Chapter Text
Enjolras is alone at the café, very late at night. The others have all departed hours ago, but he—he has a speech to write, and he works better outside his apartment. His flat is dingy and cold, and the emptiness makes him rather uncomfortable. He’d rather sit in the brightly lit Musain, ordering an endless stream of their good, strong coffee, even if he does have to deal with other people.
It’s very late at night, probably two in the morning, when the door screeches open. Enjolras glares at the paper, but does not spare a glance upward for the offender. He can tell by the heavy footsteps that he’s a drunk, probably kicked out of some bar and trying to sober up.
Enjolras does not care for the interruption.
The man slurs, in a deep, rasping voice, “Wine. Please.” He hands over some coins and recieves his drink, and, unfortunately, settles into the only other chair at Enjolras’ small table.
Enjolras looks up to glare at him. He’s quite good at warning people away with no more than a look. Yet as soon as he sees the stranger’s face, his eyes soften. He doesn’t know why—the drunk isn’t a beautiful man. His nose is crooked like it’s been broken, his face is red from drink, and there’s a deep scar on one of his cheeks, marring the symmetry of his face. Nonetheless, the second his eyes meet the other man’s, he feels a rush of something he hasn’t felt in years. He wants to know this man, wants to touch him, wants, inexplicably, to make him a part of his life.
He also wants to fuck him, which is an urge Enjolras gets rather rarely.
“M’name’s Grantaire. Friends call me R.”
Enjolras extends his hand. Instead of shaking it, the drunk—Grantaire—takes it softly in his warm, calloused fingers and presses his lips to the back of Enjolras’ hand. “Enjolras.”
“Nice t’meet you.”
“Likewise.”
“What’re you doing here?”
“I am attempting to write a speech.”
“’Bout what?”
“The rights of mankind.”
“Seems like sort of a broad topic.” Grantaire takes a long sip of his drink.
“I could ask what you’re doing here, but I think I know.”
Grantaire shrugs, looking down at his cup. “Nowhere better to be.”
That sets off Enjolras’ protective instinct. “Surely you could go home, if you chose?”
“Not allowed.”
“What do you mean?”
Grantaire smiles brightly. “Tell me about your writing!’
It’s the most transparent of subject changes. Enjolras lets the question drop for now, intending to revisit it before he lets Grantaire leave. Instead, he explains what he’s writing about. The speech is planned for tomorrow, and he’s less than halfway finished. “It just gets terribly frustrating, because it seems that no one listens.”
“You’re going about this the wrong way,” Grantaire informs him, apparently becoming more sober by the second. “People do not care about your ideas.”
Enjolras, offended, even angry, starts to pull away. “If that’s all you have to suggest—“
“You mistake me, Apollo. Your ideas—your ideals—are lovely. Why, I want to put them up on a shelf and look at them from time to time. But no one but yourself is pure-hearted enough to believe in them. I can see it in your eyes. You truly think people will act to do the right thing. They will not. What motivates people is feeling. You must move people to feel, not only that their current state is intolerable, but that the future—and you—are good. You must seduce the crowd. Make them love you. Win their hearts, not their minds—or don’t, it doesn’t matter to me.”
Enjolras blinks down at the page. That’s… flippantly stated, utterly absurd, not the proper concern of a man of his ideals. It’s also the first piece of useful advice he’s gotten in months, ever since Combeferre had pointed out that unless Enjolras slept occasionally he wasn’t going to have many successful revolutions. “I—Apollo?”
“You know. Poetry. Healing. Great ideas.” He grins again. “The god of light, shining right here in this shitty dive in the middle of a Tuesday night.”
“Why can’t you go home?” Enjolras asks again, and Grantaire flinches. Enjolras extends a hand, taking Grantaire’s fingers in his own. His touch is so warm, so real. Enjolras never wants to let go. “You can tell me. You can trust me.”
“I—My—“ Grantaire shakes his head. “It’s three. I have to go now. Have to get home.”
Enjolras drops his hand as if he’s been burnt. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I thought—“ He has never been good at reading social signs, it’s why he’s been so long alone.
“You didn’t… there’s nothing wrong. It’s my fault. It’s mine.”
“Can I—“ Enjolras steels himself. He has the strength to stand in front of a rioting crowd, why can’t he say these words? “I’d like to see you again.”
Grantaire smiles, the cockiness from before gone. He looks shy, looks pleased. Enjolras wants to kiss the expression from his lips, leave his mouth red and swollen, wants to feel Grantaire’s strong body tremble in his arms. “I’d like that too. When can—“
“I’m giving this speech tomorrow. Right out on the street in front of here. Would you like to come listen? Tell me all the things I’m doing wrong?”
“I’d love that.” He reaches out, squeezes Enjolras’ hand one more time, and then he’s gone, the feeling of his touch still burning on Enjolras’ skin.