Grantaire's POV

For the slightest of moments, there is nothing in the apartment but the dreams I once held in childhood, the unattainable wishes produced by a fledgling mind unaware of how the world actually functioned and how the world would be perfectly content with throwing me onto its doorstep if I did so much as speak out of turn, the whims that dissolved once I entered into adulthood and into college to instead opt for a much more sinister route. These dreams were dreams of a future where I could be whatever I wanted to be, where I could live freely in the body that was given to me so that I could love it, where I could shape the world to whatever I wanted it to look like. Although I had no premonition that happiness would be an occasional privilege, happiness is included in the list, too. Finally, it has returned, and I'm not even rushing to maintain the feeling, because a simple taste of it is enough.

Certainly, there could be more of those simple tastes, and maybe they wouldn't be so simple or just tastes after a while if I played my cards right, so this is the way to go, right where I am. This is also the reason why I am, in that brief moment, floating on cloud 9 and defying everything science has taught me about the atmosphere and gravity, all brought about by one man reclining beside me.

He's not even touching me, not even looking at me, just at feet imprisoned by perfectly white socks wound tightly around his ankles and branding their texture into his skin as we sit here together, but that's okay, because his mere presence is a consolation to me, a reminder of what I once dreamed of. This man, whom I know by the name of Enjolras, can do more to me than years of self-abuse and the years of therapy that proceeded afterwards in a frail attempt to correct it, and he's just a human.

I am completely cognizant that humans hold the capacity to shape other humans' lives, and greatly so. We were, in fact, designed for being social and interacting with others of our kind in order to make it in this rough world, and though it can fuck us just as equally as it can benefit us, those circumstances have brought me to enjoy this moment near the love of my life (and has also brought me to months upon months of ceaseless pining).

To love Enjolras is to love yourself. He has this certain way of making you emanate the same joy that he emanates, like he's the cook in the kitchen of your heart, always smiling and always stirring up a mix of sunshine and acceptance, and I know it sounds corny and absolutely cliché, but if one were to ever meet him with even a single doubt about his contagiously pleasant demeanor, they would be proven wrong in a matter of seconds and would leave the conversation with a portion of their soul regrown. To put it another way, Enjolras is like medical marijuana for the spirit, offering both regeneration and a dreamy escape from the horrors of the world.

I have been nothing less than lascivious with this man, this angel whose name even Apollo would praise, but my efforts are unfortunately denied, and always have been, ever since day one when we met through a mutual friend at a party and also when I had already confirmed that I was in love with this godly being, and I was determined to make my move before. That's why, however desperate it sounds, I am determined to savor this time spent alone with my dearest golden boy before we return to our incessant arguing.

Despite the fact that Enjolras and I always seem to be at each other's throats with knives that vary in power based on the intensity of the debate, our friends are utterly convinced that we are in love with each other. They're correct on one side, but I have found that my obsession with an angel will always be nothing but unrequited, and anyone can decipher that the heat dwelling in Enjolras' eyes when we fight is genuine, whereas a sliver of a tear is always present in my own eyes, a sliver indicative of the fact that I hate all of this fighting, but Enjolras frankly can't have enough of it, even if he's upset that I'm the way that I am, that my personality has to be insolent enough to spark the frequent altercations. I know that a lack of fighting would have no influence on whether or not he would like me any more than he does now (or doesn't, depending on how you view it). He doesn't give a shit about me; he never has, and he never will, so I stick my pining, and I stick to my observation, and I stick to enjoying the closest thing I've ever gotten to reciprocation.

I can live with a hatred towards me, or I can at least handle it well enough, because through the continuous arguments, Enjolras is still as stunning as he's ever been, and you can't really blame me for drinking him in like I'm the alcoholic I used to be. I'm fine with watching him as he moves about his day, as he settles into a persona of confidence, a confidence I could only dream of. The way he commands the room is worthy of note as well, and I enjoy watching that more than anything.

Perhaps it's rude of me to stare, but Enjolras and I both know that politeness has never been my forte, and it's not like he's noticed yet that my shards of sapphire are digging into him as heavily as they really are, as he's otherwise occupied by performing a routine of doing the same ritual to his socks. To any other person, this would seem boring as hell, but love makes you do terrible things disguised in nectar. Love isn't pretty, but it is necessary.

However, Enjolras doesn't love me at all (he despises me, actually), so he must be bored out of his mind, but our conversation trailed out a while ago, and he can predict that if he attempted to light a conversation back up, it would most likely end in the same arguing to which we're so well accustomed. But I have other ideas, because it appears that I live to nettle him.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" I ask, the faintest hint of a smile snipping the corner of my mouth with a sarcastic tinge.

A few seconds are required before Enjolras can snap out of his haze, and when he does, he looks thoroughly confused, almost as if he didn't hear my question, typical of his authoritative personality. He never considers what I say, because most of the time it's either jargon or an effort to annoy him, both of which are irrelevant to his frequent talks of politics.

On the contrary, he did hear me, and fires back with a comment. "We've been sitting here for an hour, and all you've done is stare at me."

Ah, so he's caught on. I hope he won't ask me to explain why I've been ogling him for the past sixty minutes, because the two reasons are somewhat embarrassing, although I'm not too concerned with what I say to Enjolras, as he can always assume that it's nothing important, and always something akin to my flagrant personality. Still, I'm not too keen on telling him that his beauty was much more captivating than it should be, especially because I might've seen some paperwork for a restraining order strewn about his kitchen table, and I don't want to push it that far.

"You could've told me to stop," I claim, playing innocent as usual, because I can't deal with another burden of loathing resting upon my already weak back. "And it's not my fault you're too scared to talk to me.
Enjolras turns to me suddenly, a harshness like no other smoldering in his usually iridescent irises. "You know, Grantaire, that's probably because what you have to say is complete and utter bullshit, and you don't give a fuck about the topic at hand, ever."

The wind released to aid Enjolras in speaking is also knocked out of me at an equal proportion, just much more forcefully and quickly, like the fist of those treacherous words bludgeoned me in my abdomen like a battering ram hell bent on opening the doors to my stomach and releasing a steady stream of vomit onto Enjolras' hardwood floors, though after that comment, it's not like I care much about what happens to him. I'd be ecstatic to know that I had a part in it.

I need to calm down. I don't actually hate Enjolras. When people verbally attack me with the truth, it unhooks the rope holding my emotions to their place, and they begin to swing around wildly, a pendulum ready to smack me into a different universe. Contrarily, my dreary existence would probably be bleached lighter in a different universe, because in a different universe, there wouldn't be Enjolras prepping another attack against me when I've had enough throughout the months in which I've known him, in which I've fallen for him, in which every time he speaks I sense a dagger shredding through the organs vital to life, the organs prepared to keep me in this underworld of an existence, trying to persuade me into thinking that life is worth living without Enjolras, when that's just a load of bullshit. Apparently I'm all too familiar with bullshit, though, because that's what Enjolras says my speaking is, and all of my friends regard him as the sensible one, so it must be true, no matter how cruel it is.

Regulating my breathing, I glance back at Enjolras in the hopes that he's changed his mind about what he said, but he has not. A malicious gleam is all too prominent in his eyes, a stone all too powerful in his heart. He means what he said, and he's not reneging on his words unless I change, but — take it from a former alcoholic — changing is arduous as fuck.

It's not that I wouldn't be completely willing to accommodate Enjolras, because I most definitely would — that's what devotion does to the human system. It's just that changing is artificial from the way I see it right now, and though that's probably just my cynicism at work, I don't want to pretend to be something I'm not, because then Enjolras will get confused and detest me more than he does now, absolutely oblivious to the fact that my self-tailoring would be for him, so I'm stuck here with the ragged remains of the personality no one wants, and that's all I get. I can't have Enjolras, and I can't have happiness, and I can't have the natural air of welcome that he does. Pessimism is just a central part of who I am, and unfortunately Enjolras scorns me for it, and is doing so this very instant.

Enjolras searches frantically for his words, so embittered by my intolerable nature that even his articulation has fallen out the window to escape the terror that has become of my friend. "Y-you don't give your heart to anything!" he shrieks, catapulting his hands into the air in frustration.

"Well, Enjolras, in case you haven't noticed, I've been giving my heart to you."

That was most definitely the wrong thing to say, but it's out of my mouth now, and I can't do a thing about it. Besides, Enjolras has already established that we're letting every opinion loose tonight, each word a pride of lions hungry for the kill, and it's only fair that I offer my rebuttal in accordance with his.

A fraction of Enjolras' acrimony towards me vaporizes and flees, replaced only by sympathy who seeks to help, though this situation is far beyond fixing. Panic pushes itself into the conversation as well, prompting Enjolras to shriek, "Grantaire—"

Narrowing a beautiful pair of crystal eyes partially slicked by the genesis of a thunder storm, a simple question is discharged from my lips whose flavor is nothing but overwhelmed by the knowledge that I am in love with someone who rejects even my embrace, but that I am in love nevertheless. "Why are you playing my heartstrings like this, Enjolras?"

And, being the callous person that he is, with walls upon walls to protect him from this sort of thing, to protect himself from me, he offers a reply as insensitive as he is. "'Cause my hands are too small for guitar strings."

I lean into the angel I once knew, spite gripping my tongue, to tell him that he is no longer that angel. "You're the fucking devil, Enjolras," I mutter as I stand up to retrieve my coat and get the hell out of here, because quite frankly I can't remain in this nest of wolves, wolves that have all converged into one person and packed one hell of a punch, and I can't withstand that punch, nor the tears that clog my throat and my eyes and my aching heart. All I know is that it's time to leave, and Enjolras doesn't even try to stop me.

Honestly, what did I expect?

~~~~~

A/N: I've never written a fic where the protagonist is already in love but here we go it's a new adventure

hi I'm Dakota (he/they) and this is gonna be sad as fUCK

~Dicknoodle