Actions

Work Header

Tetris

Summary:

Prompt (Edited into a Summary):

Cosette is Enjolras' half-sister. His father slept with Fantine and then buggered off to be with his wife. Then Enjolras found out. One day he sees her- and he knows its her- and doesn't know what to do.

Enjolras is Cosette's half-brother. Her mother slept with a married man and died of a broken heart and weary soul. Then Cosette found out. One day, she finds him-and she knows its him- and doesn't know what to do.

Then Marius happened...

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes and other works inspired by this one.)

Chapter 1: Enjolras

Chapter Text

Lamarque found them just as the sun was kissing the edge of the water, casting the purple and red sunset colors across the beach. He parked his car beside the others at the far end of the gravel, wincing at the loud, high spirited music that was pouring from the speakers of the nearest sound system. Yards ahead, a bonfire cheerfully burned away as a group of young people danced like heathens around it. There were more than a few empty liquor bottles littered in the sand around their feet.

Approaching, Lamarque crossed his arms across his neatly pressed suit and waited. After a few moments, a figure broke away from the bonfire and the arms of one of his companions to come toward him.

"You weren't at the funeral," Lamarque said the minute Enjolras was within earshot. His godson smiled at him, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"I told you I wouldn't be."

"I was hoping you had changed your mind."

Enjolras shrugged, his face tired. "I didn't want to be surrounded by death and gloom today. She didn't want me to be either."

"Didn't you want to say goodbye to your mother?" Lamarque knew it was a low blow, but Enjolras had a habit of using personal pain to make a statement, and his absence had been noticed. Gabrielle had loved her son's uncompromising drive and conviction, but Lamarque thought there was a time and a place. And a funeral was not one of them.

For a moment, Enjolras looked exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes and slumped shoulders. In spite of that, he looked much better than he had a few weeks ago, sleep and food deprived beside a hospital bed with only the sounds of the machines filling the room around him. He waved Lamarque away from the blaring car and further down the beach to a large rocky cliff, wading carefully through the surf to reach the low seated boulders. Lamarque noticed more than one pair of eyes watching him from the fire with hostile intent.

"Your friends don't seem to trust me much."

"You're a reminder of everything my friends are trying to get me to forget about right now. Of course you're the enemy."

"This isn't something you can--or should--just forget about."

"No. But they're trying their best, which is all I could ask for," Enjolras replied as he took a seat on one of the boulders. Standing over him would have made Lamarque look ridiculous, so he resigned himself to ruining his suit and settled down next to him.

"We knew it was coming," Enjolras continued, staring out into the rolling waves. "We knew, and we planned. She didn't want me miserable today, and I'm trying to respect that. We already said our goodbyes."

There was an odd sort of logic there, he supposed. Gabrielle and Enjolras were so much alike that they both had probably thought it had been for the best that way.

Looking at his godson, Lamarque's mind couldn't help but fly back in time two decades. Enjolras had been so young when the divorce had been finalized, he had never known anything other then Gabrielle and her determined, fiery, and at times contrary, drive towards her goal. She had installed that same drive in Enjolras, and he wasn't above admitting that his own outspoken personality had not helped temper his godson in the slightest. And when he truly thought about it, he knew he wouldn't have it any other way, no matter the inconvenience it sometimes caused. Enjolras would thrive and shine in anything he ever attempted because of the skills Gabrielle had given him.

For all the golden hair and brilliant blue eyes, there wasn't a drop of Felix in him, thank God.

"Are you going to be okay tonight?" He asked after a moment. Enjolras' curls went flying in every direction as a gust of wind came in with the waves, and Lamarque brushed them out of his eyes with a tender touch.

"Yes. Grantiare will make sure of it. They all will."

"Are you ever going to admit to me you're dating him?"

"I don't think I'll ever admit that to anybody," Enjolras replied. But his eyes strayed back to the bonfire and sought out a lone figure watching them over the distance. Gabrielle had never been able to hide her emotions in her features, and Enjolras was no different. And the smile that came over his face made his eyes light up.

*

Groaning, Enjolras rolled over and blearily eyed the alarm clock from his spot in bed. He had only slept for about two hours, according to the blinking red light. Beside him, Grantaire's spot was chillingly empty, which bothered him more then he thought it would. He had been passed out to the world by the time Enjolras had fallen asleep. Reaching out a hand, he brushed against the cool spot, as if his fingertips could magically summon the other back from wherever he vanished to.

He was still fully clothed and grimy from the beach, but getting cleaned up required more energy than he was up to giving. Instead, Enjolras tried to ease his mind back to sleep only to realize five minutes later it wasn't going to happen and gave up. Rolling out of bed, his feet barely beat his face to the floor and he shuffled himself downstairs to address the biting hunger in his stomach.

Over the course of many years, Enjolras' tiny family had grown to include the friends that he now knew he could never live without. They were an odd bunch all told, but Enjolras loved each of them in turn. One day, when Courfeyrac had made the entertaining but inevitably disastrous suggestion of them all cohabiting together in the large brownstone he had tracked down, most of them had agreed out of some morbid fascination with the idea. Now, three years later, they could all agree that it had more or less worked out well enough.

So Enjolras was instantly concerned when he stepped out of his room and the house was empty around him. There was no muffled noise behind the various bedroom doors down the hallway, no television blaring from the living room downstairs. Walking through the silent hall, Enjolras found he didn't like the quiet one bit.

As he passed the main room on the first floor, he saw rows upon rows of greenery tabled on every available surface near a window. A late cold front had forced Jehan to evacuate most of his plant life indoors to survive the next few days, and while they made the living room smell amazing, Enjolras wasn't sure it was worth the soil and leaves that were currently scattered across the carpet. That thought didn't stop him from petting the brightly colored geraniums and fuzzy strawberry bushes as he passed though.

His mother had kept orchids. She always joked that they were the only plants she could ever keep alive because they were as high maintenance as he was. Once she had been admitted to the hospital, Jehan had offered to watch after them, but most of them hadn't survived. The only one that did, a deep purple one that was nearly as old as Enjolras, was sitting dead center on the coffee table. Its twiggy branches were stretched out over the growing sticks and many of the flowers were starting to bloom again. He stared at it for a long moment before moving on.

He found Grantaire in the kitchen, absentmindedly puttering away at the counter with half the spice rack spilled out before him. Enjolras made a pained sound at the mess.

"Morning, Apollo," Grantaire greeted, shaking up a spice jar in one hand.

Enjolras never understood the nickname, but complaining about it only brought on even more ridiculous ones. So he just grunted in return and started fumbling with the coffee machine, because no matter how much Joly and Combeferre tried to convince him otherwise, coffee was a main food group. Only, there was a thin layer of brownish mush at the bottom of the pot and not much else, which he thought was someone's idea of a cruel prank gone wrong. Setting it down, he slowly leaned forward until his forehead was pressed against the cool stainless steel of the machine. Life felt horrible right now.

Warm, herb smelling, and slightly gritty hands appeared in the corners of his vision to ease him upright. He groaned as Grantiare walked him backwards until the small of his back bumped up against the counter.

"Up," he cheerfully ordered, and Enjolras was boosted up until he was sitting on the counter, wedged comfortably between the corner cabinets. He was handed a simple glass of water that he downed in a few gulps as he watched Grantaire kneel to pull things out of the refrigerator.

"What's this?" he finally asked, waving his hand over the spices.

"I found a recipe for Old Bay," Grantaire explained. "Only I didn't have quite the right stuff, but then I thought 'fuck it' and tried anyway. It's got sage, all spice, the wrong kind of pepper, the wrong kind of dill, too little salt--we're almost out, and crystalized ginger because dammit I strive to get rid of all that stuff before Jehan gets his hands on it again."

A few weeks ago, Jehan, in a fit of creativity, attempted to make some sort of Thai-based soup Enjolras had never heard of and the resulting hits of ginger throughout it had tried to kill most of them. Bahorel in particular had made it clear he'd never touch the stuff again, though Eponine seemed to adore it and had hoarded the leftovers for days. Setting aside the fish he had just pulled out, Grantaire stuck his finger in his new mix and tasted it cautiously.

"Well," he said after a moment. "It will definitely clear my sinuses out."

Enjolras hummed and leaned back against the cabinets as he watched Grantaire wrap the fish and throw it unceremoniously onto the sink to thaw. Rice was soon tossed onto the stove to simmer, and a few avocados appeared on the cutting board next to him. Slicing them in half, Enjolras looked on with tired fascination as Grantaire, with a quick flick of his wrist, imbedded the knife's blade into the pit and cleanly jerked it free.

"Ever since I saw Alton Brown do that trick my life has been better," he commented as he tossed the pit into the trash. "I see you managed to release your death grip on your phone."

Enjolras' hand promptly flew toward his pocket but he already knew he left it upstairs on his nightstand. He debated going to get it but he was surprisingly comfortable concentrating on Grantaire as he threw together a meal with more skill than he could ever hope to have in the kitchen.

"Where is everyone?" he asked instead.

"They cleared out for a bit," Grantaire told the countertop. "Wanted to give you some time alone. With me, if you wanted."

Enjolras was too tired for this. Leaning forward, he captured Grantaire as he walked by the stove and and drew him in. Pressing their lips together, he shamelessly used the height advantage the counter gave him to bite and soothe his way around Grantaire's mouth as his fingers wove themselves into brunette waves. Hands settled on his thighs as Grantaire stood and allowed him to dictate their kiss, letting Enjolras pour all the overflow he was feeling into him instead.

When Enjolras pulled back, the taste of alcohol was on his tongue.

"Were you painting?"

"I'm building up to it," Grantaire replied, smiling up at him. Enjolras hummed and pressed their foreheads together as he let his eyes slide closed. His brain was still running in high gear, but now it at least felt like coming down was a real possibility rather than an unobtainable desire.

"Thank you," he breathed, the softest of whispers against skin. Grantaire responded with a kiss that was no more than a chaste press of their lips together.

Eventually though, the food needed to be cooked. Placing one last kiss on Enjolras' mouth, Grantaire held him tight before reluctantly letting go and returning to the stove. The next thirty minutes were spent in comfortable silence as Enjolras zoned in and out of awareness. He never got to watch Grantaire paint, mainly because it drove Grantaire insane to show unfinished pieces, but seeing him cook was almost as educational. He was making intuitive leaps in ingredients and flavor combinations that made absolutely no sense to him.

Enjolras had been so intent on watching the food that the hand that brushed up against the side of his face startled him into alertness. Grantaire, suddenly much closer and covered in flour and what Enjolras suspected was egg, inspected him with suspicious eyes.

"Did you get any sleep?"

"A couple of hours."

Grantiare looked distinctly unimpressed. "Go lay down, I'll wake you when the food's ready."

"I won't sleep."

"And of course trying is out of the question."

"It's more fun watching you do battle with the glassware," Enjolras replied, pointing to the sink. Grantaire turned and growled.

In what was either the best idea Bahorel ever had or the worst thing to happen to the brownstone, he and Bossuet had attempted to make their own moonshine. The only records any of them had of that night were the line of empty mason jars along the side of the sink since their memories couldn't be trusted. As time went on, the mason jars had been joined by a large bottle of moscato Joly and Eponine had split after a rough day, the vases Jehan used for his flowers, the pasta jars from when Courfeyrac had made spaghetti a week ago, and various other glasses and jars from around the house as well. Now, the entire right side of the sink was populated by glass, much to Grantaire's annoyance.

"I know what you're up to," Grantaire told the line of glassware stretching across the counter as he poked at the fish. "Keep trying to mobilize, but know that I have taken your brethren, the tall one."

Enjolras thought he meant the blender, but he couldn't be sure. Leaning back against the counter, he was satisfied that he had Grantaire suitably distracted--though something told him it wouldn't be that easy next time.

They ate at the counter with their fingers like savages, and there was a deep satisfaction in it. Afterward, with a wicked gleam in his eyes, Grantaire took his hands and slowly used his mouth to clean the remnants of dinner from them. The feeling of lips, tongue, and occasionally teeth across his palms was one of the most distracting things Enjolras had ever endured. He was hopelessly breathless and light-headed by the end as Grantaire christened each of his fingertips with a kiss.

Surging forward, he attacked Grantaire's lips with more aggression than before, wrapping his tongue around the other's. His hands were slick and shaking, but he managed to ruck Grantaire's shirt up under his arms in fumbling movements. The brunette tugged him off the counter and pushed him toward the living room while pulling his own shirt over his head. It was blind luck that had them avoiding Jehan's plants because he surely wasn't mindful of them at the moment.

Enjolras barely had time to shed his own shirt before Grantaire got him onto his back across the couch. His touches were more faulting than usual, but Enjolras was too distracted by getting as much skin-to-skin contact as possible to be concerned by it. His fingernails dug into bare shoulders as he tried to keep Grantaire as close as he could manage, even as the other chuckled and leaned back to sit comfortably on his heels.

"Hey, gorgeous," Grantaire breathed, eyes roaming. "What'cha doin' tonight?"

Enjolras couldn't help the laughter that ripped its way up his chest and throat. He tried to stifle it with his hands but only managed to make it worse. God, his cheeks hurt. It was really a horrible pick up line.

"That's better," Grantaire muttered as he began dropping kisses on Enjolras' smiling mouth, his neck, his torso all the way down until he was nosing at the button of his jeans. Enjolras groaned and buried his fingers in Grantaire's wild curls again, trying to keep himself quiet with his other hand pressed over his mouth.

Grantaire nipped gently at the hollow of his hips as he tugged his jeans and underwear down his thighs, sharp pangs that made him gasp every time. He was already hard and needy, but the brunette seems to enjoy taking his time with this part, which earned him a quick tug of his hair. In return, Enjolras had to bite down on his fingers as he was swallowed down to the root in one fluid motion to mask his startled scream. Grantaire had always classified his oral techniques as enthusiastic at best but Enjolras had honestly never known the difference, and always loved every minute of the attention. Reaching up, the brunette tangled his fingers around Enjolras' own, bringing them away from his mouth and letting his cries fill the room as he worked. He came with a sob, his grip on Grantaire's hair near painful.

Pulling back, Grantaire rested his chin against his hip bone and smirked up at him. Enjolras slid his hand down and gently batted away frazzled curls from his eyes.

"Feel better?" Grantaire asked quietly as Enjolras let his eyes slip closed.

"Sex doesn't fix everything."

"Yeah, but you can't tell me that didn't improve things."

Enjolras knew his dazed smile and lethargic movements were enough of an answer to that, so he settled for continuing to coil Grantaire's bangs around his fingers instead.

"Did you--,"

"Don't worry about it," Grantaire dismissed. Enjolras lightly kicked him in retaliation.

"Get up here,"

"I like this view."

"And I want you up here."

That got Grantiare up to eye level, and Enjolras pressed delicate kisses into his mouth in reward as his hand crept into the other's jeans. The taste of himself on Grantaire's tongue almost got him spun up enough for another round.

"Jesus," Grantaire panted into his mouth as he was taken in hand. He could barely move when they were pressed this close together, but he squeezed and stroked all the same, whispering softly in Grantaire's ear as he did so. Taking his time, Enjolras worked him towards completion and clung tightly to him when Grantaire cried out into the space between his neck and shoulder as he came.

It took a while from them both to recover, but they managed to shift into a more comfortable position on the sofa with Enjolras' head resting on Grantaire's chest. Smirking, the brunette cleaned them both off with Enjolras' shirt, who grumbled in annoyance and swatted feebly at him. His eyelids felt heavy. Grantaire's skillful hands were warm and steady as they stroked over his hair and shoulder and spine and back again. A soft blanket had somehow appeared over both of them...

Enjolras jerked back into consciousness faster than lightening as the front door slammed shut. Below him, he heard Grantaire growl.

"I had just gotten him back to sleep!" he yelled down the hall.

"Sorry! Bossuet's bleeding! Again."

"Ohjesusfucking-,"

"You goddamn idiot! Why didn't you say something!"

"Joly, breathe. He's fine--,"

"Don't you dare step on my plants or I swear to God, Bossuet won't be the only one bleeding--,"

"You had sex on the couch, didn't you?"

"'Fey, I don't think you're one to talk."

Enjolras couldn't help but smile as Grantaire buried his face in his blond fringe with a sigh. Everything instantly felt much more normal. Getting to his feet, he snagged Grantiare's shirt from the coffee table and went to inspect the damage.

The next hour was dedicated to Combeferre patching up Bossuet's hand, which he had absentmindedly gotten stuck in a length of chicken wire while at the local nursery. He had managed to keep it hidden for the rest of the visit so Jehan had been able to find the new hanging planters he wanted, as well as some last minute outdoor heaters before Joly had discovered what happened and had immediately flown into a fit.

At the table, Musichetta was keeping the slim brunette under control while Combeferre worked, and Enjolras was keeping an eye on the proceedings with a slightly disgruntled and shirtless Grantaire leaning against him. Outside, Jehan and Feuilly had pressed a much taller Bahorel into service as a ladder while Eponine and Courfeyrac kept a running commentary between the groups from the living room. Somewhere along the way someone decided what the situation needed most was some high proof alcohol and by the end they landed on the living room floor with every blanket in the house and what was left of the vodka from last night massed between them all.

"Movie night!" Eponine dubbed, flying for the remote just as Combeferre and Joly each dove for it. She easily won the three way wrestling match that ensued, cawing triumphantly as she flipped through their Netflix queue for the bloodiest horror flick she could find. Joly proceeded to spend the next hour and a half tucked between Bossuet and Musichetta, alternated who's chest he hid in and whining about the gore. Musichetta sent Eponine a discreet thumbs up and a smile for it. Enjolras, no great fan of horror himself, spent most of the movie annoying Grantaire and wishing for his phone. But every time he tried to work up the energy to retrieve it, Grantaire would run light fingers down his neck, or plant easy kissing on the inside of his wrist, or pull gently at his curls and he would lose all will to move.

Jehan managed to take control the remote next, mostly because he pulled some shamelessly dirty tricks on Courfeyrac once it went up for grabs. He subjected them all to two hours of wedding shows before Feuilly gained control by virtue of being terrifying. He found an extremely dry british comedy only he understood, however no one was willing to risk an attempt at stealing the remote from his grasp to change it. By the end of the evening, Enjolras was fairly sure Netflix had destroyed their bandwidth.

When he finally got back upstairs to his phone, there was an email waiting for him. Enjolras hesitated when he saw Felix's name on it, since his father and he hadn't spoken since his college graduation. He felt the unnecessary need to glance around him, even though he knew he was alone. While Grantaire spent most of his nights in Enjolras' room, the soft thuds above his head meant that he had ended up upstairs in his attic studio, following through with his earlier intent to paint. Enjolras considered deleting the email, but he knew he'd just dig it out of the trashcan in an hour and feel guilty about doing it, so instead he opened it with a tap of his thumb.

Reading through the text, he felt his blood run cold then red hot in his veins. In a childish act of defiance and denial, he contemplated throwing his phone into the wall but a rational voice pointed out that it would accomplish nothing past further frustrating him. He fought his instincts and set it down carefully on the bed, taking deep breaths to calm himself.

That bastard.

*

No matter their woes, the world kept turning.

Monday morning couldn't have come quickly enough. Enjolras had been inching to get back to the office as soon as Grantaire and his friends had insisted he take the week off. He had been out of his mind within the first two days and most of his sleepless nights were spent in contemplation of how he could be better spending his time. Now, stepping into the ABC 1st North branch felt like finding the holy land.

Gavroche met him at the front desk, wearing an obnoxious purple vest and what looked to be one of Eponine's headbands holding his wild hair back.

"Morning, boss," he said cheerfully, holding out a fresh cup of coffee in offering. Enjolras had managed to finish his own on the way in, so accepted it without question as he walked by. However it apparently had not kicked in yet because it took a few steps for his brain to process the last minute. Slowly turning around, Enjolras brought narrowed, suspicious eyes down on Gavroche.

"What did you do?"

"Absolutely nothing," was his instant reply. "Only, who's M. Gillenormand?"

"He's an extremely ancient, ultra conservative Senator with old fashion opinions and stances," Enjolras summarized as he picked through the mass of paperwork splashed across the front desk. His messages had to be around there somewhere. "He has an iron grip on his district and deals with new ideas about as well as God does."

"Huh. So it's probably not a good thing that I snarked one of his aides off the phone earlier this week?"

That got him to pause. "Excuse me?"

"He was asking questions I didn't like about our policy and procedure," Gavroche replied as he swatted Enjolras' hands out of the way. Within seconds he made dozens of pink slips appear. "I told him he could pay dues if he was that curious about it. Then he started in on our stance on a whole bunch of different issues, and I asked him if he could read since it was all detailed on the website. Then he asked to speak to my manager, so I told him he could go fuck himself and hung up. Bad?"

Enjolras blinked. Gavroche was an amazing front desk manager, mainly because he talked everyone off the phone within minutes and could spot undercover cops or journalists at a glance. Combined with the menagerie of skills Eponine had taught him, and no one got past him unscathed. If Enjolras had wanted welcoming and personable as the face of their operation he would have employed Musichetta for the job.

"Not at all," he reassured as he started walking toward the back. "Tell me if he calls again, but don't pass it back."

"Got it."

"Good morning!" Enjolras shouted out to the floor in general, receiving various groans and grunts in return. Most of the others had gotten in before him this morning, since he had a breakfast conference with many of the chiefs from other ABC branches that had run long. Tiberius in particular loved the sound of his own voice, and he had Enjolras biting his tongue more than once in annoyance.

Eponine, Bahorel, and Bossuet were all out on various errands, but the others seemed more or less awake and functioning. Jehan and Joly were pouring over the various city newspapers, circling and highlighting the relevant articles. Musichetta was next to them, doing the same thing with blogs and news sites. Feuilly was bent over his desk, spreadsheets sprawled out before him, while Combeferre, on the phone with the permits office, waved. Grantaire, feet on his desk and headphones in, was busy at his sketch book and Enjolras could only hope he was working on the flyer for their anti SuperPac rally next month.

Courfeyrac was leaning on his desk when Enjolras finally got there, looking smug.

"Meeting go well?"

Enjolras would never speak against the other chiefs, as many of them--Anton, Louisa, Breanne, Gregory--were amazing at what they accomplished. But he couldn't shake the disgruntled feeling of coming back to a cluttered house after his forced week off. All the projects he had left had progressed not one iota, and Tiberius' simpering bleating had grated on him. So instead he gave Courfeyrac a closed mouth smile and set his bag and coffee down.

Gavroche smacked Enjolras' messages down on his desk, then watched as the stack wobbled and toppled over across his calendar.

"That worked out better in my head," he commented.

"It usually does."

Courfeyrac whistled as he picked through them. "Do you really get this many messages a week?"

"A day," Gavroche corrected, fingers busy sorting. Courfeyrac stared at him in disbelief.

"He's popular," Gavroche explained.

"Most of these are nonsense," Enjolras told him. Shifting through, he automatically discarded anything with Tiberius' name on it, as well as the requests for interviews. The condolence messages confused him until he remembered why he had taken a week off and he chucked those into the trash bin as well.

"The Governor's City College wants you to come speak with their graduating class in three months," Gavroche commented, waving one like a banner. "Yay, nay?"

"Tell them I will if their residence dean finally decides to acknowledge the fuck ups his administration made on the frat house rapes." That fight had been a long and brutal one, spearheaded by Eponine who worked like a demon possessed. She hadn't been able to sleep for weeks afterward, and they had shared many dark evenings pouring over paper after paper in the depths of the ABC. Enjolras was long used to the driving need for retribution that burned in him daily, but it had nearly broken Eponine and the memory of that still rang out from time to time.

"Carlyle over at the National Water Resource Drive wants to talk with you about forming a dual team to get support for their new environmental bill."

That one was more difficult. Carlyle was brutally efficient at cutting through political red tape and was a sledgehammer when it came to getting things done. But he also continuously propositioned Grantaire and Enjolras was a possessive soul at heart. He knew it was one of his more unattractive qualities but he couldn't bring himself to mind it much.

"I'll speak with him later," he finally decided. Grantaire's headphones must not have been up that loud because he glanced over the top of his sketch pad with a smirk on his lips. Enjolras met his gaze head on, but he could feel his face heating up.

"And the ABC fundraiser gala thing later this week," Gavroche finished off.

"No."

"Enjolras--," Combeferre sighed as he turned the phone into his shoulder, looking put upon.

"I see no earthy reason why I should go."

"Feuilly! Tell Enjolras we need money!" Courfeyrac demanded.

"We need money!" Feuilly yelled from across the office. "So much money!"

"We're the most profitable branch of the ABC," Enjolras pointed out.

"And all the other branches know it. They want you there Enjolras, if only so they can get enough money to keep the lights on."

The fact that he looked good in a tux and could speak in full sentences was left unsaid, but definitely hovering. Every branch of the ABC was commanded by a competent and dedicated chief, but some of them were more charming than others.

He rolled his eyes at the absurdity of it all, but nodded his consent all the same. Sitting down, he ran his fingers over his desk in delicate reverence. It was good to be back, and it help him build the wall against a very upsetting email sitting on his phone.

"Look on the bright side," Gavroche pointed out. "They gave us six tickets. I'd say you get to pick the five sad souls that get to join you."

"Courfeyrac!" Enjolras shouted immediately. "Don't make plans!"

"Damnit Gavroche, he was suppose to overlook that part."

"Combeferre?" He turned to towards his friend as Courfeyrac squawked.

"Why does he gets asked and I get ordered?"

"Because he actually does his work."

Combeferre nodded, still on the phone.

"Musich--,"

"Yes!"

"Any excuse to dress up, huh?" Joly teased.

"I was thinking the red one, maybe with those leather heels Bossuet got me?" she replied with a smirk as Joly's eyes went wide, his face pink.

Enjolras turned his eyes toward Grantaire as the others honed in on Joly. He wasn't sure if it was his place to ask, and he hated feeling this awkward. But Grantaire, who never judged his inexperience or hesitance, simply rolled his eyes affectionately and nodded, half his attention still on his sketch pad.

He shot Eponine a text as well, knowing she would at least enjoy free food and Courfeyrac's biting company. And if Combeferre finally worked up the courage to ask her for a dance than all the better.

A thought occurred to him, stilling his fingers across his phone screen.

"Gavroche."

"Yeah, boss?"

"The aide who called, did he tell you he was from Gillenormand's office?"

"No, but thanks to caller ID and the internet it took me all of three minutes to find him."

"But you couldn't be bothered to find out who Gillenormand was?"

"I bore easily. And Bahorel had spray paint."

Enjolras decided he wasn't going to touch that one. Instead, he nodded and let Gavroche get back to work as his tired mind spun. There was something there, even if he hadn't figured out what it was yet. With a sigh of frustration, he decided to let it simmer for a bit, marked a note in his phone and went on about his day.

*

Their annual fundraiser had been put together by the ABC 2nd South division, which meant Breanne and her constant push to reintegrate the arts back into society had dictated the details. Because of that, their venue was the historical Redstone Art Museum, and the entire exhibit had been rented out for their use. Enjolras was fairly sure that was why Grantaire had been so easy to convince, but kept that to himself because, God, did he clean up well in a tux.

Grantaire, noticing his staring, made a show of running his own gaze up and down Enjolras in obvious appreciation. He felt himself redden under Grantaire's exaggerated gaze, but he took a primitive pleasure in it. He had spent most of his life pointy ignoring anyone who ever looked at him like that, however trust and love had turned the normally discomforting act into an intimate and delightfully dirty sensation between the two of them. It made Enjolras feel dizzy and coveted as he thought about it.

They had ridden the subway over, because their cars were only for emergencies and day trips outside the city to save on gas and greenhouse emissions.

"I still don't know why I'm here," Eponine grumbled, letting out a sigh that had the her dark bangs fluttering around her face. She was wearing one of Musichetta's dresses, a teal colored strapless confection with rousting around her waist. She had vehemently vetoed any idea of a high heel, at which point Musichetta had smiled at her and produced a pair of silver flats instead. But despite her complaints, she had still smiled after Musichetta had finished her make up, reveling in Jehan's gushing and Bahorel's catcall. Even now, she seemed flushed with excitement, which Enjolras was glad to see. The Governor's College case still seemed to eat at her from time to time.

"Recruit more girls," Courfeyrac told her. Eponine jerked her thumb toward Musichetta.

"There's one."

Musichetta winked at her. Splendid in a bight red silk dress with no back, a plunging neckline, and a hem to her knees, she was going to be the instant center of attention once they arrived. She had styled her dark hair into gentle waves that tumbled down her bare shoulders and back, and had claimed Courfeyrac's arm before they were even out of the door. With Grantaire's arm already settled comfortably around Enjolras' waist, Combeferre had offered his to Eponine, who had taken it after a few moments of confused silence over the gesture. His oldest friend looked almost struck silly with her so close.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Musichetta rolling her eyes dramatically.

Enjolras lost track of Grantaire within minutes of their arrival. He would have gone looking for him but Anton from the 2nd North branch had searched him out like a shark and he spent the next hour meeting the mayor, the mayor's aides, the aides to those aides, three primetime network news anchors, a popular photographer who's work Breanne was auctioning off later that evening, six congressmen, and five different CEOs from companies famous for their stance on environmental policy.

"Carlyle approached you about his environmental bill too?" he guessed, turning to Anton in a brief pause between introductions.

"Yeah, he being an impatient asshole," the other chief explained with a smile, nodding at their next introduction.

Good, there was that taken care of at least. If Anton and his division took care of the National Water Resource Drive, Enjolras (and Grantaire) wouldn't need to. He tapped out a quick note on his phone and went to shake hands with the museum curator next.

He was already exhausted by the time he escaped back to his friends. Musichetta bumped shoulders with him as she passed over his untouched drink, which he slammed back in seconds.

"That bad?" Combeferre asked, looking concerned. Enjolras waved him off and nursed the ice cubes in his glass as they chatted about nothing in particular. He had just started to relax and look around for Grantaire when he heard a voice shout out behind him.

"Enjolras!"

"Damnit." He couldn't help the curse as it slipped from his lips. Courfeyrac, the traitor, only laughed so Enjolras grabbed his drink and tossed it back as well as the branch chief of the ABC 3rd East slid in next to him.

"I was wondering when you would show that angelic face of yours for the cameras," Tiberius commented as his hand drifted over his shoulder and coming to rest on the small of his back. "You have no idea the chaos I've been having to deal with all on my own, what with the news coverage and the press releases and constant vender phone calls, you'd think Bre hadn't the time to get it all done what with that debacle with that blogger nut."

Enjolras hated it when people commented on his face like it was the only trait he had of value. Tiberius' schedule wasn't even half of what he took in a day. Breanne hated dealing with the press but her second in command, Rachelle, was amazing at it by comparison and had probably been the one to handle the majority of it. Breanne loathed having her name shortened. Her branch produced the most revenue and good publicity after Enjolras'. The debacle in question had happened when a hacker had hijacked their servers a few months ago and had run with the first thing he had gotten his hands on, which had been Breanne's branch records. No matter how clean an organization, having every little correspondence picked apart and ridiculed never reflected well.

Tiberius was still talking, and his hand still hadn't moved.

Enjolras was about take steps when Eponine snapped, cutting Tiberius off. "The amount of hairspray I've been doused with is giving me a headache, the shoes I'm wearing aren't mine, and I was earlier told on no uncertain terms that all my underwear was inappropriate for this dress. As you can imagine, I'm itching for a fight. Are you volunteering?"

"No need to be aggressive, sweetheart,"

"Call me sweetheart again and this glass goes in your face. Leave now."

Not many people could stand against Eponine when she decided she had enough. Tiberius slink off within seconds.

"Thank you," Enjolras told her gratefully. His back itched from where the man's hand had been sitting. Eponine raised her glass in mock salute, but the reassuring light in her eyes meant she had taken his thanks to heart.

"Are you not wearing underwear?" Courfeyrac asked, completely shameless. He was never one to back down from Eponine's more viper-like tendencies. Combeferre's face was scarlet red.

"Wanna find out?"

"And that's where this conversation ends," Enjolras dictated on no uncertain terms. The last time those two had been allowed to banter unsupervised they had almost been arrested for indecent exposure at the local grocery store. Enjolras would rather not have a repeat of that phone call.

"I'm being oppressed by the man," Courfeyrac replied, but dutifully let it drop as Musichetta handed her drink over to Combeferre, who looked like he desperately needed it.

"Be an awesome date and get me another?" she asked Courfeyrac.

"If I'm getting you drinks aren't I entitled to sex later?" But he was already reaching for his wallet.

"I'm sure Joly and Bossuet wouldn't mind in the least if you wanted to join us one night."

Courfeyrac opened his mouth, thought better of it, and just laughed as he flounced over to the bar.

"Dance with me?" Musichetta asked, turning to Enjolras with bright, mischievous eyes. In retrospect, he should have seen that coming; the only other person in their house who stayed respectable on the dance floor was Feuilly. Shrugging, he led her onto the dance floor, only to find himself maneuvered around so Musichetta could keep her eye on their table, where they had conveniently left Eponine and Combeferre.

"What are you up to?" he couldn't help but tease as he picked the lead back up.

"Matchmaking," was her unabashed reply.

"I would have though you'd have tried with Eponine and Courfeyrac. Similar personalities and all."

"By that logic I should have shoved you and Combeferre in a closet together years ago. Besides, Jehan's had his eye on Courfeyrac for months now, and I think a calming personality would be great for 'Fey. I just need to keep him freed up until they work it out."

"Jehan and Courfeyrac?"

"Mmhmm."

"Wouldn't it just be easier to tell them?"

"That's what most of them said about you and Grantaire, but you both figured it out on your own."

"...Do you do this with all of us?"

"I make a three way relationship with a hypochondriac and the unluckiest man alive work. The rest of you are like really easy games of Tetris I can't help but solve."

If Enjolras ever needed a reminder of why Musichetta was so effective as their press liaison, this was it. Her people reading skills could put even perceptive Courfeyrac's to shame.

As they twirled, Enjolras caught glimpses of Eponine and Combeferre chatting back and forth, and couldn't help but smile as she reached out and straightened Combeferre's crooked tie. But eventually, the dance came to an end and Courfeyrac returned from the bar with drinks in hand.

"Did you see where Grantaire went?" he asked Musichetta as they finished.

"I think he's in the the art gallery."

"They don't open the doors for another hour and a half."

"He may have broken in."

Enjolras rolled his eyes and prayed he wouldn't find Grantaire stripping canvases out of their frames when he tracked him down. The headache behind his eyes was already brewing. Dropping a kiss on Musichetta's cheek in thanks, he went in search of his wayward artist.

The lock to the gallery door was hanging on by a thread, and all it took was a quick flick of his wrist to pop the door open and slip through. The lights were already on, but it was eerily silent in the large, brightly lit hallway. Artwork he didn't recognize lined each side, and painted eyes staring out at him as he passed. His footsteps echoed in his ears.

He found Grantaire in front of a long, horizontal canvas with shadows, curves, and a line of squares splashed across it. A rip was going down the middle, and a hand was pointing off frame near the center.

"You broke in," he accused, but the annoyance in his voice was vague at best. Grantaire's habit of doing exactly what he wanted, fuck anyone who told him differently, had always been both one of his most attractive and utterly infuriating qualities.

"Eponine actually broke in for me," Grantaire replied, tone completely unapologetic. His eyes stayed locked on the painting, but the smile on his face was all Enjolras' doing, which warmed his heart as he drew close. Their faces were probably on a dozen different security cameras right now, but he found he was too tired to care much.

"Tu m," the plaque read. "Marcel Duchamp."

Enjolras glanced at Grantaire, knowing full well he was out of his element.

"The rip's painted. The safety pins holding it together are real, though," Grantaire explained, reaching out to entwine their fingers as he spoke. "That's the Dada movement. During WWI, a group of artists thought the world was acting ridiculous, so they acted ridiculous in turn. They attacked every cultural standard, and were happy when they could provoke violence from their audience. Bring on the chaos and the madness, because nothing else would satisfy them. And they kicked off the Surrealists."

Enjolras had no idea what half the things Grantaire was talking about were, but his thumb was stroking the back of Enjolras' hand and the gentle, almost absentminded caress was settling his frazzled nerves better than the drinks he had slammed earlier. So he kept still, hoping his lack of movement would encourage Grantaire to continue, and listened as art history through the 1920s and 30s was described to him.

Enjolras had no opinions on art, and he doubted he ever would. To him, they were colors and brush strokes on a canvas and he never felt a rush from staring at them for hours on end. Better to spend his time productively with his endless list of projects and causes. But it was one of the few things in the world that truly put emotion in Grantaire's voice, that lit his eyes up brighter than the sun, and that brought out the self-assurance Enjolras knew was within him. So he stayed silent and listened with half a brain to Grantaire's words, humming in agreement every now and then.

Eventually, Grantaire pressed a quick kiss to his temple and dragged their linked hands further down the hall, stopping at particular pieces as he went. He never spent less than five minutes with each one, detailing both the technique and the artist to Enjolras, who dutifully absorbed it all and filed the information in the equivalent of a dusty, unused corner of his mind. Though he was aware enough to notice that Grantaire was studiously avoiding the west wing of the exhibit.

"What's over there?" he asked, pointing.

"The Abstract Expressionists. I can't say I'm a fan of Rauschenberg." The distain in Grantaire's voice was evident. Enjolras knew he shouldn't ask, but curiosity and weariness opened his mouth before he thought better of it.

"Any reason?" He knew the minute he asked that he had doomed himself to a lecture he'd never comprehend, let along remember, but he couldn't feel bad about it when Grantaire launched into an explanation, his eyes alive and his movements self-assured.

"When he had art shows, he's one of those artists who, when asked about what his paintings meant, would get into a conversation with the audience about what they thought it meant."

"That's a problem?"

"It bothers me. Somewhere in the 20th century it became acceptable for artists to become the center of their artwork. Suddenly you can't understand anything they create without understanding the artists themselves. It's part shock and awe, part performance art, and what's left is shoved on a canvas and called original. But if they're allowed to do that and call it art, then I'm allowed to have opinions about it."

This got Grantaire onto a tangent about popular art in the 1960s and Andy Warhol in particular. Enjolras couldn't tell if Grantaire admired or despised the man, which he was assured that was a normal reaction to Warhol. However, his stream of words came to an end when they arrived at the next painting. The look on Grantaire's face was one of a devout pilgrim arriving at the holy land.

"This beauty was the reason you got me to come," he whispered reverently as they stood before one the plaque declared to be The Elephant Celebes. "Max Ernst bridged Dada and the Surrealists. Cynicism and depression gave birth to self-actualization and freedom. He brought some of the most ground breaking and emotional pieces into the world, because he dug into his darker side to find salvation."

He could see why that appealed to Grantaire. Enjolras slowly took in the round mechanical elephant, the smokey background, and the beheaded figure out front, arm tossed out in invitation. Even taking his time he was finished in about two minutes and couldn't claim to see any of what had been described, but Grantiare didn't seem ready to move anytime soon, so he settled down to wait. The brunette didn't take many moments for himself, so when he did Enjolras saw no reason to rush him. And if it kept him out of that viper's nest in the main room for a little while longer, he won't complain at all.

His mother had tried to instill an appreciation of the arts in him, he remembered unexpectedly. She had always thought it was important to enjoy all aspects of expression, not just the rhythm of the spoken word.

"You strive to make people understand your cause, your art, when you speak to them," she had told him. "It's only right to try to understand theirs in turn."

Enjolras had scoffed and rolled his eyes at the ridiculousness, but watching Grantaire truly become alive surrounded by all this made his emotions bubble in his chest. Quite suddenly, he needed the other's arms around him, needed to be closer to the heart that beat so close to his own. He pressed into Grantaire's personal space, wordlessly seeking support.

And Grantaire, even while caught up in his version of divine ecstasy, was so attuned to Enjolras that his arms were already out and waiting for him. He curled himself around Enjolras, tucking him safety into his chest with his chin resting on his shoulder.

"I have everything I want within feet of me. Fuck everything else, I want to keep you right here with me until judgement day," Grantaire whispered into his ear, and while his words should have been jovial, they instead carried a serious, deliberate weight to them.

He wanted to snort at the sentiment. But Grantaire's tone was soft and loving, reminding Enjolras that this man believed him to be the center of the world as well as everything good in it. He would always think that, even when Enjolras' temper got the better of him, or when his single-minded focus blinded him to recognizing anything else around him. When he got stubborn, self righteous, and antagonistic, Grantaire loved him all the same. While he climbed and fought and bled, Grantaire would be behind him with a word and a touch, reinforcing the near devout levels of adoration Enjolras had come to crave in return.

He was startled to realize he couldn't imagine the world without Grantaire anymore. But he also couldn't imagine it without his mother, who had been his guiding light since birth. He had lost her and he could lose all this, too.

He was sure his face wasn't reflecting the terror that suddenly overtook him, because he had trained it to reveal only what he commanded it. But he couldn't command the sickening roll of his stomach or the giant block of ice that enveloped his heart. He couldn't stop the cold sweat that broke out over his skin.

"What?" Grantaire asked, feeling him tense. Ignoring the question, Enjolras turned, twisted his hands up in the lapels of the brunette's jacket. He used surprise and a strength born of desperation to twist him around and slam him into the wall next to The Elephants. If Grantaire stretched out his hand only slightly (and he wasn't bowled over in shock, as his expression currently suggested) his fingers would be able to brush against the painting's frame.

"Enj--," he tried, but Enjolras lunged forward to seal their lips together, cutting off the inevitable stream of questions. He nipped at Grantaire's lips, gripped him with a bruising grip, trying to force away his bitterly unwanted emotions. There was a monstrous drive in him it was snowballing out of control at the thought of being left alone again. So he clung with all his might, as if his will alone could keep Grantaire's being tied to his own.

But in his frenzied state, his hold slipped and Grantaire was easing him back, solid and steady next to Enjolras' violent energy. Both of his hands were shanghaied and gathered in a paintbrushed-callous one to rest over Grantaire's heart, the unrestrained burning within him smothered by the weight of their bodies pressed close.

"Shhh," Grantaire whispered against his cheek. "I've got you. Everything's okay."

Enjolras thought he was insane. Of course it wasn't okay. There was too much inside him, overloading him to the point of pain, and he couldn't deal with it anymore so why was Grantaire telling him it was fine? His voice rumbled in his throat, a prelude to the scream that was fighting its way out. He didn't want to lose this. Being left behind once was bad enough, but if Grantaire ever left as well he may not survive it.

Only Grantaire wasn't backing down; was still holding him close, one hand over both his own on his chest and the other tangled in his hair, was still whispering in his ear and Enjolras realized the words were spilling over his lips as well as his mind.

"It's fine. I'm still here. You're not alone, I'd never leave you alone. God, Apollo, the world would need to end before I let you go, and even then I'd fight it every step of the way-,"

Enjolras slumped, the words, and deep conviction behind them, extinguished the near hysterical drive within him. Grantaire used the hand embedded in his curls to guide Enjolras forward and rest his head against his shoulder, still muttering nonsense. Enjolras was too tired to complain, what little energy he had left was completely drained from him.

Grantaire, bless him, didn't ask any questions and just continued to hold him and whisper. Listening to him, Enjolras distantly realized he had started to ramble about the Renaissance and the period's obsession with baby Jesus. He focused on that while he fought to control his erratic breathing--taking deep, measured breathes until he was confident in his ability to think straight again.

He wasn't sure how long they stayed like that: Grantaire against the wall as his words wandering from Fabriano to Botticelli to Da Vinci with Enjolras wrapped securely in his arms just breathing and slowly reconstructing himself.

"We're good," he finally broke in when Grantaire took a breath, pushing back slightly. Grantaire's grip didn't loosen an inch.

"Never a doubt in my mind, Apollo. Now, sometime in the beginning of the 14th century the Church decided to say that whenever the Virgin Mary was going to be depicted, her clock had to be blue, which drove painters insane because blue paint is a bitch to get and temperamental as hell, but obviously they couldn't just leave her out--,"

"Enjolras!" someone hissed loudly from the other end of the hall and he felt Grantaire tense irritably around him at the interruption. But Musichetta stood at the broken door, looking terrified. "Enjolras, come quick!"

One of Enjolras' greatest skills was his ability to shut down parts of his brain he didn't have time to deal with. In the face of Musichetta's unadulterated fear, he immediately slammed a lid shut on his own and took off running, Grantaire close behind. Musichetta didn't wait for them, but turned and ran down a side corridor to their right. Stumbling twice, she kicked her shoes off and continued without a thought, leading them down a cinderblock staircase and a second, gloomier hallway that came out at the kitchen.

"We think we interrupted a kidnapping," Musichetta whispered in a shaking voice the minute they hit the last floor.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Breanne's a little short staffed so she asked us to grab more ice from the kitchen," she explained as they hurried down the hall. "When we got there, we saw a group of thugs hauling this poor kid out back, and well--you know how Courfeyrac and Eponine are when they see someone in trouble."

God, did he ever.

"Please tell me there isn't a dead body in the kitchen."

"No, no, no," Musichetta was quick to assure. "We got the kid, but the thugs took off. I think a few of them were bleeding though."

They had gotten to the kitchen by then, and Enjolras saw a young man tucked tightly into Courfeyrac's side, who had his arm wrapped protectively around his shoulders. In his other hand, he held what looked to be a dough roller in a white knuckled grip. Eponine was on the kid's other side, holding his hand and stroking his hair while Combeferre was checking his pulse. The kid had his face hidden in Courfeyrac's chest, and his whole frame was shaking. With a small internal sigh, Enjolras forced all thoughts of his own issues into a small, compact box and set his mind completely to the task at hand. He'd be damned if his capability was ever compromised by his emotions.

"Anyone hurt?" Enjolras asked the minute he got to them. Eponine shook her head mutely while Courfeyrac, lips pressed together and fury in his eyes, looked ready for murder.

"Just shock and stress, I think," Combeferre said, straightening. "Marius, can you look at me?"

The young man flinched but drew himself away from Courfeyrac enough to turn his face as requested. Enjorlas felt his heart twist up at the nasty black eye he sported, as well as the various scarps and cuts across his face and hands. He had wide blue eyes, freckles dusting over his checks and nose, and Enjorlas was fairly sure hurting this kid was akin to kicking a puppy.

"This is our friend, Enjolras. You remember we mentioned him earlier?"

Marius nodded, his eyes overly bright and glossy.

"He's gonna straighten this all out," Combeferre explained in his most soothing tone. Enjolras would have been offended at the presumption that he could fix this if his phone wasn't already in his hand and his brain wasn't flying. A familiar hand rested on his back as Grantarie breathed into his ear:

"Be nice."

Enjolras was too tired to resist the urge to roll his eyes, but nonetheless he tried to bank the fires already roaring inside him.

"Can you tell me what happened?" he asked, making an effort to keep his voice in the same comforting register Combeferre was using. It was more difficult than he thought it would be.

"My--my grandfather, he was driving me crazy," Marius whispered, his voice harsh. Enjorlas took a closer look and saw a darkening ring of bruises around the poor kid's throat. "I went outside, just, just to get away from him for a bit, just a bit! And...someone grabbed me from behind. I--I tried to get away, I kicked, I yelled, but no one heard me…they wouldn't let go."

"Did you see their faces at all? Anything distinctive?"

Marius shook his head. "I'm sorry."

"Hey," Courfeyrac said, shaking him a bit. "None of that."

"Courfeyrac got one of them in the face with the roller," Eponine picked up. "And I'm pretty sure I winged another with one of those two pronged fork things."

Of course she had. Enjolras desperately hoped she hadn't killed the man.

"Did anyone see the van?"

"Black, no logos. Newer," Courfeyrac reported, anger still marring his features. Enjorlas was fairly sure he hadn't seen his friend this upset since someone tried to jump Joly on his way to work a year ago.

"I got part of a license plate," Musichetta piped in. Enjorlas wrote it down on a napkin, as well as the details of the van.

"Do the police have any reason to take your phones?"

"They shouldn't," Combeferre replied, puzzled.

"They shouldn't, but they might. Pull your SIM cards, all of you."

"Is that really necessary?"

"If I believed the entire police department would act with decorum and honor, it wouldn't. But we don't have a lot of friends there and I won't risk the ABC on that. We'll get new ones." He handed the SIM cards over to Musichetta, trusting her to make sure they got out of the building safely.

"Marius," he called the boy's attention back, making sure blue eyes were firmly on him before he continued. "Who's your grandfather?"

"Martin Gillenormand."

Shit.

*

The police response time was actually rather impressive, and Enjolras had been right: their phones were taken immediately after their interviews. Luckily, after alerting those who needed it, he had put both his and Combeferre's phones into the nearest microwave and toasted them to uselessness. As a senior officer of the ABC, he should have destroyed Courfeyrac's as well but he knew there'd be a limit to what the police would tolerate from them. And there was a simmering satisfaction in thinking about that damn email going up in smoke.

He told them about the aide who Gavroche had chewed out over the phone, and watched as they got very excited about it. He expected they'd be seeing a pair of detectives at their door come Monday, and moved to make a note of it on his phone before realizing he couldn't anymore. Damnit.

The moment the police released him, Breanne, Anton, and Gregory from the ABC 1st West branch jumped him like pirañas.

"We're going to be in damage control for months after all this," Breanne said, biting her lip to the point of near bleeding to keep her temper in check. Enjolras hummed in agreement. A Senator's grandson almost being kidnapped at their fundraiser would generate nothing but bad press for their already radical reputation.

"I'll take care of it," Gregory offered at once. Enjolras traded looks with the other two. It was probably for the best; Gregory's branch had a reputation for wrathfulness and terror. If anyone could reign in a crazed media, it would be them.

"Do it," Anton confirmed. "Let us know if you need anything. Enjolras, can you keep us updated if the police tell you something?"

"Will do."

By the time he got away from the other chiefs and back to his own people, Marius had found his way back to Courfeyrac's side, which Enjolras thought was impressive given that he had last seen the boy being dressed down harshly by his raging grandfather not ten minutes ago.

"He's coming home with us," Courfeyrac informed him the second he walked over. Enjolras felt his headache unfold ten times worse behind his eyes.

"If that's okay," Marius added on nervously. On his other side, Eponine hugged him close as she rolled her eyes, her face set. Enjolras resisted the urge to press his fingers into his temples to dull the pain. He was so done with this night. This should not be his problem. Picking up strays was a horrible idea. While the police had some excellent leads the kidnappers were still out there. But Courfeyrac and Eponine both looked ready for a knock down, drag out fight in the middle of the kitchen and Enjolras wasn't sure he could fend them both off at once in the state he was in. The adrenaline had worn off, leaving his bones aching and his head splitting.

Behind them Grantaire, who was leaning out the window to share a cigarette with Musichetta, caught his eye and held it, just for a moment. But the look on his face was filled to the brim with adoration and love, and Enjolras felt his tired soul kick back to life.

"Marius, Enjolras said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Someone tried to kidnap you less than an hour ago. Running off with us isn't going to look that good."

"Enjolras--," Courfeyrac snarled.

"Did you hear the word 'no' come out of my mouth?" Enjolras shot back. Courfeyrac, sensing his displeasure, instantly quieted.

"Is there someone you can tell about where you're going?"

Marius nodded, and Enjolras could tell he was holding his breath over his next words.

"Go tell them. If we leave in the next ten minutes we can catch the 9:30 train home."

*

Musichetta had never gone back for her shoes and was about to brave the grimy subway floor anyway before Eponine had noticed and threw her flats at the other girl. She then spent the ride back piggybacking between the boys with Combeferre's jacket around her waist for the sake of modesty.

"I could have so many adorable pictures right now," Musichetta bemoaned as Eponine annoyed Grantaire by braiding his hair while he carried her along the last block with ribbon Enjorlas could only assume had come from the depths of Musichetta's clutch. She had her arm linked with Marius who looked near petrified at the close proximity of a beautiful women. Combeferre walked beside her, and between the two of them they managed to gently draw their stray out of his shell one step at a time. Enjolras, bringing up the rear with Courfeyrac, watched them all with tired affection.

"Thank you," Courfeyrac muttered. "I know I didn't give you much choice in it, but thank you."

Enjolras tilted his head, eyeing his taller friend. Courfeyrac wore his heart on his sleeve, and in doing so had it handed back to him broken, bleeding, and deserted more than once. Yet he still cast it out freely for any lost soul who he happened to come across, springing up in arms for the downtrodden he encountered and had the ability to help.

"I couldn't say no." It was the truth, because as much as he wanted to protect Courfeyrac he knew he'd never be able to by isolating him. So instead he protected the strays 'Fey adopted.

Courfeyrac bumped into him, causing Enjolras to stumble a bit before slinging an arm around his shoulder. "And how are you doing?"

"Hmm?"

"Enjolras," Courfeyrac pressed their heads together. "Don't be stupid. Are you okay?"

His mother was still dead. His email was still sitting on his computer at home.

"I'm fine."

"And I think that's bullshit," Courfeyrac replied. "But I'm not going to call you on it too much because I know you're in safe hands."

Enjolras sought out Grantaire almost without realizing it. He was arguing over his shoulder with Eponine about the color of the ribbon in front of them. Watching him that relaxed calmed something inside Enjolras.

"Exactly," Courfeyrac said, hugging him tight for a moment as they arrived back at the brownstone.

The others were already asleep but Jehan had stayed up, sitting in the living room with hot chocolate and a few of his more delicate plants. He took one look at Musichetta's complete dishevelment, Eponine on Grantaire's back with her bare feet dangling, and a still bruised Marius and was on his feet in a heartbeat. Enjolras gave him the bullet points of the evening.

"I let you all out unsupervised for one night and this happens," Jehan protested. Marius had somehow ended up wrapped up in his arms during the story, and he was smothering their new stray with as much affection as he was capable of giving. Which, in Enjolras' experience, was quite a lot. Marius didn't seem to mind too much though; he wondered just how touch starved the kid was to be so grateful for even the most casual of embraces.

"We'll deal with it tomorrow," he commanded, making it clear that the night was over. "Come on, Marius. I'll show you where the guest bedroom is." The guest bedroom was actually suppose to be Bosseut's room but a month into living in the brownstone had proven that he'd never use it.

"He can't sleep in the guest room," Musichetta protested. "It's haunted."

"That was one time," Courfeyrac replied.

"Tell that to the footsteps I keep hearing up there," Eponine added in, and the conversation devolved from there.

"I always thought that was Grantaire."

"I'm not that loud."

"Yes, you are."

"It's not Grantaire, it's the water pipe running through that side of the house."

"Bahorel fixed that last month."

"Well, it's broken again."

"It's fine, I'll just sleep on the couch or something."

"No you won't, Marius. You'll take my room."

"Where's that gonna put you, 'Fey?"

"I'm going to be up half the night with all the hot chocolate I drank," Jehan piped up. "I was just going to watch Disney movies. Come crash with me?"

"Mmk," Courfeyrac agreed smiling obliviously in the face of Jehan's immediate blazing happiness. Enjolras wondered how he had always missed that--it was glaringly obvious when he actually looked for it.

As they began filing upstairs, he abruptly stopped and turned to stare at Musichetta in disbelief. She allowed a wicked smile to crest over her lips.

"Tetris," she told him with a wink as she past him on the staircase.

"What was that about?" Grantaire asked.

"I think Musichetta may secretly be the devil."

"Oh, I've known that for years." Grantaire caught him on the stairs and pressed him against the railing, peppering a few light kisses on his mouth. Enjolras shuddered in pleasure at the contact.

"Go sleep," Grantaire ordered quietly. "I'm gonna be painting for a bit."

There was a bottle of wine loosely grasped in his hand, and his eyes held that slightly crazed look he got when his fingers were itching for his brushes. Enjolras refused to call the twisting emotions in his chest disappointment, and instead planted a deep, lingering kiss to his lips.

"I'll be waiting."

Grantiare groaned, pressing their foreheads together. "You didn't use to tease like this, you evil bastard."

"Something about you just brings it out in me."

They parted at their bedroom after one more kiss that Enjolras made sure Grantaire would remember, and suddenly the dark room around him felt like a slap in the face. Sighing to himself, he stripped off his formal clothes and tried to convince his mind to turn off for a bit.

Four hours later, laying in bed with his eyes wide open, he admitted defeat and rose. He wasn't hungry, but he hadn't had a chance to eat at the fundraiser so maybe something in his stomach would help sleep seduce him.

He was surprised to find Marius in the kitchen, staring out into the night through the large bay windows. He seemed lost in thought, and still a little shaken.

"Can't sleep?"

Marius started, whipping around.

"I'm sorry, I didn't--,"

"Marius," Enjolras said firmly, drawing the other up short. "It's fine. No one here is going to yell at you for doing what you want. Do you not hear the two idiots upstairs giggling over Lilo and Stitch?"

Marius' eyes stayed glued on the counter, though the look on his face told Enjolras he had hit a nerve. Not that it had been hard to guess; if Gillenormand was anything like Felix he knew the type.

He got them both a glass of milk and the cookies Jehan had bullied Feuilly into making yesterday. It was a horrible substitute for a real meal, but some nights were like that. Setting them on the island in the middle of the kitchen, he hopped onto the counter and waved for Marius to do the same.

And he talked. He had never been good at mundane topics, so instead he talked about the ABC. He outlined their charter, their goals, their hopes and dreams. He talked about their latest projects, an educational outreach push to urban, underprivileged districts and a massive food drive to span over the course of three months, as well as the anti SuperPac campaign at the end of the month. He explained their structure, and how each branch of the ABC had been designed to function both cohesively and independently of each other. And he spoke about the people, those in the brownstone and beyond that helped rally others to their cause.

Marius listened with wide eyes and an awed expression. Every once in a while he would nod excitedly, and even offered a few suggestions as Enjolras detailed their projects. After the first few he was even meeting Enjolras' eyes when he did it. Once his shyness was broken through Marius was proving to be a smart, quick study with a mind full of new ideas.

The recruiter in Enjolras smelled blood in the water.

They spoke well into the night and until dawn had just begun to break over the horizon. But he had no desire to stop because for the first time in a long while he felt truly awake as he simultaneously debated and taught. It was only when Grantaire stumbled downstairs from his attic studio did they realize just how long they had been in the kitchen, glasses dry and cookies replaced by crumbles.

"Bed, now," Grantaire ordered them both firmly. Enjolras thought he had no room to talk with the dark circles under his eyes and the slight tremor lack of sleep had given his hands, but he went all the same, gently pushing Marius down the hall towards Courfeyrac's room as he did.

"You need a shower," he told Grantaire as the other herded him towards their own room. He smelled of paint brush cleaner, acrylic, and wine, and the sharp scents attacked Enjolras' nose mercilessly. Grantaire made sure to hug him close and place filthy, sloppy kisses over his face in retaliation but headed toward the bathroom nonetheless, stripping off his clothes along the way. Enjolras couldn't say he was disappointed in the view.

After he was sure he heard the water running, Enjolras popped open his laptop and forwarded Felix's email to Lamarque.

*

"Lamarque, I have never met this man and my schedule is insane right now. I don't have time--,"

"Just talk with him," his godfather ordered. "He may be able to help with Felix being a nightmare."

"Felix may be a thieving bastard--,"

"Enjolras!"

"But the man doesn't have a leg to stand on. My mother left me everything, and alimony or no he has no right to it."

"But he can drag you through court for the next five years over it, at which point there won't be much of an inheritance left. Javert is an old friend of your mother's, and he wants to help."

"I've never met him," Enjolras reiterated, and he had known all of his mother's friends.

"Not everyone keeps their friends as close as you do," Lamarque defended. "But I wouldn't suggest it if I didn't trust him to take care of you."

Enjolras scowled into Bahorel's phone, but he knew Lamarque was right. "Alright. Where am I meeting him?"

And that was how he found himself at a local hole-in-the-wall nursing a stiff cup of coffee and waiting. It was his sixth cup of the day, so the caffeine had started to make the edges of his vision both fuzzy and extremely clear at the same time, and he felt a rush every time he turned his head too quickly. Or maybe that was the sleep deprivation. His fingers itched for his phone, but their replacements wouldn't come in for another week.

A shadow fell over his table, and a slender, clear-eyed man sat down across from him.

"Javert," the man introduced himself.

Grantaire always joked that Enjolras was made from marble, but it was Javert's features that could have been carved from stone. There was graying around his temples and the very air around him seemed to command silence and obedience. With how formal and clean cut the man kept himself, Enjolras was suddenly reminded of how sloppy he currently felt by comparison. He hadn't been lying to Lamarque when he said his schedule had become insane in the days following Marius' attempted kidnapping. He was currently running off coffee, the hidden stash of M&M's in Jehan's desk drawer, and the clean change of clothes Combeferre had kept for him in the break room lockers. The last time he had slept had been for about an hour the night before, tucked into Grantaire's shoulder as they all sat in the garden and enjoyed the warm sunset.

He met the man's steely gaze straight on anyway, keeping his head up and his eyes as focused as possible. He may feel like he was being held together by spit and duct tape, but that didn't mean this man had to know. His mother never showed it when long nights with a young son and a pile of briefing threatened to swallow her whole, so he wouldn't show it when a few day's excitement robbed him of sleep.

"Enjolras. I'm told you knew my mother." No point beating around the bush.

"I did. And I had a great deal of respect for her," Javert explained. "She was a dragon among the mice that huddled together in the DA's office. I was saddened to hear of her passing."

Enjolras nodded in acknowledgement, tapping at the rim of his cup to distract his fingers. He really needed his phone back.

"I've also heard," Javert continued. "That your father has been attempting to…derail things."

Enjolras had been able to keep his face mostly neutral and disinterested, mostly out of distraction, but he couldn't help the snarl that twisted his lips at the understatement. He took control of it within moments, but he was sure Javert had seen it nonetheless. Enjolras snaked his hands into themselves to still them.

"He's suing me for my mother's estate. He believes he has more of a right to it then I do." There was no bitterness in his tone, but it was a near thing. And admitting it out loud seemed to bring the reality of it all crashing down on him. He and Felix had never been close, but the idea that his father wanted to sue him for a line of zeros in his bank account was near nauseating.

"So I'm given to understand." Javert's posture was painfully straight. Enjolras couldn't help but wonder if this was what Grantaire saw when he looked at him. "I asked Lamarque if I could speak with you, because I believe there are things you need to know. However, I want to warn you first, because while it will give you the ammunition you need against him, it will mean learning things no child should know about their parent."

That was ominous. But Enjolras had burned his bridges with Felix years ago. There wasn't much that could make it worst. Puzzled, and slightly curious, he signaled for Javert to continue.

"I met your mother when she was working her way up in the DA's office. I had just passed the detective's test and we ended up on many of the same cases together. In all her time there, she never cut corners or refused to be compromised. She was a stalwart believer in the law and what it stood for, and could always be trusted to uphold it. And she had my external respect for it."

There was a level of devotion in Javert's voice that made Enjolras wonder if, in another life, this man replaced Felix. His mother had never taken another partner after her divorce, too preoccupied with him and her work, but he had always wondered if part of it was due to heartbreak. Not that he thought Felix was worth it, but maybe she had seen something he couldn't.

"You knew her well," Enjolras settled on.

"We were close, for a time. But I let some obsessions come between us, and by the time I realized my mistake we drifted apart…

"When I knew him, Felix was an associate at one of the more prestigious law firms in the city. When your mother and he would go against each other in the courtroom, the wheels of justice themselves stopped to watch. No matter their flaws, they both were amazing at what they did.

"But, outside the courthouse, your father had a great many transgressions to his name. Transgressions that had reached me through various means and for various motives. I kept silent about them out of respect for your mother and a misguided assumption that his personal life had no baring on his professional one.

"I see now that reasoning was flawed. There are many places to start, but I think the best one would be with a women named Fantine…"

*

Voices were yelling downstairs, clearly upset. Enjolras was out of bed and struggling into the first clothes he could grab before he was even fully conscious. Dawn was just barely breaking through his window, and a glance at his alarm clock made him winch. Behind him, Grantaire groaned and rolled over among the sheets, but when a loud banging echoed through the brownstone he shot up, scrambling for his own pants.

"The hell-,"

"Downstairs," Enjolras told him as he raced out the door.

The stairs were nothing more than a mild inconvenience, and he passed Musichetta and Joly stumbling out of their room, both wet from a shower and struggling into whatever clothes they could grab. When he got to the main floor he found Jehan and Eponine flanking a both terrified and extremely angry looking Marius in the threshold of the front door. Combeferre, barely awake, appeared behind him on the stairs, looking puzzled. Outside, Bahorel, Courfeyrac, and Bossuet were creating a shield at the front gate, keeping at bay a set of large and burly suits while a slick black sedan parked hazardously on the curb. Even in their sleep clothes, the three of them were doing a spectacular job of looking formidable in the face of uniformed thuggery. Thankfully it hadn't come to blows yet, though there was a nasty dent in the gate, much to Enjolras' ire.

But what really caught his attention was Feuilly, sitting alone on the front stoop with his shoulders relaxed and eyes fiercely intent. Always an earlier riser, he looked wide awake in dirt covered jeans and a battered, threadbare shirt while the rest of them were still half sleep and in various states of undress. He was casually passing one of the gardening picks back and forth between his gloved hands as he watched the argument play out before him. Concern instantly flared up in Enjolras, and he made sure to broadcast his presence as he eased down beside the redhead, touching his shoulder in both a reassurance and a warning.

After a moment, he felt Grantaire settle in next to him, legs stretched out and elbows braced on the steps behind him. A warm hand settled on the small of his back as he rubbed his thumb lightly into the slim patch of skin the edge of his shirt revealed, a subtle touch amid the yelling that Enjolras found himself thankful for. It felt amazing.

"Feuilly," he muttered, letting the question seep into his voice.

"They showed up about ten minutes ago. Marius' grandfather is in the car. They tried to kick the gate in." Though his tone was neutral, the twist of his lips showed his smugness. After a lobbyist group lackie had thrown bricks through their front windows two years ago, he and Bahorel had completely overhauled the security of the brownstone. The dented gate, for instance, was steel lined with deadbolt locks and reinforced hinges. They had wanted to electrify it as well, but Enjolras had put his foot down on that score.

"They were just going to barge in and drag him out," There was the fury Enjolras had been expecting, leaking its way into Feuilly's voice like oil across water.

"We're not going to let that happen," he cut in, voice firm. Feuilly tended to spiral out of control in violent ways if not brought up short, and quickly. Casting his eyes out, he kicked his tired brain into overdrive as half formed ideas were suddenly called upon to become game plans. His fingers absentmindedly tapped at the concrete step as if his phone's screen was between him and the cold ground.

Beside him, Grantaire snorted in amused ambivalence and pressed a kiss into his shoulder.

"Do we have enough room in our budget for another salary?" Enjolras asked, drawing Feuilly's attention away from current events. He knew they did, Feuilly had always been able to work wonders for their finances, but he wanted the redhead's mind on something else besides the sceaming drama.

"Yeah," Feuilly replied after a moment, swallowing hard and jerking his eyes away to concentrate on Enjolras. "We'd have to suspend a few early stage projects to do it this quickly, but we're no where near the size of Anton and the 2nd North branch. We could afford expanding a bit."

"We've got nine projects in the early stages. I'd say we suspend the voter registration push, the NRA lobbist scam, and the book drive."

"If we suspend the book drive-,"

"Marius!" The sedan's window had begun rolling slowly down as an older man yelled out. "Stop this foolishness and come home now!"

"Yes," Courfeyrac sneered. "Because obviously he's safe with you." Enjolras knew he was thinking about the vivid bruises that still stood in stark contrast against Marius' skin, just as he himself was.

"The aide responsible for the inconvenience at the gala has been taken care of," Gillenormand responded tonelessly. Unbidden, Enjolras' imagination conjured images of cement shoes and river sides. He allowed it to wonder because it was better than him focusing on this man classifying his grandson's kidnapping attempt as an inconvenience.

"I don't want to go back," Marius replied, quiet but steady. His eyes didn't rise above his feet but he stayed strong all the same. Enjolras was oddly proud of him. Beside him, Eponine bumped their shoulders together encouragingly, and smiled when he glanced at her.

"Now, Marius!"

"Marius," Enjolras said, half turning in his spot. He made sure to keep his voice kind, yet undeniable as opposed to Gillenormand's demanding shriek. "How old are you?"

"Nineteen."

Enjolras turned back as Courfeyrac and Bossuet jumped on that, arguing age of consent and kidnapping charges with the Senator's goons. Bahorel kept quiet, but the large shadow he cast kept the more hot tempered lackies in line as the other two proceeded to show just how much they had earned their law degrees. Gillenormand turned a face full of icy fury on Enjolras, who met it with calm eyes and a gracious smile. Watching the man's face twist up was the most satisfying thing he had seen all week.

Eventually, after many more threats and demands, the curious nosing from their neighbors forced Gillenormand's thugs back into the sedan empty-handed.

"Eponine," he called as he watched it pull away. "Call Gavroche and tell him to prep the office first thing--we may have to deal with a raid later on today."

Once they were all back inside and huddled in the living room, he had Combeferre draw up one of their employment contracts and within minutes Marius was the newest member of the ABC. With financial freedom and a roof over his head, he could start living life out from under his grandfather's thumb. As the others began piling into the kitchen with thoughts of celebratory coffee and breakfast, Enjolras stayed curled up on the sofa and willed his mind to stop its insane whirling. A glance at the clock told him he had only managed about four hours of sleep, which wasn't near enough to make up for all he had lost over the past month, let alone the debt he incurred while his mother had been in the hospital. He had hoped after yesterday…

God, yesterday.

Javert had spoken to him for hours. Enjolras would have taken notes but he was fairly sure their entire conversation was burned deep into his brain. He had indeed given Enjolras more then enough ammunition to keep Felix at bay forever, if not completely destroy his life, but his mind kept cycling back to her.

Cosette Fauchelevent. He had a sister. He couldn't help but wonder about her: Did she know about him? Did they look alike? Did she begrudge him for having Felix in his life and not hers? Not that he much wanted the man anywhere near him, especially now. Did she even know about Felix, or did she dream of a fantasy father who would love her, and cherish her, and protect her from the world? He hoped it wasn't the last one, because all it would get her was bitter disappointment.

Should he reach out to her? He had asked himself that probably a hundred times now. Only every time he asked, his mind sputtered and coughed and could give him no answer. And for the first time in his life, Enjolras had no idea what to do.

*

Grantaire wanted a drink. It wasn't even 8 am, his wake up call had included suited up goons and self-entitled old men instead of a warm, naked, and rested Enjolras, and and now he had to sit and watch as his Apollo once again got a look on his face that said sleep wouldn't be coming anytime soon. He had been seeing a lot of that look lately and, as gorgeous as Enjolras was at any point of the day, he was throughly sick of it.

But he wouldn't get that drink. Not because anyone would stop him (they wouldn't) but because there was something he wanted even more than a drink right now. So instead he accepted the coffee Combeferre handed him and sat back to wait.

And if Enjolras worked up the nerve to tell him what was bothering him so much, all the better.

For all Enjolras' temper and relentless drive, Grantaire had always loved him from the first, even if it had taken a while for him to admit that's what it was. And in that love, he had found a near endless supply of patience because Enjolras was nothing if not stubborn. Even now, with his Apollo lost in thought miles away, Grantaire found he was content to drink the bitter coffee, grab his sketch book from the table, and begin an easy outline of the blonde's frame, trying to capture the graceful movement he managed to unconsciously emit. It probably wouldn't turn out to be much, but Grantaire had always liked live model drawing. His art teachers had hammered it into him relentlessly; how the body holds weight, how a human naturally stands, how the the head, torso, and weight baring leg all worked in tandem. He could recite those lessons in his sleep for all they were embedded in his brain.

Grantaire had never wanted much out of life. For the longest time, his sketches and drawings were the only thing that made getting out of bed worth the effort. The ABC, politics, changing the world and all that crap, he could take it or leave it. Hell, he had only joined up because Courfeyrac and Eponine wouldn't shut up about it and his elsie had been empty for over a year. Not amount of alcohol could bring ideas back to his fingers, and it was slowly driving him insane. He had burned many of his failures during that time out of sheer frustration with the world. So Courfeyrac had forced him into a suit, got him the interview, and made sure he was semi coherent through all of it. He was pretty sure the only reason he had been hired was because of his connections between the various curators and art hungry fat cats around town. Breanne had been near salivating at his resume.

But then he had been transferred to the 1st North branch (probably Courfeyrac pulling strings) headed by a blond with stormy blue eyes and a voice like fire who couldn't care less about his tortured soul.

Enjolras had made it clear from the onset that his standards were high and Grantaire's failure to met them were none of his concern. And Enjolras' complete dedication to his work had galled relentlessly him in turn. What was the point of trying so hard to fix a system that was hell bent on being broken? It would just crack again the minute he turned his back. But Enjolras refused to quit and seemed almost incapable of backing down. So Grantaire's day was filled with snarky comments and cynicism and during the nights his canvases became full of lightening storms and fields of fire, all barley contained in pale skin and blond curls. Every time he finished one (and there were dozens), he'd watch it dry as he drowned bottle after bottle in an attempt to get rid of the torrent of feelings he didn't understand in his chest.

Six months in, not even the alcohol could camouflage what he was finally willing to admit was affection, lust, and maybe even something more.

So he started working--not hard, or even notably well, but he started nonetheless. And amazingly enough, even the slightest bit of effort on his part brought a smile to Enjolras' face. That was the incredible part, he later marveled as he painted. Enjolras seemed happy with any little thing he managed, as long as he tried. And the more he tried, the warmer Enjolras became in turn, smiling and touching where Grantaire had come to expect insults and dismissal. To Enjolras, he was actually worth something. That was…well, the feelings he was working very hard not to acknowledge were only growing.

But Grantaire knew his drinking was a problem for Enjolras. No matter the certainly of something growing between them, he knew Enjolras' logical brain couldn't come up with a rational for it, so instead the blond had ignored it and never responded to his subtle overtures. Grantaire had been much more attached to the bottle back then, so he told himself that the brutal twisting in his chest was merely a call for more oil paint and vodka.

And that pattern would have continued on for years until one night, when Musichetta had been making his drinks especially weak despite his protests and Enjolras had been high off the adrenaline of an extremely sucessful campaign, one touch had lead to another. Soon, he had Enjolras up against the wall while he pulled every wicked trick he knew on the blond's body and the bed had been right down the hall, all they had to do was stumble a few steps and fall through a door onto the mattress. Enjolras' touches had been hesitant and inexperienced, and he remembered realizing with a deep rush that he was probably the first person to ever see their great marble god like this. And divine he was because Grantaire would swear before all and sundry he saw heaven in Enjolras' wide blue eyes that night.

The next morning, Grantaire had woken up beside his still sleeping Apollo, and in that moment his whole world changed. After just one moment of staring into Enjolras' beautiful, relaxed features, he realized there was nothing more in life he wanted but to do this, every morning. And for that to happen things needed to change.

He hadn't realized how much he had come to rely on the bottle until he started trying to put it down. Quitting completely proved almost immediately to be impossible. He had decided instead to limit his drinking only to when he was painting, and in the process spent a lot of time painting in that first month; he couldn't say he created anything spectacular during that time but Enjolras had been working through his own feelings with a near constant flow of work so it had balanced out. And slowly, oftentimes painfully, he cut it out of his life like bad spots out of an onion. It took more self control then he ever thought he possessed, but he had someone to work towards. Someone who believed he was worth it.

He still lost his mind when an artist's high overtook him. He still had times when he was constantly running on paint fumes and whatever passed for liquor in the house, but he never saw Enjolras' face wrinkle in distaste after kissing him or shy away from his touches, and it had felt like the sun had finally dawned in his dark little world.

There were days, though. Days where his annoyance at Enjolras' oblivious disregard for anything beyond the cause grated on him like sandpaper. Days where his tongue could just taste the faint bite of a shot of whiskey. Days where he hid all day in his attic studio for an excuse to sling back just one more glass of wine. He was coming to hate those days with a passion.

Musichetta, his rock, his bartender, and the bane of his existence, had just barely held back laughter at his plight.

"Believe it or not, that's a good thing," she told him over lunch one day. "People don't like doing things they hate."

"I hate talking with you."

"My spirit animal is an octopus--you'll never escape me."

In retaliation, Grantaire had taken that as an excuse to hunt down every octopus themed trinket and article of clothing he could find. Feeling devious, he enlisted Eponine and Courfeyrac in his plots as well, and by the time they were done her room had been filled to the brim with the eight-legged creatures. He had even done a small watercolor of one entwined around a rock in inky purples and blues and hung it over her bed. Bossuet had not been amused by that one.

Grantaire didn't care about much: give him an endless supply of paint, a blank surface, and Enjolras and the rest of the world could burn for all he cared. But life seemed to require more from him, and if that was what his Apollo needed, then he would glad give all he had and more. And what his golden god needed now was support. So Grantaire would give it, freely and with love, and count the breaths until Enjolras finally trusted him with what he was keeping so very deeply hidden.