Title: Who Are We To Turn Each Other’s Heads, To Find Ourselves In Other People’s Beds?
Words: 4,372.
Part: One / ?.
Series: (Oh, Boy) Your Eyes Betray What Burns Inside You. { AO3 }.
Summery: A/B/O Verse. Enjolras and Grantaire are mates but Enjolras won’t let himself act on it – everyone is annoyed and wishes he just would already. Especially with how jealous he can become when anyone pays the artist even the slightest bit of attention.

“Do you think we should let him know?” Courfeyrac asks, and at first Combeferre just sighs , pulling his glasses from his face and pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand.

Courfeyrac waits for his response, and doesn’t press.

Combeferre knows what his friend is talking about even though they haven’t discussed it together once tonight since it had begun — they’ve both looked over, both wondered if they should intervene themselves, but no words have been exchanged about it. There was no need for them to have. Something in him told him that they should probably let Enjolras know, if not actually step in themselves, because Enjolras would want to be told. Because like most Alpha’s, he got possessive (the reminder of which made the guide sigh once more because the Omega he was possessive over wasn’t even his). Even though, technically, he was — Enjolras just wouldn’t act on what their entire group, including the two in question, knew.

That they were mates. Born to be, destined to be. He just needed to take him.

“I don’t know,” Combeferre lies as he puts his glasses back on and looks over where Grantaire is dancing (if you can call it that, they’d been grinding together and drinking all night, but now they were just standing close in the middle of the dance floor and talking) with a man he’d met as soon as they’d arrived at the club. The man was an Alpha, too, the guide can tell, and even though he was close to Grantaire, talking into his ear more often than not, he didn’t seem like anything to worry about. So neither of them have intervened. Some Alpha’s were proud, thought they could take anyone they wanted whether the person wanted it or not, this one didn’t seem so bad, not all that predatory from what they could tell from the distance.

Courfeyrac snorts, and Combeferre can seem him shake his head out of the corner of his eye. “You do know, we all know, it’s just that none of us wants to cause a possible scene that would be unnecessary by bringing him down here.”

“Grantaire isn’t his.”

“No,” the center agrees simply, leaning back in the booth before continuing, “but R’s in love with Enjolras like no one’s been in love with anyone before. And Enjolras the same with R even if he won’t admit it, and give into it. They’re… mates, as is rare to find a true mate these days. We can feel it, they can feel it. Enjolras is just a stubborn idiot.”

Combeferre nods a little bit, because it’s true and like Courfeyrac had said: they all knew it. Not everyone found a mate like that, the soul-bond, but when people did they usually gave into it happily because it was rare, people fell love, but this was completely different. Something much more rare and precious, something anyone would just at the chance to have. Anyone but Enjolras, that is. “What if Grantaire wants to leave with this man, though? What if he’s having a nice time talking to him? We don’t need to make him feel like he can’t move on from Enjolras, or at least try to.”

“Grantaire’s completely fucking hammered,” Courfeyrac responds, though he doesn’t deny what Combeferre has said. “If he wants to move on — or try to do so — then good on him because I don’t see Enj taking the stick out of his arse any time soon, but he might regret it in the morning. And maybe a sober decision to move on would be wiser than a drunken one. Especially that drunk of a one…”

There’s a pause, and then a sigh from Combeferre. “You already sent him a text, didn’t you?”

“Yep.”

And then Courfeyrac just laughs, getting ready for what Combeferre knows he’s hoping is going to turn out to be a good show.

~~~

His blood boils the entire drive to the club, and he tries to cool it down, tries to rein himself in because he knows, he knows that he can’t just go storming in there and ripping the two of them apart like he owns the other man. He knows he can’t control Grantaire’s actions, can’t stop him from sleeping with other people (and yes, the thought of that hurts, makes him so fucking jealous he doesn’t even know what to do with himself except tap the steering wheel impatiently as he drives). He doesn’t even want to control him and his life choices, not really, but if Grantaire really does want to do what he’s doing then he’s going to be sober enough to make judgments about it. He’s not going to let the artist just chose that as drunk as he is — as drunk as Courfeyrac had described, because he hasn’t seen how drunk Grantaire is for himself yet. Enjolras doesn’t want him waking up in the morning and hating himself for doing, for feeling horrible about it.

Because he knows Grantaire, even if he doesn’t want to admit it, more times than not he can feel how he feels and he knows that there is a chance of the artist hating himself in the morning and he doesn’t want that. That’s the last thing he wants.

It’s not because as soon as he read the text message that the familiar coil of jealousy surged through him.

So he drives, faster than the speed limit but not exactly giving a shit about breaking any laws at that moment.

God help him if anyone even tries to pull him over.

He makes it to the club in record time, past the queue that’s still going to get in (his friends visit the place often, and though he doesn’t go much himself the Beta at the door knows Enjolras on sight and can tell that telling him to get in line won’t do much good, so lets him through straight away without a word), and inside.

The place is more crowded than usual, which isn’t much of a surprise seeing as it’s a Friday and most students would be out celebrating the coming of the weekend. He spots Combferre and Courfeyrac in a booth together but doesn’t go over. The latter grins over at him, which he doesn’t return because really, Courf, he’s not in the mood and everyone knows that. He waits until Combeferre visibly sighs, and then tilts his head in the direction of what he had come there for: Grantaire.

It hurts, as it always does, when he see’s the artist close to someone else — but that’s mostly just an underlying stab, the jealousy is the most prominent of his emotions in that moment and he has to take a breath, and steel himself before he goes over there. He needs to calm down, he knows, or he’s going to go over there and start a fight and that’s not what this is about. This isn’t about how he doesn’t want anyone, especially another Alpha, touching Grantaire (which he doesn’t), it’s just about how he doesn’t want him making decisions as such as inebriated as he is. That’s all there is to it, he tells himself, eyes closing for a brief moment before opening them again and letting out the long breath he’d drew in.

Standing there trying to calm himself doesn’t really do much good, not when his eyes are fixed on Grantaire and the stranger as he does so. They’re not dancing, but they’re close enough to let Enjolras know that they hand been and the mental image that conjures up makes him set his jaw tightly. They’re talking, and occasionally Grantaire will laugh — which does about a million things to Enjolras all at once, none of which he needs to think about — and it wouldn’t be so bad, he tries to tell himself, but the other man leans in so close to the artist to talk to him. He puts his hand on his elbow, or his hip, his back, and at some point he feels like he’s going to lean in and kiss him.

And that’s the last straw.

Of course it is.

He’s over there in a shot, meandering himself through the dancing and drunk crowd and calling Grantaire’s name sharply — which makes the dark haired man freeze completely in his place (in shock, he knows, because Enjolras can feel it), before he turns around quickly on his heels, and then he’s positively beaming at the blond.

“Enjolras!” he says happily, loudly, and then he’s stepping (hopping) over to him and before Enjolras knows it the slightly shorter man’s arms are around his neck and his body is pressed against his and he’s once again smiling up at him. It’s nice, he tries not to notice how easily and right they feel together. Yet the anger leaves him at once, and one of Enjolras’ arms absentmindedly curls around the Grantaire’s waist, holding him to him tightly. “Combeferre said you weren’t coming,” the artist continues, some of his words slurring even though they come out quicker than usual, “he said you were going to be boring, sitting on your arse and writing an essay that’s not due yet for another year…”

Enjolras’ brow pulls together in a slight frown at the wording, and he highly doubts, if Combeferre said that to the artist at all, that he said it in such a manner. “I was,” he replies, “but now I’m here.”

The lack of an actual explanation of his appearance doesn’t seem to bother Grantaire, who just nods a little bit in acknowledgement and just smiles up at him again — less wide, more small and happy looking. This is the only time they’re like this. Normally when Grantaire is sober, he’s reserved and quiet, and never puts himself out there (especially to Enjolras). When he’s had a little bit of alcohol he gets more confident in himself, talking and joking, even though there’s still an underlying feeling of uncertainty. When he’s had more he’s very much into teasing Enjolras, or making innuendos and just being an all around menace to anyone and everyone, yet he’s still not all that entirely confident (it’s usually an act). It’s only when he’s drunk, *completely and utterly* drunk that he loses himself and lets himself drape himself over the blond. Lets himself touch him, and say things freely like he doesn’t even have a hint of doubt about what he’s doing and whether Enjolras will let him or not.

It’s both sad, and yet nice to see.

“Leave,” Enjolras says next, his gaze moving away from Grantaire’s glassy blue to the Alpha standing (not as awkwardly as Enjolras would have liked) behind the artist. And still too close for his liking.

“Why?” the stranger asks, and he’s smirking a little bit, Enjolras notices. He hates him, he decides immediately. “We were only talking, and we were having a nice time, weren’t we, R?”

If the hairs at the back of Enjolras’ neck prick at the nickname, and his arm tightens just a little bit around Grantaire’s waist at the use of it by someone the blond doesn’t even know, Enjolras pretends not to notice any of it or what he does. Because he’s only there to help his friend, he’s not there because he wants Grantaire, he’s going to ignore the fact that maybe he does, because they would not work. No matter what anyone else says, about what they feel, about what something that Jehan refers to as ‘fate’ has intended for them — they wouldn’t work. They’re too opposing and it’d end terribly for everyone involved. Including their friends. So he see’s not a single point in even trying.

Grantaire hums a little bit in agreement to the other man’s words, but it’s only loud enough for Enjolras to hear. He’s not sure if he’s glad about that or not. The way the artist nuzzles his neck a little bit calms down his jealousy just a tiny bit more.

“Whether you were having a nice time or not you’re still going to leave now,” the blond replies in his tone that brooks no argument.

“Am I now?”

Okay, that brooks no argument with anyone he’s knows and who knows him. Appartently this stranger is going to make it hard. So he takes a moment to assess him: he’s around about the same height as Enjolras is; and the same build, but maybe a little slimmer; his hair is dark and has eyes to match; his lips are perfectly shaped and red — and something cold shoots up the blond’s spine. Because he’s attractive, and that just makes it a thousand fucking times worse for some reason.

His tone is clipped. “Yes.”

“I don’t think—”

Grantaire huffs out pointedly against Enjolras’ neck cutting them both off, and he see’s him roll his eyes as he pulls his head back to look the blond in the face. “Montparnasse is a friend,” he tells him, and it almost sounds whiny, “don’t be mean. I like him, Éponine knows him. I know him. He’s okay.”

Enjolras isn’t so sure about that, not with the way this Montparnasse is looking at him as well as Grantaire. And then the artist leans up and whisper-laughs something into the blond’s ear that he’s really not sure how to take. “He kills people for a living.” Now, whether Grantaire is being serious or not the marble leader can’t discern, so he just stares at him for a moment about to ask, but stopping himself before turning his gaze back to the other man.

Montparnasse.

“He’s drank too much tonight and now he’s needs to rest,” he tells him coolly, “I’m sure you can find some other person to… talk to tonight.”

And they both know, him and Montparnasse, what he meant by ‘talk’, what he was dreading would happen between Grantaire and the man if he didn’t turn up. So the darker man smirks a little bit, and Enjolras gets the sudden feeling that he’s still going to fight it, to press it and get Grantaire back with him — he’s both pissed off and glad. Glad because Grantaire is worth that, is worth anyone fighting for him, but he also just wants the man to give up and walk the fuck away because he’s really not going to be taking Grantaire anywhere tonight.

Or any other night if Enjolras can help it.

Thankfully, he does the latter, shrugging his shoulders in a really fucking infuriating way that shouldn’t be so (but is), and Enjolras tries not to feel offended on the artist’s behalf.

Turning his head down once he can no longer see Montparnasse in the crowd, he’s about to say something to Grantaire, but before he can the man in question sighs heavily and grouches: “You didn’t have to be so rude.” His hands are playing with the curls at the back of Enjolras’ head, the blond can feel. It’s nice, but it does nothing to tame his response.

“I was only looking out for you,” Enjolras snaps, quicker than usual, and the anger comes back when it really shouldn’t. “You’re piss fucking drunk, Grantaire, and none of us want you making poor decision whilst you are. Not me, not Combeferre, and not Courfeyrac. So don’t you fucking moan at me for making sure you did nothing stupid again.”

Grantaire swallows then, the arms that were around the blond’s neck sliding from their position a little bit, and the unflinching happiness at seeing Enjolras in the club, being close to him, is gone completely. 
Enjolras wants it back.

Even if he can’t let himself be with Grantaire, he hates seeing him upset, because he can feel how badly it hurts him and he hates himself for it immediately — that’s part of the downfall of having mate. “Please don’t be mad at me,” Grantaire whispers, and it’s not just quiet it’s small and slightly shaky, and Enjolras wants more than anything to have him be as confident as he had been just a few minutes again. Wants to run his fingers into the man’s inky curls and make him smile again.

He doesn’t do that though, an sighs instead. The artist must take it the wrong way because he’s holding onto him tighter all of a sudden, harder than he had been before, pressing his body closer and breathing out words against the skin of his jaw. “Please don’t be mad. Please. Please, I was just talking to him, I wasn’t— Don’t be mad. I don’t want you to be mad at me, I never— I’ll do anything. Anything, please, Enjolras. Please…”

And then Grantaire’s about to drop to his fucking knees in the middle of the dance floor, and Enjolras doesn’t even know where Grantaire got the impression that that’s the logical next thing to do, and it really shouldn’t go to his damn cock like it does, but he draws him back up with one hand around his bicep and one on the back of his head before knees connect with the no doubt unsanitary floor.

“I’m not mad,” he assures him, just loud enough for Grantaire to hear, hand moving from his head to the back of his neck instead, making sure the artist looks at and listens to him.

“You’re not?” It takes a moment before Grantaire asks it, looking at him very dubiously. Which he can’t fault him for.

“No,” Enjolras reassures him, because he doesn’t want him thinking that. “Now, come on, I’m taking you home.”

~~

Enjolras pulls his phone out of his jacket pocket and sends a quick text to Courfeyrac as they leave the club together, walking side-by-side now, but his arm is still wrapped around the other man’s waist firmly. Grantaire doesn’t seem to mind it at all, he doesn’t when he’s as drunk as he is, he doesn’t worry that Enjolras will just pull it away and when he’s like this the blond finds it hard to keep the distance between them. It’s much easier when Grantaire is less clingy and more pulled away from him for that. Grantaire now, just leans into his side and occasionally nuzzles his shoulder as they walk with a small hum that makes Enjolras want to push him against the nearest wall and kiss him breathless. Kiss him so he just makes that soft, happy noise over and over again.

But, of course, he doesn’t.

He thanks Courfeyrac for letting him know and says that he’s taking Grantaire back home to sleep the alcohol off. That he’ll see him and Combeferre for lunch tomorrow. They’re outside and nearing his car when he gets a response, stopping in his tracks to read it quickly.

[message: from: Courfeyrac]; Sleep it off, or fuck it off?

Enjolras doesn’t even deign to give that message a response, because it will only fuel his friend, he knows, and walks again. He opens the car door silently and helps Grantaire into the passenger’s seat, making sure he’s comfortable before doing his belt up for him. He shuts the door, careful not to be too loud about it in case the sceptic has a headache, and gets in the other side.

Sitting and belted himself, Enjolras takes a moment to look over at Grantaire before he puts the key in the ignition. The man has already curled himself up on the seat, leaning against the car door with one arm wrapped around his legs. Knees up to his chest. Even though his eye are closed now, Enjolras can’t help but notice how tired he looks outside the crowd of lively people. His hair looks like it hasn’t been washed in a few days, there are the faint beginnings of dark circles under his eyes, and with the amount of alcohol he’d had tonight Enjolras is sure that the other man probably feels just as bad as he looks.

And Enjolras tries to ignore the slight pang in his heart, the tiny little urge to reach out to him and pull Grantaire close, to kiss him and maybe take some of his weariness away from him. Because it’s a bad idea, and it can’t happen.

So it doesn’t happen.

Yet you’re taking him home with you, his brain supplies helpfully when he does turn away and start the car. And he can’t deny it, can’t say he had even thought of taking Grantaire back to the artist’s place, ‘home’ had right away been Enjolras’ place as soon as he had said he was taking him there. He tries not to think about that too hard as he pulls away from the curb, telling himself that he’s only doing it to make sure nothing happens to the sceptic during the night.

He doesn’t want him throwing up and then drowning in his own vomit or anything.

The drive doesn’t take long at all, though it takes longer than the one that got him there because Enjolras is no longer in a rush. And he doesn’t want Grantaire to feel sick if he goes too fast, rather not having to clean up any sick from his car in the morning, so he drives the legal limit, occasionally taking sneak glances over at the curled up man in the passenger’s seat. He hasn’t said anything since Enjolras said he was taking him home, either because he still feels bad because he thought the blond is still mad at him, or because he’s still mad at Enjolras himself for being rude to Montparnasse. That, or he’s far too tired now to say and do anything.

The last is proven right when Enjolras pulls up outside his apartment building and calls Grantaire’s name softly to rouse him — to which there’s no response but a small, sleepy grunt of recognition.

It doesn’t faze him or annoy him, not really, though he does sigh a little bit before getting out of the car and walking to the other side. He opens Grantaire’s door and makes sure the car will lock automatically once he shuts it again, before he leans over and undoes the seat belt. It’s not hard to get Grantaire into his arms, he is a lot lighter than he looks (which probably isn’t a good sign), just like Enjolras is a lot stronger than he looks. He bumps the car door shut with his hip and makes his way inside.

He walks upstairs to his loft apartment, and tries not to think about the half-asleep man who moves his head against his shoulder, nuzzles into the crook of the blond’s neck once before he lets out a small hum of Enjolras’ name and drifts back off into his drunken doze. It send so many thrills through Enjolras that he almost drops him halfway up a flight of stairs and kisses him. He doesn’t though, because he still has some resolve.

The marble leader walks on instead, noticing idly how Grantaire smells terribly of alcohol, yet Enjolras is able to ignore it if he tries. If he focuses on the other scent he can smell; Grantaire’s scent, which is much more sweeter and incredibly intoxicating.

It takes a while for him to unlock his door to the loft and slide it open with Grantaire in his arms, and he doesn’t bother to try closing it whilst he’s still there. Instead Enjolras just walks straight inside and past the living area, over to hallway and into his bedroom. He lays the sceptic down on his bed carefully, not wanting to wake him. And as he pulls the man’s boots off and switches his (stupidly tight, not that Enjolras can talk) jeans for a pair of his sweatpants, he wonders absently if he should wake him and make him drink a glass of water.

The way that Grantaire rolls over once dressed and nuzzles into one of his pillows answers that for him, and he leaves the room to go and slide his front door shut and lock it. When he returns he strips down to his underwear and pulls his own pair of pajama bottoms on, sliding into the bed when he’s done and pulling the covers over the both of them carefully.

He lays there for a moment, trying to shove away the way his hands itch to reach out and pull the artist against him. How he has the urge to nuzzle into the back of his neck and press a kiss there, to run his hands up under his t-shirt and feel the warm skin of his stomach. To just feel him breathing and lying against himself. To just feel him.

But he doesn’t.

Because he’s never given into the temptation before and he wasn’t going to now. He had settled on that decision long before he had met Grantaire. He was chaste, chose to be so he could give himself entirely over to his Cause — but then the dark haired man had stumbled into his life (literally), and his resolve to stay chaste was harder and harder to keep from crumbling down around him in a cloud of dust. He felt such a pull to him, the same one Grantaire did to Enjolras, he could feel him when he wasn’t even around, and missed him though he was loath to admit it. He knew when the other man went into heat, he could feel it under his skin for as long as it lasted. It was livable, unlike it was to the sceptic himself, but the knowledge that it was going on was always with him. And it would spike whenever it got particularly bad for the artist going through it.

It takes everything in him not to go to him in those weeks and fuck him so hard against a wall that he can’t even stand (not that he does much standing during that week anyway he guesses with how badly he’s heard him describe it to one of his friends). But as he reminds himself: he’s never broken before, and he’s not going to now.

So he closes his eyes, and tries to ignore how he wants the warm body beside him to be pressed so, so much closer.