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Enjolras frowns at the empty corner. The abandoned chair obnoxiously still without its usual occupant balancing on its hind legs. The sticky table clear of glasses crowding half-finished games of dominoes and random sketches. That corner, usually the focus of every disturbance, has turned into a silent void, sucking the light and noise away, pulling his attention from important things.
Ever since the meeting began, Enjolras has been casting glances into that corner, as if he could fill the emptiness by sheer force of will. So far, he has failed, and his mood turns and shifts between barely contained panic, irritation, and anger.
In itself, an empty table is no cause for concern. The group isn’t as big as he would like, and many of their comrades skip a meeting or two when their studies or lovers claim their attention. If it were any other spot, he would accept it. Marius Pontmercy hasn’t graced them with his presence in a fortnight. And it seems Joly has fallen ill again. No, the problem is not an empty spot. The problem is that particular one. In two and a half years, that table has never been abandoned. Even before the official founding of Les Amis de l’ABC, their resident cynic had been there, as much a part of the Musain’s backroom as the pungent smell of tobacco. Now it has been three weeks without a sign of him.
He toys with the edge of a pamphlet, forces himself to keep his eyes on the map in front of him, to pay attention to Combeferre's explanations. His thoughts keep churning.
Monsieur Reynard Grantaire, Capital R as their friends call him, is a loud, obnoxious drunk that has no love for anything he can’t touch or see. He is a nuisance, a stubborn stone on the path of progress. A man incapable of believing in the good of people or seeing a future free of oppression and injustice. One ought to feel sorry for someone so wretched. One ought to be happy to be rid of him and his outrageously inappropriate, charming laughter.
Good-for-nothing gambler, Enjolras twists the words viciously in his mind, forces himself to remember that he finds the man offensive, with his endless doodling and his outlandish stories. We’re better off without him distracting the members of Les Amis away from serious matters.
He was glad during that first meeting without Grantaire. It went smoother than ever, arguments and shouting matches were kept to a minimum. They organized a rally in a fraction of the time it usually took. Afterward, Enjolras arrived home rested, his head wasn’t pounding, and he even managed to put in a few hours of schoolwork before bed. For the first time in years, he hadn’t been exhausted after fighting the obtuseness of a man who should have drowned in his alcohol a long time ago.
One week. His reprieve lasted one week.
Enjolras has never been particularly apt at levity, not even as a child. He doesn’t know how to smith a joke or ease the tension in the room; can’t interpret the subtle non-verbal cues from his fellow citizens. When he’s overexerting his friends, it falls to someone else to take charge and smooth the air. That someone is Grantaire since he can’t wait to end political discussions. Without him, the stress at meetings has become a constant itch at the back of their minds. A glaring reflection of Enjolras’ shortcomings.
Not only that, but he feels unmoored, tense. His temper simmers, barely under control, as worry eats at his guts. He has too much energy left in the evenings, so he spends his nights tossing and turning, bent over half-composed pamphlets, squinting in the dim candlelight at sentences that fail miserably to convey the point. He finds himself staring at legal texts, unable to take anything in. If he continues as is, he will fall behind in his studies, as well as make an error that may cost the revolution dear.
By the third week, he feels ready to explode.
The meeting ends with the skeptic failing to make an appearance, and Enjolras fists his hands inside his coat pockets, wrangling his anger down until he has parted ways with the last of his friends.
He has probably found better company, Enjolras thinks mercilessly, ignoring the queer twist in his chest. He must have finally tired of people so unlike himself and gone to some other café for people of his persuasion.
As he makes his way up the stairs of his home, Enjolras pictures Grantaire at the Corinth, surrounded by like-minded people. Men of art and passion, with so much fire in their hearts, they glow, and at the very center, Grantaire, with his wide smirk and mischievous green eyes. It is better this way, he tells himself. At least that would be better than the grim alternatives. The worst part is that he doesn't know.
Enjolras doesn’t remember meeting Grantaire. He knows Joly started bringing him along. But Enjolras only noticed him the first time the man antagonized him: loud laugh, wine bottle clasped loosely in his paint-streaked fingers, eyes sharp and cunning. “Your republic failed us once already; what makes you think it won’t crumble again within the decade?” Enjolras had argued his points and then continued to rebuke the man’s pessimism for the next two and a half years. That has been the nature of their relationship. Grantaire and Enjolras have nothing in common, share no interests, and can barely exist within earshot of the other without fighting. With most of their friends, the skeptic has some common ground: with Prouvaire, their love of beauty; with Bahorel, their interest in boxing; and with Bossuet, their love of Joly. What could Enjolras possibly share with a man that exists to gorge himself in art and all things carnal?
“Alas, Apollo knows only righteousness,” his skeptic has said on occasion, voice dripping with barbed sarcasm, “and has no time for the sweetness of wine or the softness of a lover’s embrace. Truly, a paragon of virtue the rest of us humans can only admire from down below!” The artist may lack many things, but eloquence is not one of them. He is a weaver of words, twisting sentences into beautiful labyrinths full of references and poisonous thorns. Talking to him often feels like willingly walking into a trap, waiting for a punch to come out of nowhere and leave him wheezing for air.
“Good riddance,” Enjolras growls into the darkness of his room, glaring angrily at the ceiling. “I hope you finally find a semblance of a purpose, you stupid, stupid man.”
But that is the problem, isn’t it? Grantaire isn’t stupid. He is a defeatist and a pessimist, but behind his boisterous nature is a mind sharp as a knife. Even deep in his cups, his eyes spear through Enjolras’ carefully crafted walls, lay bare every secret he’s tried so hard to hide. He has a way of noticing things, of knowing what Enjolras' rather he didn't know.
Maybe that is why he left, whispers a chilling voice in the back of Enjolras’ mind. How could someone like Grantaire tolerate one who is but the shadow of a man? Who would want an empty puppet for a friend? The words leave a foul taste in the back of his throat; angry tears prickle his eyes.
“Damn you!” he shouts, unsure whether he is cursing Grantaire or himself.
He turns this way and that on the mattress. Kicks the blankets off. Turns the pillow. Takes a deep breath. Another. He’s too restless to sleep. His thoughts have turned into a dog chasing its own tail. His heart pounds against his ribs. Energy makes his skin itch. He wants to run somewhere. Enjolras fists his hands into the sheets. Counts down from one hundred frowning up at the ceiling. In the darkness he can’t see the peeling paint in the corner. At 74 he stops counting, sits up and pulls the blankets back up. He forces himself to stay put under the comforting weight, to recite what he can remember from the afternoon’s lecture. His mind keeps going back to the matter of his missing cynic, conjuring gruesome images that make his skin crawl. His hands ache with how hard he’s clawing at the covers. He turns to the side, stares at the neat shadows of his room: the organized bedside table, the towel neatly folded by his washstand. Eventually, laying in bed becomes unbearable.
With a frustrated growl, he kicks his covers off and stands. Enjolras dresses jerkily in the dark and leaves his rooms quietly, tiptoeing down the creaky staircase to avoid waking anyone in the silent house. It is late enough to be considered early, and the streets are plunged in the deepest black that precedes the sunrise. Paris is a slumbering giant at this hour. The bustle and excitement turned into a sighing, murky quietness, the bright edges if the buildings dulled into deep black pools and the flickering yellow of the street lamps. Everything looks dreamy and unreal at this hour.
He doesn’t usually venture out this late, but walking the winding streets of his beloved city has often comforted him when his mind is alight with doubts and lacerating words. Laced in the night chill, the air helps organize his troubled thoughts.
Enjolras doesn't concern himself with topics like love and beauty. He understands God didn't intend them for him, and there is little point in picking at them. Why would he? Let Grantaire and Bahorel speak of matters of carnal love; let Marius daydream of the curl of a lady's smile and Prouvaire wax poetic about beauty. Enjolras can't contribute, and can barely grasp what they speak of sometimes, so he tries not to think about it. Logic is on his side: why would he waste his time with things God decided he was unworthy of? But this route doesn't always keep the despair at bay, and he sometimes finds himself forced to stare at his incomplete self until he's drowning in ranger, shame, and petty jealousy. It has been a long time since he got stuck pondering his lack of humanity.
He remembers the excruciating process of explaining his failings. Enjolras had been a teen, shamefaced and trembling, with his hands twisted in his nightshirt and unable to look into Jamie's eyes for fear of what he may see in them. The answer he got had been said in a quiet, confused whisper, his friend's hand a searing unwanted weight hight on his thigh. "You must feel something," Jamie had said. "Everyone has stirrings. It's what makes us men."
Enjolras kicks a stone across the pavement, watches it roll and skip, the scratching sound thundering in the empty street. Somewhere in the distance the rattle of a coach drawing nearer.
Jamie had been the only one Enjolras ever needed to explain himself to. He was the first one to make Enjolras wish he was complete. An infatuation born in the isolation and loneliness of the Scottish boarding school he had attended. It never should have happened. A fluke, Enjolras had thought. Yet, almost ten years later, it is still easy to recall the warmth he felt around beautiful and sweet Jamie, the thrill in his chest whenever he looked up to see Jamie standing across the room. How he couldn't tear his eyes from those copper curls, how proud he felt when he managed to put a knowing smirk on his face, the anticipation he felt when they met alone in the middle of the night, the thrill of having him all to himself. The unbearable pain when he left.
Enjolras had been ashamed and angry at himself. For Jamie, he wanted to be whole, to understand the yearning Jamie felt. He had wanted to be man enough for him, just like he would like to be man enough for Grantaire.
Enjolras fists his hands in his pockets, relishing in the bite of his nails in his palms.
“What’s wrong, Apollo? Do these love bites insult your sensibilities?” his cynic said once, so drunk, he could barely stand, his sharp wit dulled to almost nothing and still so true in its aim. They had been alone; the rest of les Amis already retreated to their respective quarters. Grantaire had been in his shirtsleeves, his cravat stuffed carelessly into his pocket and the shirt open, proudly parading half a dozen bruises peppered over his neck and chest.
Enjolras had tried rolling his eyes, tried to come up with something witty to put him in his place. To tell him he didn’t care if he bedded all of France. But the words were lodged in his throat, his jaw clenched so hard, his teeth hurt. Jealousy was an angry beast in his chest, and how pathetic was that? To be jealous of Grantaire's lovers while not wishing to participate in any of his carnal frolickings. “I have higher concerns,” Enjorlas had said because his work was the only thing he could use as a shield, his only protection against that queer desire to feel Grantaire's arms around him. He had a duty to Patria and his fellow citizens to do what he could to make things better; that was what he was good at, what God had designed for him. Everything else was for others to enjoy, and thus unimportant to him.
He can still recall the pattern of bruises on Grantaire's tan skin.
“Of course. I wonder, do you ever get lonely, or is human company too lowly for you to miss?” His infuriating artist had said because he could never contain his barbs, and his forest eyes see so much more than he should.
“Why are you still here if our cause is so unimportant? Why waste your time with things that don’t concern you?”
“My friends are here.” But that was a lie, and they both knew it. Les Amis had already left for the night, they were the last two, Enjolras busy stuffing books away and the artist absently sketching a white-knuckled fist on a coffee-splattered piece of paper.
“They are not anymore.”
Grantaire had opened his mouth and, for one breathless moment, Enjolras thought he would say you are still here, and his heart gave a happy little squeeze. Instead, Grantaire's expression had hardened and turned into something cruel and dangerous. A leering that reminded him of that hand on his leg, suddenly heavy and unwanted, traveling up. His smile had been poison and the way he shaped the words made him feel sick: "Just admiring the view."
When Combeferre and Courfeyrac talk about their lovers, they always speak of the fire in their loins. Marius Pontmercy speaks of the swelling in his heart, the quickening of his breath, and how the world makes sense when he is in the presence of his beloved. Bossuet and Joly both speak of their Musicheta as if she were the one to hang the sun in the sky each morning and can barely keep their hands to themselves when she joins them at the Musain: pulling her onto their laps, lavishing her with kisses and caresses that sometimes border on the obscene. Enjolras has never felt any of that.
Instead, he chokes up when he hears Grantaire’s roaring laughter, thrills at the possibility of a match of wits, feels important when the full force of his skeptic’s rhetorical prowess is aimed at him. He itches to feel the man’s hand on his shoulder, to bury his nose in the curve of his neck and breathe him in. He wants those bright, clever eyes on him, making him feel precious.
Much like he did with Jamie back when he was a teen, he feels lighter with Grantaire around, stronger; his mind quietens, and his thoughts come easily. He looks forward to seeing him, and satisfaction blooms in his chest whenever Grantaire agrees with him. He puts an effort into looking as put together as possible because Grantaire likes to look at beautiful things and has often showered Enjolras with praise. Grantaire has a particular way of looking at Enjolras that makes him feel admired and beautiful. He catches it sometimes out of the corner of his eye. It's usually when he has put some effort into his appearance, ensured his hair is not as tidy as he likes, and chosen a certain jacket or waistcoat - never the dark green or the purple one his mother gave him for his birthday. He feels himself preen under the attention, ridiculous as it may be, his ego stoked in a way that may be almost sinful. The look is not in that cruel, leery thing he sometimes hurls at him, but something soft and gilded in a spark of admiration: hands tightening around the table's edge, mouth going slack.
This infatuation makes no sense. Last time, his feelings grew over a field of friendship. Jamie was joyful, enthusiastic, full of projects and life, with a smile that could brighten the rainiest of days. For all his jokes and boisterousness, though, Grantaire believes in nothing. He is ruthless in his skepticism except when he’s kind to the gamins, dispassionate, but for those things that make his friends laugh. He is sharp and can be cruel, but never when he's lost in the movement of charcoal and his edges shatter. When he's truly immersed in his work, his artist looks free and unbothered, the tension bleeding from his shoulders, the corners of his mouth pulled up, a small crease between his eyebrows. Nothing is as beautiful to witness as Grantaire painting.
Enjolras stares down at the Seine. Its black waters glint in the moonlight. His friends would probably comment on how the reflected lamplight looks like stars or wax poetic at the silver moon. To him, it’s just water, just light. The sound is calming, the ripple of light mesmerizing. He takes a deep breath and tries to put his thoughts in order.
Everyone has stirrings; it is what makes us men. A part of him wishes he could take Grantaire up on the challenge. When his gaze turns leery and dangerous, Enjolras wishes he could stand up to him and do whatever it is lovers do. He knows his skeptic doesn't discriminate regarding his conquests, has heard him boast enough times about his prowess and desire to make his partners see God or other such blasphemy. But that is where Enjolras falls short. Everyone has stirrings. Enjorlas has none. He has enough vanity to enjoy being admired but no desire to ever be touched, no inclination to touch another as a lover would. And still, he has the gall of feeling jealous whenever he sees Grantaire slinging his arms over Bossuet and Joly's shoulders; when he takes a lady and plants her on his lap. He has seen enough to know how one is supposed to behave, the things he is supposed to want and enjoy. His mere existence seems to be repellent for someone like Grantaire. How could he ever offer his feelings - small and infantile as they are - as something valid? What can he possibly offer when he isn't even fully human?
“Enjolras?”
The voice jerks him out of the dark spiral of his thoughts. He looks over his shoulder and, as if summoned, there Grantaire stands, a bag slung over his shoulder, wide mouth split into a toothy grin, hair disheveled, and dark rings under his eyes. A knot in Enjolras’ chest loosens at the sight of him.
“I knew it was you,” says his cynic, sauntering closer. “What brings you out this late?”
“I could ask the same of you.”
“I am going home after a delightful three weeks in Lyon,” there it is, a barb woven into his words that belies his broad smile and relaxed stance.
“You were out of town?”
“Did you miss me?” Grantaire’s smile feels dangerous, pulled sharp and teasing, his tone dripping with sarcasm. You couldn’t, that voice says, because that would make you a whole man, and you’re not.
“You disappeared without telling anyone.”
“Jolllly knew.” Enjolras looks away from the sudden frown on the skeptic’s face. Of course, Joly would have known. Bahorel and Jehan probably had as well. But Enjolras had not thought to ask. “I am sorry,” Grantaire says slowly, “I didn’t think you’d care. If I had, I would have sent word or asked Joly to tell you.”
“You’re one of les Amis. Of course, I care.”
They lapse into silence, Grantaire scratching at the side of his thumb with his forefinger as he’s wont to do when he is uncomfortable and doesn't have something to sketch on. Enjolras forces himself to stand still, and keeps all his worries and questions to himself. He wants to know what Grantaire had been doing, if he's thinking of moving back home, or-
“Let me make it up to you,” says his skeptic, tone light. “My quarters are not far, and I have some wine and food. We can have an early breakfast.”
Enjolras should refuse. He should go back home, and concentrate on all the things he dislikes about Grantaire, so that he can dislodge this stupid infatuation before it becomes a problem. He now knows why he was absent; he’ll see him soon enough at the Musain, where they’ll have the buffer of the rest of Les Amis.
“I wouldn’t want to impose. You must be tired from the trip.”
There are letters he should finish and court cases he should read. He should sleep. He should say he’s glad that the skeptic is back and bid him good night. It is too late to make house calls; his mother would be appalled.
“I can never sleep after a trip home. You would be doing me a service.”
He wants to see Grantaire’s rooms, wants to know about his family, and listen to him tell stories. What harm can come from sharing some food?
“Lead the way,” Enjolras says instead.
The first lights of the morning turn the city into something gray and mysterious, but it makes Grantaire's eyes look like deep dark forests. The artist gins a wide, open thing that makes his eyes crinkle and scrunches his crooked nose. It is not a handsome smile. Enjolras loves it regardless and hates himself for it.
They walk side by side towards the artist’s quarters, the man prattling on about the state of the roads and the Odyssey and how much he prefers ships to coaches. The sound is comforting, calming in a way. Enjolras lets the rise and fall of Grantaire’s voice sweep him away. Whatever his faults, his artist is a natural storyteller, turning his trip to Lyon into an incredible adventure, full of inconveniences that never become serious or worrying enough to sour the happy tone of the story.
Grantaire’s rooms are in the attic of a crumbling building at the end of a cul-de-sac not far from the Musain. They’re messy in the same chaotic way that everything the artist touches is. Bottles, papers, books, and canvases carpet the hardwood floor, cover the paint-splattered rugs, and swallow every flat surface. Sketches, half-finished oil paintings, and old engravings hang from the walls, crowded so close together that they flow into one incomprehensive mass. Glasses and brushes litter the dresser and mismatched tables. Books line the walls, pile around the under-stuffed couch, and support color palettes, plates, and wrinkled pamphlets. A piece of half-sculped marble is in a corner; an easel stands by the window. The dining table is as cluttered and chaotic as the rest of the space: trays and cutlery mingle among a set of dominoes, a green cravat, a bunch of strings, three white chess figures, and the bow of a fiddle. The space is warm, well-lived, and welcoming. Grantaire hasn’t so much touched it as swallowed it whole.
“Pardon the mess,” the skeptic says, dropping his bag by the door, opening a cupboard next to the rickety dresser, and fetching a wine bottle and two clean cups. He sets them on the table and produces some cheese and bread. “It’s good to be home."
While he wasn't looking, the skeptic has lost his jacket, and his cravat hangs untied around his neck. Enjolras imagines a world where they did this every night, where they live in rooms full of character and share the stories of their day in the flickering candlelight. Where they curl up in front of the fireplace: the sound of the hearth and Grantaire’s charcoals creating a cocoon for them both. Unbothered and untouched by his shortcomings and the struggles of the city. A safe place where he can look at this passionate man without fear of being ridiculed, where Grantaire doesn’t resent him for his lack of humanity and is content with resting his head on his shoulder and listening to him read.
“What took you to Lyon?”
“My sister’s wedding. She has found herself a suitably inoffensive groom, all soft-spoken candor and mild smiles. I met him over the past few weeks and couldn’t help imagining him coming to the Musain. You would’ve thoroughly destroyed him.” The man chuckles, leaning back in his chair, a relaxed smile curving his lips; his eyes are soft and half-lidded in a way that looks content instead of leering. “But he will be kind to my sister, which is all that matters.”
“Did you not enjoy the wedding?”
“What’s there not to enjoy?” Grantaire’s tone sharpens, he still looks relaxed, but there is wariness in his eyes. Enjolras tenses, uncertain. “There was wine, food, and dancing, all the things I love most in this world.”
“Do not forget the beautiful women,” Enjolras says, trying to lighten the mood, to distract Grantaire into a rant until he’s once more relaxed and unthreatening.
“And men,” Grantaire says, and it sounds like a threat. A challenge. The blood freezes in Enjolras’ veins. The dream he had conjured shatters. He hears the meaning behind the skeptic’s chuckle: Try to deny it, you coward. Try to wiggle out of it. Only half a man and a deviant at that. “Come now; it’s just the two of us here; no need to look so scandalized, Apollo.”
The name is a slap, and he swallows twice to dislodge the knot of bile in the back of his throat.
The room no longer feels inviting and warm but small and overly crowded. There is not enough air. He jerks to his feet, restless. He ought to go, but Grantaire’s chair blocks the way to the door. He paces the room's length, eyes flitting over the accusing faces on the walls, the rugs, the nicknacks strewn over the floor. The easel by the window holds the portrait of a sneering lady decked in pearls. The velvet of her dress looks so real he has to keep himself from reaching out. In the details, he recognizes Grantaire’s touch. Each brushstroke is infused with the same care and love the skeptic devotes to everything he enjoys. He wants to destroy it, tear it to pieces, and then punch the crooked, knowing smile off the artist's face. His temper is slipping, and he needs to get out before he loses his composure.
"I should leave," he tells the picture of the angry lady in pearls.
He doesn't understand what he has done now to provoke Grantaire's distaste. What the man has seen in his face to taunt him again, but he is tired of guessing and anger burns hot in his gut. His hands itch, and his skin feels too tight. There is a frustrated scream building in his chest, and Enjolras isn't sure how long he'll be able to keep it in. What have I done for you to hate me so? he wants to shout. Why is my existence such an affront to you? But he can’t, so he swallows the childish tantrum, digs his nails into the palms of his hands.
“Why?” The teasing tone has left Grantaire’s voice. When he turns, the skeptic stands, watching him with a deep frown.
“Because,” he growls through gritted teeth, “I will not stand here and have you mock me.”
“Mock you?” Grantaire laughs, and the last of Enjolras self-control snaps.
“I AM NOT BLIND! I may not be complete, but I can still see you looking at me as if I was beneath you. Apollo, the cold and unfeeling shadow of a man. How odd he is, how wrong, how he rejects passion and love and all things human. How he stares at us from on high. Well… I-I may not be whole. I may not be a man like the rest of you, but I am not without my pride, and I won’t take it any longer!”
For once in his life, Grantaire is stunned into silence. He stares at Enjolras with that deep frown around his mouth, hands open at his sides. Utterly still in the face of Enjolras’ restlessness. Always and forever his opposite. Enjolras wishes he could feel satisfaction at having rendered him mute. Instead, his stomach roils, his hands shake, and tears prickle his eyes. He’s choking, his heart beating too quickly, his lungs squeezed tight. It takes Grantaire several long moments to move again. Slowly, as if afraid to spook a wild animal, he takes half a step toward Enjolras. His green eyes flit down to his chest and back up. When he speaks, his voice is a shadow of his boisterous self. Enjolras hates it.
“What do you mean you’re not a man?”
“Don’t-”
“I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Oh, putain de merde. The bottom of his stomach drops, and if the room seemed small before, it has become a shoebox now, the walls pressing in on him. Enjolras stares at Grantaire, a mouse trapped in the shadow of a snake. The artist's confusion serves only to underly his mistake. Enjolras wants to flee, to pretend this night never happened. Because if Grantaire's taunts weren't intentional barbs to his failings before, they will be in the future. That is, if Grantaire doesn't finally reject his friendship, why wouldn't he? His skeptic already thinks low enough of Enjolras and talks about him as if he weren't human; what will he do once he has confirmation of the fact? He is desperate to move, yet there he stands. Rooted to the carpet, words crashing against his teeth, bubbling up, anxious, desperate, and incoherent. Enjolras' mind is in disarray; his nerves flayed, his fists shaking at his sides. Worst of all, a part of him wants to tell the secret. Wants to be rid of its crushing weight, wants to say "your teasing tears my heart out, please, just stop." He wants someone to understand how alien it is to be surrounded by people and not understand that vital part of their lives. How lonely it feels to see them happy in such a natural way and being forced to stand on the outskirts. Always by himself, the shadow of a person, an automaton, a scholar by divine design because what else does he have to offer? He wants Grantaire to know these things and not care. Enjolras cannot breathe; there isn't enough air in this parlor; he feels sick, what little bread he ate roiling in his stomach. His limbs shake, the churning of his thoughts pulling him in two contradictory directions and keeping him stuck in place. He is trapped in a sickening loop, he needs to leave, and he needs to do it now!
"Look, Enjolras; something is clearly wrong. I have upset you without meaning to-. My meaning is unimportant now. Something I said has upset you, and if there is one thing I don't want is to cause you pain." He takes Enjolras' shaking hands into his: square and broad, covered in bruises and dusted with charcoal. "Please, Enjolras, talk to me." His fingernails are bitten, the edges torn and jagged, there is a spalt of dry cerulean paint on his pinky. On the side of his left hand is a half-healed cut, long and thin, the edges a dark purple, a small scab, the white edges frayed.
Enjoras' mouth is dry, fear and shame graw at his insides. The impropriety of the situation makes him queasy. If he could wrap those lessons his mother beat into him about manners and appropriate topics of conversation around himself, he might be able to pull himself together, return to his rooms and stop making a fool of himself. But everything is a jumbled mess in his brain, and the only thing that seems real is the callouses of Grantaire's hands pressed against his fingers, the soft, regular strokes of the thick, stubbly thumbs over his knuckles.
There is a frown etched into Grantaire's warm green eyes. Something intense and unbearable, sharp like a knife trying to peel away the layers of his skin. Enjorlas drops his eyes back to their hands. Standing there, with his hands cradled so gently, he stands at the edge of a precipice, and if he opens his mouth, he will plunge into it. His words sound far-off and strange, not his own.
“I don’t want to be this-this facsimile of a person. I-I am not even broken; I am unfinished. T-there is a hole where my feelings should be. I know it seems I don’t care about anyone. You think I am cold and calculating and unfeeling, that I belittle you for your desires. That I may even find offense in what some of you do. But I don't. I know love and sex are natural things that make us human. The fire and passion and lust you share, I don't sneer at it. I envy you for it. I am incapable of feeling those things. I am empty, a doll of a human. What love I have is inadequate, small embers to the roaring fire you crave. I am puerile in my affections, incapable of satisfying a lover, and so, what do I have to offer? What contribution can I make? I do not stay apart because I think myself superior. I am not. I lack the purest of human feelings, the basest of animal instincts, and I am doing everything I can to make up for it, but it is never enough. I play at being human; I try so hard, I swear, but it I am a poor excuse of an actor, and everyone can see me fail. It feels like everyone is laughing at a joke I can't understand, and I-I can't take the judgment anymore. I am trying, I swear, I am trying to be better, to do enough, but I don't understand why nothing ever works. I am sorry. I don't know what I am doing wrong; I don't know how to be better. I am trying, I swear, I am sorry, but I swear I am trying-”
Grantaire jerks him forward, and the impact against his chest cuts off Enjolras' disorganized babbling. The artist's arms come around him, two steel bands clasping around his back. He feels the burn of one of Grantaire's square hands on his back, the other cradling the back of his head. The artist is somewhat shorter than Enjolras, and his head fits perfectly into the crook where his neck meets his shoulder. He smells of dust, horses, wine, and something acidic and familiar. Short fingers card through his hair in a motion so kind, It breaks Enjolras' heart.
"Whoever told you that you are not whole is a liar, Enjolras," Grantaire's voice is a deep angry rumbling against his ear. "Whatever you feel is human. You are and always will be enough.
Enjolras knows he should pull away, get his shaking limbs under control, swallow his tears for a more appropriate moment. But standing in Grantaire's rooms, utterly enveloped in his arms, he finds he is not strong enough to move. The first sob explodes out of his chest. It is a loud, undignified sound that echoes obscenely in the deafening silence. His cynic tightens his grip, fingers almost clawing into Enjolras' hair as if he could keep him together by sheer force of will. The thought, ridiculous as it is, drags another ugly sound out of his soul. He tries to bite back the noise to avoid embarrassing his friend with this pitiful display. But the hand in his hair is unraveling what little self-control he can wrangle, and the press of Grantaire's chest against him squeezes his heart until his hiccuped sobs escalate, and he is wailing into Grantaire's shoulder, his own hands fisted on the back of his waistcoat as if his life depended on it.
He isn't sure how long they stand there, only that when he finally lets go, he is wretched; his whole body hurts. There is a wet patch on the shoulder of his skeptic's shirt, and the silence is a loud ringing in his ears. Eventually, he pulls away from the savfe space between Grantaire's arms. He slumps into his abandoned chair, too ashamed to look the cynic in the eye. His mind is blessedly empty for once. Soon enough, every thoughtless word will come back to him, but for now, he just sits there, staring down at his own long, pale hands. A glass of water appears in one of them. He takes a sip and abandons it on the table, too tired to even hod it.
Grantaire moves haltingly about the room. He shifts the cups on the table, straightens a chair, fiddles with his cravat, clears his throat, takes a few steps to the bookshelves. Restless, agitated.
Desperate not to look at you, whispers a tiny voice in the back of his head. But it lacks much of its usual bite. It sounds tired, like his mother.
"I should leave," his voice is hoarse, wet.
He doesn't move. He can't. He is stuck to the chair, his useless hands abandoned on his lap, the fingers growing cold. His head is too heavy for his neck; his back refuses to straighten. He still can't breathe properly but doesn't have the strength to loosen his own cravat.
“I am sorry,” Grantaire says finally. “If I had known I- I never intended to cause you pain, Enjolras.” He takes a deep breath, lets the silence fall once again. In the distance, the city wakes, but here it is still quiet. The first rays of sunshine make the shadows look deeper. “Jolllly had been trying to convince me to come to the Musain for weeks. He would talk about all the important topics you discussed, the ardent desire for change, the reforms, the time invested in teaching letters to the less fortunate. I was relatively new to the city, and believe it or not, Jolllly was the first friend I had made. I didn’t want to dissuade him; your work is good, even if it sounded pointless. I kept my distance because what could I possibly bring to the discussions? What help could I provide? I knew I wasn’t cut out for that sort of fight. A perpetual student in the making. But then, Jolllly started speaking of you. He painted this picture of a pillar of passion and fire. Our good doctor is no poet, but he came alive with excitement whenever he talked of you, of your passion and your cunning and your ideas. I remember thinking no man is that pure. No man is that perfect. I was half convinced that you had seduced my good friend somehow, mesmerized him out of his wits. So I went to the Musain intending to prove our friend wrong. I armed myself as best I could to expose you as a sham, a hypocrite, a fool, or all three combined. Instead, I found -" He takes a deep breath through his nose. "I call you Apollo not because you are aloof and cold, not because you are out of touch, but because you are the sun itself. I will always remember the moment I lay eyes on you. The first time I heard you speak. I could recite verbatim everything you said that night, I swear.
"You say you are passionless? I never had faith until I met you. You stood in front of this motley band of students and workers and as soon as you opened your mouth, I became a believer. You say you are cold and unfeeling? You are Atlas! You carry the world on your back and if you could tear away all the weeds in Gods green Garden to make the world better for, you would be on your knees already. Christ! You are ready to lay down your beautiful life for the dream of a republic! What is there more human than that?
"Scraped empty of emotion you say? Have you seen your devotion to your fellow men? Your love for your friends? I know you care nothing for poetry and still will sit still for two hours while Jeahn practices his lines on you! You're learning Polish to teach it to Feuilly! You care so deeply for every one of us, and we can see and feel it every day. Why do you think we will follow you to the end of this dream of yours? I don't know who convinced you you are unworthy and inhuman, but if I spend the rest of my life reminding you that you aren't, it will be a life well lived."
The earnestness in Grantaire's eyes burrows under Enjolras' skin until he squirms.
The words are alien, as difficult to grasp as his usual rants on matters of art and theater. They ring hollow, a valiant effort to lift his spirits but ultimately false. Spoken with the same vehemence with which he rejects the idea of a successful Republic. Empty platitudes.
The man moves closer, loud prowling steps that catch his attention. He starts when his skeptic kneels in front of him. The morning sun casts a rainbow of color on his black curls, throwing his harsh features into stark relief. His wide mouth is set into a fierce line; his eyes blaze with a conviction he had never seen before. His heart flutters in his chest when Grantaire grasps one of his hands again.
"You don't believe me yet," he says. "That is alright. I won't tire of repeating myself until you do."
“After all, is there anything you love more than hearing yourself talk?” Enjolras tries to smile, to infuse his tone with some sort of levity, to brush the tight knot in his chest aside and bring some semblance of normalcy to their morning. He fails miserably, yet Grantaire barks a guffaw, loud and unguarded; the sound, undignified and hearty, heralds the morning. It glows in his artist's candor and warms Enjolras. Head pounding and exhausted as he is, he feels lighter as if a great stone had been lifted from his shoulders. He knows he shouldn't; he should be ashamed of burdening Grantaire with his ill-kept secret. Should feel ridiculous and embarrassed at his display and pitifulness. He ought to man up, push Grantaire off his lap, and prepare for the day; instead, he squeezes Grantaire's hand in a pathetic show of gratefulness. When he takes a deep breath, he finds his lungs unfrozen and cooperative once again.
His skeptic bows his head, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. It ought to feel wrong; he ought to be horrified at the display; he should not feel this warm and cherished. He should pull away.
Enjolras pushes his fingers into the wild tangle of black curls, his movement halting and tentative. He runs his fingers over his cynic's scalp and shivers at the feather-light flutter of eyelashes against his wrist, the soft hum that escapes that wide mouth, and the tightening of his skeptic's fingers. He does it again, marveling at the relaxed curve of Grantaire's back. Slowly, tentatively, he bends down, rests his head lightly on Grantaire's.
"I missed you," he says at last. He can feel the curve of Grantaire's lips against his knuckles.
“I am not going anywhere.”