Chapter Text
“Grantaire.”
It was a soft, familiar whisper, calling out to him. He floated in the empty abyss, seeing nothing but a boy. So, so small. Tiny. The image was muffled by the darkness that separated them. He attempts at a smile.
Then, the boy asks, “will you love me?”
“Yes,” he answers immediately, in a voice not his own. There was youth in it. Pure, almost innocent. And there was nothing more.
The little boy only sat floating in the void, closing his eyes in rest.
“Yes,” tears fell down his tears as he cried. “I’ll love you.”
But he was a boy, too.
How many days had it been? A week, maybe. Perhaps even a month. Enjolras loses count, lost in the time he spent beside Grantaire.
“He was going to kill himself.”
Enjolras wonders for how long. He’d only known the heartsmith for a few months, spent the most of his time with him in arguments, disagreeing and watching him. He watched him work, lost in the troubles and heartbreak of others while he had only himself to take care of his heart, while Enjolras stood by his side helpless and knowing.
There was guilt in it—in observing, in talking to him. There was guilt in the fact that he could not find it in himself to regret. So he only sits beside him. He’d talked Valjean into allowing him into his rooms. He would watch him, sit at his side while he lay in the bed, as Grantaire did all those years ago.
Combeferre and Courfeyrac visited often. They could only know so much. Enjolras barely knew anything at all. Valjean had taken charge of the book shop, working on the hearts Grantaire had accepted and returning them to their respective owners. Jehan often came by to share his sympathy, bringing a brush and every so often fixing Grantaire’s hair (which was a beast, really) to seem more alive. Marius came, too. But everyone’s attempt to talk to Enjolras ended only in silence or tears. Combeferre would stay beside him, waiting. That is what is all there to be. Waiting and waiting, until Grantaire wakes up.
And the nights had gotten more quiet. What were once narrow thoughts of revolution and a new world, Grantaire filled his thoughts every passing hour. In the silence, he heard only the audible ticking of their hearts. But while his heart was steady, ticking in an almost normal pace, Grantaire’s was subtle. He had to lean and listen just to hear it. And every night, he could listen to nothing else but the cheap replica of a heart inside his chest.
Life had never been so simple, hurtful, since he was a boy. Only now, it was Rene Grantaire who laid half-dead on the bed. But as he sits there, half-asleep, he feels a movement. Then, heavy breathing. He sits up in alarm.
“Rene?”
Grantaire’s hands flew around in panic, choking in his own raspy voice as screams.
“I’m here,” Enjolras breathes, attempting to hold the man still. “Rene, I’m here, look at me.”
He obeyed.
And oh , Grantaire had never looked so beautiful. Blue eyes, wide and very, very afraid, looked back at Enjolras, who could only shed tears.
“Enjolras,” he whispers.
“You goddamn idiot,” the student hissed as he pulled Grantaire into another embrace, desperate almost.
“I’m sorry,” the man cries on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, I–-I just…I’ll love you, I swore to you I would,” he choked.
But he would not pull away. Not for a long while. They stay like that until Grantaire runs out of tears, exhausted, until he falls asleep on Enjolras, who would not leave his side. Not now, not anymore. And he would not allow Grantaire to leave, either.
"How do you measure a soul, Rene?"
Enjolras stood at the foot of the heartsmith’s bed. He had not left Enjolras’ home, doesn’t seem like he could. But he sat there, empty, quiet. Answering only to Enjolras’ voice, who spoke to him on a daily basis.
“I told you not to call me Rene,” he groans.
“Grantaire, then. Or would you prefer R,” he rolls his eyes, and Grantaire only scoffs. “How do you measure a soul, Grantaire?”
"What?"
"In order to fit inside a vessel. How must you measure a soul?"
He’s heard it before, he thinks. Grantaire had answered it more than twice. But Enjolras was never satisfied with simple answers. Though nothing about Grantaire’s replies were ever simple.
"Oh. I judge people. They are my guide. How much one is capable of being loved, and how much they're willing to love."
And Enjolras nods.
"Your soul must be as capable as mine, then."
"What?"
That was the nature of Enjolras, Grantaire supposes.
"You gave me your heart… your soul's vessel. That means, you're as willing as I am. And you need to be loved as much as I do.”
He makes everything seem so simple. Grantaire often thinks he was the only one who could see past it. There was nothing simple about Enjolras or his beliefs and ideas. He looks down at the white sheets, at the broken heart at the edge of the table beside the bed.
“Do you love me,” Enjolras asks.
Grantaire sighs. “Do not ask stupid questions.”
“Do you still love the boy, then?”
“I do,” Grantaire said reluctantly. He would not look at Enjolras. He rarely would, these days. He swallows. “Do you love—Did the boy love me?”
But even when Grantaire couldn’t look at Enjolras’ direction, he could still feel the gravity of his heavy gaze on him.
“The boy wasn’t sure.” Grantaire feels his heart sink.
But as Enjolras wraps his arms around him, he realises. And for the first time in a long while, he returns it, wrapping his own around Enjolras.
“But I am now,” he whispers. “I will keep your heart near, you will never feel the cold again.” And then, finally, quietly, "I love you."