#lesamiscollective

There’s a harsh sleet-rain against the windows when the doorbell rings. Enjolras is caught on a rare moment of downtime, so he pulls a sweatshirt over jeans and rakes a hand through his hair for the mirror and the mailman.

Only there are two young women huddled by the gate. One is quite close while the other stands further off, hooded and bent over a phone, her fingers flicking despite the lighting.

The girl grips ornamented metal and looks profoundly relieved to see Enjolras. Her eyes are big -- no kidding, they take up a third of her face -- and blue, and earnest. Her fair hair is caught up in a hip bun loosened by the rain, and her green army jacket is soaked through. She looks familiar.

She confirms it: “Hi! We’ve met before? Listen, I -- we -- I forgot my keys, and Marius is still out. I was hoping you could maybe --”

The gorgeous pixie is Marius’ special friend, whom Enjolras once cut a key for. But he has no way of knowing if the relationship has changed since. For all he knows, they broke up and Marius rescinded the key, and the gleaming maid before him is trying to regain entry for purposes of revenge. It’s unlikely, but Enjolras can’t rule it out. He has certain duties as a landlord.

He folds his arms, and in time the woman behind snorts in the direction of her phone. The rain lashes down around her. “Told you he couldn’t let you in, Cosette. He’d be violating a dozen laws, as you damn well know. Let’s say thank you to the nice man and go wait in the bar around the corner.”

Cosette still has hold of the gate. “It’s only just that Marius is due at any moment,” she says, with an apologetic roll of her exceptional eyes as though Marius is often due. “If you could just let us in past the first door upstairs--”

“Listen,” says Enjolras, while the lady in the water huffs impatience audibly, “I’d love to help you guys out. I can’t let you up there, but you’re welcome to dry off in here until Marius comes back.”

He unlocks the gate, waits for Cosette to step free, then pushes it open; they crowd into the doorway, stamping wet shoes on his welcome mat. He hopes that Marius is actually coming back as the door swings shut, and he wishes that Grantaire were here, to make comfortable smalltalk and make the situation less strange.

The three of them stand awkwardly in the foyer. Then Cosette bustles forward, all fluttering, shaking hands. “Thanks so much. We won’t be in the way, it’s just awful out there. Thanks again--”

“It’s not a problem.” Enjolras retreats halfway down the hall to a linen closet, comes back with fluffy towels. It feels good to be adult and prepared enough to do that.

Cosette accepts a towel with a grateful, winning smile. The hooded woman has drifted in the direction of the nearest bookshelves.

She stands before the books, scanning over titles. “What’re you, I.T.?”

“Something like that,” agrees Enjolras, offering a towel, extra fluffy.

“We should talk.” She takes it, then pushes back the hood of her coat to reveal a cascade of cinnamon-colored hair. Her eyes are narrowed in an oval face sharp like a hawk’s, her skin a shade deeper than her hair. She has removed square glasses for cleaning from the rain, and holds towel, glasses, and phone balanced in one hand. “My name’s Musichetta.”

“Enjolras. Pleasure.” When he takes her free hand he swears she looks straight inside his brain and smiles. She lets go first.

“The pleasure’s mine, I assure you.” Her bold gaze transfers back to the books. “I’m always excited to meet someone who speaks my language.”

Cosette has her towel draped shawl-like across her shoulders. “Musichetta works with Marius,” she volunteers, cheerful, folding herself into the dialogue. “They blog all kinds of things about scary online crime syndicates and white knights of the interwebs. You should really read her articles.” She says it so innocently that Enjolras only detects the wry note at the end, the blink of blue eyes that are a touch too guileless. It is as though she teases on the subject often, and practices her best delivery.

“Cosette, hush, we shouldn’t bore him with shop talk.” Musichetta lifts her shapely shoulders in a shrug. “New York’s the only place in the world where people ask what you do before asking far more pressing questions.”

“Like what?” Enjolras asks, game, grinning back at his beaming guests.

Ten minutes later, turning from the three screens he has showing cable news and from the four oversize computer monitors, Enjolras texts back: you come here

Not much by way of answer, and he's rude about it. He feels frayed all over, all his ends unraveling. He feels flayed. His worst nightmares keep flashing across the world stage, across the screen. His country is in ruthless pursuit of a heroic man, the kind of man Enjolras would be, he tells himself, had he gained similar access, had he gone another route in the pursuit of the freedom of information. He admires Snowden, and is thrilled, and afraid for him.

He doesn't know if Grantaire will respond to such summons. He thinks he will be poor company, if Grantaire does. But after his bar shift Grantaire arrives at a time that has been traversed by them before. When the bell rings, Enjolras knows that it is Grantaire, it could be no one else, and it makes him blink tired eyes from the screen.

“Wow,” says Grantaire cheerfully, leaning against the gate, “I like the grunge look on you. Should I go get my bass so we can jam, or--”

Enjolras tugs him inside. There have been far more important events at hand than showering and dressing, and the ratty EFF shirt paired with pajama bottoms and the tousled hair he keeps pulling doesn't exactly make for a vision. But Grantaire's face had only shown eager approval upon the door swinging open, and Enjolras kisses him for it.

Usually they move quickly, kiss and grope and smash each other up against surfaces, wield tongues like weapons, push hands up under t-shirts and below belts. The sex is always good, is excellent, has stayed as frenzied as their first night, while broadening in experimentation and scope. He's had Grantaire in dozens of ways, and had Grantaire sleep beside him on as many nights. Usually there is no stopping them, once started.

But Enjolras keeps the kiss soft, and moves back before it deepens. He's exhausted past all definitions of the word, body and brain, and he doesn't have the energy or focus to execute the maneuvers that he wants. Isn't sure what he wants. Feels lost at sea, and on edge, and also like he's been falling off of it a while, in perpetual free-fall. His hands clench into the fabric of Grantaire's shirt for purchase.

“I'm tired,” he hears himself telling Grantaire. He tries to halt the words but they pour out like water from a cracked bowl. “I'm so tired.”

Grantaire's blue eyes are a better sea to be lost in. He looks worried, then decisive. “Hey,” he says, gently, like Enjolras is an wild animal that might startle and bolt. “That means it's bed-time. That sounds stellar. Shift tonight was brutal for me too. First the ice machine stopped working, and it's 95 degrees outside, which you may not have noted since it appears it's been a while since you've seen the sun. Then we got a bachelorette party in the bar – I'll spare you the details until morning, but I think there's still glitter in my hair so I apologize in advance to your pillows. Then --” and Grantaire has Enjolras' hand and is drawing them down the hallway as he chatters on about the night, an evening of mundane and human dramas, none of international security scope. Enjolras lets his brain go numb, lets himself be led, and Grantaire leads the way.

If he wonders at Enjolras' new profusion of monitors and flat-screen TVs Grantaire does not ask. He pauses them by the bed, keeping Enjolras turned away from his work-corner. Then Grantaire shimmies out of his jeans, strips off his t-shirt to drape across the back of a chair. His trim boxer-briefs are a bold, audaciously vibrant red. They look new.

Grantaire follows his gaze. “Red,” he says to Enjolras, only a touch sheepish. Mostly he looks pleased. “Reminded me of you. Should I leave them on or take them off?”

Enjolras is past exhaustion, past logic, and all he can think about then is that Grantaire has bought and worn red next to his skin because it reminds him of Enjolras. “Take them off,” Enjolras says. Not because he doesn't like the gesture. He does. He likes it a little too much. It's because he needs –

“I think that you should fuck me,” says Enjolras.

Grantaire goes quite still. “You think,” he repeats, “or you want me to? There's a difference.”

“I know,” says Enjolras. “Both.” He tries not to backpedal at the hesitation on Grantaire's face. “That is, if you--”

“Yeah,” says Grantaire. “Yeah, I do. But I --” he bites his lip in a manner that only heightens Enjolras' resolve. “You're tired, you said so yourself. You look like you haven't slept in days. After hours without sleep, the human brain is poor at decision-making. I want you to be sure. Not – not make a poor decision.”

In answer Enjolras tugs his old t-shirt up and off, steps out his pajama pants like it's easy being naked now around Grantaire, like it is. He and Grantaire have established a mutual appreciation society for each other's nakedness. What they've never done before is this. What he's never done before is--

“Never?” Grantaire repeats the word after Enjolras confesses it. Grantaire probably doesn't know how incredulous he looks, followed closely by profoundly flattered and something like afraid.

“Is that a problem?” asks Enjolras, taking the initiative since Grantaire still hasn't moved, moving to perch on the bed.

“No. But it's something that shouldn't be rushed.” Grantaire sits gingerly beside him, as though not to disturb the quilt. He shifts a warm hand onto Enjolras' knee. “Why now?”

Enjolras feels his lips become a line. He represses a shiver at the touch. “It's been a bad week,” he admits. It's strange to let another person hear about the parts of himself that are vulnerable. Even Combeferre hasn't been party to the depth of his current anxiety – and Combeferre is farther away than he's ever been. “I can't see its ending, is the problem. It could turn into a bad month, a bad year. I don't know.” He raises a fist and rubs at bleary eyes. “I need to not be in it. Even just a little while.”

Grantaire nods, silent, waiting, prompting. So Enjolras says, “I need to not be me, for once. I mean – I don't mean it like that, quite. I mean, I'm pretty set in my ways. I choose ways to do things and I do them. That's how I operate. I rarely if ever deviate from a set course, once I'm locked in. But – I – I –”

Grantaire is still nodding, this time with the weight of too much self-awareness: “Everyone needs to get outside of themselves, every now and then. Push boundaries. Break them.” He stops slumping, sitting up quite straight, and holds Enjolras' gaze. “Letting me fuck you lets you get away.”

It's almost a question, but there's no question mark. Enjolras doesn't drop the eye contact, and he, too, nods. Grantaire says, “Have you never wanted this before?”

Enjolras shrugs. He tells the truth. “It hasn’t been a high priority.” He hopes Grantaire will pick up on the suggestion that now it is.

“Did I make the daily checklist?” teases Grantaire, though he sounds delighted. Then his face falls serious, because Enjolras has leaned in to kiss him hard on the mouth. When he pulls back his teeth drag on Grantaire's lower lip.

“I'd like to do this,” says Enjolras. “And I'd like to do it with you.”

“Well,” says Grantaire. “Then.” He says well then like two distinct sentences, and euphoric agreement, and also like a prompt.

Enjolras goes to the middle of the bed. Then he goes to his hands and knees, then down to elbows. Grantaire moves with him, silent as they communicate without words, settling behind Enjolras. Grantaire drops down, covering Enjolras like a shadow, pressing a kiss below his ear and mouthing words into his skin.

“You can relax now,” Grantaire is saying, and repeating, in his soothing tenor. “You can just relax and let go. You can let go. I've got you.” And Enjolras begins to unbend and unknit and unknot beneath him --

“Enjolras, I have you--”

It's like nothing he's ever experienced or thought it would be or thought about. He's never had any of this happen before and he is worn thin and too tired, he tells himself, that is why he reacts to it the way he does. That is why he comes apart under Grantaire's hands and fingers and then his cock. That is why he unravels.

Grantaire's ministrations start slow and practiced and careful. He keeps his hands and teeth and tongue electric on Enjolras, ever-seeking new territory, and all of Enjolras’ body, every inch of skin, is fair game. Grantaire uses his mouth to map Enjolras, drawing lines and leaving dots and dashes, sweeping them from record with his tongue. He is a excellent cartographer.

His long sensitive fingers take so long to open him up that Enjolras is soon pushing back on them in a bid for friction. Enjolras' head hangs down between his shoulders and he's hard as fuck and panting for it now and Grantaire is proceeding like he's made of porcelain and wont to break. Enjolras squirms. It isn't enough.

“Grantaire—”

“I know. Are you--”

Enjolras wants to snap I was ready ten minutes ago but instead he says, “Actually, can you--” and Grantaire withdraws his hand at once, sits back on his heels.

“I'm good,” says Enjolras. “I didn't mean – I mean, I wanted.” He turns over onto his back, head coming to rest against the pillows and spread thighs suggesting the end of his impossible sentence.

Grantaire breathes; then he slides closer to Enjolras, tickles his upper thigh. “It's easier if you turn back around.”

“Did you just call me easy?” demands Enjolras, managing narrowed eyes above his quirked mouth. They grin together, and when Enjolras hooks a leg over Grantaire's lower back to hold him closer, Grantaire slides very close.

Enjolras sees the way Grantaire's face changes. He watches the moment that his expression becomes decided. Then Grantaire's hand slips between them and his hand is on his cock and he teases Enjolras with the head of it before entering him. He is large and slick and new, so new. Enjolras feels his jaw clench and his head go back and then all of him is arching up against Grantaire and he's sucking in air like coming up from underwater.

The muscles of Grantaire's arms flex from holding above Enjolras and not moving too far too fast. He eases in by increments, rolling his hips in minute circles to get Enjolras used to the sensation. Only Enjolras doesn't need to get used to it. He just needs it. He's known since they began that this is exactly what he needs.

All he can feel now is the stretch and burn of Grantaire inside him, Grantaire's blue eyes never leaving Enjolras' face. He watches for Enjolras' reaction and adjusts accordingly, so that if discomfort seizes Enjolras' cheek, Grantaire smooths it with his thumb and slows; and if Enjolras gasps, Grantaire rocks into him at the same angle, reigniting the spark.

“Talk to me,” Grantaire murmurs, halfway in. “If I'm hurting you don't let me. It shouldn't hurt.”

Enjolras can't say I'm good again because he doesn't know what he his, but it's better than good. He's something else. He's things he hasn't been before, he's open and trusting and exposed and this isn't what he thought it would be, isn't an escape from self, it's a plunge into the sides of himself never before indulged or recognized. How can he answer Grantaire, when the answer is I don't know what I am. Keep showing me.

Then he realizes that he's spoken it aloud, and he shuts his mouth.

Grantaire drops his head and kisses Enjolras while he thrusts, until at last they're fit together. Grantaire is too big and just right and he fills Enjolras to the exclusion of all else. Grantaire's tongue sweeps his teeth, Grantaire's fingers slip along his scalp and fist into his hair, and Grantaire is saying against his mouth, “You feel--”

“Don’t stop.” Enjolras means it both about Grantaire’s momentum and his description. He didn’t think it would be like this. He never knew it could be. He feels strange, and the new physicality introduced to him is only part of it. A big part, sure, but this is more than being fucked, this is more than fucking.

He thought the surrender would be in body alone, but the emotions that race through him are as new as Grantaire pulling out and pushing back in as soon as Enjolras asks him to, Grantaire not stopping. Now Grantaire doesn’t stop, though his pace is slow and easy and languorous, as though time is on their side.

The emotions that race through Enjolras as urgently as his heartbeat are these: he feels wanted, and treasured, and safe. He feels desired, and valued, and claimed. He feels loved.

That’s it. That’s the difference he never calculated or accounted for. They are not having sex. They are not fucking, the word he’d used with Grantaire to suggest this act. Grantaire makes love to him. Enjolras is made love to.

Enjolras doesn’t think people just fucking have the expression Grantaire has on his face, wonderment and concentration and intensity and fierce joy, and he thinks about what his own face must look like, his mouth open, a low noise escaping his throat when Grantaire’s cock hits deep. His hair is staticky from being pushed against the pillow, and his eyes are open; neither of them have looked away since Grantaire moved into place. People having casual sex don’t press their foreheads together and breathe the same air and groan in the same key, thinks Enjolras.

When Grantaire finds and sets a pace that makes Enjolras writhe to have more of him, he resumes talking, too, doesn’t stop. He says, “I’ve thought about this, you know. I’m human. It’s a failing. But Christ, I never thought --” He reaches to wrap his hand around Enjolras’ cock, eliciting another groan from Enjolras, and these sounds are new, too. “You feel so fucking good. Better...better than all my filthiest fantasies, and I’m really imaginative.”

Enjolras is too dazed to laugh or even smile for Grantaire: there’s too much happening in his head and with the rhythmic drive of Grantaire’s cock to do much anymore but put his head back and his arms and legs around Grantaire and hold on. He does that at least, tightening up everywhere, clinging to Grantaire and drawing him somehow still deeper. He hopes Grantaire gets the message.

Grantaire gets it. He picks up speed and surety as he moves. His eyes are so blue. Usually to Enjolras they are fathomless; he can never quite guess at Grantaire; but tonight he can only see himself reflected, knows he is all Grantaire can see. Whoever or whatever Grantaire was before they met, whatever he does in the hours now when they apart, right now for Grantaire there is nothing else but this, no one who matters more than Enjolras.

There is nothing else but this, no one who matters more than Grantaire.

Enjolras cries out as he comes, coming hard, so fucking hard, a new way, with Grantaire sparking him from the inside out. He seems to spill endlessly across his belly and Grantaire’s coaxing hand, and he’s still coming when Grantaire says his name, says Enjolras like he means it and joins him. Grantaire buries himself in Enjolras, locks them together, and comes on the second syllable of Enjolras’ name. They never close their eyes.

Grantaire’s lips brush Enjolras’ lips, hover by his cheek. “Wow,” he whispers, catching his breath.

“Wow,” agrees Enjolras. Wow is nondescript. It works.

“Let me--” Grantaire pulls carefully out of him, and all of the air in Enjolras’ lungs emerges as a hiss. “Did I--”

“No. I’m fine. I’m --” Fine isn’t the word. “Fine isn’t the word.”

He feels spent and glorious and more tired than he’s ever been, but the exhaustion isn’t bone-deep like earlier; he’s warm and relaxed and fucked-out and light-headed and flying.

“I’m really good,” says Enjolras, realizing that it’s the truth, repeating it as he reaches out to tug Grantaire back in. He keeps Grantaire atop him. “I’m really good.”

And Grantaire’s answering grin is almost as dazzling as what they’ve just done

(almost)

and Enjolras says, “Thanks to you,”

and Grantaire kisses him, and says, “I’m available most nights and weekends, you know, and can be reached at nine-one-seven two-eight-three, five five -- well. You have my number. Call for a good time. Call early and often. Call anytime. Call all the time. Call me may--”

and Enjolras pokes at him, and he finds that he’s able to laugh again, so he does, and Grantaire joins him, and they laugh themselves to sleep. In the morning, when Enjolras wakes up and rolls over, Grantaire is still smiling. The day dawns with promise and purpose.

The rant, atypical to Grantaire's usual sort, penetrates the red haze of Enjolras' attention. It's been so busy since the NSA data-mining disclosures that he'd nearly responded to the query of Grantaire's text with regret that he couldn't see him that night, or maybe even that week, or that year, however long it takes to make sense of Enjolras' greatest professional and philosophical nightmares made manifest.

Snowden's leak is everything he's ever feared and dreaded and expected, but to see it so exposed, and at such cost, has shaken him to the bone. He knows he won't sleep tonight, but it will be a measure of comfort to glimpse Grantaire asleep beside him. They're easy enough around each other after almost a month of dating that he knows Grantaire is more than capable of keeping himself entertained while Enjolras is still “on the clock.” And despite everything happening, he wants to see Grantaire. He doesn't over-analyze it. Grantaire is everything that is not online, is a respite from that. Only now they are intersecting.

He texted back that sure, Grantaire could come over, as though the sky weren't falling. And Grantaire had arrived and sprawled on Enjolras' bed and opened the laptop without a word, only a wave with a kiss blown across the room at the end of it; then he settled down to reading.

Usually Grantaire takes to humor and gossip blogs when he's online, seeming to delight in the idiocy of the celebrity industrial complex and other abject nonsense that confirms his cynicism; but not today.

Enjolras doesn't look up from his screen, positioned straight-backed at the desk, though he would like to. Grantaire fired up politically is one of his favorite sights, and he's a little surprised by the reaction to current events. “Oh?” he says, sounding out a neutral “oh,” as though he were neutral.

The “oh” at least indicates to Grantaire that he's listening, and can be momentarily distracted. He tells the amis IRC channel he's running some maintenance, then does so, but he's profoundly curious to hear Grantaire's feelings on the matter. Hearing him call Edward Snowden a hero sparks something warm and hopeful in Enjolras' chest.

“Don't you agree?” asks Grantaire. Enjolras can practically hear his eyes narrowing. “I mean, don't tell me you're one of those 'if you haven't done anything wrong, you have nothing to worry about' cowards. I won't believe you. Everyone's done something 'wrong' on the internet – it's the internet – and the scary thing is that the nature of what's 'wrong' can change on a dime. All it depends on is who's looking, who's making up the laws. We're supposed to trade all of our privacy, everything that's personal or that we shared with people we love, because somewhere there might be some terrorists plotting? There are always terrorists plotting. Why don't we work on the reasons why people hate America, instead of doing everything to make them hate us more? Unlawful wars, torture, drone strikes against innocent civilians--”

“I like to hear you talk like this,” says Enjolras, eyes still on-screen, but lips quirked. “Go on. Trust me, I'm definitely not on the 'let's trust the government to know what they're doing' side of things. I have yet to find a government that knows what it's doing, or does what it says it will do after elected, for that matter.”

“Thank God,” says Grantaire. “You never tell me much about your projects, but since you said you do some security consulting, I thought maybe you'd think this guy had violated some sacred programmer oath of conduct or something --”

“No.” Enjolras spins in his chair to face Grantaire on the bed. “There is nothing more important than blowing the whistle on lies, secrecy, corruption, overreach of authority – all of which apply in this case.”

Grantaire looks relieved. He exhales a deep breath, runs a hand through his hair, tugs on it absently. “I just feel so bad for the dude,” he says. “It's so unfair. It's a little like Occupy. Not – not a direct correlation, I mean. But it really screws me up to see all these young, idealistic people trying to fix the future, believing with all their hearts that solidarity and truth can win out over greed and fear, and then to have them stomped on, like cockroaches, like less than cockroaches. Edward Snowden literally sacrifices himself for what he believes will be a better world – at least a world where the secrets and lies he knew are exposed – and they're calling him a traitor, calling it treason. If they find him they're gonna lock him up and throw away the key, aren't they.”

Slowly, Enjolras nods. “I watched the interview and read the transcripts. He doesn't expect to ever be able to come home again. He says he's most frightened for his family.”

“It's so. Fucked. Up.” Grantaire flops back against the bed, kicks his foot, stares at the ceiling. “I wish les amis would do something.”

The chair is spinning, the room is spinning. Enjolras puts his hand to the desk before he can spin out of the chair. “What did you say?”

“Les amis. You know, those anarchist hackers who are always screwing with the system. They should get in on this.”

He doesn't know quite how to breathe or how to make a proper noise when breath emerges. Finally Enjolras says, “I'm sure it hasn't passed their notice.”

“Yeah, but are they going to do something?” asks Grantaire, as though they are having a perfectly normal rhetorical conversation about complete strangers. Anarchist hackers who are always screwing with the system. God, what must Enjolras' face look like? He wants to kiss Grantaire, and laugh and never stop laughing. It's what he's always wanted to hear. It's better than being nominated for the Nobel.

Grantaire pauses, like he's trying to decipher Enjolras' expression too. Then he shrugs, still in a one-sided, commonplace conversation about world news. “I never know what to think – I'm glad they're out there, sure. Some of their stuff comes across as a little cocky, like, who are they to mess around with foreign elections and things like that? That's nearly as bad as the CIA or the NSA meddling. 'We're terribly smart Westerners, we must know better than the peasants in third-world countries.'” Grantaire pulls a grimace. “But I get what they're doing, I really do – you don't have to look at me like I kicked your puppy, Enjolras.” Grantaire drops some of his Serious Face a gives a sideways grin. “This apartment could definitely benefit from a puppy, I might add, but that's neither here nor--”

“What would you want them to do?” Enjolras hears himself ask, as though from a distance. It's the most surreal interaction he's had with Grantaire, and after an extremely adventurous month in bed that's saying something.

“I don't know.” A moment's pause to think, then Grantaire's expression veers frustrated. “You taught me how to use Facebook and got me signed up for Instagram so that I never miss the warring stream of selfies from Ep and Courfeyrac, which I appreciate. But you know I still don't really get how this stuff works. I don't know what they can do.” His hand indicates the ancient laptop beside him. “But I guess, if I could hope for anything, it's that les amis won't let this just be another news-cycle, let this get swept under the rug, you know? By next week most people are going to be talking about Amanda Bynes again instead of Edward Snowden. And if the authorities haven't found him and hauled him back in chains by then, his life is still forfeit. It makes me so fucking mad. And sad. He'll probably never get to hold his girlfriend again, or have dinner with his family. Because he cared more about the rest of us than himself. I want les amis to keep talking about him. I want them to keep saying his name, so he won't be forgotten. No one ever forgets about les amis.”

Pride and frustration at having to hold his tongue are warring in Enjolras. For once he is almost completely at a loss. Then he says, “That's a good idea, Grantaire, and a humane one. I hope they will, too.” They will.