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The morning light filtered through the cracks in the shutters and splayed out across Enjolras’ waking form. In the height of Parisian summer Enjolras had forgone the use of sheets and favoured sprawling out across his bed in an effort to remain cool during the night. Now, at seven am on a Friday, he was lying wide awake, head whirring and skin covered in little drops of perspiration. Sleep had not come easy to him the night previous, as it had not every night since The Realisation.
The Realisation, as he had come to term it, was the moment when Enjolras had finally noticed that oh, shit, maybe I’m in love with R. He had been growing ever more aware over the previous months that Grantaire was somewhat attractive, that his voice was rather delightful, that every time he smiled at Enjolras his heart did this weird stuttering thing and his faced flushed as red as his jacket. But he hadn’t realised the extent of his feelings until R had walked into a meeting one day, fifteen minutes late, with a handsome young man on his arm. Enjolras had not been prepared for the burning jealously that flared up inside him at the sight of Grantaire smiling so happily in the arms of another man, nor for the terrible ache that pulled his heart and left him gasping. Instead of crying as he suddenly felt like doing, Enjolras had flown off the handle at the surprised art student, berating him loudly for his tardiness and hurling insults until the contented smile had wiped off the older man’s face and his eyes had dimmed and glazed. Grantaire’s beau, who had slung a protective arm around the poor man during the shouting, surprised Enjolras by retorting where R would normally have responded. This furthered Enjolras’ anger, because he didn’t want to hear this assholes words, he wanted to hear Grantaire, he wanted to feel Grantaire’s eyes on him, he wanted to hold Grantaire and get that bastard away-
That was when The Realisation happened. And it rendered him hollow.
Because at that moment, when everything suddenly made sense, Grantaire was stumbling out of the Musain, away from their friends, away from Enjolras, with another man.
He had cried that night. They’d cut the meeting short as no one wanted to be near Enjolras as everyone was rather appalled by his actions. He’d stormed into the apartment he shared with Combeferre and shut himself up in his room, the slamming of his door indicative to Combeferre that he was not to be disturbed, and crumpled to the floor. Enjolras had known, he’d known for so long now, that R felt something more than platonic towards him, but he’d never given any indication that he returned the feelings. And now, now he realised, now he knew how he felt, he was too late. He’d lost R to someone who did not make him cry. To a man who, by his appearance that evening, was calm and kind and did not throw accidental insults at R’s already fragile self. Enjolras had curled in on himself, not even making it to the bed, and sobbed into his knees. R was happy. But not happy with him. It burned Enjolras to his core when his mind showed him what could have been: casual touches, arms around each other, peppered kisses, gentle caresses, ‘oh, aren’t they adorable!’.
If he’d realised. If he’d only known sooner. If he’d stopped pushing down his feelings, if he’d taken the time to examine what the butterflies in his stomach meant, if, if, if!
Those same thoughts plagued his every waking moment for over a month. Grantaire stopped coming to the meetings, but Enjolras overheard conversations between Jehan and the others about R and Charlemagne (what a pretentious, bourgeois name, Enjolras had said. Everyone just looked at him.), about how cute they were together, and did you know he made R a flower crown of roses? He’s so sweet, such an artist, so clever too – R says he’s hoping to become a politician, studying at Sciences Po, you know. Every word spoken felt like a bullet to Enjolras’ chest, and he began to spend more and more time out of conversations and desperately trying not to overhear as he read his text books. Eponine, it seemed, was the only one of their group who was not enamoured with Charlemagne. She and Enjolras had never been close, but it seemed that she was the only one of their friends to have figured out why Enjolras was so quiet now that R was gone, and he found himself grow closer to the cynic’s best friend as the weeks went by.
“I love him, Eponine. I love him so much, oh god, please,” he cried into her shoulder one night in the corner of the Corinthe, the others having abandoned them to go to a party across Paris, “please make it stop. I want to be happy for him, I want him to be happy, but ‘Ponine, more than that, more than anything, I want him, I want him in my arms, mine, no one else’s, oh god, what am I going to do now?” Eponine smoothed his wild hair, one arm around Enjolras’ shaking body. She held him whilst he cried, and when he had calmed to slow hiccupping, she had nudged his face to look up at her. He did, eyes tearful, nose runny, and she’d smiled sadly.
“I know it’s hard, Enjolras – believe me, I’ve been there – but you have to try. You have to know that you’re love encompasses all of him, and if Charlemagne is a part of him now, then you have to try to be happy for them. It takes time, mon ami, but it can be done.” She paused, looking contemplative, before leaning in to his ear. Whispering, she said, “But I think, perhaps, you will not need to.”
That had been two nights ago. Now Enjolras lay thinking on his bed, not caring about the sweltering heat, only wishing that he had the artist’s warm body beside him. Combeferre had already left for a lecture, and he was as alone in his apartment as he was, he thought, in love. Knowing that sleep was out of his grasp, he stumbled out of bed towards the kitchen. He was half way through a cup of sickeningly sweet coffee when he heard a hesitant tapping on the door to the apartment. Sighing, Enjolras put the mug down on his coaster and wandered over to the door, completely forgetting the fact that he was still just in his sleeping boxers. Unhooking the latch, he pulled open the door to see the last person he thought would be there.
Grantaire. Grantaire was in his doorway. Grantaire was in his doorway covered in paint, because of course, he always was. Grantaire was in his doorway covered in paint staring somewhat transfixed at Enjolras’ naked torso. Grantaire was bright red. Grantaire was stepping forward. Grantaire was-
-Grantaire was kissing him. Enjolras, frozen, did not respond in kind and Grantaire quickly pulled away, humiliation evident on his face. Enjolras barely heard him as he rambled, still in shock, but when he did come to his senses he could hear the panic in R’s voice.
“…and ‘Ponine said that you were pining oh shit Enjolras I’m so sorry I’m going to hide all her fucking booze shit shit shit oh god Charlie said I’m too in love with you to be with him oh god he was right I’ve fucked up why did I ever believe her you’re not interested in me why would you be I’m a drunken fool who paints for a living and you’re a freaking god I’m so so sorry I’ll-“
But Enjolras never got to hear what R was going to do, because at that moment he grabbed the shorter man’s jacket, pulled him forward and kissed him with everything he had. The words died on R’s tongue as he melted into Enjolras’ touch, hands tangling in the messy long blonde hair that haloed the younger man’s face, Enjolras’ arms wrapping tightly around R’s waist as they kissed deeply. When they pulled back for air, Enjolras refusing to slacken his embrace, they panted nose to nose. Grantaire looked at Enjolras with such wide blue eyes, filled with amazement and – was that hope? Enjolras nuzzled R’s cheek softly.
“You love me,” he whispered. Grantaire chuckled, a little high pitched.
“Yes, I love you. From the moment we met.” Enjolras met his gaze with a smile.
“I love you,” he announced, his smile warming into a full-blown grin, eyes dancing in delight. Grantaire’s eyes, now impossibly wide, shone a little with what appeared to be unshed tears.
“Why?” Enjolras frowned before pressing his forehead to R’s. Lifting his chin, he pressed a gentle kiss to the centre of Grantaire’s forehead, and smiled down.
“Because,” he whispered, eyes glistening, “you’re perfect to me.”