#also hope yall enjoy my victor hugo levels of subtle foreshadowing

[williamvapespeare]

77 for exr, OR 18 with whatever ship you prefer :D have a safe trip!!

77. “There is nothingwrong with you.”

i’m sorry this took me forever!! i’ve written a bunch of hardcore angst recently so i tried to write some - hopefully successful - canon era flirting. i hope you like it! (and i did have a safe trip, thanks lol)

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The sun is low in thesky, sitting softly on the horizon as if it’s waiting for some cue to vanishcompletely. There’s laughter in the air around him, an early spring breeze, andjust enough alcohol in his system to take the edge off living. It’s the kind oflate afternoon-turned evening that makes most people notice they’re alive againfor the first time in months, but Grantaire has never been most people.

He’s spent the afternoon outside, wandering.He’s finally stopped at a café for the evening and taken up residence at one ofthe tables outside, watching as people in the streets stop and look up at the fadingblue of the sky between buildings, look around at each other and smile withsomething like surprise. He’s leaning back in his chair, one foot proppedagainst a leg of the table in front of him, a half full glass in hand.

He looks, to all theworld, like he is simply out, enjoying the last of the unexpected sun, a fronthe is happy to put up, in an attempt to hide the way his mind is running incircles. He is so consumed with the façade, in fact, that he almost doesn’t noticewhen someone peels off from the anonymous lull of people around him andapproaches his table.  

“Grantaire, do you have amoment?” He tries not to let his surprise show on his face as he leans forward andinclines his head slightly.

“Enjolras.” Enjolras soundsso formal, stiff and slightly awkward as he hovers at Grantaire’s shoulder,that Grantaire can’t help but mimic his tone. “I was just,” he glances at thehalf empty bottle in front of him, “I’m sure it’s perfectly clear what I wasdoing. Have you come to join me?”

He half intends it to bea joke. He expects Enjolras to roll his eyes or for the lines of his foreheadto show some small sign of exasperation, but instead he nods.

Never quite one to bedrawn in by fashion, Enjolras has taken off his jacket in the day’s unexpectedheat. It’s draped over his arm, covering a stack of papers and he deposits bothcarefully onto the table as he pulls out an empty chair and sits down.

His sleeves are rolled upto the elbows and as his hands come to rest on the arms of his chair, Grantairenotices flecks of ink on his fingers. Up close, his arms look stronger thanthey should, for someone who spends so much of his time reading and writing. Thoughthat’s not the only thing he does, Grantaire knows. For a moment, he imaginesblood running through those ink stained fingers, up his arms to stain the whiteof his sleeves, pooling crimson around blond curls.

He blinks the thoughtaway, lifts his glass in Enjolras’s direction in a sort of salute, unsure howto proceed.

“Was there something youwanted?”

Enjolras glances at him.

“I haven’t seen much ofyou lately. At meetings or,” He pauses, his expression hesitant, “anywhereelse.”

“Were you worried aboutme?” Grantaire raises an eyebrow in something like disbelief.

“Despite myself, I findthat I do miss your contributions.”

Grantaire takes a drink, hopeshis surprise isn’t as evident on his face as he feels. He means to backtrack,knows that at any other time, he would say something that made Enjolras shakehis head, make him back away from the possibility of anything resemblingintimacy between them.

Intimacy, he knows, requiresa degree of sincerity that he tries his best to stay clear of. On Enjolras, itis beautiful, alight with all his passion, all the depth of his love. But onGrantaire, sincerity is ugly and raw, a bit too much like despair for him to domuch of anything but drown it in the bottom of a bottle, which is why hisresponse catches even himself off-guard.  

“This time of year alwaysworries me. It feels wrong.” Grantaire laughs, struck by a bitterness that hasnothing to do with the wine. “I don’t know how you stand me, Enjolras. Thechanging of seasons is nothing compared to the changing of my moods.” He looksaway. “I suppose the answer is that you don’t stand me at all. Not that I blameyou.”

And Enjolras hasn’t, itseems, until now.

He feels Enjolras’s eyeson him, burning with a quiet intensity that he knows well enough to imagine inalmost perfect detail.

“There is nothing wrongwith you.” Enjolras says finally, unexpectedly. Grantaire looks back at him insurprise. “To be weary of change, of seasons, it’s natural I think. They play abigger role than any of us can know. The faster time passes, the less of it wehave.” Enjolras’s hand lands lightly on his shoulder, perhaps in an attempt toput him at ease, but if anything, it makes his heart race even faster. He says,almost matter-of-factly, as if it explains away any further uncertainty on thesubject: “It’s almost summer.”

“I’ve never known you towax poetical about the philosophies of time.” Grantaire says, coking his headsideways in confusion, or whatever the name is for the vague but insistentfeeling of desperateness that comes over him whenever Enjolras is close, thetightening in his chest at the mention of summer.

Enjolras blushes, light colorsoftening the sharp lines of his cheekbones. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

He’s never seen Enjolrasblush before, doesn’t think he’s ever been comfortable enough around him to lethis guard down like this, and he bites back a smile when he sees it.

“I wouldn’t be too sureof that,” his tone light and teasing in a way he hopes Enjolras won’t misconstrueor take offense with, “Spend enough time around me and I’ll make a philosopherout of you yet. After all, even Diogenes had an Plato to balance out hiswoes.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes, “Youthink too little of yourself,” he says. “You may not believe in the plights ofmen, but at least you can distinguish them from birds.”

Grantaire laughs then, genuineand amused. Enjolras laughs too, quietly, as if it is an amusement meant for justthe two of them. His hand has left its place on Grantaire’s shoulder,and for a moment, it comes back to rest lightly against his wrist, a thumbbrushing over Grantaire’s heavy pulse.

And Grantaire thinks thatthe warmth spreading in his chest has nothing to do with the spring day or thefuzziness of wine beginning to steep into his brain. Enjolras is still talkingto him, his attention fixed on Grantaire, one hand gesturing into the air inthe approximation of some grand indefinable ideal.

As the last light of theafternoon fades, someone comes by and lights a candle at their table and the flickeringlight turns Enjolras’s hair a shade closer to gold, a flame in the darknessthat, despite all his fears, has yet to be extinguished.

Grantaire thinks that perhaps, spring is not so bad after all.