and grantaire steeling himself for it

anonymous asked:

Heyy, I just woke up with this ridiculous prompt idea (I just thought it would be fun to share). Oblivious boys E/R are always great anyway. Soo imagine one of the boys having really vivid dream one night (sth like love confessions happen there or real feels talk etc.) and later on he forgets that it was only a dream and when he is conscious he acts like he was continuing the dream scenario. While the other is totally shocked (in a positive way though). The look on their faces! / Cheers!

It wasn’t Enjolras’ fault that his reality was sometimes a little bit warped, it was his exams. 

Staying up for 50 hours straight and finally falling asleep head first into a textbook and dreaming about having an intense political debate with one or several of Les Amis was unfortunately a regular occurrence during exam period.

One day he shuffled into the Musain pulled Courfeyrac aside and said between sips of coffee “And another thing, the current economical climate is influenced by a number of factors, not just the rising price of Midori cocktails and glitter.”

“Enjolras what the hell are you talking about?”

“We… We were talking about it yesterday? With the duck that was playing chess behind us?”

“Oh. Oh honey, no. No we weren’t. Go home and get some actual sleep.”

Enjolras should have taken his advice, instead of brushing his concern aside and studying on. If he had only just listened to Courfeyrac (And Combeferre, and Joly, and Cosette, and hell- everybody who had witnessed his lethargic state) he could have completely avoided what was doomed to happen next.

“Maybe it’s the lack of sleep.” Enjolras found himself saying to Grantaire, who was absentmindedly tossing loose coins into a faraway tip jar at the Corinth.  “But I feel as though this is the right time to tell you I’m sick of keeping secrets from you and I think I love you more than France.”

Enjolras barely saw Grantaire’s response. He was too busy running away. The next thing he knew he was headfirst in his textbook in his bedroom, his cheek plastered to a page. He couldn’t remember how he got there but he felt like a complete and utter fool.

For once he decided it was finally time to get a good nights sleep, he would need it if he was going to confront Grantaire and apologise tomorrow. After an hour of tossing and turning and running through an alphabetised and itemised list of regrets, his fatigue finally won out against his mental anguish and he fell into a dreamless sleep. 


The Musain was full to bursting when he arrived. It had always been a hot spot for stressed out students needing a quiet place to study or nap (and take liberal advantage of their free wifi), exam season was no exception. Enjolras eyes searched the room before they landed on Grantaire in a corner, staring with his brow furrowed and looking frustratedly at his phone. 

Enjolras felt his heart skip like stones on a calm water. He swallowed and steeled himself, making his way over and sitting directly across from him. Grantaire almost dropped his phone in his coffee in surprise.

“Oh, Enjolras. Hi.” Grantaire said uncertainly. 

“What are you doing?” Enjolras asked, trying desperately to read Grantaire’s expression.

“Nothing important. Just trying to figure out how to reply to something.”

Enjolras nodded glumly. He braced himself to anticipate rejection. “Look, about what I said yesterday-”

“Hey, don’t worry about it. A coma-ridden monkey could see you were so sleep deprived you had no idea what you were saying. I know you didn’t mean it.”

Enjolras felt a surge of defiance rush through him. It was one thing for Grantaire to not reciprocate his feelings but how dare he try to tell him that he didn’t mean it. 

“For your information,” Enjolras replied desperately trying to keep his voice from shaking. “I meant every word of it, and if you don’t feel the same way that’s fine but don’t you dare think for a second you can get to decide to tell me how to feel!”

“Okay, okay!” Grantaire said putting his hands up defensively. “I get it. I won’t try to question your passion for non dairy based milk again. Lesson learned.”

“Wait. What are you talking about?”

“The whole ‘almond milk is superior to dairy and I will throw that lactose ridden mocha in your face if you offer me a sip one more time, Grantaire.’ thing. Isn’t that… Wait, what are you talking about?”

Enjolras blinked at him. Either he was playing dumb or he genuinely didn’t remember. Enjolras didn’t know which option stung him more.

“I’m talking about the conversation we had at the Corinth. When I told you I loved you more than France.”

Grantaire’s eyes widened suddenly in disbelief. His phone fell out of his palm and onto the table before them making a dull clunk as it hit the wood.

What?!

“I told you I loved you and-”

“No you did not!” 

“Of course I did!”

“Enjolras, I can tell you right now that if you told me you loved me not only would I have not forgotten about it, but I would have strolled over to the closest store, bought a diary, and filled the whole damn book with a written scream.”

Enjolras frowned, his brain was whirring, he was confused, and also very tired.

“But- we were at the Corinth and Combeferre was bartending with a spinning bow tie and- oh my God. Oh no. I dreamt the whole thing!” Enjolras put his face in his hands and groaned. He never wanted to be seen in public ever again. His humiliation was only made worse by the fact that Grantaire was laughing at him. He heard his chair scrape backwards.

So this was how he was going to leave things? Laughing at Enjolras’ patheticness and leaving to tell everybody about how much of an idiot he was.

Enjolras startled when he felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up to find Grantaire smiling unbearably down at him.

“C’mon. I’m taking you home.”

Enjolras miserably rose to his feet. 

“Y’know…” Grantaire continued as he tentatively moved his hand across to Enjolras and entwined the pair of them as they walked. “I’ve fantasised about our first date for an embarrassingly long amount of time. But in the millions of scenarios I’ve imagined, I’d never thought our actual first date would be me taking you home so that we could both lie down and take a nap together.”

Enjolras’ heart rose in his chest, his brain was screaming in a mix of triumph and blissful happiness. 

“Just don’t tell anybody you got to sleep with me on the first date.”

Grantaire knows the best places in Paris, right? Grantaire knows where to eat the best food, he knows which roof to sit on to have the best view of the city, he knows the best place for stargazing, the best café, the best museum, the best nightclub, the best bar…

So Grantaire knows how to plan the perfect date.

And he gives lots of advice. Combeferre wants to ask Courfeyrac out for dinner? Grantaire knows the perfect classy yet affordable place to go to. Marius wants to go on a romantic stroll with Cosette? Grantaire will tell him where the cherry blossoms are falling to make it extra™

But for all the tips he gives, Grantaire keeps his ideal date plan to himself, for the day he’ll steel himself and ask Enjolras out. No one can know. He’s been planning it for years now. Maybe it’ll never happen, but if it does, he keeps it a secret for Enjolras to be the only one to see all of Paris’ wonders in one go

moriart-ish-deactivated20170305  asked:

Hey! Woah, its been a while since I wrote to you! I was wondering if you would like to write a little fic where E is smol, and Grantaire is 6.4, so Eny just cant believe he has a such big and great boyfriend? And also: happy vacations! ❤

“Jehan, are you sure this is a good idea?” Enjolras asked, tone disapproving.

He hadn’t realized he’d stopped and started inching backwards away from the looming, black doorway until he bumped against Grantaire’s chest who then had the nerve to grab his shoulders and shout “Boo!” as loudly as he could in his ear.  Scowling, Enjolras shoved at him, pushing him back in so much as you could push back someone who was damn near a foot taller than yourself.  

Grantaire just prodded him towards the door and laughed, “Scared?  I thought you lived and breathed this city, Enj.  Shouldn’t you want to explore every miserable, grimy inch of it?”

Okay, so maybe his tone had been less “disapproving” and more bordering the realm of “terrified” but he’d be damned if he’d admit it.

“No,” he snapped.  “It’s just… probably not safe.  Isn’t it condemned? And it’s illegal, this is trespassing, right?”

“Right, ‘cause we’ve never done anything illegal before,” Courfeyrac smirked, strolling past Enjolras to leap up the sagging wooden steps onto the wide, heavily shadowed porch.

“Don’t worry, Enjolras,” Jehan added, peaking their head back out through the doorway, “I’ve been in here a bunch already, it’s stable enough so long as we stay off the third floor.”

Enjolras peered up – and up and up – at the towering, ancient house.  With tall, narrow windows, moss clinging to every inch of the delicate scrollwork, and steepled little towers and chimneys rising up into the black night, the building looked like it had crawled out of the darkest corners of a ghost story, waiting to gobble them up as they stepped inside past the rotting door that slumped on its hinges and the cracked plywood that had been a half-hearted attempt to board it up.

Of course it was the ghost story aspect that had brought them out here in the first place.  At the moment Jehan was incredibly keen on what they called urban exploring – finding the forgotten places surrounded by a sea of people, or something else vaguely poetic and sinister sounding – and made frequent treks about the city and into the suburbs with Bahorel or Grantaire or Courfeyrac or whoever else they could convince to climb around graffitied buildings and crumbling woodwork for a couple hours.  They’d come to their last meeting out of breath with excitement, insisting that they had felt a presence in this one old house – a house which, Combeferre informed them after looking it up, had been the house of the hospital directory for an old tuberculous hospital that had been fashioned during an old epidemic that had swept the city.  While the hospital itself had been torn down decades ago the house itself had lingered.  Since then though it had been abandoned to the elements and was now condemned, and Jehan was certain that it had spirits clinging to it – perhaps poor souls who had been quarantined to the old hospital and never left, or the director himself, his soul tortured and trapped after all the suffering under his command.

Enjolras, of course, thought it was complete nonsense.  Combeferre, on the other hand, was nearly as giddy as Jehan at the prospect, and insisted they visit the next night to see if they couldn’t “detect” anything else.  Recognizing it for the foolishness it was, Enjolras politely declined when Combeferre suggested he join them.  He even resisted when Courfeyrac got wind of it and immediately after signing himself onto the expedition started turning his indomitable will on Enjolras, insisting, cajoling, and begging Enjolras join them.  Courf grinned the entire time, his begging coloured with a teasing bite – he had grown up with Enjolras and knew exactly how bad he was with horror movies, the little shit.  Enjolras refused.  But then Grantaire had turned up at the meeting, just let off from a late shift, and Enjolras realized Courfeyrac’s plan seconds before he’d managed to call Grantaire over.  Tackling Courf did no good though, because he squirmed under Enjolras’ body until he was gasping but free enough to invite a baffled Grantaire to join the ghost hunt. From that point on, there was no hope for Enjolras.  Both he and Grantaire were kept business enough with schoolwork and club work and work-work that time that could be spent together was precious, and as soon as Grantaire started wheedling at Enjolras, trying to convince him to join them – it’d be fine, just a bit of wandering around some old bloke’s house, no big deal, it’ll be fun – Enjolras knew he was doomed.

And that was why he could now feel his heart beating a painful staccato against his ribs as he ducked under the plywood and entered the ancient entryway.

-

It was eery, to say the least.  Thick dust covered and greyed a rug that ran the length of the hall, and though Courfeyrac gave the old light switch on the wall an experimental flick the ornate bulbs stayed clouded and lifeless.  The hall ran in either three directions from the front door.  At either end, visible only when the flashlights Jehan had brought were cast down their depths, was a door, one firmly shut and the other cracked – Enjolras tried to resist shying away from that one and whatever might be waiting inside.

“I started looking around in there,” Jehan whispered.  “It’s an old parlour.  Ferre, just wait until you feel the energy in there!”

The third route was a pitch black stairwell that curved upward into the blackness of the ceiling, it’s posts crumbling apart and old steps littered with debris.  At the moment it was all Enjolar could do not to run back out the front door – nothing on this earth would get him to touch those stairs.  Even with Jehan’s reassurance that they were sturdy, it looked like a deathtrap waiting to happen.  No sooner had he inched away from the stairs though, towards where Jehan, Combeferre, and Grantaire stood with the flashlights, then the very house seemed to moan at him, as if sensing his fear.  Of course it was the wind streaming in through the boarded up windows and down the strange halls, but it was so much like a pitiful voice trapped in the houses depths, like cold fingers trailing up Enjolras spine, that he couldn’t help but shudder away, towards Combeferre when the wind seemed to solidify, wrapping its cold talons around his wrist and pulling

Grantaire gave Enjolras’s wrist a playful shake as he swallowed his yelp and said, “Shivers, Enjolras?  You sensing some ghosts in here?”

Enjolras pulled his wrist from Grantaire’s hand and scowled at him.  “All I’m sensing is dicks.”  Lurching away from Grantaire, Enjolras marched further along the hall, to where Ferre and Jehan were in conference with each other.

“Hey,” Grantaire called after him, “you know you’re welcome to sense my dick all you–”

“Keep it PG, kids!” Courfeyrac shouted from open room at the end of the hall, where he had promptly ducked into after pilfering Jehan’s flashlight.  “You never know, these spirits could be minors!”

Combeferre and Jehan laughed, slipping past the door to join Courfeyrac, but Enjolras stood stock still, staring down at the dark void that was the open door, lit only by the occasional darting paths of flashlight beams.  He knew his friends were in there, it was crowded and safe with their voices, but stepping inside…

“Aw, don’t look like that,” Grantaire said, giving Enjolras a nudge. “Let’s catch up with the others.  You can hold my hand if you like,” he added with a wink.

For a moment Enjolras considered it.  It might almost be nice, despite his rabbiting heart and already frayed nerves.  Enjolras was short enough that he tucked nearly perfectly under Grantaire’s arm, and the idea of walking around the creepy old house, cocooned in Grantaire’s warmth, hand in hand was almost appealing.  But then came the thought of the amount of teasing and preening he’d have to put up with every time he jumped at a creaking roof or stray gust of wind.  He did not believe in ghosts, he did not, but… well, there was nothing wrong with a healthy dose of fear. Grantaire was the one always saying he didn’t have a strong enough survival instinct.  What would he say now that he saw his fearless leader – his boyfriend – trembling in his boots over make-believe monsters and shadows  In that moment he felt himself steeled and stepped stubbornly away from Grantaire, snatching the flashlight from him.

You go join the others,” he huffed.  “I’ll look over here.”  He gestured the beam of light vaguely in the other direction, towards the door past the stairs and down the opposite end of the hall.

“What, all by yourself?” said Grantaire.  “Won’t it get spooky?”

“No, it won’t, because this is ridiculous and there’s no such thing as ghosts,” Enjolras snapped.  “The sooner we establish that, the sooner we can leave.”

Grantaire held his hands up defensively, though he still looked amused enough that Enjolras could feel his hackles rising.  “Alright, whatever you say.  And you call me a skeptic, Combeferre would be so disappointed in you.  We’ll meet up with you before we head upstairs, I guess.  Or, y'know, if you need a pair of warm, strong arms to protect you, you know where I’ll be.”

Cackling, Grantaire ducked to avoid the wood chip Enjolras snatched off the lopsided table in the hall and hucked at his head, before waving goodbye and slipping away into the now dark room that the others had gone into.  Leaving Enjolras in a small pool of light in an otherwise dark hall.  Alone.

What had he been thinking?

Well, mostly he’d been thinking that he would get to retain an ounce of dignity by marching high-headed and confident into that room at the other end of the hall and have Grantaire trail behind him.  He hadn’t actually thought Grantaire would leave him alone, god knew Enjolras could never convince him to when they had exams to study for.  But the thought of turning tail now and running immediately back to Grantaire’s side – oh, Grantaire would happily do exactly as he’d said and wrap Enjolras in his arms, tuck his head under his chin, but what it would cost in mockery made Enjolras grit his teeth.  Darn it, he was a grown man, he could walk into a dark room by himself.  He’d give the room a cursory glance around, then walk back to the others at his own pace. It was fine.  Totally fine.  This wasn’t a horror movie and there were no mass murderers or malevolent hell-beasts lurking around that door.

…This was much easier to tell himself than to believe, especially since every step he took down the hall seemed to make the entire house groan under his feet.  If there were any spirits in here – not that there were – they’d know exactly where Enjolras was and where he was going.

With that cheery thought in mind, Enjolras held out his flashlight like the beam was a weapon and, rallying himself, pushed the door open.

And pushed.

And briefly considered turning around with the excuse that the door was jammed, such a shame, oh well, before bracing himself and slamming his shoulder against the door.

It gave with a painfully melancholic cry and a shower of woodchips, but the door swung inward and let Enjolras stumble in, tripping over the high lip of the old door.  Swinging his flashlight around, not sure what would be worse, something hiding in the dark or finding something hiding in the dark, Enjolras steadied himself against the door jam and tried to regain his breath – which promptly escaped from him again with a wheeze when he saw something skitter through his light.  A rat.  It was just a rat.  But it was also a rat. Lurching away from the wall, as if they could be teaming with the sharp, furry, fanged creatures, Enjolras tucked his arms into his body continued to bounce the light around the room.  He was suddenly very, very grateful for his tall boots, but the thought of those tiny, cold, claws clambering up his pantleg, biting and infecting him with some horrible, fatal disease… he groaned and shuddered. Nothing else moved in the silent, dead room though except for the dust in his flashlight’s beam, so he cautiously worked up the nerve to creep further in.

It stank, was one of the first things Enjolras was able to register once his fear of things creeping in the corners had abated somewhat.  One of the windows was shattered and though it was bordered up now it had made the room all the more exposed to the elements; that entire corner was a thicket of soggy moss and black decay, and filled the room with the moist, suffocating smell of rot, not helped by what Enjolras could only imagine were long rotten jars and boxes stacked along the room’s shelves.  It was a kitchen, he realized, as his light slid past the shelves to an old, oily stove and looming refrigerator that looked like the newest thing in the entire room and even that was outdated by some fifty years.  Tentatively Enjolras stepped further into the room if for no other reason than he didn’t want the gaping, dark doorway at his back, ready for any reaching, grasping things to snatch him up.  Instead of thinking about every squeaking moan of the floorboards as he stepped, Enjolras tried to focus on cataloging everything his light unearthed.  Scraps of curtain hung in the windows, worn thinner now than the cobwebs that were draped from every corner, wallpaper that was spotted with moisture clung pitifully to the walls, and jars of fruit preserves glistened sickly, lumps suspended in greying liquids, too ancient and organic to look at for long.  There was what looked like a trapdoor of sorts built into the floor with a heavy ring for a handle set into the old, moss-coated planks, but Enjolras had no intentions of touching it, not on his own – hopefully Jehan wouldn’t notice it either because the thought of being forced to explore a basement…  The thought of dusty skeletons and forgotten demons gave Enjolras more than enough motivation to step gingerly around the door.  On the other wall was a sink lined with mildew, and a pantry that was partially open but let of such a stench and was so filled with flies that Enjolras sharply avoided it.  Cutlery was spread over the counters and Enjolras tried not to think of anything nefarious about the knives, old china glinted dully under the light, and thick layers of dust grew everywhere.

Enjolras had just about decided he’d spent enough time in this room to prove to Grantaire that he was no coward, when an ear-splitting shriek rang out, like metal on metal.  Or claws on a sealed door, or broken teeth on bone, or…  Heart pounding, fear thick in his throat, Enjolras stumbled back, the beam of light swinging wildly – he nearly screamed as faces jutted out at him in the dark, he only saved his pride by realizing seconds after that they were harmless, smudges on the wallpaper, an old, dull photo tacked to the wall, the cracks in the window – when the thump came.  The entire room rattled, it could be anything, dropped chains, falling bodies, murderers slipping in from the high, narrow windows – and Enjolras couldn’t help it, he jumped back with a scream in his throat.

His jump carried him back hard though, and something grabbed his foot – no, it was that ring in the floor catching on his shoe – and then he was stumbling on the old trapdoor, softened with decay, and the floor gave a creak, a moan, and finally a pitiful wail as the old planks gave and Enjolras was falling, falling, and down.

-

Enjolras had to press his hands to his mouth to keep from shrieking.  He wasn’t sure if it was to maintain some semblance of dignity or because of the bone deep certainty that something would hear.  Instead he remained lying on his back, aching, and willing his heart to calm and his sense to come back to him.  He wasn’t hurt, not really.  The fall hadn’t been far, more sudden; the worst damage was a sore ankle that he’d landed badly on before flopping down onto his back.

He was trapped he was trapped he was trapped in the basement of a haunted house.

It was going to be alright.

Carefully, biting his lip as his back twinged, Enjolras sat up and scrambled for his flashlight,  gasping with relief when his fumbling hands clasped around the light.  At least it wasn’t dead.  On the other hand he wasn’t so thrilled by what he saw.  He was in a… cellar, or sorts. There was a gaping rectangle of blacker darkness where the trapdoor had given way and a pile of crumbling planks below him to mark the descent.  The room wasn’t really all that much bigger than that.  It had a dark, low ceiling that made the entire thing very claustrophobic and the walls were lined with sagging, wooden shelves filled with more foggy jars.  At least it was small enough that Enjolras knew he was only thing in it besides a handful of spiders among the shelves.

The problem was though that despite the tiny cellar was, the ceiling still towered well out of Enjolras’s reach and if there ever was a ladder then it had either been removed or had long since broken apart.

Heart pounding so heavily in his throat he could hardly breathe past it, Enjolras scrambled to the edge of the little cellar and flung himself upwards at the ledge – if only, if he could just…

His fingers didn’t come close to the edge, they grasped at  air

Again. He jumped again, and again, until he fell heavily against the wall, gasping, shuddering.

Trapped. He was trapped down here.  He couldn’t get out.  And it wasn’t like any of them had thought to bring ropes… if he wanted to get out, he’d have to wait for them to leave and come back with something to rescue him with, they’d have to leave him alone down here in the dark…

Grantaire,” he tried to call but it came out as more of a hoarse croak, barely enough to make the dust stir in the air never mind be heard in the rest of the house.

Looking around, he scrambled for a crate tucked against the far wall and heaved it towards the opening.  Its faded apple brand was still legible and Enjolras prayed that meant it hadn’t been as eaten away as the trapdoor.  It held steady as he heaved himself onto it but as he jumped – fingers just brushing the edge, jarring his nails and still not far enough, too high, still trapped, but as he dropped back down he hit the crate hard enough for the wood to splinter under his feet and send him tumbling back down, sore ankle complaining under the assault.

“Did you hear that?”

“You think it’s a ghost thumping around in there?  Probably Enjolras trying to kill a spider.”

“Courfeyrac?” Enjolras called out desperately.

“Enjolras?

There was a thumping of feet that made dust shake loose over head, and then Enjolras was squinting up into twin beams of light as Courfeyrac and Grantaire peered over the sides of what was once the cellar door.

“How the hell’d you get down there?” Grantaire called, eyebrows in his hairline, clearly shocked at Enjolras’s daring for exploring the cellar.  How soon he would be disappointed.

“I fell,” Enjolras said, trying to keep his voice from quavering. “The floor gave way.  I– there’s no ladder, I can’t get out.”

Shit, are you okay?” Courfeyrac called down as Grantaire swore next to him, craning to look further into the hole, trying to ensure that Enjolras was whole and well.

“I’m okay,” Enjolras said.  He was, he was, he would be fine, even if he was left alone in this dark house, in this hole, he would be fine… “My ankle’s twisted but that’s it.  But there’s no way out.  You– someone will have to go and get a rope, or, or something.”

“Is Enjolras in there?” he heard Jehan call from somewhere in the distance, followed by more thumping and then Courfeyrac’s head disappeared to call over Jehan and Combeferre.

“You’re okay?” Grantaire asked again, gently.

“Don’t leave,” Enjolras found himself saying, to his embarrassment.

Then Grantaire’s head disappeared and Enjolras nearly choked on his fear again as the room seemed to become all the more darker, even with his little flashlight – was this another prank?  Or would Grantaire just leave him like this to go talk to Jehan?  Or was he finding a way to get Enjolras out?

But the second had hardly passed before Grantaire’s head was replaced with his worn sneakers, and Enjolras couldn’t even get a warning out before Grantaire had dropped heavily into the pit next to him.

“You idiot,” Enjolras cried, slapping Grantaire back before he was even able to straighten. “What’s the point of both of us being stuck?”  

“Enjolras–”

You’re the strongest, the others are going to need you if they get a rope to pull me out with, what were you thinking–”

Enjolras. It’s fine.”

And Grantaire stood.  And kept standing.  And… and, oh.  Grantaire would actually need to be careful not to bump his head on the far end of the cellar where the ceiling sloped.  He raised a brow at Enjolras, gesturing grandly to himself, and smirked as Enjolras went red.  Without further adieu he hauled Enjolras up around the waist and carried him over to the lip of the hole, which Enjolras was now able to easily heave his arms over and, with Courfeyrac and Jehan’s help, was able to pull himself back onto the sturdy, kitchen floor. Combeferre was patting his back reassuringly as Grantaire leapt at the hole with a huff and pulled himself easily up over the edge.

“I hate you,” Enjolras grumbled as Grantaire knelt down next to him and pulled him into a hug.

“So, what, that means you and your poor, twisted ankle don’t want to be carried?”

Enjolras huffed but immediately looped his arms around Grantaire’s neck and his legs around his waist, and clung to him as he straightened up. Without a word, Grantaire’s arms were looped around him, holding him securely in place, and Enjolras pressed his head against the crook of Grantaire’s neck, deep into his hoodie and breathed with relief a smell that wasn’t tinged with dust and mildew.

“Should I take this to mean you’re ready to head home?” Grantaire asked.

Enjolras grunted his agreement.

“…I seriously can’t believe how short you are, Enjolras,” Grantaire added, earning himself a sharp kick in the side.  “But it does mean I get to play the dashing hero, so I’m not complaining.

“I really hate you,” Enjolras amended, but Grantaire’s laughter was a reassuring rumble against his chest, and okay, there were definite perks to being short and those included being carried and cuddled like you weighed as much as a teddy bear, and Enjolras wasn’t ever going to complain about that.  Especially if it meant being carried promptly out of this awful house, down the street, and preferably straight into his warm bed.

samyazaz  asked:

E/R, Penelope AU!

(An E/R version of The Big Romantic Scene, so possible spoilers for anyone who hasn’t seen Penelope WHICH YOU TOTALLY SHOULD.)

“Just knock.”

Combeferre’s voice is as patient as ever, but Enjolras can’t bring himself to do it. What if Montpar–no, Grantaire, his name is Grantaire, and it suits him so much better–what if he isn’t there? What if he doesn’t want to see Enjolras? It’s been months, and this could be a terrible mistake.

“Knock or we’ll do it for you,” says Courfeyrac, gently but with steel behind it.

Enjolras adjusts his mask, the snout that looked too familiar in the mirror when he put it on, and knocks. It takes ten seconds to get an answer, and he almost starts backing away before Grantaire opens the door. When the door does open, though, there’s a moment of silence. Grantaire isn’t wearing a costume like all of them are, just jeans and a black shirt, and he looks tired and wary and he stares at Enjolras when he sees him, ignoring the other two. Enjolras, however, can’t find his voice.

“Shit, sorry, isn’t this where the party is?” Courfeyrac asks, bright and false. “265 Plumet, right?”

“This is 256 Plumet.”

Grantaire makes to shut the door and Enjolras blurts “Your restroom” because no, he doesn’t know if he can say it’s him yet but he can’t let this be the end of things, he has to know if Grantaire left because he thought he couldn’t break the curse. “I need a restroom, if it’s not too inconvenient.”

For a second, he thinks Grantaire will say no, but then he steps aside and gestures them in. “Sure, sorry about the mess, I’m packing.”

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anonymous asked:

enjolras only ever cries when he's angry. never at any other time. he often cries about the government - he always cries about grantaire bc he's so angry about his cynicism and how much he loves him, but he often does it in private. when he cries, he has no filter between his mouth and his brain and he just says EVERYTHING he's thinking. he starts crying at a meeting and that's how grantaire finds out that enjolras loves him back, too

Enjolras knows he’s an angry crier and that would be manageable if he wasn’t so angry about injustice ALL THE FREAKING TIME! So he managed to contain himself, that’s why people who don’t know him think he’s a bit cold upon first meeting him. But he’s nowhere near cold, he’s actually quite warm and he feels things SO intensely

He avoids to get angry most of the time. He fuels his speeches with passion and love to keep himself from flowing all over the place.

But Grantaire puts his cry-o-meter to the test because??? That guy is infuriating? But he also likes him? And after a while Enjolras doesn’t know which is which. Combeferre and Courfeyrac are the only ones to know how much of a crier Enjolras actually is. They often comfort him after a long day. Enjolras is made of steel when he wants to be, but he often melts behind the scenes

Until the day Grantaire says something during a meeting, and Enjolras can’t take it anymore, he’s frustrated, he really likes him and it has to come out.

Grantaire comforts him for the first time. He hugs him for the first time too. He’s warmer than Enjolras expected.

Enjolras cries a bit more when Grantaire confesses he loves him too, but by that point it’s out of sheer exhaustion and relief

Splitting the e/R GoT AU into two parts (I think, hopefully I have the time to write part two??) Basically, Red Viper!Grantaire and Lannister-who-hates-Lannisters!Enjolras. In advance, I am so sorry.

…..

and who are you, the proud lord said

Grantaire takes a swig of wine right from the bottle, ignores the goblet on the table beside him. He makes a brief face at it, wrinkles his nose, and mutters something about “northern swill,” before returning his attention to Enjolras. His black gaze rakes over him, intent and measuring, and Enjolras has to steel himself to stare right back. He’s heard all about him, this younger prince of Dorne. He’s known as the Red Viper for a reason–his travels in the Free Cities where he learned gods-knew-what, how his enemies always died of minor, festering wounds–he’s a man who should be feared, and Enjolras is wary.

“What’s your name, boy?” Grantaire asks him, reclining in his chair.

Enjolras bristles, takes a deep breath. “My father is Lord Enjolras, the lord of Fairisle.”

“Looking at that pretty blond hair of yours, your mother is a Lannister bitch,” Grantaire all but snarls. “Neat of them, to put a Lannister pup in my household under a different name, although perhaps they should have chosen one without the famed good looks.” He rises to his feet, and Enjolras does not flinch. He does not flinch as Grantaire stalks toward him, prowling, more like a lion than a snake.

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anonymous asked:

would you do e/R 1+9?? :D

I’ve done 9 before so I’ll do you 1 c:

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Grantaire wakes up in a cold sweat, his chest heaving as he clutches the sheets of his bed so tightly his knuckles ache. Flashes of blonde hair and brown skin, the curve of red lips into a smile, ring sharply in his mind. He counts to ten, then counts again and again, repeating the numbers under his breath until the images begin to dull, fading to the back of his conciousness, just a hazy memory.

Slowly, his fingers uncurl from the bed sheets and he sits, folding in over himself. His breaths are shallow, coming in pants that fill the quiet of his bedroom.

Soulmate. Grantaire knows how this works, he’s been through it before with Joly and Bossuet, the dreams of a soulmate increasing in frequency until you meet, it could be any day for him. It could be today or tomorrow or if luck is with him, never. Grantaire pities the person stuck with him. He already struck gold with platonic soulmates,  the best people to happen to him, it’s only fair that his romantic soulmate doesn’t work out.

He gets up and dressed anyway, no point wasting the day in fear, and picks up the shopping list Bossuet left on the kitchen counter. Grabbing his wallet and keys, he heads to the supermarket.

The bright lights of the shop are oddly comforting as Grantaire wheels his trolley down the aisles, chucking items into the trolley with barely any need to refer back to the list, he’s done this so many times.

Near the washing powder, Grantaire catches sight of familiar blonde hair and freezes. The man is staring intently at the boxes of washing powder, looking more distressed by the minute, and there’s not a doubt in Grantaire’s mind that the man across the aisle is his soulmate.

He still has time to run. He could push his trolley straight past the man and head through the checkout, leaving the shop within minutes and his soulmate wouldn’t even know he was there. He’d never have to speak to him, to go through the trouble of working out whether the man would be with him out of want or obligation. He could be free of all of this for a little while longer.

But the man looks like he’s close to crying now (he’s never seen washing powder have such a visceral reaction on someone) and Grantaire can’t leave him like that. Maybe if he saw the man kicking a puppy or being rude to service staff he could leave without a single regret, but he can’t leave him on the verge of tears in the fucking supermarket. He pretends not to care but he always, always ends up doing just that.

Grantaire takes a deep breath, steels himself, and crosses the aisle.