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Chapter Text

"You're taking this surprisingly well," Combeferre said cautiously, sitting down on the edge of Enjolras's hospital bed.

Enjolras snorted. "You weren't here earlier." He hadn't taken it well at all. Five years of his life, gone. He hadn't believed it, at first; had been less than gracious about being faced with proof.

He felt calmer about it now, or maybe only numb. At least he hadn't wasted those years, he kept telling himself. Courfeyrac had filled him in as well as he could on the things that had happened in the time he'd lost, but of course that had still left enormous gaps. Five years! At least the Amis still worked together, and they'd accomplished things. That was what mattered, right? He himself was steadily working his way through law school at the projected pace, and it seemed he was even a little ahead of schedule in getting himself established in local politics.

Finding himself unexpectedly arrived at a destination he'd already been working towards was, he suspected, vastly easier to cope with than it would have been if his life had deviated from his plans in any major way. As far as he could tell, nothing truly surprising had happened in the years he'd lost to this strange amnesia. Well, except for the boyfriend. That had been a surprise.

"Courfeyrac told me I have a boyfriend now?" he said, and felt a sinking sensation in his stomach when the question caused Combeferre and Courfeyrac to have an entire complicated conversation involving nothing but their eyebrows.

"He's a good guy," Courfeyrac said, too quickly to be reassuring, and Enjolras was already hearing the "but" before it came. "It's just. You took a while to warm up to each other, the first time. So, uh. If you don't get along too well, at first, just… Grantaire can be kind of…" He shared another look with Combeferre, and Enjolras could read the text between those lines just fine. Great. He really would have thought that five years would be enough time to stop slipping back into his unfortunate habit of fucking argumentative dicks. Instead he was now apparently dating one.

"Do you want to meet him?" Combeferre asked tentatively. "He's been here day and night while you were unconscious, but he had to show up for work yesterday, and then when you woke up like this – he wasn't sure you'd want to see him."

"Can it wait until I get home?" Enjolras said. It felt faintly cowardly, but he felt out of his depth as it was, and if he had to meet some stranger he'd apparently been dating for a year, he'd rather do it on familiar ground than here, in a hospital gown with his ass hanging out.

"Of course," Combeferre said, after a long moment.

*******

They kept him in the hospital for five more days before letting him go. His brain would heal at its own pace, if it healed at all, they told him. There hadn't been any new bleeding since the accident. Nothing they could do for him. A very unusual case; who knew what would happen. It was enraging. A bunch of the best neurosurgeons in the country, and none of them able to do a damn thing to fix him. Still, he was glad enough to get out of there.

His place hadn't changed very much at all. Same cheap prefab kitchen furniture, now with five more years' worth of scratches and dents. His desk piled high with journals and books as usual. A couple of new photos tacked to his pinboard in between the bills and notes - his friends, mostly, a few strangers mixed in with the faces he knew. No couple pictures, nothing obviously intimate enough to tell him whether one of those unfamiliar faces belonged to the boyfriend.

His own face hadn't changed very much, either. A few faint lines around his eyes, stubble coming in a bit thicker than it used to. He looked younger than his age, still, and even five years hadn't changed that much. He was badly overdue for a haircut, he thought, frowning at his hair, which was falling in curls around his face.

He'd finally replaced the piece-of-shit couch Joly and Bossuet had picked off some curb for him, and someone had obviously helped him pick the pictures on his walls, because, despite being in a variety of styles and colors, all of them matched somehow; it gave the place a classy, deliberate look he certainly hadn't created on his own. Most of the art was high quality prints, but the one opposite his bed was an original, an abstract in a blur of red and gold.

There was an easel shoved into a corner, a bucket full of art supplies in his closet. It had to mean the boyfriend was an artist, because painting was just about the last hobby Enjolras could see himself taking up. Maybe he was the one who'd picked out the art on the walls, then.

His five year plan was still tacked up behind the desk, a lot more tattered and yellowed than it had been when Enjolras had hung it there what felt like about a month ago. There were checkmarks behind almost every item now. 2010: Publish at least one article in the IBLJ – check. 2011: Volunteer at least 100 hours – check. 04/2012: Get elected to the conseil général – check. That particular checkmark was big and bold, and looking at it now gave Enjolras the same bone-deep sense of satisfaction he must have felt when he'd put it there. No, he hadn't wasted those five years.

The plan had also grown two handwritten additions, purple ink in a stranger's spiky script. You're a fucking loon, Enjolras, it said, right next to the headline. And in between 06/2012: Start applying for Dubois & White fall internship and 08/2012: Preside at mock trials, the same stranger had squeezed in 17.5.2012: Celebrate one year anniversary with devoted boyfriend. Buy flowers!

Surprisingly, there was a checkmark next to that, too.

********

It took two hours for Enjolras to admit to himself that he was stalling.

He had Grantaire's number saved in his phone. This is Enjolras. Can you come to my place whenever you're done with work? he sent.

Two hours? he got back, and two hours later on the dot, there was a ring at the door.

Grantaire wasn't quite what he'd expected. For better or worse, Enjolras knew his own type, his tendency to fuck stubborn, belligerent guys, the way he got hot for men who'd shove back when he pushed.

Physically, he could see what must have drawn him. Grantaire had a homely face, but a nice body, and strong, wiry arms. His hair was a mess of dark curls, tousled and soft-looking. But there was nothing belligerent about him, nothing aggressive. He looked nervous, an uncertain smile tilting up a corner of his mouth.

"Hey," he said, raising a hand in greeting and then dropping it again, about as awkward as Enjolras felt.

Well, fair enough, for a guy put in the ridiculous position of having to try and make a good first impression on his own boyfriend. And he was trying, that much seemed clear. He was meticulously clean-shaven, freshly showered, his curls still faintly damp in the back, wearing tight jeans and a nice black shirt. Now that Enjolras knew his face, he recognized him from the pictures on the pinboard. But this scrubbed, neat stranger was a far cry from the scruffy boy in the background of those pictures, laughing, his face dark with stubble, lounging around in oversized hoodies and torn t-shirts.

Enjolras knew he was staring, but he couldn't quite make himself stop. Grantaire tilted his body, explicitly inviting the scrutiny. He made a gesture with both hands, a flair of the dramatic in the movement - Here I am, look your fill – but there was a faint, rueful curl to his mouth, growing more pronounced with every moment, as if he was perfectly aware that he was being judged and might be found wanting.

"Come on in," Enjolras said, finally tearing his eyes away.

"How are you doing?" Grantaire said. "After you woke up, Courfeyrac told me about…" He trailed off, giving a helpless shrug, as if at a loss as to how to describe this whole ridiculous situation.

Enjolras shrugged. "Not as bad as I could be doing, for a guy with brain damage."

Combeferre had given him a sharp look every time he described it like that, medically accurate though it was, but Grantaire just laughed.

"You're taking this really well," Grantaire said, in the same tone everyone kept saying that to him, cautious, as if he might suddenly realize that he was being entirely too calm and start screaming instead.

Enjolras shrugged. "This isn't so different from the life I remember," he said. "You know what's the strangest thing to me? This –" he gestured vaguely between the two of them. "Being in love, I guess."

"You're not in love with me," Grantaire said, laughing a little, quick, dismissive. "It figures Courfeyrac would have told it to you all wrong. We're not… we're dating, kind of, but it's really more of a casual thing." He shrugged, and then changed the subject without any attempt at subtlety. "So have you looked through your things yet? Any of it ring a bell at all?"

Enjolras didn't press. He didn't really want to try and talk about their relationship until he had a better idea of who Grantaire was, and what he was to Enjolras. There were good reasons he'd never dated. What was it about this guy that had changed his mind?

Grantaire wandered over to his desk, which was piled high with papers, his calendar open on top. Enjolras had spent the time trying to get a handle on the tasks on his schedule while he'd been waiting for Grantaire, getting more and more discouraged.

"I don't know how I'm going to do this," he said, his voice cracking, all the bottled up frustration fighting itself free at once. "I'm supposed to chair a council meeting on Friday, and none of these names mean anything to me." Politics was about connections, about knowing people and knowing how to handle them, where to apply pressure to make them budge. He couldn't lead a meeting like this, flying blind.

"Here, give me that," Grantaire said, dragging the list of councilors over. "Okay, let me think. Aguillard – forget him, he's spineless, he'll side with whoever's got the majority vote. Drives you crazy, let me tell you, but he's no real obstacle. Barthe – he's a conservative bonehead through and through. You can forget about him, too, he'll vote the opposite of whatever you do, and he won't budge. Guillot – he's an ass, but he's a competent ass. If you actually want something done, he's usually your best bet. Just don't let him get under your skin. Leclair's no trouble, he's banging his secretary on the side and he knows that you know. You've never actually threatened to blackmail him, but he's mortally afraid of getting on your bad side. Lefebre –"

"Wait," Enjolras said, staring at him. Grantaire had been running down the list of names with his finger, rattling off that entire list of facts at machine gun speed. "How do you know all this? You're not on the council."

"You talk about this stuff a lot," Grantaire said, shrugging, like it was nothing, like everyone would remember the minutiae of half a dozen minor government officials just because their boyfriend had mentioned them at some point or another. He tapped the page again, empathetic. "Lefebre's a good guy, but he gets bogged down in the details, so you'll have to –"

"Wait!" Enjolras said again, scrambling for a notebook and pen. "Okay, now. Can you go again from the start?"

******

He closed the door behind Grantaire two hours later and leaned against it, feeling vaguely shaky. That hadn't been what he'd expected; neither Grantaire himself, nor the relationship between the two of them.

He'd never bothered with dating before. There was so much to do, so much at stake all the time. He didn't have time to worry about all the petty little things that went into making relationships work. If hooking up wasn't as easy as smiling at the right kind of guy in the right kind of bar, he'd never even bother with that. He'd make a terrible boyfriend. Grantaire seemed like a nice guy; what was Enjolras doing with him?

*******

Grantaire came over every day in the week that followed, trying to help Enjolras with the gaping holes in his memory. He was quickly turning out to be an invaluable resource. Combeferre also visited a lot, of course, and Courfeyrac, and most of the rest of the Amis; and yet none of them was as helpful as Grantaire when it came to filling in the missing pieces. It wasn't just Enjolras's fellow councilors he knew an eerie amount about; he was turning out to be a fount of knowledge on practically every aspect of Enjolras's life. Grantaire listened when he talked, in a way no one had ever listened to Enjolras before. He always had Grantaire's full attention.

It was a little strange, at first, the intensity of his focus. Easy enough to get used to, though, when it was so very useful. Easy enough to get used to Grantaire in general, even if, or maybe because, the general impression of "inoffensive nice guy" he'd given off on their first meeting was acquiring some serious dents. Turned out, Grantaire could be kind of a sarcastic dick when he wasn't reigning himself in.

Just because he listened didn't mean he agreed with everything Enjolras said. In fact, he disagreed a lot. It drove Enjolras crazy. Grantaire was so smart, so insightful, and yet he had such a cynical, pessimistic view of the world. And it wasn't just reflexive contrariness. Grantaire's objections tended to be well-considered and solid, unsettlingly on point. If he could just make him understand - make him see…

Well. He could see what had driven the attraction, now; a good argument had always been the easiest way to turn him on. That still didn't seem like something to base a relationship on, though, especially when the two of them were so very different.

"You want some more coffee?" Grantaire said, interrupting his train of though. He was coming back from the kitchen with a bottle of beer in his hand, and that, right there, was yet another way they weren't compatible at all – the drinking, the smoking… "And I've remembered who that quote was from now, by the way, it was Danton after all, look it up."

"Yes, well, you're still wrong," Enjolras said, already reaching for his laptop, his momentary irritation forgotten. It was certainly making his arguments stronger, in any case, battering them over and over against the solid wall of Grantaire's sharp-eyed cynicism.

******

"I really need to get a haircut," Enjolras said irritably, pushing a strand of hair out of his face for the fifth time. Grantaire looked up from the stack of papers in front of him and –

"That's a shame," Grantaire said, looking up from his sketchbook. He reached out and wound a lock around his finger, tugging gently. "I like your hair like this."

"…ras? Enjolras! Are you okay? Fuck, sit down, you've gone all pale. Do I need to call an ambulance?"

"I'm fine," Enjolras said, batting away the hand Grantaire was pressing to his forehead, as if testing for a fever. "I think I just remembered something."

"Really? What did you –?"

"You," Enjolras said. He laughed, shaking his head. Of all the things to remember from his lost five years. "You were telling me not to get my hair cut."

"Well, you shouldn't," Grantaire said, "You look good like this." He was squinting at Enjolras's face, checking his pupils for signs of further brain damage, not that Enjolras expected him to know what to look for. "You sure you're all right? I could call Combeferre, at least."

"I'm fine," Enjolras said. "It's over already. I just remembered those few seconds, everything else is still gone."

"It's a good sign though," Grantaire said. "Maybe now the rest of it will come back." He was smiling, but it didn't reach his eyes. He'd scared him with that moment of dizziness, Enjolras thought. He wished he hadn't; Grantaire should be happy, with cause to hope that soon, Enjolras would remember him again. He shouldn't look so apprehensive.

It had already become more than obvious that Grantaire had been lying when he'd told him they had a casual sort of relationship. This wasn't a fuck-buddies thing to Grantaire. He obviously cared, and cared deeply; there was nothing casual about the way he looked at Enjolras. Enjolras was starting to get a bad feeling about his own part in this relationship. He knew he could be oblivious, but surely he wasn't oblivious enough he could have missed the way Grantaire felt?

******

"I just don't understand what went wrong there," Enjolras said, scrolling through the transcript of the council session in increasing bafflement. "Everyone's clearly upset about something, but it's not the topic they're actually discussing."

"There was something about – some sort of – shit, no, I really don't remember. Sorry," Grantaire said. "You talked about it, but I was kind of distracted at the time, I had that exhibition coming up."

"You have exhibitions?" Enjolras said, looking up from the screen.

"Oh, sometimes," Grantaire said. "Not for the "Eiffel Tower in Sunset" tourist crap, obviously, but with my abstracts. I think that time was the Galerie Arlette."

He'd known Grantaire didn't just paint for fun, that he actually made a not completely inconsiderable amount of money from selling to tourists on the street, but still, the way Grantaire talked about it, he'd made it sound more like a hobby that brought in some cash on the side. But the Galerie Arlette – Enjolras didn't know anything about art and hadn't ever cared to learn more, but that name actually rang a bell, and if he'd heard of it, it must be a fairly big deal.

"I'm sorry I don't remember," he said. "Did I like your show? I totally didn't get it, did I," he said ruefully.

Grantaire laughed. "I wasn't going to drag you to a modern art show, Enjolras, come on. I know you don't care about art. And you had that vote on education reform coming up, too, you were crazy busy."

Enjolras looked at him. That sinking sensation was back in his stomach. No, he didn't care about art, but even he knew that when your boyfriend had an important event, you came to show support. What the hell had he been doing with Grantaire? If he didn't have the time and attention to spare for a relationship, then what had he been thinking, trying to have one?

Grantaire caught the look. "No, don't – it wasn't… okay." He took a deep breath. "I didn't really want to get into this, but you were also pretty angry at me at the time. You may not have noticed yet, but I can be kind of a fuck-up sometimes."

Enjolras watched him, his hunched shoulders, his sad, gentle eyes. "Did I tell you that?" he said.

Grantaire laughed, a low, bitter sound that made Enjolras wince. "You really didn't have to, that time." He got up, started stacking the papers spread over the table. "You were actually pretty good about it," he said, his back to Enjolras. "You don't usually give people second chances. I must be on my fifth or sixth by now."

"You should show me your paintings," Enjolras said, shutting his laptop with a decisive click.

"What, now?" Grantaire said. "I thought you wanted to finish the –"

"So we'll finish it later," Enjolras said.

Grantaire kept giving him wary looks from the corner of his eyes during the entire drive to his place. "You really don't have to-" he said, once, halfway there.

"You've made that perfectly obvious," Enjolras said grimly. He'd obviously been only too happy to take advantage of the fact that Grantaire didn't demand anything from him.

Grantaire's place was a tiny basement apartment he shared with a roommate. The hallway was narrow and claustrophobic. Grantaire had the door to his room double-locked. "Worried your roommate will fuck with your stuff?" Enjolras said, sympathizing; he'd lived with roommates for years, and Courfeyrac had gotten him caught up in some fairly vicious prank wars in that time, too.

"Sort of," Grantaire said, his mouth tightening, his face hard and serious. Oh. Whatever this was, it wasn't just a prank war gone out of control. "Jacques can be kind of… Well. I'd find another place to live, but… Parisian rents, you know how it is," Grantaire said. "I spend a lot of time at the studio, anyway."

"You know you're welcome to spend time at my place if you like, right?" Enjolras said. "You used to do that, didn't you? You wouldn't bother me." He'd like that, actually, he thought. He'd lived with roommates for most of his life – the parts of his life he remembered, that was - and although he supposed he must have gotten used to being on his own sometime in the last five years, his flat still felt too empty to him sometimes. It was good to have Grantaire around, as challenging as he could be; someone to bounce ideas off of, someone to argue with until he'd clarified his own position in his mind.

"Thank you," Grantaire said, giving him a quick, startled smile.

Grantaire had a narrow desk with a single chair and an equally narrow mattress squeezed up against the wall. The rest of the space was taken up by easels, art supplies, and canvasses, most of them stacked into careless heaps, only a few carefully wrapped and stored.

Enjolras sat down cross-legged on the bed while Grantaire started dragging pictures out of corners. Grantaire was a good painter by the only standard Enjolras had ever had of judging art, which was that in his realistic pictures, things looked just like they were supposed to look. The perspective wasn't fucked up and the people didn't look like creepy puppets; an impressive enough feat, in Enjolras opinion.

He lingered over a picture of Pont Neuf, crowded at midday, people jostling past each other, the bridge's arches reflecting blurrily in the waters of the Seine. The people's faces looked expressive and alive, and Grantaire had painted the bridge in painstaking detail, showing the places where the stone was chipped and discolored with the wear and tear of centuries. None of that, however, apparently made for artistic merit.

"Tourist shlock," Grantaire said cheerfully, tugging it out of Enjolras's hands. "I should've put a sunset in the background, it would've sold by now."

When it came to the abstract art, Enjolras was completely lost. Some of them were beautiful, with vibrant, harmonic colors; some of them really weren't. But that didn't particularly seem to correlate with which ones Grantaire was proudest of. Enjolras tried his best to pay extra attention to the ones he handled with care when he took them out of their wrappings, the few he looked at with a tentative smile on his face.

"Quit it, I can tell you don't get it," Grantaire said, gently knocking his shoulder against Enjolras's. "But it's nice of you to try."

Afterwards, he said "Were there any you particularly liked?", his attempt to sound unconcerned somewhat spoiled by the way he was watching Enjolras from the corner of his eyes. "You can have one, if you want. You could replace that monstrosity in your bedroom. Seriously, Enjolras, I know your understanding of art's pretty much on the level of 'pretty colors good', but that one's a trite piece of shit and you should let me burn it."

"You gave it to me, it's mine, don't touch it," Enjolras said, feeling unaccountably protective. It was pretty, and he didn't see what was wrong with it.

"I really didn't," Grantaire said. "I was going to burn it, and then you stole it."

"It's still mine now," Enjolras said. "And if I can pick any of those, then I want the one of Pont Neuf."

"Oh my God, get out of here, you philistine," Grantaire said, but he was smiling, and he carefully wrapped the picture in bubble wrap so Enjolras could take it home.

*******

Grantaire came crashing through the door with a clap of thunder behind him, the wind tugging at his clothes."Man, can you believe this shit? It was sunny right till I walked out the door," he said, glowering at the torrential downpour through the windows. He was soaked through to the skin, his hair plastered to his head and his clothes dripping. "Do you mind if I just take a shower real quick and borrow some sweats before we start?"

He should have handed Grantaire the dry clothes into the bathroom, Enjolras realized belatedly, when Grantaire came out of the shower damp and flushed, with Enjolras's ratty towel barely staying on his hips. There was a tattoo on his right shoulder, and a faded scar running parallel to his lowest ribs. After far too long a moment, Enjolras finally realized that he was staring, and that Grantaire was just standing there, letting him.

"Sorry," he said, looking away, too late.

"I don't mind," Grantaire said, in a low, certain voice. "Enjolras. If you want –"

"I'm not your boyfriend," Enjolras said, his voice coming out strangely harsh.

Grantaire shrugged, giving him a strange, lopsided smile. "Does it matter? I told you, this isn't some big romantic thing. Sometimes I think you like me more than he ever did. You want to fuck, I'm up for it."

"This is a bad idea," Enjolras said.

"Tell me no, then," Grantaire said, and then he tugged the towel loose with one hand and dropped it on the floor.

Enjolras stood rooted to the spot while Grantaire walked towards him, slow, unhurried, giving Enjolras plenty of time to do the right thing and turn away. "Tell me no," Grantaire said again, putting his hand on Enjolras's cheek and tilting his head down for a kiss, reverent, gentle, and Enjolras said nothing, and then their lips were touching, and the sound Enjolras made wasn't a no at all.

For some reason, he'd expected Grantaire to be gentle with him, but the kiss he actually got was hard and insistent. Maybe he should have expected that. Grantaire didn't coddle him. He had no patience with dithering, and he didn't stand for Enjolras lying to himself. You want
this, so take it, that kiss said.

For a moment, Enjolras stood frozen, with his hands half raised, unsure where to put them on all that naked skin. Grantaire caught them out of the air and settled them on his hips, an invitation, and it felt like a dam breaking loose in Enjolras; suddenly he was returning Grantaire's kiss with equal passion, rising to that silent challenge. Grantaire's naked body pressed up against his, vulnerable skin all along the length of his body, and Enjolras was acutely aware of the fact that his buttons were scratching Grantaire's chest, that Grantaire's cock was getting jammed against the metal edges of his belt buckle. He reached down and curled a hand around it, protective, feeling the soft skin hot against his palm. Grantaire gasped into his mouth.

He didn't resist when Grantaire steered him backwards into the bedroom, let Grantaire push him down to sit on the edge of the bed. Grantaire sank down with him, going to his knees between Enjolras's spread thighs.

"Let me?" Grantaire said, and then his hands were going for Enjolras's belt buckle, and suddenly it was too much, too fast. He put his hands on top of Grantaire's, pinning them flat against his stomach.

"No?" Grantaire said, stilling immediately. He tried to pull his hands back, and Enjolras found that that wasn't what he wanted, either. He held Grantaire's hands trapped beneath his own, felt Grantaire make a faint, abortive twitch of a movement and then still again. For a moment, the both of them simply sat there, frozen, Grantaire watching him, waiting patiently for Enjolras to make up his mind.

Only Enjolras found that he couldn't, quite. "You'll like it," Grantaire said, finally, when it became clear Enjolras wasn't going to say anything; calm, confident, no doubt in his voice. "I'm good at this." He quirked a smile, quick and teasing. "Or so you used to tell me." He didn't try to free his hands, but he twisted them a little so he could stroke his thumb against Enjolras's stomach, making him shiver.

Slowly, Enjolras lifted his hands, letting go of Grantaire, and Grantaire took it for the permission it was meant to be.

Grantaire didn't undress him all the way, but he pushed the fly of Enjolras's jeans wide open and his boxers down, baring him. Enjolras wasn't more than half hard, nerves and second thoughts and anticipation all tangled together. Grantaire curled a hand around him, stroked him with long slow pulls, and then he leaned down to lick in between his fingers; teasing, coaxing. Enjolras made a helpless noise.

He was hardening quickly. It felt like his entire body was straining towards Grantaire's mouth. "Okay?" Grantaire asked, pulling back.

"Please," Enjolras said, his voice cracking embarrassingly. He could tell that Grantaire startled a little at the note of desperation in his voice. But surely he had experience with reducing Enjolras to begging. It was patently obvious that he knew exactly what he was doing. Until this moment Enjolras had never really considered how much trial and error was involved in learning someone else's sexual responses. There were always those moments of flinching back from an experimental use of teeth, the tiresome dance of "harder – not that hard!", the moment where one had to push a wandering hand off one's nipple, or evade a sloppy tongue in one's ear. There was none of that with Grantaire, who was aptly demonstrating that he already knew precisely what Enjolras liked and, more importantly, what he didn't go for.

And yet Grantaire kept checking on him in a way none of his previous partners ever had. He kept glancing up, seeking eye contact; a silent is this all right? after every new thing he tried.

"This is good," Enjolras finally said, in answer to yet another cautious glance, when Grantaire pressed a knuckle up hard against the skin behind his balls. He'd had no idea that was a thing for him, that it would feel good to be touched there; so strange, that Grantaire seemed to know more about his body than Enjolras, who'd been living in it all his life. "You're really good at this."

"Lots of practice," Grantaire said, and his voice came out rough and wrecked. Enjolras shivered. He'd done that, he thought, half guilty, half turned on. But really, Grantaire had done it to himself, taking Enjolras deep into his mouth; if he had a gag reflex at all, it clearly didn't trouble him much. And he hadn't seemed to mind Enjolras's first, accidental thrust, a momentary loss of control he'd instantly arrested until Grantaire put a hand on his hip and silently encouraged him to do it again. He didn't quite fuck Grantaire's mouth, but he wasn't so careful about holding still after that, and the next time Grantaire caught his eyes – Still good? - he cupped Grantaire's cheek in his hand, thanks and reassurance all at once. Grantaire turned his head, letting Enjolras's cock slip from his mouth for a moment so he could press a kiss to his palm, and the gesture cut through Enjolras like a knife.

He ran his hand through Grantaire's hair, letting the thick soft curls slip slowly through his fingers. Grantaire closed his eyes, pressing into the touch, and suddenly the moment was almost unbearably intimate, that earlier feeling of moving too fast back with a vengeance. Enjolras abruptly drew his hand back. He had to fight to keep himself still. Grantaire seemed to notice his sudden tension. He slowed down, letting his mouth go loose and gentle around Enjolras's cock. When that only made the restless feeling worse, Enjolras shifting uncertainly under his hands, he changed tactics and switched to sucking hard, pushing a finger back between Enjolras's legs with purpose. Surprisingly enough, that did help, the intense physical pleasure of it drowning out the attack of nerves.

Grantaire paused for a moment, drawing off again. "Do you like getting fucked?" he asked, in his low, rough voice. "You used to like it a lot."

Enjolras blinked at him. "Did I?" He'd done it, once or twice, and it had been pleasurable enough, but it had made him feel uncomfortably vulnerable. It was an awful lot of trust to place in a stranger. Not to mention that the whole thing was always so unavoidably awkward, and a whole lot of trouble to go to just for an orgasm.

"Oh, trust me, you really, really did," Grantaire said, grinning. "But don't worry, we'll stick to this," and then he was going down on Enjolras again, all the way down. Enjolras let his head fall back, panting, and contemplated the idea that maybe he liked getting fucked now because Grantaire was as mindblowingly good at fucking as he was at this. That seemed like a thing worth experiencing.

"No, you should fuck me," he heard himself say.

"Yeah?" Grantaire pressed him flat on the bed and stretched out between his spread thighs. "If you don't like it, tell me to stop any time, all right?" he said. Enjolras, who was lying with his head tilted back, looking at the ceiling – or rather, not-looking at Grantaire and the fond, tender expression in his dark eyes – heard the click of a tube coming open.

He'd never liked this part much. It was an awkward, tiresome fumble, interrupting the proceedings at the moment when one most wanted to get on with things. It always made him feel like his body was some fickle, cumbersome machine that needed to be coaxed into running.

"It's fine. You could probably just put it in," he told Grantaire, who was stroking him very gently with a single fingertip, and seemed to be laboring under some delusion that he needed to take the sort of care one would take with an anxious virgin. A little discomfort was no big deal, Enjolras had done this before, and even if it had been a while for him, it couldn't have been that long for his body, considering that he apparently got fucked with some regularity these days.

Grantaire raised an eyebrow at him. "Are we in a hurry here? Am I keeping you? If you've got something you need to get back to, I can just suck you off, you know."

"Take your time if you like," Enjolras said, shrugging. "I'm just saying, you don't need to – "

"Oh shut it, I like this part," Grantaire said, and then he put his mouth back on Enjolras's cock, which very effectively short-circuited any desire he might have had to continue the discussion.

Grantaire hadn't been exaggerating about enjoying this. He wasn't treating it like a preparation, a necessary step before moving on to the main act; he settled into it, leisurely sucking Enjolras's cock while stroking him, taking forever about putting his fingers inside. Enjolras couldn't quite imagine what Grantaire was getting out of it, but he himself was certainly finding a new appreciation for the act. He'd never realized he was so sensitive there, that it could feel this good just to have a single finger gently rubbing in and out. Grantaire kept angling himself to look at him, his eyes intent on Enjolras's face, a tender, affectionate look in his eyes that Enjolras couldn't bear to meet for long.

He was pliant and gasping, too limp to produce more than an incoherent whimper when Grantaire finally took his mouth away. He let his legs fall open, but instead of taking the invitation, Grantaire was moving away. Enjolras heard the crinkle of a foil packet. Christ, condoms. He'd been so into it, if Grantaire had just rolled him over and shoved in bare, he wouldn't have given it a second though. The realization jolted him enough that when Grantaire sat up against the headboard and tried to tug Enjolras into his lap, he actually mustered a coherent protest.

He'd tried being on top before and hadn't liked it much, and he'd been looking forward to lying there and letting Grantaire work his magic. He'd never had sex like this before, so smooth and effortless, and he didn't really understand what Grantaire was doing to make it that way. He didn't want to be placed in control. "Can't we just –"

"Trust me?" Grantaire said, and then winced the second the words were out of his mouth, looking away.

Enjolras looked at him, surprised. Grantaire was acting like someone who hadn't meant to raise a sore subject, when the answer was easy enough. Even if it hadn't been obvious that he'd meant it in the specific and limited sense of "Trust me to know what I'm doing in bed," which he'd already more than proven, why wouldn't he trust Grantaire? Grantaire was there almost every day now, loyal beyond the call of duty, putting his own life on hold to help Enjolras navigate his, providing reliable facts and sharp-eyed critique, endlessly patient with the constant inconvenience of Enjolras's amnesia. Enjolras didn't trust easily, but he'd come to trust Grantaire almost as a matter of course. "Of course I do," he said.

Grantaire's eyes snapped to his. For a moment he looked startled and happy, and then his expression darkened, his eyes shuttering. Enjolras had been right; this was a sore subject indeed. "Let's just –" Grantaire started, curling his hand around Enjolras's cock again, a completely transparent attempt at distraction, and Enjolras wasn't proud of himself for the fact that it worked anyway. But then what was he going to do, force a conversation Grantaire clearly didn't want to have, right in the middle of them having sex?

This time, he went easily when Grantaire pulled him on top. Grantaire had asked Enjolras to trust him, so he would. Still, the actual moment of penetration wasn’t terribly pleasant. There wasn't much Grantaire could do to help in this position, with Enjolras's weight on him, and Enjolras didn't have his experience; he fumbled around for a long moment, wincing at the bad angle.

"I know, I know, bear with me for a second," Grantaire said, wincing with him in sympathy, and then he was gripping Enjolras's shoulders and tipping him back a little. "There – no, it's okay, I've got you, I won't let you fall. Just like that, try to move a little."

Enjolras gave him a skeptical look. It was a weird, unbalanced position, and despite Grantaire's supporting hands he felt like he could hardly move at all without falling over backwards. He carefully shifted his hips, and – "Fuck," he said, startled. Oh, Grantaire had been right, that was a much better angle. He couldn't move much, but then he didn't need to – suddenly Grantaire's cock was pressing into him just right, and every little twitch of his hips sparked a jolt of pleasure.

He could make it last a long time like this, he discovered, rocking just slightly back and forth with his eyes closed, slowing down every time he got too close; he didn't want to stop at all. Orgasm, when he finally couldn't put it off anymore, was a long slow crest of pleasure that left him limp and dazed.

"Enjolras?" Grantaire said. He sounded strained. Enjolras blinked his eyes open and realized belatedly that he was making Grantaire hold up basically his entire weight, and that he could feel Grantaire's hips twitching slightly, pinned firmly beneath him.

"Sorry," he muttered, not so much climbing off as letting himself fall sideways. "That was amazing." Grantaire looked wrecked, his curls sticking sweat-damp to his face, his cock hard and swollen, his entire body tight with the restraint he'd been showing. Enjolras flopped over onto his stomach and let his legs fall open. "There, your turn," he said, reaching back blindly to pull Grantaire on top of him.

"Don't tempt me," Grantaire said. He sounded strained. "You hate being fucked after you've come."

He was rocking his hips against Enjolras's ass, and for a moment it was incredibly tempting to simply lie there and let him take care of getting himself off. Enjolras's entire body felt warm and sated, halfway to drifting into sleep already. Suddenly Enjolras was sick to death of himself. Was that what their sex life was like, Grantaire spending hours getting him off, and Enjolras rolling over to sleep after?

"It's fine, I don't mind," he said, trying to sound like he knew what he was talking about; he'd never actually done this before.

"You really will," Grantaire said, the voice of experience, but when Enjolras reached back and gave him a shove so his cock pressed up between Enjolras's spread legs, even his self-control apparently gave out. "Tell me if it's too much," he said. He pushed in, slow and gentle even now, when Enjolras could tell he was nearing the end of his rope. And, okay, Grantaire had been right, he didn't like being fucked after he'd come. He felt oversensitive and sore, and being stretched open again was almost too much. Enjolras gritted his teeth and buried his face in the pillow. "You okay? I can stop," Grantaire said, freezing.

"I'm good," Enjolras said.

Grantaire was rocking in him, making helpless little sounds with every movement, his hand clenching and unclenching in the sheets beside Enjolras's face. Enjolras laced their fingers together, feeling him shaking. This wasn't so bad at all, even if he did still have to fight the urge to squirm away with every harder thrust. In any case, Grantaire didn't last long. He went limp all over when he came, stretched out warm and comfortable on Enjolras's back for long moments before he rolled off with a muttered "Sorry."

Enjolras pushed up on one arm to look at him. He looked half asleep already, his body curled towards Enjolras's, his hands open on the mattress between them, defenseless and relaxed.

Grantaire clearly worshipped him. And just as clearly, he expected nothing in return – and had gotten just about that much. He was putting his entire life on hold to help Enjolras, and Enjolras hadn't taken thirty minutes out of his busy schedule to go to his boyfriend's exhibition.

He was going to put a stop to this now.

"You need to break up with me," he said.

It snapped Grantaire awake as harshly as a slap might have. The small, content smile on his face crumpled away. Enjolras wished he didn't have to do this now. But he knew that if he let himself put it off, he'd find reasons to keep doing it. Grantaire was so good to be around; sharp, stimulating company when he wanted it, quiet when he needed to work, or at least disruptive in a helpful way, mercilessly picking out the flaws in whatever Enjolras was doing. He'd keep finding reasons to wait one more day, and then another, and another, regardless of what it was doing to Grantaire.

"What?" Grantaire wiped a hand roughly across his face, sleep-dazed and confused. "Where did that - Fuck, did I hurt you? Why didn't you say?" He reached for Enjolras as if to physically check him for injuries, but flinched back when Enjolras held up a restraining hand. "Sorry, I'm sorry," he said. "Are you okay? Should I call - Do you need me to leave?"

"Calm down. Grantaire, calm down, I'm fine," Enjolras said. "It's not about the – the sex, that was great. It's – I'm not good for you."

Grantaire stared at him. "I need my goddamn pants if we're gonna have this conversation now," he said.

Enjolras fumbled for his own boxers. Grantaire was standing with his back to him, yanking up his jeans, his shoulders tight. When he finally turned back around, his face was blank and tired. "Look, you've gotten this all wrong," he said. "There's things I haven't been telling you. I knew I should have, I knew you were getting the wrong impression, I just…" He sank down on the very edge of the bed, keeping a careful distance between them. "You'll understand when you get your memory back. It's not like it's hard to be on my best behavior for a couple of weeks. That's not me, Enjolras. I fuck up. I drink too much, I flake on things that matter. Look at you - all of you. You'll be a lawyer in a year, and Courf's graduating with you. Combeferre's gonna be a doctor. I dropped out of art school."

He scrubbed a hand through his hair, yanking impatiently when his hand got snagged in a tangle. "So you didn't like me much at first. You had your reasons. And things have been really good recently, you've been really good. I knew what I was getting into. I don't mind that your work's important to you."

"Grantaire," Enjolras said, as gently as he could. "You're in love with me." He held up his hand when Grantaire started to protest, held Grantaire's eyes until he nodded, one single, sharp, unwilling movement. "You love me, and I don't love you back."

Grantaire had known that, that much was clear from his face, but the words still made him flinch. Enjolras bit his lip. God, he didn't want to say this. He wanted to take it all back, get back to the peaceful moment they'd been sharing only a few minutes earlier. But Grantaire deserved better than being stuck in limbo with him. "I know what I'm like," Enjolras said, trying to be gentle. "I don't make time for you, do I? I get caught up in things and forget you exist."

Grantaire had his arms crossed in front of him like a shield against the words, but he didn't bother to deny them. "I don't mind," he finally said.

"That doesn't make it any better!" Enjolras said sharply, frustrated. "I've been treating you like shit, and I don't know that I'll… I've been…" He trailed off, frustrated. He didn't know how to say this, to make Grantaire see just how deeply he'd fucked up, to explain the cold feeling in his gut when he looked at Grantaire, with his unquestioning loyalty, and the way Enjolras had so obviously failed to value it. "If you noticed that someone's been kicking their dog, would you let them have it back?"

"So do better!" Grantaire snapped. "If this isn't about me, what's your problem? Just come to my fucking art shows, or whatever the hell you think it is you should have been doing."

Enjolras desperately wanted to grasp at that offered straw, to promise to do better; only he did know himself. He got caught up in the bigger picture and forgot about people. He'd say something careless and sharp without considering who the words might cut. And maybe he could do better, if he had someone to call him on his shit when he forgot. But Grantaire wouldn't. Grantaire obviously never had.

Grantaire read the answer on his face. "That's what I thought," he said, and Enjolras winced at the bitter note in his words. Grantaire sighed, a soft, defeated sound. "It's probably for the best," he said. "It was gonna happen. Best to have it over with, right?" He bent to pick his jacket off the floor, his shoulders a low, tired curve. He turned to go, but paused in the doorway, looking back. "Don't beat yourself up over this, will you? I had a good time."

Don't go, Enjolras thought miserably. Stay, I didn't mean it, but it had been nothing but the truth, and he could manage not to be a selfish asshole over Grantaire this one goddamn time. He bit his lip and kept quiet until the door had finally fallen closed between them.

******

Enjolras couldn't afford to reveal his amnesia to anyone but his closest friends. The last thing he needed was to give his enemies one more reason not to take him seriously. "Brain damaged and crazy" seemed like a rock a much more solid political career than his might run aground on.

Hiding his memory loss had required an elaborate construct of lies, excuses and barefaced bluffing, and so far they'd just barely managed to make it work. But without Grantaire to fill in the holes for him, the entire construct was beginning to collapse like a house of cards.

He could do this without Grantaire, Enjolras told himself, the first time he came home from a council meeting after the break-up. He'd been caught out ill-prepared, blindsided by an attack from someone he hadn't expected to turn on him. Grantaire would have expected it, he knew, would have called him an oblivious idealist not to have seen it coming; Grantaire always anticipated trouble. But he could do this.

He'd have to more vigilant now, teach himself to see things from the cynical perspective. As for the missing knowledge, he still had his friends, even if none of them had Grantaire's bizarre memory for random facts. He'd simply have to do his homework now. In five years, he'd written a few hundred thousand words worth of emails and notes, and received twice as many.

He was going to make a giant pot of coffee, sit down, and start reading. He could do this.

Enjolras automatically went for the cupboard where he kept the instant coffee, frowning at the empty spot on the shelf for a moment until he remembered, no, he had a coffee maker now, an inconveniently large metal thing he must have bought sometime during the last –

"Grantaire? Did you buy me a coffee maker?"

"Mmm." Grantaire was sprawled on his stomach on Enjolras's bed, his head buried underneath a pillow, occasionally making grumbling noises of complaint when Enjolras's morning routine involved too much noise for his taste.

"Why?"

"Because you hate instant coffee," Grantaire said, his voice still muffled by the pillow.

"No I don't," Enjolras said.

"Yes, you really do," Grantaire said, finally pulling his head out to glare at Enjolras, his curls sticking up in all directions. "You drink a whole pot a day and you'll make a face the entire time. How the fuck haven't you noticed that you hate it?"

Enjolras staggered, catching himself against the counter, blinking rapidly against the unexpected vision. Of all the things to remember.

The memory had left a tight, aching feeling in his chest. He swallowed it down. There was work to be done.

*********

He couldn't do this.

Most of the information he needed was there in his emails and notes, but there was just so much of it, and without someone to filter it for him, to point out important facts and ongoing issues, he could barely manage to keep a fraction of it in his head.

He'd gone to school the next day with his heart racing and his hands shaking from caffeine and lack of sleep, his head bursting with information, and come out of a harrowing seminar on antitrust law to find large parts of everything he'd learned already gone again.

He made himself take more of a break the next night. Three hours of sleep had always been enough to reset his brain, but this time, his body didn't seem to want to cooperate. He felt sick to his stomach and blurry-eyed when he answered the door the next day.

"Grantaire," he said dumbly.

"We need to go over your briefs on the Francis case. Your notes are really sketchy on that, they're not going to make much sense to you out of context, and you'll need them for the session on Friday," Grantaire said, matter-of-factly, as if it was just any ordinary day; as if he didn't look about as bad as Enjolras felt, his face waxy and pale, a tremor in his hands. But he was clean-shaven and neatly dressed, and apparently bound and determined to act as if nothing had changed between them.

Enjolras stared at him. Grantaire sighed. "Look, I get it, you're not in love. It wasn't really that much of a shock, Enjolras," Grantaire said, shrugging. "This wasn't exactly deathless romance. We did pretty okay as friends for a while before we started dating. Can we just do that? I don't need a mourning period, and you need someone to go over those briefs with you before Mathieu wipes the floor with you on Friday. Two hours and I'll be out of your hair."

For a moment Enjolras wanted to grab onto him like a drowning man thrown a rope. Grantaire would make sense of that mess of information for him. He felt almost on the verge of tears at the promise of Grantaire taking even a small part of that overwhelming burden off his shoulders. He wanted… God, he wanted to throw his arms around him, bury his face in Grantaire's neck and let himself stop thinking for even just a minute or two.

For a moment he wavered, standing with his hand on the doorknob. Perversely, it was the fragile look of hope in Grantaire's eyes that made up his mind for him. This wasn't a casual offer between friends. Enjolras didn't know much about getting over break-ups, but even he knew that it took time and space. Grantaire was going to get neither if Enjolras let himself take his help now.

"Thank you, but I've got it under control," he said, feeling his stomach clench when that cautiously hopeful expression on Grantaire's face went blank and hard instead.

"Well, that's good then," Grantaire said mechanically. "Call me if there's anything you need," but the words were flat and automatic, as if he already knew Enjolras wasn't going to do it.

Enjolras watched his back as he turned to go. His eyes stung. He needed more coffee. Maybe he'd try to get a bit more sleep tonight. His body had gotten older in the years he'd lost, after all. He could do this.

********

Grantaire was miserable, and it wasn't getting better. Enjolras hadn't expected him to be happy about it straight away, of course. Anger, denial, bargaining, none of that would have surprised him. But Grantaire seemed to have skipped all other stages of grief and arrived straight at depression, and he wasn't moving on. In the beginning there were some occasional moments of anger, manifesting in sharp-edged, abrasive commentary on Enjolras's words. It seemed to burn itself out almost instantly when Enjolras actually engaged. And then even that stopped, leaving nothing but a tired, resigned sort of acceptance.

Grantaire still came to all their meetings, sat at his usual table in the back with his usual bottle of wine, made his usual sharp rebuttals to the more ambitious of their plans, but he seemed to have lost all joy in it. He didn't drink to excess, not the way he'd apparently used to, but although he'd joke and smile for the sake of their friends, it didn't reach his eyes, and when he laughed, it was a mocking, joyless sound.

He'd meant it to be a clean break. He'd thought it would give Grantaire the chance to move on, find someone else; at least find someone to be a distraction for now. Grantaire could be charming, when he put his mind to it. But he wasn't even trying. Enjolras knew the others were worried about him, too, but he didn't think they were worried enough.

"No one's blaming you, you know that, right?" Courfeyrac said, nudging him gently. "You guys were at each other's throats right from the start. I'm more surprised it lasted as long as it did."

Enjolras just barely managed to shut his teeth on the instinctive denial that wanted to escape. Courfeyrac made it sound like the relationship had been doomed from the start, only a matter of time; it hadn't been, Enjolras wanted to say, it could have worked, if only I had… But of course Courf was right. It hadn't worked. It couldn't have worked, that was the entire reason he'd broken it off. Courfeyrac slung a friendly arm over his shoulder. "He'll get over it, you'll see," he said. "Grantaire's tough."

"Give him time," Combeferre said gently. "He was always going to take it badly, but he's not… you won't remember, but this isn't what it looks like when he really isn't coping. He'll be fine."

Enjolras stopped talking to his friends about it after that. Everyone seemed to have such low standards, when it came to Grantaire. Enjolras didn't want him coping, he didn't want fine; he'd wanted Grantaire to be happy. Breaking up had been supposed to make things better. Now Enjolras looked at Grantaire's sad, resigned eyes and wondered why he'd ever thought that would work.

********

Still, he had less and less time to worry about Grantaire. Enjolras felt like someone running headlong down a hill, loose stones shifting under his feet, a single misstep away from getting himself caught up in a landslide. His excuses were holding less and less water the more often he needed to use them. He kept tripping over the minutiae of issues he should have been intimately familiar with, failing to recognize familiar faces, catching himself in his increasingly complicated web of lies and obfuscations. Things couldn't go on like this.

His memory was returning in bits and pieces, but all in a jumble, flashes of random scenes, often no more than a few moments or words, unimportant, or meaningless without their context: Combeferre, slinging an arm around his shoulder, telling him "I knew you could do it;" the warm feeling of pride that accompanied the words, but no memory of what it was he'd accomplished that day. Councilman Barthe, red-faced with fury, spitting out "Now listen up, boy –"

The vote on education reform. That memory made him stagger with the weight of it, hitting him all at once. Weeks of unrelenting work, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen hours a day, fighting for public support, pulling the other councilmen onto his side one by one, trying to keep up with his exams at the same time, one setback after the other; Grantaire only the latest one, volunteering to give a speech to a group of representatives from the CGT union, getting drunk with them instead in a moment of, God, Enjolras didn't even know, laziness, nihilism or self-doubt; it hadn't made a difference to him at that moment, no energy left to care for Grantaire's reasons or excuses.

He didn't speak to Grantaire for two weeks after that, not out of anger but because there simply wasn't time. Grantaire didn't seek him out. Enjolras saw the occasional glimpse of him, pale, disheveled, bleary-eyed, in his usual chair at the Amis's meetings. Once or twice "Are you all right?" hovered on the tip of his tongue, but some new crisis always interrupted before he could actually say the words.

And then their graphic designer fell ill at the worst possible moment, and it was Grantaire he called, at two am, although he only realized afterwards how late it was; Grantaire answered the phone on the first ring, sounding perfectly alert. "Can you design a couple of flyers for us, or find someone who can?" Enjolras said, the words not so much an olive branch as a white flag – he couldn't do this on his own, he couldn't solve even one more crisis tonight, he was done.

"Of course," Grantaire said, and he had the flyers on Enjolras's desk the next morning; beautiful, careful work. It must have taken him all night.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Tonight would have been okay, too. You didn't need to stay up," Enjolras said ruefully, ignoring the ringing phone on his desk. Grantaire looked wan and exhausted, deep shadows underneath his eyes.

"I have to finish a painting today, I've got an exhibition coming up," Grantaire said, a hint of a smile lighting up his tired eyes, the first time Enjolras had seen anything but sadness and exhaustion on his face in weeks.

"Really? Where –" he started, honestly pleased, because he knew Grantaire had been working hard recently, putting himself out there, and it was good to hear he was having some success with it, and then Combeferre yelled "Enjolras! Answer the phone, it's Renard!" through the closed door. Enjolras swore and gave Grantaire an apologetic look, reaching for the phone, and there was yet another fire to put out, and by the time he finally looked up from his computer again, Grantaire had quietly slipped out of the room.

After that, it felt like something had shaken loose in his head, everything shifting around, thoughts and memories rearranging themselves while he watched, dizzy with it. He tried to keep working through it. He'd been derailed enough, was already falling behind on everything again. It wasn't too bad, for the first part of the evening. He kept finding himself with his fingers frozen on the keyboard, staring at nothing, but he could shake it off after a while, and focusing on the needs of the present kept the ghostly snatches of memory from intruding into the foreground of his thoughts too much. And then the trickle of memories turned into a waterfall, and Enjolras went down under their weight.

Nothing came back in any ordered way, all of it in a jumble, voices and faces and snatches of argument. Enjolras staggered, bracing himself with a hand against the wall. He found himself standing in his hallway, nauseous, the floor swaying under his feet. Hadn't he been sitting at the computer a moment ago?

"Enjolras? You okay?" someone said, and his voice shook when he told them "No," but that was only a memory, too - The riot raging around them, concerned faces bent over his, a bruise on Combeferre's cheek and Courfeyrac's hands smudged with dirt, Grantaire standing over him, facing down a cop – "Leave him alone, can't you see that he's hurt?"

Grantaire. Somehow that's what his mind seized on in the jumble of memories, a tangible thread he could cling to.

Grantaire, kissing him, touching his face with a trembling hand. "I wasn't gonna, but that's when I still thought you had standards," he said, a shaky smile on his face, and Enjolras knew it was a terrible idea, much worse even than the string of ill-advised hook-ups that had preceded Grantaire's offer, and he kissed back anyway.

Grantaire, tired and frustrated, a tight curl of tension on the Enjolras's couch, laughing wearily; "Because it's so easy to find affordable studio space these days. We live in Paris, Enjolras."

"Paint here, then. You told me you like the afternoon light," and Grantaire's voice was fervent when he said, "I'll be gone by the time you come home from work, I won't get in your way."

Grantaire, leaving food in his kitchen by way of thanks. Grantaire, eating dinner with him; "Are you going to carry your half of that home on the bus? Don't be ridiculous." Grantaire, his legs kicked up on the kitchen table at one am, fabricating increasingly ridiculous arguments just to be contrary. Grantaire in his bed; "It's late. Stay."

Grantaire underneath him, arms crossed at the small of his back. Enjolras tentatively put a hand over his wrists, pinning him down, and Grantaire twisted around to give him a wicked grin. "Harder," he said.

Grantaire's helplessly baffled face, entirely worth the aggravation of having gone thirty minutes out of his way on the drive into work. "You bought me flowers."

"Happy anniversary," Enjolras said, handing them to him, drooping petals and all; turned out flowers didn't do too well being left in the car all day. He'd meant it to be funny, a silent protest of Grantaire's handwritten addendums defacing his five year plan. But Grantaire wasn't looking at him. Grantaire was looking down at the flowers, stems bending a little under his too-tight grip, an unreadable look on his face. Suddenly Enjolras didn't feel like laughing at all.

Grantaire laughing, Grantaire cursing, Grantaire tangling a hand in his hair and kissing him hard; Grantaire, Grantaire, Grantaire.

Enjolras slid down along the wall, pulling his legs in close to his body. He'd been happy. They'd both been happy. How had he not realized? It had happened so gradually, that shift from aggravating acquaintance to friends to… whatever they'd been at the end. Grantaire had been an annoyance, until he wasn't; a tolerated presence, until Enjolras found himself lying awake at night, shifting around his cold, overlarge bed, the first time sleeping alone in a week.

He'd gotten it all wrong. He hadn't even understood it while it was happening, how could he have understood with five years of context gone? But now, looking back on it with the benefit of a different perspective, he could see how good things had been in some ways, how easy; how very far he'd fallen short in so many others.

He needed to talk to Grantaire. Enjolras pushed himself to his feet, his stomach lurching.

*******

Grantaire opened the door with a glass of wine clutched in his hand. He was swaying on his feet. "Enjolras," he said, the word slurred. "There's a surprise. What can I do for you?" He made no move to step out of the doorway, blocking the entrance.

"I remembered," Enjolras blurted out. "Not everything, but a lot."

Grantaire flinched minutely, took a small step back. Enjolras used the opening to follow him into the room.

It wasn't a good time, with Grantaire this drunk. But he couldn't bear to turn away with the words unsaid. He bit his lip, for once unsure of his words. "About what I said -"

"You must be relieved," Grantaire said. His hand was clenched around the stem of his glass, his knuckles white. "A clean break. You don't need to apologize for what he said, Enjolras. It's got to feel good to have it out. A little strongly phrased, maybe, but he didn't owe me diplomacy, and it's not like I'd necessarily have listened to anything less."

"Grantaire –" Enjolras said. This was going all wrong, and he didn't know how to fix it.

"Stop," Grantaire said, not unkindly. "Can we be done with this? I told you, I realize it was for the best. Go, get back to your work. You've got to be eager to fix that mess the two of us made of your life."

"If you're sure," Enjolras said helplessly.

Grantaire laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. "Sure? When am I sure about anything? Have you ever known me to have the courage of my convictions, Enjolras?" He set the glass down so harshly that it spilled over, wine slopping everywhere. "You called me your dog. Am I sure? Say the word, and I'll come crawling back to lick your feet."

That's not how he'd meant it, Enjolras wanted to say, horrified, it was an ugly way to twist his words, but Grantaire wasn't listening, wasn't looking at him. Grantaire was running his fingers through the puddle on his desk. "Don't do that to me," he said. A trickle of wine was running towards the chair where Enjolras had set his jacket. Grantaire absently wiped his arm across it, sopping it up with his sleeve. "Of course, I say that now. Catch me a little drunker or a little more sober, and I'll come crawling to you regardless."

Enjolras looked at him. Part of him wanted to beg, to apologize until Grantaire heard what he was trying to say. But he'd promised himself he was going to do well by Grantaire now. Was he going to start by disrespecting his wishes? Don't do that to me, he thought numbly.

He'd had his chance, hadn't he. He'd had more chances than he deserved. If Grantaire was tired of granting them, how was it fair to ask for yet one more? Maybe Grantaire was right, maybe this was the best decision he could be making.

He gathered his jacket, then stood there for a moment, twisting it slowly in his hands. "I'll see you at the Musain?" he finally said, sick with himself at the note of pleading in his voice. Hadn't he just decided to leave Grantaire in peace?

"I'm sure you will," Grantaire said, sounding as tired as Enjolras felt. He was looking down at his soaked, wine-red sleeve, and he didn't look up when Enjolras quietly pulled the door shut behind himself.

********

He buried himself in work, trying to catch up on everything that had gone undone while his memory had been gone. God, what a mess he'd made of things, although God knew it would have been twice as bad without Grantaire's help.

He startled up at the sound of the phone like someone coming out of a trance.

"Enjolras," Combeferre said, in that slow, deliberate tone his voice took on when he was clinging to patience by his fingernails, "did you get your memory back and not bother to tell any of us?" and oh, right, those emails he'd sent would have been a bit of a tip-off, wouldn't they.

"Most of it," he said. "I'm sorry, I should have called you – but anyway, listen, we really need to organize a meeting with Keynes, I can't believe we -"

"Enjolras," Combeferre said again. "You do understand that this is a big deal, right? Come to the Musain. The others are going to want to see you. No, I don't want to hear it, you can take a break for an hour, it'll do you good."

"Fine," Enjolras said after a moment. He'd been working all day, and he hadn't slept the night before; his brain felt sluggish. Maybe an hours' break would be just the thing he needed.

*******

He regretted giving in the minute he arrived at the Musain.

His friends were loud and boisterous, quizzing him excitedly . "Can you remember –" "Do you know –" The answers were slow to come, and reaching for them was making his head ache. With every memory that returned, he only thought of ever more things that had gone undone. He felt restless, itching for his laptop. Too late to call people tonight, but he had a million emails to write. One more hour, he promised himself, one hour and then he could get home and get back to work.

Grantaire was sitting in his usual corner, quiet and subdued, drinking steadily. Enjolras wanted to talk to him even more than he wanted to be working. If he called Grantaire over, he'd come, he knew. Don't do that to me.

He absentmindedly accepted the glass of wine someone thrust into his hand, taking the occasional sip in between fielding questions. He should have had something to eat, he realized an hour later, having emptied it without thinking. He'd never had a head for alcohol. He felt slow and muddled, lack of sleep and the turmoil in his brain catching up with him all at once. His friends had finally calmed down, gotten caught up in their own conversations; no one was paying much attention to him just now. Enjolras laid his head down on his folded arms. Just a small nap, just a couple of minutes. He'd be able to think again, after.

He woke slowly, the café dark and quiet around him. Someone had their hands on his shoulders, stroking warmly up and down his back. "Enjolras? Hey there," Grantaire said. His voice was soft and gentle, the words slightly slurred.

"You're drunk," Enjolras said sadly, the thought swimming blurrily out of the sleepy haze. Grantaire was only gentle with him when he was drunk now. He tried to sit up and whimpered. His neck had stiffened from the awkward position, the muscles knotted tightly.

"That I am," Grantaire said easily. He was still sweeping his thumbs up and down Enjolras's neck, rubbing warmth into the tight, aching strands of muscle. "Lucky you, or I wouldn't be doing this. And you don't get to judge me right now. Look what you've done yourself."

Enjolras swayed on his feet when he tried to stand up. Grantaire kept a supportive grip on his shoulder. His hands were rock-steady, the way they only got when he'd been drinking. "I'm taking you home," Grantaire said. Catch me a little drunker, and I'll come crawling to you, he'd said. Don't do that to me. Enjolras should send him away, but he was so tired, and his head was spinning again, and Grantaire's hand was solid and warm on the small of his back.

In the taxi, he leaned his head against the window, closing his eyes. He needed just a few more minutes of sleep, and then he'd be able to think again. But sleep wouldn't come anymore. Memories were spinning in front of his eyes again, and he kept startling up, reaching frantically for his phone to take down yet another memo to himself. God, so many things that needed to be done.

Grantaire was quiet next to him, closed off, his face unreadable. He put a steadying hand on Enjolras's elbow while they were climbing up the steps to his apartment. Enjolras sped up with every step, almost running the last couple of meters to his laptop, tapped his feet while the email program took its sweet time starting up, started typing frantically as soon as the window finally opened.

He flinched violently when Grantaire put a hand on top of his, stilling him.

"Don't, I need to-"

"You need to sleep," Grantaire said. He slid his hands up to lock like steel bands around Enjolras's wrists and pulled him to his feet with inexorable strength. "You're barely coherent, and you're going to hate yourself tomorrow if you send this. Whatever it is, if it's waited this long, it can wait another five hours. You'll function better in the morning."

"I need to –" Enjolras said, but Grantaire was still pulling him along, ignoring the weak protest, and he simply didn't have anything left in him capable of physical resistance. "Grantaire –" he started again, just as futilely. They'd ended up in the bedroom somehow. Enjolras sat down hard when the edge of the bed hit the back of his knees.

"Sleep," Grantaire said, pushing him down with a hand on his shoulder.

God, he was so tired. But –"Lamardieu, I need to call Lamardieu – Grantaire, let me up, I need to write a note at least, if I forget again –"

"I'll write it down for you, how's that?" Grantaire said, and he did. Enjolras watched warily until he saw him pick up pad and pen from the bedside table. He laid his head back, tried to close his eyes; they kept popping open. His entire body felt jittery. "I can't sleep," he told Grantaire, miserably. Grantaire was right, he was no use to anyone like this.

Grantaire sat down next to him on the bed, putting a hand on his chest, gently pinning him flat. He stroked Enjolras's tangled hair back from his face. "I'm going to suck you off now, all right?" he said, and his voice was so careful and kind that it took Enjolras a moment to process the incongruously explicit words.

"All right?" Grantaire said again, when Enjolras only blinked at him. "You'll be able to sleep, after."

He shouldn't; he knew he shouldn't. He could barely remember why not. His hands shook when he started unbuttoning his shirt, fumbling clumsily with the tiny buttons. Grantaire gently knocked his hands aside and took over for him, pushed the shirt off his shoulders, stripped him of his jeans. Enjolras meant to tell him that he didn't need the help – had meant to remind him, no, don't, you told me not to - but it was so easy to simply let it happen.

Say the word, and I'll come crawling back. Don't do that to me. Shame pricked at him. He closed his eyes against it.

Grantaire kissed his stomach, his thighs, and Enjolras's exhausted body made a valiant effort to rise to the occasion for him. He was half hard when Grantaire put his mouth on him. Grantaire was tender with him still, sucking him soft and slow, letting him get there in his own time. Enjolras reached blindly for him, ran his thumb along the sharp line of Grantaire's cheekbone, tangled his thick soft hair around his fingers.

It took him a long time, but Grantaire was patient with his body's delayed response, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth when Enjolras finally came with a long, drawn-out sigh.

The clamor in his head finally quieted down, a wave of lassitude sweeping over him.

"It's kind of hilarious how sex knocks you right out every time," Grantaire told him, rubbing his thigh affectionately. No, Enjolras was going to do better than that, now.

He heaved himself over to his stomach, spread his legs. "Like this, okay?" he said. The words came out a little slurred. His eyes kept wanting to fall shut.

"Yeah, I'm not really that tempted to maul your unconscious body while you pass out on me," Grantaire said. He pressed his lips against the back of Enjolras's neck, a quick, shivery touch. "Go to sleep," he said, and then the mattress dipped, and Enjolras's reaching arm caught his wrist just in time.

"Stay," he said.

"Enjolras," Grantaire said, sounding pained. He tried to tug his hand free.

"Please," Enjolras said, forcing his heavy lids open, trying to catch Grantaire's eyes. Grantaire was looking away from him. "Stay."

"All right," Grantaire finally said, after a long moment, and again, more quietly, "All right." He sounded tired.

Grantaire stripped to his boxers before he slipped into bed. Enjolras could plainly see his cock pressing against the thin fabric. But when Enjolras roused himself enough to reach for it, Grantaire caught his hand. He gently placed it back on the pillow beside Enjolras's head. "Seriously, go to sleep. You're completely out of it," he said.

He curled up on his side, facing Enjolras, the way he'd always slept. How had Enjolras never noticed what an inviting curve his body made? He slid over and fitted himself against Grantaire, his back to Grantaire's chest, their legs tangled together. Grantaire stiffened. Enjolras braced himself for a protest, but after a long moment, Grantaire seemed to resign himself to the position. He tentatively put his arm around Enjolras, and Enjolras laced their fingers together.

He'd talk to Grantaire in the morning, he thought. Surely Grantaire would see - he had to see…

For all his exhaustion he slept fitfully, half-waking a few times from unformed anxiety dreams, and came awake in the morning with a yelp, blindly reaching – his hand caught in the fabric of Grantaire's boxers, catching him in the act of sneaking out of bed.

It was still dark out, the small hours of the morning, the time of day you wouldn't usually find Grantaire getting up for anything less than an emergency. Enjolras clenched his fingers around his handful of fabric. His brain finally felt like his own again, but he couldn't bring himself to regret last night's actions.

He'd made Grantaire happy once. He could do it again, do it properly this time. "Where are you going?" he said.

Grantaire was looking down at the white-knuckled grip Enjolras had on him, his shoulders tight, defensive. "Come on, you've got work to do. I'll get out of your hair," he said.

"You don't have to leave," Enjolras said.

Grantaire's mouth tightened. "Don't do this," he said. "This isn't – You were the one who told me to –"

"I was acting on outdated information," Enjolras said. "Stay."

Grantaire was softening a little, he could tell. "I owe you an orgasm," Enjolras added, trying to sweeten the pot. He knew instantly that it had been the wrong thing to say by the way Grantaire's face closed off.

"I wish you'd stop acting like you owe me anything," he said, trying to twist out of Enjolras's grip. Enjolras held tight.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like –" He took a deep breath, started over. "I've missed you. Stay." Grantaire's shoulders slumped. He stopped resisting, let Enjolras drag him down to the bed. There was defeat in every line of his body. Grantaire didn't think this was going to work. He was surrendering, not won over.

But that was all right. Enjolras would show him. "I'll be done by six," he said. At least he could probably justify taking a break by then. Work couldn't be the only priority now. It was going to make things more difficult; he'd manage somehow. "Will you have dinner with me?" he said, and, when Grantaire hesitated, "Please."

"All right," Grantaire said after a long moment.

Grantaire didn't see this ending well, Enjolras knew. He had no faith in this, just like he had no faith in anything else. But that was all right. Grantaire had always been the cynic among the two of them, and Enjolras had never minded working to convince him. And he would, now. He'd put in the work; he wouldn't let himself forget again.

"Get some more sleep," he said.

Grantaire stayed the whole day, sleeping in his bed until noon, stretching out on the couch with a book after. He didn't seem inclined to be particularly helpful, now that Enjolras had a grip on his life again. It would have bothered him, just a few months ago, seeing Grantaire laze around while there was so much work to be done. But now he couldn't work up that old outrage anymore. Grantaire had come through for him when he'd needed him the most. It was hard to shake weeks of seeing him as a pillar of support; easier, now, to see the things he did contribute, the occasional insightful comment, the wealth of random facts he could come up with at a moments' notice.

Grantaire was the only thing that made that whole awful day bearable, all the apologies he had to make without actually being able to explain what had happened, all the screw-ups he had to fix; easier to remember that the world wasn't actually ending when he was able to look over and see Grantaire there, sprawled in some unlikely position, his feet on the back of the sofa and his head hanging down the side, thumbing through a book.

They had dinner together that night, and every day after that for a week. It went well, he thought. They still couldn't talk about anything even vaguely political, and a wealth of other topics besides, without getting into a heated discussion, but somewhere along the line, they seemed to have learned to argue without getting vicious about it. They usually had sex, after, or Enjolras would do some more work while Grantaire read, and then they'd go to sleep together. By the end of that week, Grantaire declared himself sick to death of take-out. He made pasta that night from an ancient package of spaghetti and an even older can of tomatoes he found buried on the back of a shelf. "Well, it's not like tinned food goes bad, right?" he said, eyeing it dubiously. Dinner came out fine, regardless; Enjolras had seconds, and seriously thought about thirds. Maybe he'd been getting a little sick of take-out himself.

It was good; it was working. Enjolras got used to it, dinner together, Grantaire on his couch in the evening, in his bed at night; and then things went wrong again. It was subtle at first, but Enjolras was paying attention now, so he noticed the tired slump to Grantaire's shoulders, the occasional vicious edge to his mood.

"It's nothing," Grantaire said when he asked him about it, except he was clearly unhappy, tense, pacing up and down Enjolras's living room. Enjolras watched him trek towards the kitchen, stop himself halfway to the fridge. Grantaire had never once drunk more than a single beer per evening when he was here, but he'd been doing it so casually it had taken Enjolras a few weeks to even notice that it was a firmly self-imposed rule. Now he could suddenly see the struggle, see the old Grantaire, the guy who'd gotten black-out drunk five times a week when things weren't going well for him. He'd cut back on the drinking years ago, before they'd ever even started dating, when he'd finally found a combination of meds that worked well enough, enough of the time; it was scaring the hell out of Enjolras to see him like this now.

"If there's anything I can do –" he said.

Grantaire sighed. "It's just Jacques – my roommate, you know? He's just a fucking dick. It's nothing, don't worry about it," he said, but his hands were clenching into fists at his sides. "I'm moving out as soon as I can, it's just hard finding a place I can afford in the middle of fucking Paris."

"Move in with me," Enjolras said, impulsively, not really thinking it through until the words were already out of his mouth. But no, that was perfect. Grantaire was here more often than not now, anyway, and Enjolras liked having him around.

Grantaire laughed, a harsh, startled sound. "Yeah, that'd work out well. I'm sorry, I'm being a downer tonight. I'll go to the studio, let you get some peace."

"I was serious," Enjolras said.

Grantaire's face softened. "I know. Look, it means the world to me that you offered. But it wouldn't work out and you know it. I really like the way things are right now. Let's not fuck it up."

"I don't see why you won't –" Enjolras started, pushing up from the couch, aware that his voice was rising. He reined himself in with an effort. He wanted to help, not argue with Grantaire when he was already down.

"Because I really don't want you getting sick of me just yet, okay?" Grantaire said, and his voice was gentle now, patient. "I'd get on your nerves in a week and you know it."

"So stay for a week, let's see how it goes," Enjolras said, and Grantaire's shoulders slowly slumped, exhausted. This was the thing Enjolras had promised himself he'd stop doing, pushing until Grantaire caved. But he couldn't just stand by and do nothing while Grantaire was this miserable. And this was going to be good, he just knew it.

"Fine," Grantaire said tiredly. "For a week. But you'll let me know the second you want me out, all right?"

"All right," Enjolras said, triumphant.

**********

He'd been right; it was good, living with Grantaire. Oh, there were conflicts enough. Grantaire stayed up till the middle of the night, he smoked on the fire escape they technically weren't allowed on, he listened to godawful music. He was messy in general and a sprawling, messy cook in particular. He'd manage to use five pots for a pasta dinner and not get around to washing any of them.

Enjolras was surprised to find how little any of it bothered him. It was nice, getting to eat home-cooked meals on a regular basis, and a messy kitchen seemed a small price to pay. He'd used to pace while he thought, now he cleaned - scrubbing pots, washing down the counters, absent-mindedly putting things away while he was composing an essay or writing a speech, sometimes grabbing his laptop to dash down a few sentences in the middle of the work. It meant his keyboard grew a little sticky and he'd sometimes find the sugar in the freezer or a stack of plates in the microwave, but it worked. A week turned into two, then three, and then the conseil général came out of summer break and Enjolras lost track of time.

"Did you see where I put my notes? Grantaire! I can't find my –"

"On your nightstand. Where you always put them," Grantaire said, coming out of the bedroom in boxers and an unbuttoned shirt, yawning. He pushed the papers into Enjolras's arms and then stood and watched, grinning, while Enjolras tried to juggle them on top of his briefcase, his umbrella, his travel mug of coffee, and his metro ticket. Shit, he was already late, and he had this nagging feeling – "And you were going to call Fleurent about the thing," Grantaire said, and Enjolras almost dropped everything, trying to fumble his cell phone out of his pocket, cursing.

"Thanks," he said, finally getting everything securely stowed away. He gave Grantaire a brief, distracted kiss, cell phone already to his ear. "See you tonight. Love you," he said, pulling the door open with his elbow. "Mssr. Fleurent? It's Enjolras. Yes, I know, I called as soon as I could…"

********

He came home late that night, dead on his feet, to find dinner on the table and Grantaire in a strangely subdued mood. He himself was too exhausted to keep the conversation going, so they sat and chewed their asparagus without talking.

"I found a place. I'm moving out next week," Grantaire suddenly said, dropping it into the silence like a grenade, and Enjolras put his fork down with a clatter.

"What?" Sure, they'd agreed this was going to be temporary, but things had been going so well. Why now?

Grantaire sighed. "Don't make a big deal out of this, okay? I've had a really good time, this has been great." He gave Enjolras a smile, faintly shaky around the edges. "I'm really… Things are pretty good right now, right? I'd really rather not wear out my welcome."

"You're not," Enjolras said, frowning at him. This had come all out of nowhere, so much so that he could barely think of any coherent argument. He liked having Grantaire here, Grantaire liked being here, they hadn't even had a real clash in days… He was still marshalling his thoughts when his phone started ringing. He reached over and rejected the call without even looking at it, and Grantaire looked up at him, surprised. And, okay, that was the root of the problem right there, wasn't it? They were having a serious conversation, and Grantaire thought he was going to put it on hold to answer his phone. Enjolras had been so stupidly pleased with himself lately, congratulating himself on how well things were going, and somehow he still hadn't even managed to show Grantaire that he was willing to put him first now when it mattered.

Well. Time was going to fix this, right? He'd keep trying, and Grantaire was going to believe him eventually. "Seriously, stay," he said. "You're not –" and his goddamn phone was ringing again. He rejected the call, with possibly a tiny bit of unnecessary force, and then it rang again, and this time he had to fight down a pang of anxiety when he reached out to turn it off for good, because that was Combeferre, and Combeferre wouldn't call him three times in a row unless it mattered –

"Oh my God, I appreciate the thought, but answer your fucking phone already. If Combeferre's calling you this late it's gonna be important," Grantaire said, echoing his thoughts, and Enjolras gave him a pained, apologetic look when he picked it up. He was just going to keep this really short –

"Enjolras? Finally. Bellard just called, he wants to meet, can you be at the café in thirty minutes?" Combeferre said, and Enjolras swore under his breath. Bellard had always had the worst timing imaginable.

"Seriously? Have you looked at the time? Who the fuck asks for a last-minute meeting at nine in the fucking evening?" he said, too sharply, and there was a long moment of silence on the line.

"That's just a little bit hypocritical of you, isn't it?" Combeferre finally said, his voice full of indulgent amusement, and across the table, Grantaire somehow managed to say the same thing with nothing but a smirk and a raised eyebrow.

Enjolras sighed. "This is really bad timing."

"Well, I guess you could tell him no –" Combeferre said slowly, faintly incredulous, and Enjolras winced. He'd been working to get Bellard at the table for a month now, and the guy had a temper – if he turned him down now, when he was finally extending an olive branch…

He took a deep breath. "Tell him I'll talk to him tomorrow. Or any time. I can't tonight, I'm sorry –" and then Grantaire was taking the phone out of his hand.

"He'll be there in thirty minutes," he said, hanging up and putting the phone down on the table with a decisive click, and, when Enjolras opened his mouth to protest, "No, you've made your point. You really want me to stay, I'm staying. Just – if I start getting on your nerves, you have to tell me before you get sick of me, okay?"

"I'm not going to," Enjolras said. He could see in Grantaire's face that he didn't quite believe him. They'd get there, he told himself. They had time now. Grantaire wasn't leaving. Which meant he could focus on this goddamn meeting, now -

"Have you seen my briefcase?" he said, realizing with a sudden spike of panic that he had thirty minutes to get his stuff together and get all the way over to the Musain, and he still needed to go over his notes…

"Here," Grantaire said, pushing it into his arms and then catching him by the shoulder to draw him into a quick kiss, surprisingly more filthy than casual. It sidetracked him pretty effectively for a moment. It was Grantaire who finally drew back, a crooked, affectionate smile on his face. He gave Enjolras's shoulder a gentle shove. "Go save the world, Enjolras. I'll be here when you get back."

THE END