You decided to leave your house keys behind with a note asking someone to water your plants. You knew it would be Chucky or Gemma that ended up assigned to the task, they were the caretakers for lack of a better word, and you loved them for that. While Tig was packing, Jax came in and asked to have a word with him. You took that opportunity to seek out Bobby to speak to him before you left. You found him at the bar, sober but drinking, with passed out drunks all around him. You could feel your ears getting hot as you tried to plan what you would say to him. You shook off the nerves and walked up to him at the bar.
“Mind if I sit?”
He nodded, not in a ‘yes I mind if you sit’ kind of way, but in a ‘do what you want’ kind of way.
“We need to talk,” you sighed.
“I have nothing to say, (Y/N). You are going to do what you want to do, you’ve proven that your whole life.” he grumbled, side-eyeing you.
“Bobby,” you pleaded, “I don’t want you to hate me because of a mistake you think I am making.”
“I don’t hate you, (Y/N), you’re my family. But Tig and the rest of the guys are family too. I just KNOW Tig. I know how he treats women. He is almost my age, (Y/N). He is too old, too immature, and too….crude… for you. You deserve someone better than one of us, and you not only picked a son, you picked the ONE I wished you hadn’t” he finished, tossing back his whiskey and setting the glass back down on the bar.
There were several ways you wanted to respond to your older relative. You chose the calm and level-headed version.
“Look, Bobby… I’ve known Tig for over a year. I know that’s not as long as you, but I saw how Tig treated women too. He and I were best friends before this and not once before our friendship, during our friendship, or after our friendship evolved into this relationship has he ever spoken to me improperly or treated me like anything less than a princess.” you caught Bobby’s eye and reached out to touch his shoulder, “I mean that, Bobby.”
Bobby looked at you and nodded.
“Also… Total dick move calling my dad, Robert.” you chastised. He rolled his eyes, “Yeah, yeah. Not the nicest thing I’ve ever done for you. But relax, if Tig has shaped up, the only thing you have to worry about is his age. He’s good with people. And if your dad approves then there really isn’t anything I can hold against the guy,” he patted your leg, “you’ll be alright kid.”
“Thanks Bobby,” you smiled and kissed him on the cheek, “gotta get finished packing and then we are hittin’ the road at first light.” You stood up and smiled at him as you headed back down the hallway.
Tig was already back from his talk with Jax and he was finishing up stuffing his backpack. You walked in the room, approaching him from behind and wrapping your arms around him. “Ooh baby,” you cooed in his ear, “you look so sexy in this shirt,” you rubbed your hands across his chest. He smirked, turning around to face you and wrapping his arms around your waist, placing a soft kiss on your lips and then pulling back. “Thank you, (Y/N),” he looked directly into your soul. You knew he wasn’t talking about your compliment on his shirt. There was nothing you could do or say, so you just smiled at him and kissed him again.
You walked out of the clubhouse towards you car with Tig close behind, backpack slung over his shoulder. You thought it was funny he packed so light for such a long journey but you thought nothing more of it. You pulled up to your house in your car, Tig following on his bike. You both walked up to the door and Tig made a show of having to save you, the damsel in distress, and let you in your own house because your keys were in the clubhouse. It didn’t take you long to pack and Tig waited on the couch, watching the TV while you did. Walking down the hallway lugging your suitcase and backpack to the front door, you heard Tig shift in his seat to look at you.
“Ummm, (Y/N), what are you doing?” he asked you, standing up. “I’m taking my bags outside to my car all by myself because my boyfriend doesn’t want to help me carry them,” you sassed. “No no no,” Tig waved his hands, “we ain’t takin’ the car, doll. We’re takin’ my bike!” he corrected you. You furrowed your brows at him. “Um, Tig. Its like a three day drive if we put in a full days’ drive every day along the way. I can’t drive your bike, and I don’t want you to drive it all by yourself. We need to take a car. Its safer.” you reasoned but he wasn’t having it. “Come on doll, I’m a biker. We live for these long open roads you’re describing! We’ve gotta take the bike or I’m gonna have to reconsider this whole trip,” he crossed his arms and lowered his eyes at you. You crossed yours at him, “Alexander, how do you expect me to get like two weeks worth of clothes and shoes into ONE small bag? I’m not high maintenance but what you’re asking for is barely possible for anyone.”
“We’ll pack some stuff and drop it at TM, have Gemma mail it to your folks.” he said nonchalantly, as if he already knew this argument was going to happen and he had already planned out his win.
You two were at an impasse, just staring at each other, neither of you willing to even blink for fear that you would lose the battle. Finally his beautiful blue eyes won you over as you threw your hands up in the air and huffed, “Fine! We’ll do it your way, Tigger.” Y ou stomped back down the hallway looking for a box to put your non-essentials in. Damn him and his sexy convincing self you thought.
Tig called down the hall, “Don’t be mad at me darlin’, you’re gonna love the trip I’m telling you!”
After a quick stop back by TM, you and Tig were finally off. You texted your mom to let her know the road trip was underway and you stuffed your phone inside your jacket. You didn’t tell her you were traveling on the back of a motorcycle, she would die. Your bag was strapped to your back and Tig’s was strapped on the gas tank in front of him. It wasn’t your favorite thing in the world but you made it work and you were happy to be spending the next two weeks alone with your man, regardless of the circumstances.
Tig put in 13 hours on day one, stopping only a few times for food, gas, and a pee break. It was getting dark just outside of Phoenix and you were feeling a little devilish. You had your arms wrapped around Tig’s stomach and your face pressed against his back when you got the idea to let your hands drop down below his waist. He wiggled his shoulder to nudge you as best as he could and turned his head, “You alright?” He shouted over the engine.
You nodded against his kutte, “I’m fine,” you shouted back, sliding your hand under his shirt and into the waistband of his jeans. Tig’s body stiffened at the sudden surprise and he reached down with one hand to unfasten his belt so you had more room to work. You unbuttoned his jeans and slid your hand in further, your fingers running across his still soft penis.
Tig began to slow down as he pulled over to the side of the road. You smirked and waited as he kicked the kickstand out and climbed off the bike, raising an eyebrow to you. You climbed off in the other direction so his bike was between you like a barricade, a tease.
He motioned to his crotch with his hands, “What are we gonna do about this?” he said pointing now to his very erect cock inside his black Levi’s. You grinned and shrugged, “I dunno.”
The stretch of road you were on was barren, not many vehicles. Luckily you had good sight lines and nothing was coming or going because Tig whipped it out and started stroking it right on the side of the road. You laughed, “Tig what if someone sees you!?”
“Doll, I’ve been arrested for indecent exposure so many times its a cakewalk at this point, I ain’t worried about it.”
“Well I am,” you said folding your arms, “I don’t want to get stranded on the side of the road while you get carted away for IE.”
He walked closer to the bike, dick still in his hand, and around the back side, sitting on the seat sideways with his back to the road. “Better? Now nobody can see,” he winked at you.
Idly thinking on musical tropes that show up in Hamilton, especially compared to other history-based musicals. There are probably more, but these are the main ones I keep coming back to:
unconventional hero pissing people in power off
love triangle: now with the ham-sandwich variety
unbearably adorable children who will either eventually die tragically or have their heart broken because hey! You have to sell kleenex somehow
the antihero who gets the big dramatic number about their motivation. or astronomy/theology
sex-related scene, usually either involving prostitutes and/or infidelity (or in the case of Elisabeth, both with a side of STDs)
parental mentor who is either supportive and decent or an overbearing tyrant who ruins everything and then some.
a woman getting disillusioned with men being asshats and expressing this disillusionment in song.
death scenes. all the deaths scenes. big ones. small ones. all of them!
THAT BIG EPIC MOMENT WHERE ALL THE MOTIFS COME TOGETHER AND YOU FEEL YOUR HEART SWELL IN YOUR CHEST AND YOU COULD DO ANYTHING AND EVERYTHING… and then it’s intermission and you climb the seats like the fricking barricade because good god, you need to pee and if you’re not fast you’re last.
Modern non-magical AU Blaise x Ginny - Apodyopsis; the act of mentally undressing someone.
exponential attraction theorem
On the fall term of her third year in university, Ginny Weasley, firecracker of a girl, advocate of rushing into things, arrived - finally - at the eureka moment of why it is people say that patience is a virtue. It starts, as one would have it, with the pre-law track.
In her rush to get into this über prestigious pol sci elective her sophomore year, she’d put off taking her math credit until later - would have put if off way later, if she had it her way. Which, upon retrospect, is the worst decision she’d made in college - this, from the girl who’d antagonistically goaded her RA into betting a Macbook (she won, of course, beer pong is, like, her jam, but still), the night before an undergrad mock trial invitational (she lost, because).
Because now, now, it’s come back to bite her in the ass: instead of focusing on more important things, like, say, a fifteen-page paper on Ramos and Arroyo for her International Relations major, she’s staring at quadratic equations with absolute, gut-wrenching despair. She gets it, truly, she does. Sheunderstands, on a fundamental level, why algebra is important and everything, it’s just that- The thing is-
Her third year majors are ridiculous. She’s basically camped out in the library at this point, and they’re only a month in. She’s seen more of the JSTOR interface than any of her social media accounts, hasn’t eaten anything other than instant noodles for the last week, has had to choose between sleep and self-fashioning - and, to top it all off, she has to spend all her free time looking for x. For the love of God.
Her only consolation is -
- currently walking into their classroom, with Starbucks and their graded test papers. It’s 2:30 on a windswept Thursday afternoon, and Blaise climb you like a barricade Zabini, student assistant to an aptly named Prof. Vector, has enough layers on to satisfy her fussy mother’s constant warnings not to “catch your death in that weather” - and,
I know this is a bit late, but it ended up that the Day One prompt took me much longer than expected! I intended it to be about 1k words, it ended up being about 4k. Oops! I’m posting this, then going to bed. It’s 12:45 AM, and I have to be up early for Driver’s Ed. Hopefully what is now today’s prompt doesn’t take me nearly as long.
Summary: Five times that Grantaire hugs Enjolras and one time Enjolras hugs him, or that modern AU where Enjolras and Grantaire are oblivious little idiots who can’t figure out their emotions and don’t realize that they mean as much to the other as the other means to them.
The first time it happens, Grantaire is drunk.
Enjolras is not the kind of person who seems particularly huggable, and everyone except for Cosette, his sister, has their reasons not to attempt it. Some say that he’s too passionate for something as simple as a hug, others that he’s too busy for them, still others that he is above hugging and would push them away. Grantaire’s reasoning is that he fears that if he does hug Enjolras, he won’t be able to let go.
However, one night at a meeting at the Musain, Grantaire has even more to drink than usual. This means that he is interrupting Enjolras’s passionate speeches more frequently- normally, Grantaire will only interrupt every five minutes with about two minutes of argument, but tonight it feels more like thirty seconds of time between outbursts- with meaningless banter that isn’t entirely understandable, not even by Bahorel, who is a master at deciphering Grantaire’s slurring from the number of times they have gone out bar-hopping together and gotten drunk beyond coherency. Nothing is being completed, so the other members of Les Amis, especially Combeferre and Courfeyrac, convince the blond young man to cut the meeting short.
Enjolras stays behind to gather his notes, the other Amis calling farewells to him as they leave. Soon, only he and Grantaire remain in the private room. The dark-haired man staggers over to Enjolras, moving so clumsily that it would almost be comical if it weren’t for the fact he is frighteningly drunk. Enjolras is surprised Joly didn’t take Grantaire to the emergency room to make sure he doesn’t get alcohol poisoning.
“Heeeeyyyy, Apollllooo,” Grantaire slurs, and Enjolras glares at the nickname that Grantaire refuses to drop.
“Yes?” he bites back icily. There are few things that infuriate him more than Grantaire interrupting him during meetings, and the main things are monarchies and Grantaire when he is this drunk.
“Do ya… do ya know what I… what I wanna do? Do ya?”
“Do tell me,” he replies, rolling his eyes.
“I… I wanna climb you… like… like a… a barricade. Because… you’re fucking… you’re really sexy, ya know?”
Enjolras stiffens slightly in shock, a lump forming in his throat. Grantaire has been known to hit on him, and other members of Les Amis, when drunk, but never has he been so… blunt about it. The words make him feel odd things, none of them entirely unpleasant. However, this isn’t Grantaire, he’s drunk, it’s not even remotely how he feels about Enjolras, it can’t be. Grantaire probably won’t remember a thing that he says in the morning anyways.
“Do you now?” Enjolras replies, a small smile forming on his lips, only a sharp eye able to notice the sadness in it.
“Yeah,” and with that, Grantaire shuffles forward a few more steps before tripping seemingly on air and falling into Enjolras’s lap. The dark-haired man chuckles, although it sounds almost self-deprecating at first before becoming one of amusement, then hiccups, before sitting up slightly and wrapping his arms firmly around Enjolras’s waist.
Enjolras tenses at the feeling, having not received many hugs as a child, which hardened him slightly to them as an adult. However, he likes the feeling of Grantaire hugging him. Even though Grantaire is drunk, Enjolras can feel the strength in the young artist’s hands from the time Grantaire has spent working out, and he relaxes into the embrace slightly before pulling away and helping Grantaire to his feet. A second passes where Enjolras freezes and thinks, Oh god, I was right, but he shakes it off quickly enough that Grantaire doesn’t notice.
“Come on, let’s get you home.”
The second time it happens, Enjolras nearly has a heart attack.
He is once again giving an impassioned speech to Les Amis, and whoever else cares to listen, at the Musain, this time about marriage equality. Grantaire is sitting at a table farther back, sketching the other young man in charcoal, only half-listening to what Enjolras is saying, focusing more on the unique curls framing his face and the blazing excitement in his brilliantly blue eyes. He is chiseling out the curve of Enjolras’s nose when Courfeyrac taps him on the shoulder, causing the pencil to skid across the paper, leaving a dark line across the side of Enjolras’s face.
“What the hell, Courfeyrac?” Grantaire whispers furiously, ripping out the page and crumpling it slightly.
Courfeyrac grins. “Sorry for screwing up your drawing,” he whispers back. “It was truly a masterpiece, surely you can fix it.”
“No, that would fuck up the shading that I spent a long-ass time working on.”
“Again, I’m sorry. Anyways, I dare you to hug Enjolras from behind. Bonus points if you can do it without him seeing you on your way up.”
“What’ll it get me?”
“I’ll buy the first round of drinks after the meeting, and the first two if you can figure out how to sneak up on him.”
“You’re on.” Grantaire gives Courfeyrac a light fist bump, then goes back to staring at Enjolras, even more intently than usual, waiting for him to become especially excited, or for him to start talking to one of the other Amis about something. Luckily, he thinks, Enjolras doesn’t tend to pay attention to me, unless I speak up and we inevitably start arguing. He sighs sadly at this thought. Unluckily, Enjolras has a really sharp eye and will probably catch him moving.
Grantaire’s big break comes when Enjolras begins discussing with Combeferre possible dates for the next protest. He slips out of his chair and debates whether or not Enjolras will see him if he slides against the wall. He decides that crouching and sneaking forward is the best option. Éponine gives him a strange look from the table she shares with Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta, but she doesn’t question it. He is about halfway across the floor when Jehan looks down at him from their phone where they are texting someone, probably Montparnasse.
“What the hell are you doing?” they murmur incredulously.
“Sneaking up on Enjolras, shhh, pretend I’m not here,” he replies.
“Why?” they ask slowly, quirking an eyebrow.
“…Long story?” he grins sheepishly.
“Tell me, or I’m going to not only ruin your sneak attack, I’ll also tell our fearless leader that you’re madly in love with him.”
“But that’s blackmail! Fine. Courf dared me to hug Enjolras from behind. He’s buying the first round of drinks if I do, and the first two rounds if I’m able to succeed without Enjolras seeing me.”
“Sneak away, then, my friend, I’ll take free alcohol whenever I can.”
Grantaire continues creeping, moving to the edge of the room so as to best get around the table Enjolras is currently standing on without him seeing. It’s going to be difficult, especially considering that it looks like Enjolras and Combeferre are almost done finalizing the date for their next protest. He decides that he must rush if he’s going to make it behind the table before Enjolras turns around. He crawls as fast as humanly possible and crouches behind Enjolras’s table just as he turns around.
“Citizens!” Enjolras cries out loudly. This is it, Grantaire thinks, time to make my move!
“Ferre and I have been conversing, and-” With this, Grantaire hops up on the back of the table and wraps his arms tightly around Enjolras. The blond man jumps about a foot in the air and lets out a high-pitched scream that if it had been any higher probably could have broken a window. Bahorel begins to laugh, but a disapproving look from Feuilly shuts him up.
“What the fuck, Grantaire!” Enjolras yells, and, although breathing heavily, the young leader still has his wits about him enough to punch Grantaire in the face with enough force to knock him off the back of the table, causing him to hit his head on the floor.
As his vision begins to go fuzzy, Grantaire thinks, Although being punched in the face by someone as beautiful as Enjolras is glorious, this is the last time I’m taking Courfeyrac up on a dare, drinks or not.
The third time it happens, it’s unintentional.
A surprisingly sober Grantaire enters the Musain and, giving a small wave to Madame Hucheloup, enters the back room to find the rest of Les Amis already sitting at their normal tables. When the door closes, all of them, even Enjolras, look at him expectantly.
Grantaire stares back at them just as intensely. “…What?” he finally asks the quiet room. “I’m not drunk enough for this!”
Éponine is the first to break the silence, looking at him like he’s an idiot. “Have you heard anything yet?”
“Um, about what?”
She rolls her eyes at him, shaking her head and laughing softly. “The paintings, you dipshit! Are they going on display?”
“Oh,” he replies quietly. “No, I haven’t, I’m expecting a call soon. It could happen at any point during the meeting. Sorry that it will interrupt your greatness, Apollo.” He ends this with a cheeky grin, and the daggers that Enjolras stares back at him are more than enough of a reaction to be satisfactory. Any acknowledgement he receives from Enjolras is wonderful. It’s better to have him despise you and argue with you constantly than for him to not notice you, Grantaire thinks with a sad smile.
Enjolras looks as though he is about to start an argument, but any possibility of this is ended by Grantaire’s phone going off, playing a Panic! At the Disco song that Enjolras is bound to hate. He pulls out the phone, and, recognizing the caller ID as the museum that was thinking about displaying his work, leaves the room.
“Hello?” he answers, working hard to bite back the anxiety filling his stomach.
“Hello, is this Grantaire?” a deep voice replies.
“Yes, that is my name.”
“This is Robert Dupard from Le Musée D’art. I was told to let you know that myself and all of the other members of the board here think your work is outstanding and we would be happy to have an exhibit of your paintings here.”
“Are you serious?” he breathes excitedly, unable to contain the grin on his face.
“Completely. Would you be able to meet with us here tomorrow afternoon at 4:00 to discuss plans for the exhibition?”
“I should be free. Thank you so much!”
“The pleasure is all ours. Have a good night.”
“I will, thank you!”
Grantaire hangs up, then puts on the best poker face he can with his current excitement. When he reenters the room, Éponine shushes the rest of the group.
“What was that about?” she asks.
“It was the museum,” he replies. He knows he can keep her in suspense without her being too pissed off with him later.
“And…” Grantaire lets his happiness reach his face. “They want to exhibit my work!”
The room erupts with cheers, and suddenly Grantaire is surrounded by his friends, each wanting to express their congratulations personally. Musichetta pulls him into a tight hug of excitement that nearly causes him to pass out. Marius gives him a nod and a smile, and Cosette gives his hand a light squeeze. Bahorel gives him a pat on the back that was probably much harder than he intended it to be.
However, a shove of affection from Courfeyrac sends him sprawling, and suddenly he is pressed up against Enjolras, arms outstretched. Both look at each other awkwardly for a second before Grantaire completes the hug. The rest of Les Amis look at him like he’s insane, and they are all surprised when Enjolras hugs him back loosely.
“Congratulations, Grantaire,” he says quietly in the young artist’s ear, sending a shiver of pleasure down Grantaire’s spine.
“Th-thank you,” he manages to stutter out. Goddamn, what is this boy doing to me?
The fourth time it happens, Enjolras is sobbing.
The meeting is going as usual, with the exception of Marius and Cosette being absent. However, as neither his sister nor her boyfriend are as committed to physically fighting for their rights as the rest of them, preferring to protest by writing articles for the local paper or posting things on their social media accounts, they do not always show up. Enjolras is not too concerned.
However, when La Marseillaise, which is his ringtone, begins to play, he stops to check his phone. Seeing that it is his stepfather, who almost never calls him (Enjolras still isn’t sure Valjean is entirely comfortable with him being gay), he deems it reason to put the meeting on hold.
“Hello, father,” he answers.
“Gabriel,” Valjean replies. “I assume you’re wondering why I called.”
“I was curious, yes. You know that I have meetings with Les Amis de L’ABC at this time every week, I have since I started university.”
“What’s that again? Oh yeah, that little social group of yours.” Enjolras has to bite back a frustrated comment on the fact that Les Amis can hardly be considered small. They gathered 400 students for the last protest about gender inequality on campus, and they had several more students afterwards requesting to join. “Regardless, what I need to tell you is more important.”
Enjolras is becoming more and more concerned as his stepfather continues. Valjean isn’t one to be overly dramatic, prison hardened him. If he says something is important, it probably is.
“What is it?”
“It’s about your sister. There was some water on the floor of her kitchen. Cosette slipped and hit her head on the counter pretty hard, and it knocked her out. Marius came to pick her up to go somewhere and found her passed out on the floor, he’s not sure how long she’d been there. Cosette’s in the hospital right now, and she still isn’t awake. Doctors are doing some tests to try to figure out what’s wrong.”
Enjolras gasps in shock. Cosette means more to him than almost anyone else does. They’ve been through hell and back together, struggling through foster homes (particularly the Thénardier household, which was not Éponine’s fault) when their mother couldn’t care for them, dealing with being put in Valjean’s care, and moving to Paris for university, and her safety is almost more important to him than his own. She is his closest confidante, and if he didn’t have her, he’s not sure what he’d do.
“Is she going to be okay? Where is she?”
“I’ll send you the address. Is there anything else you need?”
“N-no. Thank you.” Enjolras moves the phone back to his pocket. Everything seems to go hazy around him, and suddenly the world tilts. Enjolras attempts to choke down a sob, but it manages to escape his lips. His sister, in the hospital. It’s something he can’t imagine. He sinks to his knees.
“Enjolras? Are you alright? You look a little pale.” The voice comes from his right, and he doesn’t need to look to know it’s Grantaire, the one person he doesn’t need to seem him this close to tears. He’ll probably mock him, tell him to pull himself together, that he needs to be strong, that he shouldn’t cry…
“That was my stepfather,” he manages to whisper. “Cosette was in an accident. She’s in the hospital.” With this, the wall that he is attempting to build to hold back his tears falls down. His shoulders shake with sobs. He steels himself for Grantaire’s ridicule, after all, he’ll tear down Enjolras’s arguments when giving speeches, why should there be any less ridicule today? Three… two…
Enjolras does not expect Grantaire to pull him into his lap, but there are suddenly warm, comforting arms wrapped around him, rocking him slowly back and forth, and there are soft, comforting words in his ear.
“Shhh, it’s alright, Cosette will be okay, I’ll take you to the hospital once you calm down, okay?” Grantaire pets his hair, and it’s one of the most comforting things he’s ever felt. Enjolras knows they probably look ridiculous, huddled on the floor of the Musain, Grantaire cradling him like a child and him sobbing, holding onto the artist’s green sweatshirt like it’s a lifeline, but he doesn’t care, because this is what he needs at the moment.
He leans into the reassuring touch of Grantaire’s hand, and manages to choke out a small “thank you.”
Grantaire replies, “Of course.”
The fifth time it happens, both of them are a bundle of feelings.
Grantaire doesn’t quite remember what or who started the argument, but it’s spiralled out of control. It’s to the point that Courfeyrac and Combeferre have stopped trying to hold Enjolras back, and Éponine and Bahorel have stopped trying to coax Grantaire back to his seat with the promise of another drink. They’re both yelling things at this point that are probably not making any sense, but are somehow managing to get their points across.
Grantaire is considering throwing a bottle at Enjolras. The man can be so infuriating! With his perfect hair and his brilliant blue eyes and his voice and his hands that look like perfectly sculpted marble and oh my god Grantaire stop getting turned on by how goddamn frustrating he is! Grantaire has to admit that he honestly doesn’t care what they’re arguing about anymore, because the feeling he gets from arguing with Enjolras- blood boiling, pulse racing, face flushing- is so much better than anything drinking does for him.
“You know what?” Grantaire yells. “Your fucking protests won’t do a goddamn thing if they stay where they are! If you don’t go to the fucking government, it won’t do a fucking thing! And those so-called supporters of yours? If it gets to the point that we have to build a fucking barricade, they will abandon our sorry asses because they don’t give a shit about the cause if it gets to be too fucking physical! You’ll be left the hell alone with just our sorry lot, and how the fuck will you win then?”
As soon as he says this, the room goes quiet, the rest of Les Amis casting silent glances between Grantaire and Enjolras, and Grantaire thinks, Oh shit, what have I done? Enjolras looks like he is at a loss for words, mouth opening and closing like a fish, but the fiery fury building up behind his eyes is not something Grantaire wants to face.
Enjolras moves towards him with a purpose, and Grantaire thinks he is going to be smacked in the face, but Enjolras stops when there are about two feet between them. Grantaire tries to avoid his gaze, but Enjolras’s eyes lock on his, and a look of pure betrayal and hurt crosses over them before being replaced by the fire again.
“Fuck you!” Enjolras says this softly, with what almost sounds like a sob, but he spits it out like venom, and Grantaire backs away about three feet from fear of being burned. “Fuck you and your perfect little arguments that can tear my paragraphs-long speeches and opinions down with two goddamn sentences! Fuck you and your silent paintings that say more than my words ever could! Fuck you and your hands that can lift up huge piles of wood or injured students like they weigh nothing but can also draw and paint with such careful precision. Fuck you and the way that your eyes can pierce my soul from the back of the room! Fuck you and the fact that you can make me feel so goddamn small and vulnerable, but also like I can do anything! Fuck you and the fact that your arguments and cynicalness make me want to hate you, but I just can’t! Fuck you and your words that stay in my head no matter what I do!”
With each sentence, Enjolras gains more confidence and fury and frustration, slowly moving forward until they are standing mere inches apart. Towards the end, Enjolras begins to choke out his sentences, tears streaming down his face, and Grantaire realizes, Oh god, look how much I’ve hurt him, I never meant to do this and now he’s crying, what do I do?
His voice near a whisper, silent tears falling from his blue eyes, Enjolras says, “Fuck you and how badly you make me want to kiss you.”
Grantaire freezes, stunned, but replies just as softly, “Then do.”
It is Enjolras’s turn to be stunned. “What?”
No time to think about this, just act, Grantaire decides, and he presses his mouth against Enjolras’s for just a moment. The young leader tenses up, and at first Grantaire thinks, oh shit, I misunderstood him, but then he hears a laugh and Enjolras is kissing him hard, in full force, and oh god that’s perfect and all he can taste is Enjolras, sweet and warm and everything good in this world. Somehow his hands end up threaded in those perfect golden curls and Enjolras’s arms are wrapped around his neck and he is panting and oh fuck that’s Enjolras’s tongue inside his mouth and he can’t help the moan that escapes his lips.
It’s not until they hear Combeferre awkwardly clearing his throat, when they are finally forced to pull apart for air, that they remember they aren’t alone in the room. Enjolras and Grantaire look at each other, then the rest of Les Amis who were just forced to watch a makeout-fest, and they burst into peals of laughter. Grantaire wraps his arms tightly around Enjolras, and the blond man doesn’t hesitate for even a second before returning the gesture, resting his head on Grantaire’s shoulder.
“Um… could Enjolras and I have a minute in here?” Grantaire laughs.
“Take it,” a slightly uncomfortable-looking Marius says from the corner, sitting down. “We can wait.”
“He means alone, love.” Cosette smiles, shaking her head.
“Oh,” Marius replies softly. Courfeyrac gives his friend a hand up, then leads the rest of Les Amis out of the room, winking at Grantaire as he exits.
Once the room is quiet, Enjolras looks up at Grantaire. “Where do we go from here?” he asks. “Are we a thing?”
“Do you want us to be?” Grantaire replies.
Enjolras smiles. “Yes, of course. Do you?”
“I wouldn’t have kissed you if I didn’t.”
“How long have you known you’re in love with me?”
“Who said I’m in love with you?” Grantaire laughs, earning a playful glare from Enjolras. “No, but seriously, I’ve pretty much always known, from the moment I met you, that you would be an important part of my life. I don’t know when I fully realized it. How about you?”
“It was pretty similar with me. I always had the suspicion that what I felt for you was more than intense anger at how infuriating you can be,” he laughs.
“Unlike you, though, I can pinpoint the moment I realized I was right about my suspicions.” Enjolras kisses Grantaire on the cheek, causing the darker-haired man to sigh with happiness.
“Oh, really? And when was that?”
“A moment you were way too drunk to remember. You fed me a terrible pick-up line, then fell on me. It was the first time you’d ever hugged me, and if I didn’t know before, I certainly knew then that I was, and am, 100% in love with you.”
The sixth time it happens, Enjolras initiates the embrace.
Waking up on a lazy Saturday next to the love of his life, he drapes a sleepy arm over a still-snoring Grantaire and holds him close. The tired young man snuggles in closer, and Enjolras presses a slow kiss into his curly dark mane before letting out a small sigh of content. This is how it was always meant to be.
Well, there you go, Hope everyone enjoyed it, keep an eye out for another piece sometime later today!
omg I never saw the time-traveler Combeferre story? Can you tell me more, it sounds excellent!:D
Oh man! There’s not MUCH of it at all, really! I had talked about it to a friend, once, but it’s been a long time. I can tell you vaguely what I recall tho!
So, I imagined Combeferre time-travelling more or less like the doctor, in doctor who? Except his machine is only for travelling through time, not space (much to his chagrin, I’m just gonna assume). I also see him with a sort of cool steampunk outfit, for Reasons. Combeferre is travelling for science, history, experiences, etc. And because he lowkey, privately, admits he does like the thrill of the adventure.
…which, you know, is fairly obvious when you realize his favourite companions are an immortal man who goes through time cheerfully going from riots to revolutions, and … Well, i can’t remember exactly WHO was Jehan, maybe @sceptiqueveille would remember, but I’m pretty sure he was a ghost? A Romantic ghost. (I still assume he must have been something else, otherwise the rest of the plot gets strange, like why would anybody not question the fact there’s a ghost around? But anyway!)
So, Combeferre, Bahorel and Prouvaire are travelling together when, one day, for some reason, the machine crashes, right in the street where Feuilly lives. (Maybe Combeferre was trying to make the machine work for space?? Who knows.). Feuilly, helpful and generous citizen, finds himself with three very odd men he needs to help integrate in society because the Machine is definitely Broken (Combeferre is quite perplexed as to why, or so he says. Bahorel and Prouvaire just remind him the First Rule - that Combeferre never follows - “don’t touch the engines”)
Shenanigans issues, but also Combeferre, Prouvaire and Bahorel meet the rest of les amis, and they fall in platonic love/friendship with them. They integrate the society so well, in fact, that it gets harder and harder to talk about leaving even tho the Machine is Getting better. Except, of course, the revolution happens, and they know how it ends, is the thing. So they spend one last night with les amis, and Prouvaire is like “we could -” and Combeferre’s like “the first rule of any good time traveller is don’t MESS WITH LIVES” and Bahorel is like “fuck rules” but says nothing else.
By the way, Feuilly’s totally aware they’re not saying something, and Enjolras and Courfeyrac are TOTALLY UNTO COMBEFERRE. But yeah, the revolution happens, Prouvaire “gets captured” and Bahorel “gets killed” because it’s sort of too hard for them to deal with the deaths of all their friends. But then, Combeferre is holding Enjolras’s hand, heartbroken, and Prouvaire says “vive le futur” before “dying” and Combeferre just. Nopes out. He climbs on the barricades, he’s like “you guys i can’t let’s save everybody” because Combeferre has never been able to follow the good sensible rules and advice he gives others, and that’s the story of how les amis all became illegal time-travellers, probably.