SarahBobbie

Enjolras is forced to give even more control away.

Enjolras attents a meeting and things go awry.

Enjolras and Grantaire spend their first full night together. When they wake up in the morning, Grantaire gets to meet a new side of Enjolras. Apparently his new boyfriend has a terrible temper in the morning. And doesn't like nicknames.

Summary: On a cold February night, Grantaire stumbles upon a scene that will haunt him forever—Enjolras, bruised, shaken, and barely standing, abandoned in a dark alley by men who wanted to break him. Can Grantaire and his friends put Enjolras back together?

I’m feeling blue and I’m in need of some really good hurt/comfort stories.

I love:

1. Hurt, sad or misunderstood Enjolras

2. Caring (put-together) Grantaire (so more of a role reversal)

3. Killer Triumvirate dynamics

4. Modern AU or Canon, university-age or older

After Enjolras and Grantaire started dating, Courfeyrac created a group chat including him, Combeferre and Grantaire.

Summary: On a cold February night, Grantaire stumbles upon a scene that will haunt him forever—Enjolras, bruised, shaken, and barely standing, abandoned in a dark alley by men who wanted to break him. Can Grantaire and his friends put Enjolras back together?

On a cold February night, Grantaire stumbles upon a scene that will haunt him forever—Enjolras, bruised, shaken, and barely standing, abandoned in a dark alley by men who wanted to break him. Can Grantaire and his friends put Enjolras back together

On a cold February night, Grantaire stumbles upon a scene that will haunt him forever—Enjolras, bruised, shaken, and barely standing, abandoned in a dark alley by men who wanted to break him. Can Grantaire and his friends put Enjolras back together?

Or how I imagine it

Today, January 20, 2025, will go down as a day of shame, not just for America, but for all of us who dare to dream of a better, fairer world. The inauguration of a man who stands as a monument to greed, misogyny, and authoritarianism is a stark reminder that justice is not inevitable. It must be fought for. And if we do not rise, we fall.

To those who claim this is democracy at work, let me be clear: democracy is not the triumph of lies over truth, or fear over hope. Democracy dies when the powerful exploit the weak, when hate is louder than love, and when those who seek only to enrich themselves are handed the keys to the future. This is not democracy. This is its betrayal.

And now, with the grotesque display of Musks salute, we are shown, in no uncertain terms, what kind of regime is taking shape. Do not mistake this for anything less than what it is: a calculated gesture of control, a signal to oppressors everywhere that their time has come. But let them remember—every salute has an answer, and we will not bow.

This is not the end of our fight. It is the beginning. The world is watching, and we will not stand idle. To the women, the immigrants, the workers, the LGBTQ+ community, the disenfranchised, the dreamers, and the doers: you are not alone. We see you, we stand with you, and we will not stop fighting for you. Together, we will reclaim democracy—not the sham they sell to you, but the living, breathing force that demands justice for all.

Today, they celebrated their victory. Tomorrow, we remind them that the people always have the final word.

No justice, no peace.

Their apartment is a mess. A sink full of unwashed dishes. Half-empty wine bottles scattered on the counter. The dining table, where Enjolras often works, is cluttered with paintbrushes and crumpled sketches. Enjolras stands in the doorway, his jaw clenched, arms crossed tightly across his chest. Grantaire lounges on the couch, a bottle of cheap wine dangling from his fingers, his eyes half-lidded but watchful.

Enjolras’s voice is low and tightly controlled, the calm before the storm.

“You said you’d clean up. Three days ago.”

Grantaire shrugs, taking a lazy sip from the bottle. “I’ve been busy.”

“Busy?” Enjolras snaps, stepping further into the room. “Busy doing what? Drinking? Painting half-finished canvases you won’t even look at tomorrow? Or was it your busy schedule of avoiding anything remotely meaningful?”

Grantaire smirks, but there’s a flicker of hurt in his eyes. “You’re one to talk. Is this about the dishes, or is this about my failure to meet your impossibly high standards again?”

Enjolras exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “This isn’t about standards. It’s about respect. For me, for yourself, for this—” He gestures broadly to the apartment, to the space they share. “I’m tired of being the only one who cares enough to try. You think this is just about the dishes? It’s not. It’s everything.”

“Everything,” Grantaire echoes mockingly. “Everything is such a big word, Enjolras. I didn’t know dirty plates were the collapse of our entire—what, relationship? Partnership? Whatever this is.” He waves his hand dismissively.

“That’s exactly it,” Enjolras fires back, his voice rising. “You treat everything like it’s a joke. Like nothing matters. I can’t keep carrying us both while you sit there, undermining everything I’m trying to build. Every time I look at you, I feel like I’m trying to pull you out of quicksand, and you just—won’t—move.”

Grantaire sits up straighter, his smirk vanishing. “Maybe I’m fine in the quicksand. Did you ever think of that? Maybe I don’t want to be dragged onto your pedestal of perfection, where nothing is ever good enough, where I’m just another failure in your eyes.”

Enjolras’s voice cracks, but his fury doesn’t waver. “You think this is about perfection? About me wanting to fix you? No, Grantaire. It’s about wanting to be with you, but you make it impossible. You hide behind your cynicism, your drinking, your—your endless excuses for why nothing can change. I can’t—I won’t live like this.”

Grantaire stands now, the wine bottle set down too hard on the coffee table. “You knew what I was when you picked me, Enjolras. Don’t stand there pretending I tricked you into thinking I was someone else. If you wanted a partner who could match your world-changing dreams, you should’ve gone for someone like Combeferre. Or Jehan. Or literally anyone who’s not a walking disappointment.”

“That’s not fair!” Enjolras shouts, the words finally breaking through his composure. “I chose you, Grantaire. I’ve always chosen you, despite—despite everything. But I can’t keep choosing you if you refuse to choose yourself. I don’t need you to be perfect. I don’t need you to agree with me or march in my rallies. But I need you to care about something. About us. About yourself.”

Grantaire falters, the weight of Enjolras’s words sinking in. He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come.

Enjolras’s voice softens but is no less firm. “I’m exhausted, R. I’m exhausted from fighting the world every day and then coming home to fight you, too. I need to know this is worth it. That we’re worth it. But I can’t be the only one trying anymore.”

The silence that follows is unbearable. Grantaire looks away, his jaw tightening, his fingers flexing like he wants to reach for Enjolras but doesn’t know how.

Finally, Enjolras shakes his head, his expression a mixture of heartbreak and resignation. “I can’t keep doing this.”

He turns and walks toward the door, grabbing his coat from the hook. Grantaire takes a step forward, his voice hoarse.

“Where are you going?”

Enjolras pauses, his back to Grantaire. “I don’t know. But I can’t be here right now.”

After four months of silence, Enjolras and Grantaire finally talk.