Archive of Our Own

Enjolras hasn't spoken since the barricade.

These days, Grantaire does the talking for both of them. It is still June though, and as the summer sun spills in through the window, he sees Enjolras's eyes light with some of their old fire.

'Eggs this morning?' says Grantaire cheerfully, and picks up the pan when there's no reply.

Of course, it is a small miracle that Enjolras is still with him at all.

After the revolution, Grantaire woke up to the sound of shots, and stayed hidden until it had long receded. Then he crawled out from beneath the bar, hacking and coughing in the dust that was everywhere. Dirt-dust, bone-dust, blood-dust. If he had wanted to paint it, he only would've needed grey.

Red, too, for the three neat bloody circles blown through Enjolras's left thigh. More on his upper body.

'Enjolras,' said Grantaire, like he was praying. 'Enjolras, angel, wake up. Please wake up. I'm so sorry I wasn't here. Wake up.'

And Enjolras's fingertips twitched against his cheek -

'I haven't heard from any of the others,' Grantaire says. His head is turned away from Enjolras; he can't look him in the eyes while he tells him this. 'I'm sorry. And I know you don't want me to keep apologising, so I'm sorry for that, too, but - I went down to the registrar again, and, well, there's still nothing. Nothing from any of their families, either. Although at this point I'm not that sure Courf's sister would tell me if there was, she's so sick of seeing me.'

He pauses to run a hand through his hair. It's sweaty. He's so hot. It's still July.

'At least I don't have to contact your lousy parents, though,' he says, and for the first time since June he thinks he sees Enjolras smile.

He is walking back from the market with a new set of paints when he sees Marius Pontmercy again, dressed in white, his silk top hat bobbing through the crowds. He makes to turn on his heel but he can't; Marius has caught him, and is now bearing down on him with all the enthusiasm of a guilty puppy.

'Grantaire! I had heard - I had hoped - but I haven't seen you since, er -'

'The revolution?' 

Marius glances around. 'Well - er - yes.'

'Right,' says Grantaire acidly. He feels angry. It's easy to be angry at Marius because he's here and he's unharmed and he's alive. 'Well, I'm here.'

'Er -' says Marius, catching up his arm and then dropping it like he's thought the better of it. 'Is anyone else - did anyone else -'

'Enjolras is staying with me.'

' Oh,' says Marius, his posture crumbling with relief. 'Oh, I'm so relieved. How wonderful. Not that he and I were ever close, but, well, funny thing, I thought I'd heard -'

' Goodbye, Marius,' says Grantaire, and sidesteps him in search of a baguette. Someone needs to prepare dinner, and it certainly isn't going to be Enjolras.

'I'm getting married!' shouts Marius, into the dust.

'I ran into Marius today,' says Grantaire, swallowing down a hunk of bread which sticks in his throat. 'He says he's getting married.'

This time, Enjolras's silence feels pointedly derisive.

It's August and something still looks so off about Enjolras and it's maddening Grantaire that he can't tell what it is.

After the barricades he looked dead. Dead and entombed, his feet and thighs and stomach and neck and lips and eyelashes all buried under dust, a thick grey dust so snug against his skin that Grantaire was almost jealous of it.

Now, whatever else can be said of him, at least he looks alive. The colour has been restored to him, to his golden hair and blue eyes and bitten mouth. There's a healthy shine to his complexion, and last week Grantaire even snuck into his old apartment and grabbed some of his own clothes to make him more comfortable. He tried lending him some of his, before that, but the fit was all wrong.

But something's still off. Is it Enjolras's posture? The set of his jaw? The look in his eyes? Grantaire stares at his face from across the room and sees his body every time he falls asleep, and yet he still can't figure it out.

He wonders if fixing whatever the something is will get Enjolras to speak to him again.

It's another stiflingly hot day.

'I love you,' whispers Grantaire, 'and I'm kind of glad you're not going to say anything about that, right now,' and he presses three kisses along the warm line of Enjolras's cheek.

'I want you both to come to my wedding,' says Marius.

Grantaire sighs, and scrubs his eyes. 'Thanks, but I don't think that's going to be possible.'

'Oh dear, do you have plans?' says Marius, face falling, and then frowns. 'But I haven't told you the date yet.'

'Unless it's five years away, it's going to be too soon. You haven't seen Enjolras since the barricade.'

'Is he still that bad?'

'He's practically catatonic.'

'Oh,' says Marius, softly. 'I didn't realise.'

'I didn't tell you,' says Grantaire, shrugging, and then considers that he might be being too unnecessarily harsh. 'But hey, I'm happy for you. If you really want me to be there, then - I'll check with him. I'm sure it'll be okay. He's probably getting sick of me, honestly.'

'You know,' says Marius, 'I don't think he ever could. Not really. Get sick of you.'

Marius marries Cosette Fauchelevent in September.

She wears voluminous white silk, trimmed with gold ribbons, and it's gaudy and saccharine and yet Grantaire thinks she is the prettiest bride he's ever seen. Marius is red from ear to ear, face split in two with a smile that widens every time he looks at her.

'Til death do us part,' intones the priest, and they seal it with a kiss.

Grantaire doesn't cry. Really. Grantaire refuses to cry at Marius Pontmercy's wedding.

'I'm sorry I had to be gone so long,' he says, opening the door, and he sees Enjolras's face turned towards his, and for one wild moment he thinks that nothing ever happened, that Enjolras will laugh, come over to him and kiss him, and say It's fine, you know I wouldn't have gone there for anything, but I missed you, and they'll slide their arms around each other, not quite gentle but not hard enough to bruise, and Enjolras will back him up against the door and say Grantaire, Grantaire into his mouth, loud and quiet, moaning and whispering, over and over again until his name is just a bubbling stream of sound.

'I missed you,' says Grantaire, sort of desperately.

Outside in the square, the cicadas sing.

'Enjolras, please,' says Grantaire. 'I missed you. I miss you. I miss your voice and your laugh and that tone you'd take when I said something terrible. I said terrible things just so you'd say them right back to me. Did you know that? I don't think you ever did. I miss your tongue and I miss your smile and I miss the way you hated me. I miss you so much it feels like I'm not even alive. If you never come back to me then, well, we're both just going to be stuck inside this apartment forever, and neither of us will live. I mean, is that what you want? Do you want me to rot in here? I swear to God, I'll do it. I'll rot here and it'll be your fault, you miserable bastard, because I loved you and all I needed you to do was live, damn it, why couldn't you live, Enjolras - Enjolras, please - fuck!'

There was a knife in his hand and now there's a cut in it. He casts around for something to press into it and there's nothing, no sheet, no handkerchief, so he strides across the room and grabs a handful of Enjolras's shirt, starched, white, the part of it that covers his heart, and presses it against the cut.

Enjolras doesn't move. Grantaire's head falls limp against the warmth of his neck.

There are bloodstains on Enjolras's shirt now, just like there were when he died, but he doesn't seem to mind and so Grantaire can't bring himself to, either.

Someone is knocking at the door.

Grantaire pulls it open.

'Grantaire!' says Marius, and beams at him. 'I just wanted to thank you for the wedding present - Cosette is beside herself - oh, I say…'

He steps forward before Grantaire can stop him, staring into the kitchen, at the place where Enjolras stands.

'I - Grantaire, that's remarkable. It looks so… it looks so much like him. Are you sure the bloodstains aren't in slightly bad taste? But I suppose I never really got your sense of humour.'

Grantaire licks his lips. He wants Marius to leave. Enjolras looks uncomfortable, and anyway Grantaire thinks he has a headache coming on. 'What are you talking about?'

'Really, it's your best work yet. I'm surprised he agreed to sit for you.'

'He's standing,' Grantaire points out, at a loss for words.

'Er, yes. Figure of speech. Anyway, is he around here, somewhere? You said the present was from both of you. I'd love to thank him.'

'Who?'

Marius laughs skittishly. 'Enjolras, of course.'

'He's right there,' Grantaire says, side-eyeing him. 'Thank him yourself.'

'Thank the  - the sculpture?'

'Look, I know we all used to joke about him being made of marble, but I think you're taking things a bit far now.'

'Grantaire ,' says Marius, and his voice has taken on a strange timbre. Grantaire really just wishes he would leave. 'Do you really think…?'

'What, Marius?' snaps Grantaire.

'Grantaire,' says Marius, seizing his lapels, ' Look at it.'

Grantaire looks.

Enjolras's irises are blue as the sea; his lips as pink as roses. His hair curls down over his forehead, and upon his shoe there is a little dust from the street. He is dressed as conservatively as ever, his collar starched up to his chin, but inside he has no need for a jacket, and his shirt sleeves fall enticingly loosely towards his wrists. Upon his cheekbones there are faint twin spots of redness, and his eyes burn holes straight through Grantaire's own.

'No wonder you said he was catatonic,' says Marius. 'Do you see it blink? Do you see it breathe?'

Grantaire closes his eyes. 'I want you to leave.'

'Grantaire -'

' We want you to leave,' Grantaire amends. 'This is our house.'

'But-'

'Get out!' Grantaire snarls. Fumbling along the table blind, he finds his knife and snatches at it, brandishing the blade towards Marius's voice. He hears a thin, strangled gasp, and then the door unlatches and closes.

'It's just a sculpture!' Marius calls, muffled. 'He's dead, Grantaire! He's been dead since June!'

'Get out!' screams Grantaire, and slams his hands over his ears, tight, so that no one can find him.

Grantaire stops opening the door in case Marius is still on the other side of it. He's out of food, but that's okay. He just hopes that Enjolras doesn't mind.

'Angel,' slurs Grantaire, and wraps his arms around Enjolras, all the way around his torso, so the bloodstains on his shirt are pressed right up against Grantaire's own body. That's not quite good enough, so then he hooks his left leg around Enjolras, too, snaking around his hip, his thighs. It's a good thing that Enjolras is so steady, otherwise they both might go crashing to the floor. 'I think I might be dying.'

It's October but the sun is still warm, streaming through the wide glass windows, and so Enjolras is still warm along with it. Grantaire kisses his lips, once, twice, three times. Enjolras refuses to part them. Since June he's been so unbearably coy.

'Enjolras,' says Grantaire, right onto his mouth. One of the two of them is crying; he knows this because he can taste it. 'Please. Please talk to me before I die, angel.'

He drags open his eyes. Enjolras is already watching him, like always. He'll never stop watching him. He loves Grantaire so much.

'Please,' Grantaire whispers, and his sight seems to give in a little around its edges.

Enjolras smiles his sharp, beautiful smile, and says, 'It's okay. I love you.'