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When it happens, there were no fireworks. The heavens did not burst, the angels did not sing, the violins did not play.
They do not speak, instead, they communicate through touches and gasps, and trying to devour the other whole. Their words have been reduced into the simplest sounds, spilling from inside them. Grantaire gravitates towards him, an unstoppable force to an unmovable object.
It is not gentle nor tender; it is rough and borderline painful. Fingers press down on pale skin, teeth leave marks on necks, nails rake against the expanse of back. It is not love making. There is no emotion, no thoughts, just pure animal instinct.
There is an irony there, Grantaire thinks, as he presses down and kisses the exposed skin on Enjolras' neck. Two smart, educated young men driven by passion, by instinct, by lust.
Afterward, they lie beside each other, arms brushing. They still do not speak, instead, bask in the silence of their thoughts and the memories of their actions; their skin littered with proof of their activities. The silence is a contradiction, loud yet silent, a lullaby yet an alarm. The air is heavy between them, and Grantaire falls asleep with a lingering warmth on his body but a coldness in his heart.
---
He stirs as Enjolras rises. It is early morning, the sky light but the sun still hidden. The City of Paris is still in its slumber, silent and peaceful, almost as if dead. But Paris does not die, despite all the hardships, all the trials, all the tribulations. Paris lives on, immortal, even as its people starve and its children die.
However, Grantaire is not watching Paris this morning. His eyes, instead, are drawn to Enjolras, who is dressing in front of him. He does so slowly, concealing the marks on his back, on his chest, on his neck.
He does not look at Grantaire until all the evidence of their activities has been hidden from sight. He looks like Apollo once more, no longer the beautiful, wild, mortal boy who had made the most exquisite sounds.
They still do not speak, and Enjolras nods before he lets himself out. Grantaire watches him until he disappears from sight.
---
It forms a habit.
They argue until their friends leave, and then they retreat into the privacy of Grantaire's rooms. They leave their arguments at the door, and then learn the contours of each other's body anew.
They say nothing, before, during, or after. Words cause them to fight; in silence they are agreeable. Words are an educated man's weapon, but at these moments they are not man. Instead, they are animals, claiming and marking what is theirs.
Their sounds are of pleasure. They are obscene and loud, and fill up the air between them. They reverberate through the walls, bouncing, until the room is of layers and layers and layers of moans, gasps, and groans.
It is like this until they finish, until their hearts have slowed and their breaths have stopped. By that time, the sounds have faded, and silence presses down on them, fitting itself into the cracks of the wall, in the spaces between them.
It is on the fifth time that Enjolras breaks this unspoken vow of silence.
Grantaire had been dozing off, so close to sleep, when Enjolras had sat up, his hair a mess and his lips kiss-swollen.
"I cannot love you."
He says it quietly, but surely. Grantaire looks at his silhouette from the moonlight.
"I did not speak of love." Grantaire says to the darkness. He wishes it were true. He wishes that he did not love this man with all of his entirety.
Enjolras stays in place, before nodding once and laying down again. Grantaire watches him sleep, watches his breath even out, before he himself falls asleep.
---
Beneath Paris, beneath the poverty-filled streets, beneath the beautiful botanical gardens, there are whispers of a revolution.
Enjolras tells them this, gleeful and excited. He is filled with passion; radiates it and infects everyone around him with it.
He is a fire, burning with red-hot ideals and opinions, spreading towards the masses, capturing them in his fire, in his heat, in his brightness.
He burns so brightly, so radiantly, that he seems to chase away the shadows and replace them with his brilliance.
"My friends," Enjolras says, "It is only a matter of time. Soon, we shall take Paris for the people. We must be patient."
He is so beautiful, Grantaire muses, watching him from across the room. He takes a drink from his bottle of absinthe. His vision has become blurry, the world has become dark, yet Enjolras is the only one as clear as day, as bright as the sun.
He does not believe, yet he may begin to.
---
It is a beautiful day, and Grantaire has nowhere else to go. He takes a few sheets of paper, a few pieces of charcoal, a bottle of absinthe, and sits in the gardens. There are a few people walking about as well, enjoying the beautiful weather, admiring the flowers. There is a young madame under a parasol, thoughtfully looking at a few orchids. He wonders if she is thinking about a particular young man.
The people are quite idiotic, he thinks.
Paris, although beautiful, is a city built on bones. In a futile attempt to forget the revolution of 1789, Napoleon had decided to create a new Rome. He built public monuments and renovated streets. Paris became a city of culture and of art, where some of the best artists lived.
However, if one digged deep enough, one would find that the Parisian soil is watered by the blood of those who had died by the Guillotine. One would find bones of those who had fought for freedom and equality, and were silenced for it.
One can never eradicate its history, just simply cover it up with lies and litter it with many different attractions.
Grantaire walks, finds a bench and sits. He takes out his sheets of paper and his charcoal and begins to sketch.
He does not love Paris the way his friends love Paris. His friends love Paris for the people, for the oppressed, for setting free those who'd chained them. He loves Paris for its dark, dingy corners, for its troublesome history, for its dark times. He loves Paris for its dirty cobblestone streets. If one took away all of Paris' finery and its beauty, Paris would be just as ugly as Grantaire.
He tries to sketch the gardens, but he soon gives up. Although beautiful to look at, the cynic in him cannot put the beauty onto paper, so he gives up trying. He would rather sketch Paris bleeding than in all its finery.
He thinks of going to the Musain. Perhaps Joly or Bossuet are there, perhaps both. There he can have a few pastries and a few drinks before the meeting tonight. It is a sound argument, Grantaire thinks, so he leaves the gardens and makes his way to the Musain.
He does not find Joly or Bossuet; instead, he finds Enjolras. He is studying, his books opened on the desk, and he is copying something from a book to a piece of paper. Grantaire joins him, his bottle of absinthe in his hand.
Enjolras does not acknowledge him, does not even look up from his books. Grantaire takes a drink from his bottle and perches it precariously at the edge of the table, beside one of Enjolras' books.
"If that spills on my books, I shall castrate you." Enjolras says, without preamble. Grantaire barks a laugh and picks up the bottle, placing it instead on his lap.
"Have you eaten?" Grantaire asks. Enjolras shakes his head, and Grantaire asks for a loaf of bread and some cheese. He pushes them toward Enjolras.
"Go on, then, eat."
"I've not the time," Enjolras argues. "I need to finish this, it is of great importance."
"Is it not of great importance to eat, as well?" Grantaire asks. Enjolras opens his mouth to answer, but Grantaire cuts him off. "You must eat, Enjolras. If you do not, I shall get Joly. You do not want to answer to Joly."
Enjolras looks at him, then to the bread, still hot, and with a sigh, relents. He closes his books and eats, under Grantaire's watchful eye. Grantaire speaks about a few events, and it is not too long until they are arguing, throwing sharp points, wielding their words like a weapon.
That is how their friends find them later, still arguing. The bread, by then, is gone.
---
They stumble back into Grantaire's rooms, their hands roaming. Grantaire presses Enjolras against the door, and his mouth latches on the junction between shoulder and neck. He sucks on it, and Enjolras groans so obscenely that his cock twitches at the sound.
He pulls away, satisfied. There shall be a very pretty mark there tomorrow. He moves in again, kissing up the neck and under the chin. Enjolras moans and tilts his head to give Grantaire better access to his neck.
"You are beautiful," Grantaire whispers to the skin under his jaw. "You are simply divine." His hands slip under Enjolras' shirt and lightly pinches a nipple. Enjolras groans, fisting Grantaire's shirt.
"Grantaire," he says, warningly. Grantaire smiles against his skin and rolls the other nipple between his fingers, before sliding his hand down his chest and down his pants. He takes Enjolras' cock in hand, and Enjolras chokes and his knees buckle.
"Bed," Enjolras gasps, and they stumble around, knocking into things until they fall on the bed, with Grantaire on top.
Grantaire tries to taste every crevice of Enjolras' body, tries to run his hands where he can, but Enjolras is impatient. He does not want to be touched, nor does he want to be worshipped. He wants to be fucked.
Grantaire gives him that, and soon, too soon, it is over. They fall asleep, hardly touching, but when Grantaire wakes, Enjolras is curled up against him, his head on Grantaire's chest.
He looks peaceful, looks like the young man he's meant to be, not the revolutionary on whom everything rests upon. Asleep, he looks younger, less tired; less like a god, more human.
Grantaire tries to slip out from underneath him, but Enjolras stirs, his blue eyes blinking sleepily, before sitting up, yawning. He stands, dresses, and he is god once more, no more traces of the peaceful boy asleep. He stands tall and determined, his hair a halo around his face. His eyes find Grantaire's and he holds them there.
"I cannot love you," he says again, like Grantaire has forgotten.
Grantaire nods. "I know."
Enjolras hesitates, then nods, and is out of the room and into the Parisian streets.
---
After a few times, they move to Enjolras' rooms.
Enjolras' rooms are farther to the Musain than Grantaire's, however it is bigger. After their friends left, Enjolras had simply said, "Come with me," and left, leaving Grantaire to follow.
As soon as they enter, Enjolras pushes him against the wall. He kisses Grantaire; his tongue is skilled, drawing from Grantaire sounds he'd never made before.
"I would like," he says, peppering kisses from Grantaire's ear, "To take you. Would you allow me that?"
"Anything," Grantaire answers hoarsely, and Enjolras is pulling him off the wall and onto the bed.
Enjolras touches him, plays him like a musician would. He draws sounds from Grantaire, creates a symphony in the room. He is a skilled musician, and he creates the most beautiful music that only they have the pleasure of hearing. Grantaire comes apart beneath him, and Enjolras conducts him into a rousing coda.
Later, as they lie side by side, Grantaire curls up by Enjolras' side. The nights are cold, and Enjolras is warm. Enjolras' arms come up to shield him, and they fall asleep that way.
---
In the morning, Grantaire makes to leave, but Enjolras asks him to stay. They fetch pastries and they eat it, arguing. Outside, Paris is noisy, filling the air with life. Grantaire does not mind the noise.
Soon, Grantaire has to leave. Enjolras grabs his arm. He looks unsure. He hesitates, then squeezes Grantaire's arm.
"I cannot love you," Enjolras says to him, like a mantra, lest Grantaire forget, lest he forget.
"That is not a problem." Grantaire answers. Grantaire understands that Enjolras is not his, that Enjolras cannot ever be his. What he has now is more than enough, and it would not do well to wish for more.
---
Marius waxes poetic about a girl he intends to marry. They are all quiet, solemn, as Enjolras fumes.
"You intend to abandon the people for her?" Enjolras asks, angry. His eyes are blazing. He is wildfire spreading, consuming. "You would abandon the rights of man to marry her?"
Marius does not answer. Instead he says, "I love her, Enjolras. Would you deny me the right? I am but one man, the revolution has plenty more."
"Every man counts," Enjolras says, hands curled in fists. "The revolution comes first. It must always comes first."
"Have you never loved before?" asks Marius.
Grantaire sees Enjolras stiffen in front of him. The others murmur among themselves, but silence when Enjolras begins to speak.
"Had I loved, Marius, I would not wish to marry in a world of injustice and oppression." He takes a deep breath. "There is of no greater love than the love of Patria. Citizens, you must remember that you must love your country first, before anything. You must see to her success, you must free her from her chains. You must be prepared to give your life for her."
The others speak their agreement, and conversation resumes. Marius is left speechless, and he returns to Courfeyrac's side. Grantaire tries to listen to Joly and Bossuet, but finds he cannot focus on their words. His thoughts continue to return to Enjolras, much like how he himself gravitates towards Enjolras.
He glances up, and his eyes find Enjolras across the room. He is fire, he is the sun, he is going to burn out the fastest.
He belongs to the revolution.
The revolution, Grantaire thinks, has the habit of taking the most desirable of men for herself. An evil temptress.
He is the red in an otherwise dull world, he is color in monotone. Around him, Grantaire becomes a person, whole and complete. He becomes someone, rather than no one. And yet the revolution claims him for her own.
Later, as their friends leave, Grantaire approaches him, as he always does. Enjolras turns to him, but before he can speak, Combeferre calls for his attention. They discuss plans and statistics and armory, and Enjolras does not look to him anymore. Grantaire leaves then, bottle in hand.
Enjolras belongs to the revolution first, and to his friends second.
But not Grantaire. Never Grantaire.
---
"I cannot love you, Grantaire." Enjolras says again, a few nights after that meeting. It is a cold night, and they share a blanket. But the warmth is not enough, so they are pressed against each other. "I cannot allow myself to love you."
Grantaire wonders, is this how Patroclus felt? To love a man so pure, so invincible; to wish for him to belong to only you, and yet he does not? Is this the same sweet torture Patroclus underwent, when his Achilles went off to the war, where he belonged, where he could become historical? Was it this same envy, this same pain?
He does not speak these words. Instead he intertwines their fingers together, and rests it on his chest. Enjolras, for his part, does not pull his hand away.
"That is not a problem." He says into the darkness. "I can love you enough for the both of us."
---
It is late afternoon, and the sun is setting outside Enjolras' window. They both lie gloriously naked on the bed, Enjolras with a book and Grantaire watching Enjolras. The light plays with Enjolras' features, making it seem as if he were on fire from within. Grantaire's hands itch for paints and a paintbrush, so he may immortalize this moment, paint it on the walls of the room, create a fresco dedicated to Enjolras only. He wants to paint him in all his naked glory on the walls of this room, cover every surface with Enjolras.
"Did you know," Grantaire says to Enjolras' profile, "That there are men whose existence depends wholly on another?"
"Oh?" Enjolras replies, his eyes still on the book. He does not seem concerned nor interested. But Grantaire needs to say this, needs to let him know.
"History tells us this again and again. There are men born to be the opposite of another, born to be the reverse. They are born with the word 'and' immediately before their own names. They are the counterparts of the great heroes, of the great historical figures." Grantaire sits up, and crawls over on to Enjolras' lap. He gently takes the book from his hands and sets it on the table beside the bed. Enjolras does not complain, just looks at him curiously.
"History gives us men like Patroclus, Pollux, Nisus, Eudamidas, Hephaestion, Pylades, those whose existence relies so much on another. Their names are a sequel, written only after their counterparts, never the other way around. Their existence is not of their own."
"What are you saying, Grantaire?" Enjolras says, his hands set on Grantaire's hips. Grantaire does not look away from Enjolras. He cannot bear to, not now, not at this crucial point.
"I believe," Grantaire begins carefully, "That I am your reverse. Like these men, I would follow you to the ends of the Earth and back, would you ask me of it. Allow me this, allow me the great honor of signing my name immediately after yours. Allow my name to be spoken in the same sentence as yours, separated only by 'and'. Allow me to love you, like Patroclus loved Achilles, like Hephaestion loved Alexander. Allow me, Orestes, to become your Pylades."
Grantaire looks away, and takes Enjolras' hands into his own. He does not look into Enjolras' eyes, however he can feel them watching him. He brings their joined hands together to his lips, and presses a gentle kiss.
"Will you permit me this?"
Enjolras takes his face in his hands, and presses a kiss on his lips. It is not like that first time, it is not lust, nor is it instinct. It is pure, human emotion; a chaste kiss, filled with words unsaid. It is simple, quick, and yet it speaks volumes. It leaves Grantaire's heart stuttering in his chest, wanting to break free.
"I cannot love you," Enjolras murmurs into the space between their lips. "I cannot allow myself to love you. I do not want to love you. Yet my heart sings this which my mind tries to ignore. I know I mustn't, for the revolution comes first, and yet I find myself wishing it weren't so. Therefore; I cannot not ask you to follow me to the ends of the Earth and back. I cannot be the cause of your downfall."
"Yet I would, anyway." argues Grantaire. "I would not ask you to give up your beliefs for me, only that I may stand at your side as we fall."
Enjolras smiles sadly, and intertwines their fingers together. It is not an odd sensation, however, it feels like a completed puzzle would.
They do not speak after. It is not like the first time, it is not rough and borderline painful. This time, it is gentle and filled with emotion. It is two educated men, who have learned and loved and applied what they learned. It is not instinct, it is knowledge.
Fingers still press on skin and bruises bloom like flowers; nails rake on back and create a gentle stream. Teeth leave marks on neck, and they create proof of every piece of skin they've kissed.
They are both scholars in their own right, gathering information and creating conclusions. They know then, what to do create the most beautiful sounds, what to touch to get the perfect mixture of a groan and a moan.
This time, it feels as if the heavens had burst and the angels had sung. This time, it feels of fireworks.
---
The next night, they receive the news that General Lamarque has died. All of them are quiet, solemn, yet they choose the next day to begin their revolution. They must use the shock to their advantage, must make the most of what they were given. Marius stops in recounting his affections for the girl, and they plan.
Enjolras does not look at him, already too busy planning the barricade with Combeferre and Courfeyrac. He is more impassioned; more radiant and more brilliant, his light filling and overflowing the room.
Grantaire does not look at his way again the rest of the night, instead choosing to look at the end of his bottle.
---
There is a girl, and she has died.
Grantaire did not know her, does not know her name, but Marius does.
He does not know her name or her story, but he knows that she died for love. He can see it in her dying eyes; he can see that she loved Marius enough to give her life for him. He can see that she loved him the way he loves Enjolras, and his heart tentatively reaches out for her.
Enjolras catches him later that night, and kisses him against the wall. Grantaire mouths the words 'I love you' on the skin of his neck, saying it again and again.
Why had he waited too long to say them? Now they can never have enough time in the world, can never love like they wished to. Now he can never say it enough, can never whisper it in the skin between his shoulder blades or into his hair.
They do not do much more that night, and soon, they lay down to sleep, hands intertwined, Enjolras' head resting on Grantaire's chest.
---
His sleep is filled with gunshots and noise. He does not wake, but he knows it is happening. He knows his friends are dying.
Yet he does not wake.
He wakes when everything is silent. He wakes when the war has stopped, and when his friends are dead.
He wakes, and sees Enjolras, still alive, in front of a firing squad. His face is grim, he stands proudly, yet, Grantaire knows, he is afraid.
Even before death, he is a vision.
He is still a fire, still as destructive as ever.
And Grantaire declares himself, making his way across the room and into Enjolras' side.
"Do you permit it?" He asks. It is a question he had asked, lifetimes ago. When the world was not yet wrought by destruction and blood, when it seemed like the only world that existed was the world inside the privacy of their rooms. Enjolras had seemed so young then, so eager, so idealistic, so beautiful.
He is no less beautiful in death, however he is no longer a young man. He is the man on which the world rests upon his shoulders.
Allow me this, Grantaire thinks. Allow me to stand by your side as an equal. Allow me this great honor, of dying by your side. Allow me to love you, even in death.
Enjolras smiles and slowly, intertwines their hands.
The gunshots resound.