Chapter Text
Mirrors on the ceiling, the pink champagne on ice
And she said "We are all just prisoners here, of our own device"
And in the master's chambers, they gathered for the feast
They stab it with their steely knives, but they just can't kill the beast
~Hotel California -The Eagles
Not a day has passed since Grantaire has met Enjolras without him going to the Musain to see the man talk. Frankly, what he said was never of any importance. Of course, people tended to come for the man’s speeches, so he could share his silly little societal projects with them. They were fooled by the optimism and the pretty words. That was not Grantaire’s case. Grantaire went to Enjolras because some kind of irresistible pull made him do it. He had a need of Enjolras, and he did not know why. He thought the man to be an idealist filled with idiotic, unrealistic dreams. Yet, here he was, sitting at the same table than the man, devouring him with his eyes.
It was undeniable that Enjolras was a pretty sight. With his tall stature, his bronze skin, his long dirty blond hair and his wide blue eyes, he looked like a model. He was willowy and feminine, his traits were delicate and yet fierce-looking, and he had enough confidence to make himself glow with it. It was incredible how beautiful Enjolras was, but it was not why Grantaire stayed either. He had seen pretty men and pretty women before. He even had the opportunity to sleep with some of them, when they felt charitable. That did not mean he was ever impressed by the physical appearance of people. For him, an envelop was never enough to dissimulate the hideous things underneath. It was true that he had always been quick to get attached to people, but not enough to unconditionally love. Never enough to fall in love.
No, there was definitely something else in Enjolras that made Grantaire quake with need. He sighed whenever he was away from the man, and his mind went foggy with images of Enjolras standing on a table, roaring at the crowd. It almost physically hurt to be away from the blonde, no matter how ridiculous he thought he was. In the night, Grantaire was haunted with dreams of his muse: Enjolras staring at him, his chin raised high, all of his seriousness transpiring on his sweet woman’s face. The dreams were not sexual in nature, but Grantaire still woke up with a painful erection, or already wet. In the morning, he was practically aching.
This need was not reciprocated. Enjolras could barely smiled at Grantaire. He looked at him with chagrin, rancour or disappointment, but never with envy or desire. He remained gentle, but he was clearly put off with the kind of man Grantaire was, which is: a forceful cynic. The moment they were introduced to each other via a common friend, Grantaire had known that Enjolras would not like him. They were as different as the sun and the moon: Enjolras was as bright as a thousand burning stars, and Grantaire was as cold, dark and hard as a mere natural satellite, born to move around bigger, more interesting people.
He took good care to look like everything Enjolras said did not affect him in the least. It wasn’t true, of course: it made him angrily hopeful at time, and incredulously sad at others. He was not to let anyone know that, especially not the blonde. Not believing in anything was his trade card to avoid bitter frustrations and regret. He preferred to force himself into disillusion rather than be plunged into it after having misguidedly believed a fool. Sadly, he could see eventually falling in the trap that was Enjolras’ voice. If he ever did, he would hit rock bottom.
Grantaire was nothing impressive. He was a clinically depressed drunkard who had trouble dealing with the little ambushes of life. He was not very brave, neither was he particularly confident. He thought he had nothing to offer, nothing that would attract anyone. He was unbelievably ugly, was with his sickly pale skin, his round face covered with acne scars, his flat nose and his droopy brown eyes. He had pudgy fingers that couldn’t hold anything delicately despite his efforts. On top of that, he was bad at everything he was remotely good at and couldn’t gather enough ambition to finish something. In other words, Grantaire was a good-for-nothing bum. A mistake of nature. Unlike Enjolras, he saw nothing in his future.
Now, Enjolras, that was a man with a purpose. A silly one, perhaps, but a purpose nonetheless. He talked with great passion, his voice almost shaking the wall. When he spoke, everyone listened. Even the ones who disagreed spared him a minute. Enjolras could move a crowd, could achieve things. Surely, he couldn’t change the world like he pretended he could with the help of the people, but at least he could instigate some new elements into society. The strength of his convictions was addictive. However, Grantaire figured that there was even more to it than that. There had been other grand men and women with ideas, and Grantaire had not feel as strongly about them as he did Enjolras, even though he respected them.
It was a curse. Loving Enjolras was nothing but trouble. It was nonsensical, futile, and would amount to nothing. Basically, it was an impasse. Grantaire was wasting his time staring at Enjolras, just like he would have wasted it staring at a wall. It made his heart swell with a longing that was infinite and irritatingly undefined. Grantaire was gorged in despair each time his gaze met Enjolras’s by accident. He couldn’t keep going like this. His miserable life couldn’t revolve around another person like that. It was creepy, insane and unhealthy. Anyone would have told him that. In fact, plenty of people had told him. Enjolras’ friends had pleaded him to not come back if he only ever had disdain to offer. His own friends were visibly worried about him. He couldn’t sleep well, he had lost his appetite, he couldn’t concentrate on anything. The only time he ever felt slightly good was when he was in presence of the blonde beauty.
Every attempt at stopping to go to the Musain had failed. He would try to make himself forget about the date and time, would try to take appointments or organize something with friends, but nothing would do. He was always coming back to Enjolras. When it was the tall blonde who did not show up, Grantaire felt almost ill, distressed. He logically understood that Enjolras was a student and did not necessarily have a million things to say per week, but emotionally, he felt wrecked, like he was scared of not seeing him ever again. It was unbearable. Yet, Grantaire loved every second of his misery. Before meeting Enjolras, he had nothing to live for. He was just a mediocre human being who kept giving up on everything he undertook. His existence had always felt empty, void of meaning. With Enjolras in it, there was at last a light, something to look forward to. Even if it made no sense.
One evening, as Enjolras prepared to leave the Musain, Grantaire gathered the courage to go talk to him. He never did before, except to offer a counter-argument or a mocking quip. Enjolras eyed him warily as he saw him approached. Grantaire felt dizzy because of the proximity. He had the urge to simply embrace Enjolras and never let him go. He thought that perhaps simply touching Enjolras would bring him to euphoria. He refrained, because there was no way he deserved such an honour.
“Enjolras,” he said, “I wish to speak with you in private.”
Enjolras averted his eyes, but he nodded. Grantaire’s heart sped up. He hadn’t thought that he would have this talk. He thought that he would be harshly rejected; he had even prepared to apologize for his audacity. The blonde motioned to him to follow him. He walked into the restroom. Grantaire hesitated, and entered the small room. He closed the door behind him. Enjolras wrinkled his nose and sniffed, looking at Grantaire curiously.
“I haven’t taken a bath or a shower in days,” Grantaire could only admit. Enjolras raised his eyebrow, but did not comment. “I wanted to ask you something.”
“What is it, then?” Enjolras asked, but his impatience was feigned. He was taking in Grantaire’s form, and he seemed more curious than anything else. Grantaire smirked.
“You don’t have to act all high and mighty here, where there is only the two of us,” he said. “I know that you can be civile. I saw you laugh with your friends and smile at little children.”
Enjolras snorted. “And as you might have noticed, there’s a difference between you and a friend, or you and a child.”
That hurt a little, but Grantaire let it wash over him. Water under the bridge.
“I don’t know, I’ve been told that I’m a friendly kid at heart!”
“What do you want, Grantaire?” Enjolras asked in a sigh.
Grantaire squirmed. He was suddenly realizing how absurd his intention of inquiring about his own attraction for the blonde was. He scratched his scrubby cheek, opened his mouth, but nothing would come out. This was strange. He was generally good to ramble incessantly about a thing or another. Half-formed ideas would pop up in his mind and he would just blurt them out. It was one of the things Enjolras seemed to dislike about him, so perhaps his prolonged silence was for the best. He smiled cheekily at Enjolras and shrugged.
“I do not know,” he said, “you tell me.”
Surprisingly, Enjolras did not appear confused or annoyed by this. He passed a hand through his mane and sighed. He looked troubled. Grantaire cocked his head to the side and tried to catch Enjolras’ gaze.
“Is something the matter? I did not mean to waste your time. I just—”
“Oh, I know. The temptation brought you here.”
“The temptation?” Grantaire repeated, dejected. Enjolras nodded, smiling slightly.
“What, did you think you was the first to become strangely obsessed with the need to see me? That is nothing special, Grantaire. You fell under the spell.”
“The spell? What?”
Enjolras bit his full lips. “The spell. It sometimes happen. People look at me, hear me talk, and they become sort of entranced with me. They come to the meetings, not because they really care about what I have to say, but because they think... I don’t know, that I’m pretty. Attractive. Except that that attraction is strong enough to make them miss me immensely.” He took a pause and stared at Grantaire. He looked as though he was telling the truth. “You don’t have to believe me, and I’m sorry for what you feel, but I can’t do anything about it.”
“If that was true, then why are you telling me? Why are you risking that I would tell someone else?”
“But you won’t.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I’m asking you,” Enjolras declared. He seemed torn between feeling guilty and feeling proud. Somehow, Grantaire knew that he was telling the truth. He had no desire whatsoever to disobey Enjolras. Still, he couldn’t help but scoff at the mighty tone, the sorry gaze, the certitude in Enjolras’ eyes.
“I’m sorry, are you comparing yourself to cocaine or heroine? You think yourself so irresistible that people can’t escape your charms? So much pretension in a few words! ‘Because I’m asking you’. You should hear yourself amount your looks to that of a God!”
Enjolras stiffened. His hands balled into fists as he glared at Grantaire. “I see, so you have chosen not to believe me. Fine. Move over.”
“Enjolras. I refuse to be your prisoner,” Grantaire declared. When Enjolras frowned and started to say something, he cut him off, “If I am to follow you for the rest of my life, worshipping the ground on which you step, I want to believe that it is my choice. If I’m to love every word you utter, I want to believe it’s because you are brilliant, and passionate, and brave. If I’m to dream about you, when I’m awake or when I’m asleep, I want to believe that it’s because you are a sight for sore eyes.”
Enjolras juts out his chin, but he was obviously troubled and did not know what to tell Grantaire. Perhaps the young man was accustomed to being mocked, being told he was crazy for thinking himself a witch or a mermaid, whatever it was. Perhaps he was less used to honest declarations of love.
Grantaire kept going, like his usual rambling self. “I’m telling you: there are no spell that could bewitch me into loving. I had given up on love a long time ago. I haven’t been loving myself since the first part of my adolescence. Now that there is something I enjoy, something I look forward to, you want me to believe that it is magic? Weren’t you the one who talked and shouted about free will, a few minutes ago?”
“Were you listening for once?” Enjolras muttered.
“Oh, but I’m always listening. Not that it is important, Enjolras. I don’t believe a thing you say. That doesn’t mean that you don’t inspire me, that you don’t... how do they say? Elevate my soul.” In a bout of audacity, Grantaire seized Enjolras’ hands. Enjolras startled. He blushed, too, looking at Grantaire’s hands, and then in his eyes. Grantaire pursued: “You are a marvellous creature. Surely, it isn’t surprising that you wouldn’t be human.”
“I was born into water...” Enjolras let out under his breath. He seemed hypnotized by Grantaire’s passionate speech.
“Water! You are like an ocean: immense, intense, prone to anger, but inexplicably reassuring by your sole presence. There’s nothing that will make me believe that I could not fall for you by my own means. It is love, the beast that entrapped me, not the curse of a species that makes men drown.”
There was an awkward silence after that, Enjolras not denying anything. Then he said: “You seem pretty sure of yourself.”
“I am a doubter, I’m sure you have noticed by now, but that’s one thing I’m sure of.”
“I’ll tell you what, then,” Enjolras said, gently pressing Grantaire’s hands in his own. “I’ll believe you when you start believing one thing I say. Just one, on any subject. When I’ll see the glint of optimism in your eye, that’s when I’ll believe that your.... feelings happened naturally.”
“Oh. But in that case, we’ll be stuck doubting each other for a long time,” Grantaire sighed. His fingers were tingling and he couldn’t stop looking at Enjolras’ eyes. He could lose himself into those eyes.
“I promise that one day, I’ll convince you of something.”
“I don’t believe you,” Grantaire admitted bitterly.
“Because that day has not come yet. Go home, Grantaire. You have work at eight tomorrow.”
“You know my schedule, now?”
“I know a lot of things.”
“I love you!” Grantaire blurted out, but Enjolras pulled away from him.
“I don’t believe you,” he parroted. He side-stepped Grantaire, patted him on the shoulder, and got out of the restroom. Almost immediately, Grantaire felt the churning of withdrawal.