#look i just wanted to write grantaire tipping Enjolras's chin up with a sword

[kjack89]

Put to the Sword

My fic for this year’s @lesmissamepromptficchallenge! The premise of this fic really only works when looking at the English translation and not the original French but whatever, that’s never once stopped me.

Developing E/R, canon era. Fluff with a touch of angst because of course.

Bossuet propped his chin on his hand, a small frown furrowing his forehead. “Does Enjolras have a sword?” he asked, more rhetorically than seeking an actual answer.

Luckily, Joly, seated at his side in the backroom of the Musain, followed his glance, and blinked twice. “It would appear so,” he said.

It perhaps spoke volumes about Enjolras that once Bossuet’s suspicions were confirmed, he did not feel the need to question further, instead simply shrugging and returning to his cup. But now it was Joly who frowned, and when he saw an opening to do so, he stood and made his way to Enjolras. “Need we all come so well-armed to Les Amis meetings in the future?” he asked, perching on the table next to where Enjolras sat.

Though it may only have been a trick of the candlelight, Joly was fairly certain that a slight flush rose in Enjolras’s cheeks. “I believe we are safe without weaponry, at least for now,” Enjolras said. 

“And yet you have not one but two swords,” Joly remarked mildly, having spotted the second, identical sabre leaning against the table on Enjolras’s other side.

There was no mistaking Enjolras’s blush this time. “Courfeyrac was meant to teach me some basic swordplay,” he muttered. “But it appears he has been waylaid en route this evening.”

From Enjolras’s tone of disapproval, Joly surmised that Courfeyrac had found a much more pleasurable companion for the evening. “As have a few of our number,” Joly agreed mildly, and if anything, Enjolras looked even more put out.

“So it would seem,” he said sourly.

Joly hesitated for only a moment before suggesting, “But if it’s a fencing teacher you seek, surely there are others among us who are equally skilled to be able to teach you.”

Enjolras arched an eyebrow. “Such as...?” he prompted, and Joly couldn’t quite stop the smile that twitched at the corners of his mouth.

“Such as Grantaire.”

For one moment, Enjolras looked as if he was contemplating it, but then he shook his head. “Grantaire is not inclined to do me any favors,” he said dismissively.

Joly gave him a look. “And how inclined have you been to ask him to do you any favors?” Enjolras opened his mouth to retort but no sound came out, and Joly allowed himself a small, triumphant smile before telling Enjolras innocently, “The worst he can say is no, were you so inclined to try.”

With that, he made his way back to Bossuet, who had watched this whole exchange with bemusement. “What were you doing?” Bossuet asked as Joly sat down.

Joly’s smile widened. “Meddling.”

Bossuet sighed. “How many times must I warn you against doing so?” he asked with a long-suffering air.

Joly patted his hand. “At least once more.”

Again Bossuet sighed, looking very much like he was regretting this evening immensely. “And what meddling could you possibly have done in regards to Enjolras’s sword?”

“Swords,” Joly corrected. “Courfeyrac was meant to teach him the basics of fencing, but some pretty gamine or another allegedly caught his eye early this eve, so I seized the opportunity I saw to recommend a different teacher.”

Bossuet cast him a baleful look. “Do not tell me—”

“It is not my fault that Grantaire has oft proclaimed himself quite adept at fencing,” Joly said innocently. “And if by teaching him swordplay, he might spend more time with the man he so venerates, I fail to see what harm could come from it.”

Bossuet sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Foot-fencing,” he said wearily, and Joly frowned.

“Pardon?”

“Foot-fencing, you idiot,” Bossuet repeated. “Grantaire is adept at foot-fencing – savate. Not actual fencing.”

Joly looked momentarily stricken. “Ah,” he said, glancing over at Enjolras, who was saying his goodbyes to Combeferre and Feuilly. “Well, what Enjolras doesn’t know is unlikely to cause him harm.”

Bossuet didn’t look nearly as convinced. “Perhaps not. But do you truly think putting Enjolras and Grantaire in a room together with sharp blades will result in no casualties?”

Joly reached for the wine bottle. “What I think is that this is no longer my concern.”

Bossuet considered it for a moment before holding his own cup out for Joly to refill. “On that point, at least, we can agree.”

----------

Enjolras had not been to Grantaire’s lodgings frequently enough that he should have the route memorized, but somehow his feet found their way there seemingly of their own accord, and when greeted by the closed door, Enjolras figured he had no choice left but to knock and to ask for Grantaire’s help.

No matter how much the idea pained him.

He gave the door two strong knocks and took an automatic step to wait for Grantaire to answer. It was only after he had already done so that he realized that the hour was quite late, and that he perhaps should have waited to call upon Grantaire in the morning, as the man might very well be in bed—

Grantaire opened the door, a small frown of confusion knitting his brow, confusion that was replaced by surprise when he saw Enjolras standing there. “Enjolras?” he asked, stepping into the hallway and closing the door behind him. “What are you doing here?”

Enjolras hesitated for a moment before blurting, “I have come to ask a favor.”

Grantaire arched an eyebrow. “Do your boots need blacking?” he asked mildly, and Enjolras scowled.

“Most hilarious.”

“I fancy myself quite amusing,” Grantaire agreed.

Enjolras’s scowl deepened. “I know you do.”

Grantaire cleared his throat pointedly. “So if not your boots, then how else may I serve you?”

There was no mistaking the double-entendre of his last words, and Enjolras flushed but refused to allow himself to be distracted from his purpose. “I want you to teach me to fence,” he said firmly.

Grantaire blinked. “To – what?”

“To fence,” Enjolras repeated, faltering when he saw the slightly blank look on Grantaire’s face. “I have been led to believe you are adept at fencing.”

“I am adept at a great many things,” Grantaire murmured, more to himself than to Enjolras. “My own skill aside, why do you wish to learn to fence?”

Enjolras squared his shoulders. “A battle is coming, even if I know not when. It seems a useful skill to have.”

Again Grantaire’s eyebrow rose. “You expect to do much fencing on the barricade?”

“I expect that I should be prepared to,” Enjolras shot back. “So will you help me or not?”

For a moment, it looked as though Grantaire might refuse. Then he shook his head slowly. “Let it never be said that Grantaire did not help the Cause when he was asked,” he said, which Enjolras supposed was as straightforward a ‘yes’ as he was likely to ever get from him. “Meet me at the Musain in a half hour and we shall begin your tutelage.”

Enjolras frowned. “Why the Musain?”

Grantaire glanced at the closed door behind him. “I am afraid my accommodations are likely not large enough for this particular endeavor.”

“Then why not outside?”

Grantaire gave him a look. “Where the police or any unfortunate bystander may happen upon us?” he asked, shaking his head. “Believe me, this is an activity best undertaken indoors and without an audience.”

Enjolras found he didn’t have a counterargument, so settled for jerking a stiff nod. “Very well. The Musain, in half an hour. I shall return now and ask any of our number that remains to clear out.”

“You do that,” Grantaire told him before disappearing back into his apartment, leaving Enjolras standing in the hallway, feeling very much like he was going to regret this.

----------

As it turned out, none of their comrades still lingered when Enjolras arrived, and he took the liberty of getting Grantaire a bottle of wine and a cup, figuring that he owed the man at least that much for agreeing to teach him, and at this late hour especially.

Grantaire arrived at the appointed time, still dressed in solely a shirt with no cravat or waistcoat, his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. “You would do well to remove your cravat and vest,” he told Enjolras. Now, allow me to examine what swords you expect us to use for this exercise in folly.”

Enjolras handed both blades to Grantaire. “I borrowed them from Courfeyrac, who said they were training blades,” he said. “Dulled so as not to cause much real harm.”

Grantaire took one blade in each hand, hefting them as he considered. Then, without warning, he tossed one to Enjolras, who grabbed for it but missed. “Some warning might be appreciated,” Enjolras said as he bent to pick it up.

“My apologies,” Grantaire said smoothly, but he didn’t sound particularly apologetic.

Enjolras made a face but did not press the issue further, instead holding the sword in front of him with both hands. Grantaire arched an eyebrow at him. “One hand only,” he corrected, his own sword held easily in his right hand.

“Wouldn’t both hands give you more control?” Enjolras asked, even as he shifted the blade into his right hand.

“If you were swinging a longsword, perhaps,” Grantaire said. “But this measly weapon requires just the one.” He paused to give Enjolras a calculating look. “Will you be giving me this much trouble for every instruction I give you?” Enjolras scowled but did not press the matter further. “Now turn so that you face me side-on,” Grantaire ordered. “That way you present a smaller target.”

Enjolras turned obediently, feeling rather foolish. “Like this?” he asked, holding the sword in front of his side, his shoulders and head turning automatically but leaving most of his body facing away.

Grantaire nodded. “Now your feet,” he instructed. “Place your weight on your front foot. And allow me to examine your grip.” He closed the space between them, standing behind Enjolras, so close that his chest brushed against Enjolras’s back, and Enjolras swallowed, feeling suddenly and inexplicably nervous. “Not so tightly,” Grantaire said into his ear, and he placed one hand on top of Enjolras’s, loosening his grip and rearranging his fingers. His other hand rested lightly on Enjolras’s hip, shifting his weight with a gentle touch.

His hands lingered on Enjolras’s hand and hip perhaps a moment too long, and Enjolras cleared his throat. “Are we almost ready to begin?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

Grantaire stepped away from him, and Enjolras flinched at the sudden loss of heat. “As ready as I suppose we will ever be,” Grantaire said, picking up his own sword and mirroring Enjolras’s stance a few paces away.

For one long moment, they both just looked at each other, and Enjolras wondered how they would look to any who happened to pass by. “What happens now?” he asked.

Grantaire grinned. “Now, we fight.”

Without warning, he moved rapidly, so quickly that Enjolras barely had time to raise his sword before Grantaire brought his whistling down to meet Enjolras’s with a loud clang. The clash sent vibrations up Enjolras’s arm, but he had no time to recover before Grantaire aimed a slash at his side.

He managed to avoid the blow, and danced out of reach of the next thrust, even managing to aim a swipe of his own at Grantaire’s arm. But his blade did not connect, and he was so surprised that he did not have time to parry Grantaire’s next swing from his other side. The dulled sabre caught him on his shoulder, a sudden, stinging blow that was almost certain to leave a bruise. “Ow,” he winced, though in truth his pride suffered the greater injury than had his shoulder.

Grantaire retreated as quickly as he had started, still grinning. He didn’t look like he had even broken a sweat, where Enjolras’s hair was all but plastered to his forehead. “Good,” Grantaire said, raising his sword again. “This time, faster.”

Enjolras barely had time to impatiently brush his hair out of his eyes when Grantaire lunged again. True to his word, the blows came faster this time, Grantaire’s sword reduced to a blur as he swung at Enjolras from seemingly all sides. Enjolras managed to parry the first several attacks, but he was tiring quickly, and a sudden upward swing from Grantaire caused Enjolras’s sword to clatter out of his hand.

Enjolras immediately knelt to pick it up, but before he could even reach the sword, Grantaire’s blade was at his throat. Enjolras stared down at the metal, barely a breath away from his bare skin, and he swallowed as Grantaire took a step closer. 

But Grantaire merely used the tip of his sword blade to tilt Enjolras’s chin up so that their eyes met, the move surprisingly gentle given the ferocity of his earlier attacks. “If there was a real fight, you would be dead,” Grantaire told him.

“Then I suppose I am glad this was not a real fight,” Enjolras managed, panting as he stared up at Grantaire, who grinned.

“I suppose not,” he agreed, finally flicking his sword away from Enjolras’s throat before bending to offer Enjolras his hand to help him to his feet.

Enjolras let Grantaire pull him to his feet and winced as he rolled his shoulders and prodded at his arm, which had already begun to swell where Grantaire had hit him. “At least Joly did not lie in his estimation of your skill.”

To his surprise, Grantaire barked a laugh. “Oh, about that…” he started, pouring himself a cup of wine. “I’m afraid that Joly sold you a pack of lies.”

Enjolras’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I have no more skill with a blade than any of our number,” Grantaire told him cheerfully, lifting his cup in a mock toast. “My speciality is in foot-fencing, which involves no fencing or blades of any kind.”

“Oh.”

“Oh,” Grantaire agreed, watching him closely.

Enjolras opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t seem to find any words. He settled for telling Grantaire, a little desperately, “But you were so good.”

Grantaire arched an eyebrow. “Was I? Or was I merely better than you?”

Enjolras felt like Grantaire had hit him in the stomach instead of the arm. He had gone to him to ask a favor, and this was how Grantaire repaid his trust? By making a mockery of his request? “And why, may I ask, did you need to make a fool of me this way?” he asked stiffly.

Grantaire shrugged. “I saw an opportunity for amusement, and I took it,” he said easily. “And now I have an excellent story to share with any of our comrades who might ask.”

A muscle worked in Enjolras’s cheek. “Then I sincerely hope that you have received what you were looking for,” he said icily. “I suppose the fault is mine for ever believing you were capable of sincerity.”

For a brief moment, Grantaire looked stricken, but Enjolras did not wait for whatever platitudes he might offer, instead turning on heel and storming off, his pride again hurting far worse than any of the physical aches he now bore.

He had barely gotten a half dozen steps outside when a thought struck him, and he paused in his step, debating whether it would do any good to ask further. But curiosity got the better of him, and he doubled back, surprising Grantaire so much when he threw the door open that the man slopped half his cup of wine on himself. “Tell me again, why put me through this charade?”

Grantaire shook his head, trying in vain to blot the wine that stained his shirt. “I told you, I saw an opportunity—”

Enjolras shook his head. “I do not believe that.”

“Whyever not?” Grantaire asked, giving up on the wine stain and instead crossing to refill his cup.

“If your goal was simply to embarrass me, you would’ve ensured we had an audience, not gone out of your way to ensure we would be alone,” Enjolras pointed out. “Besides, you are not generally so malicious.”

“Maybe not,” Grantaire agreed. He suddenly grabbed his sword from where he had set it on the table and whirled so that it was again pointed at Enjolras’s throat. “Or maybe I just like the way you look at the end of my sword.”

Enjolras smiled, just lightly. “Now that I do believe.” He sidestepped away from Grantaire’s sword. “But as this is twice now that you could have killed me and did not, I also believe you owe me some honesty.” He leveled an even look at Grantaire. “Why go along with the charade?”

Grantaire’s shoulders slumped, and he lowered his sword with a sigh. “Because if I said no, you would find a different teacher,” he said tiredly.

“One who might actually possess the skills I sought to learn,” Enjolras said sourly.

But Grantaire shook his head. “No,” he said, a little sadly. “One who might teach you that which I could not bring myself to.”

Enjolras frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you did not wish to learn to fence. You wished to learn how to kill with a blade.”

Grantaire delivered the words flatly, and Enjolras was momentarily taken aback by his tone. “Yes,” he said, seeing no point now in denying it. 

Grantaire’s expression tightened. “And that is something I could not willingly bring myself to let you learn.” He paused and snorted. “Of course, when I saw how ill-equipped you were to fight with a blade, it seemed less important to let the charade continue. Not even a trained swordsman could get you up to snuff.”

Enjolras was temporarily stung by Grantaire’s harsh – if undoubtedly true – assessment of his skill, but he refused to allow himself to be distracted. “But why were you not willing to let me learn?” he demanded. “Do you think I will be better protected if I am left defenseless when I have used my last shot?”

Grantaire traded his sword for his cup of wine and took a swig before answering, uncharacteristically quiet, “No.”

“So you do not think it would be valuable for me to learn to swing a blade?” 

“I think it would be valuable for you to learn to enjoy drinking wine and taking someone to your bed, but you’ve never much cared what I think,” Grantaire said.

Enjolras felt himself flush but was undeterred. “Perhaps not. But you’re deflecting.”

Grantaire drained his cup and set it down harder than he likely intended, the sound of the metal against the wooden table echoing the sound of Enjolras’s sword clattering from his hand earlier. “I learned long ago that you will not keep your body out of harm’s way when the time comes,” he said, his voice low. “Forgive me for thinking that I might do my part to protect your soul.”

Enjolras stared at him. “What does any og this have to do with my soul?” he asked slowly.

Grantaire just arched an eyebrow. “I suppose it is for every man to decide whether taking another’s life tarnishes his soul,” he mused before his expression hardened. “But whatever blood ends up on your hands, I will have no part in teaching you a more efficient way of putting it there.”

Finally, Enjolras understood, and he felt as though the floor had shifted underneath him. For Grantaire to think even about, let alone care so much about the state of his soul and what damage he might do to it in whatever battle was to come… 

He was not often at a loss for words, but invariably, it was always Grantaire who put him there, who made him feel unsteady when he would rather be sure-footed, but this time, it was not by his usual mockery that Grantaire had so unmoored him. This was as close as Enjolras had ever been to witnessing Grantaire caring for him, and the glimpse, even in these most unusual of circumstances, was almost more than Enjolras could bear.

So much so that he could do only what Grantaire normally did when confronted with that which he would rather not face: deflect. “I did not think you believed in souls,” he said, aiming for levity and missing by a mile.

Grantaire shrugged. “I don’t.”

And yet the man who professed no belief save in his full glass had dragged himself from his apartment in the dead of night to spar with him if just delay him for that much longer from learning another way to kill a man.

Say what you would about Grantaire, and Enjolras had certainly spared no words over the years, but he was certainly dedicated.

Enjolras only wished that his dedication was to something far less human and fallible.

Grantaire headed toward the door, clearly not waiting for whatever judgment Enjolras might pass on him, but he nonetheless paused when Enjolras called after him, “We are not yet done.”

“What more is there to discuss?” Grantaire asked without turning. “There is nothing that I can teach you.”

“Maybe not,” Enjolras said and Grantaire turned, his expression wary. Enjolras sighed. “As you have said, there is little chance at me becoming so proficient with a blade that I would yet do any real damage. And if you truly seek to protect me, whether in body or in soul, will you not at least help me learn to defend myself, should the time come?” Grantaire still didn’t look convinced and Enjolras pressed, “I am certain that you can at least help me to keep myself alive.”

Grantaire’s expression was unreadable. “Would that I could,” he murmured, so low that Enjolras could barely hear him.

Enjolras picked the sword up from where Grantaire had dropped it and turned it to offer it to him hilt-first. “Please, Grantaire,” he said quietly.

Grantaire took the sword reluctantly. “Why would you not just get a proper teacher?” he asked. “Why would you continue to put yourself through this, and with me of all people?”

“Because I trust you, of all people,” Enjolras told him. He wasn’t sure that he had ever believed the words as much as he did now. “Because perhaps you are correct, and I have put too much stock in death and not enough in defense. And…” He hesitated. “Perhaps just because I would like the chance to see what you look like at the end of my blade.”

Grantaire bowed his head for a long moment, and Enjolras realized that he was holding his breath, waiting for his answer. “Flattery will get you everywhere,” Grantaire said finally, but he was smiling again, a small, slightly cocky smile, and Enjolras released the breath he had been holding in relief. “But do be warned – I may not have much skill, but I will not make this easy for you.”

Enjolras smiled as well. “I would expect nothing less.”

#enjolras #grantaire #exr #enjolras x grantaire #enjoltaire #joly #bossuet #les miserables #fanfiction #les mis spfc 2021 #look i just wanted to write grantaire tipping Enjolras's chin up with a sword #and truly who cares how convoluted the premise is if it gets us that #canon era #developing relationship #mostly fluff #or at least mostly light #but like it's canon era so there's always angst in the distance....

[damnfinecupocoffee]

♦ Enjolras and Grantaire either just before the barricade or modern wedding or post death

send me a prompt and I’ll write you a drabble 

♦: Slow dancing

(a/n: I’m....s o r r y)

The sound of cutlery and porcelain clinking still echoed through the gardens of Musee Rodin as Enjolras leant over to Grantaire beside him, planting a kiss on his cheek. The light was dying beyond the trees and the rooftops, the strings of lights roped between the trees dancing like fireflies above them in the light wind. With the speeches over and the cake cut, Enjolras could finally relax; there was nothing left that was expected of them. 

Grantaire was scraping the last of the cake icing off the tiny decorative plate in front of him with his finger. Enjolras couldn’t help but smile as he looked at him, all dressed up and looking so handsome in his wedding suit, his curls tamed for once. His jacket was already discarded on the back of his chair but he was still wearing the jewel green waistcoat and gold tie Enjolras had picked out with him; one of his best looks, even if Enjolras still preferred the sight of him in the morning in nothing but pajama bottoms with stubble on his jaw.

Looking up as he sucked the icing innocently off his finger, Grantaire’s face broke into a smile so loving and full of joy that Enjolras felt a swell of emotion building behind his eyes, almost enough to make him cry. 

It had taken them so long to get here, but it was worth every troubled step of their relationship for tonight. For this commitment. For Enjolras’ ring on Grantaire’s finger. For forever. June 5th, 2019 would go down in history as the anniversary of his wedding to the most wonderful man in Paris.

“Stop that,” Enjolras murmured, command betrayed by his own smile.

Grantaire quirked an eyebrow, tongue swirling around his finger. “Stop what?”

“You know what you’re doing.”

As soon as the finger left Grantaire’s mouth, Enjolras stole a kiss. It felt so good to have it returned in ernest; the lead up to the wedding had been stressful, the cause of more arguments than the last year of their relationship combined. They’d almost called it off twice - always apologizing profusely in the morning, taking back all the nasty things they’d both said - and shared more tears than such a happy occasion should have justified.

But they’d made it, and Enjolras loved him more than ever.

“We should be dancing right about now,” Grantaire chuckled, keeping his voice low as though he were keeping some secret from the people around them. To Grantaire’s left sat his sister, Jehan and Feuilly, discussing the flower arrangements adorning the table. To Enjolras’ right, Combeferre, Courf and his grandfather, engaged in some deep discussion Enjolras hadn’t been following. It didn’t matter what they heard, but Enjolras enjoyed the secretiveness of it all the same.

“Lead the way then,” he said, standing and offering his arm.

Navigating the tables, they made their way to the dance floor, laid out at one in the middle of the lawn under the trees. The guests began to fall quiet table by table as they noticed the two of them standing there, the wedding band strumming the first bars of the song they’d chosen months and months ago for this exact moment.

“Everyone’s looking at us, you know.”

“Funny that,” Enjolras teased. He glanced around him, overcome with pride and joy at the sight of all their friends and loved ones watching them. Watching the two of them starting their lives anew, as one.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire said, just audible above the music. “Take my hand.”

“What?”

“I said, take my hand.”

“Grantaire, you’re drunk.”

Grantaire offered out his hand once more, thinking how angelic Enjolras looked in that moment, the last rays of the sun passing through the rain clouds that gathered above Paris, streaming through the window of the Musain and crowning him in fire.

Tomorrow was Lamarque’s funeral. June 5th. Grantaire had no intention joining the revolutionaries at their post, although he knew if Enjolras were to ask him again right now, alone in the back room of the café, he would likely follow him anywhere. He hated the thought of brandishing a sword or a carbine, but for their leader in red, he might just do it.

“Not as drunk as you’d imagine. Take my hand so I can dance with you.”

Enjolras watched him for a long moment, expression a mixture of confusion and consideration. “And why, exactly, would I want to do that?”

“Can I stay like this with you forever?” Enjolras asked, pressing his hand into Grantaire’s and pulling him close until their bodies were flush.

“That’s the idea,” Grantaire said, one hand settling on Enjolras’ shoulder, the other tight around his waist. “Hey, I thought we agreed that I was going to lead?”

“You can lead when you grow four inches.”

Swaying gently, Enjolras leaned in, laughing to himself at Grantaire’s scowl. He moved them across the floor, feeling the music as much as he heard it, lost in the sensation of Grantaire pressed against him and the warmth of the summer air catching in his hair. It was such a perfect night, had been such a perfect day. He couldn’t imagine a time now when he hadn’t loved Grantaire, when they hadn’t been together. 

It felt as though they’d known each other for a thousand years.

Grantaire reached out and took Enjolras’ hand, laughing gaily as he pulled him closer.

“It’s enjoyable,” he said. “Besides, there is no one else around, they’ve all gone home to their beds. What have you got to lose? Not your dignity, for sure.”

Enjolras glared at their clasped hands, although he made no move to pull away.

“I did not give you permission.”

“My apologies, Apollo. Allow me this?” Another hand sat politely on Enjolras’ waist. “We both know what tomorrow brings. I may never get the chance again.”

Still Enjolras didn’t pull away.

“There is no music.”

“Who needs music to dance? I can hear the music of our souls. The beat of the drums of change. Can’t you?”

“You mock.” 

Despite his protests, Enjolras allowed Grantaire to move him, fumbling slightly with his steps. Grantaire knew his lack of interest in romance, but he was sure a family like Enjolras’ would have taught him at least to dance. Not that it mattered at all. He could lead, and no matter what happened tomorrow, he would always have tonight.

Grantaire let Enjolras spin him, although slowly. They’d briefly discussed the idea of a choreographed dance, something that showcased of Grantaire’s talents and made for a better wedding video, but the idea hadn’t made it as far as dance lessons. The two times Grantaire had tried to teach Enjolras a few steps at home had been an utter disaster - he must’ve been born with two left feet. Despite the beliefs of so many of his friends, Enjolras was such a mess.

And somehow, Grantaire loved him still.

“Why does this matter to you?”

Grantaire had dreaded a question like this, but he supposed in the light of all to come his answer did not truly matter. He held no hopes tomorrow would turn out well for any of his friends. What was the truth in the face of death? The world could not hold it against him now.

“Let me ask you something Enjolras, why do you think it matters to me?”

“I couldn’t say. You care not for my values, my beliefs-”

“Wrong. You know I believe in you.”

It was easier to talk peacefully, almost in one another’s embrace. He would hold his cynical tongue to keep this precious thing going.

“Is that why you wish to dance? Do you mean it when you say I’ve made you a believer?” There was something different in Enjolras’ voice now, an honesty that spoke more than just his words. “Or is this a drunken fool's fancy? The truth, if you will.”

Drunken, maybe. The dust stirred up off the café floor as they moved across it. Enjolras couldn’t meet his steps but Grantaire kept their motions slow, sweeping between the tables and chairs and laughing as they bumped against them from time to time.

But it was certainly not a fool’s fancy. Enjolras was asking for the truth and so he should share it. He could never deny Enjolras anything he asked for, after all.

They stopped, and Grantaire found himself closer, so close that he could lean in and claim what he wanted. 

“Enjolras, I-”

“I love you. I love you so much my chest hurts,” Grantaire said, pulling back as the last bars of the song played out. His eyes shimmered slightly, his bottom lip trembling. “Thank you so much.”

Enjolras couldn’t help laughing. Just a little. “Thank you?”

“For marrying me. You’ve made me the happiest fool in the entire world.”

Resting their foreheads together, Enjolras let out a long breath he hadn’t realised he was holding in. “I asked you, idiot. I should be the one thanking you.”

He hadn’t even noticed the other couples joining them on the dance floor, not until Marius swung past him with Cosette as she yelled out to them how sweet they looked. 

Grantaire’s eyes closed, his hand slipping from Enjolras’ shoulder and wrapping around his waist until he had him in a tight embrace. “Getting to be with you for the rest of our lives is all the thanks I need.”“I love you too,” Enjolras whispered at last. He tipped Grantaire’s chin and caught him in another kiss, as deep as he was willing to share in front of their guests. They’d stilled, and although the dance floor was alive with movement it felt as if the whole garden was empty but for them.

This was it, their happy ever after. 

He hoped they’d gotten to share it in every lifetime.

Footsteps on the stairs tore them apart, Enjolras pulling away fast, although Grantaire could swear he had been leaning in moments before. 

His heart tore in two with the sudden motion.

Enjolras’ fingers lingered in his for just a second, but his hand snapped to his side as Combeferre reached the top of the staircase and beckoned him down to inspect the provisions they’d gathered for the barricade they were all anticipating tomorrow.

“I’ll be right down,” Enjolras said with a nod. As Combeferre disappeared back down the stairs, he made to move to them.

Grantaire wanted to reach out and stop him. Finish what he was saying. What he swore they were doing. Oh, to dance again one more time... but he did nothing. Nothing was all he ever did.

Enjolras paused at the top of the staircase and glanced over to him. 

“I still want the truth,” he said, half a smile reaching his lips but fading just as fast. “Tell me on the other side of this, won’t you?”

“Anything you ask, as ever.”

“Good.”

He took two steps down and stopped again, one hand on the railing. “I would not ask anyone to lay down their life for something they did not believe in. I do not expect it of you. Bare that in mind tomorrow, my friend.”

With that, he disappeared downstairs. Grantaire’s heart shrivelled further, a hole left in his ribcage where it used to beat. Tomorrow. If they survived this, he would tell Enjolras what he wanted to know, no matter the consequence. It was time to be done with this, one way or another.

“I’ll be there,” he whispered to the empty room. “You’ll see.”

#exr #enjoltaire #exr fic #enjolras #grantaire #canon era #modern au #i'M SO SORRY #also it's REALLY long again so apparently drabbles just don't work for me #huh? #not actually sorry at all though #suffer with me to days gone by #Anonymous