Chapter Text
Jesus Christ. He didn’t know it was possible for someone to make him feel this way, constantly anxious, sick to his stomach, in an unabated state of anticipation and dread. And all from that one kiss. “I think you’re beautiful,” Grantaire had said. Simple as day. as if the nickname “Apollo” hadn’t already declared that thousands of times without Enjolras’ really even noticing. He felt like sort of an idiot, to be perfectly honest.
But above all, he was nervous. And it was exhausting. It was incessant terror. And Enjolras was fairly certain even Robespierre hadn’t had to face the likes of this.
He had felt anxiety before—in a time crunch, before giving a momentously important speech, when meeting with one of his idols or even occasionally while waiting for Combeferre to comment on his latest political proposal. But these were nothing compared to the constant black hole in his stomach that refused to be fed or disappear or be reasoned with no matter how many eloquent treatises he produces.
He doesn’t know what he wants. He knows how Grantaire feels, but that’s almost common knowledge. The thing is, Enjolras, for once, surprised himself by initiating this at all….
One night, months ago, at the Café Musain, he thought he could feel it beginning. He was speaking, the muse of justice scorching through him, giving him that surge of power and purpose that if he was honest, he got off on. As he was finishing, his vibrato reaching its soaring conclusion, he caught the eyes of a man he had rarely seen as engaged, amongst the wooden tables. He saw a light shining mistily in Grantaire’s eyes, reflecting the fire burning inside Enjolras. The others nodded, cheered, or drank in agreement as Enjolras concluded, but Grantaire was transfixed. Normally Enjolras saw the man’s eyes glazed over or rolling in his head as Grantaire sat hunched over a bottle in the corner. Granted, he had noticed Grantaire’s adoration before, in the looks he gave him, his sickeningly flattering words, that ridiculous nickname “Apollo.” He wasn’t oblivious. But he never knew he could inspire such passion in someone who took great care not to believe in anything, especially by talking politics.
For some reason, this time Enjolras was the one who couldn’t look away from Grantaire. The new luminosity that shone from the Grantaire’s irises and his slight absent-minded smirk were enticing, hell, even sexy. As Enjolras made a move to sit down, still focused on R, his eyes met Grantaire’s. A shiver ran through his body like an electric shock, which he tried to shake off. But despite his best efforts to ignore it, it settled his chest, before dropping to rest like a rock in the pit of his stomach. He broke the gaze and hurried to his seat, but the rock didn’t go away.
It wore down over time, but there it remained, a pebble that stirred inside him whenever he caught Grantaire staring at him from across the café or when their fingers touched in moments of clumsiness. And it was beginning to become a problem.
“Well if we don’t even try, there certainly is no hope! Grantaire, you are a self-fulfilling prophecy! To achieve justice, we must believe in it!” They were in the midst of their latest heated argument about the effectiveness of les Amis’ tactics. As he punctuated the last three words, to nods and a “Here, here!” from Courfeyrac, he whipped his head around in frustration only to find his eyes directly meeting his combatant’s. He stopped dead, stumbling, as brilliant blue eyes met cloudy grey ones, solemnity and emotion apparent from behind the veil of cynicism, a realization that temporarily paralyzed him. For one terrifying second, his mind when blank, before he finally shook his hair out of his eyes, resuming a defiant glare and continuing his defense.
The slip-up in the normally flawless speaker’s tirade did not go unnoticed. He was on the receiving end of more than a couple concerned and meaningful looks when they left the Musain that night. But Enjolras was not going to let this pebble, this nuisance, this nothing from getting in the way of Les Amis and the greater cause. He grew even shorter with Grantaire in the coming weeks, acting colder and suggesting his expulsion from meetings more often than usual. But he knew R must have seen the fear and (was it?) need in his eyes when they had locked eyes that night, each seemingly laid bare. As for the other Amis, they attributed Enjolras’ increased curtness to the stress that accompanied the kindling of a new campaign, yet again, and Enjolras breathed easy.
Or so he thought. Nights he would usually spend bent over his work were punctured by ethereal images of Grantaire, eyes ablaze or lips curling into a smirk, that floated in and out of his mind at their will, no regard for his other concerns. He found himself looking forward to weekly meetings at the Musain, not to discuss political strife as usual, but because of the promise of a scruffy, dark-haired man, breath thick with whiskey, hands stained with flecks of paint. But when another night ended, and the gang headed their separate ways, Enjolras had still never figured out how to do anything but either ignore or outwardly scorn Grantaire. The former left him hollow, the latter seething. At least an argument allowed for some interaction, the only way Enjolras could think to communicate with Grantaire these days. A particular nasty blow-up originated when Grantaire, slightly more drunk than usual, interrupted Enjolras in mid-sentence from his seat in the corner:
“As if anything you’re saying really means anything. It’s all talk. Even if you manage to put this thing in motion, ‘snot going to change a damn thing. ’s a goddamn lie, all it is. And even if it wasn’t, it wouldn’t matter. We all end up the same, might as well pull the stick out yer ass, Enjy”
Enjolras fumed. He could account for this rage, burning so white-hot inside him like his chest cavity had just turned into a roaring furnace. His words were like so many pokers at his disposal, ready to scald whenever he chose to flick them from the flames. This was beyond defense of justice, patria, freedom, loyalty, equality, all those words that usually set him afire. No, this was months worth of frustrations manifesting themselves in the only way he knew how: in that gaze that could scorch, and that tongue so sharp it could pierce.
“Perhaps you would be able to understand the meaning of these words if you weren’t drunk of your arse every second of the goddamn day. And we will not end up the same.” He gesture wildly to the others around them. “We try and we strive and we will change the world, and you?!” He was yelling. “You’re a fucking useless coward. Now leave.” His voice rapidly turned dead and cold.
R had turned his face away as though slapped, leaving his expression invisible to Enjolras. His posture communicated nothing. “I don’t have to take this shit,” he mumbled, knocking a bottle to the floor as he sidled towards the exit. No one was sure if it was on purpose or not. No one heard him mutter “You will see” on his way out either.
They didn’t speak again until it happened.