Chapter Text
The twisting kaleidoscope moves us all in turn – Can you feel the love tonight? (The Lion King)
15.11.22
57 weeks, 4 days
Grantaire. Courfeyrac and Jehan. Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta. Marius and Cosette. Bahorel and Noelle. Feuilly and Claire. Combeferre.
Enjolras let his gaze wander over his friends with a fond smile on his face. It felt good to all finally be together once more after the long months of the pandemic having rendered them prisoners in their own homes. He had hated the social distancing. While he had never been the most out-going one in their group, he was definitely the one who relied on his friends and the social contact the most. He shook himself out of his thoughts and tried to focus on the after-meeting-socializing.
Yet, truth be told, even though he had missed these meetings he was exhausted to the bone and he feverishly hoped the headache pulsing at his temple wouldn’t turn into a migraine. Again. His work, albeit he loved helping people, was exhausting. He relished every opportunity to relax that he got, especially if it was on his boyfriend’s lap. Grantaire was warm against his back and his hands were idly playing with one of his long blond locks that had fallen out of the messy bun he had put them in that morning.
He was finally completely torn out of his thoughts by Courfeyrac’s loud laugh. His best friend was leaning against Jehan, body shaking with amusement. “What are you laughing about?”, Enjolras asked, having tuned out of the conversation without meaning to.
“Well…”, Courfeyrac started to explain, but if Enjolras was honest Courfeyrac lost him immediately. Enjolras wasn’t sure if it was because his friend was going off o a tangent or if it was just him. A sharp pain in his head throbbed and he cursed internally at the brightness flashing before his eyes, clouding his vision. He didn’t have time for a migraine, he tried to tell his body. He had way too many clients to be out of commission. There was Madame Jacques who had been waiting for her court date for two years now to finalize her divorce from her abusive husband. And little Aimée who was in the middle of a custody battle of her parents. Madame Genet who needed his support to finally legalize her gender change. Monsieur Grimard who had committed a minor crime and was being exploited by the rich prosecutor. He didn’t even want to think about all the refugees who needed help considering that French was a terrible language to learn.
“You alright?”, Grantaire whispered into his ear, rubbing his shoulder. Enjolras just gave a nod.
“Headache”, he whispered back.
“Oh, baby”, Grantaire mumbled softly, “do you wanna go home?”
He shook his head. Moving required effort and he wasn’t so badly off. He wanted to stay with his friends.
Next to them, Bossuet grimaced and then showed his phone to Bahorel.
“Full offense, Boss”, Bahorel said as he read through the text, “but your tax accountant should be persecuted. He is even worse at maths than Jojo, and I think that is cause for concern. Especially for your money.”
Enjolras should probably feel attacked but honestly, Bahorel had a point. While he was the leader of Les Amis he had always looked to Combeferre (or any of his friends who were more gifted in the mathematical regions than himself) when money or numbers were concerned. How he had not failed his one social law exam was still a mystery to most people but Combeferre had spent hours studying the different tax tables with Enjolras. Honestly, the man was a saint.
As Enjolras turned to look at him, he saw that the seat his friend had occupied earlier was empty and his jacket was gone.
He wasn’t surprised – he knew how much work Combeferre was still doing. The med student enjoyed his job even if he was on his feet for hours on end, ultimately collapsing with the same virus he tried to help others recover from. Enjolras admired him greatly – he had done exactly one day of an internship for case management at a hospital before he had decided it was not for him – seeing people die without a chance to save them. How his best friend could deal with people sick and dying on a daily basis would never fail to impress Enjolras. He supposed Combeferre was a much stronger man than he was, able to handle the loss on his own.
Even so, Enjolras remembered the first time that Combeferre had lost a patient years ago when they all had been living together – the triumvirate as their friends had jokingly called them. He kind of missed the nickname. He and Courfeyrac had sat in the tiny kitchen of their shared apartment trying to figure out Courfeyrac’s feelings towards Jehan with a few good-natured side jabs at Enjolras and Grantaire when Combeferre had burst into the apartment. Enjolras still remembered the shock he had felt clear as day— he had watched Combeferre collapse and fall to his knees when he had seen his friends at the table, sobbing so heavily that he had been coughing, gagging, and struggling to breathe.
It had taken close to fifteen minutes to figure out what had gotten the older man so upset but deep down they both had suspected it, knowing that Combeferre was interning at the ER that month. Enjolras had half-carried the crying Combeferre to the sofa and just held him close, using his own smaller and lighter body as a pressure blanket to help Combeferre calm down with moderate success, while Courfeyrac had made dinner. They knew that Combeferre barely ate during his shifts and would need some comfort food and probably something sweet, too, to get his blood sugar up again.
That evening they had cuddled in Combeferre’s big bed, making a med student sandwich. Combeferre had stopped crying and blaming himself, instead turning silent. Enjolras really had tried to stay awake but he himself had been exhausted by his work – barely having started his first real job two months ago – and he had fallen asleep only to wake up to screaming. It had been the only time he had witnessed one of Combeferre’s nightmares but he was sure that it wasn’t the only one judging by the persistent rings under his eyes. Still, Combeferre was much tougher now, not needing or at least not asking for the comfort anymore.
Enjolras wondered what had changed.
He turned his attention back to Bahorel, who was looking at him with worry in his eyes.
“Are you alright? Normally you would at least huff when somebody teases you about your lack of mathematical talent.”
Enjolras shook himself. “Yeah, just a headache. Hopefully.”
“Maybe we really should go home in case a migraine hits”, Grantaire urged. “I don’t want a repeat of the June Incident, capital I.”
Enjolras shuddered. He might or might not have ignored that a migraine had begun to form at that protest and he also might or might not have thrown up on his boyfriend and then passed out after the speech because migraine, sun and loud noises didn’t mix.
Another throb. He groaned.
“Okay, maybe we should leave”, he conceded. Grantaire nodded and smiled, resembling a satisfied cat who had just gobbled up a bird. Then he leaned down to rummaged in his bag.
“Drink”, he commanded and held out his water bottle and two small pain killers. Enjolras quickly swallowed them and let Grantaire bundle him into his warm, red jacket.
“Take care, get well soon”, Joly said in a low voice, having watched the exchange in silence, much like the others.
“What he said, cariño. If you need something, call me”, Courfeyrac added, kissing his cheek.
Enjolras gave a tight smile, thankful for his friends’ compassion and worry. He had never encountered a friend group as close and connected as his own.
The walk back to their apartment was not even five minutes from the Musain and, still, by the time that they arrived at the front door, Enjolras could barely keep upright. White dots were flashing in his vision, lighting up and exploding like fireworks that were way too close and way too bright, and even the smallest sound was beginning to feel way too loud. Grantaire had given him his sunglasses but they did little to block out the low autumn sun.
“Alright, let’s get you horizontal”, his boyfriend whispered, trying to not let the keys clashed against each other as he put them away. Within a few minutes he had changed Enjolras into his short sleep clothes (okay, boxers and one of Grantaire’s old shirts) because he was well aware that, otherwise, Enjolras would probably overheat due to the pain, and put him to bed. He closed the blackout curtains and used the warm glow of the salt lamp - they had gotten one once Enjolras realized he could tolerate its light even at the worst of times - to find the ear plugs they always kept on hand. Then, he sat down on the edge of the bed, carefully running his fingers through Enjolras’ hair.
“How are you feeling, love?”, he asked, “do you need something else?”
Enjolras tipped his head into his fingers in a motion of ‘no’. While his headache was definitely turning into a migraine he didn’t feel the extreme neurological effects of it yet.
“I’ll get you a bucket, just in case, and then you can sleep. I’ve got the lamp with me if you need anything.”
The lamp Grantaire referred to had been a gift from Courfeyrac a few months back – he had stumbled across these partner lamps that would light up when one was touched and had figured that it might be useful for Enjolras to ask for help when in the throes of a migraine.
Enjolras slipped into sleep easily.
Enjolras woke up some undeterminable time later, body bathed in cold sweat while his skin seemed to be on fire. It was like a hot iron was poking at his brain, and he knew that if he had been able to tolerate any light at all, he would have probably been blind on his right eye – again. The first time it had happened both he and Grantaire had freaked out, the latter calling an ambulance only for them to learn that hours later at the hospital that because Enjolras’ migraines were getting worse, the symptoms had started getting worse, and that exponentially.
He tried to take a deep breath in but even that minor action was too much, head feeling like it was splitting in half. He knew that he desperately needed that injection; hell, he had needed it hours ago—he had to get help. And while he hated little more than having to depend on his boyfriend to care for him, he had, for now, resigned himself to that particular fate. Enjolras carefully tried to roll onto his side so he could hit the lamp to alert Grantaire but the motion sent spikes of pain through his body and before he knew what was happening he was choking on the sick making its way up his throat. If he had been more aware he would have noticed that he wasn’t hitting the bucket at all – rather the blanket and the old towel under the bucket. For now all he could do was use his remaining and quickly waning strength to stay in a semi-side position so he wouldn’t fall back onto his back and consequently inhale his stomach contents.
Nearly immediately, the door opened, causing a slim sliver of light to fall into the room. It didn’t even come from the hallway but from the living room across their apartment, and still, it was enough to make Enjolras feel like he was going to pass out. Grantaire hurried to his side, as silently as possible, and held his hair back, soothing him with a gentle touch to his back. Once Enjolras’ stomach had calmed down, Grantaire whispered: “Let me take care of the blanket and towel, then I’ll get you the anti-emetic and an ice pack.”
“Injection”, Enjolras slurred, hoping to get the point across. He barely understood himself, voice so weak but apparently Grantaire did.
“Already did it, you just can’t remember, love.”
Enjolras fell into a half doze after Grantaire had pulled the blanket from his side of the bed onto Enjolras. They had never been able to agree on a blanket – Grantaire preferring the heavy weighted blanket while Enjolras always felt a bit suffocated under them. At that moment, the blanket was much too hot. It was bearable, though, the heat balanced out by the ice pack that Grantaire had placed on his forehead. It helped with the pain, if only a little.
Grantaire returned, finally, setting down the bucket quietly on a fresh towel and sitting down carefully next to him.
“Do you want to try taking the anti-emetic?”, he whispered.
Enjolras shook his head. His stomach felt too queasy to try swallowing anything, especially food and pills. It was a real problem: He had never been able to swallow pills with water, gag reflex just a bit too active. Grantaire knew better than to push.
“Alright, do you need anything else?”, he mumbled, running his hand through Enjolras’ locks, which were probably disgustingly sweaty.
“Stay with me?”, Enjolras asked, longing to curl up in his partner’s embrace. While he often was too sensitive to sound and touch during a migraine attack, he now felt like he would die without his love by his side. Grantaire wordlessly crawled under the blanket with him, letting Enjolras cuddle to his chest.
“Sleep, baby, I’ve got you.”
The last thing Enjolras felt before he fell asleep again was the featherlight touch of Grantaire’s lips against his forehead.
17.11.22
57 weeks, 4 days
Around midday two days later he was able to get up, moving about slowly in the apartment, sunglasses shielding his eyes despite the amazing dimmable lights they had gotten installed everywhere when they renovated. It had been one of the reasons why he had decided to move into a new place with Grantaire. Enjolras and Combeferre had been living alone in the apartment that had appeared much too big at that time, after Jehan and Courfeyrac had moved out and in together. In the old apartment the lights had been harsh, the main street close and loud and the blackout curtains just not really able to block all light. Coupled with not wanting to subject Combeferre to having to live with a couple freshly in love and the awkwardness he had felt whenever he had thought about his best friend being in the next bedroom when him and Grantaire had sex. Which was not often because it was really, really embarrassing to Enjolras and he never really understood the hype around it.
Grantaire was at the stove, cooking something, and Enjolras stumbled over, wrapping his arms around his boyfriend and nestling his head against his broad shoulders.
“Feeling better?”, Grantaire hummed in a low voice. Enjolras nodded against his back, ignoring how the sunglasses were pressing into his face. He was otherwise comfy.
“Glad to hear, baby. Lunch will be done in about five minutes, you wanna go wait and we can cuddle on the sofa while we eat?”
Enjolras whined, not wanting to let go of him, and tightened his grip.
“Love”, Grantaire said with a small laugh, “I want to cuddle too but I’m also really hungry and we don’t want burned soup.”
“Fine”, Enjolras mumbled and shuffled to the couch, where he dropped down hard. He was still shaky, body feeling out of whack from the pain of the last days.
As promised, Grantaire arrived five minutes later carrying the pot of amazing smelling onion soup. He set it down on the table and sat down, letting Enjolras crawl onto his lap. “Only until the soup is eating temperature”, Grantaire admonished, voice light, and the sentiment was underlined by the kiss he placed on Enjolras’ nose.
“I hope onion soup is okay? I thought it might be easy on your stomach.”
“Yes. Did I mention I love you?”
“Hm, I think so, but I haven’t heard it enough yet.”
Enjolras chuckled and reached up to connect their lips again. How he had gotten so lucky that this kind, amazing, lovely, considerate, humble, beautiful, generous (the list could go on for longer but Enjolras was more focused on the beautiful sparkling eyes than adjectives) man had fallen in love with him he would never know.
“I love you, ‘Taire”, he whispered, resting his head against Grantaire’s shoulder so he could look up at him.
He had been thinking about it for some time now, had made plans and everything, but it felt right like this, cozied up together on their couch in their own shared apartment, all sorrows and pain left outside of their own bubble of warmth and comfort. Enjolras had even bought candles and looked at rings but now he threw all the plans out of the window for their own moment.
“Marry me”, Enjolras whispered.
Grantaire, admittedly, only jumped a little. Then he turned to look down at Enjolras, eyes soft and warm, a happy smile on his lips.
“Yes, I will”, he mumbled.
Enjolras broke out into the biggest smile he was sure he had ever smiled.
“I love you”, he said, again.
“I love you too”, Grantaire repeated and then carefully eased Enjolras from his lap.
“What’s going on?”, Enjolras asked, confused.
“Just you wait.”
A minute later Grantaire reappeared from their bedroom and sank down to his knees next to Enjolras. He presented his palm on which laid two black rings.
“Marry me, Apollo.” Grantaire whispered his own special nickname for Enjolras, the one he had first used to describe the other student when they had met years ago.
Enjolras laughed and fell forward into his arms. “You jerk, I also meant to buy a ring.”
“Well, looks like we’re on the same page”, Grantaire replied and pressed a kiss to Enjolras’s lips, before taking his hand and slipping the ring onto his finger.
Later that evening, they were still lying on the sofa togethe, tired and happy, onion soup long gone cold, when Enjolras ran his finger over Grantaire’s stubble.
“Where did you manage to hide the rings anyways?”, he asked, curiously.
Grantaire shook with laughter and cheekily answered: “Well, where else? In your stack of pullovers naturally. You just wear mine anyways, so I knew you would never look there.”
Enjolras pouted but couldn’t deny the truth so he joined the laughter.
“Who do we tell first?”, Grantaire asked when they had calmed down.
Enjolras bit his lip. He knew he had to be careful at work. Some of his clients’ families, partners, enemies could use the knowledge of his married status to their advantage, discrediting him as a bleeding heart or threatening them. It had happened before with his colleagues. He didn’t want to risk it.
“I won’t be able to wear it at work”, he said instead, “it might be dangerous. But honestly, I kind of like it being our secret. Not that I don’t want to show you off to the world but … I don’t want celebrations or anything. Not really. Just think of all the embarrassing stuff ‘Fey and Combeferre would put into their best men’s speech, or in your case Joly and Bossuet. I mean, at the end of the day, it’s still just us with some legal stuff changed. I don’t want anything to change just because we are married, I just need you, not any declarations to the world.”
Grantaire hummed, thoughtfully. “I like the idea”, he said after a moment, “Obviously, I would also love to show that you are mine but I guess you are right. It’s still just us. Our secret.”
“Our secret”, Enjolras repeated and kissed Grantaire again.
“Our precious”, Grantaire teased. Enjolras hit him with a couch cushion.
21.11.22
56 weeks, 5 days
“You have – once again might I add – not sent in a doctor’s note for your sick days”, Enjolras’ boss said, arms crossed in annoyance, except for the last part where he used his fingers to air quote. He had pulled Enjolras into his office the moment he had stepped into the building.
The older man was – as Cosette had once described him – a useless macaroni with no social competence. Enjolras couldn’t help but agree, failing to understanding how somebody with such levels of contempt, anger issues and lack of human decency had gotten this job. He had always thought that everyone who worked in the social field was inherently kind and empathetic but it had become obvious that there was some truth to the idea of people abusing the power that they got in these kinds of jobs.
“Monsieur Vennart”, Enjolras started, trying to defend himself. He was so so done with that man. Every time he came back to the office after he was sick with a migraine (or anything else for that matter), his boss was onto him like a blood hound. In Vennart’s “experience” migraines were just headaches and not linked to neurological symptoms like intolerance to light and sound, as well as nausea and vomiting. At one point he had even insinuated that men couldn’t even get migraines which had left Enjolras fuming for days but he had ultimately decided that he really needed the job.
Still, he had spent two days in a silent, black room trying not to be sick, and it had taken him two days to recover at which point it had been the weekend but his boss really couldn’t care less. Enjolras had complained to his friends about it and his co-workers knew about the issue as well. Éponine, his life-saver at work, had suggested he throw up on him to get the point across. Enjolras had not fancied that, thank you.
“It is true that I have not sent a sick note – however, as you are well aware, due to my status of being severely disabled due to my migraines, I do not need to get a doctor’s note for them unless I am sick for more than three days. It is stated as such in my contract, if you wish to read it”, Enjolras said, trying to keep his cool. He was still a bit shaky and in no way happy about arguing with his boss again. While he was glad that French laws didn’t limit the sick days of employees he hated the fact that citizens were always required to send in a doctor’s note. It had proven impractical over time so that when they had lived together, Combeferre had written the notes for him as his regular doctor couldn’t always keep up with writing the notes. After they had gone different paths Enjolras’ doctor had written him a general note and advised an amendment for his contract which his old boss, a kind older man named Lamarque, rest his soul, had accepted gracefully. Monsieur Vennart was not as gracious.
Vennart rolled his eyes. “Lamarque never should have accepted that, old fool. Well, hurry to work, you have a lot to catch up to, Monsieur Enjolras. Your clients suffered in your absence.”
Enjolras winced, swallowing the lump forming in his throat. His boss knew how much Enjolras cared about his clients, having teased his employee about his “womanly” feelings. He had had to stop his co-worker Éponine from punching him back then. Not rising to the taunts even though he wanted nothing more than to defend his former boss and mentor, he turned and left the office. Only to nearly collide with Éponine.
“Hey, favourite co-worker”, she grinned, “are you feeling better?”
“Sure.” Enjolras shrugged. Physically yes? Mentally? Not so much. He hated how his boss could bring him to doubt himself and his abilities to be a good social worker. He knew his clients relied on him, as did his coworkers, and his frequent illnesses made it harder for all of them. He knew that he had missed a lot – the last meeting with Madame Genet before her hearing, as well as little five-year old Aimée’s hearing itself.
“Sure”, Éponine echoed mockingly. “You sound like it. Come on, I’ll make you one of your sugary monstrosities you call coffee and you tell me all about it.”
Enjolras let himself be dragged to the small kitchen where he watched as Éponine prepared the cappuccino, taking care to check that the machine was clean and free of the normal milk to avoid a lactose disaster and adding just the right amount of sugar to get him through the day.
“Let me guess, Monsieur Vennart was being an ableist asshole again?”, she asked as she placed the cup in front of him. He shushed her, panicked that their boss would overhear. “Don’t be so loud”, he admonished, “I don’t want you or me to get fired.” Éponine rolled her eyes and sighed. “Neither do I, but the way he treats you is terrible. I am scared for his clients’ wellbeing.”
“Understandably so”, Enjolras mumbled and blew into the coffee, willing it to turn to a drinkable temperature faster. “But there isn’t anything we can do, Ép.”
“I didn’t think that you were the type to give up so easily”, Éponine said, raising her eyebrow. “I know how to pick my battles and he isn’t a priority. And I failed corporate law, so I would need a lawyer myself”, Enjolras shrugged and sipped his coffee only to recoil. “Shit, it’s hot.”
“Genius”, Éponine said fondly, “I made it like a minute ago, no amount of blowing will help. Speaking of blowing, how is your mysterious Grantaire?”
Enjolras coughed as he accidentally inhaled the coffee as she made the blatant sexual remark. It was too early for this. “We’re good”, he wheezed as he regained his breath, “Jeez, Ép, don’t say stuff like that.” Also, as they had agreed, there was nothing to tell.
She rolled her eyes again and Enjolras suppressed a snort. It wasn’t his fault that he wasn’t really comfortable talking about … things that probably happened between a lot of adults, while she had a degree in sexual education. Deciding that they needed to talk about anything else he asked: “So, what did I miss?”
Éponine shrugged. “Well, I got your cases, as usual, so let me recap: Everything is awesome, because I am badass.” Enjolras snorted and rolled his eyes. “Be serious.”
“I am wild”, she laughed. “No, honestly, I managed to get Madame … whatever her name was … calmed down before her gender assignment hearing, and the hearing of little Aimée went well. Her dad now has full custody, which I think she is really happy about.”
Enjolras sighed in relief. “That sounds good. Did you do the paperwork already?”
“I signed everything I needed to sign, but I didn’t have enough time to write the reports yet.”
“That’s fine. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. They’ve reshuffled the files again – you now have surnames D – J.”
“Jeez, F - J was so much already”, Enjolras mumbled, dreading the foreseeable future.
“Well, at least you don’t have L – P”, Éponine grumbled, “Anyways, there are some new files in for you.”
“Mazel tov.”
Enjolras stared in disbelief at the sheer amount of new files on his desk. He was in for one long day. While the migraine was gone and he had stayed home two more days at Grantaire’s suggestion (read: coercion and the famous “why don’t you take Friday off too, so you will be 100% on Monday”) to beat the shakiness, he still was not at one hundred percent. But then again, he couldn’t really remember the last time he had been.
He picked up a random file and leafed through it. Two siblings, a ten year old boy and a fifteen year old girl, suspected verbal and physical abuse by their parents, who had been in the eyes of the police for years after their oldest daughter had run away from home. Enjolras shuddered, he hated the abuse cases more than anything. Obviously. But he still found it a lot harder than some of his colleagues – some seemed so detached from the situations they found themselves in. He could never understand how Éponine, for example, seemed so unfazed by it while he practically always cried in his car or at the least at home in Grantaire’s arms. It had gotten less frequent— but now he was scared that he might just be getting numb.
He took a deep breath and got to work.