Chapter Text
Paris, 11 o’clock, February 10th, 1832
At the edge of Place du Châtelet, where the grey mist clung to the cobblestones, and the flickering lamplight wavered in the uncertain darkness, Enjolras crouched, stern and vigilant, his gaze fixed upon the monument before him, gilded Victory atop her pillar of glorious tyranny, a testament to the power and opulence of he who was once so bold as to call himself the Emperor. Ahead, the corps de garde stood, silent, iron-barred doors policed by a single watchman, the orange glow of the oil lantern glinting off the metal fixtures of his weapon. Cold rain had begun to fall, bringing with it an icy chill of foreboding. Through the mist and the gloom, Grantaire’s hand found Enjolras’, grasping it with quiet insistence, a fragile warmth threading through the damp shadows, a single, unspoken affirmation of devotion and loyalty in the face of peril.
The sound of footsteps rang out, sharp in the still night air. A second guard had entered the square, brisk and alert, his eyes scanning the shadows. He gave the man on duty a curt nod, before taking his place in front of the door; a cold brass sentinel, watchful and silent.
Enjolras’ breath caught. He had not expected the changeover to be so abrupt. The information he had received regarding the security detail described the men on duty as tired and dissatisfied with their position, nothing akin to the polished and professional soldier who stood before them now.
“What is happening?” Courfeyrac hissed. “We were told we would be dealing with a single watchman, not…whatever that is.”
His voice was barely audible above the sound of the quiet rain and the wind across the river, and yet, Enjolras was close to certain that the guard could hear.
Before he could answer, Grantaire had stumbled out into the square. Consternation flooded Enjolras, colder than the mist and the rain. He wanted to pull Grantaire back, to stop him from making so foolish a choice. To move would be to condemn them all, however, and so he waited, able only to watch as his companion approached the guardsman, an almost deranged smile upon his face. The guard lifted his musket, eyes narrowing in disdain.
Grantaire raised his hands above his head. “No need to shoot, Monsieur! I am unarmed!” He laughed–a clear and beautiful sound; a façade behind which to conceal his fear.
“Do not move!”
Grantaire ignored the order, and continued: “Terrible weather we are having, is it not?”
The guard’s grip upon his weapon tightened, his finger hovering above the trigger. From the shadows, Enjolras could do nothing but observe: the dread that seized him an icy dagger in his heart.
Oblivious to his companion’s despair, and paying no heed to the danger before him, Grantaire laughed again. “What are you going to do with that? Shoot me?”
The answer to his question came in the form of tearing thunder and the acrid tang of burnt powder. Amidst the smoke and the ringing stone, Enjolras could feel his own pounding, desperate heartbeat. He should not be here. I should not love him. He had not realised he had moved to intervene until he felt Courfeyrac’s hand upon his shoulder, an iron grip pulling him down. “Reste à terre!”
Enjolras obeyed. His body hit the cobblestones, barely registering the damp, his mind incapable of coherent thought.
Slowly, the haze began to clear, the ringing died out. Through the misty drizzle, Enjolras could make out the form of the guard, still standing, the barrel of his weapon smoking in the cold air. Grantaire was nowhere in sight. A small flicker of hope flared in Enjolras’ chest. He is still alive.
“Ha! My grand-mère could shoot better than that!”
The shout came from a darkened alleyway somewhere towards the Seine. The guard turned, aiming his musket into the night.
“Come and face me, like a man!” Grantaire called, his tone goading, dangerous. “Or is the National Guard unfit to deal with drunken peasants? You can move now, come on!”
“What does he think he is doing?” whispered Feuilly. “Does he have a death wish?”
“Non,” Enjolras realised. “He is telling us to go, swiftly, whilst the watchman’s back is turned.”
With practiced grace, honed through years of rebellion, he rose to his feet, careful to make as little sound as possible. At the edge of the square, the tall, narrow, buildings cast long, deep shadows, sheltering the revolutionaries from the ever-present eyes of the King’s regime. Panic gave way to exhilaration as Enjolras stole across the uneven stones, each footstep its own small act of defiance. Ahead, the iron doors of the corps de garde rose like the gateway to an imperial citadel, unguarded, save for the towering column of the Fontaine du Palmier. As he passed beneath its shadow, Enjolras felt as if the Emperor himself were gazing down at him in silent judgement. He paused for a moment, staring back, eyes blazing with righteous fervour. How fitting. Tonight, the tyrant’s riches shall arm the people.
The lock was simple, no match for Feuilly’s skills as an artisan. He caught it as it fell, before the sharp clatter of metal on stone could alert the guardsman.
Enjolras felt a surge of rebellious pride as he pushed open the heavy doors, old hinges creaking faintly. Inside, it was nearly impossible to see, for the darkness clung to the room like a shroud, impenetrable and unyielding. The only light came from the lantern outside; and as the doors swung shut behind them, that too was lost.
Enjolras took a step forward, testing the smooth, stone, floor with the toe of his boot, lest he collide with anything. Clear. The silence around him was deafening, palpable, almost. He reached out–fingers searching through the blackness for some solid, human, presence to anchor himself to–before remembering that Grantaire had not accompanied him. Feeling a little foolish, he let his hand drop to his side, shaking his head.
“Dear God!” Courfeyrac exclaimed, suddenly. “There is something here…has anyone brought a light?”
There came the sound of a match being struck, the sharp smell of phosphorus–and then a flame, small and bright, illuminating the surrounding darkness. Feuilly gasped. Courfeyrac swore. “Dear God,” he repeated, taking a step back. “Little wonder it was so quiet.”
Lying sprawled before them was the body of a second guard, his blood pooling around him, seeping into the space between the cobblestones. From his side there protruded an ornate, silver, handle, its delicate filigree glinting in the firelight.
“Looks as if we have allies,” said Feuilly, bending down to examine the knife. “Shall we see if they have left us any arms?”
He struck another match, holding it aloft. Enjolras smiled as the light fell upon brass and wood, gleaming off the barrels of at least a dozen muskets. He took one from the rack upon the wall, feeling the weapon's weight in his hands, perfectly balanced.
“Ah! Powder, and ammunition!”
Enjolras slung the musket over his shoulder, turning his gaze to where Feuilly was pointing. Pushed against the far wall were a number of boxes and crates, piled haphazardly atop one another. The spoils of tyranny lay before them, glittering in the dim light, trophies wrested from the hands of emperors, and yet, Enjolras’ triumph was tempered by a desperate void he dared not to name, as if his body remembered what his mind refused him. His gaze flickered across the room, meeting Courfeyrac’s for the briefest moment. Emotion must have betrayed him, for although his comrade spoke no words, the knowing tilt of his head and the faint raise of an eyebrow left no doubt: he suspected something.
Beyond the door, the crack of gunshots sounded, loud and jarring after the deep silence. Panic seized Enjolras like an iron fist, cold fingers threatening to shatter his ribs. Without pausing to think, he bolted towards the noise, slamming his shoulder into the solid metal until the hinges gave way and he burst into the square. The rain had worsened, the cobblestones slick beneath his boots as he ran, all reason replaced by a desperation so intense it burned. Every step he took seemed to resonate, the echo of an absent heartbeat, driving him forwards through the smoke and the downpour. Out the corner of his eye, he caught the flash of musket fire, followed by a familiar shout. Despair surged, raw and agonising, drowning discipline and rationality. He moved without conscious thought, driven by something deeper and truer than fear; oblivious now to the frigid rain that lashed his face and soaked through his coat.
Amidst the haze of mist and gun smoke, Enjolras sighted a dark figure upon the ground, smelt the sharp sting of blood. He fell to his knees, shaking his head, fighting the tears that threatened to expose him to the world. I cannot love him. I must not love him. Patria needs a revolution.
Hands trembling, he reached out, seizing his companion's shoulder. The rough fabric of his coat was slick with blood and water, staining Enjolras' palms. “Non…non. S’il te plaît, ne m’abandonne pas.”
Grantaire moaned softly, blinking open his pain-glazed eyes. “My bright Apollo. Here to…save me…”
“I am not in the habit of leaving my comrades to die,” Enjolras replied, a desperate attempt to conceal his relief behind the façade of responsibility. Concentrate! Do not lose sight of the cause.
Grantaire raised a shaking, bloodstained hand. Enjolras leant forwards, allowing him to cup his cheek. There were tears on his face now, mixing with the rain.
“I…thought I was…more…than a comrade…to you…”
Something in Enjolras shattered at those words. Here he was, on his hands and knees upon the ground, soaked in blood and dirt and rain, shielding this broken, drunken skeptic with his own body. What he felt went beyond duty, beyond loyalty; this man had taken his very soul, clinging to it with stubborn devotion. Enjolras could have fought him, could have pushed him away, and yet, he had relented. Not because he felt he should, but because some terrible, desperate part of him had fallen. Fallen in love, he realised. Fallen in love with Grantaire.
Exhaling shakily, he nodded. “Oui. Tu es mon bien-aimé. And I will keep you safe. And I will keep you close. Je vous promets.”
With dutiful precision, Enjolras untied the tricolour he wore at his waist, wrapping the heavy fabric around Grantaire's shoulders, an aegis of rebellion, protecting him from the rain, pulling him close. “I will not let you die,” Enjolras promised. “I shall carry you home. I shall make it right.”
“Enjolras! What the Hell is going on–!” Courfeyrac fell silent, shock and understanding flashing behind his eyes. Then, he seemed to remember where he was, iron resolve returning as he met his leader’s desperate, terrified gaze.
“Get help. Now.”
It was not a request. For the first time in his life, Enjolras found himself giving an order; an order he needed followed without question or debate. Whatever shame he felt in exercising such power over his comrades was nothing, however, compared to the abject fear that coursed through his body at the thought of losing Grantaire.
Courfeyrac obeyed immediately, turning upon his heel, disappearing into the fog. In the distance, Enjolras could hear the muffled thunder of musket fire. Feuilly has found the guard. He wanted to assist, wanted to hunt down the monster in the shadows, to make him pay, to make him bleed for what he had done to the revolution. For what he has done to Grantaire.
The sudden surge of hatred frightened Enjolras. He had never desired revenge, only freedom, and justice for those who were overlooked and oppressed. The object of his loathing was an ideal, a system; if he despised any man, it was because of what he stood for, what he represented. This was different, personal–an attack not upon his cause, but upon his very soul, able to tear apart sense and reason in a single instant. The thought that he could kill for vengeance, crave for blood, was horrifying, monstrous; made even more so by the way his subconscious justified it. Yet the sight of Grantaire, torn and bleeding, sealed his heart in ice.
“They will not take you away from me,” he whispered, tightening his grip. “Not now. Not ever.”
He staggered to his feet, Grantaire’s weight in his arms almost unbearable. Carefully, so as not to injure him further, Enjolras began to walk, away from the fight, away from the square and the watchful shadow of the Emperor’s monument. As he moved through the dark, narrow, streets, he paid no heed to the dull clamour of voices that came from the windows of the nearby buildings, the residents roused from their sleep by the commotion outside. The only thing that mattered now was Grantaire, pale and unresponsive, a mess of blood and rainwater, his breathing shallow, almost faded.
Enjolras turned down a thin, crooked alleyway, his boots slipping on the uneven cobblestones. He should have fallen, crushed by exhaustion and the body of the man whom he carried with a tenderness close to reverence. Yet he continued, forced onwards by desperation, fear, and the unspoken devotion that refused to let him falter.
A shadow flitted across the street, causing Enjolras to freeze. He stood for a moment, heart hammering against his ribs, waiting for a heavy footstep, or the clatter of a weapon being drawn. When nothing came, he tried to move again, but his legs were shaking, and he collapsed to the ground, clutching Grantaire to his chest. “I shall get up in a moment,” he promised, pressing his lips to the top of his companion’s head. “I just…have to rest awhile.”
He closed his eyes, tears spilling down his face, falling onto the blood-soaked fabric of the tricolour that he had wrapped so carefully around Grantaire. It seemed less of a shield now, closer to a shroud. “What will I do without you?” Enjolras spoke the question aloud, needing Grantaire to hear him, to understand. “I ought to just go on. Continue the fight. Give the people their freedom. And yet, I am not certain that I could. Not without you. It would not be right. Grantaire, je–” his voice broke, unable to admit the truth through the haze of pain and terror that held him, transfixed. Yet, if I do not speak now… he shook his head, not wanting to consider that possibility. Instead, he wiped the tears away with the back of his sleeve, and shifted his position, sheltering Grantaire from the wind. Trembling from fear and exhaustion, Enjolras pressed a gentle kiss to his face. “Je t’aime, Grantaire. Je t’aime.”
“Out of the way!”
The shout brought Enjolras back to reality, harsh and cold. He had no time to consider if his confession had been heard, for Joly pushed him roughly away, leaning over to examine Grantaire’s injuries. “My God,” he breathed, shaking his head. “Combeferre! Aidez-Moi!”
Enjolras watched from afar as the pair of them worked in skillful silence, removing the bloodstained tricolour, applying pressure to the wound. He wanted to move, wanted to help, but Courfeyrac’s firm hand upon his shoulder forced him to stay. “Let them work.”
The minutes seemed to stretch, long and terrifying, every sound, every whisper of wind, every fall of rain, a reminder of the danger that surrounded them. Enjolras was numb with shock, unable to feel the cold or the damp, unable to hear save for the desperate pounding of his heart. If he is dead, I shall never forgive myself.
At last, Joly sighed, and rose to his feet, his hands stained with blood. “He is conscious," he said. “For now. I suggest we get him somewhere dry, and fast.”
“You can use my chambre,” Enjolras offered. “Rue de Grès. Three doors down.”
Joly gave a curt nod. “Very well. Courfeyrac! Help me lift him.”
“I can–”
“Non. You have done enough. Let us carry him, for a moment.”
Too exhausted to protest, Enjolras allowed the others to do as they saw fit. He followed, clutching the bloodied tricolour, a drowning man clinging to a shipwreck. He barely registered the journey, moving as if in a trance, the buildings and the streets and the river melting into one great labyrinth, a twisted maze of despair–as much in his mind as in his surroundings. I love him. The thought burned, feverish in its intensity, terrible in its truth. Yet he cared not should society condemn him, for the iron claws of the system could never touch the flames of revolution. Revolution, Enjolras realised. Revolution is the defiance of injustice. To love him is a revolution in itself. Perhaps, I do not have to choose. Perhaps my love is not a betrayal, but a vow.
Paris, February 11th, 1832
The city was silent, the rain barely more than a gentle hum against the windowpanes. Below, the hazy glow of the streetlamps drifted upwards on the early morning fog, golden threads shimmering in the gelid gloom. In a small, spartan room on the top floor of one of the tall, crooked, buildings along Rue de Grès, Enjolras sat upon the hard, narrow, mattress, the leather-bound biography of Robespierre open in his lap. His gaze roved across the pages, words blurring, seeing without reading. All thought was consumed by the man who lay beside him, eyes closed, lips slightly parted, dark curls still damp from the rain. He had not the quiet, refined, beauty of an oil painting; this was rougher, wilder, a perfect storm. Enjolras watched him, the terror of the previous night fading into relief. He is alive. It felt almost surreal. Could it only have been mere hours since the two of them had collapsed in some, filthy, darkened, alleyway, broken and bleeding? Reluctantly, Enjolras returned to his book, trying once again to decipher the nuances of the long, revolutionary, prose before him. Focus. Patria needs to be free.
A gentle tug at his shirt cuff made him turn. Grantaire had stirred, though his eyes were still half-closed, reflecting the glimmer of the candle-flames. He gave a soft moan of frustration, tightening his grip, pulling on Enjolras’ sleeve with a drowsy insistence.
Enjolras sighed. “You need to rest,” he said, not looking up. “Do not re-injure yourself.”
The mattress creaked as Grantaire adjusted his position, pushing himself upright to sit beside Enjolras. “Is Robespierre really more interesting than me?”
“It is his philosophies that intrigue me, not the man himself.”
“Oh? So I intrigue you, do I?” His tone was teasing, playful. Enjolras felt his heart speed up, a hot flush rising in his chest. “That–that is not the point,” he stammered, trying to conceal his emotion behind the pages. “I am studying.”
Grantaire chuckled softly, sliding off the bed with a lopsided grace. He turned to face Enjolras, falling shakily to his knees. “Studying? Non, mon amour, I am far too scandalous a subject for mere study. You must…act. Touch. Kiss. Tell me, Enjolras, will you take me? Will you have me, in spirit, in love, in defiance? I am yours, fully, completely, if you dare to claim me!"
Enjolras froze. He stared down at Grantaire, beautiful, desperate, wild. His first instinct was to shake his head, to pull his companion up off the floor and tell to him that he was not thinking clearly, that he needed rest. Yet he did not move. The proximity was alarming, intoxicating. He wanted to lean closer, to feel, to taste. Non, he told himself. Remember what you fight for. Equality, and virtue, for the people, for the Republic. And liberty…the liberty to love…
The book slid from his fingers, hitting the floor with a thud. He nodded, heart pounding, every nerve on fire as Grantaire leant forwards, his fingers finding the edge of Enjolras’ cravat, pulling him closer. The revolutionary exhaled shakily, taking Grantaire’s cheek in his palm, allowing himself, at last, to surrender, closing the distance between them in one, breathless movement. Enjolras hesitated for a heartbeat, caught between reason and desire, before leaning, fully, into Grantaire. Their lips met, soft at first, searching, as if confirming each other’s presence. Then something within him broke–years of careful restraint, of disciplined silence–and he kissed him back, entire body burning with a fervour that reduced every doubt to nothing. Grantaire’s hands rose to his chest, trembling, reverent, as if afraid the moment may vanish. His fingers caught at the fabric of Enjolras’ shirt, frantic, unsteady, unfastening each button as though tearing down the final barrier between them. Instinctively, Enjolras reached to still his hand, but his own body betrayed him, heat rising in his throat, composure unravelling, pulse fluttering wildly beneath his skin. His eyes meet Grantaire’s, shining in the dim light, fracturing the last of Enjolras’ discipline. He made a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob, parting his lips just enough to let the warm sweetness of Grantaire’s mouth fill him completely. Grantaire’s fingers pushed against Enjolras’ chest, knocking him over onto the bed. Enjolras slid his arms around his companion’s waist, pressing closer, oblivious now to the cold and the turmoil outside.
His hand brushed the rough edge of the bandages beneath Grantaire’s shirt, the reality of the situation flooding back in a wave of icy panic. Carefully, so as not to disturb his injury, Enjolras pushed Grantaire off of him. “Non. You are hurt, mon amour. I will not have you bleed to death for the love of me. As–as much as I want this, I must stop you there.”
He rose, shakily, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. Grantaire watched him, uncertainty in his eyes. “I am sorry, Enjolras. I did not mean to make you…uncomfortable…”
“Not at all, mon amour,” Enjolras replied, taking a seat beside his companion once again. “I simply wish not to injure you further. You could still die, Grantaire, and I am not sure I could…” he trailed off, shaking his head.
Grantaire slipped his left arm around Enjolras’ waist, drawing him closer. “I am not going to die,” he whispered. “You shall make sure of that, I think.”
Enjolras gave a dry laugh. “Of course. You are under my protection now.”
“And what beautiful protection that is. Tell me, am I required to stay here, with you? Until I recover?”
“Oui. Just until you recover.”
Grantaire sighed, pressing a gentle kiss to Enjolras’ jaw. “Back to being virtuous and noble, are we?”
“I–I…” Enjolras stammered, blushing. “Look, if you want to stay, just ask! But do not go throwing yourself upon the floor this time!”
“All right.” Grantaire took a deep breath, lacing his fingers with Enjolras’ own. He met the revolutionary’s gaze, dark eyes shining with love. “Enjolras,” he began, “mon Apollo. Will you…marry me?”
Enjolras blinked at him, caught off guard by this sudden, ridiculous proposal. He was unsure whether to laugh at Grantaire, or to scold him. What he asked was preposterous, dangerous, unreal. Enjolras shook his head. “You cannot mean this seriously. You are tired, delirious.”
“Pas du tout, mon amour. Have I not told you before, there are times where I mean so strongly what I say that words are not enough?”
“But surely, you cannot be asking me–”
“To marry you? That is exactly what I am asking. Not by law, but by devotion. By defiance. Is not the very notion of linking your soul to mine an act of rebellion?”
Enjolras paused for a moment, his exhausted mind attempting to make sense of the situation. It frightened him, a little, the way Grantaire could read him so easily, the way his stern and righteous façade fell away before this handsome, drunken, skeptic. Liberty, and equality, he reminded himself. Virtue and duty. Do not lose sight of the cause.
“You do not have to,” Grantaire said, as if Enjolras had spoken his mantra aloud. “In our case, are love and revolution not one and the same?”
The truth hit Enjolras; a force stronger and more real than physical sensation. He gave a small smile. “Very well. Then I shall take you, as mon bien-aimé, in love, and in rebellion. Ceci, je le jure.”
Grantaire laughed triumphantly, throwing his uninjured arm around Enjolras’ neck and kissing him, hard. The revolutionary sighed, allowing his lover to lean into him, his slow, rhythmic, heartbeat settling to match Enjolras’ own. Outside, the streets of Paris glittered in the grey dawn, the morning fog stirred by a restless wind; a reminder that their fight was far from over.