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Marius’ wedding is a joyous affair that Enjolras never figured he would see. There are countless people that he’s never met, but both Marius and Cosette meet with smiles and handshakes, before everyone breaks out into dancing and singing (and perhaps a little drinking).
Grantaire is here, standing to the side where he rests against the brickwork of the wall—at least until Cosette steps away from Marius, taking Grantaire’s hands in hers and bringing him into a dance with her.
He’s actually—quite proficient.
(And he smiles, sweeping Cosette around the floor.)
“His sister taught him to dance,” Enjolras starts, turning his head to his left to find a slim woman with close-cropped brown hair standing at his side. “It was a grueling process, from what I understand, but he grasped it very well.”
He scoffs, looking back toward where Grantaire lifts Cosette in a choreography that they seem to know by heart. “He talks of his time before?”
(Grantaire never mentioned it much at meetings—and it’s only through Bahorel that he knows about Grantaire’s sister at all.)
“He gave me a peek,” the woman says, her eyes fixed to Cosette as she dances, laughing. She sighs, wistfully.
“Are you here to congratulate the couple?”
The woman smiles, a sad thing on such a thin and beautiful face. “I’m here to see my daughter get married. I have an appointment this evening—one that I must keep—but I thought I ought to stop by and see her. She looks so happy.” Her eyes cut to Enjolras, and she arches a brow. “Are you just going to stand here, the whole time?”
“I’ve already told Marius and Cosette—“
“They’re not the ones you’ve been eyeing,” the woman says with finality, and he glances back toward Grantaire, cheeks flushed from exertion rather than from wine, and he looks back, wondering what the woman is implying—
But she is gone, as if she had never been.
Enjolras steps forward, threading through the collection of dancing patrons, meeting a breathless Grantaire on the floor, standing next to an equally breathless Cosette, who curtsies with an arched brow—but a small smile.
“Would you like to dance with me?” Grantaire blinks, his face twisting into something confused.
“Me? I’m clumsy—and also drunk—and also, we’re hardly close enough to dance.”
Fingers dig into his organs and shift them around, pulling at things that should not be pulled. “Dance with me anyway.”
Enjolras holds out his hands (reaching across the gulf that now separates them)—two men dancing will be somewhat odd, but not unmanageable—and Grantaire takes them, a skeptical look at home on his face, and he lets Enjolras lead, but only until there’s a turn he doesn’t know, where the shift between them is a seamless changeover of power.
“I never figured you had time for this,“ Enjolras huffs, and they bow at one another, circling twice before joining hands again.
Grantaire laughs, dipping them both to the side, “excuse you? What with all your revolutionary preparations, you thought I wouldn’t have time for dancing? I—“ He jerks to a stop, his eyes wide with shock and—something else. “Sorry—I—sorry. I don’t know where that came from,” his hands slip out of Enjolras’ and he backs away, his eyes flickering around the dancing guests, before he disappears into a small crowd near a doorway, and then he’s out of sight completely.
Marius is at his side, pulling him out of the way of people. His joints feel stiff—rusted or jammed, pierced, perhaps.
“I miss him,” Enjolras says, speaking angrily to the floor. “I miss him.” And then— “I miss him.” Defeated.
Marius places a hand on his shoulder and he squeezes.
-
There is nothing inside his head but the splitting pain of a cart rolling over his skull like a grape. His arm, straining against the wall, is barely enough to keep him upright, and even so, he is bent half-over, groaning to fight against the cleaving of his brain.
Grantaire wipes the sweat beading on his upper lip.
His fingers come away red.