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There is a boy waving a red flag when Grantaire bursts in through the bedroom door; he’s momentarily so perplexed that instead of immediately running him through, he actually pauses, and lowers the tip of his sword.
The boy peers at him through wide eyes and a mass of blond hair, squashed on one side where he had been undoubtedly sleeping on it before the Musain came into port – and its crew onto land. He waves the flag a little more. And now, Grantaire can tell that it’s not a proper flag, but rather a heavy quilted cape tied hastily to a gentleman’s walking cane.
“But,” says Grantaire, “what does that even mean?”
The boy lowers his flag sheepishly, a regretful curve on his lips that Grantaire can’t help but forgive. “I didn’t have the time to find anything white before I heard your footsteps on the stairs.”
Ah. “Surrender.” Grantaire snorts, and walks further into the room, kicking the door closed behind him. “You must have been the only noble in this house to consider that.” Below them are the sounds of fighting, of guns firing both from pirates and from the Governor’s guards.
He spies a pocketwatch on a desk; it looks like it’s made of solid gold, and so Grantaire saunters over to it, and sticks it into his pocket. “Don’t worry, we’re not here to rape and pilage. We –”
“I know,” says the boy, surprising Grantaire both with the interruption and with the way he takes a moment to scrape the hair back off his face, pulling it into a horsetail and tying it up. Grantaire corrects himself – the person standing before him is older than he thought at first, the slight figure swathed in a nightgown deceiving him.
He pulls his thoughts back on track. “You know?”
“You’re from The Musain, aren’t you?” asks the young man, and he turns to fish through the chest of drawers – which are already pulled open with clothing spilling out from them. Grantaire notes with some surprise that he has no fear that Grantaire might slit his throat when his back is turned. In fact, there’s no fear at all. He merely pulls out breeches and starts tugging them on.
“You have the run of the waters hereabouts. You’re here to give my Father – the new Governor – a welcome to the town, I suspect. I’ve read about you. Your ship, I mean,” the young man clarifies, the tiniest spots of pink splotching over his cheekbones. He looks… pleased, somehow, as if meeting a pirate in the flesh has somehow measured up to what he’s read about them. He stands, shedding the nightgown and baring his slim torso for a moment before tugging on an undershirt.
Grantaire’s mind goes painfully blank. He compensates by trying to stuff a set of beautifully crafted candlesticks into his bag, and almost forgets to extinguish the actual candles first.
The young man – the Governor’s son, apparently, which means he’s an Enjolras – turns around to find him barely avoiding dripping hot wax onto his hand, and arches one eyebrow like he knows exactly what Grantaire has carefully not been thinking.
“You’re right,” says Grantaire eventually. “We’re happy to leave the port alone. We have friends and business to conduct here from time to time. We just wanted the new management to understand the, uh, agreement we had with the previous Governor.”
It was less of an agreement, and more a systematic theft of his ships every time he tried to raise a platoon to go after the pirates in the area, but that’s just details.
“So you’ll be going soon,” says Enjolras. He pulls boots on, and starts lacing them.
“We’ll be gone before the sun rises,” says Grantaire, both amused and puzzled as to why he’s divulging the fact. It must be something to do with the utter lack of terror he’s been greeted with. Grantaire pockets a few bottles of fancy looking perfume instead. They don’t have much use for it at sea, but it always sells well.
There are footsteps on the stairs, and Grantaire had almost forgotten that extra guards would be arriving any moment now. “Shit,” he murmurs, and heads for the door, hoping he can push past if he’s quick enough.
“Wait! In there,” says Enjolras, pointing at his wardrobe. “There’s a secret tunnel in the back of it that leads directly down to the port.”
Grantaire hesitates – and by then there are shouts on the landing. He’s cost himself his getaway so he goes for the wardrobe, not entirely sure why he’s trusting a nobleman, even a young one. The young man dashes past him, reaches for the doorknob, and Grantaire’s heart rises in his chest because he’s going to get slaughtered any moment now unless he runs onto the balcony and takes a dive from the fucking window – and Enjolras turns the heavy key, locking them into the room.
Grantaire blinks at him. Enjolras turns around and presses a finger to his lips. He’s – smiling. Grantaire finds himself smiling back.
The moment is broken when there’s heavy pounding on the door. “My lord!” bellows someone from outside the door, and Grantaire watches Enjolras physically pull himself up.
“What is it!” he snaps back, a silent air of dignity and authority settling across his shoulders.
“Your father sent us to protect you, my Lord. There are pirates in the estate, open the door!”
Enjolras scoffs. “What? Don’t be ridiculous. How do I know you’re not a pirate? I’m not opening my door for you!”
“My lord! It is not safe!”
“I am perfectly safe, I assure you. If you are really my Father’s guards then, you can guard me from outside my door. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my sleep is disturbed enough!” Enjolras huffs, wholly realistic, and it is obviously a dismissal.
“Very well, my Lord,” says whoever is on the other side of the door, sounding very pained. Grantaire almost laughs.
He doesn’t, instead climbing into the wardrobe after mouthing “Thank you.” There really is a secret tunnel hidden in the back of it. He’s about to leave, when he sees frantic waving from the corner of his eye, and turns to see Enjolras trying to catch his attention. He frowns, and waits for Enjolras to pad silently across the floor.
“Take me with you,” says Enjolras, leaning in so he can speak quietly, his words a warm breath on Grantaire’s ear, and grabs the last candlestick in the set from off the dresser.
Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “We don’t take hostages. Too much of a pain in the arse.”
“No,” says Enjolras, and pulls back enough for Grantaire to see the mad gleam in his eyes. “Take me with you.”
Grantaire finally, finally notices the way he’s dressed in comfortable, practical clothing, something Grantaire’s mind had been helpfully ignoring the entire time he did it, right in front of Grantaire. His brain takes a moment to catch up, and it must show on his face, because Enjolras grins, a sudden, sharp grin, and Grantaire’s stomach lurches not unlike the first time he set foot on a ship, both seasick and all at once in love with the sea.
The tunnel ahead of them is dark; Enjolras lights the torch set into the start of it with his candle, and then drops it in with the rest in Grantaire’s bag. The flames flicker, and a cool salty breeze billows through. It’s not wide enough for the two of them to stand abreast and Grantaire has no idea what possesses him to do it, but he extends one hand to Enjolras.
Enjolras slips his hand into Grantaire’s, his palm warm and smooth against Grantaire’s roughened skin. “I hope you know how to hoist a sail,” says Grantaire quietly, and his voice drops into the depths of the tunnel as the secret door swings shit behind them.
“I’m sure you could show me,” says Enjolras from behind him, and Grantaire feels a squeeze on his hand. He grins, and leads them into the dark.