I know we like to talk about R's perspective on him and Enj's death a lot, but I feel like we should acknowledge Enjolras' perspective as well because think about it. Enjolras represents all that is belief and faith and passion, and yet is at one of his lowest points in where he is losing hope, his friends are dead and his rebellion went up in flames. So when R, the one who represents all cynicism and doubt, declares he is one of them [the rebels] and dies beside Enjolras when he could have easily ran away? Enjolras smiles in this scene because he convinced the one man who had faith in nothing to believe for once. And if he could do that, he knew that his efforts were at least worth something.
New year, same bullshit. I’m sorry I’ve been so MIA, friends, but I hope you accept this drabble as an explanation of sorts. Love you all ❤️
“Should I be worried?”
Grantaire’s eyes flicker up to Enjolras’s, his cereal spoon halfway to his mouth. “Do you mean, like, in general?” he asks. “Because I mean, like, it’s 2025. And we’re all fucked. So.”
He sticks his spoon in his mouth and shrugs. Enjolras doesn’t smile. “That’s on me for not being more specific, I guess,” he says, scrubbing a hand across his mouth before crossing his arms in front of his chest. “You’re not painting.”
Grantaire swallows. “Well, no,” he allows, “mainly because I’m eating breakfast at the moment.”
“Be serious.”
Grantaire’s lips twitch. “It’s somewhat less funny when you know it’s coming.”
Enjolras arches an eyebrow. “And yet that’s never stopped you before.”
“Fair.” Grantaire twirls his spoon between his fingers before pronouncing, like the well-worn, inside joke it had become, “I am wild.”
Almost certainly despite himself, Enjolras smiles, just slightly. “Yeah, you are,” he agrees. “But you’re also not painting.”
Grantaire’s answering smile fades. “Could be,” he says, a little sullenly. “It’s not like you’re around enough to know.”
It’s a low blow and he knows it, but Enjolras doesn’t flinch. “Maybe not but we live in a late capitalist surveillance state so I have my ways of finding out.”
“Well, well, well, typical white man, complaining about the system except for when it directly benefits you.”
“Yep,” Enjolras says. “Are you going to keep deflecting? Because I can do this all day.”
For a moment, Grantaire’s tempted to take him up on it, to see just how long he’ll actually allow this to drag on. It’d almost certainly be good fun, and it isn’t like Grantaire’s got anything better to do.
But he can also see that Enjolras is genuinely worried, can see it in the tightness of his shoulders and the lines at the corners of his eyes that he tries to claim aren’t crow’s feet because he’s not old enough to have crow’s feet. And considering Grantaire’s previous point about all of the other things that are almost certainly more worth Enjolras’s worry, he supposes he owes him at least a semblance of the truth.
“Yes, I haven’t been painting,” he says, dipping his spoon in his bowl of cereal and stirring it, mostly to give himself something to do with his hands. “No, you shouldn’t be worried.”
Enjolras nods like he didn’t really expect a different answer. “Are you depressed again?”
Enjolras’s bluntness, characteristic though it may be, still startles a laugh from Grantaire. He sighs and looks down at his cereal bowl. “There’s not really a way to say this that won’t worry you.”
When he sneaks a glance at him, Enjolras meets his eyes evenly. “Try me.”
Grantaire jerks a shrug. “I’ve never really not been depressed,” he admits, which isn’t really a dirty secret so he’s not entirely sure why he’s saying it like it is.
Maybe because he really doesn’t want Enjolras to worry. They don’t talk about this, really, other than for Enjolras to reiterate more times than Grantaire can count that he’s always there to listen if ever Grantaire wants or needs to talk.
He knows that Grantaire’s in therapy, and takes meds, and had some very low lows previously, but Grantaire’s never felt the need to fill him in on the specifics.
It was depressing enough living it the first time.
He made that joke, such as it was, to his therapist, who didn’t laugh. “Do you frequently feel like you’re a burden to your loved ones?” she asked in response.
Of course Grantaire does, but again, he won’t tell Enjolras that.
Enjolras taps his fingers on the table, the way he does when he’s deciding on the best plan of attack or how to most effectively dismantle whatever asinine argument Grantaire’s brought up. “I thought you were doing better,” he says hesitantly after a moment.
He doesn’t pitch it as a question but Grantaire still nods. “I was.”
“What happened?” Enjolras asks, before pausing and asking, “Did something happen?”
Grantaire sighs and crosses his arms in front of his chest. “It doesn’t always work that way,” he says. “It’s not always triggered by something happening.”
Enjolras’s brow furrows. “Right,” he says shortly, something like disappointment flitting across his expression.
It took Grantaire a very long time when they got together to realize that this kind of disappointment isn’t aimed at him, but at a problem Enjolras can’t fix, an enemy he can’t fight.
At least, not directly.
He clears his throat. “But in this case, I think probably everything over the past few months played at least a contributory role, shall we say.”
True though it is, he mostly says it for Enjolras’s sake. Enjolras just nods slowly. “Are you not painting because your depression is bad again?”
Grantaire exhales sharply. “I’ve painted a lot while depressed.”
Grantaire barks a laugh and scrubs both hands across his face. “You know me too fucking well.”
“Or just well enough.”
Grantaire lowers his hands and sighs again. He doesn’t quite meet Enjolras’s eyes as he says, “Every time I go try to paint…it’s like I can’t see it anymore, you know?” Enjolras almost certainly doesn’t know, but he’s struggling to put it into words in a way he can understand. “Like I can’t picture it in my mind, how I want it to look, or how to get there. It’s– it’s like trying to paint in fog.”
It’s not an exact metaphor, but it’ll do.
Enjolras nods slowly. “But I don’t need to be worried.”
“No,” Grantaire says, before wrinkling his nose. “Yes? I never know what the correct response is.” Enjolras just gives him a look, and Grantaire tells him, “No, you don’t need to be worried.” He pauses, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth before telling Enjolras with an almost tired conviction, “It’ll come back. It always has.”
“And if it doesn’t?” Enjolras asks.
Grantaire cracks a smile. “Then you can worry.”
Enjolras takes a deep breath. “Ok,” he says simply.
Grantaire eyes him resignedly. “You’re going to worry anyway, aren’t you?”
A smile twitches at the corners of Enjolras’s mouth. “Newsflash, asshole, I’ve been worried this whole time,” he says dryly, and Grantaire’s smile widens at the quote.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and Enjolras’s smile disappears.
“What? Why?”
Grantaire shakes his head, mostly because he knows Enjolras won’t like his explanation. “Because you shouldn’t have to—”
Sure enough, Enjolras cuts him off with a scowl, though his voice is gentle as he tells him, “That ship I’m pretty sure sailed when I fell in love with you. Or, frankly, probably a good deal sooner than that.”
There are so many things that Grantaire wants to say that, but he can’t bring himself to. Instead, he stretches his hand across the table and tells Enjolras, sincerely, “I love you.”
Enjolras takes his hand, lacing their fingers together. “I know,” he says softly. “I love you, too.” He squeezes Grantaire’s hand before adding, “I hope it comes back soon.”
I was thinking… You know how in detective movies and series like sherlock, poirot etc. They’re always well known all around. Like everyone knows their name and who they are. But that got me thinking: I have never actually heard about a real life famous detective. Like a name you’ve heard alot on the news or anything? I dont know if I just coincidentally never heard of them or if thats just not a real thing.
Idk I just never thought about that fact while watching many of the genre. And was curious if that was just me or not XD
