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Grantaire hasn’t been coming to meetings.
Enjolras stands behind a table in the back room of the Musain as their friends all filter in, watching the door to see if Grantaire will actually make it this time.
Tardiness is not out of the ordinary for Grantaire, Enjolras knows. He’s stumbled into a meeting with only ten minutes remaining, drunk on enough absinthe to fell an elephant. (Though, he hasn’t done either in a long, long while. Drinking that much, or showing up that late.)
But absence? Missing a meeting completely? Grantaire doesn’t do that. He just doesn’t.
And yet, he’d missed both meetings last week. And is on course to miss another.
The lack of him at the backmost table is jarring. More jarring for Enjolras, perhaps, than anyone would think. As the meeting progresses, he keeps making points, saying something with perhaps a bit less tact than he should, and finds his eyes straying to the back table again and again, always expected a laugh, or a retort, anything, and then finding himself annoyed that he’d looked at all.
No matter how many times he looks, Grantaire isn’t there. And he keeps not being there for the whole meeting. The second week in a row.
He’s not worried. He’s not. Grantaire is an adult, more than capable of handling himself even when piss drunk or stoned out of his mind. He can recite Shakespeare to perfection after four shots, and dance an impressive tango even after six. Enjolras is not worried.
He’s definitely not worried that the last meeting he had come to, Grantaire had looked very tired, and pale. He’s not worried that Grantaire hadn’t even really argued with him. Even when Enjolras had made sure to make points purposefully over the top to try and poke at him, he hadn’t taken the bait at all. He’d just sat back, quiet, and listened, not even touching the still-full bottle in front of him.
It had been the most unnerving thing Enjolras has ever seen in his life.
Grantaire hadn’t even stayed afterward to talk. It’s not like he has to, obviously; their after-meeting rendezvous are a fairly recent development. They only began a few months ago, after the doxxing incident that had forced them into the same living space for three weeks. It was never something they’d agreed to doing consistently, it had just…happened.
He’s not worried. But, that doesn’t mean that others in the group aren’t. That’s his reasoning, anyway. And definitely the only thing that makes him catch Joly and Bossuet before they leave after the meeting, and ask him if they’ve heard from Grantaire since three weeks ago.
"We texted him," Bossuet says, "He said he wasn’t feeling well."
Enjolras stares, feeling an antsy, nervous energy building in his stomach, because Grantaire is never sick. He hasn’t had so much as a cold in over six years, despite his terrible diet and drinking habits. Though, again, the latter of those has been somewhat improving ever since a few months back.
"It’s been two weeks," Enjolras says, resting the heels of his hands on the table in front of him, "Has anyone gone to check on him?"
Joly and Bossuet exchange a glance. Joly in particular looks incredibly uncomfortable, his fingers twisting around his cane’s handle, nervous.
"He told us not to," he says, softly, "I wanted to, believe me, but he refused. And you know how he gets."
Enjolras’ jaw tightens.
He does know. Grantaire has a habit of digging in his heels when he’s got his mind set on not accepting help, often to the point it’s self-destructive.
Once, Courfeyrac had offered to help him pay rent when he was late, and after Grantaire had refused, Courf had snuck cash into his wallet, refusing to take no for an answer.
Grantaire had crammed it back through his mail slot the very next day and refused to speak to Courfeyrac for a week.
Critiquing Grantaire for his stubborn streak is perhaps a bit hypocritical, but at the moment Enjolras doesn’t care. He nods.
“Thank you,” he says, “Keep me posted, if you hear anything else from him.”
Joly and Bossuet agree, and Enjolras shoulders his bag, heading for the back door of the Musain and out into the night.
~~
The thing is, Enjolras is not good at letting problems lie.
He knows he should probably respect Grantaire’s wishes to be left alone. He does know that. And yet, just past midnight, he finds himself standing at the familiar, rough wood door of Grantaire’s apartment anyway, carrying a plastic tub of chicken and dumpling soup he grabbed from a grocery store on the way.
It’s still not because he’s worried. Not in the slightest. Grantaire is his friend, and when his friends aren’t feeling well, he likes to be able to help. And frankly, him not being at meetings is proving to be more distracting than him being there. Enjolras can’t have himself distracted when they have so much important work to do.
It’s for the greater good.
He knocks, and then when he doesn’t get a response the first time, knocks harder.
He waits for a solid minute before giving in, and digging the spare key he knows is there out of the small plant pot beside Grantaire’s door, and slotting it into the lock. He’d lived here for three weeks, and ever since then has stopped by every so often. Grantaire does the same, dropping by Enjolras’ shared apartment with Combeferre and Courf without so much as a text. It’s not trespassing. Not really.
Enjolras steps inside, locking the door behind him, and turning in to face the familiar disaster that is Grantaire’s apartment.
In the daytime, the chaos of Grantaire’s space is nearly hypnotizing. The walls are covered with paintings and prints, both his and ones he’s bought from other artist friends, and more often than not there are dishes, books, and art supplies littering every visible surface.
Now, though, the apartment is nearly pitch black, hiding the worst of the mess in a cloak of darkness.
Every curtain on every window is drawn, even though night has long since fallen. It leaves his furniture and the piles of clutter masked as shadowy lumps through the gloom, only illuminated by the soft, red glow from a clock on the stove in the kitchen.
He knows Grantaire will be awake. He’s practically nocturnal at the best of times, especially on nights when ABC meetings are happening. Worst case, he may just not be home. In which case, Enjolras can leave soup in the fridge and a note.
"Grantaire?" Enjolras calls, stepping past the entryway and the coat rack, holding his tub of soup in one hand and searching for a light switch with his other, eyes blinking fast to adjust to the dark, “Are you home?”
"Enjolras?" comes a voice through the dark. It’s rough with disuse, and breathy, almost panicked, an edge breaking through even with how softly it was spoken, "What are you doing here?"
Enjolras squints, hoping to see Grantaire through the dark, but he can’t make him out. It sounds like his voice is coming from the hallway, near his bedroom door, but he can’t be sure.
Dear god, where is the fucking light switch?
"You haven’t been coming to meetings," Enjolras replies, "Joly and Bossuet said you weren’t feeling well."
"Did they also tell you I didn’t want them to come?" Grantaire says, and that panic is less well-disguised this time, fueled by the anger in his tone.
"They did," Enjolras says, "But you didn’t tell me not to."
"I would have, if you had texted," Grantaire snaps.
That is exactly the reason Enjolras hadn’t bothered to text beforehand, but he doesn’t think saying so is going to help anything right now.
“I brought soup,” he says instead, as if Grantaire hadn’t spoken at all, “Chicken and dumpling. I thought it might help.”
Finally, his fingers bump the switch. Enjolras huffs a small breath of victory, and flicks it on, the light above him in the entryway blinking to life right on cue. The dim bulb only lights up around the first ten feet into the apartment, the rest of it still bathed in absolute blackness.
Everywhere, that is, besides the hallway where he’d heard Grantaire speak.
There, in the black of the hallway are two pinpoints.
Eyes.
Pupils, glowing like a cat’s might, reflecting back the dim light from the entryway.
Enjolras feels a shiver crawl sickly up his spine, every hair on his body standing on end.
"You need to leave, Enjolras," Grantaire says, and the voice is definitely coming from the same place those eyes are, standing preternaturally still, "Thank you for the soup. But you have to leave. Please."
Enjolras feels rooted to the spot. Somehow, the fact that Grantaire just used the words ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ with him is just as unnerving to him as the unnaturally bright eyes at the end of the hall.
Something is definitely very, very wrong, and Enjolras doubts it’s something that soup is going to fix.
Rather than turning to the door, like his every instinct is telling him to do, he takes a step forward into the dark.
"Enjolras," Grantaire warns, and panicked again. Enjolras ignores him, taking another few steps into the apartment, past the couch, only stopping to set the tub of soup on the counter. Grantaire’s tone only gets more urgent, "Enjolras, please, for once in your goddamn life, listen to me."
Enjolras doesn’t reply, and doesn’t stop, stepping with purpose up to the entrance of the hallway and peering down it, determined. He sees the eyes shrink back, hears labored breathing, and sees the barest outline of Grantaire as his eyes adjust, sees the way a hand flies up to his face, and his breathing stutters, back pressed to the back wall of the hallway, getting as far away as he can.
They’re barely six feet apart now, a distance which Enjolras is very much in a hurry to close.
He inches closer, and as he does, sees Grantaire sink onto the floor against the back wall, his breathing only getting more erratic as he does. Those eyes, still glowing unnaturally bright, are blown wide. Terrified.
"Please," Grantaire says, again, desperate. His voice cracks slightly, and this time there’s something else coursing under his tone, too. Something that sends a renewed shiver up Enjolras’ spine.
Hunger.
"What happened to you, R?" Enjolras asks, dread and worry settling heavy over his stomach.
He thinks he already knows.
Vampirism is not entirely common, but as of a few years ago, it is a known parasitic infection. It’s taboo, incredibly so, as infected people are more often than not forced to resort to violence in order to eat.
He hasn’t done as much as he feels he should have for that cause, though he’s gone to rallies for vampire rights before. It’s just not something that has taken priority, what with everything else the ABC has to focus on.
Now, it seems, it might have to.
He’s barely two feet from Grantaire now, and despite knowing that this is stupid, so stupid, he kneels, sitting right in front of Grantaire, and reaches out to touch his neck.
Grantaire’s breath hitches as his fingers find their mark on freezing skin, pressing at the side of his neck, and immediately finding two indents. Scarred holes, each about a quarter inch in diameter, barely an inch or two apart.
A bite.
The final injury that won’t heal, on a person that was turned. A mark left to claim, and to warn, permanent as a brand.
"It seems like you already know," Grantaire says, still agitated, "And if you do, you should know that I haven’t…I haven’t ‘eaten’ in three fucking weeks."
Grantaire swallows hard. Enjolras feels his throat spasm with the motion under his fingers.
"So if you have an ounce of self-preservation somewhere in that thick, beautiful skull of yours," he continues, weak, and more than a little desperate, "I’d suggest you do as I ask, and fucking leave."
Enjolras doesn’t move. He does pull his hand away from Grantaire’s neck, but otherwise stays put, thinking hard. For a moment, the only sound between them is Grantaire’s labored breathing.
“What happened?” he repeats, anger working its way past the worry now. It’s pretty clear that Grantaire didn’t do this on purpose; he’s not sure anyone would get turned intentionally, not unless they were willing to pay whatever price necessary to live forever, which just…doesn’t sound like Grantaire.
Grantaire doesn’t seem to want to answer. But Enjolras knows enough about Grantaire to know he can’t stand silence. Enjolras pressing him will just leave Grantaire space to distract him with some tangent or another, so he forces himself to wait, letting the quiet and the pressure do the persuading for him.
“Wanted to make a quick buck,” Grantaire murmurs after a long, tense pause. His tone indicates that he knows what he’d done was stupid, but that doesn’t stop Enjolras’ jaw from clenching, at where he knows this is going.
“He said he hadn't eaten in a while, and he was offering cash, so I figured what the hell,” he says, “I’ve got tons of blood, and not tons of cash. So we made a deal. Y’know, under the table.”
He swallows, still covering his nose and shrinking, somehow, even further in on himself.
“Clearly,” he says, “it did not go as planned.”
Enjolras curses softly under his breath.
There are supposed to be rules about this. Regulations. Since Vampires became known in society a few years back, efforts were made to curb the spread. There were PSAs, notices about how getting turned happens, and how to prevent it. Agreements were signed by members of prominent vampire communities that they wouldn’t change people without explicit consent. And now, generally, they’re allowed to coexist, though with very, very strict laws.
Not everyone follows those laws, though. Especially the ones about the feeding centers, where Vampires are supposed to go to feed. They’re in incredibly high demand; blood donations are often scarce, given the taboo. Generally, people prefer their blood go to helping heal other humans, not feeding creatures which are viewed by the broader public as parasites.
Desperate people do desperate things. That goes for vampires, and humans alike.
As Enjolras understands it, turning a person can only happen if a person is drained to the point of death, and then fed some of the vampire’s own blood. It’s a very intentional thing, and doesn’t happen by accident.
Even without Grantaire giving details, there are really only two options, as for what happened.
Either a vampire too inexperienced and new had propositioned him, and hadn’t been able to stop himself from taking too much, then panicked and turned Grantaire rather than letting him die.
Or, the worse option: it could have been a vampire seeking out people to change. Propositioning something that seems reasonable, and then purposefully draining and changing them. It’s not exactly unheard of; there are murmurs of underground vampire groups trying to bolster their numbers, in order to regain some of the power they’d had, before the world knew they existed.
“If you’re going to call me an idiot,” Grantaire says his voice bitter and biting, “I’d appreciate it if you could hurry it up, and then get the fuck out.”
Enjolras stiffens, fists clenching in his lap. He does think that what Grantaire had done was reckless, and more than a little stupid. Especially since if he was having money troubles, anyone in the ABC would be happy to help.
But he also knows that there’s no way pointing that out is going to help anything right now. He may think it was stupid (because it was, and is) but, right now, his friend is in a very unfortunate position. There’s no point in rubbing salt in the wound when he clearly needs help.
"How are you planning on getting food?" Enjolras asks, and he hears Grantaire nearly choke on a laugh. It's a broken, angry sound.
"Jesus christ," he says, "That is the absolute last thing you should be worried about right now."
"I disagree," Enjolras counters, stubborn, "You’re going to need to eat eventually, Grantaire, you can’t just stay in here forever."
"Y’know, actually, I think I can," Grantaire replies, "Like, I could literally stay in here forever, considering I can’t fucking die now. Not of natural causes, anyway, so, if you want my plan, that’s it."
"Your plan," Enjolras says, slow and pointed, "Is to just stay in your apartment and atrophy until your landlord comes to stake you for missing rent?"
"Bingo," Grantaire says, and Enjolras can just feel the defeatist smirk in his voice. Grantaire must be able to sense his disapproval in the same way, because he adds a moment later, "It’s preferable to just, fucking, going out onto the street and treating some hapless bastard as a goddamn living Capri-sun, okay? I don’t have many options right now."
Enjolras stares at what he can make out of Grantaire’s face in the gloom. The ridges of his nose, crooked, broken multiple times in boxing matches. The beginnings of a beard poking out from under the hand still covering his nose, rough and untrimmed on cheeks that are starting to go slightly haggard. And familiar, almond shaped eyes, pupils still unnaturally bright.
Even through the dark, through his best attempt to cover it, Grantaire looks scared.
It’s not a look Enjolras sees on him often. He’s seen flashes of it in the past. Once when a protest went badly, and devolved into outright violence from the police. Once when Eponine had just disappeared for a couple of days without a word, and he couldn’t track her down.
Once, the time Enjolras had gotten doxxed by an alt-right group, and it hadn’t been safe for him to be at home, so Grantaire had let him stay at his apartment, instead. For weeks.
And now, here he is, having let himself waste away in his apartment rather than tell any of his friends that he’s gone through a life-changing—technically, mortal life ending—event. Either out of pride, or not wanting to burden them.
And Enjolras cannot stand it.
"You have me," he says.
Grantaire snorts.
“While I’m sure you adore my company,” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm, “I don’t think you hanging around me right now is a good idea.”
Enjolras shakes his head, stubborn and stiff, ignoring the unwarranted self-deprecation, and pressing on.
“I’m not some ‘hapless bastard’ off the street,” he says, “I’m here. And more importantly, I'm human.”
At that, Grantaire goes abruptly still and silent. And he stays that way for a long, long moment. Long enough that Enjolras nearly speaks again, just to break the silence. But eventually, Grantaire does speak, flat, and slightly pained.
"I’m not going to drink your blood, Enjolras."
And Enjolras knows that tone. That almost offended, stubborn tone he gets when he’s about to dig his heels in and refuse to budge. Enjolras feels himself bristle in return, stoked to annoyance in the space of a breath, because the solution is right here, and Grantaire is going to pass it up because of pride.
"You need to eat," Enjolras presses, “I want to help. Use me.”
"No,” Grantaire says, “Absolutely fucking not.”
"Why not?" Enjolras nearly snaps, frustration mounting, “I’m here, I’m willing. Why won’t you let me help you?”
"Because I don’t trust myself, Enj," Grantaire snaps right back.
The use of the nickname is enough to render Enjolras silent, if only for a moment. Grantaire doesn’t use it much, and has only really started doing so in the last few months, as they’d gotten closer.
It had started during the aforementioned doxxing incident. After a couple of days of tensely dancing around each other, trying not to start spats, they’d accidentally met in the living room when they’d both simultaneously gotten the urge for coffee. At two in the morning.
Enjolras had ground the beans, and Grantaire had brewed them, and they’d sat and talked. And it was…nice. Really, really nice.
And then, it had become a routine, before either of them had noticed it. For three weeks, they’d sit on the couch in the wee hours of the morning, and Enjolras would work, while Grantaire would draw and occasionally refill their cups, asking softly, ‘ready for another one, Enj?’ and they’d sit, thigh to thigh on the couch. Just…comfortable.
They’d never talked about it after Enjolras had been able to move back in with Courf and Combeferre. But the nickname had stayed. Only used, it seems to Enjolras, when they're alone, or in rare moments of weakness. Like this.
He sees Grantaire shift in the darkness, his free hand wrapping around his legs, and pulling them close, fingers digging into the fabric of his jeans.
"You don’t know what it’s like,” he says, his voice coming out brittle and small, “It’s not just…like, a, craving, or something, it’s like. Insatiable. And if I started, and couldn’t stop, you might end up—"
His voice cuts off, caught in his throat, and he averts those glowing eyes, blinking fast.
"If I hurt you,” he says, clearly struggling, his voice coming out slightly strangled, “Or worse, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself."
Enjolras considers that, letting silence stretch for a moment, and then corners his resolve.
"I trust you,” he says. The moment after he says it, he pauses, finding himself surprised at the absolute truth of that statement. Grantaire seems stricken by the admission as well, but his expression flickers only for a moment before going rigid again.
“You shouldn’t,” he says, hushed and serious, “Not for shit like this.”
"I don’t think you’d hurt me, R," Enjolras says, “Whether you think I should or not, I trust you. And I’m not leaving this apartment until you let me help you.”
“I could make you leave,” Grantaire says, stubborn as ever, "I'm stronger than you. I already was, and now I've got like. Vamp strength and shit."
Enjolras isn’t sure if the whole vampire strength thing is even true. It could just be an urban legend, stoked by vampire communities to keep people from fucking with them. But it’s besides the point.
"Do it, then," he says instead, staring Grantaire down, "Make me leave."
He sits, resolute, crossing his arms and waiting for Grantaire to do something. Anything. But he doesn’t. He just stares, looking pained, and hesitant; he knows Enjolras has just called his bluff, but doesn’t want to admit it.
"I'm waiting," Enjolras presses. Grantaire groans, lifting both hands, and then scrubbing them over his face, momentarily blocking out those glowing eyes.
"God, why are you such a—" he starts to say, in a frustrated growl.
"Because I care, R," Enjolras interrupts, not really caring to be insulted. Grantaire starting to run insults means he might be close to giving in, and Enjolras is not about to waste his chance. He steels himself, and continues, "I'm perfectly happy to leave if you can tell me you have another plan for survival, but if not, I won't apologize for not wanting my friend to starve."
Grantaire falls silent again. Ten seconds pass, then twenty. And Enjolras waits, though he wants to speak, to argue so badly, because he knows that silence is the best weapon he has in wearing down Grantaire.
And, finally, he’s rewarded for his patience with one, simple word, spoken into Grantaire’s palms.
“Fine.”
Enjolras feels relief pooling in his stomach, and lets his shoulders relax, slightly.
“Good,” he breathes, “Thank you—”
“Don’t fucking thank me,” Grantaire says, hands falling away from his face. Through the dark, his face is revealed in its entirety for the first time Enjolras came in. He can see how tired he looks, and the hint of sharp canines poking out, as he speaks, “You’re the one offering to be the human juice box. Like a complete idiot, might I add.”
“Says the person that did exactly that three weeks ago,” Enjolras retorts, unable to help himself.
“Exactly,” Grantaire bites out, “And look where that got me.”
It’s a fair point. But Enjolras refuses to say as much. They sit in tense silence for a few more seconds, until finally, Enjolras asks,
“How do you want to do this?”
He can’t say he has much experience giving blood, let alone to vampires. He doubts Grantaire has much experience in taking it, either, but he at least knows the ins and outs of giving it, since he’s apparently done so for money at least once.
Grantaire is staring at Enjolras, eyes still aglow. There’s a hard set to his jaw, a muscle there jumping, whether from hunger, or worry Enjolras isn’t sure. Maybe both. But regardless, he does manage to speak.
“Go sit on the couch,” he says, “I need to grab something.”
Enjolras does as he’s told.
Both of them stand, Enjolras moving to the couch, and sitting, perched awkwardly on familiar, dirty corduroy cushions, while Grantaire goes back into his bedroom. When he comes back out ten seconds later, he’s holding something that Enjolras can’t quite identify in the dark. He doesn’t sit, opting instead to stand a few feet away, close enough that the light from the entryway is starting to illuminate his face.
Deep, purple bags are pressed like bruises under his eyes. But more unnerving is that past the worry and the hunger on his face, he suddenly looks very determined.
“I have a condition. If you’re going to insist that we do this,” he says, clipped.
Enjolras nods, prompting. It seems only fair. Grantaire’s face remains stony, and he shifts a little closer before continuing.
“You’re going to tell me, when you start to feel light-headed. Or. Frankly, you should tell me to stop before that happens,” Grantaire says, and for a moment, Enjolras thinks that’s all. He opens his mouth to agree, but before he can, Grantaire takes another step forward, and then presses the thing he’d grabbed from the bedroom into Enjolras’ hands, and continues, soft and resolute,
“And. If I don’t stop when you tell me to, you’re going to stake me.”
Enjolras feels the item he’s been handed; it’s a smooth rod of wood, about ten inches long, and an inch and a half in diameter. It feels like the end of a broom handle, if he had to guess, snapped into a rough point.
His stomach goes suddenly cold. Not only at the fact that he’s now holding a makeshift stake meant to be used on Grantaire, but also at the heavy realization that Grantaire had made it before he’d thought anyone was coming to check on him.
Whether he’d thought of using it on himself or not, the implication isn’t good.
“You’re asking me to kill you,” he says, slowly, feeling his knuckles going white as he grips the stake, trying hard to resist the urge to throw it across the room.
“If I go too far, then yes,” Grantaire says, deadly serious. After a tense pause, he lightens his tone again, slightly, "You've said you wanted to kill me a few times before. Time to put your money where your mouth is."
"Be serious” Enjolras says. His voice feels heavy.
Grantaire doesn’t answer with a joke like he normally would. Instead, he just says,
“Promise me, Enj.”
And Enjolras knows that if he’s not willing to continue to rib him, he really does mean it. He’s standing here in the semi-darkness, and looking at Enjolras with this unfathomable expression that Enjolras can’t help but hate for how absolutely certain it looks.
Of course. Of course, the one fucking time Grantaire shows any conviction, it’s in asking Enjolras to theoretically kill him.
"...Fine,” Enjolras relents, though he feels his stomach drop. He holds the stake tight in his lap, and feels his jaw clench, “I promise."
If this is the only way to get Grantaire to let him help, he’ll agree to it. But he won’t be happy about it.
Grantaire stares, seeming to search his expression for any sign of a lie, and then, finally, relents. He doesn’t relax, not more than a fraction, but he nods slowly, and then moves, finally, to sit beside him on the couch.
For a moment, it’s like one of their midnight rendezvous, when they’d lived together for those few weeks. The both of them, sitting on this couch, pressed side to side. But then Grantaire is touching his shoulder.
He presses against it, broad hands moving gently, so gently, and turning Enjolras so he’s facing him, and then pushing him back so he’s lying against the armrest of the couch, a pillow under the small of his back.
Enjolras goes willingly, legs still hanging off the side of the couch. He’s about to ask why this is necessary, but then, suddenly, Grantaire is leaning over him.
The words die in his throat.
He’s close. Incredibly close, face ducking down carefully, close enough that Enjolras can smell something familiar, an earthy smell, like tobacco, something uniquely Grantaire. One of Grantaire’s hands reaches up, popping open a button of his shirt, and pulling his collar down, and—
"What—" Enjolras says, breath hitching at the sight, “What are you doing?”
Grantaire immediately freezes, and then pulls back, slightly. Even still, it’s closer than they’ve ever actually been, barely a foot between their faces.
"I…need to bite you?" he says, managing to sound both wry and nervous at the same time, "How exactly did you think this worked?"
And yes, that does make sense. Enjolras doesn’t know why he didn’t expect this to be…intimate. There’s a quality to the sudden closeness that’s hard to ignore, something reverent, and dear god Grantaire’s hands are big, and gentle, and one of them is resting near his collar bone, having pulled the collar of his shirt open and down slightly.
“Right,” Enjolras says, and then swallows. His voice definitely does not crack. He can feel a flush crawling up his neck. He’s suddenly incredibly glad that the apartment is still mostly dark, only the light from the entryway, and the clock on the stove casting any illumination, “Obviously. Sorry.”
Grantaire pauses, looking uneasy. The hand near Enjolras’ neck twitches, brushing cold skin along his throat, and Enjolras feels his breath hitch.
"Look, I know it's awkward,” Grantaire says, “but this is the most comfortable way I can think of to do this, so unless you have any other suggestions…?"
"No,” Enjolras says, trying his best to push back at the weird nervousness that’s grabbed him, “This is—This is fine. I was just surprised.”
Grantaire doesn’t look convinced. At least, not as far as Enjolras can tell in the dim light. He looks like he’s about to suggest they stop, which is completely unacceptable. Enjolras said he’d help, and he intends to. So he tips his chin up, defiant, baring his neck to him.
He thinks he hears Grantaire’s breath catch slightly, but can’t be sure. When he glances back, he sees pointed teeth poking just barely past Grantaire’s parted lips, and feels the flush on his face get worse.
“Okay,” Grantaire says, as if psyching himself up, “Okay. If you’re sure.”
Enjolras nods, the barest twitch of one, anyway, and then sees Grantaire lean in again, from the corner of his eye. He feels dark curls brush at his jaw, and then stubble just barely grazing his neck, and shivers, bracing for the bite.
But it doesn’t come.
"You might feel a slight pinch," he hears Grantaire say, in the ghost of a joking tone, and Enjolras lets out a huff, fueled by his own tight wound nerves and impatience.
"Please, can you just—" he starts to say, only to break off with a sharp, breathy, “Ah—” as two sharp teeth finally sink into his throat.
It’s painful, yes, but not as much as Enjolras thought it would be. After the initial shock of the bite the pain is negligible, overruled instead by the sudden hyper-awareness of the fact that Grantaire’s mouth is on his neck.
That odd intimacy returns in full force, because past the pain, past the ache, there’s nothing but sweet pressure and a gentle suction, warm, despite the fact that Grantaire’s skin was definitely cool until moments ago.
Stubble scratches his skin as Grantaire moves, the hand that was pulling his collar down moving up to the other side of his neck, his thumb pressing at his jaw, and holding him steady, and he lets out this…sigh. Half breath, and half groan, satisfied and soft.
The shiver that shoots up Enjolras’ spine isn’t fear, this time. He’s not sure he wants to think about what it is, squeezing his eyes shut, and letting his hands slide up, on instinct. His right hand is still holding tight to the stake, but he rests it on Grantaire’s back, as his free hand slides up, further, fingers tangling in Grantaire’s hair for purchase and staying there, holding him close so he doesn’t pull off before he’s had enough to make up for the three weeks he’s held off.
The touch is enough to drag another sigh from Grantaire, gentle breath brushing feather-light along Enjolras’ skin. The breathless sound that’s wrenched out of Enjolras in response is embarrassingly close to a groan.
He resists the urge to squirm, focusing as best he can on keeping his breathing even, even as he thinks his heart is beating out of his chest.
He wonders if Grantaire can hear it. The frantic thumping of his heart. He can almost definitely sense it, as sure as Enjolras feels it in his throat.
It's just the adrenaline, he tells himself, pressing his lips together to keep any more noises from escaping. It’s just adrenaline that’s got his heart racing. Survival instincts. Not the closeness, or the press of lips on skin, or how nice Grantaire smells, or—
Enjolras doesn't know who he's trying to fool.
It takes a while before Enjolras starts to feel light headed. He's done an admirable job of keeping quiet, all things considered, limiting himself to the occasional gasp or hiss when Grantaire bit a fraction deeper.
He’d been determined to let Grantaire drink as much as he needed, since he’d gone three fucking weeks without feeding, like an idiot, but he's pushed that determination as far as it can go without breaking his promise.
“Grantaire,” he says, ignoring the way his voice comes out high and breathy, and instead focusing on lifting his right hand, and bringing it back down, knuckles tapping Grantaire’s back.
Grantaire doesn’t respond. Enjolras tries saying his name again, stronger this time, but still...nothing. Grantaire’s teeth stay lodged in his neck, drinking deeply.
Enjolras tries to sit up instead, hoping the movement will jar Grantaire enough to get his attention. But in response, he feels the hand on his neck go tense, and then move with blind purpose to his shoulder, pinning him back down with unnatural strength, and the teeth in his neck dig impossibly deeper.
Enjolras' stomach twists with unease.
“Grantaire,” he says, attempting for a second time to sit up, his voice as commanding as he can muster it, “Stop. Now.”
In response, Grantaire’s fingers at his shoulder dig in, hard enough to bruise, and a deep, almost feral sound is wrenched from Grantaire’s throat, ancient and too far from human for comfort.
And he still doesn’t stop.
The stake in Enjolras’ right hand is heavy. Not just from the growing unsteadiness brought on by blood loss, but also a dawning, terrifying thought:
Grantaire might have been right.
A wave of nausea presses at him, and he’s not sure whether it’s caused more by the blood loss, or the realization that he’s bitten off more than he can chew.
Or, more accurately, he’d forced Grantaire to literally bite off more than he could chew.
Enjolras’ mind races, pinned under the force of Grantaire, who was already strong, and is now a newly created vampire, who’s hungry, and who may literally not know how to stop himself.
How much longer until Enjolras stops being just lightheaded, and just passes out? How long until he’s drained completely? His time to decide what to do is slipping away, and he can’t think straight, can’t think of anything besides his promise, and how little he wants to follow through on it.
But he’s going to have to.
Enjolras grips the broomstick stake as tightly as he can through his vision that’s starting to darken at the edges, and lifts it, point down on Grantaire’s back, right over his heart.
He has to do it. He has to.
Enjolras stares up at his hand, at the stake just visible over wild curls.
Wild curls that belong to Grantaire, who didn’t ask to be turned, who Enjolras had pressured into doing this at all, even after he’d insisted he couldn’t handle it.
Grantaire, who argues with him, and smells like herbal shampoo, and who’s absence at meetings was jarring enough that Enjolras had needed to come and see him to make sure it wouldn't keep happening.
Grantaire, who won’t ever be in the back of the Musain again, if Enjolras does as he’s promised.
He can lie to himself all he wants, but it won’t change the fact that over the last two weeks, he’d missed that steady presence at the back of the room. He’d missed the arguing, the laughter, looking over mid-speech, and catching Grantaire looking at him like he’d be happy to watch him talk forever.
He’d missed him after the meetings, when they’re supposed to sit, heads bent together over one of the cafe tables and talk, and drink coffee Grantaire brought in a thermos, a routine that’s not actually a routine only because Enjolras hadn’t wanted to think about how Grantaire looks at him sometimes, fond, and wanting, or how much Enjolras likes it when he does.
His hand is shaking, just the very tip of the stake pressed in between Grantaire’s shoulders, readied and waiting.
And he can’t do it.
Enjolras doesn’t so much feel the stake drop as he hears it, thumping mutely on the carpet, the sound barely registering through his ears that feel stuffed with cotton.
He moves his left hand, still buried in curls, fingers scraping weakly along Grantaire’s scalp, his right arm reaching around Grantaire’s back, sluggish, and then holding him as tightly as he can.
“I trust you,” he murmurs, blinking slowly through his growing fog, “Come on, please, R. Come back to me.”
He tilts his head to the side, and presses his lips to Grantaire’s temple, holding pressure there for a moment, hazy. His head is absolutely spinning. Above him, Grantaire goes suddenly still. And there’s a long, tense pause.
The teeth in his neck withdraw, sudden, but careful not to tear anything, and Grantaire practically throws himself off of Enjolras with a gasp. He sits up, breathing hard, his teeth still dripping red onto his lips. Enjolras’ hands fall off of him as he goes, limp, and weaker than Enjolras would like them to be.
Grantaire, past his clear panic, looks rejuvenated. The bags under his eyes are gone, his face having lost some of its haggard angles; frankly, he looks more alive now than he often did when he wasn’t undead. The glow in his eyes has risen, bright, and almost clouding up his pupils, but as he pulls away, it slowly ebbs.
“Enj?” Grantaire is saying, words filtering through Enjolras’ ears at a sluggish pace, and suddenly, two hands are on Enjolras’ face, callused and cool to the touch, cradling him like he’s fragile, “Hey, Enj, are you okay?”
He is, but it’s a bit hard to get the words out when he’s dangling on the edge of unconsciousness, relief and exhaustion flooding over him in waves. So instead, he leans into the hands on his cheeks with an indistinct murmur. They feel nice. So nice.
“Fuck,” Grantaire is saying, sounding miles away, “Fuck—I told you to stake me if I didn’t—why did you—”
Grantaire is starting to spiral. Enjolras knows that much even through the haze. He lifts his hands to hold the ones on his face, gripping the backs of Grantaire’s palms with all the strength he can muster.
“I’m okay,” he manages, voice coming out low and rough, but he manages a decently firm tone, all things considered, “I’m okay. Just— tired. I’m okay.”
He must be at least a little convincing, because Grantaire does stop talking. His eyes flick to the side of Enjolras’ neck, no doubt looking at the puncture wounds that Enjolras can still feel stinging slightly.
He looks incredibly skeptical. And more guilty than Enjolras has ever seen him look before.
“You didn’t hurt me,” he says, insistent, “I’m fine. I promise, Grantaire.”
Grantaire stares for a good few more seconds, and then abruptly stands, still tense.
“I’ll get you some water,” he says, stiffly, “Don’t move.”
Enjolras doesn’t think he could disobey that request if he tried. Every one of his limbs feels heavy and cold. He mourns the loss of the hands on his face, but nods weakly, and closes his eyes as Grantaire moves to the kitchen.
He hears him shuffling around, glasses clinking, and then water running.
Enjolras feels a bit like he’s sinking. Relieved, and relaxed. He follows that sinking feeling into the dark, head lolling on the armrest of the couch.
He’s out before Grantaire can even come back with the glass of water.
~~
Enjolras isn’t sure how long it’s been when he wakes up. There are a few more lights on in the apartment now; a lamp near the couch, and the kitchen light, both bathing the adjoined living room in a soft, warm glow.
He’s still lying on the couch, but now a deep green quilt has been draped over him all the way up to his neck, keeping him warm.
Enjolras blinks blearily, and sits up. His stomach churns a little as he does, but he manages it, letting the quilt fall off his shoulders and into his lap. He lifts a hand to his neck, finding his collar re-done, and a large bandaid covering the two, still-aching puncture wounds there.
“R?” he asks, voice slightly raspy. He clears his throat with a swallow, which goes down dry and scratchy.
“I’m here,” comes a soft voice from the kitchen. Enjolras turns, perhaps a bit too quickly considering his neck wound, wincing slightly, and spots Grantaire, standing with his back to him by the stove.
“Don’t move,” he says, not turning to face Enjolras, “I’ll be over in a second.”
From his tone, much too serious, it’s not a request.
So, Enjolras waits. There’s something tense in Grantaire’s posture. Like a spring, wound too tight. Enjolras doesn’t dare press him, not right now.
It takes a few minutes. But soon enough, Grantaire does as he’s promised and comes back to the couch, this time bearing a large, deep mug, steaming, a spoon over the side. He presses it into Enjolras’ hands, saying simply, “Eat,” and then sits on the couch himself.
This time though, he sits on the opposite side of the couch, as far away as possible from Enjolras.
Enjolras looks down at the mug in his hands, noting it’s full to the brim with the chicken and dumpling soup he’d brought with him.
“I don’t actually like this kind of soup,” Enjolras says. He’s still a bit too out of it for forced politeness, so, blunt honesty it is.
Grantaire bristles slightly at the other end of the couch.
“Then why did you—” he starts, clearly frustrated, “If you don’t even like it, why bring it?”
“It was for you,” Enjolras replies, still looking into the mug. He lifts the spoon, then lets the spoonful of soup drop back into the mug, distracted, “You said chicken and dumpling was your favorite, once. I hadn’t intended on being the one to eat it.”
Grantaire doesn’t seem to know what to do with that. He looks shaken when Enjolras looks up. It’s a surprised, sad look that Grantaire does his best to smooth away once he notices that Enjolras is looking, replacing it instead with something purposefully blank.
Grantaire pulls one of his knees up to his chest, and looks away.
His eyes look normal in the light, though he squints a little when he looks too closely at anything bright, Enjolras notes.
He marvels a little at all of the little things that must have changed, with his transformation. Light sensitivity makes sense, given he’s now a creature that can’t go out into sunlight without burning alive.
Grantaire loves being out in the sun. A fact which sits, bitter, in the back of Enjolras’ throat for the sheer unfairness of it.
“You should still eat,” Granatire murmurs. He shifts awkwardly and adds, “I don’t, um…actually have any other food? And you definitely need it, after…”
He trails off, swallowing hard. Enjolras stares at him, watches his eyebrows twitch, and then knit together. Guilty. So guilty.
Enjolras looks back at the mug, and eats without any further complaint. Though he does grimace a bit at the texture.
After a few minutes he’s managed to get half of it down, and sets the mug onto the coffee table, balancing it precariously on top of some stacked papers, the only flat surface available.
Grantaire still isn’t looking at him. His jaw is tight, and he’s staring at exactly nothing, apparently content to count every fiber in his rug rather than look at Enjolras beside him.
His hands are shaking.
“I really am fine,” Enjolras says, finally breaking the silence, which only serves to make Grantaire go more tense, and try to scoot himself even further into the armrest of the couch, if possible.
He’s quiet for a long moment, still looking out at nothing.
“You broke your promise,” he says eventually, speaking like every word is painful. Enjolras looks at him, and then automatically to the floor where he’d dropped the stake.
It’s gone. Put away somewhere, probably. Enjolras frowns, unsettled. He resists the urge to go looking for it and throw it away.
“I did,” he says, eyes flicking back up to Grantaire, “And I’d do it again. In a heartbeat.”
“I could have killed you, Enjolras,” Grantaire says. He sounds angry, whether it’s at Enjolras, or himself, though, is harder to say. Enjolras pauses, and then, resolute, slides a little closer to him on the couch, dragging the quilt with him.
“You didn’t, though,” he says, hushed, and in a tone he hopes is reassuring.
Grantaire does not look reassured. A muscle in his jaw twitches, and Enjolras watches as his knuckles go white, clenched around his leg.
"I got closer to doing so than I ever should have been able to," he says, voice coming out thick and unsteady. He swallows again, "You should have staked me the moment I didn't stop."
"If I had, you wouldn't be sitting here right now," Enjolras counters. Grantaire throws his hands up, laughing a wild, humorless laugh.
“So what?” he asks, “In the eyes of the state, I’m technically already dead. I’m a fucking corpse that moves around and causes logistical problems for politicians just by existing. My ‘life’ isn’t even a life, anymore. Legally speaking, it literally does not fucking matter.”
Enjolras tries to interrupt, to argue, but Grantaire is still going, worked up into a rant.
“If I hadn’t stopped when I did, you might be lying dead on this fucking couch. Actually, clinically dead. Drained. And I promise you, if that happened, if I—if I’d done that to you, the stake would be headed my way regardless. I would make absolutely fucking certain of that.”
He’s serious. Entirely serious. Sitting closer now, Enjolras can see his eyes are red-rimmed, raw. Enjolras still doesn’t know how long he was out after the fact, but however long it was, Grantaire had to be terrified. As scared as Enjolras had been with the stake poised above Grantaire’s back.
He’s close enough now that Enjolras can reach up, and touch Grantaire’s cheek, palm pressed to stubble. Grantaire flinches at the touch, finally looking back over at him, and seeming to note at once how close Enjolras has managed to get without him paying attention.
Enjolras sees his lips part, and notes that Grantaire has cleaned himself up since he’d drunk from him. There’s no more blood on his lips, just a barely-there red tinge, which could just as easily be a stain as it could be skin rubbed raw from trying desperately to clean all the blood away.
Enjolras would be willing to bet it’s the latter. It’s not hard to conjure the image of Grantaire, standing above his sink, doing his best unintentional lady Macbeth impression—‘Out, damned spot’—and scrubbing at his skin, long after the blood is gone.
He acts like he doesn’t care, most of the time. He tries to seem like he thinks nothing matters. But the truth is, Grantaire probably cares more than almost anyone he knows. About everything, possibly, besides his own well-being.
And where that care shines through the most, is around the people he loves. Enjolras knows, with more clarity than he ever has before, that Grantaire would die for them. Die for him. Without question.
“I refuse to apologize for not killing you,” Enjolras says, thumb brushing across red-stained skin right at the edge of Grantaire’s mouth. Grantaire's lips go tight at the touch, and Enjolras’ words. He looks like he’s going to argue, the set of his jaw going tense, and frustrated, so Enjolras continues, “Do you know what was going through my head, when you didn’t stop?”
“Probably something incredibly stubborn and stupid, if I had to guess,” Grantaire replies, without any hesitation. Enjolras stares at him, keeping his gaze even, and refusing to take the bait.
“I was thinking about what my life would look like without you in it,” he says, softly, “And I have absolutely no interest in making that my reality.”
It seems to stun Grantaire into silence, if only for a moment. His mouth snaps shut, and Enjolras sees his throat work. There’s a quiet kind of doubt buried in his expression, stubborn. Enjolras isn’t sure that anything he could say will convince him, make him understand exactly what he means.
So instead, he moves again, closing the last of the distance between them. The quilt falls onto the couch as Enjolras leans in, and presses his lips to Grantaire’s. It’s soft, but firm, both hands on Grantaire’s jaw now, holding him steady, and close, and trying hard to convey physically what Enjolras has been trying to say. What he’s felt. The longing that’s only built since sharing coffee together at two in the morning that first time, and became undeniable when he’d gotten a taste of what it’s like when Grantaire is gone.
At first, Grantaire is utterly still. Long enough that Enjolras starts to pull away, concerned. But the moment he does, Grantaire is spurred into action. He leans forward, following Enjolras’ lips, and kisses him again, more deeply this time, like he’s starving for him.
Grantaire tastes like mint toothpaste, and just the faintest hint of copper. Too-sharp canines scrape Enjolras’ lower lip, and he lets out a contented sigh, feeling Grantaire’s hands bury into his shirt and stay there, gripping fabric like it’s proof, absolute proof, that Enjolras is okay.
At some point, Enjolras moves even closer, effectively leaning over Grantaire and pushing him back into the arm of the couch. A complete reversal of their position from earlier.
He’s not sure if Grantaire notices it, but if he does, he definitely doesn’t mind, letting himself be pushed back and just winding his arms around Enjolras’ back, or resting his hands on his hips. He keeps a hand on him at all times, a fact which is only of note to Enjolras because it makes him realize how little Grantaire had actually touched him before now.
He almost never did. Their fingers might have brushed when he’d passed Enjolras coffee, or their thighs might press together accidentally when they’d sat on the couch before, but Grantaire never actively chose to make physical contact with him in any meaningful capacity.
Now, all Enjolras can think is how he wants more of it.
It takes a long time for either one of them to pull away, the both of them evidently lost in a haze of want, and relief, and adrenaline, but eventually, Grantaire is the one to end it.
He pulls back, clearly not wanting to, but pushed to by whirling thoughts that Enjolras can practically see clouding his vision.
“What are you doing, Enj?” he asks, in a voice that’s probably supposed to pass as wry, but instead just sounds small, “You don’t—You shouldn’t—Especially not now that I’m—”
He stops, the rest of his sentences seeming to stick in his throat.
Grantaire’s lips are reddened, now from kissing rather than blood, thank god, and Enjolras watches his eyes scan Enjolras’ face, as if taking it all in anew, and searching, searching for any sign of regret, or discomfort.
Enjolras makes sure he’ll find none.
“I love you,” Enjolras says, struck again by the simplicity of a truth exposed. He’s spent long enough lying to himself. Denying himself the affection he feels, and he refuses to do it any more. Not after he’d almost lost Grantaire entirely.
One of his hands slides down, over the two holes on Grantaire’s neck, holding there as if he could fix everything that was taken from Grantaire in one, desperate mistake. He gazes determinedly into Grantaire’s eyes, catching the way doubt gives way to shock.
Enjolras kisses him again, deeply, and then pulls back again, resting their foreheads together.
“Vampire or not, we will make this work,” he says, thumb brushing against the scars of the punctures in Grantaire’s throat, “The rest of the ABC and I will help you get food. You’ll be alright, R. I’ll make sure of it.”
“I can take care of myself,” Grantaire counters, but there’s not heat behind it. Probably more of a knee-jerk response, baked in with a sheer inability not to argue with Enjolras for more than a few minutes.
Enjolras just kisses him again, insistent, and deep, and he feels Grantaire practically melt, his resistance going with it, at least for a moment.
“You can,” Enjolras replies, once he’s broken away once more, an olive branch, “But this time, you’re going to let us help you.”
His tone makes it clear this isn’t up for debate. And though Grantaire clearly wants to argue, for once he doesn’t. Instead, he looks from Enjolras’ face, to the bandage on his neck, and sighs, leaning his face down, and gently, reverently, kissing just above the bandage. An apology, and a white flag waved.
“I guess I do have a lot of vampire puns I won’t get to use, if I don’t,” he murmurs, weakly. Enjolras' shoulders relax immediately, relief flooding his system at this one, small victory. Grantaire still sounds uneasy, but he’s given in. And frankly, that’s more progress than Enjolras normally gets with him.
“Exactly how long after you were turned did it take you to start thinking of them?” Enjolras asks, through a wry smile.
“Does ‘this sucks’ count?” Grantaire asks, lips still on his neck, “Because if so the answer is about thirty seconds.”
Enjolras sighs, long-suffering, but soft.
They stay like that for a long while, Enjolras’ nose pressed into Grantaire’s curls, wrapped around each other on the couch. Grantaire lists as many puns as he can think of, one after another. Whether it's to distract Enjolras or himself, Enjolras isn’t sure. Whatever the case, Enjolras lets him, hyper aware of the way Grantaire’s hands still tremble slightly against his back, the only sign that he’s still scared.
Enjolras stares at nothing, letting himself get lost in thought as Grantaire talks. He’s got work to do, people to find, things to research. What happened to Grantaire is an injustice, and he doesn’t intend to let it lie.
Eventually, the sun begins to come up. Enjolras can only tell because it starts to peek under some of the curtains, creating little dangerous patches on Grantaire’s apartment floor. Grantaire himself seems to be hit with exhaustion around the same time, his speech slowing, and then finally stopping, like a dimmer being turned down as the sun comes up.
Enjolras stays long after Grantaire goes silent and still, mind racing with possible solutions, and plans to make them happen. He wraps himself around Grantaire, head resting on his chest, and his jaw clenched tight at the lack of a heartbeat under his cheek.
The absence of a sound has never been so loud.
His own pulse rings in his ears, a steady drumbeat, and he hopes it’s enough for the both of them.