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Grantaire is scrolling through news at the kitchen table waiting for his leftovers to cool when Enjolras arrives home from work. It’s not a particularly outrageous time today, and he brushes an obligatory kiss against Grantaire’s hair in passing as he heads to the kitchen, murmuring a quick “Good evening” as he goes.
Glancing up to return the empty platitudes, Grantaire finds his eyes catching on his husband. There’s something unusual, something very definitely different that he can’t quite put his finger on…
Oh.
“How was your day?” Enjolras prompts, pulling out a plate from the cupboard and nudging the refrigerator door open with a socked foot.
He hasn’t even noticed yet. Grantaire wishes he felt surprised.
“E.”
“Hm?”
“Look at me.”
The flurry of motion stops as Enjolras, for the first time since entering their flat, comes to a standstill and does as told. “Something the matter?”
“Notice anything different?”
Enjolras’s brow furrows as his eyes trace over Grantaire, and Grantaire counts one, two, three times that he is looked up and down before his husband’s eyes widen. “Your wings…”
“I can’t see yours either.”
Nausea threatens to overtake him at the confirmation that this isn’t just some fluke or his eyes playing tricks on him. It happens, of course: there are plenty of records of soulmates losing their ability to see their partner’s wings. The thing is, it isn’t a thing that happens to happy couples. It happens to couples who have fallen out of love, who are no longer compatible—
Couples who are no longer soulmates.
“Well, I guess I’ll, um.” His chair squeaks against the tile floor as he stands, hating the way his voice shakes. “Bahorel should know a good lawyer, eh? No need to get any of your colleagues in the middle of this.”
“Grantaire, what are you talking about?”
An incredulous laugh escapes him, and he forces his hands into his front pockets to hide their trembling. “We can’t see each other’s wings, Enjolras, what do you think I’m talking about?”
“You...you want to divorce, just like that? Six years, and the only thing holding us together was a scientifically inexplicable mirage?”
Combeferre would box Enjolras’s ears for saying such a thing, no doubt, but Grantaire can register that there are slightly more pressing matters at hand. “It’s correlation and causation,” he explains, exasperation coloring his tone. “Our marriage isn’t functionally moot because we’re not wing-bound, our wings disappeared because we’re not compatible anymore.” He shakes his head, pinching at the bridge of his nose in a vain attempt to stay a headache and hide the tears beginning to well in the corner of his eyes. “It’s been a long time coming, I’d just hoped—”
“‘Long time coming’?” Enjolras repeats, moving to the chair opposite Grantaire’s and taking a seat. “I don’t understand. Can we—can you please sit down so we can talk about this?”
Case and point: ‘sitting’ and ‘talking’ are the last things Grantaire wants to do right now. He wants to call Musichetta. He wants to go for a run blasting music too loudly to think and not look back. He wants to get absolutely off of his face and check out from his brain for a couple of years.
He sits.
It doesn’t mean he has to be happy about it, though, and Grantaire does what he can to make sure that his displeasure is evident, crossing his arms and looking pointedly out the window across the room as he grumbles, “Not sure there’s much to talk about.”
(and maybe the lack of eye-contact is more for his own benefit than Enjolras’s)
“You don’t think we’re compatible.”
“The wings sure as shit don’t.”
“And our marriage? The life we’ve built together?”
His shoulders give a helpless shrug as Grantaire’s eyes flicker to Enjolras’s crumpled expression then past it to the too-clean surface of their fridge, three neat rows of green sticky-notes lining the overhead freezer with sanitized reminders. “What about it?”
“Doesn’t it mean anything to you? You don’t even want to try?”
“I don’t—” He can’t not look at Enjolras for this, and his heart plummets to his stomach at the sheer sincerity he finds when he forces himself to do so. Something biting and cruel had been poised on the tip of his tongue before, but now he makes himself swallow it back. “I don’t want to be one of those couples who stays together and is dead inside.”
His own parents had done that the day that they stopped seeing each other’s wings, a daily farce in separate beds and pretending to be able to stand one another, sneaking long strings of partners in and out of the house until Grantaire’s mother found her new soulmates and ran off with them. He can’t be his parents—he won’t.
“Well I don’t want to give up that easily.” Enjolras’s hands press into his forehead the way they do when he’s feeling overwhelmed; the tell clenches at Grantaire’s heart in its sheer intimate familiarity. “God, when did this even start? How did we let it get this bad?”
The bitterness comes easily. “I mean, it’s not like you’re exactly around.”
His husband’s eyes flicker back up, burning with an intensity that Grantaire hasn’t seen in years. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly what I said.” Leaning back in his chair with still-crossed arms, he shrugs. “You leave for work while I’m still in the shower, and half the time you’re not back until I’m already in bed. Or if I do go out, you’re asleep by the time I get home.”
Grantaire can practically see Enjolras counting backwards and can definitely hear the intentional evening of his breath before the man removes his hands from his head and places them on the table. Lawyer-time. “It sounds like this is something that has been on your mind for some time, then.”
Miscalculation: therapy-time. Harder to dance around, way less sexy. “You could say that.”
Another deep and visible breath. “I’m hearing you say that you feel that I do not dedicate enough time to you.”
“You didn’t even notice my lack of wings until I made you.”
“I’d like to point out that you’re not using I-statements.”
“And I’d like to point out that I fucking hate when you baby me like this.”
“I’m not babying you.” Enjolras’s frustration is finally starting to show, and it’s probably not healthy that Grantaire feels better for seeing the cracks in his husband’s cool visage. “I’m trying to have a productive conversation with you without barbs and personal attacks clouding the message—which is evidently that the way I’ve been behaving has been very hurtful to you.”
“Well yeah.”
“So let’s try to fix that.” Enjolras With A Plan is back, and it’d almost be comforting if something about it didn’t feel so stale and utterly beside the point. “Here, we can do a date night tonight: it’s only 5—”
“It’s quarter to 7.”
The confidence flags. “That’s still plenty of time to do something together.”
“On a Wednesday,” Grantaire dryly reminds him. “You have work tomorrow.” And a meeting.
“What is it Joly always says? ‘Any night can be a date night.’”
They do say that, but the words ring oddly hollow when Joly uses them as an excuse to indulge their partners and Enjolras is using them to try to hot glue their marriage. “Fine.”
“Have you—or rather…” Enjolras glances meaningfully down at the tupperware of pasta between them. “Would you mind if we ordered something in?”
The question is painfully earnest, and when all is said and done Grantaire doesn’t want to give up yet. “Okay.”
It’s almost entirely worth it just for the way Enjolras’s face lights up as he jumps to his feet and starts toward the door, reaching into the pocket of the coat he’d hung up when he’d gotten home. “I know just the place—” he announces proudly as he taps his phone a couple of times, screen illuminating his face as he holds it up to his ear before frowning. “It says the number is disconnected.”
“Where did you call?”
“Brass Tacks. I know they’re your favorite.”
“Brass Tacks closed up shop two years ago,” Grantaire informs him. “Nia had to go look after her grandpa.”
“Two ye—that can’t be right. We just…” Enjolras’s brow furrows as he does the math that Grantaire already knows.
“Two years,” Grantaire repeats with a solemn nod, trying hard to keep the salinity out of his tone.
“No matter,” says Enjolras in the bright tone he uses when he’s shrugging off a setback. “How about we order tiramisu from that café we—”
“Caffeine isn’t good with my meds.”
“Right. I knew that.” The eagerness that had been there earlier wanes with each new obstruction, and Grantaire wants them to work, but there’s a certain guilty satisfaction in having basically every grievance he’s bottled up over the past several months validated. “Oh, I know! I got a bottle of wine a while back for us to enjoy on a special occasion, it’s that vintage you liked when we visited my parents. We could heat up some leftovers and…”
The suggestion trails off at Grantaire’s expression, though he’s not sure what kind of face he’s making right now. The other gaffs had been the product of absentmindedness, Grantaire is sure, but something about this one hollows his chest and aches in his bones. “I’m seven months sober.”
“Oh.” A moment passes that the only sounds in the apartment are the sounds of the street far below them and Enjolras’s audible gulp. “Did you tell me that?”
“I did.”
“I see.” He blinks at the floor. “I see.”
In the end they order pizza.
It’s supposed to be a thing they’re doing together, so after Enjolras has showered and changed and the pizza has arrived they sit at the table. They haven’t ordered delivery together in a long time, and on the rare occasions that they do it’s usually enjoyed in the living room while one of them binges a show and the other reads or plays on his phone.
Tonight, they watch each other chew in awkward slow-motion.
“This is good,” Enjolras volunteers. “Where did you order from?”
If this was a first date Grantaire would already be texting Éponine for an excuse to leave. “This place Joly and Bossuet showed me. It’s around the corner from the Greek pop-up, by the giraffe-looking sculpture?”
The way Enjolras blinks indicates that he is unfamiliar with either of these landmarks.
“Anyway, yeah, it’s uh. I thought you might like it.” He can’t think of a single worthwhile thing to add, and yammering away like he might do otherwise seems unwise given the present circumstances, so he takes an overlarge bite of pizza to avoid doing so.
“How is Floréal these days? I haven’t heard you mention her in a while.”
He takes his time chewing before he finally swallows, washing it back with seltzer. “Her funeral was three weeks ago.”
The stricken tightening of Enjolras’s mouth indicates that he was probably unaware that she had been sick at all. “I’m so sorry. Did you…”
“Yeah. It was…I mean, yeah. Fuck cancer, right?” The edge of his linen napkin is coarse between his thumb and forefinger, and the awkward silence is back. “So, uh. You were out late Monday. Something happen?”
“Just, er. Work. The case we’re working on, it’s very…it’s taking a lot out of us. Very exhausting.”
He can tell Enjolras would probably like to say more about it, but shortly after he’d started his job at the firm a very staunch ‘No Shop-Talk’ policy had been implemented in their apartment that encompasses both Enjolras’s legal work and his club. It’s been a relief over the past three years to be able to rely on a degree of mundanity to their discussions at home, but it does mean that it can be difficult to actually have a conversation with his husband after a certain point.
“I—hm.” The white and blue checkered pattern of Enjolras’s napkin is nearly hypnotic as it works between his hands before being deposited politely beside his plate. “Seven months?”
Ah. Grantaire should have known this was going to come up. “Mmhm,” he hums through yet another sudden too-large bite of food. He’ll be lucky if he can ever look at a slice of pizza without wanting to gag after tonight.
“Can I ask what brought that on? I hadn’t...I thought you’d gotten things more or less under control.”
Mastication, unfortunately, only buys him so much time before he does eventually have to answer. “Right, I did, but then I had a lot of time on my hands when I lost my job, and things got a bit less of the ‘more’ and more of the ‘less’ as far as ‘control’ goes.” His husband visibly pales, and Grantaire continues. “I didn’t tell you about the job, no worries, it was…you were busy and stressed with other stuff, I didn’t think it’d help.”
“The start-up fell through?”
“More like sold out,” he scoffs. “We were doing really well, then a bigger company picked us up and contracted our jobs out to cheaper hands.” He uses his napkin to dab the grease from around his mouth, taking the time to wring some of the bitterness from his voice (though he is definitely still bitter). “We got compensation, and I’m doing IT for a place now, but...there were a couple of weeks that I wasn’t doing so hot. But now I am, So.”
‘So’ doesn’t seem to be enough to placate Enjolras. “I wish you’d told me,” he whispers.
Grantaire’s eyes drop to the crust on his plate. “I’m sorry.”
Enjolras falls back in his chair with an exhausted sigh, the heels of his hands rubbing in his eyes. “We really have bollocksed it all up, haven’t we?”
There isn’t a single answer Grantaire can think of that would help, so instead he nods.
—
Grantaire doesn’t want to be here. He intensely doesn’t want to be here.
Enjolras had rolled over that morning with this smoldering tiredness, though, and when his husband had kissed Grantaire’s knuckles with all of the tenderness that he’s been missing for months and whispered into his wrist to ask if he’d please show up, Grantaire could hardly say ‘no'—
So now Grantaire is at his first Social Justice Warrior meeting in years, and it hurts how awkward it is.
He’s sitting in the back with Bossuet and Joly, because of course they still attend these things; most of their friends do, actually, something Grantaire hadn’t realized until he’d showed five minutes before their start time with a blueberry smoothie and a smushed nutrigrain bar. They’ve betrayed him, all of them: Éponine, former co back-corner occupier, now sits in the second row and seems to be in charge of her own division of labor and dedicated activists; Jehan has fallen in with eir own kin, Feuilly is running a coinciding meeting for younger members (which Joly and Bossuet are evidently currently neglecting), and Bahorel is off doing ‘exploratory scouting’ tonight, whatever that means. Combeferre and Courfeyrac are, predictably, still up front with Enjolras, but of all the differences, perhaps the most peculiar is that Enjolras is no longer leading.
Oh, he facilitates, making sure that the agenda continues chugging along, and his name still has ‘president’ in front of it on their paperwork, but for the most part his role seems to have shifted to one of suggesting new turns to the discussion and volunteering members with relevant ideas to share. Gone is the red-coated leader of the revolution, and in his place sits a mild university professor in a course where discussion is half of the grade and the curriculum is made up as they go. It’s unbearably hot for reasons Grantaire has no interest in dwelling on right now.
Instead, he very pointedly tries to focus on remembering the names of the people Joly and Bossuet introduce him to, what their poker faces look like, and not how he’s only so accustomed to sitting in the back of the room because Enjolras’s wings used to sweep so wide and so suddenly in his fits of passion that Grantaire would drunkenly topple backward out of his seat. The room is packed, but the spot near the door that his husband occupies seems to him unbearably empty.
Before he knows it, the meeting is closing and Grantaire is being swarmed by those few in attendance who remember him—which is fine, because Enjolras seems to be in the same sort of predicament with stragglers asking follow-up questions and division leaders conferring with him over…uh, justice, probably. Maybe sewing patterns and color swatches, they might be branching out.
It’s nice being with The Gang again without any sort of higher purpose in their gathering. He earns a punch to the bicep from Éponine for having been away for so long that he knows is getting off light compared to if Bahorel were here, and even though he saw Jehan last weekend ey hug him tightly enough that Grantaire has to tap out for air after a few seconds. Combeferre and Courfeyrac are handling their own minions and responsibilities up with Enjolras, but Courfeyrac shoots him a devastatingly charming grin when he looks over, and Combeferre gives him a warm nod that crinkles at the corners of his eyes.
The room is finally starting to clear out when Grantaire sees it: some punkass boat-shoed silver-spooned bitch who is definitely flirting with his husband.
Back when he’d first met Enjolras and had still been convinced that there was some sort of cosmic mistake in his being able to see the leader’s wings, Grantaire could hardly blame the scores of admirers for shooting their shot—he certainly would have were he remotely capable of coherent thought around his future-husband. They’ve come a long way since then, and it had become almost funny to watch Enjolras unknowingly brush off suitors and see them sulk away with their tails between their legs.
Tonight, however, it lights a fire in Grantaire that he hasn’t felt in a long time, and sooner than he can fully parse what he’s doing he is already pushing through the now-sparse crowd that stands between them.
“Oh, Grantaire, this is—”
Before he can find out anything about the tart, the philanderer, chatting up his husband, Grantaire’s lips are crashing into Enjolras’s in a rough motion that quickly shifts to tender before settling on a burning something that probably isn’t suitable for polite company. With great reluctance Grantaire does pull away, surprised (and satisfied) when he sees Enjolras leaning to chase his lips with hooded lids.
“Right, um,” Enjolras recovers, clearing his throat and gesturing back toward the smarmy wanker who’d been so openly eye-fucking Grantaire’s professorly buttoned-up husband right in front of him. The fucking flirt looks gratifyingly irritated, which seems to go right over Enjolras’s head. “Grantaire, this is Stephan, he’s interning with us this term. Stephan, this is my husband, Grantaire.”
“Grantaire,” Stampede repeats, offering a hand and a plastered smile as Grantaire wraps an arm around Enjolras’s waist, threading it cautiously through wings that are no longer there but that he’d know the placement of in death, at the end of the world. “I think I’ve heard Enjolras mention you before.”
“No doubt, though I’m afraid I can’t say the same for you,” he smiles much more sincerely, shaking the hand with a firm grip. Éponine is definitely glaring at him, but Courfeyrac is quietly dying behind Steamroller, and even Combeferre seems to be suppressing an amused smile.
Now that the situation has been made clear to Spool he appears to change tact. “I can’t recall ever hearing about a husband, though.” Staircase is evidently under the impression that if he accompanies the comment with a scandalized look and a laugh this’ll go down easy. The stiffening of his husband beside him disagrees.
“Oh, well I’m sure—”
“E’s professional like that,” Grantaire informs Sphere with a wink, “along with good-looking, charismatic, intelligent, and well-cultured. You know, a really popular wing theory that’s been picking up traction in the academic community lately is that opposites attract, and Stove, in a worldline that Enjolras and I weren’t married, I honestly think you’d be perfect for each other.”
Well, Éponine’s not glaring anymore.
Before enough time passes to put Enjolras in the uncomfortable position of having to react Grantaire turns them toward the exit, politely offering the room a two-finger wave of goodbye instead of the much more satisfying one-finger parting gift he feels he is entitled to. He allows Enjolras to walk ahead of him down the narrow stairwell, reluctant though he is to have to remove his arm from his husband’s waist. They move without talking even once they’re outside and loading into Grantaire’s sedan.
The engine roves when he turns the key in the ignition and leans back to let the cab begin filling with hot air.
“So what was that about?”
Enjolras’s tone isn’t accusatory, and Grantaire doesn’t regret his actions per se, but he’s never known his husband to be particularly fond of theatrics where diplomacy will do. (Diplomacy wouldn’t have done, but that’s between Grantaire and Springer.) “I didn’t like him.”
“Well yes, I gathered, but why?”
A guilty shrug. “I didn’t like seeing him flirt with you.”
There’s a long pause before Enjolras says, “Combeferre’s probably going to send you flowers. Even with your newly invented-branch of wing theory.”
“Combeferre?” Grantaire twists in his seat to face his husband. “Why Combeferre?”
A grin cracks at the corner of Enjolras’s mouth as he at last turns his attention away from the windshield. “Stephan’s been getting under his skin for weeks, and Courfeyrac made a valiant attempt at tearing a phonebook in half after last week’s display.”
“Nobody’s said anything?”
Enjolras shrugs. “I told them not to bother. We’ll mention it in the review with his professors, and if he tries to reach out for a recommendation I don’t imagine he’ll find much luck with any of us.”
Ah. “So…are you mad at me? Because, like, I get that you’re a strong independent man who don’t need no man, and I love that about you, so I totally get it if—”
He’s interrupted by Enjolras’s laughter. “No, I’m not mad, just surprised. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you react that way.”
“What, to someone hitting on my husband?”
“To anything.”
“Hm.” Grantaire’s fingers weave together behind his head as he twists back toward the dash. “Well, I guess…I dunno. I’ve wanted to before, but there was always this hesitation, like, ‘I want to respect Enjolras’s autonomy,’ y’know? I want to respect you. And also...we were bonded, right? Who can deny a wing-bond? No one, that’s who. So I felt more secure in that.
“Tonight, I just…” Exhaling through his nose, he shakes his head. “I dunno, I guess without that there I got more defensive? Like suddenly this cheap charlatan in a Ralph Lauren polo and Sperrys might actually be able to charm you away, and I…I didn’t want that. So, uh. Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” There’s a warmth on his knee that he quickly realizes is Enjolras’s hand, and he glances over to see his husband squared up to face him. “I do like you respecting my autonomy, but I also liked seeing that you care about me—about us.”
“I mean, I always care about you.”
“I know, but it’s still nice to see,” a smile plays at his lips, “and very cute to watch you get so worked up over.”
“I get the distinct impression that I am being made fun of.”
“A distinctly probable impression.”
Grantaire pulls his hands out from behind his head, throwing one dramatically over his brow while the other snakes down to Enjolras’s. “Oh, how my husband wounds me! And all for defending his honor! Gods, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears!”
“‘Friends,’” his husband corrects.
“Do you see my friends? Where are they, Enjolras? Apparently not in the Musain protecting you from Sarsaparilla—”
“It’s Stephan—”
“Asparagus lost first-name privileges the first time he thought he could get in your pants with a Zippo lighter trick.”
“Stephan didn’t do that, you did.”
Grantaire grins. “Spielberg could never.”
“I cannot even tell if you’re insulting Stephan or the director.”
“I can do both.”
“How did I end up married to the most ridiculous man on earth?” Enjolras sounds exasperated as he flops back in his seat, but his tone is fond, his expression soft, and he’s still holding Grantaire’s hand.
“I have it on good authority that you’re easy for Zippo lighter tricks.”
—
Tonight is Real Date Night, and Grantaire’s pretty sure he hasn’t been this nervous for a date since his first one with Enjolras. They’d agreed to keep it casual, which naturally means that he’s carted half of his wardrobe over to JBM’s and is Actively Panicking.
“What does ‘casual’ even mean? I mean, the man wears shirts to bed! He has pajama pants!”
“So do you,” Bossuet points out, smelling the armpit of a grey t-shirt before dropping it back to the stack with a startled expression.
“I don’t wear the pajama pants! They’re chastity pajama pants, intended only for cold winter nights and not getting laid!”
“You have been on literally hundreds of dates with Enjolras before this,” Musichetta very helpfully reminds him from where she’s laid out on the couch.
“But this one’s important,” he insists, frowning at the stack of clothing that he’s still in the arduous process of sorting through one article at a time. “Cargo shorts are a no-go, right?”
“I literally don’t even know why you still own cargo shorts in this our Lord’s year of ‘I graduated upper secondary eight years ago.’” Her head tilts toward Bossuet. “Babe, is that heat pack ready yet?”
“Lemme check.”
“Anyway,” Joly continues, “it’s nearly November: cargo shorts in cold weather are for basic heterosexual nerds with something to prove, and you are only three of those things.”
“I am insulted by every possible implication of that statement.”
Musichetta huffs. “Put on those jeans that fit you so nicely and the jumper Enjolras likes.”
“There’s a jumper Enjolras likes?” Grantaire asks at the same time as Bossuet returns with a, “Ooh, yeah, I love those jeans!”
Apparently everyone in the flat is familiar with the jeans Musichetta is talking about because Joly is already making their way to the four-trouser stack that he had left by the door when he first came in. “He likes that burnt orange one.”
“What? Why?”
Joly shrugs. “Says it looks cozy on you. Here,” they say, the only notice Grantaire receives before his jeans are flung at top-speeds across the room and slap him across the face.
“He also likes how your shoulders look in it,” Bossuet volunteers now that he’s seated on the floor beside Musichetta, one of her hands tracing absently along what is undoubtedly the edge of his wings.
“Is there a reason everyone seems to know more about my husband’s tastes than me?”
“To be fair, between Les Amis and work some of us probably see him more frequently than you.”
“Speaking of,” Joly adds, “do you really have a rule that he can’t talk about those things in the house?”
“I mean—”
“Grantaire, if my ovaries were not infested with cysts I would personally go over there and beat your ass myself. You know those things and you are E’s whole life.”
“I mean—” Now that he’s not being interrupted he isn’t sure that there is anything he can say in his defense. “It’s outdated,” he admits, “but at one time it served a noble purpose.”
“Just like your wings!”
Musichetta twists onto her side with a wince. “Too soon, Boss”
“Right, sorry.”
“It is true, though,” observes Joly. “Even without your wings, you two obviously still love and are into each other.”
“Yeah, until the next guy with wings swoops in and carries him off. Ouch,” Grantaire winces, rubbing at his shoulder. “What was that for?”
Joly’s cane swings expertly around one finger. “For even thinking Enjolras would do that to you. It’s bad enough that your first reaction was to assume you were getting divorced; to even imply that he would just run away and leave you in the dust?” They shake their head. “I’m ashamed to have heard it with my own ears.”
Collapsing back onto the floor, Grantaire lets out a heavy exhale. “I’m an ass.”
“You are,” Musichetta agrees, “but right now it’s because you’re scared, which is slightly more understandable.”
“Though still shitty.”
“Thanks, Boss.” Grantaire sighs again. “I just don’t wanna lose him.”
“Look.” Their cane steadies Joly as they lower themself to crouch beside him. “You still love him, right?”
“Obviously.”
“And you’re working harder on your relationship?”
“I mean, I’m trying.”
“Boo!” Musichetta jeers. “‘Do or do not: there is no try’! Joly, smack him with your cane again.”
They don’t, and Grantaire’s head bumps back against the floorboards with a huff. “I am working harder,” he amends.
“If both of those things are true,” Bossuet tells him sagely, “then everything else will fall into place.”
The outfit feels absolutely ridiculous (Joly had insisted he borrow a pair of Bossuet’s brown boots and their matching belt, which had seemed like a good idea at the time) until Enjolras’s eyes alight on him from across the street. His husband, damn him, laughs at Grantaire when he almost gets mowed down by a shipping van because he didn’t check both ways before crossing, and once he’s safely back on the sidewalk Enjolras pulls him into a tantalizingly slow kiss for rush hour.
“What was that for?” Grantaire asks when they finally part, embarrassingly short of breath and probably more than a little pink of cheek.
His husband could at least try to look a little less smug. “Because I wanted to. C’mon, it’s right here.”
A jumper and jeans was definitely the right choice for the hole-in-the-wall Chinese place Enjolras leads him (even if, in a button-down and slacks, his husband has undoubtedly outdressed him). They grab a seat by the window and start going through the menu, and it is immediately clear to Grantaire that they are about to eat real Chinese food.
“Enjolras?”
Grantaire has to turn all the way around in his seat to see the speaker, a Chinese grandmother seated in the corner of the small dining room playing mahjong with two other old ladies.
“Pòpó!” Enjolras cheers with a respectful bow of his head before barreling on in...not a language Grantaire can understand.
This isn’t to say that Enjolras sounds particularly fluent: his Chinese (presumably) is halting and slow, and his sounds aren’t nearly so light and articulate as Poppaw’s, but the older woman seems delighted to talk with him nevertheless, and her friends are absolutely enamoured. At one point Poppaw seems like she’s trying to speak with Grantaire, but Enjolras must put her off of the idea pretty soundly because she quickly switches back to conversing with him, continuing until a hassled-looking teen comes out to take their order and Poppaw yells something into the back.
“She says anything we order is on the house,” Enjolras informs him with a conspiratorial smile. To the teen he says, “Another minute please?”
It doesn’t seem to be any problem at all to them, and they leave Enjolras and Grantaire once more to review their menus.
“You speak Chinese?”
“Cantonese,” Enjolras clarifies. “I’m useless anywhere with Mandarin. And most places with Cantonese, really.”
“You seemed to be getting on pretty well just now.”
“Pòpó is very patient with me.”
“Which begs the question: how…?”
“Oh, ah.” Giving the menu a last scan, Enjolras closes it and places it back on the table. “There was a discrimination lawsuit that she was involved in, and my firm took it on pro-bono.”
“And you just...knew Cantonese?”
“No,” he laughs, “it was a long, drawn-out case, and I think we came across as rather intimidating lawyer-men—”
“And woman.”
“And woman,” Enjolras agrees, “in a scary and unfamiliar situation, so we collectively decided to take some lessons.”
“Collectivist-ly?”
Enjolras has to pause at that one to stare at the wall, which Grantaire is pretty sure means it was brilliant.
“You started taking lessons,” Grantaire at last prompts.
“Right,” the blond nods. “I can only reliably read about ten characters, and my conversation is still pretty broken—Pòpó more or less asked me how I am and a little about you—but it was a lot easier to communicate with them after we showed that we were trying, even with us still having to use translators as an intermediary.”
Cool cool cool, no big deal, his husband is just a sexy lawyer with professor vibes who does pro-bono work and learns Cantonese to make old ladies more comfortable. They’re in public, he can handle this.
The teen, a sibling in arms, seems to sense his distress and chooses then to return for their order. When Enjolras asks what Grantaire wants, Grantaire waves him on to indicate that Enjolras should just order for him, which presumably happens.
“They also brought us food a lot of the days,” Enjolras sheepishly explains once the teen is gone. “They were worth learning the names of.”
“Did you bring me here to seduce me with your philanthropic Cantonese skills? Because if so, I feel obligated to inform you that it’s working.”
“Marius recommended this place, so it does seem a little too convenient to be accidental,” Enjolras agrees, “but it was not my intent.”
“Weirdly, I believe you.”
“I’m glad.” His husband blesses him with a smile, and Grantaire swears that for a moment the sky clears and the light shines a little brighter through the window around him.
“So, uh.” Grantaire glances unsubtly around the restaurant. “I can’t help but notice that we’re not at home. Wanna regale me on the deets of this discrimination suit?”
They can’t agree on a movie to see, so they end up choosing one that neither of them knows anything about. Ultimately, it isn’t nearly as terrible as it could have been, and Grantaire tells Enjolras as much when they leave the theatre.
“Really?”
“You didn’t like it?”
Enjolras’s shoulder bumps into Grantaires when he answers, “I didn’t think you would.”
“What, the dark cinema didn’t seem like me?”
“The characters were utterly unlikeable and unrelatable.” Enjolras pauses. “Though perhaps that is more on-brand for you than I gave it credit for.”
Grantaire’s walk stutters as he clutches at his chest, staggering until he falls dramatically to his knees. It’s stupid and juvenile and absolutely over-the-top, but for some dumb reason Enjolras is smiling back at him and offering him a hand to help him up, and frankly, Grantaire might actually swoon.
“Home then?” he grins once he’s on his feet again, pressing a button on his key to unlock the car and looking around the lot for its telltale blinking lights.
There’s a moment’s hesitation before Enjolras’s answer comes. “Are you hungry?”
The automatic innuendo appears quickly enough, but one look at the way Enjolras hopefully bites his lip puts him off of it. “I could eat.”
Nine o’clock finds them at a shitty rundown diner that Grantaire once interviewed to work at fresh out of uni. There’s two sodas and a basket of fries between them, and Grantaire is very attractively making his point with a half-chewed fry in his mouth and jabbing another ketchup-drenched one toward his husband (who he is still very definitely interested in trying to stay married to, this is all an A-plus tactic, no doubt).
“They brought down the whole damned system, who cares what the rationale was?”
“Everyone in that world!” The top two buttons of Enjolras’s shirt had become undone at some point throughout the evening, his hair is a mess, and Grantaire has never been more in love. “There was no replacement government prepared, no unified movement, no organization! Even the protagonists abandon the very revolution they started as soon as they got together, as though they’re not responsible for what happened nor beholden to its consequences.”
“Worked well enough for V.”
“What, V for Vendetta? That was written as a thought-piece about absolute anarchy versus absolute fascism, and in the comic he technically was there in the sense that Evie had taken up his stead as a symbol of the revolution; the story was adapted to be made more palatable to general audiences by changing the film to a more black and white message—not to mention the intentional veer in focus from the wrestling of those grey entities to an invented romantic plotline that absolutely detracted from the message, because V was supposed to be an enduring symbol and not simply a man!”
“Trans man.”
“It was never intended to be the focus,” Enjolras dismisses with a sip of tea before continuing. “The Hunger Games movies fell into the same trap, sensationalizing the romantic relationship despite the books even observing that this how the government placates the masses and covers up very real and ongoing revolutions.”
“At least Suzanne Collins changed the YA literary world and promptly fucked off of the face of the earth.”
“Small favors.”
“Amen.”
“But I am genuinely surprised that you liked it. How?”
Next to the higher message of politics and media and revolution Grantaire’s reasoning feels fairly mundane and painfully naïve. “What’s not to like about love overcoming all?”
“Love?”
He gives a dramatic sigh. “I’m becoming a sap in my old age.”
“No, I’m not—” Enjolras shakes his head. “That wasn’t love.”
“I mean, they saw the wings—I don’t know if you missed that symbolism, but it was pretty on-the-nose—”
“They saw each other, Grantaire. They never even learned their partners' name, they spotted the wing-bonds once and chased their counterparts down until there was no world left to live in anymore.”
“It is rather Pontmercy, I’ll grant, but...they have each other.” He gives an awkward shrug. “That’s worth a lot.”
Enjolras gracefully ignores that Grantaire’s hands are greasy and salty and gross and reaches across the table to give one a gentle squeeze before telling Grantaire sweetly, “They had nothing.”
The full blast of that read leaves him reeling long enough for Enjolras to continue his assault on Grantaire’s livelihood.
“There were so many people who helped them along the way—family and friends and strangers and people who turned their backs on all of their preconceived notions based on the chance that there might be something better for their countrymen—and the director is going to try to tell me that two strangers who caught a glimpse of one another’s wings one time in passing somehow trumps all of that?” He shakes his head again. “I can’t accept that. If I told you that a complete stranger would be your ideal best friend, you wouldn’t sell Bahorel out for them.”
“I would sell Bahorel out for a corn chip. Not even a good one, one of those off-brand stale ones you find in the backseat of your grandpa’s pickup.”
“My point stands,” Enjolras insists. “You know Bahorel. You know me. You wouldn’t just leave me because you saw someone else walking down the street in the opposite direction with wings, would you?”
It’s intended as a statement, but the question hangs awkwardly in the air between them. “Of course not,” Grantaire answers firmly. It’s a half-beat late, but he squeezes Enjolras’s hand back to make up for it, sighing when his husband relaxes into a smile. “And with an ass like yours, it’s unlikely I’d notice them anyway.”
—
They spend Saturday morning at the art museum because Enjolras insists that Friday made him realize that he misses Grantaire’s pretentious rants over petty grievances with the art world. It’s such a silly little thing, but it’s well-within his realm of capabilities, and Enjolras seems genuinely delighted by it for some unfathomable reason, so Grantaire happily indulges him.
They do lunch at a bistro Grantaire knows the owner of before returning to their flat for a nap, something he’s fairly certain Enjolras hasn’t taken at a non-desk setting in months, much less with him. His husband knocks out almost immediately, leaving Grantaire with a glorious more-than-five-but-fewer-than-ten minutes to bask in the comfort of his partner curled up against his chest and the softness of curls under his fingers before he dozes off as well.
It’s hard to say if it was planned, if the easiness of their joint afternoon nap had made him pliable, or if he simply made up his mind to be a lazy bastard the rest of the day upon waking, but when Grantaire finally stirs the daylight outside is beginning to fade and Enjolras has decided that they’re making dinner together tonight.
Their having the groceries necessary for the dish Enjolras has in mind puts a point solidly in column A, but the realization that they would have needed to start bread hours ago if they wanted it fresh is a toss-up between columns B, C, and The Typical Enjolras Cooking Experience. Still, when he starts juggling spices without so much as a measuring spoon in sight and adjusting flavors based on taste alone, Grantaire begins to suspect that The Typical Enjolras Cooking Experience may have changed when he wasn’t paying attention.
“Since when do you know what ‘marjoram’ is?” he teases, returning the now-abandoned jars to the cabinet as Enjolras gives the soup a last stir before covering it and pulling some cheeses out of the fridge.
“Since always.”
“Enjolras, I asked you last year to grab me some fennel for ratatouille, and you called me from The Gap.”
“I maintain that you said ‘flannel.’”
“I maintain that you sent me a picture of two pairs of jeans and asked which type I needed.”
“People grow,” Enjolras sniffs, the poignancy of the remark marred somewhat by the schlORP of ricotta escaping an airtight prison.
“I’m not saying they don’t, I’m just wondering when this happened.”
“I, hm.” The parmesan shreds in silence for a long beat. “I’d wanted to do something special for our anniversary, so Jehan started teaching me.”
“Our anniversary?” Grantaire repeats, eyebrows raising. “The one we celebrated three months ago by staying in bed all day?”
“No,” Enjolras answers with a roll of his eyes. “Our four-year anniversary.”
They haven’t even been married three years yet. “As in, four years of being together?” The darkening of Enjolras’s cheeks seems to confirm the theory. “E, that was two years ago. I don’t think we even celebrated, we switched to wedding anniversaries that year.”
“Well I wanted to, but.” Suddenly something about the process of combining his cheeses is evidently very interesting to him. “You told me you wanted to go hang out with your friends that night. I’d been out a lot, and you said it was unfair to expect you to plan your life around my work schedule—which is fair and true. And it never really came up again.”
“Oh Ange,” Grantaire breathes, already taking the mixing bowl out of Enjolras’s hands and placing it on the counter to wrap his precious, darling, heart-wrenching husband in a hug. “I’m so sorry, mon Ange,” he murmurs into soft curls. “I am so, so sorry.”
Enjolras doesn’t try to explain himself any further, and Grantaire doesn’t ask him to, just holds him until their stovetop timer goes off and laughs when Enjolras complains about having to blow his nose into an old ABC shirt that has long since been repurposed into a kitchen rag. They take advantage of the unaccounted-for time needed to let the stew cool by having Grantaire run out to pick up a fresh loaf, and if he manages to smuggle two pints of ice cream into the freezer when Enjolras isn’t looking that’s between him and future-Enjolras.
The table is set when he returns, a dollop of cheese at the bottom of each bowl and glasses filled with, if the waiting bottle is any sort of indication, grape juice. Soft jazz plays in the background, and there are honest-to-Apollo candles lit.
“Gods, you’re such a geek,” he grins, depositing the bread on the waiting block and a kiss to Enjolras’s forehead before taking his seat on the other side of the table. Adults are allowed to play footsie, right? That’s a thing? Whatever, it is now.
“You like it, then?”
It’s earnest and cute and so very Enjolras. “Of course I do. Excited about the soup, too.”
In truth he’s actually a bit nervous: he hadn’t had a chance to taste it while it was being made, and it’s his first close encounter with a dish that Enjolras has made most of the decisions for. He watches as Enjolras ladles the stew over the cheese and stirs until the whole dish turns creamy before following suit, blowing on his spoonful before taking the first bite.
He hadn’t realized it before, but when he looks up he catches Enjolras very carefully tracking his reaction, something like nervousness pinching his expression. “Well?”
Admittedly, in the face of Enjolras’s hopefulness Grantaire absolutely would have lied if he had to; fortunately, there’s no need. “E, this is incredible. Did you put sage in here? It tastes like sage.”
“You watched me put it in.” His tone sounds like a rather pathetic attempt at stern, utterly ruined by the grin he’s failing to bite back.
“It’s amazing, it’s delicious. I could eat ten bowls and not be sated. Did Jehan teach you to make this?”
“I got the recipe online and adapted it where I thought made sense.”
“Of course you did.” There’s no way a cheesy-tomato kiss is going over well right now, so instead he settles for another bite. “Gods, this is incredible.”
Enjolras looks so damned pleased with himself that Grantaire can’t stop smiling, which is unfortunate because it means that he takes about three times longer to eat than he should. They mutually decide to leave dishes and leftovers for the morning, and as Enjolras collects the dishes to move to the sink Grantaire spoons up bowls of ice cream for each of them and ferries them to the couch.
“What’s this?” Enjolras asks, the gleam in his eye telling Grantaire that he may perhaps have not been quite so subtle as he’d thought in his earlier smuggling activities.
“Courf mentioned that you’d been wanting to try the almond line they have. I wasn’t sure if it defeated the point to drown it in chocolate syrup the way you like, though.”
Enjolras tucks himself under the arm Grantaire has thrown over the back of the couch. “They have a new recipe that I’m fairly certain is pure corn syrup, so I’m glad you didn’t.”
The past four days have been full of little tidbits and gems and scraps of stolen information like this, and Grantaire is amazed that it’s taken him so long to realize that in the time he’d been growing bitter toward his husband for neglecting their relationship, Enjolras too had become almost a stranger to him.
He does have to move his arm to get at his ice cream—his same favorite flavor since before they met—and after a quick taste swap they languidly enjoy their respective desserts attached from thigh to shoulder.
“Hey, I’ve been thinking…” A lot, really, especially since talking with Joly and their partners. “I think we should lift the ban.”
“If we’re talking about the Amazon ban, I’m going to have to have to respectfully decline.”
“No, um.” There’s no reason for this to feel so awkward, it’s fine. “Work discussion. And stuff?”
An elbow digs painfully into what Grantaire’s pretty sure is his spleen as Enjolras pushes away to face him. “Why?”
There’s no easy way to admit he’s wrong, but maybe there’s something to that. “One of the biggest things that I fell in love with when we first got together is your passion and activism and sheer belief that the world deserves better and that that’s something attainable in our lifetime. And, like, your face and hair and laugh and hands and that ass, honestly, maybe there is something to my super-bitter on-the-fly ‘opposites attract’ theory, who do you reckon I’d have to talk with—”
“Grantaire?”
Right, he was saying something Important—and uncomfortable, but where crucial relationships are at stake he can’t afford to be particularly picky. Sighing, he runs a hand back through his hair before resuming his earlier train of thought. “It’s who you are, and I adore that about you. I mean, I love you. And lately I’ve kinda had to face that this ban has been cutting that part of you off, which is shitty—for both of us, but mostly you. And humanity. Your therapist. The People, the welfare of The Commonwealth—the greater good on the whole, if we’re gonna get right down to it—”
“Grantaire.”
“Right, sidetracking. Anyway, it’s stopped us from having common ground for discussion, and it’s been keeping me from caring about you the way I should, too. And…and I should never have asked you to do it in the first place.”
“You were right, though.” Enjolras’s eyebrows furrow as he shakes his head. “I was letting my job and the Amis overrun our relationship. I still am, if the past four days are anything to go by.”
“Because they’re a part of who you are.” His now-empty bowl is placed on the coffee table in favor of leaning forward and taking his husband’s hand. “It was fucked-up of me to ask you to stop—even if I don’t think it’d hurt for you to get a bit more firm about your hours.”
“I can do that,” answers Enjolras immediately. “I will do that.”
“But you don’t have to,” Grantaire squeezes his hand, “and I’m gonna start working harder to support you.”
At that Enjolras surges forward, a hand tangling into Grantaire’s curls and tugging their faces together. His lips are still cold from the ice cream, sticky and sweet as Grantaire runs his tongue along them and earns a shiver for his efforts.
It’s nothing like the kisses they’ve exchanged over the past several days that ease off after the initial spark and break before they can build to anything too intense for public eyes: in the privacy of their own living room the flare only grows, Enjolras’s answering whimper spurring Grantaire to deepen the kiss and pick up the pace. A sudden inhale when he hums into Enjolras’s mouth momentarily robs him of breath, the combination of sensations making him dizzy with want as he gasps for air before diving back in.
Normally from here things would only heat up as frantic hands search for clutches and purchases until they inevitably fall into bed (or the floor…or stay on the couch), but tonight Grantaire is reluctant to advance: it had taken them far too long to realize that their relationship was built on a rotting firmament, and now that they’ve cleared out the rubble and debris and have begun reconstruction he isn’t ready to risk skimming over anything critical that had so long evaded him.
“Hey,” he murmurs as Enjolras’s mouth finds the spot on Grantaire’s neck that makes his brain flicker in and out. “So like, I’m loving this, but—”
Enjolras pulls off, sitting back far enough for Grantaire to get a good look at how affected he is, and it takes everything in Grantaire not to say ‘fuck it’ and and bin the whole idea. “But?” his darling (hot, hot) husband prompts.
Scrubbing his hands over his face, Grantaire tries again. “But, uh. Can we…not? Tonight? I kinda wanna…” Relearn his husband’s body, explore every tick and nerve and response with intentional and singular focus, dedicate himself entirely to the hitches and catches of breath and discovering exactly what and how and why— “Take things slow.”
Enjolras smiles. “Sounds good,” he murmurs, leaning in for a searingly unrushed kiss and at some point (evidently) taking both of Grantaire’s hands into his. Enjolras may not be able to find his way out of a paper bag, but he’s sure got some spatial awarenesses figured the fuck out. Although—
“Hey, did you ever learn how to read a map?”
“What?” Enjolras pulls back again, looking both affronted and utterly caught-out. “I—it’s not hard, I could if I wanted to. Others are better at it, and we should play to our stren—”
It’s difficult to feel too bad about interrupting the haphazard defense when he can feel Enjolras grinning back at him under his lips, the dynamic shifting now that there’s no endgame that they’re racing toward.
Devoting himself with single-minded attention, it very quickly becomes clear to Grantaire that the six years before now were time utterly wasted. He’s always prided himself in being able to play his husband like a fine-tuned instrument, and maybe that remains so, but this new dimension, with its playful nips and tender touches that slip effortlessly from one whimsy to the next is another thing entirely, an all-encompassingly novel game in meandering old paths and blazing new ones and everything in between.
It’s hard to say how much time has passed by the time they’ve resigned themselves to lazy, languid exchanges, his husband laying half on top of where he’s propped against the arm of the sofa, Enjolras’s face warm and sensitive from Grantaire’s stubble, but he’s pretty sure that it was still somewhat light out when dinner started, and it definitely isn’t now.
“Shower?” The suggestion is made almost sleepily between careful draws of lips against lips and met with a groan of reluctance. “We could do it together.”
“I like that idea—” Enjolras interrupts himself with another kiss, “—much better.”
Even with Enjolras standing first and offering a hand to help coax Grantaire to his feet, it’s still a rough transition. Fortunately, his husband is able to encourage him toward the bathroom with a strategic dispersal of kisses until the time comes to get undressed.
They used to take showers together. Not with any sort of frequency—Enjolras needs time to luxuriate at the end of the day, and Grantaire requires morning showers to start his—but it’s something that they once made time for, and as soon as he steps into the tub he realizes how much he’s missed it.
Saturdays are still Enjolras’s hair wash day, a routine that Grantaire has remained vaguely aware of through the years from the rich smell when his husband finally crawls into bed at the end of the work week and curls up beside him. The ritual had always carried a strange intimacy of unspoken familiarity, and when Grantaire lathers the shampoo bar in his hands and begins working it into his husband’s hair the feeling is magnified one thousand-fold.
The same sensation hits when it's Grantaire’s turn, Enjolras’s hands careful and gentle over him like he’s something precious. It’s easier now than it was with the wings: they used to swear they’d tear out the bath themselves and replace it with one designed for wing-bonded couples, but now that the appendages aren’t there to force Enjolras at a distance while he soaps the spots on Grantaire’s back that he can never reach and he can feel his husband’s warmth so close behind him, Grantaire finds that he doesn’t mind the bath’s size so much.
They take turns patting one another dry, dropping kisses as seen fit over shoulders and knees and foreheads (and cheeks, those must not go neglected, and under Grantaire’s watchful eye he assures that Enjolras’s face is peppered at regular intervals with only the daintiest of smooches). Getting dressed, by the time they make it back into their bedroom, is a solo activity, if only because they are both rapidly becoming rather sleepy and Grantaire has a history of tripping over his boxers when others attempt to help—yet another quality that time has done little to change.
Sleepy or not, though, there is one thing—
“I thought you said you were tired?”
“I am,” Grantaire agrees as he carefully draws the wide-toothed comb through golden curls. He’s almost definitely sticking his tongue out in his concentration, and he’s pretty sure Enjolras chose to kneel in front of the mirror for this express reason, but there are significantly more pressing matters at hand right now. “This is important.”
It’s been entirely too long. Wings don’t expressly need to be groomed—after all, excepting seers and Those Beloved By All (assuming either exist beyond legend), wings appear only to those bonded to the bearer; however, they can become untidy. Disheveled. Rumpled. It’s something partners are meant to keep track of and something he and Enjolras have neglected to make time for over and over. Grantaire wants to make time for looking after his partner tonight.
He’s not doing anything fancy: the hair’s still wet and freshly washed, so a boar bristle brush won’t do much good, but he is careful to comb the hair using a comb with much finer teeth than is strictly necessary before dividing the silky lengths into sections and beginning to braid. It’s not particularly skilled, but it’s better than he suspects it would be if he had to lean over wings—but then, he supposes, if wings were here he wouldn’t be braiding his husband’s hair in the first place. It’s a moment stolen from another timeline, and he makes sure to cherish every second of it.
When he finishes and collapses backward into bed, Enjolras complains that he doesn’t get to groom Grantaire’s hair, because Of Course He Does, so they compromise that he can play with Grantaire’s hair until they fall asleep. Legs tangled and foreheads knocking, Enjolras reaches over to run careful, gentle fingers through the locks above Grantaire’s ears, following the hairline back to the nape of his neck before tracing soft, meaningless shapes against his scalp.
The plan had been to tease his husband about his insistence on equality where no proper equity could be found, but before the first word is even out of his mouth Grantaire is already fast asleep.
—
They’re not back.
It’s a gorgeous Sunday morning: sunlight is streaming through their window, he’s sharing a bed with the most beautiful man in the world, their upstairs neighbors aren’t even vacuuming yet,
and Enjolras’s wings aren’t back.
“Mm? Hey you.” Enjolras’s voice is always so perfectly sleep-soft in the morning, and it’s a national tragedy that Grantaire so often has to be up and out before he ever gets the chance to hear it. Against all odds, it still doesn’t change the simple truth in front of him. “Sumthin’ the matter?”
“I—” He doesn’t want to say it out loud because it shouldn’t matter—it doesn’t matter—but it does, it really does, and he doesn’t know how to express this to Enjolras.
Enjolras is still squinting into the too-bright morning light, so Grantaire takes pity on him and lays back down. “It sounds like you’re worrying over something.”
It surprises a snort out of Grantaire, and he seeks out one of Enjolras’s hands to press a kiss to the knuckles. “And what do I sound like when I worry?”
“Quiet.” Even with his eyes still closed, Enjolras manages a frown. “You’ve been quiet a lot lately.”
“You were the first good thing to happen in my life: I didn’t want to preemptively trigger my own demise.”
“You’re worried about the wings.”
Lucky guess. Grantaire sighs. “I’d hoped…”
“R. Grantaire, look at me.” Enjolras makes a valiant attempt to blink against the equal and opposite force of daylight, and after a brief struggle he seems to forfeit.. “Our wings aren’t back. It might be that our wings never come back, and I could not possibly care less: what we have, what you mean to me, matters whether we’re wing-bound or not.”
His husband has managed to blindly guide a hand to Grantaire’s elbow, tracing up his shoulder and neck to trail a thumb over his cheekbone, which has an admittedly rather calming quality to it. “But what if someone else—”
“Grantaire.” This time Enjolras manages to open his eyes and keep them that way. “I love you. I am in love with you. No dandy with wings is going to spirit me off over some eye in the sky deciding that we’re more ‘compatible,’ because I love you. Do you understand?”
“I…” This time Grantaire closes his eyes, basking in the warmth of the morning sun on his back and the gentleness of the hand cradling his jaw and the sheer radiance of being loved by and in-love with the incredible man in front of him. “I think I’m starting to.”