Archive of Our Own

When he wakes up, he’s looking up at Serhiy and two lackeys from the chair he’s loosely tied to. They’re in a small, comfortably appointed house, with knitted blankets tossed across faded old furniture. Enjolras wonders if the owners are dead, or out of town, or politely stepped out when they saw the crime lord coming.

“Tell me what you want with Viktor,” Serhiy says, cutting straight to the chase.

Enjolras appreciates that, and tugs slightly at rope tying his hands behind the chair. He can’t tell if that’s tied to something else, but it feels like they’ve gone very basic. “You should be more specific. There are a lot of Viktors in Kiev,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire would have laughed. Or groaned and mocked him. Instead, he gets an unimpressed frown from Serhiy. “You know which Viktor. Now answer, or something unfortunate might happen.”

Viktor Hordiyenko is a disgustingly corrupt police officer who is more of a criminal than every person he has ‘arrested’ in the past five years. There’s little to no political motivation in this one – the last time they were in Ukraine, a very quiet young woman on the train had approached him and asked him to deal with the man. After doing some quick research, Enjolras was more than happy to oblige. They’d just finished a mission in Minsk and were headed into Romania for another job before heading back home, and Enjolras had thought, well, we’re going that way already.

Enjolras is starting to realize he didn’t do quite enough research.

“I’m not sure what answer to give you,” Enjolras says honestly. He doesn’t really want anything with Viktor. He doesn’t want anything from the man, doesn’t want him to do anything other than stop hurting people, and since that will never happen, Enjolras just wants the man dead.

Serhiy has dealt with him before. Serhiy has been a loyal and reliable contact in Kiev and Ukraine in general. And it seems Serhiy strongly objects to Enjolras plotting to assassinate his friend Viktor. Enjolras had barely told the friendly middle-aged man his target before the man’s expression changed and Enjolras had thought oh God damn it and managed to shoot Serhiy in the shoulder before someone knocked Enjolras out. The man’s wound is bandaged and he’s wearing a fresh shirt and Enjolras has definitely been moved to a different building, so he has no idea how long he was out.

And because Serhiy has dealt with him before, he doesn’t slap Enjolras across the face or threaten him or do any of the basic interrogation techniques. He crouches down to be eye level with Enjolras, and says, “Someone told you to kill Viktor. Who was it, and why did they do it?”

“I assume they didn’t like something he did,” Enjolras says, not even trying to hide his distaste. He feels the ropes behind him – synthetic. Good rope, but poorly tied. He starts picking at the knot. “Or anything he did. Why are you defending him?”

“Tell me who wants Viktor dead,” Serhiy says.

“I imagine every honest resident of Kiev, along with their pets.”

Serhiy is starting to twitch. Grantaire could have rattled him in half the time, but Enjolras left him back at the hotel because he would be nothing but bored and annoying while Enjolras was trying to gather information – it’s a longstanding agreement and it’s satisfactory for both of them. It’s for the best for many reasons, the least of which is situations exactly like this one. Really, Enjolras would always leave Grantaire at the hotel if he could get away with it.

“You have a name, and I want it,” Serhiy says.

Enjolras doesn’t actually have a name. He has scared eyes and a shaky plea, and it’s a thousand times more important to protect than a name. “I’m never going to tell you, and you aren’t going to kill me, so stop wasting everyone’s time and just let me go,” Enjolras says simply.

“You’re not used to creative interrogation, are you,” Serhiy says, and one of the lackeys leaves the room, returning with a simple brown briefcase. Serhiy takes it from him, and moves until he’s behind Enjolras.

Enjolras stops picking at the knot and hopes Serhiy isn’t clever enough to realize it’s on the way to untied. He takes the opportunity to look at the lackeys, since there’s no real point in trying to see what Serhiy is doing. They’re bigger than he is, and Enjolras can make out the telltale bump of a gun in a shoulder holster on both of them. Only one gun each, it looks like, which is surprising. “Again, you’ll need to be more specific,” Enjolras says. There’s plenty of ways to take creative, and that’s not even touching interrogation.

Serhiy grabs his hands and pulls his arms out (not tied to anything else, then), and a needle jabs into his veins with dangerous efficiency. “Oh, you’re joking,” Enjolras says. “Truth serum? This is what, sodium pentothal?” Truth serum is only a good idea when someone’s lying, it’s unreliable at best when someone’s withholding information.

“Just a relaxant, so we don’t have to worry about you hurting yourself,” Serhiy says, which is an absolute lie. Enjolras frowns, though. It’s a strange choice of words. “All you have to do is give me the name of whoever hired you to kill Viktor.”

Enjolras just sighs and shakes his head. “I don’t see why this is so important to you,” he says. Serhiy isn’t a good person, but he is generally more moral than your average criminal. Much of what Enjolras does is choosing the lesser of two evils, and Serhiy has been the lowest on Ukraine’s list for a long time. He runs a tightly amoral but fair ship. This is the first time they’ve ever had a conflict of interest.

“I care about him, and I’m going to protect him,” Serhiy says. Enjolras nods, because that makes more sense than anything he’d been considering. It’s personal interest. “You understand that, from what I remember.”

Something inside of Enjolras is screaming a warning at him, so he keeps his mouth shut, even if he can’t tell quite what that warning is. He nods, though, because he does understand. Just about everything he ever does is done to protect people.

One of the lackeys is gone, he notices.

Whatever Serhiy gave him, it’s a suspiciously fast-acting chemical.

“All I want is to protect my friend,” Serhiy says, almost directly into his ear. Enjolras turns to see the man is looming over him, looking irritated. “And if you’ve come, there will be others. Help me save my friend and take the target off of his back.”

“You’re a good friend, Serhiy,” Enjolras comments. “It’s a shame Viktor isn’t worth it.”

Serhiy slaps him hard across the cheek, and it snaps Enjolras’ head to the side sharply. His neck hurts, his ears are ringing, his cheek will undoubtedly bruise, and he sighs – won’t explaining this to Grantaire be fun. Yes, a balding middle-aged man tied me to a chair and slapped me around. At least Serhiy is tall. Intimidating adjectives are all he’s going to have to defend himself. And also to defend Serhiy.

“Give me the name, and we’re done,” Serhiy says.

Enjolras has the rope binding him to the chair halfway undone and is starting to get bored. He turns to give the man a frown, and says, “Generally, the most reliable methods of interrogation discover information incrementally. Start with what’s your name and how was your day, small things that get the subject acclimatized to answering your questions.”

Serhiy nods. He grabs Enjolras by the chin and pushes against the new red mark on his cheekbone. “How’s your ‘friend’ these days?”

“I have a lot of friends,” Enjolras says. He’s still hearing a high whining, and really, the pain is helping him focus more than making him feel like giving information Enjolras doesn’t even actually have.

“Your scary drunk puppy, then,” Serhiy says. The only word that makes any sense is the drunk one – Grantaire is not scary. Or the slightest bit like a puppy. Enjolras is often reminded of a drugged crocodile that somehow imprinted on him. Or a very stubborn cat. But he’s always Grantaire, in the end, it’s hard to think of him as anything other than himself. He has a lot of self. “I met your shadow last time you were in Kiev.”

“Oh? What’d you think of him?” Enjolras asks.

“It didn’t make sense for the longest time, but then I met Viktor, and understood,” Serhiy says.

That warning feeling is back, but Enjolras is having trouble thinking ahead. Or behind. He’s still able to grab at information, but it’s fuzzy. “So you and Viktor, then,” Enjolras says. “More than just a friend. I didn’t know that, you’ve kept it very quiet.”

“You did, too,” Serhiy says.

Enjolras nods, and then frowns. “Wait. What?”

Enjolras knows he like-likes Grantaire. A lot of people do. He’s darkly charming when he feels like it, and smart and talented and his hands are very pretty. Ever since Enjolras met him he’s been strongly attracted but that doesn’t mean anything, and Grantaire has bad idea written all over himself in permanent marker. Figuratively. Enjolras would have noticed if he’s actually written that on himself. But the point is, they aren’t a thing like Serhiy seems to be implying.

Those same warning sirens are going off in Enjolras’ head, and he tries to pay attention to them. It’s difficult, and he only ends up tense and embracing potentially chemically-induced paranoia.

“So I thought to myself, what could make someone like you talk?” Serhiy says. “And then I realized sympathy might do it. Understanding could do it. You keep a painter in your back pocket while travelling around the world. If anyone would understand needing to protect someone they love, it’d be you.”

“I think you misinterpreted us,” Enjolras says.

Serhiy crouches in front of him. They’re eye level. It’s disconcerting to see so much emotion in Serhiy’s eyes. “Even now, you’re trying to protect him,” he says, very intensely. “That’s what I’m doing here, Enjolras. I’m asking you, for the sake of my-” Serhiy pauses, turns to look at his remaining lackey. “What’s his name?”

“Grantaire,” the lackey says. Warning whistles, warning sirens and signs everywhere. Enjolras is more focused on the way the lackey says his name. He mangles it, makes Grantaire’s name sound like it’s all angles and jagged edges.

“No it’s not,” Enjolras says, because he likes specifics, he likes when things are correct and precise, and that was not. “That’s not him.”

“I see. Would a picture clear the confusion up?” Serhiy says, and it clicks.

All the warning sirens in his head suddenly sound like Grantaire screaming.

He doesn’t know what his face is doing or what he looks like, but Serhiy grabs him by the shoulders and says, “This is what I feel, exactly this. We can both keep them safe if you just give me the name.”

“Have you hurt him?” Enjolras asks, and wonders why he isn’t screaming or panicking. He feels very cold. He feels cold, and burns to hurt something.

“He was injured during acquisition and transport,” Serhiy says, and there’s the promised picture. It’s blurry, mostly hair and bruises, a picture taken quickly of an angry man about a hair’s breadth from attacking. “Who knows what’s happened since? All that really matters is I can release him at a moment’s notice.”

“Or I can kill you and free him myself,” Enjolras says. It sounds like a really, really good idea, and it seems to throw Serhiy, like he didn’t expect it. Which is genuinely ridiculous. Enjolras is ready to burn Serhiy alive and watch him scream.

“I can also kill him at a moment’s notice,” Serhiy says coldly.

“You really didn’t think this through, did you,” Enjolras says. He turns to the lackey. “In my experience, people like you have reasons for getting into this line of work. Serhiy doesn’t own you, he doesn’t work like that. You’re an employee. He treats you like an employee, he pays you like an employee, and he thinks of you as nothing but an employee. You should leave right now and get a job somewhere else.”

Serhiy frowns. “Do you understand what I just said?”

Enjolras ignores him, because Serhiy is unimportant at the moment, Enjolras will get to him in just a moment. The world is screaming. “You should leave, because you know if this goes wrong – and it will – he is going to blame you,” he says. “And when he does, he’s going to go after your loved ones, just like he’s going after mine right now.”

“If you leave you’ll never work in this city again,” Serhiy snaps.

“But you and your family will be alive,” Enjolras says. “And the world outside of Kiev is a very big place.”

The lackey looks Enjolras in the eye for a long time, and Enjolras does his best to meet his gaze as firmly and honestly as possible. It’s hard, since the world is ringing and spinning just a little bit and his hands are itching with the need to wrap them around Serhiy’s throat, but he holds on. Enjolras perseveres, and Enjolras is burning.

The lackey nods, and walks out of the room. When he closes the front door, it’s to Enjolras’ left, and he can’t quite see it. Still good to know where it’s located.

Serhiy is gaping at the door. And then gaping at Enjolras.

“You should have gagged me,” Enjolras says. “And you shouldn’t have even fucking looked at Grantaire, you piece of shit.”

Serhiy stares at him. “Who do you think you are? You’re drugged, unarmed, tied to a chair, and have no idea where your lover-”

“Partner,” Enjolras corrects.

“-your whatever is,” Serhiy says. “Even if you miraculously manage to overpower me, you can’t hurt me, and I won’t do a thing to help you until you give me the name.”

“There is no name,” Enjolras says. “There’s the fucking vox populi, Kiev itself is screaming for him to die. I’m just their willing hand.” Serhiy is completely stunned, silent and staring, and Enjolras is completely disgusted. “Christ, who did you think I am?”

It’s the work of moments to finish untying the knot (his fingers are nowhere near as dexterous as Grantaire’s [if they have hurt his hands or his anything there will be consequences] but he watches [an inadvisable amount] and learns). Serhiy is still nearby, and Enjolras’ legs and hands aren’t quite working how he’d like, but it’ll do. For now, it will do. This is more Grantaire’s department, Enjolras is much more inclined to hands-off murder and usually doesn’t like to see the light go out of someone’s eyes but oh, not this time. Not this time at all.

The knot falls apart in his hands, and he unwraps it quickly while Serhiy talks. “Then I only have to get rid of you,” Serhiy says, like he’s talking to himself, but then looks into Enjolras’ eyes again. “Or we could run.”

“You can’t run,” Enjolras says. He has the rope coiled loosely around his left hand, the end ready to be grabbed in his right after he’s up. “You have nowhere to go. There is nowhere on this planet that I can’t touch.”

Serhiy bares his teeth, like a threatened animal trying to look dangerous. “His life is in my hands. You have nothing but words.”

“People always forget how dangerous those can be,” Enjolras says. He’s clumsy, halfway to numb in his toes, but passion and adrenaline can overpower that and he doesn’t have to be deft, he just has to be close, he can correct later. The first step is the only dangerous one, here.

Enjolras lunges forward, and his legs hold, thank fuck, his legs hold and he grips the other end of the rope and Serhiy is too surprised to get his hands up in time. Enjolras presses the rope to his throat, wraps it once around his neck, and knocks him to the floor with a swipe of his heel to the back of Serhiy’s knee. Then, his legs don’t hold, and Enjolras manages to make it look like he meant to fall right along with Serhiy, makes it look like it’s all part of his plan and he isn’t halfway to passing out from the burst of movement.

He falls and pins Serhiy to the floor, pressing his elbows against the man’s biceps and sitting on his chest to keep him from flailing too much. It’s a jarring impact, and Enjolras can barely hear over the pounding of his heart, but he has the rope around Serhiy’s straining neck and is looking into his terrified brown eyes and he can see the sweat beading on top of his bald head. Enjolras takes a moment to try and stop the world spinning quite so quickly. He tightens the rope, and says, “Where is he?”

Serhiy is crying, soundlessly. His eyes are watering, tears are starting to drip down the edges of his skull, but Serhiy doesn’t let it affect anything else. “Please. Let me just take care of him, let me get him out of Kiev, we’ll go somewhere quiet and-”

“Stop,” Enjolras says, and Serhiy obeys, and fuck, Enjolras isn’t going to last long. The spinning isn’t slowing down, the high whining is back in his ears, and his hands are shaking so he loops the rope around his right hand too, so that all he has to do is move his thumbs and hands instead of concentrating on making his numb fingers obey. “Where is he?”

“What makes your love more important than mine?” Serhiy shouts in his face. “What the fuck makes you think we’re any different?”

“The only difference is who has the rope,” Enjolras says, and tightens it until Serhiy is straining to breathe, thrashing beneath him. He gives it a few moments, but has to release it because his arms can’t manage to strangle Serhiy for too long. It’s a shame. He was really looking forward to that. “Tell me where he is, and I won’t kill you right now. I’ll walk out and then I’ll concentrate on him instead of you.” When Serhiy doesn’t leap at the opportunity, he adds, “That’s the best offer you’re going to get.”

Serhiy is wheezing, and scared. “The hotel,” he says.

Enjolras tightens the rope and says, “Say again?”

“The hotel,” Serhiy manages to choke out, and Enjolras releases him so he can actually hear better. “He’s still at the hotel you’re staying at-”

Enjolras doesn’t wait to hear more than that, because he can’t wait. Waiting would be the smart thing to do, some rational part of him knows. But the rest of him is aware that he’s fading dangerously fast. He has limited time, and Grantaire probably does too. Enjolras releases the rope, and punches Serhiy hard enough that he’s knocked unconscious. It’s clumsy, embarrassing, reminds him of his very first attempt at a fist fight (he’d lost and ended up beaten bloody with Combeferre looking down at him resigned and saying at least carry a weapon if you don’t know how to fight), but it works.

He has no idea where he is. Serhiy never carries a gun for the exact reason that someone could get it off him and use it, which is a tactic Enjolras has always had questions about. But he has to focus. Enjolras pats the man down until he finds his phone, and it has GPS and a map app and according to Google he’s at 19 Haisyns'ka street, Kiev, Kyiv city, Ukraine.

Enjolras is going to pass out.

He calls a taxi and manages to get to his feet with the help of the chair he’d been attached to – he thinks about trying to drag it outside with him, and then wonders why the fuck he would do that and then quickly stumbles his way to the nearest wall. He makes it to the door, and it’s openable. It can be opened. He opens the door and is very proud of himself until he realizes he’s proud of himself for opening a fucking door. Enjolras slides through, and doesn’t bother trying to close the door behind him.

It’s still day out, probably something around mid to late afternoon. It’s barely four hours since he left the hotel, and for a moment he’s so relieved he has to prop himself against the side of the house he was in. But you can do a lot of damage in four hours. Irreparable damage. There’s a fence and a gate that he has to get to so he can be waiting at the road, and he manages it by using the gate as a support and swinging himself along with the hinges – it’s chest level, he can manage. He manages. He leans sprawled on the fence and watches a cat investigate him, and then the taxi is there.

The driver pulls over next to him and he should be canonized because the man jumps out and helps Enjolras into the back. Enjolras doesn’t speak Ukranian but Russian can get him around so when the man keeps saying what has to be hospital, Enjolras shakes his head, and words don’t fail him. Words are his bitch, he can almost literally talk people to death, Enjolras can talk a taxi driver into taking him to a hotel instead of a hospital.

“My friend is in danger,” he says, over and over. Profanity is a crutch for the ineloquent. They’re driving now, and Enjolras only hopes he gave the right address. “Help, please.” Over and over he says it, until the man parks the cab in front of the hotel and pulls Enjolras out. He’s recruited. He lets Enjolras lean most of his weight on his shoulder and Enjolras didn’t tell him what exactly Grantaire is in danger of.

Enjolras has no weaponry and can’t even stay upright but he can’t even think, and at least he has a well-natured taxi driver? What the fuck is he doing, but he doesn’t even care, the man helps him up to the hotel room and the man’s Russian is terrible but he seems to think that Grantaire is going to be helping Enjolras instead of the other way around. Bad Russian expecting bad Russian in return. It’s a fucking mess. It’s a mess, and Enjolras doesn’t have a key to their room and he can hear someone inside, fuck, he is so close.

The driver knocks on the door. Hard. And then he starts trying to explain the situation through the door in awkward Russian, and they’re going to get shot.

But the door opens, and instead of getting shot he sees a blur of dark and light and hears Grantaire say, “Oh Jesus, Enjolras.” And it’s Grantaire. Grantaire immediately grabs him out of the driver’s hands and starts demanding things and of course the driver doesn’t understand. Enjolras will translate. Enjolras will translate the moment he stops staring at Grantaire’s beautifully bruiseless unmarred glorious not at all hurt face.

It was all a lie and Grantaire is holding him close and smells like cigarettes but not alcohol and Enjolras grabs him in a tight clinging hug and buries his head against his perfect neck.

“Thank you, taxi man, I will make the world love you as I love you, I love you so much,” Enjolras says to the driver. He thinks. It’s in Russian, he’s pretty sure, no matter how slurred it comes out pressed into Grantaire’s collarbone and the driver leaves – did Enjolras pay him? Did Grantaire pay him? He deserves all the money in the world.

“Fuck, what – are you okay? No, you’re obviously not okay,” Grantaire says, patting him down like Enjolras has a vial of whatever they gave him conveniently placed in a pocket. He is incredibly stupid for someone so intelligent and pretty and not hurt and completely safe.

“You’re okay,” he breathes out, and is possibly nuzzling Grantaire’s neck. That is actually what he is doing. He wants to curl around Grantaire and keep him safe and happy for the rest of his life and never let anyone else touch him ever again.

“I’m not the issue here, Enjolras,” Grantaire snaps, because he’s worried, and Grantaire maneuvers them over to the bed (guilty, guilty, he has been intentionally going for sharing a bed recently and isn’t sure why, these days he just wants to be close all the time instead of some of the time) and tries to set him down. But Enjolras is not letting go, not ever, so Grantaire ends up on the bed with him. “Fuck, I should take you to the hospital-”

“No,” Enjolras says, and makes himself move so he can see Grantaire’s not-hurt face again. He tries to touch to feel and make sure there’s not some sort of movie magic makeup, but he ends up just pawing at Grantaire’s face. Grantaire lets him. And Grantaire looks scared, and that is very wrong so he grabs Grantaire by the chin and makes him look into Enjolras’ eyes, not the quickly-forming bruise on his cheekbone. “I’m keeping you safe forever, I won’t let anyone ever hurt you, ever.”

“That’s nice,” Grantaire says, and manages to get out of Enjolras’ hold because Enjolras’ hands are horrible and his arms are following suit. His legs already failed him while he was in the taxi.

“Maybe it really was a relaxant,” Enjolras says, but frowns and shakes his head because that would make no sense, he needs to do some toxicology research or at least look at what the most common compounds are on the market these days.

Grantaire stops patting him down, though, and puts a careful, lovely, breathtakingly beautiful hand (green shades streaked across his fingers, probably a landscape, maybe pastoral [he learned terms for Grantaire], he was in a good mood and Enjolras has ruined it) on either side of Enjolras’ face so he can’t look anywhere else. Which he wouldn’t have done anyway. He really likes looking at Grantaire. “What’d they give you?” he asks intently.

“You’re really pretty,” Enjolras says. “Fuck, your skin is amazing.”

Grantaire frowns. “What?”

“I would have burned him alive for you,” Enjolras says.

“I need you to concentrate, not burn people alive,” Grantaire says very firmly. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “Don’t worry, I’ll get Serhiy later,” he says, and tries to pat Grantaire on the shoulder reassuringly. But then he doesn’t want to let go. He smiles at Grantaire because he’s okay, he’s not hurt, there won’t be more nightmares.

“Do you know what Serhiy gave you?” Grantaire says again.

“No, don’t you dare,” Enjolras says, because he knows that tone. That’s the tone of Grantaire having an idea, a vengeful idea, and he manages to move his hand from Grantaire’s shoulder to the back of his head and oh, his hair. It feels so nice to have his fingers in Grantaire’s hair. Enjolras hums to himself and starts toying with the curls, running fingers along Grantaire’s scalp.

“Okay, I’m going to get you some water,” Grantaire says abruptly, a little bit shaky, and Enjolras will fix whatever is making him sound like this. “Don’t move.”

“Don’t leave,” Enjolras says. He’s too weak and disoriented to do anything to actually stop Grantaire, but he has words. Mostly. He isn’t coordinated like he usually is. “I’ll get it.”

Grantaire ignores him, he ignores him, Grantaire never ignores Enjolras, Grantaire ignores him and moves away and shit, shit, he’s going away, he’s headed towards the bathroom and Enjolras lunges forward, tries to catch his arm or leg or shirt or something, “No, no no no, they could be waiting for you, don’t leave.”

“It’s just the bathroom, I’m getting you water and I’ll be right back,” Grantaire says soothingly but he doesn’t understand. Enjolras tries to stand up and follow him because Grantaire is a stubborn idiot and he never listens, and he makes it to the edge of the bed and falls, but Grantaire is holding him again, saying, “Fuck, Enjolras, come on, it’s okay, I swear it’s okay.”

“But it’s not okay, it’s not safe,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire has him back on the bed. Enjolras grabs a weak fist full of shirt and it keeps Grantaire in place, just for now, leaning over Enjolras with worried eyes. “I need to keep you safe.” Grantaire is uncertain, so he adds, “I don’t need water, I need you.”

“Enjolras, I need you to be quiet for me. The more you talk like that, the more scared I am,” Grantaire says after a long moment of staring at Enjolras. He thought Grantaire was going to agree, that he’d just slip onto the bed and let Enjolras take care of him, but apparently not. “Can you do that?”

“Don’t leave me,” Enjolras says.

“I’m not going to leave you,” Grantaire says, and moves away – way too far away to play with his hair. He’s pulling his phone out, and drags one of the small wooden chairs to rest next to the bed. “I’m going to sit right here. I’m going to call Combeferre. I am armed and anyone who walks through the door will die. If you go to sleep, I’m going to still be doing all of those things, they’ll all still be true. Understand?”

“This isn’t what I want,” Enjolras says.

“It’s what you’re getting, because it’s the only sane way we can survive this,” Grantaire says, and has the phone up like he’s calling someone. Combeferre. He’s very clever, he’ll be able to keep Grantaire safe. He and Courfeyrac already know to do that if Enjolras dies. “I’m going to have you talk to Combeferre.”

“Good, I like him,” Enjolras comments.

“I know you do,” Grantaire says, and then says, “Oh thank god, help, help help help someone drugged Enjolras – I think he said Serhiy, he isn’t at all coherent and he’s got a bruise on his cheekbone I can’t tell – what? Yes. He doesn’t know what it was, he said something about a relaxant but he’s also talking about burning people alive and complimenting my skin, he’s forty thousand feet in the air.”

“No I’m not,” Enjolras says. He really hopes he isn’t, at least. “Oh god, am I?”

“You aren’t, don’t worry,” Grantaire says soothingly, and he wouldn’t lie about this, so Enjolras relaxes. “Alright, hyperbole at a minimum.” A pause, and then Grantaire presses fingers to Enjolras’ wrists – taking his pulse. Enjolras tries to stay still for him. “Fast, but not overly. He’s halfway to panicking at any given moment, I’ll – okay. Here.”

Grantaire puts the phone against Enjolras’ ear. “Combeferre?” Enjolras asks.

“Enjolras, can you answer some questions?” Combeferre asks. “It has to be a three word answer.”

“I can try,” Enjolras says honestly. “But you – it’s Grantaire, you have to make sure he’s okay if I die-”

“What?” Grantaire shouts, but Combeferre says, “You know I will. Are you ready to answer questions? Three words, remember.”

“Yes I am,” Enjolras says, and tries to rub at his eyes. It doesn’t work very well, but he manages something close to what he was aiming for.

“Is anyone coming to hurt you?”

“I don’t know,” Enjolras says, and he grabs at Grantaire’s arm. “If they do-”

“Simple answers, Enjolras, you can do it,” Combeferre says. “Concentrate on keeping them to three words.”

“I’m getting tired,” Enjolras says.

“You can sleep soon, you’re doing an excellent job. In what way did they drug you? What was the method of delivery?”

The three word thing is difficult, it makes him fight to find the right words. “Injection, maybe more,” Enjolras says.

“More?” Combeferre asks sharply.

Three words is very, very hard for this one, but Combeferre gives him time, because he is a wonderful friend – Enjolras won’t go down without a fight. And he is fighting. “Two hours unconscious,” he finally says.

“Okay, I understand,” Combeferre says, and Enjolras lets out a sigh of relief. He’s staring at Grantaire, and wants to touch his hair again, but doesn’t. Grantaire looks very interested in Enjolras’ success at answering the questions. “Grantaire said you mentioned Serhiy. Did he drug you?”

“Did it personally,” Enjolras says, and it’s not in the rules but he wants Grantaire to know so he smiles and adds, “Strangled him on the floor with the rope he tied me with.”

“Is Serhiy dead?” Combeferre asks carefully.

Enjolras shakes his head, regret souring his words. “Wasn’t strong enough.”

“I see,” Combeferre says. “Will you give the phone back to Grantaire for a moment?”

“Yes I will,” Enjolras says, and he tries, but ends up just batting at the phone until Grantaire gets the idea. Grantaire doesn’t say anything, only listens to whatever Combeferre is saying. His expression turns hard, into battle mode, and Enjolras has never quite figured out how he feels about that face. When they’re on a job, it makes him feel safe. When they’re arguing, it makes him feel guilty. When they’re doing nothing in particular, it makes him want to do things like give Grantaire tea and overpriced paint even if he never uses it, always thanks Enjolras with a strange expression and keeps using his battered old kit even when he’s netted over a million dollars, he’s really amazing and doesn’t know it and it makes Enjolras want to throw things.

He doesn’t notice Grantaire put the phone back against his ear until Combeferre shouts his name. “I’m here. It’s distracting, he’s just very him,” Enjolras says.

“I actually understand what you just said,” Combeferre says, and sounds very resigned. “Okay, questions. You’re on round two, you can only use adjectives this time, still need to use three words. How do your hands feel?”

“Distant,” Enjolras says, and wiggles his fingers. “Heavy. Engorged.”

“Engorged is more commonly used as a verb,” Grantaire says.

“Combeferre’s not objecting,” Enjolras says.

“Combeferre likes you too much,” Grantaire says.

“I like you too much,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire laughs. “You are so lucky I’m scared shitless.”

“Attention back this way, if you’d be so kind,” Combeferre says. “Final round, yes or no answers only. Does anyone know where you are right now, other than Grantaire and the driver?”

“That’s not fair,” Enjolras objects. “There’s no binary answer for that, that’s like do you know unknown things, semantically-”

“Alright, fine, calm down,” Combeferre says. “I can’t stand you when you’re drunk. Okay. Using your best judgment, do you think anyone might be coming after you in the next twenty four hours?”

“I’m too tired,” Enjolras says.

“We should have put him on speaker phone,” Grantaire says.

“You’re so smart,” Enjolras says.

“What?” Combeferre asks.

“Do the button,” Enjolras says, trying to give him the phone. “Do the button, make it speaker-”

“I’ve got it, Jesus, you’re going to give yourself a matching set of bruises at this rate,” Grantaire says, and the phone’s on speaker now. “What are we trying to get out of him?”

“If anyone’s hunting you down. If you need to get out of Kiev as soon as possible, or you can stay there until Enjolras is recovered,” Combeferre says.

Grantaire nods, and puts his hands on Enjolras’ face to keep them looking at each other. “You said I’m safe, that you’re keeping me safe,” Grantaire says.

“I’m protecting you,” Enjolras says. Three words.

“You’re very drugged. You know this,” Grantaire says. “Being very drugged would make protecting me difficult. I am safe because you are protecting me from threats, but right now you can’t protect me from threats. If you can’t protect me, but I am safe, how are you doing that?”

Enjolras frowns. “There’s…no threat?”

“Is that a true statement?” Grantaire asks.

“It must be,” Enjolras says, and tries to think about it. Serhiy is too busy with his boyfriend to worry about them. He lets out a deep breath, and grabs Grantaire’s hand and holds it in his own hands and feels lightheaded. “Presently, we’re safe.”

“How can you be sure?” Combeferre asks.

Enjolras closes his eyes. “Serhiy’s in love.”

“And that makes you safe?” Combeferre asks, obviously confused.

“It makes sense to him, he definitely means it,” Grantaire says. “Just a little longer. Come on, Enjolras, one more answer and you can sleep. Why does Serhiy being in love make us safe?”

“He protects too,” Enjolras says (he slurs it, how mortifying), and falls asleep.

---

Enjolras wakes up groggy, but fine. They stay in Kiev for another night, but Serhiy and his monster of a boyfriend are long gone. Enjolras will hunt them down later, when he isn’t.

Well.

Enjolras is panicking.

But at least Enjolras panics very quietly.

Enjolras panics quietly and constantly and watches Grantaire fall asleep on his shoulder on the train back to Paris and is screaming inside his head, screaming and throwing things and clutching at his head and is absolutely terrified because oh fuck he is in love what does he do now.

He manages to behave normally, which really only makes him realize how much of a fool he’s been to not actually acknowledge it until now. He had been touching Grantaire unnecessarily, forcing them into a shared bed even if there was little to no touching while they slept, greedy for his time, even more protective than before. The Tripoli nightmares have been more and more frequent, and now there’s Kiev nightmares.

He can tell that as far as Grantaire is concerned, Kiev is nothing but a bizarre blip in their already strange lives. But for Enjolras it’s a massive five minute shriek of static and fuck, what does he do? What do you do in a situation like this? It’s still a bad idea. Grantaire is a horrible idea. There are questionable decisions, and bad decisions, and then there’s Grantaire. That way lies insanity and turning into an obsessive libido-driven devotee and having skewed priorities that he can’t afford at all.

Probably.

He is so fucked.

They get home fine, and everything’s fine, fine and standard and he gets good-natured ribbing for being drugged, but all the stories Combeferre and Grantaire share are ridiculous ones that he’s pretty sure did happen and mostly involve him falling down and trying to grab things but slapping himself in the face instead. And possibly declaring his love to a taxi driver. Apparently that wasn’t in Russian. And his friends all have this knowing look and Enjolras shrinks into his chair but nobody calls him on it. They are wonderful friends.

He buys Grantaire one of his favorite paintings and then realizes he has no fucking clue what to do with it. He just ends up staring at it when the auction’s over and he’s shaking hands with people who drool over Grantaire’s art, Courfeyrac standing next to him and patting him on the shoulder. “Damn. You’re a very good husband, for someone whose spouse doesn’t know he’s married.”

“It could be a birthday present,” Enjolras reasons. Except he’d been thinking he could somehow make Grantaire so happy with it that the whole I’m in love with you and we’re actually married thing could just. Slide under the painting. Like taping an envelope to an elephant and tossing it at Grantaire.

Mostly he’d looked at the listing for R’s big auction (Enjolras is legally permitted to sign for Grantaire and handle his money and he likes watching people scream at each other over Grantaire’s art while thinking mine because Enjolras is a horrible person, he knows he is but he fucking loves doing it) and seen the name and thought why do I know that name? and remembered one of Grantaire’s more artistic drunken soliloquies and found his hand up for bidding before he even registered what he’d been doing. And then he kept bidding. And bidding.

He stuffs it in a drawer and keeps opening the drawer and then closing the drawer, wondering if now is the time to say something, and then it’s not. And they go on a job. And come home. And he opens and closes the drawer while Grantaire is asleep on the couch downstairs and thinks now? and hears Grantaire call his name and Enjolras shuts the drawer so fast it squeals.

Enjolras can’t do it. He wants to and he shouldn’t and even if he did decide to (he decides to every other day in Paris and once a week everywhere else), he looks at Grantaire and Grantaire will smile or look expectant or call him on his bullshit and Enjolras crumbles. Resolve fails him for the first time in his entire life.

And what Grantaire feels is…hell, he doesn’t even want to guess at that, he knows Grantaire’s attracted to him and more than a little obsessed, and how does that combine? What does that make them? What the fuck is Enjolras even supposed to do?

It’s a bad situation. It’s a horrible situation, and Enjolras hates it, and does his best to ignore it at any and all possible opportunity.

So, he settles for hunting down Serhiy and his Viktor.

They’re a pet project, really.

Enjolras has nightmares about Kiev and that picture and the horrible things that could have happened if Serhiy was more bite than bark. Not the slightest bit sedated and making his way back to the hotel to find Grantaire dead (one he already has from Tripoli, but especially vivid now since he’s tortured first), or sedated and walks in to see Grantaire at gunpoint and look into his eyes for just one second before they shoot him in the head, or in the neck, or an artery and Enjolras has to watch him bleed to death, or Enjolras walks in and has time to see Grantaire bruised and broken on the floor before Enjolras gets shot and has to watch himself die in Grantaire’s eyes and hears him screaming – the screaming is a constant. It’s often Grantaire’s, and almost always Enjolras’, and he doesn’t like it, so he hunts Serhiy and Viktor all the way to Uruguay.

Enjolras doesn’t like flying. At all. He doesn’t like boats very much either, but flying is the one thing he avoids at all costs. The other members of ABC take care of most things on bodies of land not connected to Europe – and really, that’s only the Americas, Australia, and islands.

(Enjolras will admit to neglecting justice and equality in most continents simply because he doesn’t have time. He barely has time to oversee Europe. It’s only major crimes and horrors that he can punish in other parts of the world, and it completely disgusts him that he has to prioritize justice, but it’s the only way to be even the slightest bit effective. There are other ABC-related branches much more active in other continents, and he’s endlessly grateful for it, but it’s still not right.)

There are plenty of other things to do in South America, job-wise, and they’ve gone before, so it’s only Combeferre who gives him a knowing, not-quite-disapproving look before they fly out. They spend the month doing good work and driving everywhere, and Grantaire shows off because he knows the languages and Enjolras doesn’t, and it’s almost like a vacation. A working vacation. Where they go to the beach a lot and Enjolras thinks that this is really not what he should be doing (there is a lot of South America and not all of it is beach, in fact most of it is not beach) but damn is Grantaire – well.

Anyway.

Serhiy and Viktor are in the town of Treinta y Tres, which Enjolras learns means Thirty-three. He doesn’t tell Grantaire why they’re going to Treinta y Tres, only that there’s information he needs to gather. The information is mostly what Serhiy looks like screaming and what Viktor Hordiyenko looks like when the light is fading from his eyes. He leaves Grantaire at their small bed and breakfast with a new seven year old friend who is getting a fifteen thousand dollar face painting for free and walks to Serhiy’s house. It’s a small house. It’s very appropriate.

Enjolras came prepared, and in his multipocketed red coat. He would have come wearing no coat at all, but he needs the storage. The first tool of the day is a taser. People don’t usually understand the varying degrees of intensity with a taser, but this one is capable of dropping a horse in one jolt. He’s very careful when a cheerful Serhiy opens the door, makes sure he drops but doesn’t die. Not yet.

Viktor is also home, and it’s the first time Enjolras has seen him in person. He’s late thirties, not the best looking man, but Enjolras knows he is somewhat jaded because all of his friends are undeniably above average. To each their own, he assumes Serhiy sees something he likes. Enjolras doesn’t look for very long. He brought a tranquilizer gun as well, and it’s almost silent when he shoots the man. Viktor doesn’t even shout. He just slumps to the floor looking stunned and scared.

It’s quick work to tie Serhiy to a chair in one bedroom room (appearances) and tie Viktor to a chair in the other. He goes through the house and find anything and everything that could be used as a weapon, and tosses it all into their metal clothing hamper. Enjolras takes his coat off and waits to see which of them wakes up first. It’s Serhiy. He was hoping it’d be Serhiy. The man immediately starts screaming for Viktor, and then after getting no reply he hesitantly calls out, “Enjolras?”

He figures that’s as good of a cue as any, and walks in. Enjolras is pretty sure this is the spare bedroom, since the bed is smaller and the décor much less sentimental.

“We’re living quietly,” Serhiy says after a moment. “We’re not hurting anyone.”

“Here’s what is going to happen,” Enjolras says. “I have Viktor in the other room, and I have one bullet in this gun, and one of you is going to die.”

Serhiy is very pale. “Only one of us?”

“From our conversation last time, I assume I know your preferred target,” Enjolras says.

Serhiy glares at him. “Just shoot me, I’m the one who involved your lover-”

“Partner,” Enjolras snaps, because the word hurts now.

“-fine, your partner, that was all me, Viktor had nothing to do with it. It’s me you hate, not him,” Serhiy says. He’s already getting frantic, which is reasonable. Enjolras had already been planning to burn Serhiy alive at this point.

Enjolras nods. “That’s why I’m planning to kill Viktor and not you.”

“No,” Serhiy says, and tries to jerk out of the chair. Enjolras ties much better knots than Serhiy. “No, don’t, please-”

“The question here is who will die, and you two are the ones who get to choose,” Enjolras says.

“You’re insane,” Serhiy says.

Enjolras just shrugs. He might be. “Of course, you’re forgetting the empathy. Would Viktor want to live without you? What you feel, he feels too.” Supposedly. Enjolras has a feeling it’s not as reciprocal as Serhiy thinks, but Enjolras also doesn’t care enough to do more research into it. “Killing him might be a kindness.” Enjolras frowns. “Or, there’s always the chance I’ll do the exact opposite of what you tell me. If you answer before he wakes up, yours is the only voice that matters.”

But Viktor wakes up right then, groggy and screaming for help before he starts screaming for Serhiy, and Serhiy is shouting back.

“Feel free to come to a joint decision,” Enjolras says, and waits, standing between the two rooms. The shouting’s in Ukranian, and Enjolras is surprised to hear the passion in Viktor’s voice.

They stop eventually, stop shouting and start crying, and Enjolras just waits, until (to his surprise) it’s Viktor who breaks and shouts out, “Me, it’s me, shoot me, please!”

Serhiy is pleading, and denying the decision, but Enjolras was going to do this anyway. The only difference is that Serhiy will remember Viktor in the brightest light possible, as the best of himself. It’s the only remotely happy ending this could have, which is something Enjolras is very proud of.

Viktor is shaking, but his eyes are steady and looking straight into Enjolras’ when he walks into the room. “He lives if I die?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Enjolras says. “He breathes and moves and thinks, but the rest is up to him.”

Viktor nods, unsurprised. The man completely understands what’s going on. “He should never have involved your heart,” he says. Enjolras isn’t sure if Viktor chose the wrong word, or the right one. Either way, he takes a deep breath and says, “Kill me.”

“You made your peace with him?” Enjolras asks.

Viktor actually smiles. “I’ve done terrible things in my life, things that will send me to hell the moment I’m dead. And I deserve to die,” he says. “But I got to live with Serhiy. I got to love Serhiy. Having the chance to die for him is a gift.”

Something cold creeps up Enjolras’ spine. “You’re worth more than you think,” he says, even though he knows Viktor isn’t. This was the plan even before Kiev. Viktor Hordiyenko was always, always going to die. “You could survive without him. Serhiy isn’t all there is in the world.”

“He’s the best part of it, though, and one I don’t want to live without,” Viktor says. “If you kill him, I’ll be dead within a week anyway. Serhiy is stronger than I am.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Enjolras says quietly.

Viktor looks at him for a long time, before saying, “I’m not him.”

“I know you aren’t,” Enjolras says.

“And he will never be me,” Viktor says, and fuck, fuck, Enjolras has to shoot him right now, he doesn’t even really aim he just has to get Grantaire’s mouth shut and no more words, he puts his gun inches away from the man’s forehead and fires one single bullet and Viktor Hordiyenko is dead with a single soul-piercing bang and the impact rocks the chair back and down to the floor and Serhiy is screaming like he’s had his heart ripped out and there’s no satisfaction in it, not a shred of pleasure.

Enjolras stares, and listens to Serhiy sob in the other room, and he barely even knows what he’s doing beyond he’s rifling through their now weapons-filled hamper and pulling out a revolver (it was silver and gaudy and heavy and ridiculous and Grantaire saying Come on, Apollo – he repeats that one, all the way through, Come on, Apollo, get the job done and let’s go and he will, he will). He puts a single bullet in the revolver. He walks into the room where Serhiy is weeping, and pulls out a knife (one of Grantaire’s – he doesn’t admit it but he sometimes takes one for luck, not just because they’re good knives), and undoes the ropes.

Serhiy is already dead inside.

Enjolras pulls the revolver’s cylinder out, spins it, and snaps it back into place before he puts it in Serhiy’s hand. It takes the man a moment to realize it’s there. “One bullet,” Enjolras says.

Enjolras doesn’t know what he’d do in this situation. One bullet, six chances to potentially kill someone, two people you want dead. Serhiy just looks at the gun for a long time, and then finally shifts and grips it like he’ll use it.

He looks straight in Enjolras’ eyes, and Enjolras does him the honor of not flinching or looking away. He just looks right back into Serhiy’s dead eyes as Serhiy presses the barrel to his own temple. He pulls the trigger. It clicks, chamber empty, and Serhiy’s expression doesn’t even change.

“I pity the man who fell in love with you,” Serhiy says, pulls the trigger again, and it’s the loaded chamber.

Enjolras does flinch, now, has to step back and curse as blood flies and Serhiy’s body flops to the floor and Enjolras can’t stay in the same room, can’t stay in the house. He grabs his coat and his things – he leaves the rope, because fuck rope – and walks back to their bed and breakfast. And then his walk turns into a jog. And then a run. He’s sprinting by the time he gets through the front door, and Grantaire has badly-painted cat whiskers and a seven year old with horses galloping across her cheeks clinging to his shoulders, and Enjolras slumps into the nearest chair, breathing hard.

Grantaire is there in a flash, kneeling in front of him and putting a hand on his neck (pulse) and Enjolras doesn’t think, he lunges forward and drags Grantaire into a tight hug. Grantaire starts trying to ask what’s wrong, but Enjolras can’t stop shaking and trying to hold Grantaire tighter and tighter, and Grantaire is hugging him back. “It’s okay, you’re fine, you’re safe,” Grantaire says, and that’s nowhere near the problem but he just wants Grantaire to keep murmuring nonsense into his hair.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, but he knows Grantaire eventually ends up in his lap and Enjolras just keeps clinging until Grantaire finally says, “Let’s get you into bed.”

Enjolras lets himself be led along without comment, tucked in like he’s younger than the worried child downstairs, and after a moment of indecision Grantaire climbs in with him. Enjolras curls around him and holds him tightly and shakes even more when he realizes he doesn’t regret a single thing he’s done today other than interrupting Grantaire’s fun with the kid.

He needs to change the world. He needs to make sure nothing like this will ever have to happen again, needs to do something cold and loud and vicious and impersonal, needs results instead of bitter horror. He needs to keep Grantaire safe.

He adds nightmares from the town of Thirty-three to his collection.

“Let’s go home,” Enjolras says quietly, and starts to think of bombs.