Archive of Our Own ^beta

The sea calls to Grantaire.

It should be strange, the intensity frightening, but Grantaire can’t remember a time when it’s been different. He knows there was, but that was before and Grantaire doesn’t remember before. Not really.

All he knows now is that when there is silence, he can hear the crashing of waves filling his ears. Not the way some people claim they can hear it inside a sea shell, not the rushing sound of his own blood. What Grantaire hears is water as it laps against sand, as it crashes against rocks. What he hears is the ocean, and when he closes his eyes at night it follows him into his dreams.

Every night is the same, but not. He’s always underwater, but never drowning. The world is tinged in blues and greens, the sunlight a bright, glittering blanket above him as he floats there, suspended.

Nothing ever happens, not really. In his dreams, Grantaire never moves – not because he’s unable, but because there’s no reason to. The waves, though insistent at the surface, hardly touch him down there and so he stays, and watches, and when he wakes he can taste salt on his tongue.

It’s disorienting and it always takes Grantaire some time to find back to himself. To the self that is here, now, on solid ground and in the real world. A world that’s loud and bright in a way that is dull and artificial. And when he lies there, blinking at the ceiling, he thinks that he’ll never be able to get up again because his limbs feel too heavy and gravity too strong to fight.

He doesn’t talk about it with anyone, not even Eponine – and if there is someone in this miserable world that knows him inside and out, it’s Eponine.

But Grantaire doesn’t mention the ocean, says nothing about his dreams. He made that mistake once and the endless months that followed, months filled with serious faces where kind smiles looked misplaced, months full of “Tell me what you see in this picture”, months of Grantaire learning how best to lie for them to leave him alone. No, he doesn’t want to go back to that.

Instead, he paints.

He doesn’t paint water all the time, but he paints it often. His last showing was a series of paintings depicting his dreams. In some, the sun shone down on the water, on others the canvas was plunged in different hues of grey and little droplets of rain turned the surface into a blanket of tiny circles. When Grantaire had first seen them in his dreams, he thought they looked a little bit like stars.

No, he doesn’t tell Eponine, but Grantaire is sure she knows anyway.

*

When Grantaire had just turned seven, Aunt Justine took him away for a trip with her own two children. Grantaire has always loved his aunt - an easy feat when she’s the only one in his family that loves him back.

Guillaume hadn’t wanted to come and so he stayed with their father. Grantaire doubts he’d been able to tell that one of his sons was gone in the first place, let alone care about where Grantaire had gone off to. After all, he and Guillaume had always been more with Aunt Justine than not back then, mostly because they’d probably have starved otherwise; the fridge always empty barring copious amounts of alcohol.

It had been nice, getting out of the city. Away from the hustle and bustle of Paris, where there’s never enough time and everything is solid and full of concrete.

They had stayed in France, of course. No one in Grantaire’s family had any money – they still don’t – and Aunt Justine could barely afford even this little excursion.

She’d rented a tiny bungalow that was practically falling apart, the salt having burrowed deeply into the wood and rotting it from the inside, aided by the damp air. Grantaire had to sleep in the same bed as Lise and Henri, both of them older than him and unable to get along even for a minute. They kept kicking him in the night and Grantaire ended up sleeping on the floor, wrapped in the one sheet he’d managed to wrestle off the two of them.

On their last day, Aunt Justine had taken them on a ferry.

Grantaire had been quiet and completely in awe, his hands clutching the railing and feeling the ship’s powerful engine vibrating through his body and making him feel as though his very bones were rattling.

The experience had been somewhat tainted by Lise and Henri, who where once again fighting loudly right behind him. Grantaire hates shouting – always has. He used to get it every day at home and back then it had made him cringe and curl in upon himself, trying to drown their voices out as best he could.

That was most likely also the reason why, when the shove had come, it was so unexpected that instead of holding on tighter, Grantaire had let go of the railing. He’d always been a small child, his shoulders only having filled out after puberty, and he’s certainly never been tall; not even now that he’s fully grown.

One moment, he’d been standing on the ship, the next he was flying trough the air and the deep blue surface, streaked with white from the foaming waves of the ship, was coming to meet him. There had been no time for thought, not time for flailing or screaming, because when he’d hit the water, all Grantaire could feel was chilled and shocked.

The fear had only come when he’d been fully submerged, when the water had started tugging on him and drawing him ever closer towards the ship behind him.

Grantaire remembers the panic, remembers kicking and swallowing water because he forgot that he was supposed to keep his mouth shut. He remembers the current yanking him this was and that, the sound of the ship’s propeller deafening, thrumming through the water and pulling him ever closer.

But then, suddenly, a different sound had cut through the cacophony of the ship. Something soft and sweet, something that was heard with his body rather than his ears.

Grantaire had gone still, all his focus now on the pull inside his chest instead of the insistent current, and for just a moment, he had been floating. His stinging eyes had caught sight of the sun hitting the surface above him, making everything seem suddenly brighter, better.

Something had grabbed his hand, then, and the spell had been broken, the melodious sound abruptly cut off as he was drawn away from the dangerous whirlpool of the propeller, waiting to slice him to pieces.

Grantaire remembers gripping back instinctively, clutching tightly and reaching out with his other hand to find purchase with it as well. Something had brushed his side, something strong, and when his fingers bumped against it by accident, he could feel slick smoothness. It felt, he had thought later, a little bit like the Koi that he’d been allowed to stroke on a school trip to the aquarium.

At that time, though, Grantaire could hardly spare the energy for coherency. His lungs had been burning almost as badly as his eyes and everything in him had screamed to open his mouth and just breathe.

Water had rushed by him and blackness had started creeping in from the edges of his vision, blending in with the blurriness and making his head spin. Just when Grantaire had been about to give in and open his mouth, the surface broke over his head.

He remembers coughing and coughing; coughing until he thought his lungs would give out, coughing until his throat had turned raw. And all the while through it, someone had been holding him.

Small arms had gripped him like a vice around his waist, keeping him firmly above the water. Grantaire even vaguely remembers gripping onto smooth shoulders, slippery with water, and just about fitting into his small hands.

What happened after was quick and Grantaire is sure that his mind must be missing some time, but he’d been completely exhausted by that point and the shock had sat deeply in his bones.

There had been voices shouting and a bright red lifebuoy that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. One of the arms still holding him let go to nudge it closer and against his chest, prompting Grantaire to take it.

Numb and shaking, Grantaire had grabbed hold of it. Then the other arm had been gone as well and Grantaire was ready to panic again. He hadn’t wanted to let go, had wanted to stay with whoever had just held him, for once having felt safe and protected.

There’d been a flash of gold and red – not the cheap plastic red from the lifebuoy, but a glittering spark of colour – and then a completely different set of arms had grabbed him and tugged him away.

From that moment, Grantaire forgot before and his life now, is after. Though after what exactly, Grantaire doesn’t know.

*

“Have you ever actually been to the sea?”

Grantaire looks up from where he’s been staring at the liquid sloshing around the bottle in his hands. He has to admit he’s rather far gone and, judging by Eponine’s heavy lidded eyes, it’s the same for her.

“Once,” he says, before taking another sip and passing the bottle back to Eponine’s outstretched hand.

“Really?” She looks at him, slightly quizzical, and her attempt at questioningly tilting her head ends in a sideways slump against the bed. “It looks as though you’ve seen it a million times.”

I have. I see it every night, is what Grantaire doesn’t say. Instead, he takes another drink, finishing off the bottle.

“We should go, then,” Eponine says.

Grantaire looks at her, then away, feeling something twist in his stomach.

“Yeah,” is all he says, vague and distant.

He doesn’t know if he actually wants to go back. It’s the reason why he hasn’t, in all these years. Grantaire is a coward, and so he hides rather than faces up to this.

He doesn’t want to know what it will feel like to actually see the ocean, not when the call is already so strong from all the way across here where Grantaire is safely tucked away between concrete and steady ground.

He doesn’t want to go and return with all his questions unanswered.

*

In the end it happens like most of the things in Grantaire’s life. Drunkenly and impulsively.

*

“Montparnasse knows this guy,” Eponine tells him, wiping spilled coffee off the counter while Grantaire locks the door of the coffee shop.

He doesn’t actually work there, but he helps out when he’s got nothing better to do – which is more often than not, really.

“Montparnasse knows lots of guys.”

Eponine gives him a look.

“Not like that one, he doesn’t.” She throws the dirty rag into the sink. “He’s filthy rich. Has a boat and all that jazz. He’s throwing a party over the weekend.”

Grantaire would’ve liked to protest the expense, but money really isn’t an issue anymore. Not after having just had his third successful showing in as many months and sold a whole series of paintings to a woman who wants to have them lining her high-class office walls.

“This weekend?” Grantaire asks, sounding as doubtful and reluctant as he feels.

Eponine points a finger at him. “Don’t give me that look. I want to go, so we’re going. You’re paying for our tickets.”

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “Did I miss your birthday or something?”

Eponine flips him off, looking anything but shamed.

“We’re going.”

*

Apparently, the weekend starts a day earlier for Eponine than for the rest of the world, because on Thursday night she comes over and tries her best to kill Grantaire with alcohol. If he weren’t such a seasoned drinker, Grantaire thinks he might actually have landed in hospital.

This, of course, results in Eponine taking complete advantage of the situation by making him buy two plane tickets, before hauling his horrifyingly hungover arse to the airport in the ungodly hours of the next morning.

Grantaire remembers nothing of the journey, nor of checking into a hotel. He only realises that that’s what happened when he wakes up in a strange bed with Eponine flitting around the room in a tiny black dress.

“What the fuck?” Grantaire says eloquently, rubbing at eyes that feel as though someone has poured sand into them.

“Get dressed,” Eponine throws back. “And for god’s sake, take a shower. You reek.”

Grantaire flips her off and then proceeds to contemplate his life – the state of things in general and his choice of friends in particular – while stumbling into the shower and a random compilation of paint-stained clothes afterwards.

*

The party is, as all parties, too loud and too crowded.

Grantaire takes one look at the people and silently lifts a bottle from the bar, slinking off to a dark corner of the boat to empty it in peace.

Eponine, because she isn’t just his best friend but also a bloodhound, finds him two hours later and drags him back to the mass of wasted people sporting increasingly less inhibition and clothing. He dances with her, feeling rather more agreeable now that he’s drunk again, then with a random guy that has been eying him for the past half an hour.

He bats him away when he gets too handsy, not at all in the mood, and intends to make himself scarce once more. He’s intercepted by Eponine, again, and forced into a vicious round of shots with her, Montparnasse and his idiot friends.

It ends with them sprawled in various positions on the floor, passed out, Eponine and Montparnasse all but fucking with their clothes on and Grantaire staggering into a random direction, uncaring where to as long as it’s away.

The air is thick with salt and Grantaire breathes in deeply, the sound of waves for once not just in his head. He wishes he was somewhere more quiet, somewhere where it’s just him and the water and-

When he falls this time, it’s entirely his own fault.

The boat is hardly as big as the ferry and the engine has been switched off ages ago, leaving it to drift aimlessly.

The shock of cool and wet might have sobered him, if he hadn’t somehow managed to hit his head. He slips into darkness, cradled in the sea’s cool embrace.

*

Pain slices through Grantaire’s head.

The sun is beating down on him, hot and relentless even though it must have not been in the sky very long yet. There is sand in his mouth and his clothes are glued to his skin.

Someone groans and when his raw throat protests, Grantaire realises it must’ve been himself. He blinks against the blinding brightness, his limbs never having felt heavier than in that moment. The surf is lapping at his legs.

He flails a little and manages to turn over, before sagging into the sand once more, that one move having left him panting with exertion. His vision is swimming, which is why it takes him a moment to realise that something is blocking the sun.

Grantaire blinks, barely managing to get his sticky lashes to part, and squints upwards. For a moment, he’s certain he must be dreaming.

Fierce eyes look back at him from a delicate face, pale blue but lit with an inner fire. Each and every feature looks perfect, as though it’s been crafted by the most gifted artist, or rather, by something that isn’t from this world at all.

The god above him frowns, his expression stormy and his full lips – they look so soft, Grantaire thinks dazedly – turning down at the corners in displeasure. Golden curls tumble over his shoulder as he shifts, almost long enough to tickle Grantaire’s face.

Grantaire is absolutely transfixed, unable to look away and nailed to the ground with shocked awe.

And then, as suddenly as he appeared, he’s gone again. Grantaire blinks. He can hear the splashing sound of someone running into the waves and is seized by a sudden, intense panic.

Scrambling upwards, Grantaire’s stomach turns at the sudden shift in position, his head spinning wildly and his vision too blurred to see for a moment. When he does manage to focus again, it’s to see a flash of red in the water and the man nowhere to be seen.

Grantaire stares at the sea, feeling its pull even now, even while he’s almost lying in it.

Next to him, there’s one set of fresh, bare footsteps. But at Grantaire’s hip, where the sand is only slightly damp and the surf unable to reach it and wash it away, is the imprint of a series of rows on rows of an even pattern.

Grantaire touches the edge, tracing it with the same fingers that brushed against the strange smoothness so many years ago.

Scales.

*

When he gets back to the hotel, the sun is high in the sky and Grantaire wonders how he’s even still standing.

It took him some time to figure out where he was and even longer to find his way back. He took the wrong bus twice and fell asleep in the third one.

Eponine looks wild when he arrives, her lips red from being bitten and her hair standing on end from where she’s run her hands through it repeatedly. She rounds on him immediately.

“Grantaire, oh my god!”

She yanks him close, almost choking him with the force of her slender arms wrapping around his neck, squeezing the breath out of him. He hugs her back, running soothing hands down her back and patting her shoulders.

“I’m alright, I’m okay,” he says softly. “I’m sorry.”

“You better be fucking sorry, you idiot!” Eponine snaps and pushes away from him to jab him in the chest. “You scared the shit out of me! What the hell happened?”

I got rescued by a merman and I think it’s the same one that saved my life when I was seven.

 “I stole an inflatable mattress and fell asleep on it. Woke up on the beach.” The lie comes easy, though the contrite expression on his face is real enough. “I really am sorry.”

Eponine sighs, but finally some of the tension seems to seep out of her.

“Jesus Christ, ‘Aire, I thought you’d drowned or something.” She lets herself fall on the bed behind her. “And now excuse me while I pass out and never wake up again. I couldn’t even fit in a shag because I noticed you were gone and then went out of my mind looking for you. Nearly had a heart attack, you fucker.”

Grantaire crawls in next to her and Eponine turns over to curl into his chest. He puts and arm around her and hugs her close.

“Love you, too ‘Ponine.”

“Fuck you,” she grumbles back, but holds him all the tighter for it.

The lie from before still tastes bitter on his tongue. He falls asleep to the sounds of the ocean and the image of a god looking down at him, framed by golden locks and sunlight.

*

Grantaire thinks about going back to Paris, back to the life he left there.

He finds that he is physically unable to, that his stomach tightens and his chest clenches painfully at the mere thought of it.

Now that he’s given in, it seems, he’s unable to turn back. The call of the ocean is relentless and has gripped him completely, chaining him in place.

*

“You what?”

“I want to stay,” Grantaire repeats, carefully avoiding Eponine’s gaze.

“Just like that?” Eponine asks, incredulous. “You only brought two sets of clothes, you don’t even have your phone!”

No, his phone is back in Paris, where he forgot to take it during Eponine’s sneaky almost-kidnapping.

“You can send it to me?” he tries, hoping to end the conversation as quickly as possible. He doesn’t enjoy lying to Eponine and feels that if she presses any more he might actually blurt it all out. And that just isn’t an option.

Eponine gives him a dubious look. “Is this an artist thing? Because if it is, then fine whatever, I don’t understand that anyway. But is it? Because you’ve been looking a bit shifty ever since you came back from your little disappearing act and I don’t want to leave you here if there’s something brewing in that head of yours.”

Relieved at having practically been served the excuse on a silver platter, Grantaire jumps at it immediately.

“It’s an artist thing,” he says firmly, then looks at Eponine with what he hopes is a sufficiently pleading expression. “Will you send me some of my things? I won’t need a lot, but I don’t know how long I’ll be staying for.”

Eponine gives him another long, intent look, before letting out a sigh.

“Fine,” she says at last. “Make me a list. And if you don’t call or text me at least once a day I’ll come back down here and cut off your dick, understood?”

Grantaire laughs despite the threat.

*

He ends up renting a run-down bungalow that looks a lot like the one he stayed in with Aunt Justine and his cousins. It’s the only one he can get on such a short notice and so close to the summer season.

Fairy tales and obsessions aside, it’ll probably be nice spending the summer away from Paris. Grantaire has never cared much for the heat and here, at least, the edge is taken off by the cool sea breeze.

He goes back to the beach every day for almost a week at different times of the day, but finds no ethereal looking man there – with or without a fishtail. Grantaire doesn’t know what else to do, is out of ideas of how one is supposed to find a creature only found in legends and, Grantaire supposes bitterly, one that probably doesn’t want to be found. Just because he saved Grantaire’s life, doesn’t mean he wants to see him again.

But Grantaire needs to see him, he has to.

Actually, he wants to do much more than just see, but he tries very, very hard not to think about that.

In any case, failure isn’t an option. Not this time.

Grantaire is used to wanting and not getting – though he’s never really wanted a lot in the first place, really – but this, now, this is something he’ll not accept not getting. For once, Grantaire will put up a fight. For once, he isn’t ready to give up.

*

The third time he falls, he jumps on purpose.

*

The idea, Grantaire reflects bitterly, was a good one in thought but absolutely sucks in practice.

The guy he’d sweet-talked into taking him along on his boat had been bewildered, but willing. He asked Grantaire at least five times if he was sure that he wanted to be left there, so far from the shore that it was just a distant line on the horizon, and Grantaire had assured him that yes, that’s exactly what he wants.

Relenting, the guy insisted on giving him a lifebuoy – bright red; the irony completely not lost on Grantaire – and left.

The good thing about planning it, Grantaire thinks, is that at least there are no unwieldy clothes sticking to his body. The bad thing, apparently, is that he’s obviously not in great enough need because, as he watches the guy’s boat disappear in the distance, Grantaire remains completely alone.

Trying not to be too devastatingly disappointed, Grantaire starts swimming back into the direction of the shore. The lifebuoy, though well intended, is rather more of a hindrance than a help and Grantaire considers simply leaving it there. But when he eyes the distance once more, he keeps the string slung over his shoulders and continues to drag it behind him.

Grantaire’s not a stranger to exercise. He’s done a bit of material arts on the side for years and several different dance courses just for the hell of it. He likes being in motion, likes working with his hands, but swimming has never been on his list of priorities and he feels ready to capitulate halfway to the shore. It really is further than he thought.

Dragging the lifebuoy closer, Grantaire drapes aching arms across it and rests his chin on them, trying to catch his breath. Once he isn’t panting anymore, Grantaire finds that it’s much more comfortable than he thought it would be, resting in the water like this. He closes his eyes and simply drifts there for a while, his sense of time lost and the small sounds of the water lulling him to sleep.

He definitely would’ve nodded off, if it wasn’t for the sudden splash right behind him.

Grantaire’s eyes snap open. A cool hand touches his side and he lets loose an undignified sound, jumping at the contact and losing his grip on the lifebuoy. It shoots away and Grantaire flails and would have slipped underwater, but the hand lets go and is replaced by an arm, holding him firmly.

“Stop it,” a smooth voice snaps, tone low but sharp and clear as glass.

Grantaire stops.

Something cool and slippery brushes Grantaire’s legs and he has to bite down on his tongue to stifle another sound of surprise.

A pale hand appears in his field of vision, delicate and long-fingered but thoroughly human-looking, and yanks on the red string resting in the water, drawing the lifebuoy back towards them. He shoves it at Grantaire’s chest and Grantaire feels a certain sense of déja-vu.

“Hold on,” the voice commands. “And don’t move.”

The arm stays around him, but it changes grip and a moment later Grantaire can feel the water at his legs shifting with powerful movement.

It’s fast and smooth, if a little awkward, and Grantaire’s brain has a hard time catching onto what’s happening. They change course and, for a delirious, hysterical moment Grantaire wonders whether he’ll end up as merman-dinner.

But the reason becomes apparent soon enough when they slow and then finally stop at a roundish rock, empty but for a few seagulls. He’s all but flung onto it and Grantaire takes the hint and obediently scrambles on, dragging himself out of the water and finally, finally turns around.

The one, bleary-eyed look Grantaire got before really didn’t do this creature in front of him any justice. If possible, he’s even more beautiful than Grantaire remembers.

Golden curls are fanned out across the water, long enough to fall past his shoulders if he were standing on land, and gleaming in the sun.

His expression, however, is set in a stormy frown, soft lips once again drawn into a displeased line, made thinner by being pressed so tightly together.

Grantaire clears his throat, afraid that his voice won’t work even so.

“You’re a hard person to get hold of,” is what he ends up saying.

The other man glares at him.

“I’m not your personal lifeguard,” he bites out.

Grantaire marvels at how his voice can still sound so soft and melodious even while lashing it at Grantaire like that.

Mind still reeling with it all, Grantaire gives what must be a singularly stupid grin.

“I prefer you to Pamela Anderson, to be honest.”

The glare, if possible, becomes even more murderous.

Not dignifying Grantaire’s last comment with a response, the golden god hefts himself out of the water in a practiced move and slides onto the lower part of the rock. Reddish-golden scales glint in the sun and Grantaire feels all the air in his lungs evaporate as he simply stops breathing for a moment.

He doesn’t know what’s bigger, the shock or the utter awe at so much beauty.

Unable not to, Grantaire lets his eyes run over the smooth, pale chest. There’s no hair on his body other than his head and Grantaire wants to touch him, to map that marble skin with his mouth.

Swallowing, Grantaire’s gaze slides lower, lingering at the line where skin turns to scales, before following the glinting mass all the way to where it disappears into the water just below the point Grantaire suspects would be the knees if it were actual legs. He mourns the fact that he cannot see the fin at this angle and wonders how big it must be to match the rest.

The other man – merman, Jesus fucking Christ – is delicate and slender, but tall.

“Satisfied?” he bites out, one beautifully curved brow raised. “Do you think you can stop almost drowning now?”

Grantaire bristles a little. “The first two times were an accident.”

“Yes, I can see how drinking yourself into oblivion happens accidentally.”

Grantaire is used to insults, used to letting harsh words bounce off of him without letting them affect him too much, but for some reason he’s unable to do it now.

“Why rescue me then, if you disapprove so much,” Grantaire says, low but with an edge of hurt that he tries to mask with anger.

The other man doesn’t answer, but the silence is an admission in itself. Grantaire feels slightly dizzy.

“So it really was you,” he says, already knowing the answer. “All those years ago, when I was little.”

Pale blue eyes study him closely and Grantaire thinks that the colour reminds him of a stormy day at sea, rather more grey than actual blue.

“Yes.”

“You don’t look old enough.” Grantaire says bluntly, instinctively leaning a little closer as though that would make some hitherto unseen sign of aging appear on the other man’s perfect face. “It was, what, eighteen years ago? You look barely twenty – and I’m being generous here.”

The other man brushes golden curls over his shoulders, still wet and clinging to his skin. Grantaire wants to bury his hands in them; his nose. They must smell like the sea.

“We age differently.”

Age differently? Grantaire wants to ask, when the full meaning hits him. “Wait, there’s more of you?”

This earns him another intense glare.

“Of course there are.”

“Where-” Grantaire starts, but is cut off suddenly by the sound of a boat drawing closer.

The other man doesn’t look up, completely unsurprised by the appearance.

“Combeferre will take you home,” is all he says.

In one smooth move, he’s back in the water. Grantaire’s heart seizes with the familiar feeling of panic, just as it has every time in the face of the other man leaving him.

“I want to see you again,” he blurts out.

The merman looks at him, still angry. “So you can take a picture and sell it to the papers?”

Grantaire feels his jaw clench in annoyance. “Is that what you think? Really?”

The other man looks away and doesn’t answer. Grantaire is ready to start pleading, when the arrival of the boat cuts him off.

A tall man with glasses stands at the wheel. He gives them both a look.

“Thank you for coming,” the merman says. “Take him back to the main land, I’ll see you at home.”

Home?

“Courfeyrac and Jehan are back. They arrived just after you left,” the man called Combeferre says.

The merman nods, before glancing back at Grantaire.

“Next time I won’t come to save you.”

The words hurt even more than the ones before and Grantaire has to bite his lip for a moment. Still, he can’t look away and everything in him screams that he has to hold on, to keep pushing and not give up.

He takes a deep breath. “Will you at least tell me your name?”

The merman looks at him for a moment, eyes deep and unfathomable.

And Grantaire is sure, absolutely heartbreakingly certain that he’ll be denied. He tries to imprint the image of this perfect creature into his head so he can race home and paint him. His fingers are already twitching, his head filled with colours and brushstrokes.

“Enjolras,” the merman says softly, breaking into his thoughts. It takes a moment for Grantaire to realise that it’s an answer.

Maybe it’s something in the way Grantaire must look, maybe it’s a simple curtsey extended without thought. But for Grantaire, it’s enough to make his heart swell and his lips stretch into a smile.

Something in the other man’s eyes softens and his gaze lingers on Grantaire for a few, breathless moments.

Then, just like that, he’s gone.

Grantaire can make out a reddish-golden blur beneath the surface and then there’s the flash of a fin, briefly appearing as the merman dives deeper. It’s bigger than Grantaire expected.

Enjolras.

He repeats the name in his mind, sounding it out and applying it to the beautiful creature that has just disappeared. He finds that it fits.

“Do you need a hand?” Combeferre asks, tearing him from his thoughts.

“Nah, I’ll manage.”

Grantaire makes it onto the boat by himself and Combeferre wordlessly re-starts the engine, stirring them towards the main land.

Grantaire is burning with a million questions, but he doesn’t ask a single one. Combeferre is not the person he wants answers from.

“Enjolras is stubborn,” Combeferre says quietly, just as Grantaire has jumped back into the water to swim the last few feet to the shore. “Don’t let that deter you.”

As parting words go, these turned out rather heartening. Grantaire tentatively lets himself hope.

*

Over a week passes until he sees Enjolras again. This time he doesn’t have to fall into the sea first.

*

It’s been windy all day, but the sand beneath Grantaire’s feet is soft and still warm. He’s taken off his flip-flops and stuffed them into the back pocket of his baggy shorts, the sky above him stretching out blood red where the sun is setting.

He hasn’t been sleeping well, his dreams for once not filled with the ocean, but with Enjolras. He’s barely stopped painting – or drinking, for that matter – the small bungalow now filled with hastily bought canvases and art supplies. Every time Grantaire thinks of Enjolras he feels like bursting, as though he would crawl out of his skin if he doesn’t paint him right now.

Sighing, Grantaire walks towards the edge of the water, allowing the waves to wash over his toes, then changes course again and lets his feet sink into dry sand, watching as it sticks to his skin grain by grain.

This stretch of beach is never very crowded, especially not at this time when everyone is probably eating dinner. It is, therefore, quite the shock when he discovers a small figure standing there with no one else in sight.

As Grantaire draws closer, he sees that it’s a little girl. He hastens to close the distance between them.

She looks up at him with huge, green eyes as he comes to a halt in front of her. Her hair is a dark chestnut brown and wavy, her features delicate, and she must be the prettiest child Grantaire has ever seen. She’ll become a complete heartbreaker when she’s older, Grantaire is sure.

“Hey,” he says gently, crouching down to her level so as not to be towering over her. “Are you alright? Where’re your parents?”

Her lip trembles a little at the mention of her parents, though she doesn’t cry. She cannot be older than four or five, Grantaire thinks.

“I-I think I’m lost,” she tells Grantaire softly, as though confiding a secret. She fists small hands into her flowery summer dress. “Daddy always says I shouldn’t run away. And I don’t mean to! But I saw a kitten and I tried to follow it but then it got away and I didn’t know where I was. Daddy and Dad are always so scared when I get lost. Sometimes daddy cries when he’s scared. I don’t like it when he cries, I don’t want him to be sad.”

Grantaire tries to process the flood of information and does his best to give the little girl a reassuring smile.

“I’m sure they know you don’t mean to scare them. They can’t be too far, don’t worry, we’ll find them. I’ll help you, okay? My name’s Grantaire, but you can call me ‘Aire if you like. What’s yours?”

“Belle.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Belle.” Grantaire offers her his hand and she looks at it with wide eyes, before reaching out her own and placing it into Grantaire’s broad palm with a smile.

He smiles back, helplessly charmed, and makes a show of bowing and kissing her hand as one would a princess’. Belle giggles.

Grantaire rises and looks around, but the beach is just as empty as before.

“Do you remember what direction you came from?”

Belle bites her lip, but stretches out her arm to point a finger to her right.

“Alright, that’s a start. Let’s go that way, then.”

They start walking and Belle slips her hand back into Grantaire’s, which prompts him to smile down at her once more.

“Dad always says I should call them when I get lost, but it’s hard. I’m bad at calling people. I can’t focus. Daddy says it’s because I’m still little, but dad say it’s because he sucks at telepathy and so I’ve probably got that from him.”

Grantaire raises his eyebrows, but chooses not to say anything to that. There’s no harm in a little over-active imagination, after all.

“But daddy is good at telepathy,” Belle babbles on. “And my uncles are there, too. So they’ll find us soon. Do you suck at telepathy, too?”

Grantaire shrugs and gives her a bemused smile. “No idea, never tried it.”

Belle frowns a little. “You should. It’s important! I wouldn’t get lost as much if I was better…” She trails off, sounding rather forlorn and Grantaire can’t bear to see that look on her face.

“Do you want me to show you something I am good at?”

Belle looks up and nods, curiosity taking over and seemingly making her forget all about telepathy.

Grantaire stops them and roots around his pockets for a pen.

“What’s you favourite animal?”

“Dolphins!” she says brightly. “They always like to play and they’re really good for doing races with!”

Grantaire wonders if he ever had an imagination like that. He finally finds a pen and crouches down again.

“Dolphins it is. Give me your arm. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt.”

Belle gives him her arm without hesitation.

Grantaire tilts it a little into a better position and quickly sketches two dolphins chasing each other. It’s not his best work, but at least he’s familiar enough with sea animals to get the proportions somewhat right. He adds a smiling sun and some seagulls.

Belle squeals with delight and throws her arms around his neck as soon as he lets go. Grantaire laughs and hugs her back. When she doesn’t release him, he picks her up – the same way he’d done with Gavroche when was little.

Belle settles against his shoulder, busy with studying the drawing on her arm while Grantaire keeps walking. He doesn’t want to lose any more time, her parents are probably beside themselves with worry.

“Will you teach me how to draw?” Belle asks, looking up at him with an expression that’s probably able to get her anything she asks for. It would be rather frightening if it weren’t so cute.

“If you like,” Grantaire says, shifting her a little and settling her better against his side. “But only if your parents are okay with it.”

“Don’t worry,” she tells him, as though it’s Grantaire that suddenly needs consoling. “They’re really nice.”

Grantaire suppresses a laugh. “That’s good to know.”

They’ve almost reached the road now and it’s then that Grantaire sees two figures rushing towards them.

“See,” says Belle. “They found us!”

Grantaire carefully sets her back on her feet, just as a petite man with a long strawberry blonde braid reaches them. Belle all but jumps into his arms.

“Daddy, I’m sorry!”

The man squeezes her gently and visibly slumps with relief.

“It’s alright, baby.”

A second man appears at their side, taller and ridiculously handsome. At first, Grantaire is sure that he must be the biological father, because Belle definitely has his hair and eyes, but at closer inspection he finds that she also has the smaller man’s nose and delicate face. It makes him a bit dizzy thinking about it.

“Belle, how many times do we have to tell you not to run off like that,” the dark haired man says, leaning in to press a kiss to her head and wrapping his arm around both of them, before turning to Grantaire. “Thank you for finding her. I swear she scares years off our lives every time she does this. I’m Courfeyrac, by the way, and this is my husband, Jehan.”

The names sound familiar and Grantaire tries to remember where he’s heard them before. Courfeyrac offers him a hand, which he shakes.

“Grantaire. And it was no trouble, really. She’s lovely.”

Courfeyrac smiles at him and Jehan offers his own hand to Grantaire, still looking a little pale from the shock. His smile, however, is genuine and his grip firmer than Grantaire expected.

“Thank you again,” Jehan says in a gentle, melodious voice that fits his delicate features. “I’m happy she found someone nice to keep her company, at least.”

“It was my pleasure.”

“‘Aire can draw!” Belle chimes in, thrusting her arm under Jehan’s nose. “Look! He told me he would show me how if you let him. Please say yes? I want to make dolphins, too!”

Both Jehan and Courfeyrac throw Grantaire an apologetic look.

“I don’t know if-” Jehan starts, but is interrupted by Belle letting out a squeal.

“‘Ferre!”

Deftly wriggling free of her father’s hold, she bolts past Grantaire and is caught by none other than Combeferre. And there, right behind him, is a sight that nearly makes Grantaire’s heart stop.

His golden curls tied in a low pony-tail and dressed in a t-shirt, skinny-jeans and a pair of red Converse, Enjolras looks no less beautiful, but undoubtedly human. He meets Grantaire’s eyes, his look unreadable.

“This is Grantaire,” Jehan says. “He was kind enough to bring Belle back to us.”

“Hello, Grantaire,” Combeferre greets him evenly. “I trust you found your way back alright the other day?”

“Wait, you know each other?” Courfeyrac looks between them, bewildered.

Combeferre exchanges a look with both Jehan and Courfeyrac in what could only be some form of sophisticated non-verbal communication.

“Oh,” Courfeyrac breathes. “Oh! I see. Well. Grantaire, let us thank you again for taking care of Belle, but I think we’ve all had enough excitement for today, don’t you think? It’s about time we head home.”

Enjolras sends all of them a dirty look and is steadfastly ignored.

“Oh yes,” Jehan agrees hastily, throwing Enjolras a meaningful glance before turning back to Grantaire with a smile. “Goodnight, Grantaire. Belle, say goodbye to Grantaire.”

Belle waves at him, still nestled in Combeferre’s arms.

“Bye ‘Aire! Next time you have to show me how to draw!”

Grantaire barely has enough time to process what’s happening, before he’s left alone with a glowering Enjolras and the confusing fact that there’s no fishtail in sight.

Enjolras starts walking abruptly, back into the direction of the beach and passing Grantaire without a word. Grantaire hesitantly falls into step beside him, and when Enjolras doesn’t protest, picks up his pace slightly to be able to keep up with Enjolras’ longer legs. Legs!

“You have legs,” Grantaire blurts out inelegantly.

Enjolras throws him a sharp look. “An astute observation.”

Grantaire takes a deep breath. “No, but you have legs.”

Enjolras sighs, sounding rather more like an angry bull than a tortured soul, and folds down onto the sand, the shore a safe distance away. Grantaire sinks down beside him, unable to stop staring.

“I always do,” Enjolras says. “Outside the water.”

“So when you get wet…”

“Yes.”

A sudden thought hits Grantaire.

“And the others, Combeferre, Jehan and Courfeyrac? Are they- are they like you?”

Enjolras crosses his legs, a gentle breeze tugging at his curls.

“Combeferre and Courfeyrac aren’t. But Jehan, yes.”

Grantaire needs to chew on that for a moment, trying is best not to freak out as his whole world re-aligns itself.

“You’re very willing to give me answers for someone who thought that I’d sell you to the press only a few days ago,” Grantaire says then, because he’s still bitter about that.

Enjolras doesn’t look at him, his face turned down and away while his long fingers sift the sand.

“I didn’t mean that.”

It comes out uncharacteristically soft and Grantaire wishes he had the right to reach over and thread their fingers together.

“Why did you say it, then?”

Enjolras’ hands still and he presses them deeper into the sand. “Because I was angry.”

“Because I forced you to come rescue me?”

“Because you put yourself in danger.” The familiar edge is back in his voice now. “That was a stupid thing to do, Grantaire.”

Grantaire’s breath hitches slightly at hearing Enjolras say his name. He tries to hide his reaction behind a wry smile.

“I’m not known for my wise life-choices.”

Enjolras finally turns to look at him, sharp and fierce.

“Yes, I can see that,” he says harshly and Grantaire flinches, not having expected it. Enjolras’ gaze softens and his frown looks more sad than angry now. “I didn’t-” he trails off, exhaling sharply in frustration, his eyes sliding away once more. “I’m bad at this.”

Grantaire’s heart is beating wildly in his chest. “And what’s ‘this’ exactly?”

“Why don’t you tell me? You’re the one who said you wanted to see me again.”

“I do want to see you,” Grantaire says and it comes out reverent, adoration dripping heavily from each word. He’s immediately mortified and hastens to go on. “I mean, I’d like to know more about you. And about what happened. Eighteen years ago, you saved me. Why?”

Enjolras glances at him briefly. “Because you needed saving.”

 “Apparently I still do. And you keep doing it. Why?”

“Because I can’t not do it.”

Grantaire frowns. “That doesn’t make any sense. And how do you know when I need help, anyway. The ocean’s a big place and it seems you don’t even spend all your time in it.”

“I just know,” Enjolras says. Grantaire gives him a dubious look and he huffs, as though it’s Grantaire who’s being cryptic. “It’s complicated.”

Enjolras isn’t looking at him and Grantaire dares to lean a little closer. There’s hardly any warmth coming off Enjolras’ skin and he wonders if his body temperature is lower than a human’s. He wants to touch him all over to find out for himself.

Feeling his mind slipping into dangerous territory, Grantaire unsticks his gaze to look out onto the ocean instead, watching the waves lapping at the sand. He’s hit by sudden inspiration.

“Let’s go for a swim.”

Enjolras looks at him, then, the by now familiar frown firmly in place.

“Right now?”

Grantaire shrugs. “Yeah, why not. It’s not like this conversation is going anywhere.”

Enjolras turns his head to look at the sea and, for a moment, he almost looks scared. Grantaire wishes he could kiss it away.

“I’ve seen it before, you know.”

Enjolras is back to not looking at him.

“I know,” he says quietly.

*

Grantaire does his best not to give in and sneak a glance as Enjolras sheds his clothes, instead focusing on taking off his own. He leaves his boxers on, not wishing to make this any more suggestive than it probably already is and keeps his eyes fixed straight ahead.

He’s the first in the water and has to dig his nails into his palms to keep from turning around when he hears Enjolras come in behind him. He wades in deeper and quickly leaves the more shallow part behind.

The water reaches almost up to his neck when he finally lets himself turn. There is no one there, the water by now pitch black just as the sky above. He stares at their discarded clothes for a moment, still lying untouched in the sand.

Something brushes his legs and he lets out an unmanly shriek. He whirls around and Enjolras surfaces, golden curls darkened by wetness and clinging to his shoulders despite the pony-tail.

“Don’t do that!” Grantaire says, pressing a hand against his racing heart.

“Regretting your suggestion already?” Enjolras asks and for a moment Grantaire is sure there’s something like teasing in his eyes.

“I’ll show you regret,” Grantaire shoots back, before launching himself at Enjolras without warning.

They go down, dark water swallowing them both and Grantaire can feel Enjolras’ slippery tail brushing against his thighs, feels something that must be the tip of his fin tickling his ankle.

Heat shoots through Grantaire’s body, lighting tiny sparks of desire beneath his skin and making his stomach and chest feel tight with want.

He ignores it and instead tries to focus on their water-fight.

It soon becomes obvious, however, that he has absolutely no chance against Enjolras. Unsurprising considering that he has the advantage of both being able to see – even if it’s only a little now that it’s dark – and not to mention breath underwater. Not only that, but his skin and tail are smooth and slippery, ever evading Grantaire’s grasp and expertly tripping him to plunge him back under.

By the time they make it back to the shore, Grantaire’s lungs are aching and he feels slightly dizzy from holding his breath for so long between such short intervals. He lets himself collapse as soon as the water is shallow enough to allow it, his legs still mostly submerged. Enjolras lies down at his side, his tail gleaming in the moonlight.

The scrunchie that held his hair together is gone, his golden locks now spilled out over the sand and his fin is tapping up and down in an uneven rhythm. It’s the first time Grantaire actually sees it properly.

It really is quite big, though not disproportionate to the rest of Enjolras’ body. It’s red, like his tail, but the skin is much thinner and more delicate, almost see-through, like particularly finely woven silk.

When Grantaire looks back up, Enjolras is, for once, looking back at him. He’s glad that the darkness hides his blush.

Propping himself up on one arm, Grantaire turns a little to be able to better meet Enjolras’ gaze.

“So, where’s the mermaids, then?”

Enjolras shifts a little as well, his fierce gaze for once staying firmly on Grantaire.

“There aren’t any.”

Grantaire gapes at him. “What?”

“Humans depict us as females to make it fit better into the tales of merfolk seducing fishermen. There aren’t actually any mermaids. Just us.”

“So you’re all guys? But how does that- I mean, reproduction?”

Enjolras gives Grantaire a look that it almost careful, as though he’s unsure if his next words will freak him out.

“Technically, we’re not actually male.”

“What-What does that mean?”

“That means we can have children with a woman, but also bear them ourselves. The correct term, I believe, is intersex. But we are built like human males, yes.”

Grantaire’s eyes have probably never been wider. “So Belle is actually…”

“Jehan and Courfeyrac’s biological daughter, yes.”

Grantaire takes some time to process this.

“Belle is a girl. So she’s human? Does that happen often?”

Enjolras looks deeply invested in his own thoughts for a moment, as though lost in memories. He looks troubled and Grantaire doesn’t press, instead waiting him out.

“It’s not supposed to happen at all,” Enjolras says quietly. “But there’re a few recorded cases. Most of them don’t end well.” He swallows. “Jehan’s pregnancy was hard. He almost didn’t make it.”

Enjolras looks truly upset now, making Grantaire’s heart clench in his chest. He feels bad about brining it up. Before he knows it, he’s reached out, sliding his hand over Enjolras’ on the sand. When he feels the smooth, cool skin beneath his palm and realises what he’s done, Grantaire stills, holding his breath and waiting to be rejected.

But Enjolras doesn’t withdraw. The hand beneath his own turns and grips back, sliding their fingers together in a way that feels more intimae than any sex Grantaire’s ever had. Compared to this, it all seems so meaningless, all these memories of people that weren’t Enjolras paling and fading away to nothing.

“But they’re okay now, right?” Grantaire asks quietly. “Jehan and Belle?”

Enjolras turns slightly, curling towards Grantaire the tiniest bit and ending up with his forehead pressed to the arm that Grantaire is using to pop himself up. Despite his cool skin, Enjolras’ breath is hot were it fans over Grantaire’s bare chest, still damp and chilled from the evening breeze.

“Yes, they’re alright.”

Grantaire dares to stroke a caress along the delicate lines of Enjolras’ fingers. He thinks he can feel Enjolras shiver, though it might have been simply a projection of the one tingling up his own spine.

“Is it because Courfeyrac is human?” Grantaire asks, unable to contain his curiosity.

He wants to know everything, every little detail, and he wants Enjolras to be the one to tell him. It makes Grantaire feel as though he matters, as though Enjolras is confiding in him, that he’s telling Grantaire things that he wouldn’t anyone else.

“No.” Enjolras uses his free hand to trace his fingers over Grantaire’s arm, running them through the dark dusting of hair along is skin. It makes Grantaire shudder and heat pool in his stomach. “We only mate with humans. Hence the legs.”

Grantaire is surprised his eyes are still in his head with the amount of surprises he’s gotten today.

“What, so you can’t have children with each other?” he asks incredulously. “Like, you don’t have relationships with other…merpeople? Only humans?”

Enjolras looks at him, eyes dark in the pale light of the moon. The hand on his arm has come to rest in the crook of his elbow, tracing idle patterns into his skin and setting it alight. Grantaire wishes he could read him better.

“Only humans,” Enjolras says. “We’re biologically incompatible with our own species.”

Grantaire can feel his eyebrows twitch upwards. “Well, that’s certainly…different.” He shifts a little closer to Enjolras, wishing he had the courage to touch his hair, but not wanting to push and spook him. “What about the other stuff then?”

Enjolras’ lips twitch slightly. “Other stuff?”

“You know, the weird myths about devouring fishermen or something.”

This earns Grantaire a sharp look.

“Are you honestly asking me if we eat humans?”

“No, no, of course not.” Grantaire instinctively tightens his hold on Enjolras, fearing that he might yank is hand away. He doesn’t. “I mean you don’t, right?”

Enjolras makes a strangled sound, as if he’s fighting back a laugh. “Of course not!”

Grantaire grins, emboldened by Enjolras’ amusement and lets himself drop down again, folding his arm beneath his head so he can rest on it and tugging Enjolras closer by their linked hands.

He comes willingly, a gentle smile curving his lips, and Grantaire’s breath hitches when a cool hand settles against his side. He wants to kiss him so much he aches with it.

“What about singing, then?” Grantaire asks, quiet and breathless. “Siren’s call and all that?”

It’s meant as gentle teasing, as a distraction to stop himself from simply kissing Enjolras senseless. But it has the exact opposite effect, because just like that, Enjolras’ expression shutters and the smile turns into a frown. He draws his hand away and Grantaire stares at him, aghast.

“Wait, you can actually do that? Lure someone in by-” And suddenly, he knows. “Holy shit, you did that with me. I remember it. That’s why I- Why did you do that?”

Enjolras lets him go completely and sits up, his tail curving elegantly as he bends it, the fin leaving lines in the sand. Grantaire sits up beside him, reaching out, but then thinking better of it and letting his hand drop. He regrets saying anything at all, even while the questions continue to burn on his tongue.

“You were panicking,” Enjolras says. “I was trying to calm you down.”

Grantaire thinks about the pull he had felt back then, thinks about the pull he feels now. “Trying to calm me down by compelling me?”

Enjolras throws him an angry look. “I was only a child myself, Grantaire. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Grantaire raises his eyebrows. “Did you just admit to compelling humans with your voice?”

Enjolras flushes, the colour shooting to his cheeks an angry contrast to his pale skin. He looks livid, but at the same time strangely vulnerable. Grantaire wants him so much he might actually go insane with it.

“That’s not-” Enjolras exhales sharply. “It’s not as simple as all that.”

“What’s it like, then?”

Enjolras looks away. “Haven’t you tired of hearing me speak about this?”

“I couldn’t ever be tired of you.” And there it is again, words blurted out with far too much feeling. Grantaire might as well have just proclaimed his undying love. He hastens to negate the effect. “Wait, that came out wrong, I meant-” but it sounds weak and every bit the excuse it is.

Enjolras looks at him with wide eyes, before moving abruptly. “I have to go.”

“No, Enjolras, wait.” Grantaire knows he’s pleading, but he’s ready to do much more that that if it’ll keep Enjolras from leaving him.

But Enjolras doesn’t give him the chance.

“Goodbye, Grantaire.”

“But, your clothes!”

Enjolras ignores him, already back in the water, the process decidedly harder when he has to reach deep enough water without his legs to start him off. Even so, he’s disappeared before Grantaire can say another word.

Grantaire simply sits there for a while, staring out at the sea and wondering how it all went to shit so quickly. He wishes he could go back in time.

When he finally gets up he’s chilled to the bone despite the mild evening. He yanks on his clothes over his still damp skin and wet boxers and doesn’t think about it, simply collects Enjolras’ clothes and takes them home with him.

He sleeps in Enjolras’ t-shirt that night.

*

It’s only the complete lack of sustenance that forces Grantaire out of the bungalow the following afternoon. He’s in the supermarket, contemplating which frozen pizza to get when a small form with flying dark hair jumps onto him from the side.

“‘Aire!” Belle squeals into his ear and he has to drop his basket to catch her.

He whirls her around once, smiling as she giggles.

“Hello, sweetheart.” He casts a quick look around. “Don’t tell me you’re lost again?”

Belle shakes her head, sending long strands flying once more.

“No, dad’s somewhere over there,” she informs Grantaire, pointing towards the aisle behind him. She lowers her arm only to thrust her other one under Grantaire’s nose. “Look! It’s gone! The sea washed it away.” She sounds mournful and Grantaire gives her a gentle squeeze.

“It’s alright. I’ll draw you something else. On paper this time, so it doesn’t wash away. What d’you say to that?”

Belle beams.

“Belle?” Courfeyrac calls, coming into view next to the cereal. “How many times do I have to tell you- Oh, hello Grantaire.”

“Hey.”

Courfeyrac smiles at him and claps a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry if she’s bothering you. Belle gets a little excited sometimes.”

Grantaire shakes his head. “Not at all.”

Belle pouts. “Uncle Bahorel says that’s because you’re like that too.”

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes. “You shouldn’t listen to what Uncle Bahorel says. Now come along and let Grantaire finish his shopping in peace.”

“Really, it’s fine,” Grantaire says. “It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do.”

Courfeyrac looks at him in surprise. “Oh, alright. Belle and I wanted to go for ice cream after finishing here. If you’re free you’re welcome to join us.”

Warmth blooms in Grantaire’s chest and he smiles. “That’d be great, thanks.”

*

They go to a parlour near the beach and Grantaire watches with amusement as Courfeyrac and Belle share a big bowl of ice cream, playfully fighting over who gets to have more of the chocolate flavour.

Grantaire sips at his iced coffee, hands shaking, and fights the urge to give in and have a drink.

“So you’re from Paris?” Courfeyrac asks, leaving Belle to demolish the last bites of ice cream by herself.

Grantaire raises an amused eyebrow. “What, did the accent give me away?”

Courfeyrac laughs. “Kinda, yeah. We just got back from there, actually. My parents moved there a few years ago and I lived with them for a while. It was great, really. There’s nothing like partying in the city, but the people are always so stressed. And I missed the sea.”

“Yeah.” Grantaire throws a longing glance towards the ocean. “I can understand that.”

“You’re staying for a while, though, yeah?”

Grantaire plays with his straw, unnecessarily poking around in his coffee as an excuse to avoid looking up.

“I don’t know.”

He doesn’t say more than that, doesn’t need to. The implication is clear enough.

Courfeyrac reaches out to squeeze his arm.

“Enjolras isn’t an easy person, but let me tell you; if he didn’t care about you, he wouldn’t be acting this way. Trust me on this.”

Grantaire says nothing, doesn’t really know what to say to that, so he stays silent.

They end up going for a walk afterwards, kicking an empty bottle of water between the three of them, making Belle laugh and chase after it.

Grantaire finds that he genuinely likes Courfeyrac and is almost sad when their ways part.

“Don’t be a stranger, alright?” Courfeyrac says as he hands back Grantaire’s phone where he’s just saved his number.

“Thanks for inviting me.”

Courfeyrac waves him off. “It was our pleasure. Belle, say bye to ‘Aire.”

Belle jumps up at him and Grantaire lifts her obediently so she can press a kiss to his cheek.

“Bye, ‘Aire!”

“Goodbye, sweetheart.” Grantaire puts her down gently and she takes her father’s hand.

Just as they’re about to leave, Grantaire remembers something.

“Courfeyrac?”

Courfeyrac stops to look at him questioningly. “Yeah?”

“Just out of curiosity. Belle mentioned something about telepathy the other day?”

“Oh, that,” Courfeyrac says as though it isn’t a big deal at all. “Yeah, it’s a mating thing. Comes with the being able to hold your breath for ages and all that. Best way to communicate underwater, really. Takes some time getting used to, but it has its perks.”

Grantaire stares at him, frozen. Something in Courfeyrac’s expression shifts and he looks distinctly mortified.

“Enjolras hasn’t told you about that yet, has he,” he says weakly, looking for all the world as though he wants to eat his own words.

“No,” Grantaire croaks.

“Fuck.”

Belle tugs at his hand. “You’re not supposed to say the F-word!”

Courfeyrac pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Look, just forget I said anything,” he sounds almost pleading. “Please pretend we never had this conversation. I’m sure Enjolras will explain it to you at some point.”

Grantaire frowns, his mind reeling. “Why would he do that?”

“Why would he- right okay. That’s it. I’m not putting my foot in my mouth any deeper. You’ll have to ask him yourself.”

“How? He doesn’t want to see me. He practically fled from me last night! I’m-” Grantaire stops suddenly, swallowing down the words and taking a deep breath, suddenly awkward. “I have his clothes, by the way. I can give them to you next time and you can pass them on.”

Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t ask. “Stay for a while longer. Don’t take off just yet.”

“I’ll think about it,” Grantaire says, though he thought about nothing else since last night.

When he’s back at the bungalow, he starts packing.

*

The evening breeze is cool and salty, ruffling Grantaire’s hair. He shifts on the rickety chair on the veranda and thinks fervently if there’s anything left for him to do.

His battered duffle bag is packed and his canvases stacked and ready for transport. He’s tried calling the old lady that’s renting him the bungalow at least five times and each one of his attempts ended with Grantaire being unable to press the button and putting down the phone.

Enjolras’ clothes are on a chair in the kitchen, freshly washed and neatly folded. Except for the t-shirt, which lies on the bed, crumpled between the sheets. Grantaire is selfishly holding onto it, thinking that Enjolras will hardly miss it, and knows he’ll wear it to bed again tonight despite it being a little too tight around the shoulders.

He has no idea how he’s supposed to make himself leave.

The pull is strong, almost unbearably so, and his chest aches with it. Grantaire thinks about giving in to it, but doesn’t. Instead he opens a bottle.

When it lies empty at his feet, he digs out his phone with fumbling fingers and calls the landlady.

He tells her he’ll be gone by the end of the week.

*

The fifth time, there’s no water at all.

*

Enjolras comes to him three days later.

The canvases are already gone, picked up by the company Grantaire hired to take them to Paris, but his duffle bag is still sitting on the floor next to his bed. He had to re-pack it at least three times, refusing to unpack completely, but forced to repeatedly root through it for fresh clothes.

He’d texted Courfeyrac that he would be leaving tomorrow and he’d insisted that Jehan, Belle and himself would come to see Grantaire off in the morning. Grantaire hadn’t even pretended to protest.

Enjolras’ clothes are still on the chair. His t-shirt is still in Grantaire’s bed.

When the knock sounds, Grantaire expects it to be the landlady. It isn’t.

Enjolras looks at him and Grantaire stops breathing.

“I have your clothes,” Grantaire says stupidly, dazed and breathless and transfixed by the contrast of Enjolras’ perfection framed by the bungalow’s rotting doorway.

“That’s not why I’m here,” Enjolras says, voice soft and eyes fierce.

He takes a step closer and Grantaire grips the wood, tight enough to make his fingers ache.

“Then why are you here?”

Enjolras’ breath brushes his face. “To do this.”

And then Enjolras is kissing him. His lips are cool, but his tongue, when it laps at Grantaire’s mouth, is warm. Grantaire parts his lips on a moan, clutching helplessly at Enjolras while his chest is trying to contain his wildly beating heart.

Grantaire presses closer and chases Enjolras’ tongue into his mouth. When he licks inside, it’s like an ocean breeze, fresh and faintly salty. It’s still the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted.

*

They end up on the too-narrow bed, plastered together head to toe with their legs intertwined and their arms around each other.

Grantaire can’t stop kissing him and Enjolras doesn’t tell him to.

“I have these dreams,” Grantaire says softly, a whisper almost in the all but non-existent space between them.

Enjolras runs a gentle hand along his side, delicate fingers slipping beneath the hem of his t-shirt. His skin is as cool as ever, like the waves lapping at the sun-warmed shore.

“What kind of dreams?”

Grantaire sighs and gently traces Enjolras’ jaw with his knuckles. “About the sea. About being underwater. I’ve had them ever since I was little, ever since you saved me.”

Enjolras tilts his head into the touch and brushes his lips over Grantaire’s fingers in a fleeting kiss.

“Are they bad dreams?”

Grantaire threads their fingers together. “No.”

“Tell me about them.”

Grantaire smiles, hopelessly charmed by how Enjolras somehow always manages to make his requests sound like demands. Enjolras frowns, but Grantaire leans in to kiss it away.

“Nothing really happens,” he says once he’s finally found the strength to draw back enough to speak. “But I can show you, if you like. I’ve painted them.”

Enjolras shifts a little against him, drawing his leg further up against Grantaire’s and curving it around his hip. It brings them impossibly closer.

“What else have you painted?”

Grantaire traces the finger of his free hand along the perfect line of Enjolras’ aristocratic nose. “You.”

Enjolras doesn’t say anything, simply tilts his head to bring their lips together, kissing him deeply. Grantaire closes his eyes.

It almost feels like drowning.

*

“You asked me about the singing,” Enjolras says much later, when the light outside has changed and their lips are swollen and Grantaire can taste nothing but sweet salt in his own mouth. “It’s what we do when we choose a mate.”

Grantaire tucks a stray lock behind Enjolras’ ear, before letting his hand sink into the golden softness, elated at the knowledge that he’s finally allowed to touch.

 “Like seduction?”

Enjolras curves a soft hand around Grantaire’s jaw. “That’s part of it, yes. But there’s something I haven’t told you yet.”

Grantaire takes his hand and kisses his palm. “And what’s that?”

Enjolras leans in and rests their foreheads together. They share breath like this for a few moments.

“Merfolk mate for life.”

Grantaire stares at him. “Do you mean- Really? But you were only a child! You didn’t know what you were doing.”

“Maybe I did,” Enjolras says. “It’s mostly instinctual, you know. I wanted to sing to you. I still do.”

Grantaire kisses him.

“I want you to sing to me,” he whispers against Enjolras’ lips.

Enjolras brushes Grantaire’s hair back and cups his face between soft palms. “Despite what I put you through?”

Grantaire strokes his cheek. “You didn’t put me through anything. You saved me.”

Enjolras looks at him intently, looking young and fragile in a way that makes Grantaire want to protect him from the world.

“Will you save me in return?” Enjolras asks softly.

Grantaire kisses him again and nothing has ever felt more like coming home.

“Always.”

*

It turns out that it hadn’t been the call of the sea after all; that it wasn’t the ocean that had pulled at his heart and demanded his return.

It had been Enjolras.