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It’s really fucking cold. Christ, they weren’t dressed for this weather, but underground revolutionaries on the run can’t be choosers, Grantaire supposes. Enjolras strides into the bathroom before Grantaire can even lock the door behind him. There are a dozen wind chimes out on the porch, stirred up into a cacophony. Grantaire hopes, maybe, that the storm will help cover their tracks.
Instead of thinking about blood and that awful moment when Grantaire thought they were going to die, he busies himself seeing to practical matters: gas on, wait for the heat to start trickling into the creaking wood; dig out the old radio, try to find a frequency, wince at the too-loud static; check the fridge—completely empty except for some tendriled, overgrown potatoes, chuck them or salvage them? They could go out for food tomorrow, probably. What time is it? Does Enjolras eat potatoes? Questions, questions. Grantaire leaves the potatoes in the fridge. He goes to air out the beddings, but there’s nothing to be done for the musty smell, and eventually the sound of his footsteps thumping back and forth in the cabin start to make him feel skittish.
He sighs, runs a hand through his hair. Swallows. Heads to the bathroom.
A perfunctory knock and a soft “Enjolras?” get him no answer. Even through the bathroom door, Grantaire can feel Enjolras’s aura spiking all over the place.
It would be dangerously stupid to go in there. Grantaire has never helped Enjolras down from a Sentinel State, doesn’t even know if Enjolras would let him. Doesn't know if Enjolras will recognize him and not—harm him.
The spray of the shower continues. The ebb and flow of Enjolras’s aura is erratic enough to make the hair on Grantaire’s arms stand on end.
‘Just a peek,’ he tells himself, just enough to make sure Enjolras hasn’t drowned himself in there, but the door falls wide open once Grantaire turns the knob.
Huddled in a corner, against the tiles, Enjolras sits with his arms around his knees, fully-clothed and completely soaked. He doesn’t even look up, but all of him seems to be vibrating. Drops of water trail through his hair and the tips of his fingers, hanging in tremulous beads before falling. Of all the things to notice. Grantaire stands at the doorway, transfixed.
Then, true to his frequently-terrible judgment, Grantaire finds himself walking over, biting back a yelp as cold water soaks into his clothes. He sits down gingerly, careful not to touch, but it doesn’t matter, because he soon finds himself with Enjolras draped across him, in attempt to crawl into his lap.
‘Guide, meet Sentinel,’ Grantaire thinks, only slightly hysterical. At the Academy they would lock a Guide and a hyped-up Sentinel in a room together, but Grantaire hasn’t had to touch a Sentinel since Fantine found him.
This, though—this is Enjolras, so Grantaire pushes down everything else and makes himself focus on helping. Focus! He can almost hear his old instructor barking it at him. Evaluate the Sentinel. Engage with their frequency. Equalize. The three Es, handy. Jondrette would have been proud.
Grantaire’s stomach turns, but he does what his training taught him.
Evaluate: Enjolras is vibrating against him, breathing shallow, pupils blown. Still, even after the horrible fucked up mess they just went through, there’s not a scratch on him.
On the outside, at least., Grantaire thinks, and banishes the thought for later.
Next is—engage with their frequency. Grantaire swallows. Tethering: the formation of a temporary bond between a Guide and a Sentinel. Grantaire could tether with a Sentinel in his sleep but with Enjolras so unstable—unstable and unable to consent—it’s a bad idea. In fact, it’s a horrendously, spectacularly awful idea, but weighed against whatever permanent damage this heightened state could do to Enjolras, Grantaire’s willing to risk his disappointment and wrath. It would be the normal state of things, anyway.
Grantaire pushes a hand through the wet mess of Enjolras’s hair and places his palm against the side of Enjolras’s neck.
(the smell of gunpowder, Grantaire stumbling past a dozen Sentinels to stand at Enjolras’ side)
“Come on, Sentinel,” he murmurs, and then it feels like his insides are being scooped out. Everything blurs into sensation and emotion. Miles away, in Paris, some Sentinel soldier is bleeding out because Enjolras put a bullet through him. Parting ways with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, driving out into the rain, grief mingling with relief. Failure, in exchange for the lives of his friends.
Retreating to fight another day, Grantaire urges.
Les Amis is scattered to the wind today, but it is enough to know they are alive. This is one place where they meet with no hesitation: their love for their friends. Grantaire latches on to them in the maelstrom of Enjolras's emotions and memories.
The waves outside are eating at the beach, sand falling away under the rising tide; the storm is angry; Grantaire and Enjolras jolt a second before the thunder actually crashes. It’s unlike any other tethering Grantaire has ever felt before.
(a thrum of energy, Enjolras’ eyes widening as if seeing Grantaire for the first time, take my hand, take my—)
“Fucking. Shit. Enjolras, Jesus, hey.” Even worse, somehow, than the sensory overload: Enjolras has tucked all of his six feet and two inches into Grantaire’s chest, a solid line of warmth despite the cold water. Things are starting to get really hazy. And guilt—so much guilt—and blood—and he’s shivering, trails of it, down his spine—and cold—the barest sensation of things slotting into place, a hand slipping into his—
“Fuck,” Grantaire gasps, trying to snap out of it. He shouldn’t be falling in so deep when he’s supposed to be the anchor in this situation. Enjolras’s eyes are closed but he's still shaking.
Grantaire pulls away and Enjolras shakes his head, gasps like he’s drowning. Grantaire’s mouth hangs open for so long that he chokes on water.
“Shh, hey, it’s fine,” Grantaire gasps out, quickly reaching over to flip the shower from cold to hot, something he should have done earlier, if he’d been thinking rationally.
Rationality had flown out the window when Grantaire had taken those impossible steps and asked to die beside Enjolras. Now, with Enjolras clinging to him, wet and panicking, rationality has taken a swan-dive down a particularly scenic waterfall.
“I’ve got you,” Grantaire murmurs, over and over. He never really learned to be soothing; the Academy taught their Guides to be forceful, to pull a Sentinel down by the neck and make them go under, but the thought of doing so to Enjolras is abhorrent.
Instead, Grantaire equalizes as slowly and as gently as he can, taking all of Enjolras’s emotions and feeding back his own, a slow cycle of give-and-take. They spend hours in the bathroom, hard tiles at their back, being pelted by lukewarm water. Grantaire has barely enough consciousness to notice anything else aside from Enjolras, the sea of both of their auras, and the gross squelching sensation of his wet socks.
At some point, Enjolras’s aura evens out and he drops out of the Sentinel State, but by that time, it’s Grantaire who’s gone cold. They shuffle out of the bathroom and peel off their wet clothes in silence. Grantaire registers dazedly that Enjolras has regained enough presence of mind to rummage through the closets for old t-shirts and pajama bottoms.
Grantaire vaguely remembers Enjolras bundling him up in musty blankets. Body warmth is supposed to help, Grantaire thinks he says.
I know, Grantaire thinks Enjolras says, and doesn’t mention it when the thunder makes Grantaire flinch. In the darkness, Enjolras is a beacon.
Sleep, Grantaire, Enjolras says, maybe, probably.
“You’re gonna really hate me tomorrow,” Grantaire mumbles, into Enjolras’s shoulder. A wave of confusion passes over him. Then he passes out.
—
Enjolras isn’t in bed when Grantaire wakes up, but the effects of the tethering are apparent the moment Grantaire sets his feet on the floor and feels too tall, too large for his skin.
An incessant scratching sound from somewhere outside the room prompts Grantaire to roll out of bed, quietly as he can. He wobbles, and knows with absolute certainty that Enjolras, too, has risen, and is trying to find his footing.
He finds Enjolras, hair messy from sleep, standing in the small living room and staring at the door. The scratching is louder from there.
The moment Enjolras turns to him, Grantaire meets his eyes, and a shiver zips down his spine. It’s still dark out, and the storm is still upon them.
Enjolras is a Sentinel but he’s just been brought down. Grantaire doesn’t know if he can pick his aura up again but he suspects—
“I can’t,” Enjolras says, voice hoarse.
The scratching drives up in intensity and they both flinch—and then, a tiny, plaintive meow breaks through the bubble of tension.
Grantaire sees Enjolras’s mouth twitch into a helpless smile, and finds himself echoing the gesture. Enjolras walks up to the door and a wet ball of fur comes streaking in from the storm.
It takes them another half an hour to coax the kitten from under the stove, and all of it feels surreal.
Bare feet on the cold, wooden floor; the heavy steel of the stove. The constant rumble of thunder outside and the steadiness of the rain make the moment feel suspended in time. They wrap the little thing in some spare bedding, not a single word spoken between them, and then stare at each other when that’s done.
“Were you sleeping on the couch,” Grantaire blurts out.
“There wasn’t another bed,” Enjolras says, looking down, nudging his toes into the kitten’s side.
Grantaire feels that, like a ripple of warmth and security through his skin. He crosses his arms to stop himself from shaking.
“Yeah, no, sorry this safe house wasn’t meant for sleepovers with friends,” Grantaire says.
Enjolras blinks at him, then says, slowly, “We can share?”
Grantaire looks away, down to where the kitten is gnawing on old sheets, and feels very tired.
“Why don’t you just say it?” Grantaire demands.
The confused look on Enjolras’s face is annoyingly endearing. And rare, Grantaire thinks. So he has emotions aside from righteous anger, after all. The moment he has that thought, both of them wince.
“Sorry,” Grantaire chokes out. Fucking tethering.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Enjolras says, helplessly.
“I bonded with you without your consent,” Grantaire grits out. There, it’s out there now. He can’t take it back—and can’t take back the wide-open look on Enjolras’s face either.
“I didn’t know you—listened, to that, to that stuff,” Enjolras says, looking at Grantaire like he’s searching for something. Whatever he’s looking for, he’s not going to find it, even if Grantaire feels fucking bared open from the bond.
“I messed up,” Grantaire insists.
“Grantaire, you saved my life,” Enjolras says.
“I—”
“You’re tired, we’re overlapping, we can do this in the morning,” Enjolras says firmly, taking charge again, and just like that every confrontational bone in Grantaire’s body goes limp.
The kitten mewls. Enjolras bends down to scratch its chin, and something in Grantaire continues to warm at the gesture. The bond was worth it to have Enjolras hale and whole. It’ll disappear in the morning. He just needs to sleep.
“Yeah,” Grantaire says, and neither of them say another word, not even when Enjolras curls into the bed after Grantaire, their knees bumping together.
Thunder crashes once more, just as Grantaire is about to fall asleep. He feels the tremor that runs down the length of Enjolras’s body, and his hand seeks Enjolras’s under the covers.
The bond will be gone in the morning, Grantaire tells himself, and Enjolras will never touch him again.
“Sleep, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, right into Grantaire’s hair.
For the second time that night, Grantaire obeys.
—
Grantaire wakes up to the sound of static. Sitting up beside him is Enjolras, fiddling with an old radio and getting bursts of white noise, in between some crackling and hissing.
“I know you’re awake,” Enjolras says.
“Birds could roost in your hair right now,” Grantaire says, mostly muffled into the pillow.
Enjolras’s mouth twitches into a smile, and Grantaire has to stifle the urge to reach up and pet his hair. As this thought crosses his mind, Enjolras’s hand settles on top of Grantaire’s head, then rests there, stock-still, as if scared of spooking him.
“We should talk about this,” Enjolras says, over the static.
Grantaire considers this suggestion.
“Where would you like to start? The failed rebellion, the non-consensual bonding, or the fact that we’re stuck here until Fantine deems it safe for us to leave?”
Enjolras is unshaken. He pets Grantaire’s hair once, twice.
“I was thinking breakfast,” Enjolras says. “Or maybe the exceedingly stupid things you’ve done over the past 24 hours, and how grateful I am for them.”
“Breakfast it is,” Grantaire says.
—
They trudge their way up the beach, sticky from sleep, letting sand run through their shoes. Time feels muted, out here, just like last night. Earlier, at the threshold of their wooden cottage, Enjolras had grabbed Grantaire’s hand without thinking about it, and they’d frozen, stock-still, until the kitten came barreling past their heels and down the beach.
Now Grantaire keeps his hands stuffed inside his pockets and has to resort to throwing his head back to get the hair out of his eyes, but the breeze from the sea keeps pushing it around.
He’s so startled by Enjolras’s fingers sweeping his hair back behind his ear that he stumbles in the sand.
Enjolras looks as shocked as Grantaire feels.
“The tethering?” he asks, staring at his own fingers.
“Yeah,” Grantaire says, curt. He trudges forward again, making out the small road that will lead them to the closest town. He’s never been the best at reading maps, but it seems the tethering has given him a bit of Enjolras’s keen sense of direction. He wonders what he gave Enjolras. Probably something typically useless.
Enjolras frowns when that thought resonates with him, catching up with Grantaire with long strides. “How long does this usually last, for you?”
It’s never lasted this long before, Grantaire thinks, but instead says, “It’ll wear off eventually. Sorry you have to deal with it.”
“It’s fine,” Enjolras says, shaking his head. Then he says, “I’ve never had one that lasted this long,” in a rush.
“How many Guides have you bonded with?” Grantaire hedges.
“Just Combeferre,” Enjolras says, and an ache of sadness pangs through Grantaire, just as Enjolras breathes in sharply.
“He’s okay, you know. He’ll be fine. They’ll all be okay,” Grantaire says.
“Yeah. Yes.” Enjolras nods decisively.
“Let’s hope town is this way,” Grantaire says, jerking his head to the right.
Hold my hand, Grantaire thinks desperately, the thought unbidden and unwanted. If Enjolras feels any of it through the bond, he says and does nothing.
Grantaire knows Fantine won't call them back to Paris until things have calmed down completely, and there is no way they can risk contact, not with the sort of trackers the government must have on them.
A month or two in some backwater town with Enjolras. Enjolras. Grantaire clamps down on so hard on every other thought about Enjolras that it rattles through their bond.
Beside him, Enjolras' steps stutter.
Grantaire hisses in a breath through his teeth. They keep walking.
—
The single grocery store in town is tiny but well-stocked. Enjolras browses for food while Grantaire hangs back and picks up stuff for the house: batteries, a couple of lightbulbs. Grantaire idly considers a variety of seeds on display, trying to distract himself from how he’s hyper-aware of where Enjolras is.
The bell on the door chimes loudly as a few people walk in, grown men from the sound of them. Something in Grantaire immediately recoils, his every nerve standing on edge as he recognizes the aura of another Sentinel, weak but unmistakable. The sound of his heart pounding in his ears drowns out every other noise, and every muscle in his body tenses, ready to run—
"We don't know how long we're here for," Enjolras says, coming up behind him, voice cutting clear through Grantaire's panic.
He's talking to one of the men, probably the Sentinel, letting a bit of his aura out, strong and sure. Despite himself, Grantaire feels comforted by it.
"Always nice to get visitors out here," the man says.
Enjolras thanks him, and keeps his aura steady as he turns around.
He stands tall behind Grantaire, looking over his shoulder at the seeds, as intently as he's ever looked at any political document. “Do you think we can vegetables out on the beach?" Just his presence helps bleed a little of the hyper-vigilance from Grantaire.
"Have you ever grown anything in your life?" Grantaire asks. His fingers twitch, and Enjolras's hand presses against his hip lightly, then disappears again.
"Mold, probably," Enjolras says, straight-faced. He's looking at a packet of tomato seeds like they could be holding the secrets of the universe.
With a shaky sigh and completely faked nonchalance, Grantaire looks down at his basket—milk, eggs, bread—
"Broccoli?"
Enjolras shrugs. "Are you all right?" he asks, because he can't leave anything alone and can only attempt to be subtle for so long.
"I'm fine," Grantaire nods, body still strung tight. Enjolras frowns, and sweeps some seeds into the basket.
On the way home, Grantaire strides forward while Enjolras trails behind. The distance between them pulls the bond taut, like a physical leash. In his disbelief, Grantaire presses forward against the pull, and Enjolras lets him, even though it chafes.
By the time they get to the house, they're both exhausted.
"What the fuck is going on," Grantaire snarls, slamming his hands on the kitchen table.
Enjolras sweeps the eggs from the table and starts putting them individually into the egg tray.
"How do you like your eggs?" Enjolras asks. He turns to look at Grantaire with his hand on his hip.
"How are you so calm about this?" Grantaire asks suspiciously.
"Are we having this conversation now?"
Grantaire takes a deep breath. Thunder rumbles in the distance, another storm brewing. Abruptly, he thinks of the kitten.
"Might as well," he says, busying himself with the food they brought in. Enjolras got cat food. Of course.
There’s a riot of emotions radiating through the bond; Grantaire suspects he’d feel them even without the tethering. Enjolras’s emotions are potent, almost wild, and while Grantaire’s empathy makes him an excellent Guide, it has a tendency to turn him into a wreck of a human being. It has always stretched him too thin, made every nerve raw to the touch.
“I’m going to need you to calm down,” Grantaire grits out.
Enjolras winces, but draws back his emotions, little by little. Muffles them carefully, like a good Sentinel.
Grantaire releases the vice-grip he has on a bunch of carrots.
“I…” Enjolras closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Grantaire, a couple days ago I thought I was going to die alone, and that I'd led all my friends to their deaths," Enjolras says, voice terrifyingly steady. He closes the fridge and leans up against it.
"Grantaire, please look at me."
The plea shivers through their bond to settle somewhere in Grantaire's chest, a heavy weight. When has he ever been able to deny Enjolras anything?
He looks up.
Enjolras's eyes are shining.
"And then you stepped forward—you, who have never proclaimed anything but derision for our cause—and you held my hand. At that point, everything had turned as far upside-down as they could have. And then I somehow fought our way through a dozen Academy-trained Sentinels. And now we're in a—in a wooden cottage by the sea, with orders not to make too much contact with anyone else. I think I've decided to let things happen as they will."
"You've got to be fucking kidding me."
"Grantaire."
"When did you even have time to think about all of that."
"Grantaire."
"I'm not what you think."
"No, probably not. What I thought of you was a disservice to who you've proven to be. And I'm sorry."
"Enjolras."
"I thought I was going to die, Grantaire, and I was ready. But then you held my hand and I—I wanted."
Grantaire draws in a sharp breath. His hand clenches, and then Enjolras is there, and their fingers are slotting together.
"Eggs?" Enjolras asks.
"Scrambled," Grantaire says, stunned. Not because what Enjolras said was false, but because all of it is infallibly true, bright and shining through the bond.
Then Grantaire turns around and makes for the door.
—
The kitten hadn't gotten far. Grantaire teases it with a piece of seaweed while he tries to keep his mind blank. This turns out to be a strange experience: Enjolras's feelings and thoughts drift through his consciousness, but it doesn't feel intrusive. Warmth suffuses him down to his bones, and a certain—sureness settles over him. A blanket of resolve. And somewhere underneath that, almost impossible to believe if it weren't so alive is a burgeoning affection, nearly overwhelming everything else. He almost wants to laugh. Enjolras is saddled with the mess of Grantaire's brain and Grantaire gets this.
Eventually the tug of the bond—and hunger—becomes too insistent. Grantaire scoops the kitten up with one hand.
"Ready to get back in there?"
The kitten mewls.
"Yeah," Grantaire sighs.
—
Enjolras sets a plate in front of him with what would be called a flourish if he wasn't Enjolras, who only flourishes when he's talking about fighting against systematic oppression and the institutionalised Sentinel-Guide military machinery.
It's a plate of scrambled eggs and potato hash, and it tastes—edible. It tastes good.
By the time Grantaire has polished off the plate and let the kitten eat off his fingers, Enjolras is smiling.
"Okay, I'll bite. What's happened to you?" Grantaire says.
"I don't know how to cook," Enjolras says. "But you do."
Grantaire rolls his eyes. "Doesn't seem like a fair trade."
Enjolras shrugs, serene.
"You are really much too calm about this," Grantaire accuses.
"Things finally make sense," Enjolras replies. He primly takes a bite of his own eggs and his eyes widen dramatically.
"This is amazing," he mutters, and shoves another forkful into his mouth.
"If this was all it took you to appreciate human food," Grantaire starts, amused.
"I eat," Enjolras says.
"Mhm," Grantaire nods.
"You're coming around to this," Enjolras says.
"What the fuck is this even," Grantaire says, but there's no bite to it.
He's too tired now to keep fighting whatever this is. Enjolras made him breakfast; he'll be content with that for the rest of his life.
Enjolras looks down at his plate, suddenly shy. "I'm sorry, you know. That you had to—wait. For so long. For me to realize."
"It had nothing to do with you," Grantaire says, has to say, has to make Enjolrad understand. "It didn't matter, whether or not you knew or you didn't, I never—expected anything. So you don't have to be sorry."
"Anyway," Grantaire clears his throat, "Better late than never?" He stands up, ready to wash the plate off at the sink.
Enjolras nods. "By the way, I'm in love with you, too."
It's a testament to how strong and strange this new bond is that Enjolras can move quickly enough to catch the plate that drops from Grantaire's suddenly-nerveless fingers.
"You can't just say things like that," Grantaire chokes out, barely a whisper.
Enjolras sits down and gingerly sets the plate in front of him."I thought it was fairly obvious," he says, eyebrows furrowed.
And just like that, things slot into place for Grantaire as well, as if there was never any other explanation for Enjolras's behavior, for the intensity of their tethering, for the bond that draws them together now.
Grantaire feels nothing but calm and absolute resolve from Enjolras, and it is so true and sure that even he can't deny it. There's deep undercurrent of passion that underlines everything Enjolras does, from cooking breakfast, to making sure Grantaire understands exactly where they stand.
"How long." Grantaire sits back down with a thud.
"A while, I suspect. I had—feelings, but I'd decided my life was forfeit long ago. I didn't feel as if I could act upon my affection. It would have been unfair to you." Enjolras shakes his head. "And yet you always act in the most unexpected ways. You shook everything up. You always do."
"And the tethering last night—“
"Turned our mutual affection into something deeper? Maybe. But I'd already felt it when you..." Enjolras holds a hand up and waggles his fingers.
It all seems so absurd but so right that all Grantaire can do is groan and bury his face in his hands.
"Grantaire...are you crying?" Enjolras sounds alarmed, but Grantaire can't be sure because he's sobbing so hard that the tears are leaking through his fingers.
"I won't say it again if it—if it upsets you—”
"No!" Grantaire says, embarrassingly fast and loud.
"No," he says again.
"Okay," Enjolras says. He holds a hand to his heart and takes a few deep breaths.
"You feel everything so intensely," Enjolras says, soft, as if he doesn't want to scare Grantaire away.
"Really? Coming from you?"
Enjolras smiles ruefully. "The bond will take some getting used to."
Grantaire nods, and mirrors Enjolras in rubbing a hand on his chest.
"I need you to know I don't regret any of the things that led us here," Enjolras says.
"You keep saying things like that so casually," Grantaire complains, the only thing he can do in the overwhelming force of Enjolras' sincerity.
"I love you," Enjolras says, and it is anything but casual. The feeling behind the words punches through the bond and has Grantaire almost sobbing again.
"Okay," Grantaire gasps out, "You're not allowed to say something like that more than once a day until the—this bond—calms down a bit." He rubs at his chest in wonder.
"You believe me, though?" Enjolras asks.
"Enjolras," Grantaire says, wonderingly. His voice wobbles and breaks.
"I believe in nothing," Enjolras echoes, and it carries a tremulous note of uncertainty in it.
"But I believe in you," Grantaire says. It feels torn out of him, though Enjolras must know. He must. "Only ever you, Enjolras."
"Well that’s a lie," Enjolras says. "You believe in our friends," he continues, before Grantaire can get a word in. "And you believe in Fantine and her work. And, even if you refuse to admit it, you believe in love, and life, and liberty."
"I thought I told you, no such sentiments more than once a day," Grantaire grumbles.
In apology, Enjolras reaches across the table for his hand, then leans closer to brush a kiss against Grantaire's wrist.
"Tomorrow," Enjolras promises.
Grantaire closes his eyes against the tears and nods.
They share the bed again that night, and Grantaire lets the weight of Enjolras’s confessions settle into his bones. Lets the cavernous space in his heart fill with whatever Enjolras wants to give him; it overflows. Just love, and love, and love, echoing back and forth, growing stronger with each passing.
“I didn’t think I would ever have this,” Enjolras whispers, a secret to be shared only between them.
“Enjolras,” Grantaire says, drawn to weeping by the sorrow of it, to how close they came to not having this at all.
“You have it,” Grantaire promises. “It’s not much, but you have all of it.”
“It is more than enough,” Enjolras argues, and Grantaire is too tired to press the point.
—
The next day is better. It had rained through the night, but the morning is bright and clear. Grantaire finds Enjolras doing cartwheels down by the beach.
"I've never been able to do them before!" Enjolras exclaims, hair full of sand.
Grantaire feels a wave of fondness so strong it almost knocks him off his feet.
He thought he'd been overwhelmed by Enjolras's passion. Enjolras's happiness, it turns out, is a completely different experience.
The tide is low, so they decide to make their way further down, into the remains of the sea.
The day is lost in discovery and delight: Enjolras freckles in the sun; Grantaire has a fear of starfish.
(“It’s the legs,” Grantaire says, while Enjolras pokes a starfish with a stick. “There are too many legs.”
“There are five,” Enjolras says, holding a hand up. “Your hand is stranger.”
“Don’t fight me on this,” Grantaire says grimly, and Enjolras smiles, and desists.)
The tide pools contain small surprises. Tiny fish dart through the rocks, and Grantaire can see Enjolras tracking the movements, senses clear and sharp in the light of a new day.
More than once, Enjolras has to shake Grantaire out of a daze; staring at the sea makes him feel drunk, the way alcohol has never been able to.
A pulse of concern radiates from Enjolras, and Grantaire finds himself offering his hand for comfort.
“Guides are drawn to energies, you know,” Grantaire says carefully. “Emotions, Sentinel auras, earthquakes, storms. The sea. It’s so easy to get lost. It’s why, I think, I was so drawn to you, but I could never touch you.”
Enjolras’s squeezes his hand, and Grantaire exhales.
“Every time I looked at you, you were so bright. I could only bear to look at you sideways, out of the corner of my eye.”
Grantaire turns to face him.
“I see you now.”
—
Their closest neighbors are half an hour away by foot, and Enjolras still hasn’t been able to get the radio to work. When the storm comes, it’s Grantaire who feels it, electric in his bones. They get no other warning.
“We’ll have to weather it out,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire cracks a smile.
The kitten crawls under their pillows and Enjolras sits with his back to the wall and his arms around his knees. The bed feels like a boat left adrift in the middle of the sea.
The wind wails. When the thunder comes, strong enough to shake the foundations of the house, Grantaire’s sees gunfire.
“Sentinel,” Grantaire murmurs, as Enjolras’s heart-rate picks up.
“Do it,” Enjolras breathes out, eyes wide and unseeing.
It takes no thought at all to curl into Enjolras, press a hand to his neck, and tether with him. None of Grantaire’s training matters here. Away from memories of smoke and gunpowder, Grantaire takes Enjolras through the winding streets of Paris, into his favorite bars and restaurants. Enjolras shares shining memories with his friends, Grantaire in the background, now glowing in the light of Les Amis’ fervor.
When they emerge, Grantaire finds himself speaking Occitan in Enjolras’s Provençal dialect, and Enjolras finds that he knows the difference between gouache and watercolor, can distinguish among a myriad shades of blue.
They stay in bed together, murmuring poetry and political treatises, exchanging memories and songs and sensations.
—
It rains every night for almost two weeks. The kitten, which they name Ophelia, grows sleek and confident under their care.
More than once, Enjolras wakes in the middle of the night to find Grantaire on the porch, front door swinging behind him. Without the bustle of the city to satiate him, Grantaire is restless, drawn to the storm and the sea. Another kind of restlessness inhabits Enjolras; he worries for his friends and for his allies relentlessly. The prolonged lack of contact grates at him.
Their unrest rattles through the bond and leaves them both skittish. Eventually, Enjolras rifles through the cupboards for the seeds they’d bought—it feels like ages ago, now—and they troop out into the small patch of land behind the house that is less sand and more soil.
“These are never going to grow,” Grantaire says, shaking a packet of tomatoes.
“Always the cynic,” Enjolras teases.
It turns out that growing things is much harder than just dumping seeds into the ground. The incessant rain has pushed the saltwater deeper, but it has to be kept down. They save up rainwater in buckets and meticulously pour it through sand and silt, to keep the salt away. Enjolras hums sea shanties, plucked from Grantaire’s thoughts, and Grantaire allows his heart to swell with love.
—
Their days take on a certain slowness imbued by the sea and the sun. They orient themselves with the tides, rising before the sun as sea drains out, feet growing accustomed to picking their way through seaweed and corals. When the tide starts to rise in the late morning, they retreat into the makeshift garden, where the tiniest of sprouts are beginning to push through the ground.
They make a home out of the house with what little they have. With equal parts care and comfort, they tread through difficult conversations, gently but boldly.
"What was it like in the Academy?” Enjolras asks, one night, watching Grantaire debone a fish and feeling those shimmering scales under his own fingers.
"For someone so charming, you have very little tact,” Grantaire says. Deftly, he plucks bone after bone from white flesh, each one so fine it’s a wonder they can hold an entire fish together.
“It’s just—I can’t imagine you taking orders from anyone,” Enjolras says.
Grantaire barks out a laugh. “It wasn’t all taking orders, but there was a lot of that. The worst thing, I think, was that it was a home, and then it wasn’t, and it was terrible.”
“I thought you were a coward,” Enjolras says, quietly, to soften the blow.
Grantaire’s hands barely twitch, because the bond still holds strong and it tells him: he loves you, he loves you.
“Growing up the way I did, the Academy was a nightmare, spoken of in stories to get children to go to bed. Good people had given their lives to tear it down. Having come from that place I thought you would be—”
“Angrier?”
Enjolras drops his head into his hands and sighs. He says, muffled, “I was an idiot.”
“I’d pat you consolingly but my hands are gross right now,” Grantaire says.
“I thought you didn’t care,” Enjolras said, hand on his chest again, in a futile attempt to contain the emotion swelling through the bond. “I was so caught up in the fight for so long, I didn’t realize how narrow my vision had become.”
He turns to look at Grantaire, at the slivers of fishbones he’s laid out in a neat row, and thinks it’s a wonder his bones can hold all of him together: the intensity of his emotions, the wellspring of empathy that is within the core of every Guide, the particular kind of love that weaves itself through Grantaire’s sinews.
“I see you now,” Enjolras says.
—
They’ve made it a habit to leave their shoes at the door, to keep the sand out of the house, but one day Enjolras returns from the garden to find sand tracked into their living room.
His aura roars to life just in time for Grantaire’s reassurance to flicker through the bond, and he stops himself from pouncing on Gavroche, sitting at the kitchen table.
Grantaire comes around to take his hand, Guiding Enjolras down gently.
“The tomatoes just bloomed,” Enjolras says, for lack of anything else to say.
Gavroche’s eyes travel between Grantaire and Enjolras, and he smiles in understanding.
They have pasta that night. Enjolras makes the sauce by hand with green tomatoes, and all of it is edible. Gavroche even asks for seconds.
Ophelia polishes off the rest.
—
Paris is a different beast when they return, browned by the sun, their edges blunted by the sea wind. There’s still a revolution that demands to be fought, and their hearts are fuller, more ready.
One clear note of uncertainty rings through the bond when they arrive at the backdoor in the Café Musain.
“No backing out now,” Grantaire murmurs.
“Never,” Enjolras promises.
The swell of emotion from Enjolras pushes Grantaire up on his tiptoes.
Enjolras places a careful hand on Grantaire’s jaw, and leans down to kiss him as the door behind them opens.