I write Enjolras/Grantaire fanfiction. This blog is pretty much just dedicated to me posting random shit related to my fics. Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments, kudos, likes, reblogs, etc. If you're feeling generous, monetary tips are also always appreciated. You can find a complete list of my fanfics here. Icon source: a commission from the lovely @deboracabral.
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: The Pitt (TV)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Jack Abbot/Michael "Robby" Robinavitch
Characters: Jack Abbot (The Pitt), Michael "Robby" Robinavitch
Additional Tags: Episode Tag, Established Relationship, Friendship/Love, Emotional Hurt/Comfort
Summary:
Light spoilers for Season 2, Episode 9.
Robby calls Abbot from his sabbatical.
It’s been like 84 years, I know (9 months, give or take), and my depression has only gotten worse so I’m not even back with an E/R fic, or a Les Mis fic. But I figured it was still worth sharing here for anyone who might be a fan of The Pitt or my particular brand of bullshit and also just as a general sign of life. Love you all, hang in there 💕
That “I am argon, I am a gas, has Marius passed chem at last?” post
Marius being Moon Moon
That one audio post where someone who was actually French pronounced all of the Amis’ names and all of the non-French people lost their shit because they’d been mentally pronouncing everything wrong
The official Les Mis social media just made another big silly mistake!The account posted that the line “Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise” was written by Victor Hugo. It was not. It was written by Herbert Kretzmer for the musical adaptation only. I think it’s wrong to pretend that Victor Hugo said things he didn’t actually say--- and I also think it’s wrong to erase the contribution of Herbert Kretzmer, who deserves to get credit for the lyrics he wrote even though his name isn't as famous. Especially when you know, you’re still making money off the lyrics he wrote.
But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe if you put things in fancy font on a dramatic background, it must be true!
With that in mind, here’s my favorite Victor Hugo quote.
“Last call,” the bartender says, in the weary tone of someone with an hour of cleanup before he can finally make it to his own bed.
It’s not the city that never sleeps but it’s a city that doesn’t always sleep, and the regulars at the bar that closes at 4am will stumble to the bar that closes at 6am, and when that bar closes, they’ll find their way to the café that opens at 6:30 and bring their bottles with them, tucked into brown paper bags and dumped into cups of bad coffee.
It’s 4am and he gives you this look.
This has played out a thousand times before in a hundred different bars, strangers that brave the oppressive summer heat to wander to a bed that’s a generous stretch to call home, to turn sweat-slicked bodies into something you can pretend is sensual and not just sticky.
He’ll tell you to stay, whisper it into your shoulder as you’re already shifting to find where you dropped your jeans.
He doesn’t mean it, but it’s nice of him to say it.
It’s 4am and he gives you this look.
Tosses back a shot that brings more heat than it quenches, that doesn’t so much drown a fire within as dulls it, at least for a time. The same way that the hasty kisses you’ll trade in darkened streets will drown out the fact that it’s not you that he wants.
It’s 4am, and he gives you this look.
And you know that he wishes he was seeing someone else.
I know it's been forever, but I couldn't let @barricadeday pass without writing at least a little something.
To that end... E/R, canon era, developing relationship, implied canonical character death.
The silence in the backroom of the Musain was punctuated solely by the scratch of Enjolras’s quill against the parchment, and the occasional dull thud as Grantaire’s bottle returned to the table between sips. It was a comfortable silence, the kind both men had borne in each other’s company more than either would likely admit.
As was usually the case this late at night, the only light came from a single, guttering candle that flickered in the light breeze that came in through the open window. Once, Grantaire might have suggested that Les Amis invest in some additional lighting sources should their Dear Leader insist upon straining his eyes in the dim light; now, he knew better than remark upon it, lest he risk Enjolras’s wrath. Again.
But even silence may only do so much to prolong the length of a wick, and without further warning, the candle spluttered out. “Last call, I take it?” Grantaire said from the sudden darkness.
Enjolras didn’t laugh, but there was still slight amusement in his voice as he sighed, “I suppose so.”
The silence of the night broken, both men gathered their things, another dance made comfortable by its familiarity. Easier than usual, also, by the faint light coming from the window, and Grantaire glanced over his shoulder as he drained the final dregs from his bottle. “Ah,” he said. “No longer can we call this another long night spent at the Musain.”
Enjolras looked out the window as well, his brow furrowed. “I don’t see—”
“Do you not?” Grantaire interrupted, giving Enjolras a small, lopsided smile. “One would think that Apollo would recognize the sun as it emerges yet again over the horizon.”
“Evidence, perhaps, that I am not Apollo,” Enjolras shot back. “Evidence, I am certain, that you shall ignore lest it ruin your metaphor.”
“I do love a metaphor,” Grantaire agreed, his smile widening. “How well you know me, to know as such.”
His words were saccharine, and Enjolras rolled his eyes. “As if you have given anyone a moment’s grace from your metaphors,” he huffed, with no real heat. “I am certain the only time you are ever truly silent is when asleep.”
“You’re welcome to accompany me to my bed to find out for yourself.”
Enjolras did not dignify that with a remark, instead leading the way down the stair, not waiting to see if Grantaire would follow.
He needn’t have, regardless, as wherever Enjolras led, Grantaire would inevitably follow.
By the time they spilled out onto the street, the sun had crept high enough in the sky to cast Paris in a golden glow, and when Enjolras turned to say something to Grantaire, he had no sooner opened his mouth than Grantaire gasped. “Wait,” he said, fumbling in his pockets, and Enjolras frowned.
“What could you possibly—” he started, exasperated, though he was cut off by Grantaire once more.
“Got it!” Grantaire said, emerging from his pockets triumphantly with a scrap of paper and a bit of charcoal.
If Enjolras was exasperated before, now he was downright baffled, and he raised both eyebrows as Grantaire pressed the paper against the nearest wall, sketching something with rapid movements. “Dare I even ask?”
“Just…stay…still,” Grantaire murmured, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth.
Enjolras, of course, was not much one for orders, and so immediately crossed to peer over Grantaire’s shoulder. “What are you—”
“Did I not tell you to stay?” Grantaire cried as he glanced over at him. “Now you’ve gone and lost the light!”
But Enjolras’s eyes were still on the half-completed sketch, something unreadable in his expression. “Is that meant to be me?”
Grantaire looked back at the drawing. “Well, it was going to be,” he muttered, a scowl darkening his expression. “Would that you had just stayed still for once so I could capture the image.” He glanced back at Enjolras, something almost hesitant in his expression. “It was just– the light had hit you just so, and I would have been remiss had I not tried to capture it.”
He made as if to crumple the paper but Enjolras intercepted him, smoothing the paper out against the wall once more. “It’s beautiful,” he told Grantaire, who squirmed slightly at the sincerity of his words.
“The dawn light makes even the ordinary seem beautiful,” he muttered.
Enjolras gave him a look. “Are you calling me ordinary?” he asked mildly, and when Grantaire just spluttered indignantly, he gave him a sharp smirk. “That is what I thought.”
“Well,” Grantaire huffed, taking the paper back from Enjolras, and this time folding it carefully before he slipped it back into his pocket, “if my own words are to be so taken out of context…”
He trailed off and Enjolras just shook his head affectionately. “Something that certainly no one has ever done to me,” he said pointedly. “But it is a fair likeness, and far more generous than I deserve. Thank you.”
Grantaire ducked his head. “Your praise is misplaced, but thank you nonetheless.”
“Of course,” Enjolras continued, with his never ceasing need for the final word, “if only your dedication to your craft could be matched by the dedication to our Cause.”
It was an old argument, of course, and Grantaire’s eye roll in response was practically de rigueur. “Firstly, if you think I have any dedication to ‘my craft’ whatsoever, I daresay I would assume you had drunk almost as much wine as I. Secondly, this is in service of the Cause.”
To say Enjolras looked skeptical would be an understatement. “How so?”
Grantaire shrugged. “The dawn is a metaphor,” he said, as if it was obvious.
“A metaphor for what?” Enjolras pressed, and when Grantaire just made a face, he prodded, amused, “Grantaire?”
Grantaire scowled at him. “Let a man think for at least a moment and he’s certain to come up with something.”
Almost certainly despite himself, Enjolras managed a light laugh, and shook his head. “That is what I thought,” he said, shaking his head, and he started down the street in the direction of his home.
He had barely made it to the next door when Grantaire called after him, “The future.”
Enjolras half-turned to look back at him. “What?”
“That is for what the dawn serves as metaphor,” Grantaire told him. “The radiance of the future. A new horizon we seek to reach, and the hope that we shall some day get there.”
Enjolras’s eyes narrowed. “Is that actually what you believe?”
“Does it matter?” Grantaire countered, and Enjolras shook his head.
“I suppose that is an answer in itself, and one I should have expected.”
Grantaire grinned at him. “You do me credit that for even one moment you expected otherwise from me,” he said sweetly.
Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Expected may be too strong a sentiment,” he said, something sour in his tone. “But for a moment– I suppose I hoped.”
Grantaire nodded slowly, taking a measured pace towards Enjolras. “Hope, like the dawn, is a fickle mistress, and disappears after far too brief a time,” he said evenly.
Enjolras’s lips pursed. “So says the Cynic.”
Grantaire just shrugged. “If one does not trust to hope, one will never be disappointed.”
Enjolras’s expression darkened, and he shook his head, turning away yet again. “Your drunken wit may ring like wisdom to a fool’s ears, but I’m afraid mine are not so easily affected,” he said scornfully.
But Grantaire reached out to grab his arm, holding him in place. “Enjolras—” he started, and Enjolras looked back at him.
“What?”
Grantaire wet his lips almost nervously. “Hope lies beyond my reach, but belief may yet be within my grasp.”
Enjolras’s expression didn’t flicker. “Belief in your full glass, as you’ve long proclaimed.”
“Yes,” Grantaire said, “but belief also in the dawn.”
Enjolras’s eyes met his evenly. “In the future?”
Grantaire jerked a shrug. “Or at least that the dawn shall come again on the morrow.”
It was the wrong thing to say, and Enjolras just sighed, disappointment and disapproval clear on every plane of his face, lit still by the early light of day. “So you believe in certainty,” he said dismissively. “That which requires no faith.”
But Grantaire just took a step closer to him, his grip on Enjolras’s arm loosening, turning almost reverent. “And belief in one more thing,” he said, something almost hesitant in the words. “One that requires faith most of all.”
“What?” Enjolras asked, the word no more than a single breath for how it hung between them.
In answer, Grantaire closed the space between them and pressed his lips against Enjolras’s.
Enjolras did not return the kiss, did not lean into Grantaire’s touch or open his lips against Grantaire’s. He did not lace their fingers together, did not press his body against Grantaire’s, did not trace a gentle finger across Grantaire’s dark stubble or cup the back of Grantaire’s head.
And yet, he did not pull away.
Instead, it was only when Grantaire pulled back, his nose just brushing against Enjolras’s, that Enjolras finally sighed, a rebuke, perhaps, or a plea, “Grantaire…”
“Tell me I am wrong to believe,” Grantaire murmured.
But Enjolras just shook his head. “I cannot give you what you seek.”
“I seek nothing that cannot be found at the bottom of my glass,” Grantaire told him, hesitating before adding, “And to perhaps one day be worthy to kiss your lips once more.”
Enjolras swallowed, and ducked his head, but again he made no effort to push him away, even as he ordered, his voice low, “Go home, Grantaire.”
It was only then that Grantaire finally released his grip on Enjolras, his hand trailing down Enjolras’s arm to brush against his hand. “Goodnight, Enjolras,” he said, matching his pitch. “Or should I say, good morning.”
He squeezed Enjolras’s hand just once before finally letting go, and it was Grantaire who finally turned to walk away, leaving Enjolras standing in the street, the dawn light casting his indecision in shades of gold.
— — — — —
The dawn lit Enjolras from behind, casting him in a halo of defiance as he stared down the National Guard.
This time, the indecision was solely theirs as they exchanged hesitant glances, until—
“Long live the Republic! I am one of them.”
Grantaire emerged into the light, the dawn seeming to illuminate a fire within him, a fire not even Enjolras had ever dared to hope might kindle. Too late, perhaps, but as Grantaire declared, “Finish us both with one blow,” Enjolras knew that at the least, his hope had not been misplaced.
There was no further need for metaphor as Grantaire took his place at Enjolras’s side, belief made tangible, both men wrapped in the promise of the dawn and the ironclad certainty that while neither would see it, the sun would rise again the next day on a future which belonged now solely to their dreams.
I know it's been forever, but I couldn't let @barricadeday pass without writing at least a little something.
To that end... E/R, canon era, developing relationship, implied canonical character death.
The silence in the backroom of the Musain was punctuated solely by the scratch of Enjolras’s quill against the parchment, and the occasional dull thud as Grantaire’s bottle returned to the table between sips. It was a comfortable silence, the kind both men had borne in each other’s company more than either would likely admit.
As was usually the case this late at night, the only light came from a single, guttering candle that flickered in the light breeze that came in through the open window. Once, Grantaire might have suggested that Les Amis invest in some additional lighting sources should their Dear Leader insist upon straining his eyes in the dim light; now, he knew better than remark upon it, lest he risk Enjolras’s wrath. Again.
But even silence may only do so much to prolong the length of a wick, and without further warning, the candle spluttered out. “Last call, I take it?” Grantaire said from the sudden darkness.
Enjolras didn’t laugh, but there was still slight amusement in his voice as he sighed, “I suppose so.”
The silence of the night broken, both men gathered their things, another dance made comfortable by its familiarity. Easier than usual, also, by the faint light coming from the window, and Grantaire glanced over his shoulder as he drained the final dregs from his bottle. “Ah,” he said. “No longer can we call this another long night spent at the Musain.”
Enjolras looked out the window as well, his brow furrowed. “I don’t see—”
“Do you not?” Grantaire interrupted, giving Enjolras a small, lopsided smile. “One would think that Apollo would recognize the sun as it emerges yet again over the horizon.”
“Evidence, perhaps, that I am not Apollo,” Enjolras shot back. “Evidence, I am certain, that you shall ignore lest it ruin your metaphor.”
“I do love a metaphor,” Grantaire agreed, his smile widening. “How well you know me, to know as such.”
His words were saccharine, and Enjolras rolled his eyes. “As if you have given anyone a moment’s grace from your metaphors,” he huffed, with no real heat. “I am certain the only time you are ever truly silent is when asleep.”
“You’re welcome to accompany me to my bed to find out for yourself.”
Enjolras did not dignify that with a remark, instead leading the way down the stair, not waiting to see if Grantaire would follow.
He needn’t have, regardless, as wherever Enjolras led, Grantaire would inevitably follow.
By the time they spilled out onto the street, the sun had crept high enough in the sky to cast Paris in a golden glow, and when Enjolras turned to say something to Grantaire, he had no sooner opened his mouth than Grantaire gasped. “Wait,” he said, fumbling in his pockets, and Enjolras frowned.
“What could you possibly—” he started, exasperated, though he was cut off by Grantaire once more.
“Got it!” Grantaire said, emerging from his pockets triumphantly with a scrap of paper and a bit of charcoal.
If Enjolras was exasperated before, now he was downright baffled, and he raised both eyebrows as Grantaire pressed the paper against the nearest wall, sketching something with rapid movements. “Dare I even ask?”
“Just…stay…still,” Grantaire murmured, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth.
Enjolras, of course, was not much one for orders, and so immediately crossed to peer over Grantaire’s shoulder. “What are you—”
“Did I not tell you to stay?” Grantaire cried as he glanced over at him. “Now you’ve gone and lost the light!”
But Enjolras’s eyes were still on the half-completed sketch, something unreadable in his expression. “Is that meant to be me?”
Grantaire looked back at the drawing. “Well, it was going to be,” he muttered, a scowl darkening his expression. “Would that you had just stayed still for once so I could capture the image.” He glanced back at Enjolras, something almost hesitant in his expression. “It was just– the light had hit you just so, and I would have been remiss had I not tried to capture it.”
He made as if to crumple the paper but Enjolras intercepted him, smoothing the paper out against the wall once more. “It’s beautiful,” he told Grantaire, who squirmed slightly at the sincerity of his words.
“The dawn light makes even the ordinary seem beautiful,” he muttered.
Enjolras gave him a look. “Are you calling me ordinary?” he asked mildly, and when Grantaire just spluttered indignantly, he gave him a sharp smirk. “That is what I thought.”
“Well,” Grantaire huffed, taking the paper back from Enjolras, and this time folding it carefully before he slipped it back into his pocket, “if my own words are to be so taken out of context…”
He trailed off and Enjolras just shook his head affectionately. “Something that certainly no one has ever done to me,” he said pointedly. “But it is a fair likeness, and far more generous than I deserve. Thank you.”
Grantaire ducked his head. “Your praise is misplaced, but thank you nonetheless.”
“Of course,” Enjolras continued, with his never ceasing need for the final word, “if only your dedication to your craft could be matched by the dedication to our Cause.”
It was an old argument, of course, and Grantaire’s eye roll in response was practically de rigueur. “Firstly, if you think I have any dedication to ‘my craft’ whatsoever, I daresay I would assume you had drunk almost as much wine as I. Secondly, this is in service of the Cause.”
To say Enjolras looked skeptical would be an understatement. “How so?”
Grantaire shrugged. “The dawn is a metaphor,” he said, as if it was obvious.
“A metaphor for what?” Enjolras pressed, and when Grantaire just made a face, he prodded, amused, “Grantaire?”
Grantaire scowled at him. “Let a man think for at least a moment and he’s certain to come up with something.”
Almost certainly despite himself, Enjolras managed a light laugh, and shook his head. “That is what I thought,” he said, shaking his head, and he started down the street in the direction of his home.
He had barely made it to the next door when Grantaire called after him, “The future.”
Enjolras half-turned to look back at him. “What?”
“That is for what the dawn serves as metaphor,” Grantaire told him. “The radiance of the future. A new horizon we seek to reach, and the hope that we shall some day get there.”
Enjolras’s eyes narrowed. “Is that actually what you believe?”
“Does it matter?” Grantaire countered, and Enjolras shook his head.
“I suppose that is an answer in itself, and one I should have expected.”
Grantaire grinned at him. “You do me credit that for even one moment you expected otherwise from me,” he said sweetly.
Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Expected may be too strong a sentiment,” he said, something sour in his tone. “But for a moment– I suppose I hoped.”
Grantaire nodded slowly, taking a measured pace towards Enjolras. “Hope, like the dawn, is a fickle mistress, and disappears after far too brief a time,” he said evenly.
Enjolras’s lips pursed. “So says the Cynic.”
Grantaire just shrugged. “If one does not trust to hope, one will never be disappointed.”
Enjolras’s expression darkened, and he shook his head, turning away yet again. “Your drunken wit may ring like wisdom to a fool’s ears, but I’m afraid mine are not so easily affected,” he said scornfully.
But Grantaire reached out to grab his arm, holding him in place. “Enjolras—” he started, and Enjolras looked back at him.
“What?”
Grantaire wet his lips almost nervously. “Hope lies beyond my reach, but belief may yet be within my grasp.”
Enjolras’s expression didn’t flicker. “Belief in your full glass, as you’ve long proclaimed.”
“Yes,” Grantaire said, “but belief also in the dawn.”
Enjolras’s eyes met his evenly. “In the future?”
Grantaire jerked a shrug. “Or at least that the dawn shall come again on the morrow.”
It was the wrong thing to say, and Enjolras just sighed, disappointment and disapproval clear on every plane of his face, lit still by the early light of day. “So you believe in certainty,” he said dismissively. “That which requires no faith.”
But Grantaire just took a step closer to him, his grip on Enjolras’s arm loosening, turning almost reverent. “And belief in one more thing,” he said, something almost hesitant in the words. “One that requires faith most of all.”
“What?” Enjolras asked, the word no more than a single breath for how it hung between them.
In answer, Grantaire closed the space between them and pressed his lips against Enjolras’s.
Enjolras did not return the kiss, did not lean into Grantaire’s touch or open his lips against Grantaire’s. He did not lace their fingers together, did not press his body against Grantaire’s, did not trace a gentle finger across Grantaire’s dark stubble or cup the back of Grantaire’s head.
And yet, he did not pull away.
Instead, it was only when Grantaire pulled back, his nose just brushing against Enjolras’s, that Enjolras finally sighed, a rebuke, perhaps, or a plea, “Grantaire…”
“Tell me I am wrong to believe,” Grantaire murmured.
But Enjolras just shook his head. “I cannot give you what you seek.”
“I seek nothing that cannot be found at the bottom of my glass,” Grantaire told him, hesitating before adding, “And to perhaps one day be worthy to kiss your lips once more.”
Enjolras swallowed, and ducked his head, but again he made no effort to push him away, even as he ordered, his voice low, “Go home, Grantaire.”
It was only then that Grantaire finally released his grip on Enjolras, his hand trailing down Enjolras’s arm to brush against his hand. “Goodnight, Enjolras,” he said, matching his pitch. “Or should I say, good morning.”
He squeezed Enjolras’s hand just once before finally letting go, and it was Grantaire who finally turned to walk away, leaving Enjolras standing in the street, the dawn light casting his indecision in shades of gold.
— — — — —
The dawn lit Enjolras from behind, casting him in a halo of defiance as he stared down the National Guard.
This time, the indecision was solely theirs as they exchanged hesitant glances, until—
“Long live the Republic! I am one of them.”
Grantaire emerged into the light, the dawn seeming to illuminate a fire within him, a fire not even Enjolras had ever dared to hope might kindle. Too late, perhaps, but as Grantaire declared, “Finish us both with one blow,” Enjolras knew that at the least, his hope had not been misplaced.
There was no further need for metaphor as Grantaire took his place at Enjolras’s side, belief made tangible, both men wrapped in the promise of the dawn and the ironclad certainty that while neither would see it, the sun would rise again the next day on a future which belonged now solely to their dreams.
I know it's been forever, but I couldn't let @barricadeday pass without writing at least a little something.
To that end... E/R, canon era, developing relationship, implied canonical character death.
The silence in the backroom of the Musain was punctuated solely by the scratch of Enjolras’s quill against the parchment, and the occasional dull thud as Grantaire’s bottle returned to the table between sips. It was a comfortable silence, the kind both men had borne in each other’s company more than either would likely admit.
As was usually the case this late at night, the only light came from a single, guttering candle that flickered in the light breeze that came in through the open window. Once, Grantaire might have suggested that Les Amis invest in some additional lighting sources should their Dear Leader insist upon straining his eyes in the dim light; now, he knew better than remark upon it, lest he risk Enjolras’s wrath. Again.
But even silence may only do so much to prolong the length of a wick, and without further warning, the candle spluttered out. “Last call, I take it?” Grantaire said from the sudden darkness.
Enjolras didn’t laugh, but there was still slight amusement in his voice as he sighed, “I suppose so.”
The silence of the night broken, both men gathered their things, another dance made comfortable by its familiarity. Easier than usual, also, by the faint light coming from the window, and Grantaire glanced over his shoulder as he drained the final dregs from his bottle. “Ah,” he said. “No longer can we call this another long night spent at the Musain.”
Enjolras looked out the window as well, his brow furrowed. “I don’t see—”
“Do you not?” Grantaire interrupted, giving Enjolras a small, lopsided smile. “One would think that Apollo would recognize the sun as it emerges yet again over the horizon.”
“Evidence, perhaps, that I am not Apollo,” Enjolras shot back. “Evidence, I am certain, that you shall ignore lest it ruin your metaphor.”
“I do love a metaphor,” Grantaire agreed, his smile widening. “How well you know me, to know as such.”
His words were saccharine, and Enjolras rolled his eyes. “As if you have given anyone a moment’s grace from your metaphors,” he huffed, with no real heat. “I am certain the only time you are ever truly silent is when asleep.”
“You’re welcome to accompany me to my bed to find out for yourself.”
Enjolras did not dignify that with a remark, instead leading the way down the stair, not waiting to see if Grantaire would follow.
He needn’t have, regardless, as wherever Enjolras led, Grantaire would inevitably follow.
By the time they spilled out onto the street, the sun had crept high enough in the sky to cast Paris in a golden glow, and when Enjolras turned to say something to Grantaire, he had no sooner opened his mouth than Grantaire gasped. “Wait,” he said, fumbling in his pockets, and Enjolras frowned.
“What could you possibly—” he started, exasperated, though he was cut off by Grantaire once more.
“Got it!” Grantaire said, emerging from his pockets triumphantly with a scrap of paper and a bit of charcoal.
If Enjolras was exasperated before, now he was downright baffled, and he raised both eyebrows as Grantaire pressed the paper against the nearest wall, sketching something with rapid movements. “Dare I even ask?”
“Just…stay…still,” Grantaire murmured, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth.
Enjolras, of course, was not much one for orders, and so immediately crossed to peer over Grantaire’s shoulder. “What are you—”
“Did I not tell you to stay?” Grantaire cried as he glanced over at him. “Now you’ve gone and lost the light!”
But Enjolras’s eyes were still on the half-completed sketch, something unreadable in his expression. “Is that meant to be me?”
Grantaire looked back at the drawing. “Well, it was going to be,” he muttered, a scowl darkening his expression. “Would that you had just stayed still for once so I could capture the image.” He glanced back at Enjolras, something almost hesitant in his expression. “It was just– the light had hit you just so, and I would have been remiss had I not tried to capture it.”
He made as if to crumple the paper but Enjolras intercepted him, smoothing the paper out against the wall once more. “It’s beautiful,” he told Grantaire, who squirmed slightly at the sincerity of his words.
“The dawn light makes even the ordinary seem beautiful,” he muttered.
Enjolras gave him a look. “Are you calling me ordinary?” he asked mildly, and when Grantaire just spluttered indignantly, he gave him a sharp smirk. “That is what I thought.”
“Well,” Grantaire huffed, taking the paper back from Enjolras, and this time folding it carefully before he slipped it back into his pocket, “if my own words are to be so taken out of context…”
He trailed off and Enjolras just shook his head affectionately. “Something that certainly no one has ever done to me,” he said pointedly. “But it is a fair likeness, and far more generous than I deserve. Thank you.”
Grantaire ducked his head. “Your praise is misplaced, but thank you nonetheless.”
“Of course,” Enjolras continued, with his never ceasing need for the final word, “if only your dedication to your craft could be matched by the dedication to our Cause.”
It was an old argument, of course, and Grantaire’s eye roll in response was practically de rigueur. “Firstly, if you think I have any dedication to ‘my craft’ whatsoever, I daresay I would assume you had drunk almost as much wine as I. Secondly, this is in service of the Cause.”
To say Enjolras looked skeptical would be an understatement. “How so?”
Grantaire shrugged. “The dawn is a metaphor,” he said, as if it was obvious.
“A metaphor for what?” Enjolras pressed, and when Grantaire just made a face, he prodded, amused, “Grantaire?”
Grantaire scowled at him. “Let a man think for at least a moment and he’s certain to come up with something.”
Almost certainly despite himself, Enjolras managed a light laugh, and shook his head. “That is what I thought,” he said, shaking his head, and he started down the street in the direction of his home.
He had barely made it to the next door when Grantaire called after him, “The future.”
Enjolras half-turned to look back at him. “What?”
“That is for what the dawn serves as metaphor,” Grantaire told him. “The radiance of the future. A new horizon we seek to reach, and the hope that we shall some day get there.”
Enjolras’s eyes narrowed. “Is that actually what you believe?”
“Does it matter?” Grantaire countered, and Enjolras shook his head.
“I suppose that is an answer in itself, and one I should have expected.”
Grantaire grinned at him. “You do me credit that for even one moment you expected otherwise from me,” he said sweetly.
Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Expected may be too strong a sentiment,” he said, something sour in his tone. “But for a moment– I suppose I hoped.”
Grantaire nodded slowly, taking a measured pace towards Enjolras. “Hope, like the dawn, is a fickle mistress, and disappears after far too brief a time,” he said evenly.
Enjolras’s lips pursed. “So says the Cynic.”
Grantaire just shrugged. “If one does not trust to hope, one will never be disappointed.”
Enjolras’s expression darkened, and he shook his head, turning away yet again. “Your drunken wit may ring like wisdom to a fool’s ears, but I’m afraid mine are not so easily affected,” he said scornfully.
But Grantaire reached out to grab his arm, holding him in place. “Enjolras—” he started, and Enjolras looked back at him.
“What?”
Grantaire wet his lips almost nervously. “Hope lies beyond my reach, but belief may yet be within my grasp.”
Enjolras’s expression didn’t flicker. “Belief in your full glass, as you’ve long proclaimed.”
“Yes,” Grantaire said, “but belief also in the dawn.”
Enjolras’s eyes met his evenly. “In the future?”
Grantaire jerked a shrug. “Or at least that the dawn shall come again on the morrow.”
It was the wrong thing to say, and Enjolras just sighed, disappointment and disapproval clear on every plane of his face, lit still by the early light of day. “So you believe in certainty,” he said dismissively. “That which requires no faith.”
But Grantaire just took a step closer to him, his grip on Enjolras’s arm loosening, turning almost reverent. “And belief in one more thing,” he said, something almost hesitant in the words. “One that requires faith most of all.”
“What?” Enjolras asked, the word no more than a single breath for how it hung between them.
In answer, Grantaire closed the space between them and pressed his lips against Enjolras’s.
Enjolras did not return the kiss, did not lean into Grantaire’s touch or open his lips against Grantaire’s. He did not lace their fingers together, did not press his body against Grantaire’s, did not trace a gentle finger across Grantaire’s dark stubble or cup the back of Grantaire’s head.
And yet, he did not pull away.
Instead, it was only when Grantaire pulled back, his nose just brushing against Enjolras’s, that Enjolras finally sighed, a rebuke, perhaps, or a plea, “Grantaire…”
“Tell me I am wrong to believe,” Grantaire murmured.
But Enjolras just shook his head. “I cannot give you what you seek.”
“I seek nothing that cannot be found at the bottom of my glass,” Grantaire told him, hesitating before adding, “And to perhaps one day be worthy to kiss your lips once more.”
Enjolras swallowed, and ducked his head, but again he made no effort to push him away, even as he ordered, his voice low, “Go home, Grantaire.”
It was only then that Grantaire finally released his grip on Enjolras, his hand trailing down Enjolras’s arm to brush against his hand. “Goodnight, Enjolras,” he said, matching his pitch. “Or should I say, good morning.”
He squeezed Enjolras’s hand just once before finally letting go, and it was Grantaire who finally turned to walk away, leaving Enjolras standing in the street, the dawn light casting his indecision in shades of gold.
— — — — —
The dawn lit Enjolras from behind, casting him in a halo of defiance as he stared down the National Guard.
This time, the indecision was solely theirs as they exchanged hesitant glances, until—
“Long live the Republic! I am one of them.”
Grantaire emerged into the light, the dawn seeming to illuminate a fire within him, a fire not even Enjolras had ever dared to hope might kindle. Too late, perhaps, but as Grantaire declared, “Finish us both with one blow,” Enjolras knew that at the least, his hope had not been misplaced.
There was no further need for metaphor as Grantaire took his place at Enjolras’s side, belief made tangible, both men wrapped in the promise of the dawn and the ironclad certainty that while neither would see it, the sun would rise again the next day on a future which belonged now solely to their dreams.
It's that time of the year again! Remember to leave out bread and absinthe for Victor Hugo and he will leave you 50 pages on a subject that is off-topic but that he is vaguely interested in. Be safe out there!
Saw Hadestown today, and you know what means…Orpheus and Eurydice AU.
Grantaire as our Eurydice, hardened, world-weary, who is so used to running but stays only because of his love for Enjolras.
And Enjolras as Orpheus, touched by the gods – “Or maybe just touched in the head,” Grantaire mutters, but with a smile just peeking out of the corner of his mouth. After all, he’d have to be touched to believe he can change the world, right?
(“Of course,” Grantaire adds, “what does it say about me that I love him for it?”)
But times are hard and getting harder and changing the world doesn’t pay the bills, or keep the fire going or food in their bellies. And Grantaire—
Well. You know what they say of the frailty of man.
(“He’s gone,” Combeferre tells Enjolras, his hand heavy on his shoulder. “I am sorry, but this is one thing not even you can change.”
“He always said he would die for me,” Enjolras says, his voice broken. “I just never thought—“
His face hardens and he stands. “He said he would die for me,” he repeats, louder, stronger, iron banding his words and spine. “But I would kill for him.”
“You cannot kill the gods, or fate,” Combeferre says, exasperated.
Enjolras smiles, the sight chilling Combeferre to the bones. “Watch me.”)
And he goes after him, and his belief is strong enough to get him passage through the Underworld to Grantaire’s side, strong enough to bring Hades and Persephone back together, strong enough to convince Hades—
“There is a condition,” Hades says, his voice low. “You may leave, but not hand in hand. You will have to walk in front, and him behind.”
Enjolras squares his shoulders. “Fine,” he says. “We can—“
“Not you,” Hades says. “Grantaire will lead. And if he turns around to make sure you’re there, he returns here. Forever.”
But what choice do they have? The road is long, and dark, and Grantaire’s never been that good at belief under the best of circumstances.
And these are not the best of circumstances.
But he knows something Hades doesn’t know. Hades has looked at the whole of his life, at his lack of faith in anything, but like so many others, has never seen, or never understood, that Grantaire believes in Enjolras.
When Grantaire emerges into the triumph of the sun, he shouts his victory. (“Long live the Republic! I am one of them”.)
enjolras shoots him a fond look ONCE and r immediately breaks down, paints a mural on the floor, then breaks down again
also side note look at r's shirt . once again pushing my gang of youths agenda
this has literally been a wip for s o long (by wip i mean i had a rough comp from essentially scrapbooking 2 refs) but finally got around to actually painting over it
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Combeferre/Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Characters: Combeferre (Les Misérables), Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Enjolras (Les Misérables), Grantaire (Les Misérables), Les Amis de l'ABC
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - The West Wing Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Politics, The West Wing AU, Developing Relationship, prior relationship, Established Relationship, Trust Issues, Flirting, Oval Office, Podfic, Podfic Length: 30-45 Minutes
Summary:
The West Wing AU. Courfeyrac, a journalist with whom Combeferre has a past, returns from abroad and joins the White House Press Corps, which is going to make Combeferre’s job as Press Secretary a lot more interesting
********************************************
I have spent more time than I should’ve on this, but what can I say, I love @kjack89 and I want Courferre back in the @lesmisshippingshowdown so. Enjoy!
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Cosette Fauchelevent/Éponine Thénardier, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Characters: Éponine Thénardier, Cosette Fauchelevent, Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Podfic, Podfic Length: 10-20 Minutes
Summary:
“Shit,” she hissed, grabbing Grantaire’s arm. “Shit shit shit—”
“What?” Grantaire asked, sounding far more curious than concerned, and to Éponine’s horror, he craned his neck, clearly trying to figure out who she had seen. “Is it one of your exes?”
“No,” Éponine said shortly. “Worse.”
Or, Éponine sees Cosette at a lesbian bar and handles it super well.
titsay
germansingergirl
prguitarman
jacobvanloon
discoholicmusic
areudirty
