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lysapadinTitle: This Time Round
Characters/Pairings: Enjolras/Grantaire
Summary: The revolution is about to start—but it hasn't started yet. There's still time for a few things to be said.
Notes: Adult for smut. Written for Porn Battle XIV, to the prompts AU and yearning. One part book canon, one part musical, one part movie, and one part SF AU. 2776 words.
~~~~~~~~~~
This Time Round
Enjolras supposes that Grantaire is unconscious, sprawled across the corner table and sleeping the sleep of the confirmed alcoholic, but does not bother to lower his voice as he confers with Combeferre and then Feuilly over the comm. The former reports no change in the streets—they are filled with crowds, Combeferre tells him, full of barely-suppressed excitement, and the people are beginning to seethe like a pot. He must have Jehan with him; it is not the sort of thing he would normally say himself. Feuilly is more pragmatic, his face still showing smudges of engine oil over the khaki coveralls of a maintenance worker; he says that the environmental controls will remain temperamental and the weather will continue hot and unpleasant. He signs off without ceremony and leaves Enjolras to sit silently before the blank screen, thinking of revolutions and the coincidences of weather and the human temperament.
There has been no word yet from Courfeyrac; the colony council must still be engrossed in debate over the proportion of aid owed to the workers. It's just as well; the longer they draw it out, the unhappier the mob will become, the less willing to be placated by the same crumbs as usual.
His spine crinkles with the awareness of eyes on him; Enjolras looks up and finds that Grantaire is watching him, not asleep after all. It is only the two of them in this small upstairs room; Grantaire disdains to leave his side and is too unreliable to be entrusted with any of the preparations for the coming storm anyway. Just now he is leaning his cheek against his fist and watching Enjolras with an unblinking stare. When Enjolras raises his eyebrows—what is it now?—Grantaire says, "You know you're going to get us all killed."
"The door is right there." Enjolras nods at it. "Feel free to leave any time you like."
"I can't do that." Each syllable is softened, rounded by wine and whatever other intoxicant Grantaire has in his system, but not slurred—Grantaire's capacity is legend among their little cadre. He is smiling now, smiling at Enjolras as though he knows some secret that he will never share.
"Pity." Enjolras looks away from him, checks the comm—no word yet from Gavroche, either, but that's generally a better sign than otherwise. Gavroche prefers the fait accompli and only seeks contact when he has encountered trouble. No word now suggests that he and his sister are laying sticky fingers on the arms that they will need if the council does not pass the relief measures before it.
"I would say that you would miss me if I were gone, but I know you wouldn't." Grantaire continues to smile at him, perfectly serene in the face of open disapproval. He clicks his tongue against his teeth. "Tch. It can't be helped."
At least the man doesn't expect to be contradicted on that score. Enjolras keys up the map of the colony's streets and access corridors, studying familiar patterns over again. There are notes on the map, projections and plans and critical points flagged in red; he pores over them and wishes, privately, that Grantaire would go find another bottle and crawl inside it.
Whatever it is that Grantaire lives for, thwarting him must be a part of it. He does not leave; he sits up, watching Enjolras work. "Everyone knows," he says eventually. "That we will die doing this for you. I think you're the only one who doesn't know this."
Enjolras flattens his palms against the table and looks up at Grantaire once he has mastered himself. "Do you think you're being helpful?"
Grantaire laughs as if he finds the question genuinely amusing. "Perhaps I am," he says. "Remember, Caesar, that thou art mortal." He intones the words slowly, ceremoniously; there must be something else in his system beyond just the wine, some euphoriant, because he breaks down into laughter again.
Enjolras sets his jaw and ignores him again, focusing on the fracture points in the colony—the most crucial point will be the colony's police force. They will have to neutralize the police first of all and take control of the docks as well before the fat cats of the council can summon military aid. After that, the warehouses; once they control those, they will be in the position to bargain with the company and the government itself, and—
Grantaire intrudes himself upon Enjolras' attention again, this time by settling at his feet and gazing up at him, glassy-eyed and strangely earnest. "You don't know anything," he says. "Nothing at all." He smiles then, tilted. "And we will still follow you to the very end."
"You're drunk," Enjolras tells him, lacking any better response than that.
Grantaire snorts; even Enjolras must admit the magnificent eloquence of it. "Of course I'm drunk. I'm always drunk when I'm not high. I am also," he says, enunciating carefully, "trying to tell you something important."
The man has his stubborn moments; when they come upon him, there's nothing for it but to wait him out. Enjolras looks down at Grantaire's upturned face and resists the urge to sigh. It would only encourage him. "Well, what is it?"
Grantaire gazes up at him, solemn as a judge though not as sober. "We believe in you," he says. "Because you believe in something that is too big for us. That is why we follow you. You can believe in these things, the people and justice and freedom, and we can believe in you. You will believe in those things until you die, and we will follow you to the gates of hell because of that."
Enjolras stares down at him, and it occurs to him that the thing that he cannot read in Grantaire's eyes might be called yearning. It occurs to him that Grantaire has said we.
It occurs to him that Grantaire is leaning against his knee.
He has never found himself wanting for words when addressing his comrades or a crowd, but here and now, Enjolras looks down at Grantaire and finds himself at a loss when confronted with the reality of a thousand cynical, teasing remarks dismissed a jest—surely they must have been jests—meant in absolute earnest. "You—" he says, but stops there.
"Me," Grantaire agrees. "But not you. I know." He smiles again. "It can't be helped."
It can stay like that, finally spoken aloud but not acted upon, little different than anything that has gone before. Soon, Courfeyrac will comm him to report how the council has voted. Soon, Gavroche and Éponine will come slinking in to tell them of the acquisition of a cargo of guns of mysterious provenance. Soon, it will begin.
But it has not begun yet. Perhaps that is why Enjolras reaches down to Grantaire and sets his hand in Grantaire's hair, resting it there lightly.
Grantaire goes still beneath his hand; the muscles in his throat move as he swallows. "Don't." His voice has gone hoarse. Desperate. "Please don't." He leans into it when Enjolras strokes his fingers through the unruly mess of his hair and rests his palm against the side of his face. Enjolras has seen hunger before, longing for the impossible written on the faces of the destitute. Grantaire looks at him much in the same way, as though he is starving; when Enjolras sets his thumb against the line of his cheekbone, he closes his eyes and shudders. "Please," he says, and that is all.
Enjolras slides his thumb against the crest of Grantaire's cheek, almost as one observing from the outside—he is not ignorant of the things lovers do together, but he has never had much interest in them himself. It seems strange now to be performing one of those gestures, to feel the texture of Grantaire's skin against his fingertips and the way Grantaire shudders again, leaning against him more heavily as he wets his lips. But that is his hand curving to fit Grantaire's jaw, his fingers slipping into Grantaire's hair.
It is his palm that Grantaire kisses, once as quick and furtive as a thief, a second time to linger when Enjolras does not recoil, a third time to flick the tip of his tongue against one of the creases there. Grantaire watches him as he does, his eyes dark beneath his lashes, wary even as he repeats the act and traces his tongue along the heart line, the life line. Enjolras holds himself still, not precisely certain how he wishes to respond to these overtures.
Grantaire doesn't seem to expect him to respond at all, not even when he kisses each of Enjolras' fingertips, his lips soft against the pads of them. He watches Enjolras all the while, even when he closes his lips around the tip of the index finger and sucks on it. His mouth is hot and soft, the stroke of his tongue sensual and more intimate than expected—Enjolras finds himself catching a deeper breath as Grantaire laps at his fingertip and his entire body tightens in response. Grantaire stills, freezing in place, eyes wary as he looks up at Enjolras.
He doesn't know what moves him to slide his finger between Grantaire's lips, deeper into his mouth—perhaps it is the same impulse that led him to reach down to Grantaire in the first place, answering the yearning in him the same way he seeks to answer the hunger of the people for something greater than themselves. He feels the shiver that runs through Grantaire, hears the choked-off sound in his own throat as Grantaire closes his eyes and sucks. The pressure of his mouth draws response down Enjolras' spine, like a fire blossoming from a single spark, and he takes another breath, unsteady, as Grantaire strokes his mouth up the length of his finger and back down again. Enjolras is no innocent; he knows which act Grantaire is mimicking. He could have it now, if he likes. Has only to say the word, and Grantaire will fit himself between his knees and bend his head over his lap to apply his mouth to Enjolras' prick to suck on it the way he mouths Enjolras' finger now.
Enjolras draws another breath, ragged, and prays that the comm will sound, that Courfeyrac will interrupt this moment with news and break its trembling potential, but the comm stays silent. Grantaire slides his mouth up the length of his finger, pulling back until the tip of it rests against his lower lip, shining and wet. He opens his eyes again and looks up at Enjolras, silent and waiting.
Even he is only human. Enjolras feels his heartbeat pounding like a drum in his chest as he swivels the chair around, turning it to face him. Grantaire whines as he does, soft in his throat, swaying closer to him and leaning into the space between his knees as though he can't help himself. He catches himself against Enjolras' knee, splaying his fingers against it, and goes still again, darting a glance up at Enjolras as though he expects to be shoved away for daring to touch him. Enjolras sees him swallow again, sees him pass the tip of his tongue over his lips as he looks up. He can't speak—he doesn't know what he ought to say—but he can nod, so he does, dipping his chin to Grantaire.
Grantaire wets his lips again and sets both hands on him. They're hot, even through a layer of cloth, strangely light as Grantaire strokes them over Enjolras' knees and up, sliding them over the tops of his thighs. Enjolras does not know where to rest his gaze, on Grantaire's wondering expression or the slow progress of the hands sliding up his legs, reaching for the fastenings of his trousers and the hard line of his prick inside them. Part of him wants to look away entirely, to turn his eyes from it as Grantaire undoes buttons and draws down the zipper, unwilling to see the reverence in Grantaire's expression or the way his fingers tremble when he dips them inside, but even he cannot pretend that doing so would be anything but cowardice.
Then Grantaire finds him and closes his fingers around him, and Enjolras cannot think of anything but the shock of sensation driving up his spine as Grantaire eases his prick free and slides his fingertips over it. Light as that touch is, tentative as it is, it still makes Enjolras gasp and grip the arm of his chair, clinging to the solidness of the molded plastic against the rush of pleasure. Grantaire looks up at him, looking like a man caught in some dream, and strokes him slowly, sliding his fingers up and down the shaft and smoothing his thumb over the head, back and forth through the little bead of slick there until Enjolras groans with it and reaches for him again. He sinks his fingers into the tangle of Grantaire's hair, unruly beneath his fingers. Grantaire utters a sound that hardly seems to belong to the human throat, so low and guttural that Enjolras feels it more than he hears it as Grantaire leans forward.
He fits between Enjolras' knees as though he were made for it; Enjolras would dwell on the strangeness of that thought, but there is no room inside his skull for such things when Grantaire's breath gusts across the head of his prick and every nerve in Enjolras' body sings in response. Then Grantaire's mouth is on him, hot and wet, and Enjolras groans, lost in the immediacy of that pleasure as it burns through him. There is nothing left but the way Grantaire's tongue feels stroking over the head of him, the curve of Grantaire's neck beneath his fingers, the pressure of it as he swallows Enjolras down and the vibration of it when he groans around him. Enjolras works his fingers against Grantaire's nape, panting for breath against the brilliant, relentless pleasure lapping through him and building higher and higher, until all his awareness narrows down to the pleasure drawing him taut. When he breaks, he shouts with it, sensation exploding through him, supernovas searing through him and leaving him raw and shaken in their wake, breathing hard and seeing the last fading traces of stars against the insides of his eyelids.
He recovers slowly, strangely shaken by his pleasure, and opens his eyes well after the fact, when Grantaire is doing up the fastenings of his trousers again. Enjolras catches his eye and Grantaire pauses, looking up at him, nearly exultant. His nape is damp beneath Enjolras' palm, and he does not move, apparently content to lean against his knee for as long as Enjolras will permit it.
Enjolras opens his mouth to speak, not knowing what he will say when he does, and the comm finally chimes. Enjolras turns to it immediately, accepting the connection—Courfeyrac, his expression one of mingled rage and excitement. "Those bastards!" he says, without greeting. "Those bastards, they denied every last measure, they didn't even let them come to a vote—"
He stops when Enjolras holds up a hand, subsiding into something like peace; he's in a public booth, and the sound of shouting voices filters through the connection. "This is where it begins," Enjolras says, mind already flying through their plans for this moment. "Get word to the others, and then do what you can to turn the crowd to our advantage. I'll be there soon."
Courfeyrac nods, accepting the orders, and closes the connection with no more fuss. Enjolras breathes out then, permitting himself that single instant to contemplate the moment that has finally arrived, and reaches for the comm again to pass word to Combeferre himself.
Grantaire clears his throat before he can. When Enjolras looks to him, his expression is almost diffident. (Enjolras cannot help noticing that there is a wet patch on the front of his trousers. He does not know what to make of that, so he chooses not to remark upon it at all.) "What would you have me do?"
"Stay with me," Enjolras tells him, because there will be too many things to do and too few hands for them very soon; even Grantaire might make himself useful now.
Grantaire smiles at him again, something almost fey in it. "To the gates of hell itself," he promises, and there is something in it that forces Enjolras to accept that as the truth.
There will be time for thinking about such things later, he decides, and comms Combeferre. There will be time later.
end
…and then they either all met an ignominious end per destiny, or perhaps (being somewhat less naïve and somewhat better at judging the political climate around them) they pulled off a successful revolution and lived happily ever after. I shall leave it to your discretion to choose which ending you prefer.
Comments are always a thing of joy!
Characters/Pairings: Enjolras/Grantaire
Summary: The revolution is about to start—but it hasn't started yet. There's still time for a few things to be said.
Notes: Adult for smut. Written for Porn Battle XIV, to the prompts AU and yearning. One part book canon, one part musical, one part movie, and one part SF AU. 2776 words.
This Time Round
Enjolras supposes that Grantaire is unconscious, sprawled across the corner table and sleeping the sleep of the confirmed alcoholic, but does not bother to lower his voice as he confers with Combeferre and then Feuilly over the comm. The former reports no change in the streets—they are filled with crowds, Combeferre tells him, full of barely-suppressed excitement, and the people are beginning to seethe like a pot. He must have Jehan with him; it is not the sort of thing he would normally say himself. Feuilly is more pragmatic, his face still showing smudges of engine oil over the khaki coveralls of a maintenance worker; he says that the environmental controls will remain temperamental and the weather will continue hot and unpleasant. He signs off without ceremony and leaves Enjolras to sit silently before the blank screen, thinking of revolutions and the coincidences of weather and the human temperament.
There has been no word yet from Courfeyrac; the colony council must still be engrossed in debate over the proportion of aid owed to the workers. It's just as well; the longer they draw it out, the unhappier the mob will become, the less willing to be placated by the same crumbs as usual.
His spine crinkles with the awareness of eyes on him; Enjolras looks up and finds that Grantaire is watching him, not asleep after all. It is only the two of them in this small upstairs room; Grantaire disdains to leave his side and is too unreliable to be entrusted with any of the preparations for the coming storm anyway. Just now he is leaning his cheek against his fist and watching Enjolras with an unblinking stare. When Enjolras raises his eyebrows—what is it now?—Grantaire says, "You know you're going to get us all killed."
"The door is right there." Enjolras nods at it. "Feel free to leave any time you like."
"I can't do that." Each syllable is softened, rounded by wine and whatever other intoxicant Grantaire has in his system, but not slurred—Grantaire's capacity is legend among their little cadre. He is smiling now, smiling at Enjolras as though he knows some secret that he will never share.
"Pity." Enjolras looks away from him, checks the comm—no word yet from Gavroche, either, but that's generally a better sign than otherwise. Gavroche prefers the fait accompli and only seeks contact when he has encountered trouble. No word now suggests that he and his sister are laying sticky fingers on the arms that they will need if the council does not pass the relief measures before it.
"I would say that you would miss me if I were gone, but I know you wouldn't." Grantaire continues to smile at him, perfectly serene in the face of open disapproval. He clicks his tongue against his teeth. "Tch. It can't be helped."
At least the man doesn't expect to be contradicted on that score. Enjolras keys up the map of the colony's streets and access corridors, studying familiar patterns over again. There are notes on the map, projections and plans and critical points flagged in red; he pores over them and wishes, privately, that Grantaire would go find another bottle and crawl inside it.
Whatever it is that Grantaire lives for, thwarting him must be a part of it. He does not leave; he sits up, watching Enjolras work. "Everyone knows," he says eventually. "That we will die doing this for you. I think you're the only one who doesn't know this."
Enjolras flattens his palms against the table and looks up at Grantaire once he has mastered himself. "Do you think you're being helpful?"
Grantaire laughs as if he finds the question genuinely amusing. "Perhaps I am," he says. "Remember, Caesar, that thou art mortal." He intones the words slowly, ceremoniously; there must be something else in his system beyond just the wine, some euphoriant, because he breaks down into laughter again.
Enjolras sets his jaw and ignores him again, focusing on the fracture points in the colony—the most crucial point will be the colony's police force. They will have to neutralize the police first of all and take control of the docks as well before the fat cats of the council can summon military aid. After that, the warehouses; once they control those, they will be in the position to bargain with the company and the government itself, and—
Grantaire intrudes himself upon Enjolras' attention again, this time by settling at his feet and gazing up at him, glassy-eyed and strangely earnest. "You don't know anything," he says. "Nothing at all." He smiles then, tilted. "And we will still follow you to the very end."
"You're drunk," Enjolras tells him, lacking any better response than that.
Grantaire snorts; even Enjolras must admit the magnificent eloquence of it. "Of course I'm drunk. I'm always drunk when I'm not high. I am also," he says, enunciating carefully, "trying to tell you something important."
The man has his stubborn moments; when they come upon him, there's nothing for it but to wait him out. Enjolras looks down at Grantaire's upturned face and resists the urge to sigh. It would only encourage him. "Well, what is it?"
Grantaire gazes up at him, solemn as a judge though not as sober. "We believe in you," he says. "Because you believe in something that is too big for us. That is why we follow you. You can believe in these things, the people and justice and freedom, and we can believe in you. You will believe in those things until you die, and we will follow you to the gates of hell because of that."
Enjolras stares down at him, and it occurs to him that the thing that he cannot read in Grantaire's eyes might be called yearning. It occurs to him that Grantaire has said we.
It occurs to him that Grantaire is leaning against his knee.
He has never found himself wanting for words when addressing his comrades or a crowd, but here and now, Enjolras looks down at Grantaire and finds himself at a loss when confronted with the reality of a thousand cynical, teasing remarks dismissed a jest—surely they must have been jests—meant in absolute earnest. "You—" he says, but stops there.
"Me," Grantaire agrees. "But not you. I know." He smiles again. "It can't be helped."
It can stay like that, finally spoken aloud but not acted upon, little different than anything that has gone before. Soon, Courfeyrac will comm him to report how the council has voted. Soon, Gavroche and Éponine will come slinking in to tell them of the acquisition of a cargo of guns of mysterious provenance. Soon, it will begin.
But it has not begun yet. Perhaps that is why Enjolras reaches down to Grantaire and sets his hand in Grantaire's hair, resting it there lightly.
Grantaire goes still beneath his hand; the muscles in his throat move as he swallows. "Don't." His voice has gone hoarse. Desperate. "Please don't." He leans into it when Enjolras strokes his fingers through the unruly mess of his hair and rests his palm against the side of his face. Enjolras has seen hunger before, longing for the impossible written on the faces of the destitute. Grantaire looks at him much in the same way, as though he is starving; when Enjolras sets his thumb against the line of his cheekbone, he closes his eyes and shudders. "Please," he says, and that is all.
Enjolras slides his thumb against the crest of Grantaire's cheek, almost as one observing from the outside—he is not ignorant of the things lovers do together, but he has never had much interest in them himself. It seems strange now to be performing one of those gestures, to feel the texture of Grantaire's skin against his fingertips and the way Grantaire shudders again, leaning against him more heavily as he wets his lips. But that is his hand curving to fit Grantaire's jaw, his fingers slipping into Grantaire's hair.
It is his palm that Grantaire kisses, once as quick and furtive as a thief, a second time to linger when Enjolras does not recoil, a third time to flick the tip of his tongue against one of the creases there. Grantaire watches him as he does, his eyes dark beneath his lashes, wary even as he repeats the act and traces his tongue along the heart line, the life line. Enjolras holds himself still, not precisely certain how he wishes to respond to these overtures.
Grantaire doesn't seem to expect him to respond at all, not even when he kisses each of Enjolras' fingertips, his lips soft against the pads of them. He watches Enjolras all the while, even when he closes his lips around the tip of the index finger and sucks on it. His mouth is hot and soft, the stroke of his tongue sensual and more intimate than expected—Enjolras finds himself catching a deeper breath as Grantaire laps at his fingertip and his entire body tightens in response. Grantaire stills, freezing in place, eyes wary as he looks up at Enjolras.
He doesn't know what moves him to slide his finger between Grantaire's lips, deeper into his mouth—perhaps it is the same impulse that led him to reach down to Grantaire in the first place, answering the yearning in him the same way he seeks to answer the hunger of the people for something greater than themselves. He feels the shiver that runs through Grantaire, hears the choked-off sound in his own throat as Grantaire closes his eyes and sucks. The pressure of his mouth draws response down Enjolras' spine, like a fire blossoming from a single spark, and he takes another breath, unsteady, as Grantaire strokes his mouth up the length of his finger and back down again. Enjolras is no innocent; he knows which act Grantaire is mimicking. He could have it now, if he likes. Has only to say the word, and Grantaire will fit himself between his knees and bend his head over his lap to apply his mouth to Enjolras' prick to suck on it the way he mouths Enjolras' finger now.
Enjolras draws another breath, ragged, and prays that the comm will sound, that Courfeyrac will interrupt this moment with news and break its trembling potential, but the comm stays silent. Grantaire slides his mouth up the length of his finger, pulling back until the tip of it rests against his lower lip, shining and wet. He opens his eyes again and looks up at Enjolras, silent and waiting.
Even he is only human. Enjolras feels his heartbeat pounding like a drum in his chest as he swivels the chair around, turning it to face him. Grantaire whines as he does, soft in his throat, swaying closer to him and leaning into the space between his knees as though he can't help himself. He catches himself against Enjolras' knee, splaying his fingers against it, and goes still again, darting a glance up at Enjolras as though he expects to be shoved away for daring to touch him. Enjolras sees him swallow again, sees him pass the tip of his tongue over his lips as he looks up. He can't speak—he doesn't know what he ought to say—but he can nod, so he does, dipping his chin to Grantaire.
Grantaire wets his lips again and sets both hands on him. They're hot, even through a layer of cloth, strangely light as Grantaire strokes them over Enjolras' knees and up, sliding them over the tops of his thighs. Enjolras does not know where to rest his gaze, on Grantaire's wondering expression or the slow progress of the hands sliding up his legs, reaching for the fastenings of his trousers and the hard line of his prick inside them. Part of him wants to look away entirely, to turn his eyes from it as Grantaire undoes buttons and draws down the zipper, unwilling to see the reverence in Grantaire's expression or the way his fingers tremble when he dips them inside, but even he cannot pretend that doing so would be anything but cowardice.
Then Grantaire finds him and closes his fingers around him, and Enjolras cannot think of anything but the shock of sensation driving up his spine as Grantaire eases his prick free and slides his fingertips over it. Light as that touch is, tentative as it is, it still makes Enjolras gasp and grip the arm of his chair, clinging to the solidness of the molded plastic against the rush of pleasure. Grantaire looks up at him, looking like a man caught in some dream, and strokes him slowly, sliding his fingers up and down the shaft and smoothing his thumb over the head, back and forth through the little bead of slick there until Enjolras groans with it and reaches for him again. He sinks his fingers into the tangle of Grantaire's hair, unruly beneath his fingers. Grantaire utters a sound that hardly seems to belong to the human throat, so low and guttural that Enjolras feels it more than he hears it as Grantaire leans forward.
He fits between Enjolras' knees as though he were made for it; Enjolras would dwell on the strangeness of that thought, but there is no room inside his skull for such things when Grantaire's breath gusts across the head of his prick and every nerve in Enjolras' body sings in response. Then Grantaire's mouth is on him, hot and wet, and Enjolras groans, lost in the immediacy of that pleasure as it burns through him. There is nothing left but the way Grantaire's tongue feels stroking over the head of him, the curve of Grantaire's neck beneath his fingers, the pressure of it as he swallows Enjolras down and the vibration of it when he groans around him. Enjolras works his fingers against Grantaire's nape, panting for breath against the brilliant, relentless pleasure lapping through him and building higher and higher, until all his awareness narrows down to the pleasure drawing him taut. When he breaks, he shouts with it, sensation exploding through him, supernovas searing through him and leaving him raw and shaken in their wake, breathing hard and seeing the last fading traces of stars against the insides of his eyelids.
He recovers slowly, strangely shaken by his pleasure, and opens his eyes well after the fact, when Grantaire is doing up the fastenings of his trousers again. Enjolras catches his eye and Grantaire pauses, looking up at him, nearly exultant. His nape is damp beneath Enjolras' palm, and he does not move, apparently content to lean against his knee for as long as Enjolras will permit it.
Enjolras opens his mouth to speak, not knowing what he will say when he does, and the comm finally chimes. Enjolras turns to it immediately, accepting the connection—Courfeyrac, his expression one of mingled rage and excitement. "Those bastards!" he says, without greeting. "Those bastards, they denied every last measure, they didn't even let them come to a vote—"
He stops when Enjolras holds up a hand, subsiding into something like peace; he's in a public booth, and the sound of shouting voices filters through the connection. "This is where it begins," Enjolras says, mind already flying through their plans for this moment. "Get word to the others, and then do what you can to turn the crowd to our advantage. I'll be there soon."
Courfeyrac nods, accepting the orders, and closes the connection with no more fuss. Enjolras breathes out then, permitting himself that single instant to contemplate the moment that has finally arrived, and reaches for the comm again to pass word to Combeferre himself.
Grantaire clears his throat before he can. When Enjolras looks to him, his expression is almost diffident. (Enjolras cannot help noticing that there is a wet patch on the front of his trousers. He does not know what to make of that, so he chooses not to remark upon it at all.) "What would you have me do?"
"Stay with me," Enjolras tells him, because there will be too many things to do and too few hands for them very soon; even Grantaire might make himself useful now.
Grantaire smiles at him again, something almost fey in it. "To the gates of hell itself," he promises, and there is something in it that forces Enjolras to accept that as the truth.
There will be time for thinking about such things later, he decides, and comms Combeferre. There will be time later.
end
…and then they either all met an ignominious end per destiny, or perhaps (being somewhat less naïve and somewhat better at judging the political climate around them) they pulled off a successful revolution and lived happily ever after. I shall leave it to your discretion to choose which ending you prefer.
Comments are always a thing of joy!