and attended by a loud, barrel-chested man who soon proved an eager gossip, despite his rather confrontational manner. He spoke in salacious tones of a group of republicans that had been caught in the act of attempting to set fire to the towers of Notre-Dame the previous night.

"Red-handed and red-hatted, or so they say." The baker beamed at his own turn of phrase and tapped his nose, sagely; Enjolras noted that it was shiny with sweat from the heat of his ovens. He did not ask who 'they' were. 

He would check in with some contacts to see if they knew anything of it later; the papers that had made it to the stands would have gone to their presses too early to have anything to say on the matter.

When he returned he found Grantaire sitting at his table with two cups of coffee, several sketches laid out beside him and wearing the promised second housecoat. This housecoat was of a pieced blue silk that might have been destined for life as a gentleman's suit some forty years ago; judging by the seam placement it had been reworked into the housecoat from a previous form. There were several paint stains on its sleeves, a quirk it had in common with much of Grantaire's other clothes.

Enjolras did not own a housecoat himself; he very rarely had the time or the inclination to sit around in his nightshirt, but it was colder in Grantaire's room than his own had been, meaning the additional layer no longer felt like a superfluous excess.

He relayed the news of the fire over breakfast, hoping to ascertain from Grantaire's response if he knew whether the baker's sources were likely to be trustworthy. Enjolras knew former-military men when he saw them, and had not wished to seem too curious in case the man was of the officious, authoritarian variety.

Grantaire was, for once and deeply uncharacteristically, not forthcoming with his opinions. He chewed his mouthful of bread thoughtfully, frowning and staring at his near-empty plate. Enjolras had been about to nudge him towards an answer when he looked up of his own accord.

"So, who was it?" he asked, a little too casually.

Enjolras gave his answer some thought, and simultaneously wondered what had soured Grantaire's mood enough in his absence to provoke this sullen reticence. He did not think it was one of the organised republican societies – largely because he ought to have at least heard whispers of it if it was. The baker had spoken of a crowd in varnished hats and red caps – it all seemed rather too obvious and more than a little convenient, but he was not acquainted with every republican in Paris, and not all had a reputation for tactical competence. 

It might have been an attempt to frame the Republican party for it – it would be easy enough for those with means to bribe a group of working men to participate in what they believed was a republican conspiracy. Winter was far from over, and the hungry asked few questions. Any number of factions stood to gain from a republican defeat, staged or otherwise. Gisquet had reason to seek a chance to prove the polices' efficiency in protecting the regime as the new commissioner; the Orléanists had constant reason to paint their opponents as dangerous radicals, in order to preserve the compromise; then there were the Legitimists and the Bonapartists, constantly at the throat of every other faction as well as each other's, and there was still the lingering threat of foreign interference. It might have been any one of them, or none at all.

Arrests would follow – it was good that he had got out when he had. Perhaps he would be forgotten if they could no longer find him, once the police had found other scapegoats to present to the courts. Convictions for republican activity did not stick as consistently as Louis-Philippe's ministers would have liked, but examples would be made; perhaps that had been the point from the start.

"I don't know," Enjolras said at last.

"Truly?" Grantaire's tone carried a hint of belligerence; he frowned, pursed his lips, then muttered, more to himself than to Enjolras: "That is a surprise."  

"I am not aware of everything that goes on in Paris." Enjolras frowned back at him; this resurgence of the old, prickly, irritable Grantaire was troubling. Why was he behaving this way? Enjolras's plan had been going so well… 

"Oh? I find that hard to believe."

"Don't you have your commission to worry about?" Enjolras said, archly, trying to make light of the matter. There was no malice behind it, but he wanted Grantaire to snap out of this foul mood; he hoped levity would have some effect.

Grantaire made a rude, dismissive sound, spurning his plate in Enjolras's direction and wiping his hands on his trousers, but he did get up from the table and start rifling through his supplies, which Enjolras took as a minor victory. 

Enjolras finished his own meal while Grantaire grumbled and swore as he gathered his materials. He returned to the table with the large wooden frame Enjolras had noted the appearance of several days previously, as well as a bolt of fabric and some tools Enjolras hadn't seen before. He halted by the table, and regarded Enjolras apologetically.

"I need more space," he said, gesturing with the shoulder that bore the weight of the frame.  

Enjolras smiled sweetly in a manner he hoped served to reflect his approval, and took his coffee and his plate with him to the writing desk.

Grantaire scowled in response, but he was himself again after that, airing his grievances with the carpenter that had assembled the frame and the tree that had grown its raw material, as he complained his way through the process of checking its measurements and cutting the canvas material to size. The finished painting would be large indeed – the frame was approximately the size of the table's surface.

Enjolras watched with interest as Grantaire stretched the material over the frame to give it the necessary tension and tacked it into place; it was not a process he had witnessed before, and he was ever impressed by the work of those that were experts in their craft – even if they made much of their suffering as they did so. 

When Grantaire turned the canvas over and began inspecting and smoothing its surface with his hands he went suddenly quiet. Enjolras glanced at his face, and found that same intent, serious look he wore whenever he was wholly absorbed in the task at hand. Enjolras liked it – it was more dignified than the self-effacing grimace he wore whenever he was thinking too hard about his work, a process that often resulted in him talking himself out of it.

Enjolras watched him at his work a while longer before he returned to his own. He sipped his coffee, and smiled behind the rim of his cup. 

Chapter Text

IX.

When, after a week of careful, self-conscious cooperation, Enjolras still had not come to his senses and found somewhere more suitable to stay, Grantaire took it upon himself to make their as-yet-undefined living situation more comfortable for the both of them. 

Enjolras had claimed the side of the bed that pressed up against the wall as his own, and had therefore spent several nights forced to clamber off the end of the bed, or over Grantaire, if he wished to get up before him. Grantaire elicited his aid in shifting the bed away from the wall a little to make enough room to stand on either side, revealing an embarrassing amount of dust and disturbing a few spiders in the process. 

As he was clearing away the cobwebs, his eye was drawn to a folded piece of paper half hidden in the shadows beneath the bed. He picked it up, with no recollection as to its provenance. Inspection revealed it to be Bossuet's long-lost admission ticket. It was six months too late for returning it to be of any use now; Bossuet had asked him to check his rooms for it at the time, but beneath the bed wasn't a place he ever would have thought to check sooner. 

He resolved to lose fifteen francs to him in recompense in the near future; it was easier than trying to explain how he'd found it without provoking further suspicion. He did not doubt that Bossuet would have got himself struck off due to some other misfortune anyway – if anything, he had saved him time and money by expediting the process.  

He was, by and large, making surprisingly good progress on the portrait. He had finished the underdrawing, and started applying the first layers of colour, building them up into something that was beginning to be recognisable as his client, if you squinted hard enough: limp brown hair, a large moustache and a ruddy complexion that, coupled with his demeanour, made him seem perpetually flustered.

It wasn't what he would prefer to be working on, but it would pay his rent for several months – perhaps longer than that, now that Enjolras had taken on half the burden himself. It would give him time to paint for himself again, assuming he was paid in full, and Enjolras was still willing…

He was beginning to add detail to the man's clothing one afternoon when there was a loud, heavy-fisted knock at the door. Grantaire's gaze snapped towards Enjolras in momentary alarm; the knock had not sounded like the porter's, or Mme. Miette's.

Their evenings over the past week had been riddled with talk of arrests and trials that Grantaire had made great pains not to listen too closely to; Enjolras at least seemed to have concluded that he was as safe as could be expected for the time being, or else was simply incapable of inertia for very long. He had resumed his usual habits of going out for much of the day, reappearing at odd, dark hours or remaining late in the backroom of the Musain until they were the last souls to leave. He hadn't seemed as tense as he had on that first night since, and didn't seem concerned now, for he rose without hesitation to answer the summons. He squared his shoulders as he gripped the latch, and pulled it wide open without a thought spared towards who might be on the other side of it; evidently, he knew that knock.

"Bahorel," he said in greeting, and Grantaire deflated with relief.

"So, this is where you've been hiding yourself," came Bahorel's booming voice, followed by the rest of him as he stepped over the threshold without further invitation. He cast an interrogating eye around the room, encompassing the writing desk, Enjolras's papers laid out on it, and Grantaire, in his old, paint-dappled shirt and brown canvas apron, with brush and palette in hand, and grinned. He had a look, and a natural bearing, that gave him an air of permanently seeking a fight with whatever or whoever his glance fell upon; the red waistcoat he was fond of sporting did little to dampen the effect, and it was not unheard of for that perceived threat to be answered by his interlocutor; but Grantaire had always seen too much of his own proclivity for confrontation in him, and Enjolras was too secure in himself to rise to any but the most explicit provocations, the most unforgivable besmirchings of the republic's honour. "I almost didn't believe Courfeyrac when he told me – no offence meant." The aside was coupled by a flash of his teeth in Grantaire's direction.

"None taken," Grantaire said, gamely. A week ago he wouldn't have believed it himself, and a part of him still refused to now. "I even laid out fresh linen for him, and garlanded it with larkspurs." He gestured with the end of his paintbrush in the direction of the bed, and wiggled a suggestive eyebrow, gurning unflatteringly.

"You never do that for me  – ah, but I suppose Enjolras's company is more refined than my own." Bahorel ignored Grantaire's gargoyle-like expression, reaching into his coat for something.

"To what do we owe the pleasure?" Enjolras said, with a stiffness that urged the addressee to get to the point. He sounded more than a little aggrieved that his secret had been spilled without his permission, or possibly at Grantaire's insinuations. As if Bahorel would take them seriously, even if Grantaire was taking Enjolras's cock up his arse in that bed nightly. "I take it you have important news to share, if Courfeyrac couldn't wait to tell me himself." 

So, it was Courfeyrac who had earned his ire on this occasion. That wouldn't last long; Courfeyrac's chief fault was that he was infinitely forgivable, despite a wit that sometimes cut a little too sharply, a passionate nature that got a little too heated on occasion. For one so coiffed in appearance, his manners were almost entirely without artifice – he was genuine to the point of capriciousness at times. He was, however, never intentionally unkind, and a warm, steadfast friend to those that needed it most, which was what made him Courfeyrac.

"Indeed." Bahorel withdrew a pamphlet from an inside pocket of his coat, thrust it into Enjolras's hands, then walked over to examine Grantaire's work as Enjolras absorbed its contents. Enjolras leant against the writing desk, and began to read, head bowed over the cheap yellow paper. 

Grantaire was too busy watching Enjolras's reaction to the pamphlet's contents play out in his changing expression to pay Bahorel any mind – while, simultaneously, trying to contain the tide of nervous, excited pleasure that was swelling in his chest at Enjolras's inclusion of him under a shared plural pronoun. 

Enjolras's features passed through intent interest, to a scowl that suggested dark, furious clouds gathering over those sunlit curls. His nostrils flared with indignation as he looked up, and pronounced, with a level of cold fury that would have chilled an unsuspecting listener to the marrow, "I see."

Bahorel turned away from the portrait he had been idly inspecting with a violence of motion that spoke of the effort he was making in constraining the physicality of his anger. "It's barefaced hypocrisy – a riot's well and good when they come out on top, but they'll use the power they stole from the people to send those that cleared the way for them to prison, if they won't be silenced now. Hand a man a medal for his service with one hand and a sentence with the other."

"How long?"

"A year – bah, I can't say I'm surprised, Blanqui's been taunting them with his publications longer than that. It's too much to expect a government that claims revolutionary credentials to be able to withstand a little heated debate."     

"May I?" Grantaire interjected. Enjolras looked at him for the first time since Bahorel had entered the room, and held the pamphlet out to him. His features spoke of stern focus and contempt, but his grip was gentle when Grantaire took the pamphlet from his hand.

Grantaire was not surprised by its contents. A war between the rich and those that have nothing; men who live by their labour yet are denied political rights; a privileged class living fat off the sweat of the poor. He might've been holding one of Enjolras's pamphlets, or one of Bahorel's favourite journals, for how familiar the arguments were to him – Grantaire did not necessarily disagree with any of the man's points, but what had he expected his words would achieve? Where had he thought they would lead him? Where did any of them expect they'd end up?

Still, a year wasn't an unthinkably terrible length of time.

The trial's proceedings would be dissected at length later in the Musain, no doubt, but for the moment at least Grantaire was feeling oddly bolstered by the news. The state's teeth evidently were not as sharp as they wished they were; their bark had proved worse than their bite, on this occasion at least.

Maybe this was the worst they could muster; perhaps Grantaire had been seeing firing squads and gates that would never be opened again for nothing.

It was a punishment he could live with, as long as his friends were still alive on the other side of it, and relatively unscathed. There was little hope of any of them seeing sense and staying out of trouble, and no hope of Enjolras laying down arms in this particular fight, but Grantaire had spent years of his life orbiting him from a distance that seemed impossible to cross, waiting for the moment Enjolras might extend a hand to aid him. He could wait a year more. 

"Take heart, little mountain – they appear to be losing their touch." Grantaire passed the pamphlet back to Bahorel, turning to Enjolras as he said, "Perhaps they'll forget you now that they've made their example." 

Enjolras's intent expression softened into one of surprise; Grantaire smiled what felt like a rare, genuine smile, and returned to his canvas, meaning to leave them to more serious discussion. Bahorel gave him a peculiar look as he passed, but did not offer further comment on the matter. 

Bahorel stayed for an hour or so, claiming Grantaire's empty chair and engaging in a little spirited, if somewhat one-sided, conversation with a contemplative Enjolras. When Enjolras's succinct replies dwindled into monosyllables he turned his attention to Grantaire instead, who took his questions on the identity of the client in the portrait as an opportunity to air a few of his grievances with the man: 

"He seems to believe I ought to be capable of miracles – Madame Le Brun herself couldn't make the man fashionable enough for the company he seeks. I think he believes attaining nobility is a matter of buying one's way to importance. I suppose the logic isn't entirely unsound, but no amount of coin alters the fact the man's face is painfully ordinary…"

As Bahorel stood to leave he caught sight of the portrait of Courfeyrac, still unfinished and set aside atop a cabinet, half hidden behind an assortment of trinkets. "Oh, this one's good! Who's the faceless woman going to be?"

"I'm still waiting for Courfeyrac to find his match, or at least to bring a pretty young woman over for an introduction, so I've a model from which to finish it."

"You can find one of them yourself, no?" Bahorel said, cajoling. "Or come to the Barrière de Belleville with me, and I'll introduce you to one of Mélanie's friends…"

"I haven't the time," Grantaire dismissed. "One must make concessions when in the pursuit of a masterpiece; I'm afraid I must decline such temptations." His current commission most certainly wasn't going to be his magnum opus; he had suspected from the start that it would be a piece of gaudy royalist ephemera. No one would be admiring his client's image a decade hence, but what he might produce after…

Bahorel glanced at the back of Enjolras's head; Enjolras was ignoring them in favour of scribbling in the margins of the letter he had been writing before Bahorel's unexpected visit. When he looked at Grantaire again, it was with a bemused expression. "So I see."

The next morning Grantaire woke first, to a room bathed in thin, grey light and Enjolras's elbow pressed sharply into the middle of his back. He extricated himself – slowly, carefully – from the coil of blankets and sheets they were tangled in, rolling over with equal caution to find Enjolras on his back beside him. His left arm lay on the pillow above his head, and his eyes were closed tightly to the ceiling above. 

All the usual wakeful tension was gone from his features; his broad, tall brow was smooth, and his lips were slightly parted, the line of his jaw holding none of its usual resolve. The blankets were rising and falling steadily with the motion of his breathing; he was sound asleep. 

He was a beautiful sight to behold, a vision of antique perfection straight out of Canova's studio, with life breathed into his polished marble form. Grantaire studied his profile, still half-asleep himself. His heart did something fluttery inside his chest as he noted, up close, the fineness of Enjolras's pores, the impossibly smooth texture of his skin, and the pale, downy hint of facial hair at his sideburns and upper lip, as fine as silk threads and so fair it was barely visible even this close. 

Grantaire wondered, idly, if he ever needed to shave. He had glimpsed a straight razor amongst the other possessions Enjolras had brought with him, but found it hard to imagine it seeing much use for its intended purpose – unless its intended purpose was the slitting of a tyrant's throat.

Such close scrutiny was a privilege – a stolen one, and one which made Grantaire acutely aware of the delicacy of their new level of intimacy. The part between Enjolras's lips revealed a sliver of pearl-white teeth – Grantaire wanted to lick them, wanted to press his lips to Enjolras's and relinquish the careful control he had vowed to keep himself under –

He wouldn't, and couldn't release that tension through alternative means while Enjolras was always near. It was the only downside to their new arrangement, really – having what he wanted most always within touching distance, the forbidden fruit dangling above Adam's head, except he'd already had a taste of it, and therefore knew it to be worth being cast out of the garden of Eden for eternity. It wasn't worth being cast out of Enjolras's circle of esteem, so he would restrain himself. 

If a chaste, courtly love in which Grantaire was devoted to him and thrilled at the lightest touch of his beloved's hand was all Enjolras would permit, he would accept it, and give him anything he desired in return gladly; but, it was hard to endure, aching for what was right beside him, when he was so close to having everything he had wanted for so long.

He could not continue to lie beside him and allow his thoughts to wander where they would without bringing shame upon himself, and he wouldn't disrespect the intimacy Enjolras was already trusting him with by allowing that to happen. 

Despite the wrench it was to do so, he tore his gaze away. He got up, splashed cold water over his face at the basin and dressed as silently as he could, wrapping himself in his old housecoat for warmth, before retreating to his living area with the vague intent to commit a few more layers of colour to the canvas that was currently taking up far too much of their space. 

He sat down at his table to mix the golden hue required for the buttons on the man's coat, but found his thoughts wandering instead to the pigments he might use to match the colour of Enjolras's hair – that line of thinking led him back to his bedroom, and to the far more appealing picture Enjolras made, even when entirely unaware that he was being noticed.

Perhaps it was his client's fragile vanity that bothered him the most; having to flatter a man who was both prideful and insecure was an exhausting addition to an already demanding task. He would far prefer to paint someone who was at ease with himself – painting Courfeyrac had been an enjoyable diversion, and an easy pleasure – or someone who had no vanity to speak of at all. Not that he could do justice to Enjolras if he tried.

Years of study and his entire inheritance later, and all his talents were good for was painting soulless dross for the idle bourgeoisie to hang in their parlours as an artless display of how wealthy they were, and a name that meant nothing among his vaulted peers. He might have enough technical skill to be considered competent, but the summit of his achievements were a few mediocre portraits that weren't worth the cost of the materials he had put into them.

From the direction of his bedroom he heard the low creak of the bed frame, followed by the higher pitched squeaking of ancient floorboards – Enjolras was up. Grantaire wasn't ready to face him yet. He was cognizant enough of his feelings and his flesh to know that his current frustrations ran deeper than mere difficulties with the painting; it was merely the only aspect of his current misery that he could blame entirely on his own laziness and lack of talent, flaws he was long used to admitting to himself. 

It was easy to hate himself for faults that were within his control; he would never blame Enjolras for the effect his presence had on him, but what bounded intimacy they did share kindled a cruel, unspeakable hope within him that perhaps, if he managed to be worthy of him, Enjolras might one day – 

Just focus on the payment at the end, he told himself as he took up his palette knife, and began mixing yellow ochre into lead white.

When he mustered his courage enough to glance around the screen Enjolras was in the process of dressing himself, sitting bare-legged on the edge of the bed as he buttoned his shirt front. Grantaire poked his head around the screen just long enough to tell him he was going to buy their breakfast, before he was on his way out the door without waiting for Enjolras to answer him.

The brisk air cleared his head a little, enough to make him aware of the anxious knot coiling in his stomach. He had arranged another meeting with his client that afternoon, in order to keep him informed of his progress with the portrait, and to keep him assured that his money had been well spent. He couldn't haul the painting halfway across Paris while it was still wet, and he had no intention of inviting the man into his home, even without Enjolras's presence complicating the matter. He would have to take the full size paper drawing with him to seek his approval, and hope he had not wasted too much effort on the real thing if his client requested adjustments. 

As they were finishing their breakfast, Grantaire informed Enjolras of his plans, and pressed his spare key on him in case Enjolras had plans of his own, and wished to return in his absence.

"Will I see you in the Musain tonight?" Enjolras asked.

"Provided my client is not too demanding in his corrections," Grantaire replied, wrestling with the catch on the tubular leather case he had placed the rolled-up drawing in. When it was latched shut he slung it over his shoulder, and brushed the dust off his hat with the palm of his hand as he bid Enjolras good day.

-

As February drew near the weather took a downward turn, becoming bitterly cold; the public debate blazed on with plenty of heat, yet the season was proving fruitless. It was much as Enjolras had expected – long, dark nights might prove useful to conspirators, but the people needed a little more light to rally to the cause, in practicality as much as in metaphor. It was difficult to muster sufficient crowds in the gloomy, gaslit boulevards when warmth and shelter were more pressing concerns.

One development had occurred in their favour: the information Enjolras had gained from the contact he had contracted his tail from had proved to be solid. A week ago in the Musain, Courfeyrac had taken him aside and spoken, low in his ear, of the new toys he had hidden in his rooms, and of the series of experiments he had enlisted Combeferre's aid in, in order to 'refine the craft'. Enjolras had wished him industrious progress, with a little unvoiced envy in not having been present himself. It was unwise to risk more of their number than necessary being found in the same room as enough cartridges for thirty men, but he was glad when Courfeyrac made clear his intent to share what he had learned once he had mastered the art.

Grantaire's rooms had proved to be much poorer at retaining heat than his own had been – they were truly in the depths of winter now, far from the milder seasons at either end of it and with bleak, black nights; they had been burning through both logs and lamp oil at an alarming rate. Grantaire had produced another blanket from the chest at the foot of his bed to add to its increasing layers, yet Enjolras was still glad for his presence beside him; Grantaire seemed less sensitive to the cold than he was himself, and seemed always to radiate heat whenever Enjolras was close to him.

He had been uncommonly focussed the past few weeks, and unusually civil in company. Enjolras was surprised by how much he had been enjoying witnessing the process through which the painting was coming together. He had watched it go from a simple, pencilled outline through blurry blocks of colour that all but obscured the lines beneath; now, following a few adjustments, it was beginning to sharpen back into focus, as Grantaire added a further, finer level of detail to it. 

Enjolras admired the skill on display; he wouldn't even know where to begin, but Grantaire's capability was clear, as was the fact he was painting towards some vision only he could see, turning an image that existed only in his mind into something that could be shared with the world. He had seemed to be largely successful of late in motivating himself to work towards it, despite a few false starts.  

It was not always a peaceful process, however, and today was proving to be one of the most turbulent yet – the most turbulent Enjolras had witnessed, at least.

He hadn't noticed it at first, in his focus on his own work, but the background sounds of Grantaire muttering under his breath had been growing steadily louder for some time. Enjolras was trying not to listen to the words, but the curses cut through his focus like a series of pin pricks, as though Grantaire's frustration was crawling its way into his own thoughts like a army of ants looking for its next meal; he wanted to shake them off, but short of removing himself from the situation entirely he was drawing a blank as to how.

He was mulling over this particular conundrum when a violent, crashing sound shattered what remained of his focus. He jerked his head to the side, to see what had been a half-full bottle of turpentine lying in shards on the floor. The volume of Grantaire's cursing increased, as he tossed his brush and palette carelessly onto the table beside him and threw an old, stained cloth over the pooling liquid.

If Enjolras could ignore the grumbling, he could no longer ignore the smell: acrid, sickly and pervading. 

"It's no use; I can't flatter this man!" Grantaire snapped, and clattered over to his painting cabinet. For a brief moment Enjolras thought he was going for more solvent to replace that which he had spilled, but when he rose it was with a green bottle of something ingestible in hand. 

"How long have you been hiding that?" Enjolras asked. The question came out sounding more accusatory than he had meant it to; the cloying taste of the solvent in the air was already beginning to cling to the back of his throat. 

"That's no concern of yours." Grantaire breached the bottle, and took a long, deep swill. Enjolras could tell by the face he pulled as he lowered it that whatever was inside was strong.

Enjolras sighed, and pressed his fingertips into his temples as he gathered his patience. His eyes felt dry and irritated; he closed them for a brief moment as he considered his next words with care.

"I only meant to say that it will do little to improve your mood."

"Wrong, o temperate one." Grantaire took another mouthful from the bottle, and lifted the sash window open as wide as it would go with a bang that made the glass rattle in its frame.

Enjolras could not recall ever having seen him frustrated to the point of violence before; he had witnessed the after effects of it on occasion, in the cuts on his knuckles or a black eye after talking his way into a fight with some stranger he had taken offence to. It felt much like having a barrel of powder in the corner of the room; he ought to quench the fire and keep the candles out of harm's way, but he was rapidly losing the patience he needed to think clearly with the headache that was blooming behind his eyes, a fracture through a pane of glass.

"Losing your temper won't help." He meant it as much to himself as to Grantaire.

"Some of us do not have the privilege of choosing when we wish to feel anything, Enjolras," Grantaire said, with venom. "And I've handed you the whip with which to silence me, if you wish to." 

He avoided looking at Enjolras as he spoke, intent instead on pushing the cloth on the floor around with the heel of his shoe to soak up more of the spill, but, when the silence began to stretch as Enjolras did not reply, finally broke enough to glance at him.

He was the worst version of himself like this, but Enjolras recognised in a flash of unexpected comprehension the look Grantaire gave him, his eyes speaking of a different emotion to his features; it was a look of desperate frustration, and of control frayed beyond what he could bear – evidently, he was as lost as to how to stop himself as Enjolras was.

Enjolras felt his own features crumpling into a pained expression – both at the realisation of his own carelessness and the knife-thrust of hearing Grantaire speak of past intimacies with such bile. He wanted to kick himself for not recognising the full extent of the toll Grantaire's fits of melancholy took on him before. He wanted to help him pull himself out of this dark, spiralling pit if he could. He did not know how.

There was only one idea that sprang to mind that might improve Grantaire's mood – one thing that calmed his own thoughts and made his own anger a lighter burden to bear, for a while at least.

"I don't wish to silence you," he said, as kindly as he could muster. "Only to suggest an alternative to –" he gestured to the bottle in Grantaire's hand. Aware at how laughable the notion sounded, but aware too that the present state of affairs was untenable, he said, "Perhaps a bath would help clear your head?"

Grantaire looked at him as though he was mad, then let out a single, mirthless peel of laughter to underscore how ludicrous he found the notion - which was a mild improvement. Enjolras did not much care if Grantaire thought he was of unsound mind, as long as he succeeded in distracting him from his foul mood a little.

"I'm not an invalid," Grantaire said, grimacing.

Debatable. He didn't look well. Now that Enjolras considered it, he realised Grantaire had been looking increasingly run-ragged for as long as he had been working on that portrait. His hair was a wild, tangled mass, unbrushed and unwashed, and he had been restless in bed for several nights now. That morning he had picked at his breakfast with disinterest, where usually he delighted in food only marginally less than he had previously delighted in wine.

"Where is the pump?" Enjolras asked, allowing no further space for protest. His arrangement with the porter had been for the procurement of hot water once a week, but today was not the right day for it, and he wouldn't ask for it now on such short notice; he would fetch it himself.

"Don't trouble your lily-white hands with it," Grantaire said, sullenly, scowling between the painting and the sheet on the floor with the broken glass beneath it, as though he blamed one for the other.

"I'll find it myself," Enjolras said, firmly, setting his own work aside and rising with a scrape of the chair.

The pump proved to be located at the end of the alley that ran beneath the other window; Enjolras guessed as much, having heard cart wheels running beneath it in the early mornings, despite it being a dead end. Beside the pump were two storage sheds, and nothing else of note, a mirror of the alley on the opposite side of the courtyard that led to the outhouses and an old, crumbling stable. 

Enjolras filled the kettle and a bucket, and hauled them one in each hand up the stairs again, far heavier than they were before. He set the kettle to heat over the fire and rolled the hearth rug aside, struggled with the unwieldy weight of the tub while Grantaire slouched into his chair. When he had it in position he emptied the bucket of cold water into it, and went back downstairs for the next.

After the second trip, Grantaire relented. His mood was still obstinately foul, but he set the bottle aside, took the bucket of cold water from Enjolras's hands and handed him the empty kettle. Enjolras wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve as he took it; there were damp patches up the legs of his trousers where the water had sloshed over the bucket's sides, and one of his shoes was squelching with every step.  

The end result was a bath that wasn't as full as it might have been if they'd had the casks, but it was hot enough to turn the air damp and send trails of vapour dancing off its surface. 

"A fitting deathbed," Grantaire said, as Enjolras leaned against the mantle, waiting for the fire's warmth to hasten the drying of his clothing. 

"Pardon?" Enjolras frowned, glancing at him over his shoulder.

"I ought to check there are no Cordays hiding behind the curtains."

It took Enjolras a moment to process the reference as a jest – he laughed softly when he did so, more in relief at the confirmation that Grantaire's mood was coming around to better humour than at the joke itself. Grantaire's own shirt was wet in the front, untucked and clinging to the contours of his chest. His cheeks were patchy, and there was a softness in his haggard look now that Enjolras couldn't place.

"I've no intention of murdering you for your temper, if that's your concern." He stretched his shoulders, sore both from the exertion and from too much sitting. "I'll sweep the glass away." The smell had lessened in his absence, but he couldn't leave the oil to seep into the floorboards. "Try to relax."

Grantaire regarded him with a long, pained look, but assented, and pushed his index finger through the knot in his cravat, which Enjolras took as his cue to leave him to it.

Grantaire remained quiet as he undressed; Enjolras heard his footsteps as he moved about the room, but heard no more mumbling or cursing, and after a while heard nothing at all but the occasional sounds of a body moving in water.   

He placed the sheet in the empty bucket and swept away the fragments of glass, then threw blotting sand over any dampness that remained, uncertain if he should touch the noxious smelling liquid or not; at least the sand ought to soak up what the sheet had not.

He ought to go back to his own work – he'd lost almost an hour already – but his eye was caught by Grantaire's sketchbook, open on a drawing of his client. The face seemed oddly familiar to Enjolras. Curious, he sat down in Grantaire's chair, and studied the image closer. 

He was quite certain he didn't know the man – Grantaire had told him where he lived, and described his character in terms that made it plain the man wasn't of potential use to the cause – but from the angle the drawing depicted he did bear a passing resemblance to one they both knew very well indeed.

An idea slowly dawned on him, and Enjolras seized upon it, grasping for a way to ease Grantaire's burden further. He turned back through the pages of the sketchbook, past innumerable drawings of himself; a roughly-sketched Musain scene that held his attention for a moment, as he recognised each of his friends in it and smiled; back through months worth of work, until he found the image he was looking for.

Bahorel was broader in the shoulders, more muscular and with a larger moustache, and with more confidence evident in the way he carried himself, but there was a passable resemblance. Enjolras understood little of Grantaire's process, but he had gathered enough to suspect that an image of one thing might inform another. Perhaps it would help.

Grantaire emerged some time later, red faced from the warmth of the water and his rage cowed. 

"The water is still tepid, if you wish to make use of it," he said, with an apologetic undertone that Enjolras took as penance for his previous churlishness.

"Thank you," Enjolras said, and changed places with him.

The tub wasn't quite long enough for him to fully stretch his legs, and the water level was only at his navel when sitting upright, so he sank down into it until more of his torso was submerged. He put his feet up on the opposing rim and let his arms hang over the sides, beads of water running down his legs and dripping from his fingertips. He tilted his chin to the ceiling and closed his eyes, determined to enjoy what little heat was left while it lasted.

Grantaire shuffled around the room a while longer; Enjolras heard him pace several lengths between the window and the doorway, then take his seat. A moment's quiet followed, then a soft, half-vocalised, "Oh." A creaking of Grantaire's chair came moments later, then footsteps that stopped at the border between Grantaire's studio and his bedroom, on the other side of the screen. 

Silence, in which Enjolras imagined Grantaire debating with himself whether to look round it, or giving Enjolras time to shield himself if he did; he was too comfortable to care what Grantaire saw at present. When Grantaire finally brought himself to glance around the screen's edge he was maintaining very deliberate eye contact, and looking chagrined.

"Thank you," he said, sheepish.

Enjolras closed his eyes, and waved him off with a nod directed largely to the ceiling.

When the water was almost cool he hastened to wash himself before it became too unpleasant to stay within the tub. Grantaire had left his soap, balanced precariously on the rolled rim; Enjolras took it, not wishing to get out of the water to fetch his own. As he was working it into a lather between his hands he caught the faint scent of something familiar.

He brought it closer to his nose in interrogation, inhaling, and was struck by such a vivid sense memory that he stilled, as an unwanted jolt of arousal coursed through him like a thunderbolt. A series of images flashed through his mind, sparking remembered sensation in unexpected places: his cock in Grantaire's backside, his body warm and solid beneath him; Grantaire's mouth at his throat sending waves of feeling through him that made his toes curl; the taste of salt and something sweet on his own lips after he had pressed them to the back of Grantaire's neck –  

Almonds; that was what he had failed to place at the time. The residue of the oils in the soap must have been what he had tasted. Enjolras had long suspected that neck of being unwashed, but evidently he had been mistaken, and uncharitable in his assumption. 

A shiver ran down his spine that had nothing to do with the waning temperature of the water even as he felt heat rising in his cheeks. He clutched the bar of soap to his chest, and sank lower in the tub, folding his legs as much as he could so as to get more of his body under the water. He frowned to himself, and tried to brush the memory aside. Grantaire was clattering the contents of his painting cabinet in the other half of the room again, providing an inescapable reminder of his presence, of how close he truly was, despite the dense wooden screen that divided them. 

Enjolras shifted uncomfortably as the familiar ache of arousal began to stir in his body; he ignored the impulse to let his hand brush between his thighs. He closed his eyes, tipped his head back until his ears and chin dipped beneath the water, dulling the sounds so that all he could hear was the thud of his own heartbeat, and breathed through his nose as he tried desperately to think of something – anything else.

-

Enjolras emerged sometime later, dressed again in his shirt and trousers, his nose and cheeks still faintly pink and his lips bitten-red and swollen. His hair was wet and in disarray, dulling his natural gilding to a light brown; he had a cloth around his neck to catch the droplets of water still dripping from the snarled curls. Grantaire did his best not to stare, and instead enquired as to whether he had enjoyed himself. Enjolras made a non-committal sound in response, and did not look at him. 

It was fitting that hot water and cleanliness should be Enjolras's only discernible vices. Grantaire couldn't deny that his mood was not quite as despairing as it had been, though he attributed the improvement less to the bath itself and more to the utter, unsettling confusion Enjolras's attempt at making him feel better had inspired in him.

He had enjoyed the attention, however briskly impersonal Enjolras's mannerisms had remained throughout. He was moved by the thoughtfulness behind it.

He had not enjoyed the look Enjolras had given him when he had mentioned their previous intimacy; he shouldn't have felt it as sharply as he had, when it had merely confirmed what he had known all along. He was only hurting himself every time he allowed himself to hope otherwise.

Enjolras took an apple from the side table as he moved towards the desk. He leaned back in his chair and began reading over his earlier work as he bit into its red outer flesh, scrutinising it with a look of intense focus. Grantaire fought the urge to set the canvas aside and turn his hand to his sketchbook in its place, and forced himself to focus in turn. He would never be able to look Enjolras in the eye again if he drew him laid out as he had been in the water; he hadn't glimpsed much over the rim of the tub, but what he had seen had been more than enough to sustain him, for the present at least.

His client was so unlike Bahorel in every way that mattered that he'd never noticed the resemblance before, but Enjolras's tacit suggestion had helped him view the portrait through fresh eyes. Bahorel was better looking than his client – or perhaps Grantaire simply looked more favourably on those he liked – but with the use of a little artistic licence he could emphasise the similarities between them. 

He would make something work. 

Chapter Text

X.

February dawned foul, with bouts of rain that left everything it touched damp and smelling of coal smoke. They awoke each morning to ground crisp with frost, a brief, pristine layer of sparkling stillness that quickly melted into a filthy grey sludge beneath the passage of a thousand pairs of boots. The sky was dark for more of the day than it was light. It was a far from ideal time to be working on a commission of this scale; he needed daylight to mix his colours by, and what little there was of it was feeble and fleeting. He had tried mixing them by candlelight in the past, but that meant compensating for the yellow cast of the oil lamps, which was far from an exact science. He wanted to do things properly; this commission was too essential to his financial stability, and his client too finicky for technical shortcuts to be worth the risk.

It was an insular existence, waking while it was still dark outside, eating breakfast with a candle beside him then painting through the day until the light ran out – but, at least he was not trapped in his routine alone this time.

Enjolras proceeded as he always had: he sat at his desk for an hour or so each morning, before going out, doing whatever it was that he did with his time and returning just as Grantaire was downing his tools for the day. The parts of Enjolras's routine that did not cross paths with Grantaire's own had always been something of a mystery, and one he had long hoped would remain that way, for fear of what he might discover if he pried. 

He had a nagging suspicion that Enjolras had been neglecting his studies for some time now; on the rare occasions he had spoken of them of late, it was with the indifference a schoolboy showed towards his lessons, as though they were a bothersome chore to be accomplished before he would be free to direct his full attention towards more enticing pursuits. Bahorel treated the avoidance of his lectures like a challenge, and his success in evading the profession that awaited those that did graduate with honours as a personal triumph; Enjolras spared enough perfunctory interest that he did not appear to have been struck off yet, but there was no passion behind it.

Their evenings were split between the Musain and Grantaire's own studio, and, later, his bedroom, when the nights became too cold to do anything other than sit by the fireplace, eating dinner off wooden trays in their laps. Enjolras brought the desk chair with him on such occasions, refusing Grantaire's offer of the armchair, and afterwards sat reading or writing with the firelight curving softly against his features. Grantaire was powerless to do anything other than admire him, and reach for his sketchbook.

He really ought to buy a couch; that chair was meant for display, not comfort, but perhaps that would be presuming too much. Their present living arrangement was never meant to be a permanent one, but if Enjolras was seeking an alternative, he had yet to mention it. That thought made Grantaire's lungs cinch with a deadweight, drowning feeling, as though he had just swallowed his own heart, and found it to be made of lead.

The first perceptible change to their level of intimacy came when Enjolras took to bed early one night. Grantaire studied his features with concern, but he didn't look unwell, merely tired.

"I am just cold," Enjolras assured him, pulling his housecoat closed at the collar. "I don't intend to sleep yet."

"I won't bid you goodnight yet then."

Grantaire considered sketching a while longer, but his studio seemed bleak and empty without company. There was a draft blowing from somewhere, and he shivered as the cold air brushed the back of his neck, making the hairs stand on end as the wind sighed through the rafters above. Enjolras was barely ten paces away – Grantaire could hear him moving between the washstand and the bed – but Grantaire was loath to let him out of his sight. It was a pitiful impulse, the urge to follow Enjolras like a dog following his master, but one Grantaire could never be too proud to succumb to. 

When he gave up the pretence of preoccupation, he extinguished the lights in his studio and rounded the screen, to find Enjolras sitting upright in bed with his housecoat still on over his nightshirt, and a book open in his hands. His hair was in a glorious state of disarray, and his lips were pursed in a rosy pout of concentration.

It was so painfully endearing a sight that Grantaire had to capture it.

"Do you mind if I draw you like that?" he blurted before he could think better of it.

Enjolras did not look up from the page before him, but did answer, "Not particularly."

That was as good as permission, from Enjolras's lips. He settled into his armchair with his pencil and sketchbook; Enjolras continued to quietly tolerate his presence, lost in his own thoughts and in the pages of the book he was holding. Grantaire recognised it as the same volume he had been reading the first night he had spent in his bed.  

It was his most intimate portrait yet, despite Enjolras being fully clothed and all but swaddled by the covers. The domesticity of the setting, the crumpled state of his clothing and the dwindling light of the fire all lent a certain softness to the image that was at odds with the character of the man that was its subject. 

Grantaire wanted to add a little colour to it, not the rich, deep colours he had been using for the portrait, but something to add a little more life to the grey lines of the image. He got up, and rifled as quietly as he could through the trunk at the foot of their bed until he found what he was looking for.

The small tin palette of watercolours was one of the oldest possessions he still owned; he hadn't used them in years, a decade even, but he had kept them out of sheer sentimental value, being the first paints he had ever had for himself – a gift, from his grandparents, to the quiet pleasure of his mother and the disapproval of his father. 

They were the wrong medium for Enjolras – too muted, and too soft, but he was quite pleased with the effect. They captured the hazy light of the fire well, and the faint pink glow beneath the smooth surface of Enjolras's cheeks. 

-

Grantaire's room was perpetually cold of late, no matter how much fuel they offered to the fire. There seemed to be drafts blowing through every crack in the walls, under the door frame and around the edges of the windows. It was a common detail of old buildings as their straight lines slowly strayed from their original paths under the weight of lifetimes of use, but an unfortunate one all the same.

It was warm beneath the sheets, however, and it was becoming easier to ignore the cold air on the back of his neck as he became more focussed on his reading. He had lost track of how much time had passed, but as he turned the next page he realised how much progress he had made. He was nearing the end of this particular volume; the back cover of the book was stiff, the glue and stitching that held the endpapers to it still relatively untested. The pages had already been cut when he'd bought it, but the binding was still in perfect condition; he suspected the book's previous owner had not been thorough in his study of it.

He yawned against the back of his hand as he adjusted his grip, closing his eyes for a moment and wondering, idly, how late it was. His eyelids had been feeling progressively heavier for some time now. He had always been naturally predisposed against going to bed early, even as a child, much to his mother and his nursemaid's despair. 

Grantaire seemed to share that particular habit, a convenience that had made their living arrangement easier from the start. He had not shown any signs of moving from his chair yet tonight – perhaps it wasn't as late as Enjolras thought. Freshly curious despite a second, stifled yawn, Enjolras opened his eyes again, and glanced over to find Grantaire still in his armchair, and still drawing. No, not drawing, painting, hunched over the sketchbook in his lap with a palette of watercolours and a small metal cup balanced precariously on the arm of his chair, and a look of intense focus on his face.

Enjolras regarded him for a moment, in private appreciation for the effect the expression had on Grantaire's features. There was something dignified and calm in his focus, in the deft movement of his fingers and the quiet ease of his posture, master of his task and of himself. Perhaps it was a meditative process for him, akin to the absolute concentration Enjolras felt when he was absorbed in drafting his articles.

"I take it that piece is going well?"

The line of Grantaire's shoulders cringed, as though he had somehow forgotten that he wasn't alone, and was now intensely uncomfortable at the realisation that Enjolras had been watching him. He looked up at Enjolras furtively, without raising his chin.

"It's only a silly little piece of idle daubing."

Enjolras could not see the painting clearly enough to judge for himself, but all of Grantaire's work was good, in his unqualified opinion. 

"Modesty," he stated, simply. He would neither berate nor praise Grantaire for it, but he would call it what it was. "When are you coming to bed?"

Grantaire still appeared a little alarmed at his presence, but rallied himself enough to meet his gaze fully as he answered, "Now, if you're ready."

"If it pleases you," Enjolras answered, sinking further into the softness of the mattress and pulling the blankets further up his chest.

He averted his gaze while Grantaire changed, but watched with casual interest as he banked the fire and extinguished all but one candle. The dying fire turned his dark hair the reddish brown of autumn leaves, and cast flickering shadows over his features. Against the shifting darkness, his eyes were bright, and glazed with thought. 

He rolled onto his side as Grantaire pulled back the covers and got into bed beside him, letting in an unwelcome blast of cold air. He propped himself up on one elbow and continued his study, as he decided whether or not to give voice to the thoughts that were on his own mind. There was a question concerning the activities of the Société that he wished to ask him, a potential problem he might actually be best suited to aid them with, but would he be willing to help? Or would Enjolras be asking too much of him at last?

In the half-light, Grantaire settled into the mattress beside him. Enjolras noted, not for the first time, the change in his complexion since he had stopped drinking to excess: his skin was less sallow and the dark circles beneath his eyes had faded a little, the lines in his forehead and at the corners of his mouth were less pronounced, and his teeth seemed whiter now that he was no longer adding to their stains with wine or tobacco. He looked far healthier in general than he had used to; Enjolras was pleased for him, proud, even, at the progress he'd made in altering the trajectory of his habits. The changes were aesthetically pleasing too, not that the exterior was what mattered in the slightest. 

The exterior had never been the sticking point, however. Enjolras wondered if the most profound changes were merely surface, or if they extended to the ideological. It was as good a time as any to try him.

"I wish to ask a favour of you."

Grantaire's eyes had drifted closed, but he opened them again, and turned his head to regard Enjolras, one eyebrow raised in question. "Anything," he uttered, sleepily, with the hint of a smile softening his gaze.

"The Saint Simonians' meeting rooms on the rue Taitbout and the rue Monsigny have been closed by the police. I don't believe the authorities have the Musain within their sights – we've been careful not to advertise publicly – but it would be prudent to have alternatives in place, should the situation change. You know Paris better than most – I had hoped you might be able to suggest somewhere suitably discreet."

Grantaire's eyes widened in surprise, but he remained quiet as he considered his answer. The bluster, ribaldry and evasiveness Enjolras had half expected did not come. After a pause, he answered, "I'll have to ensure due diligence in my recommendations before I make them, but I've a few suggestions in mind."

It felt as though they were conspiring together, rather than Enjolras conspiring while Grantaire avoided all subjects adjacent to his plans. It was a miniscule shift in the grand scheme of things, but it felt significant, as though they might finally be beginning to work together rather than against each other. 

Grantaire did not seem to realise the weight of the moment, or to be willing to give the matter any further thought tonight, half asleep already and sprawling with his arms folded behind his head. Enjolras suspected he would keep his word; it was a task well within his capabilities, and one he was arguably the best suited for among their friends. This close, he smelled faintly of yesterday's cologne, and of wood smoke from sitting by the fire. His dark hair seemed darker still against the white of the pillowcase and the open collar of his nightshirt, and the strong shape of his chin was silhouetted against the candle's soft light. Enjolras noted the day's growth of stubble on his neck, watched the movement of his throat as he shifted and swallowed; he remembered, vividly, the texture of that stubble against his own cheeks, and the flutter of Grantaire's pulse against his lips. 

He leaned over, snuffed the candle out, and sprawled beside him with a silent exhaling of breath.

As Grantaire's breathing slowed he found himself spinning justifications out of the air between them. How much harm could a little indulgence do, really?

-

The next time the porter brought the casks up for them, Enjolras offered the bath to Grantaire first. Grantaire was not certain he had done enough to deserve it – he had provided a provisional list of addresses, as requested, wine bars and cafés with private rooms large enough, and owners amenable to their rhetoric, or else hostile enough to the authorities that they wouldn't dream of aiding them, even if they did find the Société's politics unpalatable. Perhaps it was a reward for proving useful, for once. It was, arguably, the one task he was best equipped for, being a reformed winecask and former itinerant feature of every drinking hole in Paris.

The bath was filled far deeper than they'd managed between them the previous time, and Grantaire forced aside the urge to question every piece of good fortune that came his way, trying, and almost succeeding, not to think of anything at all and instead enjoy the comfort while it lasted. 

He closed his eyes, allowing his head to tilt back, resting against the rim of the tub. The fire was burning hot enough that he could lie with his arms and feet spilling over the sides without feeling the chill in the air. He relaxed into his ungainly position, blissfully warm and content, for the moment, not to second guess Enjolras's generosity

A quiet, high-pitched creak from somewhere on his right made him lift his head and open one eye, to find Enjolras crouching in front of the fire with the iron poker in hand. He hadn't heard footsteps, but in the course of sharing his space with Enjolras he had noticed that he was preternaturally silent in his movements when he wanted to be.

Over the course of the past week they had moved past self conscious avoidance of each other while in a partially dressed state, to a pretence of politely ignoring each other's nudity; they were sharing too small a space to tiptoe around each other forever. At least Grantaire had plenty of practice in forcing himself not to stare. It was evident that Enjolras was not the type to blush at a little bare flesh, but Grantaire still felt a little residual prudish discomfort at the notion of stripping fully nude in front of him. He was, however, too comfortable to move at present.

Perhaps Enjolras had come to coax him out of the bath, so he might have his own turn while the water was still hot.

"Are you going to lie there until the water turns cold?" Enjolras asked, as he stoked the fire.

"I may," Grantaire replied, closing his one open eye again and dropping back onto the rim of the tub. "Join me, if you are feeling envious." The request was meant in jest; Grantaire was so certain of the answer to it that he scarcely needed to listen to Enjolras's reply, until Enjolras's response cut through his lethargy and almost shocked him into leaping out of the water entirely: 

"You would have to make room."

Grantaire, stricken, stared at him. Enjolras stared back, steady, forthright as ever, but delivering words that were entirely unexpected. Grantaire drew his limbs back inside the tub and pulled himself upright, sending a quantity of water lapping over the side in his haste.

"Do you wish to?" Grantaire gestured to the small space he had made at the opposite end of the tub, where his own feet might have been.

Enjolras's gaze was unflinching, and unreadable. Grantaire felt suddenly both entirely exposed, and painfully aware of every physical inferiority he possessed. He was about to curl in on himself further to better cover himself when Enjolras nodded, stiffly.

"I do."

Enjolras rose, stretching to his full height, and began removing his clothing with quiet, efficient movements. His gaze as he did so was directed at the floor, at his own fingers, at the fire; anywhere but at Grantaire. Grantaire did not know whether to look away, as civility dictated, or watch – an eager audience of one. His heart hammered against the confines of his ribcage and his mind went briefly and utterly blank. It was a feeling akin to being slapped in the face, momentarily stunned by the shock of it.

He had seen Enjolras's body many times now, since they had begun to share their space permanently: his bare legs in the morning, their muscles well shaped, and limned with fine, fair hair; the occasional brief flash of pale buttocks as he leant over the washstand, or bent to retrieve his trousers, that made Grantaire wonder how they would sit within his palms. His arms and shoulders were leaner – he was a scholar, not a labourer – though still entirely capable. His torso might well have been carved by an expert at his craft, lightly muscled and remarkably hairless, save for a slight scattering in the middle of his chest and the trail of fine hair that began at his navel, drawing the eye lower – seen when Grantaire had bound his wound, when Enjolras had resumed his trousers and now sought clean linen, or when he had taken a bath of his own, leaving Grantaire struggling to ignore the beads of water and perspiration running down skin that glowed amber in firelight, as Enjolras sat alone in the tub. His cock, seen once only in the flesh, but committed to memory as though Grantaire had conducted a master study of it. He had seen the whole of him by now, but never – never – all at once. 

The sight, as it was unveiled to him, stole the breath from his lungs, and rid him of his cares quicker than morphine.

Enjolras stripped casually, as though Grantaire's covetous scrutiny mattered not, and – gloriously, entirely nude – approached the tub. Grantaire wiped the dumbstruck, open-mouthed expression from his features, and curled in on himself further. He drew his knees into his chest, creating space for Enjolras to step carefully over the side, lower his magnificent self into the water and assume a posture that mirrored Grantaire's own at the opposite end of the tub. The water level rose as he entered it, reaching Grantaire's chest as Enjolras's mass was added to his own. Grantaire felt as though he was witnessing the birth of a deity in reverse, claimed and concealed by the waters from which he had sprung forth.

They met each other's eyes: Grantaire's were no doubt lost, curious and questioning; Enjolras's were inscrutable. The heat of the water was turning Enjolras's skin pink, where its continuing motion made it rise and fall against his chest; Grantaire let his gaze wander, before returning to Enjolras's face, where a fine sheen of perspiration was already beginning to form on his brow and upper lip.

"You could put your feet either side of me?" Grantaire suggested. "It would be more comfortable, I expect." 

Enjolras made a small sound of agreement and extended his legs, letting them slide against Grantaire's as he did so, until they rested either side of him, his feet against Grantaire's hips.

"You could hook your legs over mine?" Enjolras offered in turn.

Grantaire obliged – unfolding, sliding down into the tub until the water was almost at his chin – and let the back of his knees rest against the top of Enjolras's long thighs. Enjolras's posture slackened a little in turn; he relaxed against the tub's walls with his arms atop the lip of it and his head against it, lending an upward tilt to his chin and a lazy, half-lidded look to his eyes. 

It was too much; Grantaire felt almost unbearably exposed, with Enjolras's eyes on him as they lay naked together beneath the water. He wanted to cower in shame beneath that dispassionate gaze, to reach for the cloth that lay ready beside them and hide beneath it, only slightly less than he wanted to cast this moment in bronze and remain in it forever. He wouldn't miss this intimacy for the world. Enjolras already owned him, body and soul; what else was left to be ashamed of?

Enjolras watched him with the same, opaque look a while longer, before closing his eyes; Grantaire felt the tension in his thighs dissipate, and contented himself to watch the warmth rise to Enjolras's cheeks, his hair growing damp with sweat and beginning to cling to his forehead. The image was an indulgent one: fire-lit and hazy, half-submerged in the soap-clouded water. It gave Enjolras the air of an ancient prince or warrior-deity, washing away the evidence of his labours in a mosaic-tiled bathhouse.     

-

Enjolras felt Grantaire's eyes on him as he removed his clothing, but found he did not mind it. Whatever thoughts it inspired in Grantaire, he kept them to himself, and Enjolras had long trusted him not to act on them without permission. He thought little of being naked, and of his body in general: it was a tool, nothing more. 

An inconvenient tool. One that had too many wants and demands of its own. 

The water was pleasant, and hot enough to make beads of sweat form on his brow almost instantaneously. The press of Grantaire's legs against his own was a different kind of pleasure, but equally comforting. He had known it would be intimate, to sit, bare and sprawling with Grantaire's limbs pressed against his own, but it was even more so than he had anticipated; his legs were tangled with Grantaire's, such that he could feel the twitch of every muscle as though it were his own each time Grantaire shifted, and he could feel the heat of Grantaire's body beneath his as well as the water that surrounded them. 

They must have looked like something out of one of Grantaire's more exotic paintings, the faux-oriental fairy tales the bourgeois had developed a taste for, at once intimate, sensuous and awash with unreality.

Grantaire's cheeks were ruddy with the warmth of the bath; his dark hair damp, and more than a little wild. His cheeks and chin were already shadowed with the promise of stubble, despite Enjolras having witnessed him shave only that morning. His broad chest was darker than Enjolras's own, scattered with soft-looking hair and constellations of tiny deep-brown freckles. His strong arms hung limp over the rim of the tub, water dripping carelessly from the tips of his fingers. The effect was to lend him a decadent air; in the orange glow of the fire his skin appeared bronzed, a Persian king or Roman emperor in repose, beads of sweat running down a brow that would bear well a crown of gold. Completing the portrait – sat across from him, his nerves thrilling with faint anticipation – Enjolras: his prize, regarded with the casual covetousness of one who knows he has already won it. 

Enjolras shivered as that particular image sent an icy tremor down his spine; his fingers tightened against the rim of the tub. Foolish nonsense. A flight of fantasy that belonged in Grantaire's sketchbooks, or in the volumes of poetry that spilled from their now-combined shelves, not in Enjolras's normally clear, purpose-filled thoughts. 

It was an image that ought to fill him with revulsion, as instinctive as the will to reject all hierarchies among men, but the blood coursing in his veins wasn't urging him towards a fight. It wasn't disgust that he was feeling, though it felt like a sibling of it, some distorted mockery of the pure, righteous exhilaration he had felt only once before, in the surge of the crowd outside the Hôtel de Ville two summers ago.

It had always been like that with Grantaire. He was a natural point of friction in any conversation, and an uneasy bedfellow with Enjolras's carefully-constructed philosophy. His tongue took every ideal Enjolras held as sacred and twisted them to his own purpose, made snarling caricatures of the men Enjolras held in esteem and admirable fools of all who meant to follow their example.

Except that wasn't exactly true, now, and hadn't been for some time. That Enjolras's mind had chosen to make a tyrant of him wasn't his fault. 

He wasn't prepared to interrogate the logic behind the image further at present. He forced himself to take a few slow, calming breaths, and to relax his vice-grip on the rim of the tub. He was here of his own volition, and willing. He wanted this. The unknowing hold Grantaire had over his thoughts and desires was not Grantaire's fault, either, no matter how appealing it was to blame him for it.

Grantaire – the man, not the mental portrait – was looking at him with that earnest, imploring expression that Enjolras had seen so many times now, whenever Grantaire wished to ask something over which he wrestled with some internal conflict. And before, in the backroom of the Musain, the nature of it unknown then, but weighing on Enjolras's shoulders, heavy and cloying all the same. He had never known how to make it go away. Now, he was no longer certain he wanted to. 

He closed his eyes to it, and tried to focus on the simple solace of Grantaire's closeness.

-

"Are you comfortable?" Grantaire asked, when the water began to cool and the silence to trouble him.

"Very," Enjolras stated, without opening his eyes.

"May I rub your feet?" Grantaire asked, impulsive. He wanted to touch, to sink his fingertips into Enjolras's flesh and map the lines of his body into his memory. The image had stirred him, inevitably; he had barely even tried to suppress it, knowing it to be a futile effort, and now his hands felt a restless need to grasp something. Enjolras would deny him the kind of touch he desired most, he knew – and daren't attempt, for fear of sending Enjolras back inside his distant shell – but perhaps he could still prove useful for a less fraught purpose. 

"I suppose, if you wish," Enjolras spoke, with apparent indifference.

Grantaire exhaled in relief, shifted, bringing his right leg back between Enjolras's and using the leverage of his foot against the base of the tub to sit upright again. 

He felt his way, unseeing, to Enjolras's left foot; Enjolras allowed him to lift it out of the water and wrap his hand around its arch, stroking against the softest point at its apex with his thumb. Enjolras flinched, his features briefly displeased, his foot squirming in Grantaire's grip where the touch had tickled; Grantaire laughed softly, before mumbling an apology and setting to work applying a more efficacious level of pressure, his eyes on Enjolras's features, rather than his task, as he recruited his other hand in aiding him to rub the tension away. Enjolras's features returned to their carved, impassive state, but with the smallest impression of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

-

Enjolras had been indifferent to the request at first, but it proved more pleasant than he expected; not simply the act itself – Grantaire's strong fingers pressing tiny knots out of the ball of his foot, wringing the tension out of its long arch – but the notion of having Grantaire attend to him had its own appeal. He should not find the concept so enticing, Grantaire servicing him like a woman in an expensive maison de tolérance, yet his body had overruled him – his prick stirring, desire both preceding and tailing it, clouding his already conflicted thoughts and bringing with it the promise of later guilt, should he take advantage of whatever Grantaire thought he had seen in him to kindle his misplaced admiration.

Grantaire lowered his left foot and shifted to take up his right. Enjolras let out a small, contented sigh, despite himself. He wet his parched lips with the tip of his tongue, tasting the sweat on them where the water had been hot enough to have him sweating before. It was cooler now; soon, it would be cold. 

Grantaire began to lower his right foot back into the water. Enjolras shifted to aid him, but the oils from the soap that formed a fine layer atop the water had made things slick, and Grantaire's grip slipped; Enjolras's foot slid from his grasp, falling between Grantaire's legs before he could think to stop it, and brushed against something firm. Grantaire let out a surprised, pleasured sound:

"Ah –"

-

Grantaire brought his hand to his mouth the moment Enjolras's foot brushed against the tip of his cock, but he was not quick enough to silence the gasp the sudden stimulation elicited.  

Enjolras's eyes flew open, and fixed on him. Hand to his face, his teeth nipping at the back of his own hand in admonition, Grantaire stared back at him with a cowed, guilty expression. 

Enjolras shifted, setting his feet against the base of the tub and rising to a low crouch. Grantaire, under the assumption that Enjolras meant to leave in disgust, averted his gaze to allow him to do so with privacy. Instead, he felt the water shift violently; heard the sound of it splashing against the floor as a substantial wave of it sloshed over the side. He felt Enjolras's legs brush against his, and turned his head to find him kneeling low in the tub, his legs either side of Grantaire's own. 

Grantaire regarded him searchingly; Enjolras bit his lip, and leaned closer. The firelight flickered against the lines of his torso, making stark shapes of his ribcage and the muscles of his chest. As he braced one arm against the rim of the tub, Grantaire glimpsed beneath the water, at the shadowed juncture of Enjolras's thighs, the reddened curve of Enjolras's cock, in a similar state to his own.

The delirious realisation that Enjolras was as aroused as he was caused Grantaire's breath to catch in his throat; he felt giddy with months of suppressed emotion, as all the possibilities he had been harshly pushing aside suddenly sharpened into focus.

"Come here," Grantaire suggested, straightening his legs until they extended as far as the space allowed and reaching to pull Enjolras closer, before arresting the motion and thinking better of it. Yet Enjolras took the suggestion, shifting forward to sit across Grantaire's thighs with a serious look to his features, the sharp line of his jaw set in some internal resolution. His cheeks were still a flushed, hurried pink, and his eyes captured the reflected flicker of the fire. Grantaire pushed his hands through the water until they found Enjolras's narrow hips; let them slip lower, until his hands cupped the individual curves of Enjolras's backside, confirming his theory that they would fit perfectly in his hands. He used that leverage to pull him closer still, until the distance between them was narrowed to a whisper of body heat. Enjolras offered no resistance to the motion, sliding easily into his lap, the water shifting around them in waves that continued to lap rhythmically against the walls of the tub.

Enjolras brought his hands to Grantaire's shoulders in a loose embrace; Grantaire gazed up at him, answering his grave expression with a gentle one.

-

"We don't have to," Grantaire stated, his tone soft, his face close enough that Enjolras felt the words brush against his own lips as Grantaire spoke them. His eyes, as he met Enjolras's own, were a bright, keen blue, his lips a thin red line currently drawn in concern. That mouth was a sin, spiller of blasphemy and contempt and a source of endless frustration.

"I know," he replied, bowing his head to press his forehead against Grantaire's and letting his eyes drift closed again. Grantaire sighed beneath him, and traced the fingertips of one hand up the length of his back, over skin that prickled with gooseflesh in the cool air, sending shivers down Enjolras's spine. 

It felt different, much more personal and spiritually wrenching, to consider doing this with Grantaire, now he was no longer little more than an acquaintance. Enjolras could read him better now: could see the concern in his features, the hesitancy that hadn't been present the previous time. He knew it meant more to him than the brief, atavistic pleasure of the act itself, granting it additional significance in Enjolras's mind also. 

What he felt for Grantaire was multifaceted, and impossible to define; in turns an irritant, a friend, a dissenter, an âme damnée to his own tumultuous habits and a comforting, familiar certainty. It was no longer clear to Enjolras which sentiments were his own, and which were merely Grantaire's, now discerned, lodging themselves in Enjolras's mind and reflecting back at him, a trick of the light that made it seem like there existed something, when in truth Enjolras did not believe himself capable of the feelings written so plain in Grantaire's open features. 

It wasn't his purpose, to be loved, or to love anything higher than liberty. He had cut out that part of himself when he had chosen to take up the sword, knowing he was no longer worthy of it.

The cost of humanity's deliverance was dear, and to be paid in blood; it was not for those who spilt it to reap the harvest of their crimson-soiled fields. 

Grantaire shifted beneath him, his arms circling Enjolras's waist and pulling him into an embrace that was almost crushing in its fierceness. He tilted his head to press his lips softly to Enjolras's closed eyelids, then relinquished his hold, raising a hand in order to run the pad of his thumb questioningly over Enjolras's sealed lips. Enjolras felt himself tense; felt Grantaire's caress still in turn. 

He withdrew his hand, and pressed his lips to the sensitive skin beneath Enjolras's jaw instead. His kisses were gentle – soothing –  where previously they had been urgent, and had left a scattering of red blemishes in their wake. He had had men kiss his neck before, accepting it with reluctance as part of the pantomime of fleeting intimacy, but never with such savagery, such hunger and desperate desire, as though Grantaire craved it as most men craved hope. Enjolras had been forced to resort to stiffening his collar to keep them hidden, a fashion he found stifling.

These kisses were less savage, more delicate and careful; yet, despite their softness, the sensation of them lingered, the echo of his mouth's impressions continuing to resonate in Enjolras's nerve endings long after Grantaire had moved on to the next piece of uncharted territory, his skin newly alive in a manner previously unknown to him. The air and the water were cooling rapidly around them as the fire consumed its fuel, stuttering and faltering as its grey ashes turned hollow and fell into dust, yet Enjolras's face felt as though it was burning hot. Grantaire was red-cheeked too, and radiating a comforting warmth. Enjolras pressed closer, and breathed in the almond scent of clean skin and the smokier scent clinging to his hair.

He could come undone in these waters, under Grantaire's careful attentions, dissolve into sea foam until what remained had been washed away by the tide, and nothing mattered save the knowledge that Grantaire's atoms mingled with his own.

If he didn't think, didn't permit the visceral reality of the act to find purchase in his thoughts, perhaps it would not count. The water would wash the evidence of it away, in time.

-

Enjolras's eyes remained closed as he leant into Grantaire's touch, but it was clear without being able to read them that this was a complicated experience for him. The frown creasing his magnificent forehead spoke of some intense, private conflict. Grantaire wanted to take whatever thoughts were troubling him away; he had so many demons of his own already, what difference would a few more make?

He wanted to kiss him, but the way Enjolras's entire body had tensed when he touched his lips made him think better of it. He began kissing his neck instead, mapping the long, elegant line of his white throat with his mouth. Enjolras was stiff in his arms at first, but the tension in his limbs slowly softened as he relaxed under Grantaire's touch, becoming heavier as he leaned more of his weight on him. In time, he began to move his hips, rocking against Grantaire's own, seeking friction.

Grantaire bowed his head further to kiss his way down Enjolras's chest. Enjolras's nipples were small, pink and discreet, far apart on the span of his chest; Grantaire kissed his way to one, tasting soap and salt, flicked his tongue against it, and was rewarded by the sound of Enjolras's breath hitching. He suspected no one had ever done that to him before, and thrilled at the thought of causing Enjolras to experience a new, pleasurable sensation. He could give him more, if he wanted them. Enjolras fastened his arms tight around his shoulders, holding on.

Grantaire smiled against his chest, and groped blindly between them until his fingers found the smooth, hardened length of Enjolras's cock, half stroking, half letting Enjolras fuck the closed circle of his hand, as Enjolras's breath quickened into a gasp. The other hand he curled into Enjolras's soft, damp hair, raising his head to study Enjolras's features for signs of pleasure or distress. He felt the heavy rise and fall of Enjolras's chest against his own as his breathing became more erratic; tasted the air that passed over Enjolras's lips as he breathed it in, panting mere millimetres from Grantaire's own.

His own cock had barely been touched, and already he felt as though any more contact would tip him over the edge, enveloped as he was in the intimacy of the moment, and in the warmth of Enjolras's body pressed against his own.

Enjolras opened his eyes at last, frost-blue and shining with the orange flicker of the fire. He pressed his palms into the muscle of Grantaire's shoulders, ran his hands down Grantaire's back, stroking, gripping tighter.

Grantaire broke under the intensity of that gaze; he buried his face in the cool curve of Enjolras's shoulder, uttering muffled prayers of piety and devotion into Enjolras neck, into his hair; he babbled, spilling secrets he would never tell if he was more cognizant of what he was saying – half metaphor, part greek or latin or god knows what, he was too far gone to care…

-

There was no way to pretend this was anything less than what it was. Enjolras did not need experience of it to know what those of a more sentimental disposition would call it. Love-making. 

Grantaire's gaze, when Enjolras finally opened his eyes again, was painfully tender, and piercing in its vulnerability. He had always expected something like this would feel tepid, a chore to be suffered before the final end was attained; but it was a slow-building fire that burned through him. 

It was a storm of conflicted feeling he had no escape from; one with the potential to leave as much devastation in its wake as a sudden, thunderous flash of gunfire. 

His relief when Grantaire lowered his gaze was palpable, and fleeting; he had felt unable to stand his earnest affection any longer, but it was still there when he tried to deny it, in the careful caress of Grantaire's hands and the restraint Enjolras could feel in his coiled muscles.

He needed to ground himself; he dipped his head, set his teeth against the thick tendon straining in Grantaire's neck and sucked, leaving a mottled red mark of his own. The sharp pain Enjolras recalled must've been enough to break some of Grantaire's resolve; his motions quickened, and Enjolras continued to mouth at his rough throat, at the hollow underside of his jaw. He rubbed his own cheeks against Grantaire's stubble, the way it prickled against his skin a pleasing counterpoint of pain amid pleasure. 

Grantaire's hand around his cock was gentle, but persistent, and soon Enjolras was shivering against him, pressing this way and that, seeking more and harsher. He pressed his forehead against Grantaire's shoulder as he sought to return the contact, to hasten them both towards the precipice; Grantaire was there to guide him, bringing their hands together in a shared circle as he babbled his pretty nonsense into Enjolras's throat.

Grantaire's words were still sweet, but his voice was increasingly ravaged, and punctuated by sharp breaths, until Enjolras altered his grip and drew a suppressed moan from him, and words failed him at last. The accompaniment to Enjolras's own pulse pounding in his ears became Grantaire's breathing, harsh and erratic, somewhere close to his ear; the occasional gentle splash when one or other of them shivered with the sensation of it all, and the muted crackling of the fire. 

Enjolras let out an involuntary sound of pleasure and stroked faster, as he trembled against Grantaire's chest and in the circle of his arms. Grantaire shuddered beneath him as he groaned into the curve of his shoulder. He could feel every spasm of Grantaire's pleasure as if it was his own; it was enough, and Enjolras's own release followed, spilling ribbons of pearlescence that streaked briefly through the water like pale veins through dark stone, then dispersed into nothing. 

He slumped heavily into Grantaire's hold, felt them both shaking and panting in the aftermath. His mind moved from briefly and completely blank, to aware of nothing but Grantaire's warm body against his own; the strong arms around him, and the gradual slowing of both their breathing. Grantaire had fallen silent, his stream of adulation at last exhausted, but he kissed the side of Enjolras's forehead again as Enjolras let his body go limp against his.

Grantaire continued to run his hands over his back, along his flanks and up to his shoulders long after their release had left them; his palms were lightly calloused, but he was gentle even in this, as though he feared Enjolras might crumble beneath his careful touch. The path of his hands soothed the gooseflesh that was threatening to rise on Enjolras's skin, now that the heat of activity was no longer warming them. Finally, his arms settled around Enjolras's waist, and pressed him into his chest, almost impossibly close. It was a level of intimacy Enjolras had never experienced before; a step beyond anything he had ever conceived for himself.

They remained in their embrace until the water was entirely cold; it was surprisingly comforting to be held.

Chapter Text

XI.

Grantaire was delirious, in ecstasy, had transcended the mortal plane and found himself in heaven, reclining in the cool water with Enjolras held tight to his chest, pressed against him and melting into him. The marble tension that Grantaire had felt beneath the pliable surface as he'd run his hands over Enjolras's body had left him with his release; now he was warm, heavy and human in Grantaire's lap, and his panting breath had slowed to its usual, steady rhythm. His hair was soft and sweet-smelling against Grantaire's cheek, and Grantaire had half a mind to pray to Jupiter to strike him down with a thunderbolt, before he opened his mouth and tarnished the moment with ill-thought out speech.

His own breathing was still shallow in comparison, and his heart was still beating hard, loud enough that he felt certain Enjolras must be able to feel it through the connection of their chests. It was a moment of brief, perfect contentment, despite the fact Enjolras was so clearly still conflicted. There wasn't an atom of physical distance between them, but the spiritual plane was a different matter entirely.

It was more than he could ever possibly have hoped for, and he mustn't be greedy. There were any number of concerns that might be holding Enjolras back; any number of perfectly logical reasons. Once, not so long ago, he would've been troubled by Enjolras's silence, spinning disasters and insults out of the aether to attribute Enjolras's reticence to, but it was difficult to be afraid with Enjolras's arms fastened tight across his shoulders, and Grantaire succumbed to the sheer softness of the moment, rendered peaceable and quiet by the intimacy of it all. 

He had been so focused on Enjolras's pleasure that he had barely been aware of his own impending orgasm until it was upon him, and when it came it had been an inconvenience, taking him by surprise as he fought the urge to close his eyes and gasp into Enjolras's hair, fought through the sudden warmth and pulse of release and the blank feeling that followed to better witness Enjolras's reactions, concerned only with him and his pleasure. 

Whatever thoughts were passing through Enjolras's mind now, he appeared in no hurry to stir, and they still embraced. If Grantaire had not known him as well as he did, he might have been tempted to think Enjolras was on the verge of sleep, but there were thoughts humming away in that pretty head of his, as certain as the Copernican motion of the earth beneath them hurtled them around the sun. He might never fully comprehend the inner workings of Enjolras's mind, but he could almost hear them, the background ticking of a familiar clock, inexorable as the path of celestial bodies through the sky. His back and arms were cool to the touch; Grantaire held him tighter, and ran his hands over Enjolras's skin to warm it.

What now? How could they proceed from here? Even in his wildest, most treasured fantasies Grantaire had never dared think this far ahead. Had never conceived of the painful irony of realising that, after all they had shared, he was still no closer to knowing Enjolras's mind. They had at last conquered the physical together, but the metaphysical was beyond them; perhaps beyond all human reckoning.

He examined his feelings, as Enjolras remained lost in his own head, uncertain what he would find there, but found them to be fundamentally unchanged. What he wanted from Enjolras was the same as it always had been: whatever Enjolras would give him, and allow him to give in return. The golden curls on Enjolras's head were springing back into life as they dried, glinting orange in the waning firelight. Grantaire buried his nose in them, breathing in pine smoke and honey.

He broke their embrace only when he felt Enjolras shiver against him, stiffening in his hold as the cold became too pressing to ignore. Grantaire begrudged the season as he loosened his grasp; he could have stayed like this for hours, despite the hard rim of the tub digging into his back, but he did not wish for Enjolras to catch a chill.  

"I ought to put more logs on the fire," he uttered, reluctantly, into Enjolras's hair. 

Enjolras made a muffled, indifferent sound, as though the water truly had sapped all the will from him, but he stirred with a reluctance that Grantaire felt as profoundly as his own, and slowly pushed himself upright. His face, formerly buried in the crook of Grantaire's neck, had lost a little of its colour. Grantaire studied his features with renewed seriousness; his expression was familiar in its illegibility, and he kept his eyes chastely lowered as they disentangled themselves. Grantaire shivered as they parted, as the cold air rushed to fill the space against his chest that Enjolras's body left behind. 

Grantaire felt the absence of contact as a loss; he hastened to follow when Enjolras stepped over the side, rising with the water running in rivulets down his body, dripping and pooling on the already soaked floor. Enjolras glanced searchingly about the room until he found the pile of freshly laundered cloths ready on the arm of the chair. He took one from the top of the pile, but did not use it to conceal himself, as Grantaire had expected. Instead, he crouched beside the tub, and began mopping up the water they had spilled in their haste to draw closer; to bridge the spaces between them; to touch each other.

Grantaire watched him do so with fond amusement that turned swiftly and inevitably to appreciation; he admired the long line of Enjolras's back, the way his shoulder blades fanned beneath the skin as he worked to soak up the water, the way the length of his spine curved levelly from gold head down to the curl of his backside. There wasn't a single angle Enjolras wasn't beautiful from. 

He gaped unhelpfully for a few moments before deciding to pull his weight; it was alarming how quickly that aesthetic appreciation began to border on desire, when he hadn't long since spent all over their clasped hands.

He stepped over the rim of the tub, undoing a little of Enjolras's work before he managed to reach the pile of linen and wipe the water from his feet. He knelt by the fire with the cloth draped over his shoulder, stoked it and added more fuel, then rose and leant against the mantle, watching Enjolras and wondering whether he should speak. The silence between them had returned, but it wasn't an uncomfortable one. Still, he was desperate to pry, to ask Enjolras for his thoughts, despite a sneaking suspicion that he would be unpacking a pithos worth of problems if he pressed the matter.

The renewed warmth of the fire against the back of his calves was pleasant; they were close enough to it that their bodies would dry on their own, once it had recovered its former intensity.

-

"Enjolras… Do you want to talk about this?" Grantaire asked. Enjolras hesitated in the act of wringing one of the now sodden cloths out over the tub and turned to him. His tone had been gentle, his words hesitant, but his gaze was steady, and the tilt of his mouth unhappy with worry.

"I don't," Enjolras answered, a little too honestly, but Grantaire did not flinch.

"At least tell me if you enjoyed it, a bone thrown to a dog?" he pressed, though not unkindly; Enjolras could not begrudge him his desire for clarity. His need for some small reassurance from him.

There was a simple answer, at the heart of a far more complex one.

"I did." He tried to smile, but the result felt forced, and more than a little pained.

"But the fact that you liked it causes you grief." A statement, not a question, accompanied by a look of dawning comprehension. Enjolras studied him as he considered his answer. Grantaire's hair was still damp, its strands still clinging to his forehead. Beneath those messy curls, his brow was creased with a tender sort of concern. His mouth was drawn into a sympathetic line; Enjolras was briefly mesmerised at the sight of it, and by the association between that mouth and the residual, pleasant tingling feeling beneath the surface of his own skin. 

He couldn't explain himself, at least not yet, no matter how much empathy Grantaire tried to express.

"Can we speak of something else? Or not at all," he answered, bristling with renewed self-consciousness. He was painfully aware that they both stood naked in Grantaire's living quarters, tortuously aware that he had just spilled his own seed between Grantaire's stomach and his own – that he had lain against his chest, in the warm circle of his arms, and that it was that indulgence that felt like the greatest trespass of all, despite everything that had led them to that point. 

Grantaire remained in place, standing by the fire and regarding him with feeling, despite the inadequacy of Enjolras's answer. Enjolras stared back, trying desperately not to flinch. There was still a question forming in the tilt of Grantaire's mouth, in his weary, worried eyes. Enjolras watched with far too much interest as the pink tip of his tongue flashed against his lips, wetting them as if to speak, but with that gesture the question vanished, the concern in his features replaced by a familiar, fond expression. He raised his rough chin as he asked, "What should I fetch for supper?"

Enjolras exhaled with relief, profoundly grateful for the offered change of subject. "Whatever pleases you will suffice."

-

Try as he might, Grantaire couldn't quite shake the lingering feeling of disbelief as the dreamy unreality of the moment gave way to the practicalities of its aftermath. They were naked, having just spent gasping against each other, standing by the fire and speaking of supper, the mundanity of the present irrefutable proof that the whole affair hadn't been some wild fever dream. Grantaire did not want to put a name to what they had done; putting a descriptor to it was enough to inspire a ridiculous burst of prudish incredulity that made him want to blush and giggle like a convent girl. 

He couldn't stop staring, as Enjolras reached for a dry cloth and began patting the remaining droplets of water from his body. He felt like the luckiest man in the world, whisked away to sup with a godling in golden halls, but he was in his own sitting room, watching the troubled set of Enjolras's features smooth as he concentrated on the task at hand. It wasn't an uncomplicated feeling of contentment, but Enjolras was still here, and that reality alone spoke volumes.

He noticed as Enjolras bent to dry his calves that his knees were still rather red from kneeling in the tub, where the hard points of the bone beneath had pressed against the skin. It looked very likely that the redness would progress into bruising. Grantaire felt a pang of guilt at Enjolras's discomfort; he would have to have him on the bed next time, lay him out against the soft mattress and softer pillows and worship him as he deserved… if there was a next time.

Enjolras tossed the cloth aside, but did not reach for his shirt and trousers; instead he reached for his nightshirt, vanishing for a brief moment into its voluminous folds until his head reappeared, tousled. Grantaire suppressed the urge to add to their disorder, and focused instead on attending to his own state of undress. He made himself proper enough to go out: shirt, underlinen, trousers, waistcoat, cravat, coat. He felt wildly overdressed in comparison, but such were the requirements of decency and good taste.

By the time he was ready to leave, Enjolras was sitting on the edge of the bed, already wrapped in his housecoat and fighting with one of his stockings; Grantaire wanted to lean down and kiss the point his curls spiralled out from on the top of his head, but he didn't.

It began to rain just as Grantaire stepped out of the pooled light of the café and into the shadowed street with their meal – cold cuts, cheese and olives. Not the best he could've obtained if he had ventured further afield, but he hadn't wanted to be gone too long, and there was still bread at home, left over from that morning. It was still good, simple food, and something they both liked. 

He was loath to leave the warmth and jovial atmosphere inside the café to venture back out into the cold, but he had somewhere else to be tonight, his own warm hearth, and someone far more important waiting for him. He hurried home with their meal tucked inside his coat, hunched over with his hat pulled low as he walked into the rain, which was growing heavy fast. It was lashing against his cheeks by the time he reached his doorstep, stinging skin that was already tender from the bite of the wind. 

He wiped his feet and shook the rain from his coat as soon as he had crossed the threshold, pushing his dripping hair away from his forehead and feeling rather like a wet dog. The rain had loosened the smell of tobacco smoke from the fibres of his coat, rich and bitter and reminiscent of nights spent in the back room of a dozen different taverns. Outside, the air was thick with the kind of foreboding rain that promised to last all night, the stars obscured by thick cloud, massing around a waxing moon the colour of tallow.

Enjolras had finished putting the room back in order in his absence, and to Grantaire's delight appeared to be attempting to make mulled wine over the fire, kneeling before it and carving slices out of the orange in his hand.

"I thought we could both do with something warming to drink," he said in answer to Grantaire's raised eyebrow.

"We'll dine by the fire tonight," Grantaire said, shivering, passing their meal into Enjolras's capable hands and moving to the bed to struggle out of his damp trousers; his fingers, stiff from the cold, fumbled over their buttons. 

Enjolras vanished into Grantaire's studio to fetch their plates and cutlery as Grantaire changed; his hands hovered, briefly, over another pair of trousers, before reaching for his own nightshirt instead. He would much rather match Enjolras's state of undress; there was something delightfully decadent about lazing by the fire in their housecoats. He resolved not to let Enjolras take the hard wooden chair tonight; he would give him the armchair, or they would sit on the floor together, and be equally uncomfortable.

Pre-empting Enjolras's routine, he took the pillows off the bed and lowered himself on aching legs until he was sitting on the hearth rug with the fire beside him. He propped a pillow and himself against the base of the armchair, holding his hands out to catch some of the fire's heat. He couldn't hear Enjolras's footsteps, but he could hear their plates rattling as he set them onto the tray. The hearth rug was worn and fraying at the edges, but still soft in the centre; Grantaire scraped his fingernails idly over its texture, and watched the flames dance in the grate as he waited for Enjolras to join him. 

Enjolras gave him a peculiar look when he returned with their meal, now complete with bread and butter, but he set it down before the fire without comment. As he began to straighten up, Grantaire tossed a pillow in his direction, smiling to himself. Enjolras caught it with ease despite his half-crouched position, and set it against the bed frame as Grantaire lounged opposite him. 

Enjolras had arranged their meal for sharing, rather than dividing it into two equal portions; he even had a fork for toasting over the fire sticking out of the pocket of his housecoat. Grantaire watched the white flash of his stockinged ankles as he stepped over the tray to seat himself against the pillow; the coat was far too short for him, but the way he carried himself granted it dignity still, a chiton or ceremonial garb in rich, jewel-like colours. Grantaire could recall buying it; it seemed a ludicrously extravagant purchase now, but he'd been flush with first-commission wealth at the time, and still had a healthy cushion of savings. How times changed. He'd had a matching hat too, at the time…

"A moment." He rose as Enjolras settled himself against the side of the bed. Enjolras glanced up at him curiously, but sat patiently while Grantaire rummaged through the chest at its foot, until he lay hands on what he was searching for. He returned, and held it out to Enjolras.

"It's red," he stated, waiting for Enjolras to catch his meaning. The matching night cap was deep red, soft in structure and with a single tassel at its crown. He had bought it in part because it completed the ensemble of a refined bourgeois gentleman in his parlour, and the rest because its partial resemblance to a Phrygian cap had amused him.

"I can see that." Enjolras's mouth pulled strangely as he took it from him, and turned it over in his hands, but he was smirking when he looked up at Grantaire again. "You should wear it."

"It doesn't match this colour." Grantaire gestured to his own housecoat, indigo and silver.

"Perhaps it would if you tried."

That innocent statement inspired momentary panic in him, a feeling akin to swimming out to the centre of a lake and finding his feet could no longer touch solid ground. He had laid his own trap there. His fingers curled reflexively into fists, fingernails sharp and pressing.

The worst part of the incipient dread all whispers of revolution inspired in him was the fact he knew, deep down and as suppressed as he could keep it, that he would do anything Enjolras asked of him, as surely as he knew that that truth was precisely why Enjolras wouldn't ask anything too serious of him. He was trusted enough that Enjolras had begun to offer him tasks that did not require genuine ideological commitment, but Enjolras wouldn't push him further, or demand more. There remained an unspoken and unbreachable barrier between them. Enjolras liked nothing better than seeing citizens join their cause willingly, seeing his men share his joy and passion and faith in humanity – perhaps he genuinely didn't realise that most men harboured less high minded instincts he might appeal to, that there were other wiles he could use to great persuasive effect, if he wanted to.

Enjolras must have been feeling merciful, however, because he humoured Grantaire enough to try the hat on, pulling it on and glancing up at him again, the hint of a challenge in his gaze. It suited him, further unneeded proof that he couldn't look bad in anything, but Grantaire missed the sight of his curls. He grasped it by the tassel, pulled it off him and jammed it on his own head instead as he sat, and leant back into the pillow. Enjolras laughed softly in his victory, ran a hand through his hair, tilted his chin and regarded him approvingly. It wasn't a vain gesture – Enjolras spared little thought for how his hair looked, unless he needed to blend in in more polite company, but it was long enough now to tangle in his eyelashes if he let it fall in front of his face. He watched Grantaire fuss with the hat a moment longer with an expression of faint amusement, before leaning forward to slice their bread.

The room sighed around them as the rain continued to fall. Old buildings always produced all manner of mysterious noises, creaking floorboards, distorted echoes of distant sounds in other rooms, a bird landing on the roof or roosting in the attic, but they were never as loud as when the wind was up.  

Enjolras's version of mulled wine proved to be very watered – unsurprising, since he wasn't much of a drinker, but Grantaire found he did not feel the urge for anything stronger himself tonight. He felt drunk enough on Enjolras's presence alone. The wine was hot and flavourful, which was all he needed to warm his core and add interest to their meal.

The food was pleasant too, as was the view; and neither of them had any pressing reason to hurry to finish it. Grantaire was sated for the present, both physically and spiritually. The rest was indulgence, and he had always been one to over indulge. For once, Enjolras didn't appear to have any pressing concerns to drag him away – he did not go to the desk or pull out his pen once he had finished his meal. He ate slowly, seeming to savour the simple food and the warm, spiced wine. 

Perhaps his orgasm had drained him of all his vital energy, put a spoke in the internal mechanisms that usually drove him so perpetually. Perhaps he had just decided to cut himself some slack, for once. The weather was too wretched outside, and the warmth of the fire too inviting to think of moving from it. Grantaire studied Enjolras as he reclined against the bed, wine in hand and eyes closed, chin tilted towards the ceiling with a perfectly neutral expression on his face. His brow from that angle formed a perfect straight line.

This was his favourite image of him, Grantaire decided, despite how breathtaking he was nude, bundled up in his borrowed housecoat, messy haired and infinitely relaxed. He was perfect, and Grantaire really ought to capture him like this sometime. This precise moment was everything Grantaire wanted: someone to share the small things with, to be at ease around each other, and to be able to give whatever small affections they would accept from him without fear that he was overstepping some unspoken boundary. He wanted that someone to be Enjolras.

"Are there any more olives?" Enjolras asked, without moving.

Grantaire smiled fondly at him a moment longer, leaning back against the armchair and drinking him in. He took the last olive from his own plate, squeezed Enjolras's foot to make him open his eyes – the sweetest eyes that could exist in the world, Grantaire was certain. Their exact shade of blue was difficult to describe, rich as lapis lazuli yet as clear as cut glass. Grantaire leant forward with the olive pressed gently between his fingertips. Enjolras leant forward to meet him, his lashes lowering again as he glanced downwards, and took the olive between his teeth straight from Grantaire's hand. His lips brushed against Grantaire's fingers as he did so, warm, dry and impersonal, yet intimate enough to make Grantaire's skin tingle as he withdrew. 

He stared at his own fingertips a little too long, rubbing them together as though he was rolling the olive between them. When he chanced a glance at Enjolras he found him reclining again, chewing the olive with a thoughtful expression. Grantaire watched his throat move as he swallowed, then Enjolras wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and mulled over the taste of it with his eyes shyly averted, gold-tipped lashes dropping once more to shield his thoughts from Grantaire's desperate inquiry. "They were very good."

"I'm glad."

Grantaire could eat him whole, could hollow him out and gorge himself sick, and it still wouldn't be enough. He needed Enjolras as surely as he needed air; would give up riches and eternity for one last, sweet smile. He fought the sudden, violent urge to pounce; to pin Enjolras beneath him on the rug, coil around him like a snake and press their bodies together from mouths to toes, until Enjolras was the only thought in his head and the only solid point in his universe.

Instead he released his held breath, exhaling shakily through his nose, waiting for Enjolras to look up once more. When he did he smiled as benevolently as he could manage. Enjolras's stockinged foot was cold in his hand, but warmed as he continued to hold it, finishing the rest of his wine one-handed as Enjolras closed his eyes again. After a while Enjolras nudged his other foot into Grantaire's hold, leaning back against the bed as Grantaire listened to the crackling of the fire, and tried to ignore the impulse to swear fealty at his feet.

-

They went to bed a few hours after supper, when the warmth of the fire was no longer enough to beat back the night's chill, and lay awake listening to the gentle sounds of wind and rain. The downpour had eased for the time being, but the sky still shed a constant drizzle, providing rhythmic background accompaniment, as though the air itself was breathing around them. It was too dark without the candles to distinguish more than the vague shapes of familiar furniture, but he could feel Grantaire beside him, shifting gently as he sought a more comfortable position. Enjolras folded his arms behind his head and relaxed into the softness of the pillows and the feather mattress beneath, feeling exhausted both in body and in mental faculties; he had never been more comfortable in his life, despite still having too much on his mind. 

He was on the verge of sleep when Grantaire, still shifting beside him, sighed, and spoke, softly:

"Enjolras." His voice was thin and cracked, distant, despite him being inches away. "I am almost certain I will regret knowing the answer, yet I have to ask, is it me?"

"What?" 

"Would these acts cause you such distress if they were with another? Combeferre, for example, or Courfeyrac, Feuilly… Someone who shares your aim. Someone with more to offer than half a bed and what little my affection is worth."

It took a moment for him to process Grantaire's question, and when he did he frowned at the darkened ceiling above.

Would it change anything? He couldn't rightly say; he'd never truly considered it before, and the thought sat strangely with the other complex feelings that had been troubling him for some time now. It wasn't a notion he'd ever permitted himself to entertain, and hadn't felt particularly compelled to either. He had never wanted these urges, the impure, thought-clouding desire that threatened to distract him from his purpose. He did not wish to be thinking about it now, but he recognised the vulnerability behind Grantaire's question – he owed him an answer, after everything Grantaire had done for him. If only he had one that might satisfy him. 

Despite the distaste the notion inspired in him, he tried to picture himself suggesting it to each of his friends in turn; tried picturing them nodding and taking him in hand as Grantaire had done, tried to imagine himself returning the favour, but found that he could not, and not only because it felt invasive to do so.

He was desperately fond of every one of his friends, and would gladly espouse their virtues, should anyone ask him to. But they had never inspired the same conflicting feelings Grantaire had, for longer than he had been willing to recognise them; similar, though far more tormented, to the frustration that spurred him to action. Both were a physical need, as much as they were a conscious decision. He knew where his heart loved, but lust was a base, unflattering urge; a necessary bodily embarrassment to be managed, and a failing to chastise himself for. 

He could speak of Grantaire's virtues too, now that he had spent enough time in his company to find them, buried beneath the layers upon layers of wilful indifference and performative exaggeration of his faults that he armoured himself with; but that was part of the problem. Perhaps it was the heart of the matter, the reason he was struggling to articulate to himself his precise feelings towards Grantaire; he had allowed the pure respect and admiration he felt for his brothers to exist alongside animal instinct, allowed himself to feel both towards the same person. 

If anything, it only heightened his guilt, and he really ought to put a stop to things between them, before he ended up making promises he couldn't keep. It had been so much easier to seek his release with strangers before, with no bonds and no sentimentality to complicate the matter, but it was not Grantaire's fault he felt so ashamed of himself. He wanted to offer him reassurance, though it felt uncomfortably like a lie to spare his feelings. At last, he answered, "It would not change anything."

"That is something, at least."

"It is much," he said, as seriously and as forcefully as he could muster while his head felt woolly with drowsiness and too much thinking in circles. 

He wasn't awake or decided enough to articulate anything further tonight. Words were beyond him; action would have to suffice. He rolled onto his side, feeling the mattress stuffing shift beneath him. He pressed his palm to Grantaire's chest somewhere near the middle, over his heart, and closed his eyes.

Grantaire stiffened beside him; Enjolras could tell by the stillness of his chest that he was holding his breath, then he sighed with a quiet, audible hum, chest falling as his lungs deflated. The motion of his breathing was steady after that; after a while he covered Enjolras's hand with his own.  

Enjolras slipped into sleep not long after that, their bodies barely touching except for the connection of their hands, feeling the flicker of Grantaire's heart beating steadily beneath his palm.

- 

Grantaire woke some time in the night, to the clatter of the wind rattling the shutters and the whistle of it blowing through the rafters. The weather had worsened again while he'd slept; the rain was hammering against the roof and hitting the wall in thick, heavy sheets with each gust. He was surprised only that it hadn't woken him sooner; the storm outside was as loud as a Baroque concerto, the air stuffed thick with constant, indistinct sounds, all ripieno and no solos. 

It took him several, bewildered moments to realise the pressure at his back wasn't the pillows, blown into disorder by the tumult that surrounded them; it was Enjolras, and one of his arms was wrapped tightly around Grantaire's chest, their bodies pressed together. Enjolras's chest was flush with Grantaire's back, and their legs were entangled. One of Enjolras's feet was hooked between Grantaire's ankles, and Grantaire's heart was aching fit to bursting all over again at the realisation that Enjolras had embraced him in his sleep. 

As he listened more carefully, he found he could just about discern the steady, tidal sound of Enjolras's breathing close to his ear, could feel the air lifting the hairs on the back of his neck as it moved, in and out. The last embers of the fire had died in the grate, leaving the room cold and almost entirely dark, but it was warm beneath the blankets, with Enjolras's body curled around his own. 

The longer he lay like that, listening to the symphony that surrounded them, the more sounds he could separate from the others: the bare branches of the horse chestnut tree scratching against the panes of one window, raindrops pinging like flecks of gravel against the other. As his hearing became more acute and his eyes adjusted to the darkness, his physical senses followed; Enjolras was half-hard again, Grantaire could feel it against his buttocks when Enjolras shifted against him. 

Grantaire felt his own breathing quicken in response; felt lightheaded with delight and giddy desire, as though the wine in his belly had suddenly turned to something far stronger. The feel of Enjolras against him, warm and stiff, inspired an answering longing in him, the pressure as insistent as one of Eros's arrows, and provoking the same response. 

Nerve endings singing, he wriggled one arm free of Enjolras's hold, and began running his fingertips up and down the length of Enjolras's forearm. Lazy and slow at first, he increased the pressure of his caress in gradual increments, until he could tell by the change in Enjolras's breathing and the increased tension in his limbs that he was awake. 

"Let me," he said, attempting to disentangle himself as gently as he could. Enjolras made a groggy noise of complaint as he did so, tightening his hold and fighting Grantaire's attempt to free himself, but his resistance abated when Grantaire merely turned to face him, wrapping an arm around Enjolras's waist in turn, folding him into a tight embrace of his own. Grantaire could just about make out the shape of him in the moonlight creeping through the shutters, an indistinct smudge of pale, grey-green darkness.   

Enjolras pressed closer again, hooking one long, smooth thigh over Grantaire's hips. Grantaire hummed with the sheer languid contentment of the moment, running his hands over Enjolras's body through the warm linen of his nightshirt that separated them. They were both still half-asleep, and hot beneath the piled blankets and sheets that covered them, but Grantaire's desire for Enjolras was never far from the surface, even if his body was still slow to respond.

When Enjolras continued to permit him his unhurried exploration, he slipped his hand beneath the hem of Enjolras's nightshirt, inched the fabric further up Enjolras's thighs – slowly, carefully, allowing ample time for Enjolras to slap his wandering hands away, but Enjolras merely burrowed closer, pressing the tip of his nose to the underside of Grantaire's jaw. Grantaire moaned softly, pressing his fingertips into the meat of Enjolras's thighs, sliding his hands higher until he found the sharp ridge of his hip, the curve of his backside and smooth side of his torso; Enjolras grew more animated, more awake and perhaps more aware of his own body's reflexes, as Grantaire's hands drew closer to their desired goal; he mouthed aimlessly at Grantaire's throat, hands feeling their way to Grantaire's shoulders. 

At the first delicate pressure of Enjolras's teeth, Grantaire's restraint gave violently, replaced by thought-blotting desire. He kissed and groped blindly in the dark, pressing his lips to Enjolras's forehead, his cheek, the line of his jaw; sank his fingertips into Enjolras's flesh, grasped flanks and thighs; traced the curve of Enjolras's spine. 

There was a brief jostling for position that ended with Enjolras on his back beneath Grantaire; Grantaire pushed his nightshirt up to bunch at his waist, grasped more smooth skin, felt Enjolras's chest rise and fall beneath his palms. Enjolras spread his thighs in wordless permission, and Grantaire kissed a scattered, desperate trail from his stomach down to his cock; buried his face in the warm, private juncture of Enjolras's thighs; nuzzled at the fine, clean smelling hair he found there. He used his hands and mouth to explore what he couldn't see, the soft skin of Enjolras's lower belly and the backs of his knees, christening every inch of him with his reverent touch. 

Enjolras shifted beneath him, the first sign of impatience he had permitted himself all evening, urging him on, but Grantaire became briefly sidetracked by the silky smooth skin of his inner thighs, tracing patterns into it with his tongue. The muscles in them shook when he rubbed his cheeks against them, and again when he succumbed to the urge to leave a delicate mark at the softest point, near the crease of Enjolras's hip. The blankets had tangled into a coiled knot beside them, thrown aside and allowing the cool air to enter in, sapping away their comfortable heat. Enjolras shivered beneath him, but his body was still warm, and Grantaire was too distracted to care for his own discomfort. Enjolras wasn't asking him to stop, and the heat between them would soon make up for it. Enjolras was busy conducting an exploration of his own, digging his fingernails into Grantaire's back, threading his fingers through his hair.

Grantaire moaned in loud satisfaction when he finally took him into his mouth. Enjolras's thighs clenched around him, and he exhaled shakily at the first touch of Grantaire's tongue. It was too dark for Grantaire to see Enjolras's face to determine his reactions, but he could feel the muscle of his inner thighs quivering beneath his hands. In time Enjolras shifted and wrapped a leg around him, pressed his heel into Grantaire's back, urging him on and leaving Grantaire's hands free to wander, to stroke thighs and belly and the soft bridge of skin behind his balls. The muscles of Enjolras's stomach were drawn tight, and his hips shifted ever so slightly to meet Grantaire's mouth again when he withdrew for breath. His other leg pressed against Grantaire's side, and one hand had found its way to Grantaire's shoulder and settled there, his grip firm and resolute.

Grantaire yearned for this, even as Enjolras's cock was sliding against the back of his throat, the taste of him thick and fresh on his tongue. Enjolras ran his palms over the breadth of Grantaire's back and shuddered beneath him; Grantaire felt his desire for this impossible man from his curled toes, through the arches in his feet and burning through his veins all the way to his over sensitive lips, where it burst from him in a series of stifled moans, and he had to withdraw for a moment to breathe in a series of ragged, shaking breaths, matched by Enjolras's own, before resuming his task with renewed eagerness.

He was briefly, sublimely aware of nothing but the taste of Enjolras in his mouth, the soft texture and warm pressure of his thighs either side of his ears, and the quiet sounds of pleasure that escaped his lips. The act had stopped Grantaire's mouth for obvious reason, but it was blissfully effective in stopping his thoughts too; he understood the kind of religious ecstasy that made saints immune to suffering, except there was no great epiphany to accompany it, only the reality of Enjolras beneath him. Grantaire could feel his belly expanding and contracting with each breath.

Grantaire embraced that euphoria, focussing all his attention on coaxing another quiet, cautiously guarded climax from him, in the darkness. Enjolras's thighs trembled around him when he came, and the taste of him was clean and human on Grantaire's tongue. Enjolras's heel still pressed into his back, as Grantaire swallowed all evidence of his release, feeling the pulse and warmth of it and relishing every morsel of it. Relishing the fact that Enjolras had allowed him to provide it.

He curled their fingers together when Enjolras tried to reach for his cock in return – he was exhausted, and not urgently roused himself, and words seemed like far too much trouble at present. He was content. He pulled Enjolras into a tight embrace instead, unfurling the blankets to cover them both as best he could in the dark. 

Enjolras was stiff in his hold for a moment, but he relaxed against him as sleep began to claim them both again; he buried his face against Grantaire's chest, and Grantaire stroked his back lazily as he drifted off. He fell asleep with Enjolras in his arms, their legs tangled together, utterly satisfied and impossibly happy.

The next morning, it felt like a dream. Grantaire awoke on his back with Enjolras curled against his side, one arm resting loosely over his chest. His face was hidden in the cradle between Grantaire's neck and shoulder; Grantaire could feel his breath in turns warm and cool against his skin. 

The moment was unspeakably precious, and Grantaire had to suppress the urge to escape from it before he did something to spoil it, but the warm, body-suffusing contentment was too difficult to shake.    

He stroked Enjolras's hair idly with the fingers of the arm that wasn't pinned beneath him as he waited for him to rouse; it slipped through his fingers like water, until sunlight broke through the slats in the shutters, and Enjolras finally stirred. Enjolras tilted his chin to look up at him, bleary eyed and still half asleep; Grantaire succumbed to the temptation to press his lips to his forehead. Enjolras's brow creased into a momentary, disoriented frown, but he pressed the cool tip of his nose to Grantaire's cheek, and they lay like that a few moments more before either of them made any effort to rise.

They both moved stiffly as they got out of bed; Grantaire's back ached often, especially in the cold, and as he rubbed it he discovered a bruise in the middle of his spine where the vertebrae had pressed against the rim of the tub.

They did not speak of the previous evening or night, but he caught Enjolras looking at his mouth in the mirror as he was in the midst of shaving at the basin, while Enjolras stood behind him, polishing his teeth. When he looked back at him uneasily, Enjolras stepped forward, cupped Grantaire's one smooth cheek and ran his thumb across his sealed lips, as though trying to wipe something away, though Grantaire knew there was nothing there. Grantaire covered his hand with his own, and kissed his palm before he could withdraw; Enjolras allowed the kiss to linger for a brief moment, before snatching his hand away and busying himself with combing his hair.

Chapter Text

XII.

Grantaire had long since lost track of how many hours he had spent on his current commission, but one morning as he was preparing their coffee and waiting for Enjolras to return with their bread, bleary-eyed and squinting in the lamplight, he glanced at the painting as he set the cafetiére on the table, and realised that it was almost complete. 

He paused in the midst of his usual routine, and blinked at the painting in brief bewilderment. Opening his eyes fully for the first time that morning, he stepped closer to appraise it, tugging his housecoat tighter across the chest and buttoning it closed in the hope that feeling more put-together would help banish the stagnant, listless feeling that dark winter mornings inspired in him.

He was struck with a simultaneous sense of relief and accomplishment; felt, in the same instance, as though the portrait had taken him years to produce, and as though no time had passed at all since he had begun it. He felt as though some other self had drawn the initial sketches in his client's study, and that he, a stranger, had just stumbled upon a near-complete work and claimed it as his own. He had wondered before just how much time he had lost to bouts of drunkenness over the years, but the change felt more profound than mere sobriety – his attitude to the work had shifted alongside his habits.

The process hadn't, however. Now that it was almost finished, it was time to scrutinise his efforts with a critical gaze, to pre-empt any issue his client might take with it and to ensure any flaws in his craftsmanship were not glaringly obvious. Previously, he would have conducted this part of the process with a drink in his hand; he poured himself a cup of coffee instead, and opened the shutters to let in more of the low winter sunlight.

He studied it with as dispassionate a gaze as he could muster, eye to eye with his client's larger than life face, cup in hand. The last layer of ivory black he had applied the day before was still shiny in places – the amount of oil necessary to bind the pigment to the surface made for a colour that was particularly slow-drying, but it would yield a richer result, and a colour that was less likely to fade with time. The earth pigments he had used for the man's hair had settled nicely, each thin layer building to a rich chestnut colour. His client's eyes were a deep, murky brown, but flecked with faint, sunburst flecks of amber; a detail half recalled and half imagined, but the result was a pleasing effect, with the faintest hint of warmth behind them. 

The portrait had its flaws, places where the illusion of being flesh wasn't entirely convincing, a few visible brushstrokes where he had been lazy in applying large areas of a single colour, but it was a convincing likeness of his client – one would only see the hint of Bahorel in him if they knew them both intimately.

He did not doubt that it was entirely thanks to Enjolras that he had made it this far with it – his was a quiet, subtle form of encouragement, his own focus so keen it was almost catching; his presence alone exerted a subtle pressure that made Grantaire feel as though he ought to be busying himself with something useful. 

This was the point in the process where Grantaire would ordinarily be on the verge of swearing off commissions entirely. He had come close to it in the past; had seriously considered resorting to painting copies of the work of better artists to earn a living that did not require a convincing facsimile of talent to maintain. So far, he had found himself unwilling to renounce both career and self respect entirely, but it would pay the bills; it could even make for a steady source of income, if he was willing to stoop so low.

It hadn't exactly been easy this time, but he had made it through with only the occasional moment of abject despair. He had even found welcome distraction in working on it at times; concentrating on the task at hand had allowed him to set aside the questions concerning their domestic situation that remained unanswered between Enjolras and himself.

They had fucked three times now, almost enough times to call it a habit. It had been seven long days since the last time, and they had yet to openly acknowledge what had occurred between them. Enjolras's palpable silence on the matter was foreseeable, but maddening.

Their routine had proceeded much as it had been for some time now, but Enjolras had been falling asleep curled closer to him in bed at night, and they had woken on more than one occasion sprawling and entangled, or with their limbs intertwined. It was as though Enjolras could only permit himself to bestow affection in the dark.

Grantaire sipped his coffee, and tried to quiet his turbulent thoughts with the knowledge that Enjolras would be back soon. They might never manage to speak plainly to one another, but looking at Enjolras had the unique and alarming effect of making all Grantaire's doubts fall away from him like a moth shirking its chrysalis. He knew his own feelings towards Enjolras, and there were moments when he imagined he knew Enjolras cared for him in turn, if not in quite the same manner as Grantaire's own affections. He had begun to entertain the belief that Enjolras saw him as more than a useful ally; if he was lying to himself, it was better to remain in blissful ignorance of that fact.

It was entirely possible that Grantaire was merely seeing what he wished to see in Enjolras's impassive looks and perfectly lovely features; Grantaire was an artist, and it was an artist's job to project what he wished to see onto a pure, unmarked surface, to imbue it with feeling and meaning and create something out of nothing. He had always been a fantasist, but at least he had found a profession where he could turn the tendency to good use. In time he took up his palette and paintbrush, and began applying the necessary finishing touches to his work.

When Enjolras returned, it was with half a dozen red oranges in addition to their bread, and a bundle of pamphlets tucked inside his coat. Grantaire caught the faint fragrance of fresh ink drifting from them as Enjolras took them out, not dissimilar to the smell of his own paints. Enjolras placed the pamphlets in the desk drawer and locked them away, tucking the key back inside his waistcoat pocket before he had even removed his hat, which was all the context Grantaire required to determine the nature of their contents.

"That looks like it's almost complete," Enjolras said, upon removing his hat and shoes and placing their breakfast on the table, acknowledging for the first time since he had entered that Grantaire was up and already stood by the canvas, tinkering with it.

"It is. You won't have to look at it for much longer." Subject matter aside, the painting was far too large to be easily accommodated in Grantaire's room; it would be a relief to regain a little of their shared space.

"What will you paint next?" Enjolras asked distractedly, focussed instead on setting their places at the table.

Grantaire answered the question with a brief, contemplative pause. He had known for some time now who he wanted to paint, but was he equipped to? Was he good enough? "One thing at a time."

Painting Enjolras remained a daunting task, a challenge beyond anything he had achieved to date in his mediocre career. Grantaire's name and therefore his works were worth little compared to those of his more celebrated peers, but Enjolras was a man of rare significance, and precious. Enjolras possessed the pure force of personality and presence that made strangers want a piece of him, to clasp his fine boned fingers in their hands in the hope a little of his virtue and belief might rub off on them in turn. Capturing that vital strength would require a true test of Grantaire's abilities, and he wasn't certain he was capable of it.

But there was another side to Enjolras too, and one that Grantaire found infinitely intriguing – the quiet, intense, thoughtful man he had become intimately acquainted with was the one that had truly captured his imagination of late, and continued to consume his thoughts.

He set his palette aside for the moment, and watched Enjolras portion their meal onto two symmetrical plates. It was an ordinary enough sight now, yet at the same time filled him with a painful sort of happiness that he couldn't quite articulate.

"I've been meaning to ask; when did you decide to pursue painting as a serious endeavour?" Enjolras said, without looking up from the table between them.

Grantaire watched him with an expression that was equal parts fond and pained; it was moments such as this one that awakened a terrible hope in him. 

He pulled his own chair back from the table with a careless scrape, and sat, chin in hands, gazing up at Enjolras as he continued to set their plates. "My father wanted me to be a banker, can you imagine it?" he said, his tone thick with mocking amusement. Enjolras paused, eyebrows climbing higher on his lofty forehead in incredulity. "It was my grandfather that encouraged me to enrol in the Beaux-Arts; he paid for most of my training." It had been a long time since Grantaire had spared much thought for the old man – the man who had been kinder to him than his own parents ever had been. It was both pleasing and painful to be reminded of his fonder memories of him, and of the distress of losing someone he had loved for the first time.

Into the silence, he added: "I used to draw the daisies in the church yard, and bring them to his bedside when he grew too infirm to leave it. Perhaps that was quite telling, in hindsight." He allowed his mouth to twist into a contorted smile; Enjolras was regarding him with his full attention this time, and looking as fresh and lovely as a spring flower.

Enjolras hummed in comprehension, and turned to fetch the butter.

"When did you decide you wanted to pursue…" Grantaire began, and trailed off as he found he had no conclusion to his question. When did Enjolras decide he wanted to pursue what, exactly? Letter writing? Politics? Rabble-rousing? Being the hopes and dreams of men incarnate?

"My father wanted me to be a lawyer." Enjolras smiled ruefully, placing the butter and their cutlery down on the table and drawing his own chair. "I do understand the logic behind it, though I fear he's destined to be disappointed."

It was Grantaire's turn to scoff, for he couldn't imagine it – Enjolras, with a respectable job and a closet full of dour black suits, his hair cut short and sensible and forever hidden by an unremarkable top hat, a picture of perfect conformity to bourgeois standards. His mind simply refused to picture Enjolras inhabiting a world of stiff collars and stiffer social hierarchies, though he must've been born to that destiny.

He tried to picture Enjolras turning his admirable focus towards a career as Enjolras began his meal, but found himself incapable of it – and not only because he simply couldn't imagine a scenario in which the ills that plagued his country could be fixed by their hands alone. Enjolras would never allow himself to rest until their work of political upheaval was done; he would have his victory, or die trying. 

Try as he might, Grantaire couldn't imagine Enjolras growing old at all, and that was too terrible a thought to face on an empty stomach.

He had never once doubted that Enjolras believed his own rhetoric, but it had been a while since he was last struck by the sheer intensity of that belief. Now his vision was alarmingly clear; Enjolras was his cause, and that sticking point between them must have been glaringly obvious to Enjolras from the start; plain for even the most casual of observers to see, if they knew either of them at all. Enjolras was his convictions, and Grantaire had none – of course they could never truly fit together while that fact remained. 

Grantaire would have to try; would have to prove he could march to the same drum, if he was called to it. It was only a matter of time before Enjolras corrected that oversight if he didn't. He would lose him, sooner or later, if he failed to meet Enjolras's exacting standards when it counted most.

He swallowed thickly, slicing his way into one of the oranges on his plate with hands that threatened to shake. The fleshy, red interior reminded him horribly of gaping wounds. Hesitantly, he asked: "What will you do, if you succeed?"

Enjolras seemed surprised at that; Grantaire could tell clear as day by the look on his face that he had yet to think that far ahead himself. Enjolras chewed over a mouthful of his bread as he considered the question and, upon swallowing, answered: "Perhaps I will go into law. Not accounting or property disputes. Something a little more radical."

Grantaire couldn't help but laugh at that, despite his spiralling dread. "It bodes well for me that you disparage men of numbers."

Enjolras grinned back at him, unleashing both his dimples and his exquisitely straight teeth, and the brief, cold clutch of fear was forgotten for the present.

Following breakfast, he changed into his old shirt and apron, and set to work with greater intent. The corrections he had identified as he'd studied it that morning took him much of the day to implement, and he was still making minor adjustments when Enjolras went out in the late afternoon, just as the sky was beginning to darken.

Enjolras's absence made him think of the Musain, and of the convivial company that would be awaiting him there soon enough. A part of him wanted to hurry his way through the final finishing touches so he could join his friends sooner, but despite the race against the fading light as he worked, he found himself attaining the kind of meditative concentration that made the task feel easy; he even began to enjoy himself, and feel a hesitant, nascent sense of pride towards the final product.  

He added the last few highlights by candlelight, bringing up the glow of gold on the man's coat buttons, using a few delicate touches of white to suggest moisture in the man's eyes and the reflections of an imaginary light source. A subtler layer still suggested the sheen of oil that would make the canvas's flat surface look like living, malleable skin.

The moment of completion crept up on him, and when he found himself staring at it, brush in hand, with nothing further to add he stepped back to study it, downing his tools and raising the lamp beside him instead. There were still a few minor flaws here and there, but as a whole it wasn't half bad, even if he did say so himself. 

He could not hand it over to his client without giving it a few days to dry before he moved it. He weighed the risks of varnishing it himself before he did so against the possibility that someone else might do a poorer job of it. He could, but it wasn't best practice, and a surface that hadn't been given enough time to dry properly could crack over time. Perhaps he would offer to go back himself in six months time to seal it when it was fully cured, or else trust in the hope that his client would like it enough to be willing to pay someone competent to take care of it. 

Usually, he didn't care at all what happened to his work once it was out of his studio and he had been paid in full for it, but he had put so much time into this one that he surprised himself with the realisation that it would sting a little, should anything unfortunate occur to it. 

Much had changed in his life during the months he'd spent working on it, so much so that it now served as physical evidence of a happy period in his life. He would almost be sad to see it go, a bittersweet feeling that made no sense at all when examined beyond a surface instinct – it was a hideously decadent portrait, of a man he barely knew and borderline disliked, but he had grown used to its presence in his chambers; used to having working on it as an excuse to sit with Enjolras as he wrote, without feeling as though he was intruding. 

He avoided studying it further as he tidied away his materials, lest his contemplation of it take a melancholy turn. He changed out of his old paint splattered clothes and departed for the Musain in good spirits, whistling and humming as he went.

-

There was a good crowd in the Musain tonight, particularly when accounting for how bleak the weather still was. In part this was Feuilly's doing; he had brought a small group of his fellow artisans with him, men who were no strangers to organising in pursuit of better conditions, and who had taken the events in Lyon a few months past as both a cautionary tale and a call to arms.

As a collective there was limited agreement among their positions; one particularly vocal man with thinning dark hair and an abrupt manner seemed committed to defending the position that they should close ranks and prioritise their own industry, but the others were less loudly dismissive, and had been engaged in a back and forth with Feuilly and whoever else wished to offer their perspective for some time now. The fact they were here at all proved they were at least interested in other methods of pushing for change.

Individual bluster aside, Enjolras had found their perspectives insightful, and had enjoyed listening to Feuilly extol the virtues of working in fellowship with others that suffered under the same regime as oneself. 

The rest of the tables were occupied by men he was already acquainted with, some more intimately than others. Only Courfeyrac was sharing the table with him at present, and he was lounging so far back in his seat to listen to Feuilly and the artisans at the table beside them that he may as well be lying down. The politics being discussed had taken an alarmingly Bonapartist turn, but Courfeyrac had been succeeding in biting his tongue, and Feuilly was currently countering their arguments with a capable, calm persuasiveness.

Grantaire had arrived later than usual this time, shuffling through the door in his good coat and buff-coloured trousers long after what meagre scraps of news they had gathered between them had been shared and dissected. Enjolras hoped his tardiness was due to his having finished the commission at last; he had watched him work surprisingly hard on it for some time, and concluded that Grantaire deserved to reap the rewards of that hard work. He hoped the client would be suitably appreciative of it.

At present, Grantaire was leaning over a table halfway across the room with one palm flat on its surface, gesturing with the vigour of a conductor with the other in his conversation with Bossuet. His head was bare, and his dark curls turned red in the firelight as he moved with staccato animation. Enjolras watched him for a while, feeling oddly flustered by the sight of him in his shirt sleeves and entirely at ease in his surroundings. Those trousers did look good on him, the finely-woven pale wool hinting at the shape of the muscle beneath. They shouldn't make him think so keenly of nakedness, and probably wouldn't if he was not so intimately acquainted with what was concealed beneath. The curve of Grantaire's spine stretching before him was an image that often came unbidden to his mind, and the roundness of Grantaire's backside, the remembered feeling of sinking forward – 

He snapped his gaze away, shaking his head a fraction in self-admonition, and forced himself to pay attention to the rest of the room once more. He liked to sit and listen among the company of these men, to hear what his friends had to say on the subjects that excited them even when the topic at hand had nothing to do with their shared aim. 

He couldn't make out anything of the conversation Bossuet and Grantaire were having over the sounds of those closer to him. Prouvaire and Bahorel had been discussing the failure of a play in one far corner; he couldn't hear their full conversation, but Bahorel's voice was loud enough that he had caught enough odd words over the general hubbub to determine the topic at hand. Behind him, Combeferre and Joly were discussing the condition of Joly's patients in tones of academic concern. Several cases of cholera had been identified in the city over the past week or so, a disease Enjolras knew by reputation as one that had ravaged multiple Russian cities over the past year, and had added to the loss of lives in Warsaw during the November Uprising. Their discussion held his interest for a little while, though their speculation involved a lot of Latin terms he understood only through literal translation.  

Beside him, he heard Feuilly mention the new worker's commission being founded with the cooperation of the Société des amis du peuple, and voice a desire to set up a concurrent one of their own. He listened in on Feuilly's conversation with the workers with renewed interest; after a while Courfeyrac added his own very particular brand of charm and influence to the mix. 

Courfeyrac was not the first person in this room one might expect to be able to relate to working men; his upbringing had been as fortuitous and silver-spoon fed as Enjolras's own, but he had a chameleon-like talent to befriend everyone and anyone, to shape himself such that the dandyish manner of his personal presentation became invisible when he spoke from the heart. 

Enjolras sipped the watered glass of wine he had been nursing for the past hour, and smiled to himself. There was so much enthusiasm about them that it formed almost a physical presence in the small, haze-filled room, for the cause but for all manner of other things, too. He didn't think of his friends' broader interests as at odds with their goal – their cause was, ultimately, one of uplifting a people that had suffered too much, for too long. Their other passions still ultimately served the same end: Bahorel and Prouvaire with their plays and poetry, words that spoke directly to the heart of some men the way the visceral language of pamphlet wars spoke to others. Joly and Combeferre were immersed in the art of healing; if the body and the soul were indivisibly linked in life, it followed that aiding one should elevate the other. Courfeyrac and Bossuet had a natural affinity with people, no matter their surface differences; fraternity was as much a matter of companionship as it was a common goal. Feuilly was a marvel, a rare and generous spirit with an inexhaustible supply of affection for the world and a sharp sense for what was right.

And Grantaire. Grantaire the friend who was ever there for those that needed his particular mix of cynicism and quixotic, bull headed romanticism. He still found it baffling how Grantaire could harbour so much love for his friends, and fail so entirely to apply it at a broader scope. Grantaire's love was for individuals, and of a passionate nature, while Enjolras saw the common bonds of feeling between humanity in a broader sense, and could see little use for the former, or for the negative sentiments that often formed the reverse side of it; for the petty romantic jealousies and urge to possess another that drove some men to distraction. 

But Grantaire was always there for a friend in need, and had been there for him, specifically, without Enjolras ever realising it at first, even when his affection had been unwanted. Even though he had so little to offer him in return. 

Or, rather, what he had to offer wasn't what Grantaire wanted from him. He mustn't keep taking when he had nothing more to give – couldn't keep offering him false hope. Generosity was one thing, but a man shouldn't use another for pleasure as Grantaire kept allowing him to. It wasn't fair; wasn't right.

Time was ever progressing, and he needed to focus. The problem of press censorship was still a pressing concern, growing ever more aggressive the more uneasily Louis-Philippe's ministers slept in their beds. But there were new publications too, and established ones taking on a more openly anti-monarchist stance. Enjolras liked to imagine republican voices as a hydra; cut off one head and two more would take its place. The truth would prevail in the end; what was right could not be silenced while there were still those willing to stand for it.

The warm scent of stew drifted down the corridor whenever Louison opened the door between the café proper and their private room, rich and hearty. A part of him wanted to make his excuses, take a pot of stew home with him to eat by the fire with Grantaire and just stop thinking for the night, but the conversation beside him had reminded him of tasks yet to be done – missives to be sent to shore up connections, headcounts to take stock of their allies.

Beside him, the conversation had turned to revolution, to dates uttered in hushed, reverent tones, and so to the prospect of a republic; Feuilly's words galvanised him with renewed vigour, and he couldn't stay silent on the matter for long.

-

Their gathering adjourned earlier than usual that night to avoid the worst of the weather. Grantaire's mood was still unusually buoyant, following an evening spent joking with Bossuet at his own expense, and later with Joly and Bahorel on matters he'd already half-forgotten. 

Enjolras had sat alone for much of the evening, intent on the attempted conversion happening beside him, but Grantaire caught him glancing in the direction of the door whenever the smell of food drifted down the corridor. He ventured into the café proper as the others were departing, returning with a pot of stew and a bottle of the same wine that Enjolras had been slowly sipping all night. When Enjolras noticed the meal tucked beneath his arm he smiled, and said his goodnights to those around him with a little more haste than usual.

They were almost home when Grantaire plucked up the courage to voice his decision, having spent the past hour or so convincing himself that, perhaps, it was finally time.

"I've decided what I wish to paint next."

Enjolras glanced at him, expectantly, his face half in shadow.

"You," Grantaire stated, and felt a sudden rush of excited trepidation on having voiced his intentions aloud. "If you'll allow it, that is." 

The corner of Enjolras's mouth quirked in barely-perceptible amusement, but his tone was serious when he asked, "How long would it take?"

"An afternoon, perhaps, for something straightforward." 

Grantaire would take as long as Enjolras would give him, and suspected it still would never be enough time for him to produce something that satisfied his own need to preserve his likeness, but he was ever wary of pushing his luck.

Enjolras considered the request for a moment, shadows passing across his features as they walked between disparate pools of light. Fog danced beneath the brightest lanterns as they passed, and Enjolras's breath was visible between them when he spoke. 

"I think I can spare a little time for that."

Grantaire smiled, even as the true magnitude of the task loomed before him. "I won't ask you to sit for anything too complicated – perhaps a few oil sketches would do for now?" He could hear the desperate note of evasiveness in his own voice, already trying to row back on his words, intimidated and trying to talk his way out of his own suggestion.

"As you wish. As long as I can keep my own appointments."

It was still several days before he dared to broach the subject again. Enjolras had been keeping himself busy, but as they lay in bed on the dawn Grantaire was due to turn in his commission, he concluded that he needed something to look forward to that afternoon to get him through a morning spent in his client's company. There was no Musain gathering arranged that night, and when he pronounced his intentions Enjolras merely hummed sleepily beside him, his feet tangled with Grantaire's own. 

Grantaire said his final farewells to the painting as he removed the stretchers, collapsed the frame and rolled the canvas carefully, painting-outwards, for transport, as Enjolras fetched their breakfast. He wrapped it in thin, soft paper as an extra precaution, and when Enjolras returned enlisted his aid in slotting the painting gently into the large leather carrying tube he had brought special for the occasion.

Bahorel had given him a fresh batch of satirical journals the night before. He glanced through them as he sat down to eat, and within their pages came across the news that Daumier had finally been sentenced for his Gargantua cartoon.

"Another colossus of wit fallen," Grantaire said aloud to no one in particular.

Enjolras, on his feet to fetch their coffee, paused beside him to see what it was that he was looking at. He placed a hand on Grantaire's shoulder to steady himself, as he leant closer to examine the words on the page in Grantaire's hands. 

Chapter Text

XIII.

Grantaire had never liked the Faubourg Saint Honoré; it was home to too many merchants and dignitaries, and too few artists. At least the weather that morning was the driest it had been for a while now, if solely because it was too cold to be otherwise. The ground was crisp with frost, rendering the whole city briefly clean and sparkling. For once, the austere white façades of the buildings that towered over him at either side looked as though they belonged.

The bell at the doorway gave a stately chime, ringing through the clear, still air. Moments later, he was greeted by a servant in a neat black tailcoat – his client wasn't self-important enough to dress his attendants in livery, at least. The man who answered the door was older than his client and himself; a career butler with obsequious manners and an air of vague disdain that Grantaire couldn't find it within himself to blame him for. This wasn't his world; that had been clear enough to the both of them from the start. 

He was shown up a narrow flight of stairs lined with small, yellowed paintings to the study, where his client awaited him. Grantaire had spent several hours in this particular room by now, when he had first negotiated the terms of the commission and when he had produced his initial sketches. He had become familiar with the mixture of books and objets de vertu it contained; his client's taste was decidedly old fashioned, though the trinkets that filled this particular room were of good quality, as far as Grantaire had managed to deduce, tasteful yet uninspiring. He noted, idly, that the thin film of dust that had clung to most of them on his first visit had grown thicker.

"Ah, good, do come in," his client said, from his seat behind the writing desk. "Has Armand offered you a beverage?"

"He hasn't," Grantaire answered truthfully, a minor act of revenge for the servant's cold reception of him that left him feeling unclean rather than victorious. "But I am sated at present, thank you."

"If you're sure; let it not be said that I'm an ungracious host." His client's last few words were accompanied by a significant glance in Armand's direction, which Grantaire attempted in vain to ignore. The interaction was already awkward in a manner he couldn't bull his way through as he might in friendlier company. He wanted to go. He had no time for this particular game of manners and social posturing; the sooner his client paid and dismissed him the sooner he could have done with it

"Is it finished?" his client asked, folding his hands on the table before him and leaning forward in his chair. The note of excitement in his voice was unmistakable, and only heightened Grantaire's discomfort; indifference would be safer, expectations merely increased the likelihood of disappointment.

"It is." Grantaire shuffled further into the room, taking the leather case off his shoulder and resting it against his hip.

"Excellent! Armand, the table if you'd be so kind." 

Armand nodded stiffly, and moved to retrieve the drop-leaf table that was tucked away in a discrete corner. He removed the potted plant and lace doily from its surface, and began dragging the table towards the centre of the room.

Grantaire averted his gaze, uncomfortable with the notion of watching another man obey orders. As polite as the request had sounded, it was still a command. Observing the conduct of the wealthy and entitled often felt like having a mirror held up to his own past treatment of others, the worst and most shameful of drunken excesses. The most troubling part was that his own memory of them was so clouded, leaving him free to imagine all manner of horrors; the idea that he might ever have behaved so lordly or presumptuous was mortifying. 

His client rose to his feet as Armand fixed the table brackets in place, looking expectantly at the painting case at Grantaire's side. Grantaire fixed his attention on his surroundings instead, not wishing to speak until he was spoken to and put his foot in it when he was so close to being shot of these people for good.

The room was slightly too small for the rather violent shade of green silk that covered its walls. The books that lined the lower half of the room were locked behind crosshatched gilt screens; Grantaire couldn't make out many titles, but the musty smell that suffused the entire room suggested there were many old volumes among them. The writing desk at the heart of it all was a relic of the last century, all dark wood marquetry, gold leaf and flowering candle sconces, with a thin marble shelf at its peak. Grantaire didn't believe his client to be rich enough to be able to afford a Riesener, but it was something in the same style. 

The whole house was full of objects that might have been confiscated alongside the estates of courtiers under the convention, furnishings and decorations that had survived fire and bloodshed and several less than careful owners to find their way back to a similar environment. The only thing missing was the title, and the air of hereditary superiority.

His painting would fit in well here, Grantaire decided. It had looked utterly ridiculous in his own home. He couldn't imagine Enjolras working at a desk like the one his client had given pride of place to, which rather dampened its appeal.

Once the table was in place, Grantaire took a deep breath, steeling himself for whatever reception his work might receive. It was alarming how much he cared, this time; he had put so much effort into the portrait, and wasted so much time he could have spent on something more fulfilling – painting Enjolras, for one thing – that a poor response would be more gut wrenching than usual – might even crush his brittle confidence in his skills entirely, if he allowed it to. 

He stepped forward, unfastened the latch on the case and drew the furled canvas carefully from its protective embrace. He placed it on the table in front of him, opening out its paper wrapping and finding the free edge, and hit upon a stumbling block: the canvas was too large for him to do the job of unrolling it unaided.

"I need a second pair of hands," he said, a little more forcefully than he had intended to; he was too preoccupied with his own concerns to remember his manners.

He expected his client to instruct Armand to aid him, but the man surprised him by stepping up himself.

"Where do you need me?"

"Hold this edge in place. Keep the tension as even as you can."     

"Certainly." 

His client took the edge of the painting from him carefully in both hands, arms spread wide, holding it level with the table's edge. Grantaire took the rolled end between his fingertips, and began unfurling it from beneath with meticulous care. It took an awkward bit of manoeuvring, but his client's face appeared in increments, agonisingly slowly as Grantaire worked as delicately as he could, for fear of cracking the painting's surface. 

When at last it was fully unrolled he glanced at his client, saying, "You can lower it now." His client did as instructed, and Grantaire did the same with his own side. With bated breath, he bent his head low to inspect his work for signs of damage, running his palms lightly over the canvas to smooth any remaining rucks, and was relieved to find it had survived its journey intact. That relief turned to trepidation again when his client stepped away from the table, rounding it to view the painting from the correct angle.

"Marvellous!" his client said, in a tone so delighted it startled him. 

He had been bracing himself for weeks for any number of negative reactions, shoring his self-esteem against the possibility of having failed to meet the expectations his client had of the finished work.  Apathy, disappointment, irritation, a demand that he make adjustments to it or go back to the drawing board entirely – all had seemed like far likelier outcomes than acceptance. The one response that hadn't entered into the realm of possibilities he had conceived was pleasure… 

"Splendid!" His client stepped forward to study it closer. "The detail – extraordinary! It looks so real – better than life! You flatter me. Such talent! I was told you were good, but this is exceptional."

Grantaire, at a loss as to what to make of the unexpected praise and half-convinced he was mistaken in his client's meaning, or being played for a fool, shifted his weight between the balls of his feet and his heels and said, "It's nothing, really." 

Perhaps the man simply had lower expectations than he'd assumed, or had only poor points of comparison by which to judge his abilities, which were average at best.

"Nonsense!" his client said, emphatically. "This is an honour." He was quiet for a moment as he gazed into the portrait's painted eyes, which were as much Bahorel's as his own, then: "I must get your opinion on where best to hang it – come, please."

The look he gave Grantaire was imploring, and genuine enough that Grantaire was finally convinced that his effusive reaction hadn't been an elaborate performance.

He followed his client out of the study, along the narrow hallway into a larger, more formal reception room. Cluttered with objects like the last, Grantaire swiftly realised that the room had been laid out as a private gallery, in which to house the more impressive pieces in his collection. The edges of the room were crowded with sculptures on marble plinths or decorative console tables; the walls behind them were adorned to the ceiling with paintings in thick, gilt frames. 

The immediate effect was an affront to Grantaire's sensibilities. There was so much conspicuous opulence on display that he found it viscerally repellent. He hesitated on the threshold, rooted to the spot by the full force of his gut response. The strength of it unsettled him almost as much as the sight that had inspired it, for the feelings hadn't felt like his own. 

The statues that stood sentry at the corners of the room were Greco-Roman, or rather reproductions after the fact, tall, gleaming white marble that lacked the erosion of an original. The paintings formed an eclectic, inharmonious mix of subject matters and eras; Grantaire glanced at those closest to the entrance, and found himself face to face with a wide, misty view of a Venetian harbour at dawn, its sea dotted with tiny frigates complete with intricate rigging and gondolas manned by miniscule oarsmen – he was almost certain it was a Canaletto. Beneath the painting was a narrow mahogany table, bearing the weight of a gilded mantle-clock. The flowing vines and fat cherubs that spilled from the clock's face down to its marble base shone yellow-gold in the meagre sunlight. The rest of the room glittered too, and the paintings that lined the walls formed a rich tapestry of colour, as muddled as his own thoughts and equally cluttered.

The wealth on display in the room must surely have amounted to more money than he could hope to earn in a lifetime, and the auction price of it might keep every hungry stomach in Paris full for a year – 

He had been spending too much time in Enjolras's company if his aversion to such riches had grown that reflexive, and that righteous in nature. He might have been duly awed once, as was doubtless the intended effect, but he had grown used to grandeur over time, living in Paris and mixing with men like his tutors and his clients, seeing the assembled fruits of his generation's labours in the Salon and the work of their forebears before them. His own sense of beauty had honed itself towards something simpler, more austere: an elegant line, a delicate gesture, rich colours shown to full effect through sparing use. He had never felt offended by such splendour before, however, and that feeling was more uncomfortable than all others. It was as though he had caught a conviction by proximity, as though a thought that wasn't his own had followed him here from his own chambers and now sat in the back of his mind, tugging at his conscience. Truly, Enjolras's presence had rubbed off on him more than he'd known.

Behind him, the sound of his client's boots shuffling against the wooden floor reminded him of company, and of his place here.

"A fine collection," he said, with a hesitancy he hoped his client mistook for speechlessness. 

"My pride and joy," his client said, and placed a hand on his shoulder to steer him further into the room. "Please, do have a look around."

Grantaire resisted the urge to brush his hand away like a horse flicking its tail at a fly, and allowed himself to be led further into the private gallery. 

Conspicuous opulence aside, Grantaire couldn't deny the quality of his client's collection. The closer he looked, the more famous names he encountered – the expected names prized by the late aristocrats of the Ancien Régime, but names held in reverence by the tutors and students of the Beaux-Arts too: Hals, Cano, Velázquez – Grantaire found himself face to face with a Van Dyck, depicting Paris as a shepherd boy, clutching the golden apple to his breast; the portrait appeared so real that if it drew breath Grantaire would scarcely bat an eye. He studied it for a time, in the hope that it would yield its maker's secrets, half a mind on his own unfinished version.

The statues were equally impressive, though rendered less so by his familiarity with their counterparts in the Louvre and in any number of public and private gardens. He'd never much cared for porcelain, but the richness of his client's examples was apparent even to his uninterested eyes. 

Despite the riches on display, the painting that Grantaire found himself most drawn to was a small portrait, tucked away between the window and a larger painting of a golden-haired angel helping an enraptured St. John to his feet. The portrait depicted a young man with voluminous brown curls and serious, gentle eyes, half his face cast in shadow. Grantaire stepped closer. There was something about the quality and the direction of the light that struck a familiar chord. He peered at the signature in the corner, which was almost entirely obscured by the darkness of its subject's clothing and the veneer of age on the surface itself. Only the first letter of it was legible: 'R…'

"Is this a Rembrandt?" he asked, enthralled, despite his misgivings. He hated himself for it, but he couldn't deny that it was a treat to be permitted to study works of such rare excellence up close. Famous names aside, the examples his client had collected were of a remarkably high standard.

"That is my belief," his client answered, stepping up to his right hand side. "It bears more than a passing resemblance to a known portrait of his son. I've always felt the young man must've been sad about something. Such a serious expression on one so young."

Grantaire thought of his own serious-faced subject, and felt an answering pull on his heartstrings at the thought of setting that face to canvas. It was in that moment that he truly decided that he would do it; would devote himself to it, as long as it took to create something truly worthy as a legacy – his own, but a fitting memorial to Enjolras's existence also –

"I was thinking of hanging yours here," his client said, gesturing to a space on the wall opposite the fireplace, currently occupied by several smaller paintings in haphazard alignment to one another.

Grantaire was absolutely certain that his work did not belong in this room, alongside works of such esteemed provenance and by such masters of his field. He also found the very notion of owning a larger than life portrait of oneself unfathomably vain; he couldn't imagine ever enjoying the sight of his own face that much, but he had not come here to argue, or to air his own troubles. He elected to focus instead on practicalities; it was a good spot for a work of such scale, well lit but sheltered from direct sunlight by virtue of the north-facing windows.

"That would be a suitable place. Better to let it see some natural light than to keep it in the dark; the varnish will be less likely to yellow over time if you do." That thought led him to another outstanding task; "Do you wish for me to come back and varnish it myself?" Having spent the morning in his client's company, he found he no longer minded the notion of having to return; his client wasn't as intolerable as he had first seemed, now that the commission was over.

"Yes – we must set a date before you go. And there's still your payment to settle!"

Grantaire left a quarter-hour later, with the empty leather case on one shoulder and a full coin purse weighing down his pocket, feeling conflicted about the whole affair from start to finish. Months of resentment and turmoil on his part had amounted to a pleasant morning, a satisfied client and a generous tip.

After spending time in conversation rather than negotiation with the man, he had realised that there wasn't much difference in age between them – a vast disparity in wealth and circumstances, yes; but he had been amplifying the flaws in his client's character to an unkind degree. 

He also understood why he had received such a large bonus; clearly the man had money to burn. He had paid closer attention to the paintings that lined the walls of the stairwell on his way out. None of the works were as rare as the treasures in his gallery; most were the work of dead artists of the last century, relicts of the same vision of France before the republic. Most were worth little enough, but there were a few names among them that were still collectible: Boucher, Charlier, an early piece of Rococo frivolity by Jacques-Louis David. 

Their collective presence in the dark little corridor was a strange reminder of their maker's mortality, and of his own; Grantaire wondered if his own work would be worth preserving after he was gone, once there was a finite supply of it in the world. His name would either appreciate, or be forgotten; such was the nature of the tenuous immortality his profession offered.

He had been harbouring half-formed plans as to how to make their living situation more comfortable for a while now, and the unexpected windfall felt like as good a time as any to set them in motion. He stopped by a handful of furniture workshops and dealers' salerooms on his way home. The bells of Saint-Sulpice chimed one, as he took a detour past his own lodgings to the innocuous, glass-fronted stores that served the needs of the artists in the ateliers that surrounded them. He used to spend so many hours in those stores, coveting the fine pigments and professional grade tools that had been beyond his means as a student.

By the time he returned home his pockets were a little lighter, and he was newly in possession of a nice set of sable brushes tucked inside his coat, a docket confirming his purchase of a couch in his waistcoat pocket. A bottle of wine in the crook of one arm and a cooked chicken in the other completed the yield of the day's foraging. Perhaps he would even get himself one of the brightly coloured painting smocks the fashionable artists were sporting these days, to lend himself the appearance of a true professional, but for now he was determined to enjoy a good meal and some pleasant company, while he still felt as though he'd earned it.

He warned the porter about his incoming delivery on his way up the stairs; when he reached his door he used his elbow to work the latch and pushed it open with his shoulder. Enjolras looked up from his writing as he entered; he was neatly dressed in dark grey trousers and a deep blue waistcoat, but didn't appear to have left their chambers yet that day, which further bolstered Grantaire's courage.

"Did your appointment go well?" Enjolras asked, leaning back in his chair with his pen still in his hand, eyeing the covered meal that nevertheless filled the room with the smell of rosemary and roasted fowl.

"It did – behold the fruits of my labour." Grantaire walked past him, and placed the food and the wine on the table. He undid the knots that bound the dish's cloth covering, revealing a particularly plump chicken on a bed of roast potatoes and winter vegetables. The skin was golden brown, and seasoned with sprigs of rosemary, diced herbs and finely chopped garlic.    

Enjolras's eyes widened almost imperceptibly as he looked at it; he raised an eyebrow at Grantaire in question, and Grantaire was suddenly aware that this display of largesse warranted an explanation. The bird was large enough to feed a family of six. 

"There was a large bonus," Grantaire said. In the spirit of honesty, he reached into his coat and placed the brushes beside their meal.

"That is well." Enjolras stretched in his chair to reach for the wine bottle, tilting it in order to read the label. The wine hadn't been cheap, either.

"I bought a couch too." 

Grantaire shuffled his feet, fidgeting with the cuff of his sleeve and gazing down at the objects on the table, adding up the sunk cost in his head, and cringed with guilt at his own extravagance now. He had frittered away a sum total of thirty francs in little more than an hour. It wasn't fair, when Enjolras now depended on him to be able to shoulder his share of the rent, or have them both turfed out on the streets; Enjolras was more careful with his own purse strings, and might have found a worthier reason to open them.

Still, at least he hadn't pissed it all away in a tavern; they both knew full well he would've done so, before –

"A couch will be of use."

"I hope so."

Enjolras had taken up one of the paintbrushes while Grantaire had been staring at the floor. Grantaire watched him turn it between his fingers. "These look expensive," Enjolras said.

"They were."

He rubbed the bristles of the brush between his thumb and forefinger, contemplating their texture, then looked up at Grantaire again. "I'm pleased for you." His expression didn't show it, but Grantaire knew him well enough to take him at his word, despite the frown.

Grateful for the reprieve, he steeled himself, and asked: "Are you busy this afternoon?"

"Not tremendously."

"I'd like to put those brushes to good use."

Enjolras's eyebrows knitted tighter in confusion, then smoothed again as he gathered Grantaire's meaning. He smiled. "That could be arranged."

The meal Grantaire had bought had been intended for the evening, so he set it aside to be reheated over the fire later. He resisted the temptation to break into the wine bottle; they shared a sparse lunch of leftovers instead. Grantaire shed his coat, and relayed the events of that morning to Enjolras as they ate. Enjolras had little to say on the subject in return, but did seem genuinely glad for the painting's warm reception.

When their plates were empty Grantaire retreated to his bedroom to change out of his good clothes. He couldn't fathom what had possessed Enjolras to agree so readily to his self indulgent request, but he wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. The weather was still inhospitably cold; perhaps Enjolras had grown weary of being cooped up inside, and was seeking novelty. Grantaire often felt the same this time of year, but it was different to be cooped up with company.

He resolved to start with a few gouache sketches and oil studies to capture as many different perspectives and tones as possible, while Enjolras was willing to humour him. The clattering of plates had ceased as he'd changed, and when he returned to the table Enjolras was back at the writing desk, reading over whatever he had been working on in Grantaire's absence.

Grantaire donned his apron, and set about gathering together his supplies. He had a new sketchbook to christen, along with several small canvases and wooden boards he had yet to use, or had painted over. He retrieved his pigments and his paints, and began scraping the previous colours off his palette before assembling them anew. Any portrait of Enjolras would need to be much brighter than the one of his client had been – he would start with white rather than a neutral wash, to attempt to capture the way Enjolras always seemed to be lit from within, radiant even when surrounded by darkness.

A creaking of the floorboards made him glance upwards, to find Enjolras watching him. He was stretching in his chair, arms folded behind his head and his long legs extended as far as the space allowed. 

"I am almost ready," he assured, grinding together yellow earth pigment and linseed oil with renewed gusto.

"Where do you want me?" Enjolras asked, his usual tenor distorted by the awkwardness of his position. 

Grantaire hesitated in the face of the double meaning, fighting to keep the smirk off his face, but elected to let it pass without comment. "There will suffice, for now." It seemed fitting to paint him sitting at his desk, as he had sketched so many times before. As the cautious intimacy they now shared had truly begun.

"As you wish." 

He remained aware of Enjolras's gaze upon him as he finished preparing his palette. Enjolras continued to lounge in his chair, and only straightened in his seat as it became clear Grantaire was almost finished.

"I'd like to start with something less formal," Grantaire said, already contemplating the task that lay ahead of him. The light at his back was fading fast; he had an hour at most before he would need to light the lamps. "Perhaps if you face me a little; make yourself comfortable." 

Enjolras nodded subtly, turning in his chair until his shoulders faced Grantaire. He adopted a position that was halfway towards his previous sprawl, resting one elbow on the back of the chair. "Where should I look?" 

"Wherever you wish." 

Grantaire expected Enjolras to choose the pages before him, or perhaps the window; he hadn't expected Enjolras to elect to look directly at him. The full force of his gaze still unnerved him; being watched in his work was unsettling enough – being watched by Enjolras doubly so. He realised his palms were sweating, and wiped them as subtly as he could against his apron before reaching for one of the new brushes. He wouldn't ordinarily christen his new ones with a sketch, but a sketch of Enjolras was a serious, worthy pursuit.

The light was far from ideal, but he would make it work. He began by marking out the shape of Enjolras's form on one of the small canvases in rough, broad strokes. He could have done so without looking at him – he had drawn him so many times by now that he could likely do so in his sleep – and his initial progress was swift, and alarmingly easy.

Enjolras's eyes followed the workings of his hand, but he remained remarkably still – the only other movement was the subtle shifting of his shoulders as he drew breath. 

Enjolras truly was lovely from every angle. The long line of his body was elegant even at rest. His clothing was equally elegant in its simplicity; the pleats of his sleeves exaggerated the breadth of his shoulders, his waistcoat was tailored to draw the eye naturally to a narrow waist and slim, boyish hips. His sleeves were turned up to his elbows, revealing lightly muscled forearms and hands made for expressive, mannered gestures.  

His hair was a crop of pure sunlight, as golden as Apollo's lyre, as fine as silk threads. Grantaire knew how it felt between his fingers now, knew the feel and weight of him in his arms.  

He washed the excess colour off his brush and selected another, choosing a darker shade to add shadows and define Enjolras's features further. He knew those features intimately: the softly pointed jaw and the nose that was as straight and sharp as his palette knife. The winter light rendered them softer than usual, though failed to dull their colours. His cheeks were lightly flushed with warmth; his lips were the colour of pink rose petals, not the bright, bitten red Grantaire had now seen on him, but his lower lip was still full and inviting. His eyelashes were long and lighter at the ends than they were at the root, though this Grantaire knew only from closer study. They lowered intermittently as he blinked, then lifted again to reveal eyes as blue as the heavens. Grantaire had studied them often and closely enough to know that certain lights revealed the narrow band of green and gold that surrounded their pupils, complicating the purity of their colour but adding to their interest.

The sketch on the small canvas before him was beginning to take shape, the layers of colour building into something that was recognisably Enjolras. It didn't take much detail for the resemblance to begin to form – or perhaps he had simply studied him so long that he would know him by his shadow.

He could tell by the tension in Enjolras's posture that he was beginning to find the position uncomfortable. The relaxed slope of his shoulders had stiffened, and the tightness of his jaw spoke of gritted teeth.

"You can relax for a moment," he said, setting the canvas aside for the present and dipping his brush in the open jar of linseed oil at his side. He reached for an old cloth to wipe the rest of the pigment from his brushes.

Enjolras's posture slackened as he breathed a sigh of relief. His body rippled like water as he stretched again in his chair. "A tougher calling than it seems," he said, rubbing the back of his own neck with the palm of one hand.

"That's because there are no distractions," Grantaire said, smiling at the sight of him so disarmed and unpoised. He could look at Enjolras all day and never grow weary of it, but his own face held none of the same appeal. He was asking a lot of him, to sit with only his thoughts for company when there was work to be done, letters that might be written –

"How is the painting coming along?" Grantaire thought he detected a hint of impatience in Enjolras's tone, which was forgivable given the discomfort of holding a single position for so long; Grantaire knew the discomfort himself, having posed for one of his peers on a few rare occasions, usually when plied with the promise of wine and a good meal at the end of it. Enjolras was making an effort to show an interest in his work, which was admirable.

"This one is a sketch only – you can change position if you'd prefer to."

"I was under the impression you usually draw from the nude." 

Grantaire startled, certain for a moment that he had misheard. Enjolras's tone had been entirely innocent, and he was gazing at him levelly. Grantaire gulped down a mouthful of air and swallowed thickly. 

"I've never drawn a client that way, but as a student – yes. The received wisdom is that it's the best way to understand a pose, and to learn how the body bends and twists to accommodate it. The received wisdom is correct, on that matter at least."

He studied Enjolras's expression; he had the improbable and sourceless feeling that Enjolras had an ulterior motive in asking. He brushed it aside, only to be caught off guard again by Enjolras's next words:

"I wouldn't mind it."

Something frustrated and disbelieving snapped in Grantaire's mind; he fought the urge to rise to his feet, seize Enjolras by the shoulders and shake some sense into him, or possibly slap some sense into himself. When he answered his voice sounded weak and frail to his own ears.

"Only if you're willing."

Chapter Text

XIV.

It was a simple enough request, and Enjolras couldn't help feeling as though Grantaire had earned some kind of reward for his trouble, beyond the material. He had worked hard on the commission – harder than Enjolras had even thought him capable of, before. Enjolras had witnessed him overcome the difficulties he had encountered along the way with something akin to pride, and he was genuinely interested in his artistic process; in aiding him, if he could. 

There remained an outstanding debt between them, too; Enjolras hadn't forgotten the night before the fire, and after… The feeling of Grantaire's mouth on him – the things he now knew Grantaire's tongue to be capable of other than speech – had been a revelation as well as a pleasure, however much it complicated matters and disrupted the balance between them once again. 

Perhaps allowing Grantaire to paint him would be an opportunity to repay him, if not in kind then at least with something that was clearly significant to him… 

The way Grantaire looked at him as he worked was different to how he had looked at him that night before the fire; it lacked the imploring, desperate quality that had caught him so off guard then. There was no discernable emotion behind his gaze at all at first; it was as though Enjolras was barely there at all. Grantaire's eyes roamed across his body as a series of disparate parts, but there was nothing covetous about his glance this time; it was as though he was merely a collection of shapes and planes reflecting light, an object to be estimated and recorded, but there was a seriousness to his concentration that Enjolras found familiar. 

Grantaire's brow was slightly furrowed, and his lips were pursed in a downward-tilting pout. It was the look he wore when he was totally absorbed in something outside himself. Enjolras did not dislike it. Grantaire's frown softened into something gentler only when he reached for a different, darker colour, and Enjolras took his brief distraction as an opportunity to glance at the sketch as he laid the canvas flat on the table between them. It was difficult to decipher from his angle, but it appeared to be progressing with good speed; he could recognise it as himself by the colours alone, hair, face and clothing, and the suggestion of the desk before him and the chair beneath him. 

It wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind when he agreed to Grantaire's request. He was familiar enough with the contents of his sketchbooks; he had seen his drawings of Bahorel and Courfeyrac as naked as the day they were born. He had assumed, perhaps wrongfully, that Grantaire would ask the same of him; it was what he had been expecting when he had agreed to sit for him on the way home from the Musain some nights past, and what he had been steeling himself for ever since. 

There was something unexpectedly intimate about sitting face to face as Grantaire studied his form, however, even while fully clothed. It ought to be an insignificant thing, given their past and recent entanglements; Grantaire had seen almost every inch of him by now; had touched him in places he had scarcely even touched himself; had put his mouth to such places, and Enjolras in turn had seen him in closer quarters and with greater interest than he had seen any man before. 

But that had been during active, desperate moments when neither of them had been thinking clearly at all. This was a slower, more purposeful kind of scrutiny. Perhaps it ought to make him feel exposed, but Enjolras found it did not. 

It made him feel perceived, and that was a very different feeling.

He didn't mind the thought of Grantaire studying him in an unclothed state. He didn't mind the opportunity to study Grantaire, either, despite it taking him out of his own thoughts and away from his letters for the time being. 

Grantaire's face as he worked did make for an appealing picture. Enjolras had come to appreciate the serious, unguarded expression he wore whenever he was truly absorbed in a task; he liked watching him work. The position he had chosen for himself proved not to be a particularly comfortable one; it wasn't long before he began to feel the ache in his left hip as it bore the pressure of his full weight, the hardness of the wooden chair against his spine. The chair's cushioning was thin and insufficient, built for show rather than comfort; his right arm tingled and prickled as the nerves lost blood supply.

He could persevere through the physical discomfort, but the idleness presented a greater challenge. His thoughts began to wander, presenting images and half-formed plans, each more unwise than the last. He wanted something, unshaped and unspeakable – action, contact, pleasure, pain. It was a reckless impulse borne of frustration and inaction – one he would ordinarily take great care to quash within himself. 

He gritted his teeth, and forced himself to focus instead on observing Grantaire's features, and the motion of his hands. It was a rare opportunity for him to observe Grantaire without any conflict or distractions, and he did enjoy such chances. If Enjolras wished to deny the self-serving motivation behind his acquiescence to Grantaire's requests, he couldn't deny that Grantaire had asked for this, often and frequently enough that it assuaged much of his guilt. It was a mutually beneficial exercise. 

Perhaps he ought to try and convince Grantaire to paint a self portrait, sometime. He had yet to encounter any among Grantaire's sketches or in any of the other works tucked away in every unused corner, in the stacks of canvases in varying states of completion that were dotted about their rooms. He liked looking at him like this, quiescent and absorbed; enjoyed the subtle spark and slight edge of excitement he felt in knowing that he could provoke a reaction out of him, if he wanted to. It had been a while since he had last exploded of his own accord, but like this, peaceful – it was nice. A little too nice – Enjolras had never quite known what to do without a little bit of amicable conflict in his closest relationships; it fueled him when his own hearth was faltering, made both parties question and therefore strengthen their positions and come to a greater mutual understanding, brought the passions that drove them brimming to the surface. Reminded him of the blood coursing through his veins that was too easy to forget at times.

He couldn't see what aspect of himself Grantaire was working on as he painted, but his hand was moving with deliberacy back and forth between his palette and the sketch, and over the surface of the canvas, pausing only when he stopped to rinse his brush before picking up a different colour. 

Concentration had always had a flattering effect on Grantaire's features, lending him a dignified and serious air. He was clean shaven as of that morning, having taken care to make himself appear professional before he left to visit his client. It made his face look rounder, younger; but his features were strong, masculine and familiar. His hands were strong too, and surprisingly deft despite their short fingers and thick, broad palms. 

It was the first time Enjolras had looked at him so long uninterrupted, and the sentiment it roused in him was strange and unexpected. The closest word Enjolras could put to it was longing; it wasn't quite the same as the sharp desire he had felt before, but he wanted to be closer to him; wanted to touch him, and to be touched. To know, and be known on a deeper level than words alone could achieve. To understand the swooping frustration Grantaire engendered in him at times, and the reason that frustration had never yet driven him to expel Grantaire from his circle of intimacy; why Grantaire had always kept coming back, and why he was glad when he did.

He stiffened in his seat, feeling the discomfort of staying in the same position more profoundly with every breath – his right arm was somehow itching and numb at the same time, and the nerves in his left hip were screaming. Neither were more than he could handle, but they were a nudge towards action – towards his decision. 

"You can relax for a moment," Grantaire said, calling a pause in their sitting as though he must have recognised Enjolras's discomfort. Enjolras stretched gratefully, feeling the life slowly seep back into his limbs, painful again where they had been deadened. 

"A tougher calling than it seems," he said, feeling the nerves in his left arm begin to tingle again.

"That's because there are no distractions," Grantaire said, smiling fondly, sweetly.

"How is the painting coming along?" Enjolras asked, distractedly, without much intention of listening to Grantaire's answer.

Grantaire's silly, sentimental expression was a further, subtle push towards action. He shouldn't – but if he did, he could chalk it up as a favour, an equal exchange in kind. He was aware that he wasn't thinking entirely clearly, but running out of the will to berate himself for it…

"This one is a sketch only – you can change position if you'd prefer to."

"I was under the impression you usually draw from the nude," Enjolras said, carefully, a gentle push to test the boundaries they had found themselves operating within; he could still deny it, and retreat if Grantaire's reaction gave him cause to doubt himself.  

Grantaire looked shocked, and vaguely affronted, the sweet look replaced by one of caution, which only spurred Enjolras on.

"I've never drawn a client that way, but as a student – yes," Grantaire stuttered. "The received wisdom is that it's the best way to understand a pose, and to learn how the body bends and twists to accommodate it. The received wisdom is correct, on that matter at least."

Enjolras wasn't innocent; he was aware of what he was doing – of where it might lead them, but the temptation to goad Grantaire further compelled him. He had come this far; he may as well commit, and see where it might lead; their current equilibrium was a little too harmonious, a little too safe – 

"I wouldn't mind it."

Grantaire's face twisted further into a look of concern, an unexpected reaction that only strengthened Enjolras's desire to test him. He looked nervous, like some feral creature that was suspicious of human attempts at kindness. He sounded meeker than Enjolras had ever heard him sound before when he answered:

"Only if you're willing."

Enjolras smiled, and didn't answer. Instead he rose to his feet, traversed the room in a few long strides until he was behind the screen, hidden from view. The hearth rug lay before him, the fire in the grate burning low and steady, and beyond that was their bed –

He was aware that the force driving him was the opposite of wisdom – that he would likely come to regret his actions once he was thinking clearly once more, but the shapeless desire for something that had been troubling him for some time now had finally formed into a plan of action. He could permit himself to succumb to it, just this once – to return in kind Grantaire's treatment of him. 

He moved towards their bed, slipping his index finger through the knot in his cravat and tugging it loose. He set it aside, and began unbuttoning his waistcoat with slow, methodical care. 

He wasn't aroused, exactly – what he felt towards Grantaire had never been as simple and straightforward as a mere physical reaction. He was frustrated, in a way that encompassed the spirit as well as the flesh. He kicked off his slippers, a pair of flimsy old dress shoes that were no longer fit for wearing outside his chambers, but served as a buffer against the cold wooden floor. 

He hesitated for a brief moment with his hands on the buttons of his trousers, listening; the coarse woollen cloth was rough and warm beneath his fingertips. He listened for Grantaire's footsteps, and heard only silence at first. He paused, uncertain whether Grantaire had taken his meaning, or if he had misjudged Grantaire's wants.

Finally, he heard the chair legs scrape against the floor, followed by a creak as Grantaire rose to his feet. It was with a renewed and mounting sense of anticipation that he undid the buttons at the waist of his trousers, let them fall to the floor and stepped out of them, kicked them aside. He wasn't indecent yet, still in his shirt and long woollen small clothes for warmth. He sat down on the edge of the bed, and waited.

-

Grantaire was taken aback, gobsmacked and reeling with shock. Enjolras didn't answer further – only left him alone, but the smile he flashed Grantaire was suggestive. It was a subtle, mischievous thing, knife sharp on his soft, youthful face, and insinuating. It was a new expression on him, and it disarmed Grantaire entirely.

He felt suddenly prudish at the prospect of painting Enjolras in a state of undress, which was entirely illogical, given that his mouth had been on Enjolras's cock not so many nights ago. He felt flustered, flushed with warmth and preemptive shame. He couldn't possibly handle Enjolras naked in front of him with any semblance of professionalism, without his mind being drawn inexorably towards less than lofty thoughts; couldn't conceive of a reality in which Enjolras was actually suggesting what he seemed to be suggesting –

Perhaps he could put him in costume instead; he had plenty of bolts of fabric and old props lying around – a chiton – Alexander, Achilles – no. He wanted to draw Enjolras as he was, and what he was of late was a study in mixed signals, cold, and then briefly, blazing hot, white phosphorus lit by an unseen spark – pushing Grantaire away only to pull him in again with renewed gravity. This was dangerous territory if Grantaire was ever wise enough to recognise it.

The broader source of his anxiety and the greater burden on his shoulders was the pressure he felt to do justice to Enjolras's character, and to his legacy. Enjolras's physical beauty was truly exceptional, but it paled in comparison to the soul that raged within. He wanted the whole world to see just how splendid he was. He wanted to encase him in bronze and preserve him for future generations to marvel at; what would remain of him once everyone that knew him was gone? How would anyone know how beautiful, maddening and luminous he was? 

He was thinking in circles. Enjolras wasn't the kind of man to suggest something he didn't mean, and he was waiting. He rose to his feet, gathered his supplies, and followed.

Grantaire's breath caught in his throat as he rounded the screen, and was greeted by the sight of Enjolras sitting on the bed, his clothing littering the blankets and the floor at his feet. He was still covered from shoulders to feet in soft shades of ivory and cream, but his cravat was gone, and his shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a slice of pale flesh at his throat, all the way down to the middle of his chest. The bedclothes were rumpled beneath him, still in the same state they'd left them in that morning. Grantaire had seen him half dressed dozens of times by now, but it was a strange and dislocating feeling to know that he was half dressed for him.

He tried not to stare, and instead looked about the room, feeling as though it belonged to a stranger. He had lived there for years, long enough to stop feeling the unevenness of the floorboards beneath his feet and to stop noticing the cracks in the walls; Enjolras had lived there for a matter of weeks – months, almost. The room was full of evidence of his presence: one of his shirts still hanging by the washstand, following a futile attempt to wash the ink stains out of its cuffs; his toothbrush; his soap; a stack of books on the nightstand. The housecoat that used to be Grantaire's strewn across the foot of the bed.

Somehow, their lives had become intertwined – his home was no longer his own; it was theirs. Every aspect of Enjolras's presence had become familiar, yet he still retained a unique ability to rend the earth beneath Grantaire's feet, to leave him sinking and scrabbling for a handhold to cling to.

"Enjolras, are you certain?" he asked, shifting nervously and clutching the canvas in his hand to his breast. He had dreamed of similar scenarios, imagined it countless times over the years he'd known Enjolras, out of desire yes, but for sheer aestheticism too.

Enjolras shrugged one shoulder, as though it was nothing, and not the culmination of Grantaire's veneration of him. Perhaps to him it was; he was a perfect specimen of the physical and spiritual ideal, what reason would he have to find the idea of baring himself to the world intimidating?

"Very well." Grantaire swallowed. He glanced around the room, so unsettled he had almost forgotten everything he'd learned in almost a decade of practise. The armchair – he should sit in it. He moved towards it, placing his palette and brushes down on the table beside it.

The light was never as good in this half of his room, but the sky wasn't fully dark outside yet. He lit a few candles from the fireplace, placing them around the room in order to cast more light on Enjolras, and on his work. When he finished he sat down with the canvas in his lap, spreading his apron across his knees, and looked up to find Enjolras watching him, expectant.

"I'm ready," he said, trepidation doing battle with the kind of terrified excitement only Enjolras managed to draw out of him.

"Good." 

Enjolras rose to his feet, somewhat inelegantly. He reached beneath the billow of his shirt to undo the ties at his waist, hooked his fingers in the waistband and pulled his small clothes down, sitting again once they were past his hips to pull them off entirely. They turned inside out as they caught at the ankles, and he brought his knees up one at a time to free himself. He wasn't making a deliberate or overly elaborate show of undressing, but there was no denying he was aware that Grantaire was watching; he was avoiding looking at Grantaire too deliberately, too pointedly. That done, he pulled his shirt off over his head in one sweeping motion, putting his curls in disarray and leaving the body of the shirt turned inside-out on the bed beside him. 

Grantaire starred, unable to help himself any longer. It was all too easy to admire him, no matter how many times he had done so before; long legs, lean torso, exemplary proportions made stark by the flickering shadows cast by the candles. His natural elegance was forever striking, yet there was something fierce in his expression – not anger, but an intensity of focus that Grantaire was all too familiar with.

Enjolras had lost one stocking in the process of removing his small clothes; he crossed one leg over the other to remove the remaining one, and after he tossed it carelessly aside he clutched his foot in his hand, intertwining his fingers with his toes and stretching them. It was a casual, unperformed gesture, but his movements brought him naturally into a perfect Spinario pose. Grantaire felt a spark of inspiration that seemed to come from outside himself, saw connections forming across centuries and continents. There was a timeless quality to Enjolras's beauty that felt both significant and profound, and he needed to capture it.

"Could you stay like that for a moment, please," he said, with surprising authority and renewed confidence.

Enjolras looked up from beneath his lashes, through the curls that fell over his forehead, and Grantaire was grappling with his own self-control already, struggling to keep a hold over his own thoughts – had been since the first flash of Enjolras's bare throat. His hands were clammy and his pulse was elevated, despite the fact he had seen Enjolras in all his naked glory before.

The canvas he was using was small, better suited to a portrait encompassing the head and shoulders only. If any subject deserved a monumental, larger than life depiction, it was this. He would make do. He picked up his pencil, and began defining the line of Enjolras's body in the space before him in broad, hurried strokes.

Enjolras sat calmly, stilly, as though he was indifferent to both the discomfort of the pose and Grantaire's study. Grantaire battled the conflicting urges to work quickly while Enjolras was allowing this, and to simply stare and relish the sight. He forced himself to focus; to do what must be done. 

Enjolras was glorious, a mix of soft lines and sharper angles; elegant, symmetrical, beautiful. His smooth skin glowed in the fire and candlelight. He was splendid in every detail, from the line that connected his pectorals to his shoulders, to the subtle shadows of the muscles in his arms, visible beneath the skin; the slight hint of abdominals above a softly creased lower belly and the tapering lines of his hips, sharp where his body was leanest. The curve of his spine, a rounded upper back where he would ordinarily be upright. The blade of his shin and the muscle of his calf formed a line that was almost parallel to the floor and to his shoulders. The connection of hand to foot was gentle and expressive; the quiet contemplation inherent in the pose, the sense of bodily presence, the humanity embroidered in the gesture, all were palpable and utterly charming. He was unpoised, and all the more beautiful for it.

Beneath the fall of his hair and the shadow of his brow, Enjolras's expression was thoughtful. That brow was ever so slightly wrinkled, and his lips were pink, full and slightly parted. The angle softened the already smooth angles of his features into something almost ethereal. Grantaire followed the line of Enjolras's gaze from hand to foot, and the lines of his body towards their natural conclusion. His genitals were cradled between his legs and the blankets beneath, soft and unassuming; different to the state Grantaire was more familiar with.

Grantaire wanted him – always – but more than that, he wanted to preserve him, wanted to depict him exactly as he was so that every person that gazed upon his likeness would see him as Grantaire saw him. This boy – this man, the innate and righteous sense of justice hidden at the heart of all that softness, pure and incorruptible. This man of unyielding convictions and endless surprises. It was a privilege to be this close to him, and see him in these private, unguarded moments. 

If anyone was a worthy subject of his magnum opus, it was Enjolras, his inspiration, idol and lover.

Every instinct of his Neoclassical training compelled him to further idealise every line, heighten every aspect of reality into something impossibly perfect, but there was no need to; there was nothing Grantaire would wish to change, nothing he could make more beautiful than Enjolras already was. He wanted to capture him exactly as he was – as a testament to the man himself and to his feelings towards him. If this was to be his legacy, then so be it. Let him be remembered like this; content, healthy and alive. Loved.

It was the first time they had ever sat together for that long without Enjolras being distracted by any pressing concerns, aside from the night by the fire, and in time Grantaire's racing thoughts soothed into something that resembled the utter peace he had felt the very same night, with Enjolras in his arms.

He was used to painting those he was close to, and to talking with his models as he worked, especially those he would count among his friends. He liked the sense of companionship, enjoyed the conversations that took him out of his own head and let his hands move more freely, but reverent silence felt more appropriate in Enjolras's presence. It wasn't the kind of silence that usually sent him spiralling into the pits of despair; it was the kind that allowed his other senses to thrive. The sight before him, the sounds of his brush moving against the rough texture of his canvas, shaping the surface before him half through observation and half through the memory of how Enjolras's body felt beneath his hands; the smell of the oil that bound his pigments to the painting's surface, and the half open jar of turpentine at his side. 

"We can stop, if you like," he said, once the shadows began to lengthen and the grey green daylight vanished, leaving only the warm light of the candles. He couldn't possibly guess how much time had passed; it might have been a quarter hour, could have been an entire evening. It must have been getting uncomfortable for Enjolras to sit motionless for so long; he had seen him hold the same pose for hours when he was busy working on something, but the position wasn't an easy one, and Grantaire knew he must be feeling every ache, every fibre of his muscles stretching and the tingling sensation of constricted blood flow, especially as he had nothing else to fix his attention on. 

Enjolras shifted slowly, awkwardly, as though his limbs were barely responding to his direction. He unfolded with careful precision, stretching tentatively, testing his body's response to his commands. He came to rest again in a sprawl, leaning back on his hands and stretching his legs before him. There was no attempt at modesty in his position – his knees were splayed, and the long, sloping line of his body was elegant and inviting. He remained in that position for the moment, tossing his head to flick his hair out of his eyes; Grantaire watched his chest rise as he took a deep breath, ribcage expanding beneath the surface. Even his feet were flexed, his toes spread and curling away from the floor in the full body stretch of a lion cub. 

Grantaire tore his gaze away, looking down at the painting in his lap to give Enjolras back his privacy: to give him time and space to dress himself without being watched. 

The painting itself wasn't half bad; it was fully formed, despite being a hastily done sketch at best. It was recognisably Enjolras, and there was a certain charm to the informal, relaxed nature of the image. It was missing something, however. Some spark, some interior quality he couldn't quite put his finger on –

A shadow fell over the canvas, and Grantaire looked up to pale, milky skin bathed in firelight. Enjolras had padded over to him without eliciting so much as a creak from the floorboards. 

He really did look like marble when he was nude. Not the ancient deities in their godlike perfection, however exceptional the skill of their makers. Enjolras was something more expressive, but no less refined. A modern masterpiece of form and feeling. A Canova or a Bernini. Something raw; a visceral moment of sublime, sensuous emotion frozen in time. 

"What next?" Enjolras said, face and tone inscrutable.

"You're not tired of this yet?" Grantaire asked, looking briskly over the full length of Enjolras's body as he tilted his chin up to meet his eyes.

Enjolras's bottom lip was between his teeth. He shook his head. "Come here," he said, and gestured for Grantaire to stand.

It was impossible for Grantaire to determine if there was something suggestive in his tone or not, but his words were a command. When Grantaire did not respond to it Enjolras reached forward, his movement sudden and fluid after so much stillness. His fingers curled around Grantaire's wrist, cool and insistent. It was as though he had been struck by a shock of lightning in how swiftly and absolutely Grantaire understood what Enjolras meant then; knew that they were going to fuck again.

He had been controlling himself for too long to doubt the promise in that gesture; now he found himself in equal parts desiring, and desperate for some clarification of where they stood, but he wouldn't question this unprecedented streak of good fortune.

With his free hand he grasped Enjolras by the hip, more roughly than he meant to in his haste. He brushed the tips of his fingers lower, down the side of Enjolras's leg, pressed dents into the muscle of his thigh, stroked his flank on his way up again. Enjolras might look to all appearances as though he were a statue, but he was living flesh in Grantaire's hands, warm and shivering.

"Can I suck you again?" Grantaire asked, greedy, bordering on desperate.

"No, " Enjolras said, flatly, and Grantaire felt the sharp edge of panic, afraid he had misjudged Enjolras's intentions yet again; but Enjolras tugged on his arm, urging him upright. 

Grantaire hurried to set the painting aside, and stood. Enjolras released him, turning his back to him as he moved back towards the bed. He was upright again, and long limbed, the straight lines of his body broken only by the subtle, sculptural curve of his backside.

Grantaire fumbled with the knots at his waist as he untied his apron, equal parts baffled and anticipating. Enjolras's rear vanished from his view as he pulled the body of the apron over his head. 

He was sitting on the bed when Grantaire next laid eyes on him, in the same lounging position as before, but the spread of his thighs seemed more starkly like a suggestion, deliberate this time. Grantaire was helpless to do anything other than follow him, a magnet drawn inexorably to its opposite pole. When he was within touching distance Enjolras bent his elbows, reclining further and leaning back out of Grantaire's reach, studying him with a subtle, frowning gaze. Grantaire halted in his tracks between Enjolras's legs, looking Enjolras over from the golden crown of his head to his splayed, pink knees, bright against the grey-green colour of the blanket beneath. All the profound questions Grantaire might have asked him were drowned out by the sight before him, but he managed to utter one sentence around the thick, dry feeling of his tongue: 

"What did you have in mind?"

"I mean to return a favour," Enjolras said. There was no seductive warmth in his tone; he said it with the same solemnity and gravity he might muster when speaking of bartered guns and promises of ammunition; a service for a service. His gaze, however, was fixed on the front of Grantaire's trousers, on his cock. Grantaire wasn't hard yet, but surely it was obvious by the way he had gone stiff and speechless that he still wanted him. When he said nothing in return, Enjolras sat up straighter, and put one warm hand on Grantaire's hip. 

All the nervous, wavering breath went out of Grantaire at the contact, but he wasn't ready to throw himself on the fire yet. He reached instead for Enjolras's chin, using the light pressure of his curled fingers to encourage him to tilt his head back, and gazed intently at Enjolras's features. His face had always had a beautiful, carved quality to it, all shadows and smooth planes, with just enough asymmetry to appear lifelike in the way his mouth folded at the corners above that thick lower lip, in the arches of his brows and the folds of his eyelids. 

Enjolras's eyes were shielded by his long lashes, but his grip shifted, his hand slipping higher and closer to Grantaire's waist. He looked startlingly innocent, even as his hands were searching for the buttons of Grantaire's fly. Grantaire cupped one soft, fleshy cheek; Enjolras's face was warm, and impossibly smooth to the touch. 

Enjolras's knuckles grazed against Grantaire's cock as he undid the first button, and Grantaire's hesitancy evaporated in an instant.

-

Enjolras was no good at the art of seduction, in part due to lack of interest in that particular field of study, and because he had never required the skills such study might have provided in any case. He was used to being desired, though it did not flatter his vanity to be so. Still, his looks had their use at times – he had always been able to find a willing sexual partner if he desperately desired the kind of release that only another man's touch could provide. He had no notion of what he might do if he was forced to rely on other charms; character, flattery, wit – he was no master of those things when it came to this.

He had been hoping that Grantaire would grasp his meaning from his actions alone, but Grantaire's response was more lucid than he expected. Instead of helping Enjolras with the buttons on his trousers Grantaire placed a hand on his chin, studying his face, and Enjolras caught a brief flash of that imploring look again before he lowered his eyes. It was a look that made his heart clench, made him feel guilty for what he wanted from Grantaire, and what he couldn't give him in return.

It wasn't conducive to what he wanted right now, so he avoided further eye contact. Instead he reached for the buttons on Grantaire's trousers – began unfastening them with hands that were more unsteady than he was accustomed to.

Grantaire's trousers were the same fawn coloured pair he had been admiring him in a few evenings past – from the look of them he had suspected Courfeyrac's involvement in Grantaire's decision to purchase them. They were more fashionable in silhouette than the rest of his wardrobe, and fastened with a single row of concealed buttons at the absolute centre, rather than the wide fall of more utilitarian styles. The cloth was smooth and fine, and clung to the shape of his legs; unfastening them revealed linen drawers beneath, as well as the tails of Grantaire's shirt. 

Grantaire was still at first, as though shocked into inaction with surprise, but he recovered quickly. He let go of Enjolras's face, shrugged his way forcefully out of his trouser braces and placed one hand on Enjolras's shoulder instead, tangling the other into his hair.

By the time Enjolras had Grantaire's trousers open and his cock in his hand he was already half-roused, and breathing heavily and noisily through his mouth above. Enjolras stroked him into full readiness with hurried, imprecise movements, felt Grantaire's body react to his touch; watched the hot, smooth flesh grow harder and flush purple in his hand, then leant forward.

He had done this before, as a perfunctory kindness – as a mutual act to ensure both parties left an encounter satisfied. He knew through such encounters that some men liked to get rough with their lovers, to pull their hair or thrust deep into their throats, but the men he had agreed to perform this for had always been respectful enough, if unable to fully control their urge to press deeper, to squirm within his grasp. Grantaire remained perfectly and utterly still, as though he was afraid any motion might startle Enjolras into flight. His breath was growing increasingly laboured however, and Enjolras did succeed in drawing a single, loud groan from him when he began involving his tongue. The taste of him was salty with sweat, and the hair at the base of his cock was coarse and damp against the tip of Enjolras's nose. The only movement Grantaire made at all was to run his fingers through Enjolras's hair, caressing, curling his fingertips against Enjolras's scalp.

Enjolras enjoyed the sense of assurance it gave him; he liked the notion of making Grantaire slowly come apart with only his mouth, and liked how the act made him feel in a way that ran deeper than the simple, physical satisfaction he had derived from it in the past. There was a certain erotic appeal in doing this for someone he was close to, someone he – what, exactly?

He wasn't thinking clearly enough to articulate it to himself, so he switched his attention to what he did know – that his own cock was stirring too; that Grantaire was clearly deriving pleasure from his actions.  

He redoubled his efforts, gripping Grantaire firmly by the hips, sinking his fingertips into warm, malleable flesh, pulling him closer and working his mouth with renewed fervour. He wanted to make this good for Grantaire – it wouldn't settle the debt between them if he didn't.

-

Grantaire's mind was reeling, his thoughts were unspooling and dissolving into incoherence even as he tried to grasp hold of them. Enjolras's mouth was on him, and Enjolras was the one who had chosen to put it there – it was equal parts pure physical indulgence and unbearable emotional distress – the uncertainty of it, the not knowing what had prompted Enjolras's decision to do this for him. The frail hope that Enjolras's desire may be more than just an acceptance of Grantaire's own for him –

Enjolras put his mouth to work with a lack of hesitancy that suggested he had done so before, and a lack of artistry that suggested he hadn't done so often, but Grantaire had no complaints at all; the sight of Enjolras's gold head bent before him alone was a wonder, and Enjolras was a quick study, in this as in all things.

It was pure, all encompassing physical pleasure, suffusing Grantaire's entire body from its core, pooling in the pit of his stomach; the tightening feeling in his balls as he grew closer to release – he could spill at any moment, but Enjolras was too far away from him. He wanted to pull him closer, wanted this moment to last – didn't want this to end with his seed on Enjolras's tongue, no matter how much the thought only made his incipient loss of control all the more pressing. 

His fingers were still threaded through Enjolras's hair; he tightened his grip, tugging gently, then with more urgency, until Enjolras finally took the suggestion and pulled away, looking up at him in question. His lower lip was swollen and damp with spit, and his cheeks were flushed pink; Grantaire noted with delirious pleasure that Enjolras was aroused himself now. 

Grantaire groaned at the sight of him, and leant in to grasp him by the thighs, pressing them away from floor and encouraging him to shift further onto the bed. Enjolras must have understood his meaning, because he took his weight on his arms again and shifted, hauling himself back until he was lying on the bed fully, turning until his head was level with the pillows. 

The sight was too much for Grantaire – Enjolras on his back on the bed, his torso stretched long and propped up on his elbows, legs spread, his cock hard and red against his white lower belly. Grantaire was overwhelmed with a heady combination of lust, admiration and crushing fear. He wanted to shield Enjolras's body with his own, keep him protected and safe, almost as much as he wanted to fuck him, or be fucked by him – it didn't matter which. He just wanted to be his, and for Enjolras to stay with him forever.

His trousers and underlinen had sunk halfway down his thighs as Enjolras had sucked him. Grantaire finished the job of removing them with shaking hands, kicked them aside once they were at his ankles.

He crawled onto the bed with a lack of grace that made him feel as though he was intoxicated, until his own body was above Enjolras's, barely touching. Enjolras lay back beneath him and snaked both arms around his waist, pulling him down and in.

Grantaire shuddered as their bodies pressed against each other, fumbling, reaching and grasping until he had both hands fastened on Enjolras's shoulders, and succumbed at last to the urge to press his lips to Enjolras's in a messy, desperate kiss. It wasn't quite as fulfilling as he'd imagined; Enjolras's lips remained a tightly sealed line – he didn't kiss him back, but nor did he push Grantaire away. He tolerated Grantaire's fumbling affection, shifting impatiently against him, until at last he turned his head to break the kiss.

"Your shirt," Enjolras said, voice thick and a little breathy. He tugged at Grantaire's shirt for good measure, hooking his arms over Grantaire's shoulders and pulling it upwards.

Grantaire tore himself away from Enjolras and rose unsteadily to his feet only for as long as it took to pull his shirt over his head and seize the half-empty bottle of oil medium from the table by his armchair. He placed it on the bedside table instead as he clambered back onto the bed. Enjolras turned to face him, and Grantaire took him roughly by the arm and pulled until Enjolras was on top of him where he belonged. Once he had Enjolras where he wanted him, he wrapped his legs around Enjolras's hips, locking his ankles at Enjolras's back to keep him there. He wanted Enjolras to fuck him again; wanted as much intimacy as was possible while they were both bound within these mortal bodies.

"The oil," he said, with an urgency that surprised even himself. 

Enjolras frowned, brow wrinkling, mouth curling in alarm. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, please –" Grantaire said, imploring. There was a brief and agonising moment in which they both stared into each other's eyes as though locked in some private contest to see who would yield first. Grantaire held his breath, out of words with which to argue his point, until Enjolras reached for the bottle on the nightstand. Grantaire beamed in delight.

Perhaps he ought to have considered it a win at last, but he was too busy appreciating the concentration on Enjolras's face as he unstoppered the bottle and poured a little of its contents out onto his fingertips. The oil was the purest stuff Grantaire had been able to find, pale yellow and thin in consistency with a woody, nutty smell – too expensive for this kind of use, but they'd nothing more suitable to hand. Any intimacy with Enjolras was worth the cost of replacing it. Enjolras was worth it.

The oil was cold when Enjolras's fingers touched him, but soon turned warm against his skin. Grantaire still couldn't quite believe his own luck as Enjolras's fingertips breached him, delicately and carefully at first, but growing more confident when Grantaire didn't flinch at the sting. 

He was still grinning from ear to ear when Enjolras lined himself up, urging Enjolras on with words that were no doubt nonsensical by that point; the connection from Grantaire's thoughts to his mouth was entirely lost. 

Enjolras was still frowning, in concentration or concern, Grantaire could no longer tell; he bit his lower lip again as he pushed forward, and Grantaire felt the strange, indefinable sensation of his body opening further to receive him, followed by the feel of Enjolras shaking against him when he was fully inside him. Grantaire felt a pang of gentle, melancholy sentiment again; he stroked Enjolras's cheek, his hair, used his crossed ankles as leverage to keep him in place; used his heel as a spur to urge him on.

He watched Enjolras's face as Enjolras fucked him, riveted by the thoughts and feelings that flickered across his features. They hadn't looked each other in the eye the last time they were this intimate with each other; the stern concentration on Enjolras's features was familiar, but the look of pleasure that concentration slowly gave way to was new to him. Grantaire marvelled at it; at the sight of Enjolras's features contorted out of perfect alignment, his hair falling over his brow, gold curls turning limp and dull with sweat. He was pink from cheeks to sternum, and his breath was falling through his parted lips as a series of short, panting gasps. His eyes were dark, and unfocused, as though he was no longer truly aware of his surroundings. Grantaire was flushed himself, and fighting the urge to screw his eyes shut and lose himself to the sensation of Enjolras moving inside him.

He could tell Enjolras was still being careful – too careful. Grantaire wrapped his arms around Enjolras's shoulders, pulling him closer and urging him on.

He wrapped a hand around his own cock only when Enjolras's thrusts grew more erratic, more frantic; he stroked lazily, not desperate enough himself to hurry, but enjoying the view immensely, until Enjolras spasmed, pulsed inside of him and collapsed onto him, deadweight and breathing shallowly. Grantaire ran his fingers through his hair, feeling crushed by the weight of his feelings for him again.

It took several moments for Enjolras to recover enough to lift his head; Grantaire was powerless to resist placing a series of scattered kisses on his forehead as he looked up. Enjolras shook his head, shaking off those kisses and blinking away the stupor of his orgasm enough to say, "Let me put my mouth on you again?"

Grantaire shook his head. "Your hand is enough." 

Enjolras shifted his weight onto his side, and ran a hand up the outside of Grantaire's thigh before he obliged. Grantaire was close enough that it didn't take much to tip him over.

-

How was it that Grantaire always managed to push him further than he was intending to go, and why did Enjolras keep letting him? He wanted more friction so badly that it was almost painful; fucking Grantaire was a relief as strong and satisfying as finally scratching an itch he had been ignoring in vain for too long.

How could Grantaire let Enjolras do this to him? It felt impossibly intimate, moving inside another person, feeling them clench around him – something far too personal, far too private.

He'd had only Grantaire's back and the sounds he made by which to judge how Grantaire felt about it last time; this time they were face to face, and it was impossible to read Grantaire's expression as anything other than one of pleasure; one of delight, even. Enjolras's guilt grew harder to cling to as he realised Grantaire was enjoying this – was finding pleasure in the act in its own right. There was no denying that Grantaire wanted this, too, which did complicate the instinct that told Enjolras he was taking advantage. 

Grantaire's features were twisted in what he had feared was pain at first, but was quite clearly pleasure – the state of Grantaire's cock confirmed it, hard against the soft rise of his rounded stomach. There was no way he would be able to maintain that level of arousal if the act of being fucked wasn't doing something for him, too.

Pleasure became desperation as Enjolras drew closer to release, and then there wasn't a single thought in his head at all other than the need for more.

-

Afterwards they cleaned up at the basin, not quite looking one another in the eye. Grantaire watched, fascinated, as Enjolras ran a damp cloth over his lower belly, over his inner thighs. He wanted to embrace him, and to kiss the re-emerging frown off his wrinkled brow.

Enjolras examined the afternoon's sketches while Grantaire saw to their food, setting their plates and reheating the roasted fowl over the fire with every intention of gorging himself until he could no longer stand. If this was to be a day of indulgence, he may as well commit as many sins as he could manage. 

It was not the first time he had fucked his model, but it was the first time in a long while that he had been nervous for them to examine his work afterwards. Grantaire was growing more dissatisfied with the sketches each time he looked at them, but Enjolras didn't seem displeased with them.

When Grantaire placed the last dish on the table he stood at Enjolras's side, studying the paintings over Enjolras's shoulder. He was looking for technical failings, but despite the haste with which he'd produced them, he did not find any. Still, they were off somehow – not overworked, but lacking a certain quality of emotion and vitality. They were beautiful at a superficial level by virtue of their subject matter, but they lacked the spark he had hoped to capture, the fire and force of personality.

"They're no good," he muttered, more to himself than for Enjolras's benefit, but Enjolras heard him, and twisted in his seat to glance at him.

"You can try again if you're dissatisfied," Enjolras said, simply, as though they had all the time in the world. 

There was a certainty in the way Enjolras spoke at times that made Grantaire want to believe him with all his heart, and he heard a whisper of it then. Maybe Enjolras was right; perhaps practise was all he required, but Grantaire didn't trust that there would ever be enough days under the sun for him to do Enjolras the justice he deserved.

Chapter Text

Le printemps

I.

It felt like forever since Grantaire had last seen true sunlight when spring finally came, but come it did, one unceremonious morning. He woke in a tangle of limbs and sheets, with one of Enjolras's arms resting loosely across his chest. The air was so thick with fog when he ventured out for their breakfast that he couldn't see from one end of the street to the other, turning the already meandering pathways of the Latin Quarter into a perilous labyrinth; but Grantaire knew them well enough to find his way through, and returned a quarter hour later with the fruits of his morning excursion. 

They were halfway through their meal when the sun burst through the clouds, and Enjolras rose to throw the shutters wide and let the brisk, damp air in. The sunlight turned his skin the pale, translucent colour of alabaster, caught in the red-gold shine of his hair; he leant against the windowsill for a moment, as though basking in the warmth of the season's beginning. When he turned to face Grantaire he was smiling; there was colour in his cheeks again, and the blue of his eyes was bright and clear. 

The gentle patter of rain followed as they were clearing away their plates, but it was only the frost that had lined the branches of the horse chestnut tree outside the window that morning, melting and hitting the crisp leaves and cobblestones below.  

The rapid shedding of winter left all the trees blackened by water and the earth damp and gritty; it clung to Grantaire's boots when he strolled through the Luxembourg Gardens the next morning, coating them with the kind of thin, sandy mud that was difficult to shake. He walked without any urgent purpose, in search of subjects to draw, and with the vague intention of obtaining their dinner on his way home. The air was cool, without so much as the whisper of a breeze; the patches of bright sunlight warmed his aching limbs, and when he found an empty chair by the great fountain he sat for a while, sketching his surroundings. The flowerbeds were dormant still, but the grass was littered here and there with purple and white crocus flowers, the first to poke their short heads above the soil. The scent of them was strong and sharp in the still air.  

Grantaire opened his sketchbook on the next empty page, bookmarked with a scrap of torn, charcoal-smudged paper. The last two weeks had been among the most productive of his life; he had filled his previous sketchbook, and was more than halfway through another. Not since his first year in Gros's atelier had he achieved such a prolific, consistent output. The constant practice had felt like a chore back then, when he had spent his days cooped up in a studio among others with more skill and less passion than he'd begun with, but being cooped up with Enjolras was an entirely different feeling.

He had spent his mornings sketching Enjolras in their rooms as he ate, wrote, dressed or sat reading at his desk, or on the little couch that now sat opposite the fire, at a right angle to Grantaire's armchair. Its arrival had diminished their floor space significantly, crowding the already minimal living-half of Grantaire's room, but it was worth it to be able to sit together in comfort; to see Enjolras reclining against one armrest with his feet dangling over the other, all his usual stiffness and propriety gradually melting away as he grew more and more absorbed in the book in his hands. Grantaire had sketched him like that several times, and meant to paint him like that too, if Enjolras would let him. Once he had mustered his courage enough to ask, again.

Enjolras was absent for much of the daylight hours, but Grantaire's urge to put pencil or charcoal to page didn't vanish with him; it had been a while since he'd last visited many of his old haunts, and he had been thoroughly intoxicated much of the time. It was a very different feeling, sitting, observing, recording; documenting his city and her people with a clear, perceptive eye and steady hands, unburdened by an excess of cynicism and self-loathing and all the melancholy he could drink into himself.

They spent half their evenings in the Musain, and the others at home by the fire, eating the finest food Grantaire could find, or the simple, hearty meals that Enjolras had a knack for choosing.  

They hadn't fucked again since the day Grantaire painted him, but the occasion seemed to have had an unexpected side-effect; the crack through which desire might have flooded, overwhelmingly, had instead allowed softness to become a growing aspect of the intimacy they shared. He woke with Enjolras's arm around his waist on a few occasions, and fell asleep in the midst of stroking Enjolras's hair on several more.

All matters considered, Grantaire was counting his blessings and thanking the universe and the god he didn't believe in for his spate of good fortune. Truly, he was experiencing the libertine lifestyle he had been living a shallow mockery of before – a version of it that actually brought him satisfaction. Painting and dining in the comfort of his own warm chambers, surrounded by beauty, for Enjolras's presence alone was enough to make his unremarkable surroundings feel luxurious. He felt rich in every way but the material, and satisfied beyond any former state he could recall.

He felt happy, and, deep in his breast, despite the quiet voice of discontent he had never managed to quell entirely, the faint, frail spark of hope flickered.

A few weeks after that first spring morning he opened the shutters to find the first green shoots of new leaves sprouting on the branches of the tree in the courtyard. The bright spring daylight flooded their chambers, revealing the fine layer of dust that had accumulated on the furnishings and trinkets that had lain untouched for the past few months, invisible and unnoticed in candlelight. Grantaire spent the morning going over every surface with an old cloth, opening the window and shaking the dust away whenever the cloth was covered with it; he waved off Enjolras's offer to help, on account of the mess being largely due to his own inattention. 

Enjolras took their plates downstairs to wash instead. When he returned he deposited them back inside the side cupboard, and went behind the screen without uttering a word. Grantaire continued his cleaning, pondering where he might go to sketch that afternoon, until his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of something scraping against the floor. He paused, curious as to the origin of the sound, and as to what Enjolras was doing back there. 

He rounded the screen to find Enjolras standing by the bed, his valise out from beneath it and open on top of the covers.

Grantaire's heart began to sink before he could entirely overrule himself, but he mastered the impulse of confused betrayal enough to ask, "What are you doing?" without a note of panic or accusation in his voice. 

Enjolras turned to glance at him over his shoulder, his hair falling over his brow before he pushed it irritably away from his forehead again. "Putting some of my winter clothing away," he said, innocuously. "The weather is growing warmer."

Grantaire sighed in relief; noticing, belatedly, that some of Enjolras's thicker items of clothing lay neatly folded on the bed beside the case, as well as his woollen underlayers. For a brief, heart-wrenching fraction of a second he had entertained the thought that Enjolras meant to leave him. He was glad to have been proved wrong once more; there was no way he could bear it if he wasn't – not after knowing what he would be missing. He realised, in a moment of stark self-clarity, that he had acquired a new worst fear to sit alongside the others that didn't bear thinking about.

He stepped closer, and sat down on the bed beside the open valise to calm himself; it tipped to one side as the mattress dipped beneath him, and Grantaire caught sight of its contents: an old shirt, worn thin and yellowing at the collar, pale against the valise's blue lining. The sight of it stirred something in his memory, and his relief turned to curiosity once more. 

"May I?" he asked, clutching the valise's open frame with one hand. Enjolras glanced at him, questioning, but nodded. Grantaire reached inside, groping until he felt the hard edge of the frame through the folds of the shirt. He lifted it gently and placed it in his own lap. When he looked up at Enjolras he looked momentarily taken aback: his eyes were a little wider than usual, and his lips ever so slightly parted. "Do you mind if I take a look?"

Enjolras rallied at the question, shaking off the surprise and the softened look with a shiver that progressed into a shrug. "Not at all."

Grantaire balanced the bundled-up object atop his thighs, unfurling the shirt with care. Unwrapping it revealed an old, battered gilt frame and, yes – the tiny painting he had caught only a brief glimpse of when Enjolras had moved in with him. Seeing it in full both confirmed his suspicions and aroused them further.

It was a landscape – gouache, largely in flat, vibrant shades of green with a ribbon of blue at the top and a single patch of pale, parched yellow; a depiction of rolling, grassy hills beneath a clear summer sky. A few scattered specks of colour in the foreground suggested wildflowers. 

It wasn't the work of a professional; the paint application was too thick in places, and too thin in others, but the composition was pleasing, and the colours were rich and evocative; it wasn't bad at all, for an amateur.

"Do you know who painted this?" he asked, turning the painting over in search of a signature or identifying detail. The frame was much older than the painting it contained; there was no name on the reverse side either, but there was a date in faint pencil and a fragile, looping hand: 31 Juillet, 1815.

"My mother," Enjolras answered, quietly, with a thoughtful expression softening his features once more. "I remember the day she painted it, or at least I think I do; I must've been only ten at the time. My father gave it to me when I left for Paris." He frowned then, as though straining to recall something long since banished to the back of his mind. "I think he meant for it to serve as a reminder of where I come from. I know it's sentimental to keep hold of it, but it didn't seem right to throw it away."

Grantaire felt something inside himself crumble then; the last vestiges of distance from his own sentiments, perhaps? 

If he had loved Enjolras from the moment he first saw him, across the span of a smoke-filled room, silent and fierce-eyed, lost in his own private thoughts, but all the more resolute for it, it had been because he had struck Grantaire as so achingly beautiful; then Enjolras had spoken in his presence for the first time, and all the strife of the furies' cries and the transcendent calm of a choir of angels had rang in Grantaire's ears.

If Grantaire had loved him then, it had been for what Enjolras represented; for all the courage and convictions and moral uprightness he himself lacked. If he had loved him then, it had been for the ideal he embodied in Grantaire's mind and heart.

This was different – this was special. This was personal; a link to Enjolras's home and to his childhood, to who he was before he was this version of himself. It was the key to another aspect of Enjolras, the person, not the symbol, tucked away and forgotten beneath the bed they shared. The painting was precious – and priceless – for that reason alone.

Enjolras was studying the painting as though he had never seen it before; Grantaire couldn't help but smile to himself as he studied him in turn. He turned his attention back to the landscape in his hands only when curiosity finally got the better of him, and experienced a slow-dawning realisation as to why Enjolras had held onto it.

The Enjolras of half a year ago would not have kept anything that was purely decorative in function, no matter what sentimental attachments might have prompted a different man to do otherwise; of that, Grantaire was certain. There must be some greater reason behind it, some logic or symbolic purpose. 

He searched the rolling hills and open meadows, until he found his answer.

It was much like his own earliest attempts at capturing the countryside that formed the background of his own childhood memories; the landscape that had so inspired him as a young man with an artist's sensibilities and temperament, before he grew too cynical to appreciate its beauty; the simple pleasures of wet grass beneath his bare feet and the gentle sun on his face. It was the France he had fallen in love with as a painter; the France Enjolras had fallen in love with as a young idealist; the France that would belong to all her children in the future he envisioned.

"I understand," he said, and meant it with his whole heart. He did not feel the need to pry further. Enjolras's past was his own. This small, unexpected insight was plenty; his cup overflowed with delight.

Enjolras blinked twice, lifted the empty valise by its handles in a sudden flurry of movement, tossed it carelessly onto the other side of the bed and sat in its former place, beside Grantaire. Their thighs knocked together as he did so, and the mattress bucked beneath them again. He settled into a sprawl at Grantaire's side, and leaned against his shoulder as he looked down at the painting in Grantaire's lap.

"I still remember that view," he said, a note of dry amusement in his tone. "I used to go out and roll down those hills as soon as spring came, and come home wet with dew and covered in grass stains. My father despaired of me, but I could tell my mother was only pretending to scold me."

"Will you go back?" Grantaire asked, craning his neck to look at Enjolras instead of at the painting without dislodging him from his perch against his shoulder. The set of his features was wistful, and his gaze directed at the painting; it was not quite the same as the look he wore whenever he spoke of the future, but it was not dissimilar to it.

"Perhaps," Enjolras said, after a moment's pause. "After. If there's nothing left for me to do here."

Grantaire hummed softly in comprehension. It seemed unlikely; there was precious little chance of Enjolras leaving Paris unless he truly had to, until the future he sought was won; he would never forgive himself if his absence harmed their chances of success. Still, so many things Grantaire had once thought impossible had happened of late; the future was a strange and unknowable mystery to all but the wisest among them. What did he truly know of their chances of success? Of anything, at all?

If anyone could prove him wrong, Enjolras could.

"I'd like to see it, sometime." 

A small smile flickered at the corner of Enjolras's mouth, but he didn't say anything more on the matter; he was back to his pensive, enigmatic self. 

"We should put this somewhere," Grantaire said, clasping the painting by its frame once more and glancing about his room, "let it be seen again."

"It's nothing special," Enjolras said, dismissively, rising again to continue putting his possessions in order.

"I like it," Grantaire insisted.

Enjolras stilled, shrugged, and said, "Do as you wish with it."

Grantaire did as Enjolras permitted. He took the painting with him as he paced the room, searching for a suitable spot in which to display it. He settled for one between their bed and the fireplace, placing the painting on the bed again while he took the framed lithograph that currently occupied that particular stretch of wall down. The old print depicted a scene of daily life in an imagined Roman forum; he had hung it there when he first moved in, hoping to add a bit of colour and culture to his chambers. He wasn't particularly attached to it; the only noteworthy thing about it was that he had owned it for a long time; Enjolras's mother's painting was far more important. He tested the nail that held the hook in place for any sign that it had become loose over time; it was still fixed firmly in place, so swapping the lithograph for the painting was a simple exchange.

When he turned to face Enjolras again, Enjolras was watching him, but he didn't pass comment on Grantaire's choice of positioning.

Grantaire studied the painting again, at a distance this time. The view it depicted was not so different to the views he remembered from his own home town. He had not seriously considered going back there in years. He lacked both the inclination and the ability to take over the running of his father's business, and there was little else for him to do there; but, he would like to see his Grandmother again, while she still remembered him fondly, and some of his cousins had remained there, while the more ambitious among them had sought their fortunes elsewhere. Perhaps he should make more of an effort to maintain communication. The last letter he sent had been in reply to the one he had received some months past, alongside the ugly pair of stockings that were another possession of his that seemed to have become Enjolras's now. 

The room was noticeably cleaner, and smelled strongly of wood polish when they sat down for supper before the fire; he caught Enjolras glancing subtly up at the painting on the wall every so often as they ate, but when they spoke it wasn't of the past – it was of the present; of their friends; of Grantaire's sketches, and the food on their warm plates.

Enjolras went back to reading his missives for a while after they ate. It was past midnight when they finally retired to bed, and the room had turned frigid again without the warmth of the sun bathing the outside walls. Grantaire fell asleep to the sound of tree branches shivering in the wind, with one arm draped carelessly around Enjolras's waist and his nose buried in soft, sweet-smelling hair. 

The next dawn the sun was so bright that it stirred Grantaire from sleep before he was quite ready for it; he stretched beneath the covers, instinct prompting him to reach across the mattress until he felt Enjolras beside him, but his hands found only more cool linen. He opened one bleary eye in sleep-fuddled concern, lifting his head until the covers fell away. He needn't have worried; Enjolras was only a few feet away, sitting on the couch in his housecoat and surrounded by his papers, pen in hand and a frown upon his brow. 

"Did you forget your chariot?" Grantaire asked, voice thick with sleep.

Enjolras's pale head lifted. "Pardon?"

"You're up early; you must've risen before the sun, or with it." 

He watched thought pass across Enjolras's features, feeling the familiar tug of affection for him, tinted with a little amusement. The look Enjolras gave him turned exasperated as he deciphered the reference; Grantaire hadn't known it was possible for one to roll their eyes without actually doing so, yet Enjolras somehow achieved it. His expression remained softened by familiarity, however. 

Grantaire pushed himself into a seated position, and expanded on his earlier question – sincerely, this time. "What's got you up at the crack of dawn?"

"It's Wednesday." Enjolras stated, in a tone so matter of fact that it caught Grantaire off guard. His blank incomprehension must have shown plainly on his face, because Enjolras elaborated of his own accord: "We've a meeting in the Musain today."

Grantaire thought for a moment, trying to sift through the disorder of his memories for missing context; he had never been a natural early riser, and was feeling particularly slow and out of sorts this morning, following a late night spent sketching while Enjolras worked alongside him.

He searched beyond the confines of the time spent together in their chambers, and found clarity there. Enjolras had called them all to an extra gathering this week; it was Grantaire himself who had told Joly and Bossuet that their attendance was requested over oysters two days ago, secure in the knowledge that the word would spread to anyone else Enjolras hadn't told personally from there. The occasion had felt strangely weighted at the time, in part because the time at which they had agreed to assemble was earlier than usual, giving Grantaire a creeping, nagging suspicion that it must be of particular importance, somehow. He felt, instinctively, that Enjolras must have some specific plan in mind.

He was quieter than he had been for some time over their breakfast of last night's vegetable potage and a little hard bread, which merely confirmed Grantaire's suspicions that something significant was on the verge of occuring.

As he watched Enjolras set his spoon down to soak up the last dregs of his meal with the crust of his bread, Grantaire submitted to the urge to pry:

"You have something on your mind."

"Yes," Enjolras said, and tore a bite out of the bread in his hand with his teeth.

"Dare I ask?" Grantaire hedged.

Enjolras frowned as he chewed, evidently deciding how much of his thoughts to share. His throat moved as he swallowed, and he fixed his gaze firmly on Grantaire as he answered, "I'd like to get the measure of where we stand. To count our allies. To test the strength of the bonds we have spent our efforts forging, as it were. That is what today's meeting is about. It need only take an afternoon."

Of course; Grantaire might have known it was something of the sort. Still, he wished to be involved somehow, to aid Enjolras, naturally, but also to test the waters; to dip his toes in the shallows of what true ideological commitment entailed. "May I be of service?" he blurted out, without exactly deciding to.

Enjolras ruminated for a moment on the question, taking another bite of his bread. It was right that he should give the suggestion due consideration – one of them ought to, at least. He swallowed again and asked, with a curious expression, "Do you truly wish to be?" 

"Certainly!" Grantaire answered, with a level of sincerity that surprised even himself. "I can count you know, despite the impression my spending habits may have given you."

Enjolras's serious, thoughtful expression cracked into a small smile. "I have wondered at times." Grantaire smiled back at him, taking it for the jest it was meant as, then the serious look returned, as Enjolras considered the offer. "I don't require mathematicians or strategists for this," he cautioned, "I need orators; someone to speak to the journeyman sculptors at the barrière du Maine. I don't know what has happened to them of late, but their enthusiasm is faltering." 

"Let me go."

"Are you certain?"

"I am capable –"

"That is not what I asked."

Grantaire withheld his answer for a moment, meaning to consider the question with the seriousness it deserved.

Should he do it? Could he do it? Was he, himself, capable? He certainly wouldn't have recommended himself had Enjolras actually come to him for aid, but he was willing to try. He intended to do his best, for Enjolras and for their friends.

"Painters and marble workers are my kind of people," he mused, with a little concealed trepidation. "It's true that I can speak the most sublime nonsense until the cows return from their pastures. Give me a subject and I will bore any man to death with it unchecked; but I've been known to be quite persuasive at times, if called to it. I'm certain I can speak to them in a manner that they shall be willing to listen to." The truth was a little more complicated than that; being an artist independent of any atelier and working mostly on private commissions was different to studio work in many manifest ways; a lack of day to day camaraderie, for one. But he had used to interact with men in these kinds of professions often when he had first started building his own career; there was no reason to believe he had lost the knack. The notion seemed to sway Enjolras towards a decision; to counter his reservations a little, because his whole face began to brighten with a slow, dawning pleasure.

"That is something I did not consider," he said, with the kind of warm excitement that seized him on occasion infusing his tone. "Yes – so be it. You will go to Richefeu's, and see what it is that has distracted them."    

The smile he flashed Grantaire then blazed with the heat of a thousand suns. It made Grantaire's insides flutter, in a matter different than the usual way they did whenever he looked directly at him.

He had felt the urge to cower in the face of Enjolras's brilliance in the past; to bow at his feet and kiss his boots because it was the only thing he was good for – had gone to his knees before him, had taken his cock in his mouth and felt the kind of transcendent reverence he imagined the ancient worshippers of forgotten pagan deities had felt in ritual adoration. 

This felt different - if he were to kneel before Enjolras now, it would be as an observance of respect. He wanted to pledge allegiance to his captain, to bare his neck to the mercy of his sword; to show humility and seriousness in his willingness to take up the mantle and fight for him – for their shared aim. 

He had truly lost track of the number of hours he had spent studying Enjolras's features by now; Enjolras had studied him too in turn, with friendship or lust or something resembling fondness in his gaze, but this molten, searing warmth was new. It was profoundly strange, after all the time he had spent committing Enjolras's face to the pages of his sketchbook, to look at him and find something new there. 

So this was how the others felt whenever he looked to them as brothers; why they all dedicated themselves to the cause so willingly. This was what having Enjolras's wholehearted respect felt like.

It wasn't as transformative as he had hoped, but it was reassuring, bracing; a firm hand on his shoulder that said: 'You can do this; we must do this.'

A half hour later they had cleared away their plates, and were preparing to go out. Grantaire, on a last minute whim, searched the chest of drawers beneath his bedroom window until he glimpsed bright red silk amidst a mass of muted greens and blues. 

He had truly forgotten why he owned a Robespierre waistcoat – whether it was a joke, a cast off or something left behind by Bahorel – but today seemed as good a time as any to let it see the light of day. Perhaps it would serve as a reminder of what he'd promised to do, once he was beyond Enjolras's oversight; a symbol to remind him of his purpose there.

His fingers trembled as he buttoned it, but a glance in the mirror to check the state of his cravat revealed its colour to be one that wasn't wholly unflattering on him.

Enjolras was waiting by the door when Grantaire had finished donning the piece of costume, his hat, coat and shoes already on. He gave Grantaire a peculiar look when he noticed the waistcoat, but said nothing.

Grantaire put his coat on, and bent to tug his boots over his heels. When he straightened up Enjolras stepped closer, and reached out. Grantaire stilled, uncertain of his intentions; he watched, transfixed, as Enjolras pressed his fingertips to his chest, ran them over the waistcoat's scarlet silk until he reached its collar, where he began fixing Grantaire's lapels for him. The gesture made Grantaire's knees tremble; the contact and the intent behind it both sending his thoughts scattering into disarray. 

Grantaire held his breath as Enjolras's fingertips continued to slide over the thin silk, his body so close to Grantaire's own that he could feel the heat radiating from it. When Enjolras had finished adjusting the waistcoat's points he smoothed the fabric across Grantaire's chest; he pressed the flat of his palm against Grantaire's breast before he let go entirely, and stepped back. It felt like a gesture of encouragement. Though it did serve to distract Grantaire a little from his own nervous anticipation, it did not quell entirely the sneaking suspicion that he had bitten off more than he could chew. 

They walked together to the Musain, through busy, winding streets. Enjolras was his habitually quiet, thoughtful self, though Grantaire fancied that he could hear the machinations of his mind humming away like the buzz of a hive of bees beside him.

For his part, Grantaire alternated between fretting silently and rehearsing what he might say to the journeyman sculptors and painters in his head, until they turned into the rue des Grès and Enjolras stalled him at the foot of the staircase with a hand on his arm. 

"When you speak with them you must be empathetic, but firm; remind them of the actions of their brothers eighteen months ago – of the victory that was stolen from them. Of their comrades in the factories struggling to afford bread because there is insufficient will to guarantee their wage from those who might do so – remind them of their republican principles, and the hands they agreed to provide."

"I'm sure I will be able to reach them," he said, far from certain himself.

"If you wish I can provide you with pamphlets –" Enjolras began, then abruptly cut himself short.

"I am familiar with their contents," Grantaire said, smiling. "Do not worry about me." He reached for the hand that lay heavy on his upper arm, and squeezed it gently with his own.

Enjolras's expression firmed as he nodded stiffly. Grantaire released him as Enjolras's own grip loosened, then he turned and ascended the stairs with Grantaire behind him.

The interior of the Musain was always a dim, lamp-lit twilight, no matter the time of day. Bahorel, Courfeyrac and Prouvaire were already present, sitting together around one of the tables by the fire and passing a lit cigar back and forth between them.

"Ah Grantaire, come, I want your opinion on this!" Bahorel called, gesturing him over. "And good day to you as well, Enjolras," he added, sitting up straighter in his chair now that it seemed likely they would be addressing their true purpose in assembling here soon.

"The others are all aware of this meeting?" Enjolras asked; the question was directed at Courfeyrac, who handed the cigar back to Bahorel and rose to his feet.

"They are. They ought to be here soon. I have news of my own in the meantime, concerning the paper flowers I've been experimenting with." The reference was undoubtedly coded; Grantaire didn't know what it meant, but he might make some guesses.

"Good." 

They went to sit alone together in the corner, though Grantaire suspected it as less a matter of secrecy and more a case of not wishing to put an end to the others' conversation before it was necessary to. Grantaire took Courfeyrac's vacated seat. He unbuttoned his coat as he sat, already feeling the warmth of the fireplace behind him. Bahorel leaned across the table, offering him the remnant of the cigar in his outstretched hand. Grantaire took it, and filled his lungs as he sat back in his chair.

"Are you trying being a Jacobin on for size now?" Bahorel asked. Grantaire raised an eyebrow at him, lips pursed and cheeks hollowed as he tasted the smoke on his tongue. 

Bahorel gestured to the bright red waistcoat, and Grantaire fought back a cough, exhaling in surprise; he hadn't expected his sartorial choices to draw such instant attention, no matter how uncharacteristic. Realising that they had made him feel alarmingly self-conscious.

"What, don't you think this colour suits me?" he said, rolling the cigar between his fingertips in an attempt to seem unfazed.

Bahorel gave a short bark of laughter. "That it does!" he conceded. "It gives some vigour to your complexion." He raised his glass, taking a swill from it before he continued. "Anyway, as I was saying, Prouvaire is in love –"

"And I told you I'm not," Prouvaire said in his usual, soft spoken tone. Grantaire pivoted in his chair to face him, eager to have someone else take the spotlight glare of Bahorel's focus away from himself. 

"I've been listening to you rave about this woman for a week," Bahorel said, knowingly. "I'm afraid someone had to break your delusions for you. Grantaire will agree with me once he hears what you've been telling me." 

Deflection achieved, Grantaire drew another mouthful of aromatic smoke from the cigar, rolling the sticky-sweet taste around on his tongue.

"I am simply under the enchantment of a new muse," Prouvaire elaborated, punctuated by a melancholy sigh as he turned to address Grantaire. "Captivated, even. I saw a spirit float across the stage of the Salle Le Peletier, and her name is Marie Taglioni."

Grantaire smirked to himself; Prouvaire's temporary infatuations with actresses and actors, chanteurs and chanteuses and poets and playwrights alike were nothing new, though always earnest and ardent in a distant, chivalric way. 

"We went to the premier of a new ballet last week," Bahorel explained, smiling crookedly. "He's been raving about the principal dancer to me ever since."

Grantaire tilted his head back, blowing smoke towards the ceiling, half through his mouth and the rest through his nose, and asked, "Is she pretty?" 

"It's nothing as base as that! This is a chaste affection; one of pure artistic appreciation."

"She was very good," Bahorel conceded. "And the ballet was very much to Jehan's taste; a sylph and a young farmer pining for one another in the wild forests of Scotland."

"And her feet," Jehan said, with his chin in his hands, propped above the table by his elbows. "She had these delicate little slippers that allowed her to dance right up on the tips of her toes. I've never seen such elegance in anything other than marble."

Grantaire smiled sympathetically, and patted Prouvaire on the shoulder with the hand that wasn't occupied with the cigar. Pining, and being in love with a dream from afar was a feeling he was intimately acquainted with, even if his own sylph had proved tangible after all.

"I'm certain she has dozens of fawning suitors already, but I must show my appreciation nevertheless; I'm moved to poetry again."

"You never write poems about me," Bahorel said, pouting.

"When you start showing off your ankles in chiffon skirts, then perhaps I will."

The rest of their friends arrived in increments; the last to arrive was Feuilly, for whom Enjolras rose to his feet to greet him with a warm, formal handshake. The gravity of the gesture, coupled with Enjolras's sober demeanour, had the effect of quelling the others into silence.

"Thank you for coming," Enjolras said, to the room at large. "I mean to explain why I have called you all here…"

Grantaire's own self-doubt began to gnaw at him again as Enjolras spoke; he let Enjolras's words wash over him, as soothing and as indistinct as the roar of the sea inside a shell, as he doled out tasks to each individual present, in the knowledge that he had already received his own.

When Enjolras had finished issuing his decree, Courfeyrac was the first to speak:

"That makes eight with their assigned tasks, but you mentioned nine to me. Did you forget the sculptors' studios at the barrière du Maine?"

"No." Enjolras said, decisively. "It is already settled. Grantaire will go to the barrière du Maine."

No one seemed willing to question the wisdom of Enjolras's decision or acknowledge the profound strangeness of his choice out loud, as Grantaire had been half-anticipating; instead, the general merry chatter as they each prepared to go their separate ways seemed extended in Grantaire's direction more than it might otherwise have been. Bahorel thumped him on the back as he passed in his own bracing form of affection, and Courfeyrac put a hand on his shoulder in a gentler display of encouragement. 

So this was what it was like to be truly one of them.

Grantaire dawdled, letting the cigar burn low in his hand until he could do so no more without singeing his fingertips; it was Bossuet who managed to at last coax him out of the door before he ended up alone with Enjolras once more, with his usual form of amiable chatter that wasn't always as idle as it seemed.

Grantaire threw one last, pitiful glance over his shoulder in Enjolras's direction as the door closed behind them. Enjolras wasn't looking back at them; he was gazing at the map of France under the republic on the wall with his arms folded across his chest and a far away look in his eyes.

"Good luck, citizen," Bossuet said as they parted, jamming his hat over his bald head with a sympathetic smile; he seemed genuine enough, but Grantaire's own self-doubt had him on edge for disapproval.

If any of his friends were expecting disappointment, he couldn't blame them for it.

The wall of the Farmers-General was a great stone serpent the height of two men. It circled the entirety of the city's boundaries as they had been at the close of the previous century. A blight on the landscape that obscured much of what lay beyond from street level, and, in a practical sense, nothing more than a means of separating the farms and factories that lay beyond the city limits from the places where their goods might be sold, it had been almost universally despised from the moment of its conception. 

In the mediaeval period, such walls might have served to defend Paris's citizens from invaders; in the eighteenth century, their primary purpose was tax collection. Their revolutionary forefathers had dismantled the private extortion racket and guillotined its chief architect, but the wall, and the monumental Neoclassical toll booths that punctuated it, remained. Reality had come almost full circle; Bonaparte had reintroduced the taxes, and the reinstated monarchs had continued them. The only distinction was that the professional tax farmers had been replaced with municipal officials.

The barrière du Maine was one such toll gate. Many of Paris's inhabitants were tempted beyond the them by the promise of cheap wine, guinguettes and leisure. Grantaire had explored most of them himself in his days as a student; that the barrières had become so strongly associated with the tax-free wine shops that had sprung up just beyond them was a minor irony that pleased him greatly.

At the city's heart the roads were paved with large slabs of cut stone; here they were little more than wide tracks of packed earth, carved into the landscape by the wear of thousands of sets of feet and hooves. Grantaire glanced at his own feet more often than he would closer to home as he walked, stepping over the deep fissures that ran through the dry mud and the well-worn ruts caused by the passage of innumerable cart wheels. A handful of stones skimmed across the ground in the wake of one such cart, and a horse hitched to another flicked its tail at a fly as Grantaire passed. His boots were already coated with thick, pale dust, and their toes were scuffed from catching on the uneven terrain.  

He had not taken the most expedient route to get here, preoccupied as he was with practising his rhetoric in his head as he walked.

All the years he had spent listening to his friends as they tossed philosophical ideals and theories of social progress around as casually as others might discuss the season or their neighbours' comings and goings had prepared him well, in a sense; the words came easily enough. It was the belief that the future they envisioned might ever be achievable that he had always lacked, and that eluded him still.

Though, that needn't mean that one shouldn't try. 

He shouldn't be this nervous. He had the costume; he knew his lines: 'Man is born free; and everywhere he is in chains'; 'all men are equal by nature and before the law'; 'the liberty of one citizen ends where the liberty of another citizen begins –' 

A drink or two to calm his nerves when he got there couldn't hurt, surely?

Most imperative of all was the fact that his friends were counting on him – that Enjolras was counting on him. The frailty of his own convictions scarcely mattered; the fact he had been entrusted with theirs ought to be enough.

The interior of the Richefeu's smoking room was even hazier than the back room of the Musain at its fullest, and furnished with round, marble-topped Saint-Anne tables in place of the Musain's ancient and stained wooden ones. At quarter past twelve it was crowded with men from the nearby workshops and ateliers. The hum of indistinct chatter greeted Grantaire as he opened the door, punctuated by the clacking sound of tiles being shuffled.

A few heads turned in his direction as he entered. The most curious among them looked him over, sizing him up, before dismissing him and turning their attention back to their games and conversations. He would find no friends here; but a few loose acquaintances? That was likely enough – men he had diced with and drank with in the past. He had many such friendly, wary associations scattered across the whole of Paris, though precious few true and genuine connections.

He glanced about the room until he spotted an empty seat at a table. Two men were engaged in a game of dominoes there; Grantaire recognised one of them, a man he had met before through a mutual acquaintance. Grantaire could not recall his name. He was a painter like himself, though still an apprentice working in the studio of a man with a name more famous than his own. He approached the table, a bottle of wine under his arm and a cup in his hand. 

"May I?" he said, gesturing to the chair. The man he recognised nodded, and pushed the chair away from the table for him with his foot.

"I know your face," the man said with a frown. "Grantaire, is it?"

"The very same," Grantaire said, placing the empty cup on the edge of the table and pulling the loose cork from the bottle. "I'm certain we've met, but I'm afraid I've quite forgotten your name."

"Bernard," the man whose face he knew said, and gestured towards his companion with the tile in his hand. "This is Faure."

"A pleasure. Wine, gentlemen?"

"I won't refuse," Bernard said, lifting his own empty cup.

Grantaire sipped from his own cup as he watched their game, conversing, engaging almost without conscious thought, his mind still turning over the task before him; his promise to Enjolras loomed large over him, watchful, a formidable presence that he found himself fighting to ignore. Still, it felt prudent to build a rapport first; to bide his time until the right moment presented itself. He wasn't avoiding his duty; he was mustering his courage.

Faure placed his last tile down on the table, and Bernard whistled through his teeth. "You've beaten me again!"

"I told you I was playing for two this week."

"How is your brother?"

"Still with us, last I heard. Isabelle wrote again –" Faure hesitated, glancing at Grantaire with a wariness he couldn't blame him for. His eyes lingered on the waistcoat, a violent slash of colour at the open collar of his coat. Grantaire gazed levelly back at him, assessing him in turn. He was slightly older than Bernard, and than Grantaire himself. He had the thickly muscled forearms of a man whose trade required strength; his heavy cotton trousers were coated in a fine white dust that made their colour seem faded. The lines of his hands were marked with it too, and his fingers were calloused and scarred. Grantaire's own weren't so different, only their stains were currently multicoloured. Faure was quite clearly a marble worker.

"Grantaire's a good fellow," Bernard said, with a confidence Grantaire did not feel he had earned. "I know the sort he associates with. Go on."

Faure gazed at Bernard a moment longer as though assessing his certainty, then turned to Grantaire with a sober look. "Did you hear of the conflict in Grenoble?"

Grantaire searched his memory – the reference did not ring any bells, but it was not the sort of thing he was used to paying great attention to; though, if it was relevant to the cause, the others would likely know of it. "I can't say that I have."

"Unpleasant business. Bunch of students dressed up as ministers for the carnival, and the prefect couldn't take a joke. They cancelled the masquerade and tried to arrest the young lads but the crowd weren't having it; might have ended worse than it did if the commanding officer of the guards hadn't intervened. Some young people held a charivari in protest the next night; the prefect called in the regular army to disperse them, and the soldiers turned their bayonets on them. My brother got stuck with one in the fray."

Grantaire swallowed, feeling his hands turn clammy as Faure's words sank in. It was a familiar story, and one that struck particularly close to home.

"He'll mend," Faure hastened to add. "But he can't work in the meantime. His wife wrote asking if I couldn't lend them a little to tide them over. So, I'm gaming for two – anything I win, that's where it's going until he's fixed."

"I see," Grantaire said. As a response, it was wholly insufficient. The injustice of the brother's predicament grated on him, as did the injustice of the cavalry drawing their swords on the crowds outside the Tuileries – on Enjolras, and countless incidents before that; the nightmarish memory of grapeshot and cannon fire two years ago. 

If he truly meant to speak, now was the time.

Faure and Bernard had already moved on; they were counting the grains of bran they had been trading back and forth across the table, and Bernard was reaching for his coin purse.

He groped blindly in the dark for the right words to say to these men, these potential allies, but they wouldn't come. 

He felt foolish, sitting there in his red waistcoat when he didn't truly believe in what it represented. He was nothing more than some useless painter of frivolous nonsense for the bourgeoisie while these men toiled daily to make ends meet; and while his friends toiled daily so they might no longer have to. He was no good at this – the others might know the right words to say to inspire hope, but Grantaire had only recently begun to hope himself. He had none to share. He did not know how. He had spent so long sneering at any sincere emotion in himself and others that the opposite seemed impossible. He was a windbag, a Thersites, a fool – capable only of insulting all who crossed his path with cruel, cynical humour.

He would only fail if he tried, so why try? Enjolras shouldn't have sent him; he should have known better. Surely, he must have known it would be like sending Pacchierotto to find him a wife. Why had he agreed to it? What on earth had possessed Grantaire to ask?

The cup in his hand was still half-full; he emptied it in one breathless gulp.

The worst part of the situation was that it was entirely his own fault. Enjolras hadn't forced him to do this – hadn't even asked. It was Grantaire who had talked his way into a chance to prove once and for all that he wasn't worthy of blacking Enjolras's boots, let alone his affections –

He swallowed a mouthful of his own spit, throat still raw with the aftertaste of cheap wine, and said:

"Well, let's have a game then."

Why shouldn't he let them have their fun and their small, selfish pleasures? They each had one life to live; why throw it away for a future they wouldn't live to see? If Grantaire couldn't give them a rousing speech, he could at least lose some money to them.

"Domino!" Faure said, as he placed his last tile on the table. "My luck is in today."

"And mine has deserted me, it seems," Grantaire said, his voice growing increasingly roughened as the bottle on the table grew empty. 

He felt warmed by wine and good company, his cares and purpose in coming here not entirely forgotten, but pushed to the back of his mind as a problem to be grappled with later. He looked up, and in an instant his jovial mood fled; his heart sank, all the colour draining from his cheeks as the chill tide of dread rose within him.

It was only a brief glimpse that he'd caught, but there was no chance he was mistaken. He would know that line anywhere; those golden curls peeking out from beneath his hat at the nape of his neck; the tension in that stiff back; that lean, towering form – then the door had swung closed behind him.

He had finally done it. He had thrown everything they shared away, as he was bound to do from the start. There would be no recovery from this, no matter how little Enjolras saw, it would be enough. 

It was over. 

Chapter Text

II.

The map of France under the Republic was the single piece of decoration that adorned the walls of the backroom of the Café Musain in which the Friends of the ABC assembled. Enjolras felt a subtle twinge of satisfaction each time he noticed it anew. It would be well within the café owner's rights to have it taken down, not least because of the suspicion it might bring to bear upon them if it was noticed by the wrong person, being an artefact of a previous regime. Anything that might be interpreted as an act of defiance carried a certain level of risk in the current political climate, but so far, it had stayed. 

The café proper was decorated with an eclectic assortment of prints in mismatched wooden frames, interspersed between ornamental lamps, candle sconces and a few painted wooden panels; the back room they had claimed as their own was significantly more utilitarian by contrast. The map stood out against the otherwise unadorned plaster that lined the upper half of the walls; it was out of place, and an obvious signifier of their purpose in meeting here.

The map itself was decades old, and showing its age in the yellowing of the paper, the foxing at its edges and the stains that patinaed its surface. There was an obvious condensation ring circling Bordeaux, and several more out at sea in the Bay of Biscay. The legend was faded and difficult to read, but it was clear even at a glance by the sheer density of the dotted lines that honeycombed its terrain that the map had been drawn after the National Constituent Assembly had begun their redistribution of power, carving the provinces of the old regime up into new departments. But its shapes remained familiar; its outlines depicted France as she had been before Bonaparte's ambitions of greatness had forced the expansion of her borders. Only Corsica stood apart, a point of contention that still divided their allies to this day.

The map wasn't framed; it was attached to the wall by a single rough nail in each corner, hammered in with the heel of Bahorel's boot some four years or so earlier. Enjolras still recalled the excitement of the day, for it had been one of their earliest meetings here; Courfeyrac had brought the map with him, and Bahorel had seized on it as a provocation. It had watched over them ever since, a silent, weathered reminder of the successes and excesses of their forefathers, and of the stakes their words and actions carried with them.

Enjolras's gaze grew unfocussed as his thoughts circled inevitably back to the task at hand, and the undercurrent of discontent that had prompted him to act: the constant whispers of riots in the faubourgs that had yet to synchronise into concerted action; the scraps of news from Grenoble over the last week and a half; the whispers of conscription and compulsory military service being debated in the halls of power. Spring had finally come, and with it had come opportunities, stirrings of rebellion both close at hand and further afield. Paris was positively simmering with pockets of discontent that might come to the boil at any moment, or be encouraged to do so with the application of a little targeted heat.

They were well prepared, all things considered – Courfeyrac's experiments in cartridge making had proved successful, and they were well-armed between them – but that did not mean they could not be more so. Just as important as material preparations were the bonds they had forged across the city; their friendships and alliances and promises of favours in exchange for favours. 

He extinguished the Argand lamp on his way out, but left the fire for Louison to attend to. As he set out for the plain of Issy, to the abandoned quarries that lay on south-western edge of the city where the Cougourde of Aix assembled, he thought of his friends; they were all, at this very moment, on their way to rally others to their cause, each in accordance with their own strengths – the eloquence and intellect of the philosophers, scientists and poets among them, the passion and the sheer charm that each of them possessed in different measures.

And Grantaire, an unknown quantity when it came to this kind of task, but showing an interest at last, and of his own accord. It had pleased Enjolras more than it should when Grantaire had stated his case, in some indefinable way that felt personal as well as abstracted; but he was pleased. 

It was always heartening to welcome a new member into their inner circle – not that Grantaire hadn't been part of their inner circle, or at least adjacent to it for years now. He had never been anything so straightforward and easy to define as an ally – even now, Enjolras was at a loss as to what exactly he should call him. Their lives had become intertwined on a deeper level than Enjolras ever would have thought possible, and still he had no name for what exactly Grantaire was to him.

Whatever it was that they shared ran deeper than the mere intimacy of fucking – it was the quiet comfort of lazy mornings in bed waiting for the sun to rise so they would not waste fuel or candles, of dinners on cool evenings, sharing hot meals and the warmth of the fire. It was the companionship of idle conversations and comfortable silences.

It was that kiss a few weeks ago. Enjolras had devoted far too much of his time to dwelling on it ever since. It shouldn't haunt him as persistently as it did; Grantaire's mouth had made contact with just about every other part of his body by now, some that he ought to consider far more private. And yet.

And yet, he had felt Grantaire's chest jerk beneath his palm with a sharp intake of breath as he had fixed his lapels for him; had watched his cheeks flush almost the same colour as the silk. It was still a satisfying feeling, witnessing the effect his closeness had on Grantaire. He had suppressed the urge to seize Grantaire by the front of that waistcoat and pull him closer, fired up as he was with the thought of the task ahead, and the notion of Grantaire joining him in it, for a change.

His steps faltered as realisation dawned on him; he paused for a fraction of a second on the edge of the curb where the rue d'Assas met the rue de Fleurus. He shouldn't be thinking about fucking Grantaire now, while he had a task ahead of him, but his thoughts had strayed from the political to the personal without any marked point of transition.

He dodged a cabriolet as he crossed the street, stepping over a freshly laid pile of horse dung as he continued on his way, still reeling at his own train of thought.

His happiness that Grantaire had finally stepped up to aid them was not entirely selfless in origin. In truth, he was relieved at the prospect of no longer feeling as though indulging in what he wanted from Grantaire meant spreading himself thin; of no longer feeling as though he was dividing his loyalties. It was what he had been hoping for for so long; to be able to truly count Grantaire as one of his brothers. Now that the prospect seemed possible at last – 

It was alarmingly easy to imagine it – to imagine himself sitting in the Musain waiting for his friends' reports, hearing Grantaire whistling on the stairway as he approached; to picture him standing in the doorway in that old scarlet waistcoat, with the bright look on his face that seemed to materialise whenever they had been apart. Perhaps there was room in his heart for both; for his cause, and for a man who was as much his ally as he was his lover, after all.

Should he be suspicious of so stark a transformation? The quiet, nagging voice in the back of his mind that forever cautioned him against letting emotion cloud his judgement hadn't deserted him, but Grantaire had given him no reason not to believe in him of late; in fact, he had come through for the cause on multiple occasions now, seemingly to his own surprise as much as Enjolras's. 

Enjolras trusted him, and, more than that, he was curious to see what Grantaire was capable of when he truly tried. 

The Richefeu's smoking room wouldn't take him too far out of his way; he could go and see for himself, if he wished.

He let the door fall to against his back as he entered, glancing about the crowded room as his eyes grew accustomed to the relative darkness. He heard Grantaire before he saw him; his voice sounded harsher than it had in some time as Enjolras heard him say:

"Bah, but you were right; he is lucky!"

"I warned you he was on a winning streak," a second voice replied.

"Would you like to concede defeat now to save face?" and a third.

"There's no recovering from this for me. Two sixes! Unbelievable."

Enjolras hesitated, remaining at the threshold and folding his arms across his chest. He squinted against the tobacco smoke that rose above the seated domino players as a dry cloud of harsh, foul-smelling air. When at last he spotted Grantaire across the room he felt a surge of something undefinable stir within his breast – it was an unpleasant feeling, not quite anger but something equally acute, and painful.

Grantaire's head was bent over the tiles on the table before him; he did not appear to have noticed anyone enter. "Two," he said, slotting the tile in his hand into place. His other hand was wrapped around a small cup of tarnished, dented copper. Enjolras did not need to guess at its contents; the bottle of wine on the table beside him was almost empty.

"One."

"One?"

"I am giving him a chance to redeem himself."

Grantaire made a rude, wet sound between his sealed lips. "I don't require your pity. Four."

"Are you sure about that? Double four."

Enjolras gritted his teeth, biting back the urge to call out to him, to demand an explanation. The uncertainty grated almost as harshly as the sight before him. His initial confusion was building swiftly into irritation. His hands had clenched into fists in the fabric of his sleeves; he unclenched them, trying to quell the unpleasant, accusatory sentiments that had seized him; frustration, irritation, betrayal. Hurt.

"Domino! My luck is in today."

He turned to leave, pushing the door open with the flat of his palm with so much force that it swung wide on its hinges. It hit the wall with a bang as he strode through the tavern's main hall, and out into the street again. He had seen more than enough; more than he should have. He shouldn't have come. The happy, hopeful mood of the morning had been dashed to pieces in a moment of sentimental curiosity on his part. He despised this kind of bitter anger on himself; it wasn't useful, wasn't productive, wasn't justified –

His feet were carrying him back towards the barrière du Maine without the input of his mind, beyond which ran his original route to the abandoned quarries from which he ought not have deviated. He needed to get a hold of himself; he couldn't negotiate like this, from a defensive, overtly emotional position. He took a few conscious deep breaths as he walked, forcing his hands to relax at his sides and rolling the tension out of his posture.

What had Grantaire been playing at? Had Enjolras truly seen what he thought he had? Perhaps he had been too swift in jumping to conclusions? The game could have been a tactical exercise, a means of warming them to a stranger before he tried to persuade them. Perhaps Grantaire had spoken to them beforehand, and stayed for the pleasure of their company – but then why was he drinking again? 

It wasn't as though Grantaire had ever given up his old habits entirely, but the change in his attitude towards it and the volume he consumed had been stark. They had shared wine at home since, but they barely got through half a bottle between them at a time. He had not seen Grantaire drunk for months now, but he hadn't forgotten the signs, the drowsy look it gave him, and the general air of indolence, a certain provocative lethargy. He knew what he thought he had seen, and it had felt painfully familiar. 

Still, there was a chance Enjolras had the wrong impression, that his own perception was at fault. He hoped so. They had agreed to reconvene in the Musain later to report on their individual progress; perhaps Enjolras's frustration was unfounded. He hoped Grantaire would be waiting for him, and would have an explanation.

Action had always been Enjolras's preferred method of distraction, and the task of the day was one he had performed often enough that it was like donning an old coat, comfortable and familiar. The meeting in the quarries went better even than he had hoped. The members of the Parisian section of the Cougourde of Aix were an enthusiastic group of young men that reminded him of his own friends. He did not hear the dialects of the south as often in Paris as he had in his home province, and theirs was from even further south than the one he had grown up speaking alongside the standardised French his tutors had instilled in him. It was a melodious and pleasant language to listen to, and their enthusiasm had fanned his own as much as he had meant to bolster theirs.

His initial anger had soothed into something that resembled concern, but on the whole his mood had brightened; he was hopeful again, and willing to give Grantaire the benefit of the doubt. 

The long walk back to the Musain gave him further time to clear his head; he shouldn't judge Grantaire so harshly, when in truth what he had witnessed bore all the hallmarks of a friendly exchange. It was natural that Grantaire's methods would differ from his own; he ought to wait for the results to present themselves.

He did not stop for a meal on his way back, despite the appetite an afternoon of walking had given him, and so returned in good speed. He reached the Musain, and found Courfeyrac and Bahorel already inside, conversing intently at the same table as before with matching looks of determination in their eyes. Enjolras smiled warmly, and said: "I trust you both have good news for me." 

The others arrived in increments, and bore mixed tidings. Joly and Bossuet returned together before Enjolras had finished hearing Courfeyrac's news; both had clearly taken wine with their midday meal, but both had also done as Enjolras had asked. 

The medical students' attentions were divided, in Joly's assessment; the demands of their studies were high, and the number of patients presenting at Paris's hospitals with the symptoms of cholera was growing daily. They were sympathetic, but distracted, and even for the most idealistic among them political action was often a secondary concern. Their profession brought them face to face with the physical toll of society's ills; sometimes the bigger picture was more than one could manage.

The law licentiates were of a similarly mixed allegiance, but by Bossuet's reckoning they had a few allies there; they did not possess quite the same revolutionary zeal as some of their predecessors, but there were some among them with convictions still.

The next to arrive was Prouvaire, and the news he bore from the lodge of the rue de Grenelle-Saint-Honoré was much as Enjolras had expected: the masons were frustrated by the drive for more efficient manufacturing methods, discontented at the effect on their wages, and at the sense that their labour was consistently undervalued. The ABC would find some support there, but they were not yet unified enough in believing that a revolution might bring a solution to act unprovoked. 

As the afternoon stretched on, Enjolras felt his patience begin to wear thin again; Grantaire's continued absence made him feel bereft, as well as anxious that his fears may have been founded after all. Richefeu's was not much further from the Musain than the masons' lodge, and he had seen Grantaire there before one o'clock. He ought to have been on his way back long before now. 

The others drifted naturally on to new topics of conversation once they had finished sharing their news, but Enjolras was paying them only limited attention; he was listening, straining his ears for any sound of footsteps on the stairway, for the tap of boot heels in the corridor that connected them to the main café. 

Finally, he heard the ring of boots on the iron stairs. His heart fluttered in his chest, then sank abruptly. The head that appeared silhouetted against the daylight as the door cracked open was not crowned by Grantaire's disorderly curls, but by Feuilly's hat. 

He felt impossibly torn, his emotions stretching to breaking point when he preferred matters to be simple; his sense of hope fading fast. He could never be disappointed to see Feuilly, but the arrival of yet another person who was not Grantaire had chipped away at his remaining optimism all the same – an irritation now compounded by the guilty feeling that he was not as pleased to see Feuilly as he ought to have been. And yet he couldn't help himself; Grantaire's absence was grating on him more than his presence ever had. He needed to speak with him, to get the truth out of him and put the matter to rest, so he could focus on the work at hand. On the pleasure of the company of his friends.

The news from the Glacière was much the same as that from the masons' lodge: dissatisfaction, and anger that might be turned towards a unified purpose. All that was needed was the right rallying cry to unite their allies against a common enemy, beneath a shared banner. The Périer ministry was disliked in many quarters, and growing less popular by the hour. Enjolras was confident that the right clarion call would be sounded in time; it was simply a matter of waiting

The next set of footsteps on the stairs were Combeferre's; Enjolras did not need to wait for him to enter to know, and with them came the final dashing of his hopes. Combeferre's errand had taken him farthest afield, aside from Enjolras's own; even when accounting for Grantaire's tendency to submit to distractions, he should not be the last to return. 

Even the news from Picpus could not salvage his mood. The men of that quarter had not forgotten the Bastille, and there were many that still felt a great deal of pride and respect for what had taken place not far from that same soil in 1789; but he felt no joy at Combeferre's sober pronouncement of that hallowed year, where usually the words alone would bolster him.

He should not be so disappointed in him. Grantaire had only done what anyone could have expected – an unkind thought to have about someone he cared for, but a rational one nevertheless. This was why he did not do this – why he tried so hard not to let interpersonal feelings cloud his judgement. It was not a personal betrayal; Grantaire had betrayed the cause, not him, which should be the worse of the two, though it did not feel like it at that precise moment.

The sky darkened as the afternoon progressed into the evening, and the fire burned low in the grate as he waited, surrounded by a slowly-dwindling number of his friends. He did not expect them to wait with him; they had done as he had asked, and doubtless had plans of their own to fill what remained of the day.

Courfeyrac placed two bowls of soup and some hanks of bread down on the table between them, and tried to draw Enjolras into conversation as he ate his share. Enjolras did not do more than pick at his own, and Courfeyrac stopped short of prying. 

Bossuet offered to walk with him as he and Joly prepared to leave, an offer that Enjolras politely declined, for the sake of simplicity if nothing else. His old apartment had been in the same direction as Joly's, but Grantaire's was not, and it seemed easier to avoid acknowledging that change now, of all times, when he might soon be relocating again. A lot of things that had seemed so certain that morning now hung loose in the air again, untethered and uncertain. 

Combeferre said nothing at first, but did glance at him with such a grave look of discomfort on his face that Enjolras knew he meant to impart sympathy, but could not quite decide how best to go about it.

"This is my responsibility," Enjolras said, by way of excusing Combeferre from the duty of comforting him. "I will wait for Grantaire myself."

"I'll stay, if you would like me to," Combeferre offered, the sympathy in his features transparent that time.

"I would rather deal with the matter in private." 

He did not wish to talk about it, even to Combeferre, who already knew nearly all of his worst secrets; he merely wanted the issue resolved, one way or another.

"If you're certain." 

Combeferre squeezed his shoulder on his way out, the last to leave, then Enjolras was alone, and thinking of supper, which only made his mood sour further. The lunch he had barely touched was congealing in the bowl beside him, which did little to inspire his appetite; but his stomach felt hollow enough by now that he felt he ought to eat something.

Ultimately, it did not matter why Grantaire had failed; it was not Grantaire that he was truly angry with. It was himself, for the lapse in judgement that had resulted in him handing Grantaire the task in the first place. He wasn't wholly unsympathetic; he had witnessed Grantaire's sombre moods and sudden fits of melancholy enough times by now to know they were difficult to predict, brought on by the slightest obstacle at times, or, sometimes, by nothing at all. He could not claim to understand them at all, but he did recognise them as real; it was something more complex than mere laziness that held Grantaire back.

But that did not change the fact that his actions, or inactions, had consequences, and it was not Enjolras that he had truly failed; the republic mattered more than both their feelings combined, more than both their lives. 

He needed to put an end to this, once and for all – to put a stop to whatever he thought he was doing. For good, this time.

His stomach growled, and the mouthful of soup he took to silence it was stone cold. Ordinarily at this time one of them would be fetching something warm, or be reheating their leftovers over the fire at home.

Home – that was where he would check first.

Their room was dark when he opened the door, and colder than it had been out in the street. The shifting light from the taper in his hand fell first on his writing desk; the blank sheet of paper he had left on it was stark white in the gloom. The floorboards creaked as he passed over the threshold; there were no signs of life inside, and no sign that Grantaire had been back before him. He sidestepped the stacked canvases drying by the door as he entered; Grantaire's sketchbook was still open on the table where he had left it that morning, revealing an ink sketch of Enjolras peeling an orange with a paring knife, its skin represented by a single, looping line. 

Their bedroom was in much the same state; the fire was dead in the grate, and their housecoats were still hanging by the washbasin where they had left them that morning, their bed still unmade. Enjolras pulled the sheets mechanically over it as he passed, and turned the blanket back to lie folded at the foot of the bed; it would be unpleasantly cold to get into as it was, without a pan of coals to warm it and without Grantaire beside him. 

His first instinct had proved fruitless; he was weary already, yet he refused to be discouraged in his search. He sat to rest his feet for a moment as he considered where to look next. Perhaps it was his mind playing tricks on him, but even the couch cushions seemed to smell like Grantaire – almonds, and a faint hint of turpentine. It was familiar, the same way his presence was.

How, precisely, had their lives become so entangled? It had happened so incrementally that it had all but passed beneath his notice; only on reflection did the true seismic nature of the shift reveal itself. The refuge from the heat of summer, the relief of having a place in which he could shelter from danger, the sex – but the smaller intimacies, too. He was grateful for everything Grantaire had done for him, and he would miss his company. Grantaire's presence alone had become soothing to him in a way he never would have anticipated. Reassuring, almost.

Almost – but it wasn't enough. He would not sit here all night when there was no guarantee of Grantaire returning. He was under no illusions – he knew where Grantaire's worst bouts of drunkenness tended to end, and it wasn't tucked up safe and sound in his own bed.

Perhaps he would check with the porter on the way out, just in case Grantaire had passed through, though it was unlike him to do so without leaving any trace of his presence. He could but hope.

His knock on the door of the porter's sitting room seemed intolerably loud in the silence of the hall. There was silence again in the moment that followed, before he heard the sound of footsteps as someone inside rose to answer. His wait in the empty hall felt excruciatingly long in his present, impatient state, and when finally the door opened it was not Mme. Meunier that stood on the other side of it, but Mme. Miette.  

"My apologies for troubling you at this hour," Enjolras began, apologetic, hearing the concern in his own voice as though he was listening to a stranger speak. "But – have you seen Grantaire?"

"It's quite alright, and, no, I'm afraid I haven't, dear." Their landlady's tone was polite, but kind. Enjolras noticed, belatedly, that she was in her nightgown, with a white lace-trimmed cap covering her hair and a shawl clutched tightly around her shoulders. She was a small woman, much shorter than Enjolras's full six or so feet, but her posture was straight, and she carried herself with such a proud bearing that even in her nightdress she projected the air of a woman who commanded respect. Not for the first time, Enjolras found himself reminded of the elegant bourgeois ladies his mother had known.

"Who's there?" A second voice, the porter's, called from somewhere deeper inside the sitting room.

"It's Monsieur Grantaire's friend," Mme. Miette answered.

Enjolras's jaw tightened at the use of the possessive; it was the first time he had heard an outside party describe him as belonging to Grantaire in any way, and it sat strangely with the resolution he had spent the afternoon arriving at.

The porter stepped into his field of view, approaching until she stood behind Mme. Miette; she was in her nightgown, too. Mme. Meunier was almost tall enough to look Enjolras in the eye without lifting her chin, and was regarding him curiously.

"He hasn't been home?" Enjolras asked, feeling yet another pang of despair. It was as he had suspected, and yet having it confirmed still felt worse than holding on to a frail scrap of hope. If there was an end to the depths of this feeling, he had yet to reach it.

"No, I'm afraid not," said Mme. Meunier. 

"Should we leave the front door on the latch for him?" Mme. Miette asked.

Enjolras looked down at her again, and in doing so noticed Mme. Meunier's hand was on her waist. The familiarity inherent in the gesture was striking. It was a piece of missing context sliding into place, another aspect of the lives of those around him that he had been oblivious to, revealed by that single, casual display of affection. 

He did not yet know what to make of it, but it stirred something in him all the same.

"I am sorry for disturbing you." He felt himself colouring. "Yes – please leave the door unlocked for now. I will be back as soon as I can."

"Of course."

He bowed his head stiffly as a gesture of respect, and turned on his heel. He was already outside in the street by the time his own thoughts caught up with him.

He did not know where his search would take him, but he had several ideas of where to begin.

He did not know how he had missed what was right in front of him, either – the reason neither the porter nor their landlady had ever expressed any kind of disapproval, or even opinion towards Grantaire's habits over the years; had never seemed fazed by the number of men he brought home, by the frequency of Enjolras's own calls. Perhaps, even, why they tolerated his late payments and general unreliability.

It was right that they should both have companionship, and the easy affection of the gesture had reminded him of the easy affection he had begun to share with Grantaire – the way Grantaire often put an arm around him when they were half asleep, or brushed against him while they were sharing space at the washbasin.

It was nice, to have someone around to share his idle hours with; to have someone care for him, in a way. It was a weight off his shoulders at times, when Grantaire went out to fetch their meals while Enjolras was working, or arranged for the porter to have water brought up for a bath before Enjolras had even realised he wanted one.

It was nice having someone beside him as he lay in bed, trying to set aside his plans until morning in order to catch some sleep. It was nice that that someone was Grantaire.

It was too late now, though; his illusions had been shattered beyond repair. He needed to regain his focus.

Where would he go, after? He could not continue to impose his presence on Grantaire once he had reasserted their former boundaries. Combeferre's, perhaps? He would cross that bridge when he came to it. First, he needed to find him.

Grantaire would not have gone to the Corinthe if he was avoiding facing up to his failings, in case he encountered one of their number there. It was hours since Enjolras had last seen him; he could be anywhere in Paris by now, or on the diligence towards Calais, but Enjolras did not think so. Grantaire was too much a creature of habit to stay lost for long; he would not have gone far from his most familiar haunts. 

The streets were still busy as Enjolras searched, despite the lateness of the hour; the weather had been growing warmer of late, and he even encountered several hardy souls sitting outside some of the cafés he passed, bundled up in their coats and sheltering beneath awnings.

He began by checking a few of the places Grantaire regularly fetched their dinner from, to no avail; their tables were full, but Grantaire was not among their patrons this time. He checked the streets around the Musain, the other bars and taverns like their own that were so popular with the students of the Sorbonne and the other universities that bordered the Latin Quarter, and still he caught no sight of him.

Finally, he headed north towards the Halles; the skirt of his coat billowed about his legs in a gust of wind as he crossed the pont au Change. The smell of fish and decaying fruit and vegetables that always lingered long after the market stalls had been cleared for the night was strong on the air, as he wandered the narrow back streets that surrounded the Corinthe, attempting to ignore the queasy, sinking feeling in his stomach as he walked.

The night grew cold in the shade of the winding alleys; more and more, Enjolras passed establishments that were emptying for the night, or had their shutters drawn and their doors already barred.

He was growing increasingly desperate; surely, Grantaire would be somewhere – Enjolras was not familiar with every tavern in Paris, but he knew where his friends gathered most frequently, and he knew Grantaire, or had thought he did that morning at least.

He would simply have to keep looking; if Grantaire had been drinking since Richefeu's he could only have staggered so far on unsteady feet. 

Could he have become so intoxicated that he had got himself arrested? It was possible, but not as likely as finding him unconscious in a corner somewhere – Grantaire was an amicable drunk, for the most part; if he picked a fight, it was not usually with the kind of person that would take it to heart, or to the authorities.

He was halfway down the short, cluttered curve of the rue Pirouette when his breath caught in his throat; his heart clenched painfully as he spotted a familiar shape slumped in the street. Grantaire was seated against the wall of a tavern, in the nook between two irregularly shaped houses, with a bottle clutched to his chest and his elbow propped against the barrel lying horizontal beside him. 

It was a pitiful sight.

"Grantaire?" Enjolras said, approaching in several long strides. He was close enough to see the lack of focus in Grantaire's eyes as he raised his head at the sound of his own name; his gaze was unseeing, as disconnected from the present as that of a seer high on sulphur fumes. The whole alley was pungent enough to have Enjolras seeing phantasms; it reeked of alcohol, paired with the stench of piss rising from the gutters. Grantaire was not the first drunk to sprawl here, and he would not be the last tonight.

"Nymph of the Palais-Royal," Grantaire slurred, gesturing vaguely with the bottle in his hand. "You are far from home – come here. I would be importuned, if you are importuning… selling – no, that is far too crass – I can see you must have no shortage of patrons with better manners than mine. May I join their number?" 

Grantaire's expression shifted through several phases as he spoke; his eyes struggled to fix on Enjolras's face as he leered, looked sheepish, then settled into a gormless look that proved the inside of his mouth to be red with wine.

Enjolras steeled himself with a deep breath, taking in the sight before him with no shortage of relief and only a hint of horrified revulsion. The confusion he felt at being taken for a stranger by Grantaire was sharp-edged, but at least he had found him at last. He wasn't sure what state he had expected to find him in, but this was somehow worse than anything he had been anticipating, wallowing in the filth of the street as though he had no sense of shame or propriety at all; though, it was preferable to finding him bleeding, or worse. Drunkenness aside, he appeared unscathed. He took another step forward instead, and stooped to place a tentative hand on Grantaire's shoulder.

"I am taking you home," he said, in a tone that brooked no discussion. 

"Truly?" Grantaire's smile softened; his eyes widened in surprise. "My, fortune has smiled upon me at last this evening! I'm afraid the body is less willing than the spirit, however…" He gestured with the bottle again in the vague direction of his feet. "Alas, they can no longer support my splendour. Help me up?"

"I won't ask how you got in this state, that much I can guess," Enjolras began. He rubbed at his temples, biting back admonitions and sentiments in equal measure. His head ached, and his legs ached too when he lowered himself to crouch at Grantaire's side.

Carefully, he curled his fingers around the neck of the bottle and eased it out of Grantaire's hands; it was hot from being clutched in his grasp, and half empty. When he raised it to his nose the stench of its contents was violent enough to make his nostrils burn. "And if I ask why, I do not expect I will receive a coherent answer; though I suspect I already know it." 

Grantaire flinched as he drew closer; then he grasped at thin air until his hand found its way to Enjolras's shoulder. His touch was warm and heavy handed, and his gaze was still unfixed. He groped at the fabric of Enjolras's sleeves, curling both hands into them until he had enough leverage to pull himself upright. Enjolras caught him by the elbows, then flinched and grimaced as he leant forward, afraid that the green tint that was visible on his skin this close might presage the contents of his stomach reappearing; but Grantaire managed to steady himself. 

Looking ill but determined, he lifted a hand to Enjolras's cheek; he ran the rough pad of his thumb across Enjolras's lips and leaned closer still as he spoke, his voice weak and rasping:

"Hush; your lips disdain for you. Don't be angry with me. I would see you smile – would make you smile, with my tongue if not my cock, ha!" He released his grip on Enjolras's coat as he laughed, harsh and discordant, and slumped back into his former position, this time with his chin tilted towards the heavens. "You are no nymph; you are the sylph of my dreams. Let me alone; fool I may be, but I will not be fooled –"

The sight of Grantaire like this tugged painfully at Enjolras's already frayed nerves; he could not understand why he would do this to himself, and he could not help feeling as though he had some hand in reducing Grantaire to this state, despite it occurring in his absence. He pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead and breathed deeply, which only filled his nostrils with all the scents of the gutters again. 

He turned on bent legs, and lowered himself further to sit at Grantaire's side. "I am no illusion," he said, opening one hand to the sky and holding it out for Grantaire to inspect. 

Grantaire looked down at it with suspicion etched into his features. His cheeks were blotchy in the indifferent light that spilled out of the windows overhead; his face was close to Enjolras's now, and Enjolras could smell the wine on his breath.

Slowly, tentatively, Grantaire reached out, and took Enjolras's hand in his own. Carefully, he turned it back and forth in his grasp, inspecting, testing its veracity; his fingertips were rough against Enjolras's palm, as he traced the lines and texture of Enjolras's hand with a gentleness that still surprised him. Enjolras's skin tingled where his touch had been, and grew clammy as Grantaire interlaced their fingers together. Both their hands were stained, his own with smudges of ink, Grantaire's with the layer of charcoal that seemed permanently ingrained in the fine lines of his skin. Enjolras looked up, and found that Grantaire's features had softened again.

"Enjolras," Grantaire said in a low voice, with sudden, almost sober reverence. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you." Enjolras tried to keep his tone neutral; tried to distract himself from the way Grantaire's touch seemed to extend beyond the simple contact of their clasped hands, awakened more than the surface-level nerve endings and sent his stomach fluttering, as though Grantaire's drunkenness was rubbing off on him through that contact. "You did not return to the Musain this afternoon, nor were you at home, or inside the Corinthe." He felt Grantaire cringe beside him at the reminder; he stirred as though about to draw back. "I know why," Enjolras said, swiftly, gripping Grantaire's hand tighter to prevent him taking flight. "I wanted to speak with you."

"You worried?" Grantaire's disbelief was plain in the startled look he gave him. "No, of course not," he said, seemingly to himself. "Inconvenienced, perhaps. Still, that is something –"  

"Grantaire," Enjolras interrupted, uncomfortable with the direction Grantaire's line of thought seemed to be taking. "Allow me to help you back to your lodgings."

"Momentarily." Grantaire was looking at him again, and his eyes seemed a little clearer now that Enjolras was no longer gazing down at him from his lofty height; Grantaire's dark hair was haloed in the orange pool of the single street-lamp. "Allow me the liberty of lying to myself, while I am intoxicated enough to hope –"

"You are speaking nonsense," Enjolras chided, softly and without venom. "Sleep off the fumes of your drunkenness when we get home. We will discuss what happened when your words are less obtuse."

"It is you who is obtuse," Grantaire said, raising an accusing finger and pressing it sharply into Enjolras's chest. "You with your battle horns sounding in your ears – ears that hear only pretty speeches and canons rattling over cobblestones, the click of hammers being cocked. Tell me, Enjolras; does your bright future cast such long shadows that they conceal what is right in front of you? Are the rest of us tarnished with so much smoke that we fade into background? Even the brightest colours grow dull with time – remove the layer of varnish and what do you find? Cracks. Everything is cracked." Grantaire withdrew his censuring hand, though he still gripped Enjolras's loosely in the other. He cast his eyes downwards, mumbling a few more unintelligible words under his breath. Enjolras did not strain to hear them; Grantaire's speech had been a barrage of feeling unleashed in his direction, and he couldn't make sense of it.   

"I'm sorry," Grantaire said, to the ground at his feet. His shoulders flagged as his mood turned from combative to unhappy again. "I don't mean what I say. I really did mean to try." He curled in on himself as he spoke, until his face was almost pressed against his knees. His grip on Enjolras's hand remained delicate and tentative, as though both letting go and holding tighter seemed equally perilous; when he had finished speaking he pressed the heel of his palm to his eyes in a gesture of utter defeat. 

Enjolras sighed, and squeezed Grantaire's hand again. "Get up," he said, wearily. Any residual anger he might have felt towards Grantaire had burned itself out long before now; the overwhelming feeling that had driven him in his search had been concern, and a sense that something was missing. "I am not angry with you. We will discuss this in the morning."

"Do not listen to this imposter," Grantaire said in non-sequitur reply. He did not raise his head, but he did allow Enjolras to tuck an arm beneath his own and use the leverage to haul him to his feet.

"Can you walk unaided, or will I have to hold you up?"

"I can walk." Grantaire's tone turned forceful again; he let go of Enjolras's hand and took a few lurching steps forward. Enjolras followed, placing a hand between his shoulder blades, half to encourage Grantaire in the right direction and half in anticipation of him tripping over his own feet. His palm felt cold without Grantaire's pressed to it.

He was thankful when they made it home without further incident, and without Grantaire losing the contents of his stomach. He was uncharacteristically quiet and compliant most of the way home, in the melancholy stage of drunkenness that made him manageable.

Mme. Meunier had left the door on the latch as requested, and there was still a lit candle waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs.

Navigating their ascent proved the most difficult part of the journey; the staircases tilted alternately to the left and to the right as they folded back on themselves, where the building's foundations had sunk over time, and Grantaire was stumbling on unsteady feet. Enjolras resorted to hooking his arm beneath Grantaire's again when they were halfway up; he half-carried him up the last flight of stairs, with the taper dripping wax onto the floorboards as they went. Grantaire spilled through the door as soon as Enjolras had it unlocked, swaying as he strode across the room unaided and disappearing behind the screen.

Enjolras halted in the doorway as Grantaire clattered around in the dark, listening for the sound of him scrabbling for the chamber pot, but it didn't come; evidently his constitution was hardier than most. The blank piece of paper he had left on the desk had been blown aside by a draft as they entered; he picked it up, placed it back in its original spot and closed the door behind them. 

He lit a lamp from the taper before he discarded it, and drew together what remained of his resolve, reminding himself of his original intentions before he took another step.

On the other side of the screen he found Grantaire sitting on the bed with one heel in his hands, struggling to rid himself of his shoes.    

"Take your coat off first," Enjolras suggested. "I'll see to your boots." 

Grantaire huffed in response. He looked utterly dejected as he placed his foot back on the ground and shrugged out of his coat; his arms caught in his sleeves, and he threw it in the vague direction of the end of the bed once he was free of it, where it landed limply on the lid of the trunk below.

Enjolras waited until he had ceased struggling, then knelt before him, placing the lamp at his side and taking one of Grantaire's heels in his hand, where he began pulling at the knots in Grantaire's bootlaces. 

"This tableau is off," Grantaire commented from above. His voice was quiet, thin and breathless, soft in the otherwise peaceful silence.  

"Lift your foot higher," Enjolras instructed, and, when Grantaire did so, pulled the first boot free and set it aside. 

"It's cold in here."

"Yes." Enjolras did not wish to be short with him, but nor did he wish to fall back on old habits.

"The fire is out." 

It was as though Grantaire was testing him, trying to draw him into inconsequential small talk so he would forget what he had resolved to do.

"I'll see to that next." Enjolras tugged furiously at the last knot, which was stubbornly refusing to yield. "Now the other," he said when finally he had it untied. 

Grantaire complied without further comment. When the second boot stood beside the first, Enjolras looked up to meet Grantaire's curious, heavy-lidded gaze. 

"Not quite maundy, though I am equally humbled," Grantaire uttered. His eyes were bloodshot, and ringed in purple. The harsh angles of his features seemed deliberate, from Enjolras's current perspective, augmented with purpose like the saints that once stood in the elevated niches of the grandest mediaeval churches, their proportions slightly off when viewed face to face, but when raised to their intended height, suddenly in perfect harmony.

He placed a hand on Grantaire's knee to aid himself in rising; Grantaire startled at the contact, the muscles in his thigh twitching beneath Enjolras's palm. When Enjolras was standing again he turned, meaning to rekindle the fire as promised, but Grantaire put a hand on his elbow to halt him, and tugged, pulling him closer as though he wished for Enjolras to sit beside him.

"That's better," he said when Enjolras obliged, "though still incorrect." He flashed him a brief, beatific smile, then leaned in to rest his head on Enjolras's shoulder. Enjolras felt his dry lips brush softly against the sensitive part of his neck as he did so.

"You smell terrible," Enjolras observed, the stench of the unswept alleys and the fish markets still fresh in his mind. "How long were you lying in the gutter before I found you?"

"You smell as fresh and clean as a lavender meadow, as ever," Grantaire murmured into the hollow of Enjolras's throat; Enjolras's skin tingled at the touch of his breath. His collar buttons had come loose as he had hauled Grantaire up the stairs, and his neck was exposed to both the cold air and Grantaire's attention.

"You should sleep," Enjolras said, and felt a sudden, swooping and pre-emptive pang of longing.

"Stay with me," Grantaire murmured, wheedling even as his stubble scratched against the underside of Enjolras's jaw. He placed a furtive hand on Enjolras's waist, followed by the other on Enjolras's stomach, fumbling, circling, holding him in place. His hands felt hot even through several layers of cloth. "Please. For tonight, at least. It must be past midnight by now." 

Enjolras sighed in response; he was as tired as he had ever been, wrung out from the day's business and the fraught emotion that had followed. He allowed Grantaire to nuzzle at the base of his neck a while longer, breathing in stale wine, tobacco smoke and a hint of masculine sweat, sharp and cutting and familiar. Grantaire's hair tickled against his cheek as he wrestled with his own conflicting impulses: the urge to rebuke Grantaire for his persistence after what he had witnessed at Richefeu's, to rebuke himself for permitting Grantaire to take on the task in the first place, and the much simpler desire for sleep; more than anything, he wanted to sink into the soft mattress and softer pillows and set all his cares and duties aside until the morning.

He turned his head to look down at Grantaire. He was still wearing that ridiculous waistcoat. 

"Fine," Enjolras consented at last, and heard Grantaire's breath hitch in response.

It was late, and now that he was here it seemed pointless to leave again only to trouble Combeferre, when he had likely already turned in for the night. He nudged Grantaire gently into withdrawing, then stood in order to remove his own boots, coat and waistcoat, and stooped to rekindle the fire. 

He heard Grantaire shifting behind him; when he turned to face him again the waistcoat had been added to the heap on top of the trunk, and Grantaire was crawling his way to the centre of the bed. He flopped onto his back when he reached it, limbs splaying in a limp parody of the Vitruvian Man. 

Enjolras retrieved the lamp from the floor and placed it on the bedside table, before clambering onto the bed himself. He positioned himself against the headboard, deliberately upright, afraid that making himself comfortable would only make what he had to do harder; Grantaire rolled over to meet him, and lay his head in Enjolras's lap. 

Enjolras's entire body tensed immediately at the imposition; this was a new intimacy between them, even after all they had shared before now, and he did not know what to make of it; but Grantaire merely placed a hand on his knee and let out a small, contented sigh. Enjolras was lost for words, and out of the necessary strength to do anything at all about it.

Grantaire's dead-weight grew slowly heavier the longer Enjolras failed to move him, and yet he could not muster the will to do so. He was too exhausted to think, and so permitted instinct to take over at last, too weary to resist the impulse to let one arm rest across Grantaire's shoulders, to close his eyes and sink deeper into the pillows at his back. 

Just when he was beginning to think Grantaire had fallen asleep, Grantaire uttered a muffled entreaty into the fabric of his trousers: 

"Forgive me, Enjolras." His voice cracked with the damage of the day's drinking, the pipe smoke, and some emotion Enjolras couldn't quite place. 

Enjolras sighed again, stifling a yawn; he let his head tilt back against the headboard and stared up at the fine fracture lines in the yellowed ceiling, traced their paths with his gaze as they ran through the darker patches where the white plaster was flaked and peeling. 

The quiet fragility of the moment sapped him of any remaining will to argue; Grantaire was half-conscious in his arms, and the nape of his neck was exposed where his collar had slipped open. Enjolras knew how soft his skin was there; he still recalled the faint almond taste his soap had left behind, the first time – 

He felt utterly numb, unable to muster any of the anger, disappointment or self-disparagement of the afternoon; all the harsh sentiments that had so suffused him in the moment were long gone, swept away by the desire for softness and sleep. Everything else seemed inconsequential in the present moment; try as he might to summon any of that harsh resolve, it wouldn't come.

"I do," he said at last, and found it to be true.

Grantaire let out a sigh that was almost a sob, and fell silent once more. Enjolras waited, cautious and still, feeling his eyelids grow heavy as he allowed the full weight of his weariness to bear down on him. In time, a soft snore indicated that Grantaire had fallen profoundly asleep in his lap. 

Enjolras gazed down at him, and relaxed in turn, the resolution of his earlier decision displaced by some tender impulse. He threaded his fingers into Grantaire's dark, unruly curls, combing them gently through it as he watched Grantaire's features soften in his sleep; Grantaire's lips were slightly parted, and there were patches of dried salt above his cheekbones as though he had been crying. His breath was a slow tide that sapped the last of Enjolras's resistance away.

Fondness, that was the only name Enjolras could put to the feeling the sight sparked in him, though it was an imperfect descriptor. Grantaire looked younger in sleep, and the mocking countenance and sharp tongue that in turns masked and revealed his inner thoughts were both quiet and peaceful. He looked content, after his drunken belligerence earlier, and the abject misery that had followed. 

He kept stroking Grantaire's hair as he felt himself drift towards sleep also; when he could maintain his upright posture no longer he slipped a hand between Grantaire's head and his own thighs, lifting him gently until he could slide himself free. He brought the edge of the blanket up from the foot of the bed as he lay down beside him, and pulled Grantaire closer again, until Grantaire's cheek rested upon his chest, and his body was tucked between Enjolras's side and the crook of his arm.

As he closed his eyes he held Grantaire tighter, and pressed his lips to Grantaire's forehead without a second thought.

Chapter Text

III.

Grantaire awoke in darkness, drenched in sweat and with something firmer than his pillow beneath his cheek. His mouth was dry, his throat felt raw, and he was both shivering and overheating at the same time. The ache in his neck spoke of the odd angle at which he had fallen asleep; his head felt as though it was made of wood, an after-effect of drinking to which he was long acquainted, but the warmth that surrounded him was unexpected and disorienting. 

His memory of the previous day was patchy, solid in places and worn thin in others. He recalled in quick, galling succession the glasses of wine he had emptied into himself in the Richefeu's smoking room, the game of dominoes that he never should have entered into. Enjolras's stiff back retreating in disdain – and then the hours he had spent gulping back wine and spirits indiscriminately until he could no longer see straight. The boundless, all-consuming sense of despair that had followed. After that there were only flashes – disparate images, blurred and distorted as though seen reflected in disturbed water – walls, streets, faces, feelings… 

It took him several bewildered moments to realise that the reason he felt as though he had fallen asleep inside a furnace was that he was still mostly dressed, and that the surface that was rising and falling steadily beneath his head was a man's shoulder. 

He startled out of his half-asleep stupor, certain that the man must be a stranger. He opened his eyes, but the room was too dark to make out even the vaguest of shapes. There was a blanket covering them, however, and the mattress beneath was soft and comfortable, and stuffed thick with feathers. The bed felt like his own, but it could not be Enjolras beside him, after what he had witnessed…  

He shivered again, feeling as though a bucket of cold water had been emptied over the sense of domestic comfort that had been forming inside him. It was not the first time he had woken with a stranger next to him, but he could not see how he could have charmed anyone into his bed in the state he had been in. Paid, maybe, but the amount of coin necessary to render his hideous face and flaccid cock an appealing prospect was beyond his means.

Grantaire strained his memory, searching; he thought he recalled bright yellow hair under gloomy light, a cool look of disdain on pale features in the dim light of the alley – 

There was something familiar about the rhythm of the stranger's breathing. His shirt smelled familiar, too, of lavender and pamphlet ink; Grantaire could not bring himself to hope, after all that he had promised, and failed so entirely to deliver – but he knew the sound of Enjolras's breath, the solid shape of his body and the familiar feeling of warmth and rest that enveloped them both. 

His heart clenched, and he felt the sting of water beginning to stand in his eyes. All logic dictated that he must be mistaken, but each of his senses spoke otherwise. He wasn't dreaming; Enjolras had not left him… 

Their position could only be described as an embrace; one of Grantaire's arms was pinned beneath his own weight, numb from lack of circulation, and the other lay across Enjolras's stomach, fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. Enjolras had an arm around his shoulders; Grantaire could feel the faint pressure of his fingertips against his temples, cradling them delicately. 

A second string of memories stirred, slow to rise to the surface of his sleep-addled thoughts: light catching in the curls at the crown of Enjolras's bowed head, as Enjolras knelt before him; Enjolras's hand entwined with his own, soft beneath his own calloused palms; accusing words exchanged in a dimly lit alley, the cobbled street hard and cold beneath him as they had sat side by side; wine shimmering red in his glass as he brought it to his lips with unsteady hands. 

He felt a bright flush of shame rising on his cheeks, accompanied by the bitter taste of bile on his tongue, as his fears reared and roared inside his chest with renewed ferocity. He had overstepped, again, badgered Enjolras into staying when he had no right to ask any kindness of him. He did not deserve Enjolras's pity.  

He released his grip on Enjolras's shirt with all the reluctance of a condemned man being led to the tumbril; when he had disentangled himself he began to withdraw his hand. He moved with caution, careful so as not to wake him, but Enjolras was a lighter sleeper than Grantaire was himself; he stirred, and the rhythm of his breathing changed beneath Grantaire's ear. 

Grantaire felt a stream of apologies and a swooping tide of self-disparagement rise within him, ready for the censure he had been too intoxicated to hear hours earlier, but Enjolras merely lifted his forearm. His movements were imprecise and wavering, as though he was still half-asleep. Grantaire waited, paralysed, as Enjolras fumbled until he caught his retreating hand, and covered it with his own; he squeezed gently, and pressed Grantaire's hand back into its former place. 

Grantaire held his breath, waiting for Enjolras to wake fully and realise his error, but all the tension had left Enjolras's body again; as he relaxed back into sleep beneath him, Grantaire let out a long, pulsating breath, overcome with feeling. He pressed his face to Enjolras's chest as he held on tighter, and let relief and sleep overwhelm him, one on the heels of the other.  

Grantaire woke with the dawn, to find their legs now entangled. The bright spring sunlight penetrated through his eyelids, but he felt cooler than he had when he had woken in the night, as one or both of them had kicked the blanket aside as they slept.  

Warily, he opened his eyes and lifted his head, squinting against the sun. He craned his stiff neck to find that Enjolras was still beneath him, and was awake; his free arm was folded behind his head, and he was gazing down at Grantaire. His blue eyes were bleary, and half shielded by heavy eyelids; the streaks of morning sunlight breaking through the shutters were too bright – Enjolras's colours were too bright. Grantaire wanted to shield himself from them, but he could not bring himself to look away; all the light of the dawn was in his features and hair, glowing.

Enjolras's expression was as unreadable as ever, but as Grantaire stared he noticed the ghost of a smile in the corners of his mouth; Enjolras looked comfortable, crumpled from sleep and utterly at ease despite pulling Grantaire out of the gutter the previous night.    

"Good morning," Grantaire croaked, wincing as the subtle movement of speech reminded him of the ache in his neck again. His head ached, too, and there was a hole in his stomach as big as the one in his soul.

"Good morning," Enjolras said, his voice low and soft. Grantaire felt his words as well as heard them in the movement of his chest. "How is your head?"

"Terrible," Grantaire said, and scrubbed a hand over his forehead, massaging his temples; when he withdrew Enjolras was still looking at him. "I'd almost forgotten what this feels like."

"I imagine it's unpleasant." 

Of course Enjolras had never experienced this particular state of being himself; Grantaire almost envied him on that count. His mouth felt as dry as a desert; no doubt his breath was utterly foul. 

Enjolras shifted beneath him, lifting his head; with his free arm he reached for Grantaire. Grantaire flinched, afraid both of Enjolras pulling him closer and of being pushed away, but Enjolras merely took one of the snarled strands of his hair between his fingers, rubbing their dry ends between his thumb and forefinger as though their texture intrigued him.

The gesture made Grantaire acutely aware that he was unwashed; his cheeks were rough, his hair was all knots, and he must stink to high heaven. How could Enjolras bear to touch him like this? He felt the fingertips of Enjolras's other hand brush delicately against his shoulder blades, and shivered.

"I should wash," he said, pushing himself up onto his elbows and out of Enjolras's hold. Enjolras's hands fell away as they separated; the world lurched around Grantaire as he sat upright. He could smell the alcohol on his own skin above the smell of the sheets, and Enjolras's sweat mixed with his own, seeping out through his pores and leaving him regrettably sober. "Strike a match against my skin and I'll burst into flames with this stench on me."

Enjolras shrugged against the pillows, still sinking into the mattress beneath; his hair was a golden halo, and his skin was dewey in the morning light. "I'll help with the water, if you like." 

Enjolras was referring to bringing up water for a bath, Grantaire knew; he had only intended to scrub himself down at the basin, though it would take more than that to get the stench off entirely. 

"Don't trouble yourself. I did this to myself," he said, drawing back; Enjolras raised himself up onto his elbows to match him, following him with his gaze.

"I want to."

Grantaire was both too rattled and too relieved to argue. He looked Enjolras in the eyes again, blue and clear; they regarded each other a moment longer before either of them made any further attempt to rise, until Enjolras pushed himself upright, and began massaging some life back into the arm that had been trapped beneath Grantaire's neck all night. He flexed his fingers, testing.

They parted ways when they reached the bottom of the stairs; Grantaire took the path that led to the outhouses while Enjolras took the pail to the pump. The sick feeling in Grantaire's stomach only worsened as he emptied his bladder; he felt more fragile than he had in years. He clung to the bannister as he ascended the stairs again; Enjolras's footsteps followed some moments later, the rhythm of them thrown off by the full bucket at his side.

"Watch the kettle; I'll fetch the rest myself," Enjolras said, when they had set the water to heat over the fire and lifted the tub into position together. Grantaire nodded; as much as the notion of Enjolras waiting on him felt unearned, he was not certain he could manage the stairs a second time. 

He did as he was told, pouring the scalding, steaming water into the tub each time the kettle began to whistle, while Enjolras hauled bucket after bucket up the stairs. By the third trip Enjolras's trouser legs and shirt were splotched with wet patches where the water had leapt from the bucket as he walked; his cheeks were pink with exertion by the time the task was complete. 

Neither of them had troubled themselves to open the shutters, but the sun had fully risen outside, and the harsh light that found its way in around the edges of the shutters made Enjolras's cool beauty seem colder still.

When the tub was filled Grantaire waited, expecting Enjolras to leave him to undress in private, but Enjolras appeared in no hurry to do so; he was kneeling by the fire, stoking it with the iron poker as he waited for his clothing to dry. 

Grantaire shuffled his stockinged feet against the bare floorboards, uncertain, waiting to follow Enjolras's lead. Enjolras looked up expectantly at the sound. There was a benign question in the look Enjolras gave him; he looked as though he had no intention of moving at present.

Grantaire flinched in the face of that question, and turned away as he began undoing the buttons of his trousers; he had no reason to feel shy in front of Enjolras now after shaming himself so thoroughly, but this return to normality was somehow more painful than Enjolras's disdain. He could not help feeling as though Enjolras was merely letting him down gently.

He turned back to Enjolras when he was down to his shirt, to find him standing again and leaning against the mantlepiece. Wordlessly, Enjolras held out an expectant hand for his trousers; Grantaire passed them to him, and bit his lip as he began unbuttoning his shirt front. Enjolras frowned as he shook the creases out of the fabric, brushing the dust that remained away with the palm of his hand. 

"They could do with a thorough brushing," he said, as he lay them over the back of the chair. 

Grantaire paused in his unbuttoning, baffled and a little alarmed by the level of attention Enjolras was suddenly paying him. His own family had never been wealthy enough to employ a manservant, but Enjolras's surely was. He seemed to be playing that role now, showing a fastidious level of care for Grantaire's wellbeing, where ordinarily he would be at his desk by now, lost in his own thoughts.

"Hand me your shirt, too," Enjolras said, and, when Grantaire did nothing but stare at him, gawking, politely averted his gaze.

Grantaire tugged his shirt over his head, realising belatedly that he had neglected to undo one of his cuff buttons in his confusion. He struggled with it through the fabric of his sleeve; once he had freed himself he pressed the shirt into Enjolras's hand, and bent to remove his stockings. 

Enjolras held the shirt up to the light, inspecting its stains: most were purple, but there were brown spots on one of the cuffs that might be opium, or merely dirt; Grantaire still could not recall much of the previous afternoon. The collar and sleeve gussets were already yellowing with dried sweat; Enjolras's nostrils furled in unmasked distaste when he sniffed at it. 

"Burn it," Grantaire suggested, bracing himself with one arm on the rim of the tub as he dipped the toes of his right foot into the water, testing the temperature; it was steaming hot, but not painfully so. "I'll not subject my poor laundress to its stench; she's enough horrors to contend with as it is." 

Enjolras's mouth twisted into a small, wry smile at that. "We'll rinse it in the tub before it's collected," he said, and, after a pause, added: "I imagine the seventh circle of hell would leave it unscathed in its current state." He tossed the shirt in the general direction of their shared linen basket, and turned his attention to the crumpled sheets of their bed. 

Humour, now, of all times? Grantaire shook his head in bewilderment, as he lowered himself into the tub and settled against its tallest side. Enjolras was behind him now, but he could hear him stripping the sheets from the bed, shaking out the blankets and searching the chest of drawers for clean linen.

He was not exactly alone with his thoughts, but the silence was beginning to trouble him again; it allowed his mind to twist Enjolras's words into the mockery he so deserved. But it wasn't fair of him to seek cruelty in Enjolras's motives; Enjolras was the most forthright person Grantaire knew – his sense of humour was wry at times, but almost never unkind, and then only when its targets could easily withstand it. Still, the fact he had managed to find genuine mirth in the moment was unexpected, and strangely charming.

Grantaire wrapped both arms around his own knees, flexing his toes beneath the water and trying to focus instead on the warmth that surrounded him, the sweat rising on his brow. He stared down at the rippling surface of the water, watching patterns whirl through it, lost in the peculiar symmetry of their motion. 

He stirred only when a shadow fell over him; he raised his chin as Enjolras lowered himself beside the tub, sitting at its side and facing him again. Enjolras was still in his shirt and trousers, but his sleeves were turned up to his elbows, exposing a pair of slender, white forearms. 

Grantaire watched as he settled himself against the side of the tub, resting one forearm over the rim; the veins and tendons in it stood out in sharp relief beneath his skin, and he dipped his fingers idly in the water below, seemingly unfazed by Grantaire's naked body and the filth that must be soaking from him. Grantaire wanted to reach for him; wanted to cup one smooth cheek with the palm of his hand, to run his thumb over one high cheekbone. He was not feeling brave enough to try. When Enjolras looked up at him, it was with a certain intensity of focus in his gaze.

"The soap…" Grantaire said, helplessly, gesturing towards it, out of reach on the floor beside the rolled hearthrug. Enjolras stretched to reach it, and passed it; his scrutiny of Grantaire's ruined features did not abate as he did so. 

Grantaire took it, grateful for something with which to occupy himself; for a reason to lower his eyes against Enjolras's unvoiced inquiry. He dipped the bar of soap beneath the water, focusing instead on the attempt to wash the stale smell of his day of despair from his skin. The clean, fresh scent of the soap reminded him of marzipan; of freshly made sweets, and of his grandmother's kitchen. 

"Why did you volunteer?" Enjolras said, quietly, addressing the unaddressed elephant in the room at last. 

Grantaire stilled; he felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck, suddenly aware of the difference in temperature where half his body was beneath the water, and the rest was exposed to the cool morning air.

He had no answer. He had barely understood it himself at the time. He knew only that Enjolras's greatest love would always be the republic, and that anything that mattered to Enjolras mattered to him, by extension. He could no longer tell whether he cared in his own right or not, but it had felt important to try.

"Because it matters to you," he said at last. "Yet apparently even that is not enough to keep me from disappointing you, useless bag of hot air that I am."

"You are not useless."

Grantaire made an ineloquent, dismissive sound, half scoff and half snort of disbelief. He gazed down at his own body, half-submerged in the water. It wasn't an appealing sight. Giving up the bottle had done little to improve the state of it; his stomach was still too soft, and his skin was sallow and scarred, a far cry from Enjolras's marble perfection. What had Enjolras ever seen in him? If he had ever seen anything at all –

"I mean it," Enjolras said. Grantaire felt a dry hand brush against his damp one, startling him into looking up. Enjolras was frowning again, the solemn kind he wore when he was gravely serious. "You weren't the right man to make allies of them; that speaks ill of my judgement, but your exchange seemed convivial enough. If I required a man to make friends, I could call on you."  

"I wouldn't advise it," Grantaire said, throat closing around his words, making his voice sound weak. "Need I caution you against building statues with clay feet? You make something of me that I am not." 

He knew Enjolras was simply being kind, which only made him feel his guilt more profoundly. There wasn't a single figure in his life that he had not disappointed at one stage or another, but disappointing Enjolras was his most grievous sin yet –

Enjolras's hand curled around his own, warm and strong. Grantaire stared in confusion, at Enjolras's elegant fingers grasping his own ugly ones. The sight brought another memory back to the surface, and with it the same emotion tugging painfully deep inside his chest – the texture of Enjolras's palm, pen ink and charcoal stains. Enjolras's grip was firm, bracing and reassuring. Familiar.

"I don't believe so," Enjolras said, squeezing gently. 

Grantaire sighed. He stroked his thumb over Enjolras's knuckles without making any conscious decision to do so. His own knuckles were scarred and chapped from too much contact with solvents. Enjolras's hand was softer than his own, but strong, despite its delicate appearance; his fingernails were short, pink and neatly filed, where Grantaire's were bitten and uneven. There was a single raised callus on his middle finger, where he held his pen – unsurprising, really, though Grantaire had never noticed it before. There were droplets of water gathering on the tips of his fingers still, some of which had passed there from Grantaire's own hand.

Enjolras seemed as earnest as Grantaire had ever seen him, but his kindness was unearned. Enjolras's judgement wasn't infallible; he was wrong, from time to time, and he was definitely wrong about this.   

"Haven't I disappointed you enough?"

Enjolras's brow creased again. His face fell before he could hide it; he looked dejected, biting his lip as though he wished to say more, but had thought better of it. This was not the last Grantaire would hear of this conversation; that much he felt sure of. 

It was a relief as much as it was a weight on his chest; if there were last words yet to be had, perhaps he could keep Enjolras here a little while longer –

"What should I fetch for lunch?" Enjolras said, abruptly, in a different tone entirely, throwing Grantaire off his previous train of thought. "I was considering cold cuts, but I don't know what is best the day after…"

"Soup." Grantaire said, feeling the emptiness of his stomach more acutely having been reminded of it. "Some kind of thick broth, with onions preferably."

Enjolras nodded, his expression brightening again. "I will fetch it later, when you have finished with the bath."

"I don't require supervision," Grantaire said, frowning. "I don't mean to drown myself once your back is turned; don't trouble yourself." As tempting a prospect as it might seem at present, he knew himself to be too much of a coward to see it through. "Don't let me keep you from your duties." 

Doubtless, there was work to be done; Grantaire himself had done enough to delay their progress already. Who would go to Richefeu's in his stead? It wasn't his concern, but someone else would have to take his slack.

"There is time enough for both. I will make time." Enjolras released his hand with one final squeeze, but made no motion to rise.

Grantaire flexed his fingers, feeling adrift again, though Enjolras remained beside him. Grantaire did not doubt that Enjolras would manage to make time for his cause; if months of observation had taught him anything, it was that Enjolras would give nothing less than his whole self to it.

Enjolras continued to watch far too closely as Grantaire resumed his efforts to scrub the smell of shame from his skin. Grantaire could not look at him while he did so; it was all too easy to simply sit and stare at Enjolras, and far too painful to do so now. 

After a while he ducked his head under the water, to wet his hair and for a brief respite from the softness in Enjolras's sympathetic gaze, and from the feelings weighing heavy on his own chest. When he surfaced his hair was clinging to his forehead, water raining from it and into his eyes. Enjolras's expression had shifted slightly in the brief absence; he looked thoughtful again, but he was still present.

When Grantaire had soaped his scalp he dipped his head beneath the water a second time to rinse the suds out of his hair. When he sat upright again he scrubbed his hands over his face, eyes still closed. He opened them to see movement, then blinked as a scattering of water droplets hit the tip of his nose. Enjolras had dipped his fingertips in the tub again, and flicked them in Grantaire's direction; the hint of a wicked smile on his face betrayed him, and made Grantaire's empty stomach flutter. He grimaced in reply, uncertain what to make of it. 

The prospect of getting out of the bath to stand naked while Enjolras stood clothed, watching, made Grantaire feel foolish, but Enjolras did not stay to witness him drying himself; he handed Grantaire a cloth, then disappeared behind the screen. Grantaire heard plates clattering and cupboards being searched as he patted himself dry.

He reappeared briefly as Grantaire was pulling his shirt over his head; Grantaire pushed his head through the neck to see Enjolras pour the last of the hot water in the kettle into the cafetiere. 

"There is bread and butter on the table. I will be back with the broth soon," Enjolras said, glancing at him as Grantaire fumbled with the buttons of his shirt front.

"Thank you," Grantaire responded, by sheer force of habit. The unreality he had woken in had taken a familiar turn – the smell of coffee brewing, the promise of food brought home from one of the cafés in the nearby streets – an act of grace he had already proved himself unworthy of.

Why was Enjolras doing all this for him? Grantaire could explain away the bath as a method of drawing the truth out of him, naked before his confessor, but the consequences he was anticipating still hadn't come; it was agonising, waiting for the axe to fall. 

He pulled his trousers on, folding the shirt tails between his legs and watched surreptitiously as Enjolras dressed fully, putting on waistcoat and coat over last night's shirt and trousers, looping his cravat around his throat with just enough care to pass as respectable, then went to the washstand; he dipped both hands in the cold water that remained in the basin, scrubbed briefly at his forehead and cheeks before wiping his hands dry and running a comb through his curls, flattening them. He rinsed his mouth with the last of the clean water, and turned to face Grantaire again, looking determined and still, somehow, fresh-faced. 

"I won't be long," Enjolras said, taking the cafetiere with him as he rounded the screen again. Grantaire shrugged his housecoat on over his shirt, and followed.

His studio space was far too bright at first; Enjolras had opened the shutters, and Grantaire squinted against the piercing light until his eyes began to adjust. His headache was growing, but the promise of coffee and bread to settle his stomach was too enticing for him to retreat. His internal sense of the passage of time was hazy at best, but he could tell by the direction of the shadows that it was approaching mid morning. He sat with his back to the window, as Enjolras set the cafetiere before him.

"Enjolras –" Grantaire began, quietly. The apology he hadn't quite voiced must have been clear in his tone, because Enjolras did not wait for him to speak further.

"Drink some coffee; I'm told it helps."

Grantaire opened his mouth again, but Enjolras did not afford him space to argue the point; he stooped to pick up his boots, then sat sideways in his usual chair with his back to Grantaire, tugging them on. When he had finished lacing them he glanced over his shoulder as he rose to his feet; Grantaire lifted the cafetiere obediently as their eyes met, and poured himself a cup. 

He watched as Enjolras patted himself down for his coin purse, retrieved his hat and opened the door, giving Grantaire one last, inscrutable look before he stepped out into the hall, then Grantaire was alone, in the absolute silence.

He sighed, and picked at the bread on the plate before him; it was old – yesterday's – but it had not turned stale yet. He tore a piece in half and chewed it while he waited for the coffee to cool enough to drink; the dry bread stole what little moisture was left in his mouth, and made him cough. 

The coffee proved a far better physical remedy; the heat of it was invigorating, just shy of painful, and the bitterness drowned out the sour taste that lingered on his tongue.

This could not be it, surely? Enjolras's attempts and kindness must have been intended to soften the blow, unless he was drunk himself, or delusional. Flights of whimsy and folly were not Enjolras's usual domain at all. 

Perhaps Grantaire had finally descended into fantasy himself? It was easier to believe himself mad, than to believe himself forgiven so easily.

He tried to focus on the rich taste of the coffee, on the shadows of the leaves at his window as they shivered in the breeze, crawling across the table before him, but it was hopeless – the weight of his despair was threatening to crush his lungs again.   

The sunlight warmed the back of his neck as he slowly drained his cup. It was the hour at which he would usually begin sketching, now that he had found the habit again, but he did not feel like it at present. His sketchbook was still on the table beside him, however, and he had nothing else with which to occupy himself, other than the roiling pot of desperation brewing in his stomach. He pulled it towards him, opening it to a random page – a sketch of Enjolras, naturally. The sight of those familiar, beloved features still pulled at something deep inside his chest, a hook buried beneath his breastbone, reeling him back in. 

The sketch was a simple one, and like so many others that filled the rest of the pages – an image of Enjolras at his desk, slouching, with one hand buried in his hair, curls spilling through his fingers as he frowned at the page before him, a portrait of intense concentration.

Where would Enjolras go now? Grantaire did not doubt that any one of their friends would take him in; there would be no immediate danger. He ought to memorise the sight of him when he returned; he had no shortage of references, but even his best attempts were pale imitations of the real thing. The true magnitude of what he had done stretched before him, pulling him in, a great yawning chasm into which he had elected to leap. If he was cast out of their meetings entirely –

A creak on the stairs, followed by Enjolras's discreet footsteps out in the hall; the latch clicked. The quarter hour or so that had passed without him had felt like an eternity, a taste of the hours – years yet to come. 

Enjolras stepped into the room, pink cheeked from the climb, clutching a bowl of something warm in his arms, the smell of which made Grantaire's mouth begin to water despite the dryness of his throat. 

"Onion soup," Enjolras said, in response to the look of desperation Grantaire cast him. "I hope this will do."

"A fitting last meal for the condemned," Grantaire said, gloomily, earning another frown, more irritated than the last.

Enjolras set the pot of soup down on the table before him, then began removing his coat. The broth did truly smell delicious, sharp and sweet and hearty. Grantaire rose to his feet, feeling ungainly and lightheaded; the blood rushed to his head as he folded to retrieve their bowls from the cupboard.  

Enjolras hung his coat and hat by the door, but kept his shoes on. He poured himself a cup of coffee as Grantaire gathered a pair of spoons, placing them on the table as he sat down again, already weary. 

Across from him, Enjolras appeared calm, as solemn and sedate as a priest before the dying. The lidded pot of soup was wrapped in coarse cloth to protect its bearer from the heat; Enjolras reached for the knot at its peak, and began unwrapping it with the sedate movements of a Bishop doling out the Communion bread. 

Grantaire felt as though he was floating on air. The moment felt as unreal to him as a dream, but the scent of the meal was real, a sensory reminder that this was no hallucination; Enjolras removed the lid from the sturdy earthenware pot, portioned the soup out into two bowls, and slid one across the table in Grantaire's direction. 

Grantaire stared at the pale yellow liquid before him, at the vapour curling skywards from its surface, then at Enjolras, who was studying him again. 

"Eat," Enjolras said, a little more sternly than his last suggestion. "You'll feel better."

Grantaire swallowed, and did as he was told. The bitter aftertaste of the coffee was still on his tongue, but the sweetness of the browned onions managed to cut through it. Enjolras's mouth curled in approval as Grantaire took a second mouthful.

"So this is what ambrosia tastes like. This is delicious," Grantaire said, honestly. Miserable as he was, he was still capable of appreciating the most basic pleasures in life; gluttony had long been his favourite sin for good reason.

"I thought you'd like it," Enjolras said, taking up his own spoon, and lapsing into silence again.

As Grantaire consumed mouthful after mouthful under Enjolras's unfaltering gaze, he began to question his motives again. He felt rather like a lamb being fattened for the slaughter – as though this was Enjolras's last act of charitable mercy before leading him to the gallows. The whole tableau could be torn straight from the pages of a farce, if not a particularly funny one; Enjolras, angelic, austere, unstained, feeding and pampering some drunkard he had scraped off the street to prove the futility of virtue.

He could end this now, without so much as lifting his hand, cast Grantaire back out into the proverbial wilderness, take his books and his linen and all the light in Grantaire's chambers with him.

Grantaire could end this first, as quickly and cleanly as the pulling of a rotted tooth, if only he had the courage to do so. It would be agonising, no matter how swift the removal, but it would at least be done.

"I have some messages to send this afternoon. Will you be here when I return?"

Where else was Grantaire to go? Back to the gutter, perhaps. "I expect so."

Doubtless, Enjolras was making his alternative arrangements already.

"Good." 

Enjolras wolfed down his meal with a speed that betrayed that he had gone to bed hungry – or was particularly eager to depart. Afterwards, he went to his desk, and scribbled hastily while Grantaire ate at a tentative pace, and watched Enjolras's wrist fly across the page.

It was the uncertainty that was killing him, as much as the impending loss. If only Enjolras would permit himself to be openly angry with him – this semblance of acceptance was unsettling. It couldn't possibly be real; couldn't be that simple. Could it? 

There was that foreign feeling of hope again, as fragile as eggshells. Every instinct demanded that he quash it; cut it out at the source like an infection. He wanted so badly to hold on to it, to kiss Enjolras's hand and beg for salvation. To cling to his coat tails like the lost child he felt like.

Enjolras folded his letters, sealing them with wax from the stubbed candle. Grantaire glanced about his room, taking stock of how much alcohol he still had to hand. Not enough to blot out the pain he knew was coming.

"I hope to be back by supper," Enjolras said, putting on his coat and tucking the sealed missives into his breast pocket.

"I'll try to piece myself together by then," Grantaire croaked. "Better I go quietly to my fate for the both of us."

Enjolras stilled in the act of fixing his collar. Grantaire averted his eyes, looking down at the paint-flecked tabletop and breathing deep. He would not make a scene, if he could at all contain himself.

The floorboards creaked as Enjolras stepped closer. A hand on his shoulder, and then the same hand tangling in his hair; Grantaire shivered at his touch, though Enjolras's hand was warm.

The grip of those fingers tightened, curling, tugging gently, just enough that Grantaire's scalp began to sting. He raised his chin to counter it; looked up into Enjolras's solemn, serious face. His eyelids were lowered from this angle, and his mouth was drawn into a pout of concentration, full and concerned. 

Grantaire's tongue curled against his bottom teeth. He opened his mouth a sliver, about to speak; Enjolras leaned closer, his curls falling forward over his brow. His grip tightened again; Grantaire felt his breath on his face, watched the colour of Enjolras's eyes disappear into shadow, as Enjolras closed the distance between them.

It was over before his mind could recognise what was happening; Enjolras's lips were on his, close-mouthed but crushing in the intensity with which Enjolras pressed his mouth to his – Grantaire's breath caught in his throat, then Enjolras's lips were gone, as suddenly and unexpectedly as they had been placed there. The hand in his hair disentangled itself, and Enjolras tugged at the hem of his waistcoat, smoothing the rucked fabric back into place.

"I will see you this evening."

Grantaire made a half-vocal noise that was neither affirmation nor complaint; every word of every language that he had tenuous knowledge of had lost all meaning entirely. His ears were ringing with the piercing cries of a thousand furies shrieking. He looked up; Enjolras appeared satisfied. His features were still firmed in resolve, but the stiff line of his mouth had softened slightly. There was a faint sheen of spit shining on his lower lip – whether it was his own or Grantaire's, Grantaire did not know.

Enjolras turned on his heels, then as abruptly as he had kissed Grantaire, he was gone. Grantaire put a hand to his lips as the door clicked closed behind him, reeling. 

Of all the punishments Enjolras could have handed him, this was by far the sweetest, and the most painful.

Chapter Text

IV.

Grantaire's lips burned with the memory of the kiss; he felt his pulse throbbing in them in time with his racing heartbeat as Enjolras's footsteps retreated. His scalp tingled where Enjolras's grip had tightened in his hair. 

He felt staggered, and shaken to his very core. Enjolras had kissed him – the damp, shocked sensation of it still lingered – and that kiss had been deliberate. Purposeful, even. He couldn't make sense of it, not least because he had spent the morning half-expecting Enjolras to strike him instead, would not have blamed him for it if he had –

What on earth had possessed him to do otherwise?

He sat in stunned silence a few moments more, before at last clambering to his feet. The breakfast and the coffee sloshed inside his abused stomach as he rose, feeling giddy as much from the abrupt change from sedentary to upright, as from the memory of Enjolras's mouth on his. Half his thoughts had turned towards fleeing; he considered staggering down the stairs in his housecoat and house slippers and out into the street; he settled instead for pacing the length of his studio, turning the moment over in his mind, trying to find the sense in it.

There was no explanation he could conjure that made sense to him, but it had not felt like a punishment, as fitting and poetic as it would have been for Enjolras to at last give him a taste of what he most desired, right before casting him out. It wasn't in Enjolras's nature to do more or less than was absolutely necessary, or to take pleasure in doling out justice. It wasn't his style to delay what must be done – there wasn't a single thread of cruelty in him, despite the harshness with which he judged those who most deserved it. Grantaire knew him well enough to know he found no joy in that particular aspect of his calling.

And more than that; Grantaire remembered the tension in Enjolras's posture the first time he had sought permission to kiss him; recalled the conflicted feelings that had been legible in his features. He knew it bore some greater significance to him. He had long suspected that Enjolras had never kissed anyone as anything more than a social courtesy before – to bestow one now, as anything other than an honest act – 

It did not seem right at all, taken with everything Grantaire had come to know of the workings of Enjolras's mind – which remained precious little, but it wasn't nothing – kissing Grantaire had not meant nothing to Enjolras –  

His thoughts continued to whirl, as he rounded the screen and noticed the bathtub, full and cold by the fire. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, which was still damp and tangled, pondering how he would keep his tenuous grip on this new reality while he waited for Enjolras to return.

He could begin by emptying the bath.

It was a laborious process, the same task in reverse as the one Enjolras had undertaken that morning. There was only a single iron grate for drainage in the courtyard, separate to the pit beneath the outhouse, and at this time of year it often became clogged with moss and stray shoots of new foliage. He found it clogged now; the stones around it darkened as he threw each bucket load of water in its direction. The air was thick with the cloying scents of spring, and the sunlight dazzled him each time the clouds cleared, exacerbating his headache further. 

When he had emptied the last bucket he paused in the courtyard to catch his breath, mastering his resolve before he faced the stairs again. The day had grown bright and warm – he might even have called it pleasant, under better circumstances. He tilted his gaze upward, towards the green canopy of the horse chestnut tree. Its branches were black and gnarled against the brightness of the sky, dappled with moss and twisted with age. The leaves had grown larger and thicker over the past few weeks; Grantaire noticed for the first time this year that in their midst were a few small, pale green flower buds reaching towards the heavens, not quite ready yet to bloom. The view made him think of Enjolras, standing at the open window above and basking in the sunlight.

He could go back to his room and stew in silence all afternoon, fending off both hope and despair with the same desperation. It would be no use; there was no object in his room Enjolras hadn't touched, no aspect of his routine that Enjolras had not become a part of.

There was nothing he could do that would undo his failure, but he could at least show contrition, and a willingness to make himself useful. Enjolras had asked for his forgiveness, once, with a gesture of friendship that had served only to make Grantaire fall ever more deeply in love with him.

Fetching dinner for him would at least be a start. A pitiful peace offering, in the grand scheme of things, but it was achievable. He could accomplish it. There was little chance of making matters worse, at least.

As he polished his teeth he stared past his own reflection rather than at it, turning the events of the morning over in his mind again as he dressed to go out. Reexamination in a more favourable light made the memories easier to swallow, but no less confusing. 

When he had finished he gathered his discarded clothing from the night before; the red waistcoat was limp in his hands, as hollow and symbolic as his own promise had been. He put it out of sight, back in the drawer in which he'd found it, to be forgotten once more.

Still, Enjolras intended to return, had said as much while Grantaire had been too stunned to answer. That was one shred of hope that he was willing to cling to, at least.

-

The Musain was often quiet at this time in the afternoon, after lunch yet before all but the most unscholarly students that came to Paris more for her cafés than for their studies had finished for the day. There were but a handful of occupied tables in the main room. Enjolras noticed, as he ordered himself a coffee, a pair of such students with tobacco pipes in their hands, a pile of papers and books lying unregarded between them, and a pair of young women sat beside them, ignoring them in turn. In the opposing corner sat a trio of older, wealthy looking men on the tail end of a long, leisurely lunch.  

The back room was entirely deserted when he entered, and cold. Even the fire was out, and the tables were bare and polished to a dull shine. He lit the fire himself, not wishing to trouble Louison with the task, followed by the Argand lamp. 

The first of the messages he meant to send today had been handed off without incident, to a contact that would see his message safely to their friends in the Cougorde of Aix. The rest he would entrust to his own men, or deliver himself. Yesterday's news had, on the whole, been mostly positive, and they ought to make efforts to shore up the support they did have; to keep the lines of communication open, ready to seize opportunity whenever it next struck. It would be sooner rather than later, of that at least Enjolras felt certain. 

The room grew warmer as he waited, sipping his coffee, thinking of the task ahead, and, inevitably, thinking of Grantaire. He hoped he had succeeded in shocking some sense into him, if nothing else. Grantaire's lips had been dry – another after effect of too much drinking, perhaps – but soft. He could almost feel them still, a burned-in after impression, tingling. He knew he had caught Grantaire off-guard, for Grantaire had not tried to kiss him back.

He had liked it more than he thought he would, and despite the circumstances, feeling Grantaire turn still and quiet beneath him, tasting the coffee and the caramelised sweetness of the soup on his breath. What had long seemed such a complicated and fraught thing had in practice been easy. Had felt right. Pleasant, even.   

The door that connected their backroom to the long corridor that led to the café proper opened, the sound of loud, masculine laughter spilling in; a figure stood in the doorway, his features indistinguishable in the shadow, but the cut of that coat was distinctive, as was the way he carried his cane, tucked beneath his arm with a nonchalance that was only mildly affected. Enjolras lifted his head, and smiled.

"My apologies for keeping you waiting; I've just come from a long lunch with Marius," Courfeyrac said, removing his hat as he stepped over the threshold, approaching. "He was as gloomy as usual as of late. The poor lad is suffering his first heartbreak; the pain of young love cuts cruelly, particularly when one is as prone to melancholy as he is." Courfeyrac drew back the opposing chair with the handle of his cane, scraping it across the floor. "I have done my best to take his mind off things, but he remains determined to pine, despite the myriad opportunities to seek comfort in the arms of another woman. I am doing my best, but I can provide only so much moral support alone. Grantaire keeps declining my invitations, and Bossuet alone will only make him seem more timid in comparison. If he would only try speaking to a woman, that would be some progress in the right direction." 

He sat, placing his hat on the table between them and crossing one leg over the other; the position displayed the stirrups of his trousers, remarkably clean despite the dirty city streets. "But, of course, none of this is any concern of yours." Courfeyrac looked him over, with the same kind, careful scrutiny he had displayed the previous night. "You look as though you slept at least. What can I aid you with?"

"Something more invigorating, I hope."

Enjolras extracted one of the bundles of tightly-folded letters that lined the inside of his coat and placed it on the table, sliding them in Courfeyrac's direction. "Can I entrust these to you? Choose whoever you see fit to deliver them. There is one for the masons' lodge, and similar for the men of the Glacière; a reminder of what our cause might offer them. Picpus and the Estrapade ought to be ready to boil over at the slightest encouragement; I will leave it to Joly and Combeferre to decide how to persuade the medical students. Those of the Polytechnique can usually be relied upon to join a riot; if you have any idea how best to reach the law licentiates, I am all ears."

"Leave that with me," Courfeyrac said, taking the letters and tucking them into his own pocket. He leant back in his chair and added, with a little too much nonchalance: "I cannot help but notice you've made no mention of the sculptors."

"No," Enjolras said, with a pang of ill-defined feeling. "I will need to send another envoy in person, one who can speak plainly with them."

"Feuilly would be capable of building a rapport," Courfeyrac said, deducing without prying the reason the task had yet to be completed, deftly avoiding making Enjolras speak of it.

"I don't wish to request another favour of him so soon. Perhaps I will go myself."

Courfeyrac's mouth twisted at that, the suggestion of a grimace briefly visible before he could quash the impulse.  

"You don't think that's best?" Enjolras pressed.

"I wasn't thinking that – though, perhaps Bossuet would do better; no offence meant, but neither of us are very good at disguising our bourgeois upbringings."

"I was not aware you had ever tried," Enjolras said, smirking.

"It wouldn't take." Courfeyrac smiled in return. "I have found the form of charm that works for me; why change it? It's just…" He sighed, and turned serious again. "I had hoped that Grantaire would do as he said, for his sake as well as ours."

There was that tightening feeling deep inside Enjolras's chest again – he might be forced to get used to it. He felt as though he had taken a breath some time the previous afternoon, and hadn't yet released it. Yesterday had brought a torrent of conflicting feelings, and, at the end of it all, a new, unexpected clarity.

"It doesn't matter now. It was my fault for agreeing to it."

"You aren't angry with him?" 

"Not anymore." He had surprised himself with that realisation when he had woken that morning – he had been angry, but the worry had been so much worse. The relief when he had found Grantaire had made him feel lightheaded; the weariness when he had finally got him home had been all-consuming. 

He had woken that morning expecting the anger to return, but it hadn't. The sight of Grantaire's sleeping face had inspired only tenderness, and a level of contentment he had come to associate with slow, quiet mornings curled beneath the blankets with Grantaire breathing beside him, waiting for the sun to rise.

Now what was done was done; Enjolras had made his peace with it – had been all but powerless to do otherwise. He had never liked the corrosive feeling of holding grudges, and he did not wish to give up what they had. He could not fully explain why he was so willing to forgive and forget. He knew only that what they shared was more than he was willing to sacrifice over so slight a setback. If that was selfish of him – well, no men were entirely without fault; and love was not a vice.

"I am glad, for both of you." Courfeyrac was still scrutinising Enjolras, as though he had more to say on the matter, but was choosing to keep it to himself. "I will do as you ask, provided you do me the favour of eating a proper meal tonight."

The smile Enjolras had not realised he was wearing grew wider. "I accept your terms."

They sat together a while longer, as Enjolras slowly drained his coffee cup. Courfeyrac did most of the talking; Enjolras was content to listen, his mind on other things, but enjoying the company no less for it. He was beginning to feel an emptiness in his stomach again by the time they rose to part; the soup had been good, but it was not the most filling meal he could have chosen, and the appetite he had ignored yesterday had finally caught up with him. 

They parted ways when they were out in the street again; Courfeyrac pressed his hand in farewell, as Enjolras resolved to fetch something good on his way home to make up for the missed meal the day before, and, hopefully, to raise Grantaire's spirits. Perhaps a cooked chicken would be to his liking, something well seasoned with herbs and garlic salt, some vegetables to accompany it…

There was a café on the other side of the Luxembourg Gardens that he knew Grantaire would recommend; it would not take him too far out of his way.

The tall iron gates were still open when he reached the gardens, so he cut across them, replacing the grey dirt that clung to his boots off the paved streets with a layer of beige sand from the garden paths. The evening was warm and bright; the gardens were busy still, alive in every nook and cranny with people walking or sitting and conversing, with children playing and chasing one another. He avoided the crowded central fountain, passing instead by a group of men playing boules on one of the lawns, standing in their shirt sleeves and watching intently each time the next man took his shot. 

As he walked, he tried to pinpoint in his memories the moment at which his feelings for Grantaire had progressed from mere physical attraction into something deeper. The transition had not been deliberate on his part, but he could not say that it displeased him. It would be deeply hypocritical of him to admire love in others, and abhor it in himself, even if he was not certain that this was a form of love he would have chosen – that Grantaire was the man he would have chosen, had logic had anything to do with his choice.

He had observed love in others often enough to know that it was not always a rational feeling, or a permanent one, but what he felt for Grantaire was more than a mere superficial infatuation, like Marius and the girl he was too timid to speak to, if Courfeyrac's accounting was accurate. It was not quite the same as the broad, altruistic compassion Feuilly felt towards humanity at large either, but the latter felt closer, somehow. He did not wish to possess Grantaire, exactly – he wished to care for him, as an equal, and accept the same care in return.

He would never argue that Feuilly's love for all people was anything less than exceptional – perhaps the same sentiment applied towards the individual was worthwhile, too.

Courfeyrac was capable of balancing his devotion to the cause with his devotion to his friends, those within the society and outside it – perhaps Enjolras could manage the same. He wanted to try – to pay closer attention to what Grantaire needed of him, to help him in some small way, beyond reciprocating the acts of service Grantaire lavished on him. Enjolras had been attempting in vain to reject them because he did not believe he deserved them, and because he did not feel it fair to accept them without repayment.

But perhaps he had been interpreting Grantaire's devotion incorrectly – a fault of logic that was against what they stood for, against the purpose of it all. Perhaps Grantaire was simply being kind, not because he sought anything in return, but because he wanted to. Courfeyrac's generosity was a well that never ran dry; it poured out of him, and demanded nothing of those that received it. It had seemed incongruous to think Grantaire capable of the same benevolence, when he resisted so entirely all the ideals the others stood for. It did not seem quite so improbable now.

Perhaps Enjolras's resistance had been motivated by more than a desire to avoid distraction, or accumulating debts to be repaid. They did not seek a better future only for those that could prove themselves worthy of it. Kindness enriched the giver, as much as it uplifted the receiver – he should not have been so strict about cutting himself off from it in the present. He had been too narrow in his thinking - so focused on the future that he had neglected those that stood beside him. It was the kind of narrow thinking that often ended badly, if history had any lessons to teach; even the figures he admired had their faults, or virtues that became their undoing because they couldn't yield even when it might have been tactically prudent to do so. 

Not everything in life was tactics. He had been so fixated on the logistics that he had forgotten to allow himself to feel the joy of it; had been on the verge of losing sight of what it was all for.

He was not certain what state he expected to find Grantaire in when he got home, but he was eager to see him. He wanted to put things right between them.

The hallway was dim and cool when he returned to their tenement building; what small windows there were faced the courtyard, and the lower floors were shaded at this hour. Enjolras was glad to be home, in part because he was looking forward to a good dinner, but mostly because he wanted to see Grantaire again. As he ascended the stairs he felt a flutter of excitement in the pit of his stomach; his palms were sweating where he held the parcel that contained their meal. He reached their door, and was relieved to find it unlocked, for that meant Grantaire was still inside. He fumbled one-handed with the latch, and pushed the door open with his foot.

It was brighter inside the room than it had been in the hallway, illuminated by the setting sun shining through the window. Grantaire was silhouetted against it; he was sitting at the table, straight-backed as though he had been startled to attention by the sound of Enjolras's return. Enjolras's own heart skipped a beat as his eyes adjusted to the brightness, and met Grantaire's.

The first thing Enjolras noted was that he was fully dressed, and had combed his hair – the second, that he did not appear as though he had been drinking. His gaze was steady and clear, which was a positive sign.

The third thing Enjolras noticed was that there was food laid out on the table, and two places set, rendering the meal in his own hands superfluous. He felt himself smile, as he turned to place his burden down atop the writing desk, and latched the door behind him. 

When he turned back towards Grantaire he found him still regarding him with a soft, morose expression.

"Good evening," Enjolras said, to break the silence before it turned sour, or before Grantaire had the opportunity to begin his self-flagellating talk again. "I see we were both thinking along the same lines."

"Not exactly," Grantaire said, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. His mannerisms were off too, awkward – nervous, Enjolras realised. "Mine is a palliative; a plea. I shouldn't have assumed –"

Enjolras raised a hand to excuse him; Grantaire fell silent. He fidgeted in his seat instead, as though containing all the thoughts he wished to voice was a physical struggle.

"I'm grateful," Enjolras said. "We'll make the most of it."                   

The food on the table was cold cuts, cheese, and various small accoutrements, similar to the apology meal Enjolras himself had bought from the Corinthe, months ago now, though the meat looked better this time; it was thinly sliced and cured pink, rather than an overcooked greyish colour.

Grantaire remained unusually quiet as Enjolras removed his coat and hat; when he picked up the food he had brought again Grantaire rose to take it out of his hands. Enjolras watched him unwrap it, and add it to the bounty that already filled the table as he removed his shoes; the cooked chicken was still warm, and smelled strongly of rosemary. 

"I've been thinking, while you were out –" Grantaire said from behind while Enjolras's back was turned, occupied as he was in fetching a pair of glasses and the weakest wine they had out of one of the cupboards. Enjolras straightened up, and regarded him. Grantaire was standing behind his own chair, leaning against it with his hands gripping its back and an anxious look on his face.

"A fool's errand, I know," he continued, when Enjolras said nothing. "But we must each keep to our own factions. There's every chance I'm wrong, but at some point this afternoon I managed to convince myself to hope –" He cut himself off mid speech, frowning as though he was trying to wrangle his thoughts into a more coherent order. 

Enjolras set his burdens down on the table top and waited patiently, watching. Grantaire looked conflicted; his body language was small and timid, as though effacing himself physically was the next best thing to putting himself down, where usually he was louche and confident.

"I know you," he began again, with a little more force behind it this time. "Perhaps not as well as I wished to believe, but one can't share as much as we have without building at least some familiarity." He had been gazing past Enjolras rather than at him, but he flashed him a look then; there was no overt insinuation in it, but Enjolras found some all the same. He was reading meaning into the glance whether it was intended or not, letting his own desires muddy his interpretation of Grantaire's sincerity; for he was, clearly, attempting to be sincere.

"You must cut me off if my conclusion is incorrect, before I make a more pathetic show of myself than I already have. Or not. Perhaps it would make a fitting end – you the cliff edge upon which my mortal bones are shattered –"

"Grantaire –"

Grantaire flinched, but did not allow Enjolras to interrupt him. "Not yet. I'll reach the point eventually, I promise." His knuckles whitened as his grip on the back of the chair grew tighter. "It's difficult, baring one's heart when you don't know how many barbs you're about to receive. Articulating it." The next glance he cast in Enjolras's direction brimmed with uncertainty, as though he wished to ask for help, as though he was regretting asking for Enjolras's silence, but Enjolras said nothing.

"I know you, and there's not a single vein of cruelty in you, despite how those that don't know you might see you. Despite what you may think of yourself." Enjolras watched the desperation in his glance turn gentle as he spoke. "There's no deceit in you either; you'd lie if you had to, but you'd take no pleasure in it. You wouldn't lie to be cruel, but I imagine you would lie to be kind. I'm almost tempted to ask you to."

Enjolras's breath caught in his throat, as he at last grasped the thread of where this conversation was going. It was a more flattering assessment of his motives than he deserved, but he could not refute it entirely; he did want to be kind, but Grantaire's interpretation of his actions was the opposite of what he had intended by them.

"I think you would consider it. I think you'd even do it, if you believed it was the kind thing to do; but I won't ask it of you. I need to know the truth – and you need to cut me loose like the dead weight I am, if it's only your conscience that's keeping you here. I must demand it of you. Give me this, if nothing else – it's the only time I'll ever ask it of you, then you can lie to me as much as you deem fit. Would you rather leave? I won't think less of you for it, if that counts for anything at all."

"I would rather stay." Enjolras did not need to consider his answer – he had known since he had at last set eyes on Grantaire in that alley, since he had fallen asleep with Grantaire in his arms. Since that kiss this morning.

Relief seemed to hit Grantaire like a body blow; he staggered, breathing out a shaking breath as he leant his full weight on the back of the chair. He did not smile, but his face brightened into a careful, hopeful look, one as full of resolve as Enjolras had ever seen on him. When he met Enjolras's gaze and held it there was a tenderness to his glance that Enjolras had seen before, open now where in the past it had been tentative. Concealed.

Enjolras wanted to kiss him again, in part as reassurance, and in part for no reason at all, but Grantaire was looking particularly fragile, wavering on air as though the slightest touch might cause him to crumble.

Enjolras drew back his own chair, in an attempt to steer them back towards familiar territory, though the significance of the moment was not lost on him. 

He sat, and looked at Grantaire expectantly, waiting for him to do the same. Grantaire stared a moment longer, tenderness mingled with an air of bewildered disbelief, then he swallowed, rallying himself. He let go of the chair, staggered around it and collapsed into it with a sigh, looking both weary and relieved.

Enjolras smiled to himself, then pulled the plated chicken towards him, and began to carve.

The meal was nice, much like others they had shared before, though there was far too much of it for two, and there was a tension present that felt different to those that had accompanied them before. It wasn't the fraught kind that had sat with them as they ate breakfast that morning; Grantaire's whole demeanour had shifted since Enjolras had given his answer, and he had rallied himself further as Enjolras had finished serving their food. By the time they were half way through it he had relaxed enough to converse a little as they ate, as they ordinarily would.

He ate until he could manage no more, then lowered his fork and sat back in his chair, stretching, watching Grantaire put a hand to his own stomach and sigh, surveying what was left on the table.

"We can put some aside for tomorrow," Enjolras suggested.

"And possibly the day after that," Grantaire said. "It's a shame the nineteenth century has forgotten how to do decadence properly; we could have held our own feast by firelight, surrounded by glittering bronze youths, naked but for the platters in their hands, and nymphs spilling wine from their breasts."

Enjolras tilted his head, questioning.

"Statues, I meant," Grantaire said, swiftly. "Homer's description of the palace of Alcinous, not some rococo frippery."

"Is that really how you'd want to live, if you could?" Enjolras asked, genuinely curious. He had heard Grantaire ramble on the subject of what he would do if he were rich before, and had never managed to take him at his word; now that Enjolras knew him better, his claims seemed even less believable.

"Not at all; I am satisfied – this is enough decadence for me." Grantaire raised his glass, and gazed at Enjolras over the rim of his cup as he took a sip.

Enjolras watched him do so, satisfied with his answer, and thinking. An idea was forming in his mind – one that had occurred to him before, only this time he was no longer attempting to suppress it.

"Could you manage a little more?" His words did not sound as insinuating as he had meant them too, but Grantaire cocked his head nevertheless; his eyebrows rose, and the line of his mouth softened.

"What are you thinking?"

"That we may as well finish this wine tonight." There were tasks yet to be done, but he was still thinking of kissing Grantaire again, and had been preoccupied with such thoughts for much of the evening – a consequence, perhaps, of how much time he had wasted trying to set the impulse aside, when he could have yielded to it instead. Everything else could wait until the morning. "It's not so late yet; I've nowhere else to be tonight. We could turn in, and share the rest by the fire."

Grantaire's gaze turned soft, and hopeful. "If that's what you want."

"It is."

The sun had set as they had eaten, casting shadows into the room that grew progressively longer and deeper, as the colour of the light changed from yellow to orange, and finally to a soft pink. Grantaire rose to fetch the candles, while Enjolras gathered their empty plates. They cleared away what remained of their meal together, setting aside what would keep for the morning. The rest they put on a shared plate; Grantaire carried it through to their bedroom, while Enjolras brought the wine with him. When he had set the bottle down on the floor he knelt to light the fire; Grantaire moved behind him, closing the shutters and rinsing his hands at the basin.

They caught each other looking as they changed into their nightshirts, both of them casting furtive glances that caused their eyes to meet. There was a shyness present between them, a certain tentativeness that Enjolras hadn't noticed in months, but a connection, too. Grantaire's face had always been expressive, and Enjolras could read certain thoughts on it as though they were etched in stone – particularly when they aligned with his own. 

Enjolras had already resolved to take the lead tonight; he folded his clothing haphazardly, and set it aside, then pulled his housecoat on over his nightshirt. He eschewed both the chair and the couch, placing a cushion down on the floor and seating himself directly beside the fire instead; it was less trouble than moving the table to where they could both reach it, and he wanted to be closer to the warmth of the fire, and to Grantaire.

Grantaire glanced at him in what might have been a request for permission; Enjolras gestured to the floor across from him, and Grantaire followed suit; he picked up a second cushion, and set the plate down beside the bottle of wine as he sat. Enjolras leant forward to refill their glasses while Grantaire fidgeted opposite him, seeking a comfortable position and tugging the front of his own housecoat closed; when he stilled Enjolras raised them both, handed one to him and sat back, smiling. 

He could grow used to this – had grown used to it. It was a nice, simple, ordinary kind of comfort; even with the undercurrent of tension that hadn't yet departed, it felt right. Peaceful, even.  

-

Grantaire felt as if he was drunk again, though the amount of wine he had drunk would have been a mere apéritif before. Trying to make sense of the situation was enough to make his head spin. It was too much – too incomprehensible. Enjolras had forgiven him; had kissed him – had come back to him.

The traitorous, overthinking portion of his brain was still searching for the lie, but he couldn't listen to it anymore. Thinking at all had been his undoing so many times over the past two days alone – his only recourse now was surrender, and what a sweet surrender it was.

Try as he might, he could find no good reason not to take Enjolras at his word. Perhaps it was the full belly, the heat of the fire or the memories of other evenings spent sat as they were now, but his mood had brightened enough that he had begun to relax. Let Enjolras take the lead; Grantaire would allow Enjolras to do whatever he wished to him anyway – put his life in his hands, even. Whatever this was, he may as well enjoy the moment while it lasted. 

He was as content as he could allow himself to be – more content than he deserved to be – watching the firelight caress Enjolras's cheek as he sipped his wine, gazing intermittently into the flames, at the texture of the rug beneath them, and – often – at Grantaire, studying him in return. Grantaire sank into the pillows at his back, picking at the leftovers on the plate between them and marvelling at Enjolras's grace – his mercy.

Enjolras stirred suddenly, his gaze flicking from the plate to Grantaire again; his mouth curled, and Grantaire thought for a moment that he meant to speak, but had thought better of it.

Grantaire glanced down at the plate, to find its contents diminished to a single olive. He lent forward, meaning to push the plate in Enjolras's direction.

"You can have it, if you want it – oh."

A flurry of movement as Enjolras leant forward, rising to his knees and looming close. Grantaire had barely parsed that the position put Enjolras's face inches from his own, before Enjolras's lips brushed his once more. It was a dry and perfunctory kiss, less passionate and a little clumsier than the last – the tip of Enjolras's nose bumped Grantaire's as he withdrew – but it was no less welcome for its chaste nature. Grantaire recovered his senses far quicker this time, curling his hands around the first thing he could reach and catching Enjolras by the open collar of his robe.

"Don't –" he pleaded, hearing the frailty in his own voice. "Don't pull away."

Enjolras said nothing; the tip of his tongue flashed at the sealed line of his lips.

"Come here," Grantaire said, with more certainty, even as his heart hammered in his chest so furiously that all other sounds seemed distant, as though heard through water. 

Enjolras obliged; Grantaire made a guttural noise that was half moan, half sob, a noise of sheer, passionate relief, as Enjolras crawled on his hands and knees towards him, until he sat astride Grantaire's thighs, gazing down at him. 

Grantaire could not have contained himself if he had tried, and he was tired of trying. He pulled Enjolras closer, and kissed him as thoroughly and as claimingly as he had been longing to do for so long. He sighed into the kiss, ran his hands up Enjolras's spine and tangled his fingers in his hair. There was no artistry in it on either side – their teeth clashed as Enjolras sought to deepen the kiss unexpectedly; the thrust of Grantaire's tongue in return met with too much resistance. Grantaire's own lips were rough and dry, but Enjolras's were soft, and the inside of his mouth smooth and warm; he tasted of the wine they had shared, dry and sweet at the same time.

If Grantaire had not already known how untutored Enjolras was in such arts, his stiffness would have betrayed him now, but he was determined, and fearless in anything he set his mind to. It did not take long for him to decipher Grantaire's intentions, and to answer them; his mouth opened beneath Grantaire's, and Grantaire groaned again into the kiss. It wasn't neat or careful, but there was a joyousness to it, a mutual outpouring of desperation that could not be anything but earnest. A crack in the dam of restraint that had separated them, broken at last. Enjolras's hands were seeking and fumbling, clutching Grantaire's shoulders, curling against the back of his neck. A little more mutual fumbling, and they found their rhythm at last; Enjolras yielded when Grantaire's driving urgency stoked him to harshness; softened when Grantaire paused for breath, then returned a passionate volley of his own.

Grantaire lost himself in the kiss, his thoughts as thick and slow as molasses. He had been expecting some grand epiphany – some great seismic shift that would realign his universe around Enjolras. Instead, he was struck by how ordinary it felt; there was no choir of angels singing in his ears, no profound revelations of the soul, no great wave to sweep him off his feet for his trespass, or to drag him under in the force of its retreat. 

It felt right, as though it was something they had done a hundred times before; not some great spiritual reckoning, but a pleasurable quirk of human behaviour, the virtues of which even the greatest poets had yet to wholy articulate.

It was infinitely pleasant, having Enjolras's full weight in his lap, warm and clean smelling in his arms – soft, despite the occasional sudden harshness as his teeth caught Grantaire's lips, or clashed against his, but it was a pleasure of the body rather than the soul; a conversation rather than a conjunction. Enjolras may have been taciturn for so long on the subject of his feelings, but he was intelligent and resourceful, and, finding a subtler language with which to communicate than words, was quick to master it, and wield it to great effect. Grantaire lay back beneath him, pulling him down on top of him, and allowed Enjolras's mouth to speak for him.

It was in that moment that he understood how similar joy and sadness felt. They ought to have done this long ago; Grantaire's heart clenched, and he felt stricken with grief at the knowledge of what they had been missing all this time. He curled his fingers tighter in Enjolras's hair, dragged his teeth against his lower lip, pressed deeper and harsher. He had got what he had most wanted at last, and with it came the knowledge of what he stood to lose – the intensity of his own feelings terrified him, but he couldn't stop.

He broke the kiss to catch his breath again, feeling crushed under the weight of his own feelings. Enjolras's hair was a glorious mess of golden curls, and his mouth was red and swollen from the kiss. His eyelids were heavy, and there was a curiosity in his gaze again.

Grantaire put a hand to his cheek - out of words, out of thoughts. The look Enjolras gave him made him want to kiss him again, though his own chest was still heaving – it was vulnerable and tender, uncertain, and wholly unguarded, and Grantaire could no longer recall his own doubts when Enjolras's were written so plainly before him.

Breathless, he surged upwards from his half-reclining position, pushing Enjolras onto his back, knocking over the empty wine bottle and sending the olive skittering across the floor. Enjolras made a soft, indignant sound, quickly silenced as Grantaire loomed over him. Enjolras put his hands on Grantaire's shoulders again, curled one around the base of his neck, pulling him closer – the palms of his hands were hot, and his grip was harsh and urgent. 

He was about to kiss Enjolras again, more savagely and hungrily than before, when Enjolras smiled up at him with such genuine warmth it staggered him, as bright and warm as sunlight breaking through cloud. Grantaire was powerless to do otherwise than smile back at him equally broad, until Enjolras shifted beneath him; then Enjolras's hand was reaching beneath Grantaire's housecoat, through the half-buttoned placket of his nightshirt.

Grantaire buried his face in Enjolras's shoulder, breathing him in, kissing his neck, his jaw, while Enjolras's palm slid against his chest, stroking, until he reached his heart.

They took their time, kissing, exploring, understanding, until the night turned cold and the fire began to wane beside them.

Chapter Text

V.

Enjolras opened his eyes to the ceiling, squinting against the morning sunlight. Grantaire shifted beside him, betraying the fact that he, too, was awake. There was a chill on Enjolras's bare neck, but the blankets were warm, the sheets clean-smelling and crisp, and the mattress as soft and comfortable as ever. He breathed in a lungful of cool air, and turned his head. 

Grantaire was on his side, facing him; his eyes were open, though heavy-lidded from sleep. Enjolras felt his own features soften at the sight of him; felt the happy bloom of contentment that had accompanied them to bed glow warm again. Grantaire blinked back at him, dark eyed and silhouetted against the rest of their room; there were pillow creases in his cheek, and his collar was open, and crumpled. 

He turned to mirror Grantaire's position, which brought them closer together. The mattress dipped beneath them, embracing them. He curled closer still, and pushed his feet through the sheets until he felt Grantaire's against them. Grantaire's features twitched as he made contact, then he frowned, as Enjolras pressed one foot between his, tangling them together.  

Enjolras tilted his head, questioning, and watched as Grantaire fumbled beneath the sheets, then extended an arm in a wavering, cut-off gesture that ended with his hand on the pillow between them. He had thought for a moment that Grantaire had meant to touch his cheek – had been anticipating it, yet Grantaire had clearly thought better of it. The magnitude of his disappointment at Grantaire's hesitancy surprised him. 

It displeased him, where nothing else had managed to puncture the blissful, hazy contentment of the previous evening. For Grantaire to go cold on him now… 

He wouldn't allow it.

He put a hand on Grantaire's waist, firmly and resolutely – felt Grantaire's breath as a rush of hot air on his face as he sighed and returned the contact, cupping Enjolras's cheek with one warm hand.

This, right here, was easy, and familiar, cocooned in the warmth of the sheets and their shared body heat. Talking felt like far too much to face when the sun had barely risen and the cobwebs of sleep still clung to his thoughts, but he could do this. He felt Grantaire begin to relax again, begin to stroke his cheek fondly with the tip of his thumb, and breathe in slow, shallow breaths that tugged Enjolras back towards sleep. 

Why had he spent so long fighting this feeling? It seemed foolish, in hindsight – or perhaps he was not thinking entirely clearly. Logic still dictated that this feeling couldn't possibly last. He had spent so many years witnessing his friends' love affairs bloom and die from afar with the detached gaze of one certain he would never commit the same folly, yet now that it had happened to him he could not find it within himself to care whether he was fooling himself or not. 

They were both grown men, and Grantaire, of all people, was cynical enough that Enjolras expected he had found an ally in him in his disdain for romance. A shallow thing to bond over, perhaps, but they could be sensible about this – had been careful. Nothing had changed so drastically between them; lying in bed with Grantaire was a familiar comfort by now, kissing him a novelty that had proved far more interesting than Enjolras had anticipated, and more pleasurable. 

It felt right, now that he had finally put a name to the feeling. He felt less as though his heart and his mind were pulling him in opposite directions, stretching him thin. He no longer felt on the verge of fraying at the seams. 

He stroked the flat of his foot against Grantaire's calf, and let gravity and the irresistible softness of the mattress pull him under again. 

He must have drifted for longer than he'd meant to; when next he opened his eyes the sun was higher in the sky, and his body was more tangled with Grantaire's than he remembered. The tip of his nose was pressed against Grantaire's chin. Grantaire had ceased stroking Enjolras's cheek and had progressed to toying with his hair, pushing the strands away from Enjolras's forehead and tucking them behind his ear. He felt Grantaire's morning stubble against his own skin, prickling; Grantaire smelled of the almond soap that Enjolras had grown fond of, and familiar, masculine sweat. 

The room was warmer now, and beneath the covers the heat was bordering on stifling, yet still Enjolras did not feel compelled to rise. He turned his head, seeking, nuzzling; Grantaire's stubble burned his lips as he brushed them against Grantaire's cheek, in the vague direction of his mouth. 

Grantaire made a soft, surprised sound when he found them. He was still for a moment as Enjolras kissed his closed lips, as though sleep or shock had made him slow to catch on to Enjolras's intentions; then Enjolras felt his hand curl against the back of his neck, and Grantaire was kissing him in return – carefully, but with intent, and a certain unhurriedness that suggested he, too, was still fighting sleep. 

Enjolras closed his eyes again, and fumbled beneath the sheets until he found the front of Grantaire's nightshirt, grasped a fistful of the soft, cool linen, and flicked his tongue against Grantaire's sealed lips, seeking to deepen the kiss; Grantaire obliged. His mouth tasted bitter this time, unsweetened by wine, but it was not so unpleasant that Enjolras felt the need to stop.

He could already feel his nerve endings kindling back into life, wringing some of the numb feeling of sleep out of his bones. Kissing Grantaire caused a feeling to bloom in the pit of his stomach that he couldn't quite place, made his whole body arch towards Grantaire's without his having instructed it to. Curious, that something so simple could trigger such an overwhelming response; he felt it everywhere, from his curled toes to the gooseflesh rising on his forearms. He shivered. Grantaire nudged his free arm beneath him, tugged until Enjolras was on top of him; he wrapped both arms around him and pulled him closer – held him tighter.

It did not take long for Enjolras to begin to feel his body stirring – a reflex that was alarmingly quick where Grantaire was concerned, when Enjolras wasn't actively fighting it. He felt as though he were running pell-mell down a steep slope, giddy and anticipating a fall in the same breath. He broke the kiss to graze his lips against Grantaire's stubble again, pressed his body to Grantaire's from knees to chest, released his grip on Grantaire's shirt to run a hand up the outside of his thigh, beneath the hem of Grantaire's nightshirt, and kissed him again.

Grantaire groaned into the kiss, a delighted, desperate sound. The rest felt inevitable after that, but not unwelcome; Enjolras did not mind it. It felt good to have Grantaire melting beneath him, and Grantaire was clearly enjoying having Enjolras on top of him, rubbing against him without any particular rhythm, or idea of how they ought to proceed. It was too early to think – letting his body do as it willed felt far easier; Enjolras liked the feeling of giving in to his own desires more than he'd anticipated – found a pleasure in it that was intellectual, as well as instinctive.

Grantaire's hand was in his hair again, tugging; Enjolras stopped licking the raised tendons of his throat long enough to withdraw, and look at him. 

"Do you want to?" Grantaire asked; his voice was hoarse, and Enjolras stopped rutting against him, briefly captivated by the hopeful look on his face, the startled tangle that was his hair standing lopsided against the pillow. The soft, bleary look of affection in his watery-blue eyes.

"I do," he said, and kissed Grantaire hard on the mouth again for good measure. To silence any potential debate about the inevitable. 

They stayed like that, kissing, rubbing against each other in lazy, unhurried strokes, until finally the familiar urgency took hold, and Grantaire surged upwards from the mattress, pressed Enjolras onto his back and put a hand between them. Enjolras nipped at his bottom lip for the interruption, then lay back, and allowed himself to bask in the pleasure that was slowly but surely being drawn out of him by Grantaire's gentle, skilful touch.

-

Kissing Enjolras was a pleasure Grantaire could never have his fill of, more dizzying than the strongest liquor and sweeter than ambrosia. Once started, it became a habit Grantaire privately vowed never to break – quick, chaste kisses whenever they crossed paths at home, and deeper, more purposeful ones when Enjolras's work was completed to his satisfaction for the day, and Grantaire could claim his full attention once more.

It proved even more addictive than Grantaire had imagined, and he had imagined a lot these past… almost five months, had they really been living together that long? It felt like forever, and simultaneously as though no time had passed at all. He still felt the subtle thrill of surprise every morning that he woke to find Enjolras in bed beside him, not some fey creature that visited only in his dreams, but real and solid, and content. He still could not quite believe his own good fortune.

A week passed in a blur, and then another, marked only by the green flower buds multiplying on the tree in the courtyard, the days growing steadily longer, and the pollen turning the air in the Luxembourg Gardens sweet and cloying.

Grantaire was happier than he could remember being in a very long time – content, at last, to spend most of his days painting, free from any pressing financial concerns, and beholden to no one's artistic taste but his own. 

Without a client to please, he could paint what he wished – often, that meant Enjolras, but he had begun to find joy again in painting other subjects, too. The tree at his window, the little room they shared; a grey cat sunning itself on the roof across from theirs. One evening, on his way home from fetching supper, he bought a bouquet of yellow flowers from a girl in a blue apron, and painted those too, while Enjolras scribbled corrections into the margins of his latest article. If the weather was agreeable, he took his sketchbook out into the gardens, into the cafés and other public spaces he had frequented in the past, content to watch, clear eyed, where he had sought to dull his senses before. 

His evenings were his greatest source of joy, spent either at home with Enjolras, or with their friends. He had always been a creature of habit, and so was happy to let his world shrink down to his favourite part of Paris, with the friends he treasured the most. Even the backroom of the Musain seemed somehow smaller, and more homely, though there was no change to its geometry, or to the friends he found there.  

It felt different, watching Enjolras in full flight while knowing he would have him to himself eventually, knowing that Enjolras would go with him willingly, and that he was where he wished to be. Though there were too many demands on Enjolras's attention for him to spare much for Grantaire in such company, Grantaire was content to watch him at his best, among men who shared his passion.

Maybe it was his lovesick heart talking, the latent romantic impulse he had long tried to quash, but Enjolras's words were beginning to make a peculiar kind of sense to him. The compulsion to interrogate every glimmer of hope that passed before him and pick it apart one thread at a time had lessened; poking holes in his friends' ideals held less appeal these days. Even the bad news no longer filled him with quite as much despair.

But there was ill news. Joly and Combeferre had been looking increasingly drawn and tired whenever the day's newspapers were passed around the back room, and the number of deaths attributed to the cholera morbus rose; the others were steadily joining them in their unease. The daily bulletins in the Gazette des tribunaux charting the progress of the disease had become an unwelcome fixture of their meetings. It was a newspaper they all ordinarily tolerated for its utility, but disliked for its politics, which were moderate at best, and for the prurient tone with which it sometimes recounted trials. Now they hung on every word, each report more grave and more alarming than the last.

One evening, Prouvaire arrived with a pocket full of small, stamped metal amulets. They depicted Saint Roch seated with one hand extended towards the heavens in supplication, and had the words 'St.Roch préservez nous pour le choléra' on the reverse side. There was one for each of them; Prouvaire distributed them with ceremony in an outburst of his own particular variety of folk Catholicism, which was more tradition and superstition than faith.

Grantaire would not pin his hopes on divine protection, but he would wear a gift from a friend. He was only briefly surprised to find Enjolras would too, when he was changing out of his shirt that night, and Grantaire noticed it still hanging from its cord around his neck. Enjolras took the amulet off and hung it from the bedpost beside his pillow when he got into bed, and Grantaire kissed the centre of his chest where it had been before kissing him good night.

The past few days had brought more turbulent news yet: rumours circulated that the government had ordered its officials to poison the wells, leading to small-scale confrontations in some quarters. There were riots in some of the poorest faubourgs – rag pickers fighting over the rubbish being removed from the streets in an effort to halt the spread of the disease, for with it went their livelihoods.

"There were riots during the outbreak in Russia too, and in Britain," said Feuilly, who had surpassed even Combeferre in his knowledge of the disease's spread across the continent, and its effects on the political landscape of each country it ravaged. "It follows the same pattern: the measures to contain the disease apply more pressure to those who were already desperate before. They have as much to lose from the attempt to contain it as they do from the disease, or feel they do at least. They're not wrong."

"What else can be done? In the immediate term, I mean," Combeferre said. He had been looking increasingly like a man on the verge of tearing his hair out, caught between conflicting duties to his cause and to his profession. "I have every sympathy for their plight, but if it's possible to contain the outbreak, we must."

"They are afraid," said Courfeyrac, laying a soothing palm on Combeferre's shoulder. 

"As am I." 

Grantaire did his best to ignore the details; hearing Joly describe the effects of the disease to the group had made even his stomach turn.

But among such despair, they had not lost hope, nor had they allowed fear of the disease to slow them down; Feuilly had been working with an émigré friend to arrange food packages for the families of the sick, and the others had been eager to volunteer either their money or their time, both in the delivery of the packages and in the creation of pamphlets to raise further funds.

There was lighter news, too: Prouvaire had actually composed a letter to his ballerina, and sent it along with a bouquet of white flowers. He had not been hopeful of a response – it was not unusual for principal dancers to be showered with gifts, after all – but acting on his infatuation had produced a philosophical effect in him. His outbursts of ardour had taken a melancholy turn, but his output of poetry had doubled.

Grantaire suspected that happiness and heartbreak were equally favourable outcomes in Prouvaire's eyes; he was, first and foremost, a romantic – inspiration was his greatest love. 

It was not the first night that week that Grantaire had spent sketching idly at a table near the centre of the room, listening to Bossuet tease Prouvaire good naturedly about this very quirk. Joly was offering genuine commiserations as counterweight, while his hands were busy sorting a pile of pamphlets, folding the printed sheets into quarters for portability. A long evening of activity stretched behind and ahead of them; the pages were fresh from the printer's, their ink still strong-smelling and yet to fully dry. Every surface was littered with paper, the tables crowded together in the room's centre so as to be close to the Argand lamp, and to the fire. 

Grantaire was not paying any particular attention to the activity around him; he was absorbed in an attempt to pull something out of the recesses of his imagination that might be suitable for reproduction and sale as a lithograph – the only way he might be able to contribute to Feuilly's efforts – when he felt a hand on his shoulder, followed by something brushing against his hair.

Enjolras entered his peripheral vision, leaning over him to reach for the pile of folded pamphlets on the table he shared with the others; the hand was Enjolras bracing himself, but the touch was likely an accident – cool, and very slightly damp –

Grantaire stilled in surprise, realising, belatedly, that it had been a kiss. His breath caught in his throat, as a jolt of anxiety struck him; Enjolras must have felt him stiffen beneath him, for his hand tightened on his shoulder, as though Grantaire's awareness had made him aware of himself once more. They did not kiss in public; the others did not know –

He swallowed, and cocked his head to glance at Enjolras's face, afraid for the first time in weeks of what sentiments he might find there. Enjolras's features had hardened into the impassive, immovable look of resolve that Grantaire knew all too well. His brow furrowed; he looked as though he was rehearsing arguments in his head, preparing to explain himself.

Trepidation began to roil in the pit of Grantaire's stomach; had Enjolras wished for the nature of their relationship to remain a secret? He was an intensely private person – less so among these friends, perhaps, but he was not the kind of man that took great pleasure in speaking about himself.

What would happen, now that the others knew? If they disapproved most would be too polite to say so to his face, but surely they would all see just how ridiculous it was? That Grantaire didn't deserve this. Enjolras was too good for him; he was bound to realise eventually…

The silence and stillness at their table was palpable enough to have attracted the attention of the others – an awkwardness that felt like a physical weight bearing down on them. Grantaire stopped studying Enjolras's face for signs of displeasure and glanced across the table at their friends. Joly had stopped folding; his eyes were a little wider than usual, but he did not look alarmed. Prouvaire was smiling enigmatically, curiously. Behind them, Courfeyrac had ceased gesticulating in conversation with Bahorel, his gaze now fixed on Enjolras.

Bossuet emitted a soft, disbelieving snort – one that swiftly morphed into a chuckle, warm and hearty. He possessed the sort of laugh that had the uncanny effect of permitting others to laugh too; Joly did, a stifled, hiccupping sound.

Enjolras's hand on his shoulder was now a vice, his fingertips pressing harshly even through the layers of Grantaire's clothing. Grantaire's instinct was to reach for it. He placed his own hand over Enjolras's and circled his wrist with his thumb and forefinger; beneath them, he could feel Enjolras's pulse beating – quickened, but not erratic.

"Well, this explains a great deal," said Courfeyrac, sounding bemused, yet rallying as he spoke. "I suppose I ought to have guessed."

Bahorel whistled through his teeth, then grinned at Grantaire, a smile that was all teeth, and a little alarming. "I don't know how you got inside those tight-laced breeches, but I'm considerably impressed. You're a dark horse, grand-R."

"Breeches?" Bossuet said, silkily. "I should think Enjolras of all people would be sans-culottes in this situation."

"Don't –" Enjolras said. His tone was stiff, as though he, too, was braced for disapproval.

"You misunderstand," Courfeyrac said calmly, raising his hands, placating; but there was laughter written in the creases in the corners of his eyes. "We're pleased for you both, truly."

"I'm pleased for me!" Bossuet said, brightly. "Joly, hand it over."

"We don't know yet if the exact terms –"

"Hand it over."

"…I suppose it's fair." Joly rolled his eyes in Bossuet's general direction, and reached into the inside of his coat for his coin purse.

Prouvaire was gazing at them with a spark of wild enthusiasm in his eyes, and looking as though he was fighting the urge to ask a thousand questions, which he resolved into an emphatic, "When?"

An impossible question; when hadn't he loved Enjolras? Though when and how Enjolras had grown to love him back remained a mystery, as well as a miracle.

"A few months ago," Enjolras said, from above. He sounded a little more himself again, now that the secret was out in the open, and no disasters had followed. "I can't pinpoint it exactly."

"That's well enough; not all romances require love at first sight."

Nor could they, with a face like his own.

"It's better that they don't; a pretty face is no guarantee of good conversation. That's why my mistresses and I don't talk politics before bed," Courfeyrac said, sagely.

"It's not their fault that your taste is too bourgeois," said Bahorel, sounding amused. "Melanie is a good republican woman; it's one of her greatest charms."

It was all too much and too little at the same time. Grantaire clung to Enjolras's wrist like a lifeline as his friends continued to speak as though neither of them were there – as though it were any other piece of gossip, a point of brief, bawdy, wine-soaked amusement. 

Enjolras's hand was still fixed to his shoulder. Grantaire craned his neck to look at him again, and found him frowning. From Grantaire's vantage point there was a single, sharp line in the middle of Enjolras's brow; his lower lip was drawn, and impossibly kissable. He was glancing from one friend to another, seemingly in similar disbelief to Grantaire. When his eyes fell on Combeferre his expression changed, becoming imploring, seeking rescue.

When Grantaire tore his own gaze away from Enjolras's features he regarded Combeferre himself, and found him looking deflated and relieved. Of course he had known. It seemed obvious now, though he was good at keeping Enjolras's secrets for him if the others had failed to put the pieces together until this very moment.

Beside Combeferre sat Feuilly, who looked almost impatient to return to the lists and sums they had been working their way through, though not displeased. It was the same expression he wore whenever he did not understand what the others' bourgeois fussing was about – restrained intellectual curiosity with a hint of amusement.

Grantaire took a deep breath, and then another. Enjolras's grip on his shoulder was no longer claw-like; Grantaire softened his own grip in turn, stroking his thumb over the point where Enjolras's pulse fluttered beneath the skin. He felt almost as light headed as he had the day after Richefeu's, though this time more for Enjolras's sake than his own. Outside this room Enjolras rarely troubled himself with what others thought of his actions, but the disapproval of these friends would wound him. 

The conversation around them had already moved on, in that tumultuous non-sequitur way that all talk in the backroom of the Musain inevitably progressed. The news and the gentle mockery that had followed appeared to have bolstered the mood a little, for they returned to the work at hand with renewed vigour. Amusement at their expense seemed to have provided the lift the others needed to make it through the mountains of pamphlets still to be folded and sorted.

Enjolras had been standing as still as a statue behind him, listening; finally, he let go of Grantaire's shoulder, dislodging Grantaire's hold on him in the process. He touched the back of Grantaire's neck before he departed, making brief contact with the bare skin beneath his loose collar.

Grantaire turned to watch him go, expecting him to return to his original seat; he was surprised again when Enjolras merely placed the bundle of pamphlets down with the others that had already been prepared for distribution, and picked up his chair. He returned to Grantaire's side, placing his seat beside his. Joly and Bossuet shuffled the contents of the table to make space for Enjolras to join them. Grantaire shifted his own supplies, and stared. Enjolras turned his head to look at him, the hint of a soft smile curling the corners of his mouth. Grantaire felt his proximity as though he were warming himself by the fire. He smiled back, and watched as Enjolras returned to his sorting; his fingertips were grey with ink, but there was much still to be done tonight.  

When they left they left as a group; Enjolras did not hang back and wait for the others to go on ahead as he often did; it had been a habit of security once, and neither of them had questioned or corrected the pattern since the need for secrecy had diminished. They left together, and departed in full view of the others, bidding them goodnight.

Enjolras looked up at the sky as they turned towards home; the moonlight gave his features a stark, translucent quality – cold, but his hand was warm when it brushed Grantaire's as they walked together through familiar streets.

Was it a good idea? Grantaire still had his doubts, but he no longer cared, and it did not seem as though the others did either – not enough to caution them against it, at least.

-

So that was that, then. Everything he had been doing with Grantaire was out in the open now. That he hadn't been cornered into elaborating on the specifics was a small miracle, but the manner in which the matter had come to light had been so far removed from anything he had anticipated that he did not know what to make of it. It hadn't punctured his mood, once it had become clear that his friends had taken the news well. 

The night was cool, and the hour well past midnight, but his mind was still turning, full of thoughts and semi-formed plans for the weeks ahead. He wasn't ready to sleep yet.

Grantaire must have intuited as much, because he set himself the task of preparing them both a nightcap when they entered their chamber. He produced a bottle of brandy from a side cupboard, and set some water to warm over the fire with which to mix it, while they prepared for bed.

They sat by the fire to drink it; the couch Grantaire had bought had proved comfortable, and long enough that Enjolras could stretch out as he sat. Grantaire handed him a glass of the warm amber liquid, and took his own seat in the armchair. His sketchbook was on the table beside him; Enjolras gestured with his glass: "May I?"

"Of course." Grantaire handed it to him, and Enjolras lay it open in his lap, flicking to the most recent pages as he took a sip. The liquid burned at the back of his throat, but the warming sensation in his chest as it made its way to his stomach was pleasant.

He studied the sketches as he sipped, intrigued. Their imagery was more explicitly religious than Grantaire's usual subject matter – there were a few Saint Rochs with his tunic hitched up to his thighs, exposing the plague sore that had earned him his position as a protector against disease, reminiscent of the tiny amulet that hung at their bedside; some angels with compassionate faces offering blessings to the sick, or warding against a spectral, shadowy figure. 

"What are these for?" he asked, recognising in them a greater purpose than Grantaire's own amusement.

"Hmm?" Grantaire hummed, his glass still half full and tipping dangerously in his hand. "They're for Feuilly's pamphlets, a keepsake for those with a little extra coin to spare. I thought I might be able to do something he could sell facsimiles of, if he's willing to accept it."

"I see." Enjolras felt the corners of his mouth pull into a smile. A further warm feeling that had little to do with the brandy suffused him from within; he felt light headed, and impossibly content. It felt as though their worlds were beginning to coalesce at last – that they were moving forward together, and all the misunderstandings and misspoken words between them were mere water under the bridge.

"That's very thoughtful," he said, hearing the bright enthusiasm in his own voice. 

"It's nothing yet." Grantaire dismissed. He looked as though he was on the verge of falling asleep where he sat, dishevelled in his nightshirt and housecoat, its collar falling open where he hadn't troubled himself to fasten it properly.

"It is something," Enjolras pressed, leaning forward. 

Action from Grantaire was something he had longed to see for years, and had all but given up hope on. He knew him to be compassionate beneath the prickly exterior, as much as he tried to obfuscate it; it was despair that made him unreliable, not indifference. 

The sketches represented more than a favour for a friend; they were heartening proof that the changes Enjolras had been slowly seeing in him were not merely his own reflected hopes. They were the first glimmer of genuine optimism he had seen in him – proof that Grantaire was capable of seeing a way to a different world.

Grantaire blinked twice at him, then shrugged. "I may as well put my skills to use for a good cause, for once."

Enjolras watched him bring the glass to his lips; he sipped at it carefully, and closed his eyes again as he lowered it.

It was a start, and a start was all Enjolras needed to see. He closed the sketchbook, set it gently on the couch beside him and raised his own glass, draining it in one sharp mouthful. Grantaire's chest was rising and falling slowly – a sign that he really could drift off at any moment.

The urge to kiss him again was so fierce he felt he might choke on it.

"Come to bed," he said, rising decisively and prising the forgotten glass out of Grantaire's hand before it fell to the floor.

Grantaire opened his eyes again, reached hazily for Enjolras's sleeve and caught him by it as he straightened up. The smile he flashed Enjolras had a suggestive tilt to it. 

"I thought you'd never ask."

Chapter Text

VI.

April turned balmy as it neared its end, a streak of bright, humid days that foretold a hot summer. The nights were warm enough that they could shed a layer of blankets from their bed, and the sunrises came swifter with each dawn that passed. Enjolras woke each morning with Grantaire beside him, bleary-eyed in the beams of sunlight that penetrated the shutters. 

Outside, the streets had shaken off the last vestiges of their winter slumber; the café tables were out in force, and full till late into the evening with citizens enjoying the pleasant weather, despite the air of trepidation and uncertainty that the cholera continued to inspire. It was a peculiar mood, though one that might yet be turned towards a greater purpose – a sense of directionless, restless anticipation; a waking and shaking out of the dust and cobwebs of the previous year's disappointments. Life stubbornly persisting, despite it all.

Inside, Grantaire had taken it upon himself to make a few changes to their living space, now that there was no doubt that their arrangement was intended as a long term solution. He had woken one morning with a certain energetic drive that Enjolras had witnessed in him once before; Enjolras had watched him pace their room as he had finished his own coffee, shifting the stacks of canvases around until he could reach the disordered mass of studio props behind them. 

Enjolras had meant to spend the morning making a fair copy of the article he had been drafting the night before, but this unexpected flurry of activity intrigued him. They spent the morning negotiating a reorganisation of their possessions; Grantaire cleared away some of his old props, and together they found a more permanent home for those of Enjolras's books that were still in their crates. The screen that separated the studio space from their living quarters proved an obstruction, so they shifted it to the corner by the washbasin, dust falling away from its carved hollows as they lifted it across the room. 

It made the room feel smaller, somehow, having the sections undefined, but it opened up more space by the fire, allowing them to pull the armchair and the couch away from the bed a little to make it easier to manoeuvre around them.

"I don't want these anymore," Grantaire said, placing a stack of old paintings by the door. "They're amateur work. I can do better now."

"What do you usually do with the ones you don't wish to keep?" Enjolras asked, curious.

"Paint over them. Sell them." Grantaire shrugged. "I'll figure something out."

Enjolras lifted the corner of the canvas at the top of the pile when Grantaire's back was turned; it was a portrait of a man with fair hair, though he did not recognise the sitter, and beneath it was a rather harshly rendered image of a desolate street, its pavements littered with broken furnishings and scraps of torn paper.

They sat down together at the table for lunch; Enjolras cast his gaze across the open space, surveying the changes they had made together.

"I think I like it like this," he said, nodding in the direction of the fireplace, the couch and their shared bed beyond it. "Without the screen. Which do you prefer?"

"I bought that screen so I wouldn't have to look at my own work all the time," Grantaire said, tearing a leftover bread crust into smaller pieces. "And so I could make this place look a little more presentable if anyone came to view my paintings in the flesh." He dipped one of the smaller chunks into his soup and took a bite, chewed it with a thoughtful expression, and swallowed. "I don't mind the sight of them so much now." 

Enjolras hummed, and raised his spoon to his lips. He didn't consider Grantaire's paintings a source of embarrassment, but he knew Grantaire to be extremely critical of himself at times, and that was an instinct he did understand. 

"I had a thought," Grantaire said, unprompted this time. He raised his chin to look at Enjolras directly now. "Would you like to go out for breakfast tomorrow? Not that your sole company isn't a delight –" he added swiftly, then, when Enjolras did not interrupt him, forged on: "Lesgle keeps reminding me that I have been neglecting him, and a change of scenery could be pleasant. Some of the others are breakfasting at the Corinthe tomorrow morning; we could join them."

A reasonable request, but significant all the same; Enjolras considered it. What they shared had felt like an intensely private thing at times. It was one thing for it to be known in the Musain, among men he trusted with his life. Such casual association in public still felt like a statement, somehow. An affirmation of friendship as much as an admission of intimacy, though no casual observer would suspect the true extent of it. He had spent so long denying that intimacy that it had felt like a sordid secret, something shameful to be hidden from polite company. Putting a name to his feelings had done much to reduce that shame; the acceptance of their friends had been a further absolution.

Perhaps it was time to step out into the light.

"I would like that very much." He smiled.

He woke the next morning with Grantaire's arms around him, and with the full length of Grantaire's body pressed to his back. The night had not been as cool as those that came before it, and the morning was already bright and warm. The sheets were pooled at their hips, and there was a layer of sweat trapped between them; his nightshirt was clinging to his back, and one of his stockings had become twisted at the heel in the night. He did not yet wish to open his eyes; instead, he brushed the tips of his fingers along the length of Grantaire's exposed forearm. His skin was smooth and cool to the touch, covered in soft hair and prickling slightly with gooseflesh; the combination of textures was intriguing, and slowly changing the longer Enjolras swept his fingertips back and forth.

Grantaire sighed behind him; Enjolras felt his breath against the nape of his neck, tickling. The next thing he felt was Grantaire's lips against the same skin, damp and soft. Grantaire's arms tightened around his chest, pressing him closer; he could feel Grantaire's hips against his own backside, snug and intensely familiar. 

He wasn't aroused yet, but there was something promising in the ardent nature of their awakening that excited him – made his body tingle in anticipatory satisfaction. 

When had he become so accustomed to this? And when had he begun to enjoy it so thoroughly? It wasn't so long ago that desire had felt like a burden to him – had been a source of shame whenever he failed to manage it efficiently. His skin thrilled wherever Grantaire's body touched his as Grantaire continued to lavish him with lazy affection. He felt impossibly relaxed, a warm, expectant kind of contentment; he tilted his head to encourage Grantaire towards the most sensitive point on his neck, the one that made his toes curl whenever Grantaire kissed it, and pressed his own hips back against Grantaire's, eager for more contact, but unhurried. 

What would it be like, to let Grantaire have him in the fullest possible sense of word? It was a role that had never appealed to him before – taking the passive part. His sense of self wasn't so fragile that he feared being unmanned by it, but he couldn't imagine the experience being a pleasurable one…

Yet Grantaire had clearly enjoyed having Enjolras inside him – the sounds he made alone were stark evidence of that enjoyment. He couldn't help but wonder what else he had been wrong about – what else he had been missing in his own internal conflict. 

Perhaps it would hurt – Grantaire had betrayed as much the first time – but he had clearly found pleasure in the pain. Enjolras couldn't claim to be so inclined himself, but he was no coward either. 

It seemed right that he should at least offer what Grantaire had given so readily to him; if it was pleasurable for him too – he couldn't envisage how exactly, but there must be a reason Grantaire had been so eager to offer it, beyond a mere eagerness to please.

One of Grantaire's legs was hooked over his own; Enjolras ceased stroking his arm, and ran his fingertips along Grantaire's bare thigh instead. He pressed his fingertips into soft flesh, gripped the back of Grantaire's knee and felt the silky skin there.

He was curious, if nothing else, and willing to experiment. But how to broach the subject –

Grantaire sighed behind him; his breath tickled against Enjolras's throat again. "We should rise soon," he said into the curve of Enjolras's shoulder, his voice a low murmur. His grip around Enjolras's waist slackened, and the air that rushed to fill the space between their bodies made him shiver.

It was with very real regret that Enjolras allowed him to draw away from him. He rolled onto his back, pushed himself up onto his elbows and turned to look at Grantaire. He cocked his head, smiling softly at the double meaning in Grantaire's choice of phrasing.

Grantaire blinked at him, then smirked back as he caught on to Enjolras's train of thought. "I mean that we'll be late if we don't."

"That's never stopped you before," Enjolras said, stretching languorously, missing the warmth of the embrace and the hazy, low-level arousal it had inspired in him. The blankets slipped lower about his hips as he moved; Grantaire's gaze darted to follow them, then returned to meet his own again.

"I've decided to try keeping the promises I make to my friends," Grantaire said, still smiling at him. "Don't test me, for I shall yield at the slightest temptation."

Enjolras felt his own smile grow teeth. He reached out to brush his fingertips over Grantaire's morning stubble, from the edge of his jaw to his chin. Grantaire's eyes narrowed in response, his expression shifting from fond to openly covetous. Enjolras leaned in to kiss him – once, closed-mouthed and forcefully, and too briefly for Grantaire to begin kissing him back.

"Later, then," he said, and sat up. The floorboards were cold against his stockinged feet when he stood.

It had been a while since Enjolras had seen the inside of the Corinthe. It was smaller than he remembered it being, but its bright blue post and the smell of yesterday's soup and today's oysters that wafted through its open doors were as welcoming as ever, as was the company that awaited them.

Lesgle and Joly had arrived before them, the only other patrons thus far. They had claimed the largest table in the billiard room, looking out of the open sash window into the sheltered street. Grantaire flung his arms wide as he exited the staircase, and proclaimed:

"Well, gentlemen, you have me, and not a moment later than I promised! A miracle to rival the second coming of Christ, only in place of the consummation of the universe I am here to consume your wine –"

He pulled Enjolras's chair back for him as they approached the table without altering the flow of his speech.

"Truly, we are witnessing a marvel. A pair of them, for that matter," Bossuet said, nodding to Enjolras in greeting and pouring Joly and himself two further glass-fulls of wine from the bottle that sat open on the table. Behind him, Enjolras heard the serving maid's feet on the stairs.

"How are the oysters today?" Grantaire asked, nodding in the direction of Joly and Bossuet's shared plates.

"Palatable, which may be the highest compliment I've ever paid them," said Bossuet.

"They're fresh from a farm near Bercy," the serving maid said, sounding listless; she placed a second bottle of wine and two cups on the table beside Grantaire. 

"I've always felt the clarity of the water affects the quality of the taste," Joly said, inspecting his next oyster before skewering it with his fork.  

"Surely the filth would add to the flavour?" Grantaire said, filling their cups and sliding one across the table to Enjolras. Joly wrinkled his nose at Grantaire in response. Enjolras's fingertips brushed Grantaire's as he took his cup from Grantaire's hand.

"Oysters, cheese and ham to share if you please, Gibelotte," Grantaire said to the serving maid, then looked to Enjolras in question in case he wished for anything more. 

"Coffee, if you have it," Enjolras said to Gibelotte, who nodded almost imperceptibly. He didn't order the cooked meat; he would put his faith in Grantaire's instincts this time.

"How was the hospital this morning?" Enjolras said, carefully casual. Joly had seen first hand what most of them had only read about in countless news bulletins; Enjolras did not wish to pry, but he was eager for reliable news.

"Let's not speak of that over breakfast," Joly said, kindly. "It'll only put us all off it."

"How is your pursuit of artistic immortality going?" Bossuet asked, leaning back in his seat and draping his forearm over the back of Joly's chair. "Any new rich patrons laying flattery and large heaps of coin at your door?"

"None at present," Grantaire replied. "Though my last client sent another letter that was exceptionally complimentary, asking if I've any existing works that I might be willing to part with for the right price. I remain free to follow my muse, wherever he takes me."

He turned his gaze towards Enjolras then; Enjolras blinked at him in brief confusion, which made the corners of Grantaire's mouth curl into a fond smile. Enjolras felt himself smile in return. 

-

The food was pleasant, and the company a delight beyond measure. Grantaire felt more at ease than he had in weeks; it was a unique and profound pleasure, sitting among his friends with Enjolras beside him and no greater purpose hanging over their heads than to enjoy each other's presence. Witnessing Enjolras smiling at the jokes they traded back and forth as he ate slowly. 

In time they were joined by Bahorel and Prouvaire, who were wearing matching waistcoats in equally garish floral silks and, in Prouvaire's case, an odd pointed hat that reminded Grantaire of a duck's bill; then by Courfeyrac in a rich blue tailcoat. Their colours were striking, and Grantaire regretted having left his watercolours at home. It was rare to find so many of the people he cared for in one place, outside of the Musain's backroom; only Combeferre and Feuilly were absent. Feuilly would be at his worktop with a brush in hand, and Combeferre would be at some lecture or another, watching a man attempt to carve images out of light or witnessing a dead man be arrayed like a spatchcocked chicken in his infinite pursuit of knowledge.

Their party's increase in numbers necessitated a shuffling of their seating arrangements, pressed elbow to elbow around the small, square table. Grantaire bolted back his food with greater eagerness than usual; he wanted to capture the moment, incomplete as it was. The moment he was sated, he pushed what remained of their shared meal in Enjolras's direction and pulled out the small sketchbook he carried in his coat pocket; fished inside another for a pencil and a piece of chalk. He leant back as far as his chair would allow, and began to draw. 

The perspective broke every rule of harmonious composition he had ever been taught. The figures of his friends were crammed together such that their bodies overlapped one another like a frieze carved half in the round and half shallow; the difficult angle was made more so by his own position at the same table. 

The light that fell through the window behind them was faint and insufficient due to the shade cast by the taller buildings that surrounded the Corinthe, and the narrow breadth of streets; the candle in the glass carafe on the table glimmered and flickered like a distant star. It produced an effect of shifting colours: yellows, blues, reds and purples growing warm where the candlelight touched them. 

He did what he could with only grey and white to hand, noting the colours in the margins in faint pencil so he could add them later, if he felt like it.  

Enjolras was sat to his right this time; it was an angle he had never drawn him from before, and further confirmation that his profile was equally striking in both directions. He had never considered the curve of his left ear with such attentiveness before, but it was as lovely as the rest of him. He reached absent-mindedly to tuck a stray curl behind it to better examine it, felt the warmth of Enjolras's scalp as his fingers slipped through the soft strands.

At the touch, Enjolras turned his head to glance at him, then down at the drawing in Grantaire's lap. He smiled lopsidedly, revealing the single dimple in his check again, and returned his attention to the story Joly was in the midst of sharing.

It felt appropriate that he should chronicle their togetherness as often as he could: Enjolras among their friends, and himself by implication – not quite all of them this time, but he would see them all in the Musain soon enough. It had always been where he was happiest, among the people he loved. It had taken him far too long to realise that it was where Enjolras was happiest, too. Far too long to realise why he had entered Grantaire's studio; why he had stayed, and stayed. 

Beside him, Bossuet leaned back in his chair and glanced at the opposing page, which was filled with multiple small sketches of Enjolras drawn over the past week of breakfasts and evenings spent by the fire.

"My friend, if you keep this up there will be more portraits of Enjolras in the world than of Louis Philippe – and in a far more flattering light, at that," Bossuet said, jovially.

Grantaire stilled his hand, and looked up. Prouvaire was leaning across the table, drawn too into studying the images on the page between them.

"It's true, despite Enjolras's spectacular lack of vanity. Only rulers and saints have had their portrait committed to paper more times than our chief," Prouvaire said.   

"Give me time," Grantaire said with intent, as though Prouvaire's comment had been a challenge.

-

They parted company after breakfast; it was early evening when Enjolras came home to find their room empty. He had spent much of the afternoon with Courfeyrac, and, later, Combeferre, taking stock of their supplies in Combeferre's chambers at the far end of the rue de Sèvres. All in all, matters were proceeding as he had hoped; Courfeyrac's experiments in cartridge folding had reached the point of refinement, and the supplies they had bartered for had all arrived as promised.

Combeferre's rooms were even more overrun with books than his own; in place of the smell of Grantaire's painting supplies the faint, vinegary scent of formaldehyde lingered, beneath the much stronger smell of ageing paper. At the foot of his bed was a chest similar to the one Grantaire owned, and beneath its false bottom were concealed two pistols and a rifle bearing the markings of the National Guard. Enjolras did not ask him where he had acquired it.

The days had been growing warmer of late, though the nights were still cool. He had not expected to return home before Grantaire, but he wasn't worried. Grantaire had taken to sketching in the parks and cafés of the surrounding Faubourgs in recent weeks, documenting the city and her people in pencil and charcoal; a cursory glance about the room confirmed the absence of his sketchbook, which meant he hadn't returned in the intervening hours. He would be home soon enough; their breakfast had been an early one, and Grantaire was not the type to skip a meal willingly.

He left his hat and shoes at the door, laid his coat over the back of his chair and loosened his cravat as he paced the length of the room, absently. Grantaire's absence wasn't exactly an inconvenience, but Enjolras had been looking forward to seeing him again on his way home – to looking over his sketches of their friends as they ate. He had glimpsed only briefly the sketch Grantaire had made of them as a group, pressed elbow to elbow around a too-small table. 

Those were his favourites of Grantaire's drawings, the ones that depicted their friends in a familiar setting. He had never before seen the purpose of formal portraits, beyond vanity, but he did enjoy Grantaire's less formal compositions, the ones that captured the true personalities of their subjects in a way that reminded him of the qualities that had endeared them to him; of Bossuet's easy laugh, Combeferre's philosophical temperament, Feuilly's quiet perseverance. 

He had never yet encountered a self-portrait in any of Grantaire's sketchbooks, which did strike him as a little unusual, not that he knew much at all about art beyond what he'd absorbed from Grantaire himself. He ought to ask him about it sometime; it seemed amiss that there should be so many images of his own face in the world, and none of Grantaire's. 

But his curiosity would have to wait, for now. He had nothing pressing to do until Grantaire came home; he could go out again, but there would be no particular purpose to it unless it was to fetch their supper, and that was likely what was keeping Grantaire. His friends had achieved much over the past winter while he had been lying low; he was proud of them, and of what they had accomplished between them in so little time. He was only a little jealous that it would have been unwise to participate more directly himself.

He could fill the intervening time by getting out of his outdoor clothing, which had begun to stifle him on his way home; he had stripped down to his shirt-sleeves in Combeferre's rooms – there was no need for formality there – and his coat had felt too warm for the spring heat when he had put it back on. He felt sticky with the early signs of what promised to be a humid summer

The pitcher beside the washbasin was still mostly full, the water inside it room temperature and still. The cloth Grantaire had used to dry his face after he'd shaved that morning was hanging limply over the top of the screen opposite it, where he had left it. It had not felt entirely necessary to Enjolras to keep the washbasin cordoned off from the rest of their room when they had rearranged it – there was nothing to hide between them now, but they did have the odd guest from time to time, other members of the society that dropped by with news, or simply for company.

He undressed efficiently, laying his clothes out to air on the lid of the trunk. He hung a fresh shirt on one of the hooks beside the basin, yet to decide whether it was too early to commit to his nightshirt or not.

He worked methodically, scrubbing the sweat from his face, his forearms. The water felt cool as it ran down the back of his neck as he scrubbed it, wiping over the places where Grantaire had kissed him that morning – they still felt attuned to sensation now, tingling at his own touch. He shivered as he passed the cloth over his collarbones – the water, nothing more. It was refreshing, feeling the water droplets run in thin trails down his back and chest. His thoughts wandered in no particular order or direction as he continued to work his way downwards, mechanically. By the time he had reached his hips he was thinking of Grantaire again, and of their unfinished business that morning. He did his best to push such thoughts aside as he washed himself more intimately, feeling overly aware of even his own hands. He felt goose flesh rising on his arms, the hair on his calves standing to attention as he passed the cloth over them. It was cooler in their chamber than it had been outside it – he ought to have brought some life back to the fire first, but had been too preoccupied for it to occur to him. 

As he was wetting the cloth again to scrub beneath his arms he heard the latch click open – odd, that hadn't noticed his footsteps on the stairs, but there was no one else it could be. He heard the hinges groan as the door opened, the creak of the uneven floorboard just inside as he stepped over the threshold, followed by the unmistakable shuffling of his feet.

The floorboards beneath Enjolras gave an answering creak as he shifted in anticipation.

"I'm home," Grantaire called; Enjolras caught a waft of warm bread, a hint of cheese.

"Good," he said, squeezing the excess water out of the cloth. "That smells nice." 

"Are you changing?" The question was accompanied by the sound of something solid being placed down on the table.

"Washing. I've almost finished." He scrubbed a little harder at his ribs, across the centre of his chest, eager to be done with the task.

"Are you hungry?" 

The water sloshed about the basin as he rinsed and wrung out the cloth. He grabbed the dry cloth down from the screen, patted at his chest, then, remembering he had yet to close the shutters, put it around his hips before he stepped into view.

 "I could eat."

On the other side of the screen he found Grantaire standing by the table, still in his coat, but without his shoes. Enjolras felt a frisson of excitement at the sight of him. He looked more dishevelled than he had when they'd parted; his clothes were crumpled in an artless, careless way, and the knot in his cravat was more uneven than it had been that morning. Enjolras was accustomed to seeing him tug it loose as he worked, as though the physical restriction of his clothing stifled his mind. Grantaire never seemed to notice when he did it, lost instead in his own thoughts concerning whatever was on the page before him. 

His eyes were bright and clear, and keenly perceptive of Enjolras's presence. He was staring – there was nothing lascivious in his scrutiny, but Enjolras felt suddenly more keenly aware of his own nakedness all the same. He wasn't ashamed – he was pleased. It would be easier than he'd thought it would be to recapture the mood of that morning, to return to where they'd left off, if Grantaire was already paying him such close attention.

"Are you?" he asked.

-

"Am I what?" Grantaire said, blinking.

"Hungry?"

He realised, then, that he was staring; Enjolras's skin was faintly pink from scrubbing, and there was still the faint sheen of moisture on his chest. His hair was damp and freshly combed back away from his face, exposing his magnificent forehead in all its unblemished glory. Enjolras never blushed under the intensity of his gaze; he blushed when Grantaire kissed him, and flushed beautifully in more intimate moments, but standing all but naked before him inspired no shame in him. Grantaire would never grow accustomed to it; the sight still took his breath away every single time, just as swiftly as the first. That forehead creased as Enjolras's brow rose higher, and Grantaire realised he had yet to answer. 

"I'm easy." He swallowed. "Where do you want to eat?"

Enjolras shrugged one shoulder, and nodded in the direction of the couch. "Here, if you like."

Grantaire allowed himself a moment more of appreciation, then nodded, spurring himself back into motion with the promise of another evening spent in Enjolras's quiet company. "I'll get everything ready."

Enjolras turned his back on him, padding barefooted back towards the washbasin. He paused by the row of pegs that held their linen and housecoats; the cloth at his hips slipped lower as he reached for his shirt.  

Grantaire turned his attention to removing his coat; he shrugged his way out of it and slung it haphazardly over the back of the armchair, then set about preparing their supper. He portioned the meal out onto two separate plates, giving Enjolras the larger share of the cheese. He didn't have anything special to offer him to drink – only the same thin white wine they had opened several nights ago.

The sunlight streaming through the window had taken on an amber hue, growing paradoxically brighter as it dipped below the roof of the house on the opposite side of the courtyard. He would need to light the first lamp soon. 

He balanced their plates precariously on one arm, took up the bottle of wine and two glasses with the other hand, and turned back towards the couch. Enjolras was sitting on it, now in his shirt, but still otherwise naked; there was a small cloth-bound book open in his hands.

Grantaire crossed the room in a few careful steps; the crockery in his arms rattled as he set his own plate and the wine down on the table beside the armchair, then turned to hand Enjolras's plate to him. Enjolras lifted his head when he drew close; his expression brightened when he saw the meal in Grantaire's hands.

"This fell out of your coat," he said, flexing his slender fingers against the book's moss-green cover. "What's it about?"  

"A romance Prouvaire insisted upon lending to me. You won't like it." Grantaire felt himself smile, charmed both by the sight before him and by Enjolras's display of interest.  

It was a German novel originally, chiefly concerning knights, marriage and water nymphs – typical fairy story fare, though well executed according to Prouvaire. Enjolras was not exactly a voracious reader of fiction at the best of times, and what he did enjoy normally involved detailed depictions of battles and their tactics. This particular tale did not sound visionary enough to overcome its deficiency in that regard. 

"I might," Enjolras said, airily.

Grantaire scoffed fondly, and handed him his supper. More unlikely things had happened, it was true, but Enjolras was still fundamentally the same man he had always been, despite the softening that had occurred of late in his attitude towards romance, and, to some extent, to himself. 

Enjolras took the plate from him with an appreciative nod; he balanced it precariously on the arm of the couch, taking up a piece of bread in one hand as he turned to the next page with the other. 

He stooped to coax the fire back to life on his way to his chair – if Enjolras had decided to sit around in only his shirt then Grantaire did not want him to feel cold.

When he had taken his own place in the armchair he took a sip of his wine and reached for a nearby sketchbook, pulled the shortened stub of a pencil out of his waistcoat pocket and began to sketch as he ate. He did not have any particular subject in mind, but there was one that had become almost reflex by now. Enjolras seemed absorbed in the book in his hands, frowning at its foxed pages between mouthfuls of brie as he picked at his meal. Grantaire watched between glances at his own plate, and at the sketch taking form on the page in his lap.

-

Grantaire had been right after all; that the book wasn't to his taste was clear after a mere handful of pages. He could see why Prouvaire liked it: forests, maidens and wistful descriptions of nature and all that, but it wasn't what interested him. A selfish part of him did not wish to give Grantaire the satisfaction of admitting so aloud, and so soon, but he wasn't finding it to be particularly edifying material. 

A furtive glance across the room revealed Grantaire to be sketching again. The sound of his pencil scratching softly against the page was so familiar that Enjolras hadn't noticed it. His brow was furrowed in concentration; he looked dignified, and still mostly proper despite the loose cravat and open collar. 

The sudden compulsion to tangle his fingers in Grantaire's hair – to coax his dark, disorderly curls into further disarray and finish what they had started that morning – passed over him, but the sight of Grantaire working industriously away gave him pause. He wanted Grantaire's attention, yes, but he did not wish to interrupt him when he was so clearly focussed on the sketch. He stretched subtly, reached for his plate instead and picked up another piece of the cheese without looking at it.

He did not need to question what Grantaire was focussed on – he could see the rough shape of the couch and the beginnings of his own silhouette taking form on the page from where he was sitting. He wouldn't break Grantaire's concentration by getting up to fetch a different book – he could keep the same position for a while yet, and that was what mattered. 

He was willing to persevere, for now at least, even if all he had to keep himself occupied was this. There must be some merit to it, if Prouvaire liked it so.

Grantaire looked up unexpectedly while Enjolras was still watching him; their eyes met, which made something in the pit of his stomach flutter excitedly. Enjolras smiled at him as he flicked to the next page, grabbed another slice of bread and pretended he was still busy reading.  

The meal Grantaire had brought home was far more satisfactory than the literature, and the wine was good enough, yet the restlessness Enjolras had carried with him all afternoon did not dissipate. Ignoring it was proving an escalating challenge the longer he continued to sit motionless, and he was barely processing the words on the page.

He knew the source of it, this time – it was the lack of resolution to arousal he'd felt that morning, the breaking off of their intimacy without follow through. He was unused to it playing on his mind so heavily, but he had been thinking about Grantaire all afternoon – not constantly, but persistently enough that suddenly being four feet away from him felt like too far.

His plate was empty, and he wasn't really even pretending to read anymore, drawn again and again into watching Grantaire work.

Finally, he set the plate down on the floor and swung his legs up onto the couch, stretching, placing the book face down in his lap. The movement made Grantaire raise his head and look at him again, which was what Enjolras had wanted; his hand stilled against the sketchbook's page. 

"How are you finding it?" Grantaire asked, smiling benignly. 

Enjolras shrugged in answer. He folded his arms behind his head, arched his back as he stretched further, and if that made the hem of his shirt rise a little further up his thighs – he did not feel the need to tug it back down again. 

"What are you drawing?" he asked, carefully light even as his own frustration threatened to choke him.

"You." A pause, in which Grantaire's brow arched curiously. "But it seems my model has tired of posing for me."

Enjolras said nothing. He glanced down the length of his own body, eyelashes dipping, hoping Grantaire would pick up on his thoughts without him having to address them directly.

Grantaire was still gazing benignly back at him, but his expression shifted subtly into one of curiosity, then dropped suddenly as some epiphany dawned on him. "Oh," he said, smile twisting into something shocked and serious. "Oh, I see."

He looked down again at the drawing – his hand moved purposefully across it in a last finishing flourish. When he looked up again he was colouring faintly.

"As I recall, you wanted something earlier…" Grantaire's tone was light and teasing – insinuating, and at odds with his expression, which remained serious. 

"Only if you want to," Enjolras said, uncertain what to make of the juxtaposition.

"Of course I want to…" Grantaire's tone was firm enough that Enjolras believed him, "I always want to." His features softened again into a broad smile.

Enjolras smiled sweetly back at him, all hesitancy forgotten – he raised his chin in provocation. 

Grantaire coughed, and set his sketchbook aside; he rose stiffly. Enjolras placed the book on the floor beside his plate, letting it fall closed without marking his place in it. He shifted his position on the couch to make room for Grantaire to perch alongside him, already anticipating touching him. 

Grantaire seemed to cross the room at a glacial speed, though perhaps it was merely Enjolras's own impatience overwhelming him at last. When he reached the couch he sat sideways on its edge, facing Enjolras and bracing himself with one hand on the back of the couch's wooden frame. 

He still looked a little unsure of himself, but he was blushing crimson now – his pupils were wide, and his gaze tender. Enjolras wanted to kiss him, so he took hold of the ends of Grantaire's cravat and tugged gently, undoing what was left of its fragile knot and encouraging him closer, arching towards him.

Grantaire chuckled as he complied, a rusty, breathless sound, but frustrated Enjolras's efforts by pressing his mouth to Enjolras's only briefly in a rough graze of a kiss; then he dipped his head further to kiss Enjolras's throat instead. 

"I believe this is where we left off," he said into the curve of Enjolras's neck, and though it wasn't quite what he'd been aiming for he felt a shiver of pleasure all the same at the damp, cool press of Grantaire's lips over delicate skin. He let go of Grantaire's cravat and curled his fingers into the collar of his waistcoat instead – lay back against the armrest of the couch and pressed one of his knees into Grantaire's side.

Grantaire took the suggestion as intended this time; he climbed further onto the couch, as much as the space allowed, half kneeling with one foot on the couch and the other on the floor to keep his balance. His hips were pressed to Enjolras's now, and his hands were slipping beneath Enjolras's shirt, caressing. The wool of his trousers felt rough against Enjolras's bare thighs; he wrapped a leg around Grantaire's waist, encouraging, urging him closer – used the leverage of his collar to pull Grantaire's face to his, where he could kiss him properly and thoroughly this time. 

Grantaire made a soft sound into the kiss; he ran his palms up Enjolras's torso from hips to chest, pushing his shirt up. The air was cool against Enjolras's skin, and he responded by trying to pull Grantaire's waistcoat over his head by the collar, but it wasn't working, so he let go and groped blindly at its buttons instead – why was Grantaire's clothing so stubborn? Their kiss was growing hotter and less careful – Grantaire's teeth clashed against his as they both sought to deepen it at the same time, but Enjolras didn't mind at all; distracted, as he was, by the feel of Grantaire's hips grinding against his through the barrier of his clothing. He could feel him growing hard through his trousers; he wasn't that far behind himself, now.

Grantaire broke the kiss suddenly, cursing as he pulled back just far enough to thrust a hand between them and began fumbling with the buttons at his waist. Enjolras used the space between them to pull his shirt over his head; he tossed it over the back of the couch without a care for where it fell – naked now, while Grantaire was still struggling to rid himself of his own dishevelled clothing. 

There was a thrill in being vulnerable before someone he trusted, Enjolras decided, as he watched Grantaire succeed in unbuttoning his trousers and pull his shirt tails free, red-faced and more than a little clumsy. His hands were quite clearly shaking, which was endearing in way Enjolras couldn't possibly have forseen, and it was then that he decided that he wanted Grantaire to fuck him this time – wanted to try, at least. 

His own resolution excited him – unleashed a nervous, anticipatory tension that threatened to throw him off – made him feel frantic – made his own hands tremble.

-

Grantaire could never grow used to this – would never stop feeling as though he had lost his sanity each time Enjolras touched him. It was too much – grinding against each other, Enjolras's shirt pushed up to his chest exposing his smooth, soft stomach, his thighs around Grantaire's waist – and not enough at the same time.

He cursed profanely, fumbled one-handed with the buttons of his trousers; even though they'd done this half a dozen times by now the desire he felt was still overwhelming.

The only reason he had hesitated was that the idea of Enjolras wanting him, and expressing so plainly, still felt utterly absurd. That Enjolras had grown comfortable enough with the thought to be open about his wants was nothing short of a miracle, and a grave responsibility. He wanted to please him – overthinking was a habit that was hard to shake, but thinking at all was rapidly becoming impossible.

Enjolras pulled his shirt over his head, tossed it aside, and the sight of him lying naked on the couch with his hair in spectacular disarray and his lips swollen from kissing Grantaire was beautiful, as he always was. 

Grantaire groaned, and kissed him again. He pressed him into the couch beneath them; Enjolras had both legs wrapped around Grantaire's hips now, fixing him firmly in place, and Grantaire couldn't resist the urge to thrust against him, couldn't resist him at all, until a particularly emphatic snap of his hips met resistance, and Enjolras made a shocked sound into his mouth.

"Sorry! Oh, god –" he stilled immediately, searching Enjolras's face for any sign of discomfort or offence. Enjolras was looking at him strangely, wide-eyed. It was an unfamiliar enough look on him that it took a moment for Grantaire to recognise it not as surprise, but as nervousness, and that was a wild, peculiar thought – that Enjolras was capable of being nervous about anything, ever, let alone between them…

He watched as Enjolras drew his bottom lip between his teeth before he spoke: "What if I wanted you to?" He was looking past Grantaire rather than at him – a fact he seemed to realise himself, as he corrected it, making deliberate eye contact, and Grantaire lost himself in how blue his eyes were again, clear and perceptive. "I mean – I want to try it, if you do."

Grantaire gaped, awe-struck by a sentiment that was almost painful. 

He couldn't deny that he wanted it – that he'd thought about it far more times than he was willing to admit, but that Enjolras wanted it as well –

It was the implicit trust behind the request that was truly devastating – he did not feel as though he had earned it, but Enjolras wouldn't ask for what he didn't want, and that nervous look had shifted into one of conviction. He felt his own face progressing through several more shades of darkening crimson.

"Are you sure?" he said carefully, still disbelieving. "Not every man likes it."

"I know that." Enjolras's tone was patient, but firm. "But I'd like to try, at least."

Grantaire felt drunk again, reeling, but the world had ground to halt around them. Enjolras's thighs around his hips weren't squeezing as tight as they had been moments before, but their faces were still inches apart, and Enjolras was clear eyed; his features were set in the look of resolve he wore when he would not be swayed.

"Not like this." Grantaire swallowed. "That is, if we're doing it, I'd rather do it right. I'd rather do right by you."

"I know little enough of it from the other side." Enjolras smiled as he spoke, wry and self-effacing. "I put myself in your hands."

Grantaire's features twisted before he could help himself – the weight of his feelings for him was crushing him again, drowning him – but Enjolras was asking, and Grantaire couldn't deny him anything – wouldn't deny him anything or let him down ever again, if he could help it. 

And he did want this himself – he was already struggling to contain himself at the thought of it, his blood rushing southwards and taking reason with it. The idea was daunting, yes – the pressure to make it good for Enjolras might have made him baulk in the past – but he was willing to accept the challenge.

He kissed him again, fiercely, to seal the private pledge he'd made to himself to honour the trust Enjolras had placed in him, disentangled himself from Enjolras's grasp, then withdrew, hands shaking.

"On the bed," he said, sitting upright again.

Enjolras sat up beside him, so comfortable in his own skin one would think he were Adam in the garden of Eden, a Macedonian warrior at the funeral games. Grantaire stroked his upper arm fondly with the back of his hand, reluctant to let go of him even for this brief moment; he needed to keep his morbid thoughts to himself – Enjolras was looking at him dark-eyed, with the same sweet smile as that he'd been wearing earlier, open and trusting, and so beautiful it hurt to look at him for too long and left a burned-in after image, like staring into the sun.

He rose – Grantaire stroked his hip as he passed, then followed suit. He let his unbuttoned trousers fall, kicked them aside and fought his way out of his waistcoat and shirt, half their buttons already undone – Enjolras's work, not his own. 

Enjolras climbed onto the bed and rolled onto his stomach. His back was arched slightly – not enough to be a deliberate display, but it was a sight that was equal parts aesthetically perfect and inviting; it went straight to Grantaire's loins, and he staggered inelegantly towards him. Enjolras folded his arms before him, rested his head on them and looked at Grantaire curiously, one-eyed.

Grantaire could barely remember his own name by this point, but he held himself together enough to fetch the oil and a single candle, which he lit from the fire. He placed them both on the bedside table and clambered onto the bed beside him, gazing down at him. 

"If you want me to stop –"

"I know," Enjolras said, a little impatience slipping into his tone, which almost succeeded in making Grantaire laugh, giddy as he already was.

"I'll take it slow."

"If you think that's best."

It was a miracle he was thinking at all at this point. He bent to kiss him on the mouth a final time, gently, with only a hint of tongue. Enjolras kissed him back with enthusiasm; he scraped his teeth against Grantaire's lower lip as he withdrew, a sign of impatience Grantaire knew well by now.

The sight of Enjolras stretched out before him on his stomach with his head on his crossed forearms, seemingly relaxed and unhurried, would be enough to drive any man towards sin. 

"God, do you have any idea what you look like from this angle?"

-

"No." It was true enough – he knew Grantaire enjoyed looking at him no matter how uninteresting he felt, knew Grantaire wanted him – he wanted him to get to it, now that he had decided what he wanted from him.

Grantaire let out a pained groan that might've been frustration, or possibly lust. He went unusually silent after that; Enjolras could not always determine whether that was a good sign or a bad one, but he could feel by the motion of the mattress that Grantaire was shifting his position, hovering over him. He felt Grantaire's lips brush the side of his neck again, briefly. He felt Grantaire's prick against the crease where thighs met buttocks, and shifted to guide him higher, towards his backside. Grantaire groaned again, thrust against him gently, then stilled.  

"I can't – not yet – need to get you ready first." Grantaire's voice was already laboured – breathless.

Enjolras made a frustrated sound of his own, shifting against the mattress beneath him. He was already hard enough that not being touched was maddening. 

"Lift your hips a little," Grantaire said, placing his hands on Enjolras's flank and coaxing him until he was half on his knees, thighs parted. The mattress dipped again as he reached above Enjolras for one of the pillows by the headboard and put it beneath him, holding him by the hips, stroking, caressing, kissing his way down Enjolras's spine butterfly-light and scattered. 

He squeezed Enjolras's buttocks gently as he pushed them apart, and made another throaty, guttural sound, then Enjolras felt something wet and warm that wasn't Grantaire fingers brush against his entrance. 

"What's that?" he asked, startled; he leant higher on his elbows and twisted to see what Grantaire was doing, but all he could see was Grantaire's hands on his hips, and the top of his head, his crop of dark, unruly hair.

A muffled sound was his only reply, followed by more pressure – and a firm, flicking motion.

"Oh… oh." Enjolras's voice trembled as its source dawned on him. 

He was intimately familiar with the feeling of Grantaire's tongue in his mouth, but he had never imagined something like this – Grantaire's tongue pressing into him, circling, beating inside him in time with his heart. 

Yet once he was past the initial shock and brief, prudish distaste, he began to find it surprisingly pleasant. Grantaire was clearly gaining confidence as Enjolras continued to allow it; Enjolras felt his tongue pressing in further, harder, and with more enthusiasm. It was something between pleasure and not-pleasure at first, but when he focused on relaxing, on letting the sensation wash over and through him in time with Grantaire's rhythm, he began to enjoy it – felt his muscles relaxing around Grantaire's tongue, felt everything getting slicker and easier. Grantaire ran his hands over his lower back, stroking his buttocks and the back of his thighs too, massaging, helping to relieve the tension in them.

Finally, Enjolras felt him rub his thumb against the bridge of skin behind his balls, and that captured his attention where he had been content to simply let Grantaire do as he wished. The sensation shocked him more than Grantaire's tongue had – it was somewhere he had never been touched before, and it made something inside him jolt, and feel strangely warm. He shifted against the mattress again, not certain whether he wanted to lean into the sensation or draw away, over-sensitive. He wanted to throw Grantaire off him and pin him beneath him, but that wasn't what they were trying to achieve right now.

Grantaire must have sensed his restlessness in the way Enjolras was shifting beneath him, because he pulled back – the sudden absence of his tongue felt strange and cold. He placed a few more scattered kisses over Enjolras's buttocks and hips before he let go entirely. Enjolras glanced over his shoulder again to find him sitting on his heels.

"How was that?" he asked, voice low and hoarse.

Enjolras made an inelegant noise in response – realising, belatedly, that he had been grinding alternately into the pillow and back against Grantaire's chin, now that he was no longer caught between them.

"Better than I thought it would be," he answered, truthfully. 

He wasn't sure what he had imagined it would feel like, but it hadn't hurt at all, and any discomfort he had felt was only brief, and mostly intellectual. Grantaire was being careful with him, as he had known he would be.

"Do you want to continue?"

He pushed himself up on his elbows again, and turned until he was on his side so he could look at Grantaire properly. He was very red faced now, the flush spreading down his neck and onto his chest, and his hair was a mess. His mouth was a little swollen, the same as if they'd be kissing in the usual way. 

Grantaire must have noticed him staring at his mouth, because he swiped the back of his palm against it in a self conscious gesture, eyelashes dipping briefly as he avoided Enjolras's gaze. 

"I'll rinse my mouth before I kiss you again, don't worry."

"That's not what I was thinking." He had never felt anything like it, but he had enjoyed it – he was willing to go further. "What do I do next?"

Grantaire looked at him again, features softened by surprise, and, possibly, satisfaction. "Whatever you want to do…" 

Enjolras rolled onto his back in answer – spread his legs wider. Grantaire's gaze dipped to glance at his cock – still hard – then returned to his face, wide-eyed. 

"If I may make a suggestion, the other way round might be more comfortable."

Enjolras shook his head. There was no position they'd tried between them that seemed dignified, but he wanted to be able to see what Grantaire was doing to him; Grantaire's tongue had been a surprise, and while it had proved an enjoyable one he wasn't sure he wanted more of them tonight. He realised he was smiling when Grantaire smiled back.

"As you wish." 

Grantaire rose; Enjolras turned over to glance after him, and noticed that he was equally roused. He tracked him with his gaze as Grantaire went to fetch his wine, took a swill of it and swirled it around his mouth before spitting it back out again, then tipped the contents of the glass into the fire which hissed and flared in response. Enjolras watched the process lazily, in a moment of brief, unhurried contemplation that was at odds with the urgency that had driven them hence. He liked watching Grantaire move so casually when he wasn't being self-conscious about his own appearance – about his own nakedness.

He was still watching as Grantaire crawled back onto the bed and settled himself against the headboard beside him, turning to face him with a soft, expectant look. Enjolras pushed himself up on his hands to match his position. He blinked back at him, wondering if he expected him to take the lead in this part – he felt quite certain that he still did not know what he was doing, but Grantaire placed a hand on his hip, and the touch was reassuring and confident where he himself was not.  

He could feel the warmth radiating from Grantaire's body without touching him in return; his palm was hot against Enjolras's hip, his grim firm, but gentle. Enjolras reached a hand across the narrow distance between them to press it to Grantaire's chest, felt soft hair and smooth skin and his pulse beating beneath it; Grantaire draped his free arm across the top of the headboard, curling it around Enjolras's shoulders.

Grantaire was going to take him; that was a strange, unfamiliar thought – though more strange was the continuing lack of objection or discomfort at the notion in Enjolras's own thoughts. Grantaire was going to take him because he had asked him to; there was no greater motive or intent behind it than that – no give and take to balance between them anymore, and no selfishness in the asking, beyond the fact that Enjolras had asked because he wanted to. That Grantaire wanted to as well was abundantly clear by the enthusiasm with which he'd taken on the task.

He leant into Grantaire's shoulder, resting against him for a moment, breathing. He could do this. He wanted to do this.

When Enjolras had failed to act for long enough Grantaire hooked an arm beneath his and tugged pointedly, nudging him back into action. Enjolras took his meaning from the direction of the tugging – it wasn't a position they had tried before, and he hadn't thought of it himself, but it made sense.  

He smiled as he turned to face Grantaire and threw one leg over his thighs – on top of him now, he grasped the headboard to steady himself.

"You can control how far we go like this, and if you want to stop," Grantaire said, his voice surprisingly calm and level. Enjolras nodded; he could see the sense in it, and he appreciated the consideration behind it. 

He watched with interest as Grantaire poured a little of the oil into his palm and slicked himself with it, fidgeting with anticipation – he'd softened a bit as Enjolras had delayed them, but it didn't take long to get him ready again. He wiped his palms on the sheet beneath them when he'd finished, then reached for Enjolras's hips again, which Enjolras took as his cue to shuffle forward on his knees until he was locked, chest to chest, against Grantaire. 

Grantaire wrapped both arms around his waist as he settled into the position, stroking his fingertips up and down Enjolras's spine. They kissed closed-mouthed again; Grantaire's lips tasted like wine this time – Enjolras almost wished he'd had more of it to settle his nerves, but the fluttering sensation in the pit of his stomach was as much excitement as it was uncertainty. 

He leant his forehead on Grantaire's shoulder as he lowered himself onto Grantaire's cock, feeling and fumbling between them to guide his aim – it was more of a stretch than his tongue had been, but Enjolras was in control this time, and he choose a slow, experimental approach; he didn't try to take him all the way in at first. Grantaire was kissing his collarbones and throat again, murmuring encouragements that rang though Enjolras without the specifics of them registering in his thoughts. His hand on the bed frame had curled into a vice grip, white-knuckled; Grantaire's arms were beneath his and around his shoulders, bearing some of his weight for him. 

It felt indescribably odd, how his body took Grantaire in a little further than he'd meant to by itself. It was too soon to say whether he liked it or not, but it was a novel feeling, interesting, and not unpleasant.

Grantaire was keeping very still beneath him, and it was clear both by his expression and by the veins standing in his forehead when Enjolras raised his head to look at him again that it was taking great effort for him to keep so still. Enjolras was grateful – he did not feel ready for Grantaire to begin thrusting yet. He wrapped his fingertips around Grantaire's cock more purposely, began stroking the length of it that wasn't inside him yet in commiseration, which made Grantaire's features contort more desperately than before; the muscles in his thighs twitched.

It felt weird and wet, but somehow pleasant. Something deep inside him jolted again as he sank lower, halfway between pleasurable and painfully tender – he gasped, feeling himself clenching and unclenching around Grantaire. Grantaire groaned, and bit down on his own palm to contain himself. He moved his hips subtly the next time Enjolras bore down on him, thrusting tentatively, sliding against the same tender point again.

A few more experimental motions later he reached the point where the stretch crossed from novel into discomfort; he teased at that line for a while, rising up and down on his knees with Grantaire breathing heavily beside his ear – with his cock hot and stiff in Enjolras's hand, throbbing gently. 

"I think that's as much as I can take, for now," he said, panting. 

Grantaire made a non-verbal sound of agreement, eyes screwed shut, his jaw clenched.

Enjolras pulled off him, and the sudden loss and void of sensation was an even stranger feeling. Grantaire exhaled in relief at no longer having to control himself, animated again where he had been unnaturally still. He put a hand around Enjolras's cock, grabbed him by the hips and crushed their bodies together, grinding and stroking, scattering indiscriminate kisses all over Enjolras's face.

They came like that, gasping, rubbing against each other, messy and frantic. Enjolras's orgasm when it struck felt warmer and more body-suffusing than usual, ringing through every cell in his body and leaving him weak-limbed and shaking – utterly satisfied.

Afterwards, Grantaire turned sentimental again as they lay face to face and half entangled. His gaze was somehow even more tender than before as he rubbed the back of Enjolras's neck, looking impossibly fond. "How did you find it?" he asked.

"Different," Enjolras said, considering. He wasn't sure yet; he thought he still preferred it the other way around for now, but he was glad he had tried it, and glad it was with Grantaire that he had tried it, with all the mutual trust and understanding they had so carefully built between them. He was amenable to trying it again. "I think I liked it," he said, with only a whisper of surprise.

"Good." Grantaire sounded half asleep, and equally satisfied. 

"Did you?"

"I'd like anything if it was with you."

-

The next morning they lay in bed, waiting for the sun to rise. Grantaire felt impossibly satisfied – a sense of ease and relaxation that encompassed his entire being, which was rare even now. They had changed the sheets the previous night, washed, and then collapsed together into a mutual, dead sleep. The moon that night had been thin and hidden by thick cloud, its light so meagre that neither of them had noticed that they had forgotten to close the shutters.

Enjolras lay on his side beside him, eyes closed, though Grantaire could tell by his breathing and the subtle tension in his features that he was awake. The sheets were pooled at his hips exposing the long, elegant shape of his torso, its smooth lines broken in the middle where the sharp protrusion of his rib cage jutted outwards, his upper body twisted slightly. His hair had fallen away from his forehead in the night, pooling against the pillow above and behind him.   

Grantaire rolled onto his side to face him, to better appreciate the sight of him; his eyes cracked open at the motion of the mattress beneath them, and he smiled softly, lips parting a little to reveal a flash of pearl-white teeth. Grantaire smiled back, and reached out to stroke his arm as he admired him, gazing into those deep blue eyes which appeared grey in the cold morning half-light – utterly, hopelessly besotted. His skin was soft and cool to the touch – cool, but not cold. The scar on his bicep was more visible in this light, thin and silvery, a lighter streak than the skin around it that was faintly pink at the edges. There was a slight texture to it when he rubbed his fingers over it, barely perceptible. He hadn't noticed it in months, but now that he had it stood out to him as an affront – an affront to Enjolras's person, and to liberty itself. 

That anyone could raise a hand to him in violence, let alone mark him, was both incomprehensible and a painful reminder of the barbarity mankind was capable of. He hadn't wished to consider the specifics of how it had happened too closely at the time, but the cavalry sabre that had dealt it must have been kept meticulously sharp to cut so cleanly. 

His heart dropped to his stomach as realisation dawned on him. The cut was on Enjolras's right arm, and that meant – 

Perhaps the soldier was left handed? No, he would have been trained to ride in formation, which meant wielding the sabre in his right hand whether that suited him or not.

"You were facing him – when he struck you?" he blurted out – not yet awake enough for the panic that threatened to grip him to show in his voice, which was a small mercy.

Enjolras blinked at him, equally slow to comprehend. "Yes," he said placidly, when he had grasped the meaning of the question. 

Grantaire felt bile rising in his throat, felt his stomach lurch as though he were about to vomit. 

Enjolras was still watching him with the same soft expression – he seemed calm, blissfully unaware of the turmoil roiling in Grantaire's mind and body. Grantaire tried to push the feeling aside, but the dread that was rising in him had sucked all the air out of the room. His grip on Enjolras's upper arm had tightened, without his having been aware of it.

He released him, ran a hand down his side until it settled at his waist, pressing him closer – resisting the urge to roll on top of him and pin him to the bed, to never let him go again. 

Enjolras placed an answering hand on his hip, smiled, and leaned in.

Chapter Text

VII.

By May the flowers on the horse chestnut tree had begun to bloom in earnest; its canopy grew so thick with leaves that it cast the courtyard in permanent shade, white petals littering the cobbles beneath. Grantaire rose early one morning and propped himself against the open window frame to sketch their cone-shaped forms; they reminded him paradoxically of snowflakes caught in the hair of some great leaf-headed titan. That image amused him more than it should, so he sketched it as well: a muscled giant of a man exaggerated to impossible proportions, vines drooping from his chin and sprouting from his nostrils, plucking one of the tiny cones of flowers from his hair between two careful fingers.

Enjolras's mouth curled in amusement when he saw it as he flicked through the sketchbook over breakfast, which was enough to make it worth the effort of putting his flight of whimsy to the page.

"I don't think I'll be developing that one for the Salon," Grantaire said, smiling. 

"I think it's funny," Enjolras said, smiling back as he flicked to the next page: a flower-seller beside her push cart at the gates of the Luxembourg Gardens – Grantaire remembered finding the complementary colours of the dusty blue flowers within and the reddish-brown of her skirt pleasing, but he'd only had a pencil and some red chalk to hand. A note at the edge of the page read 'bleuets?' in his own scribbled hand.

"How do you usually decide what to submit?" Enjolras asked, raising his cup to take a sip of his coffee.

"Whatever I can stand to have looked at by a committee, usually. It's all academy politics and bartering for favour in the end." 

Enjolras's brow lifted; he swallowed. "When is it?"

"Next year, most likely."

"I thought it was annual?"

"It is," Grantaire said, then watched Enjolras's confusion flicker across his features. "This year's was cancelled because of the cholera."

"Oh. I didn't know." He looked as though it troubled him that he didn't. Why would he? Grantaire would not have expected him to care that the art establishment's collective pageantry had been disrupted – it wasn't within his sphere of interest, and that was perfectly understandable.

"It has worked out well for me – I wasn't ready." He hadn't made any serious effort to have something ready to submit anyway – after last year's forgettable showing he hadn't managed to muster much enthusiasm for it. The painting of Courfeyrac that had been his original intention was still incomplete, and formal history paintings such as he'd trained for were no longer the fashion among his more illustrious peers anyway. Romanticism had become the dominant fixation within artistic circles, but that wasn't quite his style either. 

Perhaps it was sentimental of him, or merely symptomatic of a lack of creativity on his part, but time spent painting Enjolras and their friends had given him a taste for less formal compositions, and with it some degree of clarity as to what he most enjoyed about his work. He wanted to paint life as it was – to paint the subjects and people that most mattered to him. To capture what was real, not shroud the things he cared deeply about in allegory to appease the academicians or fit the taste of others. 

He'd sold a few more of his old paintings since, and he'd thus far managed to rouse enough interest in his work to get by, which was all he needed in truth. Let other, better, artists aspire to fame – he wasn't skilled enough at flattery to achieve it, and he didn't need it anyway. He knew what mattered most to him, and he already had it, as impossible as it had seemed only a year ago. Perhaps he could have had it all along, if only he'd been brave enough to seek it.

Still, it was a good opportunity to rock the boat a little, if he could come up with something suitably subversive. He would enjoy that. 

"Will you come, if I do?" he said, eying the leftover half orange on Enjolras's plate, not expecting Enjolras to say yes at all – he was almost certain that he'd despise the whole ordeal from start to finish. He wasn't even sure if he wanted Enjolras to come and see what his world was really like – he would certainly have plenty of reasons to disapprove of it.

When he failed to respond with immediate dismissal Grantaire looked across the table at him, and was amused to find that he looked as though he was giving the idea serious consideration.

"Perhaps," Enjolras said, peeling off a large segment of the orange and placing it in his mouth, then sliding the rest across the table. The citrus scent of it filled the air as he bit down on it.

"I wasn't being serious," Grantaire hastened to add, accepting the plate gratefully though he was already full. 

"I know," he said around the orange. He chewed it a moment more, then swallowed. "It could be interesting. I imagine it involves a lot of influential people in one place."

Grantaire raised an eyebrow at that statement, cautious and curious. It was not usually Enjolras's style to focus on the influence of individual actors – he was the most firm believer of them all in the collective will of the people. He wondered over his own mouthful of the orange which of the others had rubbed off on him lately – the Bouzingos, perhaps. Their use of theatre and literature to frighten the bourgeoisie often involved making a scene in influential company – if that was what Enjolras had been thinking. He wouldn't be surprised to find him capable of unleashing divine vengeance upon them – of shaking the stones from the roof to rain down upon them through force of will alone. 

He shouldn't worry so much – Enjolras wasn't the kind of man to act without caution or purpose, and he was only one man, however exceptional a man he was.  

"Well, if you plan to cause a scene I'd like to be there to witness it."

The corners of Enjolras's mouth curved into one of his enigmatic, Archaic smiles, serene and eternal. He went back to looking at the sketches after that.

What would he paint this time, if he submitted anything? The painting of Courfeyrac would do if he failed to think of anything truly subversive, but it was hardly revolutionary. He had considered submitting a painting of Enjolras, once. It was the subject he was most practised in, though he still hadn't produced anything that came close to capturing the sublime intensity of the real thing, and the Salon jury weren't worthy of gazing on even a pale semblance of his likeness. Enjolras gave himself to his country and her people – it seemed wrong that only the elite should be permitted to gaze back at him. Grantaire would rather share him with the ordinary masses that Enjolras himself cared so deeply for, or not at all.

He would think about it – the salon was still almost a year away. He had time. 

-

The mornings had remained cool of late, despite the days growing longer and brighter as the sun sat higher in the sky. The early spring heat had settled into a pleasant, comfortable warmth that gave way to cool evenings, the temperature dropping sharply once the sun dipped below the horizon again. The evenings stretched into lazy hours of mellow sunlight – a sign that summer wasn't so far off now, and a welcome change after so many hours of darkness.  

Enjolras awoke one morning with his head on Grantaire's chest, with his nightshirt unbuttoned and sliding down one shoulder. The cold air was making gooseflesh rise on his exposed skin, but he was far too comfortable to think of moving yet – he would rather lie listening to Grantaire's breathing, feeling the soft yield of his chest rising and falling beneath him. The linen of Grantaire's nightshirt felt soft and cool against his cheek; his free arm lay across Grantaire's torso. One of his legs was tangled with Grantaire's, hot and sweat-covered beneath the blankets, and he knew his neck would ache when he eventually rose, yet he didn't care. He was content, and in no hurry to be elsewhere. 

He was about to fumble for the blankets and pull them higher to stop the season from intruding on the moment when he felt Grantaire stir; the blankets shifted around them as Grantaire moved beneath them, unfurled them. He released them again when they were at Enjolras's chin, and ran his warm palms over Enjolras's bare shoulder before threading his fingers into Enjolras's hair, breathing slowly and steadily beneath Enjolras's cheek as though he was still asleep.

Enjolras burrowed closer – relishing in the shared warmth, the softness of the mattress beneath them and the smell of Grantaire's sweat mixed with his own. The familiarity of it all, simple and human – he was totally at ease with this now. It was as much a physical feeling of contentment as a spiritual one, akin to arousal in that he felt it everywhere within his own skin, but different in that there was no urgency behind it. It was difficult to recall why he had ever felt ashamed of it – it felt good. Felt right. 

Grantaire sighed, untangled his fingers from his hair and returned them to his shoulder, stroking the gooseflesh away in lazy, careless caresses. 

Enjolras's thoughts drifted, until he found himself thinking of breakfast again, and of what he wished to accomplish before supper – which it was his turn to acquire – when the tension in Grantaire's body changed beneath him. His breaths became shallower; his fingers curled and uncurled against Enjolras's shoulder. 

Enjolras made a half-hearted attempt to lift his head, but succeeded only in twitching against Grantaire's chest. His body still felt heavy with sleep, slow and unresponsive. 

He opened his eyes instead, blinking against the brightness of the morning light until his eyes adjusted. He raised his chin – his heart fluttered in his chest when his eyes met Grantaire's, which were lazy and shadowed; a milky, opaline blue. 

"Good morning," Grantaire said, his voice a low rumble beneath Enjolras's ear – he felt as much as heard it through the connection of his body to Grantaire's.

"Good morning," he said in response, and wrapped his arm tighter around Grantaire's chest, sighing against him. Content.

He had got as far as donning his shirt and trousers when Grantaire returned with their breakfast, but he was in no hurry to make himself look any less crumpled. He sat down across from Grantaire in his trousers and unbuttoned shirt, and flicked through one of the journals Bahorel had left behind the last time he called on them as he buttered his toast. 

Outside the window the morning was bright and clear, promising to turn warm again as the day progressed. It was Friday; no doubt the streets had already been busy when Grantaire had ventured out. They would be busier still by noon tomorrow as the factories and workshops began to close their doors in anticipation of the Sabbath. 

Grantaire had finished his breakfast before Enjolras had even begun; he had pushed his plate to one side and laid his brushes out in its place. Enjolras watched, curious, as he inspected them one by one, then reached for the bottle of oil on top of his painter's cabinet and poured a little of its content onto his fingers. He picked up the first brush again and rubbed its tip between his fingers, massaging the splayed bristles back into alignment. The sight of his fingers shiny with oil and working deftly conjured images in Enjolras's mind that he hadn't expected to recall over the breakfast table, but they were not unwelcome.

He felt at peace – not resting exactly, but waiting. A lot had happened in recent months, amounting to nothing at the same time. The king's ministers were wasting time debating concessions, incremental freedoms given with one hand and taken with the other, too precarious to pin any real hope on. What else could anyone expect, when only the men who benefited most from the system held the power to change it? Expanding the franchise to the upper echelons of the bourgeoisie had done nothing to serve those in more precarious circumstances. 

It wasn't enough; wasn't what the riots of 1830 had demanded. A far more drastic upheaval was necessary. They couldn't force progress, as much as Enjolras wished he could, but they could help cut a path towards it. The Royalists couldn't force a return to the ways of the Ancien Régime either – the duchesse's attempts to raise the people in favour of her son as Charles X's successor would fail in the Vendée just as surely as it had in Marseilles. As frustratingly slow as progress seemed at times, he was confident in his belief that it couldn't be halted, or driven back. Change would come – it was only the natural order of things asserting itself over those that would deny it. 

As he progressed through the meal on his plate his thoughts turned towards their own actions over the past few months, and to what lay ahead, taking stock and making sure they'd done all they could to be ready, should fate offer them opportunity. He believed they had – and he was looking forward to meeting with the others that evening in the Musain to hear their thoughts.

He didn't know what Grantaire's plans were for the rest of the morning or the afternoon, but he was confident that he would see him there – certain that Grantaire wouldn't miss the opportunity to be among their friends.

"Are you busy this afternoon?" Grantaire said, as though Enjolras's thoughts were as legible to him as the ink on the pages beside him. Enjolras paused in his contemplation of the future to look at him, realising as he did so that he was still holding a forgotten half-moon of toast with a single bite taken out of the absolute centre in his own left hand.

"I was planning to collect some newspapers from Courfeyrac, and then to study them in the Musain until the others arrive," he answered, and raised the toast to his mouth again, finding it to be cold as it met the tip of his tongue. 

"How about studying them outside instead? If they're not too seditious to be seen with, that is," Grantaire asked, and smiled at him. He sounded hopeful. "I was going to sketch in the gardens later; you could join me there until the evening, if you'd like to."

"They aren't what I'd consider seditious – at least, they haven't been forbidden by the censors yet," he said. He considered it, taking another bite of the cold toast, chewing it as he thought. He wasn't usually inclined towards sitting outside for no purpose, but his plan for the afternoon had already been largely sedentary – it mattered little where he accomplished it, and he could sit with Grantaire beside him.

"I'd like that. Yes."

-

They found a pleasant place to sit in the Luxembourg Gardens: a moss-dappled bench in the shade of the thin row of trees beside the Medici Fountain, where Venus in her bath shone blinding-white in the sun, bright and new by contrast to the centuries-old mottled stone behind her.

It was quiet, aside from the soft intermittent rustle of the breeze that lifted the thinnest branches of the trees above, the occasional voices and footsteps as others passed by them. The sounds of the city beyond the high stone walls were dulled to the point of being indistinguishable.

The day had only grown hotter as it progressed; their patch of shade had been slowly retreating for the past half-hour, shifting with the passage of the sun overhead. They would have to find a new spot when the shadows changed direction; it was the sort of heat that sapped the strength from Grantaire's limbs and left him slow and lethargic. Ordinarily he wouldn't mind an afternoon of indolence, but he wanted to continue working on his sketches, and to maintain his stamina for the evening ahead.

The fountain itself was little more than a series of low waterfalls spilling from the rock at Venus's feet, but its gentle trickle was loud in the stillness. The sunlight reflected off the circular pool of water, a rippling mirror of the clear sky above. At its edges the dark shadows of the trees flickered, green and yellow glittering over black water. The scent of spring was thick in the air, the warmth of it too oppressive to bear outside the shade for long. The afternoon sun had just started to descend, casting long, blinding beams of light where it broke through the branches of the surrounding trees.

Grantaire had always liked these parts of the garden better than the austere central fountain and the manicured lawns that surrounded it; the quiet corners that were tucked away outside the main thoroughfares. There were still plenty of passers-by to observe and to draw, and the texture of the stone of the seventeenth century fountain and the wall behind it had been made interesting by the passage of time. It wasn't clean and unblemished like the statue's marble flesh, which had been built by later hands; Venus herself was barely two decades old, a modern revival of an ancient form. The grotto behind her had taken on an organic life of its own, for all the moss and the dirt that had ingrained itself into the surface over two centuries of existence.

He was happy to soak in the lazy spring atmosphere in relative solitude, whiling away the hours until it was time to go and meet their friends in the Musain, when the garden's gates would close behind them for the evening at sunset.

That alone would be a pleasant way to spend an afternoon – with Enjolras beside him, his day was complete. Perhaps he needn't have been so amazed that Enjolras had said yes; it was clear in hindsight that Enjolras had long enjoyed having someone work beside him. Grantaire would never grow used to this, but perhaps Enjolras had. 

Enjolras had taken his coat off before they'd even reached the gardens; now it lay slung over the back of the bench. His sleeves were turned up to his elbows, and he had a leather satchel beside him with both their hats on top of it. It was the most he had looked like an ordinary student in a while, except instead of books full of legal jargon and handwritten annotations the satchel was full of newspapers.

Grantaire was putting the finishing touches to a sketch of the fountain, scratching out the finer details and texture of the carved foliage that covered the grotto's walls; Enjolras was reading beside him. Grantaire would lean in to him, perhaps put an arm around him if they were sitting together on their couch at home; they didn't embrace in public, but they were sat close enough on the narrow bench that their thighs almost touched. Enjolras's knees were spread wide with his left leg tilted towards Grantaire, his feet crossed at the ankles. The light coloured fabric of his trousers was bright and soft, and the fine weave of the fabric was more visible in the daylight than it had been inside, shades of ivory and taupe woven together to create an even sand colour. There were a few small grey stains at the mid thigh, where Grantaire had witnessed him wipe his inky fingertips on them without thinking.

Grantaire wiped his charcoal-covered fingers against his own thigh when his sketch of the fountain was complete. He glanced around for another subject to draw, along the path that led towards the fountain and back towards the palais, towards the park's busier thoroughfares. There were a few groups of people ambling there, women with their children running ahead of them, men strolling and smoking. 

His gaze fell on someone he recognised: a dark, lanky figure dressed all in black. He was walking with a timid, unhurried gait down the diagonal path that intersected theirs some thirty metres away from them, heading towards the park's central fountain. There was a bouquet of flowers in his hand which he paused intermittently to study – the same as those they'd seen on a seller's cart at the gates – and a distracted, faraway air to him.

Enjolras shifted beside him, as though he'd noticed Grantaire's stillness. He inclined his head to look at him; voice soft and unassuming, he said:

"Is something the matter?"

"I appear to have found our missing friend," Grantaire answered, and nodded in the figure's direction.

It was, undoubtedly, Marius, looking dewy-eyed as a fawn, and entirely out of place against all the green beside him and the sandy white pathways at his feet in his funeral clothes.

Grantaire watched Enjolras's features brighten in recognition as his glance followed where Grantaire had indicated. There was a light dusting of faint freckles on the bridge of his nose and the top of his cheeks that wasn't there a few weeks ago; now that spring was warming into summer his pale skin was already beginning to tan. There was a slight sheen of sweat on his brow and upper lip; in the scattered daylight his eyelashes were golden, and his eyes a brilliant, cobalt blue.

His hair was getting very long, almost at his shoulders now despite the curls. Grantaire had seen it almost reach his collar bones when wet and limp after his bath a few days ago; he had mentioned a vague intent to get it cut at the time, and Grantaire had been taking every opportunity to run his hands through it ever since, for fear of him coming home with it cut severely short.

Recognition shifted into an arched look of surprise; perhaps Enjolras had finally noticed the bouquet in Marius's hands. 

"He has the air of a man in love," Grantaire said, grinning with amusement.

"Yes," Enjolras said carefully, frowning. "Courfeyrac told me something to that effect." That frown deepened as Enjolras continued to gaze at him, as though he were piecing together the reasons for Marius's continued absence in the backroom of the Musain. Grantaire felt a pang of unexpected and unprecedented empathy for him.

"Don't think too harshly of him for it; he can't help himself."

Enjolras blinked twice and turned his gaze towards him, smiling.

"I don't."   

Grantaire beamed back at him without any conscious decision to do so; he wanted to kiss him again, but not here. He settled for placing a hand on his knee instead, warm beneath his palm. He squeezed the muscle just above it between his forefinger and thumb, then brushed his fingertips over the spot inside the joint where he knew Enjolras to be ticklish… 

Enjolras squirmed beneath his hand; the muscles in his thighs twitched – his smile grew blinding as he stifled a breathless laugh. His thigh pressed against Grantaire’s in his effort to wriggle out of Grantaire's grip. Grantaire chuckled as he let him go, but Enjolras left his thigh where it was as he shook the creases out of the newspaper in his hands and went back to his reading as though nothing had interrupted it.

Grantaire roughed out a hasty sketch of Marius before he passed out of sight, and tried to imagine what nymph had him so captivated that he had been avoiding them for months now. Probably some young, carefree creature with rounded features and softly curled hair, pretty in an unselfconscious way. He did not seem the type to go after the worldly, self-assured sort of woman that he had always preferred himself – largely because he couldn't imagine Marius being bold enough to act on his desires. He had always turned apple-red whenever the others spoke of their own conquests or sexual misadventures.

Marius and his woman probably sat gazing into each other's eyes in chaste, virtuous longing, both of them incapable of touching the other. Though, he could imagine him with a country girl of the pastoral adventuress sort, still with some of the easy uncaringness of childhood about her. A woman who kicked off her shoes to run barefoot through the grass in a way he could never imagine Marius being free enough to do himself. She would be a good influence on him, if they could bring themselves to give in to what was natural.

He wondered, idly, if he'd ever manage to get Enjolras to tumble in the haystacks with him. Maybe, if they ever left Paris – that was the true sticking point. 

By the time their shade had disappeared it was sweltering hot in the sun. Grantaire's shirt was damp with sweat and clinging to his back, and Enjolras's nose and the apex of his forehead were turning a raw, sunburned pink.

Enjolras put his papers back inside the satchel, offering to take Grantaire's sketchbook as well so Grantaire could sling his coat over his shoulder; he accepted, and wiped the sweat off his brow with a handkerchief before putting his cap back on, pulling it low to shield his eyes with its brim. 

They took the wide, straight path back towards the central fountain, seeking a new shady spot in which to while away the rest of the afternoon, past the flower gardens that lined the palais' west façade. To their left was an orderly row of pollarded trees; to their right the Italian-baroque brickwork of the seventeenth century palace rose. Built as the intended home of a Medici regent, it had taken its turn as a prison during the cycle of revenge and retribution that had so soured the memory of the republic. It had been given over to the senate since, and, after a brief turn as the home of Bonaparte as first consul, was now home to all manner of administrative offices, libraries of public records, a tap room and a senate chamber.

But it also housed an art gallery – had since before the revolution even. Grantaire had been to a few salons there in his time, but he hadn't been inside in at least a year now. He wondered which of his peers had managed to produce works that had made it into the museum's permanent collection, in the state's efforts to prove that France could still produce artists of premier significance and skill.

"Would you like to go inside for a little while?" he asked, gesturing to the palace's back entrance, which was gated off from the park, but they could enter the long way round. "It's usually nice and cool in there." It would be good to cool off for a while; and he wasn't certain that Enjolras had noticed that his skin was burning.

Enjolras considered the question before he answered: "Yes, that would be wise."

The interior of the Luxembourg's long series of connected rooms was much like the interior of the Louvre, though on a much more modest scale – if a former royal residence could ever be described as modest. Here was where the works of recent and particularly prodigious artists were collected and displayed, with the hope of one day entering the Louvre's monumental chambers. Grantaire had once nursed a fragile hope of seeing his own works in these esteemed halls – it was unlikely that anything he was capable of producing would have sufficient longevity to be considered a work of historical significance, but there was marginally more chance of him making it here. 

The tall ceilings were crenelated by small arched windows, rendering it still bright inside, but refreshingly cool. The paintings that lined the walls were flanked by gleaming marble statues on coloured plinths, above a floor that was polished to such a mirror shine that it reflected the sunlight above. There weren't many visitors present, merely a handful seeking refuge from the heat like themselves; the rest were out enjoying the sun in the gardens. 

Delecroix's painting of liberty leading the people over the barricade was conspicuously absent – a shame, he had not even found the time to come and see it in situ himself. He would have liked to see what Enjolras made of her, but her removal was unsurprising given the painting's subject matter. Louis-Philippe's ministers of the interior were cowards, after all.

Enjolras was making an effort to appear interested, glancing about them as they strolled through the galleries, but Grantaire could tell his gaze wasn't settling on anything for long enough to signal true appreciation. Grantaire watched his profile pass the blurred colours of the works of art behind him, until something at last caught his eye, and he hesitated, deviating from his straight path through the connected halls to approach something off to one side. 

The statue group that had caught his attention was new to Grantaire – and recent, judging by the cleanness of the stone. He must have missed it during one of the preceding years' salons – or been too intoxicated at the time to recall what he'd seen. 

It was clearly Neoclassical in school and subject matter. The group depicted two men, one lifeless and fallen with a wound on his chest, just above his heart; the other standing over him clutching his companion's delicately carved hand to his breast and his sword in the other, reeling in anguish and pain from the broken spear in his side. Enjolras moved closer to examine it; Grantaire paused to admire him as he admired the art, then followed.

"I like this one," Enjolras said when Grantaire halted at his side. 

"Who do you suppose it is?" Grantaire had some guesses, but none he could state for certain. The crested helmet, short blade and lion's pelt cloak put him in mind of Spartan warriors, which rang a bell alongside the pair's obvious devotion to one another. Theban lovers, perhaps.

"Nisus and Euryalus," Enjolras said with unexpected certainty. Grantaire turned to him in surprise, and found an impassive, pensive look on his features. 

The names rang a bell as something he'd read before, but his memory was never as good for Virgil as it was for Homer or Aeschylus. "They were killed while raiding an enemy camp at night – the moonlight reflecting off the polished helm Euryalus took as spoils gave them away."

"Euryalus was caught," Enjolras corrected, still studying the sculpture. "Nisus could have fled, but he went back when he realised he had lost him. He wanted to die in his place, but the enemy stabbed Euryalus; Nisus flung himself upon them, and died at his side."

Grantaire felt that familiar anxious feeling take root in his chest again, the same fear that seized him each time he thought of losing Enjolras. The dead youth did bear some resemblance to him – his symmetrical, cherubic face and mane of curls; his full mouth open as his features slacked in death. The veins in the marble across the youth's nose and forehead reminded him of the new freckles and uneven tan on Enjolras's face.

He swallowed, and clenched his fists to ground himself, breathing slowly, staring at the youth's lithe, lifeless body, white marble worked into fragile, tragic beauty. There was some translucent, milk glass quality to it, light shining through their joined fingers.

He felt something brush against the back of his left hand; felt Enjolras's fingers curl around his littlest finger as he unclenched his hand in surprise, then Enjolras's fingers were intertwined with his own; his hand pressed against Grantaire's, gently at first, then more firmly as Grantaire looked down at their joined hands. There wasn't anyone else in this particular part of the gallery, but it shocked him that Enjolras had been so bold as to show affection in so public a place.

Enjolras wasn't looking at him – he was still looking at the statue, but he squeezed Grantaire's hand with his own in a gesture of private reassurance. He gave the statue one final glance over, from the tip of Nisus's helmet to Euryalus's splayed feet, then released Grantaire's hand.

"Shall we go to the Musain now?" he said, with a hint of familiar impatience. It was a little early still, but Grantaire wouldn't say no; he would follow Enjolras wherever he wished to go – in death, if it came to it.

-

Enjolras had enjoyed spending time in the gardens with Grantaire – it was not so different to spending time working together in their room, but he had found the change of scenery refreshing.

He still did not quite understand the appeal of many of the artworks they had seen inside the palais; it all looked competently executed, but he felt no connection to most of it. He hadn't expected anything too radical from the state's own most prestigious collection, but the statue of the lovers had surprised him. It intrigued him – there was a certain tenderness embodied in the way Nisus clutched Euryalus's hand that even he recognised, despite the statue depicting the moment of their deaths.

Grantaire had clearly been moved by it, too. He had not known quite what to make of the obvious turmoil behind Grantaire's troubled expression and uncharacteristic silence, but he had tried to offer him reassurance in as explicit a manner as he could without drawing unwanted attention.

He wanted to kiss him again – in part because it had worked to soothe Grantaire where his words hadn't before, and in part for his own satisfaction.

They were the first to arrive at the Musain that evening, as he had anticipated they would be. He lit a few candles and set out his papers while he waited for Grantaire to return from the café's main chamber with their wine, gathering his thoughts for the meeting ahead. He hadn't found much hope within their pages, but there were some details he wished to discuss with the others to see what his friends might make of them; fate would provide them with opportunity in time, but there was no guarantee he would be the one to recognise it when it came.

He looked up as Grantaire entered, still leaning over the spread of newspapers on the table before him. Grantaire's hair looked ruddy in the dim light; he was clean shaven as of that morning, and wearing a bottle green waistcoat that emphasised the reddish tones further. He was holding a bottle of wine in one hand and two empty cups in the other. He set the cups down when he reached the table, uncorked the bottle and poured the first measure, which he held out for Enjolras to take.

Enjolras took it from him and put it down beside the other, then took the bottle from Grantaire's loose grip and set it beside them. He reached for the collar of Grantaire's waistcoat, curled his fingers around it and pulled him closer. 

Grantaire turned quiet and stiff the way he did at first whenever Enjolras initiated their intimacy, frozen in place with Enjolras bearing down on him – he exhaled shakily through his nostrils when Enjolras's lips met his, but opened his mouth willingly when Enjolras pressed his tongue to his lips, kissing him back with the same unhurried lassitude that had defined their day thus far. He felt Grantaire's hands rise to embrace him, to stroke the length of his spine, caressing. 

Such gentleness wasn't exactly what Enjolras had been aiming for; it was pleasant, but wanting to kiss him all the way to Musain had fired him up beyond such chaste restraint. He used his hips to press Grantaire more urgently into the table's edge behind them, which made him groan into Enjolras's mouth; his hands dipped lower, stroking over Enjolras's backside – grasping. Enjolras's hands were still fixed to Grantaire's lapels, pulling him into the kiss. 

They broke for air just in time to notice the door to the street begin swinging open. Enjolras had a split second to appreciate the hazy, desiring look in Grantaire's eyes as he swiped the back of his palm against his mouth and tugged the hem of his waistcoat back into position. 

Grantaire's mouth was very red; there was spit shining on his lower lip, and a flush to his smooth cheeks. Enjolras felt certain that he was bright red himself, but no matter. 

Bossuet entered with Joly on his heels, and gave them one shared glance over from head to toe, grinning. "Should we come back later?" 

"No, that's not necessary," Enjolras said. He straightened his cravat as Grantaire smoothed his own rucked clothing back into order.

"Foiled in my romantic endeavours by you again, Lègle," Grantaire said, throwing his hands up in feigned despair. "Still, at least you won't be sweeping my damsel off her feet in my place this time."

"That's true enough," Bossuet said, still beaming. "He would have to be at least a foot shorter for me to do the sweeping."

Enjolras smiled at his friends, then set about sorting through the papers for the articles he wished to bring to others' attention while Grantaire poured himself a glass of wine, and sat conversing with the others. Some time later he noticed, out of the corner of his eye, Bossuet kissing the back of Joly's hand. 

When they had all assembled the talk turned serious once more; Enjolras appreciated this duality inherent to all of them – warmth and camaraderie coupled with an ability to turn their focus towards a singular goal when it counted. 

La Tribune had reported 15 deaths due to the cholera in Paris the previous day. Almost every paper was printing their own tally of the disease's death toll now, alongside news of its politically significant victims – Casimir Perier was already dead, and General Lamarque's condition was increasingly frail. The ultraroyalist stirrings in the Vendée continued, too far away to be of much use to them.

"I've received an open invitation to the funeral of Évariste Galois through a mutual friend in the Société des amis du peuple," Prouvaire said, presenting a slip of paper with the appointed place and time written on it. "It's tomorrow; second of June, departing at eleven thirty from the Cochin hospice."

"Galois is dead?" said Joly. His voice was higher than usual, audibly shaken. "Didn't his sentence end only last month?"

"He was killed in a duel the day before yesterday – I don't know what for," Prouvaire said, sounding sober. "But I think some of us ought to go and pay our respects to a fallen brother."

Enjolras did not know how well any of them had known the man – he knew the young mathematician and vocal republican only by reputation, and through poring over the details of every trial of their brethren with Courfeyrac for any lessons they might learn from them.

"Let's all go," said Bahorel, straightening a little in his seat from his previous sprawl beside Prouvaire. "Let's see if a reminder of their mortality doesn't whet the appetite for a little trouble among all these men of letters and diatribes. A funeral is as good an excuse for a riot as any other occasion."

"No," Enjolras said, a caution rather than an order.

"Why not?"

"They've invited every republican in Paris to meet in one place; Louis-Philippe's ministers have already proved themselves willing to invoke article 291 against assemblies larger than twenty men. The Sûreté will surely be watching," Combeferre said, voicing Enjolras's concerns for him. 

"They can't arrest us for going to a funeral, surely," said Joly. "Galois had his friends in the National Guard; that ought to be enough to scare them out of provoking a fight." 

"They will if we hand them a justification to," Enjolras said, laying out his reasoning so that his caution might be understood. "We shouldn't take unnecessary risks at this stage. The numbers won't be enough; Galois is well liked enough in republican circles, but his name means nothing to the people at large. It isn't worth the risk of getting arrested now; that won't achieve anything."

Joly's expression turned from earnest to openly unhappy, but he held his tongue. Prouvaire looked as though he was steeling himself for further dissent. 

"Shouldn't we make a good showing? Strengthen our bonds with our allies and all that – on our best behaviour, of course." That argument came from Grantaire, from his seat beside where Enjolras stood; he sounded calm, and clear-purposed. "For all the Sûreté need to know we are his fellow scholars and men of science. That ruse should be easy enough for all of us to play to convincingly, provided they don't ask me to sit an examination in mathematics to prove myself."

Enjolras turned his head to glance at him in surprise – it was a fair point, though not one he entirely agreed with. It wasn't a level of good faith disagreement on the matter at hand that he had expected to come from Grantaire's lips – an articulation of hope, no matter how casually his words had seemed to come.

"I can't go," Enjolras said, bending, as much at the shock of finding Grantaire against him as at the specifics of his friends' disagreements. "I'm known to them already. It will still be a small enough gathering that any one of us might be identified."

"All the more reason for those of us that won't stand out to go; it's easier for a man to hide himself in numbers." Grantaire again – employing logic against him, of all things.

"It's not a good idea for us all to gather in one place so publicly, but some of us could go still," said Courfeyrac, finding the middle ground and occupying it with subtle diplomacy. "We should show our support to our allies, if we're able to."

Enjolras looked to Feuilly, who opened his palms and shrugged. "I didn't know the man," he said. "This isn't my sphere."

At his other hand Combeferre looked stiff and uncomfortable, which commonly meant he was having difficulty deciding which course of action he thought was best. 

He looked to Grantaire again. He did not look any different to how he had in the gardens earlier, aside from his askew cravat. He was smiling placidly with a glass in his hand, utterly at ease. It was nice to see him in agreement with the others; pleasing to hear him speak in favour of making an effort.

It wasn't his plan, but he did appreciate the merits of it, such as they were – and he wouldn't forbid those that did know the man the chance to mourn a friend.

"Be careful," he said. "Don't stay if they start making arrests." 

He trusted them all to do what was right, but he would preach calm and calculated action all the same. Their chance would come, and for that they should save their efforts. Things could not persist as they were, but the call to arms had to resonate for the people to rise with them. 

-

The next morning felt like the first true day of summer. Grantaire woke at what felt like the crack of dawn as light flooded their chambers through the slats in the shutters. Enjolras's body was pressed to his back, and his arm was wrapped tightly around Grantaire's stomach, fixing him in place in the kind of full-bodied embrace that made Grantaire afraid to move, loath as he was to wake him or put an end to the blissful contentment of being held by him. 

He lay like that, enjoying the warmth of the embrace and the soft tickling sensation as Enjolras's breath lifted the hairs on the back of his neck, eyes closed against the sunlight, daydreaming.

In time, Enjolras stirred behind him; his arm tightened around Grantaire's belly for a moment, then released him slowly. His breath changed from the soft whisper of sleeping to silent. His body fell away behind him, and Grantaire rolled over to face him, no longer entangled. 

Enjolras's eyes fluttered briefly open, then closed again, squinting against the early morning daylight. Grantaire's heart flickered fondly in his chest at the sight of him on his back, scowling at the ceiling. He reached out to cup one fair cheek, softly at first – he traced the line of his jaw and the hollow beneath his cheekbone with the tips of his fingers. When he reached the softly-parted line of Enjolras's lips, Enjolras stirred again – there was a flash of pink as he flicked the tip of his tongue against the pad of Grantaire's thumb; the corners of his mouth quirked into a private smile. 

Grantaire let out a sharp breath through his nose, and took it for the permission to kiss him that it had seemed. Enjolras's eyes remained closed to the harsh sunlight, but he wrapped his arms around Grantaire's shoulders and pulled him in, sinking further into the mattress beneath as Grantaire rose onto his elbows to lean over him. 

They kissed like that, shallow and lazy, until Enjolras finally sighed, slackened his grip against the back of Grantaire's neck and opened his eyes, which were bright and clear. 

They gazed at each other for a moment, locked in a loose embrace and the tangle of the sheets. He felt Enjolras stroke his thumb against the soft skin at the nape of his neck, feather-light, but enough to send a shiver of pleasure down Grantaire's spine – then Enjolras was pushing himself away from the bed to kiss him again, pressing him onto his back with the hidden strength Grantaire knew him to be capable of, and Grantaire beamed with delight as he let Enjolras overwhelm him.

When they rose at last Grantaire opened the shutters and the window to a canopy of vibrant green below and a blue sky overhead that held only a few scattered wisps of cloud. The tips of the longest branches of the tree were within touching distance; the earliest of the spring leaves had just begun to wilt, dappled with flecks of yellow and brown beside their newer counterparts. 

Breakfast was stale bread softened by the leftover soup from the night before. The porter arrived in the middle of it with some letters for them; Enjolras took his to the writing desk after breakfast, while Grantaire opened his sketchbook with the intent to begin his day's work by drawing him. 

"Didn't you want to go to the funeral today?" Enjolras asked, when he was midway through the pile of missives that had arrived and Grantaire had yet to rise from his chair.

He didn't particularly wish to go. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, and it seemed right that the others should, but Grantaire hadn't known the man himself. He would rather be wherever Enjolras was – a pitiful and sentimental impulse to be sure, but it had never damaged his pride to admit to himself that his world revolved around a single shining centre. So long as Enjolras did not mind it, he'd rather be with the man he loved.

"I would rather stay in," he said, watching Enjolras's features for signs of disapproval. "I'd like to revise some of my sketches from the park yesterday." 

It felt like an excuse as he said it, but Enjolras seemed to accept his answer for the truth that it was without judgement.

They worked alongside each other for most of the morning, as they had so often these past months. By noon Grantaire's stomach was gurgling with hunger, loudly enough that Enjolras heard it, and looked up.

"I have time to get us some luncheon. What would you like?" he asked, stretching in his chair and turning his bright gaze upon him.

Grantaire considered; he had not been keeping track of the hour, but it must be past noon already if his stomach was complaining of its emptiness so loudly. He watched Enjolras massage the wrist of his writing hand as he considered the question, and thought of Enjolras's hands on him; he'd had a hankering for galettes again that morning, but did not wish to send Enjolras too far out of his way. 

"I'll have whatever you prefer," he said. Enjolras smiled at him and nodded in return.

He continued sketching while Enjolras finished dressing, if only to distract himself from the acuteness of his hunger, which was beginning to feel much the same as a morning after too much wine. He rose as Enjolras was about to depart to kiss him on the cheek and press some coins into his palm, then set about making more coffee to be ready for him when he returned, fetching their plates and wiping their cups clean with a damp cloth. They hadn't needed to light the fire for warmth the previous night. Grantaire lit one to warm the kettle over, small enough that it wouldn't alter the refreshing coolness of the room, which was already pleasant by contrast to the hot, still air outside the open window.

He washed and finished dressing while he waited for the kettle to boil; Enjolras's comb lay beside the wash basin still, a few silk threads of blond hair clinging to its teeth. He left them there, and used his own to comb out the knots in his hair until it was smooth and presentable instead of lifeless and snarled. He did not feel like shaving this morning – tomorrow, maybe. Enjolras had never seemed to mind the roughness of his cheeks when he didn't.

The cloth that hung from the rail beneath the basin was wet on one side – he turned it over to dry his face and hands just as the kettle began to whistle, a shrill sharp note that interrupted the silence of Enjolras's absence.

He had only just set the cafetiere to brew on the table before him when he heard the click of boots on the stairs, sooner than anticipated – a hurried, loping run, not Enjolras's usual silent, measured steps. He burst into the room seconds later, the skirt of his coat billowing behind him and a pink flush high on his cheeks, breathing heavily. Grantaire straightened up, drinking in the curious sight of him looking so flustered – he looked as though he had taken all three flights of stairs at the same pace. He had seen Enjolras flushed before, but never as urgent and breathless as he seemed now.

There was nothing in his hands but a piece of paper clutched tightly to his chest, which was a further anomaly. On his face was an expression that Grantaire had never seen before, and it was that look that pierced through him, fixing him where he stood – unearthly – the rapt look of the sibyl at the temple of Apollo transfixed by a vision, crystalline and eternal. It scared him. Exhilarated him.

"This is it," Enjolras said, stone-eyed and shining.

"What?" Grantaire said, hearing the alarm in his own voice; he had no concept of what he should make of so strange an apparition. His palms were sweating with nerves; his heartbeat had quickened. "What is it, Enjolras?" 

"Opportunity." 

Enjolras strode forward, his chest still heaving with the exertion of his ascent – and, possibly, anticipation. He thrust the piece of paper in his hand out for Grantaire's inspection. 

Grantaire took it, with the leaden weight of dread bearing down on him. He unfolded it with shaking hands; it was a message, in Courfeyrac's elegant hand:

'Lamarque succumbed to cholera. Funeral arranged 5th June. All citizens of republican sympathies encouraged to join the cortège.'

He felt bile rising in his throat, not through hunger this time but through the terror gripping his body. He almost didn't hear for the blood pounding in his ears when next Enjolras spoke:

"Can you shoot?" 

He had never shot at anything other than broken crockery before, and never felt compelled to start, but, in theory – yes; though the thought of taking aim at someone made the tremor in his hands grow violent enough the Enjolras must have been able to see it.

Perhaps he could hold Enjolras's gun for him instead – reloading it should be within his capability; could buy him precious seconds more with Enjolras at his side. 

He swallowed. His voice wavered when he spoke: "I don't have the stomach for killing."

"Then I won't ask it of you." His voice was without inflection, calm and rational.

He felt trapped with Enjolras towering over him, glowing coal-hot and impersonal. 

"There are other ways to help," Enjolras stated, as though it were that simple. As though Grantaire's world hadn't just fallen away beneath his feet.

"How many will come?" he asked, despairing.

"A few thousand at least, once word spreads." How could Enjolras speak so stoically of this? "He was popular among the people – many will be inspired to join us."

Grantaire said nothing in response, gazing at the message in his hand in horror, pen strokes spelling out his worst fears in grey ink and delicate letters.

"You will join us?" Enjolras said, and his voice was his own again – hopeful, and excited.

Grantaire raised his chin to look at him properly at last – into those clear, beloved eyes. There was a fierceness behind them, but in them too was all the warmth and affection he was capable of giving. He had never been capable of saying no to him. He had never wanted to. Even now, he had no doubts as to his own answer, despite his fears. He would follow him anywhere. 

There was something familiar about that fierce warmth too – it was a look that Enjolras had turned on him before, the first time he had kissed him, in the Musain only a day ago and countless times in between. They were one and the same in him – love. How fitting it was that he should realise just how boundless Enjolras's capacity for it was in the same moment as he realised that Enjolras loved him. 

"Yes. Of course I will."

Enjolras smiled, unleashing the full force of those dimples and pearl-white teeth. He placed both hands on Grantaire's shoulders and pulled him to his chest by the collar of his waistcoat, and kissed him. Grantaire sighed into the kiss, closing his eyes on the dampness that was forming in their corners. He wrapped both arms around Enjolras as tightly as he could, with Courfeyrac's message crushed inside his closed fist.

Enjolras was kissing him as though he was trying to kiss all the passion and excitement that had driven him this far into him – as though he could bestow them on Grantaire through the pressure of his mouth alone. Grantaire clung to him, kissing him back with all the desperation and terror he felt, trying to make sense of it all. He wanted so desperately to let Enjolras convince him. Enjolras's hands were in his hair – his body was pressed flush to Grantaire's, closer than skin to skin despite their clothing. He tasted of coffee still, bittersweetness with something human beneath it. His back was warm and firm beneath Grantaire's hands, and wide – always so much broader than Grantaire expected. 

Perhaps they would succeed, or at least shift the needle on the compass that pointed towards the future enough to say that it was worth it. Grantaire had long marvelled at his eloquence with words, but he had never truly believed them until this very moment – something about the way Enjolras kissed him drove the sincerity in them home in the way his speeches never had. 

He lost himself in the intensity of the kiss, as Enjolras put his arms around his shoulders again and held on tight. He wanted to let Enjolras's certainty overwhelm him, suffuse him like fire in his veins, that vital force that had first drawn him to Enjolras pouring out of him and into Grantaire as he kissed him. He wanted that fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, they would make the course of history bend to their will. The future wasn't set in stone – it was up to them to try to set its course on a different path. The collective might of the people, the print workers, the national guard and the coteries like theirs had overthrown Charles X's government only two years ago, and while the changes had not been as drastic as any of them had hoped for, things had changed – proof that success was possible, no matter how small the odds.

When Enjolras broke the kiss to catch his breath Grantaire curled his arms around his waist, leaning against him. He let the crumpled piece of paper fall and pressed his palm to the small of Enjolras's back, holding him tight. Enjolras embraced him in return; there was still a tension in his body that spoke of future action, but he seemed content to rest a moment longer.  

Either way, at least he would be with Enjolras; that was all that mattered, in the end. 

There was much to do to prepare – they took their luncheon in the Musain instead, then spent the rest of the day meeting with the others, running messages back and forth and counting guns and allies. When they at last collapsed into bed together they were both too fired up for sleep to come.  

Their combined weight made the mattress dip in the centre, tilting them closer, face to face. It was warm beneath the blankets, both of them still hot and sweaty from their day's work, but too tired and too comfortable to do anything about it. Their legs were tangled together; the sheets were soft and cool against Grantaire's skin, and he could smell the honey-clean scent of Enjolras's hair above the smell of his own sweat. 

The room still held a comfortable warmth, lit by a single candle atop the bedside table. Grantaire gazed into Enjolras's clear eyes – glazed now with exhaustion, but still with a hint of determination in them. He stroked his cheek, and ran his thumb delicately over the scattered freckles across the bridge of his nose. His skin was still red in places from the day before, when they'd sat too long in the Luxembourg Gardens – it felt like weeks ago already, but the raw appearance of his skin proved otherwise.

"Does this hurt?" he asked, tracing the unblemished skin at the edges of the sunburn.

"Only a little," Enjolras said; he did not flinch at Grantaire's touch. "It's not so bad."

"We could get some ointment for it?" Grantaire said; the thought of Enjolras in pain, no matter how minor, still grieved him, no matter how indifferent Enjolras seemed to it. "That ought to soothe it."

"Maybe tomorrow, if there's time."

"I'll get some for you."

"Thank you."

Enjolras stretched beside him, then burrowed closer, but did not close his eyes yet. They lay in silence a while, entangled. Breathing. Enjolras's breath was becoming slower as the excitement that had driven him in perpetual action all afternoon finally released him into the arms of sleep.

He wasn't afraid any more – of what the future held, or of what he might have to do to reach it. He had witnessed the dedication of Enjolras and his friends long enough to know that they were as ready as they ever could be. His own place in all of it was here, at Enjolras's side. He would lie like this forever if he could – and for that he would fight with his last breath, if it came to it.

"What will you do, if we win?" Grantaire asked, allowing hope permission to settle in his thoughts again. Allowing himself to consider a future together, no matter how tenuous that hope was.

Enjolras pondered the question a while before he spoke, brow creasing into a frown as he considered his answer. 

"I haven't given it much thought," he said, still frowning. "I think I would like to go home for a while – that is, if you'll come with me."

Grantaire's heart clenched painfully in his chest, the weight of his love for him hitting him anew again – every time he thought he'd found the limits of his own capacity for it, Enjolras surprised him. 

"I would like that very much," he said. 

Enjolras smiled. He rose up until he was reclining on his elbows and leant over to extinguish the candle with the doubter hood beside it. When he lay back down he fumbled in the darkness; he pulled the blanket over them and laid his palm on Grantaire's chest, solid and reassuring.

Grantaire curled his fingers around it; he pressed Enjolras's hand to his breast, over his heart. He held it there as they drifted towards sleep. Enjolras's hand was warm and soft beneath his. Alive. 

Excerpt on the works of R. Grantaire (b. circa 1804–d. circa 1832)

Exhibited at the Musée de la Vie Romantique, Inner Lives and Lovers: Depictions of Intimacy and Experience Through the Early 19th Century

R. Grantaire was an early 19th century French painter, active for approximately a decade between 1822 and 1832. Few biographical details are recorded about him, but his earliest known works suggest a rural, middle-class upbringing in the midi. He is listed as a former pupil in the records of the Beaux-Arts de Paris, then called the École nationale supérieure des beaux-arts, France's most prestigious artistic school at that time. 

Many of his early and commissioned works demonstrate his mastery of the school's rigorous and conservative teaching methods, drawing on the artistic canons of Classical Antiquity and perfected through extensive life and figure drawing practice. The influence of the artist in whose atelier he completed the bulk of his training, renowned Neoclassical painter Antoine-Jean Gros (1771–1835), can also be seen in his choice of subject matter and in his use of colour, such as their shared preference for using red textiles as accentuating details.

The name with which the artist signed his work may be in part a pseudonym adopted when he moved to Paris and began his commercial career, as his earliest signed pieces omit the 'R' from his signature. No birth records for an 'R. Grantaire' of an appropriate date and locale have been found.

His later works show an experimentation with different styles, including the imaginative and emotive style favoured by the emerging Romanticism movement, and a pull towards the more true to life style that would later become known as Realism, of which he was an early pioneer.

Many of these works have been made available to the public for the first time thanks to the generosity of Mme. Virginie Gillot, direct descendent of the early 19th century philanthropist Charles-Ulric Gillot. Charles-Ulric Gillot is the subject of one of the artist's largest known works, a formal portrait of the sitter in his study; he was pleased with the result, and went on to acquire many more examples of the artist's work after commissioning him. M. Gillot made his fortune as a banker during the restoration years, and spent much of his wealth accumulating a collection of fine art and antiquities. After the failed June Rebellion of 1832, he became a vocal republican and prominent philanthropist, founding a series of free schools in his name and donating much of his collection to the nation.

As an artist, R. Grantaire is recognised for the sensitivity of his informal portraits, and for his sketches of daily life in Paris during the Second Bourbon Restoration through to the beginning of the July Monarchy. Many of his subjects can be traced across multiple images, suggesting they may have been members of the artist's social circle; in particular a group of young men appear many times, seen here in a selection of the artist's drawings. Some of these men have been identified as the subjects of individual works, such as the artist's unfinished history painting of Paris of Troy.

R. Grantaire's works are also a valuable source of images of women at work in this period, such as the oil sketch of a seamstress in a grey dress, a depiction of the contemporary cultural idea of the 'grisette'. His images of women undertaking domestic and service work (such as the drawing of a woman sweeping a courtyard, images of waitresses in cafés and the street sellers of flowers, chocolates and second hand clothing) are unusual for French artists in this period. They are rendered in a realistic style unlike the picturesque, chocolate-box images that became popular in the late 19th century. Also among his sketches are frank depictions of the daily lives of sex workers, half a century before Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec and his post-Impressionist peers would shock the establishment with their vivid images of Paris's 'Bohemian' underclass.

The first half of 1832 seems to have been a particularly prolific period in the artist's life. Many of his portraits and sketches from this period feature the same model, seen here in the striking portrait of a young man seated at a writing desk, among many others. The informality and unidealised nature of his portraits of this man, as well as their domestic setting, has led art historians to speculate as to the nature of the artist's relationship with his subject. The identity of the young man is unknown; he is identified only as a 'young student' in a letter written by the artist in December 1831, sent with an accompanying sketch of him.

Some have postulated a homosexual relationship, citing the intimacy and affection present in the portraits. The frequency with which the artist depicted this subject in a domestic setting, particularly in the sketchbooks dated to the first half of 1832, suggests the artist and his model likely lived together during this period. Other images dated to this period include oil sketches of his model in a housecoat and a watercolour of him reading in bed, rendered in a delicate and personal style. 

The exhibition's curator, Isabelle Chauviré, summarises their relationship thusly: 'While we can never truly know the thoughts and feelings of those that leave no trace of them behind, it is clear in this case from the warmth and tenderness present in the artist's depictions of his mysterious model that the subject was someone he loved.'