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“Hey Enjolras, what's your brother doing hanging out with Jehan?” Courfeyrac asked one afternoon.
It was idle curiosity on his part, Enjolras was sure. They'd been studying in the park for two hours now, and Courfeyrac had reached his limits – he'd been moving more and more in the last minutes, and it was not surprising that he finally found something that caught his attention. It was rather annoying that this something turned out to be Enjolras's brother, though. Enjolras clenched his teeth and purposefully kept his eyes on his Spanish book.
“I don't know,” he replied.
He hadn't meant for his voice to sound so cold. He'd been working on hiding his emotions for some months now, but it never worked when he was with his best friends. He felt Combeferre's hand touch his forearm and he reluctantly looked at him.
“Is something wrong between you and Grantaire?” his friend asked.
“No,” Enjolras answered immediately.
His voice betrayed him again – he could see it in the furrow of Combeferre's brow and Courfeyrac’s confused look. He wondered if maybe he should tell them, except he was pretty sure wasn’t actually anything to tell. So what if he felt he never saw his brother anymore, even though their rooms were next to each other? What if he had the impression – the foolish impression – that Grantaire was avoiding him on purpose? It was Enjolras being an idiot, that was all.
“Seriously E, did you two have an argument?” Courfeyrac insisted. “I mean, you used to hang out together all the time and now –”
“Well, I guess he just doesn't see the point in hanging out with his little brother anymore, that's all,” Enjolras retorted sharply and lowered his eyes again.
Grantaire was seventeen. Surely it was normal for someone of his age to start spending time with people who were not his brother or his brother's friends. Never mind that it'd never seemed to bother him before. Never mind that he'd always looked like he was happy to stay with Enjolras, Courfeyrac and Combeferre. It probably wasn’t considered cool, spending so much time with your little brother, but Grantaire hadn't cared about being cool – at least, Enjolras was pretty sure he hadn’t - but things changed. Things had changed already.
“Are you sure everything’s fine?” Combeferre asked gently.
The truth was that nothing was fine. Enjolras missed Grantaire. He missed his nearly constant presence at his side. He missed their late afternoons in Grantaire's room when they simply worked silently on their own things. He missed the Saturdays when they just watched a movie, cuddling on the couch. Grantaire was always out on Saturdays now – partying, probably. Their dad didn't like that; he kept asking Enjolras about Grantaire's whereabouts and Enjolras, who'd known everything about his brother at some point – or so he’d thought – didn't know what to answer anymore.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Yes, it's fine, don't worry.”
“Alright,” Combeferre agreed easily. “Do you know what cuidadosamente means, then? I'm afraid I forgot to write down the translation.”
Enjolras had never been more grateful for Combeferre's endless empathy.
“Let me look – it was in the text we got last Monday, right?”
“Hey, Jehan! Grantaire! Hello!” Courfeyrac suddenly shouted cheerfully.
“What are you doing?” Enjolras hissed furiously, immediately forgetting anything remotely related to Spanish.
Courfeyrac gave him a look steadily – he'd never been afraid of Enjolras's anger, which explained why they were still friends after all this time. He even had the nerve to raise an eyebrow, as if he had no idea why Enjolras had reacted so violently.
“I'm calling over my friends,” he said. “You said everything was fine, didn't you? It's been a while since I've last seen them, and I'm still curious about why they're together in the first place. Aren't you?”
“I don't care about what Grantaire's doing these days,” Enjolras retorted hotly.
“Why, you always know how to make a man feel loved, brother dear,” a familiar voice drawled behind him.
Enjolras tensed but he refused to blush when he turned his head. Grantaire was just behind him, smirking lazily in his direction – his eyes were hidden behind sunglasses. It made him look ridiculous, Enjolras decided on the spot. Ridiculous and rather pretentious, because although it was warm for April – enough to be comfortable outside – it certainly wasn't that sunny. He scowled at him but refused to answer and looked at Jehan instead, who was standing next to Grantaire.
Jehan was a year younger than Enjolras. He was still rather small – puberty hadn't really set in yet – and he reminded Enjolras of himself two years ago, with his thin arms and waist and his rather long hair. He looked fragile, but Enjolras knew he was anything but. Jehan was soft and shy, yes, but he was also a great speaker when he wanted to be. They'd known each other since forever. But somehow this was the first time Enjolras wasn't exactly glad to see him. It was probably because he'd brought Grantaire with him.
“Hi Jehan,” Enjolras said. “How are you?”
“I'm fine,” Jehan answered with a smile. “What are you all doing here?”
“Spanish,” Courfeyrac replied. “It's boring. What are you two doing? I’ve started to think you prefer spending your free time with Grantaire rather than us, Jehan!”
Jehan's cheeks flushed red: “I'm not – I don't. We were just, um, talking, it wasn't really planned,” he stammered.
“Could you blame him if he did, though?” Grantaire intervened. “I mean, it's finally warm enough outside, you could do anything and instead you’re studying.”
“Yes, what a wasteful thing to do, thinking about our future!” Enjolras retorted curtly.
“You're fifteen, Enjolras, you don't have to think about your future yet, that's the beauty of teenage years.” Grantaire rolled his eyes.
“Whatever,” Enjolras muttered from between his teeth. “I suppose we're not going continuing?” he asked Combeferre and Courfeyrac and when they failed to answer - both looking rather taken aback by his sudden aggression - he closed his book, grabbed his bag and stood up. “Fine, I'm going home then.” He couldn't help but look almost defiantly at his brother. “Are you coming with me?”
Grantaire's expression was impossible to decipher when he answered: “No, I'm going to enjoy the fresh air a bit more.”
“Right,” Enjolras said, biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself from screaming. He had no idea why he was suddenly so angry.
“See you then,” he said to his other friends, and turned away quickly, not waiting for them to answer.
*
Enjolras would've preferred it if they were actually fighting.
They argued all the time, Grantaire and him, but it was never serious. The last time they'd really been angry at each other it'd been because of their father (most of their real fights were because of him) and they hadn't lasted two days without speaking to each other. The second night, Grantaire had grabbed him from behind while Enjolras had been brushing his teeth and whispered sorry in his ear, looking straight at him through the mirror. Enjolras had felt so relieved – he'd planned on apologizing too, later, but he wasn't good at it and he'd been afraid he was just going to make things worse. But he’d said sorry too, and they'd watched a movie, comfortably settled in Enjolras's bed, and that'd been it.
That had been almost eight months ago now.
Enjolras wished it was a fight, but the truth was that nothing had happened. He couldn't remember doing anything wrong – Grantaire was very good at telling Enjolras when he was in the wrong, but he hadn't say anything. No, at some point in January, Grantaire had just... stopped talking to him. They still spoke to each other, they had to, living in the same house and all that, but they didn't talk anymore about anything. Grantaire had begun to spend time with his classmates. He'd started coming home late – arriving just in time for dinner – and he now went partying. A lot.
And Enjolras was angry, so impossibly angry and frustrated because Grantaire acted as if everything was normal, as if they hadn't become almost complete strangers in the span of four months, when all Enjolras wanted was some sort of explanation. What had happened? Why was Enjolras suddenly not enough anymore for him? Was he really too boring? Too serious?
He was upset too. He felt needy and foolish most of the time – of course Grantaire wouldn't be satisfied with hanging out with his little brother forever, especially when his brother was Enjolras. Everybody knew Enjolras was a difficult person to like, after all. It didn't change the fact that it'd been brutal; Enjolras had always taken Grantaire for granted so maybe this was his punishment.
Why Jehan, though? He asked himself silently that night, looking out his open window. Jehan was even younger than Enjolras, why did Grantaire choose to hang out with him?
As if conjured straight from Enjolras’ thoughts, Grantaire chose that exact moment to appear in the driveway of their house, his hands in his pockets, whistling a tune – Enjolras couldn't make out what it was from where he stood. He didn't have his sunglasses anymore, and the moon illuminated him just enough that it was easy to see he looked tired, and maybe a bit reluctant at the idea of actually going inside.
Enjolras couldn't blame him. He'd seen their father's face when he'd realized that Grantaire wasn't going to show up for dinner and it was never good when Lucien Rochefort was crossed.
Grantaire spent maybe five more minutes outside, looking at nothing, until he finally moved to the porch. Enjolras heard the front door opening and, barely ten seconds later, their father's voice:
“Where have you been?”
“Out, obviously,” Grantaire replied lazily.
“You could have told somebody that you weren't going to be here for dinner!”
“Didn't think I would actually be missed, sorry.”
“Don't take that tone with me, Remi!”
“It's Grantaire. How is that hard to remember? Damn, man, even Cécile remembers and she has every reason to hate the name!”
Enjolras sighed, shaking his head disapprovingly although of course Grantaire couldn't see him. This was new as well, Grantaire trying to antagonize their father as much as he could. Their relationship had always been a bit tense, but it'd become explosive these past few months. Enjolras couldn't remember the last time they'd managed to hold a conversation without yelling.
“I thought we raised you better than this!” Their father was shouting now. “Do you think you can get away with this kind of disrespect all your life, Remi?”
“It's fucking Grantaire!” Grantaire shouted back angrily. “I'm going to bed now, I don't need to listen to this!”
“Don't even think about leaving this house again apart from school!”
“Try me!”
The scream was closer this time – Grantaire was climbing the stairs. He strode past Enjolras's room without a pause and then slammed his door loudly. Enjolras wondered what would happen if he tried to see how he was doing.
“That little –”
“Calm down, Lucien,” Enjolras's mom interrupted before he could say anything truly hurtful.
Silence returned to the house after that; the hurricane was gone as quickly as it had come.
Enjolras waited for a while, hesitant about what to do. He considered going to sleep, even though he felt perfectly awake, but something about what had happened this afternoon and the angry tone of Grantaire's voice just now had shaken him. He needed to see his brother.
He rose silently, stupidly nervous but determined, and walked the short distance between his and Grantaire's room. He knocked once, then twice, and when Grantaire didn't answer, he decided that he must be listening to his music and he just hadn't heard. He opened the door slowly and got a peek inside. Grantaire was lying on his bed, still dressed, his hands hiding his face. There was no music at all.
“Hey,” Enjolras said after a moment, “Are you okay?”
“Fuck off,” Grantaire replied with irritation.
Enjolras's stomach clenched painfully.
“I just wanted –”
“Fuck off, Enjolras!” Grantaire repeated louder, lowering his hands to glare at him. “I can't fucking deal with anymore Rochefort today, alright?”
Enjolras's hand tightened around the doorknob; he felt his face turning white but he refused to be anything but angry. God sometimes he just hated Grantaire so much.
“You are a Rochefort, you jerk.” He bit his lip to stop himself from saying more and closed the door again, perhaps a bit louder than necessary.
“That's the problem,” he heard Grantaire mutter.
Enjolras blinked. There were tears in his eyes – he didn't know where they’d come from. He was furious – not sad. Never sad. He let his head drop against Grantaire's door and pressed his eyes tightly together.
I just wanted to see if you were alright, he didn’t say, and finally lost his grip on the doorknob.
*
Three days later, Grantaire actually took the bus to go home at the same time as Enjolras.
It hadn't happened in at least a month, and for a while Enjolras was so shocked that he let Grantaire babble about his “fucking maths teacher and her impossible numbers”, pretending to listen even though the only thing he could hear was his heart beating loudly in his ears. It was strange that a situation that had been so familiar months ago now seemed so incredible that it left him speechless, and yet...
“What about you, little genius?” Grantaire finally asked when they got off the bus. “How was your day?”
Grantaire hadn't called him little genius since he was twelve. Everything was surreal.
“I – Good,” he managed to say. “It was good.”
“That's it?” his brother smiled, clearly amused.
“Monsieur Rocher is sick,” Enjolras blurted out, incapable of thinking of anything else to say. “My English teacher? Madame Lapal replaced him today, and Courfeyrac decided to flirt with her. In English. She wasn't even that angry at him. I suspect it's because he's actually really good. She says he has a very Australian accent.”
Grantaire laughed. “I'm pretty sure Courfeyrac could do anything he wanted and do nothing more than smile to convince people to be on his side.”
“Yeah,” Enjolras agreed, smiling slightly.
They were just about to turn the corner of the street that led to their house when he decided to be brave:
“Hey, do you think we could –”
He stopped when he realized that somebody was waiting by the gate. Grantaire glanced at him, almost curious, and then followed his gaze. And just like that, Enjolras was completely forgotten. His brother beamed at Jehan – because of course it was Jehan - and quickly walked over to him:
“Jehan!” Grantaire said happily. “You could've waited inside!”
“It's sunny, I didn't mind,” Jehan answered. “I didn't want to impose on Bérangère. Hi, Enjolras,” he added when Enjolras joined them.
“Hi,” Enjolras replied.
If Jehan noticed the sharpness in his voice, he didn't show it at all, smiling his usual soft smile at them both. Enjolras tried very hard to let go of the irrational jealousy he felt when Grantaire put his arm around Jehan's shoulders, ushering him into the driveway. When was the last time he'd put his arm around Enjolras's shoulders?
“Bérangère loves you, she used to give you sweets every time you came here!” Grantaire was saying. “You'll have to say hello to her – I think that she’s missed you; Enjolras and I don't really make her life easy.”
“You two are terrible with her, sometimes.” Jehan laughed.
“Bérangère knows we love her,” Enjolras declared with a frown. “We’ve never treated her with anything other than the respect she deserves!”
“I – I know.” Jehan blushed, looking a bit stunned. “I didn't mean – I –”
Enjolras immediately felt guilty. “I know, I'm sorry,” he said in a softer voice. “I'm just – having a bad day, I suppose. Sorry again.”
He completely ignored Grantaire's raise eyebrow. Jehan looked truly upset.
“What's wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing important, don't worry,” he forced himself to smile and even pat Jehan's arm. His fingers brushed against Grantaire's, who moved them quickly, as if he was afraid that any contact with Enjolras's skin would burn him. Enjolras pretended he hadn't noticed, even though it would certainly have hurt less if Grantaire had punched him in the guts.
“You should stay with us,” Jehan suggested. “I mean, if Grantaire agrees, we haven't planned anything, we could –”
“No,” Enjolras replied firmly. “No, it's okay Jehan. I'm just going to read a bit in my room. You guys – you guys have fun.”
This time there was no way Jehan could miss how fake his smile was, but Enjolras didn't care. He just wanted to get away from them. He felt sick with anger, but he didn't even know who he was angry at. It felt stupid to be angry at Jehan, who was so fucking gentle. He had no real reason to be angry at Grantaire either.
Maybe he was angry at himself – so angry that all he wanted was to punch the sweetness out of Jehan and the indifference out of his brother. His eyes filled with tears again, but he didn't cry.
*
Everything became too much a week later.
Enjolras had a free period from 3 to 4 and Combeferre and Courfeyrac had dragged him out because the sun was shining brightly in the sky again. He'd agreed without a fuss, for once. He'd never really left his best friends' sides these past days - somehow it was only in their presence that he managed to quiet the angry voices in his head, and it was a welcome respite. They'd settled on the grass and Enjolras, who didn't feel like doing anything, had put his head in Courfeyrac's lap.
Courfeyrac had clearly been shocked at first, but now he was playing with Enjolras's curls while debating with Combeferre about whether Sarkozy was a rather good or a terrible president. Enjolras listened to their conversation, calmer than he'd been in weeks.
He should've known, of course, that it was too good to be true.
“Is that – Is it Jehan?” Courfeyrac asked suddenly. “What the hell is he doing here? Jehan! Hey!”
Enjolras tensed despite himself. Maybe this was just a nightmare, he thought, refusing to open his eyes. Jehan had no reason to be here; he already spent every afternoon at Enjolras and Grantaire's, lately. He'd already stolen Grantaire, was he going to steal Combeferre and Courfeyrac, too? He knew it was unfair to think like that – he knew it. And yet, when he heard Jehan’s soft voice greeting them, he barely suppressed a scowl.
“You've still got a year before high-school, you know that right?” Combeferre asked, amused.
“I know,” Jehan replied cheerfully. “I’m here for Grantaire, actually. He’s got a test and wasn’t sure if he’d be done in time to meet me.”
“Grantaire? Again? Seriously, what are the two of you doing all the time?” Courfeyrac asked, and Enjolras was a tiny bit pleased to hear the note of irritation in his voice.
“Oh, he's been helping me prepare for my brevet,” Jehan said. “I'm terrible in History of Art.”
“I thought you were one of those artistic guys,” Enjolras said.
“I write a bit,” Jehan answered (his voice had turned slightly colder since last week. Enjolras couldn't blame him – his had been sharper and sharper as the days went by). “Painting isn't the same.”
“Obviously you couldn't have asked for a better teacher than Grantaire, then,” Combeferre said before Enjolras could open his mouth again.
“He's the best,” Jehan said with a smile. “You should see his drawings! They're so beautiful. The details –”
“He's in room 170, you should go wait for him there, Prouvaire,” Enjolras cut him off briskly.
Silence answered him. He finally opened his eyes, hoping that Jehan would be gone, but he was still there, looking at him as if he'd just planted a knife in his chest. Enjolras was too far gone to apologize, though – and besides, he was almost sure that Jehan had been more offended by the use of his last name rather than by Enjolras's rudeness, and it was a stupid thing to be offended by. He called Combeferre and Courfeyrac by their last names, after all. Why should Jehan be any different?
Combeferre was frowning too, though, and Courfeyrac was gaping at him. He pursed his lips and sat up. It seemed to snap Jehan out of his shock. His cheeks reddened again, but this time he looked angry rather than flustered.
“What’s your problem with me, Enjolras?” he asked, his voice far stronger than usual. “What did I do to you? You've been awful to me since last week!”
“You’re being ridiculous,” Enjolras retorted, steel in his voice. “I have no reason to be awful.”
“Then why are you like this?” Jehan asked, clearly frustrated.
“Have you even thought about the fact that maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with you, Prouvaire?” Enjolras replied, finally allowing some of the anger into his words. “You always claim to see beyond the veil of nature, but the truth is that you don't see anything! really, do you? You’re just blind and self-centered and this has nothing to do with you and you should –”
“But it's me you're avoiding!” Jehan cried. “It's me you're yelling at, not Combeferre or Courfeyrac or anybody else! Just me! What else am I supposed to think? it's not because of me?”
“Because You –” Enjolras began.
“Hey, hey, what the hell? What's going on here? I could hear you from all the way across the school!” Grantaire exclaimed from behind him. “What the fuck, Enjolras?”
Enjolras felt his insides turn to stone when Grantaire glared at him, before glancing worriedly at Jehan. This was it, Enjolras thought. He had enough. He couldn't deal with this anymore. He turned to Jehan again.
“Listen Jehan,” he said, and his voice was dangerously calm. “If you want to know the truth, this really has nothing to do with you – clearly this is about me. I'm the selfish one. I just decided to just push you away one day, and I'm not even able to give you a reason. I stopped talking to you, and then pretended nothing’s wrong – well, you know what? You should be done with me. You should let me play whatever sick game I think I'm playing and get on with your life. You don't need me. You don't fucking need me!”
His voice broke. Grantaire had paled – Combeferre and Courfeyrac were glancing between the two of them. Jehan was still staring at Enjolras, but his eyes were finally filled with comprehension.
“Oh,” he whispered in a tiny voice.
“Enjolras,” Grantaire said.
“No,” Enjolras said, shaking his head. “No, I don't want to hear it, I’m done with this. And I’m done with you.”
He was angry, he told himself. He was so fucking furious, but not sad. Never sad.
“Enjolras,” Grantaire repeated, almost pleadingly.
“Go to hell,” Enjolras retorted and stalked away.
*
Grantaire knocked at his door barely an hour after he'd come home.
Enjolras refused to acknowledge it. He felt sick. He'd tried to focus on his essay on the Fifth Republic, but none of his thoughts stuck long enough for him to form coherent sentences. His hands were shaking. He'd been incapable of answering Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s worried texts and when Jehan had called, he'd simply turned off his phone. He couldn't deal with what had happened. He couldn't deal with what he'd done, and so he'd decided on doing things Grantaire's way – by being a fucking coward.
Unfortunately, Grantaire was still knocking, and Enjolras had always despised cowardice.
“Just come in already!” he finally snapped.
Grantaire was still unnaturally pale when he entered. He looked small and worried and Enjolras thought it was only fair – their situations were finally reversed after months. Even so, it hardly brought him any relief, nor was he pleased that Grantaire was suffering. On the contrary, he could feel his stomach twisting in discomfort.
“What do you want?” he asked, staring hard at his computer as if he didn't care about Grantaire at all.
“I – want to talk I guess,” Grantaire said, strangely subdued.
“Well, I'm busy,” Enjolras retorted.
Grantaire closed his eyes for a second, then straightened up and looked determinedly at Enjolras. Enjolras pretended he wasn't watching him, though he tensed a bit, wondering about what was going to happen now.
“Listen, Enjolras, I know something’s wrong, alright? I just –”
“Oh, you're finally admitting it, what a miracle!” Enjolras couldn't help but cut in viciously. “Something's been wrong for months Grantaire, don't you think you're a bit late for a talk?”
“You don't even know what I'm going to say!” Grantaire protested.
Enjolras finally turned around and got up from his chair, glaring at his brother.
“I don't care about what you want to say!” he yelled. “You left me wondering what I did wrong for months! You just put me aside without a word like I was garbage! You didn't care about what I had to tell you before, so why should I listen to you now? Let's be honest, you wouldn't even be here if I hadn't screamed at your precious Jehan!”
Grantaire looked taken aback by his furor. “...What?” he asked.
“Jehan!” Enjolras repeated as he stepped closer, his fingers itching to slap Grantaire’s incredulous and lost face. “Why are you always hanging around him?”
“He needs my help,” Grantaire replied, visibly confused as to why they were talking about Jehan. “With his brevet, why do you – ”
“You're always with him! Nobody needs that much help!”
Grantaire took a step back abruptly, his face closing off completely. His hands hit the door, but he didn't seem to notice; instead he stared at Enjolras, his lips pressed into a thin line.
“What are you insinuating?” he asked.
“You know very well what I'm insinuating,” Enjolras answered briskly.
He hadn't really wanted to think about it before today, but the image was imprinted in his mind now and he couldn't shake it off. He kept seeing Grantaire's arm around Jehan's shoulders, Jehan's blushes, and worse - Grantaire’s protectiveness of the younger boy. The way Grantaire had immediately sided with Jehan earlier, clearly worried Enjolras had upset him – it hurt. Enjolras had never even thought about Grantaire dating someone before, but now that the possibility existed he couldn't even comprehend why he would choose Jehan of all people. Jehan who was so timid and sweet, so incompatible with Grantaire’s cynicism and careless exuberance.
“He's fourteen!” Grantaire exclaimed, his eyes darkening.
“So?” Enjolras persisted; because it was a pitiful excuse. He was fifteen and Grantaire had always –
“So how can you even think –”
Enjolras saw red. He pushed Grantaire against the door, his fingers gripping his brother's shirt. They were almost the same height now; his mother had predicted that Enjolras would certainly be taller one day, and maybe she was right.
“What am I supposed to think?” he screamed, shaking Grantaire who did nothing to fight him. “Tell me! Tell me what fucking happened, tell me why suddenly he's better than –”
He lost his balance, the sentence trailing off to nothing, and his knee brushed against the inside of Grantaire's thigh as he tried to stand up again. Grantaire moaned.
Time stilled as they both froze.
Grantaire's moan hadn't been one of pain, the part of Enjolras's brain that wasn't completely numb with shock supplied. He suddenly realized how close he was to his brother. Their legs were still brushing against each other, his hands had lost their grip on Grantaire’s shirt and were grabbing tightly to his shoulders now. Their noses were barely centimeters apart and their lips –
Enjolras took several steps back at once, choking on air, and stared at Grantaire as if he was seeing him for the first time of his life.
Grantaire looked like he wouldn't have be able to stand without the support of the door. His cheeks were burning, but Enjolras had no idea if it was because of anger, or shame, or – he refused to finish his thought. Grantaire's eyes (blue like him, like his father, like their father, god) had widened with horror. For a moment, he opened his mouth – to plead? To apologize? And Enjolras wondered if he was brave enough to listen to whatever Grantaire was going to tell him, but then Grantaire visibly deflated and covered his eyes with a trembling hand.
“I'm sorry,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I'm sorry.”
He fled the room without another glance, and Enjolras was left alone, gaping at the door, his heart beating so fast that he wondered if it was going to burst out of his chest. It would have been a blessing, he thought, to not have a heart right now. It was hurting him more than anything.
He walked to his bed like a zombie and collapsed on it because he didn't know what else to do. His eyes fell on the large photo frames on his wall – it had been Combeferre and Courfeyrac's gift for his fifteenth birthday. There were so many photos it had taken him days to look at all of them properly. He remembered Grantaire laughingly telling him: “I’m in way too many of those”. Enjolras hadn't found it weird at all that Grantaire was in more photos than his best friends.
Grantaire was his brother. They'd always been close.
The only time he'd stopped to think about it was when Courfeyrac had made a remark, one summer. He'd said that he had no idea how Grantaire and Enjolras could spend all of their time together. “I love my sisters,” he'd said. “But I really, really couldn't be with them the way the two of you are with each other.”
Grantaire had laughed again, that time, and Enjolras, who'd been laying next to him, had only shrugged and privately thought that Courfeyrac couldn't be like that with his sisters because they were girls and girls were strange.
Grantaire had moaned. Not from pain but from pleasure.
And Enjolras –
Enjolras had liked the sound of it.
He closed his eyes but behind his eyelids there was still Grantaire. Grantaire and his lazy smirks which were so infuriating, but also Grantaire with his small, honest smiles that were always for Enjolras and made him feel warm all over. Grantaire's shoulder pressed against his when they watched a movie. Grantaire's fingers in his hair when he didn't want to deal with his long curls in the morning. Grantaire's arms around his waist when he apologized –
But that doesn’t mean anything! A tiny voice cried in his mind. That's what brothers do, it’s completely innocent!
Grantaire had moaned, and Enjolras had liked it. That wasn't innocent at all.
Oh god, he thought.
He stifled his sobs in his pillow.
*
Enjolras didn't sleep.
He’d told his mother in the evening that he felt sick so he didn't have to go downstairs to eat. He couldn't face the rest of his family. He stayed curled up on himself, shaking and crying silently, and when the tears finally stopped, he forced himself to think.
He should probably be horrified, he mused, huddled in his blanket as if it could protect him from the awful reality of his situation. There probably weren't many things worse than discovering that you had – that you had inappropriate feelings for your brother. He wasn't appalled, though. He was terrified. Somehow, losing Grantaire because of this sounded far more terrible than loving him...a bit too much. He'd seen his brother’s face before he’d fled. Grantaire would never do anything about this. Grantaire would run away.
He'd already started, after all.
Soon he was going to move out to go to university, and there he would make new friends. He'd meet people of his age, people he was free to... to lust after without any shame, and he would leave Enjolras behind with all these feelings, alone for good. It sounded like a nightmare.
He couldn't lose Grantaire, he decided as the sun started to rise again.
He simply couldn't.
When he heard the door next to his opening, he took a deep breath and got up slowly. He hadn't even taken his clothes off, so he changed quickly into his pyjamas and went downstairs. His mom was in the kitchen reading the newspaper, a cup of coffee next to her. She raised her eyes when she heard him coming and frowned.
“You look like death, sweetheart,” she said. “Do you need me to call a doctor?”
Enjolras looked at Grantaire, who was sitting beside her. He was tense and pale, but his eyes were focused on his cereal and he didn't even glance his way. Enjolras clenched his fists.
“It's okay,” he said to his mother. “I think the worst of it is over. I feel better.”
“Alright,” she said, although she didn't look like she really believed him.
They ate in a religious silence, although eating was probably not the right word. Enjolras's mom only drank her coffee, Grantaire played with his cereal and didn't eat more than three spoonfuls, and Enjolras barely touched his toast. He felt like he was having a vision of his own future and it made him sick all over again. He kept looking at Grantaire, hoping that his brother would finally give in and raise his head, or simply glance his way just once – Enjolras would have taken anything.
But Grantaire didn't. When he finally rose from his chair, he carefully avoided Enjolras as he put his bowl into the sink. Enjolras had to hide his shaking hands under the table.
“Are you planning on going anywhere tonight, Grantaire?” Enjolras's mom asked.
“I don't know,” Grantaire answered, visibly surprised by her sudden interest. “Maybe later.”
“Your father and I wanted to go out and I was hoping you'd look after Enjolras,” she said lightly, her eyes still on the newspaper, which meant she missed the way Grantaire tensed.
“Mom, I'm fine,” Enjolras muttered. “And even if I wasn't, I'm fifteen, I can take care of myself!”
“Well, I didn't think you'd mind Grantaire watching over you, I mean, he's your brother and –”
“Mom –”
“Fine,” Grantaire said, without looking at either of them, “I'll stay.”
“Thank you,” Enjolras's mom said, but Grantaire had already left the room. She frowned again, glancing at Enjolras. “Did something happen between you two?”
“A misunderstanding,” Enjolras replied, a lump in his throat. “I should probably go…talk to him. To make sure we're okay.”
“You didn't eat anything,” she remarked.
“I'll have a proper lunch.” He forced a smile and kissed her cheek on his way out.
He was more determined than ever when he stopped in front of Grantaire's room. There was no time to doubt anymore. He wanted Grantaire – he needed Grantaire in his life. He wouldn't settle for what his brother had tried those past few months, and he certainly wouldn't watch Grantaire leave because he thought it was the best thing to do. Enjolras knew it was selfish – he’d discovered recently that he wasn't able to be anything else when it came to Grantaire. was concerned.
He didn't knock before he entered. Grantaire jumped in surprise. He was getting dressed and Enjolras blushed slightly when his eyes fell on his bare torso.
“What are you doing?” Grantaire asked.
“Sit down,” Enjolras ordered. “We need to talk.”
For a moment Grantaire looked like he was going to argue, but something in Enjolras's gaze must have convinced him to obey, because he let go of his shirt and went to sit at the edge of his bed. Enjolras took a deep breath, crossed the room, and straddle Grantaire's lap, wrapping his arms around his neck. Grantaire opened his mouth, shocked, but he only managed to let out a shaky breath.
“Is it just physical?” Enjolras finally asked softly.
Grantaire shook in head slowly. Something eased in Enjolras. It couldn't be so hard now. It couldn't be harder at the very least.
“I love you,” he declared firmly. “I love you so much, Grantaire, everything has been horrible without you, I can't do this anymore. I need you.”
He leaned in and their noses brushed together until Grantaire abruptly put his hands on Enjolras's hips and pushed him away, looking less stunned and more desperate, almost angry.
“No,” he said. “No, Enjolras, you can't – I won't do this, you don't have to – we can go back to normal, I promise, but you can't –”
“No, you don't understand,” Enjolras cut him off, pressing his fingers against his cheeks. “Grantaire, I love you.”
This time, when he leaned in, Grantaire stayed still. Their lips found each other gently. Enjolras caressed his brother's face, and when Grantaire finally pressed his mouth harder against his, taking control of the kiss, Enjolras let him willingly and followed his lead. He knew he was clumsy, but Grantaire didn't seem to care. His nails sank into Enjolras's sides and he let out a breathless moan.
“Enjolras, Enjolras, Enjolras –” Grantaire whispered against his skin, as if he was the most amazing thing in the world.
“I love you,” Enjolras repeated and kissed him again, a little more insistent this time.
“Me too,” Grantaire said, like he couldn't believe he was actually saying it. “I love you too.”
“Good,” Enjolras said. He felt light-headed with relief and happiness.
“We still – we're – we're so going to hell for this,” Grantaire laughed shakily, hiding his face in the crook of Enjolras's neck.
“Does it matter?” Enjolras said. “Neither of us believes in god, anyway.”
He felt Grantaire smile weakly and pressed his lips against his ear.
The worst is over, Enjolras repeated to himself. Everything will be fine.
Everything would be fine.
*