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“Grantaire,” Enjolras said in a loud voice, talking over the low murmur of voices in the backroom of the Musain. “Grantaire, I was hoping you might…”
He trailed off, for Grantaire was not paying attention to a word that he was saying. Ordinarily, such behavior would have been the norm for Grantaire, who often spent more time in his cups than joining in their revolutionary fervor. But of recent, as Enjolras had asked Grantaire to cohabitate his suite of rooms, and as their relationship had progressed past friends and to lovers, Grantaire’s attention had been much more focused, just as Enjolras’s attention outside of Les Amis had too become more focused, singular even.
But tonight, it seemed, Grantaire’s attention had strayed as it once did, and Enjolras found himself far more frustrated than normal at that fact. Earlier in the evening he had seemed preoccupied during the meeting, barely seeming to pay attention to a word Enjolras said, and at the moment, when Enjolras wished for his attention, Grantaire was instead laughing loudly at some tale Joly was telling, with Bossuet occasionally adding a detail, and for one brief moment, Enjolras could not tell if he wanted to join in their laughter or drag Grantaire away, to selfishly hoard his laughter for himself.
In the end, he did neither, merely scowling down at the map still spread on the table before him from the meeting and hoping — however foolishly — that Grantaire might notice.
Combeferre cleared his throat as he took the seat next to Enjolras. “My friend, if you stare much harder, the map in front of you might burst into flame.”
Enjolras cracked a small smile. “Burning documents is firmly Courfeyrac’s purview, not mine.” He glanced up at Grantaire, who was still smiling and laughing, then over at Combeferre, who was watching him with something close to amusement in his expression. “I am merely in a foul mood, I fear. I should perhaps call it an early night.”
“Would your spirits not be more lifted by joining our comrades in their revelry?” Combeferre asked lightly, and Enjolras shot him a look.
“My spirits will be lifted when all brotherhood joins together in revolution,” he replied frostily, and frowned when Combeferre’s response was to laugh. “Is something I said amusing to you?”
Combeferre stopped laughing but still looked amused. “I apologize,” he said, though he clearly did not sound apologetic. “I only mean to say — your low spirits do not appear to be caused by the broader problems of our brothers and sisters but rather by something far…closer.”
Enjolras made a disparaging noise. “I do not know of what you speak.”
Combeferre patted his hand and stood. “Perhaps not. Just know that jealousy does not suit you, my friend, and belongs to the realm of lesser men by far than you.”
“Jealousy,” Enjolras scoffed. “Who here is jealous? I merely—” He broke off, realizing that Combeferre had already returned to where he and Courfeyrac were sharing a bottle of wine with Prouvaire, and scowled again. He stood and crossed over to Grantaire, who was wiping his eyes with his untied cravat. “Grantaire,” Enjolras said stiffly. “I am returning home, if you wished to accompany me.”
Grantaire looked up at him, surprised. “Already?” he asked. “Is the hour so late, or has Hypnos merely claimed you for his realm early? Let not Morpheus draw you into his embrace, lest Phobetor tear us asunder or Phantasos lead you astray. I have pledged myself to Dionysus until Helios drives his chariot across the skies, and not even Apollo may drag me forth—”
Enjolras cut off Grantaire’s rambling. “Shall you accompany me, or not?” he asked, a little tersely.
“Is there wine yet in my cup?” Grantaire asked, grinning.
Bossuet pretended to hold Grantaire’s cup to the light to check. “There is indeed,” he declared.
“Then my place is here, dearest Apollo. But I shall join you when Morpheus comes as well for me.”
Enjolras scowled at him. “Fine,” he said. “I shall undoubtedly be asleep when finally you return to our chambers. Kindly do not wake me.”
With that, he turned on his heel and let, not noticing that Grantaire stared after him, a look of confusion mingled with amusement on his face.
Enjolras was not asleep when Grantaire returned, as he found sleep would not come without Grantaire’s warmth against his side. So he was not startled when Grantaire slid into bed and clumsily kissed his cheek. “You are drunk,” he said instead, rolling onto his side. “You know I will not allow your affections when you would prefer wine to my company.”
“My preference was not for wine,” Grantaire protested, and indeed he sounded more sober than Enjolras would have expected. “My preference was for frivolity, certainly, and for the general good humor shared among friends and brothers, but I would have prefered most of all for you at my side, as I would always prefer.” He ran his fingers lightly up Enjolras’s arm and shifted so that his chin was resting against Enjolras’s shoulder from behind. “You were in a poor mood tonight, I think.”
“And why shouldn’t I be in a poor mood?” Enjolras asked, a little sulkily. “It was clear to me that you could not spare a second glance for me this eve.”
Grantaire snorted. “Mayhaps we were looking at the other at opposite time, for I promise my gaze was never far from you.” Enjolras just made a disbelieving noise, and Grantaire pressed a light kiss to Enjolras’s shoulder. “You appear not to believe me, but I promise it to be true. I gain nothing by lying to you.”
Enjolras shifted but did not turn to face him. “Perhaps not, but I spent more time than you might know watching you tonight, and always your attention was elsewhere. What was so important during our meeting that captivated your attention so thoroughly?”
“Combeferre asked that I read over a new pamphlet for substance and syntax,” Grantaire told him, sounding surprised. “I assumed you realized. I am not as avid an editor as some, but being removed a step from the fervor of the material often helps in identifying the more devious errors that plague even the best of writers, and I have oft served as reader for such things when needed.”
Now Enjolras did roll over, a frown creasing his brow. “I was unaware,” he said quietly, reaching out to lightly touch Grantaire’s waist, drawing him closer. “So this evening saw you in service of the Cause, but what of following the meeting? You cannot tell me that your revelry with Joly and Bossuet was for such purposes.”
Grantaire laughed. “Of course not. That was merely friends having fun. I am certain you know the concept, even if you have only experienced it a handful of times at best.”
Enjolras made a face. “Of course I know the concept,” he said haughtily. “But what I observed tonight seemed less like a gathering of friends and more like an exclusive party to which I was not granted an invitation.”
“An exclusive—” Grantaire started, then broke off, realization dawning on his face, followed almost instantly by utter delight. “You were jealous, weren’t you?”
Enjolras looked offended. “Of course not.”
“You were — you were jealous of Joly, Bossuet, and myself. Oh, my darling man.” Enjolras wrinkled his nose at the endearment but Grantaire ignored him, moving closer to kiss him gently on the lips. “When will you realize that you have nothing of which to be jealous?”
Though Enjolras allowed the kiss and even returned it with some enthusiasm, he quickly pulled away, scowling at Grantaire. “You say I have nothing of which to be jealous and yet your attention this evening was divided. Forgive me for being selfish, but I prefer when it belongs to me.”
“If my attention was divided, then how would you describe yours?” Grantaire asked dryly. “I have long ago learned to share you with the most cruel of mistresses, your beloved Patria, with whom I could never compete. Perhaps it is time you, too, learned to share — and with far gentler creatures, who would never begrudge you for as many hours as I am exclusively yours — and those hours do number greatly, my love.”
Enjolras sighed and kissed Grantaire again before admitting reluctantly, “I suppose when you put it that way…”
Grantaire smiled smugly. “Precisely. Though I will forgive you for this temporary lapse in good manners and forgetting lessons learned as a child, do not make the mistake of thinking I will forget about it, or will not bring it up at the most inopportune of moments.”
Groaning, Enjolras burrowed his forehead against Grantaire’s shoulder. “You are a fiend,” he muttered.
Grantaire kissed the top of his head. “No, I am a man in love with a ridiculous, envious man, one whose jealousy is even endearing to me when in others I would ne’er so much as tolerate it.”
“The fact that you find this endearing is even worse than the thought of you reminding us of this in the future,” Enjolras told him, his voice muffled.
Laughing, Grantaire kissed him again. “In that regard, I aim to please. Now let us to bed, and in the morning none of this shall seem so bad.” They both fell silent before Grantaire added quietly, “I love you, you know.”
Enjolras pulled back enough to kiss Grantaire’s lips lightly. “I know. And the sentiment is, as always, returned, nevermind how I chose to express it earlier this eve.”
“Luckily for you, I love you just the same, if not even more, knowing that you love me enough to let Phthonus steal your reason for the evening,” Grantaire said through a yawn, and kissed Enjolras’s temple. “Now let us both go to Morpheus’s embrace and there find each other in dream.”
“Sentimental,” Enjolras scoffed sleepily, and Grantaire just chuckled softly before they both drifted off to sleep.