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Enjolras is left on read.
It’s not the first time it’s happened to him—hell, he’s sent enough campaign messages in his lifetime—but it’s never happened before with Grantaire.
A week ago, the thought of Grantaire leaving him on read was unfathomable. All he had to do was text, and Grantaire would show up at his doorstep. The content didn’t even matter, sometimes all he sent was a question mark. He never had to try to get his attention; it seemed Grantaire’s attention was always on him anyway.
He never realized he had come to expect this from Grantaire, but evidently he had. It displeased him, now—both his expectations of Grantaire’s devotion to him and Grantaire falling short of said expectations.
If he voiced these thoughts to Combeferre he would be told, gently but sternly, in no uncertain terms, that this is no way to treat people. He knows this, of course, but something about his irritated, horny mind can’t seem to grasp it at the moment.
He used to hate this about himself, hate that his body had any needs whatsoever—eating, sleeping, anything that forced him to waste precious time he could be spending on making himself useful. And sex was the worst of it all, because it wasn’t even necessary; it was just something his mind decided it needed from time to time and made him needlessly distractible and agitated until he got it taken care of.
But he isn’t 19 anymore, and he’d realized somewhere in his mid twenties that not only was that way of life unsustainable, it was, quite frankly, silly. Preventing himself from addressing his mortal needs didn’t actually make him a better activist—on the contrary, as he was begrudgingly forced to accept. So he let himself eat, and sleep, and fuck. And sure, there was always more work to do, but that was always going to be the case anyway.
Right now, though, he is starting to remember what it was like to wish he didn’t have needs in the first place. It’s been far too long—at least compared to what his routine had looked like lately—and he is getting too frustrated to think. And Grantaire is leaving him on read.
It started last Tuesday, Enjolras thinks. At least, that’s when he noticed. Or, more explicitly, that was the first time Grantaire had told him “no.”
It wasn’t a resounding “no”; it wasn’t even explicitly a rejection. But they were walking home from a rally, and Enjolras was feeling the adrenaline in every fiber of his body, and he needed an outlet, needed somewhere to channel the electricity that was coursing through his veins—he needed Grantaire.
So he walked up to him and grabbed him by the arm, leaning in far too close to be casual and whispering in his ear. And Grantaire had shuddered, Enjolras could feel it; but then he said “not tonight.” And Enjolras had nodded and walked away, and he couldn’t figure out until later that evening why that had felt unusual.
The first time they’d fucked was years ago; after the Barrière du Maine ordeal, if Enjolras remembers correctly. He’d been keyed up back then, too, and frustrated, and angry, and he’d taken it all out on Grantaire, who’d only partially deserved it. He hadn’t been prepared, though, for the way Grantaire accepted it. And, well, one thing had led to another.
It went on like that for a while: Enjolras would call, and Grantaire would show up. It was a very effective way of taking care of those particular needs, he had found. The fact that it came with a way to vent out his frustrations with Grantaire was an added bonus.
Then, one night, he’d woken up to pee and found Grantaire snorting—something—off of his bathroom counter. Which then led to the horrifying realization that Grantaire’s substance issues were far more severe than he had thought, and the even more horrifying realization that Grantaire had most likely never had sex with him sober.
And that was that.
There was not much else he could have done at the time; Grantaire wouldn’t have heard it from anyone, least of all him. Things progressed the only way they could have.
Enjolras doesn’t like to think about that part.
It was on New Year’s, about four months ago, that they’d started sleeping together again. Enjolras isn’t sure what it was about that night—perhaps it was the snow outside and the fairy lights in Jehan’s apartment; perhaps it was Courfeyrac’s insistence that they all watch When Harry Met Sally; perhaps it was Grantaire, seeming more content than Enjolras had ever seen him and giving him that lopsided smile of his whenever Enjolras caught him looking. Whatever it was, he ended that night watching the fireworks from his bedroom with Grantaire in his arms.
And so, they’d settled back into their old routine. Enjolras would call, Grantaire would come. They would fuck, sometimes they would talk. Grantaire would leave.
And it was good. So good, in fact, that Enjolras has, evidently, become reliant on it.
He goes to Grantaire’s apartment. It’s undoubtedly the most effort he has ever put into getting laid; it’s not even close. Still, he tells himself it’s easier than going out.
When Grantaire opens the door, he looks—well, he looks the same as he has been looking these past months. That is to say, his eyes are clear, his face isn’t flushed and sweaty, and his clothes seem mostly clean. He looks tired, but he always does. Not for the first time, Enjolras is overcome by something a little too close to pride at the sight of him.
Grantaire doesn’t seem overly happy to see him, though, and that’s—that’s a first.
“Did you seriously walk here for a booty call?” He asks, somewhere between amusement and genuine disbelief.
“No,” Enjolras replies, getting inside and removing his shoes, “I took the métro.”
Grantaire chuckles, but it’s somewhat strained. “That’s presumptuous. What if I had been busy?”
“When have you ever been busy?” Enjolras says thoughtlessly as he takes off his jacket and puts it on the coat rack by the entrance.
Grantaire sighs. Enjolras considers that that might have been a rude thing to say, so he flashes Grantaire the kind of smile he knows he can’t resist.
“Anyway, I wouldn’t have had to come here if you had bothered answering my texts.” He takes his shirt off while he’s at it. He might be rushing a little, but he’s keyed up and impatient, and he needs Grantaire, now.
“Some people would have taken the hint,” Grantaire mumbles, almost to himself.
Enjolras pauses. “Do you want me to go?” He asks, his shirt in his hand.
Grantaire gives him a once-over. “Jesus Christ,” he sighs, and it sounds like it’s punched out of him. “Come here.”
Enjolras doesn’t remember falling asleep, but it makes sense that he did, seeing as this is the first time he’s felt relaxed in almost a week. More surprising is the fact that Grantaire is sleeping beside him, rather than sketching him from the chair near the bed or staring at him adoringly.
He knows it’s rare for him to manage to sleep like that, so he stays as silent as possible as he gets dressed and slips out.
When he gets home he finally, finally gets some work done.
Grantaire misses the following meeting, which hasn’t happened since his last relapse. Enjolras asks Joly and Bossuet about it, but they tell him there’s nothing to worry about. And, well, if Joly isn’t worried.
Still, he texts Grantaire to make sure.
He’s left on read.
It goes on like that for a while. Grantaire doesn’t come to meetings, and when he does come he spends as little time as possible interacting with Enjolras. He still goes on his usual rants, but he disappears whenever Enjolras tries to approach him afterwards.
Enjolras’s texts go unanswered, as do his calls, when he gives up and starts calling. He doesn’t ambush Grantaire in his apartment again, because he is in fact capable of taking a hint; but he would be lying if he said the thought wasn’t tempting.
The need doesn’t go away. Enjolras goes to bed with images of his hands on Grantaire, of Grantaire below him, on top of him, pressed up against him. He dreams of Grantaire panting in his ear, gasping his name, mumbling endless allusions that Enjolras never bothered trying to understand. He wakes up pent-up and bothered and goes through the day, then goes to bed and repeats the same cycle.
The look on Grantaire’s face was almost too much sometimes, when they fucked. He looked at Enjolras with so much devotion and adoration that Enjolras felt he had no choice but to turn away, to flip them so Grantaire was on his knees. If Grantaire saw through him, he never mentioned it.
He dreams about that look often, now.
His restlessness only gets worse.
“Grantaire and I have been sleeping together again.”
Combeferre breathes in a way that would seem calm and casual to anyone else, but Enjolras knows he’s gathering his patience.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
He opens his mouth to reply, but Enjolras cuts him off. “That’s not the issue anyway.”
“What’s the issue, then?”
“He’s been blowing me off.”
Combeferre seems surprised, which validates Enjolras’s feelings at least.
“I don’t know what to do.” Enjolras sighs.
“Did he give any reasoning?” Combeferre asks.
“Nothing. He just… disappeared. Stopped replying to texts, stopped talking to me outside of meetings. It’s been driving me crazy.”
Combeferre hums. “Do you want me to talk to Éponine? Make sure he’s okay?”
“Oh. Uh. Sure. Joly already told me a while back that he’s doing fine, but it would be good to make sure.” He swallows, hoping his face doesn’t betray how embarrassed he is that that’s not what he came here to talk about.
It’s a false hope, though, with Combeferre.
“But that’s not what’s bothering you,” he says simply.
Enjolras winces. “No.”
Combeferre nods and waits for him to continue.
“Well. It’s embarrassing to admit, now, but I’m,” he coughs, “I’m so sexually frustrated it’s driving me insane.”
“Oh,” Combeferre says, his brow furrowing slightly. “Does it have to be Grantaire?”
“What?”
“Can you not… sleep with other people?”
“Oh. That’s a good point.”
Combeferre pats his knee comfortingly. “Try going out. Courfeyrac would be thrilled.”
Enjolras nods, albeit begrudgingly. “Okay.”
He lets Courfeyrac take him to bars. It usually doesn’t take long until people start approaching him; it takes a little longer for him to find someone acceptable.
He goes home with men. He doesn’t get their names, or he gets them and forgets. He fucks them. He leaves. He goes to bed and dreams about Grantaire.
Enjolras flops down face-first on Combeferre’s sofa. Courfeyrac sits on the carpet next to him and pets his head, far too amused for Enjolras’s liking.
“Good morning to you too,” Combeferre says from the kitchen.
Enjolras groans.
Combeferre joins them in the living room, his obscenely large mug of coffee in his hand. “What’s with him?” He asks Courfeyrac.
“He’s had a rough night,” Courfeyrac replies.
“I’ve had a rough month.” Enjolras says to the pillow.
Courfeyrac snorts. Combeferre sits down and waits for him to continue.
“This whole… Grantaire situation won’t resolve itself.” Enjolras starts, settling into a slightly more upright position. “I’ve been letting Courfeyrac throw men in my direction for weeks. I even went on fucking Grindr. It’s all useless.”
“Have you not found anyone you liked enough to sleep with?” Combeferre asks.
“Oh no, I’ve slept with plenty of them.”
Courfeyrac nods approvingly.
“Have they not been good?” Combeferre continues.
Enjolras sighs. “They’ve all been pretty okay, actually. Some were even great.”
“What’s wrong with them, then?”
Courfeyrac smiles. “They’re not Rachem.”
“What?”
“Sorry. Friends reference.” Courfeyrac says but doesn’t elaborate.
“Care to translate?” Enjolras asks irritatedly.
Courfeyrac shares a look with Combeferre, then looks Enjolras dead in the eye. “Enjolras, I think you have feelings for Grantaire.”
Enjolras stares.
He wants to ask Courfeyrac to repeat himself, but he knows he heard him right the first time. It’s just that the words that came out of his mouth… Well, they don’t make sense.
Enjolras doesn’t have feelings for Grantaire. He can’t, because he doesn’t even like him. Grantaire is annoying, and obnoxious, and he dismisses everything Enjolras believes in. He’s cynical, he’s purposely pessimistic, he’s incapable of taking anything seriously. He is self-deprecating, he refuses to believe in his own worth, he can’t be sincere to save his life.
But he is also kind, and intelligent, and thoughtful when he wants to be. And for all he claims to lack conviction, he has proven himself to have more willpower than any of them thought possible. Enjolras had always believed change was achievable; Grantaire, ironically, was living proof of that. The thought fills him with a strange sense of pride, as it always does.
Thinking about it, now, Grantaire has become somewhat of a constant in Enjolras’s life lately, in a different way than he had been in the past. The thought of him is comforting in a way Enjolras hadn’t thought to consider or acknowledge. Something about it sends a rush through his body, like the feeling of missing a step or waking up from a dream where you were falling.
Courfeyrac’s words don’t make sense, but they also make perfect sense.
“Jesus Christ.” Enjolras says and buries his face back into the pillow.
Enjolras is not exactly sure how he feels when he sees Grantaire at the following meeting. His hands feel sweaty and heart seems to want to leap out of his chest. He was never one to avoid confrontation, though, so when Grantaire goes out for a smoke, he follows him.
“I thought you only smoked after sex or arrests,” Grantaire says when he spots him.
“Elections too,” Enjolras says as he sits down to join him. “I’m not here to smoke.”
“Oh?” Grantaire raises his eyebrow at him. He takes a drag from his cigarette. “That eager, huh?” he says sarcastically.
“Honestly? Nearly,” Enjolras replies.
Grantaire seems surprised for a moment, then he laughs and shakes his head, and mumbles something unintelligible.
“Can we talk?”
“What do we have to talk about?”
Enjolras takes a deep breath. It’s not that he expected Grantaire to make this conversation easy; but his determination to avoid this makes something uncomfortable stir in his chest.
“Did I do something?”
Grantaire takes another long drag. “You’re fine, Enjolras,” he says as he exhales. “You didn’t do anything.”
Enjolras clenches and unclenches his jaw. “It’s a little hard to believe when you’ve been blowing me off for weeks and aren’t even looking at me now.”
Grantaire looks at him.
He looks exhausted; more so than Enjolras has seen him in a long time. Enjolras wants to reach out and touch him, but he doesn’t know if his touch would be welcomed. He settles for looking back.
Grantaire sighs. “Walk with me,” he says, putting out his cigarette in the ashtray and getting up. Enjolras follows.
“I've been doing some work on myself,” Grantaire says as they cross the street and start walking along the Seine. “You know I have an addictive personality. And some self-destructive tendencies. And an amount of vices I’ve honestly lost count of.”
Enjolras nods.
Grantaire sighs again. “I realized that sleeping with you feels too much like indulging in an addiction.”
Enjolras stops in his tracks.
“It’s not… I’m not saying you’re bad for me,” Grantaire continues, “or, it’s not your fault that you’re bad for me. It’s just how my brain is wired.” He gives Enjolras a self-deprecating smile.
“Okay.” Enjolras says, because he feels like he has to say something.
“I’m sorry,” Grantaire says. “I should have been more forward instead of avoiding you. It’s just that…” he looks at Enjolras. “It’s very, very hard for me to say no to you.”
Enjolras’s heart flutters at that. He hates himself a little.
He walks up to the river, leaning against the stone railing. “Can I ask why?”
“Do you need an ego boost?” Grantaire asks as he joins him.
“No, not that,” Enjolras says, mostly to the water. “Can I ask why I’m bad for you?” His voice comes out weaker than he remembers ever sounding.
“You can, but I really wish you wouldn’t.”
Enjolras turns to face him. He finds Grantaire looking back.
A moment passes, both of them silently pleading to each other. In the end Grantaire deflates.
“It’s masochistic, Enjolras. It borders on self-harm. I can’t continue sleeping with you, having you close but not close enough, knowing you will never feel about me the way I feel about you. Pretending it doesn’t hurt.” His voice cracks and he pauses to take a breath. “I can’t keep doing this to myself.”
“The way you feel about me?” Enjolras asks. He can barely hear himself over the sound of his pulse in his ears.
Grantaire sighs. “Don’t make me say it,” he says, turning his head towards the night sky.
“R,” Enjolras whispers. Grantaire’s gaze snaps back to him. “Please.”
Grantaire sighs again and smiles bitterly.
“I love you. I always have.”
Enjolras means to say something, he really does. But his hand reaches out as if on its own, and he takes Grantaire’s hand in his; then he pulls Grantaire close and kisses him like he means it.
It’s gentle, and warm, and far more emotional than the kisses they have shared in the past. It feels like he’s baring his soul to Grantaire. He supposes it’s only fair, since it seems now that Grantaire has been baring his soul to him for years.
He kisses every part of him that he can reach—his mouth, his cheeks, his neck, his forehead, his eyelids; when he notices he’s still holding Grantaire’s hand he brings it to his mouth and kisses it, too.
“I don’t understand,” Grantaire says shakily when they part for air.
Enjolras laughs. “The past few weeks have shown me that I really, really don’t like being apart from you.” He tucks some of Grantaire’s hair behind his ear. “And, well, it was a lot more than the sex that I was missing.”
Grantaire looks up at him in disbelief. “What changed?”
“We both did, I think,” Enjolras says honestly.
Grantaire takes a deep breath, but he’s smiling. “I should let you know this is very difficult for me to wrap my head around.”
Enjolras smiles back. “Take your time.”
Grantaire kisses him again.
When they part again Grantaire laughs, and Enjolras thinks it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard, and he has no idea what’s gotten into him but he thinks he likes it.
“Take me home,” Grantaire says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, because it is.
Enjolras takes him home.