Archive of Our Own ^beta

Paris is unusually quiet, even for the hours of the early morning. Grantaire can’t help but think there must be something poetic about that. He’s lying in bed with someone he’s been in love with since freshman year, and for the first time in memory Paris is completely silent. It’s miraculous, it’s impossible, and apparently it’s not just a figment of his imagination.

The night had begun at the Musain and progressed from there. There had been good natured bickering, the offer of coming up for coffee, and an unpracticed kiss, his back pressed against the white counters of Enjolras’s kitchen and his fingers running through hair that felt like silk and looked like gold. Falling into bed together simply seemed the next logical step.

And now here he is, tangled up in sheets that smell like Enjolras and feel like the promise of a next time, but still unable to believe it. Enjolras himself is curled up next to him, hair disheveled and lips slightly parted, and Grantaire feels like he can’t breathe for loving him. Tomorrow morning, when Enjolras inevitably tells him that this was a mistake, that he’s sorry for dragging Grantaire along like that, is going to shatter him.

He gets up slowly, easing off the bed so as not to disturb Enjolras. The blinds of one of the larger windows have been left open, and through it Grantaire can see the rooftops of Paris, the sky shrouded in a thick layer of dark clouds that reflect the City of Love’s lights back down over it. In the distance the Eiffel Tower spears through the strange illumination, a knife of innovation in and among the sickly glow. At least he knows why the city is so quiet. It’s the calm before the storm.

There’s a rustling from the bed, and when he turns around Enjolras is sitting up, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

“What are you doing?” Enjolras asks, frowning slightly at Grantaire’s silhouette. Grantaire thinks he can hear his heart breaking. He’s surprised Enjolras can’t hear it too.

“I- nothing. Go back to sleep.” His voice is a hoarse whisper, and he flinches as Enjolras’s frown deepens.

In the silence that follows, the first muted roll of thunder tumbles over the city, rumbling quietly in the distance. With it, the sounds of the city come rushing back. Car alarms and banging doors and the buzz of a scooter weaving through the empty streets.

Enjolras’s next words are like a bolt of lightning. “Come back to bed, it’s cold without you.”

“You want me to stay?” Grantaire thinks he might have stopped breathing.

Enjolras huffs petulantly and pulls the covers back, inviting him under his sheets again. “Of course I want you to stay, Grantaire. Come here.”

Grantaire slips under the covers in a daze, snuggling up next to Enjolras and lightly kissing his shoulder. He falls asleep with a smile on his face, surrounded by the smell of Enjolras and the lullaby of thunder claps.