Work Text:
Enjolras slips through his window, pulling his mask off and scrubbing a hand across his face. Sure, doling out vigilante justice seemed like a great decision when he was young and full of piss and vinegar at the injustices in his city. However, years later, after he’d sparked an independent revolution and worked tirelessly to eradicate a system set up by a literal evil incarnate, it mostly now just makes his back hurt.
Another unfortunate side effect was that it put his loved ones and even just his acquaintances at risk, so, in order to keep feeding his extroverted nature, he just got better at keeping secrets.
He doesn't do well alone unless he's in a fight. The group of aforementioned revolutionaries became his second family years ago, ones who wanted to throw themselves into danger in the name of justice just as much as he did, so the need for secrecy became less necessary in his everyday life. He didn't have to be so alone anymore.
Then Grantaire happened.
Grantaire who teaches art and music at an elementary school and classics at the local community college. Who adopted his niece after his brother and sister died in an explosion at a train station five years ago. Not long after it had happened and before he even knew Grantaire, Enjolras had taken out not only the terrorists who carried it out, but also the politicians who paid them to do it. The first time he had looked into the eyes of the baby who would never have memories of her own parents, he had wished it was possible to kill people twice.
He met Grantaire on a train, merrily argued with him over The State Of Things for an hour, left with his phone number, and never looked back.
He also never told Grantaire that he was the face, or mask rather, of the revolution. That the smart bad guys feared him and rightfully so. They had been together for two years and four months.
His lamp flips on, and, thankfully, he notices it's Grantaire before he lets go of the throwing knife that had found its way into his hand in less than a second.
“I think it's time we talked about this, don't you?” Grantaire gestures at the chair across from the couch and runs a hand through his messy curls with a sigh. His voice is measured and even, not a hint of emotion to be found. It's unsettling. Enjolras has never known Grantaire to be reserved about anything. He's loud and boisterous and warm, smiles easily and often and always has the right words to encourage a student or get his almost six year old kid to brush her teeth.
He's quiet now, no smile to be found in his expression. His eyes are easily the most expressive part of his face, and now they're flat and closed off. Enjolras drops his mask on the coffee table between them and sits in the chair indicated. Grantaire's eyes flick to it and then back up to Enjolras, pinning him in place with his gaze.
“Did you know all this time?” Enjolras asks softly, curious about how Grantaire found out. It's not that he doesn't think Grantaire is smart, it's just that Enjolras is very careful.
“I had my suspicions that you were involved in the fight, obviously. You never shut up about it. I never thought you were the fucking Red Flame.”
Is this what it's like when Grantaire is truly angry? Enjolras tries and fails to remember a time when Grantaire was mad enough to go soft spoken and emotionless. It's like watching a storm in a bottle, it's easy to see the wind and rain raging inside, but on the outside it's quiet.
So long as the bottle holds.
Grantaire sits and stares at Enjolras for a long moment, fingers twitching as if flicking ash from a cigarette, a habit that didn’t die even when he kicked the vice itself. Enjolras keeps up the eye contact even though he wishes to shrink into the chair until he can hide himself completely inside it.
“Do you have anything to say about it? Anything at all?” Grantaire asks, his voice raising only slightly at the end, betraying his tightly-held composure. Enjolras has never been one to back down, even if it means he has to own his mistakes and ask forgiveness.
“I--I don’t know what I can say to make this better. I lied to you on purpose, and even if it was to protect--” he stops abruptly as Grantaire barks out a laugh, humorless and ugly.
“Protect? Really, Enjolras? Protect whom? Me? Stella? Your fucking self?!” As the anger finally spills over, Grantaire stands and snatches the mask off the coffee table. “You think this is enough to protect us? To keep all the ugly shit you throw yourself into from following you to Stella and me? Did you really believe that this wouldn’t matter?” Grantaire throws the mask at Enjolras, hitting him in the chest with it hard enough to sting a bit. It’s possible that the steel pipe he took to the chest earlier in the night had something to do with the discomfort as well.
But even that pain had nothing on hearing the betrayed and angry tone Grantaire’s voice had adopted, a slight mocking air making him feel like he had been physically slapped.
“I never thought,” Enjolras starts, wanting to fill the silence with something more than the angry panting Grantaire is contributing.
“You never thought what? That you would get caught? Hmm? That someone would show up to our house and threaten to kill us if I didn’t give them your identity?” Enjolras’ blood runs ice cold. He’s always so careful, so meticulous when it comes to protecting Grantaire and Stella. This is only the third time Grantaire had ever been in Enjolras’ apartment. Usually, he goes to Grantaire’s place, which helps him keep his secrets safe, but it also just feels like a home. Somewhere warm and welcoming that gives him a sense of belonging in a way he’d never felt before.
As a child, Enjolras’ parents were distant and cool with him at best. It wasn’t that they disapproved of him, but they didn’t seem to particularly care about him either. The first family he truly felt at home with was the revolutionaries who seemed to show up one day and just didn’t ever leave him. The second real family he ever had was with Grantaire and Stella. He begins imagining all of the ways these people could use her against Grantaire to get his identity and feels sick.
“Is Stella okay? Did she get hurt?” This little girl that had already seen so much loss in her life didn’t deserve this. Neither did Grantaire.
It doesn’t even occur to him at first to ask if Grantaire gave him up. When it does occur to him, he ignores the inclination.
“She’s not injured. But she’s not okay.” Grantaire is looking at the floor, shoulders slumped and head shaking slightly. The urge to go to him and wrap him in his arms until things are better is overwhelming, but for the first time in years, he’s unsure if he’d be welcome. “She fell asleep in the car on the way to my parents’ house. I told them I needed to come see you. We can’t go back to the apartment until this gets sorted out.” Slumping back down to the couch, Grantaire leans his elbows on his knees and rests his head in his hands. For a split second, Enjolras thinks Grantaire is having breathing problems, but soon realizes that he’s crying.
“Grantaire,” Enjolras sighs, throwing caution to the wind and sitting next to him on the couch, resting a tentative hand on his shoulder. “I can help with this. I know I lied to you, and I’m sorry. I thought it was for the best. But this is something I can fix. I can find the assholes who did this.”
“And then what?” Grantaire’s voice sounds wrecked, and it only shatters Enjolras’ heart further.
“I will take care of the problem.” When he finally raises his eyes to meet Enjolras’, it’s the very image that haunts his dreams. Grantaire looking at him like he doesn’t know him. Like he’s a stranger who just sprouted another head. Grantaire’s eyes are almost comically wide, tears fresh on his cheeks. After the shock of hearing that Enjolras was probably going to murder some people, Grantaire’s face morphed into such an intensely pained expression that Enjolras thought he’d been injured right there, sitting on Enjolras’ couch in his largely blank and impersonal living room.
“Enj, I love you. But I don’t know you.” Enjolras removes his hand from Grantaire’s shoulder and scoots back a little. “This is,” Grantaire breathes out harshly like he can’t believe what he’s saying. Enjolras can relate. “This is not something I can get past. The lies, maybe I could have. Wearing a fucking mask and running around kicking criminals, yeah, sure.” He stands once more and looks at Enjolras like he’s trying to see past his face and into his mind. It feels too intimate for what is actually happening. Grantaire is leaving him. Enjolras is about to lose Grantaire.
“But, you kill people. That brings a lot of darkness down on the people around you, and I can’t have that around Stella. She deserves better than that.” Suddenly, Enjolras is standing and gripping Grantaire’s hand, his arm, his face. Neither one of them speak, but they both stand there for a long time, just looking at each other, Grantaire’s hands at his sides, and Enjolras’ on Grantaire’s cheeks. They’re both crying, and Enjolras is terrified. It’s unexpected when Grantaire pulls him into a hug, one of the tight ones that Enjolras has always loved.
“I love you,” he whispers, sniffling into Grantaire’s neck. Grantaire leans back and catches his mouth in a kiss, sweet and close-lipped. It feels like Enjolras will shatter at any second. He feels Grantaire’s hand on the back of his neck, tries to memorize how it feels when he leans his forehead against Enjolras’ and presses. All too soon, Grantaire lets him go and turns back to the door.
“Goodbye, Enjolras. Don’t try to find us.”
Enjolras sits in the floor for a long time. It’s just as hard on his back as fighting criminals. The sun begins to rise behind heavy clouds and bathes the room in a gray morning light. He doesn’t have a lot of information to use, but he resigns himself to doing exactly what had horrified Grantaire into leaving him for good.
He’s got some new targets to find.