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Enjolras wakes up earlier than he would like. He can hear Courfeyrac and Combeferre in the kitchen, obviously trying to be quiet but still filling the apartment with the comfortable noises of breakfast being made. He lifts his head and blearily considers getting up.

“No.”

He picks up a borrowed pillow and pulls it over his face.

By the time Combeferre and Courfeyrac come into the living room where Enjolras is sleeping, the blond has managed to doze off again underneath the cover of his pillow. “Rise and shine,” Courfeyrac says, sitting on Enjolras’s feet. “I made you breakfast.”

He and Combeferre start in on their own plates of food while Enjolras frees himself from his tangle of blankets and finally sits up.

“How do you feel?” Courfeyrac asks kindly.

Enjolras holds up a finger to allow himself a moment to swallow a bite of eggs. “Fine. Sore, I guess.”

“That’s not surprising,” Combeferre says quietly. He’s carefully cutting into a grapefruit with a short, pointed knife. “You did a lot of magic in a very short span of time, which you aren’t used to. It’s a lot of power to move through your body.”

“God knows I’m still sore,” Courfeyrac says with a smile. He’s changed his eyes over to a bright, vivid green that stands out sharply in his face.

Enjolras pokes at his toast. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. There was no way you could have known.”

He still feels bad. Putting one of Courfeyrac’s rings on Grantaire had been a last-ditch attempt at neutralizing the odd magic that had overtaken the witchboy, but it had the unexpected effect of giving Courfeyrac all of the excess power. Though Enjolras had fixed the mistake within a few minutes, it had still left Courfeyrac with the aches and occasional spasms of overexposure to magic.

Grantaire, however, had shown none of the same symptoms.

Enjolras takes another bite of his eggs.

“I assume you’re going to Grantaire’s today?” Courfeyrac asks.

“I think so.” Enjolras doesn’t look up from his blue-patterned plate. “He didn’t want me there yesterday.”

“I think that was more about sleeping off the affects of what he did to himself than it was about not wanting you around,” Combeferre says kindly.

“What did he do to himself?”

Combeferre and Courfeyrac share a glance. “We have no way of knowing what he was attempting,” Courfeyrac says hesitantly, “not unless he decides to tell you. But it sounds like he just, just pulled a lot of power to himself and got overwhelmed.” His hand is trembling. He frowns and sets down his plate so he doesn’t drop it.

Concern plays across Combeferre’s face but he picks up the thread of the conversation anyway. “The thing that makes object magic so difficult is that there’s no barrier between you and the power you’re working with. It’s almost like you’re taking the power into yourself and then using it. It’s more direct.” He glances at Courfeyrac again. “If you take too much it can get…overwhelming.”

Enjolras doesn’t look up from his breakfast. He’s a little nervous about going to see Grantaire today, about striking out into the streets again where magic flows unchecked and where people like Montparnasse might be waiting for him. But mostly, he’s worried that Grantaire has done something to himself that Enjolras can’t see, and that can’t be fixed.

*

Grantaire is concentrating, but he’s being careful about it.

Magic has such a strong pull. It’s always after him like a child trying to tug his curly hair, or a cat with its claws hooked in his sweater. Except it’s also like the strong current in the ocean, because it wants to drag him under and drown him.

He’s being extra careful today.

He’s wide awake and well-fed. The sun is shining directly through the window. He has every single one of his rings on, plus some extras. He also has a smooth river stone lying flat on his tongue. Annoying and distracting, of course, but when his mind slips under it helps ground him. It is an anchor in a shifting unreality.

Arrest. Drug. Meeting. Midnight. Murder. Police. Red. Weapon.

Two days ago, he got Montparnasse’s letter to speak itself out loud. It required such a large and specific amount of magic that he went half-mad with it– he’ll have to apologize to Enjolras, when he returns.

If he returns.

Grantaire doesn’t visibly flinch away from the thought, but it is uncomfortable enough to pull him out of his own head for a moment. He focuses on his breathing and on the rich, cloying feeling of the magic around him.

Arrest. Montparnasse’s list had been a record of words that caused his associate, Babet, incredible pain when they were spoken aloud.

Drug. Incredible, untraceable pain.

Meeting. Babet is missing.

Midnight. Grantaire still hasn’t recovered from his magical overdose.

Murder. But he needs to find Babet.

Police. He needs to find Babet, soon.

Red. He’s wide-awake and exhausted.

Weapon. When will Enjolras come?

A flicker of movement in front of him catches his attention for one moment. It’s another of Grantaire’s safeguards for today; while he concentrates, he has someone watching him.

He remembers that. He ordered that. He asked for that. He is. He exists.

He’s done concentrating.

“S’like fucking meditation, when you do that,” Gavroche says, when Grantaire opens his blank eyes.

So his safeguard is a thirteen-year old. Sue him.

“Meditation is about going into the mind, I’m pretty sure,” Grantaire says thickly. He takes a moment to spit the river stone into his palm and then makes a face. Gross. Why did he do that? “I go right into the magic.”

He takes off a few of his rings. They help him stay in his own head but when he isn’t actively trying to leave it, they just make his consciousness feel heavy.

Gavroche shifts restlessly in front of him.

“Do me a favor,” Grantaire says. “Get me a cup of water. Use the glasses in the cupboard next to the sink.”

“What am I, your maid?” But Gavroche gets up and goes. He’s a smart kid. He can almost certainly tell how tired and worn-out Grantaire is.

He’d regaled Grantaire with stories when he arrived– of exploits around Paris, and the movements of certain witches, and, curiously, a story that he heard about Enjolras when the blond first arrived in the city. Grantaire listened attentively– he’s grown very good at listening, over the course of his life– but weariness had kept him from truly engaging in Gavroche’s rapid-fire chatter.

It’s a subtle, draining exhaustion. Grantaire’s power is volatile. Sometimes he feels like it’s forcing him out of his own body. There’s almost too much of it, and it’s so easy to get drunk on it and let it drive him wild. The fallout, of course, is days of bone-deep tiredness that strips the logic from his mind and the will to reason from his heart.

He accepts the cup of water from Gavroche and sips it carefully. “I’ve gotta go,” the kid says. “Will you need me again?”

“I’ll send a message along,” Grantaire says. “There’s a spell for you on the table, if you want it.”

“Oh, cool.” Gavroche races over to see. “Thanks, man. See you later!” He lets himself out and bangs the door. Grantaire stays on the floor, drinking his water.

His unnamed black cat wanders over to settle in his lap. Grantaire pets her spine absentmindedly; her soft fur is like silk against his sensitive fingers.

The spell he made for Gavroche is a simple one. The kid certainly doesn’t need help levitating– his feet hardly ever touch the ground– but the trinket Grantaire made him will help him move faster while he does it.

Grantaire doesn’t think he can handle anyone moving too quickly around him today. It’s a sorrowful thought. If Enjolras comes, Grantaire will have to send him away.

That gives him an idea.

*

Enjolras knocks smartly on Grantaire’s door and rocks back on his heels while he waits for it to open. He isn’t even sure if the witchboy is home, but burning curiosity had forced him out of Courfeyrac’s house after breakfast.

“I only just heard the story of how Courfeyrac found you,” Grantaire says when he opens the door. “You didn’t tell me you know sign language.”

Enjolras blinks and hesitates in the hallway. “I didn’t think it was relevant,” he says slowly.

Grantaire looks hazy and sleepy, like he’s just woken up, and his hair is an absolute mess. “It’s very relevant,” he says. He still hasn’t moved out of the doorway to let Enjolras inside. “How did you learn?”

This isn’t a very fun story. Enjolras skips the details and says, “On my own, out of books. My parents and tutors wouldn’t have liked it– more speaking aloud, more gold, you know. I started learning when I started thinking about running away.”

A lazy grin makes its way across Grantaire’s face. “So that’s how you got by in Provence. Without being discovered, I mean.”

“More or less. My sign language is still pretty atrocious.” Enjolras rubs the back of his neck. “I wrote things down a lot.”

“And then you came to Paris…”

“And I happened to see Feuilly and Courfeyrac signing to each other on the street.” The memory makes him smile. “I went up to ask for directions to a hostel because I had gotten myself hopelessly turned around after I left the Gare de Lyon.”

“And then Courfeyrac tackled you in the middle of the street?”

“That’s… actually pretty accurate. I don’t know how he even recognized me.”

Grantaire shrugs. “He has a good memory for names and faces. Anyway. I’m sending you out for the day.”

The statement shocks Enjolras into silence for a moment. “What?”

Grantaire hands him a copper medallion. “Think of it like a test.” He shoves Enjolras further back into the hallway.

“I thought I was going to be helping you find Babet!” Enjolras protests.

“This isn’t going to take you all day,” Grantaire says, waving the remark away. “I have some things I need to take care of here, alone, first. Come back this evening and stay the night. I have someone visiting tomorrow who will help us. Does that work?”

Enjolras looks down at the cold bit of copper. “I guess?”

“Brilliant. All you have to do is take that back to its owner.”

“But I don’t know how!”

Grantaire’s smile is a slow, lovely thing. “Yes you do. Magic is everywhere, Enj. You just have to start a conversation with it.” And he shuts the door in Enjolras’s face.

Enjolras leaves, bewildered and apprehensive.

There’s no reason for Grantaire to know how frightening Paris has become to Enjolras, now that he’s aware of the great and terrible magic that seeps out of every street. Grantaire can’t see Enjolras’s nervous eyes or the way he flinches from strangers. He can’t see the protective spells, written in sharpie, scrawled halfway up Enjolras’s forearms.

Paris is dangerous in a way that Enjolras didn’t see when he first arrived. Courfeyrac’s house is safe, and so is Grantaire’s apartment, but he’s grown unexpectedly afraid of traversing the streets by himself. The walk to Grantaire’s had been nerve-wracking enough; now Enjolras is striking out into a part of the city he’s never seen before, led by the strange copper medallion that hums in his fist.

He forces himself to walk with his chin held high. Fear has only ever made him strong, after all. If Enjolras always bowed to what he feared then he would still be in England, spitting coins and showing deference to his father.

He is afraid, but he does not let it break him.

The Latin Quarter where Grantaire lives is alive with activity at this time of day. Enjolras stands still and lets the noise and color wash over him. Students are walking together is loose groups, holding books and backpacks and discussing their classes. Restaurants and coffee shops are open and spilling tables and chairs onto the sidewalks for patrons who wish to sit outside. The streets here are narrow, without many cars, and the buildings are very tall and painted with bright colors.

A few pigeons strut around on the cobblestones. Enjolras watches them for a long moment. Some of them have been touched by a magical hand and turned into impossible shades of violet, yellow, and pale blue.

“Show me where to take you,” he murmurs to the medallion in his hand. “Show me where your home is.”

Something slow and gentle tugs at him beneath his breastbone. Enjolras takes a deep breath and starts walking.

Commands in plainspoken French work well enough for others, but Enjolras soon has to stop and beg a piece of paper and a pen off of someone so that he can write a tracking spell for this copper– not to find it, but to find where it’s from. It’s hellishly complicated. He sits in a café on the left bank of the Seine for almost half an hour, scribbling on the sheet of paper and waiting for the magic to click into place and tell him where to go. When the gentle guiding hand returns, he lets it lead him over the Seine and into the 3e arrondissement.

The buildings seem older and more stately here, and there are fewer students. Enjolras tries to take it all in as he walks, though the press of magic does not let him linger. It’s a bit draining, to be guided this way, and a headache starts building behind his temples just as he’s lead to the doorstep of a beautiful white building. No one is there to stop him, so after a moment Enjolras walks inside and finds a staircase to take him up, still following the innate sense of direction that the medallion has given him.

The copper grows cold in his hand when he finally reaches his destination. Enjolras turns it over a few times before he looks up.

The door in front of him is painted dark green and has a shiny golden handle. Enjolras looks up and sees a few surreptitious symbols carved into the top and covered with more green paint, but he can’t tell what they mean. He grips the medallion in his left hand and knocks on the door with his right.

He blinks when it swings open smoothly.

Enjolras takes two tentative steps into the apartment and finds his path blocked by a line of red string that hangs at about chest height. The entire front room, actually, is full of red strings that form a complicated web. The room is perfectly square and the walls are papered with what appears to be one large world map, distorted and modified to fit the space perfectly. The red strings connect various points on the map. Most of them stem from the paper position of Paris, which is directly across from the front door.

There are no windows but there is a skylight that floods the room with bright sunshine. The floor is old, dark wood that creaks easily beneath Enjolras’s feet.

He can’t stop staring.

Someone taps gently on the wall. Enjolras snaps his eyes forward and flushes when he recognizes Feuilly slouching in another doorway with his eyebrows raised. “You won’t disturb the yarn by touching it,” the redhead says. “Go ahead.”

Enjolras blinks and reaches out to the first string in front of him. His finger goes directly through it, as though the string is made of nothing but scarlet smoke. Enjolras smiles in delight and bats his whole hand through it. Feuilly laughs silently and Enjolras flushes again.

“I didn’t know this house was yours,” he says. He makes sure to look directly at Feuilly when he says it, so the other man can read his lips.

“That was part of the challenge, I’m sure.” Feuilly finishes the statement by beckoning Enjolras closer. [Welcome.] Enjolras finally steps through the red strings; he tenses slightly when they pass through his chest.

He feels like an awestruck child. Feuilly watches as Enjolras moves through the strange red strings; he can’t help but flinch away when he walks through the ones set and eye level. “How did you do this?” Enjolras asks.

“Come again?”

“Sorry.” Enjolras faces Feuilly more squarely and says, “How did you do this?”

“They sell this string at the craft store down the street,” Feuilly says with a shrug. “Once I put it in place no one else can disturb it.”

They move into the next room. It’s equally as interesting; one wall is dominated by a large window that looks out over Paris. The other walls are covered in blueprints. When Enjolras looks closer, he sees that the blueprints are moving and changing. “This is incredible,” he says. Then he catches himself and turns around so that Feuilly can see him say it again.

[Thank you,] Feuilly signs.

“I have something of yours,” Enjolras says next. He holds out the small copper medallion.

Feuilly takes it with a smile. A moment later it disappears from his fingers, though Enjolras isn’t sure if the trick is magic or sleight-of-hand.

“I heard you met the infamous Montparnasse,” Feuilly says interestedly. He takes Enjolras through another door and into a brightly-lit kitchen. He has a copper teapot much like Grantaire’s, and a bowl of lemons and limes sitting on the counter. The table is strewn with drafting paper and pencils and books written in languages that Enjolras can’t decipher.

“I didn’t realize he was infamous,” he says, when Feuilly faces him again.

Everything about Feuilly’s body language shifts into incredulity as he leans against the counter. “Didn’t Grantaire tell you who he was?”

“He just said he was a thief.”

The sharp point of Feuilly’s eyebrow rises into an arrogant arch. “He’s the fucking king of them,” he says. “Montparnasse runs the most notorious criminal gang in Paris.”

Enjolras gapes. “He’s hardly older than I am!” he protests.

“And he’s even younger than you think,” Feuilly says shrewdly. “I don’t think you understand how significant it is for you to have met him, in such a casual setting. Grantaire doesn’t make a big deal out of anything but Montparnasse is a very big deal.”

Enjolras feels like this isn’t the time to mention how Montparnasse approached him in an alleyway to give him dire warnings about Grantaire. “He doesn’t seem dangerous,” he says.

“If he thought you were a threat to Grantaire he would murder you in your sleep and steal your bloodstained shirt to wear like a trophy,” Feuilly says. His hands spell out, [Caution.]

That’s a rather vivid image. Apparently Paris is even more dangerous to him than Enjolras thought. He tugs at the hem of his shirt. “Who told you that, anyway? Was it R?”

Feuilly makes an R and taps it twice on the side of his chin. “Grantaire? He and I don’t speak very often.”

“Why not?” Eyebrows raised, head tilted forward.

“It’s easier on both of us to have an interpreter, and that isn’t always easy to arrange,” Feuilly tells him. He has a rather wry expression on his face.

Enjolras flushes. He puts one fist to his chest and makes a circular motion: [Sorry.]

“Don’t worry about it. And all I heard was a bit of gossip about you and Montparnasse.” Feuilly has a warm half-smile on his face. “How interesting to find out that it’s true.”

*

With Enjolras out of the apartment, Grantaire calls Combeferre. He has something on his mind– a persistent thought that settled in somewhere between all of the magic and working that won’t leave him alone. He knows to trust these thoughts now. His best tool is himself.

He’s fucking tired as fuck but Combeferre is easier to bear than anyone else. Once he leaves, Grantaire can take a nap.

Combeferre arrives with a stack of books. “I had the one girl at the circulation desk do it,” he says as he lays the books on the table with a gentle thump. “You said you liked her voice the best, and she writes the spell better than anyone else.”

Grantaire smiles as he makes tea in his copper teapot. “Thank you,” he says quietly. Sometimes he feels ridiculous with gratitude for Combeferre. The other man never fails to bring him interesting books, and he always has them spelled to read themselves aloud to Grantaire. It lessens the sting of not being able to read.

“I won’t be able to stay long today,” Combeferre warns. “I have a shift in an hour.”

Grantaire makes a low noise of acknowledgement.

He takes the tea over to the table and sits opposite Combeferre. He likes Combeferre. He likes how quiet he is. Combeferre isn’t full to the brim of buzzing, heaving magic like most of Grantaire’s friends– he’s just there. When Combeferre is around, it’s as though Grantaire is feeling nothing but the other man’s warmth. “Would you like honey?”

“Please.”

They drink their tea quietly for a few moments. Then Grantaire sets his cup down. “I wanted to talk to you about Enjolras’s curse.”

“Ah.” Combeferre sets his cup down as well. “I don’t know how much I’ll be able to help you.”

“I need logic, not magic.”

“I’ve often found that the two don’t mix as well as I would wish them to.”

Grantaire frowns but doesn’t correct him. He presses his fingertips together in front of his face and closes his eyes. “He told you the story, right?”

“Yes.”

“So think about it– Enjolras’s dad writes the spell. Enjolras steals the book. The spell gets corrupted and attached to him. Several years of gold coins, until we burn the page that the spell was written on. You follow?”

“Yes.”

Grantaire taps his fingers together. “The question I’ve been having is this: why would Enjolras’s dad write a spell in a book of fairy tales? I don’t have a good answer. And I’m starting to think that I was wrong.”

“Enjolras said the writing was his father’s.”

“I’m not wrong about Enj’s dad writing it. I’m wrong about the timeline. I don’t think the spell was written in the book until after Enjolras stole it. That means his dad did it on purpose.”

Combeferre shifts in his chair. Grantaire can almost hear a frown in his voice when he says, “Hang on, though. I thought Enjolras said that the spell manifested itself the way it did because of the fairy tales, because it’s a literal fairy tale curse.”

“When we found the spell he only had a moment to look at it. He called it a prosperity spell. Honestly, we should have written it down somewhere else, or made some record of it so we could see what exactly it entailed. Enjolras is damn good at written spells but he only saw it for a second… It’s possible that he didn’t read the entire thing, or didn’t recognize parts of it.” Grantaire runs one hand uneasily down his forearm. “I don’t think it was a prosperity spell that just happened to latch itself onto Enjolras. I think Enjolras’s father wrote the spell in the book after Enjolras stole it. I can’t even begin to imagine why, but I suppose he must have thought it was very fitting to put it in a book of fairy tales.” He takes a long drink of tea. “It’s honestly just lucky that Enjolras never got rid of it.”

Combeferre adds more honey to his tea; Grantaire can hear the silver spoon clinking against the porcelain teacup. “You realize how severe the repercussions from this could be,” Combeferre says.

“A parent intentionally cursing their own child?” Grantaire shudders. “It’s a legal problem as well as an emotionally devastating one, if Enjolras ever finds out. Not to mention the complete financial disaster tied up with all of that gold.”

“I’m sure that will all sort itself out.”

“I just don’t want Enjolras getting hurt in the meantime. His magic is very… volatile. Have you noticed?” This has been on Grantaire’s mind very often lately.

Combeferre’s voice is careful. “I assumed it was lack of control.”

“It could just be that. It feels like more, though.”

Combeferre takes a noisy sip of tea. “You would know better than I.”

The other problem is Enjolras’s hesitancy. That isn’t his fault– he’s been reprimanded his entire life for the simple act of reaching out towards magic, so wariness on his part is only natural. Grantaire knows the feeling well. But he wants to teach Enjolras that it’s okay. He’s safe here, to explore with his golden power; no one is going to stifle him.

“I should get going,” Combeferre says quietly. “My shift starts soon. I’m sorry I can’t puzzle this out with you.”

“It helps to just speak it out loud,” Grantaire says, automatically. “Thank you, Combeferre.” Enjolras should be back soon anyway, if all goes well. And Grantaire doesn’t think he can tell the blond any of this yet.

*

Enjolras bursts through the door in the late afternoon and says, “You didn’t tell me Montparnasse was a murderous thief king.”

Grantaire looks up from a comically large flowerpot. “Didn’t I? It must have slipped my mind.”

Frustration and amusement war in Enjolras’s chest as he takes off his shoes. “Did you forget anything else?” he asks pointedly. “Is Combeferre a wanted criminal? Does Feuilly burn down buildings in his spare time?”

“Feuilly is an architect, you ingrate. And trust me, Montparnasse is the most… criminally interesting of all of my friends.” Grantaire shrugs. He seems much more rested than this morning, and his hair has been marginally tamed. He continues pruning the plant in the flowerpot as Enjolras goes across the room and drops himself huffily into the armchair.

“I just thought he was a petty thief who always wear gloves,” he mutters.

Grantaire laughs. “He wears gloves because he’s cursed, sweetheart.”

Enjolras throws his hands up in exasperation. “And you didn’t think I’d want to know that?”

“I forgot to mention it!”

“What’s his curse?”

Grantaire hums. “It’s a bit of an odd one. He leaves red handprints on everything he touches.”

Well that certainly is odd. “I’ve never heard of something like that,” Enjolras says slowly.

“It’s inconvenient. Imagine shaking people’s hands, putting on your clothes, eating food– all of it, covered in red like blood.” Grantaire shakes his head. “So he wears his gloves.”

“And he’s never tried to break it?”

Grantaire shrugs. “He’s turned it into an asset. I don’t know who cursed him or why, but one of the funny side effects is that Montparnasse can always find something if it has his handprint on it. So buildings, important objects, people…”

“Really?”

“I have one of his handprints on me. It’s as good as a tattoo.”

Enjolras squints at him. “I’ve never seen it.”

“Well, no, you wouldn’t have, since I’m usually wearing pants around you.” Grantaire doesn’t give Enjolras any time to react to that statement. “Montparnasse and his men each have a distinctive curse that they’ve never tried to break. Nothing too inconvenient, they would try to get rid of those, but each of them has one. They’re known for it. Some groups try to curse themselves the emulate his notoriety.”

“Do they all have similar curses?”

“Nah. They’re rather random. I know Babet sees the world the way you or I see a black-and-white movie.”

“What, he was cursed to be colorblind?”

“As far as I know colorblindness just knocks out red and green for people, though I could be wrong. Babet sees nothing but black, white, and gray.”

Enjolras tries to think about it. It would be awful to lose color– to lose the sky, and the red flowers in their oversized yellow pot, and the milky blue of Grantaire’s eyes. “That sounds terrible.” As soon as he says it he flushes– Grantaire can’t experience color, or shape, or anything.

But Grantaire doesn’t seem to notice his tactlessness. “There’s more to it, but I don’t know all of the gory details,” he says.

Enjolras just watches him. He had been afraid, on his way back from Feuilly’s, that Grantaire would turn him away again– that he would reach the familiar oak door and find it barred, or find the witchboy unwilling to indulge him with company or conversation.

But the door had swung open once he reached the landing, and now Enjolras is back in this perfect space, bright and interesting and full of magic. He relaxes into the armchair. His feet are rather sore.

“How was Feuilly’s?” Grantaire asks.

And so the conversation goes, into the evening and into the night. Enjolras talks about sign language and how Feuilly can use it to cast spells; Grantaire shares a few lazy theories about Babet and tells him that Bahorel is coming to visit tomorrow– “He’ll probably be late, but that’s okay.” The black cat stays curled up in the corner and the lavender plants hanging over the door make everything perfectly sweet. They make pasta in one of Grantaire’s large copper pots, which sets the water boiling almost instantly.

Grantaire gives Enjolras books and has him read passages aloud. Grantaire lets Enjolras run his fingers over the delicate glass bottles in the cupboards and tells him what each one is for, without even having to feel the Braille labels. Grantaire sets the whole room glowing with light from an unidentifiable source, once Enjolras tells him that the sun has set.

What is this evening?

Drowsy, satisfied, Enjolras curls up over the covers on Grantaire’s bed sometime after the moonlight starts whispering through the window. He’s exhausted from oscillating between fear and contentment all day, down in the streets and in Grantaire’s and Feuilly’s homes. His fear of the city seems childish now. He blinks slowly. He can see the smooth curve of Grantaire’s shoulder, faintly illuminated in the dark, as the witchboy pulls off his sweater.

Enjolras closes his eyes. He falls asleep before Grantaire claims the other side of the bed.

*

Grantaire is the first one to wake up.

He can tell that Enjolras is still asleep, because the other boy is radiating calm. His energy is more like a lake of gold than a spiral. Grantaire is hyper-aware of the places where their ankles are pressed together– their only point of contact.

He makes himself get out of bed. He goes to make breakfast in the other room.

Enjolras wakes up while Grantaire is slicing lemons for crêpes. “Good morning, sunshine,” Grantaire says, when the blond makes his way out of the bedroom. He only gets a vague noise in reply, which makes him grin.

Enjolras stay quiet for several minutes. He settles in one of the wooden chairs next to the window and stays there while Grantaire carefully pulls together breakfast. He has to do everything slowly, so he doesn’t burn his hands or slice off his fingers, but his little kitchen is rigidly organized enough to make it all easier.

“You said Montparnasse can find anyone he has a handprint on,” Enjolras says slowly, after several minutes of this have passed. “Does Babet not have one?”

Grantaire licks a bit of bitter lemon juice off his fingers. “Nah, he does. But whoever has Babet is disrupting the link. Which means he knows how Montparnasse’s curse works– and that’s not very comforting.” He finds powdered sugar in the cupboard and sets it on the table.

“So Montparnasse can’t sense him at all?”

“He said it feels like static when he tries.” Grantaire finds another lemon and brings the finished crêpes to the table. “There’s a different way to find him, but we’ll need Bahorel for that.”

“Why?”

Grantaire sits across from him and says, “Because Bahorel is a necromancer, and Babet isn’t technically alive.”

*

Bahorel saunters through the door that afternoon with his hands in his pockets. Something small and gold follows him into the apartment; it flutters over to Grantaire and tries to land on his head before he bats it away. “Hey,” Bahorel objects. “Don’t be mean to Petite.”

Grantaire raises his eyebrows. “You named your goldfinch Petite?”

It is a goldfinch, delicate and quick. Enjolras holds out a hand when it flies over to him; to his delight, it settles right on one of his fingers and regards him with its small, glassy eyes.

“Grantaire, you’ve had that cat for three years and you’ve never named it, you’ve got some real nerve–”

Grantaire makes a face. “Shut up.”

The goldfinch flies back over to Bahorel as he makes himself comfortable in Grantaire’s armchair. “So, what can I do for you?” he asks. “Your message was delightfully vague.”

“I was worried about it being intercepted,” Grantaire says shortly. Enjolras hadn’t even seen him send a message; he can’t imagine what it must have entailed. “We need your help with Babet, but I want you to run Enjolras through the basics of what you do first, so we’re all roughly on the same page. Or at least in the same book.”

Bahorel raises his eyebrows at Enjolras. “You’ve been settling in okay?” he asks, ignoring Grantaire for a moment. “R’s been treating you well?”

Enjolras nods.

“I resent the implications of those questions,” Grantaire says vaguely from over by the window.

“And I resent the color of the shirt you’re wearing today,” Bahorel shoots back. “Guess we’re all gonna be disappointed. Okay kids, let’s talk about death.”

Enjolras drags one of the wooden chairs across the room. He feels like an awkward, overgrown student, but Bahorel just settles himself more comfortably in the armchair and begins to speak.

“There are a couple of different tiers of death,” he says. “The easiest one to reverse is accidental death, you follow? After that it’s willful death, like murder, which is harder because you’re fighting against the intention of the murderer. Then it’s natural death, and you’re fighting against the intention of the body. Most people let that one lie. It’s dangerous to reverse and it has a whole host of side effects.” He talks with his hands and almost never breaks eye contact– it’s a bit startling, after so much time talking to Grantaire. The witchboy’s gaze is almost always turned away.

Enjolras tips his head to one side. “I feel like all of them would have side effects.”

“I mean, sort of?” Bahorel narrows his eyes, thinking. “You’d be surprised. People who die accidentally can jump right back into their lives if they’re raised by a necromancer who knows what he’s doing.”

“Like you.”

“Like me.” He grins. “There’s only one real caveat: they only live up until the point that they would have died naturally. I don’t know if that shit is fated or whatever but being brought back doesn’t make you immortal. It just undoes the singular act of your death.”

“And you undid Babet’s?”

“Yes. Because Grantaire asked me to.”

It may be Enjolras’s imagination, but the light in the apartment seems more dim. Big, friendly Bahorel is much more intimidating with so much death on his hands, even given the goldfinch that has nested itself in his hair. Enjolras has never believed in ghosts but he imagines them now, listening to Bahorel speak and nodding amongst themselves.

Enjolras swallows. “How did he die?”

Bahorel hesitates. “Some people are picky about sharing that,” he says slowly, “but I can’t imagine that he would care.” He clears his throat. “He was poisoned. Very easy to fix, no real damage to the body that needed to be mended. So I mean, you can sort of tell when you see him, because he’s super fucking pale and his tears are, like, the color of charcoal, but that’s about it.”

Enjolras considers that for a moment. Everything about Babet seems colorless, not just his eyesight. “And you think you can find him?”

“Well, I have a link with him.”

“Really?”

“I raised him from the dead, dude.” Bahorel grins, wicked and wide. “That means something special. I can’t usually track him but I can figure out if he’s alive or hurt or anything.”

“That makes sense.” It doesn’t make sense but Enjolras is willing to go with it.

“He’s also ridiculously indebted to me, of course. He would die for me. But mostly I just make him get me tacos when I don’t feel like going out.” Bahorel looks over at Grantaire. “Why do you need me to get ahold of him?”

“He’s missing, possibly kidnapped, probably cursed,” Grantaire says. He doesn’t move away from his copper sink. “Montparnasse asked me to help.”

Bahorel scowls.

*

Enjolras spends the night again, after sending a message to Combeferre and Courfeyrac to reassure them that he’s still alive. This evening is less idyllic than the last, because Enjolras spends most of it reading a thick book on necromancy and Grantaire spends most of it doing Very Important and Very Mysterious Witchy Things, but it’s still very pleasant.

Montparnasse visits in the morning, when the sky outside– according to Enjolras– has just begun fading from dark indigo to softer violet. It’s early, and the breeze from the window is cold, but they’re both awake. Grantaire is lying on the floorboards, fiddling idly with a crystal in his hands. Enjolras is curled up in an armchair, reading again. He has a small globe of light floating over his shoulder, a small trick that takes less than a fraction of Grantaire’s attention to maintain.

Neither of them have spoken for some time, so it’s a slight shock to the silence when Grantaire takes a breath and says, “Someone is coming.”

Enjolras takes a moment to react. “Hm?”

The little light disappears from Grantaire’s awareness. He sits up and concentrates, and then shakes his head. “Montparnasse is here.”

The knock on the door comes less than a minute later.

“Babet is unharmed, and alive,” Grantaire says, when the thief lets himself in. “Bahorel said he needs to do some prep work before he can actually track him, but he thinks Babet is at least still in Paris.”

Montparnasse doesn’t respond to the news. “I brought you a pet,” he says.

Grantaire frowns. “I have a pet. I can’t imagine you came by one legally.”

“I’m all in on smuggling magical items and books and resources,” Montparnasse says shortly. “Animals? Hell no. They get treated too badly in the deal.” He steps closer to Grantaire. “I busted a deal today between some old associates. Most of the animals are being taken back to the right people but I snagged this little guy for you.”

Grantaire holds out his hands and Montparnasse gives him a little hedgehog. The small spikes and the snuffling nose feel amazing against his sensitive fingers, and Grantaire can’t help but laugh.

“Consider it one small act of repayment, for helping me find Babet,” Montparnasse says. Grantaire’s grin fades. He gives the hedgehog to Enjolras for a moment and beckons the thief closer. With his other hand, he curls his other hand around one of the silver rings and holds one part of his mind in fierce concentration. It’s not polite to magically divert someone’s attention, but it will only be for a moment. Enjolras shouldn’t notice.

“I have a much better way for you to help,” he says quietly. Montparnasse makes an inquisitive noise as Grantaire presses three of the infamous gold coins into his hands. “I need to find where these were coming from. I don’t expect it’ll be in Paris.”

“You can’t trace them yourself?”

“I think they all come from different places. And they’re all so tied up with Enjolras’s magic that I can’t see through it.”

“You can’t see anything.”

Grantaire elbows him in the side. “Just do what you can.” Then he drops the spell around them and listens to Enjolras laugh at whatever the little hedgehog is doing in his palms. It makes something jump underneath his sternum, like a jolt of joy.

“There’s only one stipulation,” Montparnasse says smoothly. Grantaire doesn’t hear the gold clink at all as the thief stows it away, but that doesn’t surprise him; Montparnasse is an absolute master. “You actually have to give this pet a name, Grantaire.”

He scoffs and reaches out towards Enjolras so he can run his finger gently along the hedgehog’s spines. “Why is everyone on me about names lately?”

“Names are important,” Montparnasse says.

“I’ll let Enjolras name it, then,” Grantaire decides. Enjolras makes a short noise of pleasure.

Grantaire tries not to focus on it.

*

Montparnasse looks different today. His face is sharper; his cheekbones stand out more; Enjolras could swear that he’s taller. He still looks like a model witch– all dark skin, dark eyes, and black clothing– but it’s easier for Enjolras to imagine him as a thief with blood on his hands, dealing poisons in an alley. There’s a subtle edge to him now, like a concealed knife. Enjolras thinks the changes must be magical.

“How did you know it was Montparnasse before he got to the door?” he asks idly. Montparnasse has only just left and Enjolras is laying on his stomach on the floor, playing with the hedgehog and trying to think of a suitable name. “The handprint?”

“I could recognize him,” Grantaire says. He’s holding the black cat securely in his arms. “I recognize the way his magic feels.”

“What does it feel like?”

“Like… like a snowstorm. A tight swirl of fiercely controlled sparks. If I could give it a color, I would say crimson.”

Enjolras smiles. “Really?” That seems fitting.

“Everyone is pretty distinctive. Unless they don’t have magic, like Combeferre– people like him just feel warm.”

Enjolras gently nudges the hedgehog to keep it from wandering too far away. “What do I feel like?” he asks curiously.

Grantaire hums thoughtfully. “I don’t quite know how to describe it. It’s all hot and buzzing and frantic– like copper wire, I guess, full of electricity. But more gold.”

“So like gold wire, then.”

“Don’t mock me, have you ever met an electrician in your life who uses gold wires?”

“I can’t say that I’ve ever met any electricians, to be honest.”

“Well.”

Enjolras laughs and then says, “What does your own magic feel like?”

Grantaire is silent for a long moment, thinking. “Like a cloud,” he says finally. “Like fog. Thick, and heavy, and all around me.”

“I didn’t realize that people’s magic could be so distinctive.”

“I’ve never heard anyone else talk about it– it could be a side effect of the heightened sensitivity, or it could be something that’s colored by how I feel about the people in question. I always notice it.” Grantaire sits down next to Enjolras and finally lets the black cat sniff cautiously at the hedgehog. “Some people are like thin wisps of smoke. Or a handful of quicksilver. Or just like water, like they have water suspended in the air around them. All fluid and calm and cool.” He grins. “And then you have people like Courfeyrac, who’s a fucking sparkler.”

“Could you always do that?”

Grantaire’s smile twists. “Another amusing side effect of the whole blind-witchboy thing, actually,” he says. “Heightened sensitivity to go along with the paranoia.”

“Paranoia?”

“Well, not anymore.”

“Grantaire.”

“What?”

Enjolras’s voice is very quiet. “Will you tell me what happened to you?”

Grantaire turns his head away. “Later,” he says. “I’ll tell you later.”

*

Feuilly’s apartment is an oasis of silence and calm. It isn’t like Enjolras to need an escape from anything– especially not from Grantaire’s, which feels like an escape in and of itself– but there is an unmistakable sense of serenity that washes over him when he steps over the threshold of Feuilly’s apartment and walks unflinchingly through the red strings in the front room.

Enjolras came here today to give Grantaire time to go out and shop with Bossuet for supplies for the apartment– he had wanted to go along with them, but Grantaire said that his time was better spent learning more magic with Feuilly. Feuilly can do stunning, incredible things with sign language; Enjolras can hardly manage to keep a tongue of flame dancing on his fingertip.

It’s been a day since Montparnasse came to them with the still-unnamed hedgehog. They haven’t heard from the thief since then. They haven’t heard from Bahorel, either.

“Think of signed magic the same way you do spoken magic,” Feuilly says. He and Enjolras are standing on opposite sides of yet another room in the maze-like apartment, one with unmarked white walls and no furniture. “It’s not good for long-lasting changes, and it’s not great for curses. It’s quick. Like flashes of light. Breaking down a door. A sudden burst of sound, even.”

He snaps once to make sure he has Enjolras’s attention before holding his hands out before him very deliberately. [Spark,] he signs; several small points of light burst into existence around his fingers. [Fire.] They turn into small tongues of flame. [Smoke.] Within an instant, the light is gone, and all that remains in Feuilly’s palms is a rapidly-fading discoloration of charcoal.

He raises his red eyebrows at Enjolras. Enjolras takes the hint and holds his hands out in front of him. [Spark,] he tries, and he cannot help but beam at the sudden pinpricks of light that crackle into being at the tips of his fingers. He does it again. [Spark. Spark. Fire.]

*

It takes a couple of minutes for Grantaire to put out the fire.

When Enjolras came home from Feuilly’s, he had been happy and warm and as pleasant as a ray of sunshine. He was going on about sparks, Grantaire thinks, something about sparks, but it isn’t like Enjolras could show him. Grantaire could feel the small pulse of magic, of course, when Enjolras signed and brought forth what must have been a shower of light, but Grantaire couldn’t see it. He couldn’t see it and he felt like he dampened Enjolras’s excitement.

That had led to a small disaster.

“I need to light a fire,” Grantaire had said, turning away from the blond.

And Enjolras had said, “Let me do it!”

But then he said the words out loud.

“I’m so sorry,” Enjolras whispers now.

Grantaire drops his gold ring onto the floorboards; it’s too hot to put back on his finger. “It’s okay,” he pants. “Enjolras, it’s okay.”

“I just– I, I…”

Enjolras’s voice is starting to shake, so Grantaire abandons the smoking fireplace and feels his way across the kitchen. The blond is sitting on the counter, something Grantaire only realizes when his hands land on Enjolras’s knee. He presses down. “Hey. It’s okay. I’m okay.”

The room is silent, briefly. Then Enjolras lets out an unsteady breath and tugs Grantaire forward into a hug. He’s still sitting on the counter, so Grantaire wraps his arms around the other man’s waist and holds him as Enjolras clings to his shoulders and buries his face in Grantaire’s neck. Grantaire can feel the blond’s delicate ribs heaving and stuttering under his hands. He holds on tighter.

The air feels charred and hot, and Grantaire’s palms are burning.

*

Enjolras shuts the bathroom door and rests his forehead on the dark wood for a long moment as he tries to get his breathing under control. His knees feel weak and his ribs are shivery and covered with sweat. Grantaire’s apartment is always warm but Enjolras feels like he is freezing, from his extremities all the way into his chest. He takes a step back from the door and runs his fingers roughly through his hair.

The bathroom swells sweetly of lavender, which is familiar enough that it helps Enjolras feel like he can pull his body back under his control. He takes off his shredded, charred shirt in one disjointed movement and drops it on the white tile floor.

Grantaire has an improbably large porcelain bathtub, chipped at the edges and standing on four golden clawed feet. It’s classic and elegant. It has the air of something stolen or handed-down. Enjolras twists the golden taps until he can figure out how to make the water come out as hot as possible, and then steps back to let it fill up while he strips his jeans and socks.

He doesn’t remember adding anything but the tub is full of lavender-scented foam. A self-bubbling bathtub seems exactly like something Grantaire would own, so Enjolras doesn’t question it, just turns off the taps and climbs in.

The ash and charcoal on his skin turns the soapy water lightly gray. Enjolras doesn’t attempt to scrub it off at first; he sits and stares at the wall with his arms wrapped around his knees. His chest is empty and aching.

The doorknob turns. “Enjolras?”

He twists sharply away from the door. “Don’t come in here, I’m in the bath!”

“It’s not like I can see you,” Grantaire says, quietly amused.

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Enjolras insists, but when he looks back over his shoulder Grantaire is still standing in the doorway with his hands in his pockets. “What do you want?”

“I felt like it was unwise to let you stew for too long,” Grantaire says quietly. He takes a step into the bathroom and closes the door behind him so the warm air doesn’t escape. “You’re very hard on yourself, Enjolras.”

He doesn’t say anything. The emptiness in his chest has solidified and blocked his throat; he feels like he might cry. He still has a dark streak of ashes across his collarbone, and his forearms are red and aching from being burned. The hot water feels good on his muscles but sharp and painful on his skin.

Grantaire sighs and sits down on the tiles; the bathroom is so narrow that his back rests on the wall and his feet are jammed up against the cupboards beneath the sink. “You have power but no control,” he says. Enjolras stares down at his own feet. They are clumsy and distorted through the water and they don’t belong to him anymore. “You’re trying to channel a river with your bare hands. Do you know why they taught you to write the boundaries of a spell, when you were in school? It’s to keep things like this from happening. Most people grow out of using them, when they’ve learned that control within themselves.”

“I’m twenty years old,” Enjolras whispers. “I almost burned this building to the ground.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Grantaire says dryly. “You aren’t nearly good enough to manage that much against my fire charms.” Then he sighs. “You’re learning still.”

It had seemed like such a simple idea, a good way to help Grantaire. To point at the metal grate and say fire. To pull his growing awareness of magic into his voice. He still feels like he’s on that edge, the moment when familiar pride at the first sparks of warmth had tipped into fear at the flames that roared up his arms.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

Grantaire sighs. He’s quiet for a long, long time. Then he says, “I was eight years old.”

Enjolras turns to look at him.

“I get it,” Grantaire says. “I know what it’s like to be so full of magic that it eats you alive. I know what it’s like to burn.” He scrubs a hand through his hair. “There’s a way to transcend the body and become nothing but raw, natural power,” he says. His voice is scholarly, like it usually is when he’s teaching Enjolras something, but the words are too quick and too desperate. “Seeing the ones that do it is like seeing magic made solid. The trees drip with fire, but they don’t burn. It’s beautiful. The most beautiful thing I’ve seen in my entire life.” Grantaire says it with reverence. “It was also one of the last things I ever saw.”

Enjolras stares at him. “What happened?”

Grantaire hugs himself tightly. “All I remember seeing was pure gold and silver. It was– dazzling. I was looking into the heart of the universe, and the universe was screaming back. It seemed like it lasted for hours. I don’t remember if they said anything, but I know– I could feel them, and the wildness they were feeling.” He rests his head back against the wall. “They liked me. They wanted to give me everything.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras whispers.

“All I did was go for a walk in the woods,” Grantaire says as quietly as he can. “It was so beautiful at first. It was like drinking sunlight. They were pouring themselves into me, all of their power, all of their dreams.” His voice hardens. “But I wasn’t like them. It almost killed me. When my family found me, my mouth and the soles of my feet and the tips of my fingers were split open. They weren’t bleeding– they were gold. And they took my sight.” He breathes out shakily. “I don’t remember the end of it. I don’t remember being found, or anything for the next several weeks. When I did wake up, they told me I shouldn’t be alive.”

Enjolras reaches for him. At that moment, the door to the apartment slams open. “GRANTAIRE?”

Grantaire scrubs at his eyes. “WHAT?”

“Don’t let him come in here!” Enjolras yelps. Grantaire tumbles back from the bathtub, cursing, before he heaves himself to his feet and pushes his way out. As soon as the door closes behind him Enjolras climbs out of the warm water and dries himself roughly with one of Grantaire’s white towels. His head is spinning like a carousel.

He has to go onto the living room bare-chested, since his shirt is in charcoal tatters, but neither Grantaire nor Montparnasse are looking at him. The witchboy is standing in the middle of the room with his arms crossed; the thief is pacing around him.

“We have to go now,” Montparnasse is saying. “It’s a taunt and a trap and I fucking hate it but we have to go.”

“We should bring Bahorel,” Grantaire says. “He’ll be able to tell if Babet is actually there.”

“You found Babet?” Enjolras interjects.

Montparnasse spins to face him and gives him an eerie grin. “Hello, lovely.”

“Don’t,” Grantaire says sharply.

Montparnasse waves him off and continues to address Enjolras. “Gavroche brought me a ransom letter. It told me where to go to get Babet back. And we need to go now.”

There’s a beat of silence. The burns on Enjolras’s arms seem to ache in protest, and he watches as Montparnasse takes in the ashy mess of his face, the sheen of exhaustion on Grantaire’s brow, and the charred floorboards in front of the fireplace. The thief looks confounded.

“It’s not like I have room to criticize anyone’s sex life, but what the fuck happened here?” he asks bluntly.

Enjolras chokes.

“Shut the fuck up,” Grantaire snaps. “Montparnasse, where is that note telling us to go?”

“An abandoned building in the 11e arrondissement.”

“And is Gavroche safe?”

“Of course he is.”

“Why now?” Grantaire mutters as he pulls on a clean shirt. He throws one in Enjolras’s direction as well. “What does he have to gain by kidnapping your man and then telling you where to find him?” He throws his phone in Montparnasse’s general direction next, knowing that the thief is quick enough to keep it from clattering to the ground. “Text Bahorel and tell him to meet us there,” he orders. “Enjolras, do you see my shoes?”

“You always leave them right by the door.”

Grantaire shakes his head at himself. “You’re absolutely right.”

*

The three of them manage to make it out of the apartment within ten minutes. Grantaire even has his shoes on, wonder of wonders. They have to take the metro from Grantaire’s home in the Latin Quarter over to the 11e, but according to Montparnasse it shouldn’t take too long, and Bahorel is already on his way.

Grantaire stays close to Montparnasse as they descend down into the belly of Paris and make their way onto a train, and Enjolras keeps a hand on Grantaire’s arm the whole time. They manage to find seats where they can huddle together and speak without being overheard.

“Read me the entirety of that note,” Grantaire says, as the train begins to move. His stomach churns. He’s exhausted, but he’s determined not to show it. He’s also hopped-up with nerves after his heart-to-heart with Enjolras, but there’s no time to discuss that now.

Montparnasse pulls the note out of his pocket with a light rustle of paper. He clears his throat and says in an undertone, “It’s written in thieves’ cant, so it won’t make much sense to you. The basic premise is this: ‘I have something you want, and I would be delighted if you came to fetch it. Come before dawn.’ Then it has the address. It’s signed ‘Not-at-all.”

“Heads up, Montparnasse, you may have met the one person in Paris who’s more dramatic than you,” Grantaire mutters. Enjolras tries to stifle a laugh in the collar of his coat.

Montparnasse stays huffy and silent for the rest of the train ride, and on their way through the station. He isn’t nasty enough to refuse Grantaire help, though; Grantaire clings to his arm the entire way up to street level. He’s probable going to be sick. Or he’s going to pass out in the middle of the street, which will make Enjolras panic, and that’s the last thing Grantaire wants.

He wraps his hand around the flask in his pocket.

“There’s Bahorel,” Enjolras murmurs to him after they’ve turned a few corners. “We’re almost there.”

Thank fuck.

Bahorel feels like stone. How can intangible magic feel like stone? Grantaire isn’t sure, but Bahorel and his power are a steady presence at his side, so he doesn’t feel bad about leaning into it for strength as they meet him and continue down the correct street.

He already knows which building is the right one because he can feel it. “It’s so odd,” he murmurs.

Bahorel taps his forearm. “What?”

“His magic. I can feel it. It’s all sharp and thin– like lines drawn with a ruler.” Grantaire rubs at his eyes. “It’s so precise.” This is a man who learned written magic before anything else. Grantaire can’t tell what it is yet, what odd enchantment is surrounding this place, but it’s needle sharp and glowing.

Magic doesn’t wind itself that tightly unless the spell is as long as a book. Either this guy loves wasting his fucking time or he has control like nothing Grantaire has ever seen.

He can feel it stabbing into his temples.

Bahorel, Montparnasse, and Enjolras don’t say anything, but Grantaire imagines that the three of them are exchanging nervous glances.

They continue walking.

*

What is this moment?

Enjolras had not expected anything when he came to Paris. He had not come seeking friends, or salvation, or excitement. All he wanted was security: a place where he could pass unnoticed among the thousands of Parisians, despite the uncommon gold that spilled too readily from his lips.

Now he’s striding like a hero down a long street in the middle of the night. He walks with a witchboy, a necromancer, and a thief. There’s so much power in this group alone that Enjolras can almost see it cracking and sparking between their hands like electricity. They’re like knights, preparing to storm an enchanted castle.

Who is he, in this fairy tale? What can he offer to this rescue? He isn’t a boy made of gold anymore, and he isn’t a boy made of words yet. Apprehension rises in his throat. He can’t control his magic. He almost lit himself completely on fire earlier, and Grantaire too.

But Grantaire trusts him. Blind, incredible, prickly Grantaire, who walks with all of the surety of a man with a million eyes, has asked Enjolras to help. Beautiful, brave, broken Grantaire, who ate the heart of magic when he was eight years old and lived to tell the tale. That’s worth something. That’s worth more than a handful of fire.

Helplessness isn’t Enjolras’s master anymore. Neither is fear. Neither is gold. His arms are still tender and burned, but he is still alive and learning.

They reach the front door of the building. Montparnasse is frowning and flexing one of his hands; the leather glove creaks. Bahorel has his eyes half-closed. “He’s definitely here,” he says in a low voice. “On the roof, if I had to guess.”

Enjolras cranes his head up to look, but he can’t see anything against Paris’s light-polluted sky.

*

“Is someone going to open the door?” Grantaire asks testily. Fuck, he’s tired.

There’s a moment of silence.

“I don’t feel like we should just waltz in,” Enjolras says hesitantly.

“A direct approach is always best,” Bahorel replies.

“You’re all cowards.” Montparnasse’s voice is cold. The door creaks open a moment later; the thief must have decided to take the plunge. “Let’s go.”

Grantaire fumbles in his pocket. There’s no way he’ll make it much further in his current state, and who knows what will be awaiting them on the rooftop? He pulls out a tiny silver flask. Hopefully none of the others are watching; he turns his back to them, as though he’s casting his senses across the street, and tips the entire contents of the flask into his mouth.

It burns going down. His senses riot and surge to life.

Grantaire stows the flask back in his pocket and lets Bahorel grab him by the elbow and lead him over the threshold.

It’s like coming alive again. He hardly has any use for the magical stimulants they sell on the market; his own recipe, brewed in his claw-foot bathtub, is much more potent. Right now, he feels like pure gold. He has to stifle a grin as his friends gather in the front room of this strange building.

“There are four men in the building and two on the roof,” he says automatically. He can feel them. Four are like bright streaks of paint; one is a shower of ash; one is the sharpened edge of a knife. “We have about one minute before they realize there are intruders. What should we do?”

*

“Split up,” Bahorel says. He pushes Grantaire in Enjolras’s direction. “You two get the guards. We’ll find a way onto the roof.” He starts heading up a dark staircase. Enjolras turns to grab Grantaire and start the other way.

“Wait.” Montparnasse grabs Enjolras by the back of the collar and reels him back. When Enjolras spins around, he sees Montparnasse catch the fingers of one glove in his teeth and pull it off. Then he yanks up the hem of Enjolras’s shirt.

“What the hell?”

Montparnasse ignores him. He presses his bare palm just above Enjolras’s hipbone. Enjolras flinches back from his cold touch, but the damage is already done; Montparnasse moves his fingers back to reveal a lurid red handprint on Enjolras’s side. It looks like blood. The bottom of the palm is directly over the waistband of Enjolras’s jeans, and the fingers go far enough up to grip at the edges of his ribs. Enjolras looks at Montparnasse in shock.

“Makes it easier for me to find you,” Montparnasse says, dropping the hem of Enjolras’s shirt. “Now go!”

Enjolras grabs Grantaire’s hand and runs.

Nothing is the building is lit. Enjolras panics for approximately one second before Grantaire drags him through an open doorway. Comprehension hits when they skirt easily around what must be rotten, broken furniture: Grantaire navigates just fine in the dark. He’s been doing it his whole life.

Enjolras takes a deep breath and keeps his eyes wide open. Grantaire pulls him into another room.

“There’s another staircase here,” he hisses. “I think the guards are on the third floor. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Enjolras gasps.

Grantaire grips his hand more tightly and pulls him up the stairs in the dark. It’s fucking terrifying. Enjolras is vainly trying to catch even a gleam of light on the polished steps. Grantaire’s sense of himself is uncanny; it seems heightened to a degree that’s even more extreme than usual.

Grantaire stops on the third floor and flings a hand out, illuminating the room for Enjolras’s benefit. It’s grimy and dusty, and the rose-patterned wallpaper on the wall is stained and torn. A broken piano kneels drunkenly in the corner. Apart from that, the space is empty. There’s a white door on each of the four walls. Enjolras starts to ask a question but Grantaire waves a frantic hand at him to keep him silent.

They hear footsteps beyond the door on the opposite wall.

Enjolras freezes but Grantaire doesn’t; he grabs the blond by the arm and hauls him forward until he’s pressed against the wall next to the door. When it opens, it will shield them both. Grantaire works one of his hands over Enjolras’s mouth so that he can’t speak.

The two of them are pressed together from their chests to their knees. Enjolras can feel Grantaire’s curly hair brushing against his cheekbones. He tries to breathe quietly.

“I’m sorry for dragging you into all of this,” Grantaire says quietly in his ear. “I would have spared you if I could.” He bows his head in concentration for a moment. “I think there are only two of them. I’m going to let them come through the door, and then I’ll attack from behind. You stay put, you hear me?”

Enjolras nods jerkily. Grantaire’s hand is still over his mouth, warm and uncompromising. Everything in him rebels at the thought of letting his blind friend fight these men by himself, but Grantaire is infinitely more powerful than Enjolras is, and he seems too insistent to disobey.

Grantaire grins right against Enjolras’s jaw, sharp and excited. Enjolras only has one moment to feel a bolt of heat strike him in the stomach before the door next to them flies open.

Two men storm into the room. They don’t hear the small breath that Grantaire lets out when the door hits his back, but they do notice when the witchboy throws himself at them with his hands outstretched.

The room fills immediately with aquamarine smoke, so thick that Enjolras can’t see through it. He presses himself back against the wall and squints. Shapes loom out at him, uncertain and menacing in the smoke. He can hear Grantaire breathing harshly and the sharp crackle of magic, as well as a tangle of languages and the dull noise of someone’s knees hitting the wooden floorboards. One of the guards must be doing something to clear the smoke; the longer Enjolras looks the more he can see.

One man is already lying unconscious on the ground. The other one is circling Grantaire with a scowl on his face. Short, sightless Grantaire is an entirely different creature in a fight. He doesn’t try to engage with the man physically, but instead disorients and distracts him with sharp bursts of light before he tosses handfuls of flame directly at his face.

At the same time, Grantaire is weaving a web of hazy light around this man to trap him. He keeps up a steady stream of words in a language that Enjolras doesn’t recognize– German? –that is clearly disorienting his opponent.

The guard clearly isn’t as good of a magician, but he isn’t afraid to fly at Grantaire with his fists raised, despite the shimmering light and smoke around him. He yells several sharp words in French that tear holes straight through the gleaming lines of Grantaire’s magic. Enjolras doesn’t dare interfere, but he can’t help himself from yelping a little bit when the man lands a blow on Grantaire’s torso, stunning the witchboy for one moment.

A third man runs through the door at that exact moment. But he doesn’t join in the assault on Grantaire; he pulls the door away from the wall and flies at Enjolras.

Enjolras gathers every frantic ounce of power he’s ever felt, flings his arms out, and yells, “STOP!”

Everyone freezes.

“Oh, fuck.” Their attackers are still, but so is Grantaire. He still has his hands up to deflect some wayward bit of magic that only he can sense. Their assailants aren’t moving, but what use is that to Enjolras, when his friend is rooted in place because of him?

The scene doesn’t look real. The very colors of the room seem more muted now than they were when Enjolras first entered, but he is also more aware of the entire space in a wavering, unsteady way. It’s as though his magic has burst from the boundaries of his body and filled the entire space. The last traces of aquamarine smoke have disappeared. Enjolras breathes and tries to pull his awareness back into himself.

He pushes the body of his attacker aside and reaches out to Grantaire. It feels natural to place the palm of his hand over the witchboy’s forehead and breathe, “Wake up.”

Grantaire’s body trembles into life. He tries to finish blocking whatever magic was aimed at him before he froze but he draws back almost immediately. “You stopped their magic,” he says, stunned, as he grabs Enjolras’s arm. “How–?”

Something odd has taken hold of Enjolras. “Let’s name the hedgehog Copper,” he says nonsensically.

Someone breaks down a door at the other end of the room. “We have to go!” Montparnasse yells. Behind him, Bahorel is climbing a rickety silver ladder that must lead to the roof. A fourth unconscious man is laying on the floor beneath him.

Enjolras reaches down to lace his fingers with Grantaire’s once more and pulls him away from the frozen statues of their opponents. Grantaire follows willingly.

*

Grantaire will never admit it, but Enjolras is the only thing keeping him upright at the moment.

Adrenaline from the fight burned its way through the stimulant he took before they entered the building, and performing such a large amount of magic all at once certainly hadn’t helped. Being punched in the stomach was even worse.

Grantaire feels tired and sick again, and the razor-sharp edges of magic all around him are more hurtful than ever. He can almost feel it catching at him like a sheet of paper, intent on slicing open his fingertips.

He never lets himself recover. He always keeps doing this– performing magic when he shouldn’t; in a fight, or to show off to Enjolras. He’s so weak right now.

He lets Enjolras lead his hands to the rungs of a ladder. Grantaire hangs back a moment, letting the blond go first. He needs just a moment to collect himself. Just a moment, then he’ll be fine.

*

At the top of the ladder, Enjolras almost runs directly into Bahorel and Montparnasse, who are standing completely still beside the hatch.

There, in the middle of the rooftop, is Babet.

He’s so thin that Enjolras fears the wind will topple him over. His skin is pale and translucent, showing the vivid blue of his veins at his collarbones and wrists. He’s shirtless and shivering. Dark hair falls in an untidy sprawl around his head. The most striking thing about him is his eyes; they’re flat, emotionless, and perfectly gray.

He isn’t alone.

The rooftop is a perfect square, surrounded on a meter-high ledge on all sides. A man is standing on the edge directly opposite from Grantaire and his friends with his arms crossed. His form blends into the strange starless sky behind him, because his outfit is all black, including a long stretch of fabric that covers his entire face. There aren’t even holes for his eyes. For one frozen moment, Enjolras wonders how this man can possibly see.

Babet shudders and begins to speak. “Glad…to see… you finally made it,” he rasps. The words are stony and harsh to Enjolras’s ears.

“He’s controlling Babet,” Bahorel growls. Enjolras’s eyes widen. He looks back at the pale figure and the dark, menacing shadow of a man on the ledge.

“I will…return…your pet,” Babet grinds out. The movements of his jaw look forced and foreign. He looks like he’s going to be sick. “Now… that I know… you’re interested.” He lurches forward suddenly, as though someone has placed a well-aimed kick between his shoulder blades, and falls to his hands and knees.

“What,” Grantaire snaps, “you kidnapped Babet just to get Montparnasse’s attention?”

Babet grimaces and looks up. “Pretty much.” These words can only be his own. Without the stranger’s influence, his voice is high and bell-like.

Grantaire doesn’t seem to hear him. He keeps his blind attention fixed on the masked figure on the edge of the rooftop. “Why won’t you talk to us yourself?” he demands loudly. Enjolras tugs on his arm with a sort of groan.

The masked figure just watches them.

“He won’t speak to you,” Montparnasse says. His shoulders are very tense, and his eyes keep roving back and forth between Babet and their dangerous stranger. “I don’t think a single person in this entire city has ever heard his real voice.”

The man nods to Montparnasse. Something about the set of his chin convinces Enjolras that the man is smiling.

Babet is still on his knees with one hand on the ground for balance and the other clutched around his stomach.

“I know you,” Montparnasse says. He has his gloves off and a look of intense concentration on his face. “You have my handprint at the top of your spine.”

“Real fucking helpful,” Babet mutters. He falls silent at a sharp gesture from Montparnasse, who is still staring at the figure on the ledge.

“Claquesous,” Montparnasse says loudly.

The man tips his head sideways. It takes Enjolras a long moment to notice that he also shifts his weight to his heels, so that he tips backwards off the edge of the building without a word. Enjolras and Montparnasse both shout in alarm and rush to the edge.

“Montparnasse,” Babet says, and then he screams.

Enjolras turns mid-step, in time to see as Babet doubles over again and Grantaire falls to his knees.

Montparnasse reaches the edge of the building and leans over so far that Enjolras fears he’ll fall. He shouts in frustration. “He’s gone.”

The words almost don’t register in Enjolras’s head. He’s running back to Grantaire’s side, though Bahorel has already hauled the witchboy to his feet.

“Are you okay?” Enjolras demands.

Grantaire isn’t listening to him. “Don’t say his name again!” he snarls at Babet. He struggles to break free of Bahorel’s grip. “Don’t say anything!”

“Calm the fuck down and tell me what the fuck is going on,” Montparnasse yells back. His words sound too-loud and invasive in Enjolras’s ears; it takes him a moment to realize why.

Grantaire settles back against Bahorel, compelled by the magic in Montparnasse’s voice. “He still has a curse on him and it’s only going to hurt him if he says your name,” Grantaire recites automatically. Then he grimaces and spits, as though Montparnasse’s spell is bitter on his tongue. “Fuck you,” he adds.

“Fix it!” Montparnasse snaps. It isn’t a demand this time. He’s kneeling in the ground, holding Babet up against his chest. His ungloved hands have stained Babet’s upper arms with an awful array of scarlet handprints.

Babet is as pale as milk and his eyes are half-closed. The pain caused by his words has passed, but in its wake he seems nauseous and unsteady.

“Let me go,” Grantaire insists. Bahorel releases him, but he and Enjolras follow close behind as Grantaire makes his way carefully to Babet and crouches down.

“Open your mouth,” he says quietly. “Don’t speak.” Babet does as he says.

Grantaire closes his hand into a fist before Babet’s mouth, looking for all the world like he has it clenched around something tangible. His teeth are gritted. He braces his free hand against Babet’s chest and pulls.

For one moment the magic is visible to all of them. It’s exactly as Grantaire said– straight and narrow and sharp, like wire made of glass. Grantaire drags the lines out of Babet with a muttered oath, and Enjolras flinches back as all of it shatters with a burst of white light. Babet groans and claps a hand over his mouth.

“You’re fine,” Montparnasse growls in his ear. “It’s over. You’re fine.”

Grantaire tucks his hand against his chest and takes a deep breath. Something about his expression is worrisome to Enjolras; then Bahorel reaches forward and grabs Grantaire’s hand. The fingers uncurl like flower petals, revealing his cut-up, bloody palm.

*

“That isn’t even remotely how you break curses,” Combeferre says, aghast.

“Well it worked.”

“I’ve never seen anyone do that in my entire life. I’ve never heard of anyone doing that in my entire life.”

“Why is it so unusual?” Enjolras breaks in. He’s somewhere behind Grantaire, and he sounds exhausted.

Combeferre makes an exasperated sound. “Do you think you could reach out and take a handful of someone’s magic? It isn’t physical. It’s not a thing.”

Grantaire winces as someone pours antiseptic onto his palms. “It’s clearly a thing.”

“You’re flying in the face of several thousand years of magical theory,” Combeferre continues. He wraps up Grantaire’s hands with vengeance. “Everything we know, everything we have studied, says that magic is intangible and untouchable. It’s like fucking gravity. We can see its effects, we can feel when it makes us fall off a fucking building, but we can’t reach out and take a handful whenever we feel like it.”

“I mean, I probably wouldn’t be able to do it again,” Grantaire says. “That guy’s magic was particularly weird. I don’t think it would work with anyone else.”

There’s a shuffle from somewhere behind him, and some hastily-stifled laughter. “Enjolras is asleep,” Courfeyrac says fondly. Grantaire hadn’t even heard him come back into the room, which speaks volumes about his own exhaustion. “Grantaire, Montparnasse is here to take you home.”

Grantaire slowly tugs his hands out of Combeferre’s grip. “Am I all set, doctor?” he asks wryly.

He can almost sense the frustration radiating off of Combeferre. “Go home and go right to bed,” he says sternly. “And then come straight back in the morning so we can talk about what the fuck you did.”

“Yes, sir.” Grantaire stands up and lets Courfeyrac lead him to the door. He hesitates before he steps out.

“Everything okay?” Courfeyrac asks.

Grantaire nods. “Just tell Enjolras I’ll see him in the morning,” he mutters. Then he steps over the threshold and lets Montparnasse take him by the arm.

“Goodnight,” Courfeyrac calls after them as the descend the stairs. Grantaire waves at him over his shoulder.

Before long, he and Montparnasse are on the city street. It must be late now, because the air is cool and damp against Grantaire’s face. Paris itself also feels more like her nighttime self, as though she has thrown on a dark-colored garment that he can feel with his sensitive fingertips. He sighs. Montparnasse lights a cigarette.

“How is Babet?” Grantaire asks.

“Tucked into bed and sleeping like a child. He’ll be fine.” Montparnasse sounds tired but satisfied; the mystery of Claquesous isn’t dangerous to him, anymore. It has become a challenge. Grantaire is just glad to be done with it.

“Did you find anything out about Enjolras’s gold?” he asks next.

After a long moment, Montparnasse says, “No.”

Fuck.

“I did try,” Montparnasse adds. “But it’s messy, as you said. Like it’s tied up in a thousand different strands of magic. None of my guys could get any sort of read on where it’s from.”

They fall silent as Montparnasse leads Grantaire through a crowd of people standing outside of a bar, talking loudly and reeking of alcohol. Grantaire would ask for a drink, but–

But that would be a terrible idea, after a night of stimulants and magic.

“I just want an answer for Enjolras,” he says with a sigh. “There’s so much about his life and his curse that still doesn’t make sense to him. I want to figure it out for him.” He also needs to figure out what the fuck happened in that building in the 11e, because he doesn’t have any idea what he did or what Enjolras did.

Montparnasse makes an interested noise. “That’s an unusual amount of devotion for you.”

The curls around Grantaire’s eyes bounce wildly as he shakes his head. “It isn’t devotion,” he says. “It isn’t like that.” He doesn’t have a word for what it is, but ‘devotion’ doesn’t sound right. There’s too much worship implied. Grantaire has never worshipped anything or anyone in his life, and he isn’t going to start now. He steals Montparnasse’s cigarette.

“You two make a good pair,” Montparnasse adds, clearly deciding to back away from that line of conversation. “A pair of curse-breakers; a witchboy and a kid with a voice like a fucking prophet. You could start advertising.”

Grantaire takes a slow drag of whatever cobalt-tasting substance Montparnasse is smoking and feels his mouth and chest go cold. He smiles. “What, and hire myself out like a detective?”

“Your track record is good.”

“We’ve broken two curses.”

“Yeah, but so far that means you haven’t failed.” Montparnasse takes his cigarette back. “It would be good for you, to have that kind of work. Also, you need to ask the kid to move back in with you, I swear to god.”

Grantaire ducks his head. “It isn’t like that,” he says again.

“Regardless.” Montparnasse throws an arm about his shoulders and steers them across the street. His magic is like a maelstrom at Grantaire’s side. “You work well together, you get along, you could use a pair of eyes and he still needs a teacher. I see no drawbacks.”

Grantaire doesn’t want the idea to grow on him but it already is, as lovely and promising as a lavender plant. He could make two cups of tea every morning. Enjolras could help him in his garden and play with the cat and the hedgehog. Maybe they could wake up without one of them falling out of the bed, or leaving out of apprehension and fear. It’s a dangerously content dream, and it makes Grantaire ache.

He clears his throat. “We’ll see. As far as I know, Enjolras is perfectly happy staying with his other friends.”

Montparnasse makes an unimpressed noise. “Unless I’m mistaken his other friends have recently entered a new relationship anyway. You would be doing Enjolras a favor.”

The street around them is quiet, and Grantaire hates it, because it allows him to think. He reaches for Montparnasse’s cigarette again and breathes in deeply.

“Maybe,” he says after they’ve walked several more blocks. He can’t keep a tired smile off of his face. “Maybe I’ll ask him.”