Archive of Our Own

Hush little one, just count the stars.

For as long as he could remember, he’d been fascinated by the stars. Up until he was six years old, he was completely convinced that stars were magic. It made sense to him! They were distant and mysterious and so, so interesting that he could burst with all of the information that there was still left to learn.

The first solid fact that he learned about them, after having his dreams of magic lights in the sky crushed, was that stars weren’t balls of fire. They were actually emitting heat and light because of their constant nuclear fusion. And that was so insane and amazing that Victoire- and what an awful, unfitting name his parents’ had given him- had trouble containing himself.

Shortly after that, his mother died. And drove his fascination to obsession.

Losing Colors hurt. There was no scientific proof that the process of Washing Out was physically painful, but Grantaire could feel it all the same. Feeling the Green his mother gave him- his favorite color- leaching out of his eyes, leaving behind the Blue undertones Enric gave him instead, should not have been painful. It was psychological, psychosomatic, completely fictitious, but it hurt in the same way that a deep cut did, it hurt in the way that he imagined that a hole in his chest might hurt.

The only difference was that nobody believed him when he said it was painful. They couldn’t see that he was bleeding out.

People could figure out the exact mass of a star and calculate how far that star was from Earth and how long it would take to get there traveling at light speed, but they still couldn’t prove that having your Colors ripped out of you was painful. They could look at a rock under a microscope and tell you that it had been part of the moon thousands of years ago, but doctors still looked at you like you’d lost your fucking mind whenever you told them that being Grey again hurt. But none of them really cared to look.

Behind his friends’ smokescreens of affection and sympathy, they couldn’t care less about what he was feeling. Whether it was because he was still a she to them, or because his parents’ money bought friendship and distance in one fell swoop, or because they understood him about as well as his father did, he couldn’t tell.

Either way, only Enric or the stars would see him cry.

Grantaire tried very hard not to let resentment boil inside him. His Colors were draining and his father still called him by the wrong name- this one was only half tribute, but it felt like it was his own; either way, it didn’t make his skin crawl like ‘Victoire’ did- and his brother was so sad all the time and his Maica was dead and gone. The stars were as enthralling as ever, but they were cold and distant and he couldn’t go to them for any sort of comfort. They were only a comfort in that way that his Maica’s ghost was. Instead, he was left in the lurch, praying that someone was listening to him.

Somehow, that was still better than anything his family was offering.

He pulled the stars close and made walls out of them. Made a home out of galaxies and dark matter.

Down to Grey and the remnants of his Green and Blue, Grantaire pulled himself together in the vain hope that this would hold the shards of his family in one piece long enough to figure out something else. Maybe this little castle he was building around himself would be strong enough.

He never did figure out another way manage his issues.

“I don’t know why you seem to think that you’re so important, Victoire.” Michel Bellamy had never thought much of his children beyond that they were vaguely attractive and that they didn’t reflect any of his values, but, with his wife’s death, there was nothing holding him back from taking out his anger on them. “Colorless bitch,” he spat. When Victoire flinched back from him, he took a vicious pleasure from it. It was illogical, completely opposite to what he’d been taught as a child, what he’d been teaching to his children, but seeing someone else hurting even a fraction as much as he was…. It soothed that frozen thing inside of him that had taken over his heart at Marie’s funeral. Taken him in the hospital. During her chemotherapy. On endless nights of coughing and crying. Every day of funeral planning.

It didn’t matter that M. Bellamy was losing his Colors as well, as long as it still hurt Victoire, it didn’t matter.

Michel Bellamy, behind the drink, behind the grief, behind his hideous anger, was not a bad man. He loved his children, but couldn’t fathom being around them without Marie there to guide him and translate what they were saying behind the words they were speaking. He didn’t understand his kids, and he was furious at the world for taking his wife, and he’d only ever wanted to provide for his family; instead, he had a cryptic daughter who looked at him with his wife’s eyes and claimed to be a son, a near-silent son who looked at him like he couldn’t fathom why he existed, and a dead wife whose memories lived on in their home long after it had stopped being one.

On the anniversary of Marie Anca Grantaire-Bellamy’s death, the world seemed to shake under Enric and Grantaire’s feet long enough for them to start clinging to each other. In hindsight, they wished that they had done so to begin with, but there was a sort of relief and gratitude involved with finding each other again after all this time.

In grief, in life, Grantaire was inclined to hide in himself before he searched elsewhere for help; Enric’s disposition lent him to misplaced anger and mercurial sadness. Perhaps it was better that they lost each other, instead of losing themselves.

Barely nine years old, they gripped tight to each other and tried to forget the words that had already been said. It was no Paralia, but at least Paris was beautiful.

Jean ‘Jehan’ Prouvaire was Grantaire’s first friend, outside of his twin. He didn’t understand the stars in the same way, but he showed Grantaire new worlds inside of books. Inside the words were places that he had never given thought to before, places that made him want to leave his father’s liquor cabinet alone, places that made him feel like he didn’t need it, but that Jehan didn’t hesitate in showing him.

Paper had never been an escape before, but it proved to be almost as good as his Maica’s telescope. It was nice, having Enric, and Jehan, and books, and the stars, and Paris spread out under his feet, twinkling closer than any real star could, but somehow just as brightly.

With the combination of friend and paper distractions, he gained back his Yellow.

“You deserve Colors just as much as anyone else, R. There’s no reason for you to be punished for something that’s not your fault.” Jehan had taken to wearing shades of blue and yellow, almost exclusively, because it never failed to make Grantaire smile. Seeing the Colors that had been revitalized for him, brought to reality for him, by someone who really, truly, deeply cared about him, who wanted him around for more than his family’s name, who didn’t pity him for his dead mother and his distant father, was a novelty that remained Grantaire’s favorite thing ever (only barely above the stars he still shared with his mother).

Having the Colors, or not having them, included on his person had never affected his sight, but it was different being able to see colors while you remained staunchly black and white, and seeing Colors that you had, Colors others could see on you. Colors that proved you were worth something, that there were people out there that cared about you, that you cared about them the same way.

“How do you know?” Grantaire asked. He folded one of his old skirts with as much patience as he could muster, watching its vibrant orange turn grey in his hands, and bundled it up into the donate box. The bottle of pilfered whiskey it had been wrapped around was quickly stashed away where Jehan couldn’t see. What Michel- and Jehan- didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. “I could have murdered somebody and just lied to you about it.”

“R, you’re a pacifist. Murder isn’t your thing.” Jehan threw a sock at him, smiling brightly. “But seriously, you’re one of the best people ever. You not having Color is pretty much blasphemy.”

Grantaire eyed him. “That’s not how Colors works. Like, at all.” If it didn’t mess with his organization, he might have thrown something back. Instead, he aggressively folded one of his older binders. It was looser than he usually preferred, but it was comfortable and pretty and smushed his awful breasts, so it was still perfect in his book.

Jehan frowned at him. “That’s not the point,” he groaned, flopping around over dramatically. “The point, you giant goof, is that you are probably the most amazing person I’ve ever met, but people are shitty and hurt you, and you let them.”

“Jean, I am fifteen years old.” Grantaire frowned at him. “There isn’t a damn lot I can do at this point.” With Enric and Jean at his back, as they had been for years now, and Grantaire trusted them with everything, and his Baba slowly trying to be a better father for them both, he felt more secure than ever in his own skin, but fighting over something that he had no control over, no chance of changing didn’t make much sense. Railing against a system that was already against him didn’t sound effective or fun. “Any argument I make now has been made before, by better people with better communication skills. It has been debated before and I’m on the losing side.”

“Being trans doesn’t automatically make your life hell-” Jean started. He would have continued, but the dark, vicious look Grantaire shot him was enough to force a tactical retreat. “Okay, that was very poorly phrased and I am incredibly sorry.”

Forgoing words, Grantaire smiled, the little one that showed just the barest hint of his braces, but way too much of his heart. Forgiveness was implied, implicit, immediately understood.

-One, two, three, they’re all around me.

No matter how cheesy or obvious it was, Grantaire loved The Starry Night. Besides being a Van Gogh, it was of space. Art and stars in one beautiful painting- gods. If he ever turned to crime, it would be simply to steal that painting.

Someone, decades ago, had looked at the stars through the bars of his window and seen something worth painting. He’d seen the stars and the moon and the trees and known that he needed to reproduce it on canvas. To share that with others.

Seeing it the first time, a crappy print out in a crappier paperback he stole on a quasi-road trip, was astounding. He had been eight when he’d nicked the book. It had been some cowboy romance-y dime novel, but the original owner had been using a small print of the painting as a place marker. For days, Grantaire had just stared at the picture, wishing he knew whoever made it. It wasn’t until weeks later that he worked up the nerve to ask a librarian what the picture was.

She smiled down at him and didn’t ask about the bruises on his arms, only picking out a biography for him and sending him home. Whether she only saw a little kid interested in art, in learning, or someone seeking refuge in art Grantaire couldn’t tell, but it was true either way at this point.

Ten minutes after meeting, Grantaire decided that Enjolras was the closest thing that he would ever come to seeing a star in person. He was brilliant and beautiful and gave off enough light and energy that it would either kill everything in the immediate vicinity, namely Grantaire, or would bring life to any barren landscapes around him, namely Grantaire. It was absolutely detestable.

What was worse was that Enjolras was just as amazing in personality as he was in body. Granted, the man had a temper larger than the Eiffel Tower, couldn’t sit still for more than fifteen minutes at a time, hadn’t seen Lord of the Rings, but could still somehow speak perfect Elvish, had a list hung up in his bedroom of how many times he’d been arrested a badge of pride, he’d said , regularly stood on tables, was the largest caffeine-junkie Grantaire had ever met, loved arguing just for the sake of arguments, bit his nails to the quick and complained about it endlessly, left his shoes everywhere, and actually managed to set a pot of boiling water on fire somehow, but none of that was exactly a detractor when he was so passionate about equality, when he cared so deeply about his friends’ well-being that he had and would again throw himself into the line of danger for them, when he wanted to get to know Grantaire simply because he had Jehan’s Seal of Approval, when he was never averse to touching everyone all the time and cuddling anyone who needed it, when he knew exactly how to deal with anxiety and panic attacks, when he always makes sure to let others speak and to stop if he sees people getting uncomfortable. Not that Grantaire had noticed any of this.

Grantaire definitely hasn’t noticed his off-white eyes, either. They promised to be the most beautiful Blue if Enjolras ever gained it, but, up to this point, he hadn’t, so it was unlikely that Grantaire would see it. It never seemed to bother him that his eyes were Colorless, though. And Enjolras more than made up for it with the lovely Reds he preferred to wear and the passion that glowed in him in place of Blues or Greens.

It was almost embarrassingly easy to not drink at the Musain.

Whenever he got really drunk, M. Bellamy would pick up his phone and call either Grantaire or Enric. He tended to favor Enric, but whether that was because he’d put them in his contacts as ‘Buttercup’ and ‘Sweet Pea’, or simply because of drunken luck was anyone’s call. Either way, Grantaire is not prepared for his phone to start blaring Darth Vader’s theme music during one of the ABC’s meetings.

As soon as the music hits the third note, all the blood has drained from Grantaire’s face. Before the music hits its stride, Grantaire has hit his and is out the door. He doesn’t see the concern written on everyone’s faces, doesn’t see Enjolras starting to run after him, doesn’t see Jehan blocking the door after him, doesn’t hear them interrogating Jehan for even a sliver of information.

“Baba?”

“Victoire, I need to apologize,” he slurs. His words are slipping from their carefully maintained French accent into his natural Greek, but he’s still speaking French, which is a plus. “I’ve been too harsh on you and I should have been better.”

“You’ve already apologized to me. About a dozen times this month, Baba.” He sucks in a breath, attempting to wrangle his thoughts into some semblance of balance. How the hell was he going to cover this up? How the hell was he going to get off the phone in the next half hour? “There’s no reason-”

“I took the stars from you!” Michel sobs. “I made the sky dark and cold for you and then blamed you for my loss of Color.” There’s a crackle on the other end of the line before something shatters. A steady drip, drip, drip can be heard for almost ten seconds before someone picks up the phone.

“I’m sorry,” M. Bellamy whispers before the line goes dead.

It takes Grantaire the half hour that he usually allots for phone calls with his Baba for him to get his breathing back under control.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that if Grantaire has a breakdown, the only ones allowed to talk about it, besides him, are Enric and Jehan. Enric usually erred on the side of caution and didn’t actively mention it. He was there with ice cream and Netflix. Jean didn’t have that kind of calm, the kind that would let him sit with R’s head in his lap, watching Scooby-Doo! re-runs and mocking the way that everything developed.

Knowing this, he really shouldn’t have been surprised that Jehan pulled him aside once they got home and proceeded to Skype Enric.

In the time apart, Enric’s ‘Grantaire Green’ had faded, but he’d gained an almost heady shade of Red. When Grantaire asked about it, he blushed. Enric returned the favor shortly after, asking who’d given him that pretty shade of Green, which he’d been stoutly denying for days now.

Itwasntthereitwasntthere itwasntthere.

“I’m betting that it was Enjolras,” Jehan commented, running his hands through Grantaire’s hair. “And I’d also bet that Enj will get Blue from you, too.”

“Oh, please,” Grantaire scoffed. “The man can hardly stand me; there’s no way that he’ll get a Color from me.”

Enric laughed at them, but didn’t mention the discussion again for another week.

For all that Enjolras had made a policy of not pushing people too much (government and bigots excluded; as a rule, they need to be pushed as much as possible) he decided on a hell of a time to push Grantaire for answers. Suddenly, the fate of the world hinged on whether or not Grantaire was willing to talk about his issues with someone that he’s known for less than three months. Three months which had done little to reassure Grantaire that they’re really friends. Sharing friends is a lot different than being friends.

“Do you really need to ask that?” Grantaire has been dodging the question for going on ten minutes now. He’d packed up his things, left the Musain, and headed for the nearest coffee shop before remembering that he left his wallet at home again. “I’m not sure that this is your business, Apollo. I honestly could’ve sworn that this wasn’t.”

Enjolras groans, picking up the pace again to keep up. Honestly, being so much taller, Enjolras should have no trouble; it just happens that he’s following- “Grantaire, I don’t know why you’re so against talking about this, but-”

“-but nothing, Enj.” Grantaire swings around. “I don’t have to talk about it. Not to you, not to my brother, not to anyone if I don’t want to. And I don’t care how unreasonable that sounds!” Shouting is bad for his throat, his friendships, and his mental health. Obviously, that makes it his last line of defense, the one to rely on after everything else has started crumbling. Enjolras seems to have some magic button to press that teleports him passed every wall and test that Grantaire has made.

Grantaire ignores Enjolras’ almost-Blue eyes and marches home, praying that Jehan had made that caramel fudge again. That was guaranteed to make him forget all about pretty blond revolutionaries trying to turn him into a project.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras says immediately after Grantaire comes into the flower shop. He’s got a mostly-Colored daisy crown wilting in his hair and his niece, Sophie, hanging on his arm, but he’s still as earnest and captivating as when he’s speaking to the masses at a rally. “It wasn’t my business and I shouldn’t have pushed, no matter how worried I was. I’ve been told before that I’m a little overbearing sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” the little blonde revolutionary-in-training squeals, swinging more viciously on his arm. She sways alarmingly close to a display of vases, but only her very Pink tutu manages the distance. “Uncle ‘olras has a big mouth and no filter!”

“That’s rude,” Grantaire remarks.

“And hypocritical,” Enjolras drawls. He turns his almost-Blue eyes back to Grantaire. “I’m sorry,” he says again.

Something inside him winches tight. “Thank you, Enj.”

Both of them pause, holding their breath, as if the apology was physically settling over them. Sophie breaks the silence by leaping from the Enjolras-based swing boat and straight into Grantaire. She giggles and wraps her arms around him.

“So, uh, what are you doing here?” Enjolras asks, jumping to attention. He twitches forward, as if he wants to snatch the little girl back, but stops quickly, expression morphing into something indecipherable. “We’re here getting flowers for my sister’s birthday.”

“Oh! I usually pick Jehan up when he has late shifts.” Grantaire grins, large and bright. “We’re going to watch Deadpool again.”

“No, we are not,” Jehan groans. “I love you very much, R, but we’ve watched that movie every night for the past week.”

“Because Ryan Reynolds is perfect and it has full frontal.”

“What’s full frontal?” Sophie asks, looking up at them with big, Blue eyes.

Enjolras turns big, almost-Blue, betrayed eyes on Grantaire.

Hush little one, just close your eyes.

Things had been going good. Ish. Okay, Grantaire and Enjolras clashed all the time and barely reconciled each time and Grantaire could feel the waters inside him eroding at the bedrock of his mind, but that’s fine. It was like there was a physical force driving them to almost violent disagreements.

Honestly, it was Grantaire’s fault. He could feel his depression rising in him again, pressing everything else to the side in its wake, but he still didn’t have the sense to tell others when he felt awful inside. Jehan, of course, knew everything. But there was still only so much that he could do when Grantaire refused help.

Alcohol, though. Alcohol was always a welcome help.

God, it had been so long since he’d needed booze like this, like his veins would burst if he didn’t replace the blood inside with alcohol. Months since he’d last wanted to really drown in liquor.

“I don’t know why you’re being so difficult,” Enjolras groused. He snatched Grantaire’s drink away, scowling his disappointment.

“You’re a star, Apollo. Best if I stay away,” Grantaire explained, half drunk. At this point in the evening, he wanted to sink into his drink. That might be preferable to what usually came after he started talking. This was the point of intoxication where he stopped making sense, but started being scarily honest. Once he reached this point, he usually tried avoiding people that weren’t Jehan or Enric, but that wasn’t exactly possible right now.

“What do you mean?”

“It is the destiny of stars to collapse. They are bright and beautiful, but, eventually, they run out of hydrogen and they get dimmer and colder until there is nothing left to see. There aren’t too many other options than that, and none of them are that wonderful.” Grantaire’s lip was quivering and there was an unfamiliar heat behind his sternum. Like worms were digging little burrows into his lungs and moths had replaced his heart.

God, fuck, that was much more honest than he’d wanted to be today. Worse still, that was to Enjolras. He’d just spilled his darkest imaginings about their friendship less than a month into any sort of actual friendship.

“What?” Enjolras blinked owlishly at him for a moment before the words settled in. “That’s how you see this? Me?” His eyes widened, taking on a glassy quality, like he might cry, at least a little bit. Enjolras didn’t-couldn’t- have Blue yet, but it still seemed like his eyes were losing Color. Fuck. Before the tears could start, his eyes hardened and his lips thinned to a cruel line. Fuck. His teeth ground tight against each other. Air was apparently scarcer for Enjolras than the rest of the world, but he managed to spit vitriol well enough without it. “If that’s what you think is going to happen, you need to go.” Fuck.

“Enjolras, that’s no-”

Before Grantaire could even begin to apologize properly, Enjolras had turned away.

“Grantaire, you are incapable of believing. How the hell do you expect to truly live without belief?” Enjolras’ shoulders stiffened, and, for a moment, he looked like he couldn’t believe he’d actually said that, wide-eyed and a little green, but he didn’t take it back. “Don’t bother coming back.” He walked away.

Ice enveloped his limbs, pressing into his toes and fingers. How could he call Enjolras back, how could he explain anything to him, when his vocal chords had just been replaced with desert dust? Tiny spores were ploughing through his alveoli and stealing his air. Everything inside him was shaking violently, but he couldn’t cry. Enjolras hadn’t even fully left the building yet. He couldn’t chance his turning around and seeing his effect. Bile rose unbidden and Grantaire stopped breathing.

As soon as Enjolras was out of sight, Grantaire collapsed.

Grantaire had never thought of himself as a main sequence star. That might have been just pride speaking, saying that he couldn’t be like anyone else, that he was special, or somehow different than his peers. At seven, his brain already turning against him, he realized that he wouldn’t live out the normal chain that others did. Maybe he was a white dwarf- long-lived, but dull; or maybe he was a blue giant- bright, beautiful, and amazing, but destined to exploded and turn into a black hole. But there wasn’t much about him that was beautiful or bright or amazing in any capacity.

Some days, he was already convinced that he was a black hole.

But what if he was a main sequence star. Destined for longevity, but nothing more. Nothing of note. Nothing to stand apart from the billions of other stars around him. At least a white dwarf was worthy of noticing, so different from so many of its siblings. A black hole or a blue giant was an amazing phenomenon, one that was awesome to watch, incredible in the immensity and power contained within it. Grantaire could never measure up to that power and beauty.

If Enjolras was a supergiant, bound to be a black hole in the end, maybe Grantaire was a yellow dwarf, average, not outstanding in any way other than the ways that every star is. Mediocre and unable to affect anything that his new friends were doing in any significant way.

It didn’t matter who said differently. (Enjolras included).

It was probably better that he’d left the ABC.

Combeferre was at the door. The world must be ending. Grantaire was scarily sober, Baba had called again to apologize, the muse was strong, and Combeferre was at the door.

Okay, having Ferre show up unannounced wasn’t scary, wasn’t even weird. Having Ferre show up unannounced with a shopping bag full of paint and Enjolras in tow- that, that was scary. He only bought Grantaire paint when he wanted favors or forgiveness.

When he opened the door, Ferre shoved his way in, using the bag of paints as a sort of battering ram. It was probably meant more to distract him, but one of the tubes jabbed him right on a bruise.

“Okay, I know that he majorly fucked up, but he’s been trying to apologize since he realized what a fucking mess he made, so I think he deserves a little credit. At least a smidgeon.” Combeferre grabbed both of them by the arm and pulled them into the dining room.

Grantaire peeked in the bag and plucked one of the tubes off the top. Laughter seemed like the natural response to the new labels that Ferre (and probably Courf, too) gave them.

“‘Jehan Marigold’?” he asked. “‘Courf Peach’?” Grantaire dug through the bag, pulling out colors at random. Finally, he found one that made him pause. “‘Enjolras Blue’? Ferre, I don’t-”

“Those are the Colors that you’ve given other people.” Combeferre snatched up a tube of ‘Ferre Fuchsia’ and started tossing it between his hands. “Because you’ve been blue lately and seem to need the reminder that it’s not just you getting Colors.”

“I know I’ve given people Color, Ferre. But Enjolras doesn’t have Blue yet.”

Enjolras frowned. He frowned with Pink lips and looked like he wanted to glare at him with his very, very Blue eyes.

Oh.

Enjolras was watching him again. Any time they were in the same room recently, it seemed like he was trying to figure him out, as if all of Grantaire’s secrets would write themselves into his hair, if only he looked close enough for long enough. Whenever Grantaire moved to look at him, he was already staring daggers.

Well, Grantaire could pretty much guarantee that he wouldn’t find whatever he was looking for. Enjolras wanted to believe that there was something inside of him worth the effort he was expending for this tentative quasi-friendship. There wasn’t anything inside of him worth anything.

“Taire!” someone shouted, but really, that could have been anyone. Everyone called him some variation of Grantaire. “Gumdrop!” Well. That narrowed the options down to pretty much one person ever.

Grantaire swung around, a grin already forming, morose ponderings forgotten. At the door to the Musain was Enric, with Jehan in tow.

“Did you really call Jehan to get you from the airport instead of me, you massive ass?”

“Can I not want to surprise my baby brother? I thought that was something that siblings did.” Enric wrapped one massive arm around Grantaire’s neck and dragged him into a hug. “All I get is sass from you. I even brought you a present.” Enric pulled his duffel bag around and pulled out a paper-wrapped parcel.

Grantaire could feel the Blue leaching back into him. There wasn’t very much, only enough to notice that he had some. A little in his eyes, a slice on his bag, a smudge -probably paint- on his shirt. Even from across the room, Enjolras was bound to see exactly how much Enric meant to him.

Grantaire pulled Enric, his brother, to their table and proceeded to make introductions.

“How long are you here?” Grantaire finally asked. There was a strange shimmer in his eyes, like he couldn’t stand to know, but couldn’t stand not knowing. It almost looked like tears, if not for the smile edging onto his lips.

“Two months.” Enric sucked in a short breath. “Then I’m headed to America.” His eyes skittered up to Grantaire, waiting for an unimaginable reaction. “Got a job in Stark Industries’ New York branch R&D.” The ‘I don’t know when if I’ll be back,’ went unsaid, but reached every ear.

For a moment, Grantaire felt like pulling himself apart at the seams, screaming and running and destroying everything, but he held himself in check for the half second it takes for logic to reassert itself. The stitching keeping his guts in tightened back up and he could breathe again.

But, they had two months to cling. For now, everything else -panic included- could wait.

“I didn’t know that you had… family,” Enjolras says finally. He looks a bit like he’s biting into a lemon and doesn’t want to back off, like he’s somehow got a point to prove that will only ever get proven if he gets that whole lemon in his mouth and swallows. The lemon grows suddenly sourer apparently because Enj’s face is screwing up. “Sorry, that sounds really awful.”

His pencil stills for only a moment before he’s speaking. “It’s fine,” Grantaire answers. “Not like I talk all that much about them.” Please, dear god, don’t let him start overanalyzing that. It would be too easy to jump to conclusions on this.

“Why not?” And there it is.

“Because.” Grantaire gives him a vaguely blank smile and prays that Enjolras has enough tact to drop it. He’s never been more thankful to have a sketchbook; they make lovely barriers.

Of course, having known Enjolras for this long already, he should have realized that Enjolras is both supremely stubborn and exceptionally gauche. There isn’t a topic in the world that would cow him enough to not ask questions. It’s part of his appeal.

“That’s not an answer, Grantaire.”

“That’s what you’re getting, though.”

“You are absolutely infuriating, R, do you know that?” He laughed softly. “If I wasn’t so completely in love with you, I might be more upset.” Enjolras doesn’t even seem like he notices what he said for several seconds before his brain apparently catches up with his mouth. His eyes get as wide as saucers and he’s up and running before Grantaire can even get his jaw off the table.

Okay, Grantaire can admit that he doesn’t handle shock very well. He was raised in abuse and tends to overreact when the world around him changes without his knowledge and consent. It’s almost like there’s a waiting list for things in his brain. Triage brain nurses decide which things he absolutely has to process before the things go further into his brain.

His therapist probably loves him.

Finding out that Enjolras loves him is, all at once, top priority and untouchable. Grantaire definitely needs to process it, but it’s like his brain is suddenly incompetent, completely incapable of handling the situation. Nobody has ever been in love with him before. It was always Grantaire putting his heart in harm’s way in the vain hope that his paramour would return his affections.

How is he supposed to process this?

Up to this point, he’d thought that Enjolras more tolerated his presence than enjoyed it. Spending time together was a rare activity, but usually involved several more of their friends than just the two of them. Enjolras hadn’t even taken any extraordinary measures to be nearer to him. If they sat beside each other, it was more chance than choice.

How had he even found the time to fall in love? They hadn’t even known each other five months and Enjolras had fallen in love?

Something searing and boiling rises up inside him.

Painting is hard, alright? So many materials were needed, brushes and paints and canvas and a pallet and a dozen other things to help or supplement the craft. A steady hand and a bit of talent helps too. Grantaire had neither, renewed sobriety sucked, if only for that reason, but he still had a fair bit of practice in winging it until people thought he was talented.

It doesn’t help that Lesgles Bossuet was an awful, untalented student, too.

Bob Ross videos had been playing steadily for several hours now, and Grantaire had made seven paintings that he was relatively proud of and a half dozen more that he didn’t want to look at ever again, but somehow Bossuet hadn’t managed one. It was almost sad.

“This is impossible,” Bossuet complained. He dropped his paintbrush into the paint thinner and his easel fell over. He seemed caught between staring at the sky and burying his face in his hands. Both were good enough options, objectively speaking, but neither really explained how he’d managed to knock over the easel from several feet away. “I don’t know how you do this, R. Everything about this is such a miserable experience.”

Grantaire groaned and buried his head in his hands. When he emerged, there was barely-Green paint striping his face and hair.

“You know what’s not a miserable experience, Bos?” he started.

“Coming to ABC meetings?” he guessed. He grinned broadly, bald head wrinkling more as he spoke. “Oh! Oh! Hanging out with your friends when Enjolras is there?”

Grantaire glared mutinously at the blue covered canvas in front of him. Ignoring Bossuet had a 62% chance of failure generally, but that was still a better option than acknowledging him.

Bossuet shrugged. “Just a thought.”

Of course.

“Could you maybe not think that then?”

Bob Ross continued guiding them through a ‘happy little’ painting, but Grantaire could barely focus on that before Bossuet brought up Enjolras. At this point, it was completely useless to pretend otherwise.

“I just don’t understand what happened,” Bossuet continued, undeterred. “One day, you two are getting cozy, the next you’re running away from him and he’s locked in his room with a gallon of Coffee Caramel Fudge ice cream.” He sighed, shaking his head softly.

“That’s a lot of ice cream,” he muttered, attempting to distract himself in a painting that definitely was not Enjolras. Enjolras didn’t have this much Blue on him, so it couldn’t be him. Enjolras had Blue eyes and sometimes he wore Blue clothing, but he much preferred Red. This painting practically dripped Blue. If this was Enjolras, that said dangerous things about Grantaire.

“Yeah, his stomach is impressive.” Bossuet pulled his chair around to face Grantaire better. “I honestly don’t know how he doesn’t have cavities.”

“Magic, I'm sure,” Grantaire responded. The painting glared down at him with Blue eyes. He heaved a sigh. There was no denying that he’d painted Enjolras, but maybe he could hide it from Bossuet. “The fae blessed him with perfect teeth and really great hair.” With Blue, too. Somehow.

Impossible. Completely fucking impossible. There was no way that Grantaire had Green. He couldn’t. The last time his eyes matched his Maica’s perfectly, he was six and it didn’t last more than two months because Marie died shortly after.

He groaned. Green eyes glared back at him.

Over the past week, he’d received more compliments on his Green, on how well it suited him, on how bright it was, on how many shades of Green seemed to be covered by this one person, than he’d ever been given for any other Color. One old lady had stopped him at the crosswalk to tell him about her husband, who apparently had given her her Green some sixty odd years ago.

Joly had laughingly pointed back at pictures of Enjolras and Grantaire. By Musichetta’s scrapbook timeline, they’d given each other Colors months ago and ignored it until last week. He’d pulled down the books, flipping to the first picture of Grantaire with his Green (barely two months after meeting Enjolras) and Enjolras with his Blue (not even three weeks after they met).

When had they gotten that comfortable around each other? When had they started considering each other friends? When had they gotten close enough for Colors?

Every other time that Grantaire had received a Color from someone, he’d always seen it coming for days, if not weeks, beforehand, and been on the lookout for it. With this Green, though, with Enjolras, he hadn’t even noticed the feelings welling up inside himself.

Grantaire tipped his head back. There were tears shining in his eyes, holding still, not dropping out. They never did, not really.

Stars, what few were visible, twinkled at him.

“What am I even doing?” he whispered to them. The night would never answer him, would probably never hear his words, but there was a cold sort of comfort in those giant balls of plasma. It didn’t matter what he did. Whether he decided on America or stayed here, the stars didn’t care and the people would follow their path.

“You’re sitting out in the cold, deciding if you’re going to run away,” Enjolras droned. “Aren’t you?”

He was quiet for a minute. “It’s not running away,” he finally whispered, breath fanning out in front of him. It’s like the cold wanted everyone to see his lies spreading in front of his eyes, see the effect they have. “It’s me trying to keep what little family I have together.” He might be more inclined to believe himself if his mouth didn’t taste like ash.

“Bullshit.”

Grantaire’s head whipped around. “What?” If he didn’t know better, he’d say that Enjolras looked sad, like having Grantaire move to America would affect his life at all.

“Bullshit, Grantaire.” Enjolras stepped closer, almost within arm’s reach, somehow more approachable now than ever before. Soft, quiet, and so sad. “I may not be your best friend, but I know that if you leave now that that’s it, that is you running away. That is you saying that you don’t want to deal with- with what I told you.”

“What do you want me to say, Enj?” Grantaire snapped. “I can’t say that I love you; I hardly know you.” Lie. “Fucking- I-I- I’m not even sure that I want a relationship right now.” Lie.

Enjolras frowned, tried to hide that he was frowning by smiling a little, but all that ended up happening is that Grantaire felt more like a piece of trash than usual. “I can’t convince you to stay, can I? To try?”

“I don’t know.”

Staring at his bedroom ceiling had never felt so fucking foreign.

His travel bags were strewn across the floor, half-packed already. There was a one way ticket to Manhattan on the desk, but thinking about it made his stomach turn sour. He’d never been so reluctant to move before.

Romani wanderlust had always burned inside him so long, never as hot as in Enric, but it was hard to beat him at that, and keeping Enric near was always so hard. But there was a real chance here that he could keep him close, keep his family together.

It finally felt like the puzzle pieces were falling into place here. Like there was something burning inside him besides the never-ending need to just run away, something that shone brighter and warmer than travel ever had.

What was he going to do?

Enjolras was at the door. At 7:42 AM, in the rain, Enjolras was at the door.

Normally, Grantaire would have welcomed him into his home, but with everything happening inside now, it was probably a bad idea. Paint and canvas and clay and gauze splashed across the floor, six different binders drying over the coffee table, a dozen books spread out on the dining table, a broken-but-getting-repaired lamp hanging off one of his weirder easels, and that was just his mess. Thinking about it now, Jehan and Enric were adding their own touches to the chaos. Jean had the unpleasant habit of every poet Grantaire had ever met; he wrote on everything, which wouldn’t have been a problem except for the fact that Jehan had Sharpies and Grantaire had such clean white walls. Enric was less obvious in his filth. He liked leaving half-finished blueprints everywhere. Napkins with small engines, notepads covered in half-gibberish engineer-scrawl, small marker boards and cardboard cut-out fish taped over Jehan’s poetry, covered in equations. There didn’t seem to be a reason why, but Enric always insisted that the cardboard being fish-shaped was absolutely necessary, like how Grantaire had to start every painting with a certain brush every time.

“Enjolras?” Ushering him into the foyer should have felt foreign, unexplored territory filled with wild creatures and the landmines left behind by previous civilizations. Instead, Grantaire felt a strange calm washing over him. Grabbing a towel from the linen closet and motioning Enjolras to toe off his shoes felt like a logical next step, which he would never have been able to predict. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry,” he started. He reached for Grantaire and pulled him into a loose hug. “I know I should’ve called or something, but I’ve been going insane trying to figure out what the hell you meant.” The hug turned almost desperate, like he expected Grantaire to pull away and wanted to either get as much hug as possible, or stop his departure. “I know that I have no right to ask anything of you, and I know that we don’t exactly have an amazing track record, but I’d like to think that we’ve gotten closer and that we’re at least friends. And I know that you have every reason to dislike me, but I think that, if you gave this a chance, we could-”

It was easier to kiss Enjolras silent than to let him continue.

“Star gazing?” Enric asks.

“You know I am, asshole,” Grantaire teases, but he’s smiling larger than he has in days, so Enric will probably count that as a win and move on. “Are you expecting any different? After you buy me this incredible telescope?”

“Prodigy for the prodigy,” Enric agrees. He settles quietly on the bench beside Grantaire, leaning heavy on him. “I’m glad you like it.”

Grantaire scoffs. He wants to roll his eyes, but he’s got them set on Jupiter currently and he’s never had such a good view firsthand. Pictures are well and good, but being able to adjust the lenses himself and to take his own photos… that was something special. “‘Like it?’ Enric, I’m contemplating marriage to this telescope.”

“Enjolras would be quite jealous if you did.” He sounds like he’s smiling.

They go quiet for a few minutes. Grantaire focuses on the cosmos instead of the question hanging over him like a knife. He just prays that his brother will take what he has to say well.

“I don’t think I can-”

“I don’t think you should-”

Giggling, they stutter to a stop.

“Go,” Grantaire breaths. “You go first.”

“You need to stay in Paris,” Enric says. His hands are trembling and Grantaire can feel his insides shaking with the tension. This is it. They might not see each other again if he leaves and Grantaire stays, but-

But he was finally surrounded by people that understood him, finally so in love that picking up house and leaving would hurt, finally getting over the pain of their past.

He couldn’t leave that.

“New York needs me,” Enric continues when Grantaire just stares at him. “But Paris needs you.”

If Enric had said that three weeks ago- hell, three days ago- Grantaire would probably have gone with him, if only from spite. Paris didn’t need him, no one needed him. But today he’d talked to Courfeyrac and helped him pick out Ferre’s birthday present, today he’d taken Éponine out for tea, today he’d painted a picture of his mother and modeled her eyes on his because his eyes finally matched the old pictures of her, and today he’d given Enjolras a kiss.

Saying goodbye to Enric always felt like he was ripping a piece of his soul out. Maybe he was; but maybe Enric was, too.

Standing in the airport today, Grantaire smiled.

Last year, when Grantaire had chosen to stay in Paris while Enric had gone back to Athens -Athens- Phthonus, help him, Athens, it had felt like betrayal. It felt like he was giving himself wholly to fly to Greece with Enric, but that Enric was remaining whole. It felt like he was burning every one of his paintings and packing the ashes into Enric’s bones. It still felt like he was gouging pieces of himself out and lining Enric’s carry-on with them, but it also felt like Enric was pulling bits of himself apart to make up the disparities.

Last year, when Grantaire was rooted in art school, it had felt like he was ripping apart at the seams without Enric.

Today, they were patching each other together with pieces of each other.

Today, Grantaire breathed.

Enjolras has taken to laying on the roof at night. Honestly, Grantaire had started it, so he had no room to complain. Sharing Paris with Enjolras through his eyes was terrifying and exhilarating.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Grantaire teased. He pushed off the door frame and moved to where Enjolras was sitting.

“It’s almost like we live together or something.” A soft smile tugged at his face and it wasn’t Grantaire’s fault that he kissed him. Those smiles were his weakness.

“Smart ass.” Grantaire kissed him again. If he could imprint the feel of that smile into his mind forever he’d be very happy. He pushed Enjolras over and pressed himself flush to Enjolras on the blanket.

They stayed quiet for a while, watching the moon moving across the sky. It was nice just feeling the world moving around them.

“I’m so glad you gave me Green.”

-I hear, I feel, you’re here with me.