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“This is terribly boring,” Enjolras tells Grantaire. “I’m glad I made you stay by me for it. Misery really does love company.”
Grantaire snorts but doesn’t reply to that. He’s at the party as Enjolras’ security detail, and his job is to shut up and make sure that Enjolras is safe and out of danger, and it wouldn’t do for him to be caught making conversation with Enjolras.
“Are you sure I have to stay at this party?” Enjolras asks with a sigh. “Nobody is really here for me, and I’m not going to be missed if we leave to make out in the closet, yes?”
Grantaire considers it progress that he doesn’t lose his footing, or blush, or choke on his saliva, like he did the first time Enjolras made a similar comment two months ago. Now he just sighs and says softly (but firmly) to Enjolras, “We are not ditching the party to make out in the closet.”
This is not to say that Grantaire doesn’t want to, but 1) he’s working, 2) Enjolras is part of the job, and 3) Enjolras is the President’s son, so no, Grantaire is not going to make out with Enjolras in the closet, even if he wants to. Even if he really wants to.
Grantaire is a professional, he is going to keep his relationship with Enjolras strictly professional, and it’s all going to be fine. Except Enjolras pouts at him, and Grantaire has to let his professionalism slide just a little to shake his head at Enjolras.
“Are you going to be fine on your own for five minutes while I check in with Feuilly?” Grantaire asks, because he’s learnt that putting some distance between them every time Enjolras says something flirty helps him to clear his mind. Enjolras nods. “Scream if someone is attacking you.”
Enjolras huffs a laugh. “We’re stuck in a room full of fifty year olds, Grantaire.”
“All the same,” Grantaire tells him, “scream if someone is attacking you.”
Grantaire makes his way to Feuilly, and lets Feuilly know that they probably won’t stay till the end of the party because Enjolras is already restless. The whole exchange takes about a minute, a minute and a half tops, but when Grantaire turns over to check on Enjolras, Enjolras isn’t where Grantaire left him.
He scans quickly through the crowds, at the people mingling, trying to look for Enjolras, who is usually very easy to spot with his blond hair and customary red tie, but doesn’t find him. There is a brief moment of panic where Grantaire thinks that maybe someone took Enjolras, before he forces himself to close his eyes and take a breath to clear his mind.
He considers the facts.
Perimeter security is tight tonight because of all the foreign diplomats at the party. 90 seconds is too tight of a window for anyone to take Enjolras against his will, especially since Enjolras has been taught basic self-defence moves. It’s not impossible, per se, but it would be too much of a hassle, too many things to consider; there would be a better chance of taking Enjolras en route to university, and less potential eyewitnesses to neutralise too.
It would be a bad plan to try to kidnap Enjolras at the party; it’s more likely that Enjolras has ditched security, again.
This is a thing that is not in Enjolras’ file, but probably should be recorded in it to ease the transition of the next bodyguard Enjolras gets when Grantaire inevitably dies from exasperation at Enjolras’ hands: Enjolras hates that his privacy is constantly being invaded and will often attempt to escape his security detail. Enjolras is always smart about it too, and even with constant surveillance on him, he’s managed to slip pass Grantaire about half a dozen times so far.
Grantaire sighs and tries to figure out where Enjolras would be and comes up with three likely places - 1) his room, 2) the gardens, and 3) in a random closet, just to mess with Grantaire. He makes quick work of making his way up to Enjolras’ room, but isn’t surprised to find it dark and empty. It’s too easy, and Enjolras never picks the easy places, even if his intention isn’t to hide from Grantaire for too long. He checks whichever closet he passes by on his way to the garden, just in case, and Enjolras isn’t in any of them.
He finds Enjolras sitting on a picnic mat in midst of the rose bushes in the gardens.
“One of these days, someone is actually going to come and kidnap you, and I will be too busy looking in closets thinking that you’re messing with me to be looking for you,” Grantaire tells him when he gets close enough to Enjolras.
Enjolras laughs. “You checked the closets?”
“The ones I came by,” Grantaire confirms, and stares down at the picnic feast Enjolras has spread out on the mat. There is a strawberry pie, tiny strawberry tarts, what looks to be a strawberries and cream cake, chocolate-dipped strawberries, and plain fresh strawberries. “Was the food at the party not to your taste, or did the strawberry apocalypse come early?”
He checks his watch; it’s late enough that Feuilly would’ve assumed that he just escorted Enjolras back to his room. There should be no harm in letting Enjolras have his midnight picnic.
Enjolras scowls at him. “You are not allowed to mock the picnic,” he tells Grantaire. “Do you know hard hard it is to plan a romantic picnic under the stars when the only thing I know about you is that you like strawberries?”
Grantaire’s eyes widen. “You remembered that I liked strawberries,” he says dumbly, mostly because he remembers the day he told Enjolras about it. It’d been an offhanded comment, something said to fill the silence while Enjolras had lunch, and Grantaire hadn’t expected Enjolras to remember.
Enjolras smiles at him and pats the vacant space next to him on the mat. Grantaire doesn’t sit.
“I tried to ask if I could make the pie myself,” Enjolras starts.
“Oh no,” Grantaire blurts out.
Enjolras grins at him, easy. “But Musichetta sent me back to my room and told me she’d take care of it instead. I might’ve been a little indecisive about what I wanted, so I told her to make as many strawberry-based desserts as she could think of. I was going to pick my favourite, but it’s Musichetta, so of course they all turned out looking delicious, and I thought you’d like them all too, so I just had the kitchen pack them all.” He passes a tart to Grantaire, making no comment on the fact that Grantaire doesn’t seem to want to sit down with him. “You need to eat 85% of everything, at least. Musichetta would blow an artery otherwise.”
Grantaire dutifully takes the tart from Enjolras and bites into it. Enjolras watches him eat and beams at him when Grantaire lets out an appreciative noise.
“This would’ve been a much better picnic if I knew more about you,” Enjolras tells Grantaire. “You never tell me anything about you.”
Grantaire eats his tart quietly, and Enjolras sighs.
Grantaire tries not to feel guilty about it, because there is nothing wrong with not sharing personal information about himself with Enjolras, but Enjolras is sitting cross-legged on the picnic mat, and poking dejectedly at his piece of cake, and he planned a picnic for Grantaire, and so Grantaire sits down slowly next to Enjolras and bumps their shoulders together.
“I like coffee,” he tells Enjolras. “My favourite colour is green. I really like art.”
They’re relatively small things about him, things that he won’t normally hesitate to tell anyone, but Enjolras is smiling at him like Grantaire just made his entire week by sharing those things about himself with Enjolras, and Grantaire doesn’t want to think about what that fluttery feeling in his stomach means, so he picks up a chocolate-coated strawberry and passes it to Enjolras.
“If we’re going to finish 85% of everything, we’re going to have to start eating fast,” he tells Enjolras, and returns Enjolras’ smile when Enjolras grins at him.
—
He gets an SOS text from Enjolras the next morning, and almost trips running up the stairs to get to Enjolras’ room. When he gets there and realises that Enjolras is not facing a deadly threat or bleeding out on the floor, his first instinct is to tell Enjolras off, except Enjolras holds out a mug to him, and says, “I made you coffee!”
Grantaire sighs. “You can’t text me SOS just to come here for coffee,” he tells Enjolras, mostly for form’s sake, because most of his irritation is gone, and Enjolras must be able to tell, because he tugs at Grantaire’s arm until he’s sitting down on the couch next to Enjolras, and then presses the mug into his hand.
“I made it myself,” Enjolras tells him, grinning.
Grantaire takes a tentative sip. It’s good coffee, much better than the ones he buys himself every morning on the way to work, but that is only to be expected because the kitchen staff would never give Enjolras anything subpar, and Enjolras likely went down to the kitchens and asked for the best coffee they had.
Enjolras appears to be waiting for a reaction, so Grantaire says, “It’s great, but you shouldn’t-"
Enjolras shushes him. “Don’t ruin it for me,” he tells Grantaire. “Just leave it at it’s great and drink your coffee.”
Grantaire is powerless against Enjolras, in all the ways really, and so he smiles and says again, “It’s great.”
—
This is the thing about Grantaire - he cares for few things, and up till a few months ago, his job did not make the list. To be fair, he used to be work security detail at the President’s events, and there wasn’t really much at stake for him to care about, but then somehow he went and got promoted and assigned to the president’s son’s private security detail, and Grantaire finds that not caring becomes difficult.
Enjolras is the most ridiculously rash and stubborn little shit Grantaire has ever known. This is not a fact that was in the dossier on him Grantaire received, and frankly, it should be.
Enjolras also looks at Grantaire like he wants Grantaire to pin him against the wall and do filthy, filthy things to him. He isn’t subtle or quiet about his attraction for Grantaire —Enjolras isn’t quiet or subtle about much, to be fair— and if Grantaire was a better person, he would ask for a reassignment, but he isn’t. He doesn’t even think about it, because being around Enjolras is the most fun he’s had on the job in a really long time, and he cannot fathom the thought of being anywhere except next to Enjolras.
It should be a problem, but it’s not, because Grantaire has it under control.
He’s fine.
—
Enjolras has these meeting he holds in the university with a few other like-minded friends of his wherein he criticises government policy, and by extension, his father, and it’s something that sparks most of the arguments between Enjolras and his father. Enjolras always comes out of his father’s office ranting to Grantaire about the things he says, angry, and Grantaire can understand the President’s concern over Les Amis and their activist meetings, but Grantaire also knows that Enjolras loves his father, and while he’s opinionated about state affairs, will not actively seek to put his father in a bad light.
The first time Enjolras leaves the President’s office quietly with red-rimmed eyes, Grantaire doesn’t really know what to do. Enjolras doesn’t say anything to Grantaire, not even when Grantaire falls into step next to him, instead of being proper the way he knows Enjolras hates and walking two steps behind him, which is how Grantaire knows that whatever they discussed in that meeting must’ve been a lot worse than usual.
He stays quiet throughout the walk back to his room, but once he flops onto the couch, he fishes his phone out of his pocket and starts typing furiously into it. His mouth is pinched and his brows are furrowed, and he’s got that look about him that means trouble, so Grantaire ends up sighing and plucking Enjolras’ phone out of his hand.
“Give it back!” Enjolras snaps at him.
Grantaire turns Enjolras’ phone off. “You are angry and about to lash out and do something that you probably shouldn’t do,” he tells Enjolras. “I’m trying to stop you from doing that.”
Enjolras scowls at him and reaches out and to make a grab for his phone, but Grantaire is much quicker, and ends up sliding it into his own back pocket for safe-keeping.
“I don’t need you telling me what I should or should not do,” Enjolras says. “What do you know? You’re just a bodyguard.”
The words shouldn’t affect him, because they aren’t wrong, per se, but Grantaire hadn’t expected Enjolras to ever say anything like that to him, and it hurts.
He squares his jaw and says, “I might not know anything, but I know that I have a duty to make sure that you don’t do stupid things. I’ll be outside your door if you need me, sir.”
He doesn’t wait for Enjolras to respond, just makes his way quickly out of Enjolras’ room.
There is an ache in his chest that isn’t particularly easy to ignore, and Grantaire knows that thinking about it and analysing it will only bring him more grief than is worth, so he does his best to keep himself occupied - he sets his eyes on a tree branch outside the nearest window and settles for counting the number of leaves on it.
He’s three branches down about fifteen minutes later when Enjolras opens the door and shuffles close to him. Grantaire keeps his posture firm and his gaze straight ahead, and doesn’t turn to look at Enjolras.
It shouldn’t be difficult, because this is his job, and he’s supposed to be professional about it, but it is, more so than Grantaire wants to admit. He wants to turn over, wants to check if Enjolras still looks sad, wants to see if Enjolras is angry at him, but he stands his ground, steels his jaw, and doesn’t.
“I’m sorry,” Enjolras says quietly. “Please don’t be upset.”
Grantaire doesn’t say anything, even though he wants to tell Enjolras it’s fine, that he knows that Enjolras didn’t mean it. He wants to tell Enjolras that’s he’s allowed to have bad days and throw tantrums, but he doesn’t, because there is a line here, and he needs to keep it clearly in sight.
Enjolras tugs on Grantaire’s shirtsleeves. “I didn’t mean it,” he says. “You’re not just a bodyguard to me, you know that.”
Grantaire knows that. Enjolras has never said it, never actually voiced this thing between them out, and Grantaire doesn’t particularly want him to, because that would blur the line between them, and he can’t afford for there to be blurred lines anymore, but he knows that.
It can’t end well between them. Enjolras is too good for Grantaire, and he might not see it now, but he will soon, and Grantaire will end up with a broken heart to last a decade. He’s learnt from previous mistakes, he knows to take care of himself now.
“I like you,” Enjolras continues. “A lot. And not just in the I think about kissing you all the time way. I think of you as a friend, you’re not just a bodyguard to me. You know that.” He reaches out to brush his fingers over the back of Grantaire’s hand softly. “I’m sorry I said what I did. I shouldn’t have.”
Grantaire melts. He has no resolve around Enjolras. He doesn’t even know why he pretends to himself that he does.
“You’re still not getting your phone back yet,” Grantaire relents, and Enjolras smiles and tugs him by the arm back to his room, shoving Grantaire onto the couch and putting on a random movie.
He sits down next to Grantaire, close enough that Grantaire can feel heat emanating form Enjolras, but not close enough that they are touching, which is rare, since Grantaire is normally the one who has to put space between them. He realises ten minutes into the movie that Enjolras is still worried about him being angry when he catches Enjolras’ eyes darting towards him every few minutes.
“I’m not angry at you,” Grantaire says with a sigh, because he might as well make it clear to Enjolras.
“Really?” Enjolras asks, and when Grantaire nods, he smiles and scoots closer to Grantaire, and leans his head on Grantaire’s shoulder, focus going back to the movie playing on the screen.
Grantaire should move, should come up with some imaginary rounds he has to make, anything to get himself away from Enjolras, but he finds that he doesn’t want to. Trying to keep himself from falling in love is exhausting; he’s allowed to take a break, isn’t he?
—
“Is it because you don’t like me?”
Grantaire lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Enjolras, we’ve had this conversation many times.”
“And you never answer my question, which is why I have to keep asking,” Enjolras shoots back easily. “Is it because you aren’t attracted to me?”
Grantaire ignores Enjolras. It’s the easiest way to deal with Enjolras when Enjolras is being particularly stubborn.
“Is it because my father is the President?” Enjolras peers at him. “That would be a very shitty reason to say no. You’re not supposed to treat me differently just because of who my father is.”
Grantaire picks up the closest book to him and flips through it.
“Is it because you’re my bodyguard?” He snatches the book out of Grantaire’s hands and sets it aside. “Because what if I talked to Feuilly and asked him to reassign you for a week? Would you kiss me then?”
Grantaire starts humming.
“Is it because you don’t think I’m being serious?” Enjolras asks, and the gravity in his tone makes Grantaire turn to look at him, a rookie mistake, really, because it makes Enjolras’ eyes widen. “Is that it? Really? You don’t believe me?”
Grantaire sighs. “Why don’t we put a movie on and watch that instead?”
“You don’t take me seriously when I say I like you!” Enjolras huffs out. “Do you think I buy flowers and plan picnics for all my previous bodyguards too?” At Grantaire’s silence, Enjolras turns to fix him with the most incredulous look he can muster. “You actually do think so! This is ridiculous.”
“This is ridiculous, I agree,” Grantaire says quickly. “Movie. I’ll go get popcorn.”
Enjolras grabs him by the arm and pulls him back down on the couch. “Not when I’m finally getting answers,” he tells Grantaire. “I don’t know where you got the idea from, but I don’t flirt with all my other bodyguards. I never have. I only like you. I only want you.”
“Enjolras-” Grantaire says, but Enjolras is quicker, and presses a finger over Grantaire’s lips.
“No, don’t interrupt me,” he tells Grantaire. “We’re going to get things straight once and for all, so you can’t play the I don’t know what you’re talking about card with me - I like you. Romantically. Sexually. I want to take you out on dates, and then I want you to take me to bed.”
“Enj-”
Enjolras shushes him. “You don’t believe me yet, but you’re going to one day, it’s going to happen. I’ve been told that I can be really convincing, and also that I am a persistent little shit. I’ll find a way to show you that I mean it, you’ll see.”
He takes his finger off Grantaire’s lips.
“You are a persistent little shit,” Grantaire says, a bit too quietly for it to appear that he’s brushing off the entire episode as a joke.
A part of him really wants Enjolras to convince him.
Enjolras smiles as if he can read Grantaire’s mind. “It comes in handy sometimes.”
—
He takes Enjolras to the cemetery on Saturday. Enjolras doesn’t often ask to go to the cemetery, but Grantaire’s learnt that when he does, it’s because he’s under pressure, and trying to deal with it the way he knows best - by talking to his mother.
Neither the President nor Enjolras talk about her much. Grantaire doesn’t know much about her apart from the fact that they both loved her very much, and that she’d meant a lot to Enjolras.
He takes Enjolras to the cemetery, walks silently with Enjolras to his mother’s grave, leaves him to his privacy, and moves somewhere he wouldn’t be able to eavesdrop. He watches Enjolras, though, watches the sad smile on his face as he traces her name on the tombstone, watches as he settles down gently on the grass and his lips start to move, watches the myriad of emotions that flit pass his way as he talks, watches as his hands gesture wildly, watches as he eventually starts to cry, like he always does, watches as he pieces himself back together, brushes the dirt off his pants, and presses a kiss to the tombstone before he turns to walk away. He is always calm and composed by the time Grantaire joins him again and they walk back to the car.
It goes like it always does today, except when Grantaire gets to Enjolras, Enjolras’ eyes are still red-rimmed, and he’s still sniffling a little. He walks closer to Grantaire than he normally does, and when he eventually reaches out to tangle their fingers together, Grantaire takes one look at the sad pinch of Enjolras’ mouth and can’t bear to disentangle his hand.
He doesn’t know if he’s allowed to ask Enjolras about it, to ask Enjolras if he wants to talk, because he’s been taking Enjolras to visit his mother’s grave for a long time now, and this has never happened before. This isn’t covered in the handbook, and Grantaire feels a little out of his depth.
“Are you alright?” Grantaire asks, concerned, when they get back into the car and Enjolras still looks uncharacteristically sad.
Enjolras burrows into his arms, curls himself against Grantaire, presses his face to Grantaire’s chest and starts shaking. Grantaire doesn’t know what else to do except to rub his back soothingly, and to whisper it’s alright, I’m here, it’s alright to Enjolras.
It takes awhile, but eventually Enjolras stops crying. He doesn’t pull aways from Grantaire’s embrace, though, and Grantaire doesn’t say anything about it.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks Enjolras, and feels him shake his head. Grantaire understands that somethings aren’t meant to be shared, and respects Enjolras’ privacy enough to leave it alone.
“Do you feel better now, though?”
“Yeah,” Enjolras says quietly. “Yeah, I do.”
“Good,” Grantaire says.
“She would’ve liked you, I think,” Enjolras says after a pause. “I wish you could’ve met her. I think you would’ve liked her too.”
Grantaire swallows. There is a sudden ache in his chest.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Enjolras says, and presses himself closer to Grantaire.
Neither Grantaire nor Enjolras say anything when the driver starts taking the long way back.
—
He doesn’t know how it happens - one moment Enjolras is up in his face, yelling at him about Grantaire lying to him (Grantaire isn’t; it’s part of his job, some things are classified and he has direct orders to not let Enjolras know), and then the next moment, Enjolras’ lips are on his, their bodies are pressed closed together, and Enjolras’ arms are tight around Grantaire’s neck, and Grantaire doesn’t allow himself any time to talk himself out of it, and just kisses back, because he’s wanted to for a long time now, and Enjolras is warm and perfect against him.
He pulls away from Enjolras’ lips, trails hot kisses down the curve of his jaw to his neck, and bites down lightly. Enjolras moans, and Grantaire does it again, eager to coax that noise out of Enjolras again.
“Gran- Yes, oh, yes,” Enjolras moans when Grantaire catches Enjolras’ lips in his again. Grantaire makes an executive decision and starts backing them towards Enjolras’ bed. “Gran- Oh.”
“R,” Grantaire tells him, pulling away to smile at Enjolras. Enjolras’ hair is a complete mess, and Grantaire brushes away an errant curl from Enjolras’ face. “I also go by R. It’s a lot shorter than Grantaire,” he tells Enjolras.
“It’s a pun,” Enjolras murmurs, slightly breathless, grinning up at Grantaire like Grantaire just made his day.
“It’s a pun,” Grantaire confirms, and oh fuck, he’s so fucking gone for Enjolras, Christ God. He smiles at the grin Enjolras gives him before he pushes Enjolras back down to his bed and resumes kissing him.
Enjolras is incredibly responsive to his touch. Every time Grantaire moves his hands down Enjolras’ body, mapping it out, trying to search for the spots that make Enjolras feel good, Enjolras mewls and curves up against him, saying things like oh god, R, that feels so good and please do that again, please, and there’s nothing else Grantaire can do except to kiss him again, messy and filthy, the way he’s discovered makes Enjolras groan into his mouth and tighten his grip on the sheets.
“More,” Enjolras moans, when Grantaire’s fingers inch up his shirt, brushing lightly across his nipple. Christ, Enjolras is sensitive, and it makes Grantaire want to do all the things to him, to try all the things with him. “A lot more, please, R, please, I want more.”
Grantaire is just about to take Enjolras’ shirt off him when Enjolras’ phone rings. They both freeze and turn to stare at the bedside table, where Enjolras’ phone is placed, still vibrating and ringing and filling the room with soft light from the screen.
The loud, blaring noise pierces through the temporary haze of lust and Grantaire is suddenly acutely aware that he is straddling Enjolras’ hips, that he has his hand up Enjolras’ shirt, that he’s had his mouth pressed all over Enjolras’ skin, and he isn’t supposed to, because Enjolras is the President’s son, and Grantaire’s job is to make sure that he’s safe and secure, and not- Not this.
He moves quickly off Enjolras, gets off the bed and rights his shirt, combs through his hair in a desperate attempt to make himself look presentable, to make it look less obvious that he’s just been making out with Enjolras in Enjolras’ room.
“R, no,” Enjolras says, voice soft and pleading. “Please don’t go.”
“I’m sorry,” Grantaire says in a rush, not looking at Enjolras. “That was a mistake, it was inappropriate and unprofessional, and it won’t happen again. I’m sorry.”
Enjolras sits up. “But, please, I want you, R,” he says, reaching a hand out for Grantaire, beckoning him to come back. “Please come back, please.”
Grantaire is tempted to.
He lets his eyes linger over the way Enjolras’ shirt is half unbuttoned, and how his hair is mussed from Grantaire’s fingers raking through it, and how his lips and red and swollen and spit-slicked, and wants to go back there, wants to crawl up the bed and press himself close to Enjolras and kiss him again, wants to hear Enjolras moan his name again, wants to see what other noises he can coax out from Enjolras, but he can’t.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, looking away from Enjolras, and leaves the room.
—
He goes to Feuilly, and says, “I want a reassignment.”
Feuilly takes one look at him and nods, as if he knows what just happened, even though Grantaire had taken great pains to tame his hair and change out of his rumpled suit before he came to see Feuilly.
He doesn’t know why he thought he could hide this from Feuilly; one of the first things they told him when he first started working here was that Feuilly knows everything.
“Do you need to take a few days off?” Feuilly asks.
“No,” Grantaire tells him, squaring his jaw. He doesn’t want to give himself more time to think about how incredibly stupid he was. “Just the reassignment.”
Feuilly looks at him for a long moment before he says, “I’m putting you on the President’s security detail. Find Bahorel for me when you leave.”
“Will he be Enjolras’—”
Feuilly nods before Grantaire is able to finish his sentence.
It’s a good choice. Bahorel is snarky and fun off the job, but on the job, he is firm and calm, and doesn’t deviate from his instructions. Bahorel will take care of Enjolras, and Bahorel will be able to do it objectively. Bahorel won’t let Enjolras talk him into watching movies with him. Bahorel will follow protocol and find and escort Enjolras back to the house when Enjolras attempts to ditch his tail, instead of sighing and letting Enjolras do what he likes, settling for shadowing him. Bahorel won’t develop feelings for Enjolras.
Bahorel will take care of Enjolras, and Grantaire will stay out of Enjolras’ way, until Enjolras forgets him, until he becomes just a distant memory of Enjolras’, a face with no name.
The thought makes his chest tighten, and he turns to leave Feuilly’s office.
“Grantaire,” Feuilly says, when Grantaire has his hand on the doorknob.
Grantaire turns back to look at Feuilly, and Feuilly sighs.
“You shouldn’t have,” he tells Grantaire, but he doesn’t look angry at Grantaire, doesn’t look like he wants to fire Grantaire even though he really should, just disappointed, like he expected better from Grantaire, and that’s somehow worse.
“I know,” is all Grantaire says, before he leaves Feuilly’s office.
—
There is a bruise on his neck.
His first thought when he sees it in the mirror should be thank fuck my collar covers it. It isn’t.
He thinks instead about the breathless laugh that had left Enjolras’ lips when he’d skimmed his fingers down Enjolras’ side. He thinks about the wet glide of Enjolras’ tongue against the shell of his ear, slowly trailing lower. He thinks about the way Enjolras had bit down softly to muffle his moan when Grantaire had slotted his thigh between Enjolras’ legs, thinks about how the bite had eased into soft, sucking motions, thinks about how much he’d loved it. He thinks about how he’d thought, ‘I hope he leaves a mark.’
He ghosts his fingers over the bruise on his neck, presses down against it slowly, and lets out a shaky breath.
If he keeps his distance, if he stays away, Enjolras will forget him, and it will be okay, it will be how it’s supposed to be.
He digs his fingers into the bruise. Irrational as it is, he hopes it lasts.
But even if it doesn’t, it won’t matter, because Grantaire will remember that it happened, and that will be enough.
—
It is quiet and uneventful the first two days.
Grantaire tries to get used to not showing up for work to eat breakfast with Enjolras, to not having to try not to smile when he sits around listening to Enjolras rant as he reads the newspaper, to not having to linger outside lecture halls waiting for Enjolras to finish his lectures. It’s not easy; he hadn’t realised how much time he spent with Enjolras, or how much he enjoyed spending time with Enjolras until now.
The third night, Grantaire gets a text from Bahorel, asking him to go to Enjolras’ room. Grantaire does, heart in his chest, afraid that something might’ve happened to Enjolras. Bahorel is outside the door when Grantaire arrives.
“He won’t stop asking for you,” Bahorel tells Grantaire, giving him a look when Grantaire opens his mouth to protest. “I had to promise him that I’d get you to see him to get him back, and I’m not the kind of person who breaks promises. Will you please just go and talk to him?”
Grantaire sighs, resigned, and goes into Enjolras’ room.
Enjolras is sitting barefoot on the floor, but visibly brightens when he sees Grantaire. “You came!” he says giddily, and tries to get up.
Grantaire steps forward to help him up. “You’re drunk,” Grantaire says quietly.
“M’not drunk,” Enjolras tells him. “A presidential son does not get drunk. I’m tipsy.”
Grantaire sighs and tightens his hold on Enjolras’ waist when he sways. “I’m going to help you into bed, is that alright?”
“I miss you, R. I miss you so much, please don’t go away again, please.”
Grantaire swallows, and then says, “You need to lie down. I’m going to help you into bed.”
“Mm hmm,” Enjolras hums. He leans his weight on Grantaire, turns to press his face to Grantaire’s neck. “Are you going to join me in bed too? Because that would be alright too. Did I tell you I miss you? I miss you.”
Grantaire doesn’t respond.
He leads them to Enjolras’ bed, carefully avoiding all the furniture around that Enjolras could stumble into, sits Enjolras down on the bed, and starts to undress Enjolras before he can think better of it. It doesn’t have to be a problem; he has things under control, all he wants to do is to make Enjolras comfortable.
He takes Enjolras’ jacket and tie off first, and swallows when Enjolras’ breathing starts to get laboured when he begins to undo the buttons on Enjolras’ shirt before taking it off him. Grantaire makes quick work of unbuckling Enjolras’ belt and stripping him off his pants, trying not to focus on the fact that Enjolras is getting hard, cock tenting his briefs, just from Grantaire taking his clothes off. When he looks up at Enjolras, Enjolras’ pupils are blown wide with arousal, and Grantaire has to look away quickly.
He can’t be inside here alone with Enjolras.
He pushes Enjolras down to a horizontal position, and Enjolras goes easily with Grantaire’s ministrations. Grantaire takes a moment to adjust Enjolras’ pillows and to drape the covers over him, before he steps back and says, “I’ll be outside your door, if you need anything.
“No,” Enjolras says quickly, and kicks off the covers. “Stay. I want you here. I want you to stay.”
“I will be outside your door, sir,” Grantaire says curtly, looking at a spot above Enjolras’ head. He has to set up the boundaries between them, should’ve actually done so the minute he started working as Enjolras’ tag-along bodyguard.
He needs to remind himself of where he is, what he’s doing, and who Enjolras is. He has to do it, if not he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from acting on his feelings for Enjolras.
“Say that again,” Enjolras gasps, and when Grantaire turns his gaze to Enjolras, he lets out a noise because, oh Christ, Enjolras has got a hand down his briefs, touching himself. “Fuck, Grantaire, say that again, please.”
Grantaire swallows. “I will be outside your door, sir,” he repeats quietly, even though he knows he shouldn’t. He should turn away, should leave the room, but he’s never been particularly good at resisting temptation. He gives in to his vices, that’s what he does.
“You don’t get to leave,” Enjolras hisses. “I don’t want you to leave.”
Grantaire watches as Enjolras lifts his hips up and slides his briefs off, and Christ, he’s perfect, of course he’s perfect, Grantaire knew he would be perfect. He didn’t need visual confirmation for that.
“I don’t want you to ever leave,” Enjolras says, looking straight at Grantaire. “I want you to stay. I order you to stay.” He drags a hand up his thigh and pinches at his nipples. “Stay, please stay. Tell me you’re staying, please, R, don’t leave me.”
Grantaire shouldn’t, he really, really shouldn’t. He can think of three hundred different reasons why this would be a bad idea. He opens his mouth to tell Enjolras no, to tell Enjolras that he can’t, but what comes out instead is a breathy, “I’m staying.”
Enjolras moans at that, and Grantaire watches as Enjolras tightens his grip on his cock and stripes his cock faster. He can’t look away from Enjolras, because Enjolras is staring right back at him, keeping their gazes locked. Enjolras comes like this, looking at Grantaire, with Grantaire’s name on his lips.
And God, this was a mistake, Grantaire shouldn’t have been here tonight, should’ve left Bahorel’s message alone when he saw it, because he had things under control, had his attraction for Enjolras under control before he came here tonight, and now he doesn’t feel in control of anything anymore. He can feel his want for Enjolras sharp inside of him, can feel himself physically ache to touch Enjolras.
Enjolras is panting heavily, watching Grantaire from under his lashes, and he’s beautiful and perfect and Grantaire cannot want him, so he steels himself and says, “With your permission, sir, I will be outside your door.”
He watches as Enjolras works his throat, searching for words, and can see the exact moment Enjolras gives up on trying.
Grantaire doesn’t wait for Enjolras to tell him to, just turns on his heels and leaves the room.
—
Enjolras catches him off his guard, just as he’s switching shifts with Musichetta. Grantaire should have been more alert, because he’s expecting Enjolras to seek him out. That’s why he’s arranged for his schedule today to clash with Enjolras’ classes.
“I’m sorry,” Enjolras says, and he’s standing in front of Grantaire, head hung low, and he looks sad, looks pale, looks sick, and Grantaire’s chest clenches tightly, because this isn’t just the hangover, this is Enjolras being full of regret.
Grantaire did this.
“Last night was- I shouldn’t have done that,” Enjolras continues.
“Don’t be,” he says, as brusquely as he can manage, even though he can feel all the air being squeezed out of his lungs. “It was nothing.”
Enjolras’ head snaps up.
“It doesn’t have to be a thing,” Grantaire tells him. “I’m off your detail now, you don’t have to see me anymore. It doesn’t have to be a thing. In fact, we can do even better than that. We can agree that it never happened, and we won’t have to talk about it again.”
Enjolras blinks, looking a little lost. “I-”
“Was that all you needed me for, sir?” Grantaire asks, slipping back to his professional tone. If he were in a better mood right now, he would laugh at the phrasing of his sentence. As it is, all he wants to do right now is to clock out and go to the nearest bar.
Enjolras doesn’t say anything.
Grantaire takes a deep breath, centres himself and asks, “If that is all, sir, I am due to report in Feuilly’s office.”
He turns and walks away before Enjolras replies, and is almost all the way down the hallway when Enjolras says, “Wait!”
He stills, but doesn’t turn back. He hears Enjolras’ footsteps coming closer, and stiffens.
“I think there’s been a mistake,” Enjolras says.
And god damn it, can Enjolras not just leave the subject alone? It’s a mistake, Grantaire’s a mistake, and he knows that, he doesn’t need Enjolras to tell it to him. He doesn’t want to hear Enjolras say the words.
“Stop,” Enjolras blurts out. “Stop. You’re misunderstanding me, I just know you are. I’m sorry for how last night went down. I was in a position of authority, I took advantage of you, and I’m sorry. But I’m not- I don’t-” He takes a deep breath. “I wanted it to happen. Maybe not like that, not when you didn’t want it, not when you didn’t want me. But I wanted it to happen. I wanted you. I still want you. I always want you, R.”
He isn’t proud of the fact, but a wave of instant relief that floods through his body at Enjolras’ words. It must show on his face, too, because Enjolras loses some of the tension in his shoulders, and he looks less hesitant now, less upset with himself.
Grantaire wants to keep that look on Enjolras’ face, but he knows better than to do that now, knows that it’s better to make a clean break, so he says, almost mechanically, “Was that all you wanted to say, sir?”
Enjolras’ face falls. “Yeah,” he says softly.
Grantaire turns and walks away, brisk and fast, and only lets out a ragged breath after he turns the corner.
—
He avoids Enjolras the best he can.
At first he figures that it’s so easy because he knows Enjolras’ schedule better than he knows his own, but then he starts to realise that in his own way, Enjolras is going out of his way to avoid Grantaire too, avoiding having to come into contact with the President unless Grantaire isn’t on duty, and it shouldn’t matter to him, it definitely shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, but it makes his chest clench tightly.
Enjolras avoiding him means that Enjolras is finally seeing this whole situation between them the way Grantaire sees it too, that it’s easier for them to be apart than together, that Enjolras is too good for him, and Grantaire really doesn’t deserve him. It’s what Grantaire wants, but Grantaire can’t find any joy in himself now that it’s actually happening.
This is why he shouldn’t have gone and fallen in love with-
Oh.
Oh.
He hadn’t thought that his feelings for Enjolras has developed so quickly, but now that the thought is there, now that he knows that he’s in love with Enjolras, he doesn’t know how he could’ve ever thought that he would be able to stop it from happening.
Enjolras with his sweet smiles and devious smirks, Enjolras with the way he rolls his eyes when he reads the news and climbs up on tables to give rousing speeches about reshaping the government, Enjolras with his horrible choices in movies and the way he always ends up curling up against Grantaire when they watch one together.
It was inevitable; Grantaire was always going to fall in love with him.
It doesn’t change anything, though. Knowing that he’s in love with Enjolras doesn’t change anything. He’s been trying so hard to push Enjolras away, and Enjolras is finally going along with it. Grantaire isn’t going to do anything to change that now, because this way is better for Enjolras. Enjolras deserves everything, deserves much more than Grantaire can give him, at least.
—
When it happens, he moves on instinct.
It’s not his job to protect Enjolras anymore. Enjolras has Bahorel by his side, and Bahorel is as competent as bodyguards come. He knows that Bahorel will do what it takes to keep Enjolras safe.
But when he hears the shot ring, he moves on instinct and jumps in front of Enjolras, because it mightn’t be his job to protect Enjolras anymore, but it doesn’t mean that he doesn’t want to anyway.
“Grantaire!” Enjolras is screaming, and then he’s crouching by Grantaire, shrugging off Bahorel’s hand on his shoulder. “Fuck, Grantaire, you’re bleeding, oh God, you’re bleeding.”
“You have to go,” Grantaire grits out. “Bahorel-”
“There is protocol to follow here, Enjolras,” Bahorel tells Enjolras, gentle but firm. “We have to go.”
“We’re not leaving Grantaire here,” Enjolras snaps.
He sounds angry, sounds scared, and Grantaire doesn’t ever want to have to hear Enjolras sound like this again.
“You have to go,” Grantaire repeats. “Enjolras. Enjolras, please.”
Enjolras’ grip on his hand is tight, and that’s good, that distracts him from the pain in his shoulder, but Enjolras can’t stay here, not when there’s a shooter out there, Enjolras has to go somewhere safe, Enjolras has to be safe, he can’t not be-
He lets the pain take over him.
-
Grantaire wakes up in slow increments.
The first thing he notices is that it is bright as fuck. He means to throw an arm over his face to keep the brightness from irritating him, and drifting back to sleep, but he ends up letting out a pained moan when he tries to move his hand, because his shoulder hurts like the devil.
“Grantaire?” Enjolras says. “R, are you awake? Does it hurt? Do you need me to get the doctor for you?”
“Slow down, Enjolras,” Grantaire murmurs, and slowly opens his eyes, wincing as the light hits him, and tries to get used to the brightness. “What happened?”
“You got shot,” Enjolras tells, voice hushed. Grantaire doesn’t say anything about the tight grip Enjolras has on his hand because he’s still in pain, and it feels nice, feels comforting to have Enjolras here. “You took a bullet for me.”
Grantaire’s eyes widen as memories of that day come back to him. “Are you alright?” he asks in a rush, scanning Enjolras for obvious injuries. “Did you get hurt? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, I’m okay,” Enjolras tells him, and lets out a burst of manic laughter. “You took a bullet for me,” he says again, before he brings their joined hands up to his lips to press a kiss to the back of Grantaire’s hand. “Christ. I was so scared, R. Don’t do that again. Don’t ever do that again.”
Grantaire swallows and slowly tugs his hand away from Enjolras, taking care not to wince when he pulls a little too hard.
“I was just doing my job,” he tells Enjolras, because this isn’t right. He’s supposed to stay away, and he was doing a really good job at making Enjolras hate him.
“But you’re not part of my security detail anymore,” Enjolras says. “It’s not your job to take a bullet for me.”
“I was the closest,” Grantaire lies, because he knows he wasn’t. Bahorel was. Bahorel was in position to act, had probably had the situation under control, and what Grantaire did could’ve disrupted Bahorel’s plan. He shouldn’t have done it, except he couldn’t have not done it. “Anyone would’ve done what I did.”
Enjolras swallows. He looks hurt.
“Was that all there was to it, then?” Enjolras asks. Grantaire can hear the crack in Enjolras’ voice and hates himself for it. “You were just doing your job?”
Grantaire closes his eyes. Takes a breath, holds it in, and counts to three. It doesn’t help to clear his head. Nothing clears his head of Enjolras.
But he has to try. He has to.
“Yes,” he says. “I’m sorry if I made you think otherwise.”
There is a long pause. Grantaire doesn't open his eyes, doesn’t want to know what Enjolras looks like right now, doesn’t want to see Enjolras looking sad or disappointed in him.
“Okay,” Enjolras says eventually, and he sounds sad and defeated and broken, but Grantaire feels him lean down to press a kiss to his forehead. “Thank you for saving my life,” he whispers, and then pulls away.
Grantaire waits for his footsteps to fade away before he lets out a ragged breath and opens his eyes. There is a burning pain inside of him, and he isn’t really sure it’s just the bullet wound that’s bothering him anymore.
—
Bahorel shows up two days later to see him.
“I was going to wait till my day off to come visit you,” he tells Grantaire, setting down a fruit basket on the table for Grantaire, “but I decided that I missed you.”
Grantaire frowns. “It’s not your day off?” he asks. “Why aren’t you with Enjolras? What if-”
“He hasn’t been out of his room in two days, and it doesn’t look like he’s going to come out anytime soon,” Bahorel says simply, and shrugs. “He’s a very low security risk right now. The others at the house have it under control.”
Grantaire swallows. “Is he okay?” he asks, even though Bahorel’s already told him everything he needs to know.
It was a Wednesday yesterday, and Enjolras has Les Amis meetings on Wednesdays. He’s never skipped a meeting before, insisted on showing up even though he was running a high fever that one time, and Grantaire had to carry him out of the meeting.
Enjolras isn’t okay, and it’s Grantaire’s fault that he isn’t.
“It’s my job to keep Enjolras safe and secure, not to take note of whether he’s happy, or to keep him happy,” Bahorel says, sinking into the chair next to Grantaire’s bed. “But if it were my job to keep Enjolras happy, I would be here not to visit you as a friend, but under official capacity to tell you to fix things with Enjolras. I would be here to tell you that Enjolras stayed by your side for two entire days while you were out cold, and refused to leave until you woke up. That I don’t know what you said to him when you did eventually wake up, but he was crying in the car the entire way back to the house that day, and he hasn’t left his room since, so I’m going to take a wild stab in the dark and guess that you were an asshole to him, even though the poor boy is obviously in love with you. And then after I finish telling you that, I would probably punch you in the jaw, just to cement my point on how much of an asshole you were to him,” Bahorel leans back in his seat and snorts. “It’s a good thing for the both of us that it isn’t my job to keep Enjolras happy, isn’t it?”
“He’s not in love with me,” Grantaire says.
Bahorel snorts. “I don’t know how you can say that with a straight face,” he tells Grantaire. “I really, really don’t.”
Grantaire swallows and looks away from Bahorel. “He’s the President’s son. Presidential sons don’t end up with bodyguards.”
“Not conventionally, perhaps,” Bahorel tells him. “But has Enjolras ever shown any inclination of conforming to society’s expectations of him?” He smiles at Grantaire. “Just a little something to think about while you recuperate.”
—
His first day back at work, Feuilly tells him to take it easy, tells him that he’s putting him on perimeter patrols until he gets better, and Grantaire wants to protest, he really does, but he knows better than to try to outtalk Feuilly, so he swallows all his objections and goes for his perimeter patrol.
He’s in the gardens when he notices that Enjolras’ curtains are drawn shut. It’s a nice sunny day out, and Enjolras would never draw his curtains shut on a day like this because he loves the sun, basks in it while he does pre-readings for his lectures sometimes. He is already climbing up the steps and making his way to Enjolras’ room when he remembers that he isn’t supposed to do this anymore, that he isn’t allowed to care for Enjolras anymore, that he’s supposed to be staying away from Enjolras.
He freezes right outside Enjolras’ door, swallows, and drops the hand he has up to knock on Enjolras’ door back to his side.
“You should knock,” Bahorel says, because of course Bahorel is standing guard outside, of course Bahorel isn’t watching a movie in Enjolras’ room with Enjolras, of course Bahorel isn’t doing all the things Grantaire used to do, because all the things Grantaire used to do were things that weren’t part of the job. They were things that weren’t ever supposed to be part of the job.
He got himself into this position, got them both into this position. He should’ve made it clear to Enjolras right from the start that he was only here to do his job, and that nothing would change that, but he hadn’t. Instead, he’d encouraged Enjolras. It’s his own goddamn fault that he’s stuck here, outside Enjolras’ room, afraid to knock, afraid of what Enjolras thinks of him, afraid of everything.
He clenches his hands into fists. “I should go back to my rounds,” he says.
Bahorel lets out a long-suffering sigh. “I’ll let Enjolras know you dropped by. It might get him out of his room finally.”
“Don’t.”
Bahorel sighs. “He’s been moping,” Bahorel tells him. “He has been moping since you chased him out of the hospital-”
“I didn’t-”
“You did,” Bahorel says firmly. “And you don’t look happy about having to do it as well. You don’t look happy about having to stay away from Enjolras. Look me in the face and tell me you’re happy about it and I’ll drop the subject and never bring it up again.”
Grantaire has the words, knows what they are, knows how to voice them out, but he finds that they stick to the back of his throat. He’s reluctant to lie, not about this, and definitely not to Bahorel.
Bahorel fixes his gaze on Grantaire. “You don’t have to stay away from Enjolras. No-one is making you.”
“Bahorel-”
“I’ll let Enjolras know you dropped by,” Bahorel says, and judging on his tone, there is no room for discussion. It’s a clear dismissal, so Grantaire just swallows, nods, and walks away.
He speeds his pace up when he hears Bahorel knock on Enjolras’ door.
He wants to say that he is not running away, he isn’t, except he is. He thinks about Eponine telling him to be careful with his heart, telling him to take care of his heart because no-one else will, and thinks that it’s maybe too late to try now.
—
He ends up outside Enjolras’ door three more times throughout the week, and Bahorel is never there to witness him acting like a lovelorn teenager anymore, possibly by design. He always has his fist up to rap on the door, and always loses his nerve right before his hand touches the door, thinking about the many ways he would end up fucking this up even more.
He doesn’t know what he would say to Enjolras, doesn’t know what he could say to Enjolras that would make him understand. He wants to make things better, wants Enjolras to be happy again, but he doesn’t know how.
He settles for standing outside Enjolras’ door, palm pressed against the cool wood of the door, telling himself that it’s better this way, that he’s come so far with trying to put distance between them, that Enjolras probably hates him now, and leaving the floor with a renewed sense of self-loathing.
—
He starts texting Bahorel tiny tidbits about Enjolras.
He tells Bahorel about how when Enjolras is frowning and tapping his fingers on the table, it normally means that he’s studying too much, and should be asked to take a break. He tells Bahorel that Enjolras likes his coffee hot, but if he doesn’t drink it all in one go, he’ll forget about it and it’ll go cold, and Enjolras would get cranky, so Bahorel should make sure he gets all his coffee down before he lets Enjolras get distracted by other things. He tells Bahorel that Enjolras likes company, likes having someone to argue with while reading the news, and that Bahorel should always read the news before he reports for duty.
I am not his caretaker, Bahorel texts back, and Grantaire mostly ignores it, because Bahorel takes in information like a sponge and it’s bound to come in handy sometime.
Enjolras continues to not come out of his room save for when he has to go for classes, and Grantaire continues to stay out of Enjolras’ way.
It’s not the ideal situation —that would require Enjolras to be happy— but these things take time. Enjolras is young and has probably never had someone reject him before, and it’ll take some time before he bounces back, better than before, leaving Grantaire to be a distant memory, the way it should be.
And if Grantaire feels miserable, then well, he’s the collateral damage here, and that’s fine, because he doesn’t need to be happy, he just needs Enjolras to be.
—
He has barely closed the door to Feuilly’s office when Feuilly says, “I’m reassigning you back to Enjolras.”
Grantaire blinks. “No.”
“Grantaire,” Feuilly starts, “the request came from the President. You took a bullet for Enjolras. The President trusts you to take care of him.”
“Anyone else would’ve done the same thing,” Grantaire tries to argue.
Feuilly fixes his gaze on Grantaire, serious. “I would like to think that the men I’ve recruited would, yes,” he says, “but the President’s son isn’t in love with anyone else.”
Grantaire swallows. “He isn’t-”
“Grantaire,” Feuilly sighs. “This is the President giving you permission to date his son. Are you really going to argue something you should already know to be an established fact with me right now?”
“I don’t understand,” Grantaire manages to get out.
“They have their differences, but the President loves his son. Enjolras hasn’t been the same since your reassignment, and it’s only gotten worse since your shooting. The President noticed and drew his own conclusion.” Feuilly crosses his arms. “This isn’t an ultimatum, I’m not saying that you can either go back on Enjolras’ detail or lose your job. You have a choice here, and I will support whichever choice you make, but you should make your choice with the knowledge that there’s nothing standing in your way of fighting for happiness.” He smiles slightly. “For Enjolras.”
“I-” Grantaire trails off, lost for words.
“Would you like me to reassign you, Grantaire?” Feuilly asks.
Grantaire takes a breath, and decides.
—
“No, Bahorel, I don’t want to have lunch outside in the garden,” Enjolras says as he opens the door, and Grantaire has only a brief moment to feel smug about the fact that Bahorel has been using the information Grantaire has been sending him about Enjolras before Enjolras sees him and freezes.
Grantaire’s rehearsed what to say, has tried the words a million times in front of the mirror last night, but now, when he’s actually seeing Enjolras, when he has Enjolras so close, his breath catches in his throat and words fail him.
“You’re not Bahorel,” Enjolras says flatly.
Grantaire used to think that Enjolras was really easy to read, but he realises now that Enjolras was only easy to read because he wasn’t trying to hide anything from Grantaire, because he wanted Grantaire to read him and learn things about him, because he trusted Grantaire. The realisation makes his chest tighten.
“I’m not Bahorel,” Grantaire says quietly.
“Is Bahorel sick?” Enjolras asks, face still purposefully blank.
“He isn’t. He’s fine,” Grantaire tells him. And then, after a beat, adds carefully, “He’s no longer part of your security detail. I have been reassigned back to you.”
Enjolras doesn’t say anything, just steps away from the door and goes back into his room. He doesn’t bother closing the door, so Grantaire takes it as his cue to follow Enjolras in. He does, closing the door after him.
Enjolras is sitting cross-legged on his favourite couch —their couch, the one they’re always on when they marathon movies together— and he isn’t saying anything, isn’t even looking at Grantaire. He is quiet, too quiet, and Grantaire doesn’t know what else he can do except to wait for Enjolras to parse this out for himself.
He hasn’t been so close to Enjolras in weeks, and Enjolras looks different now, more subdued, and Grantaire hates that he might be the cause of it. He hates that he’s made Enjolras sad, and he’s going to do whatever it takes to fix that.
He stands there in silence for a bit, just watching Enjolras, watching the twitch in his fingers, watching him clench his fingers into fists to stop them from shaking, and then when he can’t stand it anymore, he clears his throat and says, “You were right, I think. I wouldn’t have done it for anyone else.”
He’s had time to think about this, and he knows that even though he would like to say otherwise, he doesn’t really think that he would’ve gone out of his way to take a bullet for anyone else except Enjolras.
“It’s your job,” Enjolras bites out, parroting Grantaire’s words from when he was in the hospital back at him.
“Well, then I’m a shit bodyguard, because I wouldn’t have done it for anyone else,” Grantaire says again, more forceful this time, because he means it, and he wants Enjolras to believe him, needs Enjolras to believe him. He doesn’t know what he would do if Enjolras refuses to forgive him, if Enjolras sends him away.
Enjolras doesn’t say anything for a very long time, just stares at Grantaire, as if trying to read him, trying to see if Grantaire is telling the truth, and Grantaire drops all his guard, lets Enjolras look his fill, lets Enjolras take his time, because Enjolras means the world to him, and he isn’t taking the effort to hide that right now.
Finally, finally, Enjolras says, “That’s what I thought.”
Then, softly, “You took a bullet for me.”
“And I would take a hundred more,” Grantaire says, and crouches down in front of Enjolras to take Enjolras’ hands in his, squeezing tightly. “I would do anything to keep you safe and happy, Enjolras. And I haven’t done a really good job of that. You’ve been upset and it’s all my fault. I won’t let that happen again, I promise. I’ll do anything it takes to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Enjolras, you- You mean everything to me.”
“Say it, R,” Enjolras breathes out. “You have to say it. I don’t want to have to guess, I need you to say it.”
Grantaire leans in close, slowly, frames Enjolras’ face with his hands, brushes his thumb lightly over Enjolras’ cheek, and he’s never been as sure of anything before as the moment he breathes the words I love you into the space between them, softly, like it’s something precious, like it’s something to protect, like it’s something worth fighting for.
Enjolras’ smile lights the room.
Grantaire kisses him.