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Grantaire stumbles down the street, pressing his thumb under his nose. This useless ministration doesn’t stop the bleeding, just changes the flow, directing it around the pad of his finger and trailing it toward the corner of his mouth.
(“You believe in nothing.”)
He crouches against a building. Too often a drunk to be seen on this end of town, pedestrians quicken their steps as he groans, pushing at the headache, trying to pass the pain past his lips, forcing it out of his throat and out of his lungs and out of him. (But forcing it out doesn’t work, and neither does stopping the blood, nothing helps—)
(“I believe in you.”)
“Grantaire!” Footsteps and a hushed voice, city noises and too much of it.
“Can’t you just leave everything well alone?” He uncurls only slightly when gentle fingers rest against his head, gritting his teeth against the pounding in his head as he meets the eyes of Apollo, descended from the heavens. Enjolras—not Apollo. Nor very statuesque, his eyes ablaze with more feeling than a statue can ever muster.
(He’s never looked at me like that.)
His vision darkens at the edges, tunneling around Enjolras’ haloed head. “What’s wrong? Your nose is bleeding.”
“Ah, yes, thank you, I hadn’t noticed that particular ailment,” he mutters, tasting blood on his tongue, having stopped the efforts to staunch the nosebleed. Enjolras is unamused. His eyes don’t even roll, not even toward the side—and that feels odd, to him, though he can’t say why.
(He can’t say a lot of things, can wrap his mind around anything at all.)
“Sarcasm is only digging you a grave.”
(A gauntlet of corpses.)
A pike is jammed into his skull, twice, with a hammer, and tears spring in the corner of his eyes. And a gentle hand—calloused, but the fingers are too thin to be Enjolras’—cups his cheek, cold against the fever raging beneath his skin.
“Grantaire,” a woman’s voice says, so sad and so soft (Enjolras is in the background, somewhere, speaking so quietly that Grantaire can’t hear him at all). “Grantaire, you’re not all right.”
“I’ve heard your voice before,” he murmurs, and Enjolras gets louder for a moment before he fades out completely and Grantaire sags forward, resting his forehead on his knees. “Where have I heard your voice before?”
“Not a relevant question,” the woman says in his ear. “And you need to listen very carefully.”
“Okay,” he whispers, “okay.”
“When I call, don’t come.”
“What?” He wants to raise his head, but it’s far too heavy for that. (And there are arms scooping under his own, lifting him up, and he can’t hear anything at all.)
“Don’t come when I call you,” the woman’s voice says, a breath against his ear. “Think of anything else, but do notcome when I call you,” there’s a sigh and a brush of fingers against the side of his face, thin and cool and very nice. “Think of what you forgot.”
“I hate riddles,” he sighs against the person holding him. “I hate riddles.”
-
Enjolras cradles Grantaire to his chest, his skin burning beneath his fingertips, sweat sticking his curls to his forehead, and he breathes nonsense against Enjolras’ collarbone. (I hate riddles, he hisses, his breath just as hot as his skin.)
He shifts Grantaire’s weight in his arms, trying to trot but not wanting to bounce him, heading back toward the Pontmercy estate (Joly is the only one he trusts enough to look after any of their friends—he knows each and every one of them well enough to diagnose without needing an extended medical history), wishing he had a free hand to wipe at the blood still dripping from Grantaire’s upper lip.
“Enjolras?” He grumbles, squirming in his grip. “Enjolras?” His voice hits a higher register than Enjolras had ever figured it could go. “You’re alive.” He laughs, tilting his head (though it lolls, a little, as if on a ball-and-socket joint). “You’re alive. Everything is worth it. Everything—anything—you’re here—alive.”
His head dips backward, exposing his neck and no other words make past his lips.
Enjolras picks up the pace.