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weisbrot · 10 days ago

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The Radiance of the Dawn

I know it's been forever, but I couldn't let @barricadeday pass without writing at least a little something.

To that end... E/R, canon era, developing relationship, implied canonical character death.

The silence in the backroom of the Musain was punctuated solely by the scratch of Enjolras’s quill against the parchment, and the occasional dull thud as Grantaire’s bottle returned to the table between sips. It was a comfortable silence, the kind both men had borne in each other’s company more than either would likely admit.

As was usually the case this late at night, the only light came from a single, guttering candle that flickered in the light breeze that came in through the open window. Once, Grantaire might have suggested that Les Amis invest in some additional lighting sources should their Dear Leader insist upon straining his eyes in the dim light; now, he knew better than remark upon it, lest he risk Enjolras’s wrath. Again.

But even silence may only do so much to prolong the length of a wick, and without further warning, the candle spluttered out. “Last call, I take it?” Grantaire said from the sudden darkness.

Enjolras didn’t laugh, but there was still slight amusement in his voice as he sighed, “I suppose so.”

The silence of the night broken, both men gathered their things, another dance made comfortable by its familiarity. Easier than usual, also, by the faint light coming from the window, and Grantaire glanced over his shoulder as he drained the final dregs from his bottle. “Ah,” he said. “No longer can we call this another long night spent at the Musain.”

Enjolras looked out the window as well, his brow furrowed. “I don’t see—”

“Do you not?” Grantaire interrupted, giving Enjolras a small, lopsided smile. “One would think that Apollo would recognize the sun as it emerges yet again over the horizon.”

“Evidence, perhaps, that I am not Apollo,” Enjolras shot back. “Evidence, I am certain, that you shall ignore lest it ruin your metaphor.”

“I do love a metaphor,” Grantaire agreed, his smile widening. “How well you know me, to know as such.”

His words were saccharine, and Enjolras rolled his eyes. “As if you have given anyone a moment’s grace from your metaphors,” he huffed, with no real heat. “I am certain the only time you are ever truly silent is when asleep.”

“You’re welcome to accompany me to my bed to find out for yourself.”

Enjolras did not dignify that with a remark, instead leading the way down the stair, not waiting to see if Grantaire would follow.

He needn’t have, regardless, as wherever Enjolras led, Grantaire would inevitably follow.

By the time they spilled out onto the street, the sun had crept high enough in the sky to cast Paris in a golden glow, and when Enjolras turned to say something to Grantaire, he had no sooner opened his mouth than Grantaire gasped. “Wait,” he said, fumbling in his pockets, and Enjolras frowned.

“What could you possibly—” he started, exasperated, though he was cut off by Grantaire once more.

“Got it!” Grantaire said, emerging from his pockets triumphantly with a scrap of paper and a bit of charcoal.

If Enjolras was exasperated before, now he was downright baffled, and he raised both eyebrows as Grantaire pressed the paper against the nearest wall, sketching something with rapid movements. “Dare I even ask?”

“Just…stay…still,” Grantaire murmured, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth.

Enjolras, of course, was not much one for orders, and so immediately crossed to peer over Grantaire’s shoulder. “What are you—”

“Did I not tell you to stay?” Grantaire cried as he glanced over at him. “Now you’ve gone and lost the light!”

But Enjolras’s eyes were still on the half-completed sketch, something unreadable in his expression. “Is that meant to be me?”

Grantaire looked back at the drawing. “Well, it was going to be,” he muttered, a scowl darkening his expression. “Would that you had just stayed still for once so I could capture the image.” He glanced back at Enjolras, something almost hesitant in his expression. “It was just– the light had hit you just so, and I would have been remiss had I not tried to capture it.”

He made as if to crumple the paper but Enjolras intercepted him, smoothing the paper out against the wall once more. “It’s beautiful,” he told Grantaire, who squirmed slightly at the sincerity of his words.

“The dawn light makes even the ordinary seem beautiful,” he muttered.

Enjolras gave him a look. “Are you calling me ordinary?” he asked mildly, and when Grantaire just spluttered indignantly, he gave him a sharp smirk. “That is what I thought.”

“Well,” Grantaire huffed, taking the paper back from Enjolras, and this time folding it carefully before he slipped it back into his pocket, “if my own words are to be so taken out of context…”

He trailed off and Enjolras just shook his head affectionately. “Something that certainly no one has ever done to me,” he said pointedly. “But it is a fair likeness, and far more generous than I deserve. Thank you.”

Grantaire ducked his head. “Your praise is misplaced, but thank you nonetheless.”

“Of course,” Enjolras continued, with his never ceasing need for the final word, “if only your dedication to your craft could be matched by the dedication to our Cause.”

It was an old argument, of course, and Grantaire’s eye roll in response was practically de rigueur. “Firstly, if you think I have any dedication to ‘my craft’ whatsoever, I daresay I would assume you had drunk almost as much wine as I. Secondly, this is in service of the Cause.”

To say Enjolras looked skeptical would be an understatement. “How so?”

Grantaire shrugged. “The dawn is a metaphor,” he said, as if it was obvious.

“A metaphor for what?” Enjolras pressed, and when Grantaire just made a face, he prodded, amused, “Grantaire?”

Grantaire scowled at him. “Let a man think for at least a moment and he’s certain to come up with something.”

Almost certainly despite himself, Enjolras managed a light laugh, and shook his head. “That is what I thought,” he said, shaking his head, and he started down the street in the direction of his home.

He had barely made it to the next door when Grantaire called after him, “The future.”

Enjolras half-turned to look back at him. “What?”

“That is for what the dawn serves as metaphor,” Grantaire told him. “The radiance of the future. A new horizon we seek to reach, and the hope that we shall some day get there.”

Enjolras’s eyes narrowed. “Is that actually what you believe?”

“Does it matter?” Grantaire countered, and Enjolras shook his head.

“I suppose that is an answer in itself, and one I should have expected.”

Grantaire grinned at him. “You do me credit that for even one moment you expected otherwise from me,” he said sweetly.

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Expected may be too strong a sentiment,” he said, something sour in his tone. “But for a moment– I suppose I hoped.”

Grantaire nodded slowly, taking a measured pace towards Enjolras. “Hope, like the dawn, is a fickle mistress, and disappears after far too brief a time,” he said evenly.

Enjolras’s lips pursed. “So says the Cynic.”

Grantaire just shrugged. “If one does not trust to hope, one will never be disappointed.”

Enjolras’s expression darkened, and he shook his head, turning away yet again. “Your drunken wit may ring like wisdom to a fool’s ears, but I’m afraid mine are not so easily affected,” he said scornfully.

But Grantaire reached out to grab his arm, holding him in place. “Enjolras—” he started, and Enjolras looked back at him.

“What?”

Grantaire wet his lips almost nervously. “Hope lies beyond my reach, but belief may yet be within my grasp.”

Enjolras’s expression didn’t flicker. “Belief in your full glass, as you’ve long proclaimed.”

“Yes,” Grantaire said, “but belief also in the dawn.”

Enjolras’s eyes met his evenly. “In the future?”

Grantaire jerked a shrug. “Or at least that the dawn shall come again on the morrow.”

It was the wrong thing to say, and Enjolras just sighed, disappointment and disapproval clear on every plane of his face, lit still by the early light of day. “So you believe in certainty,” he said dismissively. “That which requires no faith.”

But Grantaire just took a step closer to him, his grip on Enjolras’s arm loosening, turning almost reverent. “And belief in one more thing,” he said, something almost hesitant in the words. “One that requires faith most of all.”

“What?” Enjolras asked, the word no more than a single breath for how it hung between them.

In answer, Grantaire closed the space between them and pressed his lips against Enjolras’s.

Enjolras did not return the kiss, did not lean into Grantaire’s touch or open his lips against Grantaire’s. He did not lace their fingers together, did not press his body against Grantaire’s, did not trace a gentle finger across Grantaire’s dark stubble or cup the back of Grantaire’s head.

And yet, he did not pull away.

Instead, it was only when Grantaire pulled back, his nose just brushing against Enjolras’s, that Enjolras finally sighed, a rebuke, perhaps, or a plea, “Grantaire…”

“Tell me I am wrong to believe,” Grantaire murmured.

But Enjolras just shook his head. “I cannot give you what you seek.”

“I seek nothing that cannot be found at the bottom of my glass,” Grantaire told him, hesitating before adding, “And to perhaps one day be worthy to kiss your lips once more.”

Enjolras swallowed, and ducked his head, but again he made no effort to push him away, even as he ordered, his voice low, “Go home, Grantaire.”

It was only then that Grantaire finally released his grip on Enjolras, his hand trailing down Enjolras’s arm to brush against his hand. “Goodnight, Enjolras,” he said, matching his pitch. “Or should I say, good morning.”

He squeezed Enjolras’s hand just once before finally letting go, and it was Grantaire who finally turned to walk away, leaving Enjolras standing in the street, the dawn light casting his indecision in shades of gold.

— — — — —

The dawn lit Enjolras from behind, casting him in a halo of defiance as he stared down the National Guard.

This time, the indecision was solely theirs as they exchanged hesitant glances, until—

“Long live the Republic! I am one of them.”

Grantaire emerged into the light, the dawn seeming to illuminate a fire within him, a fire not even Enjolras had ever dared to hope might kindle. Too late, perhaps, but as Grantaire declared, “Finish us both with one blow,” Enjolras knew that at the least, his hope had not been misplaced.

There was no further need for metaphor as Grantaire took his place at Enjolras’s side, belief made tangible, both men wrapped in the promise of the dawn and the ironclad certainty that while neither would see it, the sun would rise again the next day on a future which belonged now solely to their dreams.

#ouchie ouchie ouchieeeee owewow #kjack my beloved!!!! why do you hurt us thus? 💛 thank you for wrenching my heart out of my chest i guess aaaahhhh #les miserables #les mis #exr #enjolras #grantaire #writing #barricade day #i'll think about this for the next few weeks at least and let the words marinade into more hurt ahah #blessed to read your work 💛💛

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