Chapter Text
When he opened his eyes, all Enjolras saw was darkness.
His breathing was shallow and the air too warm as it hovered around his face. He felt like he was sitting, as if there was something sturdy keeping him upright, but he couldn’t be sure because he didn’t really feel any sensation.
Enjolras wondered if he had died, if that car speeding at him had hit him. He thought maybe he was experiencing the afterlife, a lonely and dark nonexistence that was going to last forever. He didn’t know if he had believed in a heaven while alive, but whatever came after your time on Earth had to be better than this. If he had to be dead, he would have at least expected to hang out with some of the inspiring deceased: discuss class issues with Che Guevara, Iranian history with Kuchik Khan, radical anarchism with Louise Michel.
Not floating in some limitless isolation. It was the opposite of everything he wanted. He wanted his friends, he wanted his family, he wanted to change the world. He had too much left to accomplish; he hadn’t even made a dent yet.
More than anything, he wanted Grantaire. Could he have spent his last night alive wandering the streets, looking for his boyfriend who had no idea how much Enjolras cared about him? Leaving without Grantaire understanding wasn’t an option. This couldn’t be the end. He didn’t accept it. When he started to rebel and went to try and move his body, that’s when he realized he couldn’t be dead.
Suddenly, he felt like he’d gotten hit by a tank. Surely you couldn’t hurt this much if you were dead, right? What kind of sick joke would that be? That death wouldn’t be the end of bodily pain? No, it couldn’t be.
“I think he’s waking up,” Enjolras heard a voice say. He knew the voice. Bahorel? He tried to say the name, but nothing came out. There was, however, an ache in his jaw when he attempted to speak. And there was a slight cooper taste in his mouth. He tried to take comfort in the fact that his senses appeared to be returning to him.
He attempted again to move but felt as if he were sinking in quicksand, his limbs unresponsive, the haze that had been hanging over him earlier in the night returning with a vengeance. He couldn’t even breathe properly; each breath was shaky and stilted, like he’d had the wind knocked out of him.
“Enjolras? Are you with us?” the same low voice asked. “Should I slap him to wake him up?” Definitely Bahorel.
Enjolras finally took control, rotating himself a tiny bit to the left, his entire body buzzing with a dull pain. Except in his head and his shoulder, where the pain was sharp and ceaseless, like a thousand daggers stabbing him at the same time.
“Hang on, E,” the voice that had to be Bahorel said. All of a sudden, there was a pressure; the fog was getting more dense, swarming closer to his face, sucking the oxygen away. Enjolras gasped and closed his eyes again, not knowing what was coming next.
And then there was light, a brightness illuminating even through his shuttered lids, and the unmistakable chill of a breeze. When he blinked his eyes open, it took a long time for things to come into focus. For a while it was like he was trying to see in murky water, the glare moving, the figures blurry. But at last he saw Bahorel standing above him, long red scratches down one of his bare arms, and Gavroche at his side, clutching his skateboard to his chest, both looking concerned. When he turned his head slightly, Enjolras felt Grantaire’s soft hoodie curled around his face. So that had been the darkness. Now he could smell the faint scent of cigarettes that hung to the fabric, and he felt the warmth of Grantaire’s body still lingering in the plushness.
As he looked in front of him, he saw Grantaire holed up in the opposite corner, hugging his arms against his chest, his eyes unblinking as he stared at Enjolras. But he wouldn’t meet Enjolras’ gaze. He was looking at Enjolras’ chest, watching its rise and fall. Like he had been afraid Enjolras was going to stop breathing. Enjolras knew that fear; he’d been living in it every second since Grantaire had run from the apartment. But there they both were, both in one piece, technically speaking.
Groaning in pain, Enjolras laid his head back against what turned out to be the brick wall of the Musain. He and Grantaire were sitting on the stoop of the restaurant, only feet away from each other, but Enjolras felt like there may as well have been a solid wall between them. His head was pounding and his shoulder was raw. Moving even a fraction of an inch felt like his joints had sandpaper between them.
“Are you OK, Enjolras?” Bahorel asked, squatting down to eye level. “You’ve been out awhile. We were starting to get worried.”
Enjolras just stared in front of him, willing Grantaire to look at him, to say anything. What Enjolras would have given to hear even just one word pass through his lips. Bahorel scooted a bit closer, so his knee — in jeans that weren’t torn earlier in the night — was almost touching Enjolras’ leg. “Hey, hey, talk to me.”
“Yeah,” Enjolras croaked out, his voice feeling foreign in his throat, like he hadn’t spoken for days (which would have been a record if it was true). “What happened?”
“It was wicked, E,” Gavroche exclaimed, tossing his skateboard down between his legs so he could use his hands to gesture while he talked. “You ran over to see Grantaire, but you weren’t paying attention or anything, so you didn’t see the car coming. But they were speeding, too, so it’s not like it was all your fault. But Bahorel ran like a superhero and pushed you out of the way. The car honked and stuff, like it was our fault when they were the ones not paying attention and almost killed you. I got their tags though.” Gavroche paused to tap on his temple. “I’ll get them back. You can count on it. Fight the system, you know?” he said as he pumped his fist in the air.
“Not particularly.” Enjolras heard what Gavroche was saying, but he was having a hard time fixating on anything except Grantaire’s face, which had remained the same since Enjolras had woken up: his brow furrowed and his eyes dark, his teeth digging into his bottom lip.
“Yeah, you landed kind of hard. Sorry about that,” Bahorel said, rubbing the back of his neck with a wince. It made Enjolras suspect that Bahorel had landed hard as well. “And your shoulder dislocated a little, but I fixed it.”
Enjolras didn’t have it in him to correct that a shoulder couldn’t dislocate “a little,” and that Bahorel didn’t have the proper medical training to put a dislocated shoulder back in its socket. But that would explain why it felt like his arm was rusted over and in need of oil.
“But you’re OK otherwise it looks like,” Bahorel continued, Gavroche nodding enthusiastically in agreement. “You’ll probably have a headache for a day and some scrapes and bruises, but you’ll be back to yourself soon.”
Even though he was sore like he had run a marathon and then fallen off a cliff, he was alive and breathing. And he had Bahorel to thank for the fact that he wasn’t roadkill. Reaching forward, Enjolras placed his hand on Bahorel’s, squeezing it gently.
“Thank you. For everything tonight,” Enjolras said, glancing over at Gavroche to nod at him, too.
Bahorel cocked a grin and was about to say something else when his phone started blaring “We Are The Champions.” He sighed, and Enjolras suspected he’d been dealing with a lot of phone calls in the past however-long he’d been out. He wasn’t sure what time it was, but since he’d gotten all of his friends riled up and worried about Grantaire, his own silence had probably only stressed them out more.
“No, ’Ferre, you don’t need to come down here,” Bahorel groaned into the phone, standing up with an apologetic smile. “He’s OK. He woke up. Yeah, yeah, I’m good, too. And R. I promise we’re fine. Please just stay with Courf.”
Taking a few steps away, Bahorel lowered his voice as he continued the conversation, meaning he was probably telling Combeferre the specifics that Enjolras really didn’t want to relive right now. Mimicking Bahorel, Gavroche pulled out a phone from his pocket and started dialing. Then Enjolras noticed it was his phone. Gavroche had notoriously sticky fingers and must have taken it while Enjolras was unconscious. Good to know it had escaped his hard fall unscathed at least.
“Hey Ep, it’s me. Yeah, everything is cool. R is just kind of staring, and I think Enjolras is in shock or something. But you can call off the troops now.” Enjolras smiled slightly, even though it hurt to do so. “Do I really have to come home now? I have an important job here. What? Watching over your friends is a job, a full-time one that I should probably get paid for.”
Gavroche jumped onto his skateboard and began slowly rotating around Bahorel, mimicking the older man’s body language as they both held their phones to their ears. Enjolras smiled again through the pain in his jaw — he suspected he probably had a nasty bruise or something there — and then looked back to Grantaire, who quickly averted his eyes, though Enjolras knew he had been staring. Enjolras pushed out one of his legs, his sweatpants dark from the asphalt, to lightly tap the end of Grantaire’s shoe. When Grantaire looked up, the guilt plastered on his face was enough to almost send Enjolras spinning. He knew they needed to talk. If they didn’t talk right then, they may as well never speak again.
When Bahorel and Gavroche finished their calls and walked back over a few seconds later, Enjolras looked up at them. “Bahorel, can you take Gavroche home?”
“But --” Bahorel started to protest.
“We’re OK. We’ll get home alright.”
Bahorel looked uncertain, but Gavroche flipped up his skateboard and gently hit Bahorel’s arm with it, pointedly looking between Enjolras and Grantaire as if to say, “Give them some space already.” Sometimes Gavroche surprised Enjolras with a wisdom far beyond his years, though he shouldn’t be all that shocked considering the life he had been thrown into since birth. And the fact that he’d been basically raised by Eponine had helped shape his observational skills, too.
Gavroche tossed Enjolras’ phone back to him, which Enjolras didn’t so much catch as provide a landing pad for on his chest. Bahorel swept Gavroche up onto his back without one groan of pain, which Enjolras envied. He tucked Gavroche’s skateboard under his arm, and they headed in the opposite direction toward the Thenardier home.
Enjolras watched them until they turned the corner, Gavroche waving aggressively, and were out of sight. Then he looked back at Grantaire and realized he had no idea what to say. All he had wanted all night was to find Grantaire and apologize, but with him there, Enjolras couldn’t find the words anymore. Maybe it was his injuries slowing his senses and brain power. Or maybe he was just scared; another quality, like indecisiveness and helplessness, that he wasn’t fond of.
“Why did you do that?” Grantaire asked suddenly, his voice small and almost frightened. The bottle he’d been hugging before Enjolras had nearly gotten hit was nowhere in sight. Enjolras suspected Gavroche had probably disposed of it. Grantaire’s hands curled and uncurled in front of him as if it were still there.
“Do what?”
“Come looking for me.” Grantaire looked down, watching his hands clench and unclench.
“Because I love you” is what Enjolras wanted to say. He wanted to say it more than he thought he ever would. He knew they were only words and had no actual importance until you gave them weight. But he knew the power that words could hold; he’d made a life out of giving words meaning. And yet, because his parents had never said they loved him — they supported him and they were proud of him and, deep down, he knew how deeply they cared about him — Enjolras had never learned how to give those particular words the proper respect they deserved.
He hadn’t even tried to say “I love you” in more than a decade. And until Grantaire, he’d been under the impression that that’s how things were just meant to be. Someone like him wasn’t meant for love — not romantic love at least — and that was OK because he had his friends, his passions, and his goals. That was all he needed. Until now. He wanted to say it so bad that he felt like he was choking on the words. He coughed, his chest burning.
“Enjolras?”
He would mean it if he told Grantaire he loved him. It would be the truth. It wasn’t even as if Grantaire had said it and was waiting for Enjolras to reciprocate. He wanted to say it, but he couldn’t get it out.
“I thought you were in danger,” he said quietly, rubbing his sore throat. “And I couldn’t stand the thought of something happening to you.”
Grantaire almost laughed, though it was really more of a shocked scoff. “You thought I was in danger while you were the one running in front of traffic?”
“I only saw you,” Enjolras answered immediately.
He didn’t know if that was the right thing to say or if it made everything worse. He was still feeling pretty light-headed from being unconscious, and the glare of the streetlight was creating a strange glow around Grantaire, like he was this beautiful mirage against a bleak backdrop. Then Grantaire scooted out of the corner so he was directly across from Enjolras, their feet interspersed, nearly touching but not quite.
“I’m sorry,” Grantaire whispered. “I never meant for you to see my notebook. I never meant for anyone to. I didn’t-I didn’t have a plan or anything, you know. It was mostly just in case things got bad, got worse, and I couldn’t deal. I never sat down and thought, ‘I’m going to write a will for when I commit suicide.’”
“But you did,” Enjolras could feel himself trembling, though he wasn’t sure why. He definitely wasn’t cold, not still buried in Grantaire’s thick hoodie. He reached out his arms anyway and slowly pulled his knees close to his chest, stretching the hoodie to cover the top of his legs.
“I did. But you have to know that it went out the window after you and me. After you hired me at the Musain, after I got this family, our friends who really care, everything was different. And after you, I honestly forgot it was even in there. I had no reason to look back at it, not one single reason, since we got together. Believe me, I wouldn’t have left it around if I had remembered.”
Enjolras wanted to understand. He yearned to with every fiber of his being; it was like when he latched onto a story or an injustice, and he had to know the ins and the outs in order to fully comprehend the whole picture.
“I’m glad that it hasn’t been lately. Truly. But why did you write it in the first place?” he prodded.
Grantaire clearly didn’t want to answer. He glanced down and around him, probably searching for the liquor that wasn’t there. When he looked up, he closed his eyes before meeting Enjolras’ gaze and took a deep breath before responding.
“I was drinking too much.” Enjolras held his tongue. “I know I still drink too much, but it was worse, believe me. And I was failing three of my four classes. Bahorel and Eponine were fucking thriving, making new friends and learning shit to make something of themselves. And I was stuck. My dad was being a bigger asshole than usual. I was falling into my art, drowning in it, and I couldn’t get out.”
Enjolras knew Grantaire used painting as an outlet, but he couldn’t see how that could be detrimental. He thought poring an overabundance of emotions into art would be a good thing, a release. That’s how it was for him when he delivered a speech or got a hold of a good story; the buildup was almost intoxicating and the conclusion euphoric. But for Grantaire, it was something else, something Enjolras couldn’t even fathom.
“I was having a hard time seeing the light. I don’t have your hope and belief in yourself, in humanity, in the future. I admire you so much for being able to see a brighter tomorrow, for wanting to work toward that. But I see things so fucking clear — as they are, not as they could be — and it hurts. It was hurting so much ... constantly ... that I couldn’t stand the idea of living like that. Or of lashing out at anyone who tried to help me. I was afraid if Eponine or Bahorel or any of you tried to reach me, I’d hurt you. And that was the last thing I wanted.”
Without thinking, Enjolras found that he’d moved forward and pulled Grantaire’s feet to wrap around his, their knees bent up and resting against each other. After noticing it, he reached around to take Grantaire’s hands on either side. The tangible warmth of Grantaire’s skin against his was almost breath-taking after the hours spent hopelessly searching for him.
“But you saved me, you know,” Grantaire continued, tugging on Enjolras’ wrists. “I thought, if you could see something in me that was worth it, then there had to be something there. Because you wouldn’t lie, you wouldn’t waste your time. With you, I could see the good again. You fucking saved me.”
“You saved me, too,” Enjolras said earnestly, without missing a beat. The shock on Grantaire’s face only fueled Enjolras’ guilt, and he attempted to pull Grantaire closer, even though they were already tangled together. Any space between them was too much.
“How is that possible?” Grantaire’s eyes were bright now, wide and curious, staring into Enjolras’ like they had that night at the Musain when they kissed for the first time. The night that had changed both of their lives.
“I thought I had lost you tonight,” Enjolras’ voice cracked on the words. “I was terrified because I thought you’d left, that you’d gone somewhere I couldn’t follow.”
“Oh no, Enjolras, no,” Grantaire whispered. “I’m here, I’m always here. You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”
For the first time, Grantaire sounded like himself again, and Enjolras breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t realized it, but it was what he needed to hear: Grantaire was there to stay, he wasn’t going anywhere. Already he could feel the worry that had been coiling in his stomach start to dissipate, replaced with a staggering need to expound his feelings in whatever way he could. If not with “I love you,” then with the clear-cut facts. It was what he did best, after all.
“I meant what I said earlier tonight: You’re special. You’re unlike anyone I’ve ever met in my life. When I didn’t know what happened to you tonight, I was going out of my mind,” Enjolras had to hold Grantaire’s hands tighter to remind himself that he was really there. “Drew almost beat me up because I got in his face. I was accosting drunk people on the sidewalk. I was running in between traffic. I was this close to having a panic attack. But as soon as I saw you, I was OK. I felt safe and whole. Just seeing you did that.”
Enjolras knew he was working around it. He was consciously saying everything he could think of except “I love you.” And he didn’t know why. He wanted to say it so much that it was beginning to make him angry that he couldn’t.
“I can’t-I can’t say the words. Not yet.” Grantaire opened his mouth to reply, but Enjolras shook his head, needing to get out whatever he could. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel them. You’re the most important thing in the world to me. You mean more to me than I ever thought a person would. And I’m thankful every single day I get to have you in my life. And I’m sorry that I ever made you doubt that for a moment.”
Grantaire had a kind of vacant expression on his face, his mouth still hanging open and his cheeks flushed. He was staring just above Enjolras’ left shoulder with his clear eyes unblinking. Enjolras didn’t know what it meant. Was Grantaire disappointed that he couldn’t say “I love you” even though he wanted to? Was he angry? Was it not enough? Was it a dealbreaker? Was it the end? He needed Grantaire to say something.
“Grantaire, are you --”
Pretty much the last thing Enjolras had been expecting was Grantaire’s lips to crash into his so forcefully that he almost fell backwards. He wanted it so badly; Grantaire’s stubble against his chin was familiar and comforting, and the faintest sting of whiskey still on Grantaire’s tongue made Enjolras feel at home. He never wanted to let go. He could kiss Grantaire forever, get lost in worn sweatshirts and limbs, and that would be OK with him. Unfortunately, his aching body had other ideas.
“Owww,” he groaned, reluctantly pushing Grantaire back as he reached up to rub his jaw.
“Oh shit, sorry,” Grantaire said quietly, though he was grinning ear to ear.
He tenderly reached forward to drag his fingers across Enjolras’ cheek; the touch was soft, and Enjolras craved it. He wanted to lean into it, feel Grantaire’s mouth on his again, but he was finally realizing how hard he must have landed when Bahorel pushed him out of the way. He probably looked like he had gotten beaten up, and he definitely felt like it.
“How bad do I look?” he asked.
Grantaire smiled sadly, fiddling with the stretched-out hood of his sweatshirt on Enjolras.
“You’ve got pretty bad road burn on your face,” Grantaire raised his hand again to lightly trace across Enjolras’ jaw. “I’m sure you can feel your shoulder is a little fucked up.” He dropped his fingers to ghost an outline on Enjolras’ collar bone sticking out from the sweatshirt. “There was some bleeding from scratches on your arm that you can’t see right now, and your sweatpants are filthy, and I know you have to have bruises under there.” Grantaire was barely touching Enjolras by that point, fingertips circling, and still he could feel it with a red-hot precision. “And your hair’s a mess. I’ve never seen it so crazy. But you still look like a goddamn masterpiece.”
He brought his hands back up to drag through Enjolras’ curls, settling them on the back of his head and pulling their foreheads together.
Every muscle, every joint, every skin cell on Enjolras’ body stung, but feeling Grantaire’s touch, breathing the same air, made everything worth it. He’d dive in front of an actual tank if it meant he got to stay like this.
However, whatever form of shock he’d been in before had completely worn off, and the pain was increasing by the second. They really needed to get off the street. Sitting on the pavement had started to send shocks of pain up his spine. He needed the comfort of his bed, and he needed it fast.
“Can we go back to my place? I think I need to sleep for about 12 hours,” he said, kissing Grantaire’s nose delicately.
“You want me there?”
Despite everything they had gone through, everything Enjolras had tried to say, everything they’d communicated with and without words, Grantaire still doubted the degree of Enjolras’ affection.
It devastated him.
“Of course I want you there,” he responded with what he hoped was an encouraging smile. “I especially need your help in getting up.”
The corners of Grantaire’s mouth quirked up as he got to his feet, leaning his hand back against the wall behind him to steady himself. Once he was confident on his feet, he reached forward and offered a hand to Enjolras. After pulling him up, Grantaire daintily dusted Enjolras off, careful to barely touch his body for fear of hurting him, which Enjolras noticed with a fondness. With Grantaire’s hand firmly on Enjolras’ hip, they started walking — more like limping — back toward Enjolras’ apartment, which was thankfully close to the Musain.
“I think I have to call out tomorrow,” Enjolras said with a grimace as his legs buckled slightly under his weight. “I hate doing that, especially on Sundays when we’re busy, and especially if Courfeyrac is out of commission as well.”
Grantaire’s arm around his waist tightened slightly as they walked around the corner on the dark street. Enjolras had forgotten it must be well after 3 a.m. by this point. Grantaire had to be back at the Musain in less than five hours.
“We can handle it, don’t worry. I’ll make sure of it. And I’ll even bring you home some brunch,” Grantaire grinned.
“You have a way of getting me to not go to work, you know,” Enjolras replied, bumping his good shoulder against Grantaire gently.
It was true, too. The first time was when Marius and Cosette had gotten together, and he’d lost the bet to Grantaire and had to stay in bed all day (which wasn’t losing at all). The second was when he had a terrible migraine from working too hard on his thesis, and Grantaire had insisted he needed to stay inside, in a dark room, and went around unplugging all of Enjolras’ electronics to keep him undistracted. The third was when he got lost listening to Grantaire play the piano one afternoon and was more than an hour late to his shift, to the surprise of everyone at the restaurant.
“Only when necessary,” Grantaire said.
Enjolras would normally respond that those instances were hardly “necessary” in the grand scheme of things, but he didn’t have the energy, so he just nodded sleepily and rested his head against Grantaire’s shoulder as they walked.
The rest of the journey to the apartment passed in a comfortable silence since they were used to walking home from the Musain together after shifts — they had a rhythm — and they were home before Enjolras even realized it. He winced in pain walking up the stairs, taking double the time it usually took to climb the one flight.
However, what he noticed more than the pain was the concern on Grantaire’s face. His eyes swept from Enjolras’ feet, to check his balance, all the way up to his head, to make sure he wasn’t overexerting himself. He kept his arms outstretched as Enjolras gripped the banister, one in front of him and one in back of him. Protecting him and keeping him safe.
Then it hit him harder than when he’d hit the pavement earlier tonight: He couldn’t say the words, but he could show it.
Walking down the hallway to the apartment, Enjolras took his keys from his pocket and worked the spare apartment key out from the ring. His fingers were heavy and uncooperative; he was so indescribably nervous all of a sudden, but he steeled himself. He’d been in more terrifying situations; this should be a piece of cake compared to giving a speech in front of hundreds, but acknowledging that didn’t ease his nerves. If anything, it made them worse.
He handed the singular key to Grantaire, pressing it into his palm. Grantaire sent him a confused look but didn’t say anything. He tried to hand it back after they were safely inside the apartment. But Enjolras shook his head, closing the door and fastening the deadbolt behind them.
“No, that’s yours,” he replied, taking Grantaire’s hands in his and then pushing them back toward Grantaire’s chest.
“Are you sure?” Grantaire’s eyes were glistening.
Nobody had a key to Enjolras’ apartment. Everybody knew they were welcome whenever they wanted, especially Combeferre and Feuilly, who had made a second home of Enjolras’ place. And Courfeyrac, who showed up more often than anyone because he said the view was spectacular from the large bay window. Enjolras kept the apartment unlocked when he was home, and all their friends knew they could come by anytime, whether it was for company, a discussion, or just a place to crash. However, no one had a key because Enjolras enjoyed having a place where he could be totally alone if he needed it.
Yet, for the first time in his life, he realized even if he wanted to be alone, that didn’t include Grantaire. Even if he needed a break from everything and everyone else, Grantaire was the exception. Enjolras wanted Grantaire to know that he was always welcome, that he was never an annoyance or a distraction or a burden.
“Very,” Enjolras whispered, gazing into Grantaire’s eyes.
Enjolras knew Grantaire deserved more, deserved to hear the words as frequently as possible, but he hoped this would be enough. It was the closest he could get to “I love you,” at least for now.
The way Grantaire buried his face against Enjolras’ neck — intimately but delicately so as to not injure him further — let Enjolras know that he understood the immenseness of the gesture. Enjolras could feel Grantaire’s grin against his skin, and he smiled, too, even though it ached to do so. Grantaire understood he was being given exclusive access to Enjolras’ sanctuary. And there was the hope, the promise, of more to come.
“OK, Apollo, we’re going to bed. You need to rest.” Grantaire’s voice was muffled since his face was still half in the hoodie and half on Enjolras’ skin. But Enjolras could detect a wavering in Grantire’s voice anyway and, feeling equally overcome with a rush of emotions, he kissed his boyfriend’s ear before they detangled themselves.
Grantaire wiped at his face with an embarrassed smile — his eyes still glassy — before taking Enjolras’ hand and leading them back to the bedroom. He helped Enjolras strip down, easing his hoodie over Enjolras’ shoulders and tugging his T-shirt over his head. Enjolras caught sight of his shirt before Grantaire tossed it into the laundry basket in his closet; the left side was almost entirely black from the asphalt. He looked down at his chest and saw long red scratches from being dragged against the street, matching the ones that he had seen on Bahorel’s arm. It hurt even looking at it.
Grantaire moved Enjolras’ hands onto both of his shoulders, providing balance while he helped him step out of his grimy sweatpants. There was nothing sexual about the removal of clothes tonight; Grantaire was patient and almost reverential, handling Enjolras like one of his paintings, as if his life depended on it.
When he took the sweatpants in his arms, something changed on Grantaire’s face, a split-second darkness. Then Enjolras remembered he still had the notebook tucked in the pocket. Grantaire pulled it out, holding it with two fingers as Enjolras had done earlier in the evening. Grantaire stared at it, biting at his bottom lip, and Enjolras wasn’t sure what was going to happen. He was petrified that the entire ordeal was about to start all over.
As Enjolras was debating taking the initiative, Grantaire took a step back. The darkness that had clouded his face was gone, replaced with determination. He opened the notebook to the last page, hesitating only a moment before tearing it out. He took a deep breath and then tore the page in half, again and again until it was only a handful of tiny squares. Looking at his hands and then meeting Enjolras’ eyes, he smiled a bright, accomplished grin. And Enjolras couldn’t help but return it.
The physical destruction of the “will” was for Enjolras’ benefit as much as Grantaire’s, demonstrating the truth of Grantaire’s assertion that he no longer felt that deep sadness, that it was the past and Enjolras was the future. Enjolras knew they had only scratched the surface, that there were many more discussions still to come about both of their emotional well-beings. But for now, knowing the will and therefore the thoughts of suicide were literally in pieces, he was relieved.
In only his boxers, Enjolras walked around the side of his bed and slid into his cool sheets while watching Grantaire empty the scraps into the small trash can by the door. After laying his notebook on Enjolras’ dresser, Grantaire began to shed his clothes, and Enjolras wished he had the energy to help like he usually would. However, the comfort of his bed had already enveloped him. His muscles were less tense, the pain in his head was alleviated with his down pillow scrunched up underneath it, and his shoulder stopped throbbing while he curled sideways on his uninjured side.
“I want brunch in bed tomorrow,” he said as Grantaire finally finished undressing and flicked the light off.
He crawled into the bed behind Enjolras, drawing the sheets and comforter close around their faces. Grantaire’s warmth seeped into every inch of Enjolras’ body; every contact point from their ankles to Grantaire’s chest against his back felt like being wrapped in sunshine. He pulled Grantaire’s arm around his waist and then up against his chest, even though his skin was excruciatingly sensitive there. “Your wish is my command. I don’t want you moving from this bed until I come back in the afternoon. I can let myself in,” Grantaire responded in a low voice.
It was then, in the darkness with Grantaire curled around him protectively, that Enjolras realized Grantaire still had the key tucked into his fist. Enjolras was so gratified, so overwhelmed, that it felt like his chest was opening up, trying to contain his swelling heart. It would be the perfect time for the three little words that had plagued him for his entire life — there might never be a more perfect time — but it still wasn’t the right time. He didn’t want to force them out; he wanted them to be natural. When it was the right time, he wouldn’t even have to think about it.
He had never felt so content and safe in his entire life. He knew he loved Grantaire, and he knew Grantaire felt the exact same. He knew it without a shadow of a doubt now, and that knowledge was all he needed, all they needed, tonight.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Enjolras said instead, cupping Grantaire’s hand in his and kissing it softly as he burrowed back against him. “I’ll be right here.”