#orestesfasting

Grantaire had just been innocently doing his best to not at all deliberately get Enjolras riled up over Robespierre because his flushed cheeks as he gets more and more involved in the argument both make his stomach flip and may well be the only source of heat in the back room of the Musain at this time of year and now suddenly there's mistletoe.

For a split second before he catches himself and feigns amusement, Grantaire looks hopeful. Things have been good between him and Enjolras lately, after all. More than good. More than he ever dared dream outside of eyes-squeezed-shut late nights and frantic, furtive bathroom breaks. He didn't let himself think about it when he suddenly wasn't staring anymore and Enjolras was looking back, or when he gestured accusingly and Enjolras caught his hand, or when the end of every meeting turned from a stiff make sure he gets home tonight to come on, mon ami, let's get you home safely, or when their mouths finally met for the first time and the second and the third and the fourth and-

"Excuse me. I have a few things to discuss with Combeferre before the end of the meeting," Enjolras says sharply, and his cheeks are redder than ever as he turns away and things have been good between them, but not that good, never that good. They'll kiss alone until Grantaire can't taste the alcohol on his own breath anymore and how could he ever begin to be ungrateful for that? But there's a but there somewhere that he doesn't want to dwell on.

"I need a smoke," he mumbles, handing Jehan his half-empty beer bottle so he can look at that with his barely-disguised pity instead (he knows it's sympathy, he knows, but he doesn't want that either).

It's freezing outside the Musain, but at least there's no mistletoe - he checked. No obligation for anyone to be with him at all and so what if light-hearted chatter is a pleasanter sound than the sear of a solitary cigarette burning away between fingertips? So what so what so what.

He hears the door swing open and then shut but can't force himself to look up until Enjolras is clasping his chilled hand in his warm one and urging him away from the window. He cups icy cheeks and their mouths meet and Grantaire drops his cigarette and forgets to breathe. He drinks him in faster than any dream.

"Hey," Enjolras whispers, lips still just brushing his. "I'm sorry. I just couldn't, not with them all there."

"Je sais, je sais. It's okay."

The warmth of his breath and the warmth of the room they walked out of are not the same, not even a little bit, not even at all, but how can he begrudge that when he's standing out here with Enjolras, being held by him and kissed by him like this, and it doesn't matter that he'd trade three minutes out here with him for a self-conscious press of nervous lips in there without hesitation. It doesn't matter and Grantaire doesn't ask when this will be normal and comfortable enough to be told to them. He doesn't want to know.

*

It's Saturday and Grantaire's still nursing a hangover when Enjolras calls.

"Come round, ça va?"

"What, now?"

"Oui, now. No rush, but now."

He's there within the hour, smiling despite himself at the easiness with which Enjolras pulls him inside before he even has a chance to take his gloves off.

"You said no rush," Grantaire teases, letting himself be led into the living room anyway.

Enjolras stands in front of him in the middle of the room, wearing a knowing smile that would have irritated Grantaire just a few months ago, catalysed a mocking comment that would have had them arguing for days. But not now, with the way everything about Enjolras is soft in the weak winter sunlight streaming through the living room window, with the way he looks human, still sleep-pliant in comfortable stay-at-home clothes. He's raising his eyebrows, casting his eyes up to the ceiling and Grantaire follows his gaze automatically.

Mistletoe.

"Oh," Grantaire breathes, and then Enjolras leans in to kiss him and he's still wearing his gloves. He has to pull away to laugh after just a too-short second because otherwise the tears in his eyes might be mistaken for crying. "Come on, Enjolras, don't humour me like that, you don't have to... Merci, merci, but you don't-"

Enjolras takes his gloved hands in his own and kisses him to stem the terror. He's never done anything like this for him before.

*

Grantaire can't sleep that night. Even though Enjolras is curled up beside him, their limbs entangled and his hair sprawled out across his pillow; even though they're breathing in time with each other and every time Grantaire breathes in he can smell him and if he can't, he can simply tilt his head ever so slightly to the side and breathe him in and feel the warmth radiating from his body, which is firm and solid against his even in sleep; even though this is everything he's ever wanted, he can't sleep.

His hands are shaking and there's a kind of empty nausea writhing in his stomach; a bead of sweat trickles down the back of his neck even though his skin feels cool against Enjolras'. He needs a drink.

He needs a drink and Enjolras doesn't need him, not like this. Grantaire couldn't stand his anger now, and definitely not his disappointment, so he slowly slips his limbs from his and slides out of bed as smoothly as he can. He lingers a moment in the doorway, swaying hesitantly, his gaze ghosting the soft rise and fall of Enjolras' chest. He's colder now without his arms around him.

And then he's hastily tugging on layer after layer of discarded clothes and creeping from his flat as though he was never meant to be there in the first place, and maybe he wasn't. He can't say he believes in superstition, but if this isn't a sign then it's a failing on his part and there are too many of those to carry out of this door and into the darkest part of the night already.

The streets are freezing and his flat isn't any better, pitch-black, all stale air and unlit Christmas lights. Grantaire doesn't bother turning any light on, just swipes a bottle of whiskey off the kitchen side and takes a long, burning mouthful as he crawls into bed, shoes still on, the covers pulled over his head until it's so stifling that he can't breathe, the closest he's ever felt to certain security.

He shouldn't have left. His pillows smell like Enjolras (when did he learn what he smells like?) and he shouldn't have left (when did the fabric of his flat learn what he smells like?). He wrestles with the covers, with the half-empty bottle cradled in his arm, until he can pat his pockets for his phone but it's not there. He can picture it very clearly on the arm of Enjolras' sofa, where he placed it after replying to a text from Bossuet.

The tears swell in his eyes more out of frustration than sadness - the misery he's used to, it's this trying for once and still failing that feels like it might just finish him. He shouldn't have left and now he can't text to apologise and even if there was time to get back to him before Enjolras woke up and grew suspicious, no excuse would work because he didn't take his phone.

Better not to try.

He squeezes his eyes shut tight and tenses all his muscles up until he can't hold himself together anymore and there's nothing to do but relax in body if not in mind and keep his eyes closed as though that could keep all these terrors, these tremors of thoughts out until sleep finally, finally overwhelms him.

*

Enjolras appears mid-morning, letting himself in with the spare key Grantaire keeps in plain sight in the pot of the bedraggled plant beside his front door. The smell of alcohol is strong before he's even stepped fully into the bedroom and he sighs as though he should have known. It's his phone being tossed onto the bed beside him that startles Grantaire awake.

"I looked for you everywhere," Enjolras says icily, as Grantaire struggles to sit up, groaning and making a desperate dive for the empty bottle as it tilts dangerously over the side of the bed. "I thought something terrible had happened to you because you'd left your phone behind and I-" He cuts himself off, pressing his lips together. "I'll see you later," he finishes curtly and, before Grantaire can form fumbling words of protest, he's left the room, shutting the door sharply behind him.

If Grantaire hadn't buried his face back in his pillow with a dry sob the moment the door had slammed, he would see Enjolras hesitate in the hallway outside, closing his eyes, his mouth twisting the only sign of internal debate. He'd see him sigh again and, shaking his head, turn away from the front door and head into the living room to settle himself down on the sofa, elbows propped on knees, hands buried in his hair, to wait.

Grantaire sees him an hour later when he finally crawls out of bed and heads into the kitchen in search of a glass of water. He walks straight past him at first, does a double take with widening eyes and stumbles as he realises who it is. Enjolras gets to his feet, jaw set.

"You're still here?" Grantaire whispers uncertainly. His hand hesitates in front of him, as though in need of confirmation that the man standing there isn't an illusion, the lingering remnants of a vivid dream.

"Oui," Enjolras replies.

There's a long silence in which they look at each other.

*

They finally settle down together on either end of the sofa. Grantaire darted into the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth while Enjolras made two mugs of coffee.

"Why did you leave?" Enjolras asks quietly, as Grantaire tries to disguise the way his first sip of coffee scalds his tongue.

"Oh, tu sais..." Grantaire says dismissively, adopting a crooked smile and twinkling eyes, as though they both know the answer but coyness is the obvious way to avoid saying it.

Enjolras makes it clear that he's not playing along by shaking his head and setting his mug down on the coffee table in front of the sofa.

"Grantaire," he says sternly.

The light leaves Grantaire's eyes. He cradles his mug between his hands and stares down into it.

He doesn't see Enjolras' expression soften, or the way he moves as to reach out for him, only faltering and curling his fingers back into the palm of his hand at the last moment.

"Merry Christmas - you get my problems," Grantaire says, but his tone comes out more bitter defeat than self-deprecating joviality and then it's almost like he collapses into himself, shoulders slumping as he presses a shaking hand over his face so Enjolras won't see the way that his carefully fixed ironic expression crumbles but Enjolras is already reaching out to ease his mug away and set it safely on the coffee table beside his own and then he's wrapping his arms tightly around him and pulling him to him with a fierce affection that only makes Grantaire cry harder.

*

They talk for a long time once Grantaire has quietened enough to be drawn to the corner of the sofa so they can curl up together, Enjolras' hand alternatively smoothing soothing circles into his back and gently untangling his curls while Grantaire's hand curls into a fist around the material of his shirt.

He speaks aloud for the first time about how unhappy he is. He fights through tears and tells Enjolras how he felt last night, why he left, what he did when he got home. Enjolras' arms around him tighten.

"I'm not here to fix you," Enjolras mumbles into his hair, as soft and solid as any human but no marble statue. "I can't." He presses a kiss to his hair. "But I'm here. As much as I can be, I'm here for you."

*

The afternoon is brighter. Enjolras brushes each and every tear away with the pads of his thumbs and cups Grantaire's face in his hand to kiss his forehead.

Then they take a walk, gloved hand in hand, and the crisp air does something to clear Grantaire's head and Enjolras' heart.

They laugh together, trying to fit round each other in the kitchen to cook dinner and then, once the food is eaten and the plates are cleared and the Christmas lights have been lit, Enjolras turns to Grantaire and places the first of many kisses that night on his lips.

They spend the night together in bed, Enjolras' hands pressed against Grantaire's bare skin, each kiss reverential, each whisper a promise.

It's not a solution; it's a starting point.

*

The relief Enjolras feels to find Grantaire there in the kitchen after reaching out and finding cold, empty bedsheets beside him for the second morning in a row is evident in the malleability of his body melting against him from behind as he circles his waist with his arms and plants a lazy kiss on his shoulder.

"What are you making?" he murmurs, voice still husky from sleep, and Grantaire can't help but stop to twist in his arms and kiss him properly.

"Trying to make," he corrects, turning back to the food. "Pancakes," he clarifies. "But there's grapefruit in the fridge, just in case."

"Leave the food for a minute," Enjolras says, laughter in his voice.

He takes Grantaire by the hand and they leave the food for a while and curl up back in bed together.