Archive of Our Own ^beta

Sometimes Grantaire likes to think he made the right decision choosing to stay out of the whole shtick with his two other brothers where they tried to take over as much of the mortal world as they possibly could when their shitty father died. While the two of them tussled over the floor of the Mount Othrys palace like teenage boys (well they were a lot younger back then), he bowed out very nicely like the mature Gods they are supposed to be. He retreated into ruling the darkest, foulest parts of the Underworld and he almost did not complain.

Almost.

That place has been begging for a deep clean in millennia and not even Hercules could clean out the filth of the sweaty monsters that inhabit his realm.

Demons can only be such good company for a while.

Even though his brothers say they welcome him on Olympus, Grantaire had his reasons for  managing the Underworld. He is not the biggest fan of most living people, and the friends that he does have on Olympus have their own jobs to do. No glamour can mask his dark aura even when he attempts to travel in the world of the living incognito. People, understandably avoid him, and his brothers all the more prefer him in his cold abode than on the doorstep of the golden Olympus mountain. But of course they are too polite to say.

All in all, it gets boring in the Underworld, and some days Grantaire likes to just get out and get an actual breath of fresh air. There may be less wide open spaces in the 21st century than in the old days, but a good park does what a green meadow used to do. So on those days when he does not find his schedule backlogged by trials of dead and Charon does not have a huge traffic problem over the Acheron river on his hands, he strolls over down to the River Styx. He finds the one portal that opens into the mortal world (usually some kind of sewer, he has really got to take a look at that) and then shadow travels himself to wherever.

This time, he takes himself to New York Central Park. It is close and convenient, and Grantaire is way too lazy to actually transport to somewhere fancier. Darkness meets him when he stumbles onto some green grass and his elbow knocks painfully into the tree trunk next to him.

“Ow fuckity hell,” mutters Grantaire as he frantically runs his fingers over his precious new leather jacket that he got off Etsy, throbbing elbow be damned. His jacket is still smooth and spotless, and he sighs in relief. For a moment, he wonders whether he is still somewhere in the Underworld, but he notices a few stars that manage to outshine New York. He really should have looked at his watch before he left.

He pulls out his iPhone and snapchats a very dark selfie with the empty park to Eponine just to show that “hey I don’t spend all my time in my throne room”. He plops himself down on a bench and lays down, legs stretched out across the damp wood. It must have rained a few hours before, for the smell of wet grass is still fresh. His jeans feel a little wet from the press of the wood, but the only thing that matters is his precious jacket. So he pulls that off to protect it from the damp and folds it nicely onto his stomach. He tugs his beanie over his eyes to cover the light and decides to pursue a much coveted nap. Crickets chirp around him, cars drone in the background. Much better than the constant screams of the damned.

Grantaire thinks he dozes off for at least an hour before he feels a hand shaking his shoulder and the most musical voice he has ever heard trails into his ear. “Hey, are you okay?”

Groaning, Grantaire tosses an arm over his eyes before his eyes and sits up abruptly, his loose beanie flopping onto his lap. He ruffles his hair sleepily and looks up to see gold gleaming under white light and a sharp angular face marked with concern. He narrows his eyes at the figure before him, eyes still blurry with sleep. “God, Apollo, I’m sorry about killing your precious pet bunny the last time I visited Olympus, I already apologised, stop bothering me already, you already stormed Erebus twice-”

There was a sharp gasp and the sound of a fumble of some sort. “Um.”

Grantaire stops and dig his palms into his eyes and actually peers closely at the uncomfortable looking blonde in front of him. “Oh, not Apollo.” But definitely still just as hot, if not hotter. The gold spun hair, the elegant nose and the regal air, maybe he’s related. Furthermore, he was also very, very red. It is probably because of the red jacket. He does not know why he would be carrying a pile of blankets though. “Do you happen to be his son then?”

The blonde hesitantly sits down next to him, setting the blankets on his lap and shakes his head. “Uh no, but my mother sort of knows him? They are on the same council?”

Why is he not running, did your mom tell you not to speak to strangers? Grantaire stares at him. “Wait you actually know what I’m talking about?” The guy is way too calm about this, he muses.

“Am I not supposed to?” The blonde answers, looking a little alarmed, eyes shifting sideways as if planning a getaway.

Grantaire leans an arm against the back of the bench and curls a leg onto the seat. He probably looks like a bear trying to pick up blonde twinks but he’s pretty sure that’s supposed to be illegal in this day and age. Plus he considers himself above trying to convince pretty people into following him back to his Underworld lair, though he is very much tempted to. “Why did you wake me up?”

The uneasy look persists on the blonde. “Well it was cold out and you were only wearing a shirt and you looked kind of- With the hair and-”

“I suppose the word you’re looking for is homeless?” Underneath the fluorescent light, he could see the blonde flush scarlet to his ears and he raises an eyebrow.

He snorts. “This could be considered offensive you know?” he says. Somehow, Grantaire decides that egging on the blonde’s embarrassment is worth looking like a creep (the inescapable destiny of the God of the Underworld). So he continues with a straight face, and looks him dead in the eye. Even if the blonde attempts to avoid it. “Not to insult the homeless, but imposing such a stereotype on a random person who happens to be sleeping on a bench? I could have just decided to enjoy some nice park air.”

“I wouldn’t- I don’t-” Now the blonde looks even more horrified at his insinuation. But he steels himself up a little and motions at the blankets. “I’m really sorry about the misunderstanding, sir, it is just that I’ve been going around handing these out and since you look to be dressing rather thinly I thought perhaps you might want one.”

Strangely pleased that the blonde has some kind of guts in him, Grantaire waves a casual hand at the blonde. “Just call me Grantaire or R if you’re feeling lazy. And nah, it’s fine I don’t really feel the cold.”

“You don’t- um, I’m Enjolras and I’m sorry for disturbing you, really.” Nerve lost from his previous statement, Enjolras goes back to staring at the stack of blankets in his lap like it was the most intricate tapestry ever woven, awaiting an answer.

“It’s fine,” reassures Grantaire. Enjolras has a sorry looking frown on his face, and Grantaire is starting to feel a little sorry for him, even as he finds him ridiculously attractive. His reactions thus far to Grantaire’s merciless jabs mostly show how adorably naïve he is, and it’s not like he never had anything for blonde haired beauties (don’t tell Apollo). Grantaire wonders who Enjolras’ mother is; the fair beauty and charm could point to Aphrodite. It can also explain why his heart feels unusually charmed out of his chest at every quirk of his mouth. However, the selfless feeling he gets from Enjolras definitely does not come from her. Beautiful though she is, Aphrodite’s self-interests matter more to her than those she deem too unnecessary for her attention.

Look what happened to Troy.

This is by far one of the longest conversations he has had with anyone that is not Eponine or one of his demons. He kind of misses this human interaction, even if his social skills are rusty. The fact that Enjolras has not taken off with his tail between his legs after such lengthy exposure to what Eponine affectionately coins his “death aura” is a miracle itself. Though seriously, why is he not running?

Despite his awkwardness painfully evident in every line on his face, Enjolras still sits there next to him on the bench. “So uh, you are supposed to be Hades then?” He asks, nothing so much as fear present. Self-preservation, Grantaire muses, this guy lacks it.

“A name I used to go by yes, but recently I thought to freshen things up,” Grantaire replies indulgently. Maybe Enjolras will finally grow a brain and try to get the fuck away from him. Like maybe make a polite excuse to escape, or even scream, hell he’s met a ton of those. He braces himself for the leap off the bench, the hurried apologies, the mad dash for safety.

But nothing came.

“I see. So uh, the Underworld. How’s it like?”

Still curious, still foolish, Grantaire thinks. What is up with this guy? Anyone smarter or younger than Enjolras would have bolted by the time they realised he was technically a “pitchfork wielding Devil who deserved God’s wrath” (he’s met some interesting people). Which probably means the entire human population, as any child of an immortal goddess cannot be younger than three hundred. Hell, he’s come across demigods smarter than Enjolras. Or at least they value their lives more than he does, and they are mostly a dim-witted lot.

Grantaire stretches his neck and answers. “The usual. Making sure souls don’t accidentally drift out of the fields of Asphodel. And dead demigods don’t start picking a fight in Elysium over their honour. I occasionally have to convince strangers that they are actually really quite dead and it’s not their business partners trying to fuck them over. Oh and trying to solve massive traffic problems over at the Acheron which refuse to be solved ‘cos people keep dying. Yep, all in a day’s work for the Lord of the Underworld.”

“Wait, you still do that?”

“Do what?”

Enjolras edges closer, looking incredulous. “You still let most of the dead just wander around Asphodel? No sanitation or healthcare? How can you let them do that? I’m appalled. You’re herding them like sheep. I thought that changed!”

“They won’t do anything else, what am I supposed to do? It’s not like they have sufficient bowel movement or actual human consciousness to warrant that kind of treatment.” Grantaire answers matter-of-factly, like Enjolras is asking a stupid question.

“That can’t be right.” Enjolras starts to look angry.

“There are many things that aren’t right, Princess. It was how we did things then and how we do things now. Even if it’s starting to get overcrowded, there’s not much I can do to change that.” Shrugging his shoulders, Grantaire moves to stand. This conversation is going nowhere. Enjoyable though it has been, he would rather not incur the wrath of the so far, nameless Goddess, even if he is supposed to be Hades. These kind of feuds are never easy to settle once they start.

Cerberus is probably getting hungry by now too and he should feed it before he starts trying to chomp on the ghosts.

Standing as well, Enjolras continues speaking even as Grantaire retreats back to the shadow of the tree he appeared next to. “Things can always change. Look at how we changed together with the world when it changed. New York became our New Greece, and it’s not like the other Gods haven’t changed the way they do things either, I mean look at Hermes… I mean Gavroche and his new postal service. We can’t just remain blindly fixated upon tradition. We can’t not do something when you know it’s innately wrong.” A spark seems to have ignited within Enjolras and for a moment Grantaire glimpses an inkling of the real Enjolras. And he wants, no, desires to see more, to look past his awkwardness, and savor the layers of that excited glint in his eyes and how it sparks the flame in his soul.

Fuck, he’s getting creepier by the millennia.

With an exasperated sigh, Grantaire turns back to the excited blonde. “By all means, you can try but nothing will happen. All we did in the past century was adapt technology into how we work. And take after some of your vices.”

Enjolras barely seems deterred. If anything, he looks more resolute than ever, eyes blazing with the glint in full force. He is alight with purpose, striding over to Grantaire as he grips him by the arm. Grantaire almost leaps out of his skin at the contact. “Fine, then take me to the Underworld.”

“What?”

“I said, take me to the Underworld. I will show you that anything can change for the better as long as you try. And you can help me do that. Most people don’t go there to suffer, and we should not let them.” Enjolras crosses his arms when he finishes speaking, smile (a tad bit manic) luminescent on his face.

Grantaire’s jaw drops, but that only serves to make Enjolras look more determined. He stares at Enjolras in silence long enough for him to start fidgeting with anxiousness and his fire of excitement to start dimming. He snaps his jaw close.

“You’re serious. You’re really serious.”

The fire comes back again. “Yes, take me to the Underworld.”

“Your mum will most likely kill me and I don’t even know who she is.” Grantaire starts pacing around before his tree. This looks in every way, an illegal kidnapping, even if the hostage is completely willing and is the one who coerces the kidnapper into taking him to his lair. The mother of this righteous fool will not be happy when she hears of it, but it doesn’t look like Enjolras will back down anytime soon.

Plus it’s not like Grantaire does not want Enjolras to go back with him either. And that is probably the biggest problem of all. He wants Enjolras to go back with him. How did it come to this? He swore off being creepy for centuries. But since it came with the job, he supposes it is inescapable.

“What my mother doesn’t know won’t hurt her and you can’t die, you’re immortal.”

“Doesn’t mean she can’t chop me up into little pieces, set me on fire, then blow them to all four corners of the earth as my immortal soul tries to scavenge back together some essence of my being.” Grantaire snaps.

“Ugh, morbid,” winces Enjolras.

Grantaire stops his pacing and sneaks a look at the blonde, who looks like an overexcited puppy at this point. He knows Enjolras will not take no for an answer and it is not like he has it in his heart to reject that face of absolute anticipation. Letting out a deep sigh of reluctance – or dread, or deep, painful longing? – he finally acquiesces.

“Alright then, you little revolutionary, follow me.”

This is going to be long.

__________

“You can’t be serious.”

“It’s the Underworld, we’re completely wild here. Where’ve you been?”

Enjolras presses against the metre-and-a-half tall metal fence that surrounds the fields of Asphodel as he peers closely at the souls drifting across bulbs of asphodel flowers and grass. One of them makes an unsightly moan as it floats past him into another one, completely unaware that there is a living human right next to it. Back against the metal railing, Grantaire watches the blonde in amusement who looks half torn between horror and confusion.

They have only been in the Underworld for not more than a few days at best, and already, Enjolras appears to have an issue with everything. He already questioned his own skeleton guard about their employment rights and pay range and almost convinced them to unionise. Upon finding out that they do not even have anything so much as a dollar paid to them, he had glared at Grantaire. He then proceeded to lecture Grantaire about employment benefits all the way from his palace down to the fields of Asphodel. And when they reached, this happens.

“There’s nothing that resembles living quarters. Nothing. You’re just letting them drift around like empty plastic bags in the wind,” states Enjolras, irritated. He runs his fingers through his beautiful hair, and Grantaire lets his eyes trace the movement. For such a small – to Grantaire anyway – issue, he looks way too frustrated.

Grantaire shrugs. “It’s not like they need it.”

Huffing in exasperation, Enjolras continues talking. “Just because they already died doesn’t mean they don’t deserve human rights. The Universal Declaration of Human Rights exists now! I mean if you can have Elysium then you can at least have something that’s slightly better than the bare minimum for these souls.”

“You can try but they won’t respond, I’ll tell you that, cupcake.” Grantaire replies good humouredly.

“How do you know? You should ask what they want.” Affronted look on his face, Enjolras pries himself off the fence. He faces Grantaire, who continues leaning against the fence, grinning widely at the blonde looking down at him. “It is only right that you as the ruler of the Underworld, as Hades-” Here, Enjolras breaks off into a litany of hushed muttering to himself about voting and the voice of the people but Grantaire pretends he does not notice. Enjolras seems to remember he was actually lecturing Grantaire, and continues his miffed tirade, “-should inquire into what your subjects want. It is your responsibility but you don’t seem to be doing anything about it.”

A positively wicked grin spreads across Grantaire’s face as he straightens up, and Enjolras falters.

“Oh. I see. You presume to tell me how to do my job.”

Drawing upon the darkness, Grantaire wraps it like a shroud around him just slightly. The chill of the fields heighten when he tenses with the glamour. One to terrify, horror, intimidate. The flowers, grass and leaves in the dark trees churn angrily under an invisible gust of wind. A whip-crack sound of heavy stone breaking is heard beneath their feet. The souls beyond the fence huddle into a corner, sensing the darkening atmosphere. They try to press themselves as far away as they can from the black hole of doom and gloom that was now Grantaire.

A tinge of fear flickers in Enjolras’ eyes. Behind him, the demons who take to guarding the fields quake in their slimy skins, afraid of the retribution of their Lord. The voice that they hear next is low, and the whole cavern seems to tremble and echo with it.

“You, the son of a Goddess with no affinity to me. What right do you have to tell me what to do?”

Honestly, Grantaire is barely angry, if not amused at how Enjolras dares to challenge his authority. A sadistic part of him is curious to test the blonde before him. He wants to see Enjolras succumb to fear, like all the others. To escape back home to his mother just to prove himself right. He wants to see what fight Enjolras has within him, the extent of his self-preservation, and whether his sense of justice extended past his life.

Another part of Grantaire wants Enjolras to stay as close as he can by his side, forever, if Enjolras permits it. For a God such as him, he has met many beautiful people, and he prides himself in being uneasily moved. But in a few days alone, there seems to be something that Enjolras has that none of the other vapid minor gods and goddesses ever had. The ability to capture his attention, to constantly shock and surprise him. Even though he has almost heard and seen all ever since he escaped Kronos’ stomach. He has experienced the depths of human depravity and sin.

He knows of course, that after this, Enjolras would run, horror alight in his lithe body. He will leave. And Grantaire will be alone again.

Loneliness is nothing to the Lord of the Underworld. Millennia has passed where he gets used to the knowledge that it remains likely he will remain alone all his life. It is after all part of the job description. Not even the most desperate single would date an Eternal Ruler of the Dead.

That same part yearns and hopes that Enjolras will remain an idealistic fool, and he will stand up to him, he will stay. To risk a wrath that Grantaire knows, despite the constant yammering in his ear about civil liberties since the day he brought him here, he can never bring himself to exact upon Enjolras.

But Grantaire is masochistic too. It’s not like Enjolras doesn’t know that he is and always will be a dangerous God who spends more time with the dead than the living. Conceal, don’t feel. Better to push them away before any lingering attachment (for Grantaire at the very least) forms, and it becomes all the harder to remove. So he tries to scares Enjolras before any lasting damage can happen, and he waits to be proven right. For him to leave like so many has done before.

Enjolras seems completely shell-shocked now, tension racking his entire body. The chill from Grantaire’s intimidation causes him to shiver but he does not make his escape. Instead, he stands there, opens then closes his mouth,. He appears to wonder whether speaking will be worth the risk of being incinerated on the spot by Grantaire’s glare. For years, Gods have been able to don any form they like or even change sex. In this new preferred form of the century however, Grantaire is much shorter, stockier, but a tiny body coiled firm in anticipation and ready to spring down at his throat is just as frightening as any giant.

Finally, Enjolras speaks.

“No, I don’t presume to, and I apologise if I were to come across that way.” Grantaire is ready to dismantle his glamour at that but then the foolish idiot has not stopped yet. “But someone needs to tell you that you can be better, and you can make your realm even better. Look at those shivering demons. I don’t think they look like they even dare to speak to you at any point. For millennia you have continued this way, and it may not be wrong it your eyes, but it doesn’t mean it can’t be improved. So the only one left is me. And truly, really, I just want to help.”

When Enjolras finishes, he winces and curls his head in upon himself, as if awaiting a blazing fireball to the head. But he does not run.

“You really are an idiot.”  Grantaire sighs tiredly, hoping he does not sound fond, even as Enjolras sputters indignantly. The demons seem to sense Grantaire easing his magic away, and they loosen with relief as well, going back to play whatever game they were playing on their iPads. The chill removes itself, and the cavern warms again from the fire that licks continuously at the sides of the rock floor. Tension dispersed, the ghosts go back to drifting idly by.

“I am not an idiot,” bites back Enjolras.

Grantaire just shakes his head at that. “The fact that you’re still here clearly shows how foolish you are.”

He can feel the burgeoning need to question why bubbling within Enjolras, but he somehow manages to keep his mouth to himself and remains curiously silent.

“Let’s go back to the palace,” suggests Grantaire, motioning for with his head for Enjolras to follow. “I suppose you will want plenty more chances to question my ability as a ruler.”

They head back on the path towards Grantaire’s palace, his skeleton guard clearing the way, weapons battering at the souls who refuse to stay in the flickering flames and clamour at their feet.

Neither of them speak for a long while.

__________

“If the souls in Elysium can have consciousness, why do the ghosts in Asphodel not have any? Does whatever judging system you use somehow strip them of their ability to think independently?” Enjolras asks.

They sit on one of the benches in the forum after strolling down the tiled pavements of Elysium that afternoon, taking in the familiar atmosphere of what looks to be an old Grecian community. Heroes and worthy demigods interact like old friends outside their white villas with red tiled roofs. A vague hint of the sea permeates the clear air, a strange difference that should not be scientifically possible underground, but Grantaire has magic so fuck that. Enjolras gapes at everything like a tourist because young as he is, he probably never has the chance to actually see the fabled Elysium.

They even stop for some ice cream at some point. Very date-like, but Grantaire tells himself firmly that the only way that could ever happen will be when Zeus stops sleeping with random women, which is never.

So Grantaire fiddles with his iPhone while Enjolras, who is evidently very well-read, yammers on and on about anything he lays his eyes on. Eponine refuses to believe that Grantaire has a human with him, and demands selfies. So it becomes a part of his mission to stealthily sneak selfies of himself with Enjolras’ head to Eponine. Eponine is way too free for her own good. Must be nice to not have to take care of an entire realm, but he supposes taking care of a band of energetic female huntresses must not be easy either. It definitely allows for more free time though, that is for sure.

The Wi-Fi at Elysium is always spectacular and it is technically the only reason why he likes going there. Ever since Steve Jobs joined them (man that guy had been one to deal with), their technological ability has increased tenfold, and he miraculously enabled realm-wide Wi-Fi. It’s much easier to communicate nowadays. They used to be Windows operated before he came, but Grantaire supposes it’s good to keep the old man happy.

Somehow two days after that whole fiasco at the fields of Asphodel - which surprisingly still has not scared him away – Enjolras also obtains a notebook. And since then, he has been using it devoutly to record the new things he learns. Grantaire suspects one of the demons are involved. Uncanny though it is, despite his sunny, ever-winning personality, Enjolras has built up a pretty good rapport with the skeletons and demons directly under his command. They talk like Grantaire never talks to them.

And they have played no less than three practical jokes on him since. Ranging from the childish whoopee cushion on his throne to the horrifying ‘Enjolras disappears and almost dies’ prank. That one backfires on all of them though. The demons are grounded and told to shovel Cerberus’ poop for a week instead of simply vanishing them away. Enjolras is shaken so hard he probably loses his entire soul in the process. Despite Enjolras’ outlandish claims about how he had looked utterly terrified and crushed during the prank, he had not actually wept like a baby. Maybe he shed more than a few manly tears as he clutched what he thought to be Enjolras’ broken body, but no one needs to know about that.

He suspects it is because of the unionising.  

“That is actually a good question.”

Enjolras beams at that.

“I never put much thought into it and I can’t really explain. It just sort of happens when the other three judges reach their verdict of where the soul deserves to go. Most just end up in Asphodel though. Maybe it’s convenience. It’s a lot easier to ensure order amongst a large group of mindless drifters than it is a body of conscious human souls.” Grantaire answers thoughtfully, tapping his phone at the bottom of his chin.

“Other three judges?”

“Yeah, Rhadamanthus, Aeacus and Minos. Rhadamanthus judges those of Europe, Aeacus judged those of Asia, Minos pretty much has the final say.”

Enjolras scrawls that down. “Wait, you don’t have a jury?” He looks disbelieving.

“Don’t think we need one,” Grantaire says, patting his beanie.

Enjolras pulls his legs up and curls them underneath him, and turns to tug at Grantaire’s arm, notebook between his legs. “But won’t that be dangerously biased? I mean you technically have one judge who can veto any decision. You sentences aren’t proper either; you can’t just chuck all your offenders into Tartarus! You need proper sentences.”

“But we don’t have anyone who can be part of the jury!” Grantaire teases with mock ire.

Enjolras contemplates the idea. “What about your demons, they seem quite free. I mean half the time I just see them playing Swing Copter and throwing their iPads or iPhones into the fire afterwards.” He jerks a thumb at one of the skeleton guards about a couple metres away, who notices their attention on it. It fumbles, dropping the phone it had been toying with.

“What. So that’s where all our gadgets’ been disappearing to. We keep having to restock, the little buggers. I’m having words with them later. And really, you want demons to be part of the jury. They are in the Underworld and not on Olympus for a reason you know.”

“Ugh. Okay, give me some time to think about this idea and I’ll get back to you. But you definitely need to do something about that, okay?” Enjolras grimaces in annoyance.

“Sure, whatever you want.” Grantaire says, unable to stop himself smiling toothily at the other.

Enjolras blushes a delicate pink all to his ears and he curls in delighted embarrassment, and Grantaire pretends he’s not thinking about how he would like to see flushed skin elsewhere. Or that he would like to nibble on those pink ears, or kiss down his rapidly blushing throat and-

 Time to stop there, Grantaire thinks, and leaps up from his bench to avoid anything untoward that can happen if he stays so close any longer. He is losing his control, something he has been honing for millennia, and this idiot dashes it to the ground like a pepper shaker.

 “Let’s go back to the palace, Enjolras, I have paperwork to go through.” Enjolras gets to his feet and hurries to his side. Soft hand to his back, Grantaire nudges Enjolras slightly to walk just in front of him, falling into comfortable silence as they both make their way back to the palace. The skeleton guard trail behind them.

Grantaire’s thoughts are his and his alone, and never will he ever act upon them. He has been waiting for Enjolras to say the word, to say he wants to go home. It’s been at least three weeks since Enjolras requested to go to the Underworld, and he has yet to show any signs of leaving, but it will come soon, and he knows it.

He just does not know when and no matter how much he has been steeling himself for the inevitable, he knows it will hurt like a bitch. So he tries not to think about Enjolras leaving too much.

He is pulled out of his thoughts by a sudden tug on his arm. Next to him, Enjolras seems to be thrumming with excitement, continuing to jab at his arm even when Grantaire acknowledges him.

 “Is that- is that Achilles and Patroclus? Is it?”

Grantaire sees a smaller, black haired man tucked into the side of a taller, very beautiful man walking towards them. They almost remind him of himself and Enjolras. Except without the lovey-dovey hugging and the mutual gooey eyes of adoration.

The pair notice them as they approach and they stop to pay their respects to Grantaire. “Lord Hades,” bows Patroclus respectfully, and Achilles follows with a quick, “Sir”, then hastens to straighten himself as if bowing as a pain for him.

“May I respectfully inquire upon the identity of your companion, sir?” Patroclus continues politely. Achilles just looks bored, playing with the hem of Patroclus’ tunic instead of paying attention. The more Grantaire sees him, the less he understands why sweet, polite Patroclus will want to love such a blatantly obnoxious man, but there is probably something that Patroclus sees in Achilles that no one does.

“A visitor, who wishes to know how the Underworld operates, is all.”

“Oh, I’m his friend, Enjolras.”

Both Grantaire and Enjolras speak in unison, before realising what the other claims and they shut off awkwardly. For someone who Grantaire has seen Enjolras with a much wider breadth of emotion than this, his pale, empty face is almost a blow. He hopes Enjolras had not taken offense to his statement, having said it only to ease their introductions at something they have yet to establish. Achilles grimaces like it physically pains him to watch the scene before him unfold.

This makes Grantaire wants to borrow Zeus’ staff and blast his pretty, disdainful face off with a lightning bolt. He may be dead, but it does not mean Grantaire cannot kill him again. And until Achilles removes the scowl from his face, he will continue thinking about it.

Patroclus looks concerned, but he strokes Achilles’ arm gently, and the scowl softens into a tiny smile as Achilles tightens his arm around him. This only makes Patroclus nuzzle into Achilles shoulder, as they squeeze even closer.

Okay, really, Grantaire is starting to get a little jealous. Especially because Enjolras is right there next to him, barely speaking. Or moving in fact, as he ogles them in awe. He looks fit to burst with questions but manages to keep them to himself, a feat.

Achilles seems to finally pull whatever rusty sword he has got up his ass and deigns to speak. “Oh, I didn’t know that, my lord. Why, I assumed he will have been your partner.”

I take it back, Grantaire grits, piece of shit.

Patroclus notices Grantaire’s stoic face, pulling away to smack Achilles in the side. At his side, Enjolras seems to have turned a darker shade of pink, and is stammering explanations under his breath that no one could really catch.

“You are mistaken in you assumptions, Achilles, and I hope it doesn’t happen in the future.” Grantaire states coldly. Beside him, Enjolras turns to him with a look of shock, possibly because of the terrifically rude answer. But he is the Lord of the Underworld. He has the right. Sometimes.

“We’re truly sorry, Lord Hades.” He watches the pair in front of him struggle as Patroclus tries to dislodge himself from Achilles, who refuses to detach his arm from the former’s side. Finally, the taller man lets go to allow Patroclus dissolve the altercation between them. Only after an intense staring session that Grantaire assumes involves telepathic threats of sex withdrawal or something similar. “Achilles probably thought you two rather fitting for each other, and I agree with the sentiment. You and Enjolras remind me of us and I’m sure he means no insult, sir.”

Grantaire tries to sound more gracious and accepting, but his mind fixates on what Patroclus just said. “Of course,” he says, albeit distractedly.

Fitting? Reminds him of the legendary lovers? What?

He does not even want to look at Enjolras at this point, for fear of what he would see.

The couple finally depart after injecting some more hurried apologies, and Achilles actually chokes out one himself, and Grantaire is almost pleased when they leave. But Enjolras is still blushing pink and lost in his thoughts, and Grantaire cannot bring himself to speak.

Nobody else bothers them the rest of the way. By the time they reach the forecourt, greets the three judges, Grantaire has peeled off his beloved leather jacket and is on his way to his office when Enjolras stops him. He wears a new red coat Grantaire managed to obtain from his demons, and he has wrapped it around his entire arm, a definite sign of his anxiousness.

His neck burns redder than ever as he swallows visibly. “So uh, we match. According to Patrochilles.”                           

 “Is that what you call those two?” Do not look at him, do not, Grantaire chants in his head. He can feel a slow heat on his cheeks, but he turns away abruptly, and pushes open his black double doors to his obsidian office. Beyond it, there’s a desk covered with a mound of paperwork, a slick, grey Mac, and a couple of random knick-knacks scattered across the front of it. Two small, black armchairs face the desk in front of it. A tall, wooden chair with ornate, Olympian carvings sits behind the cluttered desk. On its right is an entire wall covered with tomes, while its left is a balcony that opened out on top of the palace gardens, dotted with trademark Underworld scrying crystals and leafy pomegranate trees. The opposite wall held a stately black marble fireplace, a coal fire burning brightly.

 “Yeah, well, see I was just wondering what you-” Enjolras is hardly tongue tied when he goes on social justice rants but the moment it concerns an actual social situation that he has to deal him, he quacks like a baby duck, and Grantaire thinks that’s adorable. He moves behind his table and drapes his jacket over his chair, leaving him in his grey tank top and jeans. Instead of following him, Enjolras stops at the double doors, just a few metres shy of Grantaire’s desk.

 “Yes…?” Grantaire leans the chair, waiting, his heart pounding so hard he feels he could fuel at least half of Asphodel with some kind of living consciousness, though it probably does not work that way.

Eyes wild, Enjolras blushes again as he studies the length of Grantaire’s body. “Nothing!” Whatever grips him before completely escapes him under Grantaire’s scrutiny, and he bolts in embarrassment, his red jacket still wrapped tightly round his hand.

Enjolras has left for his chambers for at least ten minutes, but Grantaire continues leaning against his armchairs, staring at the empty doorway, and the fireplace next to it, eyes lost in the hues of red and yellow and orange that jump amongst the ember coals.           

Within the fire, he sees Enjolras’ stupid jacket, the delicious colour of his lips, the ones he has taken to biting when Grantaire brings up some point he is unable to counter, the heated blush upon his skin whenever he is excited or embarrassment, the golden spun curls of his defied gravity, and the lean, pale body underneath the passion, the need to right everything that was wrong, a body he managed to catch accidentally one of those mornings he stops by Enjolras’ chambers to call him for breakfast.

Sitting himself down in the chair, he puts his head in his hands. He tugs his beanie off in frustration and runs his fingers through his head of messy, ink curls until it hurts, and he drops his head onto the desk with a dull thump, pain the last thing he is worrying about.

He is so fucked.

__________

It takes a while for the both of them to put the incident sufficiently behind them. A while means four days, and during those four days, Grantaire finds himself grudgingly missing everything about Enjolras. Sure they see each other for meals, but the feeling isn’t the same. While Enjolras spends those days researching his causes like the little justice warrior he is, Grantaire spends most of his time trying to clear the paperwork that piled sky high while he traipsed through the Underworld with Enjolras on little field trips.

Sometime during those four days, Eponine actually deigns to leave her hunt and decides to visit him without warning. By the time one of his demons have rushed to his door to announce the arrival of "Her Lady Artemis", he barely hides what are visible signs of his unrepentant pining under what he hopes is a strong enough glamour.

She saunters into the room. Her brown jacket covers her black tank top, and she has on black pleather leggings and her brown hunting boots, blonde hair braided into a crown on her head. A couple of pearl coloured moon charms adorn her neck on a silver chain. Cresting on her back is a carved, silver bow the work of Hephaestus, where she's also carrying a black quiver of deadly silver arrows. Despite her relatively harmless look (sans bow and arrows), she is anything but, exuding an aura of regal yet lethal danger.

Her quick strides take her right before his leather armchairs. Instead of conjuring up a better gilt chair like most of his godly guests usually do because leather and wood seem to offend, she plants herself solidly on the ground, folds her arms across her chest, eyes boring straight into his. For the next few seconds, she continues to stare fixatedly at where he’s sitting behind his desk, and it reaches a point where it starts to get unnerving. He looks away first, feeling the onset of a chill down his spine. Grantaire scratches uncomfortably at the stubble at his chin but Eponine refuses to look away.

 “Gods, you’re really fucking stupid, aren’t you?” Eponine quips, like it is something obvious.

 “I can smite you where you stand, you know. Being Artemis does not mean you get special privileges from me.” Grantaire glares at her, hoping to come across as the least bit threatening, but he knows she is having none of that. Not anymore at least, it used to work.

Eponine smirks at him and she vaults across the leather chair and settles herself in the seat, legs crossed upon the desk. “Me being the only friend you have apart from your measly demons? I damn well get special treatment from you. But serious talk, you look a titan shat you out of their ass.”

An ugly grimace appears on Grantaire’s face. “You’re not supposed to be able to see that.”       

All Eponine does is lean her cheek against her fist as she graces him with a watery smile like he is some kind of wounded baby animal that has lost its mother and is keening for help. “Oh dearie, you know I can see right through your glamour. You look absolutely pitiful; you didn’t tell me you had it this bad.”

She taps the tip of her boot against the other and raises an eyebrow at him. Grantaire heaves a wobbly sigh and peels his glamour apart like an annoying piece of cling wrap. What used to be something neat and presentable, or as close as you can get to it when you’re Grantaire, is now rugged and roughed out at the edges. He has a three day old beard he has not bothered to trim, and his already wild curls somehow got even wilder over the course of the four days of self-imposed isolation away from Enjolras. Mostly because tugging in mixed anger and frustration at his hair seems a great way to stop himself thinking about Enjolras while reading about Elysium’s budget assessment, or a report on the intake and upkeep of Tartarus. He’s changed into a green t-shirt, but he still wears the same jeans from before.

 “I don’t have anything. Bad. Whatever that is.” Grantaire grits defensibly, hands fisting upon the wooden desk. He squeezes his thumb achingly under his fingers, almost pressing lines into the sides of them. The Underworldly reports beside him are long forgotten. They can wait.

Looking completely done with him, Eponine releases a pained sigh but does not remove her legs from the table. “I saw him. Your new blonde pet.”

Grantaire perks up. “What? Where?”

He sounds way too excited to hear about Enjolras, but then again it is not like he has not got his skeletons to guard the blonde, and the demons to make regular hourly reports about his whereabouts. It is not creepy. He just needs to know Enjolras is safe, is all. The Underworld is not the friendliest place.

It only makes Eponine smirk wider as she replies. “At the forecourt. He’s interviewing Minos while I was still passing through. Heard something about prejudice and systematic bias in the judging process.”

“Of course he would.” His voice comes off fond, way too fond for his liking. An unfamiliar warmth clenches him in the chest, and he cannot help but smile at the thought of Enjolras marching up to his three imposing judges of death, and ruthlessly interrogating them about the way they do things, then demand immediate improvements to them. Doesn’t matter if Enjolras will risk getting blasted to smithereens, or damned to Tartarus (not if he can help it). Complications spur him on like an obstinate horse instead of weakening his resolve. He knows the consequences, yet he rushes headlong into everything anyway. Immortals, they never really know to treasure their lives when they should.

Eponine pulls her feet off the desk and they thump heavily to the ground. She leans forward and watches him intensely. “Of all people you have to fall in love with, it’s Demeter’s son. Do you know how overprotective of her children she is? Remember when one of her daughters almost got assaulted by a minor God?  Olympus suffered a dry spell for at least two months. And Enjolras is literally the son of nature and life, he’s everything you’re not.”

“That is very helpful, Eponine, thank you for reminding me how absolutely messed up this is and how fucked I am for even allowing Enjolras to follow me here. And for the record, I didn’t know he was Demeter’s son.” Grantaire scowls again, and he rubs furiously at the back of his neck like it will somehow right all the wrong he has committed ever since he brought Enjolras down there with him.

The voice that he hears next is soft, almost sorry. “Is he… staying?”

“I- I don’t know.” He slumps boneless onto his table in resignation, giving up to the constant fluttering thrum in his chest, and the heaviness in his throat. The edge of his table is digging into his elbows like a sore spot, and his reports are sticking uncomfortably into his forehead. All he does is stare into the light coloured veins in the dark wood table top like it can somehow give him an answer. “He shouldn’t stay here.” He forces out after rapidly straightening himself out of his pitiful state.

Every fibre of his being screamed for him to take that back. He wants him here, he needs him here. Regardless of Enjolras’ idealistic idiocy and his need to change everything for the better because despite the decades of war he must have seen, Enjolras refuses to stop seeing the good in everyone. Grantaire needs that kind of good next to him, because millennia of solitude and watching so many flood his realm constantly has already taken that away. Giving up may not be part of Enjolras’ vocabulary.

But it is in Grantaire’s.

“He is not staying here.” He repeats again, louder this time, emotionless mask in place. He hopes it sounds stronger and more detached than he feels because his insides are churning from the aftertaste the words leave inside his mouth, and he hates that feeling of helplessness.

Face curled into a frown, Eponine studies Grantaire carefully. Her eyes trace his features like she is reading an indecipherable book full of nonsensical runes that makes no sense. She appears to find what she wants however when she heaves a pitiable sigh at him and stands. Loose curls tickle her forehead when she leans across the table and tugs him in by his shirt collar.

“Don’t. Do. Anything. Stupid.”

Eponine releases her grip on him but grips him by the shoulder as a show of comfort. She does not take long to leave after that, claiming her hunters need her back at base camp. All he does is nod blindly, head lost in thought. The demons escort her out of the room even as she turns to throw him a look of decisive worry.

Minutes after she leaves, Grantaire seems to rouse himself. “Sorry, I don’t think I can.” He replies to the empty room.  A bout of laughter gurgles in his throat, self-deprecating, cold, empty and utterly chilling.

Grantaire continues laughing even as it gets more broken and uneven. He sweeps his desk’s contents all over the floor roughly with one hand. Papers scatter like dead leaves, ink splattering and glass shards marring what used to be a spotless marble floor.  A wave of emotion hits him in the chest as he sweeps across the front of the room, and he releases a fit of magic to upend both his leather armchairs. One hits him squarely in the ankle as it topples. His body feels frail and vulnerable, an alien experience for a God like him, and the force of the one chair surprises him and he falls to his feet. Back thudding painfully into his desk, the laugh suddenly turns into a dry sob, and he rubs his hands roughly in his face, grasping at the curls across his forehead like it could lend him any kind of lifeline.

He tips his head back against his desk, and his eyes meet the maroon ceiling of his office. Tears spring unwillingly to his eyes. They do nothing but well, blurring his vision until he closes his eyes.

Amidst the chaotic mess of his office, Grantaire falls asleep. His heart beats sorely against his chest.

__________

About a day after Eponine visits and Grantaire calms down from his maddened attack against his innocent office, Enjolras finally seems to have resolved whatever awkward feelings he had because of that day at Elysium and pokes his head through his door in the morning. By now, Grantaire has sufficiently pieced back in embarrassment whatever he broke when his emotional dam decided to cave. His paperwork and reports are now messed beyond reason however, and the officials in need of responses will have to wait a while for him to get back to them.

Looking at how Enjolras enters tentatively, after two hesitant knocks when Grantaire calls him in, Grantaire supposes he probably heard about the mild breakdown. He’d be surprised if he hasn’t heard about it. The demons directly under him may sense when and where to leave him alone by at least a one mile radius, but their gossip-mongering ways will mean that almost everyone from Tartarus to Elysium will know all about it. Not knowing the reason does not stop the crazed speculation of a few hundred little demons that dot the realm like gossip carrier pigeons.

That son of a bitch Achilles probably laughed his ass off. If he had his way, Achilles would be on his to the smelliest part of Tartarus by now, blonde locks, tanned, gorgeous body and all with him. But helikes Patroclus so he decides not to remove him from his soulmate. Small mercies.

Enjolras sidles into the office, closing the door quietly behind him. His eyes flit to Grantaire for a few seconds before they look down to find his sneakers. After some one-sided deliberation, of which Grantaire is thoroughly amused by, Enjolras crosses over to where he is standing by his bookcase.

 “Let’s go out.” Enjolras says.

Grantaire almost chokes on empty air. “Say… what?” A feeling of warm hope trickles in.

Realising what his question sounded like, Enjolras blushes furiously and looks almost angry with himself. He backtracks. “No, I mean like go out. Of the palace. Out of- this place. Not like… going out out. Not that you won’t be nice to date- no wait- I mean cause we haven’t spoken in almost a week since you know-“ Enjolras pauses here, wincing. “-so I thought we should. Hang out again. But you don’t have to! If you don’t want to that is. It doesn’t mean I don’t want you to. But it will be great if you will. But just, yeah I mean it’s all up to you. Okay, sorry I’ll stop talking now.”

He visibly deflates after stammering out the long speech, and seems almost like he wants to punch himself in the face with the nearest book.

 “Oh.” Grantaire intones, trying to convince himself that uncomfortable sensation of his squeezing lungs is not disappointment.

 “Well, it’s just you’ve stayed in here working so long, and I haven’t seen you in a while… I’m sure you want to go- get out.”

Grantaire slides a book out of his shelf, anything, any movement to fill this kind of awkward silence that floods the room. He pretends not to notice Enjolras’ shuffling feet and it’s probably terrible of him to keep Enjolras hanging like this, but he cannot seem to find his voice. Flipping the book in his hand, he studies the title of a dark blue book. Fifty Shades of Grey.

He needs to have a talk with his secretary about the kind of rubbish they are taking to stock his shelf with.

Upon seeing the book, Enjolras turns twenty shades of pink and inclines his head away from him in embarrassment. In order to absolve the now even thicker tension, Grantaire shoves the book back into the shelf with a mighty thump.

 “That’s not mine,” Grantaire coughs.

Enjolras is still pink to his pale, pretty neck. “Yeah, okay, sure.”

 “It’s really not me, my demons-” Grantaire holds up a hand in defence.

 “I know.” Enjolras still refused to look at him though and Grantaire gives it up as a lost cause, hoping at the very least that Enjolras does not think he’s anything like a raging sexual deviant out for exploiting virgin girls. Or boys.

 “Um, okay how about I take you to see Cerberus? I don’t think you’ve met him yet.” Grantaire says, and though the tension feels lighter now, it is still present in the air.

 “Take me to the dog. Now.” Enjolras pulls at Grantaire who magics his leather jacket into his hand and they walk noisily out of his office into the corridor. He waves away his guard when they attempt to follow him. They climb all the way down from there to the main hall, where beyond it lay the forecourt with the Judges of the Dead, but there was no need to disturb them. A circular iron grate outlined by dark crystal sinks into ground, a bright orange fire burning within it, casting long shadows that dance across the ochre coloured walls where the light does not hit.                

Grantaire directs the both of them to a patch of dark shadow when he stops. “Before we go, I’m just going to say that it’s a little far to walk, so we’re going to have to shadow travel. Which means, I’m going to have to hold your hand.”

He waits for the inevitable freak out, but other than a terse nod and a slight red of his cheeks, Enjolras remains unperturbed. The fire casts a fiery glow from behind him, illuminating the gold of the Enjolras’ hair and the paleness of his skin into warm vibrancy. Enjolras moves closer to him and the clasps his hand, and Grantaire feels an urge to draw him close into his chest. To ensure he is protected and whole the entire way even though just any point in contact guarantees safe passage. But he manages to contain himself as he tightens his hold on Enjolras’ hand, running his thumb over the smooth back.           

An invisible wind whirls around them as Grantaire tugs at the darkness with the bottom of his stomach. They melt into the shadow and a second later they are standing hand in hand, in a large, airy cave lit with bulbous yellow light attached to the walls. Enjolras lets go to explore the cave, and Grantaire very adamantly, does not mewl softly at the loss of contact. Water trickles down from a crack in the ceiling to land in an oval, clear pool in the centre of the cave. Other than the pool, the cave is relatively dry and clean. In a corner is a nook almost half as big as the cave, floor covered completely with a large velvet pillow. The cave itself opens out onto another tunnel that disappears into darkness on both ends.

Distant barking sounds rumble down the tunnel, and it gets louder as it gets closer. A large black mastiff with three heads finally bounds into the open cave in excitement. He fills up half the room with his massive size. His head knocks into Grantaire who though prepared, still falls back onto his butt onto the rock floor of the cave. Somewhere in the cave, he can see Enjolras pressing himself up against the wall with trepidation. Seeing how he knocked his master onto the ground however, it slouches onto the ground. All three heads whimper in unison as Grantaire rubs his back to soothe the ache. At some point Cerberus realises that his master is actually unhurt, and his nose nudges at Grantaire’s leg, looking for treats.

 “Enjolras, come here,” says Grantaire, looking completely comfortable from his position on the floor.

A look of mortified shock appears on Enjolras’ face at the idea of being so near Cerberus’ teeth. “It’s not going to eat me, right.”

Grantaire pats the empty spot of dirt next to him. “Not unless I tell him to. He has taken up to chewing on mortals who stupidly stumble into the Underworld though, trust me it happens.”

The words do not seem to comfort Enjolras, but he walks slowly towards Grantaire, eyes refusing to leave Cerberus. One of the heads peek at the blonde edging closer to his master, and it stretches to sniff at the spot where Enjolras is supposed to sit. Enjolras is almost half sitting when another head presses against the first to sniff the intruder who he has never seen before and Enjolras freezes mid-squat. His wet nose nuzzles at Enjolras’ red jacket and Enjolras looks terrified, eyes bulging and words dying on his tongue. Grantaire on the other hand is about to burst into fits of laughter, watching Enjolras clearly try not to scream.

When he’s finally seen enough of Enjolras’ internal freaking out, Grantaire reaches up to grab his wrist and pulls Enjolras down to his right. The blonde man falls with a soft “Oomph” against Grantaire’s shoulder who cherishes the contact with a small smile. Almost immediately, Enjolras scrabbles behind him, left arm pressed against Grantaire’s back. Now all three panting heads follow his movement and the middle one sticks out a long pink tongue to lick Enjolras up the face.

It takes about half an hour before Enjolras stops cringing every time Cerberus moves and he is comfortable enough for the both of them to lean against the dog’s belly. The dog curls up with them between him and lays its heads against its paws and dozes off. Grantaire almost does too, except the heat of Enjolras pressed up into his shoulder is too much of a distraction and he finds himself thinking more about roaming hands than anything else. However, Enjolras does not seem to notice anything out of place, his hand right stroking where Cerberus’ underbelly meets the floor.

 “The past month has been really nice here.” Enjolras pipes up, looking at ease leaning against a gigantic dog when just an hour ago he had been terrified. His fingers stops stroking the fur of the dog and they come to on top of his legs.

Grantaire twists his head over to look at Enjolras. He studies the sharp Grecian nose and the blonde curls the end just at the base of his neck, and the soft red lips that are pursed in thought and he resolutely tries not to keep his heart from dropping with little dreamy sighs.

“Yeah?” He replies eloquently.

Twiddling his fingers, his eyes meet Grantaire’s. “I mean sure it’s where all the dead come to but it’s so much more alive than I ever would have thought. I’ve read books before, even heard stories from Gavroche who travels here so often but actually seeing it with my own eyes is a different experience altogether. I’ve learnt so much from you and from the demons and from the people at Elysium. No one has blasted me to oblivion yet.”

He brings up a hand to grasp at Grantaire’s arm, his voice getting more confident and insistent. “You’ve been accepting, helpful and inordinately kind to me even though I pretty much have a problem with everything you do. Even though I am just a guest who decided to impose himself on you. Yet you still bring me to places, you house me like a godly guest, you entertain me, you chaperone me everywhere even though you must be so busy. And I still don’t know why.”

Underneath Enjolras’ strong, grateful gaze, Grantaire can’t help but colour, feeling like the shy teenage boy he hasn’t felt in millennia. The hand on his arm burns like a brand against his skin. “Well someone has to take care of your stupid ass. We don’t want you falling into Tartarus accidentally and have your mother fly down here to murder me.” He says before he can stop himself, because his mouth spouts rubbish when his brain stops working.

Enjolras chuckles and he runs his hand down to grip at Grantaire’s wrist. The mush that is now his brain goes into overdrive and Grantaire thinks he’s probably stopped breathing. “Yeah, thanks for that.”  

He feels the grips tighten on his wrist as Enjolras shifts closer, leaning so far in that all semblance of personal space is lost. For a God of the Underworld, control is about the least thing he has in his grasp right now. Everything and anything is Enjolras. All Enjolras has to do is say the word, and Grantaire will wilt and concede like the weak idiot he is. Like he hasn’t already done so when Enjolras first spoke to him, and demanded he be taken to the Underworld with him. Right now, his mind fluctuates between thoughts of how he could just tilt his head up to catch Enjolras’ lips, and how Enjolras’ hair is so close it is tickling his nose, how perfectly blue Enjolras’ eyes are, as clear as his soul and he wants so badly to touch, to feel and to cross that line that he has already told himself not to cross.

This will not happen. He cannot make it happen. It does not matter that he wants it so badly the thought of stopping any of this, the natural progression of things, makes him want to puke and the lump in his throat thicken in reluctance.

Enjolras cannot be with him because he is life and he is light, just like his mother. He is beautifully and miraculously alive, more than Grantaire can ever be. Any more time in the Underworld, he will smother out and die. His spirit will flicker out, it will be swallowed by despair that never stops welling, bitterness that never truly leaves. Because this is the Underworld and it thrives on the burnt and of burning things out. Staying by Grantaire’s side will only mean suffering he has yet to experience because he is still adorably naive of how he can change everything. But the fact remains that being together will cause Enjolras more harm than the hurt of pulling apart will cause Grantaire. And Grantaire will much rather hurt himself than hurt Enjolras. Ever.

Just as he senses Enjolras about to bridge the gap between them, he raises a hand to stop Enjolras’ chest from leaning further inwards. Enjolras’ eyes cloud with confusion as Grantaire gently pushes him back.

 “We… we can’t. I’m sorry.” Grantaire whispers, eyes on the floor because he does not want to look at the hurt that is bound to bloom across that beautiful face. He shifts further away before standing and walking as far away as he can from the dog, and from Enjolras. Whose confusion and hurt is starting to shift slowly into anger.

 “Why?” Enjolras yells. He picks up and follows him. The dog jerks awake and whimpers lightly. “You obviously want this, and I want this too and why should anything but mutually respected consent stop us?”

Of course the nerd would bring up something like that, but Grantaire does not succumb. He grips his nose with his fingers in frustration. “Look you’re going to leave anyway and you cannot stay here, this is not your home.”

“I very well can if I want to!” Enjolras shouts, but the anger is dissipating and he sounds desperate now. “This is my choice, this is my life and you can’t tell me what to do. If I want to stay with you then-”

Cerberus whines as he presses himself into the ground then decides that he cannot stay there anymore, and throws himself out of the cave in a hurry, disappearing down the tunnel. The cave feels even emptier without the dog’s presence.

Grantaire tosses up his hands. “It doesn’t work that way Enjolras! Do you know why you cannot stay? Because this world, this Underworld that you somehow seem strangely charmed with will kill you. Because you are not of this realm, I can’t lock you here if every month or year you spend here, it will drain you. You will tire of this eventually, let me tell you, and you will want to leave in the end. I’m making this decision for you because I know ten years down the line you will regret not going back to the surface world when Hades told you to.”

Enjolras grits his teeth but he does not reply.

Grantaire grasps him by the arms and looks beseechingly up into those perfect blue eyes. “You are beautiful, Enjolras. You are wonderful, proud and powerful but this world? It is anything but. It is lifeless, cold, stale, and it gets repetitive and dull. You don’t want this Enjolras. You shouldn’t have to stay in such a place just to be with me. You shouldn’t want to stay here at all. What you deserve is a place as vibrant and alive as you are, you deserve Olympus and you deserve the surface world, and you should not give that up for me or this world or whatever you think you can change in it because it will never come to pass.”

Tears seem to have welled up at some point and gods Grantaire feels weak again. Never has he ever broken down so easily, he is the God of the Underworld, but this man, Enjolras, just comes in and takes him all apart by just being there. The silence that falls almost makes Grantaire think he has won and convinced Enjolras. But then, Enjolras’ eyes soften and he brings the back of his hand to wipe gently at Grantaire’s face. “There are the pomegranates.”

Grantaire looks horrified at the thought. “I won’t give it to you. It will bind you here unwillingly and you don’t know what you’ll miss when you take it. Don’t.”

“Your demons have prepared it for at least two weeks. It’s been on the dining table every time we eat together. I just never drank it. The milkshake.” Enjolras rubs comfortingly at Grantaire’s shoulder with the gentlest smile, as if it will somehow convince him of letting him stay. It is almost working. “I think they want me here. With you.”

“The traitors.” Grantaire scowls but straightens his face again. This is taking too long, and the longer he takes, the harder it will be for any of them to part. “No, I will tell them to stop preparing it and you can leave tomorrow.”

Enjolras’ hands tremble as they leave Grantaire’s shoulder. His face is distorted by a grimace, but even then he still looks good. “Then maybe I should leave. Since you clearly do not even want me here.” He bites out, breathing heavily but the trembling hands give him away and all Grantaire wants to do is pull him into a hug, tell him that no, he wants him here so badly he will gladly give up his throne, but he can’t say that.

Instead he says in the coldest voice he can possibly manage, “Then maybe you should.”

Enjolras flinches like he has been punched and the irrefutable hurt is bright as day on his face. He snaps his head away from him, wiping his face with his hand like it can rub away the pain. Emptiness wells inside of Grantaire when he realises that he is the monster to hurt Enjolras like this. Every part of him hurts to reject Enjolras, to push him away like this and break his heart.

He deserves it.

Their tentative silence is broken by the smoke of a demon puffing up beside them. It looks shocked at the appearances of both Grantaire and Enjolras, but it cleverly schools its face into something professional.

 “Lord Hades, it seems you have visitors.” It announces.

Grantaire waves an annoyed hand at it. “Not now, send them away with a gift basket or something and tell them to come another day. Say I’m busy.”

He really has no mood to deal with anyone today. Not after all that has transpired. He will need the time in the day to get used to how after tomorrow, there will be no more needling, no more annoying him about creature rights, no more insistence of setting up of a rotational jury. He needs the time to come to terms that after tomorrow, Enjolras will leave him forever.

The demon looks hesitant, sneaking a look at Enjolras who has stilled but does not face them. “But sir, they are here for Master Enjolras.” It says. Enjolras finally turns around, frowning and expecting an explanation. Nodding respectfully at Enjolras, the demon answers.

“They’ve come to take him home.”

__________

Grantaire shadow travels both of them back to the main hall. On his landing, Enjolras stumbles and almost trips but Grantaire catches him in the waist with his arm. The blonde man gasps at the contact and stiffens. Upon realising what he is doing, Grantaire hurriedly rights Enjolras and wrenches his arm away like he was burned. He walks away and does not look behind, though he can feel the look of despondency searing into his back.

He slams open the door to the office, and the two figures chatting in his visitor’s armchairs jump out of their seats to face them. One of two is tall and willowy with brown hair, glasses perched on their nose. The other looks young and cherubic, with soft black curls that coiffed perfectly that Grantaire wished his own could look like. Athena and Eros.

Enjolras trails in mournfully behind them and Grantaire can see Athena (he does not know what name they go by this century) throw Grantaire the ugliest look. He shocks at seeing his two friends standing in front of Grantaire’s desk, and his sad frown immediately brightens up into a warm smile. It tugs painfully at Grantaire who has seated himself in his own chair, crossing his elbows and resolutely not looking at the three’s happy reunion.

You’ve made the right call, Grantaire tells himself sternly, look how happy he will be if he returns, who cares about your lonely soul.

He hears Enjolras call them Combeferre and Courfeyrac respectively. Combeferre has curled their arms at their chest, and is talking to Enjolras in a tense tone. Beside them, Courfeyrac is laughing and poking at Enjolras, who merely blushes and pushes him away.

 “Enjolras, you really need to come home.” Combeferre says patiently. “Your mother misses you.”

The blonde man casts a look at Grantaire, who stares at them with a foul, unhappy look. “About that,” starts Enjolras. Grantaire’s glowering intensifies. “Uh.”

“She’s killed all the palace flowers,” says Courfeyrac bouncing in his spot, looking way too excited about dead plants or whatever he’s really happy about. “All of them. Also she’s causing India to have a dry spell because of how upset she is, it’s terrible.”

The news brings a look of dismay on Enjolras’ face. He looks between Grantaire and his two friends again. Profound look on their face, Combeferre watches Grantaire placidly. Grantaire feels as if they are staring into his soul, like those dark brown eyes are prying through his subconscious, searching for whatever they wanted. He feels naked, like he is barring himself on display. He doesn’t frequent Olympus much, so other than Eponine, and occasionally Gavroche, he hardly comes into much contact with the other Olympians. It’s been a while since he last saw Combeferre.

Gods of wisdom think they are so great, Grantaire huffs.

Combeferre addresses him. “The entire world thinks you kidnapped him and is holding him hostage you know. It’s the biggest scandal of the century. God of the Underworld kidnaps Goddess’ of Nature’s son. It’s like Romeo and Juliet. Or so they say.”

“Enjolras pretty much dragged me to my own realm and I’m somehow the perpetrator in all this. Great.” Grantaire drawls. Enjolras looks scandalised. “Don’t compare us to that angsty nonsense, Combeferre.”

Courfeyrac pipes up. “Two realms both alike in dignity, in grungy Erebus where we lay our scene?”

“Courfeyrac.” Combeferre sighs.

Courfeyrac is undeterred and moves on. “Okay look, these two are obviously canon. Look at all the UST, it’s like an oven of piping chili salsa with how hot it’s getting in here. Hashtag OH TEE PEE.”

Enjolras scowls and shoves the man. “Courfeyrac, just don’t.”

“All these new, modern relationship lingo is amazing for a God of Love alright, I have to use them when I can.”

“Oh my god, if you want to go just leave,” Grantaire blurts out, equally parts mortified and desperate. He massages his temple and tries to swallow down the uncomfortable tingling feeling in his nose. “Stop stalling and just. Go. I can get one of the demons to escort you.”

Combeferre looks relieved.

__________

Two hours later they find themselves sitting down for a reluctant lunch. Enjolras had refused to leave no matter how many terrible, hurtful things Grantaire threw at him. At some point, the blonde man stubbornly plopped himself down on the visitor’s seat and glares right back at Grantaire. He probably figured that Grantaire meant none of the things he had said. Nothing Combeferre did could move him at all. There wasn’t enough shadows cast on the chair to shadow travel Enjolras away either.

Courfeyrac just looked increasingly gleeful as time wore on.

When the demons finally knocked about lunch, Enjolras was the first out the door and he couldn’t go fast enough. The three people left behind in the office had only looked on in confusion. Combeferre shook their head, like they had long since given up understanding the entity that was Enjolras.

The awkward tension from the office carries on to the dining table. Demons shuffle around behind them in silence serving dishes. The look as if they are trying to disappear into the onyx walls in order to hide from the blazing centre of gloom that sits at the head of the table who has yet to touch his food. On his right, Enjolras stares blankly at his cup, a silver goblet lined with gold, and does not eat. Sitting opposite him, Courfeyrac has already dug into the mash like a ravenous puppy. Next to Grantaire’s left, Combeferre sits ramrod straight, but they push their food around the plate, only taking occasional bites of the chicken.

No one dares to speak.

Or rather, no one wants to.

“I don’t want to leave, and I’m not going to leave.” Enjolras says to the room, folding his arms across his chest. His eyes never leave his cup. Grantaire wants to smash the cup into Enjolras’ head for being such a blithering idiot. But he also wants to hug every part of him for being such a stubborn dweeb.

Grantaire waves the demons waiting on them away and they retreat gratefully, glad to be away from the impending shit-storm. He hopes it will not escalate to another full blown room attack. At the very least, he has to control that part of him. The movement makes Enjolras steel in his chair.

“We’ve talked about this. You are not staying. And your two friends agree with me.” Grantaire demands. His hand fists around his fork like he’s ready to stab a person with it.

A sulky look of disobedience appears on Enjolras’ face and he scowls at Grantaire. Again. It reminds Grantaire of how Enjolras had rooted himself to the floor of his office in an act of petty defiance. His body is a silent protest alight with rebellion. He will not be moved since his ‘oppressors’ (he used that word at least twice during the last two hours) will not bend to ‘reason’. He continues to glare at his cup.

“Look, I may not belong here now but I will belong here someday. It takes time, and frankly there’s way too much for me to do here than to just leave you- I mean, everything alone.” He replies irritatedly, and Grantaire wants to throw his fork at his stubborn gold head.

“Wait, wait,” chokes out Courfeyrac, holding up a finger. His mouth bulges from whatever he’s eating and he swallows. “Note, I never actually agreed to anything, be it taking Enjolras back home or letting him stay here. I am a fully objective, third party.”

Combeferre rolls their eyes. “Please, you’ve been silently whispering, ‘Now, kiss!’ at them for the last hour. That is not objective.”

Proud is but an understatement to describe the grin on Courfeyrac’s face. “They totally wanted it, I was merely projecting what they didn’t want to admit to themselves.”                  

While the two bickered on about what it means to be objective in a subjective world, Grantaire and Enjolras has pretty much quieted down. Enjolras has taken to twirling the cup with his fingers, a white liquid inside sloshing slightly against the gold edges. Food abandoned, Grantaire watches the hypnotizing movement, head tilted against the back of his chair.

“Enjolras, please listen to me.” Grantaire tries again. He leans across the table as if to grasp at Enjolras. The twirling stops. “You are not of here. And you should be happy about that. You don’t want to be here. Trust me.”

“You don’t get to make that decision for me.”

he blonde’s jaw clenches and his fingers tighten around the goblet. His eyes intensifies as he finally lifts the goblet and downs the liquid in one go. The cup drops against the wooden table with a definitive clang when he is done. A small smirk crosses Enjolras’ face.

Grantaire frowns in confusion before realisation finally dawns. He lurches out of his chair and snatches the cup off the table, sniffs at it then tosses it aside. He whips Enjolras’ chair around furiously. Caging the blonde underneath him with arms, his hands clutch painfully at the armrests. His body trembles at the effort to control himself, struggling not to yell or scream, or to hurt too many people in his blind anger. “You little fuck- you-”

Enjolras gazes up at him victoriously, the grin widening. “Are you going to remind me again how I am not of this world again? That I should not want to be here?”

Grantaire breathes out shakily. “You drank the milkshake, Gods, I forgot to tell the demons not to serve it anymore. I told you no, why won’t you listen to me?” His voice gentles towards the end, and he leans his head against Enjolras’ shoulder in defeat. A happy little sigh leaves Enjolras’ mouth as he brings up a hand to comb through Grantaire’s curls.

He forgets that Combeferre is watching everything with calculating eyes. He ignores the excited squeal that must definitely have come from Courfeyrac.

Right now, he just breathes in the cottony scent mixed with hints of strawberries from Enjolras’ shirt and enjoys the feeling of hands stroking softly in his hair.

“When have you ever known me to listen to you?” Enjolras quips in amusement and Grantaire laughs throatily, breathing out little puffs of air that makes Enjolras squirm.

Grantaire finally pries himself away from the blonde’s shoulder to caress the smooth skin of Enjolras’ now reddening cheeks with his thumb. “Idiot.”

He doesn’t know how many of the pomegranate seeds have been made into the milkshake. Even though he wants to be selfish and keep Enjolras next to him always, there are people on Olympus he knows who will miss him almost as much as he will. The feeling of never seeing your loved one again is brutal and heart-wrenching. It may have been temporary for Grantaire but he never wants to subject anyone to that willingly. Not if he can help it. Death may be unavoidable but this is something entirely different. This he can do something about. Enjolras will not be lost to the surface world forever. The world after all, Underworld and everything else, cannot live without this figure. One who radiated light with every step and breathed life with every word.

One of his arms curls at his hip as the other comes down to press against his side on the seat. He cherishes the feeling of the warm body he’s been thinking of for the past month, finally pressed up tight against him and he sighs again.

There is a cough. A louder cough. The two finally break apart to glare at the interruption. Combeferre raises their hands in a sign of peace. “Well then, Enjolras, Grantaire, it appears I have some news to tell Demeter.”

The widest smile Grantaire has ever seen graces Enjolras’ face. Grantaire returns a grin so big his cheeks start to hurt from smiling so hard. His heart thuds against his chest, so loud he is sure even the monsters in Tartarus can hear it. He has never felt so alive in millennia.

“Tell her,” Enjolras says breathlessly.

Shaking his head, Combeferre looks pleased. “Tell her?”

Enjolras cups Grantaire’s face with both hands, joy written all over his features.

“That I still have some very important things to take care of.”

He leans forward.

And crashes right into Grantaire’s noise because being centuries old does not mean that kisses ever come easily, even more so for Gods who probably don’t have much practice. (Cough, Zeus, Cough.)

Grantaire releases an amused chuckle while Enjolras rubs at his aching nose. Batting the hand away, he cups Enjolras’s cheek and guides him to his lips. There’s a sharp intake of breath on both sides.

He finally presses his lips onto the other’s with a smile.