Chapter Text
Of all the antiquated beliefs Enjolras’ family holds, the belief he dismissed as less harmful to society is the one that ends up actually impacting his life.
Arranged marriage. A transparent attempt to keep money and power in the upper echelons of high society. Enjolras had declared long ago he had no interest in participating, but of course that hadn’t stopped his parents. His mother, especially, seemed to think that the way he brushed off the well-born ladies and gentlemen at his boarding schools—schools, because Enjolras never went long without some supervisor gently encouraging his family either to donate a second football field or find somewhere else for Enjolras to be… Enjolras—was about not meeting the right person. Or nobly saving himself for someone worthy. Rather than—than simply caring about philosophy. Or Marxism. Or egalitarian principles, so much that he didn’t have time to fumble about in the dark with other teenagers. Or, at least, time to convince other teenagers he was worthy of fumbling with. People are a mystery. Unlike Enjolras, not everyone is constantly on a mission. He’s been on a mission since he realized that not everyone was afforded the same privileged circumstances of birth. Since some homeless woman tumbled over their estate wall when he was five, and cried when he shared his strawberries, and left because his family’s private security dragged her off.
“We’re having a dinner party,” his mother says. “Friday. Please wear something nice.”
“No, thank you,” Enjolras replies. “I have plans.” He is seventeen, and his club at school is flyering and writing up letters to their mayor. Enjolras can’t afford to miss it, because he founded the club. Also, he is its sole member.
“I’ve asked the chef to make your favorite,” his mother continues, instead of letting him squirm out of the obligation, and this is how Enjolras knows his mother is on a mission.
“Who is it,” he says. “Why are they coming?”
“You’ve met them before,” his mother hums. “Old family friends.”
“You know I’d ruin a business deal,” Enjolras states, honest. His mother waves a hand dreamily, unconcerned.
“They have children your age,” is all she replies. Enjolras has homework, and it is no longer the 19th century, so he thinks he can be forgiven for grimacing at her and walking off, rather than coming to the correct conclusion.
“This,” his mother says, fingers clamped around Enjolras’ shoulders, “is Grantaire.”
Grantaire has wide blue eyes, and fingernails bitten to the quick, and apparently no interest in speaking aloud. He’s the third-born child in a family that, probably a century ago, smoothly transitioned from French royalty to wine magnates. He’s shorter than Enjolras by several inches, which helps ensure that when he looks at his shoes, there’s no chance they’ll come close to eye contact.
“He’s very accomplished,” Grantaire’s mother is saying, from her mirrored position, hands gripping elbows. The elbows are swathed in layers of forest-green coats. “Our Grantaire loves dance, and went to nationals for gymnastics and took silver in—what was it, dear?”
Grantaire swallows, and then supplies, almost unsure but definitely dully, “floor.”
“I thought he vaulted?” Enjolras’ mother asks.
“I didn’t medal in that,” Grantaire replies to the ground.
“How modest,” Enjolras’ mother says, and then squeezes Enjolras’ shoulders. “Maybe we’ll let you boys interact without your mothers hanging over your shoulders, then?”
No, Enjolras thinks. There’s only one real reason why both their families have dragged them into the same room, and listed off how accomplished Grantaire is, while studiously ignoring any interesting details about Enjolras’ questionable hobbies.
Enjolras’ hobbies don’t matter, because he’s a firstborn—an only son, set to inherit—and an alpha. In their eyes, those labels manage to obscure his personality, and his revolutionary nature. But Grantaire—Grantaire is an omega who smells like a beta, and will probably inherit only a few million and wineries in damp, rainy valleys, so he gets to be—to be Enjolras’ trophy. Grantaire’s supposed to be accomplished.
Enjolras wants to throw up. University, he reminds himself. Just a few more months. Freedom to go with free thought. He can stomach an evening of this.
They’re alone for seconds, standing stiffly on too plush carpet in the reading room, before Enjolras decides to go for honesty.
“Look,” Enjolras says. “This is—awful. If my mother dragged you into this, then I’m sorry.”
“No, no, you’re good,” Grantaire blurts. “I—it’s stupid. I know it is. This isn’t the middle ages, and we’re not royalty, we’re not like—marrying for the sake of hearth and home or border disputes. It’s crazy. No matter how our moms spin it.”
Enjolras lets out a breath. “Good. Then—then we agree. I’ll talk to my mother and you can talk to yours—“
“Okay, I’m just saying, both our moms are gonna ride us if we don’t at least try,” Grantaire says, then. “Or pretend to try,” he amends. “At least for tonight. Do you want to—I don’t know. Do you want to hang out?” Enjolras stares at him. “Shit, not like, a date.”
Enjolras considers. “I did have plans for this evening, before this fiasco.”
“Yeah, it’s a Saturday night,” Grantaire says slowly. “Was it Maribelle’s party, or…?” Enjolras has no idea who that is, or what or leads to. This must be obvious. “Maribelle,” Grantaire repeats. “From our economics class.”
“You go to my school,” Enjolras realizes. Something on Grantaire’s face shutters.
“Yeah, man, we go to the same school.”
“I haven’t seen you,” Enjolras admits. “It’s my first year.” They’re seniors. Enjolras has been so focused on making it to the end, on making an impact outside the schools’ cultivated brick walls, he’s barely been present.
Grantaire waves a hand. “I’m out for comps a lot.”
“Sorry,” Enjolras says, because it feels like the right thing to say to someone who clearly knew him and who he’d have sworn to have never met. Grantaire blinks at him, like the word is unfathomable.
“So not Maribelle’s party,” Grantaire moves on. “Even though you were invited.” Enjolras has a vague recollection of someone giggling and shoving something on his desk. Logic dictates that was the invitation. “Then what?”
“Oh,” Enjolras hums, turning to begin the walk up to his room, “I’ll show you.”
“Here.” Dutifully, Grantaire holds out his arms, and Enjolras dumps a stack of flyers into them. “I was going to post these.”
Grantaire’s seemed wary and surprised since they arrived in his room, and Enjolras started moving his various stacks of paper around. Even now, he looks at the stack with a furrowed brow, then back up at Enjolras.
“Shit, is this for charity?”
“It’s for a rally.” Enjolras hasn’t been able to organize his own, yet, but once he’s at university he’ll—then. Even as he thinks it, Enjolras is angry with himself. He’s almost eighteen. He’s been more than capable of organizing a rally already, but it was easier to just support the people already running them. Other people who already had their group, who knew how to talk and inspire. Who knew how to lead.
“Shit,” Grantaire says, with feeling. “I knew you were into this kind of stuff, but I didn’t realize it extended to…”
“To the bare minimum of activism?”
“Look, the people we go to school with are mostly lip service sewn around whatever molds their parents poured them into.”
“That’s a charitable view of your fellow man.”
“Yeah, it’s one I got from actually talking to my fellow man.”
Well. Disputing that is difficult. Instead, Enjolras busies himself with finding his stapler and tape, and packing up his bag.
“Are you coming or not?”
“You know what,” Grantaire says, looking between the flyers and Enjolras, then back out Enjolras’ door—back at their families and the unspoken command—“I think I will.”
It is only once Grantaire is rubbing his hands together, breathing on them, while Enjolras uses the last of the tape, that he thinks to ask.
“Did you have plans tonight?”
“Figured I’d pick a party,” Grantaire says, shrugging. “Show up with a keg. Maybe a few scented uppers. Have a good time.”
“You’re an athlete,” Enjolras mutters, and it’s not meant to be accusing. Sometimes his brain just works aloud. Grantaire still trails him as he rounds a corner, picks out his next location.
“Yeah, an athlete whose family literally sells booze for a living, you think the other people we go to school with haven’t been able to work that out? Pretty sure some of them have flashcards with everyone’s faces and heritage so they know who to befriend. Heir to Coca-Cola.” Enjolras staples. “Trust fund of fourteen million dollars.” Another emphatic staple. “Mom made a famous sex tape with a professional footballer and then— oh, here.”
Suddenly, Enjolras is being hauled up, and he’s a lot closer to the top of the message board, where he’s been reaching, because up there it’s less likely they’ll be torn down.
“Whoa, damn, quit squirming. I haven’t lifted for cheer in a while, I will drop you.”
“You lifted me,” Enjolras says, when the flyer is stapled and he is safely back on the ground.
“Did you just notice? You have the face of a Renaissance angel, but you can’t actually fly, Enjolras. What did you think happened?”
“You lifted me,” Enjolras says, trying to be calm about it, because he is still a teenage boy, and Grantaire has muscles. This is an easy logical leap: Grantaire is an accomplished athlete. Somewhere under those layers are arms that medal at competitions. Enjolras is tall, and broad in the shoulders, but he doesn’t weigh that much, and so—lifting. Nothing to it. His heart still quickens a little. Very few people his own age—touch Enjolras.
For a moment, Grantaire goes quiet, looks down at the ground. “Thought you were into equality and shit.”
“Equality,” Enjolras repeats dubiously, uncertain of how that, of all things, has come up, “and shit?”
“Whatever,” Grantaire says then, “where to next, o fearless leader?”
“Don’t call me that,” Enjolras sighs.
Grantaire continues to call him that. To his credit, he adds small touches and variations each time.
“O peerless captain!”
Enjolras doesn’t think one follower makes him a leader, especially when said follower doesn’t believe in the cause, and says so.
“I never said I don’t believe in,” Grantaire glances down at the dwindling stack, “education reform in underserved communities. Wow, that is a mouthful. Can we rename this? Something catchier? ‘Stop These Rich Assholes Part 207: Public School Edition’?”
“That is twice as many syllables,” Enjolras disagrees, but has to smile anyway, and Grantaire takes to it with an wry enthusiasm that has Enjolras clapping a hand over his mouth.
“’ABC, Easy As First Graders Deserve Lunch Money,’” he proposes next. “’School’s Out For The Summer, School’s Out to Get—‘”
“Grantaire!” He protests. Takes in a deep breath, before he tries. “…’We’ll Take The Education, But Not The Thought Control.’”
“That’s terrible!” Grantaire snorts with a grin, brushing up against his side, warm. “Do another.”
What Enjolras chooses to do with his spare time isn’t necessarily fun, and it doesn’t have to be, but with Grantaire that evening it is.
“Come on,” Enjolras says, “it’s your turn to lead, I don’t know the way back through these streets.”
“I won’t let you down, sir,” Grantaire salutes. He only makes one detour, a stop at a little kiosk, buys warm cider and stuffs bills in the tip jar until the beta behind the counter smiles. “Here, weirdo, promise I didn’t lace it with anything alcoholic so we’d have a good time.”
“I had a good time,” Enjolras says honestly, and drinks his apple cider.
“Ha,” says Grantaire, “yeah.”
He’s quieter, on the way home. Won’t walk at Enjolras side, or ahead of him, like he’s worried Enjolras is going to catch a whiff of whatever he’s giving off—not much, to be honest, he can’t pick the notes out—and book it.
At least the evening wasn’t wasted, Enjolras has to admit. He even—maybe he even connected with someone his own age. So he smiles hesitantly at Grantaire, who smiles right back at the space above Enjolras’ head and goes quieter and quieter until they’re back in Enjolras’ room.
“Thanks for helping,” Enjolras says, going to his desk to mark off the flyer locations on his map. When there’s no reply, over his shoulder he calls, “Grantaire?” Before finally turning around.
Oh no. There’s something tense there. Enjolras doesn’t normally interpret scents well, but even he can tell there’s nervousness in the air.
“Hey, um,” Grantaire scuffs his shoe, looks supremely awkward. “This is fucking bullshit.”
“Yeah,” Enjolras says simply.
“But,” and now his voice has gone soft, “it’s gonna be bullshit no matter what. And of all the people whose houses they’ve dragged me to since I turned eighteen, you’re the best option.”
Enjolras feels his heartstrings break, his heart swing by a thread in his chest. For the whole night, they’d bonded over how ridiculous the situation was, and he’d almost forgotten. Grantaire is still a part of the system Enjolras despises. Not its posterchild, that’s for sure, but—a particularly large cog. He has a dowry and accomplishments and clearly, despite the fact that all he and Enjolras have done is disagree on politics and jab teasingly at each other, thinks Enjolras is his best option.
Enjolras has heard that before. In a society where his bloodline and his trust fund and his alpha status are so monumental that their shadow swallows his personality and beliefs, no matter how large or unsavory to the rich elite, Enjolras hears this all the time. He despises it.
Grantaire seems to take his silence as hesitation, as consideration.
“Like,” he continues, almost pleading, “we do this, they’re off our backs. I stay out of your way. You do whatever you like, and that includes whoever—“ Enjolras scowls at him, and he holds his hands up, placating “—hey, whoa, you. Not me.” Enjolras scowls harder. What does that even mean. “And in return, you continue to be a progressive weirdo who doesn’t get sniffy when I suck at needlepoint and the other omega stuff.”
“…what?” says Enjolras.
Grantaire huffs. “Look, some of these alphas won’t even let me past the kitchen in the introductions, so—“
“What,” says Enjolras. How many other introductions has Grantaire made, and why does he keep bringing them up? Who the hell won’t let someone past a kitchen? Is this supposed to activate some competitive alpha drive? Encourage him to take Grantaire up on the offer?
“It could be good,” says Grantaire, like that makes it clearer, and all Enjolras can think is university. Freedom. I’m not doing what my family and their society demands. There are higher callings.
“Look,” says Enjolras, trying for gentle and feeling as though he’s failing, “we don’t suit. You can probably tell that we’re—we’re not a match. I mean,” he gestures, somewhat bleakly, down towards himself and then Grantaire. The sheaf of letters in his arms, his attempts to dismantle the society he’s born in. Enjolras, awkward and too-earnest, his stubborn temper the only alpha thing about him. If he’s honest—in ten years he’ll be disowned. “Look at us. Me? With you?”
Grantaire loves dancing, and parties with their peers, and is accomplished, and has been raised with the expectation that there’d someday be a rich, worldly alpha he would marry. For all that Enjolras despises their shared culture, he understands the appeal. It’s safe. It’s easy. It’s scream-your-lungs-out, tear-the-world-apart evil. But only if you stop and think about it. Enjolras can’t do anything but dig his heels in, and think about it.
Grantaire’s jaw sets, and his eyes dim, and he seems very far away when he mutters, “yeah. I get it. But—but fuck you.”
Then he spins on his heel, more like a fighter than a dancer or a gymnast, and leaves.
University, Enjolras tells himself, that constant refrain. It’s what he always tells himself, when those he’s surrounded with seem like they’re all together, a thousand miles away from him. His peers at school and his parents and everyone else in between.
Somehow, in this moment, the idea fails to make him glow.
There are quite a few omegas brought to the house over the next few weeks. Being vaguely polite comes easily; escaping comes even easier. None of them ask about what Enjolras cares for, in life. None of them prod at him. Some of them are chokingly floral, or aggressively flirtatious when their parents leave them alone. Enjolras minds those less than the omegas that are terrified of him.
I won’t hurt you, he thinks, to at least one of them, halfway across the room. I’m sorry.
Except—he’d hurt Grantaire, hadn’t he, in some way.
“You have to pick someone, dear,” his mother says.
“You will pick someone,” says his father. “Or there will be no university.”
Sacrificing his principles and also someone else on an altar isn’t supposed to be the first step in Enjolras’ life plan. Though—supposedly he’s the only one that views it as a sacrifice. So many of these omegas had been interested, Grantaire had even asked—Grantaire had asked.
He notices Grantaire at school, now. Always sitting on a desk, surrounded by laughter and their peers. Never looking at Enjolras, until the moment where he looks too much. Trust Enjolras, to only gain interest in someone his own age once that person’s made it clear he’s hated.
Grantaire is strong. Stronger than Enjolras, in many ways. Weathers people and uncertainty and the razor blade reality of being rich, comes out smiling and careless.
Enjolras’ plan is to disappear, and reemerge among regular people. To live a happily modest life, and do what is right. Whatever he chooses, it won’t impact Enjolras.
He flips through the candidate photos, rote, and stops at the only selfie in the pile. Everyone else’s photo is professional lighting, makeup, and the glossy quality of the photo in his hands and the photo’s background is rich enough that his probably started out professional, too.
“Him,” Enjolras says.
“The Grantaires,” his mother smiles. “Darling, I knew you’d been sneaking into my liquor cabinet.”
Any further comments are ignored. He writes a speech in his head, while she talks plans and tabletoppers and something about a summer wedding event.
“No wedding,” Enjolras says then. Because she looks to him, disapproving, he says, “I’ll embarrass all of us in public, you know this.”
“Well,” she muses, disappointed, “for an omega he’s not much to look at, besides.”
Two months before he’s set to go to university, the Enjolras chauffer takes him to the courthouse even though Enjolras tries to sneak out and walk. He signs a few things. He gives a blood sample, watches the machine beep to confirm alpha, and then he spits in a vial.
When he runs down the courthouse steps, after, wind cold and crisp, he feels a million miles away from the mansion and any school, from them. It is all he has wanted to feel.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Four years later, degree in hand, when Les Amis de l’ABC has evolved into a steady club three years strong, and his signature is still wet on an apartment lease and a pile of student loan paperwork for law school, he gets the call.
“Enjolras,” his mother says. “I do so wish you’d get over this silly phase and come home. Your father could get you into any law school you desired, and then get you in at his firm.”
“No thank you,” Enjolras says, brief. In the living room, Combeferre and Courfeyrac are playing Sporcle. At his words, they look up. He gives them the smile he can manage at the moment.
“What do we have to do,” she cries, and Enjolras doesn’t bother to explain for the thousandth time, because she’ll never understand. “You’re not preparing to take on the legacy, don’t even get me started on you living with both a beta and omega—“
“I’ll see you for the holidays,” Enjolras promises, instead of saying, they’re my best friends, don’t fucking touch them, and hangs up.
Courfeyrac, chocolate chip cookie scent going toasted, rubs his back when Enjolras collapses beside him on the rug. Combeferre taps his shoulder, a quiet invitation to rest there that Enjolras takes. “History sporcle quiz?”
“Yes please.”
They’ve tried almost everything. He’s not looking forward to a future attempt.
At his next rally, Enjolras might get arrested. He doesn’t ask them to make bail—hell, because of his alpha status and everything else about him, they don’t even bother to do anything but throw him in lockup. Even that has the sergeant coming over halfway through the night, apologizing in a way that reeks of syrupy sweet corruption.
“I don’t want to have to do anything drastic, dear,” his mother says over voicemail the next day. “But you make it very tempting.”
That night, Enjolras locks the doors and windows of his hotel room and stays awake to answer emails until dawn.
So Enjolras pointedly tries to ignore his roots, or the golden spoon and shackles of his upbringing, really, but he should’ve known he couldn’t escape for forever.
Courfeyrac hugs him and ushers him along the sidewalk, chattering away about some new member that joined while Enjolras was traveling for protests the two weeks before (and thrown in lockup).
“I think you’ll like him—well, I don’t think you’ll like him, but I think he’ll grow on you,” Courfeyrac rambles.
“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” says Enjolras, who is plotting for the next time he petitions Lamarque. Enjolras embraces newcomers once they’ve come to five meetings, no more, no less. That’s proved to be the optimal number, to make sure he is polite but not overbearing, and also doesn’t get overly attached to someone who’s going to wince and disappear.
“He’s fun,” says Combeferre, and Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “No, it’s a compliment. And I’m not certain, but I think he is an omega, which it never hurts to have to survey and ensure our efforts for dynamic equality are on the right track.”
“That’s good,” says Enjolras earnestly, because he means it. Dynamic equality is important, if not the main focus of their human rights efforts. Combeferre and a few others alone can’t speak for the depth of omegan experience.
Courfeyrac grins slyly at him, but he has at least learned over the years that Enjolras doesn’t enjoy the implication he could fall in love with any random newcomer. It hasn’t happened. History suggests it won’t.
“He has tattoos,” Courfeyrac says. “I think he’s an artist.”
“Stop,” Enjolras complains. “Stop, I don’t care—“
“Ugh, I love you, you little repressed bundle of rebel,” Courfeyrac declares, slinging an arm around his hip and beaming at Combeferre as he opens the door for them both.
“Love you too,” Enjolras mutters, because he does, tucking him into his side. “Combeferre, can you—“
And then Enjolras stops. Because there, at the bar, sits Grantaire.
By all accounts, he should’ve seen Grantaire first. Yet it’s clear, from the glassy stare, that Enjolras has been seen and acknowledged.
“—stuff your ears and your aorta and lalalala,” Courfeyrac is saying, tickling at what he knows is not a ticklish spot. That behavior is reserved for the apartment all three of them share.
“Aorta, a heart reference, I’m impressed,” Combeferre replies.
He looks—different. Not different enough.
“Come here,” Enjolras says, and that’s enough to make Courfeyrac go quiet and Combeferre to fall in at his other side. But before he can say, we need to leave, Joly is appearing out of nowhere to bound to Grantaire’s side, Bossuet close behind, to sling himself over a broad shoulder.
Bossuet spills beer in Grantaire’s lap. A hand on his elbow, Grantaire grins at him, “the best kind of perfume, you’ve spared me the need to do that later,” and oh. Oh.
Logic is meant to be his strong suit.
“Is that,” Enjolras says, faintly, “is that the new member?”
“Yes,” says Combeferre. “Grantaire.”
“Wedding bells are ringing,” Courfeyrac whispers, the gentlest of devastations, and Enjolras shrugs them both off. Luckily, they’re accustomed to his moods. If anyone asks, he’s upset about the most recent proposals surrounding minimum wage. (He really is also upset about the most recent proposals surrounding minimum wage.)
Formulating plans takes time. Luckily, even if he doesn’t like to, he can run these meetings with his best friends’ aid and about half his brainpower.
In fact, he almost manages it. Right up until—
“I’m sorry,” Enjolras says, cutting his own speech off. “Are the abuses of capitalism funny to you?”
Grantaire doesn’t stop laughing.
“I mean,” he snorts, “the idea of you storming a Starbucks and staging a takeover while Jehan here plays a cover of Rage Against the Machine on the ukulele kind of… is funny, yeah.”
There’s a delighted little snicker to his right, so Enjolras shoots Courfeyrac an exasperated look.
“I would be honored for Jehan to provide the musical backdrop to rally our cause,” Enjolras says flatly.
A smile flickers across Grantaire’s face, one that has Enjolras’ stomach flipping (this is Grantaire, fuck you) before it shutters. Maybe to hide his mockery from the others. “Just. Do you really think you’re going to change anything?”
“Yes,” says Enjolras. “Here’s ten reasons why.”
That should be the end of it.
He wasn’t expecting Grantaire to provide eleven reasons why not.
“Enj,” says Courfeyrac, holding his arm as they debate reason eight.
“Enj,” says Combeferre, patiently, an hour later, on reason nine.
“I’m really tired,” says Marius, yawning, on reason ten.
“Bye,” says Joly on Grantaire’s behalf, while Musichetta jokingly threatens him out the door with a barstool and a butter knife.
On the way home: “so much for wedding bells,” Courfeyrac mourns. Combeferre corrects,
“Fire alarms. Tornado warnings.”
“I have to ask Lamarque a question,” Enjolras says, because there’d been something targeted and horrendously real about an argument Grantaire made for point seven that has been wedged in Enjolras’ brain. It can’t be left alone.
The ordeal was distracting enough that Enjolras hadn’t thought to ask: why did they send you. Next time, he promises himself. He won’t forget. He can’t forget.
He’s worked too hard to be pulled back into the dark whirlpool of the bourgeoisie now. He has Combeferre and Courfeyrac and their numerous other friends, his club, the people he’s been able to help. Nothing can make him go back. Not even the way Grantaire’s eyes feel on him after four years.
His purpose—he can’t forget.
Three minutes into a strained but quiet argument about why-not-number-11 at the next meeting, Enjolras remembers.
“Careful,” Grantaire singsongs, when Enjolras goes from deliberately quiet to a level that the next table can hear. “Someone sees you yelling at a fragile little omega, you’re liable to—“
“You’re hardly some demure shrinking violet, Grantaire.”
“I’m so fucking demure,” Grantaire croons, and flutters his eyelashes. “But please do continue yelling at me. I relish it.” Enjolras wants to strangle him.
“I’ll debate you,” Enjolras grits at him, “I’ll speak as I would with anyone else.” That much is obvious.
“I don’t see you debating anyone else.”
“Enjolras!” Courfeyrac calls. Waving some document.
You’re special, Enjolras doesn’t say, because he’ll mean it in a few ways and that kind of admission seems dangerous. He doesn’t even know why Grantaire is here.
Instead, he stands up, and returns to the front of the room, where he can press his cheek into the comforting warmth of Combeferre’s solid shoulder, faint with notes of comforting honeysuckle and jasmine, and pretend nothing’s happening at all.
“I have a plan,” his mother’s voicemail says. “It’s already in motion. You’ll appreciate it and thank me later, dear.”
Enjolras deletes the message.
At the third meeting Grantaire attends, Enjolras has had it.
“I’m going to do it,” he says on their walk over, and Courfeyrac pouts and protests,
“Not the street blocking exercise again!”
“We were just talking about protest tactics,” Combeferre cuts in, not unkindly. “What are you talking about, Enjolras?”
“If Grantaire’s there,” says Enjolras. “I’m going to ask him why.”
“I think,” says Courfeyrac, “some opposition is good for you. You don’t keep yourself sharp by only rubbing elbows with likeminded individuals.”
“We like him,” Combeferre adds. Then, almost embarrassed, “he talked to me about scent theory for two hours.”
“When,” Enjolras tries to gently demand. He’s not sure he manages it.
“A group outing. You were invited but accidentally spent the afternoon advising some beta on fair housing laws,” Courfeyrac says, flicking his cheek. Enjolras vaguely remembers that. “Now, don’t scare him off.”
Even with their own privileged backgrounds, they don’t know the obscenely rich like Enjolras does, or the extent his parents will go to.
Enjolras really tries to have faith in Grantaire. Unlike how others would characterize him, Enjolras often fails.
It just seems like Grantaire wants them to disagree, like needling Enjolras and staring with a hint of a challenge is somehow better than them falling into camaraderie or better yet, blissful ignorance. There’s a whole twenty feet between them at the Musain, and ten of their (maybe mutual) friends. That should be blockade enough, but Grantaire won’t leave him be.
If Grantaire would leave Enjolras be, he’d be content to lead the meeting and watch him interact with his friends from afar. If Grantaire would leave him be, he might believe Grantaire’s not there to wreck everything he’s spent years building up. That it isn’t his parents’ puppet, sitting on that barstool, making Joly smell of buttered popcorn and laugh until he almost falls to the floor, catching Joly before he falls to the floor and terrorizes himself with the germs there.
A day, Enjolras reminds himself. You only knew him back then for a day. But Enjolras cares deeply for people he’s never met and never will. Before someone with any connection to him, he doesn’t stand a chance.
He leads the meeting. Grantaire disrupts the meeting.
“It’s a simple numbers exercise,” Enjolras grits. “One that’s set up for underprivileged groups to lose.”
“Sure,” Grantaire acknowledges, easy, like that hasn’t kept Enjolras up at night. Like that’s just how things are, but you plod on, weary. “But maybe you should ask how they want it solved instead of bursting onto the scene with a plan, hmm?”
“If you have a suggestion, I welcome it. I don’t see you making suggestions.”
“For your numbers game? No. Us omegas are bad at math.”
“Don’t pen the entirety of your group in with you,” Enjolras says coolly.
“I’m sure the beauty of dismantling stereotypes brings a tear to your eye, alpha.”
Being called alpha as pure mockery—being reduced to a biological label that he only keeps because it resonates with him in a way members of the transdynamic community have expressed they didn’t feel—being reduced to that by Grantaire, specifically, when it could easily be synonymous with husb—“don’t call me that,” Enjolras snarls
“Did I hit a nerve?” Grantaire’s gone hushed. “Don’t want some hairy deadbeat that’s practically a beta simpering at you?”
“Just you,” Enjolras shoots back. “If you want to bow to society’s prejudices, there’s a whole world of it out there! Happy to receive you. Why must you do it here? With me?”
Grantaire doesn’t answer any of his questions.
“Just me,” he echoes, still in that toneless hush. Enjolras grinds his teeth together and waits for the inevitable barbs to fly. Nothing comes.
“Just you,” Enjolras repeats, finally. There seems to be nothing else to say.
Combeferre lays a hand on his arm. “Enjolras,” he says then. “I think recruiting friends of friends to the cause is something we’ve generally encouraged.”
“Yeah!” Says Joly, from beside Grantaire, with overexaggerated cheer.
And this is it. “I want to try you out,” he hears himself saying, “I do.”
Except there has to be a reason. Omegan heirs don’t just accidentally waltz into the run-down but dear social clubs of their estranged husbands. They don’t pick fights with those husbands, either.
There’s no way the money’s run out. In disgusting exercise after disgusting exercise, Enjolras had checked how long it would take to spend it all. Unless Grantaire’s been eating solid diamond for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, four years shouldn’t have made a dent. Surely, unlike Enjolras, someone so accomplished is allowed access to his own family funds.
Why is he here. What do Enjolras’ parents want.
He’s been avoiding the answer because he didn’t want to hear it, but that’s something he can no longer afford.
He goes to stand over their table, which has Marius wilting away, Joly and Bossuet blinking happily up at him, and Grantaire leaning forward onto one elbow, too-quickly recovered and now practically leering.
“Outside,” Enjolras tells him, with a jerk of his head. This is better than practically shouting it across the tables of the Musain. “After the meeting.”
“Beer,” Grantaire says, putting one hand out. Enjolras frowns. “See how uncomfortable it is, being ordered around? I know it comes so naturally to you, but honestly—“
“Please,” Enjolras grits. It is—he knows it’s rude, as an alpha, to be commanding. He never puts the note of power in his voice that pushes omegas or betas to cede to him, but it’s still insensitive.
“Enjolras,” Joly says, that forced smile on his face once again. “I love you, I do, but. Well.”
“You’re being frightening,” translates Musichetta. The firm but gentle drift of her caramel and rosemary scent reminds him to try and soften. Seemingly, Grantaire takes it the same way.
“Ah, Joly, worry not,” Grantaire says, leaning dangerously far back in his chair, taking a sip from his bottle that is apparently not empty, “Enjolras and I are old school chums. I’m sure he just wants to catch up. Reminisce.”
“That’s sweet,” Marius chirps. Enjolras sometimes wishes he lived in the same world as Marius.
“You know each other?” Bossuet asks, looking not suspicious but confused. “Is this why you’ve been fighting?”
“We had world history together,” Enjolras says, “economics,” and Grantaire mouths we have history at a giggling Joly. “We flyered, once.”
“Come on, you don’t remember that,” Grantaire grins, but for some reason, it has him standing, tilting precariously in the direction of the bar. “Sure, Enjolras, whatever discussion you want. Friends: another round?”
Frowning, Enjolras leaves them to their drink. He has to organize his thoughts for later, anyway.
“This business with Grantaire is the most dramatic I’ve ever seen you,” says Courfeyrac, when the rousing discussions and speeches of the meeting are over. “And I’ve watched you chain yourself to a lot of buildings.”
“If you come home bloody I’m not fixing you up,” says Combeferre as a goodbye. “For a few minutes,” he amends, because he is Enjolras’ dear friend. “Please consider pacifism.”
“We’re not fighting,” Enjolras says, but Grantaire is muscular, “probably.” Waving as they leave, “I am a pacifist.”
As expected, Grantaire is not waiting, but rather halfway to incapacitation. Boots propped up on the stool Marius has vacated, grinning at Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta until he spots Enjolras approaching and the grin slides right off.
Enjolras doesn’t want to scare him. He just wants him serious. He wants answers.
“Come on,” Grantaire says, “let’s have it out,” and trails him, ambling, out the side door.
He’s still holding a beer bottle. His cheeks are ruddy. Enjolras can’t smell him at all from this far away, but he doesn’t look too different, now. Maybe there’s a greater slouch, to him, his movements far too loosely liquid in a way that can’t just be alcohol.
“Say what you will,” Grantaire prompts, when Enjolras continues to just—look. His eyes are dark. They’re alone, in this alley, and it is cold. Grantaire half leans on the wall, takes a sip.
“Why are you here,” Enjolras finally manages. His head tilts, dark curls brushing against one shoulder.
“Two decades ago,” says Grantaire, “two obnoxiously rich people had hate sex in their pile of hoarded gold. An origin story I suspect to be much like your own.”
Gritting his teeth, Enjolras can only repeat the question. “Why are you here.” At the Musain. In Enjolras’ life. He was supposed to take the existence that Enjolras didn’t want, and leave.
“I was invited,” says Grantaire.
“Not by me.”
“Oh, are you accepting your position as the defacto leader just to oust me?”
“No,” Enjolras hisses. “I just—tell me what you want so you can leave.”
Something in Grantaire shifts, at that. He uses the wall to bear his weight less, the bottle dropping from his lips. “It’s a free country, Enjolras. From what Joly tells me, you are supposed to be super into that.”
“Must you avoid anything of substance?”
“I don’t avoid any substances.”
“That’s a waste,” Enjolras says coldly.
“Sorry I’m ruining your property,” Grantaire says with a mildness that makes Enjolras ill.
“Don’t project your biases onto me.” He’d only meant—Grantaire was athletic, and smart in a way that made bookish, rigid Enjolras long for more flexibility. Marinating a mind like that in vermouth was a loss. “I’m not responsible for you.” He doesn’t own Grantaire.
Even so, even if that’s all truth, Grantaire shifts, slow, curling in on his bottle, and mutters:
“A marriage contract to the tune of a few million says you are.”
It’s the first time they’ve acknowledged it aloud.
Before he can even register it, Enjolras is approaching, two hands reaching out to press him. The bottle drops, clanks and rolls down the alley as Enjolras pushes him up straight against the brick, leans to look him in the eye.
“What are you doing,” Enjolras demands, through his teeth. “Did they tell you to come here?” Hands on those surprisingly strong shoulders, not rough or shaking, just looking for answers. Look me in the eye.
He’s taking in little sips of breath. Avoiding. It’s not enough to hide the scent of alcohol on Grantaire’s lips, or his own scent, curling beneath it all. Enjolras hasn’t encountered that faint scent in years, but it brings it all back in a crash of memory. Flyers. Big blue eyes. This is Grantaire. Accomplished. Spit in this vial and sign here for years of freedom.
“They,” Grantaire sighs, “they didn’t tell me anything.”
Fuck you, Enjolras.
His parents have tried everything, to get Enjolras to return home. No, not Enjolras—the son they never had. The one who’s ready to take on their legacy, who doesn’t question the world order. It was interesting, watching the evolution of their bribery—from candy and puppies and attention as a boy to ludicrous sums of money and the filthy allure of power.
Luckily, Enjolras has never been much tempted by what they offer to him as an adult. Except—this. This is probably a desperate, last grab for control. Sadly, it works better than dangling his trust fund ever will.
“I thought you’d be,” he swallows. “I thought you’d be in a different place, by now.”
With ease, Grantaire knocks his hands off. It’s a startling reminder that Grantaire is backed up against the wall only because he allowed it. That—Enjolras is being rude. Too forward.
“Oh?” Grantaire says, too glib. “Thought that even without you I’d be barefoot and pregnant and bedazzled in some mansion on the coast? For someone who speaks so passionately of liberty for all and readily shoves weakling omegas up against walls, you certainly hold some outdated views on dynamics. Does your little ragtag group know—“
“Firstly,” Enjolras hisses, “you have no idea of my views, and even if you did, you’ve made it clear you disagree. All dynamics are equal, just as all of mankind is equal—“
“Spare me the lip service.”
Bristling, Enjolras snaps, “I mean what I say, I do not engage in service with my lips—“
“Don’t I know it,” Grantaire snorts, soft, and then he’s not looking Enjolras in the eye.
On his neck, small but messy, sits a mark. It’s a shameful testament to how little Enjolras has managed to address his own internal dynamic biases that it makes his stomach swoop.
“Is that mine?” He asks lowly.
“You mean,” Grantaire’s jaw sets, “you mean did they slap your saliva onto a metal bonding bite device to traumatize me during heat and effectively wreck all my hormones for the next few years? Yeah.”
“What?” Enjolras says, appalled. “Did they hurt you? They assured me it was just pressure, that it was less painful than a regular bite, and—hormones?”
Grantaire stares at him. “You really had no idea.”
“The marriage contract didn’t even state that they needed to bond you, it was supposed to be your choice!”
“You actually read—Enjolras,” Grantaire says, and it’s the first time he’s used his name with just them, setting off something fizzing in his chest, “if a slumlord made a bunch of lovely promises about how he’d treat his poor tenants better, would you fucking believe him?”
Now? Absolutely not. Enjolras would infiltrate that building, survey the residents, and gather photographic evidence.
But at eighteen?
Oh, god, at eighteen Enjolras had naively shook the slumlord’s hand, patted everyone on the back for a job well done, and skipped town for four years.
“Your face,” Grantaire says, and of course. Of course he’s still mocking him. But that he’s relaxed enough to mock him, to back down—there’s a note of forgiveness in that. “Oh, calm down, it’s not all bad. My family’s off my back. Everything’s paid for.” He shuffles his feet, gives a crooked half-smile. “Better you in absentia than someone omnipresently awful.”
That may be, but Enjolras can leave nothing alone. (God, Enjolras left him so alone.)
“How can I help?”
Grantaire squints at him. “I just said that everything’s fine.”
“And before that you mentioned hormones.” Enjolras has apparently spent plenty of time overlooking details he didn’t understand. It stops now. “Is there something with the bonding that’s still affecting you?”
Slouching into a sprawl against the wall, knees up with one foot tapping at the ground, Grantaire says, “it was just confused.”
“What was confused?”
“I mean—shit, um—biologically. Usually after bonding, there’s a lot of interaction, and scenting, and… you know.” He trails off, looking uncomfortable. “Anyway, I just had like, one shirt of yours that your family sent over and that was only good for a little bit.”
“What are you saying,” Enjolras states.
“The body kind of like? Enters withdrawal?”
“Withdrawal,” Enjolras repeats.
“Most bonds are paired and scent each other, Enjolras,” Grantaire says after a long moment, when nothing more is forthcoming from either of them. “At the very least.”
This, Enjolras can comprehend. “Is it still something you need?”
All Grantaire does is laugh, and deflate up a little, tucking his face into his elbows and burying his fingers into his scalp. “Sure,” he finally hiccups. Enjolras doesn’t see what’s funny. “Oh, fuck, why not. Unless—Combeferre or Courfeyrac will care.”
“Why would they?” Well, Courfeyrac might tease him. Fumbling with the buttons of his dress shirt, pulling at his collar, Enjolras says, “here.” Then he puts out a hand, just to help Grantaire up, except—Grantaire snags it. Rakes up the sleeve. Suddenly he’s intimately aware of every tiny bone, every writing callous.
“There’s glands besides the ones in your neck.”
“I know that,” Enjolras protests, feeling a flush build, “I just thought—“
“This is fine,” says Grantaire, and leans forward just the slightest bit while tugging. Presses gentle lips to Enjolras’ wrist, open-mouthed, and sucks.
He prays his knees don’t tremble, and barely manages to school a gasp into a breathless: “what are you doing?”
Grantaire pulls off, thumb stroking at his palm. “…even a big strong alpha such as yourself doesn’t have wrists reeking of pheromones all the time. Like any gland, it helps to warm it up.” Enjolras blinks at him. “Haven’t you done this before?”
Enjolras has had plenty of casual partners go for his neck. Of any dynamic. “I have.” It’s always felt mildly invasive. Even if that was what everyone saw as the epitome of sexual buildup, better than kissing. Enjolras had never understood. There was rubbing and biting and—okay, yes, probably sucking too, but it never felt like—
Standing is suddenly too much work. As he crouches Grantaire glances at him, but doesn’t stop the wet pressure, and Enjolras’ fist clenches. Silently, still looking at him, Grantaire coaxes it to loosen with gentle fingers, pulling off to say, “doesn’t help to tense up. Everyone’s wired differently, if the wrist feels weird I can—”
“Don’t stop.” It’s flat, but Enjolras knows it sounds—inappropriately desperate. “Just get it over with.”
“Jesus,” Grantaire mutters, hunching, “sorry,” and continues to do—whatever he’s doing, it’s driving Enjolras insane, neither of them signed up for this. At least he stops looking at Enjolras, as he does it. At some sweep of the tongue Enjolras’ fist forms again, and this time when Grantaire moves to open it back up their fingers lace. Warmth suffuses from his fingertips to his heart, Enjolras doesn’t, how could it—
Grantaire hums. When he sits up straight even Enjolras can smell the waft of it.
He’s never paid much attention to his own scent. It’s supposed to be stereotypically alpha, or so his mother had always delightedly informed, charcoal and cherry wood smoke, overlaid with spearmint. Powerful and cleansing.
“Oh,” says Grantaire, low.
“Is it,” Enjolras says, feeling too dazed and out of his element to even finish the question.
“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Um, just pretend you’re knighting me or something.” With their still intertwined fingers, he pulls his wrist to land gently at both sides of his neck, before twin spots on the stubbled skin of his jaw, just beside his ears.
Then he lets go. His eyes are closed. Enjolras is, he realizes, crouched on the ground, hand still extended. He pulls it back as slowly as he can manage. Watches Grantaire’s breaths go slow but shallow.
“Better?”
There’s something languorous and settled when Grantaire sighs, “mm hmm.”
“Good,” says Enjolras, and suddenly again, without much thought, “you’re good, Grantaire.”
“Ah, ah,” Grantaire tuts. Back to playful, but unable to summon up any teasing bite. “I’ll take what’s effectively alpha pillowtalk to heart.”
Snatching his hand back fully, Enjolras says, “it’s not pillow talk.”
“I know,” Grantaire says, waving one hand carelessly. “Anyway. Thanks. Nice to have it once. Let me know if you want posters or something in exchange, I’m an artist—“
“Grantaire,” he’s awake now. “This was my fault. I was in a position of privilege and I did nothing with it. That’s on me. Anything I can do to alleviate a burden you’ve carried on my behalf is something I’m happy to do.” Even if Grantaire hates him.
Biting his lip, Grantaire says, “then. You’d do this again.”
“Yes.” Of course he would. There was no hardship or even risk, except of Enjolras getting further attached. “If it helps, you can even bond me in return.” In the limited literature he’s read on the topic, mutual bonds induced less stress. Allowed for better comprehension, closer ties—
There is a loud sound. Later, Enjolras registers it as Grantaire slamming back against the wall.
“No!” he chokes out. “No fucking way.”
There is nothing small or fragile about Grantaire. Even now, it’s clear he’s kept up with his exercise, and there’s a comfortable bulk to him these days that some gymnastics coach had likely sheared away back in high school. If he wanted out of this alley, there’s little Enjolras could do to stop him.
Still. There’s something tender, in the way he’s holding his head, his shoulders. He’s bracing himself against something.
Enjolras wants to be fair and kind, not ignorant or patronizing. Generous, not greedy.
“All right,” Enjolras concedes. “Just tell me what you need.”
Grantaire bites at his thumbnail—he still bites his nails, Enjolras notes, absently—and says, quiet, “next week?”
Enjolras stands. Offers the hand that’s not still tingling, fevered warm with Grantaire’s touch. “After the meeting? Of course. Maybe not in an alley, next time.”
“You brought me out here to interrogate me,” Grantaire reminds him dryly. “But yeah, it’s a little sordid.” He takes Enjolras’ hand, and lets himself be pulled to his feet. “Um. You might wanna.”
Instead of explaining, he rolls Enjolras’ sleeve down. It’s not domestic. It’s just polite, so Enjolras doesn’t walk out of an alley as obviously… as obviously but misleadingly debauched as one can get. It’s just reasonable. All the same, Enjolras blurts:
“They really didn’t send you?”
Grantaire looks to the night sky for a long moment. “No one sent me.”
“Then why,” says Enjolras.
“Dunno,” Grantaire sighs. “Some obnoxious kid once told me to get involved in my community. Guess it stuck.” He shrugs, tugs on his beanie. “Well, thanks. See you next week.” He pauses. Then, meaningfully: “After the meeting.”
“Yes,” Enjolras confirms. “Of course after the meeting.”
When Grantaire walks off into the night, he doesn’t look back.
Next week, he’d said, and this wasn’t his first meeting, or even his third. Enjolras has invited him to join again. Because he wants Grantaire there.
Oh, he realizes. Enjolras’ hand still glows warm, where he’d held it. I really do.
This doesn’t bode well, but against all reason, Enjolras is smiling.