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To be loved (Enjoltaire)

Chapter 1 I went too far

TW: Implied suicide attempt, Alcoholism, Depression, references to dysfunctional families

Grantaire goes too far this time and it's Enjolras who decides to pick up the pieces, even if he's slowly falling apart too.

Will they be able to save each other from the pain?

Note: Hi, this was my first Les Mis fic. I decided to publish it here. I’m currently trying to write chapter 3. I don’t know if I’ll ever finish it tbh, but I hope you like what I got.

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23843473/chapters/57300742

It was all over.

The fog that covered his mind was getting thicker. He didn't feel anything. There was no more pain, no more resentment, no more bitterness, no more love, no more desire. His body was lost in an unperturbed ocean, the small waves caressing his body. There was no sound beyond their gentle murmur. He realized how gigantic his ocean was, but didn’t feel any fear, it was home.

He opened his eyes.

Above him, a dark sky watched in return. It was its own ocean, one covered with stars, which formed constellations. Oh, how he wished he could become one of them, be part of some masterful constellation. To be a star that never ran out, something beautiful and eternal. I could live with the others, without having to worry about anything, anything at all. People would look at the stars from Earth and the stars would listen to the depths of each person.

He didn't know if he was drowning in the very mantle of salt or If he was placed in that starry sky, where chaos faded, where he could be free. He raised his arm, trying to get closer, looking for peace.

And, content, he decided to sink.

Suddenly...

_Grantaire! Grantaire!

That voice... That voice that called him, it wasn't any voice, it was the most important of them all. It was the voice that took him away from that desired peace and at the same time gave it to him. A voice that didn’t let him sleep, the voice of his desires, the voice of his wishes and fears, the voice that could raise the world from its ashes. It was something powerful, full of an intense passion, a passion that burned and made it a symbol of hope, even if it was only for a beautiful moment. His words were the sword and the voice the handle. When it was calm, however, the voice could be as warm and soft as it wished, like a cabin fireplace after a bitter cold. What would Hans Christian Andersen's sea witch would give for such a graceful voice? And the owner of that great voice was like fire itself. Brilliant and attractive, revolutionary in a way. But the danger, the great disadvantage, was that if you got too close to him you could get burned. And Grantaire had been burned countless times.

A hand shook him, gently but firmly. That touch was the first tangible sensation he felt in minutes? hours? days? He slowly opened his eyes, which felt charged and exhausted.

His blurry vision managed to focus, after a few seconds, on an angel, his angel. The angel with the flaming voice. He had blond hair and a marble-white complexion, even a halo covered his head or so it appeared. He also had blue eyes that seemed to have seen everything in this world. Was it from those eyes that his ocean came? Grantaire thought that perhaps he was finally dead, because it could not be that his angel, his Apollo, was looking at him with a frown, but not out of irritation but out of... Concern? Really? No, it was impossible. His angel felt annoyance and pity for him, and only that. No matter how many times Apollo tried to show him it wasn't true, it was hard, excruciating, to believe him. And this was his curse, the cross he carried on his back.

It was painful, the times when his angel slashed him with his sword. Until one day, inexplicably, the angel took pity on him. He sheathed his sword and observed the young man with an indecipherable expression.

“I don't hate you, Grantaire. I never did. “

“How can I believe you when you’ve showed me nothing but disdain?”

Then a sigh came from Apollo's mouth, which reached his face, as if with a breath he could bring his pitiful self back to life. But why? Grantaire didn't want to live anymore, he'd had enough.

_You're awake. That’s good_ breathed out Enjolras, the Apollo of the mortal world, dressed in red, presenting himself to Grantaire in all his glory _. I was afraid for a moment that...

“That I would have died? Would you really have cared?”

Grantaire blinked a few times as his senses reappeared and he felt his feet on the ground. His head laid on a wooden table, his body was reclining in a chair, bent uncomfortably. On the table, near his arms, there was something spilled, and judging by the smell it was whiskey. It wasn’t the first time the man had been in such a situation, but he had never faded from this world like that before. It was really as if his soul had left his body. A small fear invaded his mind as he realized the seriousness of the event. Death no longer looked so attractive. For being mortal, no matter what one did, everyone would always fear death, deep down in their souls.

Grantaire lifted his eyes, meeting those of Enjolras. They were glassed-in, fearful, but not giving up their bravery; he no longer had that halo surrounding his head_. Look, I have to get you out of here. I don't know if you can hear me, but we have to go, okay?

_ En... jolras?_ whispered the one who was being called. His voice sounded hoarse and foreign to his ears. His throat was sore, as were his muscles.

_Yes, it's me, I'm here._ Enjolras bent down on one knee to reach Grantaire better and to try to get his attention. With a pale hand he caressed Grantaire’s cheek, granting a bit of warm and light.

“What a sad irony “ Grantaire thought, smirking to himself “Apollo lowering to my height. It's what should never happen.”

_Can you hear me?

“I always hear you”

But out of his mouth only came a pathetic "uh." The blond bit his lower lip and that's when he decided he couldn't waste any more time. Standing up again, Enjolras grabbed Grantaire by the waist, pulling him out of his chair, and placed Grantaire's arm around his neck for support. The alcoholic almost fell to the floor, but Enjolras had more strength than he let on and caught him on time.

The world was spinning around Grantaire, his legs were shaking, his back and neck were uncomfortable because of the position in which he had been inert. He felt a bit of bile in his throat and scorching eyes. He would have preferred to fall down and not get up again. Oh, how tired he was. Everything hurt.

Enjolras said a few words to the bartender and took out some coins to pay him. If Grantaire had been more conscious he would have felt guilty about it, but all he could do was stare like a fool. And so they both left the bar.

After that they crossed the cold, dark street in silence, one of those that were uncomfortable and heavy.

Grantaire still found it hard to believe this was happening. If it weren't for the suffering he was going through physically and mentally at the time, he would have really believed he was dead and that a spirit disguised as Enjolras had come to pick him up and carry him to the afterlife, hell, purgatory, the Underworld, nothingness, whatever. Or maybe he was already in one of them. After walking a few more steps, Grantaire ventured to look at him. His Enjolras (“you have no right to call him that”) had shadows under his eyes, a tense jaw and looked like trying very hard to maintain his courage, but the illusion was broken, Grantaire was aware of that. And that terrified him more than anything else. The world could tear him apart all it wanted, but not Enjolras! He didn’t need to suffer because of… because of his troubles!

“And it’s all your fault”

Trembling knees gave up and made him fall. Enjolras caught him again.

_Grantaire, come on, hold on_ was he begging? His voice was dripping with fear and worry_. You can't give up. We are getting there, I promise_ as he said this, the young man held his calloused hand, trying to give some kind of support. Determined, they continued.

“I believe in you, Enjolras.”

The next thing he knew, Grantaire was now laying on a bed and was wrapped in its sheets. Instead of wood on his head a soft pillow was there. Apparently, he had fainted again. But instead of wild hallucinations, his consciousness had completely shut down (well, it was about time). Searching his memories, he tried to remember what had happened last night but for now there were only blurred and dark shapes. He was certain about one thing though, that this time was different, that he almost had had an overdose. His mind had screamed in agony and he only thought of drinking more and more and more to stop those horrible noises. Grantaire was kind of surprised to be alive, in fact. But who had rescued him?

As he moved, he noticed, with a grunt of pain, that his head hurt as if it had been attacked with a hammer. His mouth was dry and he felt like a horse had stepped on his bones. So, the man decided to take a look at the place where he was disposed, which didn't seem so bad. Actually, it could’ve been a lot worse.

He found himself in a modest room. A wooden wardrobe, a shelf and one French flag leaning against a wall. Next to the bed was a night table, occupied by a candle, a few books and a seemingly recent glass of water (Oh, just what I need). At the left of the room was a window, covered by a curtain. And, near it, a wooden desk, with a few papers arranged, an inkwell and a pen, and a few letters in a corner. However, his breath was cut off when he saw who was sitting at that desk, engrossed in the papers.

Grantaire was silent for a few minutes, staring quietly at Enjolras. His heart was pounding strongly. He was expecting Joly's concern or Bossuet's disappointed look or maybe Bahorel trying to lighten the mood, but not Enjolras. What could he do? Go back to sleep? Play dead? No, it was impossible to go back to sleep knowing now that it was Enjolras who had saved him and taken him to the his apartment (I can't believe that I’m in his house, in his room).

Thus Grantaire stretched out his arm to drink the water, his throat could no longer stand the thirst it felt. But, of course, as good luck was never on the alcoholic’s side, what really happened was that he dropped said glass on the floor and it broke to pieces. Enjolras was startled by the noise and turned to Grantaire, his eyes wide open.

_I'm sorry, I'm sorry! _ Grantaire babbled, begging to be swallowed by the bed_. I'll... I'll fix it! For God’s sake, of course I can't fix it, what am I thinking? it's glass and it's broken, but... I'll get you another one! Believe me; I have many glasses, all kinds of glasses...

And what happened next left him mute.

Enjolras was smiling softly at him, dropping his shoulders as if in great relief.

Of all the possible reactions, that was the one he last expected. Somehow, Enjolras’ smile made him even more afraid. He tried, with all his might, to get out of bed and run away from that tiny room, but abruptly was greeted by a puncture in the head that caused him to grunt and hold his forehead.

_ No no! Don't get up yet_ Enjolras had come closer and was pushing him gently onto the pillow_. You were unconscious for quite a while, if you get up like that you will only hurt yourself more.

Grantaire stammered more and then shut up, resigned. He had a lot of questions and didn't know how to ask them. Enjolras tucked him back to bed.

_ Tell me, how do you feel?

_ I see Combeferre taught you some nursing lessons, huh?_ That's what came out of his mouth instead of the truth.

Enjolras sighed and his expression changed to one of annoyance, to which Grantaire was more accustomed.

_ Uh_ Grantaire looked at the wall that was closest to him_. I suppose I’m better than… yesterday, but my head is killing me. And... I'm really thirsty, so I tried to grab the glass, but... _ and gestured to the floor with a movement of the arm_ we both know how that ended.

Enjolras nodded, thoughtful. He straightened up and decided to leave his room.

“I definitely don't understand what's going on”

After a couple of minutes, in which Grantaire entertained himself by looking at the ceiling and walls, Enjolras returned with a new glass of water and an apparently wet cloth. He positioned the water on the table and placed the wet cloth on the sick man’s head. Grantaire felt his cheeks warm as Enjolras gently pulled his sweaty hair away from his forehead, leaving his fingers between the black curls for a few more seconds. Between the cloth and Enjolras' calm presence he began to feel better. His features loosened and relaxed.

_I hope this will help you. Water is quite useful in these cases too.

Mmm_ Grantaire muttered, a slight mocking smile on his lips_. And how do you know so much about these things? No offense, but I don't see you as a person who likes to drink beers in a bar full of noisy, scruffy, dull people.

_ You're not the only one who drinks alcohol in our group_ replied Enjolras, with some exasperation_ And you know that well_ Grantaire wanted to add that last night had been very different from the simple drunkenness of someone who drinks only occasionally, he actually tried to kill himself, but he didn't say anything

Therefore, he sat down and made himself comfortable to drink the water, holding the handkerchief in his unoccupied hand. As soon as the water touched his aching throat he felt refreshed and more energetic. Enjolras just watched him, still pale and with somewhat reddish eyes. He looked sick as well. Grantaire felt a squeeze in his heart. What he wouldn’t give to feel the blonde’s figure in his arms, to calm his anguish. But was it really concern or simply the effects of insomnia? Grantaire really wanted to reach for the first possibility, to embrace it, to feel it, but he was afraid to give himself even a spark of illusion.

_I... Thank you_ started Grantaire, with a hoarse, worn-out voice, effects of excessive alcohol intake_. I mean...

_You don't have to thank me for anything, Grantaire_ said Enjolras, with his characteristic resolution and conviction_. You can stay here until you recover. No, you don't owe me anything_ he replied when the mentioned opened his mouth. And with that he got up to sweep the mess of the floor, and then returned to his desk, with nothing else to say.

Grantaire was astonished at all this, but thought that for now he would just rest. His head was already hurting too badly to continue fiddling the matter. So he lay down on the pillow again and tried to sleep. After a while, he realized that it was impossible. How long had he been sleeping anyway? That's when he remembered the books on the bedside table, so he lay back to grab one of them, to entertain himself for a while, because apparently Enjolras didn't want to talk to him.

“Or maybe he just wants you to rest. Why do you always have to be so negative?”

“Oh, for God's sake, stop assuming things and shut up.”

With a snort, which caused Enjolras to raise his eyes briefly, he took the first book he found, almost annoyed. The cover read: L'Esprit de la Révolution et de la Constitution de France. Saint-Just, huh? It didn't surprise him at all. What's more, He almost expected it. But Grantaire wasn't in the mood to read about politics or philosophy or subjects that required mental capacity and... Oh, yes! Beliefs. So, he seized the following book: Du contrat social- Jean-Jacques Rosseau. With a groan, he held the other books that remained, familiar names fluttering in these: Voltaire, Robespierre, Danton...

_ Can I ask if you possess a simple novel with no trace of politics whatsoever that I could read?

Enjolras left his paper on the table, too tired to be irritated.

_What's wrong with the books I have?

_Well... Do I really have to explain?

Enjolras sighed.

_When I said you could call me when you needed something I didn't expect you to need something like this," grunted Enjolras, with sarcasm pouring out of his voice. People thought the blonde was serious all the time and had no sense of humor, but Grantaire knew better. His humor was simply more... subtle. He knew this because he had observed him a few times during the meetings at the Musain, well, when they weren’t trying to save the world.

_Enjolras! Have you heard the new gossip ringing in town?_ Bahorel had exclaimed one night at the Musain, resting his elbow on the table.

_Bahorel, I don't have time to listen to silly, unfounded rumors," Enjolras had answered, with a calm and tranquil tone, lifting his cup of coffee to his lips.

Bahorel replied, approaching Enjolras_ The friend of a hmmm… let’s say "friend", kept watching you the other day when we were going to college, she was laughing and blushing like a thirteen year old girl!

_How romantic!_ sighed Jehan dreamily, coming closer to hear the gossip_. I think you should take the opportunity, Enj. I’ve met the girl, and she's beautiful, with dark hair and red lips, and…

_ Like Montparnasse, right? _ smiled Feuilly, who until then had been absorbed in a conversation with Joly and Bossuet. The three of them and Bahorel laughed out loud, as Jehan became as red as his hair.

_Sometimes you assholes can be very cruel," grumbled Jehan, with a sort of pout. Courfeyrac pinched his cheek with mischief and muttered something resembling a “aww, you cutie pie”.

While all this was going on, Grantaire was drinking situated at his usual spot, laughing at the comment about Montparnasse, but deep inside he was feeling some bitterness and jealousy. As long as Enjolras was happy he could bear it, though, or so he told to himself.

Bahorel was trying to appease the others, who after a while became quiet enough to listen to Bahorel. Then, addressing Enjolras, he asked_ Would you dare, then? I can introduce you two. You know, arrange a romantic date with candles, roses, whatever you want.

And Enjolras looked back at him.

_ I'm afraid that's not possible, as my "wife" has a name, and that's France.

That day they were taken out of the cafe for making a fuss. Bossuet even fell of his chair and broke his arm.

“Now that I think about it, maybe he was being serious about the France thing…?”

Back to the present, Enjolras set out to look through the drawers of his bookshelf for some "non-political" books. After pulling out a pile of dusty books, which made him cough, he found what he was looking for. It was a book less thick than most of the ones he had on the floor. It looked about 200 or 300 pages long. Grantaire looked at Enjolras' nostalgic and hurt expression with curiosity. Enjolras stroked the cover of the book for a few seconds and quickly composed himself. With said book in hand, he went to bed and handed it to Grantaire.

_ “Gulliver's Travels" written by Jonathan Swift_ Enjolras nodded, sitting on a space in the bed, which increased Grantaire's pulse_. Okay, I really didn't expect you to like this kind of fantasy books_ hhe said, smiling and looking back at Enjolras.

_ I liked reading it. It was..._ hesitated_ a gift.

Grantaire didn't want to be curious, but he had to admit he was indeed. He took the risk of asking:

_ From whom?

The nostalgic look came back.

_ From my mother.

He didn’t expecting such answer. Grantaire was sure it was Combeferre’s gift (the doctor had a passion for books), or even Courfeyrac, who was his closest friend. But his mother? Enjolras had never spoken of his family, ever. Les Amis only knew that they were wealthy and that Enjolras had escaped home because of a huge difference in ideals and thoughts. That probably occasioned some big fight.

After a few moments of silence, Grantaire opened the first page of the book. The handwriting was somewhat small and, the truth was, despite having asked for this in the first place, he found it difficult to concentrate on what was written, his vision was a little cloudy.

Enjolras, noticing this, offered:

_I can read it to you.

Grantaire startled.

_Oh! There’s no need for it, really. I can handle this. I'm just a little tired, that's all.

_Grantaire_ Enjolras raised an eyebrow, with the kind of tone he used to scold Feuilly every time he pretended he didn't need a break. It was a scolding tone but at the same time... an affectionate one? Gods, what did Grantaire do to deserve that Enjolras would address him as he addressed the others?

_But... what about... _ and with a gesture pointed to the desk, full of half-written papers.

_ I have time_ and without waiting for an answer he took the book.

_ My father had a small estate in Nottinghamshire…

Fascinated, Grantaire listened to every word Enjolras pronounced, with total clarity and perfect pronunciation. We had already spoken of the power of his voice and how comforting it could be when the time was right. Grantaire was in love with that voice, and with Enjolras. Oh, but someone like him could not be his, it would be a waste.

_Of five children, I was the third. He sent me to the Emanuel School in Cambridge...

For a moment, the halo of light returned to Enjolras, which disconcerted Grantaire. “What the...?” He rubbed his eyes, thinking he was hallucinating again. At that, his memory took him back to the night before, when he had woken up and hadn’t seen Enjolras, well yes, he was there, but it wasn’t actually him, he looked like an actual angel. Such a strange vision. How far had his idealization for Enjolras had gone? He didn’t know, but it could be dangerous, to allow himself to fall like that would be his ruin.

Though perhaps he was already ruined.

Hey_ Grantaire came out of his thoughts_. Are you listening to me or shall I stop?

_Oh no, don't stop for me, Apollo.

And Enjolras frowned.

_I'm asking you to please don't call me that.

_Hmmm, I don't know, I think it's something that might fit our leader. Apollo, the most revered god in all of Greece_ said in a theatrical voice.

The aforementioned "Apollo" smiled bitterly.

_I am not a god, Grantaire_ a dark look crossed Enjolras' eyes, which frightened Grantaire. “Does he know?”_ I hope you don't think that of me.

Grantaire bit his lips.

_I don't_ he whispered, clutching the sheets with his hands. To dispel the discomfort, he cleared his throat_ Please continue, dearest leader_. And at this a fond smile crept onto Enjolras' lips.

As Enjolras continued his reading, Grantaire closed his eyes, losing himself in the narrative. He thought that for once luck was on his side. He could have held this moment for eternity if possible. An atmosphere of peace, warmth, and serenity flooded the room, and both Enjolras and Grantaire forgot about any worries that dwelled in their hearts. Both felt deeply fortunate to have each other.

It was just that neither of them knew it yet.