#dammit grantaire

[a-heart-full-of-dumb]

I just need to talk about the dynamic between Grantaire and Enjolras in the Dutch tour I saw yesterday cause holy shit it was good

I saw an understudy for Grantaire (Leon de Graaf) and the main actor for Enjolras (Mark Roy Luykx) so I am not sure if this dynamic is different with the main actor for Grantaire.

The moment we get introduced to Grantaire in red and black he's sitting at a table in the corner, already very clearly very drunk. He's joking with Bossuet, already making a mockery of the whole revolution while also desperately glancing at Enjolras.

The moment Marius comes in and starts rambling about love, Grantaire perks up, sensing there's something he can go along with to maybe get Enjolras's attention (but also cause 'finally something interesting happens' as he's definitely still a bit of an asshole at this point) and full on throws himself into Marius's arms and plants himself on his lap while Enjolras is staring daggers into his back. During the end of Grantaire's solo as his bottle gets thrown around the backroom, Enjolras catches it and Grantaire nearly stumbles over his feet coming to a stop in front of him. The look on Grantaire's face omg. I genuinely expected cartoon heart eyes to pop out if his. The man definitely admired, loved, and venerated Enjolras. During Enjolras's scolding speech to Marius, Grantaire makes a very big mockery of it, jokingly marching around the room, making funny faces, etc. But when he notices Enjolras doesn't notice it, he sits back down.

He keeps drinking and mocking and laughing loudly at everything during the remainder of the song until the point where Gavroche comes in with the news that General Lamarque had died. The moment Enjolras starts about how they will rise on the funeral day, Grantaire drops his mockery and just panics. The fear and sadness in his eyes as he looked at Enjolras omg. Enjolras, again, doesn't notice.

From this point on, Grantaire seemingly only uses his mockery as a mask and a way to get Enjolras's attention.

At the start of act 2, after the dogs will bark flees will bite part, Enjolras hands Grantaire a rifle. Grantaire gives Enjolras a surprised look and then looks at the rifle like he had never seen one before. He shakes his head, hands the rifle to one of the woman on the barricade and storms off stage. (Immediately followed by a worried looking Bossuet.) Enjolras doesn't see this either. Nor does he notice Grantaire's spiraling from that point on. All he sees is the mockery, the laughing, the pointing, he just hears how loud Grantaire will laugh at his statements. This is what Grantaire seemingly wanted him to see too.

Then drink with me happens. At the end of their solo's, Feuilly, Jehan and Joly are standing next to each other as Grantaire pushes himself through them, laughing and exclaiming loudly "drink with me!" The others laugh as well, being used to this behaviour from Grantaire. At first Enjolras just shoots a glance into his direction, but the moment Grantaire goes onto his next line, Enjolras keeps an eye on him as if intrigued by what might happen. The moment Grantaire mentions death he nearly starts a fight and sends Joly into another panic attack. Enjolras decides that that's his que to come in and climbs down the barricade.

He stops maybe a few metres in front of Grantaire, but he doesn't look mad. The expression on Enjolras's face was kind and soft and concerned. This seems to be the first time Enjolras really sees Grantaire without the mockery. He's now standing in front of an emotional and terrified man. Enjolras starts to say something (the audience doesn't hear what) but Grantaire cuts him off. Enjolras goes to pull Grantaire into a hug, but Grantaire pushes him away. Enjolras tries again, Grantaire pushes him away again and storms past him. He leans against a wall at the side of the stage, his back turned to the others and sobs. Enjolras stares at his back for a few seconds, looking sad himself before going back to the barricade. Gavroche had run after Grantaire and pulled the man into a hug as Grantaire kept sobbing.

Grantaire continues to spiral even harder from that moment on. Completely collapsing after the death of Gavroche and I genuinely thought he was gonna drink himself to oblivion.

Then the final battle happens. Grantaire starts it the same way he went trough all the battles so far, slumped in a corner, drinking heavily. When Marius gets shot however and falls to the ground both Grantaire and Enjolras run over to him. After checking Marius's pulse Enjolras stands up to go back to the barricade, but Grantaire just clutches and clings to him and pulls him back down. Enjolras frees himself from Grantaire's grasp and holds Grantaire's face with both hands. Grantaire says something to him we can't hear as an audience, looking completely desperate. Enjolras says something back. Again we don't hear what.

Enjolras goes back to the barricade but instead of following him, Grantaire does the only thing he can think of. He reaches for his bottle. Looking determined to drink himself to death. After one sip however, he changes his mind and rushes back to the barricade, ready to follow Enjolras this time. But he gets pushed back by the other amis. They won't allow him onto the barricade and its as if they're trying to get him to leave this place and safe himself. So Grantaire has to helplessly watch how Enjolras gets shot and killed. Grantaire is looking completely overwhelmed and desperate and sad and like he doesnt know what to do with himself anymore. However something changes in Grantaire as he sees Enjolras die. He freezes up for a few seconds, before standing up straighter than he'd done before, determined he pushes back the last remaining amis, who are still trying to get him to leave and starts climbing the barricade as the last of the students get shot. Looking more steady, determined and sober than he had done the entire musical, he reaches the top of the barricade, spreads his arms and gets shot.

[breadvidence]

As encouragement/discouragement, I offer:

They stare at each other some more, ’til he says, his tone flatter than sweet home Florida, “No. Also, I go by Javert.”  “Ah, pre-empting the history book’s preference of calling a man by his sur—” Grantaire breaks off, with a great act of willpower, and frowns. “Wait. No to which part?” “To you.”

[pilferingapples]

idk if you've already done this but i'm lowkey dying to know what you think all the amis (and co) would do career-wise in the modern day because i think about it all the time

OKAY SO

All of them are the planners REALLY even if Enjolras tends to be the one who really pulls it together Feuilly is the sharpshooter, this is canon

Bahorel , Courfeyrac and Legle take the in-person actor/Face roles as much as possible ; they also take the Daredevil, backup Muscle, and Thief roles, respectively, as needed

Enjolras is the muscle/combat monster

Combeferre is the tech specialist

Prouvaire handles the online social interaction, which is increasingly crucial these days

Joly is the lockpick and when needed the Distraction ; they've done so many of these missions they've lost count and STILL no one even suspects his involvement

Grantaire is the cook and the getaway driver when Bahorel's otherwise occupied

Together they do Leverage-esque Heists to try and make the world a better place already dammit

[valvertweek]

Hi I wanna say thank you so so much for hosting Valvert week again this year, it's genuinely been on my mind since you first posted about it for this year and I'm really really excited for it and I appreciate you so much for organizing it

hey I did it last year because I realized it's like. Valvert is the biggest ship in les mis. Within the fandom it's Enjolras/Grantaire but if you talk to a normal person who isn't in the trenches Valvert IS what les mis is about

And when I was making a new sideblog, checking urls, I found that this one wasn't claimed. And there was no event week for Valvert? Criminal.

Sorry, not criminal. Uh. Nefarious. Offensive.

Is this not the old man yaoi website? Is this not why we're here?

And so I hosted the week. Truly, hosting an event week isn't that much work but dammit someone needs to do it I can't just wait for someone to wake up and take the reins. Took matters into my own hands.

[euphraisette]

Ideal Enjoltaire dynamic is where Grantaire hits on Enjolras constantly and Enjolras is furious with himself for the fact that he's even SLIGHTLY tempted because by all rights he should not REMOTELY be attracted to Grantaire and he REFUSES to give in because the man is an ON-FIRE GARBAGE CAN and Enjolras has self-respect dammit but somehow the exasperatingly nonsensical drivel escaping Grantaire's mouth hole on a daily basis isn't making him any less attractive and it SHOULD BE

LMFAOOOO he was so attracted to grantaires absolutely swagless whimsy

[lys-9-10]

WIP Wednesday: Grantaire helps Éponine cook for her siblings

(i dunno why but i feel like éponine would suck at cooking and grantaire would actually be pretty decent...)

Grantaire shouldered the door of Éponine’s apartment open. 

“It’s me!” he called over his shoulder, as he dragged the haul of groceries into the kitchen. Ever since he’d accidentally startled Éponine one time and caused her to knock over a pot of boiling water, he made a point of announcing his presence—even if he never knocked.

This time, however, Éponine was paying him no mind. She was bent over a steaming—smoking?—stovetop, her face flushed red, her hair disheveled, and looking like she was about to murder whatever was cooking in the frying pan. 

“Dammit!” she cursed, banging her wooden spoon on the side of the pan with a vengeful flourish. “Fricking garlic! You’re supposed to brown, not black! Gaaah!” 

Grantaire walked up behind her, smiling, and gave a light tug on her apron strings, unraveling them.

She whirled around, looking about reading to whomp him over the head with her wooden spoon. 

“Easy,” he chuckled, holding an arm in front of his face in defence.

Éponine’s posture sagged, the ferocity seeping from her body and giving way to exhaustion. She slumped back against the stovetop. 

“Hey Taire,” she mumbled. “Have a good day?” 

“Yep,” Grantaire replied as he swiftly took hold of Éponine’s shoulders, moved her to the right, then turned her around to inspect her apron strings. They hadn’t caught fire, luckily. “You?” 

“The worst,” she groaned. “I still can’t make a bleeding home-cooked meal to save my life.” 

Grantaire smiled and rubbed a hand over her back. Then he hooked his fingers under the neck strap of the apron and pulled it off of her. 

“I’ll fix it,” he said. “Go be a fantastic older sister in other ways.” 

Éponine looked like she wanted to protest—but also really didn't want to. 

Grantaire enjoyed watching the wrestling match that played across her face for a few seconds, then threw back his head and laughed. 

“Ép, go.” He flicked the apron at her like a whip. 

She sidestepped and grimaced. “One of these days I really need to stop mooching off of you for literally everything…”

“It isn’t mooching,” he said, slipping the apron over his own neck. “It’s friendship. But you can go put the groceries away if it would make you feel better.” 

Éponine rolled her eyes. “Yeah, the groceries that you bought for me.” 

(Will be posted on my AO3 when it's a little further along)

[sovinly]

Les Mis JBM+R body swap

(Holy shit, this prompt is AMAZING, I love you. I may have to long-form write this sometime because oh my god, it could not happen to a more delightful group of disaster darlings.

“I didn’t know it would do that,” Bossuet says, half apologetic,half cheerful as he picks himself off the floor. Grantaire’s spine gives acrackle as he stretches, and Bossuet grabs at his back instinctively. “Oof.Buddy. You have got to sit up more.”

“I’ll get right on that,” Grantaire mutters, still sprawledon the ground, rolling over and reaching for Joly’s cane. “My question is howJolllly wears skinny jeans every day, these are like, painted on.”

“Joint support,” Joly deadpans in Musichetta’s voice. Hecracks his fingers experimentally, then pokes at his cheeks. “This is so weird. Does anyone have a mirror?”

Musichetta, already doing her best Bossuet lounge againstthe doorway, laughs. “There’s one in my bag! This is super weird, I amdelighted. Bossuet, you’re like a cat, this is amazing. R, are you doing abeetle impression?”

“What, I don’t get to be a cat too?” Grantaire drawls, hissneer coming out more of a pout on Joly’s face, and promptly ruins the effecteither way by sticking his tongue out and wiggling to try to get a better gripon the cane. “Joly, are your arms actually shorter than mine?”

Rolling his eyes, Joly abandons his search of Musichetta’sbag and goes to lift Grantaire off the floor, staggering until the two of themcan coordinate their efforts better. He studies his usual face intently, thenscrunches up his nose. “See, I am verytempted to kiss your forehead, except that it’s my forehead, and this is the most bizarre.”

“Nothing said anything about body switching,” Bossuetprotests, with an anxious glance at the magical mystery cube, innocuous andgold where it sits on the coffee table, no longer glowing. “Should I poke itagain? Do you think we’d all just switch?”

“Probably?” Musichetta offers, shrugging. “But, okay,consider, let’s not touch it until wefigure this out. And okay, look, I kind of want to be the tall friend for oncebefore we try to switch back. You guys, I can reach the top shelf right now. Let’s not hold Laigle liable justyet.”

“This is every scifi nerd’s dream, and we are all horrible,horrible scifi nerds,” Grantaire agrees, draped against Joly-as-Musichetta ashe slowly stretches out Joly’s legs. “Consider the ways we could fuck withpeople.”

“Consider the experiments we could do, though!” Jolystraightens, beaming. “Oh man, there’s somuch stuff, and we can never tellCombeferre.”

They all fall silent, contemplating that.

“Never,” Bossuetagrees solemnly, “unless we get stuck and need him to save us from ourselves.Until then, I want to know what strawberries taste like. And also whatGrantaire looks like in clothes that actually fit.”

“Fuck you,” Grantaire says, flipping him off with his freehand. “Shit, Joly, your joints have like, no feedback, how do you not breakeverything all the time?”

Joly pats Grantaire’s shoulder. “Practice. But if it makesyou feel better, I am amazed that Musichetta wears heels so often? This is so weird. I mean, really cool, but so weird. I feel like we should beworried about like, the abstract ethical questions about taking up residence insomeone else’s body? Like, is it weird if I play with Musichetta’s curls when I’mthe one who has them?”

“Not at all, darling,” Musichetta says. “Though, woah, I seewhat you mean about kissing myself, that’s the weirdest thing! Everything isquestions forever!”

“Is it weird that I kind of want to be everyone?” Bossuetasks, trying to lean against the wall and mostly ending up in a strangehalf-slouch. “Because I kind of want to try being everyone.”

Grantaire snorts. “Right, well, maybe we should have a drinkand also lunch before sorting out the ethics of body-swapping consent? BecauseI need a drink, even if that’s all Joly can handle.”

“Excuse me, I am a very efficient drinker,” Joly sniffs. “Bodyswapbrunch, though, yes, let’s do it! Though, uh, Musichetta, dearest darling, canI borrow some flats first, please?”

[unionrags123]

Victor Hugo wrote a lot.

Victor Hugo took ages to get to the point.

Except for when “the point” was killing off half of Les Amis.

[i-am-become-a-name]

I've been thinking about the Ancestor Cell again (she says, as if she doesn't think about it 24/7) and god, I wish I was still in communication with my philosophy lecturers so I could sit them down and force them to read it, because I know my philosophical readings of who Fitz/Kreiner are now would be painfully amateurish but it gosh darn needs to be done.

[shitpostingfromthebarricade]

The long-awaited and much-anticipated Drunk Les Mis summary

(This is the second time I've had to restart because people just really want to talk with me on WhatsApp immediately Right Now)

(dem horns holy shit, How dare Davies intentionally deny this score????)

We have Everyman in prison (his name is literally the blandest name Huge-hoe could summon--anyway, normal dude trying to do good) for a petty crime

The Cop has a hard-on for following laws no matter how silly and minor

(so Everyman and Cop obv don't get along in the traditional sense)

(seriously this score is so fucking good, Davies Why)

So being out of prison doesn't treat Everyman so well

Colm Wilkison The Bishop is actual perfection (I've gotten this far in the FMA translation, he is as close to perfection as The Hoe could write Is2G)

Anyway Everyman tries to steal some silverware, but Bishop pulls a fast one on everyone and gives Everyman even more silver so he can get a clean start

Everyman decides to make the most of his Second Chance because Damn, Bishop is just startling Good; parole papers are torn, it's A Thing

So eight years later, Everyman is mayor of a town and owns a factory that a chick named Fantine works at

Fantine has a secret kid but won't give in to sexual harassment (not from Everyman), so she's fired

Which is real bad for her because Fantine basically gives her whole life away for this lil' baby tucked away Elsewhere (Montfermeil)

Everyman discovers this, feels bad about, it, and promises to care for Metaphor for Hope of the Future

Everyman earns his livelihood for the next Many Years by saving this dude from a carriage which simultaneously totally exposes his secret identity (Stronk Man™) to Cop--this includes consciously allowing Cop to know who he is

(in the novel he gets arrested in the process and has to break out and waits for a year before getting the kid but w/e)

But yeah, in the meantime Cop catches Everyman out, and Everyman escapes to rescue Metaphor for Hope of Future from Metaphor for Everything Bad Ever but loses his position as mayor in addition to the right for any person outside of the church to know them, I guess

So Everyman and Metaphor for Hope of the Future are living in Paris 9 years later alongside Metaphor for Everything Bad Ever and Cop

There's a lot of characters representative of Revolution (Greatest Characters Ever™) who we won't get into because they're all slated to die and I don't want you getting emotionally attached like the rest of the Les Mis community

Metaphor for Hope of Future and Metaphor for Something I can't Concisely Determine fall in love. W/e, heteros

There's multiple songs dedicated to revolution and Greatest Characters Ever™, but plotwise technically they're not all that significant unless you look at historical content and symbolism and whatnot (sorry Baes, I still love you)

So Greatest Characters Ever™ die but Metaphor for for Something I Can't Concisely Determine survives by Everyman's hand (also Spirit of the Revolution and Symbol of The People die hand-in-hand) despite that Cop tries to stand in the way of All Of This

(no really, Greatest Characters Ever™ have more symbolic importance, but I don't have nearly the bulletpoints to get into those nuances) (also drunk)

Cop starts questioning everything he stands for in the face of Greatest Characters Ever™'s cause/sacrifice and Everyman having the opportunity to kill Cop but not

(holy shit the score is so good???) (Why would anyone brag about abandoning this excellence??????)

PARISIAN SEWERS

Cop has the ultimate chance to finally take Everyman in/kill him but finds that he cannot, so he handles his emotions like anyone would and literally kills himself

(excessive bonecracking sound effects are included so you know there's no sequel where he somehow survived and comes back)

Everyman doesn't know this though and is worried about Metaphor for Hope of the Future, so he tells Metaphor for Something I Can't Concisely Determine that he's leaving and not to follow him or tell MftHotF

MfSICCD obv caves immediately, and after he discovers that Everyman saved him at the barricade he and MftHotF track Everyman down to where he's trying to die in peace in a church

So MftHotF and MfSICCD are the only survivors, but everyone else (including Cop because he had a change of heart and we like him now--this is my HC, leave me alone) is at The Big Barricade in the Sky and living peacefully and waving flags

THE END.

[littlesmartart]

LES AMIS BAND AU

Enjolras, Courfeyrac and Combeferre are a political activist band, and Grantaire is a YouTuber who has a specific segment on his channel dedicating to critting their latest work...

Faceclaims: Enjolras - Hyoie O’Grady + Aaron Tveit, Grantaire - George Blagden, Courfeyrac - Rudy Mancuso, Combeferre - Nathan Stewart-Jarrett, Jehan - Caleb Landry-Jones, Eponine - Antonia Thomas

special guest appearance by @soapesque

[aromantic-enjolras]

Modern AU Amis cultural backgrounds

Disclaimer: all of my headcanons are fluid, and depend heavily on the story I’m writing and whatever fits the plot and themes I’m working on. But as a general rule, these are my main cultural backgrounds. (Also, those I have written more will have more developed backgrounds, for obvious reasons. Sorry, Bossuet!)

Courfeyrac and Enjolras are French and rich. While Enjolras’ dad is a CEO, Courfeyrac comes from Old Money. His family is old nobility, but they have fallen from grace: he doesn’t really have that much money, but his family owns a manor in the country, and he will get a full set of silver cutlery if he ever gets married, and one of his uncles is obsessed with the family tree and has traced it all the way back to the XVIth century.

Combeferre is half Spanish and half Burkinais. His family from his mother side came from Spain after the Civil War, and they are staunchly revolutionaries. I haven’t decided whether they are communists or anarchists, but in any case, Combeferre has been raised on stories of fighting the fascists. On his father’s side, his father came to France as a young adult from Burkina Faso. Combeferre has never been to Burkina Faso, which pains him a lot, but he makes do with the African community from his home town.

Bahorel is probably the Frenchiest French of them all. Their family comes from a small town in the Pyrenées, and as far as they’re aware they’ve been farmers for forever. They’re actually the first one to go study to the big city. They have a very strong Southern accent.

Jehan is Sepharadic Jew. His family has lived in Algeria for many generations, but they moved to France when Algeria got its independence. That means, among other things, that his native languages are French, Algerian Arabic and Sephardic (according to Wikipedia it’s called ‘Judeo-Spanish’ in English?), and that he took to Spanish like a fish to the water. He sometimes still mixes Sephardic words when he speaks Spanish, Marius finds it fascinating.

Joly is French-born Vietnamese, and he had some identity dilemmas as a teenager, because his upbringing at home was completely Vietnamese (when he arrived to kindergarten he didn’t even speak French!), but outside of the house it was completely French. Is he more French or more Vietnamese?

Musichetta is born and raised in Martinique (a French island in the Caribbean), and she’s painfully aware that they are a colony in everything but name. She is also very very done with people asking her where she’s from, because she’s 100% French, dammit, white people in Martinique are a minority, why is it so complicated to understand!

Bossuet is Sub-Saharan African, and he’s a first-generation immigrant, but I haven’t decided how or when or in what context. I need to write him more.

Feuilly came to France as a teenager, as an undocumented immigrant. As such, he has been treated to every single undignified thing the government throws at people who could be minors, but also could be passed as adults and not be tended to. He stumbled around the foster care system, and at some point he ended living at a squat house that was run by an anarchist group for immigrant kids. At least until they got evicted. That’s also his first links to anarchist movements.

Grantaire is French, from Marseille, and he can imitate the accent very well if he wants to. He comes from a working-class family, that never had a lot of money, and he buys into the whole “that’s how it is, nothing you can do about it” attitude. Which infuriates Enjolras, of course, because he has lived it, how can he not revolt against it???

I have no backgrounds for Marius, Cosette or Éponine, but I’m leaning towards @takethewatch’s approach for Marius, in which he has been raised by a very bigoted French grandfather, and has discovered very very recently that his dad was  X nationality.

[breadvidence]

yay prompt time! love your writing. So: javert/grantaire hookup (perhaps stoned dammit versions?), dammit characters watch Les Mis 2012 and begin to come to an uncomfortable realization about their lives (have not been able to get this out of my head), and maybe musical javert fantasizing about getting choked out during the confrontation again (or post-seine, him explaining this fantasy to a bemused jvj)? wow this got really long. I hope one of these is exciting!

Pretend this is less than 1k (it is not). Dammit Javert/Grantaire, explicit, set during chapter 16.

⁂

He walks into Hal’s where the lager comes with a free shot of Jägermeister on Wednesdays and lets his feet take him back to the worst idea in the place without the kind of preparatory thought that he’s really truly trying to foster in himself on the principle that not knowing where you start makes it harder to find where you’re supposed to end but all the same with an intent he thinks that stems out of the decision to stand up—didn’t Combeferre go out of his way to extend the helping hand to this guy? Who he expects to find at Club Changes or one of the places that don’t hang Pride flags at all but attract the kind of man who calls you cocksucker, not right here in Oak Lawn in one of those mayfly bars that’ll come and go in a couple years max but in the meanwhile sucks on the queer nightlife energy that radiates off of Cedar Springs. Grantaire tosses himself down into the chair next to Mr. Fucked-Up Ex-cop’s, props an elbow on the table, and asks, “Did you move?”

Without a single motion of those stiff-held shoulders, he pivots his head around and stares, cold and intent. There’s two shot glasses in front of him and a sweated-out beer not even one-quarter down, something piss-thin and probably domestic. He’d been contemplating the scrim of foam on the side of the glass pretty intent for a man who didn’t want to be drinking, and he wasn’t watching the crowd like a guy who wants find a person to fuck, which seems uncharacteristic. 

“There’s no discretion in the pig,” he says, and watches Javert twitch, “who drops his load at the trough where he eats, and you strike me as a very discreet kind of hog. Never on the Dallas side of the metroplex, never with the car parked right out front, near the back exit like your might wanna make a hasty retreat should your coworkers come to check everyone’s at least three pieces in dress code, all told trotters ready to hit the bricks as soon as you rooted up the morel you were after. So: did you get a new job on the opposite side of town and have to swap around to the bars far enough from home to feel safe?” He remembers, having been clever, that he was here to be helpful. “Er. Are—also, uh, are you alright?” When this raises no response, he adds his first name in an inquiring tone, to remind him they’re familiar with each other.

They stare at each other some more, ’til he says, his tone flatter than sweet home Florida, “No. Also, I go by Javert.” 

“Ah, pre-empting the history book’s preference of calling a man by his sur—” Grantaire breaks off, with a great act of willpower, and frowns. “Wait. No to which part?”

“To you.” 

“I might not be trying to get into your pants,” Grantaire protests.

Javert raises an eyebrow.

“—this time. Right off. Unless it would help.”

“I’m not leaving until I finish this beer,” he says, tapping the side of the glass. “I’m sure you’ll have lost interest by then.”

How terrible, to be known! He goes to get his free shot and lager, comes back, dumps one in the other, and does most of the talking for the next hour. It’s a waste of both their times, probably, and it might be wrong of him too—but nobody’s glanced Javert’s way, not the right crowd for him in tonight, so Grantaire’s pretty certain he’s at least not cock-blocking the guy, and each of the comments he throws in whenever Grantaire’s stopped for a drink come across as a prompt to keep talking—he’s not being enjoyed, but he’s being engaged with, and that’s irresistible. He remembers, when Javert has about half an inch of beer left, that he’s supposed to be engaging back, and asks, “Why are you still here?”

He gestures to the beer glass.

Grantaire observes, “Last time we had a palaver, you stood up and walked away—a retreat—a neat military maneuver—and I admit, I didn’t mind seeing your backside, after having—”

“You,” Javert says, “are an adequate distraction.” He tilts a look at him. “And you sure as fuck look like you need one, too.” 

That quiets him, for a moment. “What, you’re being friendly?” 

“Evidently,” he says, chewing over the word, and finally finishes his drink. Grantaire has been through—several. “Go close out your tab. Yours or mine?” 

It throws him. “Is yours a seedy motel?”

He pulls a wry expression. “Is yours? I didn’t get the impression you were quite that pathetic.” 

“Pardon me, should I imagine you will sweep me away in a limousine to the Joule so that we can contemplate a Warhol or two on our way to cock-sucking? Because—”

“I did mean my apartment, you jackass, though I’m inclined to retract the offer. Jesus.” He glances away, unsettled, maybe with himself.

“I, ah, stay in walking distance,” Grantaire says, a little thrown, then rallies enough to lean forward and mock-whisper, “If there were theoretically illicit substances in open view, would you narc me out? Or can you be convinced to cut out the difficulty of stealing it from lock-up later and smoke it where you find it?”

“I would never have—” Then he stops, and shrugs. “You know what, fuck it. I’ve been told it would be good for me. Yeah.” 

Grantaire has no trouble backing out of a deal, and near does, but the intrigue is greater, his fuck its as ample as Javert’s evidently are. Outside the door, he says, “Do you want to stroll holding hands? A mile of pretending at some beautiful romance, one over which Nicholas Sparks would weep were he brave enough to depict a couple of fags as dear sweethearts struggling through the unkind world to come to some saccharine tragic finish.” 

It gets him a flick of a look, surprise. “I can walk a mile, yes.”

He’d been a little worried he would have to ask the question outright, rather than more comfortable implication. He shrugs, bundles his hands into his pockets against the cold—he can’t feel it, through the Jägerbomb he capped his drinking with, but he doesn’t want his fingers clumsier than they already are with booze, when they get where they’re going—and leads the way. Courf came by yesterday to help tidy up the place, pretending he was trying to find a copy of The Faggots & Their Friends Between Revolutions that Grantaire borrowed years ago while he helped get trash bagged and sorted out the laundry-floor situation. It’s still not super clean, he sees, through a stranger’s eyes. Javert wrinkles his nose, a little, with a glance around, maybe like he’s got that middle class Boomer standard for everything looking like a stay-at-home wife keeps it neat. Half of Grantaire’s surprise to be invited to Javert’s place was an idle bet with himself about whether he kept up appearances by maintaining a heterosexual relationship, and he’s only just sober and smart enough not to say that aloud as he locks the door and goes to get the weed and rolling paper and lighter, which he’s not actually foolish enough to have sitting out, waving Javert to the couch—and he doesn’t even know what he’s talking about, idle chatter. His mind keeps wanting to go back to how he’s a lot fucking worse off since the protest, with Enjolras detained moreso than he even was before by the light of progress—does that shine still inside a cell?—and a lot fucking better, too, trying to find that light himself, rather than relying on seeing it in the aureole of pretty blond hair.

He turns, shit in hand, and—pauses, a moment, at the predatory interest leveled at him, and he’s netted so many men before by being generous with his drugs that his first thought is that it’s for the weed, but they didn’t talk about that until after Javert agreed to fuck around with him. His second thought is that his friends are gonna have to bail him out again, that this is some kind of weird honeypot sting, and Javert’s expression is for the satisfaction of catching someone with a felonious amount of marijuana on hand. Except—Javert’s thighs are sprawled out, one of his arms is thrown over the back of the couch, relaxed, his color’s high in a way that’s almost charming, a pale blondie’s inability to hide the blush of arousal, of one kind or another—he’s just a guy anticipating getting his dick sucked, probably. Grantaire never clarified what he’s actually into, but that one is always a fair bet.

Gesturing broadly, unsettled to be the object of desire, Grantaire says, “Have you ever reflected on the satisfaction of getting what you don’t want? I feel we might have our books open to the same page. You might say I’ve heard rumors to the effect.”

“You haven’t even lit up yet,” he replies, tone dry. “Can we keep the philosophical questions for when I care less? Besides, whoever’s on your mind, I’m here for cock, which I assume you can provide—unless there’s a terrible accident you’d like to tell me about.” 

Cosette’s poor papa. “I could tell you about a hundred thousand terrible accidents. I read them all in the news. I turn on the television—Ukraine, Palestine, our own New York City—death, murder, suffering, war, racism, you, sir, I’m sure you have your opinions, I certainly have mine, they diverge, but as to the thing you apparently are most invested in—” He tosses the lighter onto the living room table so that he can reach down and seize his own crotch, waggling his eyebrows. “—that is intact and can stand at the ready more or less on command, which is better than can be said for our social unity and all our international boundaries.”

“I wouldn’t call New York ours,” he says, idly. “You want to own the Yanks? But then, South Florida never does feel properly like the South. —Come here.” He gestures to the seat beside him.

“Spoken like a true Texan. I bet you want to secede. Beating your meat to dreams of Stephen Austin.” He’s not actually sure Javert is, now that he reflects on his comment and from the way he snorts, but he doesn’t have his grandma’s ability to pick out a person’s birth county hearing two words out of their mouth. One hand still full, he’s willing enough to sit down, anyway, and goes with it when Javert hooks a hand around his upper arm and pulls him closer. The kiss surprises him some—you get discreet guys skittish about the least hint of romance, though this ain’t really got a lick of romance in it, for all there’s lick aplenty, filthy, devouring. When he’s let go his breath whooshes back into him, and he gives an appreciative little, “Damn.” Before, “The mouth’s for consumption, and you—”

Javert curls a lip. “Christ, what was that last drink you had? I can taste cough syrup through the Jäger.”

“Then don’t stick your tongue so far down my throat,” he says wryly, then, “No, never mind, I can be self-defeating—it’s my little corner of righteousness, to own my faults—but I’m not gonna discourage that. Let me roll a blunt and we’ll have something better on our breath than Red Bull, anyway.” 

“Better,” Javert mutters, doubtful, and lets him go, thumbing spit off the corner of his mouth before he lounges back again. It’s surprisingly effective, the invitation in his posture.

Grantaire has the faint suspicion that this man has fucked often. He might even fuck well. It is a surprise, and peculiarly discouraging; thinks: one hates to have standards to live up to, in bed as elsewhere, and by one means himself. He focuses on rolling the blunt, for a minute—it takes a little attention, with his vision a little off and his hands wanting to wobble. When he takes the first hit, he waggles his eyebrow at Javert, hammy erotic gesture as he wraps his lips around the paper like it’s the worlds most delicate little cock. It gets him an unimpressed stare, which is unfair—he knows for a fact this man has a sense of humor. He breathes out smoke, tension easing out of his shoulders—he pretends it’s not there, and he’s real good at slouching despite it—before he hands it over. 

Javert breathes in smoke with the grace of a guy who’s had something in his mouth for most of his lifetime, that broad chest stills a moment as he holds it, but he grimaces some when he breathes out, squinting at the blunt before he hands it back over.

Grantaire says, lightly, “That expression! A virgin might so peek at what she’s presented with for the first time in person, having spent some time investigating the territory on video. I know mine’s not as shabby as that; I buy good bud. Do you buy better?”

“I haven’t bought at all,” Javert says. “Been around it plenty. Not in a long while, granted.”

Which—“Oh.” It’s been a while since he felt like a corrupting influence, and it’s not the context he expected in. He has a brief raised-evangelical twinge before he rallies and says, “A cherry could be an achene, in another world! Popped, my good man, I’m honored to do the honors.” And takes a hit.

Javert goes loose and glassy-eyed pretty quick, quieter, which is a better result than the vague concern over a bad trip that struck Grantaire—paranoia seems like a natural feature, given past profession. But it looks like he won’t have to summon help, given he’s not the man to manage someone in distress, though maybe he could take Courfeyrac’s direction on how to handle Javert and fetch the ropes, in that instance. It gets him giggling, imagining that, and he asks, “Do you, ah, you into being tied up?”

“Not by you,” Javert says. “No. Well. Never thought about it, actually. Never tried it. Maybe.” Which is a hell of a speedrun of personal development.

Grantaire makes a moue of disappointment, exaggerated, and puts the blunt in the ash tray—just for a minute; he’s realized he should, as the experienced party with a newbie, probably slow down and keep an eye out. Took him a minute, but look: he’s not gone for abandonment. “You’re a cherry tree in June, my friend, heavy with fruit. How unexpected.” 

“I ain’t. That fruit’s mostly harvested.” Javert pivots towards him—winces, maybe that broken-up back and hips of his, and gets hands on Grantaire instead, pulling him almost into his lap, which is novel sensation for a big man; not as big as this guy, as it happens. The kiss this time goes a little slower, a little easier, a precise nip, a flick of the tongue, parted lips, and it takes Grantaire a moment to understand the invitation there, to take him up on it, which earns him an approving rumbling groan, he feels it in the chest he’s braced his hands on to keep from falling too far forward. Which illuminates some questions of preference. He feels his own thoughtless clumsiness, a moment later, in how Javert draws back a little, guides the kiss without taking control of it, and he’d be embarrassed by that—he does, whatever his friends think, know how a blush feels—except that the other man doesn’t comment on it, just gets them on track, and Grantaire tries—he does know, he’s got experience, he’s just not often messing around with someone who cares enough to be good at this, he doesn’t normally care enough to be good at this. This isn’t where he was looking for care—or maybe it’s simply investment, like a retail employee who shouldn’t give a fuck but gives their all anyhow.

The fingers that pop the button of his jeans, undo his zip, the big hand that slides into his boxers and palms over his dick, the lightly-stroking thumb over the head of his cock—getting the feel of him, not at all polite, but measured—that distracts him, he loses track of what he’s doing other than chasing the sensation, restless uncoordinated hips bucking up because he doesn’t want it light at all. Javert gives up on him, a little, trails his mouth down to his ear, an obscenity committed against his earlobe, teeth scraping down his jugular in a way that only won’t leave marks because his skin’s a little too dark to bruise easy. Pauses long enough to spit into his palm, casual, to make it easier. Grantaire is faintly aware of commentating on all of this, but he’s never had to mind his own mouth for it to run. In one of the moments when he’s got his feet braced and his hips lifted Javert uses his free hand to shove his pants down properly, and Grantaire helps, uncoordinated, ass-out on the couch, feeling his legs bound up and unable to spread as much as he wants to and harder for it. He’s still talking.

Javert uses that hand to reach up and slide two fingers into his mouth, jacks his cock like he’s got serious intent to end this here. Which is Grantaire thinks faintly, a curious choice, maybe a sign he’s bored or wants to get out early, though he’s more fucked-up than Grantaire thinks he should let a person leave and drive. He sucks those fingers with a sloppy enthusiastic attempt to demonstrate he can reciprocate all this attention, catches up at last to the fact that he ought to be reciprocating—there’s so many things he should do in life, and he’s so belated all the time—he reaches out, gets his hand on an appealingly thick thigh, becomes disoriented and ends up at a knee, tilts his head back and laughs at himself, manages to reorient and squeezes over—well. That package is impressive, but it ain’t impressed with him, feels like. “Ah.”

Javert lets up, doesn’t take his hand away but merely cradles rather than strokes. Sighs, then drawls, “I hope you weren’t real committed to me topping tonight,” and gestures towards the joint. “Worse than whiskey, apparently.”

“I have so many dildos,” Grantaire says, amiable. “You still can. Hard is a mindset, my friend. Hard is a latent potential. Do you really think, before they went their separate ways, while Abelard still had the wound between his thighs, he didn’t consummate his love with Héloïse? She wouldn’t have sent all those letters, friend, if he didn’t offer some kind of hardness to her. When God turned Lot’s wife into a pillar of salt, it was a suggestion to us all for what the people of Gomorrah and Sodom got up to, when the flesh got tired, she saw those artificial columns and she could not resist mimicking them. Samuel L. Jackson himself says there’s no shame in a limp snake, and he would know. Yeah. So, you wanna, like, pick one out from my collection and do me?”

He leans his head back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut, and sighs. “Sure.” 

“That’s not enthusiastic consent,” Grantaire replies, scolding.

His brows bunch together, glassy eyes opened then narrowed, agonizingly he removes his hand from Grantaire’s dick, he says, “Wait, wait, wait. You know, I have been to a training session about consent and substance use. Is this okay, or—”

“I have fucked while high so many times. Shh. We agreed beforehand. It’s not a big deal. C’mere. Unless you don’t want to, now, I guess.” He tries to get his boxers and pants back on, but his coordination’s worse than he thought, and he reverses track and kicks them off instead, aware he’s being idly watched. He’ll try to remember to get them into the laundry basket later, so Courfeyrac doesn’t have so much to do, next time he visits. He reaches down and helps haul Javert up to his feet, both of them stumbling a little, and they mutually forget about the cane; he’s strong enough to keep them both on their feet when his left leg wants to give, surprised when Javert gives an appreciative moan and gropes over his arms and chest, where the muscles have tensed, hard enough touch to get through the fat and really feel what strength’s there. Kisses him, this time with as much enthusiasm as skill.

The things you learn about a guy, when you’re fucking him. Remarkable. He gets Javert’s cane for him, feeling uncomfortable touching someone’s mobility aid without having asked first too belated not to do it, and they get to the bedroom with a few stops to grope each other along the way. Javert mutters, at one point, “You don’t have to—”, with a shrug, and Grantaire takes it as a don’t, lets up on his prick. He’s got a standard white boy’s underwhelming ass, but it’s still nice to get hands on, when it makes him growl and grind up on him.

In the bedroom, Javert strips off his shirt, then pauses, tilting a look at Grantaire. “Am I staying long enough to bother undressing?” There’s nothing uncertain or sad or insecure in it—it’s just a straightforward question.

Grantaire makes a show of leaning close, an inspection, says, “You’re staying long enough to sober up, right?”

“Sure,” Javert says, and starts in on his pants. “I don’t actually care which dildo you take up the ass.” 

“Yes, yes, let the house sommelier determine which vintage to choose, wise man—”

“Got pretty strong opinions about wine, actually, though you shouldn’t discount a somm’s advice,” Javert mutters, then shakes his head. “Fucking Christ, no, please, I’m not taking any of your metaphors serious, don’t bother to clarify or expand.”  

Grantaire laughs, at that, weirdly pleased to be put down—none of his friends bother, anymore. He gets the twisty purple number out, and the warming lube, ’cause he does know how to be nice to himself sometimes. “Do you ‘got’ pretty strong opinions on how you want me positioned?”

“Yeah, actually.” He pushes himself up to the headboard, and, damn, Grantaire’s gay enough and honest enough to admit he’s pretty sad that he’s not gonna see what that cock looks like hard; it rests against his thigh, flushed though soft, and there’s a kind of optical illusion going on—it looks average enough, ’til you consider how big the hand is that Javert reaches down with to idly readjust himself. Looking at him nude, Grantaire’s acutely aware of their age difference: twenty years, a little more? He’s got a wolf’s pelt worth of hair on that chest, heavier than he’d expect of someone so fair, gone to mostly gray and silver, and his pecs have begun to sag a little over his belly, the skin of his lean stomach wrinkles over the cut of his hips, his feet are neatly-kept but thickly knobbed, maybe even arthritic. There’s a sadness in that Grantaire can’t quite grasp, that it’s them fucking, and it’s not his side of the equation that’s got him edging up on the cliff fall into maudlin, though average wisdom would say that it’s the old guy getting to bang a young thing who should celebrate. Neither of them, Grantaire thinks, are in bed with the person he wants. If he keeps on that trail he’s not gonna want to have sex at all, though, and if he’s done that plenty before—cut guys off and annoyed them right back into their pants—well, he doesn’t want that, tonight. 

He says, because he’s maybe gotten a little caught in the lingering weed-haze, “I’ll have to write you an apology note. Don’t forget to write down your address for me so I can send it. I didn’t catch a damn thing you just said.” 

Javert laughs, teeth and a heave of breath. “I noticed and stopped halfway through my explanation.” He stretches out his legs, cups his hands in front of himself. “Ass here, you self-described fag. Not the hottest position but I can’t kneel, so you’ll have to settle.” 

“It doesn’t feel like settling,” he assures him. “Y’know, we’re anti-ableism now. We fuck our disabled comrades how they want it, when they want it, in the position they want it.”

“I’m not—” He pulls an odd expression. “Come here.” 

“I intend to!” he says, brightly, and strips off his shirt, palming down the heft of his stomach for the sensation of coarse hair on his hand—he’s not too shy for all forms of self-gratification—to work at his own cock for a moment, making his expression appreciative as he looks Javert over. He’s done a lot of looking with desire, and he thinks he manages an echo of his usual, and it’s not his most sincere—sincerity he’s not always good at, outside certain company—it is with genuine intent, and yeah, it makes Javert’s cock twitch. Most people get off on it, being looked at with want, and if he’s at peace with the fact that it’s not the case for everyone—oh, he needs to not think about that. He gets up on the bed, brackets Javert’s calves with his knees, and before he can kneel up he’s pulled back by a long arm around his chest, face turned back with fingers on his chin, and this time there’s no invitation: the tongue pressed into his mouth makes promises. When he leans back, Grantaire plants himself, turns forward, and surprises himself saying, “This is going to sound stupid as hell, but don’t, um, I don’t like it real rough, actually.”

“Ain’t stupid,” Javert mutters, and gives his ass a little pat, surprising him with the niceness. It sounds a bit strained, but he’ll take it. “Bet I can still make all your words come to pieces, doing it easy. Gonna get you so worked up you can’t remember any of those obscure political figures. Yeah, you’re gonna lose the Bible, with my fingers fucking your ass.” There’s the sound of the lube cap; he takes the time to warm it up in his palm before he reaches around to give his cock an idle tug; a first slick finger teases around his hole. As Javert pushes in, he says, “And don’t touch my feet, please.”

That last bit is was said real quiet, during a distraction, but Grantaire pays mind. He tries to keep minding as his cock is wrung casual easy, as another finger slides into him, they press against his prostate, and for long minutes Javert’s taken that not rough as maddening soft, rocking against him so slow it’s just a tease, Grantaire glances down and there’s precome slick on the head of his own dick. He pushes up on his knees to get off those fingers, shoves Javert’s arm out of the way, and drops down into his lap—and it really is strange, to be the smaller partner—grinds down on him in an attempt to start something different. Gets rejected, totally and utterly, an annoyed grunt, Javert’s hands on his hips pushing him forward—back up onto his knees, a hand between his shoulder blades urging him to drop forward onto his elbows, a suggestion short of a shove—but only just. He feels the difference, there, very stark, between a good fuck and a considerate partner. He goes along with it, moans into the bedsheets, clutches at them, at the touch of the narrow head of the dildo against his hole.

Javert’s less practiced with one of those, he can tell, but he’s attentive—not so high anymore—and he gets an angle and rhythm steady and sure, there’s always an edge of control when a guy’s not using his own cock that does it for Grantaire, and he sees clear in that moment how much that’s because that’s as close as he thinks he’d ever get to the dick he wants, were he in bed with—yeah, he’s not gonna do Javert wrong, thinking about someone else while he’s thrusting down into the circle of his meaty thumb and forefinger and babbling at him about enemies who’ve fucked, did Simon Peter take Judas’ cock?, did Hector and Patroclus ever cross spears?, until with a huff of amusement Javert discards the dildo—Grantaire cries out into the sheets, broken off—shifts a little clumsily onto his knees, gets his hand between them and fucks three fingers in, slow push, his hips rocking forward, his weight on Grantaire’s back, and that does it, it’s all that hot sweated-up skin, it’s panting breath against his shoulder, the connection, the sense of being desired in that moment, this man hot for him, fired up, whatever body part’s not cooperative. Grantaire comes, bucks hard into air because Javert’s free hand is off his cock on his side leaned heavily there for steadiness, shudders and clenches and drops his head down between his shoulders. 

Javert pulls out, falls back onto his haunches. Grantaire glances over his shoulder, too unfocused to register much other than how relaxed Javert is, lounged back against the headboard, with his hand loose on his knee—’til he glances down at it, and gives a twitch. His cock’s chubbed up some between his thighs, fading fast as he swings his legs over the side of the bed, reaches over for his cane, and gets up to limp towards the bathroom to wash up. 

Grantaire shuffles around, drops onto his back, then groans at his own stupid decision—he’s almost sure they didn’t get too much lube on the sheets right until this moment, and now he’s planted his fucked-out ass onto them. Ah, well. He’ll smoke the rest of the blunt after Javert is gone, and then he won’t mind sleeping in the mess. 

Javert comes back as far as the edge of the bed, looks down at him with his eyebrows bunched.

“Leaving dissatisfied,” Grantaire says lazily. “Does it come as a surprise to you?”

“Dissatisfied with myself. You were talking right through your orgasm. Impressive, in a terrible way.”

“No, don’t judge yourself,” Grantaire advises. “Some promises aren’t meant to be kept.”

[pilferingapples]

So replying to this very good post, I realized two things:

-Grantaire wants Revolutionaries Without Revolution.

-... this is a big Romanticism thing. This is a HUGE Romanticism Thing--looking around for roads to the glory and awesomeness that the Empire had once promised after its collapse, and trying to find it in art.  The struggle to find a way to be Really Important in a new setting where there IS no permanent conquest, Except By Convincing.

..I’m not saying Grantaire wants Great Men to be like Hugo but. But of course he does. DANG IT VUGS *puts head on table, taps out for 48 hours solid*

[andromedaa-starss]

les amis and their instruments

bc musician!amis is something that can be so personal

enjolras: violin. and other string instruments, but he prefers the violin. their nails are always clipped really really short.

combeferre: any brass instrument, but heavily prefers the french horn. it calms him down. he hates it when courf makes inappropriate jokes abt playing it.

courfeyrac: the saxophone. tbh he could technically play any saxophone but he plays alto sax. they know many songs. probably dozens! but all they play is careless whispers. he's memorized it. everyone sends him sheet music for other songs and pieces. he will not play anything else. help.

feuilly: clarinet. the man can also improvise like nobody's business.

grantaire: guitar, all kinds. no this isn't inspired by george blagden what are you talking about? he's got both short and long nails and it drives everyone crazy. he can also play piano (and drive marius mad with the click of his nails on the keys)

joly: he can't play anything but they can dance. they're a very skilled dancer. but no instruments.

bossuet: used to play tuba before that proved to be a dangerous decision. now plays percussion which is safer. favorite instruments are the tubular bells.

musichetta: any string instrument but has a soft spot for the viola. she's fucking amazing at it. she was made for the spotlight dammit.

jehan: flute. i mean, it's canon. also they've tried to compose things but they got distracted. alas! if you open a certain door you will be flooded with thousands of wips.

bahorel: drums. drums drums drums. the master of drum rolls and fills. he can also play the trumpet but like, badly.

marius: used to play piano, now plays cello. he was forced to play piano and only plays it if he wants to. he duets with enj, r, or chetta sometimes. like enjolras their nails are clipped short (but not as short as enj's)

cosette: she sings and plays the harp. her voice is angelic and lovely and basically what im saying is i love her. also saying this rn my voice hc for her is 1980s concept album cosette.

eponine: plays some guitar with the help of grantaire. they duet sometimes.

gavroche: one (1) very loud kazoo.

[serinesaccade]

I am back and i loved the ending so much. like. R thinking the marriage was a punishment?? holy fuck. Them fucking over Es parents for daring to fuck with courf and ferre?? perfect. There still being a little tension over the start of the relationship and the bond mark cause that stuff doesn’t go away overnight?? ideal. I would love to see like, an exploration of what weird ‘ideal alpha who’s bad at it” stuff comes out when they have an established relationship cause you set so much of it up so well. great fic 11/10, will read again.

<3 <3 yes yes yes

it is ideal that you enjoyed. R has been under the wrong impression for a looooooong time so I'm glad I finally got him to the right place which is not "i drive him crazy he hates me" but "i drive him crazy he LOVES me." they all FIGHT. for their FAMILY

yeah it is also important to me that their history doesn't just disappear like! they can't ignore it they need to grow with it and respect it and they definitely work towards that

um as for the exploration here's some below the cut. i'm not 100% certain what you were looking for but there's a bunch of them lol. if you have a specific one you want you can lemme know

"ideal alpha who's bad at it" comes up in a ton of lovely ways that terrify passerby which is:

-he and grantaire argue! like with love now but they DO disagree on things and get very passionate about their points of view and in general that just doesn't happen! like many alphas in grantaire's time have treated his opinions as silly/"cute" bc of his status and Would Never get to the point where they're like laughingly wrestling on the floor of the musain bc enjolras wants to see that website with figures he's got pulled up dammit is it verified LET HIM SEE

-grantaire generally avoids getting him to throat yield in public not bc it's shocking but bc it's A Thing for them as a couple. but he DOES do it occasionally on accident and in those scenarios strangers are just. um. wut. and the ABC are like "ugh again can you get a room"

-like a lot of omegas are super attracted to enj but there are also many who are scared of him. alphas can be a lot! and enjy is generally less aware so oftentimes if they have someone come in to ask the ABC for help he's like *stands close* "tell me everything" and it's. scary. grantaire and the others do a great job of just *nuzzle* *hang off enj's shoulder* "yeah listen he's a teddy bear. he does have teeth but he won't use them on you"

-a lot of alpha-omega pairs get super possessive (bc of socialization) and enj and grantaire are just? not like that?? grantaire gets insecure sometimes but it comes out differently, so both of them are just generally chill. bc of this and their general mismatch in personality and conventional hotness most strangers assume enj is single or dating triumvirate. of course, at some point grantaire walks by and enj is just *zone out in r's direction* *scent intensifies* "excuse me for a minute i just have to" *lil kiss*

-grantaire is actually a little insecure that his "gross" scent is going to fuck enj's up bc yeah, when you bond or scent a lot you smell like each other! but of course enj wears this super well too bc that's. enjolras. like the sunflower and general earthiness really tempers and complements the intensity he normally puts off and does actually make him a little more approachable but still SO HOT. mm imagine toasted sunflower seeds at a bonfire YUM

-courf has been enj's aid in intricate social situations that require use of your nose, which enj demonstrably sucks at, but now he also has grantaire who is Really Good At It like he is very good at people it's almost alarming. enj is also generally pretty private, even with courf and ferre by accident sometimes! r is really good when giving advice at getting him to explain the environment, his thoughts, presenting alternate explanations for people's behaviors

-usually when you bond it's mutual and the social expectation is for alpha to be caretaker and omega to be cared for. that being said r's been bonded for a long time and enj hasn't and he doesn't expect to be cared for but in the after of r bonding him he's just... "hold me? please? i'm having a lot of emotions right now and it's also upsetting that you felt like this alone for so long." which. of course r holds him. Once the bond's mutual they generally get waaaay happier they just. they like how it feels and how it transforms r's bond into part of their happy rl