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Chapter Text

Time seemed to be passing differently, Enjolras’ grasp on it vague and slippery.

The moon was hidden that night and he knew not how long he mindlessly followed the faint outline of Grantaire through the darkness, shadowy trees passing by him in a blur and blending into one.

It was only gradually that the blanket of numbness finally began to slide away, baring the pain which had gone unnoticed until now, suffocated beneath primal instincts and shock. Aches sparked to life all over Enjolras’ body. 

First was his throat, raw and tender from the vicious handling of Philippe’s hand, its phantom touch lingering as though the Prince’s fingers were there still, pressing harshly against his neck. Enjolras instinctively reached upwards to ensure that it was not so, brushing bruised skin that felt heated and abused.

A dull throbbing was spreading from the back of his skull where his head had impacted with the wall and the pain appeared to be stretching all the way to his shoulders, his muscles stiff and unyielding. His eyes had trouble focusing, his vision swimming in and out, as though unable to stay rooted to the outside world and constantly seeking the inside of his own mind.

Enjolras inhaled deeply, but found that it did nothing to calm him. His hands were shaking and so, he realised, was the rest of him.

Memories were starting to trickle in, soon becoming a rushing river which swamped him without warning. It was suddenly as if Philippe were with him still, his crude words echoing mercilessly in Enjolras’ ears, ricocheting in his mind and blending into a cacophony.

It will be my utmost pleasure to break you, mocked the Prince inside his head. I shall breed you until you bleed.

For a moment it was almost as though Enjolras was back at the palace, trapped between the wall and Philippe’s insistent weight. He could feel the echoes of Philippe’s hot breath, the proximity of his teeth where they were poised to claim him against his will.

Stomach turning violently, Enjolras yanked his horse to a sudden halt, barely hearing its protesting whinny, for he had already dismounted. He managed but two, stumbling steps before his knees gave out and he was violently ill, staining the grass before him. Tears sprang to his eyes as his throat protested wildly, the sensation akin to a dozen, burning blades.

Hot wetness spilled over, displaying his weakness in salty streaks across his cheeks, which heated in both shame and anger.

“Enjolras.”

It was Grantaire, kneeling down at his side, but Enjolras managed nothing but a faint sob.

“May I touch you?” asked Grantaire softly. 

Enjolras did not answer, did not think at all, simply turned and brought down his forehead to rest against Grantaire’s chest, one of his still shaking hands encircling Grantaire’s arm in a vice-like grip. The cap slid from Enjolras’ head, tangled curls tumbling free and hiding his face. Enjolras closed his eyes, grateful for the barrier.

Grantaire remained as he was, still and silent, an anchor to Enjolras’ raging emotions. His heart beat a steady rhythm, his breast moving with even breaths which Enjolras used to regulate his own.

It was only when Enjolras moved once more, when he pressed further into Grantaire’s warmth, that there was the faintest touch against his temple. The throbbing there eased instantly, though Enjolras was in no position to ponder the fact.

Slowly and oh so carefully, Grantaire brushed aside the curtain of hair, some of the strands clinging to Enjolras’ damp cheeks before sliding away. Enjolras did not dare open his eyes and face the world just yet, instead chose to stay exactly as he was, drawing in Grantaire’s comforting scent with every breath; sweet and heady and safe.

The return of his senses, at least some of them, was slow and laborious.

Convincing his instincts to retreat once more was almost impossible, laid bare as they were ever since his conscious thought had switched off in their favour. They clung to Grantaire, reluctant to take back control when sensing the reassuring presence of an alpha so close, an alpha who had protected him and was willing to do so again.

Enjolras had seldom hated his nature more.

Even so, with his head seeking to split itself apart, he could not but wish for Grantaire’s fingers in his hair once more. But Grantaire’s hand had dropped after the previous, all too fleeting caress, and was now a barely-there touch against his shoulder, palm curved softly over it in a protective, if tentative manner.

“Forgive me,” muttered Enjolras, voice hoarse and scarcely audible against the plain shirt of Grantaire’s servant garb. It was only with utter difficulty that he finally drew back, though his fingers yet refused to loosen their hold on Grantaire’s arm.

Hastily wiping at his face with a coat sleeve, Enjolras found Grantaire regarding him with soft eyes and concern furrowing his brow.

“There is nothing to forgive, I assure you,” said Grantaire gently. 

His hand, now dislodged from Enjolras’ shoulder, slid along his arm before releasing him completely. Enjolras immediately wished for it back. Instead, he forced himself to peel his own, stiff fingers from Grantaire’s bicep and used them to brush aside his tangled curls. From the corner of his eye, Enjolras espied the darkened stain where blood had seeped through the thin fabric of Grantaire’s coat.

Alarm straightened Enjolras’ spine. “Your arm,” he said, relieved when the words emerged edged with a small portion of his usual air of command. “Let me see it.”

Grantaire gave a small shake of his head. “We cannot linger. I wish to give us some more headway, if you believe yourself able. Are you well enough to continue?”

Enjolras raised his chin, unwilling to show any more weakness. 

“I am,” he said, though his aches had not lessened and nausea was still twisting his insides.

Grantaire cast upon him a searching look, though refrained from commenting. His eyes flickered back towards the dark road behind them, his gaze sharp as it sought for signs of pursuers. Enjolras followed suit, but could discern nothing in the dark of the night.

“Let us make haste,” said Grantaire. “The more ground we cover, the better.”

Sparing his tortured throat, Enjolras did not offer a verbal reply, instead focused on carefully reclaiming control over his muscles as he rose to his feet. Grantaire offered him no help and Enjolras was grateful for it. His pride was bruised enough and would not let him accept any more assistance.

Enjolras was in no shape for an adventure. He was exhausted and in pain, barely managing to bite down on the agonised sound rising in his throat as he returned to his saddle and it was only due to sheer determination that he remained atop his horse throughout the following hours.

Grantaire led them surely, the glances he threw over his shoulder growing in frequency, though Enjolras could not make out his expression in the dark. Barely composed, Enjolras did his best to keep his mind on the task at hand, not letting it stray to anything further than the desire to wash and to find a spot where he could recline and battle some of his misery.

Eventually, they came across a small, non-descript inn, where Grantaire bid him to halt. 

Enjolras knew not how much time had passed, though the sky above them was still dark. It was with a feeling of utmost relief that he dismounted, his knees weak and his legs trembling. He knew that despite his iron will, he was unable to go any further that night. 

This time, Enjolras wasted no thought about permitting Grantaire to wrap a steadying hand around his elbow, partly for support and partly to not raise suspicion as they entered together.

Grantaire spoke to the unkempt innkeeper in terse tones, for once doing nothing to rein in his pheromones and slapping down a few gold coins atop the stained counter.

“A room for the night. We wish to remain undisturbed, do you understand? As far as you are concerned, you have not seen us and you will deny having rented a room to any of our description.”

The innkeeper bowed to Grantaire with a grandeur entirely unfitting for his appearance, his greasy hair catching the dim light of the candle at his side as he bared yellow teeth. He snatched up the coins with grimy fingers.

“You may put your faith in me, Monsieur,” purred the innkeeper in a horribly nasal voice, his false smile widening. His eyes flittered to Enjolras, who had to battle the urge to raise his chin and instead jerked down his head to hide his face, the cap thankfully aiding him greatly in this endeavour.

Grantaire let loose a threatening snarl, tearing the sleazy innkeeper’s attention away and sending him bowing once more.

“Should I find out that you have betrayed us, I shall see to it that you may never be able to lie again. Are we in accord?”

“We are, Monsieur, we are. I will personally vouch for your secrecy,” retorted the innkeeper hastily.

“Good,” snapped Grantaire, the cadence of his voice foreign to Enjolras, who was so accustomed to having a gentler tone directed at him. “See to our horses.”

With one hand carrying their belongings and the other still firmly on Enjolras’ arm, Grantaire steered him towards the stairs leading to the upper floor of the inn. His touch was not unkind, despite that it was clearly meant to appear so, and Enjolras did not resist. As soon as they were obscured from sight, Grantaire released him.

“How I hate this detestable business,” he muttered darkly, though Enjolras was uncertain whether he was referring to the act of shady dealings or being forced into displaying dominance. Perhaps it was both.

Enjolras remained silent, barely scraping together enough energy to make it to the top of the landing.

Their room was as shabby as the rest of the establishment, smelling of old sweat and seedy deeds. Two beds with a threadbare mattress were pushed to either wall, the sheets barely passing as clean, and the only other furniture consisted of a rickety table with two matching chairs and a chipped basin in the corner. Enjolras made his way to it as Grantaire set down their belongings and threw open the only window, letting in a cool breeze which smelled faintly of the ocean.

Staring forlornly into the empty basin, Enjolras hardly heard as Grantaire came to his side.

“Do you wish for me to fetch some water?” his voice was once more gentle as he addressed Enjolras.

Enjolras glanced at him, exhaustion turning the art of thinking into a chore.

“You are no longer my servant, Grantaire.”

Grantaire wet his lips and Enjolras was becoming fast used to the heating of his blood whenever he was witness to the gesture.

“And if I tell you that I wish to serve you, would you still deny me?”

Feeling hot and confused, Enjolras freed his aching head of the cap, letting his hair tumble free of its confines.

“I would not believe you,” said Enjolras, casting aside the cap and following it up with his coat.

Something flashed across Grantaire’s face, something more than mere displeasure; an emotion rather shaper and rawer and very much like pain.

“Have I still not earned your trust?”

Alarmed, Enjolras turned to him. “That is not-” he broke off, feeling unsure and severely uncentered. Hurting Grantaire had not occurred to him as something within his power and knowing that he had done so was quite unbearable. He cast about for something to say to wipe away the look on Grantaire’s face and ended his floundering by doing what he would were it Combeferre before him instead. Reaching for Grantaire’s hand, Enjolras pressed it with his own.

Though the difference of performing the gesture on Grantaire rather than his dearest friend could not have been greater. Where Combeferre’s touch warmed his chest with easy affection, Grantaire’s skin lit a raging fire. Enjolras was ill equipped at dealing with the unknown and after a night as the one he had endured, with his instincts still so close to the surface, it was a feat of impossibility.

And so it happened that instead of doing the wise thing and instantly releasing Grantaire’s hand as he had originally intended, Enjolras held it all the tighter.

“You have my trust, Grantaire,” Enjolras heard himself speak.

Grantaire’s eyes were wide, his breathing shallow in the space between them and his voice but a whisper. “Enjolras.”

They were closer now, hardly an inch apart, and Enjolras dazedly wondered how that could be, when not a moment ago there had been so much hateful distance between them. Grantaire’s eyes were so very blue and his scent the sweetest thing Enjolras had ever smelled. He wished to press his nose to his neck, wished to taste his lips and discover whether they were just as sweet. He leaned in, so very close, his eyes half-lidded and his chest tight with desire.

“Please desist.” The words were ragged, a pained plea and akin to a slap in the face.

Enjolras reeled back, releasing Grantaire’s hand as though it had truly burned him. 

Grantaire was tense, every muscle tight with strain, his face flushed and his chest heaving with panted breaths. He looked every bit as pained as he had sounded and Enjolras was utterly mortified. With growing horror, he realised that Grantaire’s sweetness was not the only one lingering in the air between them, but that his own scent had infused the stifling room, slipped free from behind Enjolras’ still damaged walls.

“Forgive me,” said Enjolras, wondering how many times he may utter the words and still sound sincere.

Grantaire backed away carefully on visibly shaking legs. “Please do not upset yourself over this. You are unwell still, as is entirely understandable. I shall fetch your water and ask for something to settle your stomach.”

With the sound of the closing door, Enjolras fell back against the wall, his knees no longer willing to support him.

*

True to his word, Grantaire returned with a wooden bucket of water and a bowl of steaming broth, which he put down on the table. Enjolras, now seated on one of the rickety chairs, obediently cradled it between trembling palms, warming curiously cold fingers. He watched Grantaire pour the water into the basin, before going in search for a cloth that could be used for washing. He also, Enjolras noted with displeasure, turned down one of the beds in a few, practiced movements.

“I shall give you your privacy and return in a while,” said Grantaire, once he had finished his self-appointed tasks. “Should you have need of me, I shall be easily found.” 

Which was how he quit the rooms a second time. It looked rather suspiciously like flight to Enjolras, though who was he to begrudge Grantaire some time away from an unstable omega who seemed to have lost every sense of self-preservation.

Enjolras very much wished to unleash his temper on the closest, inanimate object, but he had had quite enough of his flighty control and was unwilling to permit himself any more transgressions or displays of weakness.

He gulped down several mouthfuls of broth, burning his tongue and fighting back tears against the intense ache in his throat, before seizing the cloth and applying himself to washing some of the grime from his skin with jerky movements. He paid special attention to his bruised neck, biting back sounds of pain and caught himself frantically hoping that the water would be enough to wash away the memory of Philippe’s hateful hands.

Enjolras hardly remembered collapsing onto the grimy bed, only that he did so without bothering to remove anything but his boots. Darkness came swiftly, dragging him into a sleep of the severely exhausted, dreamless and closely resembling unconsciousness.

*

The following morning found Enjolras with the sun already high in the sky and his throat aching as severely, if not worse, as the day before.

Upon rising into an upright position on the bed, Enjolras discovered Grantaire seated at the table, a bottle of wine in hand and the map Enjolras had dug up at the palace spread before him. He looked up as Enjolras shifted to put his feet on the floor, the wood shockingly cool with only his stockings protecting his skin. Despite how far south they were, it seemed that winter was coming.

“You look much better,” commented Grantaire, carefully putting down the bottle beside the map. “How are you feeling?”

Enjolras glanced at the bottle, then back at Grantaire, sprawled out atop his seat with profound casualness. 

“Like myself, which I can only say is a vast improvement.” Enjolras paused briefly, mercilessly assaulted by the memories of the previous night and feeling his cheeks redden. “I must again ask your forgiveness, I was not in my right mind.”

Grantaire straightened from his sprawl, turning in his chair to fully face Enjolras, his expression firming into something rather more somber.

“I have told you before and I shall do so again, there is nothing to forgive. You hold no blame for what transpired. A lesser man would have crumbled beneath the strain in a rather more severe manner.” Grantaire cast down his gaze briefly. “It is I who has to beg your pardon. I sincerely hope that you are aware that had the circumstances been different, I would never have taken such liberties with you. I wished only to protect you.”

Enjolras rose from the bed, seeking higher ground born from long standing instinct.

“Do not apologise to me, I beg of you.” As was his wont, it came out rather a command than a plea, but Enjolras hoped his honesty shone from his face well enough. “You have done more for me than I can ever dream of repaying. You have saved me from a fate worse than death - twice I might add - and you continue to stand by me at the risk of your own life. You have more than earned my complete trust and loyalty, small price as it may be for the trouble I have caused you.”

Grantaire rose as well, eyes bright and expression open and earnest. He seemed touched by Enjolras’ declaration and it warmed Enjolras to see it, relieved at having been able to offer at least that much.

“You owe me nothing,” said Grantaire gently. “What I have done was of my own free will and I would do so again, given the choice. I wish only to remain at your side, if you will have me. I’m not the best of men, but I am devoted and I will do all I can not to fail you.”

Enjolras’ heart picked up speed and he cursed it viciously, just as he cursed the warmth spreading throughout his body.

“Why are you doing this?” So much had happened since the first time Enjolras had asked that question, but still it had not been answered.

“Will you deny me if I do not expand on the matter?” asked Grantaire quietly.

Enjolras shook his head, at once confused and irritated at being refused clarification yet again. 

“At this point, I can deny you nothing,” he said, sounding rather more wary than he had intended. “You may remain with me as long as you will, Grantaire, if it pleases you.” Grantaire visibly brightened and the sweet smile curving his lips did something peculiar to Enjolras’ breath. “Under one condition,” continued Enjolras hastily, holding up a finger. “We are equals, Grantaire, and I shall treat you as such. You must not see me as your master.”

“How am I to see you, then?” asked Grantaire, something unreadable in his eyes.

“As a friend,” said Enjolras firmly, raising his chin. “I have not much to give you, but I will give what I can.”

Grantaire sighed. “I told you that you owe me nothing,” he said. “But I shall gladly accept your friendship nevertheless.”

Enjolras allowed himself a smile of his own and was confused when Grantaire looked rather dazzled in the face of it. He realised he must not have done it before and silently made note of gifting Grantaire with more smiles, if that was the response he was to gain from it.

Seeking safer ground, Enjolras quickly stepped into his boots and joined Grantaire at the table.

“You look like a man with a plan,” said Enjolras.

Grantaire’s smirk was quick and sharp as ever. “Do I?”

Enjolras absently thumbed the edge of the map, worrying a corner. 

“You always seem a step ahead of everyone else.”

Grantaire picked up his wine once more. “You make it sound so refined,” he said, his words dripping bitterness. He took a swig from the bottle. “When it is merely a small affinity for tactical thinking and a good portion of luck.”

Enjolras frowned. “It is more than that. Why do you insist on discrediting yourself?”

Grantaire shook his head, the sharp twist of his mouth turning as bitter as his voice. “I dare say, my dear Enjolras, I do not discredit myself enough.”

“I don’t understand you,” said Enjolras. “Would it kill you to speak plainly for once?”

“It might,” said Grantaire lightly. “I have yet to test the theory.”

“You are impossible,” said Enjolras on a frustrated sigh. He was desperate for a change in subject, wishing to focus on something that would allow his emotions to settle. Grantaire, thankfully, allowed it. “At the palace you mentioned a route you had planned?”

Grantaire shifted, moving aside the bottle, and leaned over the map, absently tapping Marseille and the surrounding area as he spoke.

“They will anticipate your desire to return to Paris and expect you to take the quickest route.” Grantaire traced a straight line towards Paris. “So I suggest we take a different one, which will take us double the time, but it will be worth the trouble for shaking them from our tail.” Here he drew a wider circle, then raised his eyes to look at Enjolras. “And in any case, I have friends in Toulouse that I wish to visit.”

Enjolras frowned. “You believe your friends willing to welcome a fugitive? I don’t wish to bring them trouble.”

Grantaire bared his teeth in a sharp smile. “Worry not, Enjolras. I know for a fact that they shall be very pleased to see us both.”

*

After the map had been safely tucked away once more, Grantaire insisted on procuring fresh water for Enjolras to wash and, upon his return, he brought with him a platter of bread and cheese, which they shared once Enjolras had deemed himself clean, now clad in a fresh set of garments. They were the simplest he owned, a black cravat and pair of trousers along with a striped waistcoat and a maroon jacket. Grantaire himself had changed out of his bland servant garb and was now wearing a waistcoat with a tartan pattern in blue and green. His trousers were also dark, though he had not bothered with a jacket, instead remaining in his shirtsleeves. 

They agreed that though inconvenient, they would continue their journey tonight, lest the Queen’s guard catch up with them. Nor did they want to invest anymore faith in the sleazy innkeeper, afraid of being sold out should a better offer come his way.

“How is your arm?” asked Enjolras as he finished packing. “Will you let me see it now?”

Grantaire threw a careless smile over his shoulder, before returning his attention to closing his own, readied bag.

“It is but a scratch,” he said lightly. “One that I already took care of last night.”

Enjolras frowned. “You must promise to tell me if it gives you trouble.”

Grantaire’s grin merely sharpened and he raised his hand in a mocking salute. Enjolras gifted him with a glare, though chose not to comment.

They ensured themselves that they had left nothing behind and Enjolras took one more turn about the room, though when he reached for his bag, his arm was caught by Grantaire in a gentle grip.

“There is a matter we must address before we depart,” said Grantaire, his voice quiet and once more devoid of humour.

It took Enjolras but a short moment to catch Grantaire’s meaning, his spine instantly stiffening and his heart once more thumping wildly against his ribcage. Grantaire gave a gentle squeeze, warm and reassuring, as he looked upon Enjolras with concern.

“If I didn’t think it necessary, I would not raise the subject, but I fear we cannot take the risk of leaving you unbonded any longer,” Grantaire went on, his eyes sliding down to study the vivid bruising around Enjolras’ neck. “How is your throat?”

Enjolras barely resisted the urge to touch it, instead raising his chin, unwittingly further displaying the angry red marks.

“Sore, though mostly at the front,” said Enjolras tightly. “The area you require should be unharmed.”

Grantaire took a careful step closer, then another. His body radiated heat and Enjolras suppressed the unbidden urge to lean towards him and negate the distance completely. He did not understand this insanity, could not fathom why his instincts constantly flared to life and insisted he be as close to Grantaire as possible. It was utterly unnerving.

“I shall be as careful as I can,” murmured Grantaire, his breath ghosting across Enjolras’ skin and making him tremble. “Do you permit it?”

The question was the same as the first time and Enjolras was terrified at the notion that he could not think of a single thing that he would not permit Grantaire in that moment. For once, Enjolras felt not brave at all. He closed his eyes, both to hide and to bar himself from the irresistible sight of Grantaire so close. He tilted his head, baring his scent glands.

“Yes,” breathed out Enjolras, fervently wishing that it held none of the desperate longing tingling beneath his skin.

Enjolras could feel Grantaire’s hand, which was still curled around his arm, shift. A thumb traced a gentle circle against the soft inside of his elbow, then another. Enjolras fought against the rising shiver along his spine.

There was a soft tug at Enjolras’ collar, further baring his throat, before Grantaire leaned in, impossibly closer. Enjolras should not be feeling this way, none of this made sense. Where was the trepidation? The wariness, the feeling of threat? Where was the disgust and reluctance?

Instead, Enjolras wished only for more, wished for Grantaire’s touch and for the courage to touch him in turn.

Grantaire’s breath was hot and uneven, his voice barely audible as he uttered a soft warning.

The first brush of lips was electric, the first touch of Grantaire’s tongue pure fire. Enjolras shuddered and bit his lip, locking down his instincts and fervently struggling not to arch his back. His hands were reduced to trembling fists, nails digging harshly into the flesh of his palm.

And Grantaire was gentle, always gentle, even as he set his teeth to Enjolras’ glands and sucked his mark into his skin.

Enjolras tasted blood, his lip protesting the harsh treatment bestowed by Enjolras’ teeth, but Enjolras deemed it worth the fact that it trapped the moan which was building in his chest and threatening to spill forth. His knees felt weak, Grantaire’s hold of his arm the only thing keeping him upright.

The feeling of the connection forming was unexplainably strange. Alarmed, Enjolras finally lost the fight with himself and his fingers shot out to close tightly around the solid warmth of Grantaire’s wrist, just shy of his hand. It was almost as though each of their minds was knitting a thread, both of which were straining towards each other. They met halfway, the point of connection sending a shudder through them both.

Heat pulsed throughout Enjolras’ body, flushing his cheeks and shortening his breath until his chest ached. His trousers had become tight and too rough against his skin and as Enjolras further squeezed shut his eyes, he prayed that Grantaire would remain unaware. It was the sweetest torture he had ever known.

The thread, now reduced to a single line, flared once, a feeling both hot and bright, before settling into place. It was then that the suction against Enjolras’ throat finally eased and Grantaire’s lips parted from his skin, leaving Enjolras instantly aware of the throbbing mark left in their place.

With his senses clouded by Grantaire’s scent and desire still a lingering fire across his skin, Enjolras found himself struggling to keep his nose from seeking Grantaire’s neck. Releasing Grantaire’s wrist, Enjolras hastily stepped away on unsteady feet and inelegantly hit the wall behind him. Grantaire instantly retreated, though the air between them was heavy still.

 The protection bond tingled, bringing with it a wave of concern that was not his own. Enjolras’ spine stiffened, his eyes wide as they locked with Grantaire’s; Grantaire, who seemed to be struggling as well. The concern cut off abruptly and Enjolras clamped down in turn, reducing their connection to a faint thread that no longer held the power to expose what Enjolras so desperately wanted to keep hidden.

“Are you alright?” asked Grantaire, a tight note to his tone.

Enjolras found not the words to answer him.

“Enjolras-”

“Leave me,” commanded Enjolras, the words tumbling form him, sudden and frantic. They were harsher than intended and he shakily sought to amend them. “Please. I require a moment-”

Grantaire inclined his head, his eyes hidden as wild curls fell forth over his brow. “Of course,” he said quietly. “I shall wait downstairs.”

The moment the lock clicked into place, taking with it Grantaire - his footsteps fading as they descended the stairs of the inn - Enjolras was across the room, grabbing for the remains of fresh water Grantaire had brought up before. The liquid was a shock to his overheated face, dripping from his nose and sliding into his still parted collar. Enjolras pressed his face to his palms and stilled. His breaths had yet to even and his chest felt as though it might burst, his heart beating out a fierce rhythm.

Desire had formed a heated knot in the pit of his stomach and he had hardened to the point of aching. And as though this was not shameful enough, Enjolras discovered the mortifying feel of slippery fluid coating the entrance to his body.

His fingers found their way to his hair, curling into it and tugging harshly. He longed for Grantaire, for the touch of his lips, his hands, for his-

No. No, Enjolras refused to take his thoughts any further.

He would not give into this. He would not.

*

That night, they covered the almost sixty miles to Arlés, arriving just as dawn had started painting the sky a faint red with the approaching sunrise. Riding at night was doubly exhausting and Enjolras was glad for the paved roads, which sped up their pace considerably even considering their reduced vision.

Despite his claims about his improved state, Enjolras felt every bit as hunted as a deer being pursued through the woods. He found himself frequently glancing over his shoulder, squinting through the darkness and envisioning the Queen’s guard hot on their heels.

His mind was determined not to let him forget the events of the past days, sending his thoughts into endless circles which left dread tugging at his gut, expecting something to go wrong any moment. His neck was throbbing, both in pain and with a lingering, tingling pleasure where the mark of Grantaire’s protection was burned into his skin.

Enjolras had read about this practice, but the reality was vastly different than any written word. Nowhere had the books expanded on how the mark was a constant point of awareness, how it felt hot beneath his probing fingers and made him long for Grantaire’s touch instead.

Their connection was strong, felt almost unbreakable, and at the thought of having it fade, Enjolras felt himself instinctively panic. It was irrational and worrisome, as exciting as it was frightening. He was certain that his feelings on the matter where unnatural, could not imagine the same to have occurred had his protection come from Combeferre instead.

Enjolras was also quite certain that whatever it was that sent his heart into a frenzy and burned his skin, was not felt by Grantaire in turn. He certainly did not look unravelled, rather even more focused and sharp than usual, despite his overall layer of casualness remaining intact. After his request to be left alone to reclaim control of his body, Enjolras had found Grantaire awaiting him, ready to depart and not a single thing betraying what had transpired between them.

During their journey, he only sought Enjolras’ gaze a handful of times, clearly trusting the protection bond to inform him should anything be amiss. Enjolras was careful not to probe at the thread in the back of his mind, scared that it might alert Grantaire to his thoughts by accidentally transferring a portion of the many, intricate knots his emotions had created. If Grantaire was aware of Enjolras’ ongoing turmoil, he gave no notice of it and it left Enjolras hoping that he remained unaware.

At one point in the journey, Enjolras had steered his horse next to Grantaire’s after they had fallen out of the brisk gallop they had set, to give both themselves and their horses a much needed rest.

“What did you do with the Prince?” asked Enjolras. For he was convinced that while his mind had been addled, Grantaire was certain to have had the presence of mind to remove Philippe from the corridor and out of plain sight.

Grantaire glanced at him, before his eyes returned to the road stretching before them. The stars were bright tonight, brighter than Enjolras was used to seeing in Paris.

“Stuffed him into a linen cupboard,” said Grantaire and even in the faint light, Enjolras could see the characteristic, sharp twist of his mouth. “I very much hope that he awoke cramped and in severe pain. Though I rather he not wake at all.” 

Enjolras silently agreed.

“If I am to be caught and tried for treason,” went on Grantaire, making Enjolras’ spine stiffen with alarm. “I would have it be worth receiving a death sentence and at least leave this world with the knowledge of having taken the cur with me.”

“Do not speak like this!” Enjolras demanded harshly, his gut wrenching painfully. Further words burned on his tongue, but he did not utter them. You claimed that you will stay at my side and I have no intention of letting you leave me. 

The tone must have alerted Grantaire to his discomfort, or maybe it was the thrumming bond between them. For a moment, Enjolras thought he saw Grantaire’s hand twitch, as if he was about to reach for him, but the touch never came. The notion left Enjolras inexplicably cold and bereft.

“Forgive me,” said Grantaire. “I did not mean to be crass.”

Enjolras said nothing, his thoughts and emotions still too turbulent. He feared he would only end up being needlessly harsh, his temper already close to derailing. Anger was simmering on the surface, attempting to drown out all the things he did not want to examine.

They did not speak again, not even upon their arrival at Arlés, where they rented another filthy room in an inn filled with drunks and cutthroats even at this early an hour. Too exhausted to eat, Enjolras retired straight to the bed in the far corner, furthest from the single window. He listened to Grantaire moving about the room on almost silent feet and tried his best to keep from reaching for the bond.

Even so, it thrummed on, warm and quiet, easing Enjolras into a dreamless sleep.

*

 “Enjolras.”

A hand drifted across his arm, gentle and fleeting even while it lit sparks across his skin.

Enjolras made a soft sound and stirred, feeling as though he had not slept at all. He struggled to open his eyes, squinting past the brightness that reached even this corner of the small room, the sun high in the sky.

He sensed Grantaire before he saw him, instinctively reaching for their bond, before recoiling as awareness cleared the fog of sleep. He turned gritty eyes upon Grantaire, who was crouching by his bedside.

“What time is it?” croaked Enjolras, his throat straining.

Grantaire reached for a pitcher of water on the stained, rickety nightstand and filled a goblet with it, before wordlessly handing it to Enjolras, who took it gratefully.

“Just past one in the afternoon,” said Grantaire, resting an elbow on the grimy sheets. His breath smelled faintly of wine, though his eyes were sharp and clear. “If we leave within the hour, we should be able to reach Montpellier tonight.”

Enjolras drained the goblet, then returned it to the nightstand.

“Do you believe them close on our trail?”

“It is hard to tell,” said Grantaire pensively. “Though it appears that we have successfully eluded them thus far. Once we reach Montpellier, we shall pause to rest for a day or two. We need to rid ourselves of the palace horses and I wish to trade a few things that I liberated from your father before we left.” He absently tapped his fingers against the bed, a habit Enjolras was becoming familiar with and that he’d learned indicated that Grantaire was deep in thought. “And we might need to sell one thing or another. If we are to continue bribing innkeepers, we are sure to run out of money before we reach Paris.”

Enjolras thought of all the gold coins which had passed hands up to now and was once more grateful for Grantaire’s foresight. As a noble and an omega, Enjolras had never so much as handled a single sou before. Of all the things, money had never so much as crossed Enjolras’ mind, a fact which was rather shocking in its naivety. 

“How much were you able to take?”

Grantaire grimaced. “Not as much as I would have liked. A pouch or two of gold, the set of ornate daggers your mother gifted your father with the year before last and his favourite pistol. Hardly enough to defend us should we come across the Queen’s guard.” He paused then, turning suddenly inquisitive eyes on Enjolras. “I have been meaning to ask, have you any training? I know it is hardly part of an omega’s formal education, but I thought…”

Enjolras looked away, his lips thinning as he thought about exactly what type of education he had received.

“I know how to fence,” he said, his voice holding a bitter edge. “Combeferre taught me, much good as it did. My ill reaction to alpha pheromones is rather a hindrance in a fight.”

Grantaire raised a brow. “That is unfortunate, though no reason to give up just yet. It is unlike you to be so easily disheartened. You should leave such cynicism to me.”

Enjolras’ answering scowl was without heat and his words without bite; the corners of his mouth threatened to lift.

“Your resourcefulness is rather intimidating.”

Grantaire’s teeth flashed sharp and white. “I shall take that as a compliment.” With his next words, however, Grantaire’s expression was once more thoughtful. “May I pose a question?”

Enjolras looked up, surprised. “You need not ask my permission, Grantaire,” he said, hating the note of tenderness in his voice. “We are friends, I wish for us to speak freely with each other.”

Grantaire fiddled with the edge of the bedding, though when his gaze rose to meet Enjolras’, it was piecing in its intensity. 

“The alpha pheromones,” he began carefully. “You did not seem similarly affected in my presence.”

Enjolras drew in a startled breath, his chest already thudding with the insistent beat of his heart. Swallowing past the dryness of his throat, Enjolras chose his words with care.

“It is different with you,” he said quietly, swallowing once more as heat rose inside of him beneath Grantaire’s gaze. “Your scent… it is not the same, it does not make me ill.”

The protection bond between them flared slightly, thrumming happily and infusing Enjolras with warmth. He ruthlessly stomped down on it. 

This had to stop. 

But no amount of fighting could keep the lingering pleasure from tingling along Enjolras’ spine. It was utterly infuriating - not to mention bone-deeply frightening.

Grantaire appeared, for a moment, as though he meant to press the subject, though when his eyes flickered across Enjolras’ face, he subsided and remained silent. Enjolras knew not what Grantaire saw in his expression, felt only the air that had been trapped in his lungs release in relief when he rose from his position by Enjolras’ bedside.

“We had best be on our way,” said Grantaire, his gaze now averted.

Enjolras offered no reply, merely hoped that Grantaire was unaware of his eyes following him across the room, unable to part from him just yet.

*

Readying himself for the continuation of their journey was a chore and Enjolras would have liked nothing better than to fall back onto the bed, grimy sheets or no, and sleep for a week.

Grantaire had left the room to give him privacy and Enjolras washed himself with stiff movements, before exchanging his shirt for a fresh one. His hair was a disaster, unkempt and unwashed, the curls hopelessly knotted from remaining unbrushed and stuffed beneath the cap for hours on end. Between being assaulted by Philippe and briefly losing his mind, Enjolras had not thought to pack a hairbrush.

Sullen and angry, Enjolras rummaged about his bag in search of something to tie his hair with and unearthed a string of velvet, which he used to gather his hair into a high ponytail to make it easier to hide beneath the cap, while keeping it in some form of order. He also made a note of purchasing a brush as soon as possible.

Their horses were saddled and ready to depart, most of their bags already secured except for the one Enjolras was carrying. He bound it safely to his saddle, before mounting and steering the mare away from the inn. It was a relief leaving it behind.

His horse, long since accustomed to following Grantaire’s, fell into step as they trotted along the edge of the city and, once they cleared it, they picked up pace. Enjolras’ muscles protested the treatment, but there was nothing for it other than to clench his teeth an soldier through.

It was a clear and sunny day, the bite of the wind soothed by the sun beating down on them. The air tasted of salt and Enjolras licked repeatedly at his lips in an effort to keep them from drying out.

The road they followed was well-paved and busy, though thankfully no one paid them any attention and Enjolras did his best to keep from looking over his shoulder every other minute. Even so, travelling in broad daylight seemed strange now that he had gotten used to empty stretches of land and nothing but trees and shadows for company. It did aid their progress, however, and they covered enough ground to permit themselves - and their horses - a short break.

They stopped in Lunel for dinner, choosing a small tavern filled mostly with rowdy drunks and gamblers; almost all of them alphas apart from a few, scattered betas.  Enjolras wisely kept his cap on as they made their way to a secluded spot, winding in-between tabletops littered with cards, dice and dominoes. A few alphas caught his scent, looking up with interest, though Grantaire’s glare and his secure hold on Enjolras’ arm quickly had them avert their gazes once more.

A few coins bought them a decent enough meal and Grantaire a bottle of wine, which he drank without the aid of a glass. It was only after they had finished eating and once over half of the bottle was gone, that Grantaire addressed him.

“Tell me,” he said. “What darkens the brow of Apollo on such a fine day?”

It was true that Enjolras’ frown had grown increasingly darker these past few hours and the mocking reference hardly helped matters.

“I am no god, Grantaire,” said Enjolras testily.

Grantaire smirked as he took another swig from his wine. “Perhaps not,” he said lightly. “Though should you bother to ask about, more than a few would disagree.”

Enjolras scowled. “My appearance is hardly a defining feature of my character.”

Grantaire put down the bottle and inclined his head. “Forgive a lover of art his indulgence.”

Surprised, Enjolras straightened in his seat, ill mood temporarily forgotten.

“A lover of art you say?” he asked curiously. “Do you create any of your own?”

Grantaire snorted. “Hardly,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “I dabble.”

Interest piqued, Enjolras leaned in closer across the table, disregarding the layer of grime which has turned the top sticky and questionable.

“What do you do?”

“I draw,” said Grantaire, the bitter twist to his mouth giving away his thoughts on the matter. “Sometimes I paint, if time allows it.”

Enjolras wetted his lips. “I would like to see your work.”

“Sometime, perhaps,” said Grantaire, his eyes briefly drawn to Enjolras’ mouth, before he straightened slightly in his seat. He clearly did not wish to expand on the matter. “Now, I believe you were about to tell me of your worries.”

“If I were, I would hardly know where to start.” Enjolras’s scowl returned and he cast a gloomy look upon the filthy tabletop. “I wish I had some way of knowing what is happening at court and how the Queen plans to proceed now that her schemes have been thwarted.” At Grantaire’s raised eyebrow, Enjolras cast a quick look about, before leaning in closer still and lowering his voice to barely above a murmur. “Not long before we departed for Marseille, I came across some interesting news. I happened upon my father and uncle and overheard Ilbert saying that the Queen is ill. That it is also the reason why she pushed so determinedly for the bonding ceremony.”

Grantaire’s eyes widened. “Ill you say? And what is the nature of this sickness?”

Enjolras let loose a frustrated breath. “I don’t know. Though it must be severe if her abdication is imminent. I doubt the Queen would be so eager to pass on the throne to her son if it were not so.”

Grantaire nodded, his fingers absentmindedly tapping the bottle of wine. “I agree. Despite her indulgence towards that cur, she is no fool and Philippe is in no fit state to rule. He is young and unrestrained; the Queen must have hoped him more settled after bonding. If he were to take over now…” Grantaire trailed off and shook his head. “His sister would be a better choice of ruler, but Philippe would never allow it.”

It was true that Philippe’s oldest sister, Sophie, had the potential of becoming a fine Queen - if such a thing was possible. Personally, Enjolras had never supported the idea that one person was to dictate all others and their society was the best example of how such a thing could go very wrong. Monarchy was, at its root, an unjust concept, which could never succeed to bring equal rights to everyone. For such a thing to happen, one must first distribute the power amongst the people themselves, give them a right to voice their opinions and vote for someone to stand up for them.

Still, Grantaire was not wrong. Sophie’s obvious affection for her omega twin, Maximilien, and her interest in omega rights set her far apart from her mother and older brother. She openly supported her twin’s gender and made no secret of her beliefs, a fact which Enjolras valued highly. As an alpha, however, Sophie was discouraged from spending time with the omegas at court and as a result, Enjolras had only ever spoken to her twice - though found himself immediately attached, if only for the fact that she appeared the opposite of her brother Philippe. Maximilien, on the other hand, was mild-mannered and soft-spoken. Enjolras liked him well enough, though the limited time they had spent together had not been enough to coax him into any manner of deeper conversation.

However-

“If Philippe takes the throne as he is now, it will be all the easier to wrestle it from him.” Enjolras could not keep the triumph from his voice, his lips curving in the heat of the debate. “As you said, he is young, inexperienced. If the people shall rise against him, we have a chance of ending this oppression.”

Yet, Grantaire looked not elated, but resigned, causing Enjolras’ brow to once more draw into a frown.

“Enjolras, you speak of Philippe’s youth and inexperience while you disregard your own,” he said softly, his eyes intent. “Do you believe you are the only one who knows all this? The throne will suit Philippe ill, that is no secret. The entire court, if not all of France, knows this. Have you any idea how many are already eagerly planning their own coup? Do you believe yourself the only lion lying in wait, ready to pounce as soon as Philippe topples France into disaster?” He leaned in closer, putting most of his weight onto the wine bottle beneath his hand. “If what you say is true and the Queen is indeed ill, then all number of intrigues are already underway - and the Queen is aware of it, why else would she try to hush up her condition.”

Incensed, Enjolras’ own fingers wrapped about the bottle, nailing it firmly in place in case Grantaire thought to take another drink from it. The glass was warm to the touch, heated by Grantaire’s hand.

“You may call me a fool all you want-” hissed Enjolras.

“I do not think you a fool,” cut in Grantaire. “Merely naive and impulsive. It is fire that you are playing with and one small mistake will see you burned.”

Enjolras fought to keep his temper, though it was a losing battle. “I would rather burn than live even one more day as I have these past years!” he bit out, barely managing to control the volume of his voice. “And I will be damned if I am to idly sit by when finally I have the freedom to bring about the changes I so longed for.”

Grantaire shook his head once more. “Freedom is but an illusion,” he said. “None of us possess it.”

Enjolras dug his fingers into the bottle. “It is such a mindset which robs you of it,” he declared fiercely. “Every one of us is entitled to it and together we shall achieve it!”

Grantaire let loose a sigh and released the bottle. “It is your right to do as you will, I cannot stop you,” he said grimly. “All I ask is for you to exercise some caution while you do so.”

Enjolras tilted up his chin, defiant. “There is no progress without risk.”

Grantaire cast upon him a grave look. “And too much risk will bereave you of a chance to enact progress.”

*

They reached Montpellier in silence, late that night. 

His conversation with Grantaire had put Enjolras into a brooding mood and he spent the rest of their journey silently turning over each and every point. He longed, now more than ever, for the presence of Combeferre, wishing to discuss with him what he had learned.

When Enjolras finally dismounted, he was certain his thighs would never recover. He was unused to exercise, especially in the form of such ruthlessness as he had experienced since fleeing the palace in Marseille.

Grantaire seemed to be fairing much better, though Enjolras was hardly surprised. After all, the position of a manservant to one of the nobles of Versailles was not an easy task and required a lot of endurance and leg work. In contrast, Enjolras had only ever been herded from one room to the next and forced into endless hours of inactivity. The only exercise he had received to this day was of the mind and the occasional excursion on horseback if the weather was fine enough. This was an entirely different story.

Exhaustion running so deeply Enjolras was convinced it reached to his very soul, he fell upon the closest bed as soon as they entered their room for the night. He raised an arm which felt as though it was crafted from lead and tugged the cap off his tangled hair. It fell to the floor, never quite making it to the bedside table where Enjolras had intended for it to go.

Grantaire came to stand at his bedside, regarding Enjolras with an expression which managed to look both concerned and distantly amused. Thankfully, he did not expand on the matter. Wordlessly, he took hold of first one than the other of Enjolras’ boots and expertly slid them off his aching feet. Enjolras let loose a faint sound, equal parts relief and protest, at which Grantaire huffed a quiet laugh.

“Not a word,” said Enjolras indignantly.

“I would not dare,” said Grantaire, clearly amused, as he neatly put aside Enjolras’ boots.

Enjolras scowled at him, though not even his facial muscles felt quite up to the task. Grantaire’s expression visibly softened.

“I shall fetch us something to eat,” he said.

Once again, Enjolras thought he saw Grantaire’s hands twitch as though they meant to reach for him, but the movement was aborted before it could be completed. Something tugged at their connection, the thread going taunt for a brief, heart-stopping moment before Enjolras’ own hand extended, instinctive and without thought. When their fingers brushed, it was much the same as the first time, though with the added intensity of the protection bond the contact was no longer simple fire, but a bolt of lightning. The bond hummed happily and Enjolras’ mind buzzed right alongside it.

Grantaire’s fingers squeezed his, then abruptly released him once more. The shock of their broken contact returned Enjolras’ senses and heat of both embarrassment and anger shot into his cheeks. Why did his body have to insist on shaming him this way? What was the reason behind these strange, new-found sensations?

“Thank you,” said Enjolras, proud that it emerged stiff rather than strangled.

Grantaire’s face was shuttered now, any amusement gone and his expression one of familiar blandness as he inclined his head to Enjolras. It was a sign of respect Enjolras did not feel he deserved and was ill equipped to return in his current state. His head spun with exhaustion and the lingering feeling of Grantaire’s touch.

So confused was he, that he almost repeated his mistake when Grantaire turned to go, only barely keeping his hand to himself this time.

When Grantaire returned some time later, Enjolras had wormed his way beneath the grubby sheets and had turned his back on the room. He did not stir at the soft call of his name, willing his breaths to continue in the even pattern of sleep. Beneath the thin duvet, Enjolras’s fingers pressed against the wall as though the unyielding feel of it was enough to chase away the memory of Grantaire’s skin.