To Know How It Feels
Had you been there tonight you might know how it feels To be struck to the bone in a moment of breathless delight Had you been there tonight you might also have known How the world may be changed in just one burst of light And what was right seems wrong And what was wrong seems right
“Who says I do not know?”
The stunned silence was a rare occurrence in the Musain, but in that moment the atmosphere was thick with astonishment and uneasiness. Enjolras continued with the air of one who had said too much but it was too late to turn back now. He had no choice but to see his argument through.
“Who says I do not know what it is to be the victim of Cupid’s poisoned bow and arrow?”
There were three distinct exclamations of “what?” that came from different corners of the room. Enjolras focused on the first, which came from the one who he was having the disagreement with. Marius’ ‘what?’ was as confused as the expression on his face, his eyebrows knitted together and his whole body drawn back in surprise. He had not expected such a response from Enjolras of all people about his discovery of love. A rebuttal, yes. A snide remark, yes. But an understanding? Never. It had rendered him quite speechless.
The second exclamation came from Courfeyrac. It was high pitched and full of glee at this unexpected and truly unbelievable admission on Enjolras’ part. He had jumped up from his seat and clasped his hands to his mouth like this news was the most wonderful thing his ears had ever had the pleasure of hearing.
“Enjolras in love? It is not possible,” he was uttering to Combeferre, far too quickly for anyone to catch every word. Combeferre hushed him, sensing that there was something more that had yet to be said.
The third ‘what?’ went unnoticed by all. It was a whisper amongst the gasps and cries. The sound of a young cynic’s bleeding heart and winded lungs.
As Marius recovered himself, his expression changed from confusion to hope.
“Then you understand what it is to be in love.” He stretched out his hand but retracted it when he saw Enjolras’ cold, hard stare. Many had been on the end of it and very few had not been silenced by it. Marius was not the exception.
“Yes,” Enjolras said coldly, “I know what it is to be in love.” Enjolras did provide Marius with an opening in which to speak as Marius was expecting. He had more to say. “It is a disease that festers and destroys. It enters your body without your knowledge, chews you up, and spits you back out and you do not realise you are contaminated until it is too late.” Marius winced as Enjolras spoke, like every word he spat sent daggers through his idealistic heart. Enjolras was not finished. “Love is a distraction. It is a curse and it is unimportant.”
“Unimportant?” Marius choked, shocked at such a statement. “Love is the most important emotion the human heart can have. Love is the root of almost every choice a man makes. It is the reason a man protects his family. It is the reason a man stands beside his friends in their darkest hour. Love is the reason a man protects his country.”
“But loving another is pure selfishness,” Enjolras retorted, taking a step closer to Marius, daring him to challenge him on his love for his country again. “To love one’s country is to protect those who live in it,” he seethed. “To love another is to take time and energy away from those who need it most. It is not important who you lie with at night when there are those who spend those nights in the streets without so much as a blanket to keep them warm.”
“Do you mean to say,” Courfeyrac interjected, unable to stay as a bystander in this conversation any longer, “that you have been in love, but have not pursued it because you fear it will distract you from your cause?”
“I have chosen not to love,” Enjolras replied simply.
There was a snort from the other end of the room. Grantaire had stumbled to his feet, knocking his chair backwards so that it crashed to the floor in the process. There was an amused grin on his face but it did not reach his eyes and so gave the impression of a manic stalking his prey. As he approached, Enjolras’ posture changed. He straightened his back and held his head high, preparing for the argument that he knew was about to ensue.
“It is not possible to choose not to love, Apollo,” Grantaire sneered. He went to wave his hand in the air as a gesture but it was busy holding a bottle and so instead he was just spilling his drink onto the wooden floors of the Musain. He did not notice.
When Marius had entered the café, Grantaire had been nursing his first drink of the night. There were now three empty bottles surrounding the spot where he had just been sitting. The fourth in his hand was only half full.
“As you say,” he continued, “love is a paralytic. You have no control over when, where, and how it strikes, and once you are infected you are doomed for there is no cure. Your only option is to learn to live with it. Now,” he pointed as shaking finger at Enjolras’ nose, “there are many ways to live with love.” He staggered back and began to address the room. His audience were engrossed in the elaborate showmanship and were silent for his speech. “The first is to pursue it. If you do this then you are a man of courage, and if the affections are returned then you are a man of great fortune. Should the affections not be reciprocated one is heartbroken. But what is broken can be fixed and one can learn to love again, and the cycle repeats itself. On the other end of the spectrum, you could deny your feelings completely and convince yourself that the dizziness you feel every time they enter the room is merely the heat and your inability to speak is just the topic of conversation. Surprisingly, it is easier to fool one’s self than you would think, and it is possible to live with love without knowing it. The final possibility is, perhaps, the most torturous.” His smile faltered momentarily. “You accept your feelings for this person, but knowing they do not feel the same for you, you live your life for them. You cannot be with them but you cannot live without them and so you fill your days with their presence in the hope they notice you. You feed off a smile or a gesture. You dedicate yourself to their cause and do what you can to make them happy because that is enough for you. It has to be.”
Grantaire brought his bottle to his lips and swallowed what was left in one mouthful. His grip on the glass was dangerously tight, his knuckles white and hands shaking. The alcohol seemed to refresh his enthusiasm for he grinned villainously at Enjolras again.
“What you do not do is choose not to be in love with that person. Love does not work like that. No matter how hard you try you cannot switch it off. If you have found a cure for love then pray tell us,” he threw is arms out wide to gesture to their audience, “it would no doubt make you a very rich man.”
Enjolras had remained silent throughout Grantaire’s speech but his eyes had not left Grantaire’s wandering body. Every now and again it was possible to see his jaw clench and unclench, but that was the only movement he made. Now that Grantaire was finished, Enjolras prepared to take the floor.
“When I first became aware of my…” he shifted uncomfortably on the spot, “situation, it threw me. I could not eat nor sleep nor think. I would try to find an alternative explanation or a way around it, but I could not. And then, of course, when I became aware of it, I found myself getting distracted every time,” he hesitated, “this person was around and more so when they were not. I would be preparing for a meeting and then twenty minutes later I would realise I have been spending my time thinking of this person with their blue eyes and crooked smile and opposition to everything I say. How infuriating it was that they did not know how intelligent they were, nor how beautiful. How their vice was destroying them and how much I wanted to help them fight it. It was unbearable.” He paused to take a breath and calm himself. “And then one night, as I was returning home from a meeting, I heard a wailing in the street. A mother had just lost her child because she could not afford food for her family. I realised then that my heart was insignificant when thousands others were at stake. This revolution is more important than my soul. So I chose not to love. And if I ever wavered from my decision I would remember the mother’s cry and would be reminded once again that nothing is more important than the freedom of the people. I cannot afford to give in to love.”
This last statement was directed at Grantaire in an almost wistful tone, but it was Marius that spoke.
"You have always been so practical Enjolras," he said in a mixture of admiration and incredulity. "I cannot think the way you do. I believe in this revolution too, but if she were to be waiting for me on the other side, when it was all over," his eyes glazed over, "it would give me hope. It would give me a reason to live."
Enjolras frowned, a deep crease forming on his forehead and his lips pulled thin and tight. The frown deepened when Grantaire spoke.
"But do you not see Marius," he sighed, turning to give Enjolras an accusing look, "he does not want a reason to live."
A hum of shocked whispers started up. Enjolras glanced around the room to take in the various reactions. Many were horrified, many more were terrified. Courfeyrac had got up from his seat again looking as if he wanted to embrace Enjolras and never let him go. Combeferre held him back with a gentle hand on his wrist, but even he too looked hurt. Enjolras returned to Grantaire’s unreadable expression with a cold look.
"You wish to die?" Marius asked in a very small voice. Although it was not always obvious, with Marius being easily distracted and Enjolras very much wrapped up in his politics, the two were good friends. Such a revelation shook Marius to the bone and Enjolras did not like the way he, and his other companions, were looking at him. He took a deep breath to give himself time to prepare an answer. But he did not need to.
"That is not what I said," Grantaire replied, choosing his words carefully.
"Then what did you say?" Enjolras asked through gritted teeth. It angered him that Grantaire thought it necessary to speak for him and frighten his friends this way. No matter how right or wrong he was.
"I said you do not want a reason to live. That is not the same thing," he added as if that explained it all. Enjolras’ nostrils flared, picking up on something Grantaire had said that the other young men evidently did not by the looks of the puzzled faces in the room.
“I… I do not understand,” Marius stammered, unsure of whether he should be upset or relieved. Again, with the air of dramatics that he loved so much, Grantaire addressed the room.
“Enjolras does not ask for death, but should it come he is willing to give his life for his cause. He is prepared to be a martyr for his country.” He turned to Enjolras, blinking once slowly and sighing like a man that knew there was nothing he could do to change his friend’s mind. “He is afraid love will take that away from him. He does not wish to die, but he also does not want a reason to live, to stop him being a martyr should it come to that.”
Enjolras’ frown had dissolved completely into astonishment. He was unable to look away from Grantaire as he divulged his heart like it was his own. Grantaire met his gaze and focused on him, and a silent conversation appeared to go between them.
“But he is foolish,” Grantaire said in a low voice, not breaking eye contact with Enjolras. “He does not realise that to love Enjolras is to die at his side.” He gave another slow blink of one who is done talking and then retreated to the bar to replace his empty bottle. Enjolras’ eyes followed him all the way. He did not utter another word. They would not come to him.
A short time later Enjolras found Grantaire upstairs sitting by an open window, his eyes shut and his arms folded over his chest. At first glance Enjolras believed him to be asleep and he debated leaving, but then Grantaire opened one eye slightly.
“I have a headache,” he said in answer to Enjolras’ concern. His voice was grated and deeper than usual. “It is too noisy downstairs.” He shut his eye again and pointedly ignored the way Enjolras’ gaze flicked between him and the bottle in front of him.
“I brought you some water.” Enjolras placed the jug on the table but Grantaire made no move to take it.
“Are you going to continue to hover or are you going to sit down?” Grantaire teased. Enjolras took it as an invitation and sat in the chair across the table from Grantaire, watching his still form.
“How have you come to know me so well?” Enjolras asked. Grantaire gave a little smirk. “Everything you said about me was true and yet I have never put it into words myself.”
“We are very different you and I,” Grantaire said, his words perfectly articulate despite the amount of wine he had drunk. “We are as opposite as the poles on a magnet. And yet, very occasionally, we are more alike than either of us would care to admit.” Enjolras was not sure if that was much of an answer but his reply faded from his mind when Grantaire shifted and sat up, cracking open both his eyes and reaching out to take the jug Enjolras had brought to him. He lifted it to his lips and drank, grimacing when he did not taste the cheap wine he was expecting, but swallowing it anyway. He sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands out in front of him. He waited patiently for Enjolras to gain the courage to ask what was truly on his mind.
“You were right. If someone were to love me they would have to accept my choices whatever they may be.” Grantaire continued to wait silently. Enjolras bit his lip. “Would you?” he asked, watching his hands for he did not have the valour to look in Grantaire’s all too honest eyes. “Would you be willing to die at my side?”
“Do I need to answer that Apollo?” Grantaire sighed as one who was tired of all the pretences. “Do you really not know?”
“I convinced myself otherwise, I was not sure until tonight.” Enjolras chanced a look at Grantaire. The moonlight highlighted his jaw and nose, there was a slither of silver across the bow of his lips and ripples in his hair. The stars shone bright in his eyes. He found he could not look away. “And you, you know it was you who I spoke of tonight.” Grantaire sat quite still and said nothing, giving nothing away to Enjolras as to what was going on in his head in that moment. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. He had never seen him so vulnerable.
“You are mistaken,” he frowned, “for I am none of the things you described me as. I am neither intelligent nor beautiful. Indeed I argue with you but my eyes and smile are ugly and not something you wish to behold. You are cruel to joke with me in such a way.” His voice was harsh but Enjolras was not offended. He knew that Grantaire was trying to preserve his heart, to prevent himself from getting hurt.
“I do not joke,” Enjolras said, “and my descriptions of you were perfectly accurate. It is my love for you that I have denied myself all this time.” Grantaire was silent for some minutes more.
“I do not ask for anything,” he said finally, having moved nothing but his lips. Something about that disturbed Enjolras more than if he had lost his nerve at Enjolras’ admission. It was like he had closed himself down completely and all that was left was this hard exterior that no amount of false admissions of love could get through. Enjolras was determined to break through it. “I have spent my time living off your presence, I am an expert at it, I do not ask for more.”
Enjolras understood what Grantaire was trying to say. He did not want to take Enjolras’ choice to die away from him, just like he had said in his scarily accurate analysis of Enjolras earlier. And Enjolras appreciated that, but part of him wanted Grantaire to fight for him, to show that he really wanted him. He could not give in to his feelings on his own, he needed a push in the right direction. But how could you ask that of someone without asking it of them?
"But do you want it?" he pushed with an edge of urgency, leaning forward to match Grantaire’s pose. Grantaire pursed his lips and Enjolras guessed he was trying not to give in to what he had buried so long ago.
"Enjolras…" Grantaire began, begging him not to let him do this. To open up an old wound that could not be resealed. But Enjolras needed him to.
"Please," he whispered. Grantaire sighed. He had never been able to deny his sun god anything.
"If you were to belong to me the way I already belong to you then I shall not even fear death, for I would have already seen what my heaven will look like." Enjolras’ shoulders sagged. His inner conflict deafening him as his head argued with his heart.
"I… I want this," he said slowly. Grantaire looked up from his hands with the first signs of hope he had shown. He could hear the unsaid ‘but’ in his voice.
"I do not ask you to survive the revolution," he said with feeling, "I only ask that you permit me to die at your side." Enjolras went to protest but Grantaire interrupted him. "I would not survive in a world without you Apollo," he said with a sad smile. "The others would place bets on what would get me first; the drink, my own recklessness, Courfeyrac murdering me so that he did not have to look upon my melancholy face any longer." Enjolras huffed a laugh in spite of himself. "But if I had the choice, I would walk with you to heaven’s gate to see the lord himself bow at your feet." Enjolras rolled his eyes. "I cannot give you much," Grantaire said sincerely, so sincere that it took Enjolras unawares, "but let me give you this. All I have is my life, and it is yours."
Enjolras said nothing. He studied Grantaire for some time and Grantaire grew uncomfortable under his glare. There was fear striking his heart. The fear of Enjolras rejecting him, refusing his wish, and if he could not even give him that then he had nothing.
Slowly, Enjolras took Grantaire by the hand and gently tugged him to his feet. He stepped to the side and Grantaire matched his action so the table was no longer between them. Enjolras drew circles with his thumb on the back of Grantaire’s hand.
"That," he said softly with a crooked smile, "I can allow." He leant forward and brushed his lips against Grantaire’s. It was hesitant, like he was testing the temperature of water before plunging into its unknown depths. Grantaire’s startled face was a sight to behold. His wide blue eyes shone brighter than the stars and his body stiff for fear of any movement frightening Enjolras away. He lifted a shaking hand and brushed an errant curl out of Enjolras’ eye, tucking it behind his ear. Enjolras leaned into his touch so that Grantaire was cupping his cheek. He smiled softly, giving Grantaire all the time he needed to accept that this was happening.
It was like a penny dropping in Grantaire’s mind. He was waiting and waiting for Enjolras to tell him he had made a mistake, that of course he did not love him, how could he? But when it did not come, a part of him began to wonder if maybe, just possibly, this was real. And then it all came crashing down on him and he was on Enjolras with such a fiery passion that Enjolras could not quite believe of the cynic. Grantaire pulled Enjolras to him so that as much of Enjolras’ body as possible was pressed up against his own. His hands went straight to Enjolras’ hair, for where else would they go? The kissing was hard and breathless and clumsy and wonderful and delicious and perfect. Enjolras kept his hands lightly resting on Grantaire’s cheek. He would have been smiling had his lips not been otherwise occupied.
“Come,” Grantaire breathed against Enjolras’ skin when they parted for air, “we have a revolution to plan.”