fic: Warrior Raging, Have No Fear
So tigertale7 threw down this gauntlet, admittedly after I’d maybe sort of maybe pointed this gifset into her life, but ah, what a gifset it is. This is likely considerably fluffier than it should be, and perhaps not what she or I had in mind, but you know.
Title: Warrior Raging, Have No Fear
Fandom: Les Miserables, modern AU
Pairing: Enjolras/Grantaire
“Give me an hour,” Grantaire says, almost kindly, and Enjolras is too tired to fight him anymore.
He's too tired for a lot of things, but this is a big one; fighting with Grantaire might as well be a lesser concentration in his many studies, but one in which he's earned his highest marks. The fight’s always there, most often simmering but sometimes at full furious boil, and while Enjolras is not foolish enough to pretend he doesn't get off on it on several levels, he's not up for it tonight, perhaps because he's been up too long for every fucking thing else.
“How long?” Grantaire asks, and Enjolras frowns, because get out of my head, Grantaire, but eventually he gives.
“Three and a half days.”
“I was expecting you to give it to me right down to the minute,” Grantaire laughs, and Enjolras throws a glare instead of a shoe to his face, but only because the shoe's just out of reach. Grantaire’s smile has gone softer around its thin edges since he’d first walked into the room, and every second that passes, it gets harder for Enjolras to look away.
“So start,” Enjolras mutters finally, resigned and ready to try almost anything now, falling to his back on the mattress and moving his glare to the ceiling. “You're now officially on the clock.”
::
An hour is a lot to ask, Enjolras thinks as Grantaire tunes up the guitar; he’s rarely patient enough to sit through classes that long, much less a midnight recital from someone he’s never heard play a song to its end. But only a few minutes into it, Enjolras feels his eyes start to close, and it’s the best relief he can imagine.
Grantaire doesn’t sing at first; Enjolras can tell he’s concentrating on getting this right. The tune is one Enjolras recognizes, but vaguely; it’s old and sounds like summers in the south, before life at home had changed so much for him that he’d run from all its expectations, all its … affectations and obligations and-
“Breathe,” Grantaire says, only loud enough to be sure Enjolras can hear. “Breathe better, anyway. You’re doing that thing, that-not hyperventilating. What’s the thing that’s under instead of over? Hypoventilating? Is that even a word?”
“Is this even a conversation?”
“Close your eyes again,” Grantaire says, a deeper kindness in his voice now. Enjolras does, and breathes better, too, for values of better that mean a touch less wildly than before. The tune has changed to something warmer, something Enjolras definitely recognizes and even likes, though he’s never made that obvious; it’s not like he talks music a lot, or ever, except maybe to Combeferre when it’s late and they’re beyond anything but the trivial. Not that trivial isn’t nice sometimes; trivial can be-good, and safe, in ways that so many things aren’t. So many people aren’t.
“Normal people would be dreaming by now,” Grantaire murmurs, and Enjolras thinks how do you know I’m not?
::
Also, normal is relative, okay, and when he’s not busy staring down insomnia like it’s some ancient despot teasing a charter and then tearing it away, Enjolras is perfectly fine, thanks; his life moves along at exactly the pace he’s chosen, down the route he’s chosen, alongside the friends he’s chosen and who have chosen him, even when he’s not much earned it.
That thought brings others, chased away just in time by the sound of Grantaire’s voice rising a little in song, finally. It’s worlds sweeter than Enjolras has ever heard it in the cafes and pubs where Grantaire puts on the wrong kind of show, and it’s not just because of the song itself; when Enjolras dares a look from the corner of his (open again) eye he sees that Grantaire’s relaxed in a way he could never pretend to be, shadowy peace in his expression and a perfect ease in his shoulders and back.
He can feel Enjolras’ stare on him, it seems; he smiles around the words he’s singing and leans forward and to the side, angled so he’s facing Enjolras’ bed and letting the lyrics move between them in the space where their usual, more heated words aren’t welcome now. He’s close enough that Enjolras could touch him, or at least his knee, or the neck of the guitar that might as well be part of him, or-something, anything, as long as it’s Grantaire in his hands.
And as long as it happens now.
::
“Hey,” Grantaire whispers when he catches the movement, sees Enjolras rise on one elbow and reach for Grantaire before he falls back down, surprised confusion in his eyes. Grantaire starts rambling, nothing and everything falling from his lips as he sets the guitar against the bed absently and kneels on the mattress. “Hey. That’s it; you’re gonna stop fighting it and just sleep, and tomorrow you can change the world or something, maybe start with these sheets-”
Enjolras laughs, reaching again for Grantaire and finding him this time, clenching his fist in Grantaire’s shirt and dragging him halfway down before Enjolras spiderwalks his fingers up Grantaire’s chest to his throat, his neck, listening for the shocked, soft hitch in Grantaire’s breath, a hint of more Enjolras could coax from him if he weren’t so-
“-tired,” Grantaire says, folding his hand over Enjolras’ and breathing hard, talking himself out of it, too. “Anything you want, yeah? But not till you’ve slept.”
“It hasn’t been that long-”
“Three and a half days is too long. And this is where truth comes in, okay; you know exactly how long it was, so-”
"Three and a half days. And four hours."
"And."
"Twenty-three minutes. No. Twenty-six. It was twenty-six."
Grantaire laughs, pushing his face into the crook of Enjolras' neck. "You never disappoint me."
"Give me time."
Grantaire hums like he's actually considering it, and moves closer. "Don't think so," he breathes against Enjolras' skin. "You're officially off the clock."
Title: Warrior Raging, Have No Fear
Fandom: Les Miserables, modern AU
Pairing: Enjolras/Grantaire
“Give me an hour,” Grantaire says, almost kindly, and Enjolras is too tired to fight him anymore.
He's too tired for a lot of things, but this is a big one; fighting with Grantaire might as well be a lesser concentration in his many studies, but one in which he's earned his highest marks. The fight’s always there, most often simmering but sometimes at full furious boil, and while Enjolras is not foolish enough to pretend he doesn't get off on it on several levels, he's not up for it tonight, perhaps because he's been up too long for every fucking thing else.
“How long?” Grantaire asks, and Enjolras frowns, because get out of my head, Grantaire, but eventually he gives.
“Three and a half days.”
“I was expecting you to give it to me right down to the minute,” Grantaire laughs, and Enjolras throws a glare instead of a shoe to his face, but only because the shoe's just out of reach. Grantaire’s smile has gone softer around its thin edges since he’d first walked into the room, and every second that passes, it gets harder for Enjolras to look away.
“So start,” Enjolras mutters finally, resigned and ready to try almost anything now, falling to his back on the mattress and moving his glare to the ceiling. “You're now officially on the clock.”
::
An hour is a lot to ask, Enjolras thinks as Grantaire tunes up the guitar; he’s rarely patient enough to sit through classes that long, much less a midnight recital from someone he’s never heard play a song to its end. But only a few minutes into it, Enjolras feels his eyes start to close, and it’s the best relief he can imagine.
Grantaire doesn’t sing at first; Enjolras can tell he’s concentrating on getting this right. The tune is one Enjolras recognizes, but vaguely; it’s old and sounds like summers in the south, before life at home had changed so much for him that he’d run from all its expectations, all its … affectations and obligations and-
“Breathe,” Grantaire says, only loud enough to be sure Enjolras can hear. “Breathe better, anyway. You’re doing that thing, that-not hyperventilating. What’s the thing that’s under instead of over? Hypoventilating? Is that even a word?”
“Is this even a conversation?”
“Close your eyes again,” Grantaire says, a deeper kindness in his voice now. Enjolras does, and breathes better, too, for values of better that mean a touch less wildly than before. The tune has changed to something warmer, something Enjolras definitely recognizes and even likes, though he’s never made that obvious; it’s not like he talks music a lot, or ever, except maybe to Combeferre when it’s late and they’re beyond anything but the trivial. Not that trivial isn’t nice sometimes; trivial can be-good, and safe, in ways that so many things aren’t. So many people aren’t.
“Normal people would be dreaming by now,” Grantaire murmurs, and Enjolras thinks how do you know I’m not?
::
Also, normal is relative, okay, and when he’s not busy staring down insomnia like it’s some ancient despot teasing a charter and then tearing it away, Enjolras is perfectly fine, thanks; his life moves along at exactly the pace he’s chosen, down the route he’s chosen, alongside the friends he’s chosen and who have chosen him, even when he’s not much earned it.
That thought brings others, chased away just in time by the sound of Grantaire’s voice rising a little in song, finally. It’s worlds sweeter than Enjolras has ever heard it in the cafes and pubs where Grantaire puts on the wrong kind of show, and it’s not just because of the song itself; when Enjolras dares a look from the corner of his (open again) eye he sees that Grantaire’s relaxed in a way he could never pretend to be, shadowy peace in his expression and a perfect ease in his shoulders and back.
He can feel Enjolras’ stare on him, it seems; he smiles around the words he’s singing and leans forward and to the side, angled so he’s facing Enjolras’ bed and letting the lyrics move between them in the space where their usual, more heated words aren’t welcome now. He’s close enough that Enjolras could touch him, or at least his knee, or the neck of the guitar that might as well be part of him, or-something, anything, as long as it’s Grantaire in his hands.
And as long as it happens now.
::
“Hey,” Grantaire whispers when he catches the movement, sees Enjolras rise on one elbow and reach for Grantaire before he falls back down, surprised confusion in his eyes. Grantaire starts rambling, nothing and everything falling from his lips as he sets the guitar against the bed absently and kneels on the mattress. “Hey. That’s it; you’re gonna stop fighting it and just sleep, and tomorrow you can change the world or something, maybe start with these sheets-”
Enjolras laughs, reaching again for Grantaire and finding him this time, clenching his fist in Grantaire’s shirt and dragging him halfway down before Enjolras spiderwalks his fingers up Grantaire’s chest to his throat, his neck, listening for the shocked, soft hitch in Grantaire’s breath, a hint of more Enjolras could coax from him if he weren’t so-
“-tired,” Grantaire says, folding his hand over Enjolras’ and breathing hard, talking himself out of it, too. “Anything you want, yeah? But not till you’ve slept.”
“It hasn’t been that long-”
“Three and a half days is too long. And this is where truth comes in, okay; you know exactly how long it was, so-”
"Three and a half days. And four hours."
"And."
"Twenty-three minutes. No. Twenty-six. It was twenty-six."
Grantaire laughs, pushing his face into the crook of Enjolras' neck. "You never disappoint me."
"Give me time."
Grantaire hums like he's actually considering it, and moves closer. "Don't think so," he breathes against Enjolras' skin. "You're officially off the clock."