Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Grantaire didn’t want to believe it.

Enjolras, the beautiful god he’d admired for years, was to be wed.

His engagement was a surprise to everyone, especially Grantaire. When the revolutionary walked in with a plain silver ring on his left hand, the reactions were almost comical.

Combeferre offered only a slight widening of his eyes and a raised brow, before simply giving his congratulations. Courfeyrac yelled out, and promptly demanded to know just how long he and his mysterious fiance had been having sex, and also wanted details. Marius, who was holding Courfeyrac’s hand (it was high time, everybody agreed. Courfeyrac had been attempting to woo him since day one), blushed heavily and kept his gaze steadily on the floor. Jehan, Courfeyrac’s decided other boyfriend (of course he could never choose between them, but they both seemed perfectly content with sharing the brunette), smiled serenely and congratulated him, abandoning Courfeyrac’s other hand to get up and embrace their annoyed leader. Bahorel had fallen from his chair, Fuielly cursed and offered Enjolras a beer, Joly asked him if they were being safe, and Bossuet only laughed and claimed that he knew all along.

And Grantaire simple sat there, like an idiot, staring at the blonde as he attempted to goad the others into sitting down.

It felt like a dream.

And then he blinked, and it was the morning of the wedding.

Enjolras had asked them all to be in the wedding, even Grantaire. So there they all were, bustling to correctly fasten their buttons and fix their darkly colored bowties.

Grantaire had managed himself, smiling softly as Jehan alternated between helping Marius fix Courfeyrac’s bowtie and trying to convince Enjolras to add a small white rose to his lapel.

“Come on, we’re late!” Bahorel called, tugging the lot towards the door.

Jehan huffed and handed Grantaire the rose, his auburn hair adorned with baby’s breath.

“Make sure to get that on him!” He called, letting Courfeyrac tug him out the door with a smile.

His worst fear.

He was alone with Enjolras.

He held the rose in his hand, lingering a moment before stepping forward. “Here.”

“I don’t want the rose.” He dismissed quickly, tucking a stray piece of blonde hair behind his ear.

Grantaire paused, at a brief loss, before shaking his head. “You’ll upset Jehan.” Without invitation he stepped forward, pinning the white thing to his lapel.

There was a brief moment of silence when Grantaire looked up, before shaking his head. “I’m in love with you.”

Enjolras stared down at him for a while, taking a step back. “What am I supposed to say to that?”

“I don’t know,” The brunette admitted, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I just wanted you to know. You deserve to know.”

Enjolras opened his mouth and then closed it, shaking his head. “I don’t know what to tell you, Grantaire. I don’t love you.”

The words drove a knife into his side, but he didn’t want to feel it just yet. “I know.”

He watched Grantaire for a moment, before looking up at the clock. “Come on. We have to go.”

The service was beautiful. Jehan cried, and Joly did too. They danced at the reception,while Grantaire quietly took advantage of the open bar.

Jehan fell into a seat beside him at some point during the night, flushed and smiling. He, however, sobered at the sight of Grantaire. “What did you do?”

“I told him.” He answered bluntly, taking a long pull of his beer between words. “I told him that I was in love with him. And he told me what I already knew.”

The boy watched him for a while, before pulling the drunkard into his arms. “Oh, ‘Taire,”

“I’m gonna go,” He interrupted, shaking his friend off and standing.

And then he was gone, climbing into his car even though he was much too intoxicated to drive.

And when the truck coming from the intersection slammed into the side of his car, sending him spinning and his vision darkening, all the better.

Chapter Text

The wedding was lovely.

The flowers Jehan’d picked out were flawless, the venue Fiuelly provided was gorgeous, everything was perfect.

Everybody loved his newlywed, immediately attached to the man who’d captured Enjolras’ Patria-faithful heart.

He saw Grantaire leave. He thought nothing of it, only tucked his head against his new spouse’s shoulder and swayed to the music gently.

_________

Enjolras hadn’t wanted to leave for the honeymoon, and had encouraged Courfeyrac to call him should anything change in the status of their current petition.

Courfeyrac had only nodded and grinned, giving him a wink and a thumbs up.

_________

Enjolras’ honeymoon lasted three days, and when he returned home his friends weren’t in the chipper mood he’d left them with.

In fact, when he stepped into the Musain, there was the terrible sound of crystalline crying. Jehan.

Rushing forward, he pushed past the mob of his friends and knelt down next to the small poet. “Jehan, what is it? What’s happened?”

“I-I told him not to-” He sobbed, and the sound broke Enjolras’ heart.

“Told who? What?”

“Enjolras,” Combeferre said, even his voice shaky from where he was sitting beside Jehan, holding his hand. “Grantaire died the night of your wedding. We found out after you left, and we didn’t want to ruin your trip.”

For a moment, the leader just stared at the door, blue eyes filled with confusion. “But-how?”

At that, Jehan lapsed into sobbing again, green eyes filled to the brim and overflowing with tears.

“He drank too much. Tried to drive himself home. A truck h-hit him.” Courfeyrac said, remembering the way the two policemen had offered their condolences and handed him a grief management pamphlet. He’d thrown it away, but his grief still lingered.

No. Enjolras pushed himself up and dashed out the door, the cold air hitting his face and doing nothing to calm him.

This was his fault. He’d been too harsh, too terrible. And now, not a single thing around didn’t remind him of Grantaire. The Musain behind brought back visions of Grantaire in the corner of the back room, drinking and pointing out the flaws in all of his plans. A woman in a green dress reminded him of Grantaire’s favorite hoodie. The one that he stole two months ago. The wine shop across the street simply made his heart ache.

So he ran.

He ran as fast and as far as he could, chest aching and head hurting.

He only stopped when he had to. And even then, he hated himself.

_________

Enjolras didn’t go the funeral. Everybody was angry with him, and two days after the burial, sweet Jehan broke.

Enjolras was holding a meeting, trying to pretend the absence of R didn’t bother him, when Jehan set down his tea rather roughly and stood up.

“How could you do this?” He demanded, voice loud and broken. He might have been more intimidating if it weren’t for his general smallness. His usual colored sweaters had been replaced by a dark, paint-splattered sweatshirt, Grantaire’s. He had an array of shirts left at his flat by the artist, and was clearly wearing them until his smell faded away.

“Jehan,” Courfeyrac said quietly, reaching for the small poet’s hand, before he pulled it away.

“No. You can’t just sit there and tell me that you’re not bothered by it. You can’t pretend that it didn’t happen. My best friend is dead. I know you didn’t-don’t-like him. But for God’s sake, Enj, you could at least pretend to be upset!”

His eyes filled with tears as he dashed out of the room, at least four people following him.

Those who remained, though, sat in careful silence.

Enjolras fell to a chair and put his head in his hands, eyes closing.

He had to fix this.

_________

He’d never liked graveyards.

They’d always been too sullen, and reminded him of the injustice of both life and death.

But Enjolras came anyways, a small bundle of flowers in his hand, ready to put things right.

Combeferre had gladly given him the grave number, and he located the stone with only slight difficulty.

He looked at it, his heart sinking terribly.

Grantaire

1984-2014

Friend, drunkard, and artist

is missed.

Enjolras knelt and set the flowers down next to the arrangement already there, knowing it was of Jehan’s making.

He felt awkward, but he began speaking anyways.

“Hey, Grantaire.” He began. “I know that I’m too late. That wherever you are, you hate me by now.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come to your funeral. Never liked those things. I just . . . I don’t want you to be dead thinking I hated you. Because I didn’t. Actually, I-”

“Enjolras?”

Spinning around, he caught sight of Jehan, still wearing Grantaire’s hoodie. It was up over his hair, only a few wisps of blonde peeking out. He held another bouquet, and shook his head. “Sorry. I’ll go take a walk.” He paused, looking down. “Enjolras?”

“Yeah, Jehan?”

He hesitated, pressing his lips together. “I’m sorry. about what I said. It wasn’t right.”

Enjolras nodded softly. “It’s okay.”

Jehan nodded back at him, looking past at the gravestone. “Sorry. I’ll give you a few minutes.”

He stepped away and left, leaving Enjolras by himself to utter his final words to the man.

“I love you.”