#also i have a lot of fun imagining royalists as the evil king louis philippe's minions

[somuchbetterthanthat]

Enjolras/Grantaire + superheroes?

Superheroes you say. Yes, I reply. IN CANON-ERA. This turned super long and I don’t know what happened?? I have zero idea if this is good, but it is written. Anyway, “in which R is the Damsel in distress, except he does not really get the hero at all.” 

Grantaire had never cared much for the Middle-Ages; between an Arthur and an Achilles, he always picked Achilles; the Greek had known their heroes’s flaws, had embraced them fully without taking away their brightness, whereas Middle Ages’s literature had already been too drenched into Catholicism, and every character was too clean and too moral (or, if not, immediately punished) to hold his interest fully. Perhaps this was why, as he rested much too near from Enjolras’s chest, still breathing hard from the unexpected attack, that he felt the need to say: 

“I cannot allow this any longer; Soon I will find myself in one of those old castles, waiting for something or somehow to come, frozen in a painting as I watch sadly at a window: I refuse to be a Guenièvre, or indeed any of those good moral women who never did anything except being loved and saved. Ah! The plight of women: suddenly I understand them all - If there was ever a time I envied them, I am biting my tongue today, humiliation has taken over being impressed; besides, if truly we must, am I not rather a Lancelot? Though I supposed I’d make a poor one, staring at Arthur rather than Guenièvre…”

Enjolras, who was still moving from roof to roof, his face stern and determined and as beautiful as ever, did not seem to hear, which Grantaire was quite thankful for - or perhaps he was ignoring him, which was also very probable. Grantaire mourned for the glass of wine he’d left on the table before everything went wrong. He couldn’t have guessed that he was drinking with Royalists, really, but perhaps he should have: no Republican seemed to have any good taste in wine in Paris, which was the real Tragedy of politics, if you asked him. 

Of course, most people had stopped asking at all, which wasn’t a thought Grantaire fancied to linger on. He was quite relieved when Enjolras finally stopped, and, very carefully, put Grantaire down, though he still peered at the street under them, doubtful. 

“Are we to hide on the roof for the night?” he asked.

Enjolras did not answer; he was staring at a point far ahead of them, frowning lightly. Grantaire thought he might be speaking with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, and knowing how long this could take - for, really, this situation happened much too regularly now - he sat on the roof, quite happy that the fear of heights wasn’t one of his lackings, and casted a glance at Enjolras. 

People always talked about Enjolras’s hair first, when they spotted him - They talked of how brightly they shined, how soft they looked, and Grantaire could see why they were fascinated, had dreamt a few times, perfectly innocently, of carding his fingers though the curls running down Enjolras’s perfect cheekbones and past his shoulders. But people who stopped at that had no idea who was Enjolras; they merely saw the hero, and barely even that: Grantaire was always moved by the way Enjolras hold himself, tall and assured, the way his eyes turn warm as soon as someone he loved was in a room, or how they shined as he talked of fighting Paris’s evil, below and above. 

He could have written poetry, if he had been any good at it, or sentimental enough, on what Paris’s hero truly was: someone who believed that fighting crimes meant finding the man who had just stolen bread to save his family, and offer to pay the baker, and help him financially, through the ABC’s connections. Someone who used violence as little as possible, and hated every moment of it, no matter how necessary he felt it was. Someone who had decided that the real enemy of Paris wasn’t the criminals roaming the street, but the King and his court, who had let evil pester in the lowers districts by doing nothing to help France’s people. Someone to admire; Someone to love.

But Grantaire was not sentimental, and quickly blinked his thoughts away when Enjolras turned to look at him at last. 

“Courfeyrac is under the impression that you were lured into this café because they knew I would follow you there once I understood the trouble you were getting in.”

“I fear nothing of Royalists, except perhaps their habits of forgetting to pay a glass to a comrade,” said Grantaire, crossing his arms. “No matter what you think, Enjolras, and despite my obvious lack of God’s gifts like most of you all, I do know how to defend myself; imagine the disappointed faces of those poor lads, If ever you had realized that and had went to help a poor soul instead of appearing like Michael in that room, ready to pass a judgement for a crime to even yet committed! They might have tried to get over their disappointment with me; well, thankfully, I’m not half bad at fighting, and a chair can be easily turned into a baton - which, you know…”

“It is not your personal surety that makes me come each time you end up in a situation like this,” Enjolras cut him, neither warm nor cold. “I have seen you fight; but I’ve also heard you speak, and that’s more of a worry, for it might be a danger to us all.”

The underlying words - I do not trust you Grantaire - hit Grantaire like a slap; he flinched, and was thankful for the lack of stars that night: Enjolras’s hair illuminated merely his face, and not much else. 

“A year of knowing each other!” he said, and he’d tried to be light, but perhaps he had drank too much, and it only came soft. “A year, and yet you don’t know I value this somehow more than I value anything -”

“I hear you,” said Enjolras, and suddenly he was almost gentle, though Grantaire wondered if it was merely pity, and he was only hearing what he wanted to hear. Enjolras moved, and sat slowly next to Grantaire, staring at him intensely. “I do not believe you would betray any of us willingly; if there is one thing we share, it’s love for our friends, and I know that. But the drink, Grantaire, makes you honest; probably more honest than you’d like, considering the length you go to never speak your thoughts most times.”

Pity, Grantaire decided, and looked away from Enjolras, only to come back to him a moment later, as Enjolras lay a firm hand upon his. Enjolras’s fingers were cold, but Grantaire immediately felt much too warm. 

“If it were merely your words, I wouldn’t worry as much,” Enjolras continued. “I know for a fact it’s quite hard to see the true sentiments behind your speeches. But we’ve heard a few months ago that the Royalists had finally trained their psychics; most don’t care for the ethics that come with their gifts, on the contrary.”

Well, thought Grantaire, loudly enough that Enjolras would hear no matter how careful he was with his telepathy, what is there to add to that?  

“For better or for worst, you are part of our family,” said Enjolras, out loud. “And with that comes responsibilities; I don’t ask for much, apart that you start being more careful about whose people you choose to drink with next time.” When Grantaire stayed quiet, he frowned, and rose up, still holding Grantaire’s hand, which forced Grantaire to follow. “Let’s go down,” he murmured in Grantaire’s mind.  

Once they were in the street, Grantaire tried to think of something to say, but Enjolras was faster. He let go of Grantaire’s hand, nodded, and told him: “We’re near le Musain. I trust you know how to come home, now.” and after one last look, he was gone, disappearing much too quickly into one of Paris’s little alleys. 

Grantaire stood there, a sour taste at the back of his throat, his heart lacking something now that Enjolras was out of sight, and his mind annoyed for it, incapable of deciding what to do, until he heard a whisper, firm and gentle at once, right against his ear; 

“You are neither a Guenièvre nor a Lancelot; I trust you to know enough Greek characters to find a better example to follow in their midst. Go home, Grantaire. Sleep well.” 

#enjolras #grantaire #otp: light and shadow #what enjolras was trying to say really is that grantaire's feelings for him and their friends is a very very big red spot in his mind #for psychics #also i have a lot of fun imagining royalists as the evil king louis philippe's minions #and indeed louis philippe as a Comic Villain #also i just want them to kiss now i feel sad for grantaire #you could have written it someone might say #why yes i could have i reply but it would have been occ they've barely known each other a year #perhaps when grantaire rises up and says vive la republique and enjolras save them and all les amis of the barricades #then they can kiss #or maybe this grantaire learns to be a revolutionary before WHO KNOWS #anyway #les amis #Les Misérables #ABC stories #anyway this is just me trying to make references to things to feel cleverTM #alas i'm the last thing of a classic or middle ages erudite you'll ever find