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Through the gaps in the blinds, the sky is growing pale. It is late or early and the world smells of Enjolras, his laundry detergent, his distinctive Enjolras-y scent. With his mouth otherwise unoccupied, Grantaire cannot stop himself from singing beneath his breath: There are many things that I would like to say to you, but I don't know how… Because maybe… You're gonna be the one that saves me…
"So very you," Enjolras says again.
Fair enough. There are worse songs, after all.
In the spirit of Barricade Day I finally found the motivation to finish a draft which was originally going to be part of this Valjean-saves-Javert oneshot I posted a few months ago, and I have decided to post it as a second chapter. I am actually working on a third right now but I don't know if or when it will ever be done lol
I added this to the collection on AO3 since the second chapter is being posted for Barricade Day 2026 but if for some reason that is a problem let me know and I will remove it! (but the post on tumblr says reposts are welcome for visibility so I think it should be fine?)
Please enjoy some Jean Valjean angst and Happy Barricade Day!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
He simply could not understand it. Javert was not letting him go; that was an impossibility. It was not within the man’s capabilities. It was not in his character. It was not among the list of things that he knew how to do. Javert was France’s most well-trained hunting dog. He did not give up the scent. He would not.
Yet he had left. A frown was etched deep into Jean Valjean’s face, and a moment later, he was wide awake.
.
A thoroughly deep examination into the thought process it would realistically take for brick!Valjean to follow Javert to the Seine that night.
This fixation of Grantaire's is a years-old bruise, one he keeps alive with every step he takes to share Enjolras' space and every comment he makes within it; with every countless drunken, aching hour spent in attempt to catalogue that perfect face in pencil and charcoal and his finest oil paints. Time and again he has laid its features to paper or canvas – and as he admires it now, he cannot shake the feeling that something is different.
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It was true, Cosette allowed, that he was nothing at all like the beautiful young man from the Luxembourg, but she must not judge him unkindly for that. The world was full of young men, and it would be quite tedious if all the handsome ones were handsome in the same way.
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.”
Grantaire discovers self-restraint. Enjolras is not sure how to handle that.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Hi everyone! Surprise! I'm alive! I thought as a late birthday present to myself I would finally update this baby. Sorry for the wait, and thank you to everyone who's still reading! I hope you enjoy, there's an excerpt below:
Enjolras wakes up slowly and is aware of two things. 1. That his neck hurts, and 2. That something smells good. He blinks a few times, trying to wake up, and realizes that the reason his neck hurts is because he’s sleeping sitting up, and his head is tilted all the way to the side. The thing it’s resting on is what smells good. Kind of herbal? But herbal in the way that some shampoo is “herbal.” And the thing that smells so good is Grantaire’s shoulder.Â
It’s this last point that makes him wake up completely and lift his head- slowly, since he doesn’t want to headbutt Grantaire. He turns to look at him. R is asleep, mouth slightly open (which shouldn’t be as endearing as it is) and still holding the copy of The Winter’s Tale.Â
“Morning sleeping beauty,” says a voice from the other side of the bed, and Enjolras yelps a little. “Sorry!” Courf looks like he’s trying not to laugh. “Sorry, sorry, I thought you knew I was there.” Enjolras can feel the flush crawling up his face and hopes desperately that the oxygen mask hides it. Courf just saw him staring at R. Which- doesn’t actually mean anything, but Courf will make it mean something. He wouldn’t have studied R so openly if he’d known they weren’t alone. He sets that thought aside to consider later, when he is alone.Â
“Have a good nap?” asks Courf, with a tone of barely concealed smugness.Â
“Fine,” Enjolras says as evenly as he can. He slides the mask down his face again, ignoring Courfeyrac’s noise of protestation. “My neck hurts now, though.” Courf makes a suggestive noise. “How would you even make an innuendo out of that?!”
Courf laughs, “How do you even know I was thinking that?”
“Because I know you.”Â
Courf cackles, and then peers around Enjolras to Grantaire, who’s still sleeping. “Damn he sleeps like a rock. We’re loud.”
“You’re loud.”Â
“Damn okay.” Courf keeps talking before he can worry about being so rude. “The others have all stepped out to discuss things with Javert. He’s pretty sure you despise him.”Â
“He’s correct.”Â
“Yeah no shit. But he seems to think that you might actually consider his proposal, so right now they’re talking about how best to make you do that.”
