Chapter Text
“You’re the Anarchist.”
It’s a statement, not a question. Enjolras is standing in his living room, hand hovering at the light switch that he’d just thrown as Grantaire tumbled in through the window. There’s no room for denial, hoodie zipped up but only partially hiding the suit underneath. That, and he’d just climbed into a 5th floor window. So all Grantaire does is nod, mutely, pulling the hood back from his face.
“Why haven’t you told us?” Enjolras asks, brow furrowing slightly in an odd expression. It’s hurt, Grantaire realizes distantly.
“It’s called a secret identity.” Grantaire replies. “Can’t exactly be a secret if all my friends know, can it?”
“But we could help you-“ Enjolras starts, but it’s an argument Grantaire can’t take right now, not when he’s bone-tired and nursing an arm injury that he can feel bruising as he stands.
“How? By fighting who I fight? By getting yourselves killed?” He snaps back. Enjolras’s mouth shuts abruptly. “None of you can take the punches I can. You’re busy saving the world already, Enjolras. With words.” He smiles bitterly. “Let me do my part the way I can- with my fists.”
Enjolras rakes a hand through his curls.
“All this time, you’ve fought me on everything, you can be such an insufferable cynic... you’re the most idealistic of all of us.”
Grantaire snorts.
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“What would you say then? You’re out there fighting for justice, what we want-“
That’s all the argument that Grantaire has in him, and he half-stumbles forward from where he’d frozen by the window. His shoulder brushes Enjolras, who trails off as Grantaire drags himself forward to drop onto the couch and lets his eyes fall closed.
Half a minute later, he feels a body settle next to him on the couch. A hand touches his arm, and he winces slightly as he opens his eyes.
Enjolras has a different expression on his face now. Softer- pleading.
“I won’t tell anyone, I promise- but let me help. Somehow, I want to help.”
It's so painfully earnest. Grantaire doesn’t know he’ll say the words until he’s saying them, didn’t know the feeling until he was vocalizing it.
“Just let me talk to you about it- that will help more than anything. I- it’s lonely. Nobody knowing. Not being able to talk about it.”
Enjolras nods. Grantaire closes his eyes again. “And honestly, a big help would be if you’d leave. No offense, but I’d very much like to pass out now.”
He doesn’t open his eyes again, but feels Enjolras’s nod, the weight lift from the couch. He’s nearly asleep in seconds, the comforting oblivion pulling at his senses, but he thinks he feels a blanket settle on his shoulders.
***
After that, Enjolras is around more. Evidence of his presence is all around Grantaire’s apartment, a fact which he tries valiantly not to read too much into. Enjolras’s magazines litter the coffee table, he buys a coffee creamer and stashes it in Grantaire’s fridge. Grantaire notices his medicine cabinet is refilled more quickly, more bandages and iodine and Tylenol crowding the shelves.
“Oh my god.” Enjolras says one day, from what’s become his spot on the couch. Grantaire hums a question from the table, a bite of toast in his mouth. “The Anarchist. The An-R-chist. It’s a pun.”
Grantaire swallows and grins.
“I wondered how long it would take for that to hit you.”
“I always thought it was a bit of a stupid name.” Enjolras admits, looking back down at his newspaper. “But I like it much better now.”
“It’s a little joke I made with myself.” Grantaire says, gesturing with his toast. “It’s obvious enough that I can laugh about it, but not noticeable to anyone who doesn’t know my nickname. To them it’s just a kind of stupid, pretentious superhero name.”
Enjolras smiles at the newspaper in his hands.
***
“Grantaire? I heard on the police scanner-“ Enjolras is talking as he bursts into the dark apartment, flicking the light on as he moves forward. His steps falter as his eyes land on Grantaire. “R, my god.”
Grantaire hasn’t moved from where he pulled himself in through the window. His muscles protest enough at every breath, just the thought of moving any more is agony. He’s been staring at the bloody handprint he left on the windowsill, one of the only parts of the room that isn’t spinning. Even so, he makes himself look to Enjolras.
“I’m fine, don’t-“
He was going to say don’t worry, but breaks off into cough. It's not reassuring. Enjolras comes back to himself, shock banished in favor of determination. He strides forward and is knelt at Grantaire’s side before Grantaire can really process it. Whether that’s his speed or blood loss, Grantaire can’t decide at the moment. He stops trying to.
“What did they do to you?” Enjolras asks, gently moving Grantaire’s weakly protesting hands aside to look. He hisses at the sight of long clawmarks raked across Grantaire’s chest, gingerly trying to pry the blood-sticky fabric away from the wounds. Grantaire winces.
"Their bounty hunter got-" deep, shuddering breath. "A shiny new toy. Big metal claws."
"You need a doctor." Enjolras insists, eyes wide as he takes in the sheer amount of damage.
"No, no hospitals. We've talked about this, there will be too many questions, I can't- I heal faster-"
"Not this fast." Enjolras feels his knees slipping in the blood that's pooled under them. Grantaire shakes his head frantically.
"No, Enjolras, no hospitals, you promised-"
"Okay, okay, just... let me call Joly at least." Enjolras pulls out his phone, and Grantaire feels like he's moving the weight of the world just to lift his arm to stop him from dialing. He can feel his breath coming in quicker, shallower bursts as he protests.
"No, he can't know, Joly worries enough for me, he'll never sleep again if he knows I'm the Anarchist, he already thinks I hurt myself too much just boxing, please Enjolras-"
"Alright, alright, I won't call Joly." Enjolras says, lowering his phone and scrambling for purchase to hold Grantaire still, consoling. Grantaire slumps back in relief.
"What the hell?"
"But I texted Combeferre." Enjolras has at least the decency to look a little sheepish at that, thinks Grantaire, but then Combeferre's stern face is taking up his vision.
"What in god's name, R?"
Combeferre is methodical, assessing, and Grantaire almost replies but it comes out in another cough. Combeferre's expression darkens further and Grantaire is pleased that he's not more lucid, or he'd have the sense to be afraid. Metal claws are almost preferable to the wrath of Combeferre, but then he prods him in a way that makes his breath stop in his chest with the pain, and he thinks the almost is the operative word there.
"I don't even know where to begin..." Murmurs Combeferre, then to Grantaire: "I'm going to disinfect these. It's not going to feel nice."
It's an understatement. Enjolras holds his hand until he passes out, and for some time after.
***
Combeferre is washing the blood off his hands in the kitchen sink. Enjolras brews coffee, anticipating the night of watching the labored rise and fall of Grantaire's chest.
"So." Combeferre says, shutting the water off. "R's the Anarchist."
Enjolras nods silently. He won't insult his best friend's intelligence with a half-baked excuse, and he's a terrible liar anyway. Combeferre wipes his glasses on his shirt and continues.
"I've known for a few weeks, of course. I've reset his shoulders and ribs a few too many times, and at first I thought it was some shady fight club or something, but it always lined up with the news about the vigilante superhero. It doesn't take a genius to put it together, and R's not as good at lying as he thinks." He looks at Enjolras seriously over the rim of his glasses. "It's getting worse."
Enjolras nods again. It's true, each new enemy is more powerful, tests Grantaire's limits more. They're learning his strengths and weaknesses. The only saving grace is that they haven't learned yet who Grantaire is, so they can't hit him where it really hurts. It makes Enjolras feel helpless, watching Grantaire drag himself in after battles and be able to do nothing. He does what Grantaire asks, he listens and he's there and he makes what hurt he can better. But he wants to do more, and he can't. It's the most frustrated he's ever felt. Enjolras cups his hands around his fresh cup of coffee, blows on it, and tries to find the words. In the end, he settles on
"I'm worried for him."
Combeferre seems to understand the tangled mess of thoughts behind that simple statement. He coaxes the coffee out of Enjolras's hands, setting it on the counter, before tugging him into a hug.
***
Grantaire wakes up to sunlight streaming through the windows. Mentally, he takes stock of himself. He feels like he got hit by several trains, like one giant bruise. His chest itches underneath what he sees is a thick layer of bandages, and somehow he's been placed on the couch. Moving feels like such a monumental effort that Grantaire isn't sure he wants to even attempt it, but a soft noise makes him turn his head.
Enjolras is sitting in the armchair besides the couch, and Grantaire is sure he looks worse, but Enjolras looks exhausted. Dark circles ring his eyes, and one side of his blonde curls are sticking up where he'd pillowed his head on his hand. He's staring at Grantaire with open relief, and something else that Grantaire can't name. Enjolras intends to ask him how he's feeling, but he opens his mouth and something else entirely comes out.
"Why do you do it?" He asks.
"What?" Grantaire croaks, and god talking is hard. His throat feels like sandpaper.
"You said, the night I found out, that you wouldn't say you were an idealist. Yet you still fight, despite the enemies you've made and how much they hurt you. Why do you do it?"
It's too early and he's lost too much blood to have this conversation, but Grantaire answers honestly anyway. Maybe he's still loopy.
"I do it for you. For Les Amis. You all try so hard, with everything that you have." He swallows thickly. "I have more. So I think about what all of you would do with it, if you had my abilities. It's the only thing that drives me to do it. I don't believe in much, but you- I believe in you."
Enjolras surges forward and kisses him.