Chapter Text
The compilation of research Enjolras has on the topic of bond breaking is already uploaded to his Google drive, so when he wakes, he opens his eyes ready to begin. Coffee, a little breakfast, settling over his laptop together to let Grantaire decide the best path forward. But firstly—
He rolls, to nudge together sleepily like they’ve done every other time they’ve shared a bed, and finds the sheets cool and crisp and perfectly empty.
“Grantaire?” he yawns, sitting up. He stops to tentatively scratch at Apollo's ears; the cat runs. Padding his way through the house: “Grantaire?”
Go home, Enjolras, says the text on his phone. So he does.
A sleepless night and a stomachache after what was definitely not a productive conversation, Enjolras is perched in his apartment and replying to email fifty of a thousand. At least Enjolras replies to messages. Apparently some people don’t. Not email, or text. Not voicemails or tentative worried inquiries to mutual friends.
“Um,” says Courfeyrac meaningfully upon wandering in the second time, staring at Enjolras like he is a strange fixture in his own home, “you’re here?”
“Yes,” says Enjolras firmly, typing. He will not look at his Google Drive. Inexplicably, Courfeyrac rolls his head back and makes some strange vibrating call (a Wookie, it’s a Wookie, Enj! We showed you Star Wars, there’s no excuse—) but there is no reply, no matter how long he goes. From their bedroom, Combeferre inputs:
“Evidence points to him not being here, don’t pass out.”
Like the evidence, Courfeyrac points readily. At Enjolras, now. “What did you do.” Enjolras stops typing.
“I don’t know,” he says, honestly. “I don’t—I’m not sure.”
Courfeyrac takes a deep inhale to speak—which would be rude were they any less close and were he any less… Courfeyrac— then frowns. “Is that Grantaire? I’ve never—he doesn’t normally smell like much at all.”
“Of course he does,” Enjolras frowns back.
On a shrug Courf says to you, maybe, and sits on his leg to sling an arm round his shoulder. “Enjolras,” he says. “I really love you. Whether you’ve unofficially broken up with Grantaire is not my main concern, but how that makes you both feel is.”
“This doesn’t seem like a reaction to a mutual and healthy break,” comes the analysis from where Combeferre has now joined in.
Sighing, Enjolras presses his cheek to Courfeyrac’s forearm and shuts the laptop. “We argued. Then I thought—that was at least partially resolved, since we…”
“Sex does not success and resolution make,” says Courfeyrac. “Or I’d be, like, president.”
“You will be,” says Enjolras firmly, because one of them being president is part of their 40-year plan and it’s certainly not going to be Enjolras. Then: “It wasn’t sex—“
“Gestures of intimacy carry the meaning you both assign them,” Combeferre says, so reasonable it isn’t even frustrating. “Did you give it the same meaning?”
“The argument was about attraction, it wasn’t a separate conversation. I was providing evidence. Presenting my best points on a matter which he's made clear is... important to him.”
“You sexed him up as a legitimate rebuttal for a debate? I am so proud of you, that is so weird but most hot stuff is a little weird, honestly—“
“It doesn’t matter!” Enjolras interrupts, resigned. “It doesn’t matter, he won’t talk to me. I keep trying to indicate I'm open to dating or getting even closer or righting past wrongs and-- all I do is hurt him. I’m going to lobby politicians, and send scathing emails to corrupt organizations, and get ahead in my world history reading, until I hear back from Grantaire or... until it stops bothering me.” Unlikely.
“Less proud of that,” says Courfeyrac, but squeezes his shoulder. “Take care of yourself, Enj. Let us take care of you. We know you're trying.”
Combeferre comes up behind them both, and they join a swaying hug that lasts until one of them manages to knock Ferre’s glasses off and the chair Enjolras was sitting on is complaining loudly, leaving them a laughing mash of smoky, sugary, sweet.
No matter what happens with Grantaire, at least he’ll always have this.
It’s almost as though his mother can hear his every thought. Knows when he’s on a run to work out his feelings, alone, and has figured out how to get around his phone block.
“It’s such a shame,” his mother says, “about the internship and Professor Philippe." Enjolras had told her he didn't care. He'd lied. "These things happen, dear, your father assured me it’s part of the university experience. I can only hope your omega and beta are faring better than you. Medical school, residencies, law school are all so… selective.”
His thumb is hovering over the end call button, but at that, he stops.
“You’re my mother,” he tries. Pleads. Rationalizes. Please don’t hurt me through them.
“Exactly,” she agrees. “I want what’s best for you, by any means necessary.”
At the very least, he’ll be forced to listen to what she thinks best is.
This time, when he gives a stilted goodbye, his fingers dial in the number and he doesn’t try to stop them.
“Grantaire,” he’s saying into the voicemail. “Please. I need you.”
For once, when Grantaire opens the door, it is not accompanied by a smirk or a flood of words. He looks at Enjolras for several seconds, then walks away, leaving the door open. Enjolras can only take this as the welcome he deserves. Still, he enters.
Immediately, he is being ushered back by Grantaire with a flap of a (fake) leather jacket that he proceeds to swing over his own shoulders.
“Not in here,” Grantaire says. “I just got the smell of you out.”
Enjolras’ stomach, which has been nauseous and twisting pitifully, gets worse.
“I apologize,” he says.
“For what,” says Grantaire, dismissive, locking the door behind him. And Enjolras could take it that way, could brush off Grantaire’s hurts like he so clearly attempts to do, except the less comfortable interpretation is this: Grantaire wants him to say it aloud.
So he tries. “For the reminder. For the argument we had. For leaving all those years ago. For—“ he pauses. “Scenting is intimate. I… crossed a line? I know consent is more than verbal, and at some point maybe my check-ins weren’t—“
Grantaire is staring at him, keys still clutched in his hand and at the level of the door. “I gave my consent,” he says. “Repeatedly and wholeheartedly.”
Blowing out a breath, Enjolras feels guilty that this admission doesn’t bring total relief. “Then—you decided you no longer wanted to see me, after.” It’s been a week, and Grantaire’s avoided him for the whole of it. Months ago, that was their standard. Now every minute feels drawn out. “I don’t have your experience with scenting, but I didn’t think—I hoped my technique wasn't--“
“No,” Grantaire interrupts, shockingly gentle. “No, that’s not—“ he drops to a crouch, head between his knees. “I recognize I’m terrible at decision-making, I do,” Grantaire says, muffled. “But my fucked up decisions about the bond are still mine. So—I feel the way I feel about you, no matter how inconvenient that is to you. You can't just make what happened or me disappear and not even ask how I'd like to handle it. If you don’t wanna see the proof of the marriage and my feelings then don’t get me naked. If you don’t wanna smell the proof then let me block.” Defiant, he looks up: “pretty simple."
“What,” Enjolras croaks, who had thought on the topic of Grantaire and their relationship incessantly right up until the point his mother threatened to cast his friend group out of civilization and still doesn’t understand the root of their issue. “Your bond is your decision. You’re not an inconvenience.” Or—Grantaire is. But only in the blameless way of the beloved. "I don't want you gone."
Grantaire whips his head up, curls and all. “You act like you didn’t come to make me—oh, shit. You didn’t.”
Enjolras feels burning in his throat, swallows. He’s sure he smells awful. Anxious and angry.
“If you have a problem with me I’d appreciate if we could discuss another time,” he finally settles on. “I know it’s not fair to ask you to wait. I just can’t devote the mental resources you deserve right now. Excuse me.” He nods, and starts stepping back.
“Fuck, Grantaire, you conceited piece of shit,” Grantaire mutters to himself, standing. That has Enjolras jerking back around, Grantaire’s hand already gentle on his elbow.
“Why would you talk to yourself that way?” he demands. He may have wet eyes. He doesn’t care if Grantaire sees. “I instigated a wrong, as always in our interactions, and now I’m here because I wanted to see you. To comfort myself that you’re okay despite refusing to see me because I can’t leave this unresolved, not this too, not while everything’s falling apart. What part of that merits degrading yourself?”
“What,” Grantaire croaks, in a ridiculous echo. He reaches up and rubs a thumb over Enjolras’ cheek, presses out a tear that settles on the tip of it. The sight of it seems to outweigh anything else on his mind. “Enjolras, tell me what happened.”
Maybe it’s selfish, but Enjolras does.
They end up cross-legged beneath a tree that Grantaire’s spoken of before, gnarled and wide in the park. They do not touch. Grantaire just listens. It is enough.
“Shit,” Grantaire says, with all of the dismal horror Enjolras feels but none of the shock. “Shit, that’s—I’m sorry, Enjolras.” And then he tucks Enjolras into his arms, warm and firm and sturdy.
“I don’t know what to do,” he admits. “I called Courfeyrac and Combeferre on my way here and told them there was an emergency, and we’ll meet later tonight to talk through our strategy.” A strategy with no resources, no visible path.
“On your way here,” Grantaire repeats, soft. Then: “what do you need from me?”
Stilling in their embrace, Enjolras thinks, this was it. Except—now that Grantaire’s said it. “If they agree, my plan is to fight it in court. She can’t—she can’t do this. That kind of bribery has to have a trail, we could make a jury see—so I—“
“Courts take years,” Grantaire says. “And there’s no guarantee you’ll win. I’m not sure all your lives can withstand that.” A few years delay before graduate school would be a disaster for his and Ferre’s planned trajectory, at the very least.
Irritation rises up in him. Maybe at the beginning of this between them, Enjolras would’ve assumed this comment to be callousness. Now, he says, “you’re right. The courts are flawed. But this isn’t—this isn’t something I can appeal or rally against. This isn’t a fight where I believe millions of people will see reason and join.”
It’s nothing he knows. But with limited numbers, he needs a plan.
“Let me muse on it for a minute,” Grantaire says. “Yeah, I’ve thought about it before, worst-case scenarios are my thing, but she’s—she’s going farther than I’d thought.”
Grantaire had thought about it before? Of course he had. Still:
“You’re not surprised my mother is—“
“I mean, it’s a little more horror-thriller When A Stranger Calls than I’d anticipated, but no. You think my mom doesn’t call me up crying about my wasted potential? Like, my dad’s given up, he’s washed his hands clean of me, but my mom holds out hope I’ll come to my senses and join the cast of Real Houseomegas.” He pauses. “Those are a cult classic movie and a reality television show.” Somehow, Grantaire has rapidly picked up on one of Courfeyrac’s habits, which is explaining pop culture when Enjolras stares blankly. “She’s sure that when college is over I’ll be done with this rebellious phase and settle in. Stop hanging out with an omega couple, stop making unsophisticated art, put care into my appearance. Sometimes,” he shrugs, “sometimes I let her dream. It’s easier. She’d never—she wouldn’t go to the same extremes.”
“Well,” Enjolras presses his lips together. “I’ve never pretended. I expected her to abandon the idea soon enough.” And abandon Enjolras along with it. He keeps waiting. Even knowing it’s going to happen, it’s still his mother. Try as he might, Enjolras can’t avoid the sentimentality of that. As usual, Grantaire starts laughing at a time when Enjolras is being wholly serious. “What,” Enjolras seethes.
“If there’s anyone they expect to come back,” Grantaire is still laughing, “it’s you. They think Marxism and equality the playland of disillusioned youth. You’re intelligent, hardworking, logical but passionate, and you reek of alpha dominance. Those are all traits that are annoying when you’re using them for social justice but cannon fodder for expectant rich parents. You give a single sign and they’ll fire you off into the sky to be among the stars of the elite.”
Enjolras stares at him. “No.”
“Yes,” Grantaire leers. “You realize that’s what they think, right? That you’re their golden boy and the second you grow up and get yourself a proper omega and run out of your allowance you’ll rise to take the Enjolras family throne?”
“But,” Enjolras reels, “I never—I’ve never supported what they do. Since childhood.”
“Blood lineage is imperative to them,” shrugs Grantaire, “like. More than spilling innocent blood. You want the company, the legacy, the mansion, it’s yours. Hell, if you showed up with me on your arm and an iota of interest in your family business, they’d shower you in opportunity.” He’s still laughing. Enjolras is, in a startling kindling of warmth, starting to hope he won’t stop. “Fuck, we tell them I’m expecting and they’ll probably hand you the reins to the whole thing, retire off to a Swiss chalet to ski, and in the meantime we can smash the bureaucracy with a golden hammer they’ve given us. Aw, shit, I’m like crying now. It’s—“ he collapses into giggles back on the grass, wiping his eyes. “it’s—the—hormones!”
There’s certainly a cascade of something flying through Enjolras’ mind. It’s not honorable. It’s not straightforward or clean cut. It’s—it’s playing dirty.
The world always plays dirty. Enjolras is unfamiliar with it, but he can’t avoid it forever. He is not noble; he is logical.
“Well,” Enjolras says, ignoring certain parts of the proposal, “we could.”
Grantaire stops laughing. “What the fuck.”
“I show up,” Enjolras considers. “You on my arm. My summa cum laude degree in hand. A story about how I—I met you at college, fell in love, realized I wanted to support you and you encouraged me to return to our… original lifestyle. It won’t be quick. My parents are cautious. But if I can convince them during law school, internships, and be given our funds, then I—“
“It won’t work.”
Grantaire’s never certain of anything, but this—he’s solid.
“Are you opposed because it’s cowardly? Indirect?” Even proposing it makes him sound like a different person. But Enjolras is logical, he’s logical and he wants action, results—
“Cowardly? That’d be hypocritical, just—Enjolras, it’s your life. If you have the ability to defy parental expectations head high, banner flying, fuck compromises, congrats. I know that’s what you’d prefer. But there’s no shame in taking the route where you survive. Where you get a life after. Sometimes, that’s the biggest fuck you to them of all.”
Mulling over this for a moment, chest tight, Enjolras finally says, “then why not?”
“Why? Besides the obvious bullshit—“ possibly, that Enjolras is a raging egalitarian “—because you can’t pretend to be an entitled rich person for a minute!” scoffs Grantaire.
“I could,” Enjolras says, adding in his mind, for one minute.
“You’d punch someone,” R mutters, and amends, “with poverty statistics. “You’ll never fit in with those rich bastards,” he rubs at his brow. “Trust me.”
“But you can,” Enjolras says, slow.
“Thanks,” says Grantaire with a rancor bitterness Enjolras has never heard before.
“No, I mean—you can pretend. Much better than me.”
“Yeah, until faking it till I make it goes the wrong direction and I’m wasted in a palace, marooned in my own depressed misery, helping no one.”
“I wouldn’t let you,” Enjolras retorts fiercely. “I—I have drive, and direction, and Courfeyrac and Combeferre’s plans. But you—you can execute them.”
Grantaire doesn’t move.
“You,” he says. “You want me to execute a plan for you.”
“Did you not just lay out how it could work?”
“That was a hypothetical, I didn’t expect you to actually want me to do it. I’ll fail, Enjolras. You know I’ll fail. I know I’ll fail.” Enjolras gives him a look that’s long and hard, until Grantaire drops his face in his hands. “I’d try, Enjolras. Fuck, I’d try even knowing I’d fail. That’s how I am with everything, it’s my norm.”
“Good,” Enjolras says. “Good, we can’t afford unearned confidence here. We should be prepared for the worst. I rarely am. That’s why I need you.”
After a long silence, Grantaire groans: “this is so fucked. Tell me the details of this plan.” And Enjolras will, he will, just—“I can’t do this alone.”
“Neither can I,” Enjolras admits.
Grantaire doesn’t look him in the eye when he says, “law school is three years long. You want to pretend for three years?”
“All of this,” Enjolras’ voice is shaking, clean mint swelling and fire desperately burning, “doesn’t have to be pretending. If you agree to something. Can we—“ he’s helplessly reaching out for Grantaire’s wrist, that familiarity. “Grantaire—“
Grantaire slides forward, and kisses him.
Here is the thing: Enjolras has been on dates, and scented, and had sex.
He has not been kissed. There’s an intimacy to it he hadn’t expected.
“Sorry,” Grantaire is saying, though he doesn’t look sorry. Just wide eyed. “I’m sorry, this is coming off very bribery and blackmaily, I’m gonna leave and I won’t tell your parents and we can do your doomed plan and we never have to—“
Enjolras takes him, and kisses him again. A third time, for thoroughness.
“I want this to be your choice,” Enjolras tells him.
“Yes, yes, you’re pro-choice in all the ways, kiss me,” Grantaire says.
Enjolras could do that, but he also—there’s a desperation to the words.
“I want this to be more than scenting,” Enjolras says firmly. “Tell me what you want.”
“Consent given, a billion times over, we’ve talked about this,” Grantaire half-babbles, and goes to untuck Enjolras’ shirt, to slip a warm palm beneath.
“No,” Enjolras says, making him freeze, fabric fisted. “I meant—romantically.” He has a disturbing image of Grantaire whipping out his phone to put on some smooth jazz and sighs, “I want us to be in a committed romantic relationship.”
Rocking back, Grantaire says, “huh.” He is still holding onto bunched shirt.
“This cannot be surprising,” Enjolras huffs. “We spend all our time together. Courfeyrac and Combeferre say I never stop—smelling like you. From the scenting. I—I chose you to marry.” His mother’s marriage dossier was overflowing with conglomerate tyrant heirs to pick from, and a few genuine innocents, and… Grantaire.
“Yeah,” Grantaire says, soft. “As a punishment.” Enjolras stares at him. “I—I said fuck you at our first meeting?” He offers, weakly. Now he’s crosslegged, leaning against the wizened trunk of the tree. “Because you said I was too ugly to marry? And then you spent the rest of the school year glaring at me. I had no fucking clue why you picked me. Clearly you thought I had no redeeming traits. After you aband—after you left, it finally made sense. It was a punishment.”
Face in his hands, ashamed, Enjolras murmurs, “it wasn’t.”
“…no?”
“I liked you. I—I initially said no because I knew I’d make a terrible husband for someone raised in high society. Who wanted the life that came with that. You—surely you had other offers to choose between, but you chose mine.” The laugh Grantaire gives isn’t quite hysterical. Pinpointing the exact words that triggered it seems impossible. “I was eighteen,” Enjolras tries. “I was a fool. I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry, Grantaire.”
“Let me get this straight,” Grantaire says. “You liked me.” Enjolras nods. “And when I started coming to meetings you were hostile as… what? Pigtail pulling? Please.”
Colouring, Enjolras coughs, “I thought you were sent by my parents? As in—a bribe? Or a spy?”
“Dynamicist,” Grantaire accuses, faint and automatic. “Omegas aren’t objects. Oh, shit. The scenting to be nice—“
“I wasn’t being nice,” Enjolras protests, almost darkly. “I told you. Firstly, it was a matter of fairness and health, and secondly I benefit—“
“You wanted to break our bond,” Grantaire presses, almost frantic. “To—to free up your to-do list!”
“That’s not a bond, it’s a traumatic burden,” Enjolras hisses. “How are you supposed to love me of your own volition, how are you supposed to heal and overcome how much you must have hated me, how am I supposed to bond you properly and mutually, if—“
Well. He’s had the argument with himself so many times that his talking points flow perfectly, uncompelled. In this case, he hadn’t wanted to say it aloud.
“Wellll,” Grantaire says carefully. “I’m going to sit down.” Grantaire is already sitting down. They both are.
“That’s—a great idea.”
“My first,” Grantaire agrees faintly.
They continue to sit. For once, Grantaire’s not fidgeting. He doesn’t have his legs in some odd configuration. He’s staring forward, a hand over his mouth, quiet.
“Do you think you can,” Enjolras has to ask, because he’s started down this path, “love me, someday?”
A breath. He seems to twitch to life. There’s deep relief in Enjolras.
“Funny story,” starts Grantaire, because it’s always a story with him, isn’t it, “but I knew you, before that weird familial introduction.” Enjolras is aware. “I mean—all the kids knew you. You were new and the epitome of hot and crazy.” Thanks, Enjolras mutters. “But I was half asleep in history class and then you went off on the teacher over the means of production and I just kinda went home that day and…” he makes a gesture. Enjolras replicates it, uncertain, and Grantaire grins. “Don’t make that in polite company, it means heat.”
“Oh.” Enjolras flushes. He knows his scent is spiking even without really being able to smell it. “So you…”
“Liked you?” Grantaire grins, still wobbly. “A little bit, I guess. Nothing like now." Looking at his mouth, Enjolras thinks, now is better. "Even with everything that's happened-- the bond has been awful but it means something to me. I made it here, with the ABC and you and my art and my hobbies, and I'm as close as a guy like me can be to happy. I won't claim to be thriving but I'm close. I survived. The bond doesn't define me; I define what it means to me. It doesn't mean that I hate you. It's never meant that.” Enjolras leans forward, and rather than pull back, yield, Grantaire holds his ground. Holds it not because he has certainty in where he’s standing but because this is just what he does, and angles towards Enjolras helplessly, face turning up.
“You love me,” Enjolras says, fiercely certain.
Gesturing to the space around him, Grantaire says, “what do you think the lurid cocktail of pheromones in the air has been about? What do you think me trailing you helplessly around begging to be scented or even looked at—don’t say you love me now like it’s some revelation.”
“I didn’t know,” says Enjolras. “Make me regret the wasted time more than I already do.”
“Okay,” breathes Grantaire, eyes wide. “Okay, I can do that.”
A skill of Grantaire’s is that he can weave convincing arguments for causes he doesn’t believe in. When he does believe—unstoppable. He convinces with silent tongue and clasped hands and sunflower, everywhere.
“Clothes,” he pants, after a long moment where his mouth is occupied.
“They exist,” Grantaire says, eyes wide.
“We could change that.”
“Down with the garment-archy,” Grantaire says, undoing buttons with a frankly unconcerned look around the empty park. “Is—Enjolras, is this right now a scenting thing—fuck—“
“Yes,” Enjolras says. Years, and Grantaire agreed, and Grantaire kissed him. That’s a choice. “Then whatever else we want after that. Primarily, a relationship. Grantaire—”
His phone rings. Abruptly, Enjolras remembers that he is on a mission. (That he is also outdoors.) This was a necessary detour. If one that he’s a bit embarrassed, now, with kiss-bitten lips, to move on from. “We have to go,” he says, with another kiss. He tries to encourage Grantaire to do his buttons back up, but as usual, Grantaire is slow to comply. Enjolras takes care of it.
“…we?” says Grantaire.
“We,” Enjolras says firmly, and they go.
Upon their arrival, Courfeyrac grins wide and paws at Combeferre.
“Emergency meeting,” he hisses with a wink. And, well, Enjolras did not execute this plan well. “Enjolras, when you requested this you sounded so forlorn, honestly—“
“No, it’s serious,” Combeferre corrects, frowning.
“Sorry, my presence is causing some confusion,” Grantaire says with a wave of his free hand, “regardless of me, this is a weighty topic. I’m here for—” his eyes flicker to Enjolras, who gazes back unwavering. “—emotional support.”
“I will be very distracted from this weighty topic if I don’t have confirmed that—“
“Yes,” Enjolras says, tiredly. “We’re dating. It’s very recent. I’d love to celebrate with you both, but unfortunately this impacts you and…potentially our friendship.”
Exchanging one of their looks, they each put one hand on his closest shoulder. “Nothing is going to ruin our friendship, Enjolras.”
“You’ll see,” he says, voice tight but his body anchored in three places. He is present. “Just—give me a moment.”
They give him what he needs.
Firmly in the middle of Enjolras declaring the plan he and Grantaire developed, Grantaire disrupts. As usual.
“This plan sounds clever, logical, ripe for success,” he says, “and awful.”
“Those don’t align,” Enjolras frowns, and Combeferre makes a soft noise of assent. “It was your strate—“
“He’s saying it’s a good plan,” Courfeyrac breaks in. “Just one that will hurt.”
“I don’t think you’re the type of person who could stand to pretend anything,” Grantaire says. “Even with me as a buffer. Which is an embarrassingly recent realization, on my part. You know if you want to, I’m with you.” He colors. “I mean, I’d be with you regardless of the plan, if there was an open space for me to worm myself into. We've established I'd fail. And maybe I'd even fail on purpose, just because I couldn't stand to watch you go through it. But there’s another option you can afford.”
“Tell me,” Enjolras says.
“You just wanted to be left alone,” Grantaire says, “but they’ve made it clear they expect you to assimilate, like anything else is opposition. Join their law firm and pump out golden heirs. What if you threaten them with actual opposition? But the kind where it's a compromise between complete rebellion and getting to live your life.”
"I don't compromise well," Enjolras admits, mind racing, "but I could try."
Courfeyrac gasps. Enjolras has to grin at him. “Your dad’s law firm has a rival,” Combeferre says.
“That! And! Babies,” adds Courfeyrac. “We’re godparents, calling it, even if they’re only ever hypothetical babies.”
Separately, Combeferre muses, “if you threaten, you don’t even have to necessarily join. Your grades and your smarts and whatever you’ve managed to overhear here give you options.” Options.
“They do,” Enjolras realizes. “I—is that stooping to their level?”
“They threatened you first,” Grantaire says, pragmatic. “I know you’re all honorable and shit, but—it’s your best friends. And fighting powerful people-- that's what you do.”
“Damn straight,” says Courfeyrac. “And don’t tell me you’re above getting your hands dirty if it gets you results. We’ve seen you at work. We’ve been in the mud with you.”
No, he’s not above that. And he knows details—clients his father’s wined and dined at their homes, court cases he’d ranted about, the weak points of the firm’s people infrastructure he’d mapped out of a desire to help other people, someday, and now… he can use it for himself. He’s fought so hard against them, for so long, desperate to get and stay away. Carving out his own space. Yet— they’re the ones behaving immorally. Intruding. Enjolras is tired of running and surviving, when this is his life, his existence to claim. Conflict is a necessity and lucky privilege for him, here.
"I'm so glad you've told us everything," Combeferre says, soft, and Enjolras is too.
Enjolras finally feels, with friends at his back and Grantaire at his side, that he can take a stand that matters.
“Mother,” he greets. “You were right. Priorities change.”
It isn’t about escape, anymore. It is a reclamation.
There is one thing to settle.
“She told me,” Enjolras says, “about you.”
A final piece of parental advice, since you are so wise now, his mother had spat. There is something that omega wants from you, and once he gets it, he’ll leave.
At the start of this, Enjolras would have readily agreed. He would’ve been the one to say it. He'd have hoped for that outcome, to lose Grantaire but have the ABC survive. Now he knows better. To her he said instead: people are not all like you. Most people don’t want to be.
“I’m sure she did,” Grantaire agrees. “Not like there’s much to tell about me, besides that.”
You know he only gets his inheritance in full if he provides an heir or gets you to bond with him, don’t you?
Enjolras did not know.
“I’d offered to bond you,” he says. “Almost immediately. You didn’t take me up on it.”
Grantaire shrugs. “You’d have hated me.” A half-smile. “…you’d have hated me more.”
“I never hated you,” first things first, his fingers beneath Grantaire’s chin, bringing him up, “which you know. And I wouldn’t. If you spent the whole inheritance on Schnapps or donations to a conservative’s political campaign, maybe.”
“Be emotional for two seconds, Enj,” Grantaire says, tiredly. “Without it, you’re free. Could bond someone else. Have no care for where I am, at any time. The second it’s mutual I’d be a liability and a burden. I’ve been in a loveless bond. Zero stars on Yelp from me.”
Enjolras can appreciate that. He can recognize the sacrifice and wonder how, exactly, he is ever meant to match it. Grantaire was giving up a life for him with no conditions; all Enjolras can do in return is offer himself freely. Love is not necessarily about equal exchanges. He is learning this.
“I want it to be mutual,” Enjolras confesses. “And the opposite of loveless. If you’re willing, now.”
“Right away?” Grantaire’s voice is not quite shrill. Possibly, Enjolras should not be counting years of estranged marriage, or months of longing, and should take into account that they have been official boyfriends for approximately two days. Bonds can be permanent. He wants this one to be.
“We could wait,” he cedes quickly. “Waiting seems—appropriate. Though I doubt ‘appropriate’ is the right descriptor for either of us.”
Grantaire’s shaking his head no, but his eyes are bright. “Um. So we should wait. I get the feeling we’re gonna change our mind on that real quick because when it comes to each other we have the patience of a four-year-old confronted with gummy worms and you’ll be in rut, but for now.”
“I have no doubts, but I see your point. If it helps,” says Enjolras, “I can think of a good distraction until then.”
“Distraction’s my job,” Grantaire gasps dramatically, “think of the economy,” so Enjolras tugs a dark curl, affectionately admonishing. They cuddle in anyway.
Enjolras is getting better at recognizing the warm feeling in his chest.
“I’m just trying to picture you in rut,” Grantaire says, who is still forming full sentences despite them having been making out through the entirety of a documentary’s needless final episode and are barely stumbling together instead of walking. Enjolras is beginning to understand Courfeyrac’s appreciation for kissing. “What’re you like?”
“Annoying,” Enjolras admits, stripping his shirt and crowding Grantaire towards the bed. “Intense.”
“Oh no,” Grantaire says faintly, grinning, before falling bodily back on the pillows. “My favorites. C’mere.”
Enjolras goes.
“Have you with an alpha before?” Enjolras asks, much later, the question a determined but distracted one.
Swallowing, Grantaire says, “yeah. Many times.” With his chin rising in slow defiance, “is that—does that bother…?”
“No,” Enjolras says honestly. Grantaire takes him at his word, now, doesn't spiral or branch. “I just want to know if I need to go slower.” Be careful. He’ll be careful anyway, but there are—aspects to being with alphas that can be overwhelming.
“I mean,” gnawing at his lip, “it’s been a while? Full disclosure, some of them were when I was bonded.”
“Okay.”
“It wasn’t that many, and even if it was,” Grantaire continues, looking ready to go on, so Enjolras kisses him. Messy and deep, to the point where he almost forgets his point. Luckily, he specializes in refocusing.
“I don’t care how many there were, or who,” he states. “I care about making this better for you than any of those times. Show me how.”
Grantaire squeezes his eyes shut, breathes deep. “You’re right,” he says then. “I’m going to show you how. I am really, really good at this, dammit. You’ve never witnessed me be good at something before.”
“That’s completely inaccu—“ His wrists in the firm circle of Grantaire’s grip, pressed down. His body calmed and stilled and directed, steadying the beat in his chest. “Oh,” says Enjolras, or maybe just forms the shape of it with his mouth. Grantaire rubs at the glands there with both thumbs, and Enjolras melts into the pillows and feels himself light up, gauzy and open.
“You like this,” Grantaire blinks, inhales. “I thought you did,” he smiles at him, all teeth and bitten lips, oddly wide. Enjolras settles deeper and rolls his gaze to the ceiling, content. “You really like this,” Grantaire murmurs into his newly bared throat, kissing down it. “You like me. Yielding to me. Trust and respect. Being good for me, specially me, when usually you try so hard to be good to everyone." Enjolras shudders. "Hey. Talk to me?” Talking seems like a distraction. “Wow,” he chuckles, still, when nothing is forthcoming. The awe of his tone has Enjolras feeling abruptly resistant. Of course he likes it.
“And I like this,” Enjolras corrects, flipping them to straddle from above. “You know I don’t compromise well.”
“You didn’t communicate the lack of compromise in bed was because you’re just—flexible.”
Enjolras shrugs, smiles. “Hopefully it’ll be something we agree on.” Beneath his hands tendons flex.
“I’m not compromising either,” Grantaire says, low. “I want everything, with you.” He looks hesitant and then stubbornly sets the lines of himself, jaw and shoulders. “Some of that everything is going to suck, not gonna lie. But it’ll be everything. You don’t really accept less.”
Seriously, Enjolras voices his agreement. His commitment. Yet because he is now exposed to Grantaire for most of his waking hours, he lets go, pushes down on the bed, and says, “some of it will definitely suck.”
“Well fuck,” says Grantaire reasonably, and doesn’t say anything more for a while. Neither of them have to. For a long while there are just laughing or desperate instructions, and affectionate words that he’d never expected to hear. Even more precious, knowing what it took to reach here. Remembering and building and forgiving.
“It’s okay,” Grantaire pants, “it’s okay, you can bite, I know you want to,” and bares the column of his throat, and that fucking mark is there, small and too much like a scar. He fits his mouth over it, nips with no teeth and laves like he can make it disappear. (He wishes it were gone. He wishes he could make it now, instead, new.) “Fuck, Enj.”
Sunflower. Enjolras knows it’s sunflower, now. Intimately.
“Wait,” he gasps. Grantaire pulls off. This went so poorly before. “Wait, I just—that seems like it echoes a way that I’ve hurt you. Before, I need—I need to hear, for me. I need to know it’s not an obligation or necessity.”
“You can’t make it go away,” Grantaire reminds him, smiling, placid, “it’s a bad memory but—it happened. And now I understand. What I’m really interested in,” he leans back in, “is making better memories. Better for us than the other times, you might say.”
“I did say,” Enjolras murmurs, and Grantaire snorts before he kisses him. And guides him in, and squeezes his hand, and Enjolras sets his mouth against a new spot, the other side. Here? With fingers in his hair Grantaire says yes, so he does. He kisses first, and wets it with his tongue in a way that has Grantaire laughing, urging, before he sets his teeth in. Grantaire spasms. Grantaire goes very still.
“That’s not,” he says dazedly, but doesn’t let up the pressure and weight on Enjolras’ curls. “That’s—“ warm and freshly sweet and there’s a taste here, too, mild but just because it’s in a million directions, notes of scent that he can’t help but chase, addictive. “Different, from last time, I—Enj, I—“ He bites harder. Grantaire demands it. Enjolras’ mouth is occupied and he can’t say a word, but he can press in with tongue and pull, just a little, at delicate skin. A match to where they’re joined elsewhere. “Love you,” Grantaire’s saying above him. “I love you.” There. That’s what he’s been looking for. “I have been on some strong drugs, but this is crazy intense, more, I cannot believe the body naturally produces brain chemicals to this extent—like we’re not even having sex involving a knot right now and I’m not in heat, can you imagine—not that we have to, full disclosure though I want to—“
Are you ever quiet, Enjolras thinks warmly to himself. Even as he knows the answer. Grantaire rambles and gasps and writhes against him until they both come, and Enjolras is content. When he pulls off, it’s perfectly dark, and larger than that slanted scar of a bondmark. Brimming with sweet and smoky scent. He’ll have to remake it, over and over, with intent. He enjoys the prospect. Pressing lips, nose, forehead to it, he thinks viciously to a past self he’s going to have to work to forgive: this is how it should be.
When they wake up after drowsing, Grantaire settles easily atop him. Grantaire with his too-soft heart, who fights but hesitates to fight for something because he'd rather be with you. Enjolras knows that he's willing to fight for them, this time. Above him Grantaire looks like he'd do anything. “You’ll like this too, I think,” he confides. With him, Enjolras likes almost everything. Being enveloped and entered or kissed light or filthy. Enjolras gladly takes. When lips skim the heated skin at his throat, burning bare and ready, he gasps yes, Grantaire-- and for once Grantaire gives exactly what he's asked for. No more, no less. He bites, and sucks, and scoops Enjolras clean until in this moment there's nothing left but love. “Gonna bond you soon,” Grantaire whispers in his ear, “going to make you mine, just the way you want me to, just how I want to, always wanted,” and Enjolras-- he likes that most of all.
When he next enters the Musain, arms linked with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, he senses before he sees Grantaire at the bar. Relaxed, fresh scent turning to Enjolras and slipping around him like it can’t help it. Grantaire’s knees are hooked in a confusing tangle across several chairs with Bossuet and Joly and Eponine, who Enjolras would not have anticipated to willingly involve herself in this kind of tomfoolery. For the first time he gets a hint of her scent as she tosses her dark hair in exaggerated reaction to Grantaire’s prodding—earthy moss with leather-like notes, a stable and vibrant forest floor, complex and complementary to Grantaire’s own. Before she’s always been blocked up, concealing. But that’s Grantaire—he achieves the impossible with others and pays it little mind.
“Is this a game?” Enjolras asks, leaning down for a soft kiss and quick brush against his throat.
“Nah,” says Grantaire. “Just fucking around. Waiting for the meeting.”
“Okay. Thank you for coming.”
“I come every time, you absolute dork,” Grantaire says, and puts a hand up so they can lace and press their wrists together, brief. Warm. A spritz of pleased sunflower.
“Oooh,” says Joly significantly, the actual verbalizing of the innuendo unnecessary, and Grantaire grins at him.
“Thanking you is part of my ceremonial entry procession,” says Enjolras. "Always."
“You are never letting him live that down,” cheers Bossuet, who’d almost choked and had to perform the Heimlich on himself the first time Grantaire had made a particular joke about Enjolras’ routine for the start of meetings.
Enjolras smiles at him, squeezes his fingers with Grantaire’s in a temporary farewell, and goes to sit with his notes at the bar next to Feuilly and Bahorel. Musichetta slides him juice, adds a lemon for the bar effect. From far off, Jehan is giving a recitation of their poetry to raucously confused snapping from Marius and effusive appreciation from Cosette. Up front Combeferre and Courfeyrac are waiting, sharing the rare quiet moment. He does not always need a large number of people on his side, though he'd always take it; he loves these people.
"So I know you're already married, but when are you getting married," says Joly, behind him, a failed whisper. And well-- there's another part of his future to look forward to.
Later, he’ll take Grantaire home. For now, he settles in amongst his family.